Selected as the Great Read in the May issue of The Australian Women’s Weekly.
It was just after 9 a.m. Eight hours after Grace had arrived home last night, let herself in and discovered the stereo on, some opera or other blaring loudly, and Spencer crashed out on the sofa. Arms dangling, thighs splayed, his trousers ridden up his leg to expose a hairy calf muscle, his mouth hanging open. He’d been snoring as well. And not just any old snoring, but a loud, phlegmy, boozy, smoker’s rattle – grroink-grroink-grroink-grroink – as if a stick was being dragged along the railings.
Flicking off the stereo, she’d looked down at him, and instead of feeling angry she felt only sadness. Sadness that she’d grown used to seeing Spencer arrive home drunk, watching him getting out the Glenfiddich for “just a nightcap”, selecting a CD from his beloved opera collection, turning up the volume until her votive candles on the shelf rattled in their frosted glass containers. She was used to his “second wind”, him looning it up in the living room, waving his arms around as if he was a conductor. Singing at the top of his voice like Pavarotti, before collapsing onto the sofa.
Then there’d be the silence. The heavy breathing. Her realization that he’d passed out. That she was going to have to try and wake him up, steer him stumbling and staggering into the bedroom where he’d belly-flop onto the bed, and she’d begin the lengthy process of undressing him. First would be his shoes, then his trousers, until finally she’d cover him with the duvet, climbing in beside him and lie with her eyes wide open, staring at the dark ceiling until finally she fell asleep.
But not this time. This time she’d left him where he’d passed out, had gone into the bedroom and in the silent, spacious luxury of having the king-size all to herself, spread out like a starfish. She’d slept soundly. Whereas most people might have lain awake for hours, mulling over what had happened, Grace’s mind automatically switched off as soon as it hit a duckdown pillow.
Until she’d woken that morning, jumped out of bed and tramped across the common. Somehow she’d ended up in a coffee shop and she’d perched herself on a stool by the window, absent-mindedly watching the invasion of McClaren baby buggies, gazing out of the window and flicking idly through the Saturday morning newspapers. She hadn’t bothered to read anything. She couldn’t concentrate. Everything was all churned up.
“You didn’t even call to see if I was OK,” said Grace, looking accusingly across at Spencer.
“I tried your mobile but it was switched off. That’s why I came to look for you,” he protested quickly.” I wasn’t talking about this morning,” gasped Grace.
“Oh, yeah…” he muttered, running his fingers through his rumpled hair. Gazing at her, he shrugged remorsefully. “I don’t blame you for being angry.”
But that was just it, thought Grace, she was a whole lot of things but angry wasn’t one of them. She looked across at Spencer. Was it really only four years ago she’d first laid eyes on him? He’d been standing right next to her, at a bar, and when he’d chatted her up and asked her out she’d said yes. And, eighteen months later, when he’d asked her to marry him it was a foregone conclusion. Well, that’s how relationships are supposed to work, aren’t they?
Except this one wasn’t working any more, thought Grace, gazing at Spencer. Sitting opposite her he was cricking his neck, trying to read the upside down sports headlines on the newspaper that lay on the table in front of her.
“We need to talk.” Her voice was quiet but determined.
He looked up. “About last night, look, I know…”
But this time Grace was determined not to be interrupted. “No, it’s not just about last night.”
“It’s not?”
Grace couldn’t believe he actually seemed surprised. “It’s about lots of things.” She paused, wondering where to start and then deciding to start with the most obvious. “One of them being why, after being engaged for two years, we’re still not married.”
For a split second he hesitated. It was just a beat. A heartbeat. One breath. The time it takes for your eyelashes to sweep lightly down against your cheek in a blink. To most people it wouldn’t have been discernible, they would never have noticed, but Grace wasn’t most people. And she did notice.
“You know why,” he began, launching into their speech. “Because we’ve been busy, and we were going to finish doing up the flat, it’s going to cost a small fortune to do that extension…”
“Spence, this is me you’re talking to,” cut in Grace. She knew the speech so well, she’d written the bloody thing. “What are we waiting for, Spence? Forget all this organization rubbish, why don’t we elope? We could fly off to Vegas next weekend and have an Elvis wedding, or go to Barbados and do it barefoot on the beach.” Getting carried away, it was as if saying her marriage vows was like saying abracadabra and waving a magic wand and all her nagging doubts would disappear. Her voice trailed off as she caught Spencer’s expression. He was staring at her, bemused by her suggestion of something so spontaneous. Leaning closer, he put his arms around her, his forehead leaning against her. “We’re OK as we are, aren’t we?” he murmured, kissing her gently, his stubble brushing against her top lip.
Held close in an embrace, his face nuzzling her neck, all the upset, the worry, the anger, the fear faded away. This felt safe and snug and familiar. Closing her eyes, Grace rested her cheek on the soft curls of his hair. It would be so easy to slip back into the status quo. To just forget about last night, record over it as if it was a blank videotape. But she wasn’t going to.
“No we’re not OK. I’m not OK.” Pulling away, she shook her head. Because it wasn’t really about last night, about her birthday, about him getting drunk, about him leaving her. It wasn’t even just about their engagement. It was about everything. About that black dress he’d “suggested” she wore, the drunken jokes she’d heard a hundred times before, the weekly trips she had to make to the bottle bank with his empties, the photograph in the snowglobe of the couple skating in Central Park. The couple she no longer recognised.
“This isn’t what I want,” she confessed sadly.
Spencer frowned. Lulled into thinking everything had been sorted out, that he’d been forgiven and everything was back to normal, he was surprised. And annoyed. “Is this your way of giving me an ultimatum?”
Was it? Grace wavered.
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