Page 22 of The Mother-in-Law

‘My name is Detective Jones,’ Jones says. ‘This is my partner, Detective Housseini. We’re police.’

Edie points at her suit. ‘Where police clothes?’

‘Some police don’t wear uniforms. But I have a badge. Here. Look.’

Jones, I notice, has changed temperaments as if on an axis. Suddenly she is, perhaps not quite maternal, but certainly friendly and warm. It’s clear to me somehow that she doesn’t have children of her own but is very possibly someone’s favourite aunt.

‘I think we’ll leave it at that for today,’ Jones says, taking her badge back from Edie and putting it in her jacket pocket. ‘But if you think of anything significant, or remember Diana’s oncologist’s name, please do give me a call.’ Her tone indicates that she doesn’t expect that call to come.

‘It just doesn’t make sense,’ Ollie says as we all walk toward the door. ‘Mum wouldn’t lie about having cancer.’

But my mind is caught up with something else, something irritating and itchy, like having someone’s name on the tip of your tongue. No matter how many times I turn it over, I can’t make any sense of it.

If you committed suicide, why did you leave the letter in the study drawer, Diana? Why didn’t you leave it where you knew someone would find it?

12

LUCY

The past . . .

Aweek or two before Archie’s first birthday, Ollie and I arrive at Tom and Diana’s house. We are immediately shuffled into the front living room, the ‘good room’ all the Goodwins call it, which is strange because all the rooms seem pretty good to me. Still, it’s a novelty as we usually sit on bar stools in the kitchen or hang out in the den.

‘Can I get you another mineral water, Lucy?’ Diana asks.

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

Diana and Tom’s sofa is so plump with stuffing that I have to clutch the armrest for stability. It doesn’t help that my knee is doing its nervous bounce. Diana does nothing to put me at ease. She is her classic self today—her gaze beady and guarded. She sits right on the edge of the couch, her legs crossed at the knee. Nettie and Patrick were here when we arrived, but after giving us a quick apologetic wave, they made themselves scarce. I wish I could make myself scarce.

Diana and I attempt to make small talk—about work (mine, never hers), about my dad’s health (the precancerous mole he recently had removed), about the 70s zebra-striped jumpsuit and jacket combo I’m wearing (which Diana mistook for pyjamas), but I sense Diana’s heart isn’t in it and neither is mine. We both want to get on with what we came here for, and it’s clear from the fact that Ollie and I suggested this meeting that we want something.

‘Cheese?’ Diana says, holding up an antipasto platter.

‘No thanks,’ I say, and we drift back into silence.

Unfortunately, Ollie is still locked in conversation with Tom, long after Diana and I have exhausted all avenues of conversation. Tom, it appears, is talking about the inheritance again. He adores talking aboutthe inheritanceand drops it into conversation as often as he possibly can. It reminds me of a child desperate to tell their friend what they’d got them as a birthday present before they can tear off the paper. Theinheritance, he says, will look after us in our old age. Admittedly, it’s nice to know we’ll be looked after and it does give me some comfort in those times we eat instant noodles for dinner because we can’t afford anything else . . . but at the same time it feels like poor taste to talk about what we’ll get when someone diesbefore they are dead.

‘Anyway, we wanted to ask you something,’ Ollie says, after what seems like an eternity. Diana and I sit a little straighter. Tom is the only one who seems surprised that there is a purpose to our visit. For someone so successful, he really can be quite thick.

‘We’ve found a house,’ Ollie announces.

‘And not a moment too soon!’ Tom says eagerly. He, like the majority of Ollie’s friends, has been unsettled about the fact that we’re renting and likes the security of bricks and mortar for investment.

‘It’s a two-bedroom workers cottage in South Melbourne,’ Ollie continues. ‘It’s pretty rundown, but we could renovate it. We’ve got a good deposit, just short of twenty per cent.’ He hesitates here, steals a quick glance at his mother. ‘Problem is, without the full deposit, we’d need to pay mortgage insurance, which is just throwing money down the drain. We hate to ask but—’

‘South Melbourne, eh?’ Tom says. ‘A good spot. Close to the city. Near the market, near Albert Park Lake. It’s not easy for you young folk, is it? Everything is so expensive. I read the other day that a lot of kids are not buying their first home until they are in their forties, can you believe that? What do you think, Di?’

Tom is the only one I’ve ever heard call Diana ‘Di’. Once, I heard him call her Lady Di. The strangest part was, Diana actuallysmiled. Tom brings out an entirely different side to her. A softer side. Unfortunately, now Diana doesn’t look soft. Her lips are pressed tightly together as though she’s trying to break something with her teeth.

‘Life has never been easy,’ she says finally, folding her hands primly in her lap. ‘Every generation has its challenges and I dare say most have had to suffer through worse than unaffordable housing. You and Lucy both have good heads on your shoulders. If you want this house badly enough, I don’t doubt you’ll make it work. Otherwise you’ll find something else . . . something youcanafford.’

Silence follows. Deafening silence. I stare at the swirls of the rug on the floor, unable to meet her gaze. After a moment or two, I steal a look at Ollie and Tom, who both look disappointed, though not surprised.

‘Diana,’ Tom starts, but Diana is already holding up a hand.

‘You asked me what I thought, that’s what I think. Now that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.’ Diana uproots herself from the overstuffed couch. ‘Will you kids be staying for dinner?’

Ollie and I stare at her, blinking.