The Spill Read online

  Tentatively, I put my feet up on the coffee table, which I suspected was worth more than my car. I’d seen Nicole do this once and had envied her ease in such an opulent setting.

  Somewhere upstairs, I heard a door close and I immediately put my feet back on the floor. It was probably Jethro. He’d been pretty much hiding from me ever since Nicole’s disastrous fortieth. It had been the longest game of hide and seek ever, although it was all hiding and no seeking

  As I picked up the tray of glasses, the photos on display on the sideboard caught my eye. Most of them, I noted, were of Jethro’s family. There were a few photos of Jethro and Nicole together in exotic-looking places and some photos of Jethro when he was younger, wearing a tie and blazer from a private school. Then I spotted something familiar near the back – a framed photo of the whole family taken on my wedding day, which I had given to Nicole one Christmas. It was the only photo I had of Dad, Donna-Louise, Nicole and me together.

  I examined it closer and saw a passport-sized photo of Tina tucked into the top corner of the frame. My chest tightened again. All these years, I had felt only relief that Tina’s appearance at my wedding had been fleeting. The day had been stressful enough without Tina’s particular brand of chaos. But the fact that Nicole had done the analogue version of photoshopping her into the family photo told me she felt differently. And the knot in my chest made me think that maybe, now that Tina was gone, I did too.

  I grabbed the tray and made my way past Nicole, still asleep on the couch. When I walked into the kitchen, I saw it immediately: the bottle of vodka in the corner with its lid off. The source of Nicole’s sogginess.

  Before I could stop myself, I had gone to take a big, lovely swig. But my arm froze halfway to my mouth and I put it down again. I remembered that I was driving, and that was one of my rules: never drink and drive.

  But I wanted the vodka. I needed it.

  I quickly tried to turn my attention to something else, and found myself picking up the cookie jar shaped like Cookie Monster’s head from the kitchen bench instead. It was a leftover from Nicole’s previous life in that one-bedroom unit in Inglewood with the mould on the walls and the fridge in the lounge room. I’d always assumed the jar had been a gift from Darren, her awful ex-boyfriend. Why she’d brought it here, I’d never been able to work out, especially when it looked so incongruous with the rest of the ‘tasteful’ kitchen.

  It still had a price tag on the back of it. It was typical of Nicole to have never removed it in the twenty years she’d owned the jar. $4.99 from Red Spot. I shook my head. Darren sure knew how to spoil a lady.

  I poured a bit of dishwashing liquid onto a Chux to get the price tag off. As I scrubbed, I thought about Darren. There were many reasons Trent should never have set him up with Nicole, and the continued presence of this awful jar, still tainting all of our lives, was one of them.

  I was almost done scrubbing when a text came through from Rosemary.

  Shift finishing early @ 9. Dad and car still with Simon.

  It was a direct command to pick her up. Rosemary wasn’t the type to add ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, not when it came to me. I was only her mother. I had only almost died giving birth to her, after all. When I’d told her that once in an argument, she’d said ‘I wish you had died.’ I’d known it was a throwaway line but it had hurt far more than I could admit.

  Nine o’clock was still an hour away – not enough time to go home before heading into the city, but too much time to be left alone with an open bottle of vodka. I considered waking up Nicole. Reigniting another argument with her would be one way of filling the time.

  As if on cue, I heard a gentle thud from the back living room. I ran to check on her and found that she had rolled off the couch. The vodka in her system combined with the soft rug on the floor had obviously cushioned the fall, because she was still asleep. I gently lifted her head and slipped one of the throw cushions under it so she would be more comfortable. Then I stood back and looked at her for a while, watching her chest gently rise and fall.

  With her manicured nails and her stylish haircut and her expensive clothes, she was so different from the Nicole that used to lie, stoned out of her skull, on that filthy corduroy couch in Menora. Or the Nicole who used to work in the sandwich bar and break up with Darren every other week. Or the Nicole who used to work from home in her pyjamas amidst a sea of unwashed coffee cups.

  I imagined lying next to her on the soft rug, the way we used to when we were little girls when one of us – usually me – had a bad dream. For so many years, she had been the most constant thing in my life, but these days we were practically strangers. I left her to her sleep and wandered around the room, studying the cards on the flowers. I recognised some of the names. Old family friends. Distant relatives. The nurses at the private hospital where Tina had spent her last days, thanks to Jethro’s millions.

  And then I came to a big bunch of white lilies on top of a small round table. The card read To Nicole and Samantha and families, our condolences. Tina was the life of our party. From the gang at The Ambassador Tavern.

  For a moment, all the emotions I had been doing my very best not to feel, all that grief that I’d pushed down, threatened to rise back up and take me over completely. It was alcohol that had made her the life of their party and it was alcohol that had killed her. How could they be so insensitive? I wanted to throw the flowers onto Nicole’s expensive cream carpet and jump up and down on them. Instead, I found myself, as if on autopilot, heading back into the kitchen to that bottle of vodka, as if that was the only thing in the world that could help me.

  I grabbed it with both hands, like a baby holding a bottle, and was just about to bring it to my lips when my phone rang. It was a call from an unknown number.

  ‘Hello?’ I answered the phone, placing the vodka gently back on the bench.

  ‘Sammy, it’s Meg. Your aunty Meg. Sorry to ring so late, but I’ve been trying to ring Nicole and haven’t got through.’

  ‘She’s asleep,’ I said.

  ‘Well, um, this is a bit awkward. I’m still hoping to talk to you girls before I head home tomorrow. There’s some things . . .’ Her voice trailed off into uncertainty.

  ‘Aunt Meg?’

  ‘There’s some things I need to tell you both. About your parents’ divorce,’ she said, the strength in her voice returning. ‘Things I should have talked about years ago.’

  I glanced again at the cookie jar. The Meg situation was like that price tag. If left to Nicole, it was never going to be resolved. It was up to me to sort it out.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, and arranged to meet Aunt Meg the following day at noon.

  After I ended the call I looked at the vodka bottle on the bench and then through the open door to the lilies from ‘The Gang’ in the next room and I had an idea. Cradling the whole lot – the flowers, the vase and the vodka – in my arms like a sleeping child, I went to say goodbye to my sister.

  ‘I’m off home,’ I told Nicole, as she emerged from her drunken stupor.

  Even as I told her about the meeting with Aunt Meg the next day, I knew she would try to find a way to get out of it. I’d have to work extra hard to make her come.

  As I turned to go, my eye caught the photo of Tina on top of the cabinet and a thousand feelings filled my chest: regret, sadness, despair. Fury.

  Outside, it took me a few moments to locate the bins, but I finally found them, neatly stored away in their own wooden structure, like a little house Jethro and Nicole had built especially for their precious rubbish. Opening one up, I dumped the flowers, vase and all, inside and then I emptied the remaining vodka over the lot. It was a waste of the flowers and the vase, and an even bigger waste of the vodka, but it made me feel better. It was proof that I still had control.

  Kind of.

  Piece #3: 1995

  ‘Bride or groom?’ the usher asked Nicole and Tina.

  ‘Neither,’ Tina said with a wink. ‘I’m not getting married.’


  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Bride,’ Nicole stepped in to clarify, and the usher duly directed them to the left-hand side of the church.

  ‘For someone in such a hideous suit, he really lacked a sense of humour,’ Tina said, as she settled in a pew near the back.

  Nicole hesitated. ‘Don’t you want to sit closer to the front?’

  ‘What? Near your father and Donna-Louise?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Nicole said, sitting next to her. As she did, she took care to smooth out the back of her Angel Hearts floral dress and adjust the Perfecto biker leather jacket she’d bought from Orphans. The jacket was the most expensive item of clothing she’d ever bought in her twenty-five years on the planet and she wanted it to look its best at all times.

  ‘Troy doesn’t look well, even at this distance,’ Tina observed.

  ‘You mean Trent.’

  ‘Who’s Trent?’ Tina joked.

  Tina was right. Trent really didn’t look well. Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D’ had started up, and he was standing at the front of the church, all pale and blinking as the bridesmaids, who were wearing butter-yellow dresses, made their way down the aisle.

  ‘His face is the same colour as their dresses,’ Nicole whispered to Tina.

  ‘I bet you’re glad you decided not to be in the bridal party,’ Tina whispered back and Nicole nodded.

  Tina didn’t know that Samantha hadn’t even asked Nicole to be in the bridal party but now wasn’t the time to explain. Not that Nicole was upset about it. Not really. Well, not much.

  The music changed to Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’ and Tina swivelled around in her seat. ‘Oh, my. She looks beautiful.’

  Nicole turned too. There was Samantha, on Craig’s arm, in all her white meringued glory. Nicole wanted to catch her eye, but Samantha’s gaze was fixed straight ahead on her future husband.

  ‘My baby,’ Tina said and her eyes filled with tears. Nicole took her hand and squeezed it tight.

  When they reached the front of the church, Craig handed his daughter over to Trent and sat down next to a large yellow feathered hat that Nicole could only assume was Donna-Louise.

  ‘Looks like Donna-Louise’s come dressed as Big Bird,’ Tina said, her tears now gone, and Nicole felt glad she hadn’t insisted that they sit closer to the front.

  After the ceremony, while everyone milled around on the steps of the church, Tina pulled Nicole aside.

  ‘Nic, I’m not feeling the best. I think I might give the reception a miss and go home.’

  Nicole was confused. Tina had seemed perfectly healthy during the ceremony. ‘Are you sure, Mum? Trent’s mum might have a Panadol.’

  ‘No, darling. I think I just need to have a lie-down,’ Tina replied, a faint tremolo in her voice.

  ‘Let me at least call you a cab.’ Nicole was now worried. She pulled her Motorola out of her handbag.

  ‘No, no, I’ll just hail one on Beaufort Street,’ Tina insisted. ‘Please tell Sammy and Troy I’m sorry and that I hope they have a lovely day.’

  Nicole went to argue but one of Trent’s brothers spotted her and came over to shake her hand. By the time she was able to turn around again, Tina had gone.

  ‘Family of the bride!’ the photographer shouted.

  Nicole found herself being swallowed by the crowd and spat out at the foot of the church steps. She took a deep breath and walked up to join Samantha and Trent.

  ‘Sammy, you look beautiful!’ she said.

  Samantha gave the same pinched smiled she always gave when she was wearing expensive lipstick. ‘Thanks, Nic.’

  ‘Listen, Mum felt sick and had to go,’ Nicole told her in a low voice. ‘But she sends all her love.’

  Samantha didn’t even blink. ‘We’ve seated you next to that guy Darren I was telling you about,’ she whispered back. ‘You know, the guy from Trent’s work. He’s single at the moment.’

  Nicole stared at her. ‘Did you hear what I said about Mum?’

  ‘Yes, I heard,’ Samantha said, her attention now on Craig and Donna-Louise, who were climbing the steps towards them.

  ‘Congratulations, darling,’ Craig said, kissing Samantha’s cheek.

  ‘Father of the bride, stand here.’ The photographer pointed to a spot next to Trent. ‘And you must be the mother,’ she said to Donna-Louise. Nobody corrected her. ‘You stand here, on the other side of your lovely daughter.’

  ‘Hello, Nicole,’ Donna-Louise said, as she stepped in between Samantha and Nicole, her yellow feathers poking Nicole in the neck.

  ‘You the sister?’ the photographer asked Nicole. ‘You’re even taller than they said. Do you mind going down a step?’

  Nicole’s cheeks grew hot as she did what she was told. When she’d put on her wedding outfit that morning, she’d felt elegant and pretty. Now she felt like André the Giant.

  ‘Great. Okay. Family of the bride, say cheese!’ the photographer barked and everyone smiled, except Nicole.

  At the reception, Nicole checked the seating plan and discovered that she was on Table Eleven, right at the back, with nobody she knew or had even heard of, except this guy Darren that Samantha had been talking to her about for months, like he was the Chosen One. She scanned the plan to see where Tina would have been seated if she hadn’t disappeared, but she couldn’t see her mother’s name anywhere.

  It didn’t take long for Nicole to discover why Darren was single. He had recently come back from four years of teaching English in Japan and spoke like he was the only person in the world to have experienced another culture.

  ‘In Japan, the bride changes dress and hairstyle a number of times over the course of the wedding day,’ Darren told her over the entree, in a strange Australian–American hybrid accent, each word carefully enunciated like he was afraid they might shatter in his mouth. ‘Your sister would have changed at least twice by now.’

  ‘My sister will never change,’ Nicole quipped but the joke was lost on Darren.

  ‘Also, the newlywed couple gives presents to their guests, not the other way around. In Japan, the tradition is for the guests to give the couple money, not kitchen appliances or vazes.’ He used the American pronunciation of ‘vase’. ‘It’s a much more practical gift, if you think about it.’

  ‘Vaze?’ Nicole asked, echoing his pronunciation.

  ‘You know, the vessel that you put cut flowers in.’ Darren seemed to think she didn’t know what a vase was.

  They ate in silence for a while. Nicole looked around the room at all the other guests, dressed up in their finery, so many of them complete strangers to her. She wondered how Samantha could possibly know so many people Nicole had never met.

  ‘What do you do for a living?’ Darren asked.

  ‘I’m a card-carrying member of the Comancheros,’ Nicole joked, with a nod at the jacket she’d carefully hung over the back of her chair. Darren looked at her blankly. He was a tough crowd. ‘But seriously, I work as a sandwich hand, although I prefer to call myself a “bread artist”.’

  ‘You’d struggle to find a job in Japan,’ Darren replied. ‘They don’t eat a lot of sandwiches.’

  ‘Perhaps I could retrain as a sushi chef?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Darren replied. ‘Samantha said you’re single. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-five,’ she replied, somewhat surprised by the bluntness of his question.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, with a small smile.

  ‘What do you mean by “ah”?’

  ‘Next year, you’ll be Christmas Cake.’

  ‘I’ll be what?’

  ‘Christmas Cake. In Japan, they have a tradition of eating fruitcake on Christmas Day. After the twenty-sixth, the cake is no good to anyone.’

  Nicole sat with that for a moment and then made a big point of turning away from Darren. She tried to join the conversation about superannuation between the two older men seated to her right, who had introduced themselves earlier as Trent’s father’s friends from the Rotary Club. After a few minutes of smiling
and nodding, she returned to her meal. As she shoved small chunks of tough steak into her mouth, she thought longingly of her copy of The Bridges of Madison County at home by her bedside, with its promise of a gentler world far removed from this one, with its tedious superannuation talk and its even more tedious Darren. She took a big sip of her wine and reluctantly turned back to Darren, who was picking at his food.

  ‘How’s the chicken?’ she asked him.

  ‘Dry,’ he replied. ‘In Japan, the wedding feasts are amazing. None of this alternating chicken or steak shit.’

  ‘How many Japanese weddings have you actually been to, Darren?’

  ‘Um, one.’

  Nicole drained her glass. ‘You’re a bit of a prick, you know that, right?’ she said.

  Darren shrugged. ‘In Japan, the girls say I look like Michael J. Fox.’

  Nicole laughed and reached for more wine. She was going to need it to get through to dessert.

  The problem was, of course, that after a few more wines, Darren really did start to look like Michael J. Fox, and then he asked her to dance and revealed himself to be a great dancer. Nicole started to relax and have fun, despite herself.

  ‘How are you liking Darren?’ Trent asked her at one point, as she passed him on the way back from the bathroom. His face was flushed and his tie was loose.

  ‘He’s fun!’ Nicole replied, the awkward Christmas Cake conversation now hours behind them. She and Trent both turned to watch Darren, who was dancing with one of Trent’s elderly aunts, patiently showing her how to do the Chicken Dance.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry you weren’t sitting up with us at the bridal table,’ he told her. ‘But Sammy really wanted you to sit next to Darren.’

  Nicole turned to Trent, incredulous. ‘More than she wanted me to be a bridesmaid?’

  Trent shrugged. ‘I guess. You know Sammy, she’s always got her reasons. Like with Tina. She had big reasons there.’