Chapter Five
Abbey
Ella’s keys jingled in the door at a quarter to four, and it was literally the first time I had moved since arriving home, box in tow, at eleven. I had been catatonic on the sofa all day. My box sat next to my suitcase on the floor of my bedroom.
But when I heard my daughter arriving home, Mum mode kicked in, making me jump up and pretend to be my usual self.
Like an American mother on a sitcom, I went into overdrive, fussing over after-school snacks, listening to Ella’s endless story about her new best friend Bella.
Ella and Bella, Ella and Bella … Jesus Christ. I opened a bottle of red ‘to make dinner’ and drank the contents before ordering a pizza.
Kate was on a date after work so, mercifully, I was spared having to run through the day’s events.
That morning, before the absolute train wreck of a meeting, Kate’s message had been to tell me that Eric had (very publicly) been arrested.
When I told Kate I knew, and about the meeting I’d had, it freaked her out enough to start making calls to lawyers, hoping to find someone reasonably priced to ensure her innocent sister did not go to jail.
‘I mean, you don’t know her, but I can assure you she is borderline na?ve,’ I heard her saying on the phone to one lawyer. ‘Takes people at face value, does not have social media …’
After pizza, I walked to the kitchen to open another bottle of wine, thankful my membership from a Hunter Valley vineyard (currently being paid for on Peter’s credit card) had arrived at my door. The happiest of deliveries, only made awkward by me hugging the delivery driver.
***
Kate and I met with a lawyer on the Friday, a slimeball named Rutherford Milson, who stared at my boobs and asked Kate out at the end of the meeting.
He advised a wait-and-see approach, given there was no knowing if the new owners had any evidence of any wrongdoing on my part.
He advised me not to answer calls from the Lindens, which I hadn’t anyway. They had not called.
My belief in Eric’s innocence vanished that night when I heard on the news that Lynne and Libby Linden had made the trip to a non-extraditable country and that Eric had arranged for all their assets to be transferred to Libby before being arrested.
When Pete picked up Ella from school on Friday night, sensations of relief washed over me, closely followed by guilt. But I was honestly just happy to be alone. Happy that I could be as sad as I wanted to be, free to wallow in my unemployment and my apparently imagined holiday romance.
I wallowed for approximately four hours and then I pulled my shit together. A visit to Grandma Iris would result in the restoration of my gumption, so I arranged to take her out for a coffee at a beautiful café just down the street from her nursing home the next morning.
My grandmother had never mastered the concept of casual dressing and she looked at my jeans and Fleetwood Mac T-shirt disapprovingly while she sat resplendent in her wheelchair in wide-legged slacks and a white shirt with the collar up.
The shirt was so crisp, the collar standing so firmly, I could only stare at it in amazement.
Gran’s still-long hair was gathered up in a sleek bun.
She had once modelled her look after the ‘Great Kate’ – Katherine Hepburn – and, honestly, she still looked like an ageing Hollywood icon.
‘Mrs Cavendish!’ The café owner had marked Iris a VIP at some point over the last few years, and so she escorted us to Iris’s favourite table in the window.
Gran had visibly aged since I’d been away and my heart clenched as I wondered how many more trips to the café there would be.
‘Good morning, Cherie. It is a lovely day. We’ll have the usual.’ My grandmother liked English loose-leaf tea in a pot, and scones with jam and cream. ‘Oh, and how did you go with that book I recommended? The Duke’s Dark Desire – wasn’t it marvellous?’
Inwardly, I groaned at Gran recommending romance that was bordering on porn to strangers. But maybe I needn’t have worried.
‘Mrs Cavendish, I read it in four hours.’
My grandmother nodded knowingly.
I sat down after sliding in Grandma Iris’s wheelchair and placing my handbag on the spare chair beside us.
‘Abigail Cavendish.’ Gran had never been a big fan of Peter and preferred to use my maiden name when addressing me. ‘You have colour. Did you have sex on that trip?’
I looked around the café to catch Cherie’s head shooting up. Our eyes met, and she shot an enquiring brow at me. I felt heat rush to my cheeks.
‘Oh, my God, Gran.’
‘I must say, it seems to have put a distinct glow in your cheeks, child. Was he Maldivian? I have never had the pleasure. Was he circumcised?’
This is where Kate gets it from.
‘Gran, keep your voice down.’ I shrugged my shoulder. ‘He was not Maldivian, for your information. He was English.’
‘Lovely. I bet he had lovely manners. One does not always want lovely manners in bed, but still, it is nice. Of course, my first husband, Ray, was an Englishman, and he was a wonderful lover. Not quite as skilful as your English grandfather, though, Abigail. Harry was a once-in-a-lifetime love. Englishmen are lovely. But one wants to avoid discussions about cricket with them. It isn’t polite to brag. ’
My heart filled up with her; she was such a fucking delight.
I let out a happy sigh. I loved it when she ran through the husbands and then gushed about my grandfather.
I didn’t have many memories left of him, as he died when I was four.
She’d married another five times and, somehow, she loved each of them, but she never loved them the way she loved Harry.
‘Now, dear, Kate called me. Are you going to prison? I must say, Abbey, this is rather a turn. Going criminal. Have you ever seen that film, Chicago?’
‘Gran, I didn’t do anything wrong. I most certainly have not “gone criminal”.’
‘Yes, dear. That’s exactly what they say in the film.’
I felt the tears come only a moment before I was crying. My grandmother reached into her handbag, which was small and leather – like the one the queen always carried – and pulled out a handkerchief with her initials embroidered on it.
‘Abigail dearest, Cavendish women do not let life get to them. Do not be feeble. You, my darling girl, are enough for any job, at any time. Sweetheart, sometimes things are not in our control. We must simply find the things that are. So enough tears. What are you doing with what you can control, my darling?’
Just as I’d suspected, two hours in the company of my beloved grandmother was all that was required. I came away from her feeling stronger and calmer, and with a list of spicy-romance-novel recommendations I absolutely would not read.
I could not control Nick. Or what was happening at work. I could only control my response to it.
***
Part One of Operation Recovery included finding a new job.
So I spent the weekend putting together a resumé and applied for several roles I’d seen advertised.
The response was good, and I had three interviews lined up for the week after.
My only stress was around who on earth to put down for a reference, but I would cross that bridge when I came to it.
Operation Recovery, Part Two, was a bedroom makeover.
My bedroom looked exactly as it had when Pete had left.
My plan for the weekend was to paint it all white.
I invested money I was not confident I had in light-diffusing curtains and added some light-wood accents to try to recreate the perfection of my blissful Maldives hotel room.
Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny. A good omen for painting, I told myself, making a start as soon as I’d breakfasted and had enough coffee. I had bought out the hardware store of brushes and drop sheets. They’d seen me coming, but it did not stifle my enthusiasm for the job.
I aimed to get a coat of paint on before lunch.
It was, in fact, incredibly soothing work.
I had a playlist of classic eighties songs I could sing badly while I painted (badly).
Kate woke in the early afternoon, walked in like the bloody foreman and critiqued the job I was doing.
Sure, my cut-off jean shorts and white singlet were completely covered in paint and when I had gone to the loo I could plainly see it was also in my hair and on my face and body, but I had enjoyed the first coat immensely and reconnected with Pat Benatar and Hall & Oates.
The physicality of the work had stirred my appetite.
I planned on getting the second coat started after I ate.
I carefully opened the wet door, happy to breathe less-toxic fumes, and headed to the kitchen.
The sound of voices met me in the hallway.
I was a little annoyed because I didn’t realise Kate had a friend over and, given what was going on, I wasn’t super keen to socialise.
My stomach rumbled in protest, though, and I pushed aside the worry, deciding to brave it for food.
It wasn’t until I was in the room that I realised the conversation was confrontational. I caught the end of Kate saying, ‘I’m not really sure you’re welcome here, or that you have any right to ask to see my sister.’
I could see that Kate’s hackles were raised.
Her arms were crossed and her cheeks were red.
Her body language screamed defensive and the look on her face read ‘Don’t fuck with me, buddy’.
Her tone was no-nonsense, pure authority, the one she used for patients who were being non-compliant.
I silently sympathised with the stranger who was facing her wrath.
I looked at him. Oh, nope. Not a stranger. My sympathy vanished.
‘Look, I understand she may be angry with me. I promise I’m not delivering bad news.’