Where Have You Been? (13 page)

Another aspect of Carly's charm, it appears, is patience.

Ed doesn't hog the conversation, however, he's a better host than that; and he's curious, intrigued by this woman, wants to know a few things. ‘So, where do you live?' he asks her, ‘What do you do?'

All the questions that are in urgent need of an answer. Susan had planned to gently interrogate her sister herself during the afternoon. She'd intended to question Carly about their shared past, to perhaps discover the reasons for her departure, at the very least to find out where she's been, what she's been doing since. But now she leaves the questions to Ed, and they're not quite the right questions, of course, or at least he doesn't phrase them the way Susan, the way a sister, would. But even so, Susan's slightly disconcerted by the fact that at the end of the meal she still can't quite piece together even a rough chronology of Carly's life. However hard she tries to make some sort of a story, some sort of cohesive narrative, there are more gaps than facts, and she is left with more questions than answers. From the bits and pieces that Carly lets slip (and they are slips, Susan feels sure of this, her sister has an almost uncanny ability to slide away from any direct examination – even the most innocent enquiries about her past are expertly deflected) all Susan can be certain of is that Carly's life has been difficult.

To Susan this ability to remain somehow mysterious, a little opaque, is the most potent of all Carly's charms. Potent, and it occurs to her momentarily – though it's a thought that dissipates just as quickly as it materialises – maybe just a little dangerous.

At five-thirty, just as Susan's finishing washing the good glassware (she answers the door pink-gloved and dishclothed, her face damp and shiny with steam), Howard Hamilton arrives. He seems curiously unfamiliar on this Sunday afternoon – dressed in civvies: Levis and joggers and an old black t-shirt, his dark hair untidy, curling wildly. She offers him beer, wine, but no, he says, he'd prefer coffee, really, and he sits on a stool at the island bench while Susan pulls off her gloves, prepares the coffee. Ed and the kids have taken Karen
(it's so hard to remember!) have taken Carly for a walk down to the beach, she tells Howard when he asks where everyone is. And yes, it has been a successful day, she adds before he can ask.

‘My sister (she giggles a bit over the word) arrived a bit late, but she's certainly made up for it – she's fitting in really well. We're all – we're all over the moon, it couldn't be better.'

Hamilton nods his head thoughtfully. ‘That's good.'

‘Yes, it's very good. Perfect in fact. The kids, Ed, me. Everyone's happy.'

Like Ed, she remembers to reciprocate. It's possible that this man has his own life, isn't just concerned with her own. ‘And you,' she asks brightly, as she passes him his coffee, ‘have you had a pleasant Sunday?'

‘We-ell – yes,' he stirs in a teaspoon of sugar, frowning. ‘We-ll no, not really. I've just been visiting my old man. He's in a hospital near here. Actually, it's a hospice. I take my mother over twice a week to visit him. The whole thing's pretty harrowing, really, but you'd probably know all about that. There's not much left of him, he's doped up with morphine, can barely speak. I don't think he's got long to go.'

‘Oh, that's so sad ... so hard. And your Mum? Is she coping alright? Does she have someone staying with her?'

‘My youngest sister's living at home. She takes her when she can. Then there's my eldest brother, he lives nearby...'

‘And you live nearby, too?'

‘Oh, no. I grew up here, but I live in Woolloomooloo, Brougham Street. Haven't managed the move back since uni – and probably won't now. Though I still miss the surf...'

‘And you're married? Kids?' Susan's genuinely interested now, not just making polite conversation. She wonders how it is that despite so much contact with professionals – doctors, lawyers, accountants, dentists – she so frequently regards them as being somehow untouched by the everyday world,
never really imagines them as having families, a life, an existence beyond the office. Wonders whether it's her or the professionals, or both: perhaps it's necessary to maintain a certain distance when such an intimate knowledge is required – from both confider and confidante.

‘I'm divorced. I've a six-year-old daughter, Maisy, but she's with her mother, in Melbourne. I see her in the school holidays. You know how it works.'

‘Oh, God. That must be bloody hard.'

He shrugs. ‘They've been gone for five years now, my ex has since had another two kids. You get over it, I guess.'

‘Not really.'

‘No, of course not really'. He smiles, stands up. ‘So, how about I help you finish the dishes while I'm here.' He grabs a tea towel.

They stand companionably at the sink, their only conversation to do with what goes where. She knows that it is probably the effect of too much champagne too early in the day, but suddenly Susan finds herself mesmerised by the efficient elegance of his movements; he dries the dishes expertly – in contrast to her own clumsy, indifferent washing. She stops and watches, fascinated.

‘What?' He pauses. ‘Are you alright?'

She wonders whether she is actually alright. ‘I'm not sure. It's all a bit bewildering, all a bit much, I guess...'

One end of the kitchen window curtain has come loose, has fallen off its track. It billows out in the breeze, and the fabric brushes over her face, sticking to Susan's damp skin. She pushes it back, ineffectually, with her damp rubber-clad fingers. She grapples with the glove, while Howard moves closer, peels the gossamer-light fabric away almost absently. ‘It must be difficult,' he says slowly, ‘I hadn't really thought too much about it. How do you become sisters again – after twenty years?'

‘Yes, how do you? I've had all this time to think about it. Years really. It's not like I've never imagined it. But I just don't know – what to do. How to handle it.' She sighs, relieved that she's said it, but amazed that she's admitted her doubts to a virtual stranger.

‘I don't think there are any guidelines – it's not a very usual situation is it? There are probably counselling services – people who help with adoption reunions. Maybe that's as close as you'll get – I can find out ... if you like.' He sounds doubtful, and as if he's making conversation, babbling.

‘I suppose...' Susan stops mid-sentence, can't recall what she was going to say, has unaccountably lost track of the conversation.

They both stand quite still, saying nothing. The curtain billows out again and Howard's fingers brush hers as they both move to push it away. Their fingers tangle (hers red, a little puffy with heat) and stay together for a long moment. Then, inexplicably, it is more than just their fingers intertwined, it's arms, legs, lips, tongues. Susan is the first to pull away. She turns back to the sink, plunges her hands into the greasy lukewarm suds. Says briskly: ‘I wonder if you wouldn't mind clipping that curtain back into its runner, Howard? It's annoying – and I can't quite reach.'

He likes Carly from the first.

It could be said that Ed is inclined to like everyone. It's only fair, he feels, to take people at face value, to take them at their own estimation – and though this has brought him unstuck occasionally over the years (particularly in his line of work, where face value is generally worthless), in Ed's
personal, in his
intimate
relationships, it is an attitude that has always proven useful, beneficial.

Still, he likes this woman. Carly. His new sister-in-law. He likes – well it's hard to locate precisely what it is that he finds so appealing. Carly possesses, despite being thin, a certain voluptuousness, a sensuality that's absent from her sister, a sensuality that he finds intriguing, enticing, though she couldn't, in all honesty, be called good-looking – or at least they're not the sort of looks Ed generally admires. Usually he's attracted to well-groomed women, fashionably (but not flamboyantly) dressed, wearing sufficient (but not excessive) make-up. And given a choice he would have to say that he prefers women's hair long; long and tied back. He's a sucker for an elegant low slung ponytail, or even a librarian's demure chignon. But Carly displays none of his customary preferences. She's about forty and still dresses like a student: worn jeans, t-shirts, big clumpy boots. Her hair is cut to her shoulders, badly styled, and is streaked blonde at the tips with darker roots. Her ears are pierced not once, but three, maybe four times, and she sports a small silver stud in her nose. He can see no trace of make-up. No trace of a bra either. It's not that he's looking, not exactly, he's never really been a tit man (he has grown to love Susan's little mounds, not quite a handful, drooping slightly from pregnancy and breastfeeding, but round, soft), nonetheless he can't help noticing that her breasts sit freely under her thin shirt – without any evidence of swing or sag. It's not a style Ed generally approves of (geriatric rock star, a kind of down-at-heel Paula Yates) – it's untidy, with the mildly disreputable shabbiness he associates with the inner city, and on anyone else her age he'd call it affected, pretentious, mutton-dressed- up-as-slightly- spoilt-lamb, but Carly – well somehow Carly can carry it off. He reckons that Carly has earned the right – after all (from the little he can gather, anyway), she's lived a life that's almost impossible for
him to imagine, and her appearance is perhaps a natural, a physical manifestation of her experience.

He likes her voice. Low, breathy, slightly gravelly. A smoker's voice, as Susan has pointed out, and even that's okay, though generally he abhors cigarette smoking. Especially in women. But Carly rolls her own, and suddenly (though he's seen it done countless times before) he finds the whole process strangely fascinating. The way she rolls the tobacco quickly, expertly, between two fingers, without even thinking about it. The flicker of her pink tongue – efficient, but sensual – along the thin paper.

He likes her eyes. Blue. Changeable. One minute pale, opaque; the next translucent, full of light, the colour of the sky or the ocean.

He likes her calm. Susan is calm too, but hers is such a practical calm – she is matter-of-fact, efficient. And she's quick, reactive. Carly does nothing, says nothing in a hurry. She occasionally pauses mid-sentence – as if she's reflecting, reconsidering, even as she speaks. Her smiles break slowly, are careful, measured. He'd noticed a similar ponderousness in various of his friends during their pot-smoking days, but Carly's eyes are bright, focused. All her movements are, he thinks, graceful, and they're certainly not the awkward twitches and blunderings that come from being stoned.

He likes the way she is with the children. She's not at all how he remembers any of
his
aunts – kind, but distant, not quite approachable, except in an emergency. Carly talks to Mitchell and Stella as if they're adults – there's no patronising here, no adult superiority, and though he really doesn't approve of bad language around kids, they don't seem to notice with their new aunt. He can't see that she'll be a negative influence in any way.

He likes the smell of her too. Musk, vanilla, he's not sure, will have to check with Susan. Though on second thoughts
maybe he'll ask Carly herself. It might be a nice gift for Susan – her birthday's coming up – a change from her customary floral scents.

All things considered, Ed's rather pleased with his new sister-in-law.

He insists on accompanying Susan when she next meets with Howard Hamilton, though she tells him to go to work, that she'll be fine, she can handle it, she doesn't need him holding her hand. Susan doesn't actually tell him that it's none of his business, but he senses that she'd like to. He manages to shrug it off, to not take offence – she's not really been herself lately, and it's no wonder – and he restrains himself, limits himself to a simple statement to the effect that he's coming no matter what. That she needs him there to (and here he clears his throat delicately) protect her interests.

‘Oh, for Christ's sake, Ed. It's Howard Hamilton's job to protect my interests.'

But Ed knows that's not so: ‘The solicitor's there to protect your mother's interests, Susan. The interests of the estate. Not yours.' Ed doesn't tell her that he still doesn't trust that greasy solicitor – is aware that for some reason (women!) she has taken to him, has, perhaps, been
taken in
by him. Nor does he mention (perhaps he doesn't realise) the fact that part of this eagerness to accompany her is tied up with the prospect of seeing Carly again. Though it's not like Ed to deny such an impulse. Not at all like Ed.

Carly is already comfortably ensconced in Hamilton's office when they arrive. The solicitor stands when the secretary ushers them in, but Carly stays seated, though she smiles and says hello to Susan, who returns the greeting a little too coolly to Ed's way of thinking. He knows his wife was slightly put out, slightly hurt by her sister's failure to talk to her during the weekend barbecue, but as he has already,
none-too-diplomatically, pointed out, Susan was half-pissed by the time Carly arrived; she was scarcely able to remember her sister's new name, let alone conduct a meaningful conversation. Now he directs a slightly too-warm smile in Carly's direction, to make up for Susan's obvious remoteness; he proffers his hand, and it seems to him that she grasps it eagerly, that she clutches it the way an exhausted swimmer might grab onto a buoy, and that the smile she turns on him as he takes the seat next to her is understanding as well as grateful. Carly is dressed differently again today, though he's not sure what it is precisely that's changed. Is it the way she's done her hair? He can't be certain but thinks perhaps it looks more stylish somehow; artfully tousled rather than unkempt, uncared for. Or is it the blouse: silk, unbuttoned just enough to allow a tantalising glimpse of cleavage? Whatever it is, she looks different, more conservative, younger somehow, and even more attractive. She leans towards him, her hand still loosely in his.