Three Wishes Page 16

  If only those girls knew how many nights they spent with me and a box of Kleenex under the duvet. Ah, the fun we shared that year. I was fair, of course. All three of them got the treatment.

  Anyway, I always swore I'd marry a woman who ran straight into the ocean, like they did.

  I didn't of course. Would you bloody look at her? Get in, woman! Stop being such a girl!

  CHAPTER 12

  "Hello, you," said Charlie. "Happy Boxing Day."

  He held his front door open with his foot and placed his hands on her cheeks to kiss her.

  "Mmm." Every time Gemma kissed Charlie, she accidentally said "Mmm" as if she'd just taken her first mouthful of an unexpectedly delightful dessert.

  Was it physically possible to break up with someone who tasted like that?

  "I've been very domestic this morning," she said when he finally let her go and pulled her inside. "I've made us a proper picnic--and I've put it all in my backpack so I can sling it jauntily over my shoulders."

  She spun in a circle to show him, faintly aware that she was deliberately being cute and charming.

  The plan was to ride up on Charlie's bike to watch the start of the Sydney to Hobart.

  The other plan, Lyn's plan, was for Gemma to ascertain whether Dan was having an affair with Angela. "Just find out what's going on," said Lyn. "But don't break it off. She's got no right to ask that."

  Charlie stood back and surveyed her.

  "I'm overwhelmed by your jauntiness. I'm also overwhelmed by the fact that you think you're coming on the bike wearing those shorts."

  Gemma looked down at her bare legs. "Oh."

  "Sorry. Not prepared to risk those very sexy legs."

  She lifted one leg and pointed her sneakered toe like a ballet dancer. "We're vain about our legs. We got them from Mum."

  "We?" Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Is this like the royal we?"

  "My sisters."

  "To be honest I'm only interested in your legs--not your sisters'."

  "Speaking of sisters--"

  His tone changed. "Let's not."

  "Our worlds collide."

  "Yes."

  "This is a bit awkward." Gemma clutched the straps of her jaunty backpack.

  "Oh well. Let's talk about something less awkward."

  "Cat wants me to break up with you."

  Charlie became very still.

  "Cat was the one who stormed off? She's Dan's wife?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you want to break up? Because don't just use this--this thing--as an excuse. If you want to finish it, finish it."

  "No. I don't want to finish it. It's nice. I like your eyelashes."

  His shoulders relaxed. "Good." He smiled. "I like your legs."

  "Is Angela having an affair with Dan?"

  Charlie scrunched up his face in comical pain. "I really don't want to do this conversation. Can't we just go have a nice picnic and forget about our siblings?"

  "We really have to do it." A pleasing touch of Lyn-type authority.

  He sighed. "We didn't talk about it much because to be honest I didn't want to hear. Even though it was obvious something very strange was going on in that kitchen. But yes, she did have something going with him. I don't know how many times they saw each other. But he definitely ended it when his wife, your sister, got pregnant."

  His wife. Cat was someone's wife who got pregnant. Gemma could see Cat sitting on the bathroom floor, looking up at her, pretending so hard not to care about the results of the pregnancy test--and visibly trembling. She was shaking all over, and she didn't even seem aware of it. And now Dan had put her in a situation where she was described as the wife who got pregnant.

  That slimy scoundrel.

  "She swears that it's definitely over," continued Charlie. "I believe her. She doesn't want to break up a marriage."

  Gemma didn't say anything. She was busy punching Dan in the stomach.

  "I thought about giving her a Chinese Burn," offered Charlie.

  "Humph."

  "If it makes you feel better, she's really upset about the whole thing."

  "She's upset!"

  "Jeez." Charlie held up his palms in surrender. "I know. Look, the real offender here is Dan the Man. I didn't like him the moment I saw him."

  "Didn't you?" asked Gemma, momentarily diverted.

  "Nope. Arrogant prick."

  "Are you absolutely positive it's over?"

  "Positive."

  "Absolutely positive?"

  "Absolutely. Look. It doesn't need to come between us, does it?"

  "No."

  Jesus, Mary--and Cat--willing.

  "Because I think we could be good." He wound his fingers around the straps of her backpack and jiggled her back and forth.

  "Do you?" There was that melting-caramel feeling again.

  "Oooh yeah. I think we could really go places...Like North Head, for example. Like right now."

  "Let's go then."

  "Oh." Charlie stopped as he went to pick up the two helmets from the hallway. "One thing I wanted to ask you."

  "Yes?"

  "Angie said she remembers seeing the three of you outside her flat. You're not planning on stalking her, are you?"

  Gemma felt the tips of her ears become mildly warm. "That was a one-off."

  "Good. Because she's still my little sister. Even if she does stupid things."

  "Well. Yes." A spark of embarrassed resentment.

  She wore a pair of Charlie's jeans for the ride up to North Head. At each set of lights he put one hand back and caressed her leg. She squeezed her thighs around his hips and the top of her helmet clunked romantically against his. At North Head they found a space among the crowds for their blanket and cheered as the ocean became a frothy highway of busily zigzagging yachts, their sails blossoming in the breeze.

  "Doesn't get better than this, does it?" said a man sitting next to them.

  "Well, it could do," began Gemma thoughtfully.

  "No, mate, it doesn't," interrupted Charlie, and he put his hand across her mouth, like an elder brother. She'd always dreamed--somewhat incestuously--of a lovely, protective, bossy older brother.

  Once the boats had disappeared off the horizon, they went for a snorkel on Shelley Beach. It was a glimmery, hazy hot day and the water was dappled green. They saw darting shoals of tiny, iridescent fish and sleepy cod slithering mysteriously in and out of rocky hiding places. The rhythmic kick of Charlie's flippers created clouds of translucent bubbles and Gemma thought, At this particular moment, I am entirely happy. She felt his hand on her shoulder and lifted her head and trod water. He pulled his snorkel from his mouth and pointed downward, his animated face squashed by his mask, like a ten-year-old. "Giant stingray!" Then he shoved his snorkel back into his mouth and dived down deep to see it. Gemma followed him and swallowed a gigantic mouthful of salt water when she saw the size of the alien creature flapping its way along the sandy bottom.

  Afterward, when they were making banana smoothies in the cool of Charlie's kitchen, she said, "Have you always lived in Australia?"

  "Apart from when I was twenty--I lived in Italy for nearly a year, with my mum's family." He scooped ice cream into the blender. "They come from a little village in the mountains on the east coast of Italy. I'll take you there one day. My aunties will try and feed you up and my cousins will try and feel you up. Ha."

  He was always doing that--talking as if they had a future.

  Gemma watched him press the button on his blender. She licked her lips and tasted salt.

  "You know what's funny about you?" she said suddenly. "It's like you're always on holiday. You're like a tourist. A happy one."

  (When Charlie got dressed, he sort of jumped into his jeans or shorts. She didn't tell him that. She didn't want him to get self-conscious about it, or stop it.) "That's because I'm with you. That's the effect you have on me."

  "No it's not. I bet you're always like that. I bet you were born like that. One of those fat, gurg
ly little babies. Baby Charlie!"

  "I hate to disappoint you, but I wasn't even called Charlie. My real name is Carluccio. It was my friend Paul who started calling me Charlie. Have I told you about him?"

  Something about the expression on his face made Gemma think, Uh-oh, he's about to share. It was lovely of course, but she had a terrible habit of laughing in the wrong places when boyfriends got profound.

  She tried to look meaningful. "No. Tell me."

  Charlie handed her a tall frothy glass.

  "He lived across the road from me. I don't even remember meeting him, he was just always there. We did everything together. You know the sort of adventures kids have together. Going places on our bikes. Finding stuff. Building stuff. Anyway. When we were fifteen, Paul died."

  "Oh!" Gemma just managed to stop herself from dropping her smoothie. "Oh dear!"

  "He died of an asthma attack in the middle of the night. His mum found him, with his inhaler still in hand. Teenage boys don't handle grief very well. The day of his funeral I punched a hole in my bedroom wall. My knuckles bled. My dad plastered it up and gave me a little pat on the shoulder."

  "Poor, poor Charlie." She could just imagine his shattered, boyish face.

  "It's O.K., no need for violins. Drink your smoothie, please. The thing about Paul was that he was always so enthusiastic about things. I was the laid-back one, the one who was hard to impress. He was always saying, Oh man, that's so cool! He'd see a blue-tongued lizard and he'd be down on his hands and knees with his eyes bulging just like the Crocodile Hunter and I'd be like Yeah, yeah', but secretly just as excited. When he was gone, I really missed that. So, one day, I decided, I'd pretend to be like Paul. When I saw a good movie or caught a great wave, I'd say to myself, Oh man, Charlie, that's so cool! It was like I was wearing one of Paul's old shirts. At first I was faking it, just to feel better. But then I wasn't faking it anymore. It was like a habit. So, blame Paul. He gave me my name and my personality."

  "Lovely name. Lovely personality."

  Charlie drained his glass and peered at the bottom as if he was trying to find something.

  "What about your fiance who died?" he asked, without looking at her. "That must have been pretty bad."

  "Yes, it must have been," said Gemma, imagining how Charlie must be imagining her, young, in love, devastated. "I mean, yes, it was."

  "And nobody else has managed to get a ring on your finger since him. Is that because nobody can live up to his standards?"

  "Nobody can live up to my standards."

  "Oh I see. And it's always you who does the breaking up?"

  "Yes. I can't seem to break that six-month mark."

  "I see." Charlie nodded his head wisely and pretended to peer at her over invisible glasses, while judicially stroking an invisible beard. "Very interesting. Why don't we move into my office and discuss this."

  He took her by the hand and led her out to his living room. She lay down flat on the couch, only to find that her psychiatrist was lying on top of her, explaining that he had diagnosed her condition and was ready to administer treatment. Yes, it was considered rather unorthodox in certain circles, but he could assure her it was highly effective.

  She just needed to lie very still.

  "Say something in Italian to me."

  "Io non vado via."

  "What's it mean?"

  "It means I'm going to break the six-month mark."

  To: Gemma; Cat

  From: Lyn

  Subject: The Parents

  Do you two want to get together some time to discuss the above? Maybe brunch at Bronte? Michael's mother has got Maddie all day Wed. if you're free.

  I am blown away by this. L.

  To: Lyn; Gemma

  From: Cat

  Subject: The Parents

  Fine with me. I'll come straight from the joys of marriage counseling.

  The parents' little love fest is completely nauseating.

  Gemma--have you dumped the locksmith yet?

  To: Lyn; Cat

  From: Gemma

  Subject: The Parents

  He's not the LOCKSMITH--he's CHARLIE--and I said I would THINK about it and that's what I'm still doing.

  P.S. Wednesday is fine with me for brunch. I think it's NICE that Mum and Dad are dating. What's wrong with you two??

  Before the day Marcus went flying across Military Road, Gemma had been living with him in his very expensive, very tidy Potts Point flat for close to two years. It never felt like home. She just slept at Marcus's place every night of the week.

  Cat and Lyn came to stay with her the night before the funeral.

  Lyn was tanned gold from her interrupted holiday in Europe, with jet-lagged circles under her eyes. She'd been gone for nearly a year and her hair was longer and she was wearing an entire outfit Gemma had never seen before. Even her shoes were different.

  "I love those shoes! Are they Italian?" asked Gemma.

  "Don't even think about it," said Lyn automatically, and then she looked stricken and said, "Or you can borrow them if you want." Gemma said, "O.K. I will" and clomped around the flat in Lyn's shoes and waited for her to say, "Walk properly! You're doing your weird walk, you're going to ruin them!" but Lyn just smiled in a strained, interested way and Gemma thought, My God, how long are they going to keep this up for?

  It made Gemma feel queasy, how nice they were being to her. They were both speaking in strangely proper voices and every now and then she'd catch them staring at her, almost as if they were frightened.

  Perhaps she was behaving oddly for someone with a dead fiance. She probably was, because she felt very odd. Extremely odd.

  It was his absence that confused her. How could a tall, strong, definite man like Marcus just not be there anymore? She kept pushing the idea around in her head, trying to make sense of it. Marcus is dead. Marcus is dead. I will never see him again. Marcus is gone. Gone forever. A giant hand had reached down into her world and ripped out a large shred of her reality. It gave her vertigo.

  Gemma's only other experience with death had been Nana Leonard but she'd been such a frail, unassuming presence. There was no gaping hole left when she died, she just gently slipped away, leaving the world pretty much as it had been. But Marcus? Marcus was big, booming, and definite. That's what she loved about him. You would never say to Marcus, "Are you sure?" because it would be a stupid question. Marcus had opinions and plans and a car and furniture. Marcus had a strong libido and strong political views. He could do one hundred push-ups without breaking a sweat.

  Marcus must be very angry about not being there anymore.

  "Yeah, mate, I don't think so." That's what he said on the phone when he disagreed with somebody. He wouldn't agree with dying. "Yeah, mate, I don't think so," he'd be saying at the Pearly Gates. "Let me speak to the manager. We'll straighten this out."

  If Marcus wasn't there, how could Gemma still be there?

  She looked down at her own feet in Lyn's Italian shoes and felt very, very weird.

  "I feel weird," she said.

  "Well, you would," said Cat.

  "It's perfectly normal," said Lyn.

  And they both looked petrified.

  Gemma watched her sisters pinching their bottom lips in exactly the same way and realized she couldn't possibly confess to them the dreadful, blasphemous thought that had come into her head just before she went running across the road to see if Marcus was O.K. It would distress them. Even if they said, "Oh no, that doesn't mean anything! Don't worry about it! It was probably just the shock!" Gemma would know they were lying.

  They would think of her differently forever. She had been hoping they could somehow make it right--but they couldn't. Of course they couldn't.

  She put her hands up to her face, and now finally she was behaving properly. Both her sisters sprang to her side.

  "Would you like a cup of tea?" asked Lyn, smoothing a lock of Gemma's hair behind her ear, like she was a little child. "And bun? More bun?"

 
"No, thank you."

  Cat patted her arm nervously. "Would you like to get drunk?"

  "Yes please. Or no. I know. High."

  "Sorry?"

  "Marcus has got some dope. It's in the cupboard above the stove."

  So that's how they spent the night before Marcus's funeral.

  Lyn rolled a beautiful neat joint and they sat cross-legged on his clean creamy carpet and passed it around, without saying a word. Gemma felt a satisfying rush of nothingness filling and expanding her brain.

  "No wedding now," she observed finally, as she passed the joint to Lyn.

  Lyn narrowed her eyes as she inhaled and the tip of the joint burned brightly. "That's right. No wedding."

  Gemma said, "You won't get to wear your bridesmaid dresses."

  "No," agreed Lyn, coughing a bit as she passed the joint to Cat.

  "You hated your dresses, didn't you?"

  They sat with very upright backs and exchanged solemn looks.

  "Yes, we did hate them," Cat said slowly. "We really did."

  And that's when they all started to giggle, wildly, rapturously, rocking back and forth with tears of hysteria running down their faces. Gemma watched Cat drop a piece of ash on Marcus's pristine carpet and imagined his face twisting with rage. She got onto her hands and knees and still sobbing with laughter, she crawled over to the piece of ash and used the tip of her finger to rub it hard against the cream wool.

  "You're making it worse," said Lyn.

  "I know." She rubbed her finger back and forth, harder and harder, smearing the black smudge across the carpet.

  She never told anybody the thought that came into her head, the moment after Marcus collided with the concrete, while she was waiting for someone to tell her what to do, before she started running.

  She didn't think it so much, as hear it, with bell-like clarity, as if a sober person had walked into a drunken, noisy party, snapped off the music, and made an announcement in the sudden, stunned silence.

  She recognized her own voice. Four clear, cool, precise words: "I hope he's dead."