her hair at the roots. ‘I can’t bear it. I literally can’t bear it. I miss him so much. I think of him constantly. I mean constantly. I have full-blown conversations with him in my head. Some days it hurts so much, I don’t think I can do it. I feel like I’m just dragging myself forward, when all I want is to close my eyes and sleep. I want to wake up sometime in the future when it is easier, less painful than this.’
Eva swallows and continues. ‘And Mum … she’s calling me continually to ask if I’m okay, telling me I can move back home.’ She shakes her head sharply. ‘And I’m not okay. Of course I’m not! But moving in with her isn’t what I want. I’ll suffocate there. I can’t go back.’ She bites down on her bottom lip and then says, ‘I thought we’d have our whole lives together. And now … he’s dead. I’ll never get to see him again, or hold him, or hear his laugh … or do any of the things we’d planned. And it feels so … unfair. Why Jackson? Why did it have to be him? We were married for less than a year. We had everything ahead of us – and he died!’ She slams her palm down on the table, making their wineglasses tremble. ‘I’m furious with him for being so fucking stupid, for being out there on those rocks in the middle of winter, fishing! And I’m furious with Mum for asking us to come and stay that weekend. But mostly … mostly I’m furious with myself – because if I’d got out of bed a few minutes earlier, or not bothered making a Thermos, then I’d have been there in time. I’d have told him to get off the rocks. And then … he’d still be here.’
Tears roll down Eva’s cheeks and Callie reaches across the table and squeezes both her hands.
‘I hate this, Cal. I hate feeling like this. I’m so lonely without him. The flat … it’s awful. It’s so quiet. It’s like the life has been sucked out. I’m living in a vacuum.’ Eva slides one of her hands free from Callie’s and wipes her face. ‘At night it’s just me in there and our bedroom … it feels so empty … so silent. I sleep with the fucking radio on and a hot-water bottle wrapped in Jackson’s clothes! It’s pathetic!’
Eva reaches for her wine and takes a long gulp, draining half of it. ‘I wanted – needed – to go back to work, to keep myself busy, help me stay sane. But today, God, it was awful. That poor couple.’ She shakes her head again. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready to be back.’
The lights in the bar are dimmed and the music is turned up as the barman sets the ambience for the evening ahead. ‘You’re an incredible midwife,’ Callie says, leaning in closer to be heard. ‘You could open a florist’s with all the bouquets new mothers send. But maybe it is too soon. Give yourself some time.’
‘What would I do with it? I feel so … separated from him. I know that sounds ridiculous, because of course I feel separated – he’s dead! It’s just, there’s no one I can share this with. I’m so grateful to have you to talk to, but what I mean is, there’s no one here that knew him, really knew Jackson like I did. His friends are great and adored him, and Mum liked Jackson, but she’s grieving for me, not him. I feel like I need to be around people that really loved him, like I did.’
‘You mean his family?’
She nods. ‘His dad still hasn’t called back. I keep trying him – but he never picks up.’
‘Maybe it’s too hard for him right now.’
Eva finishes her wine. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says, running a finger over the stem of her glass, ‘what if I went out there?’
‘Tasmania?’
She nods. ‘I want to meet Dirk. Meet Jackson’s old friends. See where he grew up. We were planning to go together in the autumn. And it’s not far from Melbourne …’
‘So you could come and visit me!’ Callie finishes, a smile spreading over her face.
Callie was due to start a six-month contract there in February but kept on saying that she would cancel it if Eva wanted her to stay in London.
‘I could even meet you in Tasmania,’ Callie says, ‘and then we could fly on to Melbourne together. The company’s paying for my flat. It’s a two-bed place, so you would have your own room.’
‘What about David?’
‘He doesn’t do long haul. Tells me it plays havoc with his sleep patterns. That’s what happens when you screw a 45-year-old.’
Eva tries for a smile, but feels the sadness that lingers around her mouth and in the dark hollows beneath her eyes.
‘Seriously, Eva, why not take a sabbatical? Give yourself some time.’
She nods. ‘I’ve been thinking about it.’
‘Have you spoken to your mum about this?’
Eva shakes her head. ‘She won’t like it.’ Her mother’s life had been punctured by sadness; she’d lost her second daughter at birth and then, twelve years later, lost her husband to a stroke. All her love – and all her fears – were poured into Eva.
‘You’ve got to do what feels right for you, not what your mum wants.’ Callie pauses. ‘What would Jackson have said?’
Without hesitating Eva says, ‘Go. He’d have told me to go.’
We talked about taking a trip out to Tasmania. You wanted to meet my family, go for drinks with my friends you’d heard stories about, see the shack on Wattleboon where I’d spent my summers.
People often think of Tassie as Australia’s poorer brother because the climate is cooler and the cities are smaller and less sophisticated. Its brutal history as Van Diemen’s Land is never forgotten. Yet I’ve always loved it for exactly those reasons – it’s wild and rugged, with a shadowy past, and enough raw wilderness to lose yourself in.
I’d love to have hiked with you in the eerie beauty of Cradle Mountain, where moss drips from the trees, or shown you the wombats that amble on the tracks around Wineglass Bay. We could have been tourists together and taken a boat out along the east coast to see the whales cruising by, or eaten soggy fries and gravy from Buggy’s Takeout in Hobart.
You used to ask me so many questions about Tasmania, as if by trying to understand the place you could piece me together. But there was a lot I didn’t tell you about my life there – whole chunks of time that I left out, people’s names I never mentioned, things I wanted to forget.
I’d’ve liked to have shown you every edge of Tasmania because I know you’d have fallen in love with that little island in the sea. But the truth is, Eva, I never planned to take you there. How could I?
There is a bus ride to Gatwick, a long wait in the overcrowded fug of the departures lounge, a plane seat with a dusty headrest, a bleary-eyed refuelling stop in Dubai, a further twelve hours in the same cramped seat, a frantic run to the domestic terminal in Melbourne, and then a smaller plane heading finally for Tasmania.
As they descend through broken white clouds, Eva peers through the scratched window of
