Chapter 44
All afternoon, Issy’s thoughts went round and round in circles.
Rereading her father’s email, outrage pulsated through her.
How dare he! Replaying the conversation with her mother, contempt burned inside her.
Patronising cow! But she kept coming back to Georgie’s father and her sheer disbelief that her family would leave a man in this town injured and out of work.
She was on her second bottle of chardonnay when she decided she needed a mental image of this man, Georgie’s father.
He was listed on Facebook as Robbie—broad shouldered, leather-faced, a twinkle in his dark eyes that made him seem playful, the sort of father who would watch the footy with a beer and take pride in the quality of his dad jokes. Nothing like Malcolm.
That night, she dreamt about the accident. The slick road, the heart-thumping skid as the car spun out of control, slamming into a wall. In the dream, she wrenched at the limp figure slumped in the passenger seat, but instead of Stella, it was Robbie Baxter she saw, his eyes empty and cold.
She woke with a jolt, breathless, her silk pyjamas drenched in sweat.
Her head pounded as the room came into focus. Outside, currawongs made their strange guttural morning song. She went to the kitchen, ran the tap and drank out of her hand. The empty wine bottle sat by the sink. She flicked on the kettle, cursing herself for drinking so much.
Again, she thought of Robbie Baxter. It must be a mistake, surely.
A simple oversight. Maybe if she brought it to her father’s attention, he would rectify it so the family had the financial support they needed and deserved.
Although, on second thoughts, he would probably tell her to speak to Spencer about it.
And if she raised it with Spencer directly, he’d just accuse her of terrible idealism, which everyone considered a fatal flaw in her character.
She took her cup of tea and sat on the lounge.
Her laptop was open on the coffee table.
She clicked on Robbie’s Facebook page again and noticed a photo she’d skimmed past last night, when she was looking for pictures of him.
He stood with a dark-haired woman, sea cliffs in the distance.
Was that …? She enlarged the photo as much as possible.
It was! It was the woman from the café. The woman who had turned Issy away on her first day in Hartwell.
Issy pulled into a parking spot in front of the Apple Tree Café and cut the engine.
Inside she could see Georgie’s mum taking chairs down off tables, setting up for the day.
When she flipped the sign on the door from closed to open, Issy took a few deep breaths and stepped out of the car.
Hopefully she would get further than the front door this time.
A quick chat was all she would need to confirm her suspicion that Georgie had exaggerated the situation.
The bells jingled as she pushed open the door. Chrissy looked up, smiling warmly, but when she saw Issy, the smile disappeared.
‘I thought I’d been clear—’
‘Please,’ Issy said, raising her hands, open palmed. ‘I just want to talk.’
Chrissy pressed her lips together and gave Issy a sharp-eyed stare, then picked up a cloth and started wiping down the coffee machine.
‘Georgie told me about your husband.’
‘So?’
Issy cleared her throat. ‘She said … she said he’s not well. I just wanted to know if he’s … okay.’
‘No, he isn’t okay.’ Chrissy turned her back again and picked up a milk jug. A piercing sound filled the room as she frothed the milk.
‘Is there—’ Issy stopped.
Chrissy turned to face her, jug in hand. ‘Is there what? Is there anything you can do to help? Is that what you were about to say?’
Issy nodded.
‘Actually.’ Chrissy put down the jug. ‘There is. You could visit him. Twenty years he worked for your family, and not one visit after his accident.’
‘Oh!’ Issy swallowed. ‘Okay, sure, let’s arrange that.’
‘Now, I mean.’ Chrissy took her handbag from a cupboard behind the counter. ‘I want you to visit him now.’
Issy wound through unfamiliar streets on the west side of town, following Chrissy’s battered Honda, until they reached Barton Drive. She’d never been over this side of Hartwell before, with its characterless, blond-brick homes on tiny blocks.
Chrissy pulled into a driveway that looked just like all the others. Issy parked her Mercedes on the street in front, wishing she drove something less conspicuous.
At the front door, Chrissy fumbled with a set of keys as Issy scanned her mind for small-talk topics and came up blank.
It was a relief when Chrissy eventually opened the door and stepped inside.
Halfway down the hall, she stopped and raised a hand, telling Issy to wait there, then slipped into a dark room.
‘Robbie?’ Chrissy whispered. ‘There’s someone here to see you.’
Issy pictured the man she’d seen in the photos, awaiting his reply, but instead there was a moan, a mumbled voice.
She felt an intense urge to leave. She’d been expecting something else.
She’d pictured Georgie’s father propped up comfortably in one of those hospital beds with a remote control to move up and down, watching Netflix in a room with sunlight streaming through a window, not moaning in the dungeon-like space that lay beyond this door.
This was something else entirely. She didn’t want to be here.
She didn’t have to be here. She shouldn’t have come.
She glanced down the hall towards the front door. If she was quick, she could be gone before Chrissy came out.
She was almost at the front door when Chrissy emerged.
‘Isobel?’ Her voice was like a knife.
Issy swung around, reaching into her bag for her phone. She held it up. ‘Sorry, something just … I need to…’
Chrissy’s eyes bored into her, pinning her down. ‘I told him that you’re here to visit him on behalf of your family.’
‘I just, I don’t know if it’s a good idea—’
‘Isobel,’ Chrissy said. ‘Don’t do this to him.’
Issy took a deep breath and blew it out loudly. The tension in her chest eased just a little.
She stepped into the room, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
The only light was a soft glow around the edge of the heavy blackout curtains.
Robbie lay on a single bed under a dark sheet.
A fan whirred quietly overhead. He propped himself up on his elbow as Chrissy rearranged the pillows so that he was sitting more upright.
He reached out a hand, wincing at the movement.
‘Robbie Baxter,’ he said, his voice weak.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ His cold, smooth hand squeezed hers weakly.
The playful sparkle in his eyes she’d noticed in the photo was gone.
Now they were flat, lifeless. His lined face had a sunken look.
He’d aged twenty years since that picture was taken.
It was hard to believe it was the same man.
‘Hi Robbie, I’m Isobel,’ she said.
‘Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me.’ He took a deep breath, as though the effort of talking was too much. ‘I worked for your family for twenty-two years.’
‘Yes, such a long time,’ she said, scrambling for something else to say.
Chrissy picked up a chair and put it by the bed. ‘Have a seat.’
Isobel took a backwards step. ‘Oh, no, I’m fine, I can’t stay.’ She turned back to Robbie. ‘I’m sorry about your accident.’
‘Can’t win ’em all, can I?’ Robbie gave her an ironic wink, as though he knew there was no chance of that.
‘I guess not.’ Issy felt a pang in her heart. This hardworking man was a husband, a father. He didn’t deserve this. Emotion rose in her throat and she felt like she might cry. Flustered, she looked at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, I do have to go.’
She turned to Chrissy. ‘Thanks for bringing me and—’ she paused, knowing she shouldn’t say the words that were about to come out of her mouth, but unable to stop herself ‘—let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
Chrissy glared at her, then followed her out the bedroom door into the hall. ‘Don’t pretend to care about us,’ she muttered through clenched teeth when they reached the front door. ‘Now get out of my house.’