Chapter Twenty-Three
CHAPTER
23
I’m sitting on the verandah and polishing a breast plate I’ve engraved for a jousting re-enactment when Astrid pulls up by the saddlery sign. She’s dressed in black, which isn’t unusual. She’s smiling, which is unusual. Two weeks have passed since Kit told me she or Erik would call. Is turning up on my doorstep a good sign?
‘Mac.’
The breast plate almost slips off my lap when I stand. With stiff cold fingers, I catch it and lower it carefully.
‘Do you have news?’
‘Summerfield is the Polar Institute’s preferred candidate.’
‘Yes!’ Astrid stands stiffly when I hug her but looks on in approval as, with shaking hands, I pull out my phone and dial. One ring, two rings, three. ‘Grandpa! Astrid is here at the saddlery! They’ve chosen Summerfield!’
‘Well …’ Grandpa clears his throat, clears it again. ‘Well, well.’
I laugh. ‘Yes!’
‘The other candidates will be disappointed.’
‘Yes, Grandpa, they will, but—’
‘I’ll write to them.’
‘Of course you will.’ My voice crackles. ‘It’s okay to be happy we were successful, Grandpa.’
‘It will create a fine precedent.’ His voice is stronger now. ‘If this little town can do it, so can many others, that’s what Kit Thorsen will say. You’ll thank everyone who backed us, won’t you? Tell them we’re honoured to have been chosen, and we won’t let them down.’
‘I’ll do that, Grandpa.’
‘You’ll be talking to Mr Thorsen, won’t you? Tell him I thank him from the bottom of my heart. As does Summerfield.’
‘Yes, Grandpa. When I see him, I’ll pass that on.’
***
‘Mostly, we’ll be here until the end of the year,’ Astrid says as I walk her to her car. ‘Erik will email the schedule.’
‘I have to go to Sydney for a fundraiser next week.’
‘This is at your mother’s home? We could ask her to—’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Whatever you were going to say, the answer is no.’
Astrid rolls her eyes. ‘We’ll set up a base in Denman. Many experts, consultant engineers and scientists, will be involved with the project but the film team will be small—you and me, Kit, Erik and Dougie. Support personnel, additional crew members, they will be called in as needed.’
‘I like Dougie.’
‘He wants you to talk from the heart.’ She leans into the car before straightening again. Her brows lift. ‘You and Kit. Is anything going on there?’
A wedge-tailed eagle circles and dives. Is he after roadkill or prey? ‘He might be back with Chloe.’
‘You’re happy with this?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ I crouch to retie my lace. ‘He can date whoever he likes.’
***
If Grandpa were with me, we’d have had our yearly argument about whether it’s more discourteous to arrive late than early. I doubt I would have had that argument with James, who promised to join me by nine.
I check my watch. Eight o’clock. As the party started at seven, I can’t leave it any longer. Cars are banked up either side of my mother’s street, but I get a park near the beach. An overnight bag over my shoulder, coat buttoned to my neck but heels in my hand, I walk barefoot up the hill, lifting the skirt of my dress to keep the hem clear of the path. The dress, bright yellow with small white dots, is long sleeved but has a low V-neck and triangular shapes cut out either side of the waist.
‘You wouldn’t approve of my arrival time, Grandpa, but you’d be happy that I dressed up.’
The other houses, most double storeyed to take advantage of the views, line up like blocks. Mum’s house is near a bend in the road. Bright lights. Filtered music. Laughter and clinking glasses. A champagne cork pops.
‘Careful on the steps.’ The security man at the gate recognises my name and directs me towards a broad flight of limestone steps that lead to the pool, gardens and paved area at the back of the house. The front of the house and its steeply sloping lawns face the harbour.
‘The cloakroom’s to your left.’
After handing over my bag and coat to the woman in the cloakroom, she points out the heaters. ‘I’d head to the one over there.’
‘How come?’
She fans her face with her hands. ‘Kit Thorsen has his back to it.’
Even from the back and from a distance, there’s no difficulty identifying Kit. A woman, arms waving animatedly, is talking to him. The guests behind her are standing close as if impatient to capture his attention. As I walk towards the heater on the opposite side of the courtyard, Kit steps away from the gesticulating woman and intercepts me.
‘Mackenzie.’ After the slightest of hesitations, he extends a hand.
I lift my chin as I shake. ‘Kit.’
‘Congratulations.’ Not a smile in sight.
‘Why are you here?’
He looks across the vast paved area towards my mother. ‘Clementine invited me.’
A fluted glass in her hand, Mum is laughing at something a tall grey-haired man has said. He’s probably in his late sixties so a similar age to my mother, but from here she could easily be in her forties. Graceful and animated, she was once described as ‘enchanting and ethereal’. Whether naturally or by design—a rigorous exercise regime and discreet plastic surgery—the description has stuck.
‘Mackenzie!’ My mother’s hair was darker than mine, but now she has it tinted a much lighter shade. Her eyes are emerald; mine are mottled green. ‘My darling!’
‘Hey, Mum.’ I barely get the words out before I’m swept into a hug and she peppers the air with kisses. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘I expected nothing less.’ She’s smiling as she stands back. ‘You wore that dress last year.’
I smooth fabric over my hips. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I have a wardrobe of dresses you could wear. Not to mention make-up and jewellery.’
‘Did you invite Kit Thorsen?’
‘Isn’t he just divine ?’
‘How do you know him?’
‘How could anyone really know a man with his assets?’ She waves a vague hand before threading her arm through mine. ‘Let me introduce you to others you might also admire.’
There’s no silent auction or touting for donations at Mum’s cocktail parties—the price of a ticket is the guest’s ‘contribution’ to the cause she’s supporting. Most of the people Mum introduces me to I’ve met on other occasions—mostly acquaintances from exclusive Pilates and yoga studios, wealthy neighbours, actors and others I recognise but can’t place. Laura is the only person I know well.
‘Mac! How lovely to see you.’ She holds me at arm’s length. ‘That dress is gorgeous.’
‘According to Mum, I wore it last year.’
She laughs. ‘Quite a crowd she’s gathered.’
‘Where are Noah and Nell?’
As if on cue, four-year-old Noah, followed by his two-year-old sister, push aside the folds of a tablecloth and pop up from under the table.
‘Auntie Mac!’
I crouch and hug them both. ‘You look way bigger than you do on Zoom.’
Laura has lived down the road from my mother ever since I can remember, and was a university student when Mum employed her to babysit. She was empathetic when I talked about Summerfield and Grandpa and Dad, and understanding when I was upset and anxious and angry. She thought up activities I’d enjoy. Swimming in ocean pools. Abseiling at climbing gyms. Kicking a ball around. Now, in addition to working as a solicitor and caring for her children, Laura looks after her mother.
‘Clementine almost had a coronary when I arrived with the kids,’ she says. ‘I promised I wouldn’t stay long.’
When I scoop Nell into my arms, Noah bounces on his toes. ‘Can we go see the fish?’
‘So long as it’s okay with Mummy.’
Laura smiles. ‘I’m happy to stay out here with the cocktails and canapes.’
Although she was hurt and angry when her partner had an affair, Laura encouraged him to be part of their children’s lives. I’m glad I had the counselling that James was so surprised about. My mother is a narcissist. I understand what drives her. She loves me as much as she loves anyone, but she’ll never change.
A tropical fish tank links the dining room to the formal lounge, and a gas fireplace with fake lumps of coal links the formal lounge to the family room. When Nell yawns and, eyes already closed, flops onto my shoulder, I back myself into a chair. Noah snuggles up and tells me about his best friend Toby who, as he has wings, I assume is imaginary.
‘Who’s your best friend, Mac?’ he finally asks.
‘In Summerfield, that would be Shelley.’ I adjust Nell’s position on my chest. ‘She can’t fly, but she’s kind and she’s funny. Your mum is a best friend too.’
I hear voices, a woman and a man. Noah yawns and leans in close. ‘You’re staying at our house tonight.’
‘I’m sleeping on the top bunk in your room.’
‘That’s where Toby sleeps.’
‘Will he mind if I share?’
‘Don’t squash his wings.’
I put my arm around him. ‘Does Toby snore?’
A giggle. ‘Uh-uh.’
‘In that case, I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘Mac?’ Laura’s blurred image appears through the fireplace. She’s followed by someone much taller who looks suspiciously like—
Kit has the hint of a smile. ‘Mackenzie.’
Nell, one little fist gently curved on my chest, is fast asleep. Noah snuggles at my side. ‘Me and Auntie Mac …’ He yawns. ‘We want to go see Toby.’
‘Auntie Mac will be there when you and Toby wake up,’ Laura says. ‘Right now, her mum wants her to go outside.’
I match Noah’s yawn with one of my own. ‘Is it already nine?’
‘Almost.’ She smiles at Kit. ‘Thanks for helping find them.’
His gaze is on me. ‘I wanted her too.’
How long has he been searching? I wriggle to the edge of the sofa before I stand. When Nell shifts in my arms, her soft hair tickles my cheek. I kiss the top of her head and hand her to Laura before crouching next to Noah.
‘I’ll be in the top bunk when you wake up.’
‘I love you, Auntie Mac,’ he says as he hugs me.
‘I love you too.’ I squeeze him tight. ‘See you tomorrow.’
He jumps up and down in front of Kit. ‘Goodbye.’
When Kit crouches and holds out a hand, Noah shakes it vigorously. ‘In Norway, we say “sov godt”. It means sleep well.’
Laura’s back is to Kit when she winks. ‘No rush to get back.’
***
When my phone buzzes, Kit, standing next to me in the loose semi-circle of guests around my mother, glances my way.
‘James. Is everything okay?’
‘Where are the taxis in this town?’
‘You haven’t left the city yet? What kind of a date are you?’
He laughs. ‘A notoriously late one.’
‘I’ll be in bed before you get here. Get back to whatever you were doing.’
‘I can join you in bed.’
‘James …’
‘I’ll make this up to you. Brunch tomorrow?’
‘Only if my friend Laura and her children can come.’
He sighs dramatically. ‘The things I do for you.’
‘Please top up your drinks.’ Mum tinkles a cocktail stick against a glass. ‘My daughter Mackenzie will say a few words.’
‘These people make donations?’ Kit says.
‘Large ones.’ I don’t quite meet his gaze. ‘It’s for a good cause.’
There’s only one cameraman, but his lens is long and threatening. I glance at Mum, carefully touching up her lipstick.
‘Why did my mother ask you here?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Darling!’
Mum, on a raised sandstone platform five metres away, is perfectly composed. The giant ceramic urn I worried about as a child—if Thumbelina fell into it, she’d never get out—is between us and I stand in front of it. One of the waitstaff hands me a microphone. The man with the camera bends his knees.
‘My mother wanted to do something to commemorate my father’s death and, as Dad was killed in a road accident, raising money for first responders was a good way to do that. Every year, ambulance officers and paramedics put their lives at risk to help people injured or killed on the roads, and this can have an impact on their physical and mental health. The money this event raises goes into a trust administered by a charity that funds medical services for first responders and their families. Thank you for your contributions to this cause, and thank you to my mother for hosting this event. It’s the one good thing that’s come out of Dad’s death.’
I look around for the flowers that Mum invariably leaves with one of her staff so I can give them to her.
Jackie, Mum’s PA, sidles up and touches my arm. ‘Not yet.’
‘Thank you, darling.’ Mum again. ‘Now it’s my turn to say a few words.’
‘Bravo!’ the tall man with grey hair shouts out.
Mum ignores the man but looks around, making sure she has everyone’s attention. ‘Kit Thorsen, who you all undoubtedly know, is my special guest tonight.’
Nods and murmurs, a round of applause.
‘I’m delighted that Kit’s next documentary will be set in Australia, and doubly delighted that my daughter Mackenzie will be involved in the production.’
‘Apples don’t fall far from the tree!’ someone shouts out.
When I step back, the ceramic urn digs into the small of my back. The urn is empty, a cavernous cave.
‘Mackenzie!’ Smiling brilliantly, Mum holds out an arm. ‘Come and join me!’
When my knuckles graze against the surface of the pot, I bring them to my front and cross my arms.
‘Darling!’
As Kit walks to my mother and stands next to her, the crowd quietens.
An elderly man nudges me gently with his elbow. ‘I think they want you up there.’
‘I want to stay here.’
Does the man’s wife, also elderly, hear something in my voice? She swaps places with her husband and looks at me with sympathy.
‘I’m Janie and my husband is Travis. You’ve already said your piece, haven’t you, dear?’
‘Darling!’ Mum calls out again. ‘I want—’
‘No!’ Everyone falls silent when I call out. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Really, darling, I don’t—’
‘We’re in pre-production,’ Kit interrupts. ‘The documentary will be filmed in Summerfield …’
Kit, clearly and succinctly, talks about the Summerfield project and how it relates to environmental initiatives taken in Antarctica, where the planet rather than national interests come first. Afterwards, people are so anxious to ask questions and give their views on Kit’s earlier work that they talk over each other. When one of Mum’s actor friends frames a long-winded question about the award-winning documentary that led to the TV series, and asks about the Academy Awards ceremony, Kit cuts him off, telling him he didn’t accept the invitation.
‘What about the afterparty?’
Kit frowns. ‘No.’
The applause for Kit’s speech has barely died down when he makes a beeline for me.