The Soulmate(27)

Once again, I wonder how he is doing that. Sitting with my parents, doing a crossword. Pulling facts from his mind, facts buried below the immediate, the pressing, the horrific knowledge of what his wife has done. Yes, Gabe has made his share of mistakes, but that was when he was unwell. I don’t have an excuse. My involvement in this wasn’t an accident; my intentions were not noble. I made a choice without considering who I was hurting. That choice started a chain of events. Now Amanda is dead. Max has lost his wife.

I hear a cheer from the girls and deduce that the Freddo frogs have been distributed, and that’s when something occurs to me – something so obvious I can’t believe I hadn’t yet considered it.

Max.

Max is going to find out that Gabe was the one on the cliff with Amanda. In fact, he might already know. After all, the man does run a media organisation. No doubt he’ll go to the police with this information, and it won’t look good for Gabe: a former employee of NewZ who’d left in disgrace. Plus Max had slept with his wife! And Gabe had failed to disclose any of this when he was questioned by the authorities. Things are so much worse than I’d thought, I realised. Gabe could go to jail.

I hear the thud of little feet jumping for joy and then scampering around the house. I imagine chocolate melting in my little girls’ warm sweaty hands. In a normal situation, I’d insist they sit on their stools and wrap a tea towel around each of their necks (Gabe called this ‘Mummy’s straitjackets’) and I’d stand by with a damp face washer to clean their hands when they were done.

Freya will feel rattled by this sudden freedom. Asha will revel in it. When I get up, there will be chocolate on the couch and God knows where else. And yet, as further proof of my malaise, I can’t bring myself to care.

Gabe is good. He is a man who marches for causes, gives to charities, is brought to tears by a feeling that he isn’t doing enough. A man who spends hours on the edge of a cliff in the bitter cold trying to convince strangers to choose life, for heaven’s sake! A man who’d saved the lives of seven of those strangers! He can’t go to jail. If anyone should go to jail, it’s me.

The door to my room bursts open and the girls stand there with huge, chocolate-covered grins and sticky brown hands. Their eyes are glazed with sugary delirium. Even Freya looks slightly maniacal. I wonder how many Freddo frogs they’ve eaten.

‘Mummy,’ they cry, leaping onto the bed. They plant chocolate kisses on my face and make tiny chocolate handprints all over my pressed white doona cover.

Freya notices the destruction first. ‘Asha’s making a mess!’ she cries, her eyes wide and horrified. She points a chocolate finger at Asha, desperate to distance herself from the trouble.

Asha bounces on the bed, either oblivious or uncaring. I love them both so much in that moment, I think I might die.

‘Mummy doesn’t care,’ I say, grabbing Asha’s foot so she collapses onto me. Freya clambers on top of me too. There are fingers and heads and legs everywhere. I breathe in their sweet chocolate breath. ‘Mummy doesn’t care one little bit.’





24


AMANDA

BEFORE



I never got used to the wealth. Perhaps I would have, if the wealth had stayed at the same level as it was in the early days. Back then, we had a lovely house in a sought-after area of Melbourne. Two cars. A kitchen with a butler’s pantry and wine fridge. A holiday overseas every year – flying business class. But Max’s wealth was growing almost daily. Business class became first class. Tables at expensive restaurants turned into private rooms.

Having money hit me daily in ways I didn’t expect. Getting places was faster now that I could park in the most convenient location, regardless of the cost. Getting ready to go out was easier now that I’d shopped for ‘outfits’ – including shoes and a bag – rather than having to piece things together to see if they worked. I started ordering what I felt like when I went out for a meal regardless of cost. I caught taxis instead of trains. I bought myself a camera that cost more than my first car and was invited to photograph all the hottest events – fashion shows, design launches, architecture. I’d had no idea how many doors opened to you simply because of who you were – or, as in my case, who you married.

For the most part, Max and I were happy. I knew what Max needed from me at any given time and I supplied it: trust first and foremost, but also a listening ear, a home-cooked meal, sex, time to unwind. What surprised me was how much I enjoyed giving him what he needed. Charming the relevant people at dinner parties. Challenging him just the right amount. Being playful or serious, as required. Max also gave me what I needed: good company, a nice lifestyle and, most importantly, his fidelity. I couldn’t say I was in love with him, but as far as I was concerned that was a good thing.

But one night, a year or so into our relationship, things changed. We were hosting a dinner for some of Max’s colleagues and their wives. The dinner had been catered and served by staff in aprons, as usual. My role, as I’d come to understand, was to be fabulous, effortless, comforting.

The evening started much like they all did. I chatted with the wives about botox and face lifts, the latest place to go skiing, the most exclusive new villa to book for a holiday in Tuscany. Conversation at these functions was achingly repetitive, but it meant I could contribute without having to try too hard. Usually, I was more interested in what the men were discussing. To be clear, those topics were also achingly repetitive, but the subjects tended to offer more opportunity for a discussion beyond getting the name of a new aesthetician or travel agent.