april free chapter - losing kate by kylie kaden

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CHAPTER 1

You. Again.

His neck gives him away. I’ve seen enough of that neck over the years. I’ve stared at it from the bench seat in the car, from the row behind his in Double Biology. It is thick and strong, with twin dark freckles to one side. Now here it is again, in my back yard. I know it by the pattern of hair where it kinks on his nape. I know it by the twist in my gut. I’ve developed tunnel vision as I monitor his position in the crowd, throat tight with the chance he’ll turn and look my way. I just want this all to end, but I’m trapped.

Jack is back.It’s auction day. Prospective buyers huddle under the old

gum tree like sheep. The serious few have plastic paddles and nervous eyes and I wonder which of them might become my new neighbour. The street buzzes with cars and signage. My neighbour Meg says I should embrace the spectacle; she’s brought popcorn from her place, her sticky brood of boys in tow. So I’ve pulled chairs out to my back landing. I dare say

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I’d even started to enjoy the shenanigans unfolding on the block behind mine, until I saw Jack’s neck.

When I fi rst bought this place, something about the easement – that stretch of ant-nest-ridden nutgrass leading to the vacant lot out back – irked me. I’d often sit out here at wine-o’clock, my eyes reaching across the grassy expanse, and wonder who’d take it on. A developer with a design for a brick box? A crazy Moroccan lady who’d teach me how to chew tobacco and paint? The blankness of it niggled. But that’s all about to change. The auctioneer, sweating in his suit, delivers his obligatory spiel on the special conditions of auctions, warning the sale is unconditional. He asks for opening bids. ‘Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen, this land will be sold today!’ The crowd falls silent as the bidding commences.

Two ladies offer bids in big chunks, and I almost forget about Jack’s neck. As the auction continues, I can’t help but watch the way he moves, how he holds himself. I think about abandoning my cover, escaping inside my cottage, but fear cripples me and I stay slumped safely behind my verandah post. I grow small beneath its shield. My throat tightens. Then he turns and I can see his profi le, his chis-elled cheeks.

Jack breaks from the scrum of serious punters, chasing an absconding child. He crouches in front of a boy in a baseball cap, who is busy pushing a ball through the fence to Meg’s dog. I reel inside, as I see the man he’s become. He is broader now. His calves are tanned and taut, fading into khaki cargoes that tug tight across his arse. Dark wavy hair, longish and scruffy, cradles sunglasses nesting on his head. He has not frozen in time; just stopped existing to me.





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Meg nudges me, pausing in her quest to shovel orange goop into her toddler’s face. ‘Hottie at three o’clock. I’m rooting for him. Can’t have my best friend celibate for life,’ she whispers.

‘You breeders can’t help yourselves,’ I say. Meg is always trying to recruit me into the couple club – which has close ties to the smug-mum club. ‘Besides, he’s not even bidding.’ I give no indication that I know him. He’ll be gone in a bit, and I can leave that story untold. With that hope in my mind, I glance his way. That’s when our eyes collide.

He double-takes. ‘Frankie?’ I see him mouth across the crowd.

My cover’s blown. I hear each beat of my heart pulsing through my ears. I climb out of the deckchair. This is madness. He left town. But it is him. Meg raises her eyebrows as he approaches and I hear her say, ‘You know him?’

‘Jack?’ I reply in mock surprise, holding my hand up to cut the jagged sun. ‘You’re back in Brisbane?’ I walk out to the adjoining fence, just as I hear the auctioneer bellowing.

Jack nods. ‘Figured it was time.’ His eyes scan my face. I’m guessing it’s more weathered than the last time he saw it. He looks over to my back landing where Meg is telling off her kids who are scurrying around throwing popcorn at my dog.

‘What? This your place?’ he asks, eyes wide.‘Yep – bought it a few months back.’ Unfortunately it

looks much the same as it did then. But I love every rustic inch of it. ‘I’ve just had it re-stumped and levelled, so it’s looking a bit worse for wear – a few cracks to bog yet.’

He winces. ‘You live here?’I feel compelled to defend it as if it’s a scruffy child. ‘It’s

no palace but it’s not that bad.’





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He shakes his head and tries half a smile. ‘No, it’s not that, it’s . . .’ After a moment, his face brightens and seems to relax. ‘It’s just weird, you being here.’

No shit, Sherlock. I could say the same thing. I didn’t escape like you.

Meg’s son bounces behind us doing a cheeky-monkey impression – loudly. The auctioneer scowls in his direction, and Meg attempts to gag him.

‘And they’re all yours?’ Jack asks, gesturing to Meg’s brood.

‘No, no, they’re from next door. It’s just me here. Me and Bear, the mutt.’ I realise Meg and I probably look like a nice little lesbian couple.

Jack huffs, nodding his head. Then he just seems to gaze at me, eyes narrowing in disbelief. It rattles me. The two of us – colliding in a sea of faces.

‘Look at you, Francesca Hudson, all grown up.’ His eyes linger and heat fl ushes my cheeks. I guess I’m supposed to be an adult. I’m pushing thirty. My chestnut plait is shot with natural highlights, but I feel no different on the inside. I feel just as I did at twelve, listening to Jack’s mixed tapes on my battered old Walkman as I rode behind him. I can still hear the chink of spokey-dokeys bleeding through the beat.

‘Hope I’m not distracting you from bidding,’ I laugh.He scratches his head. ‘Er, not me, no.’I relax a notch. ‘Phew, now that would be freaky,’ I scoff,

and a snort-laugh escapes. I lean in close. ‘Besides, the block is a swamp every time it rains . . .’

‘Is that right?’ A dimple appears on his cheek. Then he’s side-tracked again, looking around the crowd, at the little boy now on hands and knees with his ball at the fence, and it





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gives me a chance to suss him out. His clothes are different – brand names, ironed. His hair is longer, with an actual style. He’s better groomed now, not a trace of the greasy forehead and nineties’ chambray shirts, but he is still the Jack I knew. I’m reminded of the grungy beat of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’, and with it the memory of late nights lazing on his dusty basement fl oor, chasing thoughts around our minds, making plans to change the world. Us against them all.

His attention returns. ‘So, how have you been?’ He swallows hard, fi dgets needlessly with his shirt collar.

What do I say after thirteen years, after everything that took him away?

The megaphone blares. ‘Going. Going. Gone! Sold! To the lady in black!’ The crowd claps half-heartedly, and breaks away. A blonde in a linen shirt and black leggings approaches the sales desk. The winning bidder is immaculately groomed, coordinated, fi t – my polar opposite. I look at the chocolate stains on my tracky dacks. I’m not sure we’re going to have much in common, Gym-Barbie and me, but the place is sold at least, and there’s no crazy Moroccan lady in sight. I’m a tad disappointed.

Meg waves to get my attention, gestures with her thumb that she’s heading home, and gathers up her gang. She reminds me of a mother chimp at Taronga Zoo, monkeys climbing off every limb.

‘Are you here gauging the market then?’ I ask Jack, return-ing my attention to my Class of 2000 reunion for two.

His lips tighten, his grey eyes thin. ‘Not exactly . . .’Behind his shoulder, I see the winning bidder hovering

near the offi cials, staring out at the crowd.Jack turns to scan the crowd too.





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That’s when the lady in black smiles and waves. At Jack.My jaw drops.He knows her?And that’s when the baseball-cap-wearing boy spots

him, and races over. ‘Daddy!’ his little knee-high voice chirps. ‘I found

doggee. He lickded me.’Daddy?‘There you are!’ Gym-Barbie arrives with gritted teeth,

part perturbed, part relieved. Her arms fold over Jack and he returns her hug. ‘I was looking for you.’

‘I was keeping Oli out of your way.’I want to run, but I am stuck – like a fl y – in their magic

moment.‘It’s great, Sara,’ Jack says to her. ‘We got it!’‘I can’t believe it!’ Her face is fl ushed. All the restrained

emotion of the bidding spills over. ‘And for less than we thought!’

About now, she notices my awkward existence, behind the chain-wire fence that separates our two properties. She composes herself, gives me the once-over as I stand next to my crooked cottage. ‘I see Jack’s already got friendly with the neighbours. He doesn’t waste much time.’

I look at Jack, but his eyes skip away like he’d rather look at anything but me. Why won’t he introduce me?

It unnerves me – he just stands there, saying nothing. What’s his problem? Any chance he’s had to say ‘Sara meet Frankie. Frankie meet Sara’ is lost. It marches out with the crowd.

Sara’s eyes ping-pong between us and she loops a toned arm around Jack’s waist. Blonde she might be, but she isn’t stupid. She probably thinks all this unspoken tension





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comes down to some heated one-night fl ing. If only it were that simple.

‘Er, I’m Frankie,’ I mutter, extending my hand before things get any worse. ‘And yes, I live at 83A. In the shack.’ She takes my hand, as I remember to breathe. Her skin feels soft in mine, and I’m suddenly aware of the crusted paint under my nails, the splatters on my clothes – a sample of every Bunnings’ paint colour on my weatherboard walls is on me somewhere.

‘Well, looks like we’ll be neighbours then. I’m Sara. Nice to meet you.’ Her face doesn’t match her words, as she stands wedged between Jack and me. I get the feeling she’s wishing auctions had a cooling-off period. All I can think is: what the hell just happened? Sara keeps talking, her excitement returning.

‘We’ve already picked the house to be moved here once it settles.’ She chats on. And on. About plans. About reloc-ations. About their last subdivision and how much money they made.

‘So, you’re a builder, Jack?’ I ask when I can fi nally get a word in, still bamboozled, still piecing it all together, won-dering why she can’t know we know each other.

‘Nah. Renovating is just a weekend thing,’ he says. ‘I manage a restaurant – Duck Duck Pig on the river? Might have heard of it?’

I nod, try to hide my ignorance. My cuisine usually comes from cardboard boxes or the local Thai takeaway, but he doesn’t need to know that. ‘I work on the south side, so I’m not really in the know about that kinda thing.’

‘Where do you work?’ Jack asks and his brow wrinkles with the question.





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‘I’m a case worker at the hospital.’He gives me the all-too-familiar pity nod. Yes, Jack, I am

a do-gooder. Cue the violins. My mind reaches back to the last conversation we had about our futures. On a beach half a lifetime ago. On the day we would never forget.

‘Sara works in health – well, kind of,’ Jack says, adjusting his sunglasses. ‘She’s a pharmaceutical rep.’

Does that make her a drug dealer? Maybe she can stick me with some extra-strength Zantac samples to get me through this circus.

‘Not exactly the same thing, hon,’ she laughs, touching his shoulder. She’s taking every opportunity to drape some part of herself over him. ‘So how long have you lived here, Frankie?’

‘Six months or so.’ I survey my worker’s cottage – the fl aky paint, the rusty roof – and turn back to her. ‘Don’t worry, it’s a work in progress – hence the paint.’ I touch my face and feel dried fl akes of ‘Winter White’. Between the paint and the chocolate stains, I can just imagine her impres-sion of me – that I’m as poorly maintained as my house. Sara’s gaze fl its away.

‘Oh, they’re ready for me over there. I better go sign my life away!’ She gestures to Jack. ‘Are you coming?’

Jack tries to pull the boy away from my dog. ‘Yep, just a sec,’ he calls to Sara, whose face has turned to cement.

She crosses her arms.‘I’ll bring Oli over in a minute. You go. Let him play for

a sec,’ Jack continues when she looks unconvinced. ‘He’ll just be in your way.’

That seems to satisfy her, and she trails off.Jack hesitates and looks at the lawn, as if the answer to





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our predicament is written in the blades of grass. ‘How’s this gonna work, Fray?’ He still hits things head on, and it still unnerves me. I prefer to hide in shadows. I like my shadows.

How is this going to work? Guess I can always move, sell up . . .

‘It’s weird, Jack.’He nods, his gaze lingers, and I know he knows what

I mean. ‘It should only be six months tops. We’ll bring in the new house, do it up, then sell it off. Hopefully for a profi t.’

So that’s the length of my sentence. He is in my life again, till Christmas at least, whether I like it or not. I think of the reason he left my life with no goodbye. I remember the media circus, the cops. It was half a lifetime ago, but every small detail of that harrowing night at the beach is etched in my mind.

What he did.What we did.And now my accomplice is living in my backyard.





april free chapter - losing kate by kylie kaden

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