Don’t you? I think there are some purification tablets in here somewhere. What frequency’s the ABC?’ They both looked at each other as she tried the on button on the radio, sharing relief when the device burred into life. ‘Why do we have to boil it?’
‘133.5. No idea. Since when have you had an emergency pack?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, piling the vegetables from the fridge into a cloth bag as Helena watched. ‘I never thought I’d have to use it. I just liked packing it. Ah.’ She twiddled the dial on the radio and found the station, then turned the volume up. It was halfway through a bulletin warning them to stay away from train stations and shopping centres. They exchanged a look and Cressida swore and threw the tap water in the sink, then both of them ran into the hallway.
‘Can you take that?’ She pointed into her room at her laptop. ‘Wait a minute. Alessa. She was …’
‘Alessa’s fine,’ Helena said, touching Cressida’s arm. ‘She’s at home. Her plane got in yesterday afternoon. Not happy about the lack of hot water, of course, and her bags never turned up on the concourse. But other than that she’s fine.’
Alessa. Her sister, in town slumming it with the provincials. It was the obligatory fortnight in March and, as usual, or at least once the missing suitcases arrived, she would be fresh from a Singapore fashion mall in a new capsule outfit from some edgy new designer. Last time it was lots of leather and dangly earrings. Cressida looked down at her own ensemble. She’d have to change. Quickly she went to her room and shucked her shorts, slipping on instead the cream linen Leona Edmiston shift.
‘What are you doing?’ Helena said from the doorway.
‘A terrorist attack is no reason to look sloppy,’ she said, adding a pale silk scarf and her weekend pearls, yellow rather than eggshell. Quickly she applied tinted SPF and bronzer, three-second eyeliner and a dash of gloss, picked up the duffel and started herding Helena towards the door.
‘What about Dad?’
‘I know,’ Helena said and stopped, turning to her, eyes filling with tears. ‘I’ve tried ringing them all morning, but I can’t get through. I did once on the mobile and it went straight to voicemail.’ Her eyes were dark. ‘I guess they have contingencies for this sort of thing.’ Then she brightened. ‘Well. At least we know we don’t have to worry about Jerome. No need for power stations on ships.’
‘Yeah,’ Cressida snorted. Her brother had been on the Sea Shepherd for weeks. They’d have wall to wall solar, surely. Or was that hull to hull? ‘I guess not.’
When they opened the door the heat hit them like wind from a furnace, sweat stickying Cressida’s eyelids almost immediately. Helena held her handbag over her head against the sun’s blaze, took the duffel and ran towards the car. When she had popped the boot of the vast green Jag she ran back to take Cressida’s laptop.
‘Actually, Helena,’ Cressida said, lugging the backpack and the cloth bag of veggies into the boot of her Fiat, ‘we have to go via Felipe’s. I just want to check he’s okay. Hey – you’re looking a little peaky.’ She stopped and asked, ‘Are you alright?’
‘What? Oh. Yes.’ There was a pause and Helena lifted her sunglasses to wipe her eyes. ‘It’s just so awful,’ she said, looking up at Cressida. ‘I mean – what about the babies?’
‘The babies?’
‘You know. The ones in hospital. And the old people, on respirators …’
‘Oh Helena, yes,’ said Cressida, squeezing her into a hug. Children were usually first on her stepmother’s mind when anything happened. ‘Yes. I guess we don’t know what the damage is yet though.’ She tried to sound reassuring. ‘I remember Felipe once saying something about hospitals having backup generators. Anyway,’ she said, thumbing a stray tear from Helena’s cheek, ‘let’s pick up some ice on the way to your place, then we can have a cold drink.’ How long did servo ice fridges stay cold without power? ‘Then we’ll try and find a proper news bulletin.’
‘I’ve got some,’ Helena murmured, still distracted. Then her stepmother was looking up at her, small and scared.
‘Can I come with you?’
‘In my car? Of course.’
‘Oh but what about the Jag?’ she said, looking at the boot and then down the road. ‘Will it be safe here? There’s looters …’
Cressida looked uncertainly up and down the street. It was deserted, but the vast green vehicle was an eye-catching car.
‘You drive home and I’ll follow,’ she said, ‘then I’ll go and get Felipe by myself. It won’t take long.’
‘Are you mad?’ Helena said, grabbing Cressida’s hand, ‘I’m not letting you out of my sight. Besides, Leo would kill me if anything happened to you.’
Cressida doubted her father would have much of an opinion one way or the other, but knew it would hurt Helena’s feelings to say so, so she didn’t.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘How about you drive it to your place, then we both go in my car?’
‘Oh you’re so sensible, Cressida,’ Helena said, falling against her in a damp-eyed hug.
‘Come on.’ Cressida pushed her gently into the driver’s seat of the Jag. ‘Wait here while I go get mine.’
The Porsche still pending, Cressida’s current car was a two-door Fiat she had bought after seeing it at a popup at Bondi Junction Westfield. Tiny, white and bubble-shaped, the creamy red upholstery and little red badge on the boot had beguiled her pen onto the papers before the salesperson had even had to wave the brochure. The air conditioning had gone on the blink after the last service though and only worked with the fan at full blast now, but Cressida had come to enjoy sitting in its arctic gale. She tossed the bag in the back, plugged her phone into the cigarette lighter, and turned the radio on. There was a bottle of water in the footwell and she reached for it, unscrewing the top and gulping half. Warm, but good. So-o-o good. Well I’m sure the Porsche dealership will understand if I don’t turn up for my appointment, she thought, wiping her lips. Then another thought arose and she nearly spat out the mouthful. Oh God. The prostitute. The hotel room. She’d forgotten to ring them. Surely this counted as Act of God or something for the purposes of any cancellation fee. As she tailed Helena down the curve of Military Road, the burn of disappointment at last night’s deferral of the vote took up residence again in her stomach. Thank God that, other than Pip and briefly Felipe, she hadn’t told anyone about her application.
Driving down Campbell Parade was like passing through the main street of a ghost town. The usual passage of early morning joggers was absent, the beach deserted. An enormous armoured personnel carrier dominated the square outside the chicken shop, its occupants in full army fatigues directing traffic at the intersection under lights that flashed amber. Nearby, police in white overalls picked their way across broken glass outside the convenience store. It was startling to see the soldiers, as if war had arrived overnight.
Her stomach was rumbling. How was she going to keep the juice diet up now, without power for the machine? Fruit, she thought. Surely there’ll be a fruit shop open. But all three vendors along Bondi Road were shuttered. At Bondi Junction the traffic slowed to a crawl as more gloved traffic police directed cars around intersections. The same service was on every frequency on
