Rachael finally looks at me, and I offer a tight, empathetic smile.
Of course, Maggie will never get on board with these shenanigans. She organises her personal life around our agreed timetable. The older Parker gets, the tighter Maggie holds her. I can’t see her opening her schedule for extra nights’ custody while I search the dating landscape for potential stepmothers and work my way diligently through Bumble.
‘I’m only free every second week,’ I argue.
‘We’ll babysit!’ the group choruses as someone pops another cork.
I take in Audrey’s posse: shoes off, hair down, each in various stages of recline between the furniture and the floor, as if they’relife models for a Baroque artist’s Roman banquet. ‘You think prospective partners will find this appealing? Four women at mine getting sloshed while we’re out on dates?’
I collect an empty platter and follow Rachael into the kitchen.
‘Midnight talks! Must love books!’ Clair calls from the other room as if this is bingo night at the local club. ‘She might want to join the Bookies. What else are we looking for in a woman, specifically?’
‘They sound like lateinlife lesbians interviewing for a new sister wife,’ I observe, and Rachael almost cracks a smile. ‘You okay with all of this, Rach?’I know she’s not.
She and Audrey are from one of those ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ friendships. It’s why, three years ago, when Audrey died and people closed ranks around our immediate family circle, I knew instinctively to pull Rachael across the line with us. She’s been an impeccable friend, but often at her own expense—bolting into the role of carer while she was still bleeding out from her wounds.
‘It’s your life,’ she says now, propping herself against the bench and playing with Audrey’s sapphire pendant, sparkling under the kitchen lights. ‘The whole thing is a waste of time, isn’t it?’
Our eyes meet uncomfortably. She knows I’ve tried. And that it’s Audrey I’m endlessly searching for and even the Bookies couldn’t sub someone in who’d have a hope of measuring up. She will play along with this doomed matchmaking scheme. She’ll accommodate it because the others are so into it, but the truth is, somewhere in the last three years, my damaged heart has made Rachael McKenzie weary.
‘Funny. Clever. Artistic?’ Clair is still listing off desirable attributes as we return to the next room.
‘Musical?’ I add before I can think, glancing at the closed lid of Audrey’s piano, wondering why I’d do this to myself. Apart from the incessant blaring of Taylor Swift, I’ve gone full Captain von Trapp here, unable to tolerate reminders of her talent. The guilt still stings when I think of the digital keyboard and headphones I gave Parker for Christmas. A compromise. She could follow in her stepmum’s footsteps. I could make it through the day unscathed, without the sound of music destroying me.
April frowns at the laptop. ‘You can be compatible with more than one person, you know, Fraser. You don’t need this woman to be Audrey’s clone.’
Rachael sighs, as if April has raised one last point in a corporate meeting that should have ended an hour ago.
‘Outdoorsy or no?’ Jess scrunches her face as she analyses me, still in my grey trousers and white shirt after a long day in the office. ‘What about camping? Aren’t you heading off to the beach tomorrow?’
They know I love camping. Audrey loathed it and would never come. Couldn’t take the piano in the tent. I was forever trying to nudge her out of that particular comfort zone and into a future in which we might one day ditch our jobs, hitch a caravan, and justgo. She’d never have done it, but I’m always sad we missed the chance.
Jess, April and Clair are sparkly-eyed and high on the romance of the idea. ‘Starry nights, campfires, moonlit walks on the beach!’ Clair gushes.
Mosquitoes, sunburn …I imagine Audrey arguing.
‘Put “camping” down,’ I suggest reluctantly.
36
AUDREY
With my insurance papers stuffed into my shirt, I rush through the rain and knock on the Viper’s metal door.
‘It’s open!’ he calls, and I reach for the handle and hoist myself into another realm. The caravan is palatial. Cinema seating, ducted heating, mood lighting, surround sound. Premium everything. And it’sso warm.
I think of the stash of adhesive toe warmers in my car and the solar-operated lantern from Kmart, just as my eyes are drawn to the kitchen bench, upon which sits a bottle of wine in a metal ice bucket and two long-stemmed glasses.
My heart gallops. Blood vessels alert.Still.
Condensation clings to the bucket where ice meets heat, and the olive-green glass of the bottle beckons me into a habitual freefall. Once again, I step back from the edge. Breathing. Mantras. The distraction, in this case, of an immensely attractive man …
Whatever he thinks he’s doing with this come-hither little tableau, it’s not happening. I pull the paperwork from my top and serve it to him, officiously, to make the point that I have signed up for the business transaction. Not the seduction experience.
‘Take a seat?’ he suggests, examining me more closely in the proper light, while I try to resist the apology slipping from the tip of my tongue about the first impression I must be making.
‘Thanks for the offer, but I won’t stay,’ I explain, waving at the wine. ‘Not that the idea isn’t enticing after the day I’ve had.’ I don’t know what my sober mouth thinks it’s talking about.
