On the lower deck, Martha sat waiting. If she ever wanted to do away with herself, she decided, it would be by throwing herself overboard from a Manly ferry at night—though her knees would have to be in better shape than they were now if she were to clamber over the railing. Then she thought of sharks and concluded that it was not such a good idea, after all.

  The swell was abating. She had deliberately chosen to sit on the port side so that, as the ferry passed Middle Head, she would be able to look at … yes, there was her beloved Balmoral Beach, though this was not how she imagined she might be feeling when she had dreamed of being, once again, on one of those ferries she had watched from the shore.

  Sam slowly descended to the lower deck. The ferry was already entering Manly Cove and approaching the wharf. People were gathering their belongings and preparing to disembark. She sat beside Martha and took her hand again.

  Neither of them said a word until they were off the ferry. Walking along The Corso towards the parking station where Martha had left her car, Sam said: ‘I want an ice cream. Will you have one, too?’

  ‘Some things never change,’ Martha said.

  They bought ice-cream cones then continued to walk until they found a bench overlooking the beach. They talked about trivial subjects as they sat and watched the surfers and board-riders.

  It wasn’t until they were sitting in the car that Sam said: ‘Before we start driving, please tell me everything you can about this man. Except his name. I don’t want to know his name and I don’t want to know whether he’s alive or dead. Just tell me … did he have an exciting creative streak? Was he courageous? Passionate? Wise, but a bit reckless, too? Tell me he treated you kindly. Tell me you parted as friends. And I bet he was another psychologist. Am I right?’

  Sam saw Martha’s eyes fill with tears and then overflow. That was all the answer she needed.

  As soon as Martha had dropped her off at home, Sam was on the phone.

  ‘Babe? I have some rather surprising news. I think I need you to take me out somewhere to dinner.’

  Rob smiled into the phone. ‘That isn’t surprising news.’ Keep it cheeky. Keep it light.

  ‘No, you nitwit. I mean I want you to take me out to dinner so I can tell you some rather surprising news.’

  ‘Good or bad?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not that simple. But I need to tell you in person.’

  ‘Okay. I can be away from here by six, so I’ll see you as soon as the traffic allows. We can walk up to Willoughby Road and you can decide what you feel like eating when we get there.’

  ‘See you when I see you. I think I love you more than ever, if that’s possible. I certainly need you more than ever. Does that sound a bit desperate? Sorry.’

  Rob put the phone down on his desk. The tone of Samantha’s voice told him she was shaken but still strong. Still herself. Positive. Well done, Martha Elliott, he said to the empty room.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A month had passed. Hazel had sent a message, via Sandrine, to say that she was too busy to make any more appointments for the time being. Lucas had also cancelled a couple more appointments, and Martha was ready to draw a line under both cases, as she already had with Ruby. Now there were just two long-term clients she was still seeing sporadically, and she was preparing to hand both of them on to Zoe.

  ‘I guess this is called easing into retirement,’ she had said to Rob. She didn’t need one of Ruby’s flow charts to lay it out for her. Sandrine had been briefed to assign all new cases to Zoe, who was thriving on her increased involvement in the practice. It only remained for Martha to name the date of her departure and set up a meeting with their lawyer and accountant to arrange the sale of her half of the practice to Zoe.

  And then another message came from Hazel, this one inviting Martha to have afternoon tea at Hazel’s flat with her and Felix, ‘and a few others’, to be joined later by Lucas. It was to be a small celebration of Hazel’s eightieth birthday. No gifts. The subtext, according to Sandrine, was that although Hazel and Lucas were no longer Martha’s clients, they did not want to lose contact with the person who had brought them together.

  Martha had no trouble identifying the door of Hazel’s flat—a single red balloon was tied to the handle. In spite of Hazel’s instructions, she had brought a modest gift—a box of macaroons from Oscar’s.

  Hazel answered the door, but was pushed aside by Felix, rushing to greet Martha and hugging her around the legs. ‘Marfa, Marfa,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘it’s Hazy’s birfday. Look!’

  ‘Come in, dear,’ Hazel said. ‘He’s still having trouble with his th sound. We’re working on it, but you’ll have to settle for being Marfa for now. He remembers you from our little visit to Beauchamp Park. And Ruby, too.’

  Hazel was flushed. Smiling. Pleased to be eighty. Looking and sounding years younger than when Martha had first met her. Martha handed her the box of macaroons, assuring her it was a contribution to the afternoon tea, not a birthday gift.

  The bond between Hazel and Felix was a delight for Martha to behold. Felix talked nonstop, which Martha had thought was Hazel’s specialty, but it was clear the older woman had met her match in the young boy. Decorations, clearly made by Felix, festooned the living room—paper chains, streamers, stars and assorted drawings, mostly in red. ‘They’re all supposed to be of me,’ Hazel said with pride. A sheet of paper bearing a child’s red handprint was stuck to the door of the fridge, visible in the kitchen adjacent to the dining area. On the small dining table sat a large cake.

  Two women about Hazel’s age were preparing food in the kitchen. They, too, seemed high on Felix’s list of favourite people.

  A knock sounded, and Hazel and Felix admitted two more guests: Bill and Ruby. A shock ran through Martha at the sight of Bill Orton. Boundary-hater though she was, she was now being made acutely aware of the risk she had taken in organising those little afternoon teas with clients, though none had previously led to further social contact involving her. Still, an eightieth was surely an exception.

  Bill, sensing her awkwardness, tried to put her at ease: ‘I’m on my own these days, Martha. A very long and ugly chapter is behind me. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee sometime, if you’re up for it.’

  Martha knew she would never be up for it.

  Ruby’s eyes were shining. She shook Martha’s hand and simply said, ‘All good.’

  Two other guests arrived—a young man Hazel introduced as her neighbour and a woman in her fifties, bearing a beautiful bouquet, who turned out to be Hazel’s GP.

  Martha decided to focus on the guests who were not former clients. Felix reinforced that decision by attaching himself to Martha while Hazel was busy circulating with food and drinks, backing her into an armchair with a pile of books under his arm. ‘Let’s read books,’ he said, climbing onto her lap. Martha inserted a cushion between Felix and her knees, to minimise the pain.

  Several of the books in the pile were familiar to Martha from Sam’s childhood. What a long life The Very Hungry Caterpillar has had, she thought. And here was Green Eggs and Ham still going strong. And Thomas the Tank Engine, of course.

  Story time was interrupted by the singing of ‘Happy Birthday’, the cutting of the cake, and Hazel’s determination not to make a speech, expressed so vehemently and at such length, it amounted to a speech. The essence of it was that she was grateful that everyone was here, particularly Felix—a special mention that offended no one.

  Some guests chose to sit in the small courtyard, beside the empty splash pool that had pride of place. Others remained in the kitchen or at the dining table. There were only two other armchairs in the living area, and Martha was relieved they were occupied by the two women who had been preparing the food, Joyce and Edwina (from the now-defunct garden club, Edwina said). They were deep into gossip and showed no interest in Martha.

  The pile of books was finally read, which was the signal for Felix to ask for them all to be read again. Martha obliged with great willingness. Reading books to a child turned out to be a great escape, in more ways than one. Hazel glanced approvingly in their direction a few times. At some point, Felix fell asleep, and when Martha finally noticed, she let her voice taper off into a murmur. She stayed put, surprised by what a comfort it was to have, once again, a small body nestled against her.

  After ninety minutes or so, people started to leave, some clutching a piece of birthday cake wrapped in a paper napkin. There were bursts of laughter. But still Felix slept. Martha waved silently to the departing guests. Ruby touched her gently on the shoulder and said a hushed goodbye. Bill gestured to say he would call her, and Martha smiled noncommittally.

  As Bill was leaving, Lucas arrived. Martha noted a warmth between the two men as they shook hands that suggested they might well have been in touch since they had met at her afternoon tea. Lucas smiled at Martha, who still had the sleeping child on her lap, and mouthed a silent ‘hello’. He greeted Hazel with a hug and a kiss, and handed her a beautifully wrapped gift. ‘The shop wrapped it,’ he said, as if to distance himself from anything so elaborately and carefully done. Or perhaps to be sure he wouldn’t be given credit for it. Martha found that curiously touching.

  At the sound of his father’s voice, Felix awoke, scrambled off Martha’s knee and ran to Lucas. ‘Barf now, Daddy?’

  Martha struggled to her feet and said she must be off, not wanting to be caught up in the intimacy of bathtime.

  ‘More stories, Marfa,’ Felix demanded.

  ‘Next time, Felix,’ Hazel said.

  Martha heard herself agreeing, and possibly meaning it.

  Lucas saw her to the door and, for something to say, Martha asked after Rani. It would have seemed impolite, she thought, not to have mentioned his wife.

  ‘Okay, I think,’ was all Lucas offered in reply. He wasn’t smiling as he said goodbye and closed the door.

  As Martha was attending Hazel’s party, texts were being exchanged between the twin sisters.

  Hi Gabs.

  Mission accomplished. Just checked. No more appointments being accepted for Elliott. Retired.

  Vanished. Vanquished. And we still have the daughter up our sleeve. Justice at last!

  Abs xox

  The witch is dead! Joy unconfined. Himself grinning ear to ear. Not sure he fully gets the import but he’s into the bubbles. And my pants, of course. The man is an addict.

  Gabs xox

  Spare me the shag-brag, Gabs. He cdnt be addicted to a nicer gal. Anyhoo … two birds with one stone.

  A win for Giles and the boot for Billy. Talk tonight? Or go out somewhere?

  Abs xox

  THIRTY-SIX

  Martha lived in a 1930s block of flats on the eastern side of the railway line, close to Roseville station. She had moved there with Sam as soon as the family home in Gordon had been sold, post-divorce. Half the proceeds of the sale had been more than enough for Martha to buy herself this flat and put a sizeable sum of cash on term deposit. She assumed Simon’s share would have made little impact on his already-swollen coffers.

  The flat had two bedrooms, one still kept for Sam to stay overnight whenever she wished—which, these days, was never. Bur Martha insisted she keep a key, just in case. There was a small balcony facing east where Martha liked to sit when she was in pensive mode—as she was on this warm Sunday morning in late spring …

  … Chicago’s not such a bad place to be, after all, as long as you’ve learned to forgive. Especially if you’ve learned how to forgive yourself …

  … Better, far better, for Sam to know the truth, even if the impetus for telling it had come from a place of such malevolence.I sometimes find myself feeling curiously grateful to Abigail and her co-conspirator. Abby and Gabby. What were their parents thinking? …

  … I might try to write up the Orton case in detail one day. Or maybe not. Some things better left unsaid …

  … Poor Giles. I guess I’ll never know how that marriage will turn out. I wish them well, though I fear it’s a doomed enterprise. But I hope I’m wrong. I really do. And Abigail? She’s lost a husband who seemed a good man. Will she now succumb to the corrosive power of her own despair, cloaked in bitterness, anger and resentment? Classic case of someone who could really benefit from therapy but lacks the insight to realise she needs help and the courage to go find it …

  … I’m grateful, and rather amazed, that things seemed to have settled down so quickly with Sam, though I do notice she’s a little less forthcoming than usual. Perhaps a little more secretive. Strange that she’s only ever asked me one follow-up question: Does Dad know? I was able to assure her that he did not—though I didn’t admit that was because I hadn’t got around to deciding how to handle that particular challenge. He couldn’t handle it, was all she had said. Not quite sure what she meant by that …

  … Some things have become clear. I’ll retire on Christmas Eve. Sandrine’s just turned sixty-five, and she’s decided to retire, too, just as soon as she’s found a replacement for herself. Her husband wants to travel; Sandrine wants to spend more time with her grandchildren. I’m staying right out of that …

  … I can feel myself being recruited into the role of honorary aunt to dear little Felix. And what if Sam succeeds in her mission, one way or another? Will there be two littlies entering my life? Better get the knees done …

  Martha’s leafy morning view was brightened by patches of purple, where jacarandas and wisteria were still in bloom. The familiar rattle of trains was a reassuring background noise—she had ridden those trains to school, and then to university, and then to work. Now she drove everywhere.

  It was a two-storey block; eight flats. Martha’s was at the rear, on the upper level. Just fourteen stairs, in two flights separated by a landing, but they were an increasing challenge to Martha’s knees. She took the steps in easy stages, and tried to limit her comings and goings to once a day. The building’s security system meant that visitors had to buzz from the main entrance. Martha’s flat also had its own security screen door with a bell.

  That bell was now ringing. Sam never arrived unexpectedly these days, so some opportunist must have snuck through the entrance while someone else was being buzzed in. It happened.

  The previous night, over dinner, Rob had proposed to Samantha.

  It had taken a moment for the words to register. Rob’s tone of voice hadn’t changed, and he had made the question sound like part of the flow of an inconsequential conversation they were having about something they’d heard on the evening news. When she realised what he had just said, Samantha dropped her cutlery and buried her face in her hands. Laughing. Crying. Both at once.

  After a moment, she got up from her chair and threw herself onto Rob’s lap. ‘Thank you for not going down on one knee,’ she said. ‘Thank you for not buying a ring without consulting me on the design. Thank you for being the loveliest man in the known universe.’

  More laughter. More tears.

  She buried her face in Rob’s shoulder as he stroked her back.

  Eventually, he asked, ‘May I have an answer?’

  Samantha sat upright on his lap, leaned back and looked him in the eye. ‘Are you serious? Do I really have to answer the one question I had hardly dared to hope you might ask me?’

  ‘You do. I need a firm, clear response.’

  Samantha yelled, ‘YES!’ at the top of her voice. She repeated it in a whisper, and kissed Rob on the lips.

  ‘There’s no way I would have presumed to choose a ring without even knowing what you might say,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I can’t imagine you doubted what I might say, but I would like to be there when we buy the ring.’

  ‘So you do want a ring?’

  Samantha yelled again: ‘YES!’ Then she grinned and said, ‘Of course I want a bloody ring, you sap. I’m a traditionalist through and through when it comes to rings, weddings, changing my name, having babies …’

  Samantha paused and frowned. ‘I was going to tell you something over dinner tonight, babe. Not such good news, I’m afraid. My period came. So we wait another month.’

  ‘I’m kind of pleased, strangely,’ Rob said. ‘The last thing I’d want you to think is that I only wanted to marry you because we were expecting our baby. Baby or no baby, I want you to be my wife, Samantha Elliott. Ahem … till death us do part.’

  ‘Sounds like a hell of a long time …’

  ‘Forever.’

  They kissed again.

  ‘Rob?’

  ‘Samantha?’

  ‘I think we should tell Martha. Now. Tomorrow. In the morning. If she assumed I could handle the truth about my father, I think we should assume she can handle this.’

  ‘And I want her to know that this has got nothing to do with babies.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘You know I’d love us to have a child together. But I want to marry you, regardless.’

  ‘That’s all I need to hear.’

  Martha opened the door to her two favourite faces in all the world. Both grinning at her like children bursting with news. A bottle of champagne held aloft.

  ‘We’re not here to toast the new grandmother, in case you’re wondering,’ Sam said. ‘We’re here to toast the mother of the bride-to-be.’

  ‘Rob? You and Sam?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Not Zoe?’

  ‘Zoe? You’d make a hopeless detective, Martha. It was never Zoe.’

  Rob as her son-in-law? Martha could hardly imagine a more pleasant prospect, from every point of view.

  ‘Well, then,’ she said, beaming with the sudden joy of it, ‘you’d better come in and share your grand plans with me.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CONSULTANT PUBLISHER

  Richard Walsh

  JUNIOR COMMISSIONING EDITOR

  Tom Bailey-Smith

 

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