Saturday, 19 December, 12.05 pm
‘I thought the memorial yesterday was wonderful. Just lovely.’ Felicity Shooter gives an approving nod as she tips first one, then another teaspoon of sugar into her coffee. ‘Didn’t you think, darling? Just lovely.’
Troy Shooter nods. The past week has aged him a decade. He can feel the shock deep in his bones. He watches his wife sip at her latte. Some froth lingers on her mouth. He notices a hair shining on her upper lip and how her lipstick has bled beyond the curve of her mouth. She looks a little like Jacqui did when she used to play dress-ups.
‘Yes, yes,’ Felicity clucks like a chicken. ‘Very nice.’
She had woken up in a good mood this morning. ‘Let’s go to that new hotel, the one with the balcony across the front. Paula tells me it is divine. It’s been a hard couple of days—I think we deserve a treat.’
Troy shrugged. It had been a long time since his point of view had been worth voicing.
They drove across town in silence with the air-con blasting, the cool wind on his cheeks like a slap in contrast with the tight heat that was trapped in his suit jacket.
‘Lovely, lovely,’ Felicity said, looking around the sunny balcony as they were led to their table. ‘Look at that view. Magnificent!’
Troy cast his eyes out across the rolling valley, admiring the way the sky met the green and blurred, just like a watercolour. All of a sudden he felt like he might cry, so he quickly sat down and cleared his throat, frantically trying to land on a more positive emotion.
Now, fighting mild panic, Troy looks around at all the other diners. Large, red-faced men are furiously cutting steaks and a table of women in the corner are laughing hysterically as they drink glasses of translucent wine. Troy feels out of place. Who are all these happy, noisy diners? Smithson has changed so much over the past few years that it’s harder and harder to spot a familiar face.
‘It was nice seeing all your work friends again at the service. They are all very nice people. We should have them over sometime. I bet no one else would think to do that. Millie certainly wouldn’t host a dinner, would she? She’s very introverted. Even that young one with the funny hair was nice. It’s a dreadful colour but she seemed a nice girl. Very smart. John Nicholson doesn’t seem to be coping very well, though, does he? It’s written all over his face. But the flowers were beautiful, just lovely. I love roses. I prefer pink rather than red, obviously, but someone told me that she loved red roses, they were her favourite, so I suppose it makes sense.’
Troy looks at his wife. She is breathless from her chatter and breathing deeply. The opal necklace he gave her for their wedding anniversary last year shines at her throat. He thinks about Rosalind’s throat. The papers said she was strangled. And hit with a rock. He tries to picture Rosalind properly, remember what she looked like when she was at her desk in the staffroom or walking past him in the corridor, but the only thing he can summon is the photo of her that was on the memorial handout. It didn’t even look like her really: too much make-up and an odd little smile. It was as if someone who didn’t know her had chosen the photo.
He keeps thinking about walking into Nicholson’s office, finding Rosalind there—the angry flash of her eyes and the pained look on Nicholson’s face. The room felt small and Troy stumbled on his words.
‘It’s okay, Troy. Come in. We’re done,’ Nicholson said heavily.
Rosalind picked up a foot and brought it back down to the floor with force before firing another look at Nicholson and whirling out of the room. That moment felt like something that might be important, but Troy couldn’t for the life of him think what to do with it.
‘Probably a good thing that Christmas is coming. Gives everyone a chance to spend some time with their family and put this behind them.’ Felicity nods, clearly pleased with the neatness of the timing. ‘Yes. Hopefully this will be sorted very soon and everyone can move on.’ She looks at the menu, her eyes scanning the page. ‘I really need to get on top of Christmas lunch. I can’t believe it’s next week!’
Troy uncrosses and then recrosses his legs at the ankles. His left foot prickles with pins and needles. He’s been getting them a lot lately. In bed late at night when he is trying to sleep. That strange buzzing feeling that has him kicking out his legs and stretching his feet, trying to distract his own brain. Over here! Think about this! Or what about this! Football scores, words to a song, capital cities. The exact colour of Rosalind Ryan’s eyes.
‘Jacqui’s bringing a new boy for Christmas, did I tell you? Someone she met at uni. And of course you know that Sophie managed to convince Dave to get out of his family’s lunch so they’re both coming too. With the kids.’ Felicity clicks her tongue smugly as she waves the waitress over.
‘I’m not sure how much longer I’ll teach for.’ He didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, didn’t even quite realise that the thought was tickling around in his head, but as soon as the words are spoken, a sense of calm washes over him. He wants to fish. Go to the beach. Read the classics.
‘Troy! I mean, well. That’s just silly talk. You’re only fifty-six!’
‘That’s not young, Felicity. I’m tired. I’m tired of teaching. I think all this has made me realise just how tired.’
‘Of course this is all absolutely awful, but it’s a one-off. A terrible, horrible thing, but it’s got nothing to do with us.’
‘It’s changed everything.’
‘But why? You worked with her, I understand that. It’s obviously very hard, but …’ Felicity’s hands curl at the edges of the table, stretched white, her blood-red nails like talons. Her lips are pulled back, revealing her canine teeth. She is monstrous, terrifying, and then just as quickly her face is back to normal.
Troy blinks, wondering whether he’s losing his mind.
‘She was obviously mixed up in something. Something bad. Don’t let it ruin your life. Who knows what she was up to, a girl like that.’ Felicity slowly eases back in her chair and downs the last of her sparkling water. ‘Come on, Troy.’ The discussion is clearly over.
Troy forces himself to sit up straight. To focus. He shakes out his foot, which still buzzes as if someone is sawing at his bone. Felicity begins to work through the Christmas lunch plans. Dish by dish, ingredients are reeled off. Plans are made. There is a lot to do. Troy feels the buzzing move up his body all the way into his brain.
Chapter Thirty-five
Saturday, 19 December, 1.48 pm