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On the way out, I glance in Charlie’s bedroom and find it, again, very un-Charlie-like-tidy, and I’m about to close the door when something catches my eye on her bedside table. The photograph that used to be there—the one I put there of Bronwyn and Charlie on a beach—is gone. In its place is a different photograph, this time of the three of them, another happy family snap. It’s similar to the other one of the three of them, the one I saw on Instagram, and clearly taken at the same time, but in this one Bronwyn is facing the camera, with Jack and Charlie on either side of Bronwyn, kissing her cheek, very hard in Charlie’s case and Bronwyn is grinning with her eyes screwed shut.
I hold up the photograph in both hands, biting down on my own teeth so hard my jaw hurts, and it’s all I can do not to throw it out the window, or spit on it, or snap it in two against my knee. There is so much wrong with this image my brain can’t even process it without making my temples throb. What the hell is Jack thinking, for one thing? Taking Charlie out with the two of them and playing happy families? She’s been through so much, it has taken so much care and counseling, and caring teachers like Jenny Lee to get Charlie to where she is now: a happy, well-adjusted kid who plays and laughs and is curious about the world and secure that she is loved and she is safe. Does Jack not see how tenuous all that is? How easily she could go back to what she was when I moved in: unmoored, frightened, aggressive, lost. What will happen to her when Bronwyn goes back to Italy?
I sit on the edge of her bed staring at the photo, my stomach knotted onto itself, in full double pretzel mode.IfBronwyn goes back to Italy. I’m beginning to think that she’s already ensnared him. They’re back together again. Hashtag happy family back together again. I mean, random thought here, but shouldn’t somebody have mentioned this to me by now? Looped me in? Or are they worried they’ll have to wash their own socks, load their own dishes in the dishwasher?
And as I study the photograph, it occurs to me, again, that there’s something seriously wrong with Bronwyn. The fact that she placed herself in the middle of the shot when surely it should be Charlie being kissed so fiercely by her parents. Charlie squinting and grinning and screwing her eyes shut with Jack and Bronwyn’s faces pressed almost flat against her cheeks. Was it so necessary to make Bronwyn the focus of their attention?Hey everybody, look how much they love me, everybody! Hashtag Bronwyn is the best! Hashtag happy Bronwyn!And then to choosethatphoto to display on Charlie’s bedside table.
I put it back, very gently because I am afraid I might accidentally smash it repeatedly against the corner of the bedside table, and it’s only when I walk out of the room that I notice the gaps in the corkboard, where all the photos that had included me used to be.
* * *
At five-thirty, the gallery opens its doors to the public, and by six pm, it is packed. It is, already, by far, one of the most successful openings we’ve ever had in terms of audience numbers. And now Bronwyn is here, looking impossibly elegant and perfectly made up with her hair up, loose tendrils framing her face.
“Laura!” She opens her arms wide and walks straight over to me, and it’s something to behold, the way complete strangers smile at her, get out of her way so she can walk past without brushing against anyone. I’m sure I hear someone whisper, “Is that Angelina Jolie?”
“This is fabulous!” she says, even though she hasn’t seen a thing yet. She wraps her arms around me and I stiffen.
“It’s fabulous!” she says again. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”
Nicely played, I think. Firstly, she’d never show me this much affection without an audience, but thesweetheartis smooth. She’s saying it like I’m that student who wasn’t smart enough for any of the big prizes, so she got the one for showing up.
“Thank you,” I say, holding back a sigh. She releases me, picks up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, looks idly around the room, lightly touching her hair. Then suddenly Bruno is by my side. He takes her hand and brushes his lips on her knuckles. She’s wearing a diamond ring the size—and cut—of a pineapple and if only he’d move his lips to the right, quarter of an inch, he could slice his lips on it.
“Bruno Mallet, gallerist,” he says. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Bruno Mallet, gallerist.” She gives him her best smile. Mysterious, tantalizing, promising. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Bronwyn. Jack’s soon-to-be ex-wife.”
And then, to my mortification, Bruno—who has no idea who Jack is because while he met him a few times, he wasn’t remotely interested—says, “his loss, I’m sure.” And Bronwyn can’t resist a glance my way as she laughs prettily, her hand at her throat. I have a sudden urge to take that hand and squeeze it, make her tongue stick out and her eyes bulge.Not so pretty now!Fortunately, Jack and Charlie walk in—he must have been parking the car—and Charlie runs up to me and just like that, everything is right with the world again. She puts her arms around my waist and I kiss the top of her head, take in the scent of her which is different lately. More white lilies than bubblegum.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Nothing. Hello, pumpkin.”
“Hello, Mama.”
Her scarf tickles my nose. Except it’s not a scarf, it’s a feather boa. A pink feather boa. I loosen it and she grimaces, scratching the side of her neck.
“How was school?”
“I didn’t go. Mommy and I went shopping.” I take a deep breath in to stop me from saying anything I might regret. “Did you have fun with Mommy?”
“Yes,” she nods, a lot, and a volley of darts land in my heart.
Bruno is saying something to Bronwyn, who laughs her pretty pearly laugh, throwing her head back, displaying that perfect swan-like neck. Her fingers lightly finger the pendant at her throat, a gold heart with a big fat diamond in it, before touching his elbow, his shoulder, his wrist, and honestly, the only words that come to mind areresistance is futile. It’s like having a high-pressure hose spraying you with charm and I almost feel sorry for him as he stands there, all puffed up like a peacock, nodding, listening, smiling, his head tilted down slightly so that they are so very close, so close he must surely smell her perfume, her breath. One of our regular buyers gets his attention by touching his shoulder, and Bruno sighs. “I must attend to my other guests, but it was a pleasure to meet you.” And again, he does that kissing of the hand thing, and I’m thinking,go on, quarter of an inch, if that.
Bronwyn places her hand on Charlie’s shoulder and proceeds to reel off all the fabulous stores they went to, which makes me realize she was listening to us the whole time she was talking to Bruno Mallet, gallerist.
“And then we went to the Bravern, and we found a lovely little handbag in Chanel, didn’t we, Charlotte? Show Laura your new handbag.” Charlie raises her hand. The handbag is black, with the Chanel logo and a gold chain. About as appropriate for an eight-year-old girl as a pair of nine-inch Louboutins.
Then Charlie’s eyes grow wide, and she blurts, “And we saw a beaver!” and I laugh as she rambles on excitedly about the beaver. “This long,” she says, making a space between her hands, while Bronwyn insists it was “probably a rat, Charlotte.” And I’m laughing inside and out as I look up at Bronwyn, and I’m thinking, you’re not even making a dent in her. Underneath all the glitter, she’s still Charlie the Explorer.
“Now Charlotte sweetheart, don’t bother Laura,” Bronwyn says. “You know she said she doesn’t have time for you today.”
“No, I didn’t!” I blurt, because I’m yet to see a bait I wouldn’t rise to in a heartbeat. But Bronwyn has Charlie’s hand firmly in hers and is already pulling her away. “Let’s take a look at the pretty things on the wall.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says next to me.
