Stella Makes Good Page 9

Bless her. She could be so sweet when she wanted to be. Or wanted something!

  ‘Spying, more like it,’ said June.

  ‘You know,’ she said to me in a low voice, after the kids were out of earshot, ‘Jimmy wasn’t such a great man. He played around. He was a philanderer, just like Terry. I ignored it, but those years were hard.’

  ‘Really? I never knew.’

  ‘Why would you? We never talked about things like that back then. It was the era of JFK: your private life was your private life. But Bill Clinton and that Monica woman changed all that. Nothing’s sacred any more. There are no secrets. Everyone knows everything about everyone.’

  I had to agree. When Terry moved out, it seemed everyone within a ten-kilometre radius knew about it before his car had reversed out the driveway. Add in Facebook and Twitter and even cyber-strangers knew about our personal situation. I kept telling the kids they had to be careful about what they posted online, but apparently it wasn’t them who’d spread the news; it was friends, and friends of friends. Almost immediately, my Facebook message page was filled with condolences and notes from people I’d never met. At first I’d started responding to them, saying it was a mutual decision and that I was fine, but I quickly tired of that. After the tenth reply explaining our decision, I thought, what the hell am I doing? Who are these people and why do I care? So I deleted the posts and went about my business.

  ‘Over-sharing,’ I said.

  Long beat. June looked at me blankly.

  ‘It’s called over-sharing,’ I repeated.

  June nodded. ‘Some matters are better kept private. So what are we going to do about it?’

  I was about to say, I don’t think there’s much you can do about Jim’s nocturnal visits. If he wants to sit on the end of your bed and watch you, and you believe he’s watching you, then so be it, when she went on: ‘Terry could do so much better.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘That Amanda woman! How are we going to put a stop to this nonsense?’

  I’d just got out the shower around ten thirty on Sunday night when the phone rang. It was an unknown number so I didn’t want to answer it. The kids were always getting calls from their friends at odd hours even though I’d told them specifically, no calls after nine o’clock at night. They never listened. But I didn’t want the phone to wake everyone in the house, so I eventually answered it in my gruffest mother’s voice.

  ‘Enjoy your weekend?’ It was Steve.

  I wrapped the towel around myself tighter. There was an uncomfortable silence until I said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You bitches have turned Jesse against me—’

  ‘What? We haven’t said a thing about what we saw last Thursday night—’

  ‘And exactly what did you see?’

  My hands were shaking. I wanted to hurl the phone to the other side of the room, but I also wanted to confront him, to tell him to back off and leave Carly and me alone.

  ‘You know what I saw. You, playing dress-ups—’

  ‘Your word against mine.’

  ‘Your word against Carly’s and mine.’

  ‘That drunken flake? I’m not worried about her. But you say one word—’

  ‘And what? If you don’t tell Jesse what’s been going on, I will. It’s not fair on her.’

  ‘Not fair? I’ll tell you what’s not fair. Having a wife who taps her foot, clicks her fingers, turns lights on and off—’

  ‘No, this is about you and your perversions. You’re the one who’s in the wrong here.’

  ‘Think what you like about me, but know this. If you breathe a word to Jesse or anyone else, I’ll destroy you.’

  The phone went dead.

  I sat down on the bed and released my grip on the phone, but the indentation marks on my fingers remained. The smart me said I should call the police, or at least tell Jesse about the calls, but I still had no proof that he’d threatened me.

  I’d known Steve for over ten years. We’d never been bosom buddies, but we’d been to school trivia nights together, library Christmas parties. Hell, I’d done the chicken dance with the guy. Okay, so I’d always been a bit wary of him, but only because of what Jesse had told me. If I met him on the street or at a party—a standard party—independently, I’d think he was your run-of-the-mill forty-five-year-old man, even though he carried himself with an arrogance that should only be the privilege of men like Brad Pitt and George Clooney.

  But the Steve I’d seen and heard the past couple of days wasn’t the Steve I knew. It was no wonder Jesse had been exhibiting physical symptoms of her anxieties: the guy had a split personality. The worrying part was I truly believed he could be capable of anything and I was beginning to fear for Jesse’s safety.

  I quickly texted her. Everything okay at your end?

  Her reply was instant. Of course. And you?

  I thought about telling her about June’s arm, and then launching into a tirade about her maniacal husband, but thought better of it. Yes, just thinking of you.

  I sounded like a deranged stalker, but at least she was okay. Then I considered calling Terry, but stopped myself. I didn’t need him adding his two cents’ worth.

  Instead I wrote down the conversation with Steve, as accurately as I could remember it. I also wrote down what I’d seen last Thursday night. It was midnight before I’d finished. I read over my notes and wondered what to do with them. Send them to my lawyer in case Steve tried to bump me off? I didn’t even have a lawyer.

  It got me thinking. How long had Steve been involved in these sex parties? It obviously hadn’t been his first time, so had it been months? Years? And then there were the people with him. I’d joked with Carly that they might have included the local teacher and butcher—but were we far off? Sixty people didn’t just decide to have a night out in Warrawee unless it was for a school fundraiser. They had to be locals. Or were they? Steve was, but did that mean the other fifty-nine were, too?

  On Saturday afternoon, I’d driven down party street. In daylight, it had looked even more suburban: immaculately maintained sidewalks, neat kerbing and guttering, and row after row of nondescript brick homes. I’d parked two houses down from the house in question and then walked to its gate. There wasn’t a red light by the letterbox, or empty beer bottles on the front lawn … In fact, there was a red and purple welcome gnome standing to the side of the gate. The curtains were open. There was nothing to suggest this home was anything but ordinary.

  Across the road, a man, maybe my age, was mowing the grass. Had he been at the party on Thursday night? Were all the neighbours involved? I walked back to my car and started the ignition. Maybe I’d come back another day and check out the letterbox to find out if Mitch and Sherri really lived there. Of course, I could have rung Pete—he had a key, after all—but I didn’t have his number.

  I drifted off to sleep, a new mantra running through my mind: I will not be bullied.

  I wasn’t going to let Steve’s harassment get the better of me. Given time, I’d figure out a way of dealing with him.

  esse had a restless night. She dreamed she was drowning, reliving a swimming accident from her childhood. She woke lathered in sweat and panicking. She fell back into an uneasy sleep, and when she woke again Steve had already left. That was odd. Normally, he made a big song and dance about getting up so early while she had the luxury of sleeping in till all of 6.30 am.

  Before waking Ollie and Emmy, Jesse made herself a strong black coffee. She’d been worrying about the twins lately. They’d started commenting on her habits, especially Emily, and more so since she’d noticed Ollie doing similar things. Ollie was a great kid—sensitive and quiet—but just last week his teacher had told Jesse that he’d started tapping his pencil three times after writing a sentence.

  ‘It’s distracting for the other children,’ she’d explained.

  ‘I’ll talk to him about it,’ Jesse had assured her, trying desperately not to tap her foot as she spoke.

  At school drop-off, a
fter Emily had dashed off to find her friends, Jesse brought up the subject with Ollie.

  ‘You know how Mummy sometimes taps her feet or checks to see that she’s turned the light off?’

  ‘Like a hundred times!’

  ‘That’s right. Do you ever do stuff like that?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jesse said, biting back tears. ‘Just remember that if ever something’s worrying you, or you want to talk about school or friends, you can tell me. You like school, don’t you, Ollie?’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Good.’ She drew him close and hugged him.

  ‘Can I get a new game for my DS?’ he asked.

  That was the extent of their mother/son chat. Jesse didn’t want to make a big deal out of it if it didn’t need to be a big deal. Everyone had quirks. So what if hers and Ollie’s were a little more obvious than other people’s?

  She watched Ollie run off into the school yard before returning to her car and driving home. It was a gorgeous, sunny day. She should have walked. Maybe yoga was the answer. If she could control her breathing, then maybe she could control other parts of her body. Often, it felt as if her hands and feet had minds of their own, minds she was powerless to control.

  She’d only been home a few minutes when Steve rang.

  ‘If you think I’m leaving, you’ve got another think coming,’ he said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  What the hell was going on? What had happened to the repentant husband who had apologised for being moody and then made love to her?

  ‘I thought after last night—’ Jesse began.

  ‘I’m just reminding you that you have responsibilities: namely, the children and me. Or have you forgotten?’

  ‘How could I forget? I love Ollie and Em more than anything—’

  ‘Glad to hear it. You won’t want to lose them then. Given your habits, you need to think very carefully about the consequences of any actions you might take, okay?’

  He was making her sound like some mad woman who went around with unkempt hair wearing caftans and mismatched shoes.

  ‘I’m not crazy, you know.’

  ‘Well, if you’re not crazy, you’ll know what’s good for you, won’t you?’ His tone was threatening.

  ‘I don’t know how to respond to that, Steve,’ she said, on the verge of tears.

  ‘You don’t have to respond. Just think about what I’ve said.’

  After he’d hung up, Jesse sat on the kitchen floor and cried. Steve could be so cold and manipulative. Sometimes she felt like a very small animal trapped in a cage.

  She needed to talk about this. She wasn’t going to let Steve win. Drying her eyes, she stood up. She needed to call her sister.

  ‘Jesse, what’s up?’

  She always felt better, just hearing Louisa’s voice.

  ‘I’ve had a fight with Steve. He phoned just now, accusing me of all sorts of things and threatening to take the children away.’

  ‘Why would he say that?’

  ‘We had another fight over the weekend,’ Jesse said, fighting back tears. ‘I told him our marriage was hanging by a thread.’

  ‘That’d probably do it.’

  ‘But then last night I thought everything was okay again.’

  ‘Don’t let him get you down, Jess. You know Steve and his moods. You’ve lived with him long enough.’

  Jesse let the tears flow. ‘I feel like I’m teetering on the brink. I don’t know what to do—I get so angry and then I get depressed. Sometimes I wish I could disappear forever.’

  ‘You just need some help. Maybe Mum—’

  ‘Mum’s the last person I need meddling in my life. Besides, she has her hands full with Grandma.’

  ‘What about your friends?’

  ‘Steve hates all my friends.’

  ‘Jesus, Jesse! How many years has this been going on? He hates me, too. If your marriage is hanging by a thread, then why don’t you just leave him?’

  ‘But where would I go? What would I do? It’s not like I can take off and fly over to stay with you.’

  The silence was almost unbearable.

  ‘The kids have school for starters,’ Jesse added.

  ‘If you’re going to come up with excuses all the time … ’

  ‘They’re not bloody excuses. This is my life. My kids are in school. There are practicalities to take care of.’ Jesse took a deep breath. ‘Besides, I’m just ranting. Everything’s fine. It’s Monday. Mondays are always stressful, everyone’s cranky after the end of the weekend. I’m fine. Really. How’s everything over there? How’s Philippe?’

  ‘He’s good. We’ve had a lazy weekend so far: dinner Friday night, second-hand markets yesterday.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic,’ Jesse said. ‘Like I’ve already asked you fifty times, when do I get to meet this guy?’

  Louisa didn’t answer.

  Jesse knew she shouldn’t push. Sooner or later the conversation always got around to ‘When are you coming home?’ or ‘The kids miss you. When can I tell them you’re visiting?’ She knew it made Louisa feel like she was being harassed. Besides, Jesse knew Louisa wasn’t coming home anytime soon.

  ‘I really miss you, Lou.’

  ‘I miss you, too. And I will come back, maybe for the summer, like I said.’

  ‘That’s months away.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, okay? Maybe our spring break.’

  ‘And you’ll bring Philippe too?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  After the phone call, Jesse still felt empty. Louisa couldn’t do a hell of a lot for her on the other side of the world. She thought back to what Steve had said about her responsibilities. There was no way she was going to let her kids down; and she was damned if she was going to let Steve take them away from her. Jesse would suck up her unhappy marriage and live with it. She could do that. Countless other women did. In a few years, when the kids were older and she’d saved enough money, she’d fly away. One day, but not yet. Not while Ollie and Emmy needed her at home.

  So, if she was staying, she needed to make the circumstances work for her. She thought back to the Secret Women’s Business pamphlet. She was going to a meeting! She had to.

  Louisa mulled over Jesse’s situation. From where she stood, the solution was clear: take the kids and leave the bastard. She got the guilts every time Jesse rang and sounded so unhappy. It made her want to blurt out everything she knew about Mr Not-So-Perfect. If only Jesse knew the truth, she’d leave him without so much as a backward glance. But Louisa couldn’t do it. It was too late. She’d had her opportunity but had kept her mouth shut, believing she was doing the right thing—minding her own business and protecting her sister.

  Fifteen years ago, Louisa had come across Steve in her role as Mistress Lola, dominatrix. She’d loved being at university, but it was an age-old story—she had no money. Even though she was working part-time as a waitress, she always spent more than she earned. And she hated being poor. One afternoon, she’d spied an ad in the local paper, and a week later she was hooked up in a black leather corset and brandishing a riding crop. Louisa was on her way. It was the best of both worlds. She could stay at uni and indulge her love of the arts and earn top dollar while doing it. It was fun in the early days, dressing up and being part of someone else’s fantasy. Before long, she’d done it all: spanking, caning, whips, chains. She’d pretty much seen it all too: the cages, leather-upholstered beds that doubled as coffins. Nothing fazed her.

  Steve was one of her irregular clients. She met with him about three times before he moved on to private parties. She’d never had sex with him—thank God! Louisa shuddered at the thought. He was a crazy bastard, one of those guys who wanted his mummy to spank him when he shat in his nappy or cried liked a baby.

  Three years later, he’d turned up on Jesse’s arm at a family dinner—Mother’s Day. It had taken Louisa a while to recognise him, but she never forgot a face. By the time her mother had wheeled out the crème brûlée, Louisa had
known exactly who he was. But she didn’t say anything to Jesse. She’d hoped he was a passing phase. Unfortunately, he’d continued hanging around.

  One night, after consuming several scotches, he’d asked Louisa if she was still in the business.

  ‘No,’ she’d lied. ‘You?’

  He’d dismissed the question with a shake of his head.

  She could tell it had scared the hell out of him when he’d realised for certain that sweet Jesse’s older, wilder sister was the woman who had seen him crawling around on the floor in a nappy. He must have been terrified that she might blab about his idiosyncrasies. But why would she? Exposing him would have meant revealing her secret as well. And she wanted to keep that side of her life hidden from her family.

  She’d kept out of his way as best she could, which wasn’t difficult given that she was working six nights a week. She’d had no social life back then. But, by that stage, she was tiring of the business: it was mentally, as well as physically, exhausting. She was fed up with spanking, whipping and humiliating middle-aged stockbrokers, solicitors and teachers. By the time Steve and Jesse married two years later, Louisa was done, thankfully. She was earning enough money lecturing at uni to give up her night job.

  In hindsight, she should have handled things differently; she should have told Jesse what she knew that first time she’d brought Steve home. It killed her to know that her sister was suffering now. And imagine if Jesse found out that Louisa had known all along? If Louisa had something on Steve, then he had something on her, too.

  And then, six years ago, everything had blown up in Louisa’s face. She had fled Australia and she couldn’t go back. It was easier living in San Francisco, even if it meant she was estranged from her family and didn’t get to see her niece and nephew. She figured that when they were older, they’d understand. She sipped her wine and glanced at the photo of Emily and Oliver that Jesse had sent her for Christmas. She didn’t usually go in for sentimental mementoes, but the photo was sweet. Emily had hand-made the red and green frame and sprinkled glitter on the border.

  Louisa went over to her favourite armchair by the window, where Ziggy was curled up on a thick woollen blanket. She stared out into the street. The sky had darkened; the forecast had warned of a wild storm approaching. So far, only a couple of fat drops of rain had hit the windows. In the distance, she could hear the clackety-clack of the cable cars groaning up the hill. This was her home—small, cosy, happy and bright. She loved it. Loved the peace, the quiet, the total joy she felt at being in her own space. She loved her little herb pots on the kitchen and bathroom windowsills, loved the sunlight streaming through the skylight in her bedroom, the quirky Mexican tiles in her tiny bathroom. Why would she want to live anywhere else? She nudged Ziggy and stroked him under his chin.