‘It’s just on eleven. I wasn’t sure whether to…’ She trailed off, feeling the phone line between them heavy with stony silence. She tried again, newly determined that there had to be a way to get through this. It was ridiculous to call off a marriage permanently because of one meaningless intrusion during the ceremony. They were both mature adults. Alex was almost forty, and she was thirty-two. ‘I really wanted to talk, Alex, but I thought we both needed to cool down after last night. I’m just as angry with Dylan as you are.’
Silence.
‘And if you still think I gave him any cause to make that idiotic objection, then I’m not sure what to do next, because I didn’t, and I’ve told you that, and he’s told you that…’ She paused expectantly.
Silence.
‘Which makes me start to wonder if you were just looking for an excuse.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’
‘So we’ll get married. A small, discreet ceremony, with—’
‘That’s impossible. I’m not going to rehash it again.’
‘Tell me what you’re feeling, Alex!’ she begged him desperately. ‘Just blustering like this, stonewalling anything I say, it’s not telling me anything.’
Silence.
‘Shall I come over to your place, or do you want to come here?’ she suggested.
Silence.
‘Dylan wants to pay for the reception. I told him to talk to you about it.’
‘So you’ve seen him? When have you seen him?’
‘He came round just now. He obviously feels bad.’
‘I can’t believe you’re defending him, and that you talked to him before you talked to me.’
‘I’m not defending him.’ Am I? ‘I’m just letting you know that he’ll probably phone you, too. I don’t know why he came to me first.’
Silence.
‘So, should we talk about—?’
‘There’s absolutely nothing to talk about at all,’ Alex snapped. ‘It’s out of the question to have him pay for the reception.’
‘Well, yes, that’s what I thought, but since it was your money, I didn’t want to—’
‘And it’s out of the question to talk about scheduling another ceremony. I won’t get over this in a hurry, Annabelle. You’re the last person I would have thought the type to trail chaos and melodrama in your wake, but now I’m wondering how many other ex-boyfriends—’
‘Dylan Calford isn’t an—’
‘Or would-be boyfriends I can expect to crawl out of the woodwork. I was embarrassed to the core last night. People, no doubt, are already talking and making conjectures. And I don’t even think I could look at you at the moment, Annabelle.’
The reproachful crash of the slamming phone invaded Annabelle’s left ear, and stinging tears flooded her vision. Today, this hurt in a way it hadn’t hurt last night. Last night she’d been angry, and in shock. Now came the full realisation that Alex had dropped her like a hot coal, as if she were tainted in some way.
He’d almost said as much. He’d called her a ‘type’. Not the type to attract scandal. Not the type to compromise his reputation and his ambitions. Political ambitions. She knew he had them. President of the Australian Medical Association. Queensland State Minister for Health. But she’d believed herself to mean much more to Alex than a suitably well-bred and stain-resistant political wife, just as he meant more to her than a way out of her family problems.
Annabelle stuffed her knuckles into her mouth and sobbed wildly, until she remembered Duncan in the next room. He would be worried and confused if he saw her like this—red-eyed, swollen-nosed. He had a caring little heart, when he stood still long enough for it to show.
She heard the clatter of his feet as he bounced off the couch to come looking for her, and quickly turned to the kitchen sink to wash away the worst of the mess her face was in. By the time he appeared, she was wearing a smile.
ANNABELLE and Duncan reached Gumnut Playcare just as it opened, at six-thirty on Monday morning. Annabelle was rostered in Theatre with a seven o’clock start, and timing, as usual, was tight.
‘Got your backpack?’ she prompted Duncan, then watched as he dragged it slowly across the back seat of the car.
His little face looked sullen and closed and not at all cute.
She helped him put the backpack on, then took his hand and tried to lead him up the path to the front door, but he stalled, pulled out of her grasp and ran off to examine some interesting leaves on a nearby bush.
‘We can’t look at those now, love,’ she told him brightly, but he ignored her. ‘I’ll be late,’ she finished, knowing the concept—and the consequences—were meaningless to a little boy.
Since it was all too likely that either Alex or Dylan, or both of them, would be operating in Theatre Three today, she was doubly anxious to arrive on time.
‘’Eaves,’ Duncan said. His tone was stubborn.
‘I know, they’re lovely leaves, but we just can’t look at them now. This afternoon, OK?’
She hoped, guiltily, that he’d forget. It would be six or later before she got back here, as Mum had a doctor’s appointment. Annabelle had cleaned and done laundry for her yesterday, but today, in addition, they would need to stop at the shops on the way back from the doctor. If the doctor was running late, or if she herself was late off work…
A twelve-hour day was too long for a two-year-old.
‘’Eaves,’ he said again.
‘Not now, sweetie.’
She picked him up and carried him inside, ignoring the way he wriggled and kicked. He’d been a darling all weekend, sitting rapt and attentive on the couch yesterday afternoon while Mum read to him, ‘helping’ to hang out the laundry. Today, she already knew he was going to be a demon.
Inside the child-care centre, once she had put him down, he streaked off and began running noisily around the room, without responding to the overly cheerful greetings of Lauren and Carly, the two staff on duty. Annabelle signed him in, unsurprised to find that he was the first name on today’s page.
Just then a second child arrived—a four-year-old girl named Katie, prettily dressed and obediently holding her mother’s hand. As soon as she saw Duncan, she said in a loud voice, ‘That’s the naughty boy who bit me, Mummy.’
Annnabelle’s stomach flipped. She turned to Lauren. ‘You didn’t tell me…’
‘There’s a note in his pocket.’ Lauren gestured towards the bright row of cloth ‘pockets’ running along the wall, where children’s artwork and notes for parents were placed. Duncan’s was brimming with untidily folded paintings, and Annabelle thought guiltily, When did I last remember to check it? Wednesday?
When she picked him up, she was always so keen to get out of here quickly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll speak to him about it.’
Which would be pointless with a two-year-old, when the incident had occurred several days earlier. Katie’s mother was glaring at Annabelle, however, and she felt obliged to act tough. Inside, she was crumbling.
‘And it’s not the first time either, I’ve heard,’ the mother said coldly.
She was right.