So, dear Kelly,’ Maya said with a twinkle in her wise eyes, ‘write me a blinder. I want it bigger and better and more controversial. I want Simon of St Kilda in the picture.’
Ha! Give me a time machine and I’ll give you my life with Simon in the picture.
Maya patted her on the shoulder and left to rouse another writer.
What did he want? Why was he back? And how on earth could she keep herself together if and when she saw him? The mental image of her wringing his beautiful neck gave her a small thrill.
She shuffled the computer mouse onto the internet icon, looked up the local phone directory, and found only one S. Coleman listed in St Kilda. Her hand shaking, she picked up the handset of her very own phone that only minutes before had given her such ridiculous pleasure, and dialled.
Because even if Maya had not insisted, she would still have to see him.
He was her husband.
Kelly stood on the sidewalk with feet of lead. Her eyes were locked on the third storey of the swanky St Kilda apartment building. The window was open, and white gauzy curtains flapped in the seaside breeze. Somebody was home. And it had to be S. Coleman.
After dialling and hanging up the phone several times that morning she had given up on the idea of calling. She had to see that it was him. She had to meet him face to face.
So, first things first, she had spent hours making her work-station homey before finally making her way to the address written on the piece of paper clasped in her clammy hand. It wasn’t cowardice that made her delay this moment. The decorating project was imperative. After all, a happy working environment did a happy worker make!
Now, in the late afternoon, devoid of denim jacket and scarf, which she had thoughtlessly left on the back of her chair, she felt a shiver rack her body. A cold change was coming. In the five minutes she had been dithering outside, the sky had gone from clear to grey and a chill breeze now whipped about her. It would rain within a Melbourne minute.
The front door opened from the inside. A young woman was pushing it open with her bottom as she dragged a pram over the threshold behind her. Kelly leapt to grab the door to give her a hand.
The woman looked up, and her face broke into a beaming smile. ‘Thanks!’
‘No problem.’
Only once Kelly had watched the woman bounce the pram lightly down the steps did she realise she was still holding the door open. And it seemed wasteful to go through the whole intercom rigmarole when the main objective had already been achieved. She stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind her.
The foyer was spacious and elegant. Her high-heeled boots clack-clacked on the smooth marble floor. One solitary lift faced her. She pressed the up button, the down must have been for a hidden parking garage, very luxurious indeed in a city where all-day street parking was scarce.
The lift opened, she stepped inside and felt her last chance to run for her life slip away as the doors closed before her.
The mirrored walls reflected back a slim young woman of average height, shivering slightly in a slinky black barely-there halter-neck dress and knee-high black boots. Her long, thick dark hair, with month-old blonde streaks, was slicked back in a low ponytail, the wayward wisps of a growing-out fringe had been caught by the wind and now rested on her cheeks. Big sad brown eyes, her most striking feature, were rimmed in dark liner and lashings of mascara making them that much more dramatic.
The last time she had seen Simon she’d had short spiky hair, which she had chopped herself during her rebellious teens. She had been about a stone heavier, with enviable curves. She’d called it puppy-fat; he’d called her adorable. But living away from home, paying her own rent, with only sporadic pay cheques, had meant that certain luxuries, such as dinner, had been missed on the odd occasion. The puppy-fat had long since gone and she looked thin. Would he think too thin?
Who cares? she thought, standing up straighter, puffing out what little remained of her once ample chest. The reason she was there was to tell him that whatever he thought he should damn well keep it to himself.
The lift binged, and Kelly’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her image wavered and split apart to reveal a small private foyer with a carved white door. It was ajar and Kelly could hear kitchen noises from inside. She sucked in a deep ragged breath, tucked her hair behind her ears, and walked in as if she owned the place.
It was beautiful. Polished wood floors led onto thick cream carpet, modern furniture, soft leather couches. Very opulent and worth a fortune. It was a place in which her parents would feel more than comfortable, so on the flipside it made her feel completely out of place. She was worried about leaving dirty tread on the carpet and wondered for a moment if she should have left her boots at the door.
A homely woman with grey hair tucked into an old-fashioned maid’s cap poked her head around a doorway. ‘Hello there.’
‘Hello,’ Kelly said back, hoping her facial features were forming a confident smile and not the odd grimace she imagined. ‘Is…Simon home?’
‘Nope, sorry. Friend of Mr Coleman’s, are you?’
A friend? Hardly. And it must be Simon’s place—the cleaner had not said ‘Simon who?’ The woman watched Kelly carefully, and the broom in her hand seemed a ready weapon.
‘Actually, I am his wife.’ It felt odd, saying it out loud, but it was the only way she could think to avoid the humiliation of having to dodge a projectile broom handle as the woman became more suspicious by the second.
The woman raised her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘I’ve heard nothing about a wife.’
‘We have been…estranged.’
The woman nodded in sudden and all-too-ready understanding. ‘That explains it. But now you are back. Glad to hear it. This place could do with a woman’s touch. You wouldn’t think Mr Coleman eats in; the kitchen is always so perfect. Make him a good meal. He needs one.’
Kelly nodded, though she had to suppress a smile. Her version of a home-cooked meal would be two-minute noodles.
The cleaner grabbed up her bits and bobs and headed for the front door. ‘He should be home soon enough. Do lock up after if you’re off first.’ And she left, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Kelly couldn’t believe her luck, having time to case the joint, to get her bearings, to familiarise herself with all exits.
She walked about the apartment, trying to find signs of the boy who had stolen her heart when she was eleven years old, the teenager who had shared her first magical kiss at fourteen, and the young man who had married her in a secret ceremony on St Kilda beach at midnight on her eighteenth birthday.
No photographs lined the walls or side tables. No ornaments or collectibles showed signs of travel. There was simply no sign of the Simon Coleman she knew. Nothing of the sculptor, nothing of the sailor, nothing of the free spirit. She suddenly felt wary that this was not him. This guy with the cool, personality-free apartment could not be her Simon.
Hearing the jingle of keys at the front door, she spun on her heels. The world turned in agonising slow motion. The door banged lightly and the handle jiggled. Finally it opened and she stole a head-to-toe
