‘We’ll need air-conditioning,’ Monty said.
‘I don’t think so, too expensive and not necessary—besides, those things on the walls are a terrible eyesore. I’d prefer ceiling fans and sea breezes.’
‘It doesn’t have to be on the wall. I have a mate in the business, Frank Caravello, he’ll be able to give us a good deal on ducting.’
‘You have friends everywhere.’
Monty shrugged. ‘All ex-cops who left the job early enough to start again with new careers...’ He broke off and gazed at the blank TV screen above his bed.
Stevie knew the direction his thoughts were going. ‘I don’t think you should be thinking about that now. The doctor said you should take one day at a time. You’re still recovering; you mustn’t start making crucial decisions just yet. The house should be giving you enough to think about for the moment.’
‘If I’m not working, how can we pay for the house? We can’t borrow any more money from your mother.’
Stevie rolled up the plans and slid them back into the cardboard tube, her way of indicating that the conversation was over. Her mother was a wealthy woman, having sold the family cattle station when prices were high. She’d be beside herself if she knew how stretched they were despite her generous loan, and it was something they were both determined to keep from her.
Once more Mont insisted that she and Izzy stay at her mother’s for the night. ‘And then after that, they’ll be letting me out of this place and I can protect you.’
She smiled back at him, ‘Sure you can,’ and relaxed back into her chair. ‘God, I’m looking forward to getting back to normal again.’
‘I need to find some stairs.’ He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively; money worries apparently forgotten.
‘Our house has no stairs. Bad luck.’
‘Then I’ll practise on the beach steps.’ He took hold of her arm and pulled her toward him, cupping her breast in his large hand and giving her a full kiss on the lips. ‘Y’know,’ he murmured as he continued to knead her flesh. ‘I don’t think I’m going to need to practise for this at all.’
The door whooshed open. ‘Feeling better are we, Mr McGuire?’ the soft-faced Irish nurse said as they quickly pulled apart.
‘Home soon,’ Monty said.
‘Only if you behave yourself.’
For many years Stevie and her mother, Dot, had lived on the same street. It was a convenient arrangement that suited them both when Izzy was born and Stevie still very much on her own. Now, Dot’s was almost half an hour’s drive from their new place near the beach, though it still served as a home away from home for Izzy. Dot had a large backyard with a fishpond and a small gazebo. Her house was immaculate with deep spongy carpets, vanilla cream walls and a tasteful collection of antiques.
As if in keeping with the civilised surroundings, Izzy tended to behave like a model child when she stayed with her grandmother. Sometimes Stevie felt that Dot had no inkling about what the kid could be like at home, as if her tales of horror were exaggerated or made up. Which was why she couldn’t help smiling when she opened the front door to the sound of Dot’s raised voice and her own child wailing back at her.
‘What’s going on?’ Stevie asked her mother, who appeared red-faced from the kitchen, blowing a loose tendril of silver-blonde hair from her eyes. Stevie gazed into her own clear-blue eyes looking back at her. They had the same colouring, were physically alike in so many ways other than height. Dot Hooper was ballet-dancer petite, whereas Stevie took her height from her father’s side of the family. If she aged half as well as her mother, she reflected, she’d be happy. This reminded her of something. She hadn’t yet seen the age-enhanced picture of Jennifer Granger, and made a mental note to ask Col if it was finished.
She tuned back in to what Dot was saying.
‘She’s had a bad day at school; said she got in trouble with the teacher for not bringing her reading book back this morning. She wanted me to drive all the way to your place and get it. I told her no, and now she’s refusing to do her homework. The plumber didn’t come, you know, the guest room loo is still blocked, and I can’t find anyone to cart away that tree branch over the fence.’
‘Sounds like you’ve had a bad day.’
‘Tell me about it. About the only good thing that’s happened is that one of Izzy’s friends’ mothers thought I was you. When I explained I was the grandmother, her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Maybe those herbal skin pills really are working.’
Or maybe, Stevie thought guiltily, I’m so rarely at school for pick-up, no one knows who I am.
I am a bad mother.
‘I’ll go and have a word with Izz,’ she said, hiding the pang of self-knowledge.
Dot slipped the apron over her head and hung it over one of the hall hooks. ‘You do that. I need some fresh air, won’t be long—keep an eye on the roast will you? It’ll need turning down soon.’
Dot closed the door behind her and Stevie let out a sigh of relief. She never liked disciplining Izzy when Dot was around: Dot who’d raised four children in the middle of nowhere and always knew best.
She found Izzy in the kitchen, head in her arms at the Baltic pine table. The oven sizzled gently, the delicious aroma of roast lamb wafting around the room.
If she hadn’t known otherwise she’d have thought her daughter had sneaked a peak at Gone with the Wind —she was sobbing up a storm worthy of Scarlett O’Hara. When Stevie asked what was up, Izzy repeated what Dot had said, and more. ‘I left my book at home, that’s why I couldn’t hand it in. It’s stupid living here with Nanna, stupid! I want Dad to come home so we can go back to the beach. I need my reading book and I need to go home now!’
The sizzle from the oven began to intensify, the roast snapped and crackled. Stevie turned the temperature down and swung sharply on her daughter. ‘Enough of that—it’ll take too long to drive home and get it now. It’s getting late and Nanna’s put a roast in the oven. Try and calm down, having a tantrum won’t help.’
Izzy slapped her palms upon the table. ‘But I have to do my reading!’
‘Then we’ll find something else for you to read.’ Keeping her cool, Stevie reached for the Barbie backpack hanging on the back of the kitchen chair. It weighed a tonne, the amount of stuff these kids were expected to cart around on their backs never ceased to amaze her. She took the half-empty lunch box to the sink, binned the mashed contents and gave it a rinse, then dug into the bag again to see what else she could remove to lighten the load. Smelly sandshoes needed for PE tomorrow would have to stay; a Beanie Kid surely not needed at all, she left on the bench top. She reached for a bag of marbles, which weighed a kilo at least. With a petulant look Izzy told her to put them back, marble season had only just started—didn’t she know anything?
Stevie pulled out a picture book. ‘How about we read this?’
‘Too babyish,’ her daughter replied. Then she remembered something and her mood instantly brightened. ‘But there’s something else down there Mum—here.’ Izzy grabbed the bag. Delving to the bottom she handed Stevie a folded magazine. ‘Maybe I could read this—it’s got some really pretty ladies in it doing funny stuff.’
Stevie snatched the magazine from Izzy’s hand and jumped to her feet, knowing immediately what the high-gloss magazine was about. Attempting to hide her fear she unfolded it at the sink with her back to her daughter. Her stomach churned as she leafed through the hard-core porn, the nausea soon replaced by flaming anger. She took a calming breath and put the magazine face down on the kitchen bench