The Mother-in-Law(52)

There is a sharp bang bang at the door. My stomach constricts. Lately, a bang at the door has always signaled bad news, and given the amount of force this person is using, it seems unlikely that this one should be any different.

I tread slowly down the hall. Through the window at the side of the door I notice the distinctive royal blue of Eamon’s suit jacket. When I toss open the door, he straightens his spine, bending his lips upward in what I think is supposed to be a smile. “Hi, Luce.”

“Eamon,” I say. “Is everything all right?”

His expression is tight and he has a slight twitchiness about him that is unnerving. “Sure, sure. Everything’s great. Fantastic.”

Fantastic. Ollie had started using that word too, since being in partnership with Eamon, mostly on the phone. (“Everything is fantastic, how are things with you, Steve? Fantastic!” Someone must have told them in a networking course that it is highly important to be fantastic at all times.)

“Ollie home?” he says.

Ollie is already behind me; I feel him there even before I turn and see him. I take a step back and watch the men regard each other, squaring up against one another like cats in the street.

“G’day, mate,” Ollie says, unsmiling.

“G’day,” Eamon replies equally coolly. “Sorry to intrude. Just wanted a quick word.”

Ollie turns and walks back down the hall and Eamon follows. I find myself overcome by an urge to go after them, to demand to know what on earth is going on. But Ollie closes the door.

“Muuuuum?”

I startle. It’s Harriet. She appears before me looking utterly appalled. “What?”

“Archie is watching the iPad!”

“Oh.” I walk into the living room. Edie has managed to turn on the television and is staring at Play School, open-mouthed. “Where is he?”

“He’s in his bed hiding!” Harriet wails. “It’s not fair. Muuum!”

I follow Harriet to Archie’s room where she points an accusing finger at the suspicious mound in the center of the bed. I tug off the blankets and Archie looks up guiltily.

“I said no iPad,” I say without much force. The fact is, I’m thinking of reconsidering this whole no iPad thing. I could really use the time to try and unpack my thoughts, not to mention to eavesdrop on the conversation between Ollie and Eamon.

“Now I get it for the rest of the day!” Harriet says, lunging for the iPad.

“No you don’t!” Archie cries.

I grab the iPad and exit the room, and Archie and Harriet tailgate me down the hall, a swishing appendage of fury. I pause outside Ollie’s office door. The volume has risen now so I don’t have to strain to hear the sound of a fist hitting something: the wall? The desk? Then I hear Ollie’s voice.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know?”

The kids freeze. I concentrate on keeping my face neutral as I circle around the kids and start pushing them toward the family room.

“This is bullshit,” Eamon cries. “This is fucking bullshit!”

There is a terrific crash, and the kids and I pull up short at the same time as the door flies open and Eamon comes crashing out. Ollie’s hands are wrapped tight around his throat.





32: LUCY


THE PAST . . .

There is truly nothing worse than having to ask for a favor when you’re trying to hold the moral high ground. It’s been three months since Christmas and we’re in the sweaty, summer - is - never - going - to - end period where people hang out at the supermarket in swimsuits and flip-flops, buying watermelon and ham and bread rolls and sunscreen. I’d like to be hanging out at the supermarket too (since it’s air-conditioned), but I’m too ill to even lift my head off the couch. Because I am eight weeks pregnant.

If it wasn’t for Harriet, I could have coped. Archie could have watched The Wiggles on repeat and wouldn’t have bothered me for days (except maybe for food), but Harriet, at ten months, has not yet mastered the art of solid, uninterrupted screen time. Ollie has a full day of interviews at work, but he has promised to come home as soon as he can, and my Dad is down at Portarlington for the week. I think about hiring an agency nanny, but my eyes water at the cost and Ollie has been watching the pennies lately. Finally, I realize there’s nothing else for it and I ring Diana.

“Hello?” As always, she answers the phone sounding midly inconvenienced.

I’m flat on my back on the floor with Archie on my lap and Harriet banging a toy repeatedly against my head. “Hello, Diana,” I say. “How are you?”

“Lucy?” There’s a short pause. “Are you ill?”

Leave it to Diana to cut to the chase.

“Actually, yes. That’s why I’m calling. I have the flu and I’m . . . well, I’m feeling quite shocking.”

I’d decided not to tell Diana I was pregnant until I reached the three-month mark. With my previous two pregnancies I couldn’t wait to tell her—thinking she’d enjoy being in on the early secret—but both times she’d merely smiled and assured me she’d keep it to herself until we were out of the danger period. There had been no congratulations. No hug. (She did, bizarrely, drop off bags of grapes periodically, with both pregnancies.) So this time, I decided she could find out around the three-month mark like everyone else.