Chapter Forty-Five
CHAPTER
45
I vaguely remember Kit leaning over me, telling me to open my eyes as he placed his hands either side of my head and gently felt for the bump. I presume he was satisfied, because as I went back to sleep he drew letters and symbols on my arm.
He isn’t here any more. And neither is Keith Urban, who always wakes me by seven. The bump isn’t as sore as it was and by the time I dress and go to the bathroom my hip has loosened up.
‘Kit!’ Nothing. I whistle for Keith but he doesn’t come. Kit’s car is where he parked it last night. I was low on milk. Maybe he’s walked into town?
I find him standing on the bridge, forearms on the wall as he looks into the water. Keith Urban runs out of the scrub and lifts his nose. Catching my scent, he careens down the footpath.
I crouch and scratch under his chin. ‘You left without me.’
Just like yesterday—before I blubbered all over him—Kit’s expression is closed. His shirt is linen and creased.
‘I slept in.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Fine, thank you.’ I look at him, then away. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘I’ll get it on the way to Wollongong.’
‘You should have been there yesterday.’
‘Erik rescheduled the interviews I missed. Tomorrow, I fly to a conference in Belgium. After that Norway, Geneva, Isabella Island. Work. A wedding. Work. Work.’
‘How long will you be away?’
‘Six, seven weeks.’
‘Isabella Island is in the Southern Ocean, isn’t it?’ I bite hard on my lip. One. Two. Three. ‘What are you doing there?’
‘Tagging seals. Water samples.’ He shrugs. ‘Many things.’
A butcher bird, solidly built and inky black, flies over the bridge and settles on the branch of a grevillea.
‘Is this what Astrid was talking about? Summerfield is micro, the Southern Ocean environment is macro.’
‘We’ll bring them together.’
Them but not us? Do. Not. Cry.
Claudine’s car comes over the bridge. In the passenger seat, Gloria winds down her window.
‘The people you bump into!’ she says brightly.
Kit, courteously if curtly, answer’s Gloria’s questions. Yes, next month there’ll be another meeting, but this one will be run by the documentary team. In the hope of attracting additional international interest, media executives and distributors have been invited to attend.
Claudine nods in approval. ‘The more the merrier.’
When Gloria asks whether Kit will be there, he tells her no. ‘I’ll Zoom in if I can.’
Side by side but not touching or speaking, we return to the saddlery. Will Kit jump into his four-wheel drive and that’ll be it?
‘I’ll be—’
‘When will—’
As Phoenix paws at the gate, we go back and forth on who should go first. Finally, I jump in.
‘Astrid wants me and Phoenix to do more scenes for The Dragon Slayers .’
‘Will James be there to help?’
‘James isn’t helpful. Not in practical things.’
‘You like him.’
‘If I want someone to sleep with, which I don’t, I don’t need you to—’
‘Mackenzie!’ He mutters a string of words before firmly taking my hand and leading me to his four-wheel drive. I don’t want to walk compliantly by his side. I don’t want to feel confused and unhappy. When he lifts my hand and kisses my knuckle, my eyes sting.
His face is pale so his eyes are particularly blue. He turns away, mutters more words, faces me again.
‘I can’t understand what you’re saying.’
‘You wouldn’t know how to respond.’ When he rubs his thumb against my wrist, the traitorous tingling in the pit of my stomach radiates through my body. He looks into my eyes and my chest locks up.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m the keynote at the conference. Also, the best man at the wedding and—’
‘You’ll see your family in Norway, won’t you?’ I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Your mother will be happy about that.’
‘I’ve seen Astrid’s schedule. Even without The Dragon Slayers , you’d be working twelve-hour days.’
‘I get it.’
‘I’ll be back.’
‘This was always going to happen. Australia. Europe. Antarctica. You’re a …’
His eyes narrow. ‘What?’
Viking? Celebrity? Norwegian? Son and brother? Scientist? Every single one of these things is from a life, his life, that’s a world apart from mine.
***
As Kit’s four-wheel drive disappears over the bridge, I focus on the sign outside the saddlery. Two sturdy posts and a broad plank of ironbark. The Summerfield Saddler . When was it last repainted? Fifteen years, maybe twenty. The lettering has faded. The landline number is barely ever used but …
This is my home. It’s Grandpa’s home. When I was with my mother in Sydney, I’d lie in my bed and dream of this place. The verandah out the front, the corrugated roof. The table where my father sat in his highchair and just over twenty years later I sat in mine. Keeping my sketchbook clear of the water, I’d peer into the pond in Mum’s garden to search for the roots of the lilies and reeds. Winter or summer, I’d plunge my arm in the water to find the spongy soil. If I were small like Thumbelina, I could dive into the pond and make my way back to Summerfield. Old-growth trees, orchids and ferns by the river. Lizards, echidnas and tadpoles by the creek. Black cockatoos, eagles and kites high above me.
It used to be enough.