The rip, p.5
The Rip, page 5
Brett stands, placing his beer bottle down on the table among the cheese that’s starting to sweat. ‘Pub sounds good. Sal’s never been.’
‘To a pub?’ Kav jokes. ‘Still underage?’
Brett punches him playfully on the arm. ‘Jealous?’
My husband pulls my hair like reins and kisses me straight on the lips. Beer breath hovers over my nose when he says, ‘Sorry, mate. I scored your sister.’
Brett makes a spew sound, and when I glimpse Eloise, she’s staring straight at Scott. I can read that expression anywhere – an awkward tightness. A telling sign. You don’t kiss me like that.
I’m the woman who has it all. They say you can’t balance work, life, kids, husband, self, sex, exercise, nutrition. But they haven’t seen me do it. I’m the woman with schedules pinned on the fridge and office door. I’m the hoarder of notebooks, the checker of lists, the reminder-keeper, the organiser, the pantry stapler. If you don’t know where the long white socks are, they’re in the top tallboy drawer. The coconut milks are stacked in threes and when one gets used in a Thai red curry, I’m ordering another in the next shop. We never run out of toilet paper. I’m that kind of woman.
The business shirts are ironed with starch, the college blazer dry-cleaned weekly. I have boxes for shoes, cupboards for guests’ coats, every type of tea you can imagine. You can’t catch me out, and no one has, because if someone wants almond milk in their latte, I’m frothing that milk for them. I’m known for it. I’m proud of it. There’s no badge, but people recognise what I represent. I hear their comments behind my back and pretend not to. That Penny, that organised Penny. How does she do it? I don’t know how she does it.
She just does. How can any woman or mother not? In fact, it really irks me when a mother at school proclaims to the group that she can’t make béchamel sauce for lasagne. They call it white sauce. I like to correct them about that.
Mothers these days are quite hopeless and ignorant, unknowing how to French braid, sew a button, apply nit cream to hair and give their husband a decent blow job. They think that requires a special occasion like his birthday or anniversary. But do it every second day, and he’ll look at you with desire, no longer needing porn or his office assistant’s cleavage on show to help him along while secretly masturbating.
A woman who does it all, has it all. It’s lesson one. I learnt this a long time ago and I’m determined to keep it that way. And that’s why I don’t like Eloise. She fakes it. She fakes everything.
Eloise, 6.20 p.m.
The pub is brimming with holidaymakers, and we’re back to this again – Penny at a distance, chatting to a group of women all dressed the same in nautical stripes, hessian shoes and red lipstick. This is what we’re used to. Safe distances. Brief conversation. Different groups. People everywhere to hide behind. I never used to come here, to the pub. I was underage and kept to the other side of the island, where the parties went on all night and the sheets were never clean.
The dim pub lights hang on strings across the courtyard, making everyone appear bronzed. The beach is white, the sea is milk and boats are facing all different directions, meaning there’s no breeze and no current tightening their mooring ropes. It’s a perfect night and yet paranoia blemishes the scene. I’ve taken so many photos of this evening, my data is almost full. And Scott looks so good in his white shirt, chest hair curling under the V of it. He’s showered, sprayed cologne, run a brush through his thick hair and now laughs at Brett’s jokes. He hasn’t said anything about me agreeing to come to the island and I’m grateful.
The temptation to reach under the table and take his hand is strong. I touch my tongue to my lip and stare at him. He’s like a prize that’ll never be possessed. I only own him from afar.
I glance around at the women surrounding us, each of them flicking their hungry eyes at my husband. They’d wonder how he feels, like I once did. They’d wonder how he kisses. How big he is.
I inhale deeply and smooth my hand down my thigh and under the table, where it rests alongside Scott’s shorts. Just this. Just my bunched fist against him makes my heart thump. One second, two seconds, three seconds. I go to place it on his thigh, and he moves to allow Sal to sit down. My hand gets squashed under his bottom and I yelp.
‘What?’ he frowns.
‘You sat on my hand.’
A smirk. ‘Relax.’ And his conversation resumes.
And I’m biting my tongue until I taste pain. If Scott needs me to relax, then I need something to relax me. When Kav steps up to the table with his pint and gives me a quick wink, I finger gesture to come closer. He’s the perfect accessory to easing my nerves. Chilled, carefree, lovely Kav, who knows how to make people smile. His head tilts as he steps around the table, as though considering me, as though curiosity killed the cat. My tongue skims my upper lip again. I dig into my handbag then uncurl my hand, displaying a thick, fat joint. And I nod my head over to the dunes. And he laughs, head back, so I stand and leave my husband, leave the group, leave Penny and her party.
The dunes are white bed sheets, soft and silky. I kick my sandals off and sink my toes into the grains, still warm. And when I twist my head around, Kav’s there. And he’s following.
There are rumours of a tragedy happening to Penny. Before Kav, before Edmund. When she was married to her ex: a banker, or butcher, I can’t remember. But there was an incident and Rosie was involved. But even Rosie’s probably been sworn to secrecy.
That’s the thing about Penny, she’s as tight-lipped as a clam.
And who knows if the tragedy is even true? I wonder if I can ask Kav? Would he even tell? I’ve tried before to ask Scott about their relationship, but he’s only ever grunted and shrugged. Besides, it’s hard to discuss couples and love and marriage when your own is on the rocks.
I think rumours are spread to make Penny seem tarnished because she’s not. We all want to cut down and slice up the tall poppy, don’t we? We all want to find weakness in the perfect vase. We all want to shit on people’s happiness. Penny is perfect. People can’t stand that. She makes us stare at what we aren’t.
Eloise, 6.45 p.m.
We’ve spoken about his birthday, about the kids, about his job, but I want to know what makes them happy. Handing over the joint, I shimmy my bum further into the dunes, picking at a piece of sharp grass, which I prick into my palm. I want to know how long they’ve been happy. Is it just a front? A show? I bet it isn’t. There are some couples who genuinely feel content.
‘We better get back,’ Kav says, exhaling into the purple sky. He passes the thick papery cocoon to me and I drag it into my lungs, feeling settled and blurred. This has been too good, sharing a joint with Penny’s husband without her knowing. Children’s laughter floats on the breeze. Sand sifts between my toes, a ruffle of wind between my thighs. I finally like this setting, this island, this night.
‘Just wait,’ I say. ‘Finish this.’
He eyes the joint. The smoke curling up. ‘You’re bad, you know that?’
He’s not saying it in a sleazy way, more like a guilty way. He’s accepting the joint, loving it, and he probably shouldn’t.
‘What would Penny say if she knew?’
He laughs, coughing the smoke out in splutters. ‘She probably wouldn’t mind. It’s my birthday, after all.’
‘You two seem so happy.’ My voice comes across tainted. He nods over and over and smiles down at the hole he’s been making with his thumb in the sand.
‘We are.’
‘How?’ I lick my lips, desperate for knowledge. And perhaps he notices how personal my questions are when he frowns up at me.
‘How what?’
‘How does she make you happy?’
A smirk. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
And he wouldn’t. Because happy people don’t question why they’re happy. They just are.
‘Do you argue?’
‘Not really.’ That wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear. I hoped for a different response. A sometimes, a once a month when she’s on her period, an all couples fight kind of response.
I inhale until the paper crinkles red.
‘What about you and Scotty?’ he asks, watching me. I don’t like when people watch me. It reminds me of when Mum put me in front of a therapist all those years ago. Being scrutinised, prodded and poked only heightens my anxieties. I draw the joint deep into my lungs. They fill with heavy smoke, but my brain remains light.
‘We’re fucked,’ I admit with a shrug. I can’t believe what I’ve just said. This is the way all affairs start. One person admitting their marital troubles, the other consoling with patting shoulders, raking fingers through hair, shuffling closer, and in this sickness, a bond develops. But I don’t want this with Kav. Don’t want his affections or attention. I just want Scott. And the tears escape without me even realising. God, I feel stoned. ‘He hates me.’
‘That’s not true, El. Why are you saying that? Come on.’
And then it comes, just like I’d anticipated it. Kav shuffles closer, arms wrap around me, and I feel like a thirsty baby in need of milk, in urgent need of nourishment.
And his arms are the thing to quench my thirst. The weight of them, their warmth, his hairs prickling my skin. The there there in my ear. So, I let him embrace me for a while as the joint burns on the sand. And I imagine he’s Scott, loving me like he used to.
Penny, 7 p.m.
Sucking on a bitter orange, I eye Kav over by the table of blokes. He thinks I didn’t notice, but I did. I saw him returning from the sand dunes, kicking his flip-flops free of sand before heading back over to the group. His eyes are bloodshot and happy. And it’s not from the booze, the beer, the buddies. I bet if I stare over to the dunes, I’ll spot her blonde hair like a tuft of weed behind a sandhill. She’s nowhere near Scott or Julie, her little sidekick, who she’s managed to befriend since tonight. Her daughter is running wild on the sand with a dirty, smudged nappy under her sun dress. I’ve been keeping my eye on her with Edmund, who’s burying himself into a hole with a blue spade. Other kids have joined the group and it’s like a day-care centre with only one supervisor. Me.
I leave the ladies at the table, leave the prawns with creamy dip and jugs of Aperol spritz, and sashay over to Kav. My hands dig a little too hard into his collarbone.
He peers up at me and smiles, an unfamiliar earthy musk coming from his breath.
‘Having fun?’ I say.
‘Sure am.’
‘Come with me.’ I smile, pulling the back of his shirt.
I step away and Kav follows me out of the pub entrance until we’re standing underneath a row of peppermint trees. He places his hands on his hips, slightly smiles, slightly frowns.
‘What’s up?’ he says. I enjoy seeing him nervous. Nervousness displays how much I mean to him.
‘Where’s Eloise?’ I ask.
He sniffs, a gesture he does when he knows he’s about to say something that scares him with my reaction. Then Kav laughs like a teenager in front of his class, trying to contain himself, and I place my hands on my own hips, like a teacher, with raised eyebrows.
‘We just smoked a joint together,’ he blurts. ‘But don’t get all shitty.’
‘Why would I get shitty?’ That makes me shitty, that he expects me to get shitty.
‘Because I know you can’t stand her.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘And it was just a few puffs in the dunes. She obviously feels out of place here with all your friends.’
‘What do you mean?’
He laughs again and points lazily to my group of friends at the table, flowing dresses a mix of colour, jugs of Aperol and oysters glistening like sweaty vulvas. And the way he laughs at them has my neck turning hot. He laughs at them, he laughs at me. It’s an insult. And he chose to go with Eloise. But that’s not what I’m upset about.
‘Eloise is the most irresponsible mother I have ever encountered. Off taking drugs and leaving her toddler alone to pick at dirty cigarette butts.’
‘Calm down—’
‘No, I’m not going to fucking calm down.’ Because I can’t. I’m fuming now. And I don’t know how to gather myself and return to the table happy and vivacious like they all expect.
I turn away from Kav, who has disappointed me greatly, and walk behind a tree trunk, picking bark off it.
Our marriage is the kind people envy. In fact, so is our whole family.
Sunday mornings are pancakes in bed and newspapers under crinkled sheets. Thursday night is for romance. Edmund gets babysat by Kav’s parents, Georgia and William, and we’re free to love and laugh. We may eat at our local Italian restaurant with big bowls of garlicky spaghetti and goblets of shiraz. Or we might choose the bar on the beach with its black-and-white umbrellas. Sometimes we recreate the night of our first date at a quaint wine bar and flirt with our legs rubbing under the table.
Friday nights are family movie night with popcorn, chocolate and wine.
While Edmund and I arrange cushions and quilts for the three of us to laze on, Kav and occasionally Rosie are up at the kitchen bench, popping corn. I can’t quite believe it when she joins us, but on the rare occasion when she does, I make certain to take extra pictures to remind myself just how wonderful our family life is.
Our beachside home is our sanctuary; a refuge from people and buildings, a quiet place to soak in the views and put our minds at rest. At times, I see our home as a public place, a place for entertaining greedy guests who stay too long and expect too much. French cheese, Moët, the kids to be fed with home-made pizzas. Our home lacks privacy because we let too many people in it. Kids, teenagers, business associates, mothers’ groups.
It just takes these movie nights to bring us back together.
But Kav and I know movie nights aren’t really about movies. We are a family, continuing a bond we’ve crafted after a loss I suffered so great, it threatens the very essence of the word. Family.
Edmund is here to improve me. To paint over the tears and cuts and bruises I’ve spilled and endured. He slotted into this family three years ago like a missing jigsaw piece beside his new older sister, who also used him for that very purpose: someone to share the popcorn bowl with, someone to watch cartoons with. He’s a replacement puppy, a new car or a planned holiday. A symbol that gives us hope, a bright outlook, and fills a very deep gap. The fact that he’s too young to notice helps with my guilt, makes it justifiable. Makes me less of a liar.
Rosie doesn’t see Edmund the way I do anymore. Rosie sees her brother as a threat.
But Edmund is the healing salve I crave.
Sometimes, people have to be used as necessary.
Eloise, 7.28 p.m.
Penny and the Peacocks flutter around the table, gulping champagne like overexcited teens, loose with the freedom this place supposedly offers. The men congregate at one table, jugs of beer sloshing into pints, slapping shoulders, laughing deeply, bonding over masculine jokes.
I’m stoned and my make-up needs a touch-up.
Coco’s on Scott’s lap, sucking her thumb and nodding off. A bowl of fries sits in front of her. Every now and then she plucks a chip from the bowl. She’s happy, content, unbothered about where I am. I have no idea where Levi is, but I’m sure he’s somewhere on his phone, watching YouTubers with his ear buds in. I probably should go and look for him. But my make-up. I’m certain my mascara is running.
I scan the tanned bodies and bleached hair, sweaty and soaking in the atmosphere of the pub. There’s drooping fairy lights, café lounge music and the briny scent of sea mixed with boat diesel. I’ve just spotted that man who tried to help me with my cut crouching down and speaking to Edmund on the beach. Penny’s too busy talking to notice. Whatever. Part of me feels lazy, sleepy, like Coco. But I’m also drained. It’s hard pretending to fit in here, to be watching over your shoulder. And with Kav, he let me be vulnerable.
I swallow, tasting weed, needing a mint or a drink to wash the smoke down before someone smells my breath. Skirting around the party to the toilets, where a mother and her daughters exit with dripping hands, I notice the middle cubicle’s occupied. Someone’s in there, crinkling a packet. I hear scuffs on the toilet lid, like dragging plastic. Chopping sounds. And then a snort, followed by a long sigh. Pretty brazen, knowing two little girls were just weeing in the cubicle next door.
The reflection shows my sunburnt shoulders, my running mascara. I dab cold water over my face and under my eyes, wiping the black ink with my fingertips. I’m a mess. But at least I look different. Anyone who’s been on this island for over twenty years will not remember me. My hair now blonde, my breasts a larger size. I rehearse the affirmations in my head then cup some water in my hands and suck it down. I dry my dripping face on a paper towel.
After this, I’m going to take Coco home, back to the villa. I can sleep with her in the second double bed. I probably shouldn’t have packed the travel cot. Scott and I never sleep in the bed together without Coco squashed in the middle. Her chubby body between us dried up the sex, the touch and any chance of reconciliation. Most mothers use this as an excuse to not be intimate with their husbands. But me, I want Scott so badly, I’d happily do it beside her.
I glance at the cubicle. The sniffing continues, followed by a nose blow. Who the hell’s in there? I’m actually intrigued to see who exits. Like the stranger and I share a bond: stuck on paradise island and caught up in the bathroom, stoned and separate from the holidaymakers. Fumbling through my handbag for lipstick and concealer, I stop when the door swings open and Rosie steps out.
Penny’s daughter.
Penny, 7.32 p.m.
I’m done with the party, the pub, the parenting of Eloise’s kids. I want to go back to the villa now, have a shower and make a cup of tea. People are slurring, drinks are being spilled and the plates are empty with pizza crusts, oyster shells and stale chips. And Rob from the bakery has just parked his bike outside the entrance. Which means he’ll spot me and want to join our group. I stand behind a pillar and wait for him to pass and mesh with the crowd of islanders inside. I don’t want him getting chummy with Kav, asking about our relationship and kids. Each time we’ve been to Rottnest Island, thankfully Rob hasn’t been working, so there’s never been an opportunity for him to leech on to us, settle in and gossip about old times. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him here, so I figured he’d left the island for good. But now he’s here and he knows about my ex, my past, a secret trauma only Rosie and I are privy to.
