‘So do you guys know who did it yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Mm. Well, hopefully you will by Christmas. Is there any truth to the serial killer talk? Do you know that the council was going to have the carols at the lake? Can you imagine? I mean, urgh.’ She shudders. Her voice seems to roll out of her unchecked. Her large plastic handbag slaps against her bare thigh, making a sucking sound.
‘Probably not the best idea.’
‘No. Well. It’s just awful.’ She grabs at a trolley, aggressively shaking it loose from the pack. Then her face brightens as if the sun has come out. ‘Anyway, what are you doing for Christmas? With little Joe?’
‘Ben.’
‘Yep, right, Ben. I think it’s Georgia that has Joe. Anyway. What are your plans?’
‘Just hanging around with Dad probably. Scott’s brother and his wife. Nothing special.’
‘Lovely, lovely.’ Her mind is clearly starting to trawl the shelves, her mental shopping list taking priority over our conversation. ‘Well, must fly, unfortunately. I’ve ten people coming for dinner tonight.’
‘Take care, Sydney. Tell Max I say hi.’
She waves her fingers at me and disappears down an aisle, weaving her trolley with impressive skill.
My trolley has a wonky wheel, and my muscles pull and burn as I round the corners.
I hate coming to the supermarket. The rows of things stare down at me—all of these things that I don’t know what to do with. I’m a terrible cook. Before I met Scott I basically lived on noodles, eggs and boiled rice. A lot of the time I would barely eat at all, coming home from work and drinking wine until I fell asleep on the couch. For a while I lived with an Italian girl, a part-time actress who moonlighted as a chef. I tried to emulate her complicated creations but just didn’t have a knack for it. I still remember her laughing uncontrollably the night I tried to make crème br?lée.
I told Sydney the truth. We are spending Christmas with my dad. Scott’s brother Craig and sister-in-law Laura will come too, as will Aunt Megan. Scott’s parents live in the UK with his mum’s elderly mother. They rarely come out to Australia; they don’t have much money, and we’re not that close to them anyway. Ben and his simple Christmas joy will be the only thing about the day that holds us all together. Craig and Laura have been trying to have children for almost five years. I have to look away when they give Ben his presents.
I toss packets of chips into the trolley, catching the handle before it clips me in the guts. Tonight we are going to a Christmas barbecue at Scott’s friend Pete’s place. It’s a dress-up theme. Pete’s girlfriend Fee has an inexplicably large pool of sexy elf and Santa outfits and insists on hosting this annual dress-up party. Dad is minding Ben. I don’t want to go. Scott and I fought about it yesterday morning.
‘You could make an effort sometimes, Gem.’ He said it quietly, like he was talking to someone else.
‘Fine, fine. I’ll come.’
He kept watching TV. ‘You like Pete. You like Fee. You like the guys. What’s the problem?’
Although these points are only partly true, I said tightly, ‘No problem. I already said I’m coming.’
Felix and I had originally planned to meet tonight. He’d texted me last night to cancel just before Scott reminded me about the party, which I had forgotten about. The disappointment at not having time alone with Felix was so strong that for a moment I almost thought I would throw the mug I was holding at Scott. I placed it safely in the sink just to be sure.
I pick up a cereal box and look at the ingredients halfheartedly. I know I shouldn’t feed Ben this shit, but the likelihood of me actually coming up with an alternative that he will eat is close to zero. I toss the sugary cereal in next to the chips.
‘Gemma Woodstock, I thought it was you.’
I freeze mid-trolley push.
‘Helloooo.’ Candy Fyfe ducks her head in front of mine and wiggles her fingers at me. ‘You’re here early. Case causing you some insomnia?’ Syrupy with empathy, her words run along the nerve in my spine that is specifically reserved for the pitch of her voice.
‘I hate shopping. I’m just getting it out of the way.’
She nods as if agreeing. ‘Mm. You certainly don’t strike me as a Christmas person. Too festive for you. Too joyous.’
‘Go away, Candy.’
‘Oh, come on. You won’t answer my calls at work. Fate clearly brought me to aisle five at this ungodly hour so we could talk. Do you know,’ she went on, clearly not caring whether I wanted to know or not, ‘I had a day off last Friday! First time in, like, I don’t know, two years I’ve had a day off and there’s a freaking murder! I almost missed it. Can you believe it?’
I angle my trolley away from her and push it forward.
‘I was at a wedding in the city. It was lovely, thanks for asking. I made it back on Saturday morning just in the nick of time to get to the lake. But it’s been a full-on week since, trying to solve this doozy.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I hardly think you need to worry yourself with things like that. Surely there’s some little Christmassy piece you should be getting your claws stuck into instead.’
‘C’mon, don’t be like that. Let me buy you a coffee. Have a proper chat. The press conference the other day was a complete waste of time. I want to hear from you where you’re at on this thing. Saves me from filing yet another story that says you guys have no clue.’
‘Seriously, Candy, I’m not doing this now. We’ve made our statement. We’re getting closer every day.’
‘Suit yourself.’ She starts to scan the shelves in an over-exaggerated way.
I walk away from her, more riled than I would ever admit.
‘You know what everyone’s saying, don’t you?’
I keep my eyes on the butter at the end of the aisle. Keep walking, don’t let her get to you.
Candy’s voice has a melodic lilt as she throws one last barb in my direction. ‘Mr Principal certainly was pretty friendly with the beautiful Ms Ryan. That’s the word on the street anyway.’
I spin around in anger and then force myself to breathe away a nasty retort as I watch Candy’s svelte arse sashay up the aisle.
Chapter Thirty-three
Saturday, 19 December, 10.34 am
‘I think it’s only eczema but you just never know. I always panic. I’ve been to the doctor with her at least four times this past month!’
Carol’s laugh dances around her front room. She calls it the sunroom even though it doesn’t really have the right kind of window to be a sunroom. Ben has finally calmed down and is playing sweetly on the floor with Jack, Carol’s son. She is breastfeeding Olive, the baby. Somewhere deeper in the house a radio is on and I hear a familiar news riff. The baby makes a loud sucking sound as she feeds and Carol tuts at her gently.
‘So hungry today, aren’t you? Poor thing.’ Carol pushes wavy hair from her eyes and looks at me apologetically. ‘Do you mind grabbing the cakes from the bench, Gem? I’m kind of stuck here.’