It was only a very short one-paragraph story from a local newspaper in Adelaide about how Savannah Smith had won first place in “the biggest ballet competition in the region” and how it was “a great thrill for the quiet, shy, talented little girl” because it was “her dream to one day dance professionally.”
The photo on Brooke’s screen showed a little girl in a tutu, up on her toes, arms above her head in that classic ballerina pose. A very skinny, almost skeletal, intense, serious-looking little girl with her hair pulled so tightly back from her head in a bun that it looked painful. Her elflike ears stuck out. She didn’t have the right ears for a ballet dancer.
Years ago there had been similarly hyperbolic newspaper stories about the future tennis careers of Brooke and all three of her siblings. It happened all the time. Talented kids turned into ordinary grown-ups: butterflies became moths.
Apparently her dad had a project underway where he was carefully laminating every single one of their ancient press clippings for posterity, which made Brooke feel melancholy. What a monumental waste of time.
Something about the photo tugged irritably at Brooke’s memory. The little girl reminded her of someone or something in the past. Something to do with a migraine, her vision blurring, the smell of fresh-cut grass, someone shouting.
The doorbell rang and she jumped, startled out of her reverie.
Ines arrived with a bottle of champagne and an overloaded recycled shopping bag looped over one shoulder.
“Too heavy!” said Brooke as she swiftly removed it and led Ines to the kitchen, suddenly filled with affection for her old friend. She hadn’t forgotten her friends, but it did strangely feel as though she was just now remembering them.
“Love the overalls,” said Ines, indicating Brooke’s blue denim overalls, which she’d pulled out from the back of a drawer on a whim. “Very retro.”
“They’re comfortable,” said Brooke. “Grant said they made me look like a zookeeper.”
They opened the champagne, and Brooke filled her in on everything Savannah. “She’s been doing all the cooking for them.”
“What a lowlife.” Ines handed her a fizzing glass of champagne.
Brooke giggled, and then stopped abruptly, because she realized how the sound and feel of that voluptuous giggle was both familiar and unfamiliar, like something she’d thought she’d packed away forever along with her old schoolbooks and uniform. This had been happening more and more as the weeks went by and Grant’s presence became fainter. Brooke was discovering old habits, old clothes, old music, and now, her old laugh. It was absurd to think she hadn’t laughed in ten years. She certainly had laughed because Grant was funny. So funny. He was proud of his wit. It was important to him that he be recognized as “the funny one” in their relationship.
Ines said suddenly, “It’s really nice to see you.”
“I know, I’ve been so busy with the clinic—”
Ines interrupt
ed, “I meant it’s nice to see you without Grant.”
“What do you mean? You liked Grant, didn’t you? Everyone liked Grant!” Brooke looked at the bottle of champagne. “Wait, is this champagne celebratory?”
“I didn’t dislike him,” said Ines. “He’s one of those people you feel like you should like…” She paused. “It just always felt like you were concentrating.”
“Concentrating?”
“Like you were very aware of him.”
“Isn’t that just being a good partner? Being aware of the other person?”
“Sure. But it seemed like it only went one way. I never felt like he was concentrating on you. It was like he was the CEO and you were his devoted assistant.”
“No,” said Brooke. She was a strong, smart, educated woman who had no problem with flat tires, spiders, light globes, overcharging mechanics, or tough-talking real estate agents. She was deeply offended. “That’s not true. That is absolutely not true.”
“I’m sure it’s not,” said Ines steadily. “What would I know?”
They silently drank their champagne.
“I’m sorry,” said Ines. “That was a stupid thing to say. Look, I’ll show you what I bought.” She heaved up the grocery bag onto the counter. “I got mood-boosting foods. Salmon. Bananas. I seem to remember you were always eating bananas at school.”
“I did love bananas,” said Brooke. “But then one doctor told me to cut them out in case they were triggering my migraines so I stopped eating them.”
She took the bunch of bright yellow bananas from Ines. “Sugar bananas,” she said vaguely as a memory from childhood materialized, the image becoming slowly clearer, like a developing photo.
She was in her winter school uniform, dropping her schoolbag on the back veranda and running to rescue a tennis ball from the mouth of their extremely naughty black Labrador. When she came back to retrieve her bag, a strange kid was on the back veranda, which was nothing new. There were always strange kids in their backyard, stealing their parents’ attention, except this one was rifling through Brooke’s bag, helping herself to a banana: an unbruised sugar banana Brooke had run out of time to eat at school, but one she still had every intention of eating, and there were flashing lights in Brooke’s eyes that she didn’t yet understand, but every time she told her mother about them, she was too busy to listen, too busy with other kids like this one, and how dare this stupid strange kid go through Brooke’s bag and steal her banana? Brooke felt enraged, violated, sick to the stomach.