Chapter Nine
Lilavati
My mother and Warren come out to greet us, standing at the top of the sandstone staircase.
Mum is as fair as I am dark. When I was little, people used to assume I was adopted from overseas, which embarrassed my grandmother and upset my mother.
I think she wanted a daughter who looked like her.
A mini-me, I guess. Some people say we share the same mouth and nose, although I don’t see it.
And mostly, I think my mother just sees my father when she looks at me.
I have no idea how that makes her feel because any questions I ask get deflected.
Mum certainly doesn’t look old enough to have a daughter my age, although she dresses like someone much older.
Which is mostly the influence of her husband.
Warren is twenty years older than her. He has a head of thinning, neatly trimmed silver hair, but is fit and tanned from many hours on the golf course.
However, his glasses are as old-fashioned as his clothes and his attitude.
To say he’s conservative would be an understatement.
Warren already had two teenage children with his first wife when he and Mum married.
At first, I was excited to have a brother and sister, but they made it clear very early on that I wasn’t their sister.
Lines were drawn. And although Warren formally adopted me, I’ve never felt like he was my dad.
When they returned from their honeymoon—six weeks in Europe during which I fretted and pined for my mother—I excitedly called him Daddy.
The expression on his face is my earliest clear memory.
Nothing was said, but I never called him Daddy again.
They’re dressed as if they’re going out to dinner at the golf club, not having a casual family meal at home. Mum has always been slim, but as the last of the afternoon sun hits her face, I notice how thin she’s become lately. Fragile.
Ant rounds the bonnet of the car and puts his hand lightly on the small of my back as we climb the stairs. Mum holds out her hands in the version of a warm welcome she offers when Warren is around.
“Lili, darling. So lovely to see you,” she says in her breathy, high-pitched ‘company’ voice before she kisses my cheeks. “And you must be Ant.” She pulls him in for an air kiss on each cheek, bringing with her a subtle but expensive cloud of her trademark perfume.
“It’s great to meet you, Mrs Gordon. Thank you for having me,” Ant responds politely, handing over the bottle of wine he brought before turning to my stepfather and giving his hand a firm shake.
“Ant Stevens, sir. Nice to meet you.” Warren nods in response but doesn’t speak or crack a smile.
He does, however, take the bottle of wine from Mum and check the label with a scowl.
Which is beyond rude. I recognise the label and it’s not a cheap drop.
I’m slightly surprised at how thick Ant’s laying it on. It’s impossible to tell whether he’s being serious or doing it to wind me up. Time will tell, I guess.
“Oh, please. Call us Marion and Warren. Come in, come in.” Mum’s smile is plastered from ear to ear, giving every indication she’s thrilled to be meeting Ant.
As always, there’s an enormous crystal vase of fresh flowers on the round entry table. The house is the perfect temperature and smells of the signature scented diffusers my mother gets made just for her.
Warren leads the way into the formal lounge room.
Mum settles on one sofa, and Ant takes the one opposite.
I debate sitting next to him, but my nerves get the better of me.
I perch on one of the deeply uncomfortable occasional chairs that I’ve always thought reflect the level of welcome for just about anyone in this house.
Except for those people Warren likes, of course. It’s a short list. And I’m not on it.
The sweat that’s been gathering under my arms is starting to trickle down the side of my ribcage. I desperately want to bolt for the powder room, but I can’t leave Ant alone and unsupervised this early in the night. Not until I know Mum and Warren aren’t going to eviscerate him.
Warren offers us drinks. I’d like a vodka shot, but I need to keep my wits about me, so I opt for sparkling water, as does my mother. Her husband disapproves of women drinking spirits. Unless it’s just the one gin and tonic after a round of golf or a doubles match at the club.
“You’ll have a scotch with me, won’t you, Anthony?” Warren says with a jolly smile. Which is weird. I’ve never known him to be jolly before. It’s like I’ve dropped into an alternate universe.
“It’s Antony, actually. But I prefer Ant.
” He smiles, seemingly oblivious to Warren’s glare and the grinding of his teeth.
“And yes, thank you. That would be great.” Ant turns slightly wide eyes on me.
That was something I should’ve asked. What is his drink of preference.
Judging from his expression, I don’t think it’s scotch. If I had to guess, I’d say tequila.
He takes the two fingers of stupidly expensive alcohol, pretends to sip and places the heavy crystal glass on the coaster Mum slides across the table towards him.
Warren sits next to Mum, crossing his leg and dropping a heavy hand on Mum’s to stop her smoothing her skirt over her knees. Again and again. He studies Ant across the artfully arranged coffee table books. Mum wastes no time starting the interrogation.
“So, Ant. Lili tells me you’re a barista?”
I look for a sign she’s baiting him, but she smiles benignly. Maybe she’s so desperate to marry me off that she no longer cares who the groom might be. And maybe that was a pig that just flew past the window. Because I’m sure Warren would have thoughts on that topic.
“Yes, that’s right. And I make surfboards.”
“Surfboards?” Warren says with surprise. “How does one make a surfboard?”
I’m sure the pompous arse couldn’t be less interested in how they’re made, but Ant takes his question at face value and gives him a brief explanation.
“Well, you take what we call a blank—an unshaped piece of very fine foam—and cut and sand it until it’s the shape and size you want.
Next, you decorate it, usually with spray paint, then you put in the fin, or fins, cover it with fibreglass, then resin.
Once that’s all done, you polish and buff it, and you have a surfboard. ”
“Well, that sounds very … interesting.” Mum smiles bravely.
“And all this is done by hand?” Warren asks, clearly having assumed Ant worked on some kind of production line.
“Plenty of boards are made in factories. But I only do handmade ones.”
“And you make money from producing these boards? That seems like a very labour-intensive process.” Warren looks sceptical.
“It is, yes. But a handmade board is worth much more than a factory-made board, obviously.”
“And what university did you attend?” Warren asks in a voice so pointed it could pierce armour. I’m mortified by his rudeness, but not surprised. I open my mouth to interrupt, but a raised eyebrow from Warren has me closing it again. I’ve learnt from bitter experience not to interfere.
“I didn’t go to university,” Ant responds placidly, giving no explanation or excuse, ignoring the obvious trap and refusing to be intimidated.
“And what do your parents do?” Mum drops into the disapproving silence.
I can’t keep quiet any longer. At least interrupting Mum is far less fraught with danger.
“Can we not do the inquisition, please?” I ask as quietly as I can, shifting uncomfortably.
“We’re just trying to get to know Ant.” Mum shushes me with a hand wave.
I can’t help it; I roll my eyes. “You don’t need to answer any of this, Ant.”
“That’s okay. My parents are retired. They moved to Tasmania a couple of years ago. My mum plans to raise Highland cows. They love bushwalking, and the colder climate suits them.”
Thankfully, the conversation is interrupted by the faint sound of the oven timer going off.
Mum immediately pops up from her seat like the good Stepford wife she is. “Oh, that’s the dinner. Lili, would you help me? Warren, perhaps you could show Ant to the dining room?”
I’m frozen in my chair, but Ant stands, holds out his hand to help me up, and, with his back turned to my parents, gives me a grin and a wink. The tension that has twisted my gut since we arrived eases, and a smile of relief blooms.
Unbelievably, I think he’s enjoying himself. There’s no accounting for some people. I don’t understand this man at all. But it does relax me a little to know he’s not lost his sense of humour.