Hindsight Read online

  Hindsight

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Hindsight

  Sarah Belle

  Humour, wit, and just a touch of humility: the swinging 60s as you’ve never seen them before.

  The universe has sent Juliette a sign. She wishes it had been an email instead…

  Juliette’s career is on fire, her marriage and family are in melt-down, and a red-hot goddess wants her husband. But those are the least of her worries when she wakes up on her lounge room floor in the year 1961.

  Without any of her modern conveniences — nanny, housekeeper, surgically attached mobile phone, designer wardrobe, and intravenous lattes — Juliette is just over fifty years out of her comfort zone. But as she takes on the role of a 1961 housewife, with gritted liberated teeth, she discovers an unexpected truth: slower doesn’t mean boring, at home doesn’t mean dull, and priorities don’t mean sacrifices.

  As she finds unexpected friendships, a resuscitated love life, tragedy and triumph, Juliette begins to wonder if she really wants to return home after all.

  About the Author

  Sarah Belle started her professional life in the hospitality industry, working in some of the roughest hotels in Melbourne in the late Eighties, surrounded by drug dealers, prostitutes, pimps, and undercover police.

  Tiring of the inherent dangers of her working environment, Sarah completed a business degree and went on to work in the recruitment industry and the Department of Defence, where she met and married the man of her dreams: a dashing, romantic Army Blackhawk captain, Jason.

  They have four young sons and live on the beautiful Queensland coast, where Sarah’s days are spent being a frazzled mum, an admin superstar for Jason, a writer, a Bikram Yoga devotee and the only woman in a house of five males.

  Acknowledgements

  A huge thank you to Kate Cuthbert and the team at Escape Publishing for your belief in me and my story.

  To both the Queensland Writers Centre (QWC) and the Romance Writers of Australia (RWA), an enormous thank you for nurturing and promoting Australian talent. To all the friends I have made within the QWC and RWA, thank you for your support and encouragement, especially fellow Escape Artist Juliet Madison. I have finally found my tribe.

  To my friends Cathie, Terri, Zoe, Kylee, Sue and Karlie — you have all taught me so much about friendship over the years and have given me the sisterhood I never had. I rolled you all together and created the beautiful character of Lily.

  To my family, for their love and support, and knowledge of all things 1961.

  To my late stepfather, Colin Stewart. I didn’t realise how much you made me sparkle until you weren’t here anymore. Your belief and encouragement are still with me.

  To my gorgeous husband, Jason, and our four little gentlemen, Ethan, Rylan, Lachlan and Callum — you are all the best part of me, the magic in my days and the exhaustion in my nights. The universe has blessed me with more than I deserve.

  For Jason. I still can’t believe you chose me.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Bestselling Titles By Escape Publishing…

  Chapter 1

  Yesterday…

  Given the choice between a bad hangover and going into labor, I’d choose labor every time. The reasons are obvious; labor means professional medical care, a partner so overwhelmed by guilt that he cannot do enough to ensure all the important things are taken care of, such as: endless praise and worship, complete servitude, foot and back massage, as well as nary a whimper when three fingers on his right hand suffer compound fractures — a reflection of my own pain. It’s probably the only time he’s glad my fingers are wrapped around his hand instead of his penis.

  But the best thing about labor is the drugs. Women who have an epidural are capable of passing a small truck through their birth canal without feeling a thing. It could even do a reverse park or U-turn and still not cause discomfort. The only indication of pain is recorded on the tachometer in a colourful print out with more peaks and troughs than the Dow Jones.

  And then, after having performed the miracle of birth, holding my beloved red and puffy mucus-covered blob in my arms, the doctor delicately sews my girly bits up to make me brand new again, like a bionic muff.

  After the vaginal reconstruction has taken place, the worship can commence in all its well deserved glory: flowers, chocolates, cards, phone calls and numerous offers of home help. Of course, the most fitting and anticipated form of worship comes in the form of a diamond big enough to build a three storey house on, a pledge of eternal love and reverence as well as a lifetime of guilt that can be pulled out and used more often than the Saturday night takeaway pizza menu.

  But a hangover: there’s no sympathy, no worship, no doting partner desperate to provide comfort, no soothing music or aromatherapy, and worst of all there’s no drugs. Nothing will cure a hangover — NOTHING. The only remedy for a hangover is laying spreadeagled on a cold surface, deep inhalation of electrolytes, a packet of paracetamol and, afterwards, a meal so greasy it could be used to lubricate a turbine engine.

  But today my suffering is exacerbated to the power of infinity, because this is not a garden variety hangover. The last thing I remember is drowning my troubles in vodka and falling over in my lounge room. But now, the disco in my skull comes complete with doof-doof music, strobe lighting and enough fog to sink a cruise liner. My brain has its own heartbeat. If it were possible to see inside my head, like a diorama, each brain cell would be holding its own head, attempting to quell the throbbing.

  My hand seeks out my eye and I can’t help but touch it, similar to the way a sign stating ‘wet paint’ invites little fingers. The pain is sharp, stabbing, and I recoil at my own touch. My brow and cheekbone ache. Warm liquid creeps into my eye. Is that blood? Has part of my head actually exploded?

  Without warning my nasal passage is punctured by smelling salts. The mental fog lifts and my eyes snap open so fast my eyelashes suffer whiplash. A cross between a groan and a wail escapes.

  “Ohhhhrrrrrrr…”

  “Juliette! Sweetie, are you alright?”

  “Is she OK, Dad?”

  “Yes, I think so, Ethan.”

  “Ohhhhh, fuuuuuuck…”

  “What did she say, Dad? Did Mum say a bad word?”

  “No mate, of course not. Your Mum doesn’t swear. She said…um….fuzz. Yep, that’s what she said, fuuuuuuuuzz, like that, because she um…feels a bit fuzzy. Why don’t you go and get a damp cloth for Mum please, Eth.”

  Ethan runs with the endless energy of a seven year old as Chris continues, “Juliette love, I know it hurts but you cannot use that sort of language in front of the kids.”

  “Chris, what happened?” I ask.

  “It was a dizzy spell and you fainted. You collected the side wall and coffee table on your way down,” he says.

  “Collected them with what?” The pain remains, but mental acuity is returning.

  “Judging by your injuries I’d say it was your head an
d face,” he says.

  “My face! God, do I look like a Picasso?”

  “No. You look as beautiful as ever, just…bruised and multi-coloured,” he says, sweeping a stray tendril of hair off my forehead. His fingers brush my skin like a feather. The tenderness is almost enough to cure my headache.

  “A black eye?” I ask.

  “A real shiner.” he says.

  It’s lucky that sunglasses the size of welding goggles are in fashion at the moment. They will provide something to hide behind until the bruising goes. An involuntary gasp escapes as a damp cloth is pressed to my eye.

  “Aaahhh, Jesus! Fuuuuuuu….zzzzzzz.” Nice recovery.

  “Sorry love, I know it hurts. It’s going to be alright.”

  Is it my imagination, or has he been calling me ‘love’ the whole time?

  “Why are you calling me ‘love’? After last night I’d almost forgive you for pushing me into the coffee table yourself,” I say.

  “Juliette! I’d never hurt you, why would you even say that?”

  “Because of last night, remember, my work?” I say.

  “Work?” he pauses, “What are you talking about Jules?”

  What’s wrong with him; are head injuries contagious? He’s banged on for months about the disruption my job causes our family and now, suddenly, it’s escaped his memory?

  “Dad, is she OK? She hasn’t gone nutty like Mrs O’Shane, has she? They took her away, will they take Mum away too?” Ethan says.

  Who’s Mrs O’Shane?

  “No Eth, Mum’s bumped her head, that’s all. She’s not ready for the asylum just yet,” Chris says.

  “Asylum! No, I am certainly not ready for the asylum. It’s just a bump to the head for God’s sake. Do they still put people in asylums? Aren’t they given the nicer name of ‘health farms’ now?”

  “Health farms, where did you get that from, love? No, people go to asylums, there’s no other name for it,” Chris says.

  “Yes there is, Dad: nut house, looney bin, funny farm…”

  “Thanks for the enlightenment, Ethan, I think Mum gets the idea, mate,” says Chris.

  “…mad house, giggle factory…” Ethan continues.

  “Ethan! Thank you, that will be enough now.” The authority in Chris’ voice is most unusual.

  Something’s not right. My gut instinct is growling like a chained beast; fight or flight messages sprinting to every nerve cell in my body.

  Chris helps me to a sitting position and my eyes struggle to open and then focus on my surroundings. It resembles our lounge room, in a second-hand, kitsch kind of way. The furniture isn’t ours, the carpet is…there is no carpet, it’s a cream-coloured lino, and the wall is pale eggshell blue, which, although nice, is not the mushroom brown it was yesterday. The television requires a double-take to confirm that it is actually a television, because from here it looks like a small wooden box with skinny legs, a dial on the front and a set of antennae on top. But most disturbing of all is that the picture is in black and white. Despite the recent head injury and a memory that would be deemed unreliable in a court of law, I’m pretty sure that our plasma doesn’t look like that.

  “Chris, how long was I out for?” Because someone has changed the interior of the house.

  “Not long, only a few seconds,” he says.

  That can’t be right.

  “So, what’s going on then?” My blurry eyes are struggling to take in the decor.

  “What do you mean, love?”

  “What’s with the retro furniture, the lino, that prehistoric television?” I ask.

  “That’s our new television. We saved for a year to buy it. Jules,” he places his hand on my arm, “can you tell me where we are?”

  “Ummm…” Recollection doesn’t seem to be a strong suit right now, because there is nothing familiar about this room. Nothing.

  A cloud of panic descends, minus the rainbow of hope. Surely there’s something familiar here, a photo, a coffee cup, Cal’s toys? Something like…Chris? It’s definitely him, but at the same time not him. Not my Chris. His normally brown mid-length hair is replaced by a short back and sides and his clothes are….odd. Not strange odd, ugly odd. He’s wearing a check short-sleeved shirt with a pocket over the left breast, as well as trousers…proper trousers, like with a belt, and brown desert boots. He looks like something from Happy Days.

  My mouth opens but nothing comes out. This must be how Alice in Wonderland felt.

  “Let’s get you to the doctor,” he says.

  “Ummm…” Buying myself time is the best option right now.

  Is this a dream? Maybe I’m dead? If this is Purgatory it needs better decor, and a couple of signs to limit the confusion of those passing through.

  Thankfully, my professional instincts kick in: relax, focus on the issue at hand; keep cool and levelheaded. No matter what’s happening in this freaky Twilight Zone episode, calmness must prevail. The only other option is complete and utter hysteria and that just won’t work at the moment; although it is extremely tempting. Ethan steps into view.

  “Wow, Mum, you’re going to have a bonza black eye. Dad, she is OK, isn’t she?” The awe in his voice turns to apprehension.

  Unfortunately, the control mechanism linking my mouth and brain has crashed, taking with it the ability to stop internal thoughts from being verbalised.

  “Ethan! Is that you in there?” I ask.

  He looks like a mini-Chris in his button-up shirt and trousers. Where is his skull t-shirt and jeans? What’s with ‘bonza’? His vocabulary usually consists of ‘sick’ and ‘epic’. The short back and sides are a giveaway that they use the same hairdresser. She needs to refine her craft, because from here it looks as though she used a blunt knife.

  “Juliette, are you alright?”

  “Yes, fine, just a bit…” What’s the correct word to use here? Stunned? Freaked out? On the precipice of a nervous breakdown?

  “Confused?” Chris offers.

  “Yes, but not in a Mrs O’Shane kind of way,” I say.

  “You didn’t recognise our home, Ethan or myself, sweetie. That’s reason enough to see the doctor, isn’t it?” But he’s not asking a question, he’s making a statement.

  Either way, it’s hard to comment without sounding like a right loon.

  “It’s your hair, it’s so, um, short.” It’s not polite to say ‘hideous’ or ‘grotesque’ in regards to a person’s new haircut.

  “That’s because you cut my hair this morning, just after you did Ethan’s. Can’t you remember any of this?” His face is twisted in concern.

  “I did that! Are you sure?” Is it alright to say that it is a hideous attempt at a haircut?

  “I’ve even got the scar to prove it, see.” He shows off his bandaged earlobe.

  Lucky it’s not income-deriving. No one would pay for that.

  “How do you feel?” Chris asks. “Let’s try to sit you up, slowly does it though.”

  Despite the soothing familiarity of Chris’s touch on my arm, I feel like grabbing my hair and running around the lounge screaming hysterically while flailing my arms around wildly. But that probably wouldn’t be a good move right now. They’d shack me up next to Mrs O’Shane.

  “B-better.” My legs like a newborn foal, I struggle to my feet. Chris gently pulls me into a sitting position and my feet flop on the floor in front of me. I recoil in horror as though they are sprouting fungus-y tentacles. Ballet flats. There are flat shoes on my feet! This is highly disturbing because I was born in stilettos, not these appallingly, unflattering disasters currently making a mockery of my feet. An asthmatic wheeze falls out of my mouth.

  “Juliette? Perhaps you stood up too quickly. Just relax, take your time,” he says.

  If only it were that simple. He clearly doesn’t understand — I am wearing flat shoes. The ugliness of those words rolls around my mouth like a dose of supposedly odourless fish oil - knowing that it will return with each belch and hiccup long after the initial dose h
as gone.

  The rest of my outfit is like looking directly at a solar eclipse, scar tissue forming instantaneously on my retinas. My dress is covered in tiny little flowers. Tiny. Little. Flowers. Urrrgh! It looks like a doona cover. This is not Purgatory, but Hell itself.

  I slouch off to the kitchen in a fashion-related depression, pull out a pale blue vinyl-covered chair and sit down at what is, apparently, the family dining table. It has a cream laminate top with skinny silver legs, a stack of placemats, a salt and pepper set and a bunch of fake orange and yellow flowers. The ugliness just continues.

  “Where’s Callum?” I ask. No house with a two-year-old is this quiet.

  “He’s having a nap. You put him down about twenty minutes ago, remember?” Chris says.

  I did? If you say so.

  The room is remarkably similar to our pre-renovation kitchen. In fact, it IS our pre-renovation kitchen. Good lord, what have I walked into? Maybe this all an alcohol-induced hallucination. After last night’s effort, alcohol poisoning would explain a lot. Or maybe a tumor is eating its way into my brain and is currently in the process of destroying the frontal lobe. One can only hope.

  “How about a cuppa and a bikkie? That should make you feel better. Something in your tummy,” Chris says.

  “How about a stiff drink and a sedative?” I say.

  Chris looks at me as though I’ve just confessed to being a serial killer.

  Mrs O’Shane. Note to self: shut up.

  My head aches, my eye has swollen to the point of closure, probably leaving me looking like Rocky Balboa, and the damp cloth has adhered to my eyebrow and will hurt like Hell when it’s time to be removed. Chris’s usual grace around the kitchen has disappeared and been replaced with the coordination of a praying mantis on muscle relaxants.

  The newspaper on the table in front of me catches my attention and my one working eye is instantly drawn to the date under the main headline. Within a nanosecond the desire to faint again, swear profusely and lose control of my bladder simultaneously is overwhelming. No, that cannot be right! No possible way is that date correct. April 1st, 1961? This has to be a joke, a well-organised, perfectly executed practical joke. This paper is clearly a reprint — like the ones you can give as a birthday gift, because that is not today’s date.