Liar Liar

Amber’s number flashes up on the screen.

‘What are you doing up?’ I know it’s later and I mentally calculate the time difference, coming to the conclusion that it’s three a.m. in Sydney. Late or early?

‘I’m on baby duty,’ she answers. ‘Byron has a meeting in the city tomorrow at sparrow’s fart.’ Sparrow’s fart is Aussie speak for early morning. ‘I don’t want him up half the night with the baby . I like him a little too much to risk him falling asleep at the wheel on the freeway.’

‘You’re sure embracing the language,’ I say, a smile leaking through my response as I make my way over to the island bench, hopping back up onto one of the velvety high-back stools.

‘I am raising my own little Aussie and living in a house full of the ratbags. I figured if you can’t beat them, join them,’ she says, using the insult as a term of endearment. I think.

‘How is beautiful baby Beryl?’

‘You know that’s not her name,’ she replies fondly.

‘Maybe not. But you know it’s going to stick.’ Given the whole family is already calling her Beryl and has been almost from the day she arrived. Byron had even sent a photo to my phone last week of her blowing spit bubbles, the accompanying text had read: Beryl loves bubbles as much as her mum.

But I think I’ll keep that to myself right now.

‘We won’t let it, will we Ruby-Roo?’ From somewhere nearby, a baby coos.

Mattie, Edie, and Ruby. All the “e”names together, and individually, all very cute.

‘Because Ruby-Roo is such an improvement on Beryl.’

‘Ruby’s a lovely name,’ Amber retorts.

‘Oh, agreed. It’s so pretty it doesn’t need the additional kangaroo suffix.’ Even if it’s a little cutesy.

‘Ah, listen to Auntie Rose sniping, Rubes.’

‘Urgh. I give up. But I will say you’re taking these early mornings very well.’ When we travelled, Amber was not a fan of early mornings, as I recall.

‘I’ve had four months to get used to it. Besides, I can’t complain when I get to wake up to this gorgeous smiling face, can I, baby girl?’

‘I’m assuming you’re not asking me.’ Not in that babying tone, at least.

‘What are you up to?’

I lean back in the chair and stare at the crystal chandelier that wouldn’t have been hanging there back in the day. In fact, I’m pretty sure this kitchen wouldn’t have looked anything like this. I’m not just talking about the fancy cabinets and appliances but how airy and light the space is.

‘I suppose I’m partaking in a little self-care,’ I reply, swinging my feet.

‘So, you’re drinking.’

‘I also have snacks.’

‘Cheese?’

‘Camembert,’ I confirm, twisting my barely touched plate a little straighter.

‘That’s it?’

I eye my cheese and wine party for one debating the merits of telling the truth. ‘I also have a little Roquefort that can be described as plus fort, or in other words, it smells to high heavens. But I’m told it tastes almost celestial.’

‘Nice,’ she responds. ‘What else?’

‘I have a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, aired for, oh, at least three minutes.’ No need to tell her that selecting a bottle from the cellar was not a fun experience. What if I picked a thousand-euro bottle, or something that wasn’t really wine at all? Because other than the usual wine terms—Pinot, Merlot, Chardonnay, Sauvignon, rosé, rouge, and blanc—I don’t really know what the labels say at all.

I need to take French lessons.

I also need to get over myself. So what if, back in the day, olden day Rose would’ve been a scullery maid and not the lady of the house. I decide I’m not sharing any of this with Amber today. Not the cellar, not the house with twenty rooms and a legion of staff—okay, a housekeeper, a cleaner, and a gardener don’t quite amount to a legion, but it’s still a lot—and not the shitty stuff that happened to me today.

As far as Amber is concerned, I’d planned on staying with Remy in his house during his period of convalescence, that we’d enjoyed the arrangement so much, I haven’t yet moved out.

‘You wine philistine.’ She giggles. ‘Byron would have an absolute fit to hear that. He’s already drawing up a list of wines he wants you to bring when you visit. You know, so he can prove to the world that Australian wines really are the best.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve had some pretty tasty wines out here.’

‘Don’t let him hear you say that,’ she says with a chuckle.

‘Anyway, a year out here and maybe I’ll be cultured enough to hold my own at your dinner table.’ I’ll also have saved enough for a business class flight. Because I pay my own way.

‘Our table? If you can cope with chicken nuggets, you’ll do,’ she replies, obviously referring to the little Phillips people. ‘Now, go ahead and pleasure me with more of your cheese porn, please.’