Page 16 of The Orchard at Rosevale
Because, as she later discovered, Mac had no interest in her as a wife. Once she’d had Cruz, an heir to the farm, Mac didn’t come near her. If she initiated sex on special occasions, like his birthday and their anniversary, he’d acquiesce, but his heart—and the rest of him—hadn’t been in it. Their sex life became rote, then non-existent, but never in a million years had she suspected that what occurred in this apartment had been the reason.
Leaving her bags at the door, she flicked on a light switch and held her breath, not sure what to expect. Would there be framed photos of Mac’s other life? Would the love of his life be evident in small touches, like coffee table books and favourite flowers?
Thankfully, the apartment appeared bare, as though someone had come through and stripped the place of everything bar the furniture: a black leather two-seater sofa with matching recliners, glass side table and a vinyl turntable with small speakers perched on a modular display cabinet. The Mac she knew never listened to music, so discovering albums by Dire Straits, Cold Chisel, the Doors, Van Morrison and Joe Jackson floored her. She’d loved bopping around the homestead, cleaning with ABBA on full blast, and he’d always chastise her for it. Discovering this stash reinforced how much of a hypocrite the man she married had been.
A pristine kitchenette—white cupboards and a two-burner induction stovetop—appeared untouched, so with trepidation, she opened the door that led to the bedroom.
Standing on the threshold to the room where her husband had conducted a longstanding affair, unexpected bile rose in her throat and she rushed to the adjoining ensuite to vomit. She fell to her knees and clutched the toilet, but nothing came up, and she dry-retched until her throat ached and her nose streamed. Annoyed by her weakness, she blew her nose with toilet paper and flushed before washing her hands and splashing water on her face, belatedly realising there was no hand towel. In fact, the bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, showed no semblance of use. That’s when she realised that Mac’s lover must’ve come through and cleaned the place out, except for the vinyls.
Of course his lover would have a key card. Which meant she needed to get it back.
‘Fuck you, Mac Wardlow!’ she yelled, hating the life she’d led with him and resenting every wasted moment of their pathetic marriage.
Walking back into the bedroom, she averted her eyes from the bed, knowing in that moment that this entire place needed a makeover before she could stay here. Using her phone to find the nearest 24-hour Kmart, she grabbed her bag and keys and headed back out.
It took her thirty minutes to reach Burwood, but she didn’t care. She had a mission to complete: obliterate all traces of Mac and his lover fromherapartment. That had to be her mindset moving forward. Everything Mac owned was now hers, and while her memories may take a lifetime to erase, she could change her surroundings to enjoy the rest of her life rather than dwell on her bastard of an ex.
After parking, she chose the largest trolley she could find and entered the brightly lit store. It had been years since she’d shopped in the city and the sheer size of the place had her goggle-eyed. She thought it would be deserted because of the late hour, but it looked like shift workers were fond of all-night Kmarts.
She headed straight for the homewares section, amazed by the choice. She didn’t dither over the essential items, adding a matching sheet and doona cover combo in pretty pastels to the trolley, followed by a plethora of plump cushions in seagrass and ivory. In the bathroom section, she chose a funky flamingo bathmat edged in bright pink and matching pink towels, along with shell-shaped soap dishes and revolving makeup caddies. She hadn’t checked the kitchen cabinets but assumed there’d be crockery and cutlery. If not, she could stock up tomorrow, but for now she needed to focus on the bedroom, bathroom and living room, and make them as liveable as possible.
For the living room, she chose furry throw blankets in deep purple, eight lilac gingham cushions, bubble side tables, and several reed diffusers in crisp citrus and mojito mint to add a new scent to the place. At the self-serve checkout, she added four blocks of chocolate to her overflowing trolley, because she intended on treating herself once she got the place set up with the new decor.
Banishing the bad karma left by Mac had to be her number one priority, but by the time she made it back to the apartment, unloaded everything and set up the new bedding, she couldn’t do much more than collapse onto the bed fully clothed, her muscles aching with exhaustion and her eyelids heavy.
Time enough to revamp the apartment and start her new life tomorrow.
CHAPTER
10
Cruz didn’t sleep well. Though his mum had said she’d cleaned out the master bedroom for him, he chose to sleep in his childhood bedroom because he’d felt oddly vulnerable after dropping off Elora’s dinner last night. He’d hurt her with his curt behaviour. The look in her eyes when she’d asked if he’d be sharing dinner with her had been like a puppy being ignored by its new owner, so when he’d stomped back to the homestead, he’d been equal parts annoyed at himself and relieved he wouldn’t be spending the evening with her.
He’d contemplated drowning his sorrows in bourbon, before realising that would make him bleary-eyed for his meeting with Kyle, so he tried watching a nineties comedy like Elora had recommended but couldn’t get into it, so opted for channel surfing mindless television before going to bed.
Opening the door to his childhood bedroom had made Cruz’s throat tighten. He’d left this place ten years ago, but Ferne had preserved it like he’d slept in it yesterday. The double bed had a plain navy doona and matching sheets and pillowcase. The bedside table had a stack of sporting biographies on it that he’d never read. The desk had a lamp and a stack of unused notebooks on it, left over from his schooldays, and the bookcase had a few cookbooks by celebrity chefs: Jamie Oliver, Nigella Lawson, Gordon Ramsay and Yotam Ottolenghi.
Ferne understood the enjoyment gained from flicking through cookbooks rather than looking up recipes online, but his father had screwed up his nose in disgust whenever Cruz had pored over the recipes of iconic chefs. Mac had stacked a few farming manuals on Cruz’s bookshelf in an attempt to sway his reading choices and Cruz had pretended to flick through them half-heartedly, earning yet more disapproval from his tyrannical father.
Ferne had kept his childhood books too:The BFGby Roald Dahl, Choose Your Own Adventure tales, and the complete Hardy Boys set. Not a speck of dust rested on anything, so she must clean regularly. His mum had always been house proud. Not that Mac noticed. Nothing Ferne nor Cruz did had ever been good enough for Mac.
Cruz stripped off and crawled into bed, burying his face in the pillow and inhaling deeply, the familiar scent of floral fabric softener and sunshine not comforting him as expected, and by the time the first rays of dawn stole through the window, he’d barely slept.
Sleep deprived and disgruntled, he showered, downed a coffee and grabbed a homemade muesli bar—Ferne had left a double stack of them in the pantry because they’d been his favourite growing up—before heading for the study. He fired up the computer and opened several folders:latest farm turnover;avocado growth and sales projections;prospective buyers. He perused the latter, disappointed to see Ferne had made a list of new buyers for their avocados rather than the entire farm. Then again, what had he expected? What was the point of listing buyers for the farm now when he had to fulfil his father’s wish to work here for a year?
He crammed the muesli bar into his mouth, barely tasting the delicious blend of cranberries, sunflowers, pepitas, maple syrup and peanuts. He looked over the other two folders. The latest turnover figures were disappointing. No wonder his mother had hired Elora to boost their profile. If she didn’t succeed, the place would be worth next to nothing when it came time to sell.
With half an hour until his meeting with Kyle, Cruz brought up a search engine and typed ‘Elora Curtis’ into it. It felt stalkerish, going through her various social media profiles, but he attributed it to good business sense to check out who Ferne had employed.
He shouldn’t have been surprised by the vibrancy of her Instagram, TikTok, Facebook and Snapchat profiles. On each, her wide smile and penchant for bright colours came through the screen like a ray of sunshine on a dismal day. She loved posing and the camera loved her. Even her selfies were cute and quirky rather than forced and fake. And the screen didn’t mute her vivaciousness, it enhanced her vitality.
A strange pang twanged his chest. What would it be like to love life that much? To be so happy you wanted to share it with the world?
He couldn’t think of anything worse than putting himself out there, though he occasionally posted photos of dishes he created, more so he could look back on their perfection than anything else. He had his doubts about how Elora would make avocados on the farm look appealing, but she took great photos and added catchy captions, so he’d trust her judgement for now.
When he couldn’t stop staring at a particularly gorgeous photo—she wore a vivid crimson overcoat, matching lipstick, long black boots, her hair artfully tousled as she stood beneath an oak tree in autumnal bloom—he shut down the computer with a groan. No good could come of lusting after the woman staying in the homestead’s studio.
He slipped out the back door, leaving it unlocked in case Elora wanted a shower—great, another vision he didn’t need—and headed for the machinery shed.
