Paycheque (2 page)

She ran her electric toothbrush around her mouth while roaming the bedroom – pulling up the quilt and straightening the pillows. She had her underwear drawer open, about to pull out socks, knickers and bra when her toothbrush buzzed, signalling her two minutes was up. She turned it off, stood it on the edge of the vanity beside Keith's, and rinsed her mouth. Then she added a thin layer of foundation to her face and neck with her fingers, swept the mascara brush once across each set of lashes, added two layers of deep rose pink ‘Goddess' lipstick, blotted with toilet paper and returned to the bedroom to get dressed.

Claire McIntyre was conservative through and through. Her uniform rarely varied: navy or grey skirt suit cut just below the knee for work; jeans or tailored pants and shirt or knit for weekends. Evening wear was a lolly pink wrap over a little black dress – if size twelve was still considered little. It ended four inches above the knee and showed just the right amount of décolletage to straddle the fine line between tarty and prudish. Despite the current trend for bare, bottle-tanned legs and towering stilettos, Claire insisted on sheer, smoky-coloured pantyhose and sensible plain black shoes with ample room for her toes.

Even her career was conservative. Yes, she'd had different roles, but she'd been with the same company for twelve years when the done thing was to move on every few. But she was happy enough; why go through the stress of looking for something else, just so your CV would show you were progressive? Anyway, there were leave entitlements to think of. Claire wasn't exactly thrilled with her job but enjoyed the security of a regular paycheque.

She'd joined the national advertising firm Rockford and Associates as a marketing graduate. Hard work and long hours had seen her move into a senior role in account management. Three years ago she'd been promoted to Client Relationship Manager for one of the firm's largest clients, AHG Recruitment.

Since losing Keith, she had been all the more grateful for the familiarity of her open-plan cubicle and routine tasks: a welcome – if mundane – source of stability in her life.

But now Claire felt something within her stirring: a strange kind of yearning, but for what? It wasn't Keith, it wasn't a dull sad ache, this was different – more a restlessness.

She focussed on her hair again. Knowing her luck, the Aniston look was now as fashionable as the mullet. Maybe her hairdresser had better ideas – could she offer free rein? Claire felt excited at the prospect, even a little empowered. Yes, she'd definitely phone for an appointment.

Bernadette was right: if grief was like a brick wall, each step towards recovery was the removal of a brick, then a layer. Eventually she'd be able to step over the top and be free. Then she'd look back at the good times without tears, and remember the not-so-good times with detachment. But it took time. The trick was to allow the bricks to come away when the mortar loosened – and not to stop their progress with a slap of concrete.

Of course, she wouldn't cut her hair without a second opinion from her best friend. She'd mention it when they next spoke.

Claire and Bernie had known each other since Pony Club and primary school. They'd even studied the same course at university and then started their first jobs at the same company – but in different departments. Twelve months in, Bernadette had been fired for rejecting her boss's advances with a swift slap across his face. Claire had considered protesting by leaving with her, but only for a second; she didn't have the courage to quit without the security of another job to go to. Thankfully Bernie had understood.

The episode had sent Claire into a spin of worrying about what her friend would do, but Bernadette had seen it as a sign she was ready to pursue her dream: opening a nursery specialising in old-fashioned plants, design and accessories. Apparently the Adelaide Hills area was full of people wanting old English-style gardens – God only knew why with the water restrictions.

Regardless, and despite only being in her early twenties, Bernadette had built a successful business on box hedges, white gravel and distressed wrought-iron outdoor furniture.

Claire regularly shook her head in wonder and sometimes felt a twinge – but of what she wasn't sure. Not jealousy; she would never wish her friend anything but all the very best. Seeing Bernadette chasing her dream made her wonder about her own choices. Still, Claire was no different to about ninety-five percent of the population.

Besides, there was no way she'd want to deal with the public every day. She'd spent a lot of time at the nursery, occasionally even manning the till. One virtue Claire McIntyre did not possess was patience, and tolerance with other people's indecision was in pretty short supply as well. She would have strangled someone by now if she was Bernadette, and couldn't believe Bernie hadn't.

Bernadette had always been the quintessential redhead. Her uncontrollable curls stood out like a warning, something Claire realised – too late – on the day they met.

It was their first Pony Club rally and they were both eleven. Bernie was on a small cranky grey pony, Claire on a larger bay. Claire had accidently got too close to Bernie's pony and it had darted sideways in fright, almost causing Bernie to fall off. Bernie shouted so loudly that Claire's mother heard the commotion. Grace McIntyre stormed across the arena to tell her daughter off. Mortified, Claire turned her tomato-red face – first to the instructor and then to Bernie – and said she was sorry.

Bernie had smirked, tossing her head in the air before moving her pony away. Claire decided she didn't like this Bernadette girl very much. But later, Bernie had come up to her at the tap while she was filling her water bucket and said it wasn't fair how much Claire's mother had overreacted. They'd been firm friends ever since.

Bernie used to fly off the handle with the slightest provocation. Once she got started, she wouldn't unclamp her teeth from an
argument, even if she knew she was wrong. It was probably the reason she was still single and most definitely why corporate life hadn't been for her. You just couldn't scream at your boss that he was a dickhead one day and ask for a raise the next. And slapping him was a definite no no.

But she had mellowed since finding her ‘place in the cosmos', as she called it. Now her fire was being fuelled with passion, and she was a lot calmer.

Claire bit her bottom lip. No, when it came to Bernadette, if she was envious, it was of her state of mind. Bernie glowed with contentment and enthusiasm whenever she spoke – and not just about the business. Even late deliveries weren't enough to unsettle her. She'd just shrug and say that they'd turn up when they were ready. According to Bernie, everything would work out in the end. And for her it usually did.

For the thousandth time, Claire wondered at the reasoning behind Keith being taken from her, and then dismissed the thoughts as ridiculous. There was no reason. He'd had a tragic accident and she just had to get over it. And what about her father's accident, why had that happened?

Whatever the reasons, nothing could alter the fact that she was having the worst year possible. Things always happened in threes: she and Bernadette had pointed out so many instances before. Since Keith's death and Jack's accident, it had become a taboo subject. Claire wondered what else she was to be faced with. The doctors had assured her Jack's injuries weren't life-threatening – he'd come out of his coma when he was ready. It was just a matter of time. But how much time? It had already been a month.

Claire was relieved she hadn't been the one to find Jack crumpled in a silent heap on the ground. Thank goodness neighbours Bill and Daphne Markson had thought to invite him over for an early dinner – luckier still they had thought to drop in on their way back from town instead of phoning. She knew she should spend more time with her father. She had visited a lot in the months after her mother's death
five years ago, but gradually the pace of work and social life in the city had engulfed her again. In the last year, she was lucky to see him every three weeks.

Until the accident, of course. She was now spending a couple of hours each day after work sitting with him – time she didn't really have to spare. She felt guilty every time she turned up because invariably Bill and Daphne were already there – Bill reading the paper and Daphne knitting. It was a jumper for Jack, made from chunky homespun natural grey lamb's wool.

Claire tried to tell herself it was different for them because they were retired, but felt guilty all over again when she remembered that they'd driven nearly forty minutes to be there, not ten like she had. But they didn't have an inbox full of six hundred emails waiting to be read and responded to. Claire had tried to sit and do nothing, but on the third day had given up and started bringing her laptop to make better use of the time. She didn't think you were allowed to use electronic equipment in hospitals, but no one had told her off yet.

Claire checked her watch – visiting hours at the hospital were starting soon. She ran down the stairs, grabbed her laptop bag from the kitchen bench and her keys from the bowl on the hall table. Having punched the code into the security system, she deadlocked the door and pulled it shut behind her.

Claire sat in the vinyl chair beside her father's hospital bed, looking up from her laptop to study his features. Thank God he hadn't needed to be hooked up to a ventilator. She couldn't imagine the agony of deciding when and if to turn it off.

Lying there under the pale blue cotton blanket, he looked peaceful, as though he was just sleeping. Maybe the nurses were right: his body needed the rest and time to heal. When it was ready he'd just wake up.

A week or so ago, one of the nurses had said she thought he needed
to be given a reason to wake up. But Claire had nothing to offer. She couldn't chatter with excitement about her life with Keith. There was now no chance of her bringing news she was pregnant with his first grandchild. And the only other important thing in her life – her job – had never interested him much anyway. And it wasn't like she could tell him what she'd done with the horses.

She hadn't really had a choice. Bill and Daphne had offered to look after them rather than see them got rid of. But they weren't horse people, and there was a lot more to it than just chucking a bale of hay over the fence every few days. Bernie had offered, but Jack McIntyre hated the idea of being a burden as much as Claire did. And she sure as hell couldn't be driving up there every day.

It really had been the only thing to do. She was certain her father would have agreed. So why did she feel so guilty? And why couldn't she get it off her chest, even if she wasn't totally convinced he could hear her?

She felt like a complete idiot – and totally self-conscious doing it – but the nurses were adamant that he could hear everything she said, so while she tapped away on her keyboard she would chatter about the mundane details of her weekend, and about Bernie if she'd caught up with her. Jack McIntyre had had a soft spot for her friend since she'd first visited the farm when they were teenagers. Back then Jack had loved a good debate, no matter what the topic, and didn't care if he lost, which he usually did when it came to the stubborn Bernadette. They'd both mellowed since then, but Bernie and Jack still enjoyed the occasional good-natured verbal tussle.

Sometimes Claire felt her friend was more the kind of daughter he wanted – laid back and earthy. Bernadette at least had a job he understood, even if he didn't see why people would pay so much for old junk to stick in their gardens. In fact, Bernadette had done very well from the bits of ‘old junk' he'd given her.

Claire put her hand over her father's limp, weathered one and squeezed. She was disappointed, but not surprised, to receive no
reaction. She took a deep breath. It was so hard to hold a one-way conversation about nothing in particular.