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  Not my choice to be slumming it at Action Supermarkets, said Jen, although she knew that it wasn’t as though Steven had gone povo by choice.

  In the end, they let it lie. Tonight was Emily’s recital, with Emily having passed grade one at only seven years old. A time to focus on things right, instead of all that could possibly go wrong.

  They corralled the three kids, from big babushka through to smallest, to get ready: Alex, with his socks left inside out, half under the couch; Emily, with glitter clogging the window frame of her bedroom; and Jay, just a puppy of a boy.

  An ‘oof’ echoed from the kids’ bedrooms, voices rose. ‘Jay says he can’t go because he’s stupid!’ yelled Alex.

  ‘Alex,’ called Steven, ‘be good or you won’t go.’

  ‘Great!’ said Alex.

  ‘Oops,’ said Jen, slipping a tie off the coat rail.

  A momentary lull downstairs. Silence, shuffling, and then the bump, bump, bounce of Alex and Jay on the living room couches.

  ‘Kids!’ said Jen.

  ‘It was Jay!’ shouted Alex.

  Jen rested the tie around her husband’s neck, looped it over itself, and tightened the strip of blue, seeking a button to slip inside the fabric.

  ‘You look amazing,’ said Steven.

  ‘You look pretty good yourself,’ she said, pulling him close.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He looked down. ‘I mean me, this. I’m not always there.’

  She’d been in and out too, had dropped off her medication. Outside, riding the waves. Inside, three foot under, kicking to reach the surface.

  ‘You ever been here? It’s not the greatest place,’ said Jen.

  She saw a shadow out of the corner of her eye, focused on the doorway, but caught only the darkened stair rail, its rich oak contrasting with the far white wall.

  Steven let her go, walked back to his side of the bed.

  ‘Emily’s getting good,’ he said, slipping into his blazer.

  ‘You ever tell her?’ said Jen.

  He paused. ‘You shouldn’t mollycoddle your kids.’

  ‘Or ignore them,’ she said. She finished with her lipstick, capped the tube, rubbed top lip on bottom, and rose from the dresser stool. Tucked a stray strand of teased hair behind her ear, and smoothed her too-tight black dress.

  ‘I’m getting fat,’ said Jen. ‘Huge.’

  ‘You said that if you were ever hard on yourself, I had to throw you on the bed and ravish you,’ said Steven.

  ‘Steven.’

  He came to her, slipped a hand down her side.

  ‘Steven!’

  ‘Say that you’re beautiful.’

  She laughed. ‘Fat.’

  ‘Beautiful.’ He pushed her onto the bed.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Our children will never know how close they came to serious trauma.’

  He lifted his wife off the bed. She felt half happy, half sad. Thought they’d shared a moment, but it had already gone.

  ‘Did you remember to book swimming for Jay?’ said Steven.

  She shook her head. ‘Was worried about money. You think you can get another shift?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Steven. ‘I’ve got this, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jen, but she wanted to say, No, Steven. Nothing’s okay.

  They packed into the car at around six o’clock. Alex punched Jay because he was taking up space. Steven demisted the windscreen, while Jen undid Jay’s seatbelt, lifted him up, and told Emily to move over to the edge of her seat.

  ‘Can’t we just go?’ said Emily. ‘We’re going to be late.’

  ‘We’re not going to be late,’ said Jen.

  We’ll get you there, mouthed Steven to Emily via the rear-view mirror. He put the key in the ignition. Checked his side mirrors, adjusted the rear-view, and put the car into reverse.

  Alex kicked the back of the passenger seat. ‘God, piano recitals are so gay.’

  ‘Do you even know what that means?’ said Jen.

  ‘It means dumb,’ said Alex.

  ‘That’s not what it means,’ said Jen.

  ‘What’s Mum on about?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Steven. ‘Just don’t say it, all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Alex. ‘I love piano recitals. They’re my favourite.’

  Jen glared at Steven. ‘Don’t know what it means, huh? You think Sophie would want you to talk like that? She knows exactly what it means.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s not going to understand the context. How am I supposed to pass that on?’

  ‘You need to think, Steven.’

  ‘Sophie is gay,’ said Steven.

  ‘Yes, but she is Sophie,’ said Jen. ‘We owe it to her to be better than that.’

  ‘Can we just have a good time tonight?’ he said. ‘Christ, it’s not like I don’t know what gay means.’

  ‘It’s the next left,’ said Jen. She flicked down the sun visor, checked herself in the mirror, smoothing first one brow, and then the next.

  Steven switched on the indicator, tapped his foot in time with its tick.

  Cars were clustered around the driveway of the teacher’s house. Some had mounted the kerb, parked on neighbours’ verges. Others had backed into laneways, placing hastily scrawled apology notes under windscreen wipers. Jen, Steven, and the kids traipsed down a small stone pathway, trailing a girl and her parents. Jen caught fragments of conversation. So exciting . . . we can’t wait . . . you’ve worked so hard, and all the while, the daughter smiled, filled with her parents’ love, as though they’d never had a raised word or the need for a disciplinary timeout.

  ‘You’re going to do great,’ Jen said to Emily. ‘Isn’t she, Alex?’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Alex.

  ‘Hey, mister, you want to wait in the car?’

  ‘But I didn’t do anything,’ said Alex, more to himself than to anyone else.

  The hallway led through to a living room, crowded with parents and children. A dining table sat near the French doors, which opened out into a courtyard. There were shelves stocked with silverware, art books, and the odd family photograph.

  The adults had formed a tight semicircle, the kids kneeling close to the piano. Steven caught Jen’s eye and mimed eating, motioning to the snack table. She nodded back, and he went to leave.

  ‘Dad!’ Jay called out.

  ‘Sorry, mate.’ Steven took his son’s outstretched hand. ‘Back soon.’

  Jen glanced around the room. Flawless fathers, modern mums. They’d probably packed tiny dinners, eating on the front veranda with matching cutlery. Or even worse, they’d eaten dinner beforehand, dishwasher churning and a Cadbury Creme Egg for the kids. Colour-coded lunchboxes, knowing Jo doesn’t like Vegemite and Declan likes his crusts cut off. No, they would never forget a phone call, footy training, or——

  ‘Jen,’ called a voice.

  She traced the source: a man next to her in a crisp crimson shirt and black dress pants.

  ‘Peter,’ said Jen.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Not a good time.’

  ‘No, it’s——’

  ‘Hi,’ said Steven, squeezing between them. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

  ‘This is Peter, Natalie’s dad. You know Natalie.’

  ‘No,’ said Steven.

  ‘Where’s Emily?’ said Jen.

  ‘She had to go to the loo. I think she’s nervous.’

  Thinking, thought Jen, his one-size-fits-all replacement for parenting. ‘Do you want to check?’

  Steven smiled, a little awkwardly. ‘Back soon.’ He side-stepped out of the living room, treading carefully between seated children.

  Peter waited until Steven was out of sight. ‘I’ve got the place this weekend. Told her I had a work retreat.’

  ‘We can’t,’ said Jen.

  And yet she wanted to. She wondered how it would feel to be kissed from head to toe. The bubbling of a spa; c
rackers, cheese, and relish left out on the dining room table, for who would even care? The calling of the birds at dusk, the sunset split by baby pines, and Peter’s gentle knock on the bedroom door.

  She had shaved in case another opportunity arose. Her armpits flawlessly smooth. Her calves devoid of stubble, nicks, or bumps.

  ‘It would be nice, don’t you think?’ said Peter.

  ‘What about Olivia?’ said Jen.

  He frowned.

  ‘You do know that, right?’ said Jen. ‘That we’re married. That this—us—is complicated.’

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘Is that it, though? Is it love?’

  ‘You know that way your heart jumps? That’s us. It’s the way you feel to me; the things you make me feel. The things,’ he said, gathering his thoughts, ‘that we do for each other.’

  She felt a pull at her arm. Alex, holding a cupcake like it was a tiny trophy. He looked at her first, and then at Peter. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a friend of your mother’s. I’ve met you before. You don’t remember?’

  Jen blushed. Looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘My mum doesn’t have any friends,’ said Alex.

  ‘Such a character,’ said Peter.

  ‘I don’t like you.’

  ‘Alex!’ said Jen.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Peter. ‘I’m going, anyway. Nice to see you, Jen.’

  ‘You too,’ she said.

  Peter made his way through the crowd.

  ‘What a poo head,’ said Alex.

  ‘Shh,’ said Jen. ‘Your father’s coming.’

  ‘She was getting a drink,’ said Steven.

  Emily ran up to Jen and pulled at her arm. ‘I’m going to go sit with the kids.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Jen, straightening her daughter’s hair band. She kissed Emily on the forehead and watched her take her seat with the other children. She spotted a piece of lint on her daughter’s blue silk taffeta dress. Too late now, she thought, no need to worry her more than necessary.

  The teacher, Mrs Cavanagh, stood in front of the piano, facing the audience. ‘Tonight we’ll be hearing from some of the most talented young pianists I’ve had the pleasure of teaching. They range from grades one to five. They’ve all been working really hard, so, please, show your appreciation with a round of applause.’

  The recital began. Steven ruffled Alex’s hair with one hand, keeping him close with the other. Jen held Jay’s fingers in hers. Once the music started, Jay seemed to go placid. His feet no longer tapped, his hand limp.

  ‘You good?’ said Jen.

  Jay nodded, snuggling up to her. ‘Mummy,’ he whispered. ‘I love you.’

  She reached down to cuddle him. ‘Love you too, Jelly Jay.’

  Jen watched another couple, the father’s hand on the mother’s shoulder. Felt a twinge in her stomach. Tuned in to the end of a boy’s rendition of Clair de Lune and felt old. She had read the poem at school. Now she could hardly remember the words.

  She had never understood the allure of classical music. Steven took some sort of perverse pride in its intricacy, laughing knowingly at a pause or acceleration. He would listen in the dark. Cracked the seal on a bottle of Jameson. Closed his eyes. If she interrupted, he’d hold up a single finger, let it fall, in the hope, it seemed, that she would leave him be.

  And I would, she thought, if you hadn’t lost your job. I would shower you with silence, day and night, if you’d not done that one thing.

  The teacher called Emily to the piano. Emily bowed and then lifted herself onto the stool.

  ‘Boo,’ called Alex.

  Jen looked over to Steven, who dragged Alex out of the room. Emily tapped a foot pedal as practice, her knee nearly hitting the piano. She rolled her shoulders, took a deep breath, and began to play La Petite Troupe.

  Jen watched her daughter for a moment. Parts of her like one parent, or both, and yet so much like neither. Just Emily Slater, sometimes sad, often with a furrowed brow, as if attempting to place books on an overstacked shelf.

  Emily played on, biting softly on her bottom lip. Right hand dancing over the high keys, her left hand, up and down, with gentle pushes on the appropriate chords.

  Keep going, thought Jen. You’re doing so well.

  Emily began the final verse note-perfect, her back straight, and fingers slightly bent. Jen checked the room for Steven and Alex, but saw neither. Not uncommon at a do or family gathering.

  The piece reached its climax: the chords stronger, deeper. Jen watched proudly from the back row, until she felt a hand on her waist. Peter, barely a handspan away from her left shoulder. Her tiny gasp was drowned out by the music. Jay turned, looked confused, but Jen said, ‘It’s okay, baby Jay.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered, leaning in towards Peter.

  He put a finger to his lips and she acquiesced.

  Applause rose, splashing throughout the room. Emily turned, looked for her parents. Jen waved a hand and smiled. At that point, Peter leaned in, as if to whisper something, but instead kissed her neck.

  Emily’s smile disappeared. She narrowed her eyes, almost squinted, her heel gently tapping the carpet. Then she stood and ran out of the room.

  Jen’s stomach went into spasm. She opened, closed her mouth, gasping for air. She pushed Peter aside, scooped up her handbag with her left hand and lifted Jay under her right arm, though he slipped back down to the floor, and they headed for the front door.

  She slid past parents holding champagne glasses. Pulled Jay as she went. He let his feet drag, leaned back, laughing as he skied, stop–start, through the crowd. Jen kept moving and eventually reached the hallway, nearly knocking over a mannequin’s head that was parked high on a wooden plinth near the front door.

  The others were already at the car. Emily was in Steven’s arms, crying. Alex was in the back of the car, kicking the driver’s seat.

  ‘Baby, are you all right?’ said Jen. She turned to Steven. ‘Is she?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Steven. ‘Something spooked her.’

  ‘Emily,’ said Jen.

  ‘What happened?’ said Steven.

  ‘It’s nothing. She’s just tired.’ Jen kissed her daughter on the cheek. ‘Come on, let’s get these guys home.’

  Steven put the kids to bed. Jen climbed the stairs, ran her hand up the wall, felt the bumps and blemishes.

  She removed her makeup, cleansed and moisturised, wiped down the basin with a damp flannel. She brushed her teeth, scrubbed and spat, a flush of the tap to wash away the foam.

  She knew she had to call it off with Peter. And yet he was exciting, awake . . . turned on. When they fucked, he caught her, held her gaze. Almost a second too long, sometimes, but she was never in doubt as to where he was or what he was thinking.

  Post-it notes inside her handbag, Houghton’s Classic White, desk light on in a darkened hotel room, knowing soon she’d have to leave or be caught in what had, until then, seemed more dream than decision.

  She felt sick. In loving Steven, had not sought his love, but his praise. Tackled the toughest cakes from the Australian Women’s Weekly Children’s Birthday Cake Book— the soccer field, the swimming pool. Smarties spelling Alex, Jay, and Em, each done in their favourite colour, although Steven hadn’t noticed.

  Jen stared into the mirror. Wrinkles had formed around her eyes, her skin quickly losing its elasticity. She lifted her dress, flung it onto the bathroom floor. Saw herself on display: lumps, bumps, and cellulite thighs. Oh dear, Jen. How did you let things get to this?

  Saw Emily’s face, rushed to the toilet and was sick, the taste of wine clinging to her lips, saying, Baby, I’m sorry.

  Steven came up late. He sat on the bed, faced away from Jen, slipped his jacket onto the bedpost, and loosened his tie. He took his tie off, hung it over his jacket, and unbuttoned his shirt.

  Jen watched him in the dark, a shadow in the room. The smallest of belly bumps, more crest than barrel.


  ‘Come to bed,’ said Jen.

  ‘In a minute,’ said Steven.

  ‘Is Emily all right?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘A bit shaken up.’

  ‘How was Alex? He wouldn’t leave her alone.’

  ‘Kids are smart. They know when something’s up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He turned to his wife, met her gaze. ‘I don’t know. Is there something you need to tell me?’

  She stared past him at the wall, beneath the windowsill. She’d seen it before, maybe weeks, months earlier. A hairline crack. Small, but spreading.

  1985-1995

  Just Hits '85

  Side One

  Alex had given his old ghetto-blaster to his younger brother, more an afterthought than an outright dedication, although to Jay that didn’t matter.

  The blaster hummed and hissed, but it was hard to tell once the music hit. They played the Miami Vice soundtrack, and Alex said, Listen to this. The Miami Vice theme started, with keyboards first, crowded together, all on top of each other, and then what sounded like a plane taking off. Jay said it was the worst song in the world, so Alex said, Maybe it’s time we found your favourite song, baby bruvs.

  Alex said it could be any kind of song, but it needed to be special. Jay asked if Alex could be his song. Alex laughed, said, Little man, there are way better songs than me.

  Jay said he’d ask Anais, his only friend in grade two, or in school for that matter. She had freckles on her nose and long golden hair that she wore in plaits. The first time they met, Anais had taken his hand, as he stood in the playground, and said, Do you want to be my friend? Jay’s mum said it was pronounced ‘A-nay,’ but to Jay she was always ‘A-nigh-iss.’

  Jay sat with Anais on the edge of the field beneath the bottlebrush tree. Anais talked about her mother, who worked two jobs. About her older sisters. How they would cut her sandwiches into triangles and make sure she’d taken fruit.

  He talked about his mum, how she’d been a bit sad. Anais asked if it was serious, and he thought it was, but he said she was probably just stuck.

  He forgot to ask about Anais’s favourite song, but there was always tomorrow. When tomorrow came, he took her hand, said maybe they’d get married. She said maybe, but for now her family was moving, taking her to Hamilton, which was a small town in New Zealand with a very big river.