Chapter 7 #2
Beside her is Patience Hutchkins, who might have gone to university but instead opted to remain behind to train with her father to become a mechanic.
I’m embarrassed now at how I reacted to that decision.
At the time, I was convinced that there was nothing for “smart kids like us” in a place like Forbes—that it was sad, maybe even a little pathetic, that she didn’t have the courage to move to the city like me and Stef and Jon and Jack.
I know I told her so too. But Patience has always lived up to her name and she never held my high-and-mighty attitude against me.
She gives me a happy wave as soon as she catches my eye, and indicates that I should come sit in the chair currently occupied by Stef’s feet.
“Excuse me,” I say to Marilyn, and I make my way across the room and join the group.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Stef says pertly. “Do you know how I heard you’ve moved back, Fiona Winslow? I was buying a bacon-and-egg roll yesterday for breakfast and this kid in front was telling his mates
that he did an electrical job at Wurimbirra for some crazy lady who’s going to live there all by herself. Oh, and by the way,
he saw three actual ghosts while he was there and it is as haunted as everyone says. I thought to myself—there’s only one person on earth Jon would sell that house to, and she better be letting me know she’s
back in town soon or I am going to be pissed.”
“Sorry, Stef,” I sigh. “I’m a rubbish friend, and it’s been a rubbish year.”
She reaches across to squeeze my forearm gently.
“I’m playing, honey. I get it. But what happened, Fi?”
I sent a group text to a bunch of friends back in March just to tell them Lucas and I had split, but I didn’t say much more.
Stef being Stef, she called me immediately, but I couldn’t talk about it yet without weeping, so I declined the call and texted her that I’d call her when I was feeling up to it.
I never did, but it wasn’t because I don’t love her.
It’s just that this whole disaster has felt so embarrassing, like I’ve walked out into a crowd of people with my skirt tucked into my undies, toilet paper stuck on my heel and lipstick on my teeth.
But something feels different now. Three sets of eyes look to me waiting expectantly, and I know that no matter what answer
I give them, they’ll support me.
“Lucas and Keira had an affair and pushed me out of our business,” I say. There’s a collective gasp—and then a collective
scowl.
“Fiona,” Stef says, nostrils flaring. “I am so sorry. That’s . . .”
“I’m going to be fine,” I tell her hastily, because she looks a bit like she’s about to get in her car and drive to Edgecliff
to tear them limb from limb. “The truth is the betrayal hurts more than the loss.” And then all of a sudden I am flooded with
memories of the years I spent with Lucas. I got my degrees and started my firm and then when I hit my mid-twenties, the next
thing on my life to-do list was marriage and babies, and Lucas was right there, working alongside me. Keira and I brought him on as our business manager and quickly made him an executive partner.
He was a good friend. We had plenty of things in common. We wanted the same kind of life. If anything, I felt like he loved
me more than I loved him. I thought that was a good thing. It made me feel safe.
For two and a half decades, we had a perfectly functional partnership. I told myself that the fading of our sex life was natural
and normal as I approached menopause, as he approached middle age. But a stone-cold-dead sex life is one thing—how long had it been since we showed affection or tenderness to one another? Months. Years? Maybe once upon a time we’d been going through
the motions but even that had faded until we weren’t even pretending anymore.
Lucas never gave me butterflies, not even in the very beginning. He was a sensible, practical choice of spouse. But he wasn’t the love of my life. If anything, my work has been that—maybe my kids.
When I think of everything I’ve lost this year, I’m saddest about my career. I’m sad for the girls that their family has changed
forever. And I’m sad that the two people I trusted most in the world betrayed me.
I’m not sure losing my husband is even in the top ten things I’m upset about, and that’s telling.
“I’m not excusing what he did. Not one bit. But I can see now that my marriage was over for a very long time,” I admit. “It’s
still . . . You know. It’s all a lot. But I’m not grieving Lucas, if that makes any sense.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Patience announces.
“Well, honey, when you’re ready to get blackout drunk and curse that bastard to hell, you know where to find us,” Stef says.
And Jack . . . he just gives me a very sad smile, and a gentle nod.
“Thank you,” I croak, and I don’t know why their easy acceptance makes me emotional, but it does. I moved all the way out
here to be alone—to process and recover in private. I didn’t expect I’d feel relieved to be around familiar faces again, especially
so soon.
Marilyn stands on a chair and raises a glass of water and a spoon high into the air. She taps the glass to gain the attention
of the group.
“Welcome, everyone, to the Tuesday night reader’s club,” she says.
“We have a new member tonight—welcome home, Fiona Winslow.” There’s a smattering of applause and a few cheers.
My cheeks heat and I sink in my chair as I give a self-conscious wave.
“And since Fiona doesn’t know the rules, I’ll take this opportunity to remind you all of how this works.
It is officially 7:00 p.m. and so we will commence our forty five minutes of quiet reading.
Hopefully you came ready with a book to read, but as always, if you forgot to bring one you can take one from the basket of free titles on my counter or you can purchase anything from the shelf but you must not speak.
That means, do not whisper to the person beside you.
Do not comment on what you are reading. Do not, for the love of all that is good and holy,
take your mobile phone out of your pocket, and if one of those rotten things rings in the next forty five minutes, I will personally see to its destruction.” A wave of nervous laughter rolls through the room.
I suspect this is not an idle threat.
“At 7:45 p.m. you may resume quiet chitchat with the people seated around you, but only if they are willing. Some people come
to this club at seven o’clock every Tuesday and sit in complete silence until I kick them out at nine. Other people talk at
a blistering pace from the minute they walk through the door up until I announce that the silent window has commenced—Stefanie
Blaxland, you know I am talking about you.” Another wave of laughter, only this time I’m in on the joke. “Some people will engage in riveting
literary analysis of their books when the silent window has finished. Other people will leave this room without speaking a
single word. That is the magic of this reader’s club, friends. We get to experience the wonders of reading in community, without
any of the performative nonsense that goes along with some other kinds of book clubs. We get to experience the wonders of
reading in community even at those times when our enthusiasm for socializing is low, and God knows we all have days like that,
don’t we?” There’s a ripple of agreement around the room. Marilyn lifts the glass again. “And our silent window will commence . . .”
She taps the glass once, and mouths the word now.
I want to turn to Jack and tell him how surprised I am by this, and to thank him for inviting me, because if I was ever going to enjoy book club, it would be one just like this.
I don’t have the energy to engage in much conversation right now, but after these past few days, I have been lonely and caught up in my own mind.
I quickly discover that there is something truly magical about cracking open a book and immersing myself right into the story,
surrounded by people who expect nothing from me, because they too are lost in their own fictional worlds.