Page 7 of The Story of Me
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Unfortunately, it wasn’t old news the next day. More vile individuals crawled out of their holes and made ridiculous claims about my husband and some made claims about me. It would seem that around nine months is the acceptable grieving time to give women who have lost their husbands and unborn children; then apparently, they were seen as fair game by the press and the public. That was the point at which Jackson contacted me and asked me to come over to Australia for a while and get away from it all. So I accepted, and here I am.
* * *
The bar my Aunt and Uncle owns also serves food and is open from six in the morning to serve breakfast, or brekkie, as the Aussies call it, until late, which basically means when the last person either leaves of their own accord or is thrown out.
I have been eased in gently since I arrived; my Uncle John had warned me, though, that I would receive no special privileges. “I don’t give a rat’s arse how rich and famous you are in London or LA, George; you come and stay with us, then you’ll pull your weight. Brooke and Kathy will teach ya what ya need to know for the bar, and Jax will show ya the ropes for his gig, but I just want ya to know, we don’t pander to princesses around here.”
I nodded, feeling like I was a child being told off. Over the next few weeks, I swept floors, wiped tables, chopped veg and salad, and peeled God only knows how many potatoes. Between all of that, I had taken surf lessons from Jackson and had ridden horses with my cousin, Brooke, who I also worked with at the bar. She is twenty-eight and absolutely wild; she reminds me a lot of Jimmie, Ash and myself when we were younger. Watching her in action makes me realise what a wild bunch we were; Brooke’s twenty-eight and we were up to these kind of things when we were fifteen—fifteen and so indestructible, our lives all planned out. The only difference between us and Brooke was that we never slept around; well, apart from my mad six months before Cam, my ‘BC days’ as I refer to them in my head.
Brooke has a man’s attitude towards sex: straight sex, no strings. If they were good, she kept them around for a while; if not, she kicked them out of bed in the morning and didn’t invite them back for the return ride. She begged and pleaded with me the past few weekends to go with her into Sydney, but I just wasn’t ready and I was terrified of being recognised. So far, not one person has commented on who I am since my arrival; all they know is I am Kathy’s niece from England. They laugh at my accent, want to talk about cricket and tell me how much I look like Kath and are generally genuinely nice people.
Despite the fact it is only early November and still out of season, the bar is pretty busy and all of this means I am fairly exhausted by the time I fall into bed at night. I am staying in the apartment above the barwith Brooke, so on the weekends when she goes down to Sydney to stay with her sister, my other cousin, Jodie, I have the place to myself and I love it.
Jodie is thirty-three, just a year older than me, and works for a big promotions company. She is currently heading the setup of a new mega-club in Sydney; on completion, it will be the biggest in the Southern Hemisphere. She had flown up to see me the first weekend after I arrived and we had talked, laughed and cried together. Sean and I had stayed with her in Sydney when we took our year out. Jackson was living with her then and we had really gotten along well, but I I’m just not ready to go back there yet, maybe not ever. She told me all about the project she is working on. The club is laid out over four levels and will house a venue for live bands, an ice bar, and three different nightclubs, all catering to different types of music. The fourth floor is a nightclub, VIP area and restaurant, all with a rooftop terrace and infinity pool, from where there are panoramic views across Sydney, the harbour and bridge with just a glimpse of the roof of the opera house. It is due to open on December the first, and I promised her I will travel down for the opening. She hasn’t realised the significance of the date, and I really don’t want to be the one to bring up the fact that the first of December was the day life dealt me the worst kind of blow; one from which I will never fully recover.
I haven’t decided when I will return to England yet, but it won’t be any time soon. Most of the stories about Sean and his supposed infidelities had been disproved, but there are still a few floating about. I don’t think they are true; I want to believe I knew my husband well enough to be sure of the fact he would never father a child and not tell me about it. But there is one thing stopping me from being totally convinced and that is my guilty conscience caused by my own infidelity. If I could do it, then why couldn’t he?
Chapter Four
I sit on my bed in the apartment above the bar and stare at the crate that was delivered by courier on Thursday; it’s now Sunday morning. I’ve gotten as far as undoing the top and that is it. I’ve approached it a total of eleven times these last two days, but I still can’t bring myself to look at the contents. I know what is in there; I’ve known what is in there for years. The contents had moved with us from Sean’s loft in Docklands to the house in Hampstead, to the farmhouse, then to my parents when the farm was packed up and sold, and never at any time have I had the courage to look at anything inside. Sean had told me many times to look; he wanted me to read the letters, cards, poems and songs. He wanted me to watch the videos. He wanted me to understand what he was going through when we were apart, but I never felt the need to open up old wounds. Now, with him gone, I want to know everything I can, every thought, every feeling. I had the box crated up and flown over from England, containing not only the letters and videos from our four years apart, but also Sean’s diaries come notebooks that he kept with him constantly. They weren’t diaries as such; they were where Sean wrote down thoughts, feelings, phrases, anything he thought he might use as part of his song writing. There were dozens of them and they were all sitting in the large crate, staring me in the face right now.
Getting up, I make myself a coffee and bring it back into the bedroom with me. I sit on the floor and stare some more, sipping on my coffee.
“What shall I do, baby? Can you tell me? D’ya want me to read them?” I say aloud. I know I sound like a weirdo, but I know he can hear me; don’t ask me how or why, it’s impossible to explain, much like the love that we shared. I couldn’t put the reasons into words. I just knew.
I sip on my coffee, wait for some divine intervention and nearly throw the contents of my mug over myself when my phone rings, blasting out Sean’s voice as he sings “With You”.
“Morning, Jim.”
“Hey, G, how’s it going, babe?”
“Yeah, I’m doing okay. Just woke up and made a coffee. I have the whole day and night off.”
“Is that a good thing? Are you not better off keeping busy?”
“I will be busy; the crate arrived Thursday, and I’ve done nothing but sit and stare at it since.”
“Are you sure about this, G? You don’t think reading all that stuff is gonna set you back?” Jimmie had been the one to organise the shipping of the crate over, but she hadn’t been entirely convinced it was a good idea. I told her that now I was away from England, I felt stronger and more able to deal with the crate’s contents. It wasn’t entirely true and I don’t think she entirely believed me, but she sent it anyway.
“I think they will help me move on, Jim. I’m looking forward to reading his thoughts; it’ll be a new part of him, a part I’ve never had before.” My stomach churned just at the thought of reading Sean’s words, and I’m not sure if it is due to excitement, fear or the fact that I am lying to myself.
“How’s everyone there?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.
“Yeah, okay. I’m missing you. It’s freezing cold. The kids are getting hyper about Christmas and blah, blah, blah, same ol’ same ol’.” This isn’t like Jim at all; she is always an upbeat girl and she sounds a little off.
“You okay, Jim? You sound a little down.”
“Just tired. Len’s been busy working on some new project with Marley and away a fair bit, and the kids have just got so much on between school and concerts, football, dancing and every other bloody thing they do. I swear, the kids have a better social life than me; you know how it is.” I know she didn’t mean anything by what she said, but I instantly have a lump in my throat. I would love to know what all of that feels like. I would love to know how it is. I would love to be rushed off my feet looking after my husband, running around after my kids, but I don’t. There is still a possibility that I won’t, not ever.
“Oh, George, sorry. I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean…” I can hear the tremor in her voice and I hate that she feels she needs to apologise to me, of all people. Jim has always been one of the few people who have never tiptoed around me. She has always been straight-up and told me to get my shit together, so now, alarm bells are ringing.
“Jim, seriously, stop saying you’re sorry. What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me, and why’d you ring in the first place?” She is quiet for a few seconds too many. “Jim?”
“I found a condom in his suit trousers pocket,” she sobs.
“What… I mean, I, what the fuck, Jim? Have you spoken to him?” My head’s spinning as I try to think of reasons why my brother would have a condom in his pocket.
