Chapter 35
FRASER
The Bookies have made themselves comfortable in my living room, the way they’ve done almost every Thursday night for the past three years since the first gathering Audrey missed.
They almost never read the book these days.
I’m convinced they’re just posing as a book club to offer guerrilla grief support—and it’s been a masterclass in friendship that would have knocked Audrey’s socks off.
‘White or red?’ I ask Rachael.
The conversation has drifted to dating apps, and specifically why I am not on them.
I’m not ready for this. Rachael knows I’m not.
But instead of helping me by changing the subject, she nods towards the bottle of cabernet sauvignon, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, unreadable blue eyes refusing to meet mine as she proffers her glass.
‘Come on, Fraser,’ Jess says, next to her. ‘She’d want this for you.’
Want it? Audrey would be the ringleader! But that’s beside the point if I don’t want this for myself.
‘It’s too early,’ I argue, the familiar excuse practically threadbare. ‘For Parker.’
Thirteen is difficult at the best of times. We’ve become such a fierce little duo in the wake of our loss, I can’t imagine a strange woman tramping through our delicate ecosystem—even with our best interests at heart.
‘Nonsense!’ Jess declares. ‘Nothing’s going to tear down what you’ve built here.’
She was the one who raised the idea of the Bookies taking Parker out for high tea and a motherly group chat about incoming puberty. In case she’s with you and not Maggie when it happens, Fraser.
Everyone assumes because you’re the dad that you’ll blunder through it. ‘She’d love high tea,’ I agreed, ‘but I’ve packed period undies in her schoolbag since Year Five.’
‘Period undies?’ Jess replied, seemingly astonished that I—a man—was au fait with the cutting edge of the feminine hygiene industry, ignoring the fact that, as a single dad, knowing this stuff is right there in the job description. ‘Who are you?’ she added, laughing. ‘Menstruation Man?’
‘Parker only needs to know about your love life if it gets serious,’ she says now. ‘Let go a little, Fraser. We’re worried about you.’
They’re acting like I haven’t met a woman since Audrey died.
In truth, there seems to be something counterintuitively magnetic about my situation.
Perhaps it’s the tragedy of it all. The champion status I seem to earn just from doing basic parenting stuff as a solo dad.
Period undies. School lunches. Cake stalls.
I’m particularly proud of my working diorama of the life cycle of water for Year Seven Human Society and Its Environment.
But magically, all this ordinary work makes me into some sort of romantic unicorn.
Except with the Bookies, who know me best.
‘We need him to seem nice and normal,’ April decides, calling this crisis meeting to order, commandeering the laptop and speaking as if I’m not in the room.
She’s a freelance journalist and the designated writer in the group, and I watch helplessly as she interlaces her fingers, stretches her arms, and cracks her knuckles as if she’s limbering up to write the Great Australian Novel.
‘Am I not normal?’ I question as I pass the cheese platter, complete with baked Brie drizzled in warm honey and my signature guacamole with sweet chilli sauce.
She scoops some cheese onto a cracker and swallows it, brown eyes fluttering shut in delight.
‘Actually, you’re not normal, Fraser—this Brie is supernaturally good—but what I mean is that men are so weird online!
We need you to be yourself! No pictures with fish.
’ She glares at me as if I’m posing with a barramundi this very second, instead of with hors d’oeuvres and the contents of my cellar.
‘Now, what are your interests, apart from avoiding life?’
Surviving. Raising a child. Keeping my job.
‘Put down rock climbing!’ Jess says, wild red hair flying as she leans over April’s shoulder. ‘You did that recently, didn’t you? Something flashed past on Instagram—’
‘It was an indoor rock-climbing party for Parker’s schoolfriend,’ I clarify. ‘I sat in the cafe and wrote a brief for the annual report.’
She frowns. ‘That’s not attractive, Fraser.’
‘Noted.’
‘Weren’t there any mums you could have bonded with?’
‘They were deconstructing Bridgerton,’ I explain. ‘I was out of my depth.’
‘But that would have been perfect! This is exactly what’s missing from your life!’
‘What, more period drama?’ I chuckle at my joke, but the architects of my future love life seem to have lost their collective sense of humour.
‘Put down that he’s saving the world …’ Rachael suggests, deadpan, after a swig of wine.
The irony in her tone flies over the others’ heads, but not over mine.
She reaches for this week’s abandoned novel and flicks through the pages like she’s speed-reading for the literary discussion she wishes they’d switch to.
I need to remember she was Audrey’s friend first.
‘You are saving the world!’ Jess agrees.
‘Analysing data?’ I counter. ‘It’s not that sexy—’
‘Rubbish! You’re science’s answer to James Bond!’ Jess taps April on the arm and nods so she’ll capture that.
‘I map emulators of climate models—’
But they have glazed over. April raises a hand to stop me elaborating. ‘Some heroes wear lab coats,’ she explains. ‘Can we call you a “climate warrior”?’
Make it stop.
I don’t even own a lab coat, but far be it for me to ruin their galloping fantasy. ‘Why don’t you put down “still sleeps with partner’s ashes on the bedside table”?’
Rachael finally looks at me, and I offer a tight, empathetic smile.
Of course, Maggie will never get on board with these shenanigans.
She organises her personal life around our agreed timetable.
The older Parker gets, the tighter Maggie holds her.
I can’t see her opening her schedule for extra nights’ custody while I search the dating landscape for potential stepmothers and work my way diligently through Bumble.
‘I’m only free every second week,’ I argue.
‘We’ll babysit!’ the group choruses as someone pops another cork.
I take in Audrey’s posse: shoes off, hair down, each in various stages of recline between the furniture and the floor, as if they’re life models for a Baroque artist’s Roman banquet.
‘You think prospective partners will find this appealing? Four women at mine getting sloshed while we’re out on dates? ’
I collect an empty platter and follow Rachael into the kitchen.
‘Midnight talks! Must love books!’ Clair calls from the other room as if this is bingo night at the local club. ‘She might want to join the Bookies. What else are we looking for in a woman, specifically?’
‘They sound like lateinlife lesbians interviewing for a new sister wife,’ I observe, and Rachael almost cracks a smile. ‘You okay with all of this, Rach?’ I know she’s not.
She and Audrey are from one of those ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ friendships.
It’s why, three years ago, when Audrey died and people closed ranks around our immediate family circle, I knew instinctively to pull Rachael across the line with us.
She’s been an impeccable friend, but often at her own expense—bolting into the role of carer while she was still bleeding out from her wounds.
‘It’s your life,’ she says now, propping herself against the bench and playing with Audrey’s sapphire pendant, sparkling under the kitchen lights. ‘The whole thing is a waste of time, isn’t it?’
Our eyes meet uncomfortably. She knows I’ve tried.
And that it’s Audrey I’m endlessly searching for and even the Bookies couldn’t sub someone in who’d have a hope of measuring up.
She will play along with this doomed matchmaking scheme.
She’ll accommodate it because the others are so into it, but the truth is, somewhere in the last three years, my damaged heart has made Rachael McKenzie weary.
‘Funny. Clever. Artistic?’ Clair is still listing off desirable attributes as we return to the next room.
‘Musical?’ I add before I can think, glancing at the closed lid of Audrey’s piano, wondering why I’d do this to myself.
Apart from the incessant blaring of Taylor Swift, I’ve gone full Captain von Trapp here, unable to tolerate reminders of her talent.
The guilt still stings when I think of the digital keyboard and headphones I gave Parker for Christmas.
A compromise. She could follow in her stepmum’s footsteps.
I could make it through the day unscathed, without the sound of music destroying me.
April frowns at the laptop. ‘You can be compatible with more than one person, you know, Fraser. You don’t need this woman to be Audrey’s clone.’
Rachael sighs, as if April has raised one last point in a corporate meeting that should have ended an hour ago.
‘Outdoorsy or no?’ Jess scrunches her face as she analyses me, still in my grey trousers and white shirt after a long day in the office. ‘What about camping? Aren’t you heading off to the beach tomorrow?’
They know I love camping. Audrey loathed it and would never come.
Couldn’t take the piano in the tent. I was forever trying to nudge her out of that particular comfort zone and into a future in which we might one day ditch our jobs, hitch a caravan, and just go.
She’d never have done it, but I’m always sad we missed the chance.
Jess, April and Clair are sparkly-eyed and high on the romance of the idea. ‘Starry nights, campfires, moonlit walks on the beach!’ Clair gushes.
Mosquitoes, sunburn … I imagine Audrey arguing.
‘Put “camping” down,’ I suggest reluctantly.