real looming disaster: Brad would leave her for a skinny blonde football camp follower. She knew he would. If she were Brad, she would have left two years ago. Around the 85-kilo mark. Or maybe he was waiting until the boys moved out. By that calculation she had about five years of married life left until she was a clapped-out divorcee. Fair, fat, fifty . . . and forgotten. Like the rest of the dumpy discarded women living in her street.
Nina pulled the plug on the kettle and reached for a bottle of red wine. She thought of her new Patricia Cornwell crime novel stowed in her handbag, along with the family-size block of hazelnut chocolate she’d brought along for an emergency. That was the answer to her maudlin musings. In a moment she would be curled up in bed . . . except that her cosy corner was still in pieces. A jigsaw puzzle of cushions that would have to be assembled after she’d pulled down the table.
Bugger! It was always like this. This was her life. No matter how tired she was, there was always one more thing to do: a shirt to put in the dryer, a stack of mugs to wash, wet towels to hang up. Why hadn’t she insisted on the top bed? It was her bloody van after all! What would Annie care? She’d soon be drunk enough to sleep outside on the concrete.
And then the noise stopped.
‘Hooray!’ Meredith sat up on the top bed and banged her head on the roof. ‘Ow! Damn! Ow!’
Nina laughed, then apologised for laughing and then laughed again.
Meredith slid her gangly frame down the flimsy metal stairs with her hand nursing her outraged forehead. ‘Yes, very funny! I’m glad I didn’t get that ridiculous bed. I’d have permanent brain damage by the end of the week. And the stairs are impossible. Ow! Can you see a lump?’
Nina brushed at Meredith’s fringe. ‘Do you see him much?’ she asked.
‘Who?’
‘Donald.’ Nina took her drink and sat at the table. She popped a square of dark hazelnut into her mouth. ‘Want some?’
Meredith waved away Nina’s offering. This was what this trip would be like, she supposed. Every personal detail would have to be offered up for forensic inspection. ‘Enough to know that he’s apparently perfectly happy living in that dreary flat in the city by himself.’
‘Do you think there’s some woman involved?’ Nina broke off another piece of chocolate. Meredith couldn’t quite believe Nina had asked. Stuck in this sardine can, it wasn’t only her physical space that was being compromised.
‘No. I don’t.’ She batted Nina’s question out of bounds. ‘In some ways, I could have dealt with it better if there was. Apparently he disliked the colour I painted his den, and that was enough to walk out after twenty-eight years of marriage. He hasn’t even got a den in his new place. I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to make of that.’
‘What colour did you paint it?’ asked Nina.
‘Mallard grey.’
‘You mean, like the duck?’
‘It’s a lovely soft shade,’ said Meredith defensively. She’d had this argument before. ‘It complements the whole cream-to-brown spectrum. I had cushions done in a light rice raw silk.’
‘And what colour did Donald want it painted?’
‘He wanted it left the same hideous dark green it had been for years. Apparently it reminded him of some old car he had before we were married. Honestly, there were bits flaking from the ceiling, scuff marks on the walls. It had to be done.’
‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Nina. ‘You should see the walls at our place. Ten years worth of grunge from dirty footy boots and cricket balls. I’d love to have the place repainted.’
There had to be another woman, Nina immediately concluded. How many men of Donald’s age—and he must be almost sixty—would leave to set up house by themselves? He was using the repainting of the den as an excuse. Nina might not have seen Donald for a long time, but she did know that Meredith had expertly organised his life for two decades. This new chick would be young, naive—probably an actress looking for a father figure. In Donald’s line of work he met them all the time. There was no other explanation.
‘Will he be at the wedding?’
‘I imagine so. Donald and Sigrid were always close. Closer than . . . well, anyway, close. It’s their shared artistic vision, apparently. Funny how it’s ended up. He makes junk television; Sigrid’s selling tat at the