“Yes. The gallery owner is a ninny, but they sell quite well. Especially the large platters and bowls. I think people use them for salads or some such.” My mother gulps the tea without looking away from her work. Ah, there’s her familiar condescension. I thought the gallery owner was quite knowledgeable and personable. Of course Helen would have little time for the relationship beyond its use to her work.
As I watch her rhythmically working the clay, I have one of those odd moments of clarity. There’s not much I have to thank either of my parents for, but I realise my mother has inadvertently taught me to be a good boss. I never want to make anyone feel as small as she manages to make me—and everyone else she comes in contact with—feel. I work hard at giving everyone around me the respect they deserve. So, thanks, Helen. Maybe some of my success can be credited to you, after all.
Courtesy of the stop at the supermarket, dinner will be more generous than last night. For me, at least. I clean up the barbeque, which hasn’t been used in what looks like decades, and throw on the enormous steak I picked up. As I watch it sizzle, I think back on what Greer said about spending more time with my mother. Is there a chance we could connect? I doubt it. But I’m here. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
We eat at the rickety outdoor table, where Helen picks through the salad I threw together, dressing on the side, of course, leaving behind the delicious, ripe avocado. Good. All the more for me.
“Things are going well at work,” I start. “We’ve picked up three big pieces of new business since I started.”
“Good. Being busy will keep you out of trouble.” Her response says she still sees me as a wayward teenager in need of distraction. I concentrate hard on not grinding my teeth.
I try again. “The house I bought in Manly is a lovely old Federation bungalow. I think you’d like it. Needs a lot of work, though. Greer Carter is doing the designs for me.”
“You still see that Carter family?” she asks with her trademark disdain. “I don’t understand how they all live in each other’s pockets. Very strange.” The fact I still see the Carters is what she took from that statement? Unbelievable.
I bite hard on my bottom lip to stop the response that threatens to burst from my throat.
I’m about to make one last attempt at engagement when Helen pushes her plate away and stands up, waving her hand over my plate. “You put a lot of dressing on your salad. It’s not good for you.” And without another word, she heads into the lounge room and picks up the book she left on the coffee table last night.
I spent my teen years hurt and angry. Lashing out. I refuse to do it now. In the past ten years, I’ve devoted a lot of time to working on my anger, and I know it gets me nowhere. The temptation to tell her to go to hell is strong, but she is who she is, and I only hurt myself by expecting more from her. It’s pointless even trying.
I stand and start stacking the dishes with exaggerated care, so I’m not tempted to pick the lot up and hurl them in frustration.
After an early night, when at least I was able to sleep without a rumbling belly, and the obligatory early morning walk, I put my bag in the car.
“I’m heading out, Helen,” I say as she’s buttoning up her smock.
“Alright,” is all the answer I get, as she holds her cheek out for a kiss. I annoy myself no end when I hesitate, holding on to the fragile hope she’ll walk me to my car. Wave me off. Nope.
I drive back to the city, a welter of emotions churning in my belly. I don’t know why I even bothered to come. And I vow not to bother again. It should be heartbreaking to realise your relationship with your mother is irretrievable. Weirdly, it’s kind of a relief. Maybe I am as cold and heartless as she is.
But then I think about my relationship with Stella and Harry and Will. Greer. I’m not heartless. Just a bit broken.
At least I have a spectacular painting and a bed to show for it. And those earrings for Greer—which mean nothing more than a thank you for her work. Or a Christmas present. Because as much as I wish things could be different, someone as broken as me is not the right person for someone as wonderful as her.
Chapter Twelve
Greer
“Heystranger.”Jessiegivesme a fierce hug as I arrive at our regular table in a quirky little café we love near Dee Why Beach for one of our favourite things—brunch. Dee Why is a bit of a hike, but it’s worth it for the post-feed beach walk.
“Oh, I’ve missed you. Sorry I’ve been MIA the last couple of weeks.” I settle into my chair and pick up the menu, which gets an eye roll from Jessie. She knows what I’m going to order. If this is an emotional crisis brunch, it will be the full catastrophe. Scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast. With two serves of haloumi. If it’s a catch-up, it will be the smashed avo and feta on sourdough. Yes, I’m one of those. A lover of smashed avo. Especially if it comes with a healthy drizzle of balsamic. And I don’t care if it is a cliché.
The server knows. We eat here a lot. Even he will be able to take my emotional temperature by my order. “What’ll it be today, ladies?”
“The full catastrophe for me, please. And hot chocolate. In a bucket.”
“Oh. Wow. So, it’s like that.” Jessie’s light blue eyes pop. “I’ll take a cheese and tomato omelette, thanks. And a latte. A mug will do. No need for a bucket.” Jessie hands him the menus and leans her elbows on the table as he heads off to put in our order.
“Okay. Hit me with it. Where are we at?”
I drop my forehead onto the table. “I don’t even know,” I moan.
“Well, I’m guessing this crisis eating is about Josh?” I don’t miss the slight eye roll as she says this. I think she’s already getting sick of the broken record I’m becoming, even though she would never say so. She’s the best support team a girl could ask for.
“Yes.” My voice is tiny and muffled by the hair falling around my face.
“Right. Last I heard, you had agreed to do the designs for his house. And then there was the accident, and you took care of him for a couple of days. And you’ve been pretty much radio silent ever since. What’s happened?”
