Chapter 7
Jenny was sitting in the armchair when Meg arrived with the Sunday papers under her arm and a takeaway coffee in each hand. A book lay in her mum’s lap, but her gaze was out the window.
‘Mum?’ Meg held her breath. It was hard to tell what sort of day her mother was having until she spoke.
Jenny looked over. ‘Meg, what a nice surprise. Two visits in one week.’
Meg smiled, impressed that her mum remembered she’d come on Tuesday but bristling at the subtext.
‘I got you a cappuccino, extra chocolate,’ she said, deciphering the writing on the lids and passing Jenny one of the cups.
‘What are you reading?’ Meg asked, putting the papers down and pulling over the spare chair.
‘Reading?’
Meg gestured to the book in her lap. Jenny gave a tiny shrug and lifted the book to show the cover.
‘Gone Girl,’ Meg read. ‘I’ve seen the movie. Ben Affleck. Any good?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jenny laughed, but her eyes were sad. ‘I think my novel-reading days are over. I can’t remember anything I read.’
She put the book aside and reached for one of the papers.
She looked at the front page, then she let it drop into her lap and sat back, closing her eyes.
Even the briefest conversation sapped her energy.
Sometimes Meg wondered if her visits were worth it.
If Jenny wasn’t asleep, she was staring at a wall or out a window.
On a good day, like today, the best they managed was a few short exchanges.
Most of the time, Jenny didn’t even remember that Meg had come. What was the point?
Meg flipped the pages, reading the headlines.
RETAIL SECTOR HOPING FOR RECORD CHRISTMAS SPENDING.
EX-OLYMPIAN IN COURT OVER DRUGS CHARGE. TELCO FACES CYBER-ATTACK.
She turned the page and inhaled sharply at the sight of Isobel Ashworth staring back at her.
How was it that she’d given barely a moment’s thought to these people until she googled Hartwell, and now they seemed to be everywhere?
Isobel was dressed in black and white and wore a lopsided hat that sat on her head like a flying saucer.
At her side was a smug-looking man who looked like a middle-aged Ken doll.
HOTEL HEIRESS OFF THE MARKET AFTER WHIRLWIND ROMANCE, the headline read.
Meg skimmed the article. Apparently it was a surprise engagement.
Why did men do that? Ambush women with one of the biggest decisions of their lives?
She looked back at his face. Hugh Thorburn.
She knew his type. She’d spent her years at Sydney Uni avoiding men like him.
The binge-drinking, rugby-playing, private school boys who would no doubt go on to become respected politicians and business leaders with the help of Daddy’s mates.
Meg shifted her focus to the inset photo of Malcolm and Heather Ashworth.
His was the expression of a man who considered posing for a photo a waste of his time.
Power oozed out of every pore. Beside him, his wife was undeniably stunning—in a Stepford kind of way—her vibrant blonde hair and gold silk blouse contrasting against her husband’s serious grey suit.
If he was the gravitas, Heather was the charisma.
Hearing Jenny stir, Meg glanced up.
Her mother’s face lit up, her eyes wide. ‘I thought you’d never come.’
Meg huffed audibly. This again. It would be nice if just once she could see her mother without the barbed comments. No wonder she avoided these visits.
Jenny didn’t seem to hear her. ‘You’ve cut your hair,’ she said, reaching out and gently touching Meg’s cropped hair.
‘I’ve had it short for years, Mum. Remember? I cut it ages ago after we watched Orange is the New Black. I copied that actress …’ She let her words trail off, sensing the futility of correcting her. Who did Jenny think Meg was?
Tears pooled in her mother’s eyes. ‘You’ve grown up so much.’ Her eyes flicked over Meg’s face as though she was trying to take everything in, then she looked down over her denim vest to the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. ‘You have a tattoo?’
Meg nodded, forcing back the threat of tears. She held out her arm so Jenny could see it properly.
‘A question mark?’ Jenny asked. ‘Why?’
‘Because I have a lot of questions and not a lot of answers.’
Jenny frowned, then she leaned back and closed her eyes again. ‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said, her eyes still closed.
‘Me too.’
‘Can you stay for a while or do you have to get back to Hartwell?’
Meg slipped out of the room when she was certain Jenny was asleep. When she reached her car, she sat for a moment, thinking. Where was she going? Not home. Sunday afternoon—Jay and Gav would probably both be there. She shuddered at the thought. Denny’s would be closing soon, as would the library.
The bay. It would be busy down there on a day like this, but the sea air would clear her head. Help her make sense of things. She turned the key in the ignition, thinking of her favourite bench by the water’s edge, the cool sea breeze.
Hartwell, she thought, as she pulled into the traffic on Parramatta Road. Who was in Hartwell?
The question reverberated in her head as she sat at the lights. It plagued her as she changed lanes, crossed busy intersections and navigated the city streets until she reached the car park.
Who was in Hartwell?
It hounded her as she weaved a path between dog walkers, joggers with prams and sprawling family groups with picnic baskets, until the bench came into view. It was taken by an elderly couple with a fat Labrador.
She sighed and sat on the sea wall instead, dangling her legs over the water.
The harbour was dotted with yachts. Voices from a cruiser anchored nearby carried on the breeze.
Ripples of laughter, the clink of glasses.
Carefree rich people wearing collared shirts, sipping chardonnay in the afternoon sun.
The boat was almost as big as her apartment.
Hartwell.
The name elbowed its way to the front of her mind again, bringing with it a sense of dread.
Her whole life, she’d wanted to know more about her mother’s past, but the conversation was off limits.
She learnt that at fourteen, when her mother had smashed a wine glass to emphasise the point.
After that, Jenny’s past was bricked up. Sealed. Never to be discussed again.
But now, cracks were forming in that wall.
What else might break, Meg wondered, if that wall came down?