It will put too much strain on your mental health, and we can’t have that now, can we?
As soon as we’re in the front door, Lu escapes to her bedroom and I head into the kitchen to start dinner. Standing at the sink, I stare out across the bay, which is unusually rough today, the white peaks of the waves in sharp contrast to the indigo water. It’s both violent and beautiful.
Leaning back against the kitchen counter, my focus slowly settles on the backyard. The landscaped gardens are showy and indulgent, with sunloungers and a dining setting, a fully stocked bar, and an outdoor kitchen. The pool is beyond that, light reflecting off the crystal blue water like a photograph in a pretentious lifestyle magazine.
Our house is on the coveted Earimil Drive in Mount Eliza, overlooking Port Phillip Bay, and worth millions. It's a far cry from where I grew up in the Pines estate—the roughest part of Frankston back in the day—in a government commission home that still stands less than fifteen kilometres away.
A little over a year ago, at my request, James bought this house after I’d grown exhausted of inner-city Melbourne and the bitchy Karens of South Yarra. James had been unusually supportive, selling up our ultra-modern designer home and purchasing this one, along with a penthouse apartment in the city for weekend getaways, or when he is snowed under at work. I’d hoped it would be better for Lu, away from the spoilt upper-class rich kids, but there are plenty of those right here in Mount Eliza too.
Part of me had also felt a pull towards my childhood; I’m not sure why, because I make no effort to see my family, just as they make no effort to see me.
I blink, and a tear slides down my cheek. Over the last five years, I’ve pretty much cried myself out. Regret and resentment will do that.
Brushing away the tear, I push off the counter and open the fridge, staring at the fully stocked shelves. What the hell will I cook for dinner?
As I pull out ingredients, my thoughts return to Brendan, wondering what he’s doing right now. Where is he? How long has he been out of prison? Fuck, what if he didn’t make it out?
No, I shouldn’t think like that, and I’m not going down that path tonight.
I hope he’s found happiness. I truly do. He always deserved better.
Later in the evening, after an almost silent dinner, Lu returns to her room while James and I settle in front of the TV. We watch some random Netflix show, but I can’t concentrate, the dialogue is as clear as a foreign film without the subtitles. I’m almost atbreaking point; alternating between days when I’m anxious and agitated and others where I feel numb and lifeless. I know I can’t go on like this, but I have no idea how to change. I just know I can’t keep going. Lately, I’ve considered stopping my meds, but then I immediately hate myself for thinking it.
“James.” I wait to see if my husband will look at me. He doesn’t. “James, I’m going to look into updating my paramedic qualifications so I can return to work.”
He speaks without taking his eyes off the screen. “Darling, we’ve talked about this before. Many times. You need to be home to run the house and look after Lucinda.” He condescendingly pats my thigh before continuing. “I need to get a couple of hours of work in before bed. I’ll see you up there.”
He plants a mindless peck on my cheek, then stands and walks towards the study.
I should yell or cry or explode in anger—anything to get him to understand that I’m dead inside—but I don’t. I just sit there and take it, like I always do.
But I wasn’t always like this.
“Oh darling, I almost forgot,” James says, turning around right before he leaves the room. “I’ve hired someone to start the bathroom renovation. The man is coming tomorrow at 9:00 to measure and finalise the quote, but I’ve set the budget at thirty thousand. I’ve already told him what we want, but you can handle it from now on. It’ll give you something to occupy yourself with.”
I frown. Couldn’t he have told me this earlier? What if I had plans? “What’s the name of the place? I thought we were going to decide together?”
“Trent recommended them. The business is called…ah, Beautiful Bathrooms, I believe. He said the owner is very involved and the work was done to perfection. I’ve left all the details on the kitchen bench for you.”
“Okay,” I mumble, my mind already moving onto my plans for the evening. My choices are few—go to bed and fall asleep before James gets there or stay up late until I’m certain he’s asleep.
We haven’t had sex in weeks, and soon he’ll become a needy bitch, then turn into an aggressive, insistent prick if he doesn’t get what he wants. It’s been going in cycles like this for years—I avoid sex for as long as possible, usually a month or more, then James will become demanding until I cave and perform my husbandly duties. Once upon a time I had a ferocious sex drive, but it seems to have disappeared, along with my personality and any shred of interest in life.
After dropping Lu at school, I head home to meet the guy from the renovation company. I’ve decided that whatever James has asked for, I’ll do the complete opposite. Just because I can. Did I mention I can be a petty bitch sometimes?
Picking up the information from the bench, I read through what James has requested, which includes a black and gold colour scheme with double rain showerheads. I screw my face up in disgust; it sounds cheap and sleazy. I contemplate what I might like instead.
According to the business card, the owner of Beautiful Bathrooms is a man named Brendan Walker.
I groan. It’s the exact fucking kick in the teeth I don’t need right now. Over the years, I haven’t run into too many Brendans, but, when I do, it never fails to unnerve me.
Noting that the company is in Frankston North sends a wave of nostalgia through me, followed by a heavy dose of guilt. I really should call my brother, Nathan, and my sisters too.
The doorbell rings at 9:01 and I’m mildly impressed that a tradie is on time. As I approach the front door, I glance at the security screen to see a man standing with his back to the door. For a visitor to cast their eyes toward the bay is not unusual, so I open the door without further scrutiny.
I immediately still, the words of my intended greeting dying on my tongue. My body floods with adrenaline, rendering me immobile, just like that moment before a car crash, when there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it, your fate already sealed.
The man on my front porch is still facing towards the bay, but I’d recognise him anywhere. My muscles seem to dissolve, all my strength draining away and pooling at my feet.
