I watch him follow Fliss down the external staircase. The frown is still etched onto my forehead when I return indoors.
Elliot texts me at eleven, wondering if I’m free for brunch. I reply that I am, glad to have something to take my mind off yesterday’s email. I went back to bed after Lachie left, but couldn’t sleep for my mind ticking over.
We meet up at a café across the road from Manly Beach. Elliot is already at a table when I arrive, looking decidedly worse than Fliss did at six o’clock this morning. His normally tanned skin is washed out and pasty and he’s resting his darkly stubbled jaw on his hand. He smiles up at me, wearily.
‘Hungover?’ I ask the obvious question.
‘Not really,’ he replies, to my surprise, as I take a seat opposite him. ‘Miserable more than anything.’
‘Oh, El,’ I say with sympathy, reaching across to touch his hand. His eyes fill up with tears.
‘Christ!’ he mumbles, averting his gaze with embarrassment. ‘I should’ve stayed at home.’
‘No, it’s good that you came out. Have you ordered yet?’
‘Just a coffee.’
On cue, the waitress brings it over. I order a latte for myself and turn my attention back to Elliot, who’s in the process of upending three sachets of sugar into his drink.
‘How was last night?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
He shrugs. ‘It was all right.’
‘Anything happen with Fliss?’
‘Nah, we just went dancing. She’s not into me like that.’
‘I think she has a crush on Lachie.’
‘He only has eyes for you,’ he replies without missing a beat.
‘So she does like him, doesn’t she?’
‘I don’t know, Bron.’ He looks awkward, all of a sudden.
I try to ignore the niggling feeling in my stomach as I pick up the menu.
‘Have you spoken to Bridget?’ he asks when we’ve ordered.
‘Last night,’ I reply quietly.
He shakes his head and picks up his coffee, taking a large, scalding mouthful and wincing. ‘It’s too soon,’ he states, putting his cup down a little too firmly on the wooden table.
‘She seems pretty sure about him.’
‘Yeah,’ he says bitterly. His blue eyes dart up to meet mine. ‘Why didn’t she ever tell me she wanted a kid?’ He sounds anguished.
‘I’m not sure even she knew it. But would it have made a difference? I thought you were set on not having children.’
‘Yeah, I was. I am. I just… I don’t know. We could have at least talked about it.’
‘And said what? She was happy with you, El. She was. But maybe she didn’t know what she really wanted until it was right there in front of her.’
‘I should’ve proposed to her sooner.’
‘Do you think it would have made a difference?’
Elliot doesn’t answer, but he looks downcast.
‘Maybe this is what you needed to hear to move on,’ I say gently, my thoughts jumping unwelcomingly to Alex.
I wonder if he’s moved on… Did he remarry? Does he have a girlfriend? Children?
‘Yeah,’ Elliot mumbles after a long pause, bringing my focus back to him. He doesn’t sound convinced. ‘I guess I just miss her.’ His voice is racked with emotion.
I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine, giving it a small squeeze. I don’t need to say it out loud. He knows I miss her, too.
I wake up stupidly early on Sunday morning. I don’t know what time Lachie came home because I was too tired to respond when he whispered hello. He’s still out cold, his full lips parted in sleep and his dark-blond stubble another millimetre closer to being called a beard. The next few months will see his shaggy blond hair lighten further under the sun. I reach out, but stop short of pushing a wayward lock off his forehead.
He rolls away from me, the duvet slipping down to reveal his toned, muscular back. I can’t resist. I press a kiss onto the dent at the top of his shoulder and rest my cheek against his warm back. He stirs.
‘Alex emailed me,’ I whisper, feeling guilty for waking him, but unable to hold it in any longer.
His whole body tenses.
‘What?’ He rolls over to face me.
‘Alex emailed me,’ I repeat. ‘He’s coming to Sydney next month.’
His red-tinged eyes are full of an emotion I can’t decipher. Anger? Trepidation? Concern?
All of the above?
‘He needs to do some work at the Tetlan offices and thought he should let me know he’s going to be around,’ I explain. ‘I guess he didn’t want to freak me out.’
‘Has he asked to see you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to see him?’
His eyes widen at my split-second delay. My ensuing ‘no’ sounds false on my tongue.
‘Great,’ Lachie says sarcastically as he falls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. ‘All these years and we still can’t escape the guy.’
‘I have no intention of seeing him,’ I state firmly, placing my hand on his chest. ‘I haven’t even replied to his email.’
He turns his head to look at me. ‘But you will.’
‘Well, yeah,’ I reply uncomfortably. ‘I wanted to speak to you about it first.’
‘What did his email say exactly?’
I recite it, word for word.
‘Jesus, Bronte,’ he mutters, that indecipherable look back in his eye.
‘What should I say?’ I persist.
‘Just write back and say thanks for letting me know.’
We stare at each other for several long seconds.
‘Really?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ he replies, and I have this odd feeling he’s testing me.
‘Okay.’
Neither of us brings up Alex again that day, and, on the surface, it’s a perfectly pleasant Sunday, but underneath is an underlying tension that we both choose to ignore.
Back at work on Monday morning, I fire up my computer with a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don’t want this to hang over me for any longer, so I open up Alex’s email and type out a reply.
Thanks for letting me know.
Bronte.
The words look so stark. Is that really the best I can do after all this time? He’s only letting me know out of decency that he’s coming here.
I try again.
Hi Alex
Long time no speak!
I quickly delete that sentence, still shaking my head. Too jaunty. Too… wrong.
Hi Alex
Thanks for letting me know. All’s well here – hope you’re OK too.
Bronte
I suddenly remember that I don’t even know exactly when he’s coming – I don’t want to be on edge for the entire month of October. I ask the question and then press send, safe in the knowledge that it’s the middle of the night in England and he won’t be checking his emails for hours.
His reply is waiting for me on Tuesday morning.
7th October – I’ll be there for three weeks.
That’s all he says.
I don’t reply.
When I walk through the door that evening, I find Lachie sitting on the sofa, strumming his guitar. His long legs are encased in tattered denim jeans and his bare feet are up on the coffee table, beside an open bottle of beer.
‘Hey,’ he says with a small smile, going to put his guitar down.
‘Don’t stop.’ I grab his beer and take a swig, squeezing between him and the armrest. His eyes drift to my lips and his own curve up into an amused smile. ‘What’s that you were playing?’ I ask.
‘Nothing. Just messing. How was your day?’
‘Fine.’ I lift my shoulders into a shrug.