Hindsight Read online

  “That’s right.” I give her a half smile. “Thanks Lauren.” It’s nice to know that someone understands the pressures.

  “Oh well, you’ll be missing out on a great night,” says Rob. “Lauren and I have managed to talk Chris into coming out on the town with us seeing as Mum’s having all the kids. Sure you don’t want to change your mind?”

  “If I could, I would, Rob. But I have to work now. Chris, could you walk me out, please?”

  “Mum! Mum! Look, I’ve got a blue tongue lizard — isn’t he cool?” Ethan asks as he strides over, a stunned lizard poking out of both ends of his hands.

  “Hmmm, he’s cool alright,” I say, performing a yoga backbend in order to avoid being in close proximity to the lizard. “Listen, gorgeous, I’ve got to go now. I have to work.”

  His little face drops so far it almost smothers the lizard in his paws.

  “But you just got here. Why do you have to leave early all the time?”

  Chris couldn’t have scripted it any better in support of his argument. It leaves me feeling like the world’s most neglectful mother.

  “You’re going to have a great time with Gran tonight. You won’t even miss me.” I smile and hug him, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  “I always miss you,” he says, burrowing into my waist.

  It’s fortunate my sunglasses are so huge because they hide the tears welling in my eyes.

  Chris walks me out to the car. Our journey is silent.

  We pass Anya at the end of the driveway; her car is parked in front of mine in the street.

  “Off so soon, Juliette? Feels like you just got here,” she smiles at me, the venom dripping from her fangs.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” I reply as nicely as possible, still obsessing over what Chris was about to say before Ethan’s interruption. This just isn’t….?

  “That’s a pity. We really should get together Juliette, you know, seeing as our children are such good friends. Maybe a coffee at Diego’s sometime?”

  I imagine myself clawing Anya’s picture-perfect face off and choking her so hard that her head actually falls off like a Plasticine blob. It’s immensely gratifying. Shame it’s only in my imagination.

  “Yes, that would be nice.” Poker face on again. Keep friends close and enemies even closer.

  “Wonderful, I’ll look forward to it. Have a good night.” She moves back to the party at the pace of a sloth.

  “You won’t change your mind about working tonight?” Chris’ usual velvet tone is replaced with a crispness that is new to me.

  “I’m sorry Chris, but it’s an emergency. I’ve got to go.”

  His nod is as crisp as his voice. Not wanting to part on these terms, my arm reaches out to him but he’s already turned away, his eyes on Anya loitering in the driveway.

  “Anya, wait,” he calls. She stops and turns around. “Lauren, Rob and I are going out tonight, why don’t you come along? Mum’s going to have all the grandkids, she wouldn’t mind Molly staying as well.”

  An electrical current passes through my body, moving up the spine and central nervous system, catapulting my brain into an instant state of ‘what the?’ Did he just ask her out? Because that can’t be right; surely no man, in his right mind, would ask another woman out in front of his wife, the mother of his children, the one he promised to forsake for all others. Have I suddenly become invisible? Can he not see me? Why would he do that?

  “Oh Chris, that would be lovely. Thank you. You know, your mother is so kind to look after all of our children by herself. What a wonderful grandma she is.”

  They walk slowly down the driveway, in no hurry to return to the party, chatting to each other quietly. Anya smiling at Chris and Chris smiling at Anya, looking as though they are on a first date. Which, apparently, they are.

  “Hmmwpggdbye.” It’s incoherent but is all my brain and mouth are capable of. But it doesn’t matter because he isn’t listening anyway, not while Anya’s waffling on about how wonderful Sylvia is.

  Something tells me that we just had that moment in our relationship; the one when the energy between us changes and becomes cold, distant, when it starts to die. For the first time in our eight-year marriage, I question the validity of my trust in Chris.

  Chapter 4

  Twenty nauseous minutes later I enter Al’s boardroom on the top floor of the Southgate Tower on Southbank. The room has all the hallmarks of being purpose-designed and professionally decorated. It’s light and airy, with different tones of white adorning the highly polished floor tiles, walls and ceiling. The furniture is modern but not sterile and the view is utterly spectacular, an uninterrupted one hundred and eighty degrees of the CBD and the north-east side of Melbourne. It must be jaw-dropping by night.

  The journey in was surreal. My mind is still in the backyard of Anna’s party, wondering what the Hell is happening between Chris and Anya now. My head feels like it’s loaded with gunpowder that has already exploded and my stomach is bubbling like molten lava. Upon entering the room I check to see if there is an empty rubbish bin handy, just in case.

  “What the Hell took you so long? We’ve been waiting for you!” Al snaps.

  My attempt to shake Al’s hand is met with a wave and a bark.

  “Sit!” he demands, pointing to a chair.

  Like an obedient dog, my bum parks itself on the closest seat.

  “Juliette Wilde, owner of Wilde Media Relations, this is Bill McCauley, our Queen’s Counsel, Bob Hudson, president of the club and Jim Dobell, my second in-charge.”

  My mind wanders. Are Chris and Anya sitting together now, in the back of a taxi on their way out? Are their thighs touching? Their shoulders?

  “Right! Let’s get straight to it, then,” Al booms, grabbing my attention away from my nightmare. His double chin wobbles like a turkey’s dulak as he talks. It’s quite off-putting. Physically, he is an intimidating man, well over six foot tall and close to one hundred and thirty kilos. He wears business trousers with a crisp pale blue shirt and gold cuff links, red, gold and blue striped tie and braces holding his pants up over his large tummy. “Earlier this afternoon the club’s up and coming star, nineteen year old Saxon Jones, was involved in a car accident whilst under the influence of alcohol. Unfortunately, it gets worse…much, much worse.”

  It’s a struggle to remain focused. I bet they look like a couple. Enjoying a night out without the kids — not that anyone would believe Anya has a child, not with that body. No wonder Chris asked her out.

  “Saxon admits to leaving the scene of the accident,” Al continues. “He also admits to using cocaine and ecstasy, a package of which he left in the vehicle.”

  I am vaguely aware of the case Al is outlining and it sounds like a hard sell from a PR perspective, but I can’t help obsessing over Chris and Anya. Are they sitting next to each other at the table like a couple, or opposite like friends?

  “Further to that Saxon left something else in the car. In fact, two other items. One is a sixteen-year-old girl, who, last he remembers, was unconscious and bleeding from the head in the passenger seat of the vehicle. The second is a camera, which has photos of him having sexual relations with said sixteen-year-old girl.”

  This is a mess. The public perception of footballers is bad enough without this added into the mix. That’s why Big Al’s business keeps me so busy. My mind keeps drifting back to what Chris and Anya are doing now. They are probably chatting and Chris is wondering why she’s single — how could any man leave her?

  “The vehicle is currently being searched. The girl is in hospital. The doctors say it looks bad for her, significant head injuries,” Jim adds.

  Are their fingers touching, accidentally perhaps, but it feels so good that neither of them moves away? My imagination takes over — their affair turns into a deep love, based on mutual interests and common goals. Divorce papers are drawn up, Chris takes the kids and Anya moves in to my house.

  Saxon enters the room. He throws himself down in one cha
ir and rests his feet on another, looking around the room with a snarl on his lips as he tells us what happened in his own words, with lots of “dunnos”, “s’pose so’s” and “reckons”.

  “No one goes home until the initial crisis is over. Tell your families not to expect you any time soon.” Al says and then leaves the room.

  Then, there’s the announcement of a wedding and a baby. Chris, having a baby with another woman. My sons calling that she-devil ‘Mum’. It’s all too much and I reach for the empty bin and bring up lunch.

  The scenarios trampling through my mind are emotionally draining. There’s barely enough energy to focus on my work after imagining everything that is happening between Anya and Chris, so ringing him, even at midnight, seems a good idea. But his phone rings out and goes to message bank; perhaps he can’t hear it. Or maybe answering my call isn’t on his list of priorities. Maybe he’s too busy falling in love with Anya.

  Lauren’s phone is on vibrate. I know this because she often jokes that it’s not the only vibrating product in her possession.

  “Hhhmmm huwooo,” Lauren mumbles.

  “Lauren! It’s Juliette. Did I wake you?”

  “Yep.”

  “But what happened to your big night out with Chris and Rob?”

  “We went out, but, “she pauses and then yawns down the phone, “I take a 7am yoga class on Sundays, so late nights are out. Yoga teachers can’t have hangovers. It’s bad for business.”

  “Of course. He’s probably on his way home then, too. How long ago did you leave?”

  “I left at ten, so, two hours ago. But Chris didn’t leave with me,” she yawns.

  “He didn’t?” My heart rate speeds up to the beat of the Charleston, too energetic for this time of night. Why didn’t he leave too?

  “No, he stayed out with Rob…”

  “Oh, that’s alright then.” The Charleston slows to a waltz, floating around the ballroom gracefully. Thank God for that. Nothing wrong with a bit of bro’ time.

  Then Lauren says the two words that nearly cause an instantaneous nervous breakdown… “and Anya”.

  The Charleston is doing double-time and is accompanied by the can-can.

  “Whaaaaat?” Lauren’s eardrum has probably just split in two as my voice spirals into a sopranic rant. “Anya? You left Chris with Anya?”

  “What’s wrong Juliette? It’s not as though Anya’s going to run away with him, she knows he’s married. Besides, she’s caught up with that mystery man of hers.”

  The muscles surrounding my ribs are squeezed as though a corset has been pulled way too tight. My lungs have no hope of expanding enough to grab an intake of air as the corset constricts even further.

  “Chris is that mystery man, Lauren!”

  It’s lucky that my last remark is hushed as my vocal chords are crushed by the contents of my chest cavity.

  “Where are they?” Perhaps I can intervene, slip out of here for an hour.

  “Ummm, we were at Bolt’s Bar, but they were moving on to another place. The, ummm, what’s it called? Oh, I just can’t think of it.”

  Oh for God’s sake! Try harder!

  “The what, Lauren? Where did they go?”

  “Oh, I can’t remember. Sorry Jules. Anyway, Rob’s there. I’ve got to get some sleep.” Another loud yawn escapes, “I’ll catch you later”, and the phone goes dead.

  My remaining positivity turns gangrenous. What if he is so charmed by her that he doesn’t want me anymore? What if he comes home tomorrow morning and asks for a divorce? Worse still, what if he doesn’t come home at all? All alone…together… she with her mystery man and him with no one to remind him that he’s married.

  Chapter 5

  By the next morning the initial crisis is dealt with and covered up as much as possible, but should these events ever come to light, the club will drop Saxon Jones faster than anyone can say ‘liability’. At seven-thirty I pull up out the front of our house, exhausted not only from a long night of work but from obsessing over Chris and Anya’s ‘date’.

  Our suburb, Clifton Hill, dates back to the late nineteenth century and is a short distance from the city and my office, although the traffic is a killer. The house is two rooms wide with a hallway down the middle and is so small that it could fit on a modern block four times. What it lacks in size it makes up for in character. We renovated around what remained of the Edwardian features when we bought it as a deceased estate nine years ago. It had been reinvigorated and renovated by every family that owned it and we wanted to keep this charming chameleon’s story going.

  Chris took up professional residence in the old formal dining room at the front of the house seven years ago when he went solo and has worked from there ever since. The structure of the house wasn’t altered, with the exception of the addition of a small ensuite in our bedroom as well as modernisation of the bathroom and kitchen.

  The house is quiet — unnaturally quiet for a dwelling that is home to Callum. The boys’ beds are empty, which was expected seeing as they were having a sleepover at Sylvia’s. But our bed is also empty, meaning that Chris didn’t come home last night. I crawl into it and cry until sleep overtakes me.

  Three hours later I am woken by two small, flat feet pounding up the hallway and squeaky-toy giggles that are about to lift Callum off his feet and carry him over the rainbow. Wearily, I peel my makeup-clad face off the pillow and look in the mirror. Unsettled by the image in front of me, a Gothic raccoon with hair that contains enough static electricity to light up Las Vegas for a week and a pillow crease deeply imprinted the length of my left cheek, I reach for my wrap and attempt to make myself less terrifying to small children.

  “Dad-dy, you chase me?” The soft little voice is filled with excitement that could spill over into an ear-piercing squeal at any moment; the kind that divides the human brain directly down the centre.

  “I’m going to get you Callum, yes I am! Here I come!” Two large feet plod up the hallway.

  Helpless with laughter, the two little feet run in the other direction, followed by more squeaky giggles.

  He’s home. Finally, he’s home. Thank God. Maybe everything is going to be alright. Maybe he’s forgiven me and we can move on. Or maybe he’s going to tell me that our marriage is over and he’s fallen in love with Anya. There are too many possibilities running through my mind.

  “You better run, Cal. I’m going to get you.”

  “Quick, hide, Cal. Come with Ethan, come on.”

  “E-fan hide me?”

  “Yes Cal, come on. Let’s hide from the Daddy-bear.”

  A huge roar like a prehistoric monster breaks the silence and two small voices burst into crazed giggles amidst half hearted cries of ‘No!” and “Stop Daddy!” The kind that usually precede a pants-wetting episode.

  “And now I’m going to tickle you…arrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhh!”

  More helium laughter.

  The sound of Chris playing with the boys brings a smile to my face and gives me hope that everything will be alright, that he didn’t fall in love with Anya last night. My hope is that his time with her showed him just how well suited he and I are to one another and that even though the grass may seem greener on the other side, there’s nothing better than your own paddock.

  On the other hand, no one would really blame him for jumping the fence. It’s not as though my performance as a wife and mother is award-winning. Our relationship has struggled for the last three years, since before Cal’s birth. It wasn’t until he pointed it out yesterday that I realised how much of my time is spent at work, and how much he dislikes it.

  Right now, though, we’ve got to sort out our issues, and if that’s by having a huge argument, then so be it. If it saves my marriage, then let’s get it on.

  I open the door and wander out into the kitchen.

  “Mum!” Ethan throws himself around me and then looks up to my face. “Aargh! What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asks.

  “Nothing, sweets, I just didn�
��t take my makeup off before going to bed. Do I look like a panda?”

  “Nah, more like Alice Cooper. Especially with that hair,” he says.

  “Alice Cooper? How do you know about him?” I ask. Since when do seven-year-olds know about Seventies rockers?

  “Uncle Rob was reading a book about him. He looks pretty scary,” he says.

  “Scarier than me?”

  “No.” What is it with kids and brutal honesty?

  “Hey Mum, it’s only thirty-four days to go until the school concert,” Ethan says.

  “I can’t wait, you’ll be fantastic.” He smells good enough to eat. Obviously had one of Sylvia’s lavish breakfasts; bacon, eggs, sausages and pancakes.

  “You are going to be there, aren’t you? You’re not going to forget or get busy with work again?”

  “I promise to be there, sweetie. Super-duper promise. How was your night?” I ask.

  “It was great. We had chips, lollies and lemonade. Then we made tents in the lounge room and camped out.”

  “Dad-dy…look, Mummy home,” Cal points to me as though I am a rare artifact from an archaeological expedition.

  “Yes Cal, Mummy is home,” Chris answers him, barely acknowledging my presence.

  “How was your night?” I ask as casually as possible.

  “Good. It was nice to be the one going out for a change.”

  Ouch! I want to give him the third degree about his night out with Anya, but listen to my inner voice that tells me treading lightly will be of more benefit than surging forward like a tank.

  “So, where did you go?” I ask.

  “A couple of places that Rob likes, can’t really remember their names,” he yawns.

  “Why? Did you have too much to drink?” Oops, that sounded more abrupt than planned.

  “No, why would you say that? Do I look hungover?” He checks his reflection in the door of the microwave. He looks like a wrinkly t-shirt, despite minimal sleep. My appearance is more akin to a linen suit that has been rolled in a ball and kicked under the bed for six months.