Where Have You Been? (22 page)

He likes to wait up for Susan on the nights that she works. It means he gets less than his required eight hours, but he knows he won't be able to sleep anyway, not until he knows
she's arrived home safely. He likes to be there too, just in case she wants, or needs, to talk through her day. To debrief. Though of course she never does.

Like many long-married couples, Ed and Susan have stopped talking. Oh, there's the kids and money and family affairs to discuss, but really talk – somehow they've lost interest. Ed looks back fondly on those early post-coital talkfests, where they'd be awake half the night sharing their every memory, fantasy, ideal – wonders what happened. What changed. Now they're usually both asleep within seconds of hitting the pillow, never mind post-coital. It's almost as if there's nothing more to know. Ed realises that this is what most marriages come to – and that it is, if you stop to think about it, one of the really good things about a long-time partnership. The growing ease of the relationship. Becoming Darby and Joan.

Now, on the nights that Susan is away, Carly waits up with him. He appreciates her company. And her conversation – which is always new, always interesting, always unpredictable. Even when they don't talk, even when they just sit together and read, or watch television, Ed enjoys her quiet presence, takes pleasure in her just being there.

This night, a Wednesday, Susan's second shift for the week, they have hired a video, a French film, a recent release. Ed has been looking forward to seeing it – the movie has had favourable reviews, won prizes, has come highly recommended by the video store staff (who are usually reliable in their judgements), but fifteen minutes into the film Ed has had enough, is exasperated with both plot and character.

‘What a sleaze,' he says loudly. The main protagonist is an adulterer, is cheating on his beautiful and blameless wife, and Ed finds it impossible to muster the required sympathy for the man. ‘What a dickhead. This is bullshit.'

Carly pauses the film.

‘D'you want to watch something else?'

‘No, sorry. For some reason it just pisses me off. Blokes like that. Getting away with it! What an arsehole.'

‘What do you mean?' Carly seems genuinely interested in his reaction, rather than irritated by the interruption.

‘Well – all that screwing around, and there're never any real consequences for blokes like that. We all want to fuck around, y'know, but some of us just manage to control ourselves. Why turn him into a hero? You know it'll all end up okay. That somehow he'll manage to have his cake and eat it too.'

Ed isn't quite sure why he's so worked up, why on earth he feels so strongly about a fictional character. The moral consequences of adultery are not something he's ever thought into that seriously – why would he? – but it makes him genuinely angry tonight.

‘I don't know, I've always thought that it's kind of courageous.' There is a hint of laughter in Carly's voice, but he takes the comment at face value.

‘Courage? Come on Carly – surely there's nothing even remotely brave about doing what your hormones, your animal instincts, tell you to do!'

‘No. It's not that, Ed.' She pauses, considers. Then: ‘I think it must be like being an explorer, or an astronaut. You're going somewhere new, unknown. You could end up seeing things – your whole life, everything – differently. That's pretty scary. You might find out you're not the person you thought you were. That you don't really want what you've got. I don't mean a serious, a serial adulterer, but a guy like this one. When it's a one-off kind of thing. The guy who loves his wife, but does it anyway.'

He groans. ‘That's the most feeble excuse I ever heard. But I'll pass it on. I know a few blokes who'd really enjoy that one. Don't know that their wives would, though.'

Carly shrugs. ‘Just a thought.' She hits the play button.

Ed laughs, but watches the film with a slightly different attitude. He wonders whether Carly's speaking from experience.

Adultery as exploration.

He manages to get through almost two hours without once mentioning Carly. To hold out until midway through their fourth beer.

Ed and Phil have discussed the usual things – work, politics, kids, the Wallabies' latest triumph – and have reached that stage of the evening where long reflective pauses are involuntary, and discussions of a philosophical or personal bent, inevitable. When Phil suddenly interrupts his musings on the infrequently discussed positive ramifications of globalisation to ask him how the sister-in-law situation is progressing, Ed is more than pleased to digress.

He tells Phil, who seems genuinely interested, how close Carly and Susan have become. How the children have taken to her. How all their lives have changed – and for the better – since she moved in. How full of admiration he is for this woman. What she's been through. How she's survived it.

‘You know, Phil,' he says slowly, ‘I thought things were good before. That what we, that what Susan and I had was enough, was all I needed.'

‘But?' Phil's eyes are wide.

‘But having Carly around has really changed things. She's made me ... made us,' Ed has to grope for the right words, ‘...see things in a new light. A new perspective.' He leaves it there, knowing that he has failed to explain his existential revelation clearly to Phil, that he can't even explain it to himself.

Phil snorts, pulls his chair in closer, hunches over the table towards him.

‘Mate,' he says softly, conspiratorially, ‘you know what I think?'

‘What?'

‘Ed, mate, don't think I'm judging you, and don't take this the wrong way, but I think you ought to cut through all this relationship enhancement bullshit and just face it.'

‘Face what?'

‘Ed, it's so bloody obvious, mate. You're dying to get into her pants. You want to fuck her.'

Ed is staggered. His indignation renders him momentarily speechless. Fuck her? Fuck his wife's sister? He'd swear the thought had never crossed his mind.

Aunty Di is not a real aunt, but an old friend of their mother. Her only friend, really. Her youngest daughter, Joanne, had been a classmate of Karen's, and Di stayed in contact over the years, sending Christmas and birthday cards, and was one of the few people to attend their mother's funeral. She has found out, somehow, about Karen's return and has called excitedly several times, made wistful comments about how much she'd like to meet her, how lovely it would be to see her again. Carly is initially indifferent, unmoved. ‘I didn't like her when I was a kid,' she says, ‘why would I want to see her now.' But finally, after a plaintive card arrives, welcoming her back into the fold, she reluctantly agrees to Susan's suggestion that they invite Di over for morning tea.

‘Why,' Aunty Di says to Carly now, her massive bosom heaving from exertion and emotion. ‘My dear, I'd have recognised you anywhere. Anywhere. You've hardly changed. Oh, dear.' She dabs at her eyes, sits down heavily. ‘Oh dear!'

‘And you, Aunty Di,' Carly sits beside her on the lounge, pats her arm. ‘You're still exactly the same.' As Susan moves into the kitchen to make the tea, she can hear Di laugh weakly at this.

‘What's ten stone in twenty years? Between friends? I'm still the same inside, anyway. And they say that's what counts.'

When Susan comes back with the tray the two women are chatting happily. ‘What's strange,' Carly is saying, ‘is that I hardly remember anything. And what I think I remember, Susan's forgotten.' She looks up at her sister for support. Susan nods her head, pours the tea.

Aunty Di purses her lips, nods. ‘It's true,' she says. ‘I find the same thing with my children. They seem to only ever remember the dreadful parts of their childhood. Not the lovely times. Not the parts I recall. The parts I treasure. And there were plenty of them. And now with you coming back, Karen, Carly, I have to admit I had a hard time remembering what exactly you looked like. I had some sort of a picture in my head of course, but when I tried to – get it into focus – I found that I just couldn't. That I really couldn't. I spent last night going through all my old snaps, looking, but Jo's taken all her old school photographs. So until I saw you today I really didn't have any idea of what you looked like. Now that I've seen you, of course, I remember perfectly well.' She beams at them both, reaches for her tea. ‘You must be so pleased,' this to Susan, ‘it must be wonderful to have her back. To have a sister again.'

‘When I think of you, Aunty Di,' Carly murmurs between sips, ‘I always think of a red dress you wore once. You were going out – you and Mum – a movie or something, I can't remember what, but I always think of that red dress.'

Aunty Di frowns, shakes her head. ‘No. It's no good. I can't remember ever really going out with your poor Mum – I just remember being too busy with the kids to ever go
anywhere, or do anything much. Anyway, we were always complaining about our hard lots – I do remember that. It seems to be the odd little details that you remember as you get older, but so many of the larger events disappear. It's sad, really, isn't it?' She beams, dunks her biscuit.

‘I rang Jo when I heard that you were back,' Aunty Di says. ‘She was just so excited. And she'd love to see you again. She teaches primary school, has just had her first kiddie, Jason. Six months to the day, now isn't that a marvellous thing? D'you remember what a time she had getting pregnant, Susan? You were a sensible girl, to have them so young. But poor Jo – she waited too long – ten years it took them, poor old Jo was having injections, she was so miserable – and it cost them an arm and a leg. And now when finally they've got their beloved baby, all of a sudden the whole thing's falling apart. Her hubby says he can't handle the responsibility, that he didn't really know what he was getting into. He's always seemed a nice enough fellow, he's something in computers, don't ask me what, it's all a bit beyond me; but you never know, do you – what people are really like – not when push comes to shove?' She wipes at her eyes again. ‘Deary me. It's a hard life for you young things. Having to work so hard just to have a roof over your head – and then it's all just as likely to go up in smoke anyway. Never getting time to have any kiddies, let alone see them.'

Her round face is suddenly grim. ‘It was a terrible thing, you know, Karen,' she goes on, her voice serious now, all the earlier lightness completely gone, ‘a dreadful thing that you did. It didn't just affect your immediate family you know. All the girls in your class were questioned by the police. Awful it was. They had my poor Joanne in tears, something about some man she'd seen you with. They made her go down to the station, sign a statement. I can't quite recall the details, but I'm sure it was something about some fellow in a red car. She had nightmares for weeks after, you know. It was a dreadful
time. We all thought you'd been abducted. Murdered.' She shudders as if even the memory is too much. ‘You know that, don't you?'

Carly murmurs something unintelligible, looks away.

‘And what it did to your mother.' Aunty Di sighs, shakes her head. ‘That poor, poor woman. Losing a child like that. And then her husband. Not that you could really blame him, I suppose. She just never recovered. How could you do it to her?' Di doesn't wait for an answer. ‘It was a terrible, terrible thing that you did. The worst thing that could happen to a mother.'

They are silent. All three women look down, away. Di is the first to move. She clears her throat, then smiles as if to lessen the effect of her words, reaches for another biscuit, gestures to Susan to refill her cup.

‘Anyway,' Di's voice is determinedly cheery, ‘that's all in the past isn't it? No point in going over it, is there? Crying over spilt milk. Can't change a damned thing. Now tell me, lovey,' this to Susan, ‘how's that handsome husband of yours? Funny fellow isn't he?' she says to Carly, eyes twinkling. ‘So serious. So intense. But nice looking. Reminds me a little of that English chappie, what's his name? It's not his looks exactly, but there's just something about him. His chin, perhaps.'

‘Richard Burton?' Susan offers, mindful of Di's vintage, ‘Laurence Olivier?'

‘Oh, no, no, no,' she is giggling girlishly, her cheeks quivering, ‘much younger than that. He was in all the papers and on the telly – in trouble for doing something unmentionable with a prostitute in a taxi.'

Carly and Susan look at one another. Laugh. Hugh Grant? Ed?

When her taxi comes they both offer to walk Aunty Di to the car. ‘Dear me,' she says, ‘I don't need you both to hold me up. I'm not
that
old.'

She turns to Carly, gives her a hug, pats her cheek. ‘Now, I'm sure you've got better things to do, Karen. I'll see you soon, I hope, and I'll get Jo to give you a ring. It'd be lovely for you girls to catch up. You were such good friends.' Her dismissal is obvious, but kindly.

Susan and Di make their way slowly down the footpath, through the gate. Di struggles to lower herself into the taxi, huffs and puffs as she fumbles with her seatbelt, while Susan pushes the door shut, steps back onto the footpath.

The window winds down and Di leans out. ‘I'm glad you've got your sister back,' she wheezes. ‘It's good – to have family. Can't live with em, can't live without em, I always think. But Susy,' she reaches out and grasps Susan's wrist, her plump face anxious, ‘don't trust her. She seems nice enough – and much livelier than I recall. Good fun. I remember your sister as a nice girl, a good girl, but she couldn't have been, could she? No good person could do what she did to your mother. Dreadful. Just dreadful. That poor woman. You should be careful. Don't get too – attached.'