The Problem with Perfect Read online

  Marigold breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for Amelia and her spontaneous early labours.

  “You should get home. I’m sure you’ll want to fly straight to Sydney for the drive to Bowral. Your first grandchild, Mum.” Marigold said this in as lyrical a tone as she could, as she tried to hurry up the high tea, but as she spoke there was a little stab deep into her belly. It compounded the heavy feeling she’d been unable to shake since the night Julian died.

  “I shall,” her mother agreed. She put her hand on Marigold’s. It felt cold, as her mother’s hands often were. “Would you like to come with me?”

  Marigold had little interest in road-tripping with her mother to Bowral. “You go. Give them my love. I’ll go in a few days when they’re settled.”

  With her mother safely dispatched to be with her favourite child and his soon-to-be-born heir, Marigold asked the green-suited doorman to find her a taxi. She gave the driver the address of the apartment and sank into the back seat. As they zipped through the City, she wondered how many trips back and forth Julian had undertaken. But, more importantly, for what purpose?

  ***

  Pulling up outside the building, she paid the driver and took the lift to the floor of the apartment. The halls were, once again, quiet. Most of the residents must have been at work. Lucky for some.

  She unlocked the door. The apartment felt the same as the day before – quiet, eerie, and nothing like her husband. No-one had been there, or at least, she didn’t think so. Nothing had been moved. She moved around the living room again, looking for anything she hadn’t noticed earlier. She walked into the bedroom, once again, eying the neatly-made bed with suspicion. What had happened on that bed? Or had anything happened on that bed?

  She turned to face the wardrobe, realising she hadn’t looked inside. Opening it up, she found a blue work shirt on a coat-hanger.

  She pulled it out by the hanger and sat on the bed, holding it. It was his size, his preferred label, and the scent of Julian’s favoured aftershave sat on it. It was like the one he’d worn the last day he went to work. The one he’d taken off and thrown on the bed when he’d got home, telling her he’d put it in the wash before bed. The one Marigold had cried into after she had returned from identifying his body. That shirt had been a little paler than this one, but it had made his eyes look more blue than they had been.

  She had always loved Julian’s eyes. They were one of the first things she’d noticed when she spotted him one year at Flemington Race Course. They were in some marquee and their eyes met. She had been instantly attracted to him, but she’d been less worried about that and more about her checklist. The checklist that she had carefully written to describe her perfect man. Gorgeous eyes hadn’t been on there, but more tangible things had, and Julian had ticked off each one perfectly.

  She returned to the kitchen, found one of the bars of chocolate she’d noticed on her first visit, and sat down on the sofa. Ripping the purple wrapper back, she took a bite. Chewing, she wondered what else she should have specified on that list.

  Chapter Seven

  Finn

  Finn watched Marigold’s BMW pull into the driveway of her house. He didn’t know much about architecture and design, but he knew he liked her home. It was art deco (a term Zara had once explained to him as they’d watched some black and white movie). He could see it had been impeccably restored to keep the heritage, but renovated to allow all the mod cons like the state-of-the-art security system.

  She stepped out from her car, a large (most likely expensive) handbag perched on one arm, and her high heels clicking along the path as she opened a security gate. She was wearing one of her standard type outfits she wore when she wasn’t at work – slim black trousers, black heels and a black top. Being summer still it was sleeveless, but essentially the outfit shifted slightly in cooler weather – a longer-sleeved top, or perhaps a jacket.

  Zara had made him watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s once (she loved old movies), which he found extremely boring other than the fact that Audrey Hepburn was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Marigold reminded him of Audrey, with her dark hair, slim build and delicate features.

  Did Marigold realise how beautiful she was? He wasn’t sure. She was extremely confident in business dealings, but she didn’t exude vanity. It was more confidence in her manner, her abilities, her brains, rather than her looks. It was sexy, in a way. Actually, very sexy.

  He watched as she walked past the arty-looking water feature and a manicured row of box hedges and roses that a gardener was tending, during one of his regular visits to the property. Marigold approached him, pointed at the rose bushes and gave him what appeared to be some instructions. He nodded, and she unlocked her front door. And she was gone, leaving the gardener shaking his head in disbelief.

  It had been two days since Peter’s request, and Finn didn’t feel he had much to report back. He’d followed her the first day. She’d driven to a real-estate agency, then to an apartment building, had gone inside, and returned to her car a little while later.

  He made a note to check it out to find out who lived there. The apartment didn’t seem familiar to him. She’d not visited it the last time he watched her. Perhaps she was visiting a friend. But that surprised him. She’d never visited friends last time he watched her, nor had many friends visited her.

  Sometimes she and Julian had entertained in their home. They’d host dinner parties, but the friends were always couples. They’d enter the property, two-by-two, like some form of well-heeled, impeccably-dressed human recreation of Noah’s Ark.

  Over the past 48 hours, he’d dropped by at different times – day and night, just to see what she was doing so he could report to Peter that Uptown Girl was fine.

  She wasn’t sleeping. Her lights were on most of the night when he’d drive past at odd hours. But she’d never been a good sleeper. She’d generally had her study light on late at night when he’d watched her the first time, and was always up early for work.

  She wasn’t drinking much. He’d had a quick look in her recycling bin and had found very few bottles. But she’d never been a big drinker, from what he’d observed. She was drinking a lot of coffee. He could see the sleeves of the fancy coffee capsules she used in her machine.

  He’d once considered buying a coffee machine from one of those high-end stores, but the designer, luxurious feel of the shop had freaked him out a bit and he’d stuck with instant. There was too much choice. It was overwhelming.

  He turned over the ignition. Marigold was fine. She was grieving in her own way, and it was best if he had nothing to do with that process. Peter was just being an overprotective father. Truth be told, she’d probably be better off at work to keep her mind off things.

  As he pushed the indicator down, his phone rang. He pressed a button on his steering wheel to connect the call to his Bluetooth speaker system.

  “Finn?” the soft voice of the caller said. “It’s Tamsyn.”

  Finn paused, the sound of the indicator almost like a metronome timing Tamsyn’s voice echoing through his car. It reminded him of the time he was sent off by his parents to piano lessons that they likely couldn’t afford and completely wasted on someone as tone deaf as he was. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

  Tamsyn sounded the same as she had the last time he’d spoken to her: teary, tired and listless. She’d taken Simon’s death hard. Not that he could blame her. They’d adored each other.

  When Finn had told her that Simon had died immediately after the siege, she’d screamed and banged her fists on Finn’s chest.

  Telling Tamsyn, three years ago, that Simon wasn’t coming home, while their children watched some cartoon pig show in the other room, was a moment that would haunt Finn for the rest of his life. He almost had blanked out her reaction, but he could still hear that pig giggling in the background as Simon’s children played and laughed, in blissful ignorance that their life was never, ever going to be the same.

  “Tamsyn.” Fi
nn hesitated. What did you say next? “How are you?” Funny how all his training, learning how to talk to people who had been through trauma, interviewing witnesses, talking to suspects, all evaporated when it was someone he cared about. He became as tongue-tied and uncertain as someone who’d never spent a minute in his job.

  “I hear you’ve been called for the Inquest.”

  Finn nodded, unsure why he did. It wasn’t as though she could see him. “Yes.”

  “I know it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” Her voice faltered over the last word.

  Finn shifted in his seat. He knew he wasn’t at fault, but the heavy feeling remained in the pit of his stomach. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just a crap set of circumstances.”

  “Simon wouldn’t have wanted a political storm over his death. Please stick to the line. I can’t go through any more of this. It’s bad enough the politicians are demanding this. They don’t need to have their husband’s death dragged through the papers again.”

  He hadn’t been lying. The events around the siege weren’t the fault of anyone, other than the deranged gunman, but still, a mistake was made in how the police handled it. And that’s what this inquest was about. “I know he wouldn’t.”

  “Please, Finn, please. I beg you, just do what’s right. For Simon, for me, for the kids.”

  He swallowed. Unsure of how much time had passed, he responded, “I’ll think about it.”

  That was the truth. These days, it was all he could think about.

  Chapter Eight

  Marigold

  “This kid doesn’t sleep,” Frederick announced when he opened his front door. He had dark rings under his eyes making his usually chocolate-coloured irises look black. His hair was sticking out a million ways, and he looked as though he hadn’t shaved in a week. His navy polo shirt had a massive streak of milky vomit adorning the shoulder. He looked exactly like a sleep-deprived parent – a look that Marigold had never thought she’d see on her formerly carefree brother.

  Erin Elizabeth Doyle had been born two weeks earlier. 9 lbs 7 ounces. A big baby, Odette had informed her, even though it meant nothing to Marigold. What was classified as a small, medium or large baby? Was it good or bad that Erin was an alleged ‘big baby’?

  After their parents had returned from visiting their grandchild, Marigold booked a flight to Sydney. She hired a car, drove to Bowral, collected a large bunch of flowers from a florist and a tray of pastries from a local bakery, and drove to Frederick and Amelia’s house.

  “Does. Not. Sleep,” Frederick echoed as Marigold walked through the door and gave him the pastries and flowers. He took them from her but stared at them for a moment as if he was completely bewildered by them.

  “She’s a baby, Frederick.” Marigold shook her head as he seemed to snap out of his confusion over the flowers and pastries, and looked at her. What did he expect? Perhaps he was used to the sleeping routines of his step-children, now both at primary school. She knew next to nothing about newborns, but even she knew they didn’t enjoy regular sleep patterns. She could, however, sympathise with them. She’d not slept more than an hour or so at a time recently.

  “Aunty Marigold!” Sienna and Charlie tore into the room, flinging themselves at her, causing her heels to wobble under her. Sienna wrapped her arms around Marigold’s waist. “I’ve missed you,” she said, looking up, an angelic smile on her face.

  Marigold gave Sienna an awkward pat on the top of her strawberry blonde locks. She was surprised at her niece’s enthusiasm. She didn’t feel she knew her niece and nephew that well, or at least well enough to be missed by them. “Err… I’ve brought presents,” she offered, hoping it was acceptable to everyone.

  “Yes!” Charlie punched the air.

  She pulled a box of Lego for Charlie from her oversized handbag, followed by a doll dressed in riding clothes for horse-mad Sienna. That she did remember. She’d loved horses herself at that age, so Sienna’s obsession was understandable.

  Sienna gasped and ran her hand over the velvet riding coat the doll wore. “Just look at that fabric! It’s divine,” She sounded as though she belonged on the editorial team at Vogue rather than in a primary school classroom. “Thank you!”

  “Thanks,” Charlie mumbled, without looking at her. His little eyes were focused on the brightly-coloured box. “Can you help me?” He looked up at Marigold.

  “Umm. Ok.” She didn’t ever recall building Lego, but how hard could it be?

  “Thanks,” Frederick said, ruffling Charlie’s mop of brown hair. “Bribery works a dream around here.”

  He was so at ease with the kids. It was rather sweet how clearly he adored his step-children.

  What sort of father might Julian have been? He had been caring and considerate, but he ‘lived in his head’ a lot. Would he have coped with the interrupted sleep and constant demands for attention? She’d never know now.

  As she felt tears start to sting at her eyes, she heard her name and turned to find Amelia, walking into the living room wearing a floaty blue maxi-dress, her reddish hair cascading over her shoulders. A picture of domestic serenity while holding the allegedly-sleepless child wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket.

  “Meet your Aunt Marigold,” Amelia cooed in her pretty, lyrical voice.

  “Oh, are you sure? I’m….” She was more than aware she didn’t have a clue what she was doing. But it was too late; Amelia was handing her the baby. She took her new niece, clutching her carefully. Was she meant to do something with the head? Support it? She peeked down at little Erin. She looked like Frederick had as a baby – a wild mop of dark hair and a scrunched-up face. “Very cute.” She sat down carefully on their sofa. It minimised the risk of dropping her.

  “Isn’t she?” Frederick’s eyes lit up. “She looks like me, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Frederick gave a satisfied grin. Fatherhood, despite the lack of sleep and clean clothing, was sitting rather nicely on him.

  She hadn’t expected it from Frederick and certainly had never really thought a lot about it herself, but now the idea seemed impossible. Even if she met someone else, it wasn’t as though they’d have a child straight away. She couldn’t even imagine kissing someone at the moment, let alone thinking of starting a family.

  Perhaps being an aunt to this red-faced bundle was the best she could hope for. Erin looked at Marigold with a bewildered expression, one that Marigold had often seen in the mirror in recent times as she’d tried to make sense of her world.

  ***

  With Erin settled into her bassinet, not asleep but not crying, and Sienna and Charlie busy with their new toys, Marigold sat on the veranda with Amelia and Frederick.

  Their grey and white painted house was lovely. Amelia’s parents had built it on a large parcel of land and she had inherited it after they died. It was quiet and peaceful as birds chirped in the distance. She could see why Amelia had been so desperate to live here, and while Frederick would have probably lived anywhere to be with Amelia, this was a pleasant spot to land.

  Marigold liked the country – after all, she had spent a reasonable amount of her life away from the city – but wasn’t sure she could live there all the time. She liked the pace of the city. When she was CEO of D-Line, she might move more of the operations there from Bendigo. Her father split his time between Melbourne and Bendigo – that seemed unnecessary in her opinion, but many of his ideas seemed slightly off at the moment. Sending her on gardening leave, bringing in Jonathan to manage the merger, and locking her out of her email.

  His judgement was lacking, that was for sure. Perhaps he too was in shock about Julian’s death.

  She set out the pastries she had picked up on her way, as Amelia and Frederick sank in their chairs, a peaceful exhaustion washing over them.

  “This is the best croissant I’ve ever had,” Frederick said, pronouncing it the correct French way. All the Doyle siblings spoke French, on their mother’s insistence, but Frederick had the b
est command of the language and accent courtesy of two years working in French wineries in his early twenties.

  Marigold was about to reply that it was quite good when she realised that Frederick’s head had rolled back. He was snoring and still holding a piece of croissant.

  “He’s so tired.” Amelia sighed, looking over at Frederick, before turning back to Marigold. “He’s so good with Erin. He does the night shift and it lets me get some sleep, but then he’s still working so hard during the day.”

  “It won’t be forever.”

  “No, they grow up fast.” Amelia pushed her plate aside, put her elbows on the table and looked straight ahead at Marigold. “How are you?” Amelia’s voice was gentle. Not dissimilar to the birds chirping their little songs from her garden.

  At their wedding, Frederick in his speech had said that Amelia reminded him of a mermaid, and they’d shared a little lovey-dovey look, which had been far too sentimental for Marigold’s tastes. A wedding speech didn’t need to be that mushy, but she thought the description wasn’t too bad. Amelia was a bit like a sea princess from a fairy tale.

  Marigold shook non-existent crumbs off her lap. “I’m ok.” As lovely as Amelia was, Marigold wasn’t going to tell her about the apartment. It was too weird. She still couldn’t even figure it out enough in her own mind, let alone adequately explain it to someone else.

  “It must be hard. You’ve been so brave.”

  Amelia was hardly the girl Marigold thought her brother would become serious about, let alone marry. She was relieved he’d picked someone as sensible and smart as Amelia – and, more to the point, that Amelia had chosen him.

  “I wish we lived closer.” Amelia frowned. “And with Erin on the way, we couldn’t stay very long after the funeral. I’m sorry.”

  “Amelia, no, you’ve been wonderful. To be honest, I like being on my own.”