‘Come on, Fraser,’ Jess says, next to her. ‘She’d want this for you.’
Want it?Audrey would be the ringleader! But that’s beside the point if I don’t want this for myself.
‘It’s too early,’ I argue, the familiar excuse practically threadbare. ‘For Parker.’
Thirteen is difficult at the best of times. We’ve become such a fierce little duo in the wake of our loss, I can’t imagine a strangewoman tramping through our delicate ecosystem—even with our best interests at heart.
‘Nonsense!’ Jess declares. ‘Nothing’s going to tear down what you’ve built here.’
She was the one who raised the idea of the Bookies taking Parker out for high tea and a motherly group chat about incoming puberty.In case she’s with you and not Maggie when it happens, Fraser.
Everyone assumes because you’re the dad that you’ll blunder through it. ‘She’d love high tea,’ I agreed, ‘but I’ve packed period undies in her schoolbag since Year Five.’
‘Period undies?’ Jess replied, seemingly astonished that I—aman—was au fait with the cutting edge of the feminine hygiene industry, ignoring the fact that, as a single dad, knowing this stuff is right there in the job description. ‘Whoareyou?’ she added, laughing. ‘Menstruation Man?’
‘Parker only needs to know about your love life if it gets serious,’ she says now. ‘Let go a little, Fraser. We’re worried about you.’
They’re acting like I haven’t met a woman since Audrey died. In truth, there seems to be something counterintuitively magnetic about my situation. Perhaps it’s the tragedy of it all. The champion status I seem to earn just from doing basic parenting stuff as a solo dad. Period undies. School lunches. Cake stalls. I’m particularly proud of my working diorama of the life cycle of water for Year Seven Human Society and Its Environment. But magically, all this ordinary work makes me into some sort of romantic unicorn. Except with the Bookies, who know me best.
‘We need him to seem nice and normal,’ April decides, calling this crisis meeting to order, commandeering the laptop andspeaking as if I’m not in the room. She’s a freelance journalist and the designated writer in the group, and I watch helplessly as she interlaces her fingers, stretches her arms, and cracks her knuckles as if she’s limbering up to write the Great Australian Novel.
‘Am I not normal?’ I question as I pass the cheese platter, complete with baked Brie drizzled in warm honey and my signature guacamole with sweet chilli sauce.
She scoops some cheese onto a cracker and swallows it, brown eyes fluttering shut in delight. ‘Actually, you’re not normal, Fraser—this Brie is supernaturally good—but what I mean is that men are so weird online! We need you to be yourself! No pictures with fish.’ She glares at me as if I’m posing with a barramundi this very second, instead of with hors d’oeuvres and the contents of my cellar. ‘Now, what are your interests, apart from avoiding life?’
Surviving. Raising a child. Keeping my job.
‘Put down rock climbing!’ Jess says, wild red hair flying as she leans over April’s shoulder. ‘You did that recently, didn’t you? Something flashed past on Instagram—’
‘It was an indoor rock-climbing party for Parker’s schoolfriend,’ I clarify. ‘I sat in the cafe and wrote a brief for the annual report.’
She frowns. ‘That’s not attractive, Fraser.’
‘Noted.’
‘Weren’t there any mums you could have bonded with?’
‘They were deconstructingBridgerton,’ I explain. ‘I was out of my depth.’
‘But that would have beenperfect! This is exactly what’s missing from your life!’
‘What, more period drama?’ I chuckle at my joke, but the architects of my future love life seem to have lost their collective sense of humour.
‘Put down that he’s saving the world …’ Rachael suggests, deadpan, after a swig of wine. The irony in her tone flies over the others’ heads, but not over mine. She reaches for this week’s abandoned novel and flicks through the pages like she’s speed-reading for the literary discussion she wishes they’d switch to. I need to remember she was Audrey’s friend first.
‘Youaresaving the world!’ Jess agrees.
‘Analysing data?’ I counter. ‘It’s not that sexy—’
‘Rubbish! You’re science’s answer to James Bond!’ Jess taps April on the arm and nods so she’ll capture that.
‘I map emulators of climate models—’
But they have glazed over. April raises a hand to stop me elaborating. ‘Some heroes wear lab coats,’ she explains. ‘Can we call you a “climate warrior”?’
Make it stop.
I don’t even own a lab coat, but far be it for me to ruin their galloping fantasy. ‘Why don’t you put down “still sleeps with partner’s ashes on the bedside table”?’
