Putting Alice Back Together (17 page)

‘Won’t they mind?’

Just go, Alice
, my head was screaming,
just grab a
few clothes and go
. He’d offered to pay for my flight, there was no reason
not
to go, yet the thought of being alone with him for three days had me in a tailspin.

‘Why would they mind?’ Hugh shrugged. He was tapping on his laptop, had pulled up the Qantas page and there was a flight available. ‘Loads of people will be bringing their partners.’

I stilled inside. I just stood there and froze, the word ‘partner’ sideswiping me. Oh, I knew he didn’t actually mean I was his partner—but that single word had me slightly in his fold, that elusive word that had never once been used to describe me. A good friend, a shag buddy, a date, a casual date, a mistress once. I had been many things, worn many hats, but I had never been the one who a guy asked to come away with him. In fact, I had never been away with a guy before, unless you counted Dan. My head was buzzing with the implication, with the excitement and also fear, this fear that once he saw me, the real me, then he wouldn’t want me any more, and three days was a long time to keep up the dazzling façade.

But that word had turned the key. I was nodding, he was clicking on the computer, and suddenly we were confirmed.

I was off on holiday, with my partner.

A bit more notice
would
have been nice. Still, Nicole’s stuff had been moved into a cupboard to make way for Hugh’s and was in little cases and drawers all neatly washed and folded.

Can you believe she had a holiday drawer? I kid you not. She had a drawer of little bikinis and sarongs and sunblock lotion and lip balm. How ironic was it that
Nicole, the least spontaneous person in the world, was one of the few women who could spin off at two minutes’ notice—and best of all Hugh had no idea what her wardrobe consisted of.

I didn’t take
everything
. I packed my own underwear, hair serum and heavy-duty sunblock and of course my straighteners, but just as I was shoving my hairdryer with a motor that could power a Harley into my travel case, Hugh pulled it out. ‘There will be a hairdryer at the hotel.’

‘My hair’s so thick and curly, though…’ I could feel my cheeks go pink, I sort of felt I had to warn him in advance. ‘It takes for ever to dry.’

‘Curly?’ Hugh picked up a strand of my mirror-smooth hair. ‘You?’

‘Yep.’ Somehow I managed a nonchalant shrug and there was no major debate, no Hugh suddenly trying to get a refund on his ticket, but he hadn’t seen it in all its ringleted glory.

I could feel a little bubble of panic inside, growing and fizzing and multiplying. I wanted to take something, but I had nothing.

There were two for emergencies that I kept in the bathroom, but I had taken them this morning (well, so would you if you had an appointment with Big Tits). I couldn’t face him seeing my hair with nothing. It sounds stupid, but it was a massive deal for me and I didn’t want to spoil the weekend by stressing about my hair.

It had to be perfect.

I had to be perfect.

‘I’ve just got to pop out.’

‘We can get whatever you need there…’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘I was supposed to be catching up with Dan for lunch tomorrow. He’ll be put out if I cancel—I’ll just go over for coffee.’

‘Well, be back by two.’

I didn’t even need the note from the hospital. The doctor just listened. I’d actually learnt a thing or three from Big Tits about what to say, and from Dr Kelsey I’d learned what not to say. This doctor was usually my sore throat doctor when I needed a sick note for work. Well, he briefly checked my boring medial history and nodded approvingly when I said I was thinking of going to a psychologist, and he gave me a script. I paid for my consultation and read it as I headed to a (different) chemist. ‘Diazepam 10 mg x 50 x 3 repeats.’

Which was one hundred and fifty tablets and, given they were double the strength of the others, well, it was like having three hundred. Finally I could relax.

I smiled as paid for the script.

I was going to Coogee.

Everything was beautiful.

Within a couple of hours I was sitting at Melbourne International Airport. My heart was fluttering with nerves, but happy nerves—especially when he came back with two large gin and tonics which, combined with the Valium I’d just dashed down in the loo and a glass of champagne on the one-hour flight, had me floating all the way to Sydney.

Hugh was entranced with Sydney. There is huge rivalry between Melbourne and Sydney—you can only like one, but not the other, but I didn’t buy it.

Melbourne is a brilliant place to live.

Sydney too if you’re loaded.

Melbourne has sport and art and history.

Sydney, though, well, there is no harbour more beautiful in the world.

None.

And that’s from a (not born and bred) Melburnian.

And if you like beaches, well, Sydney’s your gal.

Hugh was like a child in a sweet shop. As the plane descended he was nose to the window, staring at the Pacific Ocean and the glittering harbour with the Opera House standing proud.

‘We have to go there!’

‘We will.’ His enthusiasm was infectious. We swept through Baggage, it was already waiting, as was a taxi. It was so easy, and so hard to believe that just a few hours ago I’d been gearing myself to a weekend alone.

And now we were here, a short drive to heaven.

Coogee Beach was stunning, a golden expanse with sandstone rocks either side and crashing waves and our hotel room had glorious views.

Apart from a couple of dinners, I had never been
out
with Hugh—does that make sense? I guess we were too busy in our love bubble to socialise just yet. I knew he was gorgeous, red hair and all. I knew the impact that he had on me, but I just hadn’t anticipated the effect he had on others.

As soon as we got there we had to go down to a champagne cocktail reception. I pulled on a slinky black dress and did my make-up in record time as he put on a suit. I was still floating from the Valium and gin and champagne—and, call it self-preservation, instead of
champagne I took a glass of orange juice. I was nervous, of course, meeting his colleagues and their partners, but it was relatively painless. Hugh chatted easily to everyone and so did I. I was drunk on lust and atmosphere and the effect of Hugh, because everyone seemed to like him. I went outside for a cigarette and was delighted to find that most psychiatrists and their partners smoked like trains.

I did remember to say thank you, just as Yasmin had said I should. I stared up at the glittering stars and beyond to the universe that had brought me my dearest wish and I thanked them, or whoever it was who dealt with these things, for delivering him to me. My good manners were rewarded because, as the waiter came by and I was toying with having just one glass of champagne, a hand snaked around my waist.

‘Bed.’

‘It’s only nine o’clock.’

‘Business is done—it’s time for pleasure.’

Twenty-Eight

I couldn’t breathe.

I shot out of bed and pulled on my dressing gown to cover me and then I went downstairs.

I could see the light on under the door and I burst into the kitchen.

Mum was ironing. She’d taken in ironing to pay for my music tuition and with Bonny’s wedding still needing to be paid off, she was busy, and worried and stressed.

‘Mum…’ I didn’t know how to start it, what to say, I mean what did I say? Not that I got a chance. ‘You know when we spoke about me going out with guys—’

‘I don’t even want to hear about it, Alice,’ she interrupted my pathetic attempt to tell her. ‘You’ve got plenty of time for all that.’

‘The thing is…’

‘Alice.’ Mum held up the iron. ‘Why do you think I’m standing here at one a.m. ironing?’

I just stood there.

‘I have a shift tomorrow that starts at seven-thirty, so tell me why the hell do you think I’m ironing?’

Still I stood there.

‘So you never have to.’

And she went on and on about how this was the most vital time of my life, how everything was pinned on the next few months, how she never wanted me to be in her position. I was to forget about boys. I was to forget about everything apart from my exams. It was bad enough that I insisted on working at a burger bar. I was to buckle down with my music practice and she didn’t want to hear any arguments.

It was hopeless, so I just stood there staring at her.

Should I have said it? Should I have just blurted out the words—
I’m pregnant
?

And then what?

She’d understand?

It really was hopeless.

So I met up with Dad.

I don’t blame Dad for leaving Mum—he married this fun-loving, sexy, sparkly thing (because she was pregnant, I’d heard him say in a row) and she just gave up when she had kids. Every picture tells a story and our photo album and the collection of pictures on the mantelpiece tell Mum and Dad’s. He got better looking as he got older; Mum got bigger and cared less. He had an affair when I was about five or six. I had just started school and I can remember the rows. He left for a while and Mum lost some weight and made an effort and they got back together again but it soon started to slide, or rather Mum did. When I was fifteen Dad moved out for good with—cliché upon cliché—Lucy, his young, blonde, thin and beautiful junior assistant.

Everyone said Dad was a complete bastard—everyone
except me. Bonny is Mum’s favourite and I guess I’m Dad’s and we could always talk. So I rang him up and he sounded delighted to hear from me, though he wasn’t keen on going to the Nag’s Head. He suggested a pub I’d never been to, but I got the bus and met him.

‘Hey there, baby girl.’ He grinned when I walked in, and when he went to get me a Coke he offered to slip in a Bacardi. It was a treat and made me feel grown-up, but today I said no. I knew it was bad for… well, I didn’t think much further than that.

‘I hope you’re not looking for money!’ He grinned. ‘Things are a bit tight at the moment, what with the wedding and everything…’

Ah, the wedding—he wasn’t talking about Bonny’s because Lex and Mum had paid for that—no, he and Lucy were getting married in a few weeks in the Caribbean. My mother was furious—that he couldn’t afford to pay for his own daughter’s wedding, but was going to the Caribbean for his.

‘Why are you having such an expensive wedding, Dad?’

‘It’s not for me, Alice.’ He shook his head. ‘Lucy’s put up with a lot. I mean she’s had to go without while I’ve supported three kids and… well…’ Drone, drone, drone.

You know, the trouble with divorce is you don’t know who to believe. See, if you listen to Mum, then Dad never gives her anything, or hardly anything, and even then only occasionally. That’s why she has to work so many jobs—that’s why she’s so skint. And if you listen to Dad, well, according to him, he pays Mum more than he has to. That said, Eleanor is married and Bonny was eighteen when he went, but Dad says he gives Mum a
lot of help with me and that she got a brilliant divorce settlement—well, she got the house.

But if you listen to Mum she got the bloody mortgage too.

‘Lucy deserves a decent wedding, and…’ He glanced down at my glass. ‘Do you want another drink?’

I didn’t but I nodded. For the first time in weeks I didn’t even feel sick, just calmer, and safer too. I could talk to Dad. I watched as he chatted to the barmaid—he was born flirting, my dad. He looks like Bonny, and she’s a wild flirt too—and there he was chatting away to the barmaid and then glancing over to me, but he gave me a bright smile and brought over my drink. As he sat down I took a deep breath and braced myself to tell him.

Dad spoke first, though.

‘It’s good you called because actually I’ve got something to tell you, Alice.’ I watched him swallow and sensed he was nervous, and I was too, because I didn’t want to hear about him, or his latest drama or scandal, and there always was one where Dad was concerned. For once I wanted to talk about me and my problems, not listen to his.

‘Lucy’s pregnant.’

I could feel tears in my eyes as I took a gulp of my drink—he’d put in a Bacardi. ‘I don’t want you telling your mum yet—you know what she’s like. I just want to keep it quiet till after the wedding but, well, now you can see why Lucy needs a holiday.’

Mum was going to freak.

That was my first thought.

Mum would go off when she found out about this.

And then I thought about me, or rather how the hell could I tell him? How could I tell any of them?

It was at that point I realised I couldn’t.

Twenty-Nine

It just got better. He had to go to a seminar in the morning, and I could have dozed and sat on the balcony, but I knew, because he’d said what time he’d finish, that he’d want to go to the beach. It was a humid day. I wouldn’t even make it to the water’s edge without my hair starting to curl.

I also had visions of my mum sitting dressed from head to toe and miserable at the poolside as my dad, splashing in the water with his daughters, urged her to join in.

I didn’t want to be that.

So, when Hugh left, instead of dozing or lounging about, I showered, and redid what the woman at the beauty centre on Bonny’s birthday had done. I squeezed my hair dry with a towel and spread a palm full of Curls Rock through it that I had bought that day. I sat for close to an hour then I got up. I took a Valium as I saw my hair coil into ringlets, but instead of panicking I read Hugh’s trashy blockbuster and waited it out. At one, I ran my fingers through it as the hairdresser had done
and twisted some curls into better shape and then I sat again with my heart in my mouth.

And I waited.

He was going to see me with curly hair.

He didn’t really look at me as he careered into the room. I sat cringing inside as he pulled off his suit and pulled on board shorts. He was chatting away, desperate to get out into the sun…

And then he turned around.

‘Jesus, Alice…’ He stood and I swallowed. I sat there, no doubt purple from head to foot, but I was pretending to read my book—pretending that I often looked like this, that I was used to this, that this was my holiday hair.