The Last Anniversary (15 page)

‘I’ve never heard of either of them,’ said Grace.

Connie said, ‘The Pyjama Girl was a woman found in her pyjamas near Albury in the 1930s. It was a horrible, brutal murder and they couldn’t identify who she was for ten years. They kept her body preserved in a bath filled with formalin for all that time. The Bread Board Murder was a man who was found sitting at his kitchen table with his face in his breakfast. He’d been hit over the head once with a bread board.’

‘Oh, but they were just normal run-of-the-mill murders,’ said Enigma dismissively. ‘Not as interesting as
our
mystery! And they solved the Pyjama Girl Mystery!’

‘Yes, but there was a big cover-up! I read a book about it and it looks like they got the wrong man,’ said Veronika, who always seemed to know everything about everything. It was a wonder the child hadn’t solved the Munro Baby Mystery for herself.

‘I bet the wife did the Bread Board Murder,’ said Laura caustically. ‘He probably complained about his eggs and she thought, That’s it, I’ve had enough.’

Yes, well, with that sort of attitude it’s no wonder your husband ran off with his dental nurse, thought Connie.

‘What’s your favourite unsolved mystery, dear?’ asked Margie, bringing the visitor back into the conversation.

‘That’s easy. The pyramids. I went to Egypt last year and they were extraordinary.’

But Enigma had no interest in mysteries other than the one involving her. She sighed, ‘I was just thinking, you know, Sophie would have been such a
pretty
bride!’

‘Mum, please!’ Margie made exaggerated gestures at her son, but Thomas, Connie could see, was in the mood for wallowing.

‘Well, she would certainly have been a
blushing
bride,’ said Veronika.

Connie said, ‘Don’t be spiteful.’

‘I’m being factual, not spiteful,’ said Veronika (rudely, thought Connie), and turned enthusiastically to the visitor. ‘Sophie has a blushing disease. You’ve never seen anybody go so red. The first time I saw her do it I couldn’t believe it.’

‘It’s not a disease,’ said Thomas. ‘It’s a condition.’

‘Whatever,’ said Veronika.

‘Is she very shy?’ The visitor probably thought they were all mad, but he was certainly doing an excellent job of acting interested.

‘Oh, no!’ contributed Margie. ‘That’s what so funny about her! She’s very social!’

‘Everyone loves her,’ said Veronika. ‘She’s manipulative.’

‘For heaven’s sake, is anybody else tired of the Sophie topic?’ asked Laura.

‘I don’t know,’ sighed Thomas. ‘Maybe she was out of my league.’

‘Oh bullshit!’ said Veronika, causing Rose to flinch as she came back to the table. Certain words didn’t agree with her. ‘She’s just average-looking! It’s not like she’s as good-looking as Grace, for example.’

‘Veronika!’ Grace dipped her head while Callum beamed.

‘I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world,’ said Thomas. He turned to the visitor. ‘Do you want to see a photo of her?’

‘Sure,’ said the poor fellow, with what seemed to be genuine interest. He had such beautiful manners!

Thomas pulled his wallet out from his jeans, flipped it open and reverently handed the picture over.

‘Oh, she’s very attractive,’ said the visitor immediately.

At that point Thomas put his elbows on the table, buried his head in his hands and began to make strange wheezy gasping sounds.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ said Ron.

‘Let it all out, darling!’ said Margie.

‘Maybe not at the dinner table,’ said Laura.

‘We should sue Sophie for emotional distress,’ spat Veronika.

‘Why don’t you ask her to marry you again?’ said Enigma.

‘Maybe it’s worth a second shot. Take along some marzipan tart. And did you mention to her that we’re quite wealthy?’

Connie was the only one to notice that the visitor had quietly taken the opportunity to slide the photo back across the table and steal a second look.

Did you see that, Jimmy? I think our Sophie has an admirer.

I
t is a misty-grey Sunday afternoon and Sophie is driving down the freeway towards Brooklyn, practising not blushing.

On the car seat next to her is a freshly baked coffee and walnut liqueur cake in a Tupperware container and a bottle of expensive sauvignon blanc in a brown paper bag.

Sophie is going to lunch with Grace and Callum on Scribbly Gum Island, and she hasn’t felt this nervous about a social event, since, well, since Aunt Connie’s funeral the week before.

And it isn’t as though she can comfort herself with the thought that Aunt Connie’s funeral hadn’t turned out to be that bad after all. It turned out to be far worse than her worst imaginings. First of all there was the humiliating incident in the taxi when she decided that Grace’s husband was the father of her future children. Sophie makes pitiful ‘ouch’ sounds each time she remembers it. She tells herself again and again that there is no need to feel embarrassed. It’s not as if she threw her arms around him, crying, ‘My love, at last I’ve found you!’ So she imagined some non-existent chemistry. So what? Big deal! Happens to everyone! It is extremely unlikely he somehow guessed she was checking her watch so she could tell their future children exactly what time it was when they met.

She reminds herself that everyone has thoughts they wouldn’t care to share with the world. Many people have quite perverse thoughts about doing things with animals or fruit, or being spanked by nurses. The difference, of course, is that their thoughts are securely locked away behind bland faces, whereas Sophie’s are always in danger of being revealed to all in a sudden flood of colour.

Generally she is quite resigned to her blushing. If minor disabilities were being distributed, she would, for example, still choose blushing over a horrendous facial twitch like her old school friend Eddie Ripple had suffered. Blushing is just her thing. It’s like having an extraordinary sneeze. ‘I’m sorry I look like a tomato,’ she says to people. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not contagious.’

But she does not want a situation to develop where she blushes each time she sees a particular person, such as Callum Tidyman. If she blushes every time she sees him, people will most definitely notice and start to comment and assume she has a sweet little crush on him. It will ruin everything. She’ll feel sick each time she walks outdoors. The last time something like this happened was when she was fifteen and developed an automatic blush every time she saw the man who lived two doors down. Mr Fisk had a large moustache, a wife and three small children. He was not at all attractive. It was just that one day when there was a neighbourhood BBQ, Sophie was appalled to find herself eating her sausage sandwich and imagining what it would be like to have
sexual intercourse with Mr Fisk! Mr Fisk’s dick! Mr Fisk’s moustache scraping against her upper lip!
Naturally, it made her blush, and after that, just like Pavlov’s dogs salivating when the bell rang for dinner, Sophie blushed whenever she saw Mr Fisk mowing the lawn or washing his car, or talking to her dad about the cricket. It was a tremendous relief when the Fisk family moved to Adelaide.

So, this lunch is her opportunity to put a stop to any such neurotic behaviour with Callum. She will develop a friendship with both Callum and Grace, just like Aunt Connie had asked in her letter. Sophie is excellent at making new friends. She is quietly proud of this skill. If she can just get through those first few moments blush-free, she will be fine.

Of course, the problem with Callum might be the very least of her worries, because Sophie isn’t quite sure of the purpose of this lunch. There’s something a bit odd about it.

After Aunt Connie’s funeral was over, all she could think about was getting away as fast as possible. She couldn’t believe that she had ended up being late and having to make such a public entrance, and then, horror of horrors, sitting in the front row, with the family and next to Veronika, of all people, who had twitched and muttered for the next half-hour like someone with Tourette’s syndrome. Directly behind her was Thomas, with his wife Debbie and baby Lily on her lap. Sophie could feel Debbie’s eyes drilling triumphantly into the back of her neck, as if they had been involved in a competition for Thomas and Debbie had won. At one point Lily had reached forward and grabbed a handful of Sophie’s hair. ‘Sorry,’ Debbie had whispered, sounding not at all sorry as she dislodged Lily’s pudgy hand. Had she somehow trained her baby to pull Daddy’s ex-girlfriend’s hair?

After the funeral had finally ended she had talked to Enigma and Aunt Rose on the church steps, who had asked if she was coming to the afternoon tea.

‘We haven’t seen you in so
long
!’ said Enigma. Sophie had seen Veronika’s grandmother crying during the funeral but now she seemed quite cheerful, reapplying bright red lipstick as she spoke. ‘We’ve missed you! You
must
come back with us.’

‘I’m actually going to have to get back to work now,’ apologised Sophie.

‘You mustn’t worry about Veronika, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Enigma said. ‘She’s just sulking. She’ll get over it. She wasn’t smacked enough when she was a child. Were you smacked? I’m a great believer in smacking.’

‘Oh, all the time,’ lied Sophie. In fact, her mother had never even so much as raised her voice at her without later buying her a special treat to make up for it.

‘You’re very welcome to come along, dear,’ said Rose.

‘Connie would…yes, Connie…’ Her voice drifted off and she seemed to forget she was speaking, her pale eyes looking dreamily past Sophie as she leaned heavily on her walking frame, the turquoise of her dress glimmering richly in the sun. She was like an aging fairy princess.

‘I love the colour of your dress,’ commented Sophie. Rose had always been her favourite of the three old ladies.

Rose blinked and caressed the fabric. ‘Yes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The fabric is quite good quality too. This is my favourite colour. Once I…well.’ Rose looked around nervously, as if she’d forgotten her lines and was waiting for the prompt.

‘Ahem, ahem!’ said Enigma meaningfully. ‘Are we having an Alzheimer’s moment, Rose, dear?’

Sophie didn’t know what they were talking about but gave a surprised giggle and Enigma chortled with her, looking proud. ‘I heard that on a television programme. “Alzheimer’s moment.” It’s funny, isn’t it? I say it all the time to my friends. Some of them get quite annoyed with me. Of course, I can be senile myself–I do forget things sometimes.’

Sophie said, ‘I’m always forgetting where I’ve left the car, or dialling a number and then forgetting who I’m phoning.’

Unfortunately Veronika happened to walk out of the church at exactly the moment Sophie and Enigma were laughing. Her face contorted.

‘Oh, pet, don’t pull faces like that!’ said Enigma. ‘The wind might change!’

‘Grandma Enigma!’ Veronika looked enraged and as if she might burst into tears.

‘Veronika,’ began Sophie, not knowing what she was going to say but feeling bad for her, because there had been some schoolgirl spite in Enigma’s remark.

‘Don’t you talk to me!’ hissed Veronika. All around them ears quivered as guests sensed interesting funeral conflict.

‘That’s enough now, Veronika,’ said Enigma sharply, looking as if she wanted to give Veronika a smack.

‘I’ve really got to go,’ said Sophie desperately. ‘Thank you so much for having me. I had a lovely time. OK. I really must go!’

She practically sprinted from the church, inwardly hollering, OH, YOU HAD A LOVELY TIME, DID YOU? AT A FUNERAL?

It must have been stress that had caused her to recite the words her mother used to make her practise in the car before she went to a birthday party. ‘Thank you for having me, Mrs Blake.’ Smile. Don’t hang your head. Look Mrs Blake in the eyes. ‘I had a lovely time.’

A lovely time
? Her toes were blushing.

She had nearly escaped to the freedom of the street when she heard footsteps behind her and felt a touch on her arm. It was Grace. Oh, the mortification of feeling attracted to a man who slept every night with a woman who looked like that. Translucent, flawless skin. Clear green eyes. Heartbreakingly full lips. They were a different species. If Grace was a gazelle, Sophie was a ground mole.

‘I’m Grace,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Thomas and Veronika’s cousin. Callum said you shared a cab today. I just wondered if you’d like to come for lunch next Saturday?’

‘Lunch?’ repeated Sophie. She had to tip her head back to look at Grace. Her voice sounded hoarse and feeble, as if even her larynx recognised its inferiority.

‘Callum and I are living in my mother’s house on the island. I thought it might be nice because…’

She stopped and seemed to be searching for a reason why it would be nice. Perhaps Rose or Enigma had forced her to issue the invitation.

‘…we’re going to be neighbours!’ she finished, and smiled expectantly at Sophie. Her smile was exquisite but remote. She was like a world-famous celebrity talking by video-link to a sycophantic journalist.

Sophie wondered why she’d liked Grace so much at Veronika’s wedding. She was generally slightly resentful of people who made it obvious they didn’t care less whether you liked them or not, because she herself was conscious of an unattractive need to please. Sometimes when talking to somebody she was suddenly revolted by herself, aware of how eagerly she was leaning forward, chin jutting, mimicking the other person’s gestures, moving with them, nodding and smiling, gently nudging their conversation along with a constant stream of appreciative chuckles, soothing ‘hmmms’ and surprised exclamations. ‘Really!’ ‘Did he?’ ‘You’re
kidding
!’
Love me, love me!
People like Grace didn’t change their body language depending on the other person. They set the pace. They stood, elegant and still, while people like Sophie fluttered around them.

Well, Sophie wouldn’t be doing any fluttering around Grace.

Her mother had trained her in the delicate art of suddenly remembering an invented social engagement. Sophie, like Gretel, was extremely good at it and never even came close to blushing because it was crucial that the other person didn’t guess you were faking and have their feelings hurt.

‘Saturday?’ she said brightly. ‘That would be really nice. I’m sure I’m free. Oh, no, wait!’ She crunched her forehead regretfully and gave her handbag an annoyed little slap. ‘I’m not free! I’ve got a friend’s birthday lunch on that day. Oh what a pity. I don’t even want to go, to be honest. Well, perhaps another time.’

‘Oh. But, well, what about Sunday?’ asked Grace, and suddenly she didn’t seem cold, she seemed desperate, as if she was pleading for Sophie to come to lunch.

Well, if she was
needed,
that was different! Sophie felt her heart melt on cue. ‘You’re a soft touch, Soph,’ her dad, who was the softest touch of all, always told her. She abandoned her mythical ‘such a bore’ BBQ and went straight into normal flutter-like-a-moth mode. ‘Oh, Sunday would be lovely. It’s so nice of you to ask me.’

So now here she is, driving that familiar route down the freeway, seeing her first glimpses of the river, mysterious slate-grey today, beneath a heavy layer of pearly mist hovering just above the water.

In just a few short hours it will all be over and she will be in the pub with Claire, telling her about it. That’s the way to get through today’s lunch; it’s just a new story to tell Claire, so the worse it is the better it will be for comedic value. The funeral had provided Claire and her boyfriend Sven with virtually a whole night of entertainment. Actually, thinks Sophie, she seems to spend a lot of her time providing entertainment for her couple friends. They love having Sophie over for dinner, sympathising with the latest disasters in her life, saying to each other, ‘There must be someone we can set her up with!’ The men flirt outrageously with her and the women tell her they’re jealous of her single state. Sophie suspects that after she leaves they always have better sex than normal. She gets at least one dinner invitation a week. One couple even eagerly suggested she become their flatmate and move into their spare room. For some reason, Sophie is the perfect third partner in a non-sexual ménage à trois. She gives them something they need. She doesn’t know what, but it’s nice to be helpful.

She wonders if Grace and Callum will expect her to fill a similar role. They’d probably love to know about her attraction to Callum; it might invigorate a stale relationship. Although it seems unlikely that women who look like Grace are ever in stale relationships.

Rain splatters on the windshield. Sophie puts on the wind-screen wipers and leans forward slightly to concentrate more on the road ahead. It’s easy to forget to think about driving on these long, straight roads.

Yes, Grace had been odd when she issued this lunch invitation. Perhaps she is very shy. Or just not a very nice person. Or devastated by Aunt Connie’s death. Or perhaps she was behaving oddly because Sophie is going to be forced to undergo some bizarre Scribbly Gum Island initiation ceremony, with chanting and incense and walking across hot coals. Or maybe the whole family is going to confront her about Aunt Connie’s will. It will be like an intervention, or a mock courtroom, with Veronika presiding as judge. Sophie will be found guilty, of course. ‘We find the defendant GUILTY as charged!’ They will blindfold her and frogmarch her to the highest point of the island where they’ll toss her over to certain death on the vicious rocks below. After all, the family is probably perfectly capable of murder. They’re all a bit strange. Look at their mysterious history. Look what happened to Alice and Jack–
the last non-family members to live on the island
! But then, against all odds, Sophie will survive! She’ll need extensive plastic surgery, of course, and months later she’ll come back even more beautiful than Grace (but essentially still Sophie) to confront them all with their crime. ‘Gad, who is that intriguing woman?’ Callum will say, peering through his eye-glass, inexplicably dressed and talking like a regency gentleman.