‘You know what, I walked into an aerobics class wearing a size twenty-two T-shirt.’ Felicity leaned forward and looked at her fiercely. ‘People couldn’t look at me. I saw one girl nudging her friend to check me out and then they both fell about laughing. I heard a guy say, “Watch out for the heifer.” Don’t you talk to me about social anxiety, Tess O’Leary.’
There was a banging on the door.
‘Mum! Felicity!’ shouted Liam. ‘Why have you locked the door? Let me in!’
‘Go away, Liam!’ called back Tess.
‘No! Have you made up yet?’
Tess and Felicity looked at each other. Felicity smiled faintly and Tess looked away.
Lucy’s voice came from the other end of the house. ‘Liam, come back here! I said to leave your mother alone!’ She was at a disadvantage on her crutches.
Felicity stood. ‘I have to go. My flight is at two o’clock. Mum and Dad are taking me to the airport. Mum is in a state. Dad isn’t speaking to me, apparently.’
‘You’re seriously leaving today?’ Tess looked up at her from the floor.
She thought briefly of the business: the clients she’d worked so hard to win over, the cash flow they’d tried so hard to maintain, fussing and fretting over the profit and loss like a delicate little plant, the ‘work in progress’ Excel spreadsheet they’d studied each morning. Was this the end for TWF Advertising? All those dreams. All that stationery.
‘Yes,’ said Felicity. ‘It’s what I should have done years ago.’
Tess stood as well. ‘I don’t forgive you.’
‘I know,’ said Felicity. ‘I don’t forgive me either.’
‘Mum!’ yelled Liam.
‘Hold your horses, Liam!’ called out Felicity. She grabbed Tess’s arm and said in her ear, ‘Don’t tell Will about Connor.’
For one strange moment they hugged, and then Felicity turned and opened the door.
Chapter forty-seven
‘There’s no butter,’ announced Isabel. ‘No margarine either.’
She turned from the fridge and looked at her mother expectantly.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Cecilia. How could that have happened? She never forgot a staple. Her system was foolproof. Her refrigerator and pantry were always perfectly stocked. Sometimes John-Paul rang on his way home and asked if she needed him to ‘pick up milk or anything’ and she’d always reply, ‘Uh, no?’
‘But aren’t we having hot cross buns?’ said Esther. ‘We always have hot cross buns for breakfast on Good Friday.’
‘We can still have them,’ said John-Paul. He brushed his fingers automatically across Cecilia’s lower back as he walked past her to the kitchen table. ‘Your mother’s hot cross buns are so good they don’t need butter.’
Cecilia watched him. He was pale and a little shaky, as if he was recovering from the flu, and he seemed in a tremulous, tender mood.
She found herself waiting for something to happen – the shrill ring of the phone, a heavy knock on the door – but the day continued to be cloaked in soft safe silence. Nothing would happen on a Good Friday. Good Friday was in its own protective little bubble.
‘We always have our hot cross buns with lots and lots of butter,’ said Polly, who was sitting at the kitchen table in her pink flannelette pyjamas, her black hair rumpled, her cheeks flushed with sleep. ‘It’s a family tradition. Just go to the shop, Mum, and get some butter.’
‘Don’t speak to your mother like that. She’s not your slave,’ said John-Paul, at the same time as Esther glanced up from her library book and said, ‘The shops are closed, stupid.’
‘Whatever,’ sighed Isabel. ‘I’m going to go Skype with –’
‘No you’re not,’ said Cecilia. ‘We’re all going to eat some porridge, and then we’re all going to walk up to the school oval.’
‘Walk?’ said Polly disdainfully.
‘Yes, walk. It’s turned into a beautiful day. Or ride your bikes. We’ll take the soccer ball.’
‘I’m on Dad’s team,’ said Isabel.
‘And then on the way back we’ll stop by at the BP service station and pick up some butter, and we’ll have hot cross buns when we get home.’
‘Perfect,’ said John-Paul. ‘That sounds perfect.’
‘Did you know that some people wish the Berlin Wall never come down?’ said Esther. ‘That’s weird, isn’t it? Why would you want to be stuck behind a wall?’
‘Well, that was lovely, but I really should go,’ said Rachel. She placed her mug back down on the coffee table. Her duty was done. She shifted herself forward and took a breath. It was another one of those impossibly low couches. Could she stand up on her own? Lauren would get there first if she saw she was having difficulty. Rob was always just a moment too late.
‘What are you doing for the rest of the day?’ asked Lauren.
‘I’ll just potter about,’ said Rachel. I’ll just count the minutes. She held out a hand to Rob. ‘Give me a hand will you, love?’
As Rob went to help her, Jacob toddled over with a framed photo he’d picked up from the bookcase and brought it over to Rachel. ‘Daddy,’ he said, pointing.
‘That’s right,’ said Rachel. It was a photo of Rob and Janie on a camping holiday they’d taken on the south coast the year before Janie died. They were standing in front of a tent, and Rob was holding his fingers up like rabbit ears behind Janie’s head. Why did children insist on doing that?