up her laptop and logged on to her bank account to work out how on earth she would get together enough money to fix her car.
It was a depressing exercise. Despite months of scrimping and saving, she had just enough in the account to cover rent, utilities and food for the next month, but precious little contingency. Certainly nothing near the amount that Harry had implied she might need.
She stared at the figures on the screen, elbows propped on the table, fingers digging into her temples as she racked her brain. There had to be some way to find the money.
She could ask for more shifts at the local art gallery where she worked, but that would mean bailing on classes at university and she had exams coming up … Plus she was already sailing close to the wind in the attendance department. The last thing she needed was to fail because she hadn’t attended the requisite number of hours in class. The whole point of getting her Diploma of Education was to escape this cycle of hand-to-mouth, one-day-at-a-time living by landing a decent-paying job. She was halfway through her diploma, but all her hard work would be a complete write-off if she failed because of skipping class.
Of course, if she had completed her teaching degree ten years ago when she’d graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree, none of this would be an issue. She would have a decent job, a good income, and Alice would have a stable home. But Pippa had turned her nose up at teaching then, even though her mother had encouraged her to have “something to fall back on.” Pippa had been convinced that something else was out there for her, something amazing and creative and exciting. She’d spent a decade searching and had nothing to show for it except a woefully empty bank account and her beautiful, painfully precious daughter.
A headache started behind her left eye and she willed away the panic fluttering in her chest. She might not be able to see it right now, but there was a solution to her problem. She simply had to wait for it to reveal itself.
If Steve was even close to being a responsible adult, you wouldn’t have to think twice about calling a mechanic.
Pippa hated the impotent, acidic burn she got in her stomach every time she thought about her ex. Hated how helpless it made her feel. How stupid.
For six incredibly foolhardy months, she’d been infatuated with a real-life version of Peter Pan. She’d laughed at his antics, been beguiled by his laid-back, take-things-as-they-come lifestyle and ignored the little voice in her head telling her nobody could live like that forever. Then she’d discovered she was pregnant, and Steve had turned from a funny, irreverent larrikin to an angry, resentful asshole. Six months of laughs, good times and fun had gone up in smoke and Pippa had been left holding the baby. Literally.
I don’t want this. I didn’t ask for it. I’ll give you the money to make it go away. But if you decide to keep it, it’s all on you. I don’t want anything to do with it.
His words on that fateful day still lived large in her memory. She’d hoped his attitude would change once he’d gotten over the shock of her announcement, but he hadn’t budged on his stance. She’d been forced to contact Child Support Services to pursue him for support payments. She hadn’t wanted to, had tried everything in her power to work it out with him, not wishing it to become official and complicated, but Steve had point-blank refused to even come to the table. Pippa had been left with no choice but to take steps to ensure Alice had what she needed.
In theory, the law had supported her cause, but Steve had arrived with the books for his house-painting business and told the caseworker he was barely staying afloat. Alice had been awarded a paltry fifteen dollars per week based on Steve’s hugely under-reported annual income. She’d listened with disbelief when her caseworker explained the outcome. She knew how Steve lived. He never denied himself anything, from holidays to Bali to a new truck to three-hundred-dollar sunglasses. But because he was self-employed, he was able to manipulate the figures to make it look as though he barely made ends meet. She’d walked away with nothing but disillusionment and the advice that she needed to file a change of assessment request to empower the agency to go after Steve through tax and bank records. She’d done so two months ago, and was still waiting to hear the result.
No surprises there. She had no doubt that Steve was doing everything to avoid, delay and prevaricate. Meanwhile, she and Alice teetered on the brink of insolvency.
Pippa rubbed her eyes. No matter how much she willed it, the figure on the screen hadn’t suddenly grown an extra decimal point. She abandoned the computer and picked up Alice out of her bassinet and then lay on the floor with her baby resting on her belly. Alice pushed up on her arms and stared, eyes bright with curiosity. As usual Pippa felt the bulk of her worries slip away as she looked into her daughter’s trusting face.
This is what’s important. Only this.
Everything else would take care of itself. University, the car, the bills … Things would work out. She’d make them work out. She might not be loaded, but she was thirty-one years old and she was resourceful and resilient. If she had to sic yet another government agency on Steve, she would. If she had to somehow squeeze in more work shifts around her classes, she’d do that, too. Whatever it took.
She cupped her hand around her daughter’s silken head and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
Whatever it took.
CHAPTER TWO
HARRY WOKE THE next morning feeling thirsty and thick in the head. No doubt the result of the many beers he’d sunk last night, along with the fact he’d crawled into bed in the early hours.
He lay in the morning sun trying to muster the energy to get out of bed and take care of both his thirst and complaining bladder.
Details from the night returned: Steve crowing as he won yet another game of pool at the pub, completely ungracious in victory. Nugga making a fool of himself chatting up a girl way too young for him. The hot brunette with the tight tank top—no bra—who had punched her number into Harry’s phone and told him to call her.
Yeah, it had been a good one. Not quite up to the glory days of five years ago, when there had been more of them and fewer girlfriends and wives at home, but still a good night.
After a few minutes of drowsing, Harry threw off the covers and shuffled into the bathroom to take care of business. He hit the kitchen afterward, pouring himself a huge glass of OJ and took it to bed, which was when he noticed the sand in the sheets. He grinned, remembering the last part of the evening, when he, Steve and Bluey had played an unholy game of tag on the beach, whooping and hollering as they ran in and out of the surf and up and down the sand. They’d finally been sent home by one of the boys in blue, with a heavy-handed suggestion that they all grow up.
Harry finished the juice in one long pull. He checked his phone for the time and saw he had a text from Nugga asking if he wanted to catch a wave or two at Gunnamatta. He thought about it for a second. He didn’t have any other major plans for the day beyond a vague idea that he might drop in on his sister, Mel, and her husband, Flynn. A surf was a safer bet—the moment his sister saw him she’d be sure to invent some gardening job that required muscle strain, sweat and four-letter words. Not that she wouldn’t be in there right alongside him and Flynn, pulling her weight, but still.
He texted Nugga to say he was on the way, then rolled out of bed and stretched until his shoulders popped. Ten minutes later he was out the door in a pair of board shorts, a towel under his arm, a pair of thongs on his feet.
He threw his wetsuit and board into the back of his old truck and wended his way through quiet residential streets until he hit the highway.
