‘No pool?’ asked Sam, who had grown up splashing about in a backyard above-ground pool with his brothers and sister. ‘You’ve got enough room for one.’
He looked about the backyard as if planning a redesign, and Clementine could tell exactly where his mind was heading. Sometimes he talked wistfully about selling up and moving out to a good old-fashioned quarter-acre block in the suburbs, where there would be room for a pool and a trampoline, a cubby house and a chook shed and a vegetable garden; a house where his children could have the sort of childhood he’d had, even though nobody had childhoods like that anymore, and even though Sam was more urban than her, and loved being able to walk to restaurants and bars and catch the ferry into the city.
Clementine shuddered at the thought of the third child in that suburban dream of his, now at the front of his mind thanks to Erika’s request. God, there might even be a fourth child romping about in his imaginary backyard.
‘No pool! I’m not a fan of chlorine. Unnatural,’ said Vid, as if there were anything natural about all this glossy marble and concrete.
‘It’s incredible,’ said Clementine again, in case Sam’s comment could be interpreted as criticism. ‘Is that a maze over there in the corner? For lovers’ trysts?’
She didn’t know why she’d said ‘lovers’ trysts’. What a thing to say. Had she ever said the word ‘tryst’ out loud in her life before? Was that even how you pronounced it?
‘Yes, and for Easter egg hunts with all of Dakota’s cousins,’ said Tiffany.
‘Taking care of that topiary must take up a bit of your time,’ commented Oliver, looking at the sculptured hedges.
‘I have a good friend, you know, he takes care of it.’ Vid made giant snip-snip movements with his hands to indicate someone else doing his hedge clipping.
The late afternoon sun streamed into the cabana and created a rainbow effect in the mist of water billowing from the wonderfully absurd fountain. Clementine felt a sudden burst of optimism. Surely Erika hadn’t overheard what she’d said, and even if she had, Clementine would make it right, like she had so many times before, and then she’d find a nice, gentle way to explain why she couldn’t donate her eggs. An anonymous egg donor would be more suitable for all concerned. They existed! Didn’t they? People were always getting pregnant using donated eggs. Or celebrities were, anyway.
And Sam didn’t really want another baby, any more than he really wanted to be a tradesman like his dad. He sometimes said he should have done something with his hands. After a frustrating day at work he’d go on about how he wasn’t really cut out for the corporate world, but then next thing he was all excited about a TV commercial he was shooting. Everyone had another sort of life up their sleeve that might have made them happy. Yes, Sam could have been a plumber married to a stay-at-home domestically minded wife who kept the house in perfect order, with five strapping football-playing sons, but then he probably would have dreamed of having a fun office job and living in a cool, funky suburb by the harbour with a cellist and two gorgeous little girls, thank you very much.
She took a bite of Vid’s strudel. Sam, who was already halfway through eating one, laughed at her. ‘I knew your eyes would roll back into your head when you tasted that.’
‘It’s spectacular,’ said Clementine.
‘Yeah, not bad, hey,’ said Vid. ‘Tell me, do you taste a little hint of something, like the idea of a flavour, you know, the dream of a flavour, and you just can’t quite put your finger on it?’
‘It’s sage,’ said Clementine.
‘It is sage!’ cried Vid.
‘My wife is so sage,’ said Sam. Tiffany chuckled and Clementine saw the pleasure on her husband’s face that he’d made the hot chick laugh.
She said, ‘Don’t encourage the bad dad humour, Tiffany.’
‘Sorry.’ Tiffany grinned at her.
Clementine smiled back and found her eyes drawn irresistibly to Tiffany’s cleavage. It was like something from a Wonderbra ad. Were those breasts real? Tiffany could probably afford the best. Clementine’s friend Emmeline would know. Emmeline had perfect pitch and an unerring eye for a fake boob. That glorious cleavage had to be as unnatural as this backyard. Tiffany adjusted her T-shirt. Oh God, she’d been staring for too long now. Clementine looked away fast and back at the children.
‘This strudel is very good,’ said Oliver, in his careful, polite way, wiping a fragment of pastry off the side of his mouth.
‘Yes, it’s excellent,’ said Erika.
Clementine turned her head. Erika had slurred the word ‘excellent’, just a little. In fact, if it were anyone else Clementine wouldn’t have used the word ‘slur’, but Erika had a very precise way of speaking. Each vowel was always enunciated just so. Was Erika a little tipsy? If so, it would be a first. She’d always hated the idea of losing control. So did Oliver. Presumably that was part of the reason why they were attracted to each other.