Joan Kilby - Party of Three

“Then there was the time you had to bail your father out of jail,” Olivia said.

“His arrest was a complete misunderstanding.” At least that’s what Tony claimed. Generally speaking her father squeaked in on the right side of the law in his business endeavors.

“Excuse me, ladies.” One of the men from the minibus poked his head through the door. “Is there a washroom?”

“On the next block,” Ally said. “Right beside the Tourist Information office.”

When he’d gone, Olivia went on. “The first two incidents I let pass. I even hired Lindy to assist you so there was always someone here in the event of an emergency.”

“It won’t happen again,” Ally promised.

“You’re correct, it won’t. Three strikes, you’re out. This is the height of the tourist season. I need someone I can count on. And just look at your appearance….”

Olivia’s voice rolled over her, a steady stream of criticism and chastisement. Suddenly, Ally couldn’t take any more. She turned and walked out of the office with Olivia still talking. All she wanted to do was go home. To crawl under the covers and sleep for a million years. And when she woke her life would be back to normal.

Except that George would be gone.

Well, they said every cloud had a silver lining.

The hill had never seemed so steep as that morning. Evidence of the storm littered the road—fallen tree limbs, knocked-down fences, overturned rubbish bins. Luckily, her own property was intact, barring a cracked window.

The first thing Ally did was bring in the laundry. Most of it had been torn off the line by the wind and flung in the mud. She carefully separated out George’s socks, underwear and shirts and placed them, still filthy, in a black plastic garbage bag. Upon reflection she decided to add a poor dead mouse that had drowned in the water barrel. A treat for Siggy. Then she tied the bag up tight and left it in a patch of sun on the veranda for George to collect. Just because he’d brought another woman to her bed didn’t mean she couldn’t act civilized.

Her own clothes she put back in the washing machine and waited until it filled. Then she had a long hot shower, washed her hair, put on a clean skirt and blouse and sat down at the breakfast table with a bowl of muesli. Getting back to her routine made her feel a little better. Food helped, too, although she couldn’t help but think wistfully of the hot breakfast Ben had offered.

Doggedly, she chewed and contemplated her situation. Losing her job left her feeling adrift in a way that losing George could never do. Worse, the loss of income caused a big financial problem. With no salary and no George to contribute a share of the mortgage, how was she going to make payments on her house?

She loved her home and didn’t want to give it up. It represented both stability and independence. Besides, she really, really hated moving.

The phone rang.

“Ally, it’s me, Mel.” Her sister sounded agitated. “I called your office and Lindy said you were fired and that you’d broken up with George. Sorry to hear that but thank God you’re home. You’ve got to come quick.”

“Slow down. What’s up?”

“Tony and Mother had a big fight. Mother left him and she’s over here. With her luggage. That’s suitcases, plural. Her entire set of faux Louis Vuitton. The last time she did that she stayed a whole month.”

“Calm down, Melissa,” Ally said. “She can’t leave him. Their wedding anniversary is in three weeks and I’ve got it all organized.”

“What she can’t do is stay with me.” Melissa lowered her voice, but her tone was increasingly urgent. “I only have one bedroom and I met this cool guy from the Cirque du Soleil. You know how men always get that nudge, nudge, wink, wink, smile about women gymnasts? Well, now I know why. You’ve got to convince her to go home.”

“Can’t you stay at your boyfriend’s place?”

“It’s not just that, it’s…you know what she’s like.”

Ally couldn’t blame her for not wanting Cheryl moving in. As much as they both adored their mother, she was the roommate from artist hell. Painting, pottering, fixing, fussing, arranging, changing, moving, improving—she engaged in an endless quest for visual perfection, right down to repositioning the kitchen utensils in a jar.

Fifteen minutes later Ally walked into Melissa’s renovated miner’s cottage and picked her way through the tiny lounge room crowded with brown-and-cream-patterned luggage. In the kitchen, Melissa, in a burgundy lace top over a black satin slip dress, was making tea. Black filigree earrings dangled from beneath impossibly red hair and, even at ten in the morning, her deep blue eyes were lined in black with dark silver shadow.

Cheryl, slim and attractive in a black linen sheath and fine gold jewelry, was standing on a chair to reach a leadlight suncatcher hanging in a window charmingly framed with ivy.

“Leave it there, Mother. I like it,” Melissa said.

“Red and blue doesn’t go with the teal on your walls, darling. While I’m here I’ll help you redecorate.”

Melissa turned her desperate gaze in Ally’s direction. “Tell her, Ally.”

“Well, it does kind of clash—”

“No, I mean how she loves Tony no matter what he does. And she should go back to him now and save me, I mean them, a lot of heartache.”

Cheryl succeeded in unhooking the suncatcher and climbed off the chair. “Never mind that. How are you coping, Ally, darling? Mel says you and George have split up and you’ve lost your job.”

“Yes, but I’m fine, honestly.”

“You can always get another job,” Melissa said. “But quick, change the locks before George changes his mind.”

“He can’t,” Ally said flatly. “I kicked him out.”

Cheryl patted Ally’s hand. “Good for you.”

Was her mother being supportive or had she always disliked George? Ally decided there was no point in knowing. “What has Tony done this time?”

“He refinanced the art gallery to take out a loan. I knew I should have had it in my name but he needed the tax write-off so on paper, it’s his.” Cheryl set the suncatcher on the table and gazed around the room as if looking for further insults to her sensibilities. “I’d just knocked the mortgage down to a reasonable level and now suddenly I owe twice as much as I did five years ago.” Her nostrils flared in a refined quiver of rage. “I could kill him. Boil him in his own olive oil.”

“Olive oil?” Ally took a sip from the teacup Melissa handed her. She was starting to feel vaguely human.

“He bought a majority stake in an olive grove along the Murray River,” Cheryl explained. “Turns out there’s no water lease for irrigation. The company is struggling to survive.”

“Fancy Tony getting into farming,” Melissa said as she rehung the suncatcher. “I can see him now in a flannel shirt and Akubra hat with his faithful dog at his heels.”

“You’re thinking of sheep farming.” Ally turned back to her mother. “At least the deal sounds legitimate.”

“No irrigation means a poor harvest,” Cheryl informed her gloomily. “I could lose the gallery.”

“I’ve got mortgage problems, too, now that George is gone,” Ally commiserated.

Melissa looked from her sister to her mother. “Hello! Obvious solution here. Mother, if you want to make Tony sweat awhile longer, and frankly, it would do him a world of good, move in with Ally. You two can split costs.”

“What a great idea!” Cheryl said, taking up the suggestion enthusiastically. “I’ve been dying to do something with that house of yours, Ally. I know you think you’ve got it the way you want it but you haven’t heard my ideas yet. Now that stick-in-the-mud George is out of the way I can really let loose. Oh, I can’t wait. We’ll have a ball, won’t we, Ally?”