‘Ruby.’ Opal sniffed, plastering on an unconvincing smile. ‘Shall we have a look … or rather a listen to your piece?’
Ruby felt her heart beating in her ears, but she kept her composure. ‘OK, yeah,’ she replied, before lifting one last forkful to her lips.
‘Maybe we can head upstairs to your room?’ Opal held the door open as Ruby pushed her chair back and made an effort not to catch anyone’s eye.
‘Whatever,’ she mumbled.
Out into the hall and up the stairs, Ruby felt the weight of her confession bubble into her throat. She opened her mouth to release it, and found it stuck. They marched on in silence, with only the sound of Opal’s conservatively heeled pumps applauding down the corridor. To Ruby the sound was mocking.
She opened her bedroom door and before she could change her mind she grabbed her notepad and thrust it into Opal’s hands, before turning away; she crossed her hands and staredout the bay windows. The work was a precondition of her being here. Without it, who knew if Opal would even allow her to stay; she would do well to try and take in this view while she still could.
Ruby heard the sound of the page turning; she imagined the expression of confusion on Opal’s face as she stared at the blank page, turning it to check she’d not missed something, and then flicking back.
The carpet was so thick that she didn’t hear Opal take a step forward and so when she laid a hand gently on Ruby’s shoulder, Ruby jumped.
‘Sorry,’ Opal said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to … I … there’s nothing here, Ruby. Did you want to explain?’ The tone was soft,understanding, and somehow that made Ruby even more on edge.
‘I haven’t fucking written anything, that’s why.’ Ruby was horrified at the feeling of heat rising in her throat and stinging on the inside of her nose.She would not cry in front of Opal.
Ruby heard a sigh coming from behind her and readied herself for what she was sure was the inevitable eviction.
‘It wasn’t Johan who didn’t want you all to see the photograph he took; it was me.’
Ruby turned to find Opal sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes watery with a kind of rageful sorrow that mirrored her own
‘Why?’ Ruby’s voice cracked.
‘It’s a portrait of me.’ Opal shook her head. ‘No that’s not quite right, it’s a portrait of my daughter, except, you can’t see her in it because …’ a tear trailed down Opal’s cheek ‘… because …’
Ruby felt a heaviness in her chest. As she watched Opal now she could no longer see the heiress, the lady of the manor, or even a competitor for a man’s affections. She saw a woman consumed with loss.
‘You don’t have to say it.’ Ruby didn’t know if she could bear Opal’s grief alongside her own. Because that’s what it was, she realised now: grief. To write about that man, the man who robbed her not only of a father in her life, but also of a family, who forced Hortense to leave behind everything and everyone she knew to live in exile with her shame. Her shame that should have been his. Writing about him was to acknowledge all the things Ruby had lost. Or rather the things she’d had stolen from her.
This prize, this money, this opportunity was just another addition to that list. Because she could not write about her birth without bringing him to life with her words. Now she realised she could never do that, never disrespect her mother like that, not for all the money in the world.
Opal looked straight at Ruby. They stared at each other for a long time.
Eventually, Opal reached for the notepad beside her and shut it softly. ‘Neither do you, Ruby, you don’t have to say it either.’
Opal stood to leave. The moment Ruby heard the soft click of the door, she broke down.
PART 3
Chapter 29
Staring at her reflection, Opal studied each detail of her outfit, trying to identify the culprit. Maybe it was the burgundy peep-toe shoes, or the oversized taffeta rosette that sat on her left hip. Or perhaps the costume-sized ruby nestled in the middle of her collarbones was to blame. Opal had never been sure that she looked good in red, but this dress, like so many other things she’d taken to wearing recently, was something that Martin had ‘never liked her in’ and so it was serving a purpose beyond just ‘suiting her’.
She removed the large gold cuff bracelet from her left wrist and then swapped out her earrings. ‘Better,’ she muttered to herself as she twisted from side to side, examining herself from every angle. If she were being honest with herself, obsessing over this ensemble was mostly a way to avoid thinking too much about the night that lay ahead.
It was the last weekend in June, which meant it was the day of the Fairfax annual summer gala. Ostensibly Opal threw this party every year to raise money for one good cause or another, but in recent years it had begun to feel more like some sort of campaigning event. And she had become lessand less sure exactly what she was rallying for. The perception of her marriage? Her status? Her good name?
She had tried to cancel it this time around, all the way back in May before Martin had jetted off to Australia, buthehad insisted. She’d found it strange, as he usually moaned intolerably in the lead-up to the evening, and then even more intolerably during the cleanup.
She supposed that in the years they’d been throwing the party, ever since they’d lost Emma, it had become a bit of a highlight in the local social calendar. She could only assume that Martin enjoyed the clout that hosting the ‘ball of the season’ reflected onto him. All the more galling then when he’d come home, fucked his teenage mistress and then promptly forgotten when it was actually happening.
The only person Opal cared about who really seemed to enjoy this night, to look forward to it even, was Debbie, and she hadn’t heard from her all week. Opal took a pin out of her hair, spinning a single tress between her fingers and then repositioning it in almost the exact same place.
She was anxious. It had been eerie not hearing from Debbie. Without her check-ins, Opal realised, the phone hardly rang. It got to a point where Opal had picked up the receiver, and then had to flick through her contact book to find the number for next door, so seldom wasshethe one calling. Debbie’s husband, Paul, had answered and his reply had sounded so scripted, it took a moment for Opal to work out whether it was the answering machine: ‘Deborah is not free to come to the phone right now. Would you like me to take a message, Pol?’
