‘What kind of stuff?’ asks Nick as we click our seat belts into place.
I flip my compact mirror open and take out my mascara. I try to keep the wand steady as he reverses out of the driveway. ‘The usual,’ I say, closing one eye. ‘Tell me if you’re going to go over a bump.’
‘Baby stuff?’ He surfs playlists before settling on the latest Coldplay album. ‘Bump,’ he says, raising the volume.
I hold the mascara wand away from my eye and glance down at my belly, trying to ignore the surge of emotions that have begun to surface. Bump. I blink away the tears that have started forming in my eyes, dip the wand into the bottle and remove it, scraping off the excess from the sides. ‘Yes,’ I admit, after a long silence, not wanting to lie to him. ‘Baby stuff. But could we… could we talk about it another time?’
‘Sure.’ Nick pretends to sound unaffected by what I’ve told him.
I glance over at him before I attempt the other eye but he looks straight ahead, his jaw set firmly, the way it does whenever he’s thinking things he isn’t yet ready to share with the outside world. He turns the music up and slides his sunglasses on, and when we reach the next bump, he doesn’t say a word. But I know what he’s thinking. Nick, my husband of eight years, the man who knows all my secrets, and all my shortcomings, knows something is up and knows that I am lying.
Twenty-Three
Nick
Evelyn is melting chocolate over a bain-marie for the profiteroles she has lined up on a tray on the island bench.
‘Happy birthday,’ I say. She beams a smile of appreciation my way and pats my cheek.
‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ says Paige. She steps away and mindlessly plonks the flowers we’ve brought for Evelyn on the bench beside the Tupperware container that does not hold a vanilla sponge but a chocolate raspberry semifreddo that looks too perfect to have been created in Paige Hutton’s suburban kitchen.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have,’ she says, admiring the blooms. ‘I love freesias.’
Paige stares out the window to where Ella and Ethan are bouncing on the trampoline with Mark.
‘Paige chose them,’ I say, trying to make eye contact with Paige, but it’s like she’s in a different world. There’s no mistaking it, something’s on her mind, only I don’t know what it is. Evelyn’s too busy burying her nose in the bouquet to notice.
As if on cue, David opens the sliding door and crosses the open-plan living area to the kitchen. He’s wearing his favourite red apron that says, Stay Calm! The BBQ Master is Cooking. ‘Hey, kids!’ He gives me a friendly thump on the back. ‘What’s happening?’ He ruffles Paige’s hair.
‘Did Paige tell you yet? She’s decided to officially go back to work,’ I tell him. This evokes no more than a tight smile from her.
‘That’s great news,’ he says, and out of the corner of my eye I notice Evelyn smiling at him, a relief in her eyes I haven’t seen in a while. David starts lifting the apples from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. ‘Have we got any lemons, Evelyn?’
Evelyn turns her head slightly and eyes them on the bench – they’re sitting there ready for him, right under his nose. David clicks his tongue and scoops them up one by one. Evelyn stands there, shaking her head as she turns back to the bain-marie.
Paige and I follow David outside to the rear deck, where the long wooden table is already set, and David’s getting ready to drop the meat on the barbecue. Ella’s and Ethan’s delightful squeals carry over the drone of the neighbour’s lawn mower. The motor stops and gives way to the smack, smack, thwack of boxing gloves pounding a bag. The neighbour’s son must have moved back home.
‘Hey, what’s up? Are you feeling okay?’ I ask Paige in the small window of time we have alone on the deck before Caitlin reaches us.
‘Please, Nick, not now.’
‘So something is the matter.’
She closes her eyes and inhales before opening them again. ‘Nick, please…’
‘Loop me in, don’t make me guess what’s wrong. First you act all weird at home, now you look like you’re close to tears.’
‘Hello, hello!’ says Caitlin, bounding up the merbau steps. ‘Did you bring the cake?’ she asks Paige.
‘Yup. Choc raspberry semifreddo,’ she declares, unchanging in pitch.
‘A semifreddo?’ She gives me a mild smirk. ‘Weren’t you making a vanilla sponge with coffee cream?’
‘Didn’t work out,’ she says, deadpan, avoiding eye contact with her.
Ella races up the steps and hugs Paige, then me, with Ethan trailing behind her. I pretend not to notice her.
‘Hey, Ethan! Have you seen Ella? She’s six years old, about this high, blue eyes…’
‘Uncle Nick! I’m here, hugging you!’
‘Where? I can’t see you anywhere.’ I scan the lawn, pretending to look for her.
She bursts out laughing. ‘Here, silly!’ She jumps up and down in front of me, flapping her hands around.
‘Oh my God, there you are!’
‘You need glasses, Uncle Nick!’
‘I think I better get my eyes checked, Ellabella.’
She turns to Paige and tugs her by the hand. ‘Come on the trampoline with us, please!’
‘Sure, let’s go,’ she replies.
‘I’m trying, Nick,’ says Caitlin, when Paige is out of earshot.
‘I know you are. I think she’s just having one of those days. Something’s bothering her.’
Suddenly, it feels like all the progress we made in Tasmania has dropped away. So much for open and honest communication with each other.
Paige barely touches her food over dinner while we discuss the best and worst birthday gifts we’ve ever been given. So far, Evelyn’s winning both categories: a ticket for a South Pacific cruise for her fiftieth birthday versus a bromeliad that never flowered and a lettuce spinner. David, of course, is arguing the value of a lettuce spinner. Oil and vinegar stick better to dry salad leaves. And who knew that bromeliads could take years to flower, only to ever bloom once?
By the time we sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and Caitlin and the kids bring Evelyn’s cake out, there is no doubt in my mind that whatever is bothering Paige must be significant. She’s sitting next to me, twirling her wedding band, her knee jerking up and down – something she never, ever does.
Caitlin thrusts a piece of cake in Paige’s direction. ‘Paige, cake?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Are you still upset about the comment I made earlier?’ asks Caitlin.
‘Oh, Paige, I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it. Nobody cares that you bought the cake and put it in your cake carrier,’ says Evelyn.
David chimes in, his mouth full of cake. ‘I don’t care where the cake came from, but it’s a ripper. Great choice, Paige.’
‘I couldn’t care less about a stupid cake right now.’
Mark flicks his gaze away out of politeness and turns his attention to the bottle of champagne he’s opening.