This funeral is the last thing she wants to do, but she will do it—for her daughter.
Kim presses her mum’s number for a video call and listens to the ring.Please don’t answer. Although that will only postpone the day. She should have told her mum before this, but at first, she couldn’t. They already were wary of Chris—and how right they were—but she couldn’t face their disbelief, their horror, at the situation.
Despite the time that’s passed, she’s still only told them that Chris died. Their relationship is an adult one, a bit distant, and when she said she didn’t want to talk about it further, they didn’t push.
Now there will be no getting away from it.
Seven rings. Her mum isn’t going to answer. She is about to end the call when half of her mum’s face appears on the screen. “Hello, Kim darling. Sorry, the phone was at the other end of the house.” Her mum sounds puffed, but her English accent is as crisp as ever.
“You could have called back.”
“You rarely call. I have a special ringtone for you. That Sinéad O’Connor song you like. Have you just called to chat? It’s been a while.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’ve been working through a few things.”
“Yes.” Her mum looks off to one side. “The money’s on the hall table. Same time next week…? Thanks, Effie. I’ll see youthen.” She looks back at Kim. “Sorry, the cleaner’s just leaving. Effie’s really good.”
“I’m glad,” Kim says automatically.
The phone sways as her mum’s footsteps echo over the call. The camera points toward the ceiling as a running tap sounds. “Won’t be a moment,” her mum calls. “Just putting the kettle on. It sounds as if this will be a long chat.”
Kim exhales slowly.Oh, Mum, you have no idea.
Eventually, her mum picks up the phone again and settles into her favourite wicker chair out on the terrace. There’s the gentle whop-whop of the ceiling fan, and somewhere a rainforest bird screeches. “Tell me what’s bothering you, darling.”
“Is Dad home? I have something difficult to say, and I’d rather say it only once.”
Her mum gasps. “Are you sick? Is Bella? Is there?—”
“It’s nothing like that. We’re both fine. But this is going to be difficult.”
“I’ll get him.” The phone is set down again with a clatter, and her mum’s voice calls, “Jorge, where are you? Kim’s on the phone, and she wants to talk to both of us.”
After a minute, her dad’s wide, blunt face appears on the screen. “Kim, how are you?” Even after most of his life in Australia, he still has a strong Hungarian accent.
“I have something to say. Please hear me out before you say anything.”
Her parents exchange a glance.
“We’re listening,” her mother says.
“I told you Chris died in a car accident, and that I didn’t find out for some months. And that I didn’t want to talk about it. Now I do.”
A small silence. Her mum nods. Her dad simply stares at the screen, a wrinkle on his forehead.
“Chris was married to someone else. He had been married for a few years before he met me, and he was still married when he was killed. I had no idea, as his real name wasn’t Chris Henwood, it was Chris Henshall. The two weeks he told me he was working in South Australia, he spent with his other family on the north side of Melbourne. He told his wife—her name is Danika—the same thing, and the two weeks he told her he was working away, he spent with me. Neither of us knew about the other. He kept that deception going the entire time he was with me—over nine years.”
The silence on the line is thick with tension.
“That’s…unbelievable,” her mum says faintly.
“Believe it.”
“How did you find out?” her dad asks.
“After he failed to come home, I went to the police and filed a missing person report. They eventually said there was no such person. There was no will. No superannuation or life insurance in that name. Obviously not, as Chris Henwood didn’t exist.”
Her parents stare at her. Her mum’s mouth opens and closes; her dad’s brow is lowering over his angry face. Angry not at her, she thinks, but at Chris. And she can’t blame him for that.
