Oliver sighed heavily, rounding the corner into the main street. ‘No, there’s no one.’
‘How’s business?’ I asked.
‘It’s going well.’ He paused. ‘Very well. We’re hitting targets, bookings are through the roof, costs are playing out well, expansion is happening, so everyone’s decently happy with that.’
‘Glad to hear.’ That wasn’t a lie. No matter what, I never wished him ill will or failings. That he was succeeding at least proved one of us right.
The quiet rustle of people at tables, and a pop of laughter told us weren’t alone as we walked by the pub. With each table we passed, I could feel eyes on Oliver. People whispered and questioned, none of them daring to interrupt us, just in case they had assumed wrongly.
I filled him in on my job, what little there was to tell. For reasons unknown to me, I spared him the gory details that go along with a limited income and a mortgage and, somewhere in the middle, we slipped into the comfortable conversation we had always enjoyed. It pinched at my heart and reminded me of a time when things were simpler, happier, more balanced. We came to a stop outside a once-abandoned shop. It sat in the slip lane off the main street, which functioned as a highway. I stood on the footpath, counting the ways the building had changed.
Slick, gloss-white paint had replaced the peeling mint-green exterior. A new pendant light swung gently in the night breeze, and fresh cream awnings covered once yellowing and newspaper-clad windows. The veranda and front steps were amid a rework, but it looked a million dollars compared to what it had previously.
‘Do you remember we used to talk about this place all the time?’ Oliver looked at me.
It was supposed to be our baby. We’d always talked about opening a little café, serving lunches and cakes, coffee and a place to chat, but we never made it that far. I watched as Oliver walked over to the switchboard around the side of the building, opened the cover, and flicked on the interior lights.
From the pub, I could hear a roar of laughter float through the air. A car hummed along the freeway, and a bored dog howled at the moon.
The awnings rattled up, still tight in their fittings, to reveal clear glass windows. A glittering gold ‘Murray’s’ logo was painted across them both. Inside, the dining area had furnishings and fittings stacked and leant against walls, a chilled display cabinet was already in place and, despite being empty, it looked ready to take orders.
‘What do you think?’ Oliver was at my side again, looking at me with an anxious need for approval.
I looked back at him, an awful, angry, acidic feeling whirring away in the pit of my stomach. ‘What is this? Is this a joke?’
He shook his head. ‘No joke. Murray’s of Inverleigh is opening in about six weeks, give or take.’
‘This was our dream. Ours.’ I could feel my voice struggling to find air. ‘And now, what, you’ve taken that from me, too? Do you remember what you said to me the last time we spoke?’ I asked. ‘Do you?’
‘I do.’
‘You said you wished you had never met me.’ My eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Now you’re back and you’ve done this? Have you completely lost your mind?’
‘Luce, I didn’t mean that. I was angry. I shouldn’t have said it. I should have stepped back, calmed down, and called back later.’
‘After everything we’d been through, that was what you said to me. On our anniversary. You have no idea of the hurt you’ve caused.’ I wiped at eyes that were filling with tears I didn’t need right now.
‘You’re right. I probably don’t. In my defence, I was angry, but it was completely wrong and inaccurate, and I owe you so much more than an apology.’
‘You’re right. You owe me three years worth of mortgage payments, for a start. It was great fun swimming in debt on a single income, even though Google liked to tell me how much you were raking in the dollars and endorsements. Never mind the fact you’d managed to scrub me from the world’s collective memory. One puff of smoke in the Daily Mail about Oliver’s secret wife and, next minute, there’s retractions and apologies because Oliver Murray doesn’t want the world to know what a colossal moron he is.’
‘I wish you’d mentioned the financial situation earlier.’
‘Actually, I did. Every time you called, I told you I wasn’t doing well. Like all the times I told you I didn’t want to go to France with you because there was nothing there for me. They were adamant we weren’t to work together, so I would have no job, no language skills, and no friends or family. What was I supposed to do, Oliver? Just hang around all day and wait for you? But, too bad, because you didn’t want to listen.’
‘I-I don’t know what you want me to say?’ Oliver stammered. ‘I can say sorry, but I … I don’t know.’
‘Yes, yes you do. You packed up and moved to another bloody country for what? Fame? And now you’re back with all your money and adoration and, what, you’re going to rub it all in my face all over again by opening our dream café?’ I shrieked. ‘Oliver, I don’t want your apology, I want a divorce.’
I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back, and I didn’t stop until I made it home. I locked the door behind me, and worked out my anger on some fondant because, even though I wanted to have a good old-fashioned cry and feel sorry for myself for a moment, I had a five-year-old waiting for a cake.
Thomas the Tank Engine peered up at me from the passenger’s seat of my car. One pupil had slipped to the left, and the other had sunk down far enough that it looked like a booger. While I should have been cursing my last-minute rush job, I was too busy laughing to be too upset. I took a photo and sent it to Zoe.
I’m here, but Thomas looks a little absent.
Thomas is me right now.
Hurry up and get inside so we can laugh at it together.
Crouched beside my car, I reattached the eyes as best I could with the shake of a water bottle and a spare paintbrush. As I walked through the side gate and along the path, I was calculating how long it would be before I was able to toss my shoes aside and launch myself into the oversized blue and yellow jumping castle adorning the backyard. Any minute now, if I had my pick.
My theory that cake increased a person’s popularity was proving true as I navigated my way through a small sea of children. They followed me across the yard with their ruddy faces and half-drunk colas like I was the Pied Piper of Small People, yelping about how amazing Thomas looked and, please, when could they eat him? He did look brilliant now that his eyes were fixed. Zoe swatted the kids away like flies as she shepherded me inside.
‘Why didn’t you use the front door?’ she asked. ‘Save battling the kids?’
‘Oh, I heard you preferred the back door.’
Peter, her husband, snorted as he walked over to examine the cake.
‘He looks much less stoned than earlier.’ He clapped me on the shoulder and kissed my cheek before pushing a stiff envelope into my handbag. ‘You’re amazing.’
I shrugged. ‘He looks okay, yeah.’
‘Okay? Lucy, it’s wonderful,’ Zoe scolded. ‘Confidence, please.’
A small crowd of adults gathered around the cake, like it was baby Jesus in the manger. Instead of offering me any kind of rare gifts, they offered my cake to the Instagram gods. Photos were taken from enough angles to make a flip cartoon, and hashtags were liberally applied. I disappeared into the yard