Trust (17 page)

Her eyes had gone dark with desire. He released the strap; she withdrew her hands, dropped her wrists, let the bag fall into her lap.

‘Where are you staying?’ she asked, her voice drifting from her mouth like smoke.

It had been a long and exciting day, fuelled, for most of the wedding guests, by a great deal of champagne. Not for Angie: she’d had just the one glass to toast the bride and groom, out on the harbour. Tracy getting married was certainly something worth celebrating. Tracy even surviving – that was miracle enough! By rights she should have been dead a hundred times by now,
and so should I
, Angie thought, but here she was. Here they all were, a dozen of the old gang, most of whom she hadn’t seen since … since the bad old days. She closed her eyes.
Thank you, Lord Jesus, thank you for saving me. Let me never fall again.

The party was winding down; the other girls were on their last drinks, lolling on the big luxurious sofas in the hotel lounge, their high heels and pretty bags discarded on the floor. In the far corner, a grand piano tinkled, as well-dressed people came and went to the vast reception desk nearby, and trolleys of expensive luggage were wheeled past to the lifts.

‘I’m gonna have a wedding just like that,’ sighed one of the girls, who’d given herself owl eyes by rubbing her mascara. ‘On a great big gorgeous yacht like that. I don’t care how much it costs!’

‘S’not how much it cos’,’ slurred another. ‘’S the
love
.’

The love
, thought Angie. There had been plenty of love between her and Davey at their simple ceremony in the registry office in Melbourne, even if they had been so stoned they’d signed the wedding certificate in the wrong places, so his signature was beside her name and vice versa. Didn’t matter, they’d just signed it again, giggling like mad.

‘When’re you gonna get married again, Ange?’ asked a woman with a puffy face and rolls of fat bunching round her midriff. Rhonda: she’d been there, Angie was fairly sure, in that registry office ten years ago. ‘Must have fellas asking. You’ve still got your looks, that’s for sure – not like me!’ she added with a raucous laugh.

‘When the time is right, the right man will come,’ said Angie, smiling. ‘God will bring us together.’

‘What, God’s already got him picked out, has he?’

‘That’s what I believe. What I
know
, with all my heart.’

‘Yeah? I’d be asking God to speed it up a bit, if it was me!’ said Rhonda, tipping the last of another bottle of champagne into her glass.

Angie allowed herself to drift off, dreaming of that beautiful moment – soon, soon! – when she and Gabriel would stand before everyone at Faith Rise, and Pastor Tim would say the words that joined them
in the sight of God
, forever. Gabriel would take her hand; she could almost feel the ring slipping on to her finger …

She turned her head to the side, away from her good-natured but unbelieving, tipsy friends, to gaze at the magnificent sparkling chandelier hanging above the hotel foyer, and at her dreams. Only in his songs had Gabriel spoken of love, so far – and that was love divine, not human. But surely the next time he came to her, in the night, in the darkness, he would speak, he would say the words she longed to hear …

The muted
ding ding
of the bell at the reception desk drew her eyes downward. A gaggle of Japanese tourists milled around their mountain of luggage, while at the nearer end of the long expanse of polished granite, a tall blond man inclined his head toward the woman beside him as they waited for their room key. Something in his movement, the bend of his neck, caught her attention.
I know that man.
Who? She took in the woman – not familiar – at a glance: a striking redhead whose figure-hugging little black dress was moulded over a large, shapely bottom. But the man was definitely —

‘Gerry!’ she gasped, sitting bolt upright. She looked wildly to the women with her. ‘That’s my —’ and stopped. The girls weren’t listening anyway.
That’s my sister’s husband!

No! Maybe it wasn’t him? His back was to her, after all. Her eyes were now so acutely focused it seemed they might jump straight out of their sockets. He was the right height, the right hair, the right —

She watched as the man’s hand slid down the redhead’s back to caress the substantial swell of her buttocks. Was that Gerry’s hand? Angie’s heart was thumping,
boom, boom, boom,
rocking her whole chest. She saw the man, standing so close beside the young woman, shift his left leg and slide it, smooth and forceful as a tango dancer, between hers, pushing her knees apart. The woman’s back arched; Angie drew in her own breath, sharply. And then, just as swiftly, the man withdrew his leg. As though it hadn’t happened. The desk clerk handed him the key, they turned and walked toward the elevators.

Angie rose; he could have seen her, if he’d looked that way, but he didn’t. As they entered the lift, in that moment as they waited for the doors to close, she had a clear view at last of the man’s face. Gerry Visser. The man who had stood in her parents’ garden twenty years ago and watched her sister walk toward him on Daddy’s frail, proud arm. Who had promised to love and cherish, be true and faithful, to
Susanna
, as radiant and beautiful in that moment as she would ever be.

She watched as Gerry slid his right hand under the woman’s long hair, taking hold of the back of her neck. Angie’s hand rose involuntarily to clutch her own nape. With a visceral instinct she knew exactly how hard his hand had gripped: not to hurt the girl, but to claim her.

And she saw the face of the young woman as the lift doors closed: ardent, heavy-lidded, ready.

It was a torment to stay in the hotel that night, to lie there knowing she was under the same roof as that … that bastard!
Adulterer. Sinner
. All night, Angie burned with rage. And the question burned in her brain:
What should I do?

Tell her sister? Surely: Susanna must know the truth.

But it will destroy her.
She could imagine all too well the agony this betrayal would cause her sister; the thought of it made Angie herself curl up in pain.
How could I possibly do that to her?

More: from her own bitter experience of having heard too much bad news over the years, Angie understood that the bearer of bad tidings is forever associated with them. If she told Susanna what she had witnessed, she too would be tainted with it, somewhere in her beloved sister’s heart and mind.

She tossed the bedclothes off, then on, restlessly rearranged the pillows yet again.

Gabriel.
Gabriel will know what to do for the best.
But then she realised with horrid certainty that the same truth applied to Gabriel: if she told him, he would flinch from her. He would never want to be part of her family; part of her life; part of her.

Gerry’s wickedness had caught her in its web, and Angie was stuck there, somewhere between knowledge and complicity.
It’s as though I’ve been poisoned by his sin
, she thought, getting up and pacing the room.
I hate him; I hate him.

FOURTEEN

Gerry lay with his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the far wall of their bedroom. It needed painting.
The whole place needs painting.
The walls in the hallway still bore marks of the kids’ attempts at home decorating, back when they were preschoolers, a million years ago. He heaved a heavy sigh. Here it was Christmas morning, and the house was silent as a tomb.
You know your kids have grown up when they don’t come pounding in at sparrow fart on Christmas morning, demanding to open their presents.
The realisation made him feel old, and melancholy.

There were other reasons not to be cheerful. If it hadn’t been for Chris, the Sydney developer, coming through with a nice fat cheque, Visser Kanaley wouldn’t have been able to pay their December wages bill. The two or three staff who’d left the firm lately would not be replaced any time in the foreseeable future. Every day, it seemed, another client cancelled, and Gerry had a nasty feeling – which he hadn’t shared with Marcus – that the Kansas City gallery people were getting cold feet about their planned extension. If he could just keep them on side for another six weeks, till he could meet with them in person after the New York conference …
Yes, that meeting’s going to be critical. Make or break
.

Susanna, lying on her back beside him, was snoring gently. He shook her shoulder; she murmured, and rolled onto her side. Gerry contemplated her sleeping face. Disappointing, the way she’d been so distracted lately, ridiculously preoccupied with this paper she was writing, and her damn art show. For a moment he found himself envying Chris his marriage to Terri, not only a wife but a savvy business partner. Someone who understood what was going on in the wider world.

Sunlight was seeping in now around the edges of the blinds. Gerry was just thinking of getting up and going for a run, since his family was apparently going to treat this like any other day and sleep in, when he felt a soft stroking on his arm. Susanna had woken and was looking up at him with a drowsy smile. ‘Hiya, handsome,’ she murmured.

The irritation he’d been stoking faded away. ‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ he said, smoothing back her tousled hair. She caught his hand and gave the knuckles a little kiss. ‘Merry Christmas.’

He was just lowering his head to kiss her when they were interrupted by muffled voices from the hall, and the bedroom door being pushed vigorously open. In came a tray, carried by Seb, with his sister right behind him carrying another. On their heads were those cheap sets of reindeer antlers, bright red, Stella-Jean’s festooned with green tinsel.

‘Merry Christmas!’ they yelled in unison.

‘Well, if it isn’t Prancer and, um, Blitzen,’ said Gerry.

‘Hello, kidlets.’ Susanna sat up, plucking at the neck of her nightgown, which had slipped somewhat indecorously to one side. ‘Merry Christmas. What’ve you got there?’

‘It’s the Christmas Day travelling cafe,’ said Seb proudly as he put his tray down on the foot of their bed. ‘See – cappuccinos all round. I made them!’

‘He wouldn’t have had a clue if I hadn’t showed him,’ said Stella-Jean. ‘Also on the menu: croissants!’

‘With Jeejee’s apricot jam,’ their mother said, smacking her lips. ‘Yum yum.’

Gerry took the cup proffered by Seb, and allowed his daughter to wriggle a Santa Claus hat onto his head. ‘And there I was getting all sentimental about the way you guys used to storm in here before dawn, squawking, “Has Santa come? Where’s our presents?” This is a vast improvement.’

‘Damn straight, Pop,’ said Seb. ‘Santa’s little helpers, that’s us.’

Gerry bit into a croissant that had spent rather too long in the oven and shattered now into a shower of flaky crumbs. The kids perched at the end of the bed, munching and chattering. Susanna was laughing. He felt a powerful wish to nail this moment to the wall, capture it for all time. This silly, happy, perfect moment. ‘For smart-arsed teenagers,’ he said through his mouthful, ‘you’re not too bad.’

‘Sorry I was asleep when you got home last night, sweetie,’ Susanna said to Stella-Jean. ‘How was your visit to Faith Rise with Auntie Ange?’

‘Complete crap,’ said Stella-Jean, screwing her face up in disgust. ‘They didn’t even have proper Christmas carols, it was all “Sing Along with Gabriel”.’ She dropped her croissant on a plate and raised both hands high above her head, swaying to and fro with a dopey, wide-eyed grin. ‘Honestly! I think they’re all on some
drug
.’

‘They are,’ said Gerry. ‘It’s called “religious fundamentalism”. Now you know.’

‘Totally nutso. And to think they’re doing it all over again this morning. Right now!’ Stella-Jean rolled her eyes. ‘Poor Finn.’

‘Ah well, he’s working up an appetite for your mum’s roast turkey.’

‘Not that there’s ever been a problem with Finn’s appetite,’ Susanna added.

‘Mine either,’ said Seb, tearing another croissant apart and slathering it with jam.

With the croissants eaten and the coffee drunk, the moment, perfect though it had been, moved on, and the kids with it, to attend to last-minute present-wrapping. Gerry was in the kitchen making himself another coffee, since Seb’s effort hadn’t actually been that great, and turned the machine off to see his sister-in-law walking through the living room, having let herself in as though she owned the place. Finn, he noticed, was over by the Christmas tree adding more presents to the pile, placing them carefully, one here, one there.

Angie paused in the doorway of the kitchen, looking around, presumably hoping to see her sister since she was avoiding Gerry’s eye. She was wearing strappy sandals and a silky pink dress – you had to give the woman one thing, she always dressed well – but the look on her face was grim and decidedly un-Christmassy.

‘G’day, Ange,’ he said. ‘Cheer up: Christ the saviour is born, haven’t you heard?’

‘Yes, I
have
heard, thank you,’ she said, casting him a death-ray glance. ‘It’s not
me
who needs reminding of the Good News.’

‘And good will to all men. And women,’ he said, handing her his own just-made espresso. ‘Here you go.’ She took it with a grudging thanks, peering at the perfect crema as though she suspected him of having poisoned it. ‘Have to say, Ange, you sure as shit don’t
look
like it’s good news.’

‘Do you mind not swearing, please?’ Angie asked with furious politeness. ‘Today, of all days?’

‘Come on, swearing’s one of this country’s great traditions,’ Gerry smiled, all amused superiority. ‘Along with secularism. Did you know that more people nominate “no religion” in the census here than in any other country? And a
bloody
good thing, too, if you ask me.’

‘No one did ask you.’ Angie put down her cup, having drunk only a few sips. ‘Excuse me.’

I think I will go for that run
, Gerry thought, watching her sashay down the hall.
Less time spent around her, the better
. He laced up his running shoes and set off, into the glare of a summer morning that was already heating up, determined to enjoy an hour of exercise and solitude before the rigours of a day which would include one in-law too many and an over-abundance of rich food.
But that’s the deal
, he reminded himself.
That’s what I signed on for.