Truly Madly Guilty

  Her mother slapped her knee and laughed her pretty laugh.

  chapter thirty-two

  The day of the barbeque

  Dakota looked over at where the grown-ups were sitting around the table and saw her mother slide her eyes towards her before leaning forward as if she was about to share a secret.

  Holly and Ruby were squashed into the swinging egg chair on either side of her and she was showing them the Duck Song Game app. They both loved it. The girls were pretty cute and she liked them a lot but she'd kind of had enough of them now. She felt like going back inside to her bedroom and reading her book.

  The grown-ups were all giggling excitedly now and lowering their voices as though they were teenagers telling rude jokes, and Dakota felt irritated.

  They did this sometimes. She'd overheard enough bits and pieces to know that the rude, silly thing was something to do with how her mum and dad had met, but when she asked them they always said they'd met when they were both bidding for the same house, and then they shot each other glinting looks that they thought she was too stupid to catch.

  Her older half-sisters said they knew the secret and the secret was that her dad had had a love affair with her mum when he was still married to Angelina. Angelina was her dad's first wife, and it was very hard, almost impossible for Dakota to imagine this, even though she had an excellent imagination.

  But her mother said there was absolutely no love affair while her dad was still married to someone else and Dakota believed her.

  It was frustrating that she didn't just come out and say the secret, because Dakota was old enough to handle whatever it was. Okay, so it was true, she'd never seen an R-rated movie, but she watched the news and she knew about sex and murder and ISIS and paedophiles. What else could there possibly be to know?

  Also, as a matter of fact, she was more mature than her parents when it came to sex. There had been a sex education talk at her school where the parents had had to come too, and the lady giving the talk had said, 'Now, some of this is going to make you feel like giggling and that's natural, you can have a little giggle, but then we'll just move along.'

  She'd said this to the kids, but it was the grown-ups who couldn't keep it together. Her dad, who wasn't used to keeping quiet for such a long period of time (the only times he stopped talking were when he went to sleep and sometimes when he listened to his classical music; you couldn't see a movie with him), had kept saying things under his breath to her friend Ashok's dad, and in the end they were both snorting so hard they'd had to leave the room, and even then you could still hear them laughing outside.

  This secret they were keeping from her was probably nothing. 'Is that all?' Dakota would say, and she'd roll her eyes and feel embarrassed for them.

  Holly and Ruby squabbled over Dakota's iPad.

  'My turn!'

  'No, my turn!'

  'Play nicely,' said Dakota, and she heard the way she sounded and you would have thought she was, like, forty years old. Seriously.

  chapter thirty-three

  The lines around Andrew's eyes had deepened but, apart from that, he looked exactly the same. Tiffany saw the unmistakeable glimmer of recognition in his pale eyes even as he gave her the appropriate, courteous smile for a fellow parent at a school event.

  Did she see fear too? Or laughter? Confusion? He was probably trying to place her. She was out of context. She was way, way out of context.

  Tiffany didn't have a chance to introduce herself because at that moment a silver-haired, elegantly suited woman glided onto the stage and instantly quietened the room with her presence. The school principal. Robyn Byrne. She wrote a weekly column in the local paper about educating girls.

  'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, girls,' the principal said, in a way that made it clear she expected to be answered, and so everyone did, automatically, with that pre-programmed sing-song rhythm: Good morning, Ms Byrne, followed by a faint ripple of chuckles as CEOs, barristers and ear, nose and throat specialists realised they'd been tricked into schoolyard subservience.

  Tiffany looked to her left, at Vid, who was smiling goofily down at Dakota, as if she were a toddler at a Wiggles concert. Dakota sat motionless, that awful catatonic look on her face.

  'A very warm welcome to Saint Anastasias,' said the school principal.

  A very warm welcome to crippling school fees.

  'Thank you for venturing out today in this truly dreadful weather!' Ms Byrne lifted both arms ballerina-style to indicate the heavens above and everyone glanced up at the soaring ceilings protecting them from the rain.

  Tiffany chanced another quick look sideways at Andrew. He wasn't looking up but was instead staring straight ahead at the school principal, his legs crossed, a Rolex-watched wrist draped languidly over one knee in an almost feminine pose.

  A nice man. The creepy eyes were misleading. She could remember them filled with laughter.

  'Your daughters will leave this school as confident, resilient young women.' Ms Byrne was off, delivering the private school party line. Resilience. What crap. No kid was going to go to school in a place that looked like freaking Buckingham Palace and come out of it resilient. She should be honest: 'Your daughter will leave this school with a grand sense of entitlement that will serve her well in life; she'll find it especially useful on Sydney roads.'

  Tiffany looked again at Dakota, who continued to stare unseeingly at the stage, while next to her, Vid pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and nonchalantly checked text messages, his chunky thumb swiping the screen back and forth. Manners! What would people think? Yes, Tiffany, what would people think? What would people think if Andrew told his wife about his connection to her? But why would he? Oh, darling, the funniest thing, but that woman sitting next to you this morning was actually an old friend!

  She was an old friend.

  What if he did tell his wife, and what if his wife told all the other mothers, or just one mother, who couldn't resist telling one other mother? Until finally word got out to the daughters? What would that mean for Dakota's social standing at this school? Would that help her become a 'resilient young woman'? Yeah, well, it probably would. Nothing like a bit of social ostracism to toughen you up.

  Tiffany closed her eyes briefly.

  She had to keep her footing. She thought of her sisters, all those years ago, saying, 'How could you, Tiffany?' But she'd felt no shame, she'd never felt shame, so why was she sitting here drenched in it now?

  She knew why. She knew exactly why. It was because everything felt out of balance since the barbeque. They had been the hosts. It was their home. It had happened in their home, and it was more than that - their behaviour had contributed. Contributory negligence. She could not claim innocence. Neither could Vid.

  So what if she took responsibility for all of it?

  For Harry lying on the floor of his home, calling weakly for help that never came.

  For Clementine's eyes gleaming in the twilight, and it had all been in good fun, no harm intended. Just because they were parents didn't mean they weren't people.

  For the lines she'd once crossed. Only once.

  The school principal's voice rose as she tapped closed fingertips together in her refined version of applause, to welcome three girls in school uniform onto the stage, each carrying a musical instrument.

  Tiffany looked at the lustrous gold wood of the instruments, the red school ribbons in perfect ponytails, the elegant cut and quality of their school blazers, and she saw with absolute clarity what would happen if Andrew told his wife how he knew Tiffany. Nothing nasty or cruel would ever be said out loud, but green-coated, red-ribboned girls would destroy Dakota with stifled giggles and low whispers, with fake smiles and cryptic, cutting comments on social media. Dakota would pay.

  The girls lifted their bows in unison. Music filled the hall. The music of another world. Clementine's world. Not the bass beat of Tiffany's world.

  Tiffany looked sideways at Dakota's beautiful, young profile in time
to catch an expression of immense sadness cross her face. It was as though Tiffany's little girl was being struck down by some terrible grief. It was as though everything Tiffany had just foreseen had already come to be.

  'Mum.' Dakota suddenly turned to face Tiffany and whispered, 'I think I'm going to be sick.'

  Tiffany felt a surge of gratitude and maternal love. It was not grief, it was nausea. She could fix this. Easy. 'Let's go,' she whispered back, and she stood, urgently gesturing at Vid. She walked out past her new friend in the Stella McCartney skirt, her daughter and Andrew, who nodded politely, with maybe a little tightness around his mouth, but she could have been imagining it. Once they were outside, Dakota said she didn't want to find a bathroom, she just needed to go home, please, right away. Her face was white.

  Vid, in his inimitable way, found a woman wearing a name badge, explained the situation and was given an information folder and sent on his way with an understanding smile. He was comfortable in any social situation: garden party or cage fighting contest, it was all the same to Vid, it was all interesting.

  Would he find her connection to Andrew interesting?

  Dakota climbed into the back of the car.

  'Do you want the front seat?' babbled Tiffany.

  Dakota shook her head dumbly.

  'Sit in the middle at least,' said Tiffany. 'So you can see the road ahead. Better for your tummy.'

  Dakota slid over to the middle, and Vid and Tiffany got in the front and they drove out of the school grounds towards home. After a while, when it seemed clear that Dakota wasn't going to be sick, Vid lit up a cigarette and began to speak.

  'So, pretty good school, right? What do you think? The girls playing their instruments were good, eh? Maybe you could play the cello, Dakota! Like Clementine. We could get Clementine to give you lessons.'

  'Vid,' said Tiffany. For God's sake. Was he completely deluded? Did he really believe Clementine would want to have anything to do with them ever again after what had happened? She would find every excuse in the world not to teach Dakota. And her location wasn't exactly convenient. If Dakota really did want to learn a musical instrument they'd find someone local. 'Clementine won't want to give Dakota lessons.'

  There was a strange sound in the back seat.

  'Are you going to be sick, honey?' Tiffany whipped her head around.

  Dakota's eyes locked onto Tiffany's. It was as though she were trapped within her own body, pleading desperately with Tiffany to help.

  'Can you breathe?' said Tiffany. 'Dakota, can you breathe? Are you choking?'

  'Dakota?' Vid chucked his cigarette out the window and wrenched the steering wheel to the left, coming to a stop on the side of the road with a squeal of brakes and the outraged shriek of a horn from behind him.

  Tiffany and Vid opened their car doors and flung themselves out into the pouring rain. They opened the back doors and climbed in on either side of Dakota.

  'What is it? What is it?' said Tiffany.

  'It ... it ...' Dakota's chest heaved. Tears spilled from her eyes and rolled down her face.

  Tiffany's heart thudded. What could have happened to her? What could be so awful? It had to be sexual abuse. Someone had touched her. Someone had hurt her.

  'Dakota,' said Vid. 'Dakota, my angel, take a very deep breath, okay?' There was a quiver of terror in his voice as if his mind was following a similar path. 'And then you need to tell us what the matter is.'

  Dakota took a deep, shaky breath.

  At last she whispered, 'Clementine.'

  'Clementine?' repeated Tiffany.

  'She hates me,' sobbed Dakota.

  'She does not!' responded Tiffany immediately, instinctively to the banned word 'hate'. 'I only meant she wouldn't want to give lessons because I got the impression she doesn't especially like teaching, she's going for a full-time job with -'

  'Yes, she does so hate me!' snapped Dakota, and it was a relief to hear ordinary, ten-year-old petulance.

  'Why would you think Clementine hates you?' said Vid.

  Dakota threw herself at her father. He wrapped her in his arms, and his mystified eyes met Tiffany's over her head.

  'Oh, Dakota,' said Tiffany. 'Sweetheart. No. No.' She leaned forward and rested her cheek against Dakota's narrow, hunched back and put her hand on her knobbly spine, her heart breaking for her, because she knew exactly what Dakota was going to say.

  chapter thirty-four

  This morning's wedding was only a ten-minute drive from Clementine's house, thankfully, and she knew exactly where she was going, so she wouldn't get lost. That was the worst part of being a freelancer, the driving to unknown locations.

  She'd never been late for a gig, touch wood, because she always allowed time for the inevitable mistakes.

  The wedding was at a sheltered little harbour inlet park with huge native figs and an old bandstand. Clementine didn't enjoy playing outdoors: lugging her cello and music stand around parks trying to find the right place, sheet music flapping about in the wind in spite of the clothes pegs she used to keep it secure, cold days when you couldn't feel your fingers, hot days when your make-up ran down your face, no acoustics so the sound dissipated pointlessly into the atmosphere. But for some reason this particular spot was always kind to them; the sound of their music floated across the blue sparkle of the harbour and punctual brides posted glowing online tributes after their honeymoons.

  Not today, though. Today was going to be awful. There was no point to a harbour view you couldn't see. Clementine looked at the heavy grey band of cloud pressing down on Sydney's skyline. The world felt narrower. People walked around sort of hunkered down, ducking beneath the sky. It had been raining steadily all morning, and although it had slowed to a soft drizzle now, it could make a comeback at any moment.

  'They're still going ahead with it outside then?' Clementine had said on the phone this morning to Kim, first violinist and manager of Passing Notes.

  'They've hired a pop-up marquee for us,' said Kim. 'The guests will have to make do with umbrellas. The bride was in tears this morning. She thought there was no way the rain would last this long. I remember when she first booked and I said to her, "What's your wet weather plan?" and she said, "It won't rain." Why do they always say that? Why are brides so deluded?'

  Kim was in the middle of a nasty divorce.

  Clementine wondered if she was at the beginning of a nasty divorce. Today, as Sam left for the ferry she'd said, 'Have a good day at work,' and she was sure she'd caught him rolling his eyes, as if he'd never heard anything so inane, or as if she was the last person in the world he wanted to wish him a good day at work. It had hurt, a sudden sharp sting, like a reprimand, like when her C string snapped this morning just as she'd bent her head and pinged her cheek. That had never happened to her before. She didn't even know it was possible. There was too much tension in her playing. Too much tension in her body. Too much tension in her home. The sting of the string had felt personal, and she'd sat there in the dark early morning and refused to let herself press her fingertips to her cheek.

  She parked her car right near the entrance to the park. She was twenty minutes early because she'd still allowed a twenty-minute 'getting lost' buffer just in case. She yawned and studied the weather. The rain might hold off just long enough for the ceremony. If the bride was lucky.

  She put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

  Today she had got up at five am and had worked with the metronome on the Beethoven excerpt. 'Feel the inner pulse,' Marianne used to say, although then she'd suddenly cry, 'Too choppy! Too choppy!'

  Clementine massaged her aching shoulder. Her first cello teacher, Mr Winterbottom (her older brothers and her father all called him Mr Winter-Bum), used to say, 'Nobody plays pain-free,' if Clementine ever complained that something hurt. Clementine's mother hadn't liked that at all. Pam had researched the Alexander technique and in fact the exercises still helped when Clementine remembered to do them.

  Mr Winterbottom u
sed to tap her knee with his bow and say, 'More practice, missy, you can't coast on your talent, because I can assure you, you don't have enough to spare,' and, 'It's hard for you to put the emotionality in your music because you're too young, you've never actually felt anything. You need to have your heart broken.' When she was sixteen he'd sent her to audition for the Sydney Youth Orchestra but told her that she had no hope of getting in, she simply wasn't good enough, though it would be good experience. There was no screen, just the audition panel, all smiling supportively, but after she sat down with her cello, she couldn't even put her bow to her strings because she was so stricken by unexpected terror. It was like a terrible illness had befallen her. She stood up and walked off the stage without playing a note. There just didn't seem to be any other option. Mr Winterbottom said he'd never been so ashamed of a student in all his teaching days, and he had a lot of students. Kids lugging cello cases came and went from his house all day long: a production line of cellists learning to self-loathe.

  After the audition debacle her mother had found her a new teacher, and her beloved Marianne had said on the first day that auditions were unnatural and frightening and she herself had always hated them and that she would never send Clementine for an audition for which she wasn't properly prepared.

  Why had cancer pointed its cruel, random finger at beautiful Marianne and not Mr Awful Winter-Bum, who was still alive and well and churning out neurotic musicians?

  Clementine opened her eyes and sighed as a tiny spatter of raindrops fell upon the windscreen. It was the rain warming up before its big entrance. She turned on the radio and heard an announcer say: 'As Sydney's "Big Wet" continues, people have been warned to stay away from stormwater drains and creeks.'

  Her phone rang on the seat next to her and she snatched it up to look at the screen. There was no name but she recognised that particular configuration of numbers.

  Vid.

  He'd called so many times since the barbeque she'd learned to recognise his number, but she never bothered to program his details into her phone, because he wasn't a friend, he was an acquaintance, a friend's neighbour, who she never wanted to see again. Erika had no right to give him her number. Vid and Tiffany should have passed on any messages through her. What did he want from her?