Christina blinks. She’s never thought of herself – of anyone – in terms of where they belong; rather, she accepts where they are. Except, if she thinks about her life, she can see quite clearly that she has always looked out, to the world. Recent circumstances have forced herin, but she doesn’t belong there.
Then she thinks about how Daphne treated her like she would treat anyone else, and about how it’s been a few days since anyone recognised her, and about how calm and pretty this whole part of Sydney is. It may be okay to stay here for a while longer – especially if she has a purpose in her days. She can simply be Christina here, with no scandal, no failed career, no past to outrun.
‘All right,’ she says, starting to stroll again.
‘All right?’ Joni sounds gleeful.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll call Daphne when we get home.’
‘No, that’s all right – I will.’
They could, of course, turn around and go back to the shop, but Christina doesn’t want to put Daphne on the spot like that. It would be easier for her to say no in a phone call – in case she doesn’t need anyone, or doesn’t want Christina.
And if she doesn’t, that will be fine, because Christina knows she’ll find something else to do with her days. She needs to. She wants to. She belongs out in the world.
Sighing out a breath as they reach the car, her shoulders drop and her face relaxes and she has the strangest sense that she is arriving here, in her body, for the first time in a very long while.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There’s a man coming today to assess the furniture for its sale value. Margot has been aware of this appointment for several days but that hasn’t helped her accept its imminence. Indeed, she’s hoping that he just won’t turn up and therefore she won’t have to think about the furniture being sold nor deal with the fact that she has no money.
Of course, the not-dealing is what’s brought them to this point, but Margot honestly doesn’t think it’s entirely her fault.
She was nineteen when her mother died. Nineteen and trained to be someone’s wife, not a financial wizard. The husband hasn’t materialised, and that’s probably because she never meets anyone given she’s mostly at home with Lavinia. But why should it all be her responsibility? Looking after Lavinia is enough of a responsibility.
Very occasionally Margot will contemplate the idea that the reason she’s done nothing to address her straitened circumstances is because she’s ashamed she didn’t notice them developing. She is letting her parents down, and even though they’re no longer here, she feels paralysed by the shame of it all.
The man coming today was recommended by one of the nosy neighbours. Yes, that’s how Margot thinks of them even as she’s aware that their kindness somewhat keeps her afloat. Shecan’t help being peevish about poverty. It’s how she was raised, with a father who remembered the Great Depression and never wanted to experience anything like it again.
The doorbell chimes. That will be him now – Mr Williams, from the antiques shop up the road.
‘Margot, darling!’ Lavinia calls from downstairs.
Her aunt will be ensconced in the sunroom far from the front door and she moves slowly, so Margot knows it’s her responsibility to open the door. Not that she wants to. But she has to.
‘What will we do when they turn the lights off?’ Lavinia said a few days ago, looking as worried as Margot has ever seen her. ‘When we don’t have a refrigerator? Summer’s here. We need a fridge.’
Yes, they do need a fridge. And lights. And running water. And it’s Margot’s responsibility to provide those things – but, oh, how she wishes someone could take care of it for her. It is hard enough, most days, for her to take care of herself. Ablutions, dressing, talking, eating … she finds them exhausting a lot of the time.
Her mother used to say that Margot was like a fairy, flitting around without a care in the world. She has all the cares in the world now but wishes she were still that fairy.
This is on her mind as she opens the door to a middle-aged man with olive skin and thick, sharply cut hair.
‘Mr Williams,’ she says, and he smiles. It’s a kinder smile than she was expecting from someone who is here to, most likely, take away her furniture.
‘Mrs King,’ he responds.
‘Miss,’ she says quickly, although she’s not sure why she wants to correct him so promptly.
‘Miss King.’
He’s still smiling and she realises she’s left him standing at the door. ‘Please, come inside.’
She holds the door open for him as he nods and enters, and she feels something she hasn’t felt since her parents were alive: truly present in this moment, in this space.
It is the oddest thing, almost as if a gear has shifted into place. Except she doesn’t know this man. Doesn’t know why she would feel this way. Unless it’s a presentiment about what he’s here for. So maybe selling the furniture is indeed the right thing to do.