THEN
Three days later I’m at the party that nobody can call a party, because you don’t throw parties this soon after your husband’s death.
Aunty Sam’s rose-pink kitchen bench is lined with empty wine bottles, abandoned glasses have left rings of condensation on the bookshelf and the music, something jazzy, so it’s definitely Aunty Sam’s choice, is getting louder.
Aunty Sam brought a big-arse photo of Felix into the living room, only for Elena to return it to her room two minutes later. Fair enough. Staring at a photo of my recently deceased husband probably wouldn’t put me in the party mood either.
Patrick is either having fun or faking it better than anyone I’ve seen: he flits from one group to another, introducing himself, chatting and flirting with men and women indiscriminately.
He’s abandoned his usual look – t-shirt and shorts with crew socks – for a button-up shirt and jeans, which makes him look almost old enough to take one of the beers chilling in the esky.
This charming version of Patrick is slightly off-putting, but I can see how it works, the way he inspires confidence in strangers to treat him like he’s the best friend they never knew they had.
I’d love to know which version of Patrick is the real one: the funny but kinda rude one who claims he doesn’t care what people think, or the flirty charmer who tells everyone exactly what they want to hear.
I’m hoping it’s the former – otherwise it’s possible I got talked into taking part in a murder investigation on the strength of a bike ride and nostalgia for stolen profiteroles.
When I’m not unspooling over that unwelcome possibility, I’m floating at the edges of the party, swapping hellos when I’m not telling guests the bathroom’s down the hall and to the left. Mostly, I eavesdrop while pretending to clear glasses or refill the guacamole bowl.
A woman with blue hair asks Elena if she’s going to move back to Melbourne. (Elena’s not sure.)
A man in a suit recommends Elena see his psychologist, Tayla, who has really helped him ‘deal with all my stuff after Lily’. (Later, I watch him try to snog another guest, who claims to need the toilet and never returns.)
I hear Patrick ask at least four people whether they were there ‘that terrible night’. (They all say no.)
When I see Elena come out of the bathroom, pink-eyed, I trail after her as she escapes into the garden courtyard where Aunty Sam takes plants to die.
I have an idea I should apologise for my role in railroading Elena into having this party, when she’d surely rather be wearing trackies, bingeing bad sitcoms and hiding from the world.
I slip out the courtyard door, wondering how to say sorry without revealing what I’m really apologising for, but stop when I hear her voice.
‘It’s not safe for you to be here,’ she says. ‘Especially not today.’
It takes a long beat to realise she’s speaking into her phone and not to me. That’s a relief, because if it’s not safe for me to be in my home, I’m fresh out of options.
I’m standing right there in the doorway, but Elena’s back is towards me, her phone pressed to her ear, and she doesn’t see me.
‘There are people everywhere.’ Long pause. ‘I know. Just give it some time.’
I should go. I should definitely go. Except …
isn’t this party supposed to be a fact-finding mission?
And isn’t this too good an opportunity to ignore?
(‘Too good an opportunity to ignore’ is exactly what Felix said to explain his theft of my Year 8 diary.
And by ‘theft’, I mean the time he tore out a bunch of pages and stuck them up at the local IGA because I had told Aunty Sam he was the one who let her budgies out of their cage.
And by ‘let her budgies out’, I mean he k—)
‘I love you too,’ Elena says, pushing the memory of those poor budgies back into the past.
Then she ends the call, and I flee back to the party before she can turn around and catch me eavesdropping on … what, exactly?
I love you too.
It might not mean anything. Elena is the kind of sweetheart who probably tells her friends she loves them every day.
Except … if it was her friend, why wouldn’t it be safe for them to come to the house?
The only thing in danger at this party, so far as I can see, is Aunty Sam’s Turkish rug, which already has a wedge of brie mashed into it.
I find Patrick at the centre of a knot of people and tug gently at his elbow, like a bored toddler trying to hurry their mum at the supermarket. He gives me a look that suggests the comparison has occurred to him too.
‘Can I talk to you for a sec?’ I ask as quietly as I can.
Despite being mid-anecdote (something about Elena’s first gymnastics competition and a ripped leotard), he untangles himself and bundles me off to the kitchen, sloughing off his Charming Patrick skin as we go.
By the time we’re leaning against the kitchen bench, he’s recognisably Slightly Annoyed Patrick. The sick thing is, I think I prefer it.
‘What is it?’ he says.
I repeat the one-sided conversation I overheard and he listens without interrupting. He also gets there quickly, which I appreciate because I hate awkward small talk.
‘You think my sister is having an affair?’
Okay, it’s still pretty awkward.
‘Maybe.’
‘It might have been a friend.’
‘Why wouldn’t it be safe for them to be here, though?’
‘Because …’ Patrick can’t quite find an end to his sentence. ‘Maybe they …’ Nope. He stops trying. ‘Did you ask Elena about it?’
‘Um, no.’
‘Can’t judge you for that. Hard subject to bring up,’ he says. ‘The real question is, if Elena is having an affair, was that relevant to Felix’s death? I suppose if Felix found out about it, he might have killed himself?’
‘I’d be less surprised if he killed the other guy,’ I say.
‘Me too. Oh, I know! The secret boyfriend killed him?’ Patrick says it like he’s solved a crossword puzzle, not identified a potential murder suspect.
‘If so, he must have been at the party that night,’ I say.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve had no luck finding anyone who was there that night,’ Patrick says. ‘It’s like—’
We’re both startled, just a little, by the sound of the doorbell, but neither of us moves to answer the door. From our spot in the kitchen, we have a clear view of the front door and the outline of a figure on the other side of the stained glass.
‘Should we get that?’ I ask.
Patrick shrugs at me. ‘You’re the one who lives here.’
‘You’re staying here.’
‘Temporarily.’
Fair point.
A mechanical whirr announces Elena, who whizzes from the living room down the hallway to the front door.
When the door opens, there’s a man who looks around Elena’s age.
He’s dark-haired and cute, dressed a bit like a lumberjack – but with hipster intentionality – and the way he bends down to hug Elena has a certain familiarity to it.
The stranger says something to Elena we can’t hear and she says something back. (This is riveting stuff, I know.)
I nudge Patrick with my shoulder, meaning this could be the affair guy and he nudges me back with his hip, which I interpret as no shit. His hip is so bony it might hurt if my own wasn’t so well-padded.
Elena and the Maybe Affair Guy are coming back up the hallway.
‘How are you holding up?’ Maybe Affair Guy says as he and Elena into the living room, not noticing Patrick and me gaping without so much as a newspaper or a pair of fake glasses to hide behind.
‘There are good days and bad days,’ she says, and if they are secret lovers they’re covering it well with these tedious platitudes.
‘I’ve got a great book on grief,’ he says, ‘really helped me when Sooty died.’
When they’ve gone, Patrick and I look at each other.
‘I hope Sooty wasn’t his dog,’ I say. ‘He wouldn’t actually compare a dead dog to a dead husband, would he?’
‘Have you ever met a dog person?’
‘Okay, Sooty was definitely a dog.’
‘We’ve got to talk to that guy,’ Patrick says.
‘And say what? Are you shagging the widow?’
‘I’d word it a little differently. Maybe let me do the talking?’
‘You think you’re more diplomatic than I am?’ I ask, outraged.
‘I think I’m not going to use the word shagging.’
‘Boning is the classier choice, you’re right.’
Patrick surprises me with a laugh that’s not even a laugh but a guffaw. There’s no other word for it. I didn’t think people guffawed in real life, but here he is doing it.
‘Follow me,’ he says.
Patrick takes us out of the kitchen and into the living room, where Elena and the Maybe Affair Guy are by the table.
Elena seems on edge, although it’s hard to say whether that’s because she’s not in the mood to entertain a guest who compared the loss of her husband to the death of his dog, or because she’s not in the mood to make chat with her secret boyfriend at her dead husband’s quasi second wake.
I’m surprised by how little it bothers me to consider Elena might have been cheating on Felix. I’m a hypocrite, of course, because when I found out about Ben and Lilia I climbed so high up on my high horse I could have touched the sun.
‘Elena,’ Patrick says, giving her a smile so warm I’m tempted to take off my cardigan. ‘Can I do anything helpful, like get you two some drinks?’ He cranks the smile up another notch for the mystery man. ‘I’m Patrick, Elena’s brother.’
Maybe Affair Guy holds out his hand, as social nicety requires, his smile almost matching Patrick’s. ‘Adam,’ he says. ‘You look familiar, have we met?’
‘Were you at Elena’s wedding?’ Patrick asks.
‘No.’
‘Or the funeral?’
‘Also, no. I’m afraid I didn’t hear about it until too late.’ He looks apologetically towards Elena, who waves his Sorry eyes away with her hand.
‘Then I don’t think so.’ Patrick puts down his phone so he can pick up a wine bottle and a pair of glasses from the table and waggles them at Elena and Adam. ‘Would you like one?’