Spinning Around (18 page)

I didn't have time to do anything except my job until well after six, when the conference finally ended. Not a bad result, actually—a pregnancy discrimination case, settled by conciliation with a $2000 payment and a written statement of apology. Personally, I'd take a straightforward pregnancy discrimination case over a sexual harassment case any day, because there isn't quite the same level of humiliation or resentment in pregnancy discrimination. There aren't quite as many nasty undercurrents. But that's just my opinion. I know that Bebe, one of the other complaints officers, really gets off on sexual discrimination cases because the settlements tend to be heftier. It's my feeling that she enjoys wresting $25 000 out of a blue-chip corporation every once in a while because she used to work at the Redfern Legal Centre when she first left school.

Each to his own, I guess.

I'd warned Matt that I might be late, so I didn't panic unduly when I got back to my office and saw the time. Ten past six. That gave me fifteen minutes until the next train—plenty of time to call Jim McRae and cancel. I was half-expecting to get his message-bank again. I certainly didn't expect him to answer the phone himself.

‘Jim McRae,' he said quietly.

‘Oh. Hello.' Help! ‘That's—that's Jim McRae, is it?'

Aagh. What an idiot.

‘Yes. Can I help you?'

‘Look, I'm sorry about this, I—um—I left a message earlier. I'm a friend of Stuart Klein's.'

‘Helen Muzzatti?'

‘That's it. That's me. Um . . . look, I've made a mistake. I've changed my mind. I'm sorry, I'm such a dodo. I'm sorry.'

‘That's all right.' He had a great voice, very deep and calm. He sounded more like a psychiatrist than a private detective.

‘Okay, well . . . thanks for calling back. I mean—no, you didn't call back, did you? Ha ha.' Oh my God, my God, could I have sounded any more stupid? ‘Don't listen to me, I'm in a complete state at the moment—'

‘I did call you back, Helen.'

‘Beg pardon?'

‘I did call you back. You said after five-thirty I could reach you at home, so I called that number.'

‘Oh.'

‘I didn't leave a message. I didn't know if I should, in the circumstances.'

‘No. Right.' I felt as if I'd suddenly drifted into a John Le Carré novel. ‘Thanks.'

‘But if you change your mind, I'm always available.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Goodbye.'

He hung up. I hung up. Then I stood for a moment with my hand on the phone and my mind in a spin, before I suddenly remembered the time. Six-thirteen. I thought: If only I had a mobile, I could call Miriam on the train. But mobiles cost money, and office mobiles are in great demand.

I knew it would mean rushing, but I dialled her number anyway. Twenty-one messages; she still wasn't answering. It suddenly occurred to me—what if she was lying dead in her bathroom? ‘Jesus,' I murmured. Should I call the police, just in case? Should I send someone over there?

Not until I got home, perhaps. Not until I'd had a meal and a hot shower.

I'd made enough stupid phone calls for one day.

I was a nervous wreck by the time I got home. To begin with, I was worried about Miriam. Furthermore, as the train sat becalmed for ten minutes somewhere between St Peters and Sydenham, I had the leisure to realise that if Matt had been at home all day, he would have had plenty of time to call the Girl With Purple Hair. For all I knew, he might have
arranged a
meeting
. It was with this happy thought foremost in my mind that I finally walked in the front door, and was greeted by a high-pitched yowl that I identified as Jonah's.

I checked my watch. Ten past seven.

‘Hello!' I called, chucking my briefcase onto an unoccupied chair. Emily came tearing out of the kitchen to greet me. She wasn't wearing her pyjamas, I noticed.

‘Hello, Mummy!'

‘Hello, darling.'

‘Jonah made a mess.'

‘Did he?'

‘He got the green cordial and it fell over and it made a mess.'

‘Oh dear.' Sure enough, I found Matthew wiping fluorescent green liquid off the kitchen floor. Jonah had been strapped into his highchair; hence his all-too-obvious misery. Something was boiling on the stove.

‘Hello,' I said, looking down at my husband.

‘Hi.' He spoke through gritted teeth.

‘M-u-um!' keened Jonah. ‘Mu-hu-humm-ee!'

‘Shut up, Jonah.' Matt was in a dangerous mood. Sensing this, I refrained from pointing out that he was using the dishcloth to wipe the floor. But when I looked at the benchtop near the stove, and saw two plastic plates laid out there, each sporting a piece of rolled ham speared with a toothpick, I couldn't contain myself.

‘Haven't they had their
dinner
yet?'

‘No. They haven't.'

I surveyed my children, noting their stained T-shirts. ‘Or their baths?' I said.

‘No.'

For fuck's sake.

‘
Mu-u-mm-ee!

' ‘Be
quiet
, Jonah!' I could hardly think. ‘So is the food nearly ready, or what?'

‘Oh, fuck.' He leapt to his feet, lunging for the stove, and turned off the gas.

‘
Matt
.' How the hell many times did I have to tell him? ‘
Not
in front of the children
.'

‘Yeah, yeah,' he muttered.

‘I'll dish up. You get the mop and bucket.' What had he been doing all afternoon, for God's sake? They were supposed to be in bed by seven-thirty. As he stomped off to fetch the mop and bucket, I drained the vegetables. Frozen, of course. Peas, corn and—what? And toasted muffins, by the look of it. Emily was asking for a drink.

‘Wait a minute. Just wait.'

‘Mummee-ee . . .'

‘It's okay, Jonah. Nobody's mad.' I wasn't surprised to find Jonah in a state. He must have been starving. His highchair tray was still covered in muck from his last meal.

‘You had a call,' said Matt, from the doorway. He was listing slightly, dragged to one side by the weight of a full bucket. ‘Some bloke. He wouldn't leave his name.'

‘Mmm.' No comment from me about that. ‘Matthew, could you please wipe down the highchair?' (Since it wasn't done hours ago.) ‘Are they supposed to be eating muffins, with this?'

‘Yes.'

‘What happened to the spaghetti?'

‘They ate it for lunch.'

‘Wasn't there some rice in there? I think I'll warm up some rice, instead.
Matt!
' I couldn't believe my eyes; he was wiping Jonah's highchair tray with the same dishcloth. ‘Don't use
that
, it's been on the
floor
!'

Whump! He hurled the dishcloth in my general direction. He might have been aiming for the sink, but it nearly hit me in the face.

‘Tell you what,' he barked. ‘Since I'm so useless, why don't you do it yourself? Eh?'

And he walked out.

Can you believe that? He walked out. I'd just come home from work, and he promptly walked out of the house, leaving
me
to do everything that he should have done already.

Needless to say, you can't vent your rage in these situations. Not when your kids are there. Staring at you. Nervously.

I took a deep breath.

‘Okay. Emily, why don't you help Mummy, and get out your special knife and fork, and then you can tell me what you did today. Okay? I'm dying to hear all about it. Jonah, you'll get your drink as soon as I clean all that yukky stuff away. No, you have to stay in your highchair. You can get out after you've finished your dinner. And if you're a good boy, you can have a biscuit afterwards. A chocolate biscuit.'

‘And me!' yelped Emily.

‘And you. Both of you.'

I was seething. God, I was
enraged
. But I plastered on my mummy smile and rushed around punching microwave buttons, wiping surfaces, pouring juice, cutting ham into car shapes (did he really think that Jonah was going to eat an ordinary piece of ham?), until the kids were each settled in front of a steaming plate, bibs around their necks and mugs positioned well away from the nearest table edge. Then, having reminded them both about the promised chocolate biscuit, I hastened into my bedroom, rummaging through my briefcase as I did so.

Luckily, I'd kept the number.

‘Jim McRae.' Once again, he answered the phone himself.

‘Mr McRae?' I had to clear my throat. ‘It's Helen Muzzatti. I'm sorry to bother you at this time of night . . .'

‘What's up, Helen?'

‘I—look, I'm definitely going ahead with this. I'm sorry about what I said before, but I've made up my mind now.' Glancing over my shoulder, I checked that the door was shut. Yes. I lowered my voice. ‘Definitely, this time. I won't muck you about any more. I'm sorry.'

A pause at the other end of the line.

‘What seems to be the problem?' he said at last.

‘It's my husband. I'm not sure, but I think he might be . . . you know . . .' Suddenly I heard the far-off jangling of keys in the front door. ‘Oh God. There he is. Can I talk to you tomorrow? I'm home all day tomorrow. Only it'll have to be after twelve, because he doesn't leave for work until—'

‘Tell you what,' Jim interrupted, calmly. ‘Why don't we meet somewhere? I can give you a run-down of the fee schedule, you can explain your problem, and if you want to go ahead— if you feel it's the right thing to do—then we can work something out. Only, if you're going to be changing your mind again, then it might be a good idea if you made some sort of payment up front—'

‘Yes, yes.' I could hear heavy footsteps in the hall. ‘But I've got two kids, you see, two little kids. If I take them anywhere they're bound to play up.'

‘Where do you live?'

‘Dulwich Hill.'

Another pause. ‘Well, that's okay,' he finally observed. ‘I've got someone to see in Bondi, tomorrow, so I can drop in. What's the address?'

With some misgivings, I gave it to him. Matt's voice was rumbling away in the kitchen. ‘If you get here after two, will you please come around the back?' I requested. ‘Because my little boy goes to sleep around two, and he's in the front room, and if you ring the doorbell he'll wake up, and it'll be hard to get him down again.'

‘No problem.'

‘Okay, well—thanks. Thanks so much.'

‘No problem.'

I checked my watch as I replaced the receiver. Matt had been out for just over twenty minutes.

When I opened the bedroom door he was standing there, right in front of me, and I nearly died of shock.

‘Jesus!' I exclaimed.

‘What were you doing?'

‘Nothing.' I saw that he was carrying a two-litre container of milk. ‘Did you go to the shop at the end of the road?'

‘Yeah.' He took a deep breath. ‘Look, I'll come clean, I forgot to buy the milk today, so I went and got it—'

‘What's the expiry date?' I interjected. The shop at the end of the road was notoriously untrustworthy. We both looked, and saw that the milk was supposed to be used by tomorrow.

‘For fuck's sake!' he exploded.

‘It's no use going to that shop. I never go there—'

‘Well I'm going back there now.'

‘Matt, there's no point. Matt!' I followed him to the door. ‘It expires
tomorrow
, not today. You should have checked the date—'

‘Oh yeah, right. My fault again.' He swung around to face me. ‘You stuff up yourself, occasionally, do you know that? Do you realise you left Jonah all by himself in the highchair? That's not recommended, in case you haven't read the sticker on the back.'

I gasped. I snorted. I rolled my eyes.

‘Puh-
lease
,' I said.

‘Who were you calling?'

‘What?'

‘Who were you calling? Just then?'

I blinked, and gaped at him.

‘Uh—well—Miriam.'

‘Miriam?'

‘Yes! Miriam!' I was getting flustered. ‘What's that got to do with anything?'

He turned on his heel. ‘I'll get some more milk,' he declared, and pulled open the front door.

‘Matt! That isn't particularly helpful, at this stage! The kids have to be washed, they have to be put to bed, the dinner needs to be cooked—
Matt!
'

‘I'll be back in five minutes.'

He wasn't, naturally. He was back in fifteen. By that time I'd got the kids into the bath; Matt took over the drying, dressing and bedtime procedures as I threw a meal together for us. (Pasta with tinned sauce and iceberg lettuce. Yummy.) Feeling justified in doing so, I started eating without him. I hadn't even changed out of my suit and good blouse, but I didn't care. All I did was kick my shoes off.

He finally joined me at eight-fifteen. Slouched into the kitchen, dropped into a chair. He looked exhausted.

‘Sorry,' he said.

A noncommittal noise from me.

‘It was a tough day. You caught me at a bad time.' He rubbed his hand across his face, as the silence lengthened. ‘But it's no good criticising me all the time, you know?' he went on at last. ‘I'm doing the best I can.'

Mmmm.

‘It's not like you don't forget things occasionally,' he pointed out. ‘Like my birthday, for instance.'

‘I'm not even going to—'

‘Okay, okay. Okay.' He back-pedalled, raising his hands. ‘I'm sorry I mentioned it. I'm sorry.'

‘That was so unbelievably uncalled for.'

‘Sometimes I lose my temper.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘I'm
sorry
, okay? I guess I'm just not perfect. Like some people.'

I didn't answer that. If I had, I would have done something really feeble, like bursting into tears.

‘I did get a new bottle of milk, though,' he said, indicating the bottle in question. ‘It expires next Sunday.'