The Soulmate(2)

‘Apparently.’

But we both know it wouldn’t matter what Gabe said. People don’t come down from the cliff because of something he says. They come down because of who he is. When people meet Gabe, they feel safe. Seen. I’ve always thought he would make an excellent cult leader. Or used-car salesman. Last week there’d been an article about Gabe in the local rag – NEW RESIDENT SAVES LIVES AT THE DROP. The article had referred to him as an ‘angel’. Gabe had posed for a photo at The Drop, smiling broadly. With his golden tan, blue eyes and sandy windswept hair, he looked half surfer, half mountain man.

I’ve often wondered if his good looks play a part in his ability to convince people to live. I’m reminded of his good looks daily – not by Gabe but by everyone else.

‘How’d you land him?’

‘Is that your husband?’

‘He is gorgeous.’

It’s not that I’m unattractive. At high school, a group of boys ranked me 7/10 for looks – which got them ranked 10/10 for assholery, but I think the 7 was accurate. I have a nice smile, wavy blonde hair, a well-proportioned figure . . . and I also have a larger than average forehead and smaller than average eyes. I do my best with what I’ve got, and with make-up and heels I could probably get as high as an 8.5. Still, the fact is, most mornings I wake up looking like Shrek while Gabe wakes up looking like Chris Hemsworth, and there is no use denying facts.

Gabe and the woman appear to be talking animatedly. Gabe is using a lot of hand gestures. Admittedly, he’s partial to a hand gesture, but there are even more than usual today.

‘What happens if they don’t want to look at the view?’ Kat asks.

I shrug. ‘Thankfully we haven’t had to face that problem yet.’

The first time we saw someone on the cliff, it was mid-afternoon on a Sunday and the girls were on the grass playing in the blow-up paddling pool because Gabe and I couldn’t be bothered walking down the zillion steps to the beach. We’d just moved into the cliff house. It was a sunny day, with a gentle breeze off the water. Gabe and I had gin and tonics and were in the midst of congratulating ourselves on our clever sea change.

‘Mummy,’ Asha said, ‘that man is very close to the edge. He might fall.’

I looked in the direction of her pointing finger. The man was indeed very close to the edge. His toes were over the edge, and he held the flimsy branch of a moonah tree in his right hand. It wouldn’t save him. If he stepped off the edge, he’d take the tree out by the roots.

‘Girls, I think I saw some ice cream in the freezer,’ Gabe said, understanding before I did. ‘Maybe you and Mummy should go and get some?’

The quiet that came over Gabe made me feel safe and panicked all at once. I took the girls inside and sat them in front of the television (one of the benefits of minimal screen time is that when you do turn it on, no natural or unnatural disaster can tear their attention away) and stole glances at the scene through the kitchen window. Gabe sat way back on the grass, I noticed, at least ten metres away. After a few moments, the man turned around. Gabe’s body language was relaxed, as if he had nowhere to be. Five hours later, Gabe was in the same spot. So was the man, except his back was to the cliff now and he was talking, sometimes passionately, sometimes despondently. Around hour six, he was crying. When it got to hour seven, Gabe stood up and opened his arms. The man walked right into them. Later, Gabe told me the man had got so far into debt with his gambling problem that he couldn’t face his wife and kids.

‘What did you say to him?’ I asked.

‘Not much. Mostly I just listened. When he finished, I told him I was sorry.’

When the police arrived, we’d been reprimanded for not calling earlier. They’d also praised Gabe’s efforts. It was nothing short of miraculous, they said, for a layman with no experience to talk someone down. A couple of the cops even asked Gabe for tips. Now we always call the police immediately, but it’s still Gabe who coaxes them away from the cliff, while I watch anxiously from the kitchen, my stomach plaited, wishing we’d never bought this damn house – just like I’m doing now.

The sun has set in the short time they’ve been out there. It happens quickly at this time of year. Under the lamplight, I can see that the woman has a dark ponytail and is wearing a black knee-length puffer jacket. She throws her arms up, the way Gabe does when his footy team loses.

‘Has Daddy catched the frogs yet?’

Kat and I both startle, look down. Asha is standing at our feet holding, randomly, a fork. Freya stands worriedly beside her.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Not yet, poppet.’

‘Does he need a fork?’ she says, aggressively stabbing the air with it.

I wonder sometimes if I should be concerned about Asha’s mental health. I remember doing an online survey, Is Your Partner a Sociopath?, and answering the question ‘Have they ever caused harm to animals?’ I felt smug as I reported that Gabe adores animals. (Well, most animals. He has a strange set against llamas – something to do with an incident at the zoo – but he wouldn’t cause harm to them, and that was the point.) As for Asha, I’m choosing to believe that even if she would harm a frog now, she will grow out of it. Surely! According to Mum, ‘All little kids are psychos. It’s a necessary, important phase of growth.’ Except for those who don’t grow out of it, I suppose.