looking at herself, sheepishly grinning and turning her head from side to side.
It was embarrassing just how much genuine happiness she was gaining from something so superficial. But maybe it was natural? Normal even? Maybe it was OK to enjoy her appearance. Maybe she didn’t need to analyze it any further than that, or to think about Saxon Banks and society’s obsession with beauty and youth and thinness and Photoshopped models setting unrealistic expectations and how a woman’s self-worth shouldn’t rest on her looks, it was what was on the inside that mattered, and blahdy, blah, blah . . . Enough! Today she had a new haircut and it suited her and that made her happy.
(“Oh!” said her mother when she’d seen her walk in the door, and she’d clamped her hand over her mouth and looked like she might burst into tears. “You don’t like it?” said Jane, putting a self-conscious hand to her head, suddenly doubting herself, and her mother had said, “Jane, you silly girl, you look gorgeous.”)
Jane put her hand on the keys in the ignition. She should go back home. It was ridiculous to go out in the rain.
But she had such an irrational craving for Blue Blues and everything about it: the smell, the warmth, the coffee. Also she wanted Tom to see her new haircut. Gay men noticed haircuts.
She took a deep breath, opened the car door and ran.
66.
Celeste woke late to the sound of rain and classical music. The house smelled of bacon and eggs. It meant that Perry was downstairs in the kitchen with both boys sitting up on the island bench in their pajamas, legs swinging, crazy-happy faces. They adored cooking with their father.
Once, she’d read an article about how every relationship had its own “love account.” Doing something kind for your partner was like a deposit. A negative comment was a withdrawal. The trick was to keep your account in credit. Slamming your wife’s head against a wall was a very large withdrawal. Getting up early with the kids and making bacon and eggs was a deposit.
She pulled herself upright and felt the back of her head. It still felt tender, but it was OK. It was amazing how fast the healing and forgetting process had begun again. The cycle was endless.
Tonight was the trivia night. She and Perry would dress up as Audrey Hepburn and Elvis Presley. Perry had ordered his Elvis outfit online from a premium costume supplier in London. If Prince Harry wanted to dress up as Elvis, he would probably get his outfit there. Everyone else would be wearing polyester and props from the two-dollar shop.
Tomorrow Perry was flying to Hawaii. It was a junket, he’d admitted. He’d asked her a few months back if she’d wanted to go with him, and for a moment she’d seriously considered it, as that might be the answer. A tropical holiday! Cocktails and spa treatments. Away from the stress of day-to-day life! What could go wrong? (Things could go wrong. He had hit her once in a five-star hotel because she’d teased him about his mispronunciation of the word “menial.” She would never forget the horrified humiliation on his face when he realized he’d been mispronouncing a word his whole life.)
While he was in Hawaii she would move herself and the boys into the McMahons Point apartment. She would make an appointment with a family lawyer. That would be easy. The legal world wasn’t scary to her. She knew lots of people. It would be fine. It would be awful, of course, but it would be fine. He wasn’t going to kill her. She was always so dramatic after they had an argument. It seemed especially silly to use a word like “kill” while her supposed “killer” was downstairs frying eggs with her children.
It would be terrible for a while, but then it would be fine. The boys could still make breakfast with Daddy when they had their weekends with him.
Yesterday was the last time he would hurt her.
It was over.
“Mummy, we’ve made breakfast for you!” The boys came running in, scrabbling up on the bed next to her like eager little crabs.
Perry appeared at the door with a plate balanced high on his bunched-together fingertips like a waiter in a fine-dining establishment.
“Yum!” said Celeste.
67.
I know what to do,” said Ed.
“No you don’t,” said Madeline.
They were sitting at the living room table, listening to the rain and gloomily eating Jane’s muffins. (It was terrible the way she kept