and social media business. When I left the food industry, Mum had tried to get him to give me a job, but it wasn’t something I was interested in, and he was dead against the idea anyway. It was his business, not mine. What was my business was stopping his kids climbing on me like I was a Ferris wheel. I offered the three of them cupcakes I stole from Zoe’s in exchange for being left alone. It worked, and they were soon nattering away in the next room.
‘They love you.’ Iain offered me a stern “please be nice to my children” look.
‘Yeah, well they scare me.’ I grabbed a seat at the dining table. ‘I don’t want my own, let alone anyone else’s.’
‘They’re family.’ Sat next to me, he stretched out like a cat, overly long typist’s fingers scratching at his blond hair.
‘And a very lovely family.’ I smiled. ‘I love them, very much, from a distance.’
‘Wait until you have your own.’ Mum dithered about and slammed the door of the oven.
If I rolled my eyes any harder, they would’ve popped out of my head and made like marbles across the floor. ‘I’m not having any. Quite happy as I am.’
‘Good choice.’ Iain craned his neck towards the wine rack and plucked out a bottle of red, which he offered me with a look that begged for approval. I gave him two very parched thumbs-up signs.
‘See, he says that, and he has the little crotch goblins.’ I couldn’t uncork the bottle quickly enough. Every single time there was a family gathering, which happened about as often as politicians tweeting sense, the topic of my lack of childbearing ambition was raised, and ended up with Mum crying about wanting more grandbabies. Oh, and my husband.
‘But with Oliver back,’ she implored.
‘No.’
Iain laughed. ‘I heard that. Talk about an awkward sandwich.’
‘There is no sandwich; no one is eating anyone.’ I waved my hands about. ‘I just need to sort things out and move on.’
‘I think you should ask him for a job.’ Mum nodded.
‘Hey?’ Iain asked, surprised. ‘No. I think she should move on and look after herself first. And the fact he’s been a right chop about it all. I mean, he cannot be serious, just blustering back into town like nothing’s happened and set up shop.’
‘You’re not wrong.’ Dad sat to Iain’s left. He held out a wineglass for someone to fill it for him.
‘Thank you.’ I chinked glasses with them both, grateful for some level-headed advice.
Somewhere in a past life, Mum must have catered for an army. There was enough food cooked to feed at least twenty people, though it might explain my love of food and catering. Spread between the kitchen bench and dining table were two different meats, potatoes, pumpkin, peas, gravy, fresh crusty bread, and sweet potato. That was all before she’d started on the sweets.
‘I thought Taylor would be here.’ Mum pulled her chair in and arranged herself. Napkin first, wine second, followed by a Himalayan salt mountain, and a pinch of pepper.
Iain swallowed an entire glass of wine in what appeared to be a single gulp. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘It seems I have a bit of news on that front.’
Every head at the table spun in his direction, not that the news could ever be good following a statement like that. It was the same gut-sinking feeling I got whenever someone said, ‘We need to talk’. Even the kids were quiet – their little legs ceased kicking at the sideboard long enough for the news to break.
‘Is she at work?’ Mum sliced into her potatoes. ‘She’s been working an awful lot lately.’
‘Taylor’s decided to enrich herself and her spiritual wellbeing with someone she met on a girls’ cruise last year.’
My shoulders sank. ‘Oh, Iain, I’m sorry.’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t be. It’s perfectly okay.’
‘But it’s not,’ I argued.
‘I promise you, it’s fine.’ His eyes darted nervously towards the boys. ‘It’s all very amicable and … happy.’
For the first time since I’d arrived, Mum was speechless. Iain and Taylor had only been married for what felt a hundred years. With her jet-black hair, Tipp-Ex teeth, and model physique, she’d been the shining beacon of light, bringing grandchildren and elaborate outfits to Christmas dinners since I was fourteen. I was still in my teens when they said their wedding vows on the blustery summer grounds of the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Sam, their oldest child, was almost twelve.
Iain’s marriage became the new topic of conversation, Dad ready to offer advice where he could, and Mum preparing to put an action plan into place. It was now Operation Save Iain and Taylor, instead of Resurrect Lucy and Oliver. The game of compare and contrast started. This wasn’t like Lucy’s situation; that didn’t happen with Oliver; that’s a new one; what are you going to do with the house; surely, she can’t have it? And on Mum went, unchecked and unstopped while Iain offered effusive answers and did his best to remain positive with the kids in earshot.
Selfishly, I was glad it had taken the spotlight off me.
More dessert than we could handle was wheeled out under the pretence of making us feel better. I guess sugar comas have their place: Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and breakups. That was fair. I was more than over it after one of the boys knocked a coffee off the table and onto me. Using my stained clothing as an excuse, I packed up and headed home.
I’d never been so pleased to see the inside of my car. Ever.
Under the dim glow of the interior light, I dabbed at the stain with paper towels, tissues, an old T-shirt, anything unfortunate enough to be in the car and absorbent. Late-night talkback radio had picked up on the vibe, and was busy offering relationship advice. Open yourself up to options, it said. Don’t be bitter and closed off, but embrace change and new love. Ignoring that, I changed the station and drove off into the night, counting streetlights as I went.
My car wasn’t exactly my car. It was Oliver’s. Among the many things he hadn’t considered when he left was that I couldn’t sell a car that wasn’t legally mine. Every twelve months, the registration and insurance papers would appear in the letterbox, just to let me know the universe was still watching me. I’d stump up the money for another year, send it off for a service, and hope it kept running.
Tonight, my luck ran out. A train line crossed the highway about five kilometres from home. That crossing, at the top of a hill, would prove to be the death of my car. I’d made it over the rumble of the tracks when my headlights dimmed, engine powered down, and I rolled to a stop. No lights, no power, no idea.
I tapped at the fuel gauge. No movement. With a quarter of a tank left, that wasn’t my problem. The torch on my phone illuminated nothing more than the fact all four tyres were still inflated, and nothing in the engine bay looked out of order. There was no steam, no sound, nothing around me, except darkness. The sky was an inkpot, and the moon its silvery screw-top lid. It was so dark that, without streetlights, land blended with the horizon. I had one option: I had to walk.
I gathered my handbag and phone, locked the doors, and started the long walk home. One car zipped past, and then another. Did no one stop to help the lost and deserted any more? What was with that? It was late, almost eleven o’clock, and I was a lone female walking along the highway. I made a mental note that, barring a creepy clown suit or a sign that said ‘Free Sweets’, I would endeavour to help people on the side of the road in the future.
Eventually a car slowed to a crawl beside me. The passenger’s window wound down with an electric hum.
‘Lucy?’
Who else could it possibly be while I was schlepping my way along the highway? Bloody Oliver. I held my head high and kept walking. The car kept rolling alongside me.
‘What’ve