Hindsight Page 2

  But then there’s the lounge and kitchen — how could it be redecorated while I lay asleep on the floor? Admittedly, a minor civil war could have raged in there without waking me. Chris always says that my level of unconsciousness during sleep surpasses that of death. But even so…

  There is a high possibility of me succumbing to another dizzy spell as I lurch out of the kitchen and race off to inspect the rest of the house. The blood-spattered cloth is still attached to my eyebrow, even though I’m no longer holding it in place. It comes as no real surprise to find that every room of the house is also in its pre-renovation state. Ethan’s room with bunk beds, Callum’s room with a cot, as well as our master bedroom, sans ensuite, and the front room is still a formal dining room, not Chris’s office. The same old furniture and lino flooring continues throughout the entire house. My heart rate resembles a berserk drum solo, complete with clashing cymbals and thumping bass drum that reverberates around my entire body causing uncontrolled muscle spasms. I must look like Joe Cocker dancing.

  Back in the kitchen, hyperventilating, I have to ask the one question that will make Chris question my sanity. Mrs O’Shane. Shit! But there’s no other option. The terrifying thought that’s rushing through my head has to be confirmed.

  “Chwisth, what dathe ith it?”

  If only my mouth was able to function. The roof of my mouth and tongue are stuck together like Velcro.

  “What? Juliette, are you alright?”

  I bring a glass of water to my mouth, like the Tin Man and his oilcan. Mouth partially paralysed from the hyperventilation, I manage to tip some water into the square three centimetres of gaping lips and spill the rest down my chin. Not a good look but it’s enough to create normal function.

  “The date. What is the date?” I say clearly and slowly so that he understands me. The only thing that keeps me vertical is being able to rest my hands on the back of a chair.

  “It’s April 1st. Juliette, are you OK?”

  “No, no! The year, what year is it?” Pins and needles climb up my legs until my body ceases to exist from the waist down.

  “Juliette, relax, we’re going to the doctor.” He sounds very assertive which, again, is unusual.

  “What year is it, Chris?” The agitation in my voice is apparent, even to me.

  “Juliette…?”

  “What year?” My arms and hands begin to tingle and lose their firm grip on the back of the chair.

  “1961.”

  Silence fills the intervals between peaks of panic.

  “1961?” My voice is nothing but a whisper.

  There, it’s been said now; the practical joke can end. I await with a level of anticipation that is aneurism-inducing. Now he can tell me that the joke is over and I can tell him how convincing it was, and that he really had me going because 1961 is over fifty years in the past and it is freaking impossible to travel back through time. But he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there and looks at me.

  All mental activity ceases as the last reserves of energy are sucked out of my body. Then…nothing.

  Chapter 2

  Modern day, five weeks ago…the lead-up.

  The short drive to my monster-in-law’s house in Fitzroy is relatively quick, as it should be on a late Saturday afternoon. She’s hosting my niece’s sixth birthday party today, but after a full day of needy clients, being surrounded by twenty squealing little girls is not exactly what I had in mind for the afternoon. The only consolation is that Chris and the boys are already there, waiting for me. It’s the only thing that has kept me going today. I can’t wait for a hug, kiss and a cold glass of Sav Blanc.

  The air-conditioning is blasting out the vents, trying to keep up with the heatwave that has consumed Melbourne in the dying days of summer. Outside, the heat vapours rise from the road like ghosts of Melbourne past. It’s a beautiful city: majestic, full of character with its mix of Edwardian and Victorian architecture, the network of cobbled alleyways and Harry Potter-esque arcades leading to modern buildings that look as though they were designed by a tormented, but brilliant, acid-popping architect with an obsession with geometry.

  I stride into the backyard party and my phone rings. It’s my newest and biggest client, the jewel in my crown, Big Al Stone, mega-manager to over fifty AFL players and numerous celebs.

  “Hi Al, how are you?”

  “We have a problem that needs to be dealt with, Juliette.”

  “Sure, what’s going on?” I ask. He sounds very Secret Squirrel.

  “A DUI case, but I can’t discuss it over the phone. We’re holding an executive meeting commencing at five-thirty. Oh, and don’t expect to go home tonight.”

  “Tonight…ummm…sure,” I stammer. My stomach starts spinning like a washing machine.

  “Is living up to the terms of the contract you just signed too much for you, Juliette? I didn’t picture you as a career woman who was prickly about working weekends.”

  “No, absolutely not, Al.”

  “Good. I’d hate to regret awarding my contract to you instead of Sonya. Show me I made the right choice,” he says.

  “No, you definitely made the right choice with me. Like I said, Wilde Media is a 24/7/365 business. I am your PR guru.”

  “That’s more like it. Even your spectacular career can fall out of the sky if you make the wrong move, Juliette. You’re playing with the big boys now. Be here in two hours,” and with that he hangs up.

  The underlying headache that has been plaguing me all day now feels as though it’s crushing my brain from within my skull and my armpits seem to have sprung a leak. It’s not knock-off time or family o’clock. Shit! Chris is not going to be amused.

  A familiar voice pole-vaults me out of my quandary and adds to the headache.

  “Juliette, how are you, dear? We weren’t sure if you were going to make it today but Chris said you’d be here,” says Sylvia, my monster-in-law, as she races over to me.

  I always feel like a giant standing next to her. In my heels my height is just under six foot, but Sylvia barely comes to my shoulder. She’s like an overstuffed teddy bear, small and lumpy.

  “Sylvia, how are you?” I say. It’s a strain, but she is Chris’s mother, so an effort must be made.

  “All the kids are having such a wonderful time, look at them. Makes an old woman very happy indeed. How are you, my lovely? We haven’t seen you for so long.” She grabs my hand and squeezes it.

  We move in for the obligatory hug and kiss. My lips slide off the gleam of her foundation; it’s like Teflon. Has this woman never heard of mineral powder? Her over-lacquered hair snares my earring like a trapdoor spider. Desperate to disentangle myself, because her peroxided hair has the texture of razor wire, I work fast to free the earring for fear of facial lacerations. As we part from our uncomfortable embrace, my stilettos begin to sink into the grass causing me to hold onto Sylvia’s fleshy shoulder until my balance is regained and I am able to, with some dignity, de-cork my four inch heels from the lawn.

  “Juliette, are you alright? You seem a bit unsteady. I bet you haven’t eaten all day, let me get you something, darling,” Sylvia says.

  “No, no. It’s alright, my heels just got caught in the lawn. They’re not really backyard party shoes. Where’s Chr…”

  “Yes, I noticed your shoes, just beautiful. You have wonderful legs, why not show them off in your heels and tight dress.”

  What was the intention of that remark? Was it a compliment or a thinly disguised way of comparing me with someone who charges by the hour?

  “You’re always so glamorous. I guess you have to be, working with all those swanky people, don’t you?”

  “Yes, no one wants a PR rep who dyes her own hair. Do you know where Chris is?”

  “Anna, look, Aunty Juliette is here, sweetie,” says Sylvia to my niece.

  Oh, for God’s sake!

  The birthday girl dives into her Gran’s arms while Sylvia delivers countless kisses to the top of her head. “I just ca
n’t believe that it is all those years ago today you were born, my beautiful girl. Look at you now, such a grown-up young lady.” Sylvia’s smile resembles that of Luna Park, in more ways than one; she’s a mirror image of a drag queen, only with less subtle make up.

  “Hi Aunty Juliette, thanks for the present.” Anna wraps her arms around my hips, causing me to temporarily lose my balance again.

  “That’s OK Anna, hope you liked it?” The housekeeper, Helen, bought it and the nanny, Lucy, wrapped it. My role was minimal, in fact, nonexistent, I just didn’t get time.

  “Oh yes, thanks!” Her sweet little face lights up as she shows me the bracelet on her wrist. It reminds me of my own charm bracelet, given to me for my ninth birthday by my Dad. He promised that each birthday he would add another charm to it, until it was full of charms and too heavy to wear and then he’d buy me another one and we’d start all over again. It’s so precious, although the silver is now tarnished as it sits in the bottom of my jewellery box with one charm attached, lonely, in the same way a house can look lonely waiting for the children to come along to fill up the rooms.

  “It looks beautiful on you Anna. Very grown up.” I smile at her, trying not to think of my Dad.

  Searching for Chris in the backyard makes for a convenient getaway. But actually finding him is harder than it sounds because, as usual, Sylvia comes wrapped in a cloud of perfume. During our brief encounter, my nostrils have suffered an acid wash and the mucus layer of my throat is fast disappearing.

  “I need to find Chris, do you know where he is, Sylvia?” My eyes are starting to water.

  “Yes love, he’s right over there with Rob. He’ll be so happy you’re here. Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat? How about a drink — a tea or coffee, cold lemonade?”

  “No thanks Sylvia, it’s OK.” Could she be any more smothering?

  Chris is standing with his sister, Lauren, resting against the wall of an ancient shed perched to the left of the backyard, under the shade of an enormous fig tree. The cracked concrete pathways complement the lopsided trees that flank them, making my journey to Chris perilous in these heels. Anya Blackshaw, a divorcee from school and sometime work colleague of Chris, rounds out the trio. She laughs a little too loudly at his jokes, stands a little too close to him and always seems to be jutting her perfect breasts in his direction. Up until recently I thought nothing of her extra attention, but now, it’s starting to irritate me more than pinching elastic on a G-string. Anya’s grip on Chris’ arm would certainly prevent her from falling over should an earthquake split the backyard.

  She moves in closer to whisper something in his ear, the sight of which propels me into action. My approach probably resembles that of a daddy longlegs walking on scorching hot sand, but it’s the only way to reach her before she makes herself too comfortable in such close proximity to my husband. I stumble into the group, in between Anya and Chris and blurt out, “Guess who?”

  “I am guessing that would be my gorgeous, but time-challenged, wife,” Chris says, checking his watch.

  Not exactly the most elegant of entrances, or the most eloquent of greetings, but the objective is achieved — Anya shoved out of the way of my husband, literally.

  Anya looks down at the ground and appears to be suppressing a smirk, probably under the misapprehension that Chris is upset with me, but of course he’s not. Not yet, anyway. That will come later when he finds out about me working tonight. My headache is now spreading into my neck and jaw. It feels as though an invisible fist is clenched around my entire head, squeezing me like a stress ball.

  “I’m glad you’re here though,” Chris says.

  “Oh, that’s so sweet. Thanks Chris.” Violins start playing romantic music in the background.

  “Because that means Rob owes me a twenty,” he laughs.

  “What?” The violins come to an abrupt halt.

  “He bet me twenty dollars that you wouldn’t show.”

  The silence is replaced by the sound of crickets.

  “And, it goes without saying, that I’m just glad to see you as well,” he says.

  Anya smirks and snorts as though she’s so superior, which she’s not. She’s probably relied on her looks to open doors her entire life. She’s no better than me. For a thirty-three-year-old mother of two I look pretty bloody fab — with a lot of help from various facials, injections to inflate my lips, injections to paralyse wrinkles, regular mani/pedis, a hairdresser I use more often than my femme cup and a waxing therapist who doesn’t even have to look at my face to know it’s me. My hair is the perfect blend of three shades of blonde and almost looks natural, except for when those pesky roots appear. My jade eyes take on a brilliant emerald colour when my contacts are in and my boobs are natural — silicone is a derivative of silicon, a natural element commonly found in the Earth’s crust.

  What’s so great about her? Just because she looks like a Victoria’s Secret model crossed with a goddess of the enchanted fairy kingdom and isn’t full of polymers, collagen and toxins derived from botulism. Who bloody cares if she wouldn’t melt by standing too close to a flame or glow iridescently if accidentally set on fire? Natural beauty is so overrated.

  “There’s no way I’d miss Anna’s sixth birthday party, it’s such a special family day,” I say turning and smiling directly at Anya as my arms throw themselves around Chris. His arm encircles my hips, drawing our bodies together and his warmth spreads through me, slowing my breathing rate to yogic proportions.

  “You did miss her sixth birthday, that was last year, but it’s nice you could make it to her seventh,” Chris laughs.

  Oops! I play down the mistake and greet Lauren like a long lost friend. “How’s the yoga studio going?” I ask her.

  “Great so far, thanks Jules. All of your PR and marketing has really paid off. I’ve added six more classes to the weekly timetable. Now I understand completely how exciting it was for you to watch your business grow,” she says. Her glow tells me that she’s got the buzz of success.

  I laugh. “Yeah, it’s amazing to watch your hard work finally pay off. You’ve lost weight. Aren’t you eating enough?” She’s tall, so any weight loss is noticeable on her.

  “Too busy Jules, you know how it is. Plus I have to take the extra classes until I can find a good casual instructor.”

  “The pitfalls of self-employment,” I say.

  “Juliette, you remember Anya don’t you, Molly’s mum?” Lauren asks.

  “Yes, of course I remember Anya,” desperate divorcee who has the hots for my husband. “Lovely to see you again, how are you?” The PR smile and poker face are a true asset at times like this, although my facial muscles are about to spasm.

  “Well, thanks, Juliette. I haven’t seen you in ages, you’re never at school.” She tilts her head on the side and smiles as though she is stating an innocent observation, rather than making a cutting remark about my level of participation in my children’s lives.

  “No, work is keeping me very busy right now.” Which is the truth. “Being in two places at once would be handy, but I was absent the day they taught astral travelling at university,” I say.

  “I understand completely, Juliette. Your business is very important to you. Chris has told me all about it,” she says, touching Chris on the arm.

  Of course he has, seeing as how close the two of you seem to be. He’s probably told you that he’s forbidden me from eating pea and ham soup too, because it makes me fart like a draught horse. My head feels as though a thunderstorm is raging on inside it. I really need a paracetamol.

  “Are you alright, Jules?” Lauren asks. “You look a bit pale.”

  “Yes, thanks. I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache, that’s all. I don’t suppose you have a headache tablet?” I ask.

  “No, sorry,” says Lauren as she moves around behind me and begins to massage my temples. “But I can ease it using pressure point massage. How’s that?”

  “It’s heavenly. It’s almost worth having a h
eadache just for the massage,” I say.

  “Here you go,” says Anya, shoving two pills under my nose. “I’m literally a walking pharmacy since having Molly. You’ve got to be prepared for anything when you’re a Mum.” She looks me directly in the eyes and something passes between us — a sense of knowing exactly what the other is thinking. I know, without doubt, that she wants my husband. And now she knows that I know it too.

  Lauren breaks the silence by speaking, “If Mum wasn’t around to help me with Anna I’d be lost, but you do everything by yourself, Anya,” she says. “How on Earth do you do it?”

  “Molly is my priority, especially after her father abandoned us for his new girlfriend. I love the time we have together, it’s so precious. Before long she’ll be all grown up and I’ll be nothing but an embarrassment,” she giggles. “But by that stage we’ll have built up a friendship that will bind us,” she says, smiling to herself like she’s won the Nobel Prize for parenting and is too bashful to admit it. Nauseating.

  Oh please! My eyeballs spin in my head like a slot machine. Even from a PR perspective, that was way too contrived. Women give speeches like that shortly before they’re arrested for murdering their family and pet dog.

  “Does Molly have any contact with her father?” I ask.

  “No, unfortunately. He stayed in Sydney with his new family.”

  “I know how you feel, Anya. My ex did the same — took off with another woman when I was pregnant with Anna.” Lauren shakes her head.

  “It was an awful time for us. Of course it humiliated me, but for Molly the pain was so much worse. He’s not interested in her, too busy with his work and new family to bother about Molly. It’s incredibly damaging to a child psychologically to be abandoned by a parent. I can never forgive him for how he’s treated Molly. In my book parents who neglect their children should be jailed,” she says, smiling at Chris and then turning to stare at me.