Prologue
Paige
Sometimes I spend a lot more time than I should on Pinterest. It’s usually when I’m putting off things like paying bills or making mundane appointments or cooking dinner. Sometimes I use it to imagine how things could be. Like your first birthday party. I chose a cake for you. It’s a Peter Rabbit one – pastels, styled on a table with fairy lights – and I’d spell your name out with gold foil balloons across the wall. I’d also have fresh flowers and handwritten place cards. And I’d order one of those fancy art easels, and in gorgeous typography I’d have your name on it. Oh, and let’s not forget, I’m a sucker for bunting (fabric, not the plastic kind).
My password is your name in lowercase. (I changed it an hour ago, right after I finished brushing my teeth because that’s what I was doing when we decided on it!)
Anyway, enough about Pinterest and first birthdays. I’m sure you’d be just as happy with a ten-dollar ice-cream cake and a packet of streamers and whistles, and those cheap cone hats from the supermarket – the ones with the elastic that always slips out of the staples.
I have a present for you. It’s a picture book. The Little Engine That Could has always been my favourite. I recorded myself reading it for you. My voice is a little shaky and you can hear Piper barking in the background, and Nanny Evelyn opening the front door when she popped in to visit, but I hope you don’t mind.
By now you might be walking, or close to. Sometimes when I look at baby photos of Daddy and me, I go cross-eyed until the images go blurry, trying to imagine what beautiful shape your face might have.
I love you. I hope you never forget that. I hope you have a very happy first birthday, whether it’s with a Peter Rabbit cake or a ten-dollar ice-cream cake from the supermarket.
Love,
Mummy
P.S. Do you like the outfit I bought you? I chose it because not only did I think you’d look cute in it but the colour reminds me of Daddy’s eyes. I wonder if yours will be the same.
Part One
One
Paige
‘I cannot for the life of me find the fig paste anywhere,’ says Mum, poking around the fridge. It’s one of those refrigerators where you can tap on the glass and see what’s inside so you don’t have to open the door. According to the manufacturer, this handy feature keeps food fresher for longer. But Mum has been searching for the fig paste long enough to almost guarantee the early demise of her groceries. She finally registers me and Nick, and blows the stray hairs away from her face with a single breath.
‘What are you looking for?’ asks Dad, piping in.
‘The fig paste,’ we all say in unison – me, Nick and Mum.
‘Oh. Finished it yesterday.’ Dad almost looks proud of himself, and I marvel at how after spending more than three decades of his life alongside my mother, he’s practically oblivious to the level of despair this will cause her. My mother, like my sister, is a perfectionist, though my mum has nothing on Caitlin. And even though it might not seem like it at first, the fig paste’s absence from this evening’s platter will be forgotten by the time she’s ready to serve it.
‘You didn’t,’ she says incredulously. ‘It was gourmet from Leo’s! I needed it for…’ She lifts her hands in despair. ‘Never mind. Let’s forget the antipasto altogether.’
Dad flings me and Nick a sheepish look. Ever since he retired from his thirty-plus-year career as a commercial airline pilot, he’s been driving Mum loopy. Incidentally, as Dad spends more time at home, Mum has started to spend more time outside the home. Every month she seems to tack on yet another activity to her rotating roster: mosaic classes, reformer Pilates, tai chi, macramé. ‘It preserves my mental wellbeing and my relationship with your father,’ she recently told me as she lifted an empty carton of milk from the fridge. ‘I love your father but I like my space and my coffee white,’ she added, her face turning a little sour.
Nick and I have been married for seven years, and ever since then, our Sunday nights have been reserved for dinner at Mum and Dad’s. The only exception is when Nick is on call at the hospital, though I’m still required to attend, mostly on Mum’s insistence. I’m the one with normal work hours – a regular job in a regular aged-care home, which I’ve been working at forever. My brother Ryan moved to Canada five years ago after meeting his wife, Susannah, on the first flight he took from Melbourne to Vancouver, so that rules out their attendance, and Caitlin and her family occasionally miss Sunday night dinners due to various excuses pertaining to their kids’ health and sleeping habits.
‘I need help in the kitchen,’ feigns Mum, knowing full well I am never any help in anyone’s kitchen, much less hers.
‘We brought wine,’ I say cheerfully, holding up the bottle. I uncork it and take some glasses down from the cupboard. ‘It’s a Derwent Estate Calcaire Pinot Noir.’
‘I don’t care what it is. Pour,’ commands Mum, her eyes trained on Dad.
‘I’ve got to finish clearing those gutters,’ he says, making his way outside. ‘C’mon, Nick.’ Nick, ever the obedient son-in-law, follows Dad outside.
Shortly afterwards, the doorbell rings, signalling Caitlin’s arrival with Mark and the kids.
‘I’ll go,’ I say, setting my wine glass down.
‘Anyone home?!’ yells Caitlin.
‘I’m coming!’ I call, speeding up.
Ella peers through the window, her nose pressed against the frosted glass panel. She’s dressed as a ladybird, in a red-and-black leotard with a matching tutu. I unlock the front door and step aside as Caitlin, carrying two-year-old Ethan on one hip, comes inside. She nods at me with his dummy in her mouth, a nappy bag slung over one shoulder and a plastic container in one hand, which no doubt contains dessert. I extend two arms out to peel Ethan from her. ‘Hey, Ethan, Aunty Paige has missed you!’ I nuzzle my face against the soft skin of his neck, inhaling the fragrance of vanilla soap and laundry detergent.
Ella squeezes through the door and grips my leg. ‘Aunty Paige! I haven’t seen you in years!’
‘I know!’ I crouch down to her level. She is all freckles and wide eyes. ‘It’s been so long I don’t think I can remember your name.’
She bursts into a fit of giggles and whispers into my ear, ‘Ella. But you can call me Ellabella.’
I wink at her. ‘Okay,’ I whisper, feeling my heart expand.
We trail into the kitchen and Mum squeezes Ella, delivering a loud kiss on her cheek before prying Ethan from my arms, but not before I blow a raspberry on his neck and wait for the delightful laughter to ensue.
‘Hey, Mum,’ says Caitlin, pecking her cheek. Mum tries to slap her hand away when she goes to pinch a freshly baked cookie from the tray, but Caitlin is too quick.
‘Are these white choc and macadamia?’ she asks, snapping it in half and handing a piece to Ethan.
‘Yes. And we’re about to have dinner soon,’ says Mum, sliding the tray away from the bench.
I snatch a cookie for Ella, handing it to her as I hold a finger to my mouth. ‘Do ladybirds know how to keep secrets?’ She cups her mouth with her hand, stifling a laugh as she accepts it.