‘Floor?’ I ask him.
‘Seven.’
I press seven, and five for me. The doors close, leaving us alone in the confined space together. My chest feels constricted as I breathe him in. I’m not sure this has really worked. I don’t feel better for seeing him – if anything I feel worse. There’s so much we still haven’t covered. But I’m not sure it’s appropriate to say any more.
‘Come and say goodbye before you go home?’ I blurt as the doors open to let me out on level five.
‘Okay,’ he replies.
I step out onto the landing and turn around, feeling suddenly panicky.
‘See you,’ I say.
‘Bye,’ he replies with a small, sad smile. His eyes drop just as the lift doors close.
He never does come to say goodbye.
Two months later, Lachie and I head to Perth for Christmas. Lachie has a big family – two loving, happily married parents, four doting older sisters who each have families of their own, plus multiple cousins and aunts and uncles, most of whom still live in the suburbs surrounding the city. So, when I say big, what I really mean isenormous.
Lachie’s parents live in a four-bedroom house, but, on the night before and of Christmas, three of his sisters and their families choose to cram into it rather than go back to their own homes, so Lachie and I take to the back yard in a tent – not just to give them all more space, but to give us some, too. Lachie’s nieces and nephews will still hunt him out in the morning – they absolutely adore him.Andme. I’m very good at choosing Christmas and birthday presents, as it turns out.
I love being around Lachie’s family. It’s so completely different from mine. My dad passed away a couple of years ago, so it’s only Mum and me now, but she and her new husband, David, have belatedly discovered a love for travelling. This year they’re going on a cruise that will end up in Sydney Harbour to watch the fireworks on New Year’s Eve. We’ll see them on New Year’s Day, so I’m blissfully free of the usual guilt that comes when trying to decide who to spend Christmas with.
Right now, it’s late on Christmas Eve and I’m squeezed in beside Lachie on the sofa, holding the newest addition to his family: ten-week-old Ella. Lachie’s parents have gone up to bed, but his sisters and their partners remain. Bea is Lachie’s eldest sister at thirty-seven, Maggie is slightly older than me at thirty-five, Tina is thirty-three, and Lydia – Ella’s mother – is thirty. She’s the only sister not staying over tonight and the one who is closest to Lachie both in age and spirit. She’s been to visit us in Sydney a few times.
Last year Lydia finally tied the knot with her long-term boyfriend Mike, but, despite their recent sleepless nights, they seem reluctant to go home to bed.
‘Suits you,’ Bea says to me with a smile, nodding at Ella.
‘Okay, time to hand the baby back,’ Lachie jokes.
‘No way,’ I say, snuggling the little bundle closer and smiling down on her angelic, sleeping face. ‘She’s adorable.’
‘Definitelytime to hand the baby back,’ he says.
I glance at Lachie and narrow my eyes at him with not entirely mock annoyance.
‘Aw,’ Maggie says, the corners of her lips turning down as she gazes at her brother. ‘I thought you wanted kids?’
She has three boys upstairs – all asleep and ready for Father Christmas.
Lachie shrugs. ‘Yeah, one day.’ He pauses. ‘I think.’
I shoot him a quick look. Hethinks?
‘But not for a few more years,’ he adds.
‘You shouldn’t leave it too long,’ Bea advises, avoiding my gaze.
The fact that I’m six years older than Lachie has escaped no one’s attention, I’m sure, but they’re too diplomatic to mention it.
‘We’ve got plenty of time for all that,’ Lachie replies calmly.
‘I hope you haven’t been hanging out with Elliot too much,’ Lydia chips in drily.
Lachie rolls his eyes at Lydia, while Maggie tactfully changes the subject, but his youngest sister’s comment is still playing on my mind later when we’ve retired to our tent.
‘Lachie?’ I’m lying in his arms, tracing my fingers across his ribcage.
