An hour later, Paige dumps the bag of groceries she’s carrying next to the bench. So much for a quick dash to the supermarket for milk and bread. This is typical of Paige and it’s something we normally laugh about. She can never come out of a store with less than an armload of shopping. ‘There’s still a pumpkin in the boot,’ she says.
She goes to smile but pulls back like she’s not sure if she should go through with it or not. It most likely has to do with the fact I’m having trouble looking her in the eyes. ‘I’ll go get the pumpkin,’ I say, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.
‘Nick,’ she calls out softly as I start walking away. ‘About last night, the whole decision thing. I know it’s going to take you some time to get your head around things.’
I swallow back the lump forming in my throat and nod stiffly. ‘Yes, I know. Can we park all the talk about it for tonight?’
She nods. ‘Yeah, sure.’
‘So, what’s this?’ she asks when I get back. She points to the line-up of ingredients on the bench and the recipe book flipped open to the page for the croquembouche recipe.
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I thought, maybe if you’re not too tired, I could help you figure out how to make it without that happening?’ I point to the failure next to the hob.
She tilts her head, her eyes filled with intrigue. ‘Really? You want to bake?’
‘Yeah, I thought we could figure it out together.’
‘Okay,’ she says enthusiastically. She opens a drawer, tosses me an apron and it’s almost like old times. Everything about this moment reminds me of what things were like for us before everything changed.
I pull the too-small apron over my head and pick up the measuring cup. ‘Are you measuring or whisking?’ I ask her.
‘Thanks for believing in me, but I don’t think I can be trusted to do the measuring. I’ll read the instructions.’
I’m warming some milk in a pan when a phone rings.
‘Oh, that’s you,’ says Paige, leaning over the bench to peer at my phone. ‘Miranda Summers.’
The milk starts steaming. ‘Oh, it’s nothing urgent.’
Paige flips around, the phone in her hand. ‘You sure you don’t want to answer it?’
‘No, no need. I can call her back.’
‘Okay,’ she says with a shrug. She puts the phone down and reads out the next steps for the recipe. ‘Now we need to whisk the egg yolks, sugar, flour and cornflour.’ She pauses. ‘Last night I used whole eggs.’ She presses her palm against her forehead. ‘And no cornflour.’
‘That’ll mess up a recipe.’
She laughs and I can’t help wondering if this might be the last time Paige and I will be spending time together messing around in the kitchen, trying to master a croquembouche.
‘When you add the milk to the egg mixture, do not stop whisking,’ she warns. ‘Trust me. It took me two attempts last night because Piper rang the bell to go outside.’
‘Got it,’ I say, transferring half the milk to the bowl.
‘So, who’s Miranda? I feel like I know her name,’ she says casually after a beat.
I pause.
‘Keep whisking,’ Paige says, motioning to the bowl. ‘You can’t stop at this critical moment.’
I put the whisk down and Paige looks at me quizzically. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You do know her name. We were meant to go to her son’s birthday party together.’
‘Miranda Summers,’ she says. ‘Yes, I remember something about that party.’ She pauses. ‘You went on your own,’ she says sheepishly.
‘Yes. I did.’
‘I never even asked you who she was.’
‘I guess we had other stuff going on.’
Paige looks momentarily perplexed. We have always valued our independence, but for the most part I know all her friends and she knows all mine.
‘Yeah, I guess we did,’ she replies sadly.
Thirty-Eight
Paige
Days later, I’m knee-deep sorting out a pile of old bills and papers in the study when Nick’s phone rings. It’s an unknown number.
‘Hello, this is Paige.’
‘Hello, may I speak with Nick Bellbrae please?’
‘Nick isn’t home. He’s taking the dog for a walk. This is his wife, Paige. Can I help you with anything?’
‘That won’t be necessary. A message will be fine.’
‘Sure. Um, where did you say you were calling from again?’ I search the desk drawer for a pen.
‘It’s Barry from Jim Lawrence & Associates. He has our number.’
‘Sure, I’ll let him know you called.’ I hang up the phone, scribble Call Barry – Jim Lawrence & Associates on the back of an old water bill and stick it on the fridge.
And suddenly, I’m overcome with a sense of dread. I’ve seen the ads on TV. Jim Lawrence & Associates is a law firm, I’m sure of it.
A quick search on my phone reveals the number. I hold my breath as I dial it. A receptionist answers.
‘Um, yes, hi, I was given your number by a friend. I’m wondering if your firm deals with medical negligence cases at all?’ Naturally, I think of the worst-case scenario. After all, this is a law firm Nick’s been in touch with, and for some reason he hasn’t told me about it. Why else would he keep it a secret except to not worry me?
‘No, I’m afraid we don’t, sorry.’
‘Oh, okay. And what sort of cases do you deal with there?’ My mind is racing, building potential scenarios in my mind. Maybe it has something to do with a parking infringement, or maybe Nick wants to update his will. Maybe Nick has finally had enough of our neighbours, who refuse to trim their wisteria that encroaches on our side of the fence.
‘Our lawyers work in family law exclusively.’
This can’t be right. ‘Even Barry?’ I press.
‘That’s right. He’s one of our barristers.’
I need a second to catch my breath.
‘Exclusively family law,’ I repeat. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Yes. Is there anything else I can help you with?’ she says in a clipped tone.
I hang up the phone, my heart hammering in my chest so hard I can barely breathe. What on earth would cause Nick to be in touch with a family lawyer?
My breath is shaky as I dial Hope’s number. Her phone goes to voicemail.
‘Hope, it’s me. Call me back as soon as you get this message. I think it’s urgent. I think Nick wants a divorce.’
I don’t see Nick until the following day when he walks in the door after an emergency at the hospital. Instantly, I know it must have been a bad one. It’s funny how years of marriage give you the kind of superpowers to know when your other half has had a bad day, or a good day, or even an average day, yet you can completely underestimate how quickly a relationship can unravel.
‘Morning,’ he says. He leans forward to peck me on the lips but I awkwardly step aside, bumping into the kitchen bench.
‘What’s wrong?’