The Soulmate(5)

3


PIPPA

NOW



I lied to the police. No matter how many times I tell myself this, I still can’t get my head around it. I lied to the police. Why did I do that?

Admittedly, it’s quite common, if police procedural dramas are anything to go by. In every one I’ve watched, at least the first three suspects are lying about something. Usually, it’s an affair. Or another, more insignificant, crime. I’m hiding neither. And yet, here we are.

I’m not the kind of person who lies to the police. I am the epitome of a good citizen. I have no unpaid fines of any sort. I ceased parking my car in the mother-and-baby spaces the moment the girls grew out of the pram. The time I found a cash-filled wallet I handed it to the police immediately, even though I was a student at the time and desperately needed the money. More importantly, I am a lawyer. I understand the importance of being truthful, and I know that providing a false statement to the police is against the law. I could be struck off the register for it, I realise, with sudden horror. I could lose my ability to practise law. And for what? Gabe didn’t even do anything wrong!

It’s 9 pm, and I’m folding laundry at the coffee table while our garden swarms with cops. The crime scene team arrived an hour ago, along with the State Emergency Service, who set up tents and huge lights. Police Search and Rescue are also here, apparently. As it turns out, retrieving a body at night from the bottom of a cliff during a downpour when the tide is in isn’t easy business.

Kat left once the girls were tucked up in bed, promising that she’d be back in the morning, and Gabe is running around after the police, switching on outdoor lights and offering warm drinks and umbrellas. Which leaves me with laundry. Normally folding laundry is the antidote to anxiety for me, but tonight I find it lacking. I’ve already put away the toys and vacuumed. The dishwasher is on. I’m running out of ways to self-soothe.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask Gabe at intervals, as he hurries past on his way to do one thing or another. He nods. I suppose there’s nothing to say. It’s too soon for him to be all right. It will take time for him to process what happened. My job will be to provide the support he needs. A listening ear. Counselling. Perhaps even yoga? Recently Mum raved to me about a ‘laughing yoga’ group she attended down at the beach on a Wednesday morning. Bunch of mad ladies wetting their pants, she said. Maybe not that kind of yoga.

Perhaps we’ll take a meditation course together? We could practise that thing that everyone talks about . . . mindfulness! Or maybe we could try adult colouring books. If it doesn’t work out, we could give them to the girls. But I’ve always found colouring quite soothing – all those lovely colours staying neatly within the lines. I go online and order a couple, and a new set of Derwent pencils. It doesn’t completely relieve my anxiety, but it helps a bit.

*

It’s nearly midnight when the police confirm they have found the body, and the victim is indeed dead. The rest of the police work has been postponed to the morning, when it’s safe to continue, though a couple of ‘guards’ will remain overnight to ensure the integrity of the crime scene.

‘Gabe,’ I say, after waving off everyone but the guards, but before I can continue he holds up a hand.

‘Can I just . . . take a shower?’ he says. ‘Then we can talk.’

I nod, because after everything the poor man has been through, how can I deny him a shower? He trudges wearily towards the master bathroom, and I make my way around the house, locking doors and switching off lights. Outside, I hear the great crash of the ocean. Gabe always talks about how calming he finds that noise, but I’ve always found it ominous. Tonight, it is the most horrible sound in the world.

I check on the girls, who both lie horizontally across Freya’s bed, their tummies rising and falling in unison. Asha’s arm is outstretched across Freya’s face and their legs intertwine in such a way that I can’t tell which belong to who in the dark. It never ceases to delight me that each night we put them to sleep in separate beds, and each morning they wake up in one – a habit Mum tells me they inherited from Kat and me.

My phone pings, once and then again, and I know without looking that it’s Mum and Dad. Kat will have texted them the news. They are night owls both, and they’ll be worried.

I glance at the screen.

Mum: Kat told us what happened. Give Gabe a hug and kiss from me.

Dad: Send my love to the big man. We’ll be around in the morning.

My parents’ relationship with Gabe brings me great joy. When Gabe married me, they didn’t just become his in-laws, they became his parents, something Gabe was particularly grateful for, since he had no living parents of his own. Eighteen months ago, when our lives hit rock bottom, it was my parents who supported us through it, who helped us to restart our life at the beach – with me as the full-time breadwinner and Gabe as primary carer of the girls.

‘Everyone should have the chance to start over,’ Mum used to say back then, to no one in particular.

And that’s exactly what we did. I shouldn’t have been surprised when, in our usual co-dependent fashion, Mum and Dad, plus Kat and Kat’s wife Mei joined us in our sea change, finding houses within walking distance of our place. Our family has always taken togetherness seriously, but this was impressive, even for us. As Mum always says, ‘Family is thicker than water.’