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com

Ayla Simone

Marigold Milk
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Copyright © 2022 by Ayla Simone

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission
from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or
distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Ayla Simone asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this
work.

First edition

Editing by Anna Black

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com
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Acknowledgement

For every woman that has nurtured, carried, or been a child.

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Chapter 1

I had been a mother.

It felt like a past life, but she had been a summer baby and the deciduous
trees were newly ablaze. I had been a mother for three minutes.

I was thinking of those three minutes when the duck-egg blue jug fell from
my hands and rattled down the cobblestone path. Two tortoiseshell tabbies
descended upon the freshly collected milk as I retrieved the jug and
continued through the tall glass French doors into the kitchen. The house was
silent other than the whisper of a fading flame in the onyx fireplace, spectated
by Blueberry, my dalmatian.

An orange sun was teasing the darkening horizon and native birds were
squawking, frightening the tabby cats back over to their side of the fence. The
metal-on-metal umami of the jug placed in the sink felt fuzzy in my ears. I
admired the intricate white flowers painted across the bulbous vessel when it
was given to us on our wedding day. It had seemed to be fine china but my
clumsiness soon proved it to be coated tin.

I still remember the first time I dropped it; we were in the honeymoon phase,
and I was smug and sun-kissed. We were experimenting with a lavender
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spritz recipe, camped out in our compact little green yard. Franco was
practising solitaire in the white sunshine while I went to fetch more prosecco
from the kitchen. Humming to the jazz on the radio, I poured a half bottle
into the gift from Franco’s Aunt Beatrice.

Tousled hair, an unbuttoned blue gingham shirt and white lace shorts that
hugged my just-married hourglass frame. Carefree. I jostled back out through
the doors excitedly and tripped over a planter box full of rosemary. The jug
went flying and landed with such a rude clang. I had already imagined
handing it down to my children’s children.

“Bloody Beatrice!”

An ace of spades was slammed down.

If you want to know about my marriage, look no further than this jug.
Although those frivolous days were long behind us now, not too long ago that
very jug had sat on my desk at work. Full of clownish carnations one day and
delicate jasmine the next.

I had been steering a prosperous business in floristry; floral design, to be

precise. My bouquets were art installations on a grand scale: hibiscus hot air
balloons, baby’s breath blizzards and rose rabbits. Our clientele included art
galleries, hotels and eccentric foreign celebrities.

We often had videos of our designs going viral online. I had recently
employed three staff members dedicated solely to responding to email
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enquiries. Daisy Dreams was on the up and up, or so it seemed.

It had been a long absence. I had spent months crying, deliberating, hoping,
fighting, and struggling. And then weeks of bleeding, stinging, leaking and
grieving. But somehow there I was, dissolving into my sunlit bed early one
Monday morning, manifesting the strength to return to the helm.

Blue’s shadow suddenly stole my morning light, followed equally as abruptly

by my husband.

“Still in bed? I need to get to town to collect paints this morning. If you are
going to take hours, you will be walking.”

Franco bustled out of the room as quickly as he had come in, a blur of
chocolate brown waves and olive skin. As accused, a linen night dress
slumped off one shoulder and a hazelnut ringlet hung off the mattress. I knew
better than to test Franco on his threat, so I threw myself together as best I
could and followed him out the door while the kettle was still bubbling in
anticipation.

It was a warm April morning, but the buttery leather seats of his cherry SUV
were set to heat, making the backs of my thighs clammy. The only words
spoken during the fifteen-minute trip were whispered profanities from Franco
to other drivers and the occasional pedestrian. As he drove, he glanced at his
phone and wiped the steering wheel habitually. He sat statuesque at each red
light.
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By the time my hand was knocking on the emerald door of the storefront,
Franco had already disappeared down the road. Of course, I had a key, but
even with the morning rain and a harsh wind threatening any chance I had of
maintaining a presentable appearance, I didn’t have the gall to walk in like I
owned the place. I hadn’t seen them in so long.

My head floral assistant, Harriett, eventually opened the door with a sweet
awkward smile. I felt suddenly panicked, but then the familiar botanical smell
quickly whisked my trepidation away. I was home. Large wooden tables were
laden with tangerine spray roses, pearly jonquils, and smiling orchids.
Keyboards were tapping away in harmony with coffee percolating on the
dodgy portable stove top I had found during kerbside collection. A gold plate
of pears and slices of brie for peckish fingers. Freddy and his pink glasses
were on a video call with a fast-talking visual merchandiser. As he noticed
me, he covered the mouthpiece of his phone as if on an old-fashioned phone
call.

“Mariella?”

Everyone turned then, their facial expressions were too varied to digest
properly at once. Harriett pulled me away to our shared office up in the loft as
everyone returned to their activities, ten decibels quieter than before.

“Mari…” Harriett sat in my usual purple velvet chair, gesturing at her leather
stool, “how are you?”

Harriett’s tone was serious. Her blonde fringe was not doing so well at hiding
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her furrowed brow and strained grey eyes. Hadn’t they been blue before?

“I’m…” my voice sounded forced and unfamiliar, “…fine. I am good.”

She glanced over me, from my almond eyes to my bitten lips, down along a
black turtleneck dress to tan mules. I knew what she was really asking.

What the hell happened? Why are you back?

It had been months. I hadn’t left under totally transparent conditions and I
didn’t necessarily announce my leave of absence to anyone but Harriett. She
was certainly not the type to orchestrate an excuse on my behalf, so the static
reception from the staff wasn’t too shocking. I was the disappearing woman.

The team slowly started to pour into the office with valid business-related
reasons, no doubt spurred on by the urgency of curiosity. For instance, I
probably could have waited a day or two to hear about the fact that poppies
were now “trending”, but I could understand the urge to get a closer look at
me. I signed off on a poppy chandelier for an inner city hotel’s Memorial Day
tribute just to get them out of my office. Could they smell the apathy and
grief? A few times, I glanced down to check that I wasn’t leaking.

Then the real urgency occurred to me. Vada from finance was standing in
front of me with a long-winded list of every reason that we all needed to be
very worried. A ceiling-suspended installation that had malted loose baby’s
breath on hotel guests for days. A floral sculpture for a garden show that
housed a wasp nest. A grand bouquet for a retired opera singer was delivered
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with wilted lilies. An extravagant funeral wreath for a sporting great fell apart
during the procession. Daisy Dreams had become a nightmare. But I was
back, just in time, to sort everything out.

“It’s too late, Mariella.” Vada sighed in her gorgeously impatient Filipino
accent.

My bereaved brain was processing the information, albeit slowly. The

expressions that had greeted me finally made perfect sense. My business was
shutting down.

“When were you planning on telling me this?”

But they had tried, and I knew it. Forty-eight missed calls. But I had been
busy retching, swelling, crying, bleeding, and leaking. Being handed another
loss to grieve should have been more than any human could take.

I said my farewells and nodded to Harriett, who half-smiled in response as if

to say: “Let me bury this for you.”

That night back at home, nursing a big glass of shiraz, I was threading
pansies into a crown when Franco walked in. My eyes were stinging from
crying all afternoon, but I knew better than to look to him for any comfort. It
was hard to fathom now, but I did believe that Franco had loved me at some
point over the last few years.

There was nothing now, but there had been passion and laughter. Seaside
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margaritas. Weekends in the countryside, sleeping by a fire. Shopping for

luxury bed linen with oat milk lattes in hand. Watching every movie that
Owen Wilson had ever done. We wed in Byron Bay and ate lobster rolls
under a spliced citric umbrella. Franco clutched my black velvet coat at our
first-ever sonogram appointment.

“I’m sorry, this is not looking viable.”

A part of our marriage died with that first pregnancy; we hadn’t really been
viable since.

His only response to the whispered news of Daisy Dreams’ demise was that I
needed to find a new job or we would lose our townhouse. His paintings
hadn’t been selling so well either. I glanced accusingly at the bees on his
expensive sneakers.

“You have been in bed for months. It’s your turn.”

Franco turned away before he could catch me stifling a laugh. He wasn’t

wrong, but it was just too typical that he was throwing months of pain, grief
and ill health in my face. It had been his idea for me to stay home for a while
in the first place. I think he just felt the need to have some sense of control
over the situation. Back then I still had some hope that I would return home
with a baby to love; clearly, Franco did not. I mostly stayed home from the
day of the first scan. He hadn’t clutched my coat that time - he hadn’t even
been there.
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“Everything looks good.” I said this to the back of his head when I returned
home. He had been cutting into a loaf of sourdough on the kitchen bench.

“Viable,” he had responded, without turning around.

Maybe Franco had expected that the grieving process should have been much
more efficient than the reality. That I’d shed a few tears and be on my merry
way back to building an empire. But Franco didn’t know anything of what
the past months, in particular the last few weeks, had been like in that room.
He didn’t even know that I had been hand-expressing milk despite having no
baby to feed. Why should he? He would probably find it preposterous; I
almost did. He would suggest this was the nail in the coffin of my sanity; I
almost thought so.

I spent a lot of time hunched over the ensuite sink. Spraying the warm, full
feeling out of my breasts. If Franco was home, I’d sometimes say I was going
to read in our converted shed and do it out there instead. I’d proudly take a
jug full of milk back into the kitchen while he was sleeping and pour it down
the sink, as I looked out of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows at the moon.

At first, getting the milk out had been a pure necessity. I was engorged and
fearful of developing an infection. I knew I could take medication if need be
but I was already on a repeat script of Valium from my therapist. For
someone who doesn’t own a box of Panadol, that was quite enough.

Besides that, something about keeping the milk there reminded me it had all
really happened. I had grown a baby. I was a mother, or had almost been.
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And from my lack of luck thus far, it seemed the closest I would ever get.
Honestly, it was probably the closest I could ever bear to get. I wouldn’t
survive going through that again.

But like a dutiful wife, that night I began job searching online. I was actually
eager; I needed to get out of the house. I was deeply exhausted, but sitting in
the grave of my lifeless marriage while enduring such grief entirely alone was
more than I could take. I had to get out. Unfortunately for me, florists were
not in high demand and I was a one-trick pony. The economy wasn’t in a
great way, so not many people were buying frivolous bouquets let alone
seven-foot daffodil koi fish sculptures.

My in-laws had always chuckled at my profession. With two law degrees and
a huge commercial real estate portfolio between them, I could hardly blame
them. And then there was their only son, the apple of their eye, who
graduated from the most expensive high school in the state to become an
underwhelming visual artist. And he married a florist. It really was quite
funny. I supposed I ought to be glad they saw the humour in it too.

Half-heartedly, I submitted my CV for an art gallery storeperson position, a

wedding planner assistant and a bookshop barista. They sounded interesting
enough, an appropriate creative transition, though I had no relevant
experience for any of them other than my husband being a struggling artist
that likes coffee. But at least I would be able to leave my work at work, for
the first time in years. I had poured countless hours into Daisy Dreams and it
overflowed into every aspect of my life. Had it contributed to the demise of
my marriage? Possibly. Would I have been a more hospitable environment
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for a growing baby with less business-related stress? It hurt to wonder. As I

scrolled through the listings, I recalled some workplace chatter from months
prior; Freddy had exclaimed that his bodybuilder friend had just spent
hundreds of dollars buying a woman’s frozen breast milk stash.

“Atrocious!“ he had frowned.

I momentarily sucked my bottom lip in consideration then typed sell breast

milk into the search bar. A related forum was the first result.

“Hello, rock bottom!”

I clinked my wine glass with the laptop screen, then immediately cringed at
myself. I continued to cringe as a sharp pain started across my left nipple. I
took myself to the bathroom for a break.

Spraying the grey rounded basin, slightly off balance from the red wine, felt
like a new low. The emotion bubbled to the surface, as it sometimes did, and
streamed down my cheeks. A pink-faced mess in the mirror, tucked into a
waffle bathrobe; dark hair, slightly wet from an earlier shower. You were
almost a mother. Almost a floral tycoon. And now? You are nothing. You are
a childless, unemployed woman pumping milk into a sink. Christ.

Seeking breast milk for baby

Smoke-free only, please

Must be willing to have a dairy/soy-free diet
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The Gap, QLD

Get in touch if interested in $!

So maybe they weren’t all creeps. I added a comment requesting that they
message me with more information, ceremoniously spilling a drop of red
wine onto my fluffy white blanket in the process. With not much hope and a
cracker of a headache, I drifted off into an agitated sleep.
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Chapter 2

Dr Jamie North rubbed his eyes and waited for his smartwatch to come into
focus. 5.38 am. He did a quick calculation on how little sleep he likely had
the night prior. He recalled an hour or two to start with, and then a flurry of
dozing off for ten minutes between feeding, burping, and shoving clothes in
the washing machine.

The new formula, which was the third attempt, wasn’t sitting well with his
three month old baby. His housekeeper’s daughter had kindly stepped up as
his primary helper, but even her expert knowledge couldn’t seem to help the
crying. The discomfort and dissatisfaction in the little tiny bundle was ever
present.

What would Vincent’s mum have done? She had been strong and rash, so she
would have somehow solved it and demanded they all moved on already.
Would she have breastfed him? Jamie didn’t think so. He had known his
wife, and she didn’t have the patience nor the desire to spend hours feeding.
She had already booked a trip to Sydney, one ticket only, for the following
weekend. Vincent would have been just a month old. Jamie realised that he
hadn’t cancelled that ticket yet, as he wearily climbed out of bed.
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He checked his schedule for the day and then his emails; trawling through
unhelpful responses to his job advertisement. He understood. Even he felt it
was… weird. But he had done his research, looked down every other avenue
and felt this was the best way forward.

What would his wife have thought? She would have been disgusted. She
would have been embarrassed. She would have laughed at the suggestion and
then said something spiteful, with her sharp tongue. Jamie would have trusted
her judgement and done whatever she wanted, anything to make her happy.
But she wasn’t here now. He had to do whatever it took to make his son
happy instead.
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Chapter 3

A few days passed by and job hunting had slid off my radar, like ice-cream
from a sticky-faced toddler’s cone. Although I had taken calls from Harriett
and Vada, it was out of pure necessity. I had to give them approval to rip
apart my failed business, petal by petal. Every afternoon, I reluctantly pulled
myself from a long bath to change from a pyjama set into another pyjama set.
My hair was unruly and tangled, while my bare face had a youthful sheen.
Other than that, I had just brushed Blueberry’s bristly fur much more than
necessary and watched renovation shows on the wall mounted television.

I knew Franco would be missing that television by now; some nights I could
hear him watching documentaries on his phone in the next room. We used to
love devouring art history series together, lazily in bed, with an open
chocolate box between us. Those versions of ourselves simply did not exist
anymore.

I resurfaced for trips to the kitchen to feed Blue, plus half a scone with cherry
jam for me. Maybe a little pot of lemon and ginger tea. Wearing an old white
button up shirt and bed hair, it was a strange thrill to not have a single care
for what my cohabitant thought of me. From what I could gather, he
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imagined me to be a failed florist who couldn’t even succeed in, arguably, the
most natural thing on earth - becoming a mother.

That thought had crossed my mind while I was polishing off a scone one
morning, so I washed it down with a petite swig of rosè. I half had the mind
to show up at Franco’s studio and kick a hole in his latest canvas. I would
scream that I had, in fact, been robbed of my chance at being a mother. Not to
mention a successful businesswoman. But truly, I didn’t have it in me; not
then, but maybe not ever. I was also half convinced it really was my fault
anyway. There hadn’t been a single day that Franco had planned to come
home with our baby, together, as a family. He knew it would never happen.
Why, then, did I carry such hope for a good outcome all that time? Out of the
two of us, I was supposed to have been the realist.

By birthright, Franco’s parents had afforded him the luxury of being an

ideological, out of touch, artist. Not that it was what Coco and Marlo Sainti
would have planned for their heir; not in the furthest depths of hell. But, it
certainly didn’t hinder their penchant for throwing money at the problem -
the problem being Franco. He never voted, hadn’t seen a phone bill in his life
and his only real contribution to our planning a family was: “I’d love to call a
boy Billy.”

The shared experience of magnificently disappointing our parents had been

hot glue between us. We were only-children that had been offered every
opportunity in life and made a mess of it. We turned our noses up at it, even.
Franco and I had joked about having six kids, just to avoid putting our own
spawn through the pressures of being a loner offspring, like we both had
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been. Then, just over a year ago, we finally decided to start a family. When
we got pregnant so quickly, Franco was bursting with boyish pride. He was
ready to beat his chest and have his mates around to pat him on the back. So
when it was short-lived, he had far to fall. He was resistant to my reassurance
that it was common and it didn’t necessarily mean that we couldn’t have
children. He was in a dark place and unpacking his bags to stay there.

I found myself comforting him much more than he cared to check how I felt,
as my body continued to cramp and ache. Then, on a Friday night a few
weeks later, I was sitting on the couch catching up on marketing for Daisy
Dreams when I felt the familiar tickle of his warm lips on my forehead. He
pulled me up to him and kissed me strongly, the laptop kicked away without
a second thought. He was back; he hadn’t forgotten about me afterall. Then
we had prawn and chilli linguine in our underwear and watched a
documentary on sea urchins.

After a morning of watering the garden alone, sipping on macadamia milk

lattes and sunning my pale legs, I retreated to my shady bedroom and flipped
open my laptop. I had a response from the breast milk seeker waiting for me.
Six responses, in fact. I read the most recent one first.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to hassle you so much. Just pretty urgent now. Let me
know! - Jamie

I read the earlier messages in a flurry and bit my lip. The baby was having
reactions to every formula on the shelves and they needed milk urgently.
None of the other commenters had followed through, it seemed. The poster
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mentioned numerous times of their willingness to pay a large sum of money.

With Daisy Dreams essentially bankrupt, I could use literally any sum of
money.

Hi Jamie, I’m so sorry - I’ve been offline the last few days. I could have
some milk ready and over to you by this evening? Do I just bring it over in
a container of sorts? - Mariella

Before I even had time to consider how I would manage to transport a vessel
of breast milk a few suburbs away without Franco noticing, I had another
response. Jamie would come and collect it as soon as it was ready. I could
feel the urgency vibrate through his typed words. I absolutely couldn’t have a
man showing up here to collect my breast milk. Franco would have had me
committed to an asylum. So I responded with a time to meet at a quaint cafe
around the corner on the main road.

A couple of hours and a lot of effort later, I was sitting on a wrought-iron

chair nursing a beetroot juice. Holding my sanguine leather satchel
protectively, conscious of the jar of milk inside. I opened my phone and
started to Google breast pumps and containers.

“Hi, Mariella Gold?”

My eyes were met with a friendly smile. I had expected a tired parent, of
which gender I hadn’t been sure, probably with a screaming hungry baby.
But he had a relaxed aura about him. His eyes gave away his fatigue a little,
but overall he cut a well polished and captivating figure. His golden brown
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hair was styled meticulously, offset with some three-day stubble and a soft
porridge coloured sweater. Green eyes.

After exchanging awkward introductions, I handed him the jar with my milk
sloshing about inside. He thanked me profusely and sucked his teeth
apprehensively before proposing something completely obscure.

“I’m actually hoping to find someone to breastfeed my son, Vincent, directly.

I know it’s really an unusual request - maybe even sort of weird? I
understand if you aren’t interested; no one has been so far. You might have
kids at home - obviously? It would be a proper job, of course, an au pair set
up I suppose. I’m offering a salary of ninety thousand dollars for that crucial
first year.”

The words had tumbled out desperately. Jamie blushed slightly and fiddled
with his gold wedding ring. I sipped my beetroot juice and considered what
he was offering. That was close to the profit I made with Daisy Dreams in
our best year. But, surely, I couldn’t seriously be considering this.

“I’m not sure I completely understand. You’re looking for a wet nurse,
basically?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

He looked defeated; his confidence was clearly fraying. I could tell this man
had handled a lot of awkward rejections already.
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“Vincent’s mother is dead,” he added abruptly, stone faced, breaking eye

contact to look around the bustling cafe, “I just want what’s best for my
child. Formula would’ve been fine, but it turns out he is quite intolerant of
dairy and soy. Allergy formulas are scarce…”

I couldn’t stand to hear him trying to justify himself any longer. He was
clearly exasperated. My heart physically aches imagining - knowing - the
burden of grief. For this man to carry that pain while struggling to feed his
baby, the world just seemed too cruel.

“Jamie, I accept.” I could barely recognise my own voice. What was I getting
myself into?

He bit his lip and covered his eyes with an open hand then. I heard a
whispered thank you, then saw tears streaming from behind his fingers.

Walking back home that afternoon, my brain was absolutely buzzing. It had
been stirred back to life, although through a sort of panic. Still, it was
exhilarating. I decided I would tell Franco I had taken on a live-in nanny job.
I would be home on weekends because Jamie insisted that Vincent could be
given expressed milk for those two days and I could have a break.

Why should Franco have to know the truth? Why should anyone? It felt like a
titillating secret; a quiet good deed. I was going to nurture a baby.

I was going to be a wet nurse.

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Chapter 4

As Jamie pulled into the driveway, he took a few much needed deep breaths.
Had he even breathed since he left the cafe? He must have, but he didn’t
notice it. He looked at the jam jar sitting beside him in the passenger seat and
felt a heat prickle on the back of his neck.

“What am I doing?” he asked no one, resting his forehead on the leather

steering wheel.

He thought about the reality of having a stranger coming into his home on
Monday to feed his baby. Every day. Well, except weekends; he didn’t want
to overstep any usual professional boundaries. This would be done properly.

But what did he know about her? Besides that she was a lactating woman,
almost nothing. He did know that she was striking. He had looped the cafe
three times in disbelief that she could have been the woman that responded to
his ad. She had been sitting with her chin resting in the palm of her hand, her
almond eyes gazing around serenely. Not that it mattered. If anything, Jamie
would have preferred someone simple. It was an unusual role and he couldn’t
help but feel slightly suspicious of anyone willing to do it. Jamie didn’t have
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any space in his life for drama, he didn’t need any more complications in his
household.

He grabbed the jar and finally started for his front door, wondering how the
arrangement could possibly be an attractive proposition on her end. Surely
she had a baby, or children? Unless she had induced lactation and was some
sort of full-time breast milk seller or something…

He stopped his train of thought. He wanted to assume the most simple

situation possible. She probably had a doting husband who was happy to care
for their child - who had outgrown milk - and it was good for her to earn
money for the family in this way. Unusual, but possible.

Jamie walked briskly to the kitchen, placing the milk in the fridge. He was
thrilled to offer his nanny another option to feed Vincent with, hopeful that it
would be the much needed solution. But he would have to explain, before
Monday, about Mariella. To everyone. The back of his neck was a furnace.
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Chapter 5

Judging by the grand exterior, I had expected an assistant or maid to answer

the door, just hoping I had knocked on the right one. The dark brick facade
had two front doors, about four metres apart. Beside one a gold plaque
announced:

DR JAMIE NORTH - GENERAL PRACTITIONER.

That explained the salary he had offered. I stood anxiously waiting in front of
the other unmarked door. When it eventually creaked open, it was Jamie; or
about an inch of him.

“I’m sorry, I’ve just got him to sleep. A horrid business. Would you meet me
in the garden? Through the picket fence to the left.”

The ominosity of the situation suddenly hit me in the stomach, as I imagined

the fathers that I knew. How would they manage for even one night alone
with their offspring? Would I cope with caring for a child of my own all
alone? I did not know, and the unknowing burnt a wildfire in my chest.
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I suddenly realised that I had hesitated and quickly sprung down the stairs
towards the garden, as twigs and leaves crackled under my black suede boots.
Jamie sat waiting on a timber bench; he was so still that I could even see the
rise and fall of his breaths from a short distance. He was so different from my
husband, who would have waited slumped, scuffing his shoes and eyeballing
his watch.

“I’m sorry, Dr North…” I hurried across the well manicured lawn to meet
him.

“Jamie is fine, please,” he responded, slightly wearily, but with a kind smile,
“I will show you around as best I can. Creaky floors.” He shrugged as
tiredness creased under his eyes.

A moment later, Jamie was striding towards a wooden door with flaking
white paint at the back of the annexe. On the other side, the kitchen was
bustling - quiet, but busy nonetheless. It was a dim square room, tiled with
grey stones and splayed with rope rugs. Large copper pots were steaming and
bubbling on the stove while a petite woman chopped leeks with brute force.
She paused and turned to us. I clumsily found myself offering a handshake to
her much occupied hands. She stifled a laugh.

“You must be Mariella,” the small woman muttered coldly, “I have heard.”

I reddened once more, growing frustrated at the waves of self consciousness

that kept drowning me. Much can be said for airs and graces when it comes
to fractured self esteem.
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“Mrs Gaston’s meals adhere to strict nutritional guidelines,” Jamie dejected

before I even had the chance to stumble on my words, “for general good
health - and of course breast milk.”

Mrs Gaston finally smiled. She didn’t look like a housekeeper; she was
slender and strong, her greying jet black hair cleanly combed back into a tight
bun. Her nose was crooked, as if it had been hit out of shape at some point.

“Chicken and leek pie tonight, with spinach,” she nodded in response.

“Brilliant,” I smiled.

“Your meals might differ slightly, Mariella,” Jamie added, “Vincent reacts to
dairy and soy, which is trickier than it sounds…hence why you find yourself
here.”

I nodded as professionally as possible. While the nature of our acquaintance

felt strange and improper, this was a job; I could tell from Jamie’s attitude
that he expected dedication and maturity. No sneaking chocolate in this
workplace.

“In the morning, Mrs G can bring you up a pot of coffee. You’re going to
need it,” Jamie smiled and rubbed his forehead, “Vincent is eager on those
overnight feeds.”

I smiled knowingly, while feeling totally oblivious.

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“Oh he is only, what, only a few months old? That’s so normal.”

I shrugged it off, absolutely unsure of how I would cope with broken sleep.
Probably the last thing they would have suspected of me: I had never been up
feeding a baby before in my life. But I wasn’t about to admit that and return
home to Franco, with my tail between my legs.

“Yes,” Jamie smiled warmly, clearly amused with being on the receiving end
of health advice for a change, “like most things that don’t align with our
modern world, it’s the biological norm for him. Do you accept the
challenge?” he quipped, his tired face cracking into a grin.

“I certainly do.” For the first time in so long, I felt that I could do something
good. I couldn’t help my child, but I could help this one. I felt the start of
something great beginning to bloom.

Jamie was scheduled with his patients that afternoon and a hungry little
Vincent was hastily introduced and thrust onto me before his father went into
the surgery. He was such a darling, with deep ebony tufts of hair and chubby
cheeks. Other than the videos I had watched the night prior, I was pretty
clueless. I just hoped it would be as natural and instinctive - for the both of us
- as I imagined it might be.

Jamie had mentioned he was nervous that Vincent may have bottle preference
or trouble latching. I kept that in mind as I sat in the dove grey rocking chair
in the corner of the nursery and unbuttoned my linen shirt. I hadn’t had the
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chance to express any milk since early that morning; I was lumpy and full,
and Vincent was wailing in hunger. He was probably wondering who I was
and what on earth I was doing - or maybe that was just me.

I took three deep breaths and tried to help his little mouth to find the right
spot. I felt awkward, and I was beginning to worry that Mrs Gaston would
come up to check on us. Why wasn’t he drinking? Was his mouth too small?
Did he know I wasn’t his mum? But then my worries were interrupted by an
entirely foreign sensation. I felt a warm pulling and looked down to see
Vincent’s eyes, finally, relax. He did it. We did it.

Vincent stopped crying then, and I started instead.

It was the most bizarre yet blissful moment imaginable. Although slightly
uncomfortable, it somehow put my whole self at ease. He fell off the nipple a
few times, then lazily latched back on. I had faith that he would get the hang
of it though - that we both would. Vincent had milk and I had a purpose.

The time flew by and I felt relieved but incredibly drained. I spent much of
the day completely still, yet busy. My body was so occupied with its new
purpose that my mind didn’t even wander back to my usual reality. It is such
a strange sensation when you start to step out of grief and back into the real
world. It feels as if you are forgetting something, but really, you are
remembering. Remembering how to live instead of just existing.

Little Vincent didn’t want to stop feeding, and he began to grumble the
moment I tried to button my top back up, so I just continued on. But I became
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incredibly thirsty, hungry and sleepy. Vincent was dozing off.

“Mariella? I have some oat biscuits with tea for you.” A soft voice interrupted
my flurry of concerns.

I looked up to see the kind face of a young woman about my age, with
flowing auburn hair, a glowing complexion and piercing blue eyes. She wore
a very simple cream cotton dress with a blue woollen shawl that was pulled
in places. I self consciously rushed to button up my bust as she moved the
now sleeping baby away from my chest.

“Well done, you!” the woman smiled, sensing my unease, “I’m Maple, Mrs
Gaston’s daughter. I have been helping with Vincent. Or trying to!”

“Oh, hello,” I smiled, getting to my feet, “thank you.” I noticed how unsteady
my legs felt in that moment, I wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or exasperation
weighing me down.

“Looks like he is happy and full now. That is such a relief.” Maple smiled
reassuringly.

I returned to my room and sank into a sleepy daze. It all felt like a weird
daydream; being away from Franco, with my suitcase sitting in a foreign
room, and looking after a baby. The latter, in particular, felt completely
bizarre. After feeling the absence of my own expected baby for weeks, and
going half mad alone in my grief, I was breastfeeding someone else’s little
baby. Born not long after my own had arrived. It made my head spin and my
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heart throb. I knew I had to keep a firmer grasp on my emotions if I wanted

to make it work; and, for whatever reason, I truly did. I was aware that it
wouldn’t be long before people would become suspicious of me, just as
Jamie’s staff already had.

I was happy to see Maple when I walked into the dining room for dinner that
evening. I was hopeful that she would inadvertently bestow some baby
wisdom on me. Instead, she started asking questions; normal questions, that
would have been easy for any other wife to answer.

“So how many children do you have?” Maple asked with a pearly smile.

“Oh, none.”

The cutlery became still.

“…at the moment,” I added, with a forced smile. Sensing this to be what a
married woman should respond. I felt out of my depth; the outsider on
display. They were trying to figure me out but I didn’t want them to.

“Well. I am just so sorry,” Maple whispered solemnly, fumbling with her

napkin and clearly unsure of where to look.

I was not ready to unload my grief onto the table with people that I had just
met. I couldn’t expose myself like that. I needed to be strong.

“You can’t have milk without having been a mother, so what happened?”
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Mrs Gaston asked, waving a fork of spinach, almost suspiciously.

I was conflicted by what the old woman was saying. Was I a mother? Had I
ever really been? Or was that just a fever dream? One so vivid that it left
stripes on my hips and milk in my breast. I knew I couldn’t possibly tell the
truth without crumbling, which I wouldn’t do if I wanted to maintain any
sense of dignity and professionalism. While I was fumbling with a response,
Maple had interjected something about modern science and induced lactation.
Mrs Gaston looked less than impressed.

“Thank you,” I finally coughed after a palpable pause, “at the moment we
just really need my income. We will see what happens after that.”

Jamie was suddenly in the doorway, holding baby Vincent who had been
asleep only half an hour ago.

“I was a bit concerned about hiring a married woman for that reason. The 12
month contract might be cut short.”

He wore a coy smile as he sat at the table and took a crimson apple from the
terracotta fruit bowl. I frowned at the suggestion, or more so at the insulting
impossibility of it. Something Franco and I had planned on and fantasised
about was now the worst thing that my husband could imagine happening.
Yet, a child of our own was all I had ever hoped for. The only thing I never
got, or never got to keep.

Franco had only agreed for me to stay five days a week in my “nanny” role,
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but he wouldn’t be missing me. Far from it. He just didn’t want to loosen his
grip any further. For a split second I wondered what he would have been
doing that night alone, but averted my thoughts when I noticed that I simply
didn’t care.

“We are abstaining.”

I blurted it out without much thought, clearly more interested in keeping the
job than I was in maintaining dignity. Although, I did begin to turn the colour
of the apples when I saw that Jamie had done the same. Mrs Gaston and
Maple stared uneasily at their hands, both evidently embarrassed at the
conversation that they had unintentionally stirred up.

“I think I will take Vincent back upstairs. I’m really tired,” I whispered with a
strained smile, lifting him from his father’s warm hands.

It occurred to me that perhaps this wasn’t going smoothly, and what was the
backup plan? Try to convince my husband to fall back in love with me? Go
back to wallowing and stuffing my bra with cabbage leaves, while the final
notice letters stacked up on the kitchen counter? Truly a recipe for rekindled
romance if I ever heard one. The thought made my mouth dry and I realised
that I hadn’t been even remotely intimate with a man for what must have
been almost a year. Not since Eden was conceived.

After Vincent was sleepy and full of milk again, I zipped him into a cream
coloured sleeping pouch that had been neatly folded and placed by the rocker,
and kissed the soft, dark downy hair on his head. I laid the small sleeping
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bundle into the crib and tiptoed out. On the way to my bedroom I caught a
glimpse of myself in the bronze framed hallway mirror. Although the light
was dim, I could see that my hair was in misplaced tousles. Purple half
moons underneath my eyes made the few freckles I had collected in
childhood appear exaggerated. The velvet choker around my neck suddenly
looked incredibly obnoxious and I noted to just bring modest day dresses
next time. I turned the corner to hurry back to my room, but felt a warm hand
on my wrist.

“I’m very sorry, Mariella.”

It was Jamie, but he looked smaller than he had before. He had sad eyes and
was sheepish, but still, I was conscious that the sparsely intimate gesture had
caused the quickening of my pulse underneath his fingertips.

“It’s not always possible to discuss children without the cause of them. I’m
just sorry it embarrassed you all.”

“No,” he shook his head, “it was inappropriate. A great way to make things
more awkward than they need to be. I know this is a weird arrangement. I’m
so sorry for the loss of your child.”

This struck me suddenly. My breath caught in my throat and I struggled to

swallow it. These words that I had always wanted to hear - not so much like
this, and certainly not from an almost stranger - but really, from anyone.
Nothing for weeks, and then twice in one evening, from people who had no
idea. I still didn’t truly understand myself what had happened, or why. But
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regardless of that, she had been lost to me and no one had ever apologised for
it.

“Thank you,” was all I could manage, as I breathlessly pulled my arm away,
“goodnight Jamie.”

I closed the heavy mahogany door behind me and slid down into a crumple
on the cold floor. After months of monotonous indifference and silent
suffering, it all felt like too much. A hot tear rolled down my flushed cheek as
I covered my eyes with clammy hands and wished the world away. With
Franco, I had felt ignored and resentful at the worst. Could I stay somewhere
that made me feel so seen, and so volatile?

The days went along at a somewhat monotonous yet lovely pace. I took
Vincent out into the garden, whenever the weather would allow it, and
admired his round cheeks alongside the bulbous roses and fragrant lavender.
Having all of my food prepared for me was a novelty that was unlikely to
ever get old. Even if Mrs G did it begrudgingly. Maple had made a habit of
offering me an exotic tea from her collection every afternoon. We would
giggle and fawn over Vincent’s little outfits together. Jamie was busy with
patients every day until late and would sometimes go out to dinner
afterwards. I found myself imagining him having elegant dinners with
esteemed colleagues. I would try to hear the conversations they would have.

In my mind Jamie’s exhaustion washed away in these social settings. His

smile was broad and almost boastful. He would laugh at everything but his
own jokes, while insisting on more champagne. It was a stark contrast from
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the measured and mild man I had seen glimpses of, and I wondered why I
liked to think of him this way.

Perhaps it bolstered my own self doubt a little to picture him spending his
evenings being charming and indulgent. Like it somehow offset the reality of
him being a recently widowed doctor who truly deserved the small refuge of
alcohol more than anyone else I could imagine.

My musings aside, in truth, I didn’t know much about my employer at all. I

did know that he emulated a calming warmth that for some reason made me
feel eager to show my worth. It provoked a determination that I hadn’t felt for
some time; I knew this was partly my hormones. But even after only knowing
them all for such a short time, I felt that I needed to be the solution. I had to
help Jamie and sustain his baby.

When I arrived home that Saturday morning, Franco was waiting impatiently
in the lounge room with a croissant in one hand.

“Is this how a nanny would dress in this day and age?”

I didn’t even bother to respond. The contrast between the mood I had just left
at the North residence and of that in my own home was stark. I had just left
an atmosphere that maintained a busy, happy buzz and walked into a familiar
place that felt cold and empty by comparison.

Blueberry followed me upstairs wagging his tail, and I bolted the latch on my
door behind us. I sat on the floor beside the bed and stared into the mirrored
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wall, sighing at my tired reflection yet again. I had been considered beautiful,
recently enough too. Franco had barely glanced at me in months, but he used
to compliment me daily. Even after so many years together. I still looked
much the same as I always had, of course with slightly wider hips and a fuller
bust. But I never understood my reported charms anyway. I always felt that
flattery was deceptive, or making a joke at my expense. Even when my own
husband remarked on my appearance, my cheeks would burn.

Despite my silly tendency to blush, my parents had high hopes for me as their
only daughter. I suspected that my parents knew that they couldn’t afford
more than one child, so it was a sibling or private Catholic schooling for me.
St Margaret’s won that battle, and so you can imagine how thrilled they were
that I went into a community college floristry course after graduation.

When my mother died, a few weeks after I found out I was pregnant, I flew
back to Melbourne and weaved a wreath from purple roses for the funeral. I
didn’t hear much from my father after that, and I never told him about the
baby. I couldn’t stand to tell him that I was pregnant while we were both
draped in black with damp eyes. And thank God for that. Dad would have
been left grieving twice over. I knew he was quietly relieved when Franco
didn’t show up for the funeral, although he must have wondered why. They
had once been chummy, but eventually my parents reached their limit with
my husband’s artistic temperament. He was certainly popular to start with
though. With all of us.

When Franco and I first met, we were just sixteen years old. I had snuck a
flask of vodka into a combined school dance and grown boisterous in
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religious discussion with my friend from modern history class, Daphne.

Franco had eavesdropped from behind a willow tree in the garden, startling
us both when he suddenly emerged out of the dark to argue with us.

The conversation that ensued went in so many disjointed directions that when
we finally introduced ourselves I realised that Daphne had wandered off. I
should have felt concerned about being alone with a strange boy, but
somehow he didn’t feel strange even at that time. He was undeniably
handsome and his brown eyes were fixated on mine; confidently holding eye
contact was something we didn’t have in common. Back then, Franco was
warm but unassuming. I cringed and rolled my eyes at some of his
arguments, but unlike other boys he just laughed playfully in response. He
dropped that trait after a while.. The day after the dance, I learned from my
parents that Franco’s family were extremely well off.

“They own half of Paddington. The good half!”

They encouraged our friendship aggressively after that, hoping that it would
blossom into something more.

But then it did.

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Chapter 6

Jamie couldn’t believe how peaceful his baby had become since Mariella
arrived. No reflux and few tears, Vincent seemed finally content. The chaos
of the last month finally drifted away and he felt his own body relax for the
first time; Jamie felt like he could finally step into fatherhood. He hoped that
the calm would last. But he also hoped that Mariella would feel comfortable.
He felt an ache of guilt, thinking of the awkwardness of the dinner
conversation that Mariella had endured on her first night.

Jamie had questions whirling around his head, but he knew it wasn’t his place
to ask them. He wondered if Mariella had suffered a miscarriage or lost an
infant. Perhaps even a toddler. Any scenario was heart wrenching to imagine.
He walked slowly to the dining room where Mrs G and Maple were having
ginger tea. Mrs G raised her eyebrows at the sight of him and her docile
daughter smiled weakly.

“I don’t know about her,” Mrs G said to Jamie, not taking her eyes off her
teacup.

“Mum, it’s just been one week…of an unusual situation,” Maple interjected
reassuringly, “let’s give it - and her - a chance. This is what Vincent needs.”
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“I just don’t know why we didn’t try harder to find allergy formula first…”

“And spend hours driving around every few weeks hoping to find enough for
him? It’s hard to get a hold of at the moment. And then there’s purchasing
limits. Not the sort of thing you would want to get stuck without, either.”

Jamie had been watching silently, nervously stretching his fingers

repetitively.

“Jamie,” the old woman was addressing him properly now, “Vincent will
come to think of that woman as his mother, and then what? He will have to
lose another one?”

It was a truth that Jamie couldn’t face yet; he couldn’t examine it too closely
in his mind, nervous that it would scare him out of the whole arrangement.
He needed Vincent to be alright now. The formula situation was risky, with
nationwide shortages all over the evening news. This was what his baby
needed. He wouldn’t lose him too. What came next, he would just have to
live with. Even if it meant his son losing a mother twice. And Mariella, a
child.

Maple fed Vincent the expressed milk during Mariella’s days off, which was
tiresome and constant work. Jamie appreciated her and helped when he could,
but he secretly felt like an inadequate imposter. A doctor who was scared to
care for his own baby alone.
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Saturday night, on the insistence of Maple and Mrs G, Jamie went out to
dinner at a local woodfire pizza restaurant with red and white chequered
tablecloths. He drank chianti from a bulbous wine glass and ordered the
chorizo and capsicum pizza. Couples at neighbouring tables were chinking
glasses and laughing over videos on their phones. Jamie wondered if he
would ever experience that again, or if he even wanted to.

His wife had been a firecracker. Camille had loved going to that restaurant
and heckling the matradee. She would flirt with the chef for extra truffles on
her pasta and insist on always having the best table; no matter how booked
out they were. One minute she would roll her eyes at Jamie’s polite manner
with the waiters, then the next perch herself on his lap, feeding him
fettuccine. Camille kept her husband on his toes. He never knew what she
would do next, right until the very end.
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Chapter 7

Monday morning crept up, as it tended to, but this time I was ready to leave
before the sun had even risen. This time, I had taken care to dress with
practicality in mind: a pale yellow sundress that buttoned at the bust for
feedings. I had slept most of the weekend away and my eyes had a healthy
shine. The small brown suitcase beside me (gnawed on one handle by
Blueberry) was full of similar day dresses and my new best friend, an electric
pump. I found myself wondering if Mrs Gaston would warm to me in the
absence of velvet and leather.

Franco smiled as I emerged from my room that morning, but I suspected he

was just happy to be seeing me off. We had barely crossed paths in the two
days prior, except when Blueberry jumped the fence. I had reluctantly called
Franco to retrieve the dog from our neighbour’s yard; he hadn’t hesitated to
assist. Jumping over the picket fence with a graceful swing of his legs, he
didn’t even bother to put his espresso down. Franco gave me an awkward nod
of sorts and a pat for Blueberry. I found my throat tighten when I tried to
thank him.

“Do all of Dr North’s staff look like you then?”

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He asked Monday morning, as we sat in school hour traffic.

“Like me?” I furrowed.

Franco didn’t bother to clarify his question, other than to raise an eyebrow
and look away. In a parallel universe, I might have wondered if he felt
threatened by his wife spending most of the week in the house of a widowed
man. A lovely and exceedingly successful widowed man, at that. But his
repulsion of me made that scenario highly unlikely.

What I had done to deserve such a turn in Franco’s affections toward me was
still a mystery to me. I had eventually reconciled it as his way of processing
grief. The coldness and cruelty he had shown me surely came from a place of
hurt; it was the only sense I could make out of any of it.

For weeks after our first miscarriage, Franco had prayed over me morning,
noon and night. He even had the priest from a local church visit to cleanse the
“sins” from our townhouse. The old man lit pillar candles and spoke sermons
sternly, while I was made to kneel in front of a rusted gold crucifix. Franco
never said it, but I felt that he held me responsible for the loss.

He seemed possessed by the notion that something evil inside me had killed
our baby. Some sin I had committed, or even the silly words I had said as a
teenager. He encouraged me to take ice baths and restrict my diet to detox my
body. Beyond his ability to dominate in religious debate back in high school,
Franco was entirely atheist. It made the whole thing even more frightening
and nonsensical.
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Eventually, my husband concluded that it was best if we just gave up then.

He couldn’t accept that a second attempt to start a family would mean risking
going through another loss. I had reassured him that miscarriages were, sadly,
quite common. We weren’t cursed and I promised that we could get pregnant
again with a healthy baby. I insisted that he didn’t need to continue with the
exorcisms; my womb was fine. Franco had just glanced at me blankly in
response. I think I knew then that we would never have children of our own,
let alone a healthy marriage.

I was glad to arrive at work that morning, this time I knew to go through the
garden and the white kitchen door. I suddenly thought about how
presumptuous it had been for me to thump away on the front door on my first
day. Had Vincent really been asleep or was Jamie just careful to not let staff
enter through the main house, so as to not disturb the hierarchy? The thought
bristled my mood and I felt an unnerving urge to grab him and explain that I
should be home with my own daughter, that this was all a big mistake.

“Are you alright, Mariella?”

It was Jamie on the other side of the kitchen door, his voice kind and
welcoming. I felt my ears turn red. I had flustered myself by imagining Jamie
in a certain light, when really he was standing in the kitchen making his own
cup of tea with a burp cloth still on one shoulder. I willed my complexion to
return to its usual hue.

“Yes, of course. I just didn’t sleep very well,” I lied, unable to think clearly.
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Before I could gather my thoughts, Jamie had taken my suitcase from me and
asked that I join him for breakfast in the living room to garner some much
needed strength. Walking into the large room, I realised how little of the
house I had seen so far. I was between the nursery, kitchen and my bedroom
all day and most of the night. I had barely had time to even wonder what was
behind the many other doors.

The living room was considerably quieter than the rest of the house. Jamie
motioned for me to sit on a peacock blue armchair as Mrs Gaston brought in
a fresh pot of tea and raspberry shortcake. I noticed her give me a funny look,
like she was trying to figure me out. I became painfully aware that she may
not have ever been invited to sit in this room.

“So, do you miss floristry?” Jamie asked while reaching for a biscuit.

He hadn’t put his usual blazer jacket on yet; it hung over the third armchair.
His white buttoned shirt was crisp with the sleeves rolled slightly, revealing a
gold watch that was reflecting the light in tiny flecks all over the room. The
morning sun was soft and warm, coming through the tall arched windows. I
remembered that I had put Harriett as a reference along with my background
check before I moved in. I silently hoped that she had kept the spiel brief.

“Hmm…” I smiled, pausing thoughtfully. “I do. It was always my passion.

But the way the economy is at the moment, and there were some internal
business issues…it just hasn’t worked out in my favour. Maybe one day.”
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He suddenly looked amused. “I have to know, you didn’t think to name your
shop Marigold..?”

“Uh,” it took me a minute to catch on, “right, Mariella Gold, Mari Gold. Yes,
of course. But Gold is actually my maiden name. I know I used it when
contacting you about the milk donations, but my name is legally Mariella
Sainti.”

“It just seems such a shame to waste a good play on names, regardless.”

“I did consider it…my dad used to call me Marigold. But Franco, my

husband, hated it. He thinks they’re weeds.”

Jamie must have sensed my tension. He paused and leaned over to pour more
tea into my cup with a comforting smile.

“Camille, my wife, was always annoyed at the amount of marigolds in our

garden. She wanted roses but they just died in the brutal sunshine here.
Marigolds are much stronger.”

I thought for a moment about how devoid of strength I had felt this past year;
I was much more like a rose, portraying a defiant exterior while withering in
a brutal environment.

“I don’t think I have offered my condolences, Jamie. I am so sorry for your

loss.”
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The skin around Jamie’s eyes crinkled and his smile became weary.

“Thank you. Relationships are complex, but death…well, death is simple.

I’ve found that when you are suddenly faced with that simplicity every day,
you start to curse yourself for wishing away the complexity.”

I was struck by his words, and felt like an ignorant child for existing in such
an empty marriage. Jamie likely imagined that Franco and I had enjoyed a
love story of all seasons; that we had weathered storms and even endured
devastating losses together. But, really, my marriage was simple. There was a
loss within us that was irretrievable. I wasn’t sure I would ever have the
opportunity to appreciate complexity on any level.

“Don’t worry, you are still young. I’m sure you have your fair share of
complications ahead of you,” He grinned, sensing my apprehension.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had really been looked at, really seen, as I
was in that moment. It pained me to think that the last joyful conversation I
had shared would have been with Franco, but it was so long ago now. He
used to look at me as if I had sewn each star into the sky myself; he had
actually accused me of that one New Year’s Eve.

We had deviously taken to a fountain for a midnight swim in our underwear.

Franco had pointed out various constellations as the cool water glimmered
around us. His finger fell from the skies to trace along my side, from the top
of my rib cage down to my waist and back up along the curve of my hip. But
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so much had changed since then. The last time Franco truly looked into my
eyes, it was as if I had pulled the universe from underneath his feet.

“I fear I’ve had my fair share of complications,” Jamie started saying, to

dissipate the silence. “The rest of my days will be spent here. But I’m sure
you and Franco have many plans ahead of you, after this chapter of your life.
How long have you two been married?”

It was a fair question, but it made my mind glance back to our sunlit,
frivolous wedding day. Suddenly my chest felt stiff.

“Almost ten years,” I shrugged, “I moved up here for school and decided to
stay when my parents returned down south afterwards. Franco and I stuck
together after that…we eloped when we were twenty years old. It all just felt
like a bit of fun back then.”

“And your husband approves of this arrangement, clearly?”

I bit my lip. I didn’t want to entangle myself in a web of lies, but I also really
didn’t want to risk losing the only purpose I had found in so long. I
considered my words carefully.

“Franco doesn’t want children…any more children. We tried. But he’s done
with the idea of a family now,” I responded, realising my voice had shown
some of my bitterness.

Jamie had a sadness about him when I looked back up from my tea. I wished
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that I could pull my words from the air and bury them back deep into my
lungs. Just at the right moment, Maple appeared to advise Jamie of his first
patient of the morning.

“Have a great day with Vinnie.” Jamie smiled, dabbing his mouth with a
cream linen napkin before walking out of the opened French doors.

Maple seemed pleasantly surprised to see me. She had probably assumed that
Jamie was entertaining a friend, but it turned out to just be the wet nurse. I
walked toward the nursery, unable to shake off the bad mood that discussing
Franco had stirred up.

When I had told Franco that I was pregnant again, he visibly grimaced. He
was shocked. Outraged. He had punched a hole in the lounge room wall and
stormed out. When he returned the next day, stinking of cognac, he reiterated
that he didn’t want to keep trying. I responded that his actions begged to
differ, hence the pregnancy. He refused to take accountability. He called me
every name under the sun and finished it off with an accusation that sounded
like a threat.

“It’s not mine.”

No matter how hard I tried after that, Franco couldn’t see the joy in the
situation. He went completely cold. He started sleeping in the guest bedroom
and eating dinner out every night. Whenever I tried to discuss anything to do
with the baby, he would repeat that it wasn’t his and that I needed to deal
with it before it was too late. However nonsensical and insulting it seemed to
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me, Franco insisted that he had concrete evidence of my infidelity; obviously

it was too convincing to even bother clarifying with me.

While I grappled with Franco’s illogical emotional warfare, I received

another huge personal blow. Just weeks after finding out that I was pregnant,
I was on a flight alone to my mother’s funeral. It wasn’t a huge shock; she
had been unwell for years. Mentally, at first, but her body caught up
eventually. Our relationship was terse for a long time and my enduring union
with Franco had been a nail in the coffin.

Although my mother had initially been impressed with the Sainti family, it
wasn’t long before she noticed that their values didn’t align with her more
traditional Catholic upbringing. When I was still just a teenager, I started
coming home from big, flashy dinner parties stinking of Riesling and
cigarettes. I made a habit of skipping our usual family trips to the Sunday
markets to stay in bed and giggle at messages from Franco instead.

My parents barely even knew him when they returned to our family home in
Melbourne and I stayed behind. My grandpapa, Herucio, was ill, and my
father’s contract with the local government in Brisbane wasn’t being
renewed. I had just graduated from high school and carelessly missed the
deadline for university applications. I was going out to the Valley every
Thursday night and rarely reappearing at home until Sunday lunch. I hadn’t
understood my own temperament back then, so I drowned my self doubt in
cheap gin & tonics from sticky floored bars.

Franco was my only project, my creative outlet. We danced and fought,

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spilling drinks and tears all over town. An intoxicated snide remark would be
enough to set Franco off into a fury. He would simply get up and leave me,
with no regard for my safety. He was so often blinded by rage, but I loved his
passion back then. When my morose mother and placid father had told me
about the impending move back to Melbourne, it was the easiest decision in
the world to stay.

But now my mother was gone. The woman who, like all mothers, sacrificed
everything for me. Even when I turned out to be nothing like she had hoped, I
knew she would still do anything for me. I hadn’t kept either of my parents
that well informed on my marriage, and they didn’t pry. At best, they
occasionally, politely, asked how Franco was or how his art was faring in the
local gallery. I had no idea if they’d ever wondered to each other if we would
give them grandchildren.

But there I was, pregnant and flying home. Dad had scheduled an afternoon
for me to be alone in their house, to mourn and take anything I wanted to
remember my mother by. As if a material object could have any true value
when you’ve just lost a parent. However, looking around her ensuite that
afternoon, something did catch my eye. My mother’s grey hairs were
stubbornly embedded in the tortoiseshell brush next to the bathroom sink. A
slice of sunlight dabbled through the window and illuminated them to the
point of almost looking majestically silver. I retracted my fingers from a
feeble attempt at caressing the remains of my mother.

“It’s just a hairbrush.”

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The metallic echo of the dropped brush vibrated before the final gentle close
of the dustbin. The compact room was blisteringly hot. My father had always
waxed poetic about the importance of the position of a home. Maybe it had
been the first eleven years of my childhood, spent in a west-facing elevated
timber house, that did it to him. He would curse the magnolia trees every
afternoon for never reaching quite high enough to shade our living room from
the citric Australian sun.

“Position, position, position!”

He would throw his hands up, as if he would have flipped a table if one had
got in his way. Like an angry waiter in an Italian restaurant after being asked
for “no garlic, please”. As a child, I would scoop green ants out of the pool
to safety, while nearby a row of crimson honeysuckles waited to be plucked
for a snack. I would always run up the stone steps, smelling of chlorine, to
bring my mother a spray of those little floral treats.

But walking along the warm timber floors that afternoon, I felt totally lost in
my conquest. What would I keep? I couldn’t find anything of sentimental
value. Where were the days of slipping into the murky, grey waters of the
local creek after it had rained? Or the childhood stories that my mother would
read aloud with an almost irksome enthusiasm? All the mornings spent
licking blueberry muffin batter off spoons, picking peppery smelling
marigolds from the garden and bringing home new goldfish in plastic bubbles
of water? What happened to our life together? Where was it?

Before I left, I took one last deep inhale of that place; the centre of their life
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after me. It smelled of tea tree oil and raspberry tea. From the corner of my
damp eye I noticed an old book sitting on the waxy oak dining table. Inside
the first page, there laid a perfectly preserved, incredibly old, dried sprig of
jubilant red honeysuckle flowers.
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Chapter 8

Jamie sat at his desk and pressed a button on the computer, alerting his
receptionist that he was ready for a patient to be sent in. He expected that he
still had a few minutes to spare, since his first appointment of the day was
with ninety-five year old Vernon Sharp. The old man was only just starting to
fill out the date on his updated medical history when Jamie had walked past
moments earlier. He probably could have even snuck in a nap on the stretcher
bed, but his mind was too busy.

His vision of Mariella had been blown out of the water. Jamie had already
drawn the assumption that she may have recently lost a baby, but he never
imagined that Mariella could have been completely childless. He felt a pang
of sadness, imagining how she might feel nursing Vincent. He hoped it
brought her some comfort and wasn’t entirely mournful.

He had expected that Mariella would be missing her husband, and maybe
even slightly resented the role she had found herself in. But he noticed some
hostility in her tone when she spoke of Franco. Maybe she had in fact found
refuge in her time with Vincent. Mariella had been with her husband all her
adult life; maybe she was fed up with him.
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Jamie caught himself smiling and instantly felt like a jerk. He straightened
out his expression, aware that Vernon would be entering the room shortly.
The old man was a regular patient and always reminded Jamie of a much
frailer version of his own father. Although, perhaps his father would be
looking much like Vernon by then. Jamie’s parents had withdrawn long
before Vincent was born and Camille’s concurrent passing. His mother didn’t
appreciate her daughter-in-law’s sharp tone, and his father was simply too
docile to encourage his wife to make amends after one particularly explosive
disagreement. So that was the end of it.

They had retired to the Sunshine Coast and sent a congratulations card when
Camille fell pregnant months later. The square gold card ended up ripped in
half and thrown in the bathroom bin. The tragedy that followed didn’t foster
an environment for sorely overdue reunions, so they had kept away.

Camille’s family, on the other hand, had stayed very close.

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Chapter 9

“Butternut squash with roast chicken and pine nuts.” Mrs Gaston announced
as she laid dinner on the wooden table.

I was coming to enjoy the meals we shared. Mrs Gaston was still unsure of
me, but Maple had become a true friend. Joseph, Jamie’s friend and gardener,
joined us on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Jamie was usually there too, but he
wasn’t that night. I blushed at my own disappointment.

“Is Jamie still with patients?” I asked Maple.

“You could say that, ha!” Joseph interjected, slapping his bottle green pants
in amusement. Maple smiled but rolled her eyes.

“He had a social engagement tonight,” Maple responded, briefly meeting my

eyes before picking up her wine glass. “Occasionally he has dinner at the
local pub. With friends.”

“Friends? Good one, May. I heard Celine was in town,” Joseph laughed with
a wink. He was dark and handsome, surely younger than both Maple and I,
but a little rough around the edges.
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“Dr North should find himself a companion,” Mrs Gaston grumbled. “Let’s
hope one of these dinners leads to something of substance.”

I cringed and wondered if I had completely misunderstood Jamie. Was he out

acquiring someone to warm his bed? Perhaps even multiple someones, on all
sorts of different occasions. I felt betrayed by myself and the foolish ideal
vision of him I had painted when, of course, he was a man with a baby, a
beautiful home, a fruitful career, and he was all alone. It shouldn’t have been
any surprise that he was hunting for another wife, and likely much enjoying
himself in the process.

“Oh, Mari, don’t listen to either of them. Doc really isn’t like that,” Maple
grimaced. I realised I had been frowning. “Although, a wife one day would
be splendid, perhaps someone softer than poor Camille…rest her soul.”

I shifted in my seat and scooped up pine nuts and a piece of broccoli. It was
none of my business, but I wished that I hadn’t heard the suggestion. But
why? I was married, and a wet nurse, for God’s sake. As if he would have
even given me a second glance. He was only attentive toward me because I
was nurturing his child.

It was cold later that night when I found myself wandering down the hallway
after a late feed, my lips trembling. As Jamie emerged from the staircase, I
clutched myself in an act of modesty. He smiled.

“Mariella!”
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“Jamie. It’s very cold, and late,” I smiled, quietly glad that he was
unaccompanied.

“It is very late.”

“I trust you had an enjoyable time?”

“Ugh,” he sighed, “that would be a stretch. This is the most riveting

conversation I’ve had tonight.”

“Oh, that does sound very dull then.”

We both stood for a moment, just grinning at each other in the dim
candlelight. His teeth shone.

“Mariella?”

“James?”

“I’m happy you are here.”

“So am I.”

That Saturday morning, Blueberry trotted to meet me at the gate. I had taken
to strolling home on weekends by myself and would count the butterflies and
water dragons on the way. I plucked daisies for the kitchen table and
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imagined that they had been given lovingly to me. Sometimes I allowed
myself to wonder what my daughter would have looked like - what would her
first word have been? Then other times I couldn’t stand to wonder.

“Hello, darling Blue,” I whispered as my spotty friend followed me inside the

front door. I knew Franco wouldn’t be awake yet, since sleeping late on
weekends was a part of his artistic process. The kitchen and sitting room
were in a state. Glasses stained with red wine, used plates on every surface
and clothes strewn on chairs. Franco had clearly had some company. I sighed
peacefully at my indifference to the idea of my husband’s rough hands on
some foolish girl. I only hoped that she hadn’t touched my dog.

I found a baguette and tomatoes in the kitchen, then took a tray to sit on the
grass in the backyard. Blueberry performed all sorts of clever tricks for tidbits
of ham while a pair of ducks flew past deep in duckish conversation. I
stroked the soft lawn as the breeze unravelled a mint green bow on my sun
hat. Perhaps sunshine, food and a good dog is all a girl really needs after all. I
imagined the dissolving dandelion heads to be tiny swaying Francos, floating
away.

I could hear that he had risen at some stage and was rattling around in the
kitchen; I heard him stub his toe and drop the coffee pot with a loud clatter. A
flurry of profanities ensued. Eventually he wandered outside, glaring at the
bright midday sun, in what looked to be yesterday’s trousers and shirt.

“You know, you could just divorce me.”

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It wasn’t the first time I had mentioned it, but I found it amusing to remind
him. He knew that I had nowhere else to go, but considering his family
fortune, I couldn’t quite grasp why he wouldn’t leave me. Good old Catholic
guilt.

When Monday morning happily arrived, Franco gruffly kissed my cheek as I

hopped out of the car. I grimaced. Then he set off in a huff with his paint cans
rolling around in the boot. I wondered if the forced affection was just guilt
sprouting out of his sordid idle time. I wished he had just insulted my blue
gingham dress and left it at that.
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Chapter 10

That weekend, Jamie had returned to the chequered tablecloths at Belle and
sat by the same window. He ordered the same pizza and Chianti, this time
with two bulbous glasses. An entirely chic woman sat across from him,
wearing a black shift dress and matching suede heels. Her blunt-cut peroxide
bob was offset with a smudged smokey eye and a pearly veneer smile.

Jamie admired Claudia Chen’s intelligence, but was slightly intimidated by

her height. Although, he had started to wonder if he was just intimidated by
all women. His match with a fireball like Camille had been more comfortable
than most would expect.

Claudia, however, was nothing like Camille. A few years prior she had been
one of the youngest people to ever pass the bar exam. She was assertive and
sure of herself, but modest, too. She would smile sweetly at the restaurant
staff and insist that Jamie chose the meals. She checked her phone a bit much
for his liking, but he didn’t doubt she had important reasons to do so. Claudia
was the type of woman that would routinely receive urgent correspondence at
10pm on a Friday. She had her own letterhead and a personal assistant called
Georgia. She had a platinum cycle class membership and effortlessly lined up
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international Zoom meetings with her 5am spin sessions. Mere mortals would
be out of breath.
Jamie admired Claudia like you might someone doing important, good things
on the news channel. But she didn’t make him feel any less alone.
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Chapter 11

My working week started off with a very fussy little Vincent. He was used to
me by now and seemed quite happy with the service, but he was having a
growth spurt and was suddenly enraged at everything. I found myself in and
out of the nursery all night, stirring to his cries long before Maple ever did.
By midweek, I was pale and exasperated, plonked on the garden bench with a
lunchtime wine.

“The little piglet is in quite the mood, isn’t he?” Jamie had suddenly appeared
above my sun hat.

There I was with my bust ribbons still slightly loose, hair tousling out at all
angles, sullen skin and indulging in daytime alcohol. What a sight. While
Jamie stood glimmering in a crisp blue shirt and chino pants, with a freshly
shaven face and combed hair. He was even holding a tangerine, for God’s
sake.

“Oh,” I laughed breathlessly, “I’m sure it’s hard to do all that growing…I’m
alright.”

“You should take the afternoon off.”

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My stomach dropped - could I have appeared even worse than I imagined?

Was Jamie really dismissing me for the day, for half a glass of wine and
imperfect hair?

“You have been working tirelessly. Please, take the rest of the day to do
something nice. Maybe your husband would like to pick you up?” I’m He
smiled, not in the least brandishing in his suggestion. Of course not. The
gorgeous naivety of him and his vision of my married life.

“No, thank you,” I said too quickly, “I mean, Franco would be quite occupied
at this time of day.”

“Never mind, then. We will enjoy ourselves.” That smile. “We will have
lunch in the sunshine. Vincent has some spare milk and he will be in good
hands with Maple.”

My heart quickened. But wait, did he ask other staff to have lunch with him?
Or was he just asking out of pity? Again, I found that I was slow to respond.
But Jamie didn’t wait for a response this time. He had disappeared into the
house and then soon reappeared with a light spread. An assortment of
sandwiches, a bottle of pinot gris and some sort of pudding. He laid out a
white picnic rug in a sunny spot. I suspected he was at least partially weary of
what Mrs Gaston would have thought, or said, about his lunch company.

“Thank you. This is very kind,” I smiled, sipping the glimmering cold wine.
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“It’s not often I get to enjoy this sort of thing either, so thank you…and the
patients who cancelled their appointments this afternoon” he laughed, biting
into a turkey watercress sandwich.

The conversation flowed naturally and freely; probably at least in part due to
the heady pinot. We spoke of sweet little Vincent and how much he had
grown in the weeks I had been there. We discussed health and happiness;
Jamie confided that Camille had never embodied either, and simply refused
to.

She had theatrically thrown herself down the staircase when she was carrying
Vincent, and would routinely scream at Joseph, and at Jamie, I gathered from
his careful recounts. Throwing glasses and sometimes even knives. Jamie
spoke of it so casually, with the suggestion of despondency; obviously
accustomed to the explosive behaviour. But I couldn’t imagine such an errant
person sharing a life, and bed, with him. He was so gently spoken, so kind to
everyone. Jamie seemed a strange mix of sad, exasperated and at peace when
he spoke of Camille. But he was careful to finish every recount with the same
claim.

“I loved her though, of course I did!”

Jamie hadn’t mentioned how Camille had died. But regardless if it had been
from mental or physical illness, it must have been a terrible taunt for a doctor;
unable to save his own wife.
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Chapter 12

Looking at Mariella, Jamie wondered if he had said too much. He had

forgotten to eat breakfast and the passionfruit tang of the wine had made him
feel warm and woozy. He noticed the feeling of his own breath leaving his
nostrils as he admired the glow of the sunshine.

Mariella was speaking now, trying to lighten the mood by offering her own
experience of being married to someone with an artistic temperament. Jamie
noticed the dimple on her left cheek and the gold hoops hugging her earlobes.
She always looked around when she mentioned her husband - picking a
dandelion that had grown despite the gravel, or fiddling with her knuckles.
Jamie wondered if she was trying to hide sadness, embarrassment, or maybe
fear. Mariella forced a smile and raised an eyebrow while she explained
Franco’s current artistic hiatus.

“…so he watches documentaries about cruise ships or the Bermuda Triangle,

waiting for inspiration to strike.”

“Camille used to love conspiracy theories!” Jamie laughed, enjoying the

forgotten quirk of his wife.
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“Because the world isn’t weird enough?” She rolled her hazel eyes while her
rose petal lips curled into a genuine, bemused grin.

The pinot gris bottle was now empty and the horizon was glowing fuchsia.
Mariella was apologising for losing track of time, standing to straighten out
her corduroy skirt with her hands. Jamie reassured her that this had been his
intention. Her eyes glimmered then looked down. That night Jamie fell asleep
smiling for the first time in months.
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Chapter 13

The next morning, when my coffee arrived around 5am, I was still half asleep
and feeling a warm blur from the afternoon prior. I was quickly startled into
reality, with Vincent’s little hands tugging on my nightdress, followed by a
disapproving click of the tongue from Mrs Gaston. Vincent was in bed with
me, nuzzled up to my chest and helping himself to an early morning snack.

“Oh, good morning Vin!”

I scooped a hand beneath his little body while I pulled us up against the soft
pillows behind me. I firmly pressed my nightdress along my legs and tucked
wisps of hair behind my ears, as if the little baby cared for my presentation
and would report me for being bedraggled at his meal time.

As my mind slowly awoke, it began to assimilate what had occurred in the

early hours prior. I recalled Vincent feeding for what felt like hours in the
nursery, most likely comfort suckling, and my eyelids were no longer
cooperating. I had thought to bring him to bed for a quick nap then back to
the nursery before sunrise, but no such luck. Vincent looked quite thrilled
about it, though. He was very cosy, all cuddled up, feeding sleepily.
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The heavy door suddenly swung open to reveal a very flustered father, no
doubt in a panic having checked his baby’s room to find it empty.

“Thank God!“

Jamie’s left hand flung to the door frame as if to steady himself. His golden
brown hair was uncharacteristically chaotic, hanging in front of his eye and
reaching for the ceiling. Somehow still glossy and incredibly soft looking.
Jamie’s sleeping shirt was crumpled and loose over his slender frame. A
button or two adjoined to the incorrect hole, or not at all. Evidence of the
lonely sleeper.

Then all of a sudden, self consciousness dawned over me. I covered Vincent
and the breast he had claimed with a buttery crochet blanket, followed by
another futile attempt at tucking my unruly hair behind my ears. I tried to
think of an explanation or excuse for why I had quite clearly slept on the job.
Before I could bother, Jamie smiled and closed the door behind him.

“It’s laziness,” I heard Mrs Gaston saying in the kitchen as I got to the
bottom of the stairs minutes later. I was holding a rosy-cheeked Vincent with
wild curls and a heavy nappy.

“This age is usually hard with bubs,” Maple reassured her, “it’s very normal
for Vincent to be cluster feeding at the moment.”

“He’s paying her more than us both combined! What for? To cuddle a baby
and lay around all day?”
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Jamie appeared on the last step with us at that moment, with an injured look
on his face “Mariella… don’t listen. It’s been a hard few months in this
house,” he whispered, taking Vincent from my hip. I felt my ears turning red.

“I think Vincent’s out of nappies? I really need to change him.” I was

flustered and the words sounded forced.

“Leave it with me. Maple will have some stock somewhere. I don’t have any
patients today.”

“Please let me know where to find them next time. I don’t want to feel so
useless.”

I rushed back upstairs and exhaled. Was this job really that easy? Was I a
joke? Because I was actually finding it gruelling. Maybe I wasn’t built to be a
mother after all. Maybe it had all been for the best.

For the rest of the week, the air at the North residence was thick with tension.
I felt belittled and completely doubtful of my abilities to succeed in this
bizarre arrangement; even more so with Mrs Gaston stomping around full of
judgement. Maple had rearranged the nursery so that I could find items more
easily, and each morning filled a small crystal vase on my bedside table with
marigolds.

Somehow, I felt more embarrassed from Maple’s quiet kindness than the
static silence from Mrs G. Jamie had mainly kept his distance; occasionally
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he would poke his head into the nursery after his last patient of the day, kiss
Vincent’s head, check in with me, before disappearing for the night.

“Look at those cheeks,” he gushed one evening, “he’s growing so well now.
Getting that good weight on.”

I allowed myself to feel a rare flicker of pride. I was nurturing a little human.
I seldom saw any real evidence of my milk; just Vincent’s suckling, or his
full-bellied slumber afterwards, hands relaxed beside his rounded chin.

“Maybe one thing is going right, then,” I shrugged. “But apparently this is
easy.”

I was sitting in the rocking chair cradling his baby, probably looking as
sheepish and flustered as I felt. Hair half-heartedly pulled into a ponytail and
grey fluffy slippers on crossed feet. Jamie crouched down so he was on my
level, rubbing his chin hairs with the knuckle of his thumb.

“This is not easy,” he was shaking his head, “Mrs G…look, just don’t worry
about her. I know how intense and time-consuming breastfeeding is for
women. It’s a full time job. You deserve more than what I’m paying you.
You have to be away from your husband and home most of the week, on top
of it being physically demanding. I’m not oblivious. Although you haven’t
admitted it, I know you have very recently lost a child before you started
here,” he paused, frowned, then earnestly looked into my eyes with a small
smile. “You didn’t seem to be a regular milk donator. I mean, you gave me
that first bit in a jam jar?”
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We both laughed. He saw through it all. Of course he did.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” I nodded with a smile.

“Does anyone?” Jamie retorted, rolling his eyes playfully.

There was a silence that urged to be filled, and I knew Jamie wanted to know
more. He wanted me to explain how I got there; what happened to my baby
and why? Did I miss my husband? And would I be alright when this was over
and this purpose was lost? I stubbornly sat in the silence and gazed at Vincent
instead. Admiring his long dark eyelashes and raspberry lips, the rise and fall
of his chest. The little dribble of milk coming from the corner of his mouth.

Jamie slowly rose back up and his hands self-consciously grabbed at his
denim jeans. He was wearing a white t-shirt and leather loafers, and his facial
hair had clearly been left for a few days longer than usual. His green eyes
shone in the dim light. Jamie was beautiful, and probably the most
inappropriate person I could feel attracted to. Holding his baby son, looking
up at him with admiration, felt so foolish. Just to solidify the feeling, I noticed
a woman’s name pop up on his phone just before he grabbed it from the stool
beside me.

“Well, I’m off,” he fumbled his keys in his pocket, “if you need anything at
all, Maple is staying around until later tonight.”

“Oh,” I tried to hide my disappointment, “have a good night.”

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He pushed his lips together and looked around the room. “Ah, yeah.
Hopefully. And you too. See you tomorrow.”

I stayed in that chair for another two hours, just enjoying the peace of
Vincent’s sleep. He was approaching two months old now and almost always
jolted awake when I tried to put him in the cot. That night, I had grown too
nervous of the inevitable waking to even attempt to try. When I eventually
got up from the chair, I brought him straight into my bed. I pushed my
blanket to the end of the bed and the ivory pillows onto the polished floor. I
lay little Vincent in the centre beside me, making him appear even smaller,
and snuggled up with my nose on his soft cheek. He naturally rolled onto his
side to face me, grabbing my hand as he gently exhaled back into slumber.
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Chapter 14

Mrs G seemed fixated on making a hard situation worse for Mariella, and
Jamie felt completely helpless in improving anything for either of them. The
old woman had been in his life for years and he somewhat understood her
hesitations. Someone of her generation simply couldn’t understand why
Jamie was going to such great lengths to have his baby breastfed, much less
by a woman that had been a stranger not long ago. It was weird enough to
Jamie, even though he trusted his research and reasoning for it.

Mrs G was still mourning Camille, and rightfully so. She also had to get used
to a particularly gorgeous young woman floating around most of the week.
The fact that Vincent was thriving with Mariella, and Jamie was slightly -
very - dazzled by her, was sure to be salt in the wound.

He did also realise that he had made things worse for Mariella by getting
carried away and spending the afternoon drinking in the sunshine with her. It
was improper of him, and everyone had known it. Jamie felt slightly
embarrassed and suddenly he knew what he really needed to do to help
everyone in the long term:a serious relationship.
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But as Jamie walked into the dimly lit wine bar that evening, he couldn’t help
wondering how his life got to this point. Just months prior, he had been
married and expecting his first child. Although Camille wasn’t easy, he had
honestly thought that they would last together. He couldn’t help but wonder if
she ever really thought so.

Jamie also couldn’t help but wonder how she would react to him going on
dates just a few months after her death. But then he thought he might throw
up, so he forced himself to stop.

Claudia was twisting the stem of a glass filled with maroon wine. Her sharp
cheekbones were highlighted by the glow of her phone; her long acrylic nails
tapped relentlessly at the screen. She never had a free hand; there was always
something on the go.

Jamie had met Claudia years ago when he was setting up his practice and
needed legal advice. Her hair had been black and long then, but not much
else had changed. She was a powerful presence but demure at the right
moments. He knew he was somewhat pressuring himself to feel something
for her, but as he planted a kiss on her chiselled cheek, Jamie felt like a fool
for not naturally wanting her.

“One more email and I’m yours,” she purred, crossing her legs. She had sheer
black stockings on that somehow made her legs appear even longer and
sleeker than usual.

Jamie pretended to read the wine list but started wondering if Mariella liked
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Emily Brontë.
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Chapter 15

The next morning, I was still feeding Vincent in bed at 9am and there had
been no coffee or tea brought in. I didn’t mind, but I wondered if Mrs Gaston
had poked her head in and decided I didn’t deserve it. It was Saturday and I
was scheduled to be off from 10am when Maple arrived to take over.
Looking down at the little one nuzzling into my breast, for the first time I felt
a stab of pain at the prospect of leaving him.

By 9.45am, I had changed Vincent’s nappy and put him in a yellow romper
covered in oranges. I brushed my hair, popped on some red lipstick and threw
on a Dalmatian patterned mini dress. Empowered and ready to seize the day.
I promised myself that I wouldn’t arrive home with any evidence of the
volatile week I’d had. I simply refused to spend any more of my life crying in
front of an unresponsive husband.

In the dining room, there was a plate for me with a cold croissant and a glass
of tap water. It was far from the Saturday morning I had experienced the
previous weekend, with Jamie and Joseph cutting into runny yolks as they
made jest of questionable journalism in the morning paper.
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I placed Vincent in the beige bouncer beside my chair and ate in silence while
a nursery rhyme played for him.

“Morning!” Maple cooed as she walked into the room and scooped up
Vincent, who was beginning to fuss. Her auburn hair was frizzy from the
humidity outside.

“A quiet one?” Mrs Gaston had shuffled through the doorway with a cup of
coffee for Maple. She looked bemused, raising her eyebrows suggestively as
she placed the ceramic cup on the table.

“Oh…no Doc?“ Maple asked, balancing Vincent with one arm while she
eagerly grabbed the coffee with the other.

Mrs Gaston let out an uncharacteristic giggle. I’d never seen her light up like
that before. It was slightly unsettling.

“Who do you think? Claudia, surely!” the old woman cackled.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Maple said quietly, as if Vincent could

understand what the housekeeper was suggesting of his father.

Unfortunately for me, I understood very well. But I knew that I had no right
to care; I barely even knew the man. But despite that, I felt my heart in my
throat. I started to worry that I had shown it on my face and began to gather
myself to leave.
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“He needs a wife. All men do. He’s not going to want to raise a son by
himself forever, you know,” Mrs Gaston was saying as she walked back out
toward the kitchen.

Maple was blowing raspberries on Vincent’s pillowy cheeks. “Who needs

anyone else when they have you, Mr Vincent?”

It seemed true to me, too. With a healthy, beautiful baby, what more do you
need? It made me feel like maybe I could have done it. I could have got on a
plane to Melbourne, ignoring Franco’s words. Everything might have been
alright then. Maybe she would have made it. I could have hired someone to
serve him divorce papers while he was ordering his morning coffee, just like
in a movie. I could see myself as a single mother, flourishing. It hurt so much
to imagine I had potentially given that happiness away. But really, I knew it
was taken from me and no such reality could have ever been possible.

“Oh, Mariella.”

I was pushing my chair in and forcing a smile. It wasn’t until Maple started
rubbing my shoulder that I realised that I was crying. No, I was weeping. I
didn’t know what would be worse: if Maple thought I was emotional about
Jamie having a fling, or if she became aware of my complex (almost)
maternal existence. I felt stung, to varying degrees, by both.

With bashful apologies muttered and a kiss planted on Vincent’s soft hair, I
was on my way home again. Walking briskly, not taking any notice of the
flora on my route. I remained transfixed on instructing myself to start being
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as professional as I possibly could in such a role. How could I have slipped

into such a foolish, juvenile crush? The desperation of it all. Would I have
been swept up by any handsome man that looked my way? I had screwed up
a lot for a thirty year old, enough for a lifetime. I didn’t need to add to the
list.

“Oh you know, I was actually a wet nurse once. I know, what the hell?! But I
was fired for propositioning my employer.”

A great story to tell the non-existent grandchildren. Not that I would ever
dare to cross any such line with Jamie, but if he were to cross it first, who
was to say? I had never been the best at fighting off temptation.

When I walked in my front door that morning, something was amiss. It was
quiet, motionless. The house was trashed with empty wine bottles, food
delivery bags and clothes. Franco, who was snoring on the couch, had clearly
had a busy week. Then it hit me.

“Franco! Where is Blueberry?”

He jumped awake, grabbing at his eyes, then flung himself upright.

“Shit!”

My heart was racing, I walked over and shoved him, ready to explode.

“Where is he!“
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“Woah,” Franco retorted, “look, he got out. I had people over…sometime

during the night, the gate was left open while he was outside. I’ll find him, I
will.”

“Yes, you’re trying really hard. I can see that.”

“I look after your dog Monday through Friday. While you dilly dally playing
house with some rich guy and his baby.”

“It’s not what I was shooting for, Franco!” I was pacing the room, trying to
think of what to do, when my phone rang.

After I hung up, I exhaled and crumpled to the floor.

“What?”

Franco sounded both irritated and anguished with worry. I knew he loved
Blueberry; although he may have been my dog. We bought him together as a
puppy not long after we got married. We named him after the blueberry pie
we had for dessert on his first night at home. His paws were much too big for
him; he used them to slide around the polished floors of the hallway.

“He’s at the vet in Ashgrove,” I sighed, “he’s fine, he’s okay…someone just
took him there. Let’s go get him.”

I started for the door but quickly realised that Franco hadn’t moved at all.
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“Oh, come on, It’s the least you could do.”

“Mariella, I can’t.”

Apparently his blood alcohol would’ve taken down a horse and he was
already close to losing his licence.

“You drive. I’ll sit beside you.”

Now he was up, towering over me in the doorway. He knew I couldn’t do it.
Even knowing Blue was probably scared and confused, waiting for me, I still
couldn’t do it.

“Who are you calling?” he threw his keys back on the stone island bench, “I
don’t think a taxi would take the big Blue man.”

I’d been hoping for Maple. Somehow I hadn’t even considered that Jamie
might have returned since I left. Until I heard his voice.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry…this is embarrassing. My dog ran away. He’s at a vet

now, but I have no way of getting him.”

I cringed slightly at how pathetic I must have sounded,but once the call had
ended, it was less than fifteen minutes before Jamie arrived in his Tesla. He
was wearing a red sweater and his hair was slightly damp; I had probably
interrupted his morning shower. Star employee. When I opened the car door,
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radio sounds of an orchestra spilled out and he smiled kindly. Franco had
already gone back to sleep. I apologised again and again.

“It’s fine! No problem at all,” Jamie smiled, “I did notice a car though?
Mechanical issues?”

I knew he wasn’t trying to be a snoop; he sounded more curious than

anything else. If he was confused, or annoyed, he politely wasn’t showing it
at all.

“Ah, yeah…my husband had a big night,” I shrugged it off, but my ears were
burning.

“I know how that feels.”

I suddenly remembered Jamie’s absence that morning and that he’d probably
been up most of the night too.

“Jamie, I’m so embarrassed! You must have been planning to have a nap
after last night.”

“Why’s that? I was just reading when you rang.”

He glanced across at me; the confusion was apparent now. Maybe he just
didn’t want to discuss his romantic life with his staff, but I wanted to know
more. I knew I was treading a fine line already, but I jumped over it anyway.
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“Um, when you weren’t there this morning, it was suggested that you had a
sleepover last night.”

He half laughed, although he was frowning and his hands were tense on the
steering wheel. After what felt like hours but must have been minutes, we
pulled up to the vet clinic. Jamie hadn’t spoken again, and was looking out
the windscreen idly when I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened my door. I
suddenly felt his warm hand wrapped around my wrist.

“I’m not really like that, you know,” he finally said.

“You do not have to explain yourself to me,” I responded, self-deprecatingly.

His hand stayed around my wrist.

“I slept at Joseph’s apartment, just around the corner,” Jamie’s grip on me

tightened slightly, “I had a few too many gin and tonics…I didn’t trust
myself to go home without coming to check if you were awake.”

I felt the blood rush to my head as I self-consciously tucked a loose strand of

hair behind my ear.

“What?” I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.

“You would have been busy with Vincent, and I would have been blabbing
on. You would have listened kindly but thought I was a total twat,” Jamie had
let go of me and was running his hands around the wheel, “I was just really
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looking forward to seeing you. Is that weird? Probably. Anyway, lucky

Joseph’s place was right there.”

“Lucky,” I repeated, not knowing what else to say, “I’m going to get Blue.
I’ll just be a moment.”
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Chapter 16

He watched Mariella as she closed the green door of the veterinary surgery
behind her. Then he exhaled. He imagined everyone around his breakfast
table that morning, speculating on what he had been up to the night prior. His
phone was vibrating in his pocket; Claudia, tapping away at her phone again.

Jamie hadn’t lied to Mariella. After he shared a few rounds of Bombay

Sapphire gin with Claudia, she had called an Uber - or asked Georgia to - and
he had ended up at Joseph’s. But another date had been promised, and
Claudia had quite abruptly pressed her lips against his before she hopped into
the backseat of a black Mercedes. The moment didn’t send sparks flying. All
it did was make him wonder how Mariella’s lips might’ve felt. Jamie had
smiled knowing that Mariella would have laughed at how out of touch his
date would have sounded.
After Claudia left, Jamie crossed the road and made his way to Joseph’s flat,
imagining that he was instead walking up the staircase at home. He visualised
the door to Mariella’s room slightly ajar. Jamie would have timidly peered in,
and been met with Mariella warmly saying something like, “Oh, did you
have a nice time?” And he somehow wouldn’t feel weird anymore at all.
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Her hair would have been charmingly dishevelled, and maybe she had
forgotten to button up her night dress after dream feeding Vincent. Jamie
would yearn to get under the blanket with her. To inhale her floral perfume
and hear about all the cute Vincent moments from that day. But instead,
Jamie had taken the key from under the blue pot plant and let himself into his
friend’s quiet flat. Then he went to sleep alone on the lumpy couch.
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Chapter 17

When Jamie’s car stopped once again outside our black cast iron fence, I felt
a flutter of nerves. Blueberry was happily sitting behind us on one of the
caramel leather seats, tired from his big adventure. Jamie had been thrilled to
meet him and assured him that he was a good boy the whole car ride home.

“So, you don’t drive?” He gestured at Franco’s obnoxious SUV in front of us,
“how did you get home this morning?”

I was grateful for the second part of the question, as it helped me to skip the
first. I told him about my usual Saturday morning walk home; the
wildflowers, ladybugs and ducklings I’d sometimes see on the way. How
excited Blueberry always was to greet me at the gate. I led him out of the
backseat and thanked Jamie again, enjoying a brief moment of eye contact.

“Anytime, seriously,” he smiled, “and Mariella, let me drive you home from
now on.”

It wasn’t a question, nor an order; it was simply how things were to be in

Jamie’s kind-natured world. But the truth was that I could drive a car. That
was to say, I had taken some lessons as a teenager, mainly from my father
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and a few from Franco. Legally, no, I couldn’t drive. In fact, I routinely dug
my fingernails deep into my palms anytime I got into any car at all.
Sometimes, deeply enough that they would bleed. I couldn’t feel it through
the panic though, so it didn’t matter.

The last time I got behind the wheel of a car, it was an old Chevy type thing.
Like a knock-off version, that was rusting slightly around the bonnet. I was
eighteen years old, not long out of high school, on holiday with my mother
and paternal grandmother. Bonita; I used to call her Bobo. We were having a
girls’ week in French Polynesia while my father helped Papa get Bobo’s
things set up at a nursing home near their apartment. She was eighty years old
and her health was failing. Though her mind wasn’t, and it was firmly set on
staying away from nursing homes until she dropped dead.

My mother, who was always rigid and slow to relax, was doing her utmost to
make it a special trip for Bobo. She booked the deluxe hotel room on the
island then took us snorkelling and sightseeing. We did the sort of stuff she
would usually find tacky or overpriced. On our final night, we had dinner at a
tiki bar on the beach and watched a fireworks display. My mother bought
Bobo a pina colada with a little pink umbrella in it. She herself had about five
sauvignon blancs. I had never seen anything like it: my mum, drinking
alcohol, at a beach bar. I tried a few local fruit beers, but was
uncharacteristically restrained in comparison. Or so it would have seemed to
anyone who didn’t see the opioids I took with me to the bathroom.

The drugs had been a holiday gift. Franco’s mother had laughed that they
would help me to survive a trip with two bumbling old ladies. However
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sinister the Sainti family could be, she would have never known what plying
me with pills would do to my life. Or that Bobo wouldn’t have to go to the
nursing home afterall.
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Chapter 18

When Jamie got home, he responded to Claudia’s messages.

Was that second bottle of red Italian or French? Asking Georgia to

organise a box.

Just listened to a podcast on the vagus nerve - wow.

He could picture her perfectly on her Peloton, barely breaking a sweat as she
typed away. Jamie felt uneasy, knowing that an increase in messages was
likely a sign that Claudia was becoming invested in their relationship. It felt
like a friendship to him, but he knew it couldn’t stay that way.

However, Jamie also knew that staying on track with Claudia would be
sensible. She would take control of his life: organise his wardrobe into little
labelled compartments and enrol Vincent into a progressive daycare centre.
She would liaise with Jamie’s receptionist to block out times in his weekly
schedule for lunch dates. Their wedding would be featured in Vogue
Australia; Claudia in a slinky, satin plunging gown. She would have an alarm
set up to go off when she ovulated and a birthing suite, with a view of course,
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booked within five minutes of a positive pregnancy test. Everything would be

under control.

But would Vincent be happy? He could imagine Claudia nudging her own
children to success while Vincent was left as the odd one out. Would that be
the case with any future family that Jamie might cultivate?

He imagined Mariella then. He couldn’t help himself. The warmth and

affection she had already shown to his son every day since she arrived.
Vincent had started to fret and fuss on weekends when Mariella was gone,
and Jamie had started to as well.
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Chapter 19

As Franco came to an abrupt stop across the driveway, I straightened out my

cotton pants with my hands. I had taken my wedding ring off over the
weekend, but my husband didn’t notice. As I reached for the handle, I sensed
he was about to interrogate me. I was right.

“So, why does this guy need two nannies?”

“Uh, his wife died right after Vincent was born,” I sighed impatiently, “and
the other nanny, Maple, is really only there when I’m not. It’s a job share,” I
partially lied.

“Right. Just seems sort of odd that you need to be there overnight. Surely a
standard work day should do it. Then he wouldn’t have to pay you basically a
lawyer’s salary to babysit. But he doesn’t want to parent at all, I s’pose?”
Franco was looking everywhere but at me. He would’ve felt my eyes burning
into him, but he didn’t care.

“Interesting to hear you speak so passionately about hands-on parenting…but

no, this arrangement is more related to his career being consumptive,” I
retorted.
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“Have you told your dad that you’ve moved in with a widowed man to play
mummy to his baby? Actually, maybe you should tell your therapist instead.
Very twisted, Mariella.”

I hopped out of the car, pulling my bag from the backseat as roughly as I
could.

“My therapist told me that my only problem is you,” I slammed the door and
Franco promptly sped off.

I would always remember that morning as when things started to become

complicated. Although, it may seem bemusing that I hadn’t considered the
time before as such. I was becoming attached to Vincent, while knowing that
my months with him were numbered. And my feelings for Jamie…well, they
existed. But it was becoming apparent that they were possibly even slightly
reciprocated. Franco’s increased questioning also suggested that he had
started to become suspicious - jealous, even - of my role with Jamie.

My husband’s questioning and criticism only increased as time went by. As

Vincent reached four, five, six, seven and then eight months old, Franco
wondered why the baby couldn’t start daycare. I wondered why he would
want someone that he so clearly detested at home with him. Over those
months, I learnt that Franco did still love me. But it wasn’t a romantic love.

It was the same sort of love it had been from the very start between us.
Control. It was an ownership; I was his wife and he wanted to know what I
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was doing and who I was seeing. Franco wouldn’t deign to share a bedroom
with me anymore, but he preferred to know that I was there in the next room,
sleeping alone. With his apparent certainty of my previous infidelities on his
mind, he was a man insulted and eventually refused to drive me to Jamie’s
house at all. He didn’t stop using my income to purchase aperol and oysters
on the weekends though.

It was spring when little Vincent started to try food; firstly, puréed steamed
apples with cinnamon. It was an instant favourite and became the scent of the
season at the North residence. He beamed for mushy pear and laughed as he
spat out salmon with peas. Breast milk was still his preference and he had
started to do an excited little dance every time we walked toward his nursing
chair. But I knew these milestones were all signs that we were approaching
the end of our time together - we were over halfway there.

One dimly lit afternoon as I was nursing Vincent, trying to discourage him
from habitually twisting the other nipple, Jamie walked in with a book under
his arm. He wore a brown jacket and I could smell his cedar lined cologne. It
had become routine for him to visit us Friday evenings and to linger for some
time. We would get lost in conversation, or get down on the floor together to
play with Vincent. He was frequently on his way out to a social engagement,
or to just unwind with a solitary beer after his last patient for the week. But I
began to recognise that maybe Jamie missed my company on weekends, as he
always seemed extremely hesitant to leave.

He smiled and handed me Wuthering Heights from under his arm. It was
warm from his jacket and slightly crooked; clearly well loved by him. Jamie
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anticipated the words behind my coy smile.

“I suspect you didn’t really read it in high school,” he laughed gently, not at
all accusingly.

“Heathcliff is still painted vividly in my mind, in all his beastish-ness!” I

retorted, placing the book on the arm of the chair.

“Give the book - and poor Heathcliff - another chance. I’m sure your
perception of the story may have changed over the last decade or so.”

“Or so, indeed.”

I smiled at the memory of being a frivolous, carefree school girl. It felt like a
parallel universe. A few moments of comfortable silence passed us by while
he admired his little son, dozing off happily with his milk. I eventually broke
through the quiet.

“Will you be staying at Joseph’s tonight?”

It had become a semi-regular occurrence that Jamie would stop short of

coming home and crash at Joseph’s place instead. Anytime he did, I couldn’t
help but daydream about what he might have said or done if he had come
home to see me. Would he quietly knock on my bedroom door to find me still
awake reading? And what then?

“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” he blushed slightly, “but either way, I’ll
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still drive you home right after breakfast.”

“Well, I’ll start on the book tonight if Vin lets me, and tomorrow I’ll give you
my initial report.”

I smiled. I hoped my response had sounded natural and not like I was trying
to give him a reason to come home; which I was. But morning came and
Jamie’s presence at the dining table did not. I didn’t know whether to feel
insulted or flattered. Did he not care to discuss Brönte’s dark romanticism
with me over thick cut raisin toast? Or was he so overcome with late night
desire that he had forced himself into his friend’s apartment?

“That’s the fifth dinner date now. Things must be getting serious! I was
hopeful there’d be no sight of him this morning,” Mrs Gaston cackled as she
placed a bowl of purple grapes in front of Maple. Vincent was in his high
chair between us, mushing a piece of toast between his hands.

“Claudia?” Maple asked with a frown, barely looking up from the morning
paper.

Mrs Gaston simply clapped her hands and started humming to herself as she
walked back out of the room. I felt incredibly foolish, crashing back to
reality. As if a successful doctor would even entertain the thought of me as
anything but a staff member. He was probably being kind and attentive
knowing that his son needed me for six more months.

But did he really? Vincent was having around three feeds a day, and only a
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little more than that overnight. But those night wakings were probably mostly
comfort suckling. It wouldn’t be unreasonable now to suggest that Vincent
could start on an allergy formula, or even for me to supply milk without
actually being there to nurse him. Jamie could obviously afford daycare and
Maple was often around anyway. I felt my worth diminishing and
embarrassment rising. It started to feel like time for me to go.

I farewelled Maple as cheerily as possible and, as usual, welled up a tad as I

said goodbye to little smiley Vincent. I was grateful that Maple didn’t ask
why I wasn’t waiting for Jamie to drive me home, which had become our
usual Saturday morning ritual over the previous months. I was also glad that I
had beat Jamie to it, as I pulled my suitcase down the front steps. But I hadn’t
quite.

“Oh, you’re leaving already? It’s still early. I can just grab my keys?”

Jamie looked exhausted; it was clear he hadn’t slept much. I felt annoyed,
and then ashamed for feeling as such. We had grown to be good friends over
the months, but it wasn’t any of my business what he did and who he saw - or
slept with. None of it was any of my business. I just didn’t know why he felt
the need to come up with the excuse of staying at Joseph’s place, or the
flirtatious suggestion of why he did so. My daydreams of him coming home
and quietly treading into my bedroom suddenly seemed incredibly
humiliating.

“You look like you really need to sleep,” I realised my tone was showing my
mood but I couldn’t stop it, “I’d rather just walk, really.”
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Jamie looked down at his shoes, scuffing the gravel of the driveway path. He
was clearly embarrassed. “Maybe I shouldn’t drive, actually,” he agreed,
sheepishly, “I would love to walk you home though.”

“Jamie,” I looked into his glimmering green eyes, willing him to see how I
felt. How much I cared for him - and for Vincent - and how ridiculous it was.
How inconceivable it was for me to pretend that this was a reality, or ever
could be. “I know you are dating. I know you are trying to find love again…
to find a mother for Vincent, and a future for you. I know. It makes perfect
sense but… it sort of hurts,” I paused to breathe, “I know it’s probably just
my hormones making me feel so attached. But it does hurt. I won’t be needed
much longer and I just don’t want to be lied to anymore. Please, let’s just
keep our distance a bit?“

Jamie looked injured. “I didn’t lie to you. I really have been staying at
Joseph’s.” He took a step toward me and gently rubbed my arm,
comfortingly. My heart ached.

“This is the opposite of keeping your distance.”

“I’m doing my best, Mari,” his voice cracked with fatigue, “yes, I’ve been on
some dates. But sometimes I just sit at the pub down on the main road alone
and have a few drinks, trying to take the edge off. I actually prefer those
evenings after meeting you because they’re the least lonely. I read a book
we’ve talked about, or I just think of you. And of Vincent, and how safe and
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happy he is at home with you. I sit in the same spot each time and just smile
to myself, about you.”

My brain was telling me to leave, but my chest was burning. I needed to hear
how he felt. “And then?”

“And then I start to walk home, with wild imaginings of what I could
possibly use as an excuse to knock on your bedroom door at 1am. How silly I
would look for wanting to ask how you interpreted something in a book, or if
you’d ever tried juniper berry jelly. How you would sit in your bed, probably
with Vincent on you, just with no idea how beautiful you are. And you’d be
looking at me like I was an idiot,” he laughed.

I held his gaze but stayed quiet, willing him to continue.

“So then I take a turn to Joseph’s instead. I grab his key from under the blue
pot plant and go to sleep on his couch,” Jamie shrugged, his eyes red with
tiredness.

My heart was in my throat and my hands were clammy; one of which Jamie
had taken into his at some stage.

On the way home that day, I noticed the bluebells swaying in the cool breeze,
and the dandelion fluff floating into the sunlight. A baby cried in a pram
walking past and I felt a prickling beneath my shirt; I missed Vincent. Maybe
I was finally due for something wonderful to happen to me.
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That night at home, Franco brought in kindling from the yard and started a
fire. He was muttering something about the flavour notes of his Shiraz in my
general direction, as I read Wuthering Heights on the couch with Blueberry
nested on my feet. I had cooked a blue cheese and pear tart for dinner, with a
radicchio salad. It was the first time I had cooked properly in months. I used
to love the creativity of cooking and was grateful to finally enjoy it again.

For the first time in a long time, I felt there was still joy ahead of me. I wasn’t
sure in what capacity. I knew it was naive to get too wrapped up in musings
of Jamie and what could be; I allowed myself to dip into that fantasy only
briefly. But for once I knew I could create a life that I wouldn’t have to
endure, but that I would enjoy, or maybe even love. Then my phone lit up
beside me with a message.

Hey Mari. Not sure if Maple told you but I’m taking Vincent away next
Thurs-Sun, so a few days off work for all.

My heart sank. I didn’t love the idea of extra time sitting around the house
with Franco. He was suffering from an “artistic block” and hadn’t been to the
studio in almost two weeks. My phone lit up again.

Except for you… if you want to come and help with Vincent? I’ve never
looked after him alone - embarrassing. We’re heading to the hinterlands
and there’s a spare room :-)

I couldn’t stop a smile from creeping up on my face. I hadn’t been on a

holiday in easily two years, maybe longer. The mountains were beautiful and
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crisp at this time of year. The opportunity to enjoy that with little Vincent
would be amazing. Being with Jamie, without Maple and Mrs Gaston,
sounded incredibly unprofessional but enticing. I was ready to chase joy.

I would love to!

Even omitting some of the finer details, Franco wasn’t thrilled when I told
him about the trip. Since it encompassed a weekend, I wouldn’t be home for
two weeks, and he feigned concern for Blueberry. Really, I knew he was just
aware that he was losing his grip on me and he couldn’t stand it.

“I’m going to Sydney for an art exhibition. I need to for my work,” he

frowned, eating a piece of toast aggressively, “what am I supposed to do with
poor Blue?”

“I’ll organise a dog sitter then,” I responded without missing a beat.

“Well he better pay for it,” Franco spat back, waving his toast at me.

I rolled my eyes and went upstairs to start packing. Buttery cashmere

cardigans, fine silk stockings and leather boots; perfect items for enjoying the
chill of the coastal hinterlands in comfort. I found myself wondering what I
would pack for Vincent. Perhaps little ribbed cotton pants and a faux fur
lined jacket. I felt giddy with purpose. The sadness of not ever being able to
pack holiday bags for my own child tried to creep in, but I didn’t allow it to
stay that day.
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When I arrived back at the North residence, I was vibrant with excitement.
Jamie helped me with my luggage through the front door, then pulled me
aside into the lounge room. I was thrilled to see that he looked excited too.

“Now, one thing,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder, “I haven’t

mentioned to the others about you joining us. And I figured it may be best not
to.”

My excitement drooped a little knowing I would need to be secretive for the

next few days until we left for the mountains. But I reminded myself that
technically I was a married woman and Jamie was simply doing what he felt
best for everyone. I knew Mrs Gaston would’ve felt stung at the wet nurse
being invited along on holiday when she possibly had never been. I agreed to
silence on the topic and got on with my tasks for the day with a spring in my
step.

I bundled Vincent into a mulberry coloured corduroy carrier that Jamie had
ordered online and carefully made him little dairy-free raspberry pancakes.
We picked Jasmine from the garden, I tickled his nose with the soft petals as
he giggled. Then we shared an afternoon nap while the golden sun dripped in
through the just ajar window. I woke up to the smell of garlic prawns sizzling
in the kitchen and Vincent confidently lifting my linen shirt up for a snack.

The days passed us by until finally Thursday morning arrived. Through the
dining room windows we could see Jamie loading brown suitcases into the
boot of the car. Maple stood up as she dangled her keys in her hands.
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“Any plans for the long weekend off, Mariella?”

I fumbled my coffee cup slightly as a syrupy dribble stained the saucer. I’d
had days to prepare for subtlety, but deception didn’t come naturally for me.

“Ah,” I hesitated, “you know, I’m sure there’s plenty at home to catch up on.
Walking the dog. Nothing exciting.”

“Exciting for Franco though, I’m sure,” she beamed with sweet naivety,
“well I hope you get some uninterrupted sleep for a change. Just don’t forget
to keep up with the pumping or you could get a clogged duct.”

I sipped my coffee and nodded as she tickled the crease under Vincent’s chin
and skipped out. I’d only learned recently that Maple had trained as a
midwife. She had just finished all her placements when Camille died
suddenly, and Mrs G had convinced her to come and help Jamie instead of
pursuing her career. At least caring for Vincent gave her some opportunity to
put her baby knowledge to good use, but as a midwife Maple would have had
much more time for her own life to bloom. She could never have anticipated
that she would be pulled into such an all-consumptive role. It made sense that
she was clearly bubbling to have a few days off to herself.

Joseph, who had been out weeding the garden early that morning, stood up
next and ruffled Vincent’s growing curls on his way out. Mrs G hadn’t
looked up from her crossword until Jamie finally strided in and clapped his
hands together briskly.
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“If you’re ready, we should get going.” He was speaking directly to me, his
eyes glimmering. I put my cup down and glanced toward Mrs G.

“Yes, I’m ready…I’ll just grab my bag and get out of your way.”

I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I assumed he was prompting my
pretend exit so that Mrs G would feel compelled to get out of the way. Then
we could leave without her noticing.

“Your bag is in the car, all that’s left to do is get you and Vinnie in there,” he
was visibly jubilant, grabbing Vincent playfully from his high chair in a
swinging motion, “to drop you home, on our way.”

The penny hadn’t quite dropped on why he wasn’t pushing Mrs G out, but I
was grateful that Jamie had at least thought of a convenient white lie for me
to go along with. And just like that, we were on our way.

We didn’t speak much on the two hour drive to the hinterlands, but the
silence was comfortable, serene even. When we arrived, Vincent squealed in
delight as I gave him a big cuddle on the gravel driveway. Jamie carried the
suitcases up a flight of timber stairs to the lodge.

“Jamie…” I began, as he came back down the stairs after taking up the final
load.

“That might be the first time you’ve called me that without me reminding you
to.” He laughed.
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I laughed too, temporarily put off track from my line of enquiry. “Mrs G
didn’t want to go home for the long weekend?”

Jamie looked confused. “Mrs G lives with me.”

I tried to tell my face to hide the surprise I felt. I could just about hear Franco
scoffing about how ostentatious it was for a suburban doctor to have two
nannies and a full-time housekeeper.

“Oh,” I finally said, “I don’t know why I didn’t notice that. So she doesn’t
have a husband or other family to go back to?”

“No. Well, there’s Maple, but you know, she’s in her twenties. She already
spends most of her life helping me provide some sense of a stable home for
Vincent. I really don’t think Mrs G would want to intrude on Maple’s fleeting
alone time. And she hopes that Maple might eventually meet someone, then
she can create her own family to dedicate herself to instead.”

“Oh that would be awful for you though,”I quickly realised how
inconsiderate of Maple I sounded, and added: “I just don’t know how you’d
do it without her, she’s wonderful.”

“We have you,” Jamie smiled. Vincent had found his way onto the rough
ground, pinching at the little stones under his Dad’s watchful eye.

I scoffed then tried to hide it with a forced cough. I didn’t need to tell my
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employer that, even after over eight months, I had no idea if I was actually
doing anything right.

“Sorry, that sort of dumps pressure on you.” Jamie must have felt my unease
and misread it as not wanting the responsibility. Every atom of my being
would have killed for the responsibility. Vincent wasn’t my baby, but I
adored him and the purpose that caring for him had filled me with.

“Not at all. I really love my time with Vincent.”

“We love having you with us, clearly,” Jamie’s cheek dimpled with a smile,
“but, same as Maple, you’re sure to have your own focus one of these days.
And that’s great too.”

I knew Jamie was curious. He had nudged at it before; it was clear to me that
he wanted to know more about my situation at home. It was only human,
really. I mean, here I was, working as a wet nurse for his child. Yet Jamie
still didn’t know for certain how I came to be a lactating woman in the first
place. Of course, he knew that I had been a mother. But he didn’t know how
brief that moment in my life had been.

Jamie knew I was married, but I had no problem with living away from my
husband for five days every week. For months I had kept quiet during any
dinner conversation at the North residence amongst Maple, Joseph and Jamie
that involved theoretical future children. I was sure it was all being
interpreted as incredibly confusing. Frankly it was even to me.
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But I did also suspect that Jamie wanted a clearer picture of my marriage with
Franco for other reasons. It was glaringly obvious that it wasn’t a cosy union.
I ruined any chance of dressing it up as a chummy marriage when I had got
Jamie involved with helping me after Blueberry’s escape. And it turned out
that incident hadn’t been an isolated one; I had needed Jamie’s help multiple
times over the previous months. Whether it was to pick me up when it was
pouring rain and Franco had disappeared, or when I thought my pump had
broken and he had knowingly brought me new valves. Jamie had shown up to
collect me on many a Monday morning, with a fresh almond croissant
waiting on the heated passenger seat.

My imagination wandered, and I found myself curious of how he would feel

if he knew how totally estranged Franco and I really were. Had Jamie been
hoping to gently pry and confirm his suspicions while we were alone up
here? I felt the sudden urge to blurt everything out, but Vincent grabbed at
my cream stocking clad leg and I remembered to at least partially restrain
myself.

“I’ll be here as long as you need me,” I smiled, lifting Vincent up, “I’m very
eager to see this lodge. I am crossing my fingers for a push-to-start start
fireplace.”

We made our way towards the staircase. Everything smelt of pine and crisp
smoke tinged the air. Jamie put his hand on my back warmly. “They’re called
gas fireplaces, Mari.”
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Chapter 20

As Jamie followed Mariella up the wooden staircase, he breathed in the

alpine scent of the valley and felt a sharp pang of anticipation. Mariella had
honourably been hesitant to admit much about her marriage, but Jamie
suspected it wasn’t calm waters inside their home. Despite the fact that from
the outside it looked straight out of Architectural Digest, he sensed something
sinister was happening behind closed doors.

But he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was going on. Was Mariella
fawning over a husband that was estranged? Did she nurture some small hope
that he would make an artistic breakthrough and come home with a bouquet
of tulips, ready to cover her lightly freckled cheeks in kisses? Or was she
emotionally checked-out of the long union and just unsure of how to finish it?
He didn’t know for sure, but Jamie suspected that there had been bitter words
exchanged regarding Mariella’s presence on this trip.

Whatever was going on between the married couple, Jamie couldn’t help but
think that Franco had to be a total fool. He was clearly too self-absorbed to
notice the significance of the woman he had once promised to share his life
with. To waste such an opportunity when you have a wife that is so
intrinsically nurturing and warm, yet still seemingly unaware of the heads
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turning in every room she enters. Mariella wanted children. She wanted a
family. Yet, somehow, after a decade of marriage, she remained empty
handed. Alone. Being with a woman of that magnitude and failing to do
everything in your power to keep her just seemed unforgivable.
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Chapter 21

I placed my beret on the green tiled kitchen island and absorbed the space. A
mustard velvet couch flanked a gas fire. Book cases of leather bound editions
covered a whole wall of the sweeping lounge room. A balcony as big as the
lodge itself looked out above an eternal valley of green trees and rolling hills.
The winding road we had just ascended upon was visible; swerving and
swooping around the turns of the mountain. It felt like a place of significance.
I felt significant.

Jamie and I spent most of the day on the balcony admiring that breathtaking
view. Picking at a grazing board and biting blueberries in half for Vincent.
The warm sun filtered through the trees onto us while Jamie read a book and
I nursed the baby. Vincent dozed off on me just as Jamie brought me a cup of
tea with one of his favourite books by Sally Rooney.

“It’s about… well, not much,” he chuckled, “I guess just an affair, which
sounds a bit smutty, but she writes human relationships and emotions so
well.”

I had already read the book but I just smiled and admired his sweet nature.
Jamie draped a light muslin blanket over Vincent and went to switch on the
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fires in the bedrooms.

After dinner that evening, I managed to detach Vincent from my breast and
get him down to sleep. An increasingly rare event. I pulled a cream satin
lined coat over my shoulders and re-emerged onto the balcony. It was dark by
then, but I could still see the outlines of the rolling hills beneath the winking
star shine. Jamie was facing away, looking into the night, and it felt like we
were the only people on earth.

I felt butterflies dance in my stomach, then I blushed at my naivety. I knew

that I was looking for something in nothing. Jamie could never think of me as
anything but a married woman, maybe even nothing more than a staff
member. I pulled the coat tighter around my shoulders and gripped the cold
balcony railing beside him, wishing that I could disappear into the dark abyss
below.

But then Jamie’s hand was gently on the small of my back, so softly I could
have ignored it. Maybe I should have. But that slightest touch took my breath
away. My hands gripped the metal so hard that my knuckles turned white.
Before I could speak, Jamie pulled his hand away and frowned. The moment
was gone. I knew even as it was happening that I would think of it forever.

“Mari, you are married. And I’m sure one day I will be again too. I need to
be. For Vincent. But for me too, I want that.”

The thought of it hurt, even though I knew it had no right to. But the pain
suddenly made me feel bold. I turned to face him properly.
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“Jamie, my marriage to Franco is nothing like this. We don’t laugh together,

or even have real conversations. Not anymore. Being near you fulfils me. I
know this may be as close as we ever get, and I can accept that.”

Jamie looked tortured; I had never seen him that way before. His eyes looked
even greener rimmed with salty tears. I had put him in a tough position,
whether he had true feelings for me or simply felt lustful in that moment, I
couldn’t be sure. But either way, I knew he was conflicted.

“You are married. Knowing that I can’t really have you would just make
anything with you painful,” he said finally as he clasped my cold hands in
his, “but not having you at all, might just kill me.”

Jamie pulled me closer until my hands were on his warm chest. Then he
kissed me. Gently at first, as if he wanted to give me the chance to be the
chaste one and push him away. But, of course, I didn’t. I couldn’t. My hands
ventured around his body and rested behind his back. I wished to dissolve
into the moment. Into him.

When I woke up by his side the next morning, I didn’t feel like Mariella
Sainti anymore. I was finally back to being Mariella Gold. Marigold. Each
brisk day at the lodge after that was punctuated with feelings of self doubt
and anticipation. As night fell and Vincent went to bed, the air would grow
heady and we would retreat to the balcony. Ignoring the cold air, needing to
be together with the moon and the mountains. After that first night, Jamie
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started bringing a bottle of merlot out for us to enjoy. He relaxed into our
new routine with a type of ease I hadn’t seen from him yet.

He told me more about his wife and their complex relationship. This time,
about how Camille would scream at him and the staff, then collapse into
tears. She made a point of drinking gin & tonics even after she fell pregnant
with Vincent. Jamie would catch her plunging into hot baths. He had loved
Camille, but guiltily admitted that her passing let him feel like a man again;
not just a caretaker. Jamie admitted that he didn’t feel like Camille had ever
really loved him.

One night we had too much wine and ended up in the plunge pool outside my
bedroom. It was a warm night and we were both in our pyjamas. My white
linen nightgown clung to my curves as I tried to climb out of the water, but
Jamie pulled me back in. We laughed and sat side by side in the cold water,
looking at the waning moon. One moment we would be joking and chatting
like friends and the next Jamie would gaze at me amorously. He’d bite his
lip, green eyes flickering as if he didn’t want to blink and miss a second. But,
as always, Jamie was cautious and dignified. He wouldn’t have plunged into
passion in that dark water. But I knew I would have gone along with it if he
had.

When we went back into the lodge, he wrapped me in a cashmere blanket and
lit the fires in the bedrooms. I learned that Jamie believed that romance
should be comfortable and deliberate. My only other real experience with a
man was Franco, who used to ask me to meet him in his parents backyard at
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all hours. The vines on their fence would scratch me all over terribly. Franco
didn’t care, but I didn’t either. I thought I loved him.

Our last full day at the lodge had started off as a slow and serene Sunday. We
watched Vincent play in the sunshine on the balcony while butcher birds
jumped along the railings looking for crumbs. Then, as I was climbing out of
an afternoon bath, I heard knocking on the front door followed by warm
voices and laughter.

I panicked, wondering if someone we knew had shown up as a surprise and

our cover was blown. I listened at the doorway but couldn’t recognise the
voice. It was a woman, but definitely not Maple or Mrs G. This woman’s
voice was a purr. She was exclaiming about the view to Jamie, seemingly
ignoring Vincent’s babbling. I waited as long as I could, getting cold in just a
white towel, until Vincent started crying for his evening catnap and I had no
choice but to come out.

Jamie instantly reddened when he saw me. He was standing beside the sofa,
flanked by a tall woman with a blunt-cut blonde bob. She wore a cream
pantsuit and matte red lipstick. Her body was perky, clearly untouched by
pregnancy or breastfeeding. I was suddenly aware of the long, wet brunette
tendrils of hair dripping down my bare shoulders.

“Oh,” the blonde spoke first, “I didn’t know you had company, Jamie.”

Her hand was on his arm warmly, and she was frowning slightly. They
appeared familiar and I could tell that my presence had alarmed her. Jamie
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looked alarmed too.

“Claudia, this is Mariella Sainti,” Jamie responded, “Vincent’s night-nurse

that I told you about.”

Night-nurse. It seemed that Claudia wasn’t quite familiar enough for Jamie to
admit that he had a wet nurse for his son. Or perhaps too familiar, and he was
worried about scaring her off. Somehow both options stung.

“Ah! Yes,” Claudia visibly cheered up, “I actually didn’t even realise you
were bringing your son! We will be thankful for the help at hand because I
brought a bottle of wine for us to enjoy.”

As it became apparent that no friendly greeting or shaking of hands would be

occurring, I headed for my bedroom to get dressed while Claudia fussed over
setting the table for dinner. I closed the door and felt warm tears in my eyes
and fury vibrating in my chest. How could I have been so stupid? To get
swept away in this uncouth affair, all the while Jamie is clearly contacting
another woman for a candlelit dinner. Not to mention that he had omitted the
fact that he had taken Vincent - and me - on holiday here with him. Like he’s
done his duty getting chummy with his baby’s milkmaid for a few nights and
now he can push us aside and really enjoy himself.

I buttoned up a navy shift dress then readied my excuse for skipping dinner. I
would tell Jamie that Vincent was overdue for a feed and simply disappear
back to my room. As I opened the door, the smell of lamb cutlets and mint
jelly wafted in.
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“Ah, Mariella,” he said my name rigidly, “Vincent seems very tired. Would
you mind just taking him to bed now? I’ve got a plate ready for you.”

He signalled to a plate wrapped in silver foil on the kitchen bench. The

adjacent dining table was set for two, with black taper candles burning and a
shiny eyed Claudia seated, staring at her phone.

I scooped up Vincent, who had a dab of mint jelly on his cheek, and he
immediately snuggled into my neck.

“I was going to suggest the same. I’m not hungry. Thank you.”

Behind the closed door, I nursed Vincent until he was drowsy, then he
nuzzled into my arms and fell asleep. I could hear Claudia’s occasional shrill
laughter, jazz music playing and wine glasses clinking more times than
should really ever be necessary. I wondered if she would be staying the night,
then felt sick about it. This was not how I pictured our last evening here.

But, honestly, a lot of my life was not how I pictured it would be. The way
Jamie had gone from whispering love notes to stiffly instructing me out of the
room, in less than twelve hours, was jarring. More than that, it was
triggering. It reminded me of the way Franco had suddenly turned after I told
him that I was pregnant again. I remembered being five months along when,
still, nothing in our therapy sessions had broken through the titanium of
Franco’s resolve to deny the child kicking in my belly.
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“A trauma response,” Dr Anko had called it in one of our private

appointments, “if he doesn’t acknowledge the baby, then he can’t lose this
one.”

I had cried after that; it had all finally poured out. I couldn’t believe the
situation I was in. I was a pregnant woman in a first world nation, in the 21st
century, being emotionally tortured. And not by just anyone, but by the man
who had vowed to love me forever. I had tried everything: endless attempts at
gentle conversation, therapy, and gifts. I had even convinced Franco’s best
friend to approach him about it. But Marty just ended up on Franco’s side
after that. I gave up and spent weeks alone, isolated.

I watched the sunlight cross the room; day in, day out. I started to believe
what Franco was saying. I became convinced that my child would be better
off without me. But I held onto a small hope that my husband would come
out of it, like he was in a sort of temporary psychosis, and then he would
finally get excited. We’d have a baby shower and laugh together, buying tiny
cashmere socks on weekends. But it never happened.

When I started bleeding I worried that, in my misery, I had almost wished for
it. We were so close, but not quite close enough.
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Chapter 22

As Claudia sliced through the meat as if it were butter, Jamie felt sweat beads
gather on his brow. He hadn’t been expecting her, and now there was a
distinctive shared discomfort in the air.

“Winifred didn’t mention that you brought any help,” Claudia frowned,
spooning hot English mustard onto her plate.

Jamie didn’t know anyone else that called Mrs G by her first name, and for
some reason, he always found it jarring. Jamie learned that Claudia went to
his house on an impromptu visit and was convinced by Mrs G to drop by the
lodge. He could imagine the old woman at home smiling to herself about it.

“You didn’t even mention you were going away,” she added before biting
into an audibly undercooked piece of broccolini.

Jamie assured her that he would have mentioned it, but he missed their last
dinner date and had been distracted with work.

“And it’s sort of embarrassing admitting to everyone that I need help to look
after my own son for a few days,” Jamie added, which was actually quite
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true.

“Well, when the help is a doe-eyed brunette with a Monroe figure,” Claudia
sighed, “why not, right?”

The question was loaded, and Jamie already knew that Claudia had a sharp
tongue on her. But she didn’t actually look fazed as she reached for the
pepper and flicked her blonde hair back.

“Mari is really great with Vincent. They are very attached.”

“And you?“

Jamie frowned and sipped his wine. Claudia hated it when he ignored her
questions.

“You also seem very attached?” she elaborated. Claudia was not the type to
be treated like a fool. If the mountain roads weren’t pitch black in the night,
she would have already strutted out to her Bugatti.

Jamie explained that, of course, having spent five days a week for six months
in close proximity, he certainly felt quite familiar with Mariella. That was
about as honest as he was willing to be about it. He didn’t know what
Mariella’s husband was like and he wasn’t about to endanger her by saying
too much to Claudia. He had no doubt that she could find a way to track
down Franco to offer the news as her own revenge. Jamie didn’t think
Claudia was really falling for him. Maybe she wasn’t even really enjoying
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him. But, like Jamie, she had envisioned a perfectly organised future
together. And that bubble was bursting.

“Isn’t the baby ready for his own room by now?” Claudia frowned, pointing
her knife toward Mariella’s closed door.

“Well, no. Vinnie is only just over eight months old. He still feeds a lot
overnight. It’s not really advisable to move a baby into their own room before
12 months old.”

Claudia rolled her eyes. “God, my kids will not be interrupting my nighttime
routine for that long. And he seems fine. Haven’t heard a peep. I don’t see
your nanny out here getting a bottle.”

Jamie smiled to himself, knowing that Vincent was happily cuddled up with
his milk at that moment.
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Chapter 23

I woke up to the familiar warmth of Vincent in the crook of my elbow,

breathing deeply in his slumber. I loved watching his eyelashes flutter and
lips curl into little dreamland smiles. The joy and contentment a sleeping
baby can fill your heart with is truly astounding. It must be what keeps the
human race going.

I totally melted into that moment, until I was rudely snapped out of it by
muffled voices. Claudia laughing, keys jingling, and finally the door closing.
A car was rolling away down the gravel drive. All the embarrassment and
disbelief of the night prior came flooding back to me. As if my rising heart
rate disrupted his dreams, Vincent woke up and wriggled closer for his
morning feed. I was grateful to be stuck for a while longer.

It was usually in these quiet, cosy moments that I allowed my mind to

wander. I threw my hands up in surrender and gave my heart permission to
remember her. Everything before her and everything after. The contractions.
The beeping machines. The rushed surgery. The beeping machines again.
Crying. Everyone but her, crying. The door creaked open and I quickly
covered my face with my hands without even thinking. I tasted salt.
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“Mari…it’s not like that,” Jamie was visibly flustered and rushing toward us.

“Stop!” I scared myself with how firmly it came out; almost a yell. Vincent
paused feeding and looked up at me wide-eyed. Jamie stopped in his tracks.
Tears were streaming down my face. He was a blur behind the big heaving
drops in my eyes. “I am not crying over that,” I gestured toward the door that
Claudia’s red-soled heels had clomped out of earlier, “I’m crying over…
her.”

Confused, Jamie took Vincent who had started crawling toward the silver
curled bed head. He tried to take my hand but I withdrew, so he turned in
embarrassment to leave. I didn’t really want to elaborate, but I wasn’t going
to allow Jamie to leave the room thinking I was crying over Claudia.

“My daughter,” I whispered, “I was thinking of Eden.”

The bed was shuddering with waves of emotion that were pouring from me.
It was a cry that came from deep from within my womb. It was raw and
primal. I simply couldn’t contain the hurt any longer. Jamie sat with Vincent
beside me and pulled me in. They both held me close until I was quiet, at
peace. I crumpled up with the sheets and eventually they left to change
Vincent’s nappy and start breakfast.

When I awoke again, the room was drenched in warm sun and I could hear
Vincent playing outside my door. My head throbbed, as if the torrent of tears
had completely dehydrated my body. I gulped cool water from a blue floral
mug on the rattan bedside table and took a deep breath. I stroked my puffy
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face and brushed my hair. I tried to claw back some inner strength. A
raspberry slip dress topped off with a cream turtleneck sweater addressed my
need for comfort and composure.

Vincent smiled at the sight of me and crawled over, putting his arms up
asking to be held. I gladly obliged and busied myself with making a coffee
one-handed. I could see Jamie in my peripheral. He was reading a paper and
eating a piece of toast. Few words were exchanged. He mentioned leaving the
lodge at around 1pm after Vincent’s first nap. I agreed and started for the
room again with the smiling little boy. But Jamie grabbed my spare wrist.

“I really need to explain last night,” he said quietly, as if Vincent could

somehow decipher what he was talking about.

“You don’t,” I responded, “you don’t owe me an explanation, or anything

else.”

“I didn’t know Claudia was coming, and I certainly didn’t invite her. She
showed up at the house to return a book and Mrs G suggested it to her.”

The fact that this was probably his lodge suddenly sunk in, but that train of
thought was totally derailed by the suggestion that he had been lending
Claudia books too. Probably Wuthering Heights. What a move.

“Well, you made her impromptu visit a very comfortable one, I’m sure.” I
knew I sounded snarky, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was burnt.
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“She stayed in the guest room.” Jamie reddened.

“After your romantic dinner? That wasn’t very hospitable of you, Dr North.”

Jamie visibly bristled. “Look, I know how this seems and I know I acted like
an idiot. I’m sorry, Mari. I didn’t even want her here.”

“It didn’t come across that way to anyone when you essentially sent me to
my room and spent the evening charming her.”

Silence. I had struck a chord, but what did he expect? Even if it was truly a
surprise visit, there was clearly something going on between them. The way
he shooed me out had been demeaning. Finally, Jamie cleared his throat and
spoke.

“I can’t do this alone,” he shrugged, swapping tactics from a sheepish

defence to ugly honestly, “I wanted to spend last night with you, Mari. But
yes, I have been on dates with Claudia, that’s the truth. I work over seventy
hours a week. I have a baby. I need a partner. Vinnie needs a mother.”

“So keep the charade going with Claudia, then. She seems really motherly.”

Vincent was tired, and no doubt sensing the tension. He began to fuss in my
arms so I finally pulled away from Jamie and strided to my bedroom door.

“Mari, I’m crazy about you.”

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“This is all weird enough. Let’s just keep it professional for the rest of my
contract.” I closed the door.

Back in Brisbane, I didn’t even bother to pause while Jamie lied to Mrs G
about picking me up en route; I continued up the stairs to Vincent’s nursery
to bathe him before dinner time. I threw my used breast pads into the laundry
hamper then prepared his onesie and sleeping bag for later. I let myself notice
how well I had immersed myself into his routine. How well cared for he was.
I hoped that he felt loved.

Mrs G had made a curry for dinner and excused herself to bed on account of
a sore back. I sat gingerly across from Jamie and focused on the bowl of
turmeric stained mango chicken, overflowing with chickpeas and coriander,
in front of me. Vincent was pinching at grains of rice and tidbits of chicken. I
tickled his foot and he smiled at me with a four-toothed grin.

“Mama.”

I choked on my surprise. Jamie jumped from his chair.

“His first word!”

Vincent was encouraged by his father’s excitement.

“Mamamamamama!”

My heart was bursting. The ache from this morning disappeared and all I
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could feel was pure joy. He called me - me - Mama. It wasn’t biologically

correct, not even close, but it felt like his way of saying that he knew I was
the one that looked after him. I fed him. I helped him sleep. I carried him in
my arms, and had done since he was only three months old. Our bond was so
special.

I looked at Jamie and recognised that it was a bittersweet moment for us both.
His motherless child calling the wet nurse Mama, when it should’ve been
Camille’s joyous moment. And the wet nurse, who should have been hearing
it from her own baby daughter. The growing realisation that Vincent’s fill-in
Mama wouldn’t be playing house with him for much longer, and the hurt that
would cause him. The hurt it would cause me. I could see Jamie was
considering the same reality.

“Clever boy,” I cooed, “promise you’ll say Dada next? Not Dr North, okay?
He doesn’t like that.”

Jamie chuckled and the air was light again. I could see the strain on his face
disappear as he gently kissed Vincent’s chubby cheek. We ate dinner and
fantasised about what he would say next, when he would take his first steps
and all the other delights ahead. I prayed I would get to see more of those
precious moments, and Jamie read it on my face.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, “of what it will be like for Vincent when your
contract is up. He will be one soon enough. Now that he is getting bigger,
realistically, there is no reason why you shouldn’t be able to live in your
home and just express milk for him.”
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“Well, he’s not even close to sleeping through the night yet. You know,
contact-napping with him is about a full-time job in itself,” I nervously
laughed, “maybe you will need me to stay on as a nanny?”

“I think that would be the best thing for Vincent. But, that would mean
displacing Maple after she’s given up so much to be here. And then that
would be letting down Mrs G, who I’ve really depended on for a long time.”

The truth was inevitable, and I couldn’t think of a way out of it.

“And,” he added, fiddling with the stem of his wine glass, “you’re married.
It’s not fair for me to keep you here longer than agreed.”

I scoffed. I couldn’t help it. “My marriage didn’t stop you when we were up
at the lodge,” it was a loaded remark but I was smiling, so he did too,
“besides, what Franco and I have doesn’t really constitute a marriage.”

“I don’t understand. How can that really be the case? You’ve been married
for a long time. Wouldn’t you be divorced if that’s truly how you feel?“

I was tempted to remind Jamie that I was, at that current moment, a wet nurse
by trade. A failed business owner who had to turn her bereaved lactating
breasts into money makers just to keep a nice roof over her Dalmatian’s head.
I wanted to blurt out that my mother had died, and that my ageing father was
too far gone to even remember to return my calls. My only friends had been
employed at my failed business and had, understandably, not been in touch
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since they lost their jobs. I wanted to tell him that I was scared that Franco
could, somehow, make all that even worse for me if I left him. Not that I had
anywhere to go.

But instead I said, “This is where I want to be. Let’s just enjoy the next
couple of months and not waste time trying to stop the water from escaping
our fingers.”

Jamie held my hands in his and kissed them softly. He whispered again that
he was sorry. That Vincent needed me. That he needed me.

“Marigold, I love you.”

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Chapter 24

Eden.

Jamie hadn’t known her child’s name. He hadn’t even really known that there
had been a child - although, of course, he assumed there must have been. He
knew now that Mariella had a baby girl called Eden.

His heart ached imagining the pain and how she must feel feeding Vincent
instead of her own baby. The grief; the total agony of losing a part of
yourself. Losing your shared future. As a doctor, Jamie knew that Mariella
must have had a late term miscarriage or stillbirth, judging on the fact that
she lactated enough to even think to pump milk afterward.

She had lived every expectant parent’s worst nightmare. He wondered if that
was the reasoning behind Mariella’s husband not wanting to have another
child - the pure fear. For the first time, he felt a sense of empathy for Franco.
He wasn’t sure that he could endure the risk of going through that again
either. He felt similarly about the prospect of falling in love again.

Jamie wiped a hot tear from his eye. His heart was broken for her, but he also
selfishly felt wounded. Had he taken advantage of Mariella? He hoped that he
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wasn’t a disgusting person for falling for her, and for allowing himself to get
carried away.

That night Mariella fell asleep with her head on Jamie’s chest, and Vincent’s
head on hers. Jamie felt more at ease than he ever remembered feeling before.
Before they fell asleep, Jamie asked if Franco was against having more
children because of his grief over Eden. But he regretted the question as soon
as it left his lips, as Mariella looked incredibly injured.

“No,” she replied, fiddling with a crease in the blanket, “he decided that
before I was even pregnant with Eden.”

She explained that they had suffered a very early miscarriage previously and
Franco was scared out of the whole thing from then on. Mariella had tried
reassuring him but he was adamant he didn’t want to try again; but his
actions didn’t line up. So, of course, she did get pregnant again, which totally
infuriated him.

“But I’m sure when you lost Eden…he must have been devastated, even if he
hadn’t planned for her?”

“No,” Mariella said again, “I don’t think so. He emotionally signed off from
the marriage as soon as I fell pregnant…he even accused me of having an
affair, probably just trying to palm the situation off to someone else. I could
never make any other sense of it. I actually caught him looking relieved when
we got home from the hospital afterward. Empty handed.”
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Jamie felt awful for what Mariella had been through. To be disregarded by
your own partner and then to face grief alone. He wondered for a moment if
there could be any substance in Franco’s accusations. Jamie had assumed that
their current situation was unique; sparked by true feelings for each other,
mixed with highly unusual circumstances. What if Franco had been right?
What if infidelity was in Mariella’s nature?
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Chapter 25

The breakfast table was laden with croissants, blueberry muffins, little trays
of whipped butter and jugs of cloudy apple juice. Steam was rising to the
heavens from four ceramic coffee cups. Vincent crawled under the table
playfully. Surely, as glorious as a Monday morning could ever be.

Jamie sat down beside me and squeezed my hand under the table. Vincent
was suddenly beneath us, grabbing at our joined fingers and babbling.

“Mamamama.”

Maple sat quietly on the other side of the table, reading the newspaper and
picking the blueberries out of a muffin.

Joseph took a swig of his coffee, “Alright, I guess I’ll say it.”

We all turned to him. I could see on Maple’s face that she already knew what
he was about to reveal.

“Mariella, your husband showed up on Friday…had a problem with a dog-

sitter I think?”
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Shit, Blueberry.

“It’s okay,” Maple took over, “Mum happily looked after him for the night
and Joseph walked him back the next day.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. A simple problem, what a nice change. But Maple
wasn’t finished.

“Your husband wasn’t happy though…and there was some, uh, confusion.
Mum thought you had been taken home when Jamie left for the trip, but your
husband insisted you were at the lodge. It sounds like he was pretty shocked
to learn that the rest of us didn’t join you two.”

“Honestly,” Joseph chimed in, “uh, we were a bit surprised too.”

Jamie let go of my hand and nervously scratched at his jeans. I knew I had to
let him take over on this one and I wasn’t sure how he would handle it. I
blushed and took a sip of my coffee.

“I really needed Mariella’s help with Vincent,” he said, finally, “you know,
Vinnie is very attached to Mari - understandably - and it didn’t seem right to
just take him away for four days like that.”

“What about when he’s a year old and Mariella leaves for good?” Mrs G had
appeared in the doorway, with her arms crossed, “she has a husband to get
back to…you know that, don’t you Jamie?”
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My ears burned with embarrassment, knowing that we weren’t fooling

anyone. I had to speak up.

“I know it’s hard to understand, but Franco really isn’t my husband. I mean,
he is legally, but our relationship ended over a year ago.”

“Does he know that?” Mrs G frowned, “Because he sure was angry when he
realised the rest of us weren’t up there with you two. He said it wasn’t the
first time you’d fooled around though.”

I felt sick to my stomach. This spiteful and enduring accusation of my non-

existent adulterous nature. Sure, technically, I actually was now having an
affair. But I never had before. Not when we truly had a marriage and lived as
a couple. I would have never betrayed Franco, the one I used to know, like
that. Never.

“That’s not true,” Jamie replied sternly, “Franco has some sick idea in his
head about Mariella because he couldn’t take responsibility for his own
actions.” He stood up to leave. “I’m going to get Blueberry,” he kissed my
cheek, “you aren’t going back to that man.”
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Chapter 26

As Jamie closed the gate behind him, he could hear Franco humming along to
jazz on the radio. There were pans clattering around and the smell of shellfish
and paprika. The front door was wide open and Blueberry trotted over to
greet him.

“Uh, yeah?” Franco had followed the Dalmatian.

“Let’s keep this simple, Franco. I care about Mariella. I’m taking Blueberry
with me.”

“So, you are having my wife and my dog move in with you?” Franco
laughed.

Then, without a split second of hesitation, he swung at Jamie; Franco’s fist

met his brow with a dense thud. The skin split and Jamie fell backward, as
blood trickled down onto his eyelid. Blueberry barked frantically, and to
Jamie’s surprise, at Franco. He was growling and pouncing toward him.
Every atom in Jamie’s body wanted to hit Franco back. To leave him in a
miserable heap for what he had put Mariella through. But he knew for her
sake that he had to control himself.
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“Mari has grieved your child alone, in the face of you insulting and belittling
her. It’s enough. It’s over.”

“That’s where you are wrong, friend. That was not my child. Rest her soul,
though. Not something I would have ever wished for, but I would be careful
with what you’re signing up for. There is no way on earth that could have
been my baby. Sure, take my dog and my wife. But no returns or refunds.”

He pushed Blueberry out and closed the door in Jamie’s solemn face.
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Chapter 27

When Blueberry came bounding through the front door, I instantly broke
down in tears. I didn’t even know they had been there, waiting to pour from
my eyes. He wagged his tail and tenderly sniffed at Vincent’s tummy, then
trotted over to me for a cuddle. When Jamie walked in next, I gasped at the
sight of him.

His left brow was bleeding and beginning to bruise. Mrs G saw from the
hallway and rushed off to get ice. Maple patted Blueberry and gave me a
comforting squeeze around my shoulders.

“I’ll take Vincent for a nap. Get some rest,” she whispered, wiping one of my
tears away with a dainty finger. Mrs G reappeared to tend to Jamie’s brow. I
couldn’t even speak. I didn’t know what to say.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Mrs G was muttering to Jamie, who
was trying to shrug off her concern.

Having known Franco for so many years, I was genuinely shocked that he
would physically hurt anyone. He had never touched me. He had emotionally
and mentally tormented me, belittled me and taunted my suffering, making
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me feel like I was going crazy alone in that room. Even before my pregnancy
with Eden, he had a way about him that always made me feel like I was
stupid. Disagreeing with him had always meant that I must have been
uneducated on whatever topic he was arguing. His opinion was fixed and it
was the only one that mattered. It was no use arguing with Franco; I knew
that very well, you couldn’t change his mind. For all I knew, maybe if I had
pushed him more, he might have hurt me too.

Beyond the shock, a part of me felt embarrassed. Jamie had generously gone
to finish something that I could not. He helped me to break the cycle. For him
to come back injured was gut-wrenching. Did he blame me? Should I have
insisted on going with him? The whole situation was putrid. I couldn’t help
but consider that in just a matter of days, Jamie had gone from almost
nabbing formidable Claudia as his new matriarch to this. Being physically
assaulted by his wet nurse’s brute husband. I felt queasy and ashamed, like
anything romantic between us would have evaporated from the heat of it all.

Mrs G left the foyer and only Jamie, Blueberry and I remained. I wanted to
thank him but it didn’t feel adequate to even say. I wanted to apologise but
that felt foolish and minute compared to what he had endured for me.
Thankfully, he spoke before I had the chance to say anything silly.

“Mari, you can stay for as long as you like, but I don’t want to force this to be
rushed along. If you’d like your own space on weekends, I can help you find
a new place of your own.”

Jamie wasn’t looking me in the eye and I had trouble reading whether he
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really wanted me to stay or not. I hadn’t even decided myself what was best
yet, although I was certainly thrilled knowing that I wouldn’t be facing
Franco that Saturday morning. Or any Saturday morning, ever again, I hoped.

“But in the meantime,” his green eyes finally locked with mine and he smiled
weakly, “can we have a redo of that holiday? I want to take you and Vincent
to my parent’s farm at Montville. I just want to enjoy you both. Properly.”

Was I dreaming? Two holidays in as many weeks? But then he burst my

bubble.

“But,” he frowned, “when we get back, we will need to meet with Claudia.”

“Um, why?”

“I need to end things properly with her. Don’t worry, it won’t be a passionate
display like with Franco. She’s sharp and clever, but she’s not you. And she’s
not really into me. But I do think she had some plans for us and it’s the right
thing to do. Besides that, I think she would be a great person for legal advice.
To help free you - us - of Franco, properly.”

Blueberry sensed my anxiety and started panting. Jamie wanted me to meet

up with the woman he had been seeing, and who had just witnessed me
nannying his child, to tell her that he’s now in a relationship with me? Oh,
and can she please also help with the nanny getting divorced to legitimise it?
Ick.
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“I want to do this properly,” he reiterated, sensing my apprehension, “and

Claudia is very good. If Franco fights anything, she will have him laughed
out of court. I’ve already got time and location stamped photos outside of his
house after the altercation for Claudia to use.”

“You what?” I frowned, feeling even more embarrassed and overwhelmed

“His house? The first thing you thought to do after leaving my house was to
stop and take photos for your date-night-girl?”

“It was a good move, Mari. They might come in handy if you need
supporting documents during the proceedings.”

I knew it was smart, and admittedly I was slightly impressed by his quick
thinking, but I was also disgusted by the whole situation. It was a sticky web
of motives and desires; everyone was going to be hurt in some way by
something. Why should I trust Claudia to handle my divorce gracefully if
she’s being dumped and hired in the same breath? Surely a woman of that
calibre won’t appreciate having her time wasted by a man that ended up in an
affair with a married staff member.

I took Blue upstairs to pack my bag for Montville and tried to focus on the
good in goodbye. But I cried myself to sleep that night. Even though I was
relieved to be rid of Franco, and even though my marriage had truly been
over for a year, the finality of it hit me with a thud. I wouldn’t miss him. But
I realised that I would, I did, miss us.

I missed how we had been, which was a parallel universe from how we were
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now. I longed for the sun-drenched joys of our younger years together. When
he used to kiss me, he would sneak his hands under my sweater and caress
my stomach, rib cage and arms. At times, Franco had been almost obsessive
about me. It had felt like such a passionate love, but I never noticed that it
was ammo for controlling me. For keeping me down. I used to spend a large
portion of my workdays responding to messages from him. He needed to
know what I was thinking about, what I was having for lunch, or what I was
wearing. I thought he was so attentive, so invested in me. But that
communication was a weapon that Franco withdrew as punishment if he
wasn’t happy with what I was thinking about, what I was having for lunch -
or, certainly, what I was wearing.

And it felt like torture. Because after communicating with someone so

innately for so long, not having that connection for even one afternoon felt
dreadful. Like I had lost a limb. How would I choose which biscuit to have
with my tea without asking Franco? It sucked the joy from everything, as was
his intention.

But God, I adored him. I lived for his praise. In summer he would wear baggy
shorts and expensive t-shirts from obscure designers. In winter, tight jeans
and perfectly black sweaters. When he held my hand everything was right in
the world. I used to love kissing his neck and just dissolving into the
gorgeous scent of him. I had known him for over a decade, and still, just the
sight of his car pulling up to our home would send tingles down my spine.

But now? I finally noticed things about Franco that I never saw before. Like
his natural urge to push women down, to make sure he was above them;
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particularly mentally. He had to be the authority on all his interests and

couldn’t stand being threatened by someone else’s knowledge or opinion. If
he was, his mean streak would come out. Franco was great, as long as you
were at his feet.

Now, I just felt like an idiot. Franco and I had always thought that we were
twin flames. I was sure he would find me in any lifetime. We would be
together in some way, even if it was as siblings or friends, in any version of
the universe. The realisation that he was simply fixated on having control of
someone felt belittling. I felt worthless. I could have been anyone, as long as
I obliged. Franco didn’t love me, he loved my obedience. And falling
pregnant with Eden, paired with his feverish obsession with my supposed
infidelity, was the end of all that in his eyes.
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Chapter 28

The last time Jamie bled had been when Camille, heavily pregnant, lost her
cool and threw a candlestick at his cheek. It wasn’t uncommon for her to lash
out impulsively and he couldn’t even recall what had set her off on that
occasion. He sometimes wondered if she would have been impatient with
Vincent, but then he felt awfully guilty for it. Jamie would never know what
type of mother Camille would have been, and that was the end of it.

He checked in on Vincent in the nursery; Maple was walking him around,

rocking back and forth, smiling at the sleeping baby in her arms. She looked
up to give Jamie a reassuring nod. He knew Mrs G was shocked by what had
transpired between him and Mariella, but he felt that he could count on
Maple to support them. And they would need it.

Jamie had to get in contact with Claudia for a meeting, but before that, he
would email his parents about staying at the farm. He truly did want to
reconnect and have them join Vincent’s life properly. However, he did feel
apprehensive of how they would feel about him moving on so quickly. Jamie
hated that phrase, though: “moving on”. As if he was setting Camille aside
and walking away from her. When it had been her that had left them.
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He picked up his phone and fired off messages in both directions before he
could second guess himself. Claudia replied first, of course.

Oh, sounds very professional! Come by the office for this mystery meeting
on Monday then. Ciao!

In the blink of an eye, Jamie was loading the car back up with holiday trunks
and toys for Vincent, with the addition of dog bowls and treats for Blueberry
this time. Jamie felt a twitch of nervousness about seeing his parents after so
long, but he had faith that it would be a mostly happy reunion. Guiltily, he
knew it was because Camille wouldn’t be there.

His zesty wife had dug her heels in until the very end regarding reuniting
with his family. Jamie hadn’t invited his parents to her funeral because he
knew she would have forbidden it. Camille was a woman scorned and she
couldn’t tolerate people that couldn’t tolerate her. But Mariella was worlds
away from Camille, and so was Vincent. He had barely ever seen the infant
crumple into a frown. He had a gentle and happy manner about him;
something that Jamie recognised of himself. But he was sure that the way
Mariella nurtured his son had a lot to do with it too. It was hard to not feel
guilty for it, but Vincent truly seemed like he was half Mariella and half
Jamie. As the days went by, they felt more and more like a family. But of
course, it wasn’t that simple.

When everything was ready to go, Mariella appeared beside the car with
Vincent. She wore an emerald green jacket and tortoiseshell sunglasses, a
tired smile crept across her ruby red lips. Vincent was happily babbling away.
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They bundled into the car and honked the horn in farewell to Maple, who was
waving from the front door. It felt wonderful to ditch the deception this time.

But the joy was accompanied by some stiff apprehension for Jamie. He
couldn’t forget the harsh words of Franco, and his own itching concern over
Mariella. She had jumped at the opportunity to go on holiday with him to the
lodge, knowing that he felt attracted to her. And she had certainly encouraged
his advances while being married to Franco. Jamie felt that it was a unique
situation. They had found each other in incredibly strange circumstances, and
during a terrible time in Mariella’s marriage. Surely, she wouldn’t have had
flings before, and wouldn’t again. But Franco seemed so sure that Eden
couldn’t have been his, and how could that be?

“Mari,” Jamie frowned, “why would Franco think that Eden wasn’t his
baby?”

He saw Mariella tense up in the rear view mirror, as she sat beside Vincent -
shaking a rattle for him. He hated to ask the question, but he just couldn’t
shake the icky feeling. “I mean, he couldn’t possibly. Unless, you two
hadn’t…”

“Jamie,” Mariella cut him off sternly, “of course Eden was his child. We
were married, quite happily, when she was conceived.”

The realisation that Mariella had actually been content in her marriage with
Franco as recently as a year ago stung him slightly.
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“I’m sorry,” he shrugged, “he just seemed so sure of himself.”

“Yes, it’s completely insane. Honestly, I think he was just infuriated that I
got pregnant when he, theoretically, didn’t plan for me to, so he didn’t want
to commit to it.”

Mariella sounded convincing, but something still wasn’t sitting right with
Jamie. He had a feeling Franco wasn’t simply spinning a lie. Surely no man
could deny their own child like that for no reason? It was all too strange.
Mariella noticed his expression.

“Happily married is a stretch,” she admitted, placing her hand on his

shoulder, “I was a fool for him, and he walked all over me.”

Jamie’s face softened and he remembered whose side he needed to be on.

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Chapter 29

I gasped as we approached Jamie’s parents’ farmhouse. The driveway was

lined with flowering magnolia trees and the air was thick with butterflies and
the smell of jasmine. Jamie fumbled with his keys to find the right one for the
red front door. The fact that he had one at all after being so estranged from
his family spoke volumes of their love for him. They had never given up
hope that he might show up.

The house was quiet since Jamie’s parents were away with friends until the
next day. The polished floors shone in the shady afternoon light, and
chickens could be heard squarking and scratching outside. There were vases
of hand picked wildflowers all over the place and framed black and white
family photographs. The sweeping French doors to the back verandah had
trustingly been left open, with a half-finished ceramic cup of coffee on the
timber table. Vincent bopped along to music playing on a radio that had been
left switched on.

After a quick walk through, Jamie led us back outside and toward a
hexagonal wooden guest house down a rolling hill. Inside, Vincent and I sunk
into the red corduroy couches while Jamie went to collect our luggage. My
little companion planted a sloppy kiss on my cheek and practised his new
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giggle. Any worry I might have had from the conversation in the car
dissolved into the buzzing of cicadas outside. Until my phone rang.

“Mrs Sainti, this is Dr Hendricks.”

I recognised his voice before he had even said his name. Dr Hendricks had a
distinctive voice. In fact, he was distinctive all over. He had been our doctor
for years and consulted with us through all of our fertility issues, and I had
seen him alone through my pregnancy with Eden. He always wore colourful
button up t-shirts and offered me gold wrapped after-dinner mints.

“This isn’t entirely kosher,” he continued, “but I wanted to let you know that
I was contacted today to provide medical notes for a court matter…I, of
course, kept yours sealed but I had to provide Mr Sainti’s files. As well as
those of your joint appointments.”

Knowing the meeting with Claudia was on the horizon was stressful enough,
but it sounded like Franco had beaten me to it. He was lawyering up and
gathering whatever he could to make me look bad in court. And, worse, bad
to Jamie. Although, beyond referrals for grief counselling and fertility advice,
I wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find with Dr Hendricks. Unless Franco
had revealed something in his private appointments that I didn’t know about.

“Oh, well, I do appreciate the call,” I responded, “thank you Dr Hendricks, I

will-”

Vincent started to fuss and grab at my phone. I gently popped him on the
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floor so he could crawl around and inspect the grooves of the rattan rug.

“Oh!” Dr Hendricks exclaimed, “The Mister never mentioned that you two
finally had a healthy babe, and so soon? What a miracle. Hello little one!”

My heart ached; the pain was a knee jerk reaction. Hearing what might have
been, in a different life. I explained that I had been working as a nanny. Dr
Hendricks apologised and congratulated me on finding something that helped
with my grief. I smiled at Vincent, knowing that it was true. It really had.

Not long after the phone call finished, Jamie reappeared with the bags and a
very excited Dalmatian pouncing about. I almost automatically divulged what
Dr Hendricks had said, but I decided against it. I knew that Jamie was on
edge about it all already. I wanted us to enjoy each other, to get a taste of
what our lives together could be like. What they would be like, when this had
all gone away. So I smiled and suggested a walk around the gardens instead.
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Chapter 30

Hearing his parents’ Range Rover roll over the gravel driveway, Jamie took a
sip of his steaming coffee and tried to exhale his nerves. It had been a long
time since he had seen them, and he was about to introduce them to their
grandson. But he knew that they would be nervous too, and no doubt
heartbroken by the time they had lost. Jamie was excited to show them how
simple and, mostly, calm his life had become.

Mariella was sitting on the floorboards in an orange floral dress playing with
Vincent when the door to the guest house opened. Jamie’s mother, Deb,
gasped happily and effortlessly embraced him, while his father quietly
crouched down and introduced himself as “Grandpa Theo” to Vincent. A
shared tea cake later and it was like no time had passed at all. Vincent was
happily perched on his grandmother’s lap while Theo threw a ball for
Blueberry. Deb showed off baby photos of Jamie to Mariella as they giggled
over his chubby baby cheeks and curls.

After they had dinner and wine on the deck that evening, Deb teared up and
apologised for all the time that had been lost. She cried for Camille, the
daughter-in-law she could just never see eye-to-eye with. She would have
never wished for such an ending. Jamie cried too, which broke Mariella’s
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heart to see. She held Vincent while Deb held Jamie, and the air felt light and
sweet afterwards.

Theo brought out cherries and cream for dessert, with tiny glasses of his
favourite port. “Your mum mentioned that Maple had been helping out. Is
she still around?” he asked as he placed the glass goblets of glossy fruit on
the table. “And what about Celine?”

Jamie seemed to hesitate, clearing his throat and glancing over at Mariella.
He knew what was about to be revealed to her and he wasn’t sure how she
would take it.

“And Mrs G?” Deb piped up, bouncing Vincent on her knee.

“Yes,” Jamie replied, “Maple and Mrs G have been with me ever since…Vin
has been lucky to have his mother’s family so close.”

Mariella involuntarily dropped her spoon, then quickly apologised for her
clumsiness. She was wondering if she had heard correctly, as her mind
remembered back to seeing that name pop up on Jamie’s phone in the
nursery. Celine. It was all too much at once. Did he really just say “mother’s
family”? If Mrs G and Maple were family, why hadn’t he just been honest
about it? Although Mariella thought it was understandable - even admirable -
for his late wife’s family to help him, she wondered why he had been framing
them as household staff members all that time.

Mariella popped a tiny bite of cherry into Vincent’s mouth and, after waiting
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a reasonable amount of time, excused herself to take him to bed, hoping that
Jamie’s parents wouldn’t wonder if anything was awry. But as soon as she
did, Jamie immediately stood to come along with them, which was not what
she had in mind. A few minutes alone in a dark room to decompress was
more what Mariella had intended.

They walked into the guest house silently; Vincent had dozed off on
Mariella’s shoulder. Jamie filled up Blue’s water bowl and gave him a pat.
There was tension in the air and neither of them felt entitled to dispel it.
Mariella took Vincent to bed and rested beside him in the dark, until Jamie
finally came into the room and spoke.

“I know that was a surprise,” he sighed, “it’s hard to explain why I didn’t tell
you about them being family…being Camille’s family. Well, sort of. Mrs G
lived next door with Maple when Camille was a kid. Her real mum wasn’t
around much, so Mrs G stepped in. And she stayed dedicated to Camille all
this time. When you first started with us, I sort of felt like I was protecting
them by not admitting to a stranger that we were a bunch of grieving people,
trying to get by. If they were staff, maybe you could relate to them more and
be a new friend for them. Especially for Maple. And I would, I don’t know,
seem more like a busy doctor with a good set of help, and less like a widow
that literally begged his wife’s adopted family to move in and help with my
son. As time passed and we got closer, it started to feel so stupid that I was
acting like poor Mrs G was my just housekeeper - it was stupid.”

Although she was shocked by the reality, Mariella could empathise with the
reasoning. It also explained why Mrs G had been so displeased with her
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moving in. Why the old woman had bristled when she saw how bonded
Vincent was with Mariella, and how close Jamie and her had become
unexpectedly. And why Maple, a gorgeous young woman with the world at
her feet, had dropped everything to help with Vincent. She must have felt she
had to be there because Camille couldn’t. It was heartbreaking and beautiful.

Mariella told Jamie as much, and affectionately cupped his jawline with her
palm. Admiring his kind, green eyes. She decided not to dig for answers on
who Celine was; they were both exasperated as it was. Why did life have a
way of complicating the good things? They had both wanted this so badly,
yet they were both suspicious of each other and stumbling over their past
mistakes. Losing sight of how exciting it was to simply be there together, as a
family. But that was real life, wasn’t it? The fantasy was over and they had to
meet each other where they were, instead of where they thought they should
be.

They stayed up a bit longer that night, taking a blanket outside to look at the
stars. Even knowing Vincent would be waking them both up intermittently,
they chose to accept the tiredness as a fair trade-off for some time together.
They spotted shooting stars and spoke about their childhoods. Jamie pointed
out his star sign - Virgo - and Mariella’s - Taurus.

“A trick I learnt from my high school crush, Samantha” he laughed, “girls

love it.”

“They do,” Mariella smiled.

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Waking up to the sound of Vincent kissing his cheek the next morning, and
the warmth of gentle morning light kissing his eyes, it felt like a better day to
Jamie. Mariella was still asleep and Vincent had chosen to wake him first
instead. It was a very rare and lovely scenario, given his nipples were useless.

He scooped him up and changed his nappy in the lounge room while Blue
stretched out long across the rug. The air was cool. Jamie opened a window
and could smell his parents cooking bacon and eggs. Life felt good, and being
in the moment enough to feel gratitude for it felt even better. But in the pit of
his stomach he knew it couldn’t last.

See you soon! Maybe we could have a long lunch at Ferdy’s Bar afterward
;)

Jamie’s main concern was protecting Mari from Franco, while helping to
finalise things so that they could move forward. But he knew it was a very
complex situation. Mariella would feel safer and happier when her marriage
was over, but Jamie knew from his own experience that long relationships
can’t just vanish with the click of a finger. She hadn’t said it, but surely she
would be mourning her relationship with Franco, or what it once had been.

Jamie also knew it hadn’t been fair to string Claudia along for all this time.
But she was brash and he had full faith in her bouncing back in time for a
new lunch date that day. He just hoped that Claudia wouldn’t take the
opportunity to make Mariella feel any more awkward than she needed to.

Farewelling his parents an hour later felt surreal. He imagined telling himself
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a year ago that he would be hugging his father and hopping into the car to
organise his wet nurse’s divorce. It was bizarre. But bizarrely enough, he was
happy.
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Chapter 31

Sitting across from Claudia, I could see her properly for the first time. Her
skin was perfectly coated in expensive makeup, with not a pore in sight. Her
bleached blonde hair was freshly blow-waved, probably at a chic city salon
that morning. Although she was young, her face was taut in the sort of way
only a jab or two could achieve. Claudia’s tailored black blazer had fluffy
feather cuffs. She smelt of roses and cinnamon. Her dark brown eyes made
contact fearlessly, oozing confidence.

Claudia was letting Jamie speak. Evidently, her patience was uncharacteristic,
as it was sending his well rehearsed speech nervously down detours and
around in circles. Jamie was reiterating how serious he was about me, when
she raised her palm.

“J, please. Spare me.” She glanced at her desk to date and sign a document,
then passed it wordlessly to her assistant Georgia. “We had some nice wines
and enjoyed each other, as attractive eligible people should. I’m fine. I’ll be
better when I hear why the nanny-girlfriend hybrid is here too, though.”

Claudia looked at me, bemused. She crossed her arms and leaned back in her
chair, waiting for the gossip that she craved. Vincent had been dropped off to
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Maple and I stood there awkwardly empty-handed.

“We would like your help,” Jamie sounded slightly bashful, “Mari needs to
divorce her husband. Franco can’t be trusted though. He’s emotionally
abused her in the past and he assaulted me last week. We need your expertise
in getting it done as cleanly as possible.”

“Ah,” Claudia purred, “we want to legitimise this telenovela romance, I see.
Well, we don’t like anyone who hits such a pretty face as yours, Jamie. And
we certainly don’t like anyone who abuses any woman. I’ll do it, of course.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I had a feeling that Claudia would be a great match
for whatever Franco threw at us. She was already shooting orders to Georgia
for which documents to prepare and who to call. I spent the next hour
explaining the situation to Claudia: I told her that I hadn’t lived with Franco
properly since starting as Vincent’s “nanny” back in April. That our marriage
had really ended much before that. I told her about Eden and Franco’s
incessant denial of being her father.

“Fascinated to see what evidence he provides there. Juicy!“ Claudia cooed.

“Evidence of something that didn’t happen? Trust me, I’m fascinated to see
what he comes up with too.” I rolled my eyes.

“You’re all gold, we will have this joker begging for mercy.” Claudia winked
and at that moment I began to adore her.
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Before we left, Claudia asked if there was anything else she needed to be
aware of before they proceeded. So I told her about Dr Hendricks’ phone call,
and felt Jamie’s eyes burning into me.

“Mari, why didn’t you tell me? That means Franco is ahead of us. He’s
already getting ready.”

“Relax,” Claudia demanded, “it doesn’t sound like he would have found
much. Maybe appointment notes referencing that he thought his gorgeous
wife was being unfaithful. Fair speculation, he sounds like a bore! But that’s
not evidence.”

She just about pushed us out the door with a sickly sweet “ciao!”. And then
we were alone.

“Wow, Claudia is quite something,” I said to break the silence on the way
home, “and such a good sport.”

I caressed his hand with my fingers, urging him to snap out of his very
obviously worried state of mind.

“She’s great,” he agreed, “I’m not surprised, honestly. I think I was just a
prop for her.”

“A very gorgeous prop!” I laughed.

He smiled and the tension lifted from his face.

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“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Dr Hendricks. I knew the Montville
weekend was important to you and I didn’t want to dampen the mood.”

“I get that Mari, but you just need to be honest with me. If there’s nothing for
the doctor to reveal, then why is it a concern? Are you worried about what
might have been disclosed?”

I had been sensing a growing distrust from Jamie since he returned with
Blueberry that day, and it was encapsulated in that question. He was trying to
be nice about it, but he was basically asking if my GP could possibly have
evidence of me cheating on my husband. Had I mentioned it during a routine
exam? Perhaps asked for an STD check? What, exactly, did Jamie think I had
been revealing to Dr Hendricks?

The truth was that my patient notes would have read as a pitiful memoir of a
woman who couldn’t fulfil the role of mother, like most others could.
Scrawled notes describing two failed attempts, to varying degrees.
Prescription drugs for a time to soften the blow of my failures. Although I
knew Franco’s patient files would read quite differently. He simply didn’t
live it like I did. Knowing the heat of the situation, I did my utmost to
respond with kindness.

“Like Claudia said, I can only imagine he has complained to Dr Hendricks

about me at some point, or perhaps something to do with our referral to Dr
Anko for marriage counselling. Honestly, I don’t know. I do know that he’s
angry and likely to try anything, so we need to trust each other.”
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Jamie’s jawline tensed as he glanced toward me.

“Jamie, do you trust me?” my voice broke slightly, knowing I had little right
for him to. A few moments passed, then he rested his left hand on the lace of
my stocking and smiled.

“I do.”
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Chapter 32

Pouring a campari over ice that evening, Jamie exhaled his doubts and
decided to let his heart rule over his head for once. His brain didn’t want to
be fooled, and Franco’s manipulative ways had him second guessing his
judgement of Mariella. Which, after taking the edge off with a drink or two,
seemed entirely abhorrent. To let that swine impact how he felt about the
woman he had fallen for? Sweet, nurturing Mariella had endured so much.
Jamie wouldn’t allow himself to become something else for her to stoically
face. He would be her safe space. He would be on her side.

As a start, a warm bath awaited her upstairs with a vanilla candle burning and
sage bubbles floating. Jamie played with Vincent, who was loving being up
past his bedtime to be silly with his dad. Maple brought him a bottle of
expressed milk, which Vincent refused, so she joined them instead.

“Dad mentioned in front of Mariella about you and Mrs G being Vincent’s
family,” Jamie said as they all laid on the lounge room rug.

Maple feigned a dramatic gasp and ruffled Vincent’s hair between her
fingers. “Ah, I’ll have to move countries, my identity has been revealed,
Vinnie!” she laughed.
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Typical Maple, laughing it off sweetly and not giving it a second of concern.
Jamie wasn’t sure there had ever been two women so unalike as Maple and
Camille. Even after growing up together. In contrast to Jamie’s hot-tempered
wife, Maple remained sweet and docile through it all; the screaming and the
tears. Even as she helped lower Camille’s body into the ground. On a surface
level, Jamie’s wife had sauntered with her dark features. She had thick
eyebrows and long waves of black hair. Maple, on the other hand, was all
sunshine with her spiced ginger locks, middle-parted of course, and glowing
ivory skin. He remembered what it had been like to walk into a restaurant
with them both. No one ever knew where to look first: Camille, dripping in
lace and rubies, or Maple, all florals and bare skin.

Jamie pictured taking Mariella to Bella’s. He could see her smiling jovially at
the waiters, who would be eagerly attentive to her. In his imagination, she
wore something typically Mari. A lilac pencil skirt, cream cardigan and pearl
clips pinning hazelnut waves behind her ears. She would sip on a prosecco
and order the bolognese because it reminded her of her father. The vision
made Jamie feel warmer than campari ever could.
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Chapter 33

We were edging towards summer and the growing heat was burning the
marigolds in the garden. Joseph had mentioned it at breakfast, but I had
quietly noticed it myself beforehand. Swept up with the drama of my current
existence, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a sign. Would I wither and
perish too? I was feeling rundown from the stress of it all, while Vincent was
clearly picking up on the mood and refusing to sleep. I was exhausted, at a
time when I should have been feeling amorous and excited for the future.

I pulled my legs into a pair of fifty count denier bamboo stockings and slid on
patent leather heels. We were meeting Claudia for lunch. She had provided
Jamie’s photographs to Franco’s solicitor and she wanted to discuss the next
move in person. It didn’t sound like it had gone as well as Claudia had hoped.
I felt sweat pooling behind my knees and questioned my outfit choice. I
didn’t know how to dress anymore; all that ever mattered was that I could
button down at the breast for Vincent. But I wanted to show a strong front to
Claudia, who up until that point had only seen me at my most vulnerable. I
glided on a bold red lipstick and sprayed my most expensive perfume.

I had to nervously anticipate the case updates through lunch, as Claudia

insisted she wouldn’t let my impending divorce ruin her kingfish ceviche. For
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someone so slim and sleek, Claudia ate with great gusto. Half a dozen oysters
were down the hatchet before Jamie or I had even located the wine list. She
insisted on an encore serving of garlic bread, then ordered a round of desserts
for us all without consultation. She ate the pecans off my tart as a child might
have done to their mother, without a second thought. I quite liked how she
felt so comfortable, somehow familiar, already. Her confidence did that.

“Alright,” Claudia sipped her water and sharpened her focus, “the
photographs were great, good thinking, Jamie. But - and it’s a big but - we
have received a counter threat in response.”

My mind immediately raced. What on earth could Franco have? Surely

nothing solid enough to push back on stone cold photographic evidence of a
violent assault?

“Your grandmother, Mariella?”

I felt my face go pale. Jamie placed his hand on mine, sensing my volatility.
He immediately knew not to pry in front of Claudia.

“What are our options, then?”

“We can call his bluff and proceed with using the images in the case. Or, if
there’s something there to be concerned about Mariella, we can just pull the
photos.”

I nodded and fumbled a piece of rocket with my fork. It had been a long time
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since I had spoken to anyone about Bobo. Twelve years. Franco was the only
person I told about the incident, while my mother handled the rest. She lied to
the local police and took the blame. Back then my mum still had a slither of
hope that I would pull myself together and head to university. She couldn’t
accept that I could be stuck in some small island prison for the rest of my life.

In the end, all she got was a few dates in court back in Brisbane, stripped of
her licence and mandated counselling. Oh, and her thirty-five year marriage
ruined. My dad could never look at her again without seeing the fiery death
of his beloved mother staring back at him. There were no news headlines,
Franco’s family made sure of that, and life somehow went on. But my mum
never forgave me. She never really looked at me the same again. Now that
she was gone, there was only one person left on earth that shared my secret.
Franco.

I asked Claudia to take the photos off the case, staring at the pearlescent
oyster shells on her plate. I was too ashamed to make eye contact with either
of them.

“Okay,” Claudia sighs, “not ideal, but we will get past it. I’m meeting with
Franco’s lawyer this afternoon and will email you both an update.”

And just like that, she was gone. Leaving the exorbitant bill for Jamie, who
couldn’t have cared less about money. He was focused on worrying about
me. And wondering what about my grandmother could have possibly been so
terrible that we had to remove such important evidence. When the waiter
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reappeared with the bill, my nerves made me do something completely out of

character.

“Actually, we will have a bottle of champagne and two slices of blueberry

cheesecake, please.”

Jamie looked surprised, then bemused. “That was a very sudden mood shift,”
he smiled, “what are we celebrating?”

“Us,” I kissed his cheek, “this will all be over soon, and we can be together,
properly. We can finally just enjoy Vincent and our family.”

When the champagne arrived, we clinked glasses and I kissed Jamie. But I
felt an uneasiness from him; a glance around the restaurant to check who may
have seen. He drank half a glass of the glimmering liquid while I polished off
three. We walked back to the car hand-in-hand, and as soon as the passenger
door shut behind me I crumbled.

The guilt and shock from all those years ago came flooding back. The way
my mother had looked at me. How my father had reacted when we returned
home without Bobo; the fury that melted into anguish. He hated my mother
for it, for the rest of her life. And for something that I had done. My mother
had suffered years of silence from the man she had always loved, because of
me. The guilt of that was on par with causing the accident that killed my
grandmother. In fact, it may have felt worse. Telling someone as well
rounded as Jamie that I had killed a beloved family member while driving
under the influence was terrifying.
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“I used to take pills from Franco’s parents’ bathroom,” I started, “I had taken
too many, not eaten enough, and then had a small amount of alcohol…and I
needed to drive us home. Bobo, my grandmother, couldn’t drive and my
Mum was properly drunk. For maybe the first time ever. We would have
been waiting hours for a taxi on the island at that time. We should have
waited.”

I detailed the impact, how my brain could never retrace the few seconds
before hitting the tree. Had I fallen asleep? Maybe. My mother and I had
been injured but she still had her senses about her enough to get up and pull
me out of the car. She didn’t want me to be found in the driver’s seat. So I lay
beside the car on a blanket of pine needles while she sat in my blood next to
our motionless, breathless, Bobo in the front. Then we waited for help. I
would maybe never understand the mind of a real mother. The way she
recognised that her beloved mother-in-law was dead beside her, but still only
thought of protecting her daughter.
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Chapter 34

Vincent was yearning for Mariella by the time they returned to the North
residence. Although she didn’t seem to be in any state to care for the baby,
she insisted that she just wanted to lay in bed with him. So Jamie tucked the
two of them in with the baby monitor and kissed them both.

In the car, he had been shocked by Mariella’s past. She had committed
manslaughter. Lost her grandmother in a gruesome, sudden way. And then
had her mother suffer for it, until the end of her life. She was clearly sick with
guilt and had been since that day so many years ago.

It was understandable that Mariella felt like she had killed her grandmother,
but it was clear to Jamie that it was really the Sainti family’s fault. Their
sheer frivolity in perking up their children, and children’s associates, with
controlled drugs was sickening. Mariella had detailed how Franco’s mother
had given her the contraceptive pill, Valium and sleeping pills all in a pretty
packaged tin one evening at their house.

“Being a woman is hard, darling,” she had said, with a sigh.

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Jamie had urged Mariella to see where the fault should lie, and how
important it was to forgive herself. She was so young when it happened. It
was an awful, tragic accident. He wasn’t sure she had heard him through her
tears. But one thing was for certain, they couldn’t risk that sort of bomb being
dropped in court. Jamie scrolled through his phone and deleted the photos of
his bruised and bloodied face. They could have achieved a lot with those
images, but he knew Mariella would be happy as long as the divorce was
done. If they had to sell the house she loved so much for a 50/50 split then so
be it. Being free of the toxicity, and having some sort of future to look
forward to, was enough.

Mariella re-emerged from the bedroom with a much happier baby just as the
sun was setting, lighting the sky up with swirls of purple and pink. He
remembered all the evenings over the last few months that he had sipped his
wine and thought of Mariella at home with Vincent, and longed to be with
her. Jamie felt a tingle down his spine as he exhaled gratitude.
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Chapter 35

“Ow!”

Maple came dashing into the nursery within seconds of my sudden yelp.
While trying to nurse Vincent, he had bitten me - hard - and was now trying
to push me away with his small yet forceful arms.

Realising what had happened, Maple sat on the floor beside us and jingled a
rattle at the enraged almost-toddler.

“Maybe it’s time for a nursing strike,” she shrugged, “he’s getting pretty
close to one year old now, and it is really common for older bubs.”

I sighed, exasperated. Jamie had done everything to make me feel like I was
wanted outside of my role breastfeeding Vincent. He hadn’t even mentioned
again the possibility of Blueberry and I finding our own place, or discussed
what would happen when my contract finished. He had treated me like a
permanent fixture for months now. Even before our romance began. But
maybe that was it; Jamie had never said it.
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And so there I was, frantically aware that if Vincent stopped feeding, I would
be useless. In theory, Jamie had intended for his son to wean in the next
couple of months anyway, but I needed that extra time to figure out what we
were to each other and what our future held. I was thrilled to be with him and
so overjoyed with the stolen kisses, sneaking into each other’s rooms at night
and holding hands at the breakfast table. But it was certainly a very unusual
early relationship. We were instantly living together and caring for a baby as
if we were a real family. It felt like playing house, with a timer on.

“Or…” Maple started again after observing me, “the stress of the court case
and everything could be compromising your milk supply. I can take Vincent
today, I have no plans. You should try to relax…take a bath, make some
lactation cookies or something.”

“Thank you Maple,” I sighed, “that could be it.”

Maple tickled Vincent who fell over giggling, and she tumbled down onto the
floor beside him with a joyful exhale. She always seemed so content, but
surely that couldn’t be true. Here was a young woman that, although surely
grieving her dear friend, sacrificed everything in her own life with a smile on
her face. All for Vincent and Jamie. I wanted her to know that I saw all she
did, and that I would happily be a shoulder to lean on if needed. Like she
always was for me, for all of us.

“Maple,” I sat beside them on the floor, “why did you take this on? It must
have been very difficult, right when your career was beginning…your life,
really.”
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Her smile relaxed into a softened expression. She pulled Vincent into her lap
and sat up beside me, so that her glimmering blue eyes met mine. “Who
else?” Maple ran a finger around the curves of her little nephew’s ear.
“Jamie’s parents weren’t around for a long time before Camille was even
pregnant, and my mother was already here trying to help run a household.
When Camille died, they really needed me. Vincent really needed me. And I
love him.”

“Vinnie is so lucky to have you,” I smiled, “I just feel sad for all you had to
put on hold. If only there had been someone else to take some of the pressure
off you.”

“Well,” Maple frowned slightly, “there is Camille’s real sister, Celine. But
trust me, she would have found a way to make things worse, somehow!”

Celine. That name. I never imagined it could have been another family
member, let alone Vincent’s aunt. I had enviously assumed her to be one of
Jamie’s dates. I felt my cheeks redden with shame.

“I had no idea Camille had a sister. Jamie has never mentioned Celine.”

“Oh, Mari, please don’t worry. There is no reason why he would have. Celine
has her own little Palm Beach lifestyle going on down on the Gold Coast. She
has been absent for years. She’s a nepotism baby and a struggling writer, with
a cherry on top. Celine has a terrible track record for dating wealthy jerks.
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Big time daddy issues. Camille adored her, actually, but they were basically
Irish twins.”

I was both stunned and fascinated by this new facet of Jamie’s family. But
more than that, I was relieved. There was a part of Camille out there living
her life. Maybe one day Maple would get to do the same; she deserved that.
When I left the nursery and stopped by the kitchen, Mrs G looked up from
chopping zucchini to give me a smile.

That’s a first.

It seemed that since Maple and her mother had learnt that I was aware of their
lineage, the curse had been broken. Mrs G had warmed, and both were more
relaxed and able to let their guards down around me. I figured Mrs G now
realised that Jamie was serious about me, and perhaps pitied me after
witnessing how awful Franco was. I sensed Maple’s relief at her mother
warming and everything becoming somewhat simplified.

I piled a bowl with cherries, pistachios and nougat, then headed back upstairs
to my room. Blueberry was soaking up the late morning sun that was spilling
onto the floor; his strong tail rhythmically thumping against the rug when he
heard me walk in. I opened the black laptop sitting on the bedside table and
went straight to a real estate page. I was tired of feeling like a ticking bomb. I
was going to find my own place, stand on my own two feet. Jamie and my
relationship would be all the better for it.

I jotted down the addresses of various cute apartments and townhouses

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available. I made sure they were all within a 5km radius of Jamie and
Vincent. I rotated my snacks - cherries, nougat then pistachio - and bristled
Blue’s short fur with my fluffy slipper. I refilled my emotional support water
bottle in the bathroom, where the water came out coolest, and took sips as I
lay in bed listening to music. I mentally urged my body to keep lactating. It
was my safeguard, my purpose. Who would I be without it? Would Vincent
still love me? Would Jamie?

The next thing I knew, Jamie was beside my bed and the sun was blazing
orange outside the window. I felt disoriented, like when you return from
school camp and pass out from sheer exhaustion. Then wake up to your
mother cooking dinner and the evening news blaring.
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Chapter 36

Treading lightly into Mariella’s room that evening, Jamie first noticed how
serene and angelic she looked.

“You aren’t meant to look that good napping”, he thought to himself.

Her soft pink lips were parted, just slightly, and her light brown hair was
pillowing her head in waves. She was wearing a yellow floral dress that
ruffled into a sweetheart neckline cupping her bust. With a Dalmatian beside
her. She was a vision.

Next, he noticed the water bottle beside her, leaking on the bed. He picked it
up and was relieved to see she had been rehydrating after such a stressful and
busy time. Jamie knew Mariella was struggling, more than she would ever
say. He felt helpless. Although he was doing all he could to support her
through the impending divorce, there was only so much he could do. Their
lives were so busy; he was with patients most of the day, six days a week,
and Mariella was caring for Vincent tirelessly. He felt like they had been
robbed of the honeymoon phase most lovers had. He hoped they would get it
one day. Finally, Jamie saw the post-it note on Mariella’s bedside table.
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61/139 Laura Crescent, Red Hill, 84 Fergus St, The Gap, 90/28 Olive Court,
Bardon.

His heart sank, as he instantly realised that she was house hunting. He had
hoped that in the coming months the divorce would be final, Mariella’s
employment contract would finish and their lives together could finally start.
They would naturally fall into a real family dynamic, without the black cloud
of a manipulative ex-husband above them. And although Jamie knew
Mariella had enjoyed, and maybe even needed, the role of wet-nursing
Vincent, he felt they had outgrown that title and contract. Mariella was as
close to a mother as his baby would ever get, and ever need. The role felt
redundant - almost insulting - when considering how important she had
become to Vincent. She was everything.
She was Mama.
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Chapter 37

In the days following that, I came downstairs to find the breakfast table
covered with galactagogues. Oats, biscuits made with brewers yeast, fennel
seed tea and spring water. Maple was doing an incredible job helping with
Vincent’s fussing as much as she could and supporting me nutritionally. I felt
like I was starting to miss out on Vincent, but most cuddles with him resulted
in his little hands angrily grabbing at my top and crying. He was frustrated
that his milk was waning. Maple put a sippy cup of oat milk on his high chair
tray.

“I’ll defrost some expressed breastmilk for him soon,” she said, reading my
mind “but a few sips of oat milk is totally fine at this age.”

I did not feel up to being strapped to a pump that day, so I was quietly
pleased about the oat milk. Although, my heart sank knowing it was a step
closer to Vincent not needing me. He was growing. I needed to grow too.

After chatting with Maple about the weather and her plans for the weekend, I
changed Vincent into a linen romper and popped him in the pram for a walk.
Like most Saturdays, Jamie would be with patients until midday, so it was the
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perfect time for me to inspect one of the rentals I had found online. It was
walking distance from Jamie’s place and the breeze was wonderfully cool.

We stopped by a French patisserie for a vegan croissant that Vincent loved

and yet another coffee for me. We continued on with him in the carrier, as his
patience for sitting was basically non-existent now that he was almost
walking. Vincent would be walking beside me holding my hand one day
soon. I burst with gratitude knowing that I would have the opportunity to
experience it.

We counted the townhouses until we came to number 84. It had a tall wooden
fence with a visiting black and white cat perched on top. The majestic feline
scurried away as we slowly opened the gate. A real estate agent named
Barbara greeted us and shook my hand vigorously. Her Princess Diana
haircut shimmied around ostentatious diamond hoop earrings as she walked
us into each room.

The place was lovely. White and bright with natural sunshine coming through
floor to ceiling windows in each room. There was a square courtyard for
Blueberry, bordered by a lush established herb garden, and a third bedroom
that I could set up with toys for when Jamie and Vincent came over. I had
other plans for the second bedroom.

I took the required forms from Barbara and thanked her before we left. We
took our time walking back, stopping by a park and corner shop on the way.
Vincent sipped on a straw cup of milk and nibbled on a rusk. He dozed off in
the pram as we approached home, so I stopped at a park bench and scrawled
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my details into the rental documents. Then I took photos of them along with
my ID and emailed them all off to the agency. The air felt thick with
possibility.

When we finally arrived back at the house, Jamie was hosing soap suds off
the Tesla in the driveway. He had finished with his patients and was already
onto his checklist for the afternoon.

“That must have been a long walk?” He smiled, bending down to kiss his
sleepy baby on the head.

“It’s such a nice day. We didn’t go too far, but we made a few stops.”

I kissed him and the breeze sprayed cool droplets from the hose onto our
cheeks.

“Ah,” he paused, looking into my eyes, “Fergus Street?”

My pulse quickened as I realised that he knew what I was up to. I had always
felt the need to hide things from Franco, and I wondered why I had done the
same to Jamie. I instantly wished that I had spoken to him about my plans
like an adult. He deserved that.

Jamie turned the hose off and dropped the head of it into a bucket beside the
car. His white shirt was damp and soapy and he had a concerned look on his
kind face. Honestly, he had for weeks. I missed feeling like I caused him joy.
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I missed his calm and carefree nature. I knew that I had caused havoc. Before
I had the chance to speak, he held my hands and sighed.

“I hope you haven’t felt unwelcome here…it’s all been so intense lately, I
probably haven’t shown how glad I am to have you with us. I know it’s a
complex situation for you right now. But, selfishly, it has been the best thing
that could have happened for Vincent and I.”

I couldn’t help smiling. My whole body tingled with happiness. It was all I
wanted to hear. But, still, it didn’t change my mind.

“I love being with you and Vincent,” I started, “but my contract is about to
end. I mean, he’s barely nursing now as it is, and I can’t just float around
your house acting like your son needs two nannies. Vincent has his aunt,
which is amazing. I need to plan my next steps. I need to support myself, so
that our relationship can be stronger. I don’t want to have such a one-sided
dependency. I want us to depend on each other.”

I was speaking with strength but tears started to roll down my face. The
thought of sleeping without Vincent broke my heart. Imagining waking up to
an empty house, like I used to. It was gut wrenching. Jamie wiped the tears
away and hugged me firmly.

“Forget the contract. Rip it up, for all I care. We need you.”

“Jamie, I’m barely even producing any milk anymore. Vincent doesn’t need
me. We can take a step back and find our way without the forced proximity.
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You can choose to see me, instead of me being a necessary bit of furniture in
your home. I am no longer necessary for your child’s nutrition. I am no
longer needed here.”

I wasn’t sure if I really wanted him to let me go or if I just wanted to hear

him fight for me. But in the moment I had convinced myself that our
relationship needed some space. We had been living in the same house ever
since meeting each other, and had never had the chance to miss one another
or to look forward to a date. We had skipped to a really wonderful family
situation but something within me felt that it meant he would tire of me more
quickly. The spark would die. I would become like a roommate, or I would
slide into really being just the nanny.

“I love you,” Jamie whispered, “I won’t keep fighting you. If living

elsewhere would make you happier, then so be it. But please don’t say we
don’t need you - that Vincent doesn’t need you - he adores you.”

“I love you too - both of you - but I’ve already submitted the paperwork. And
I have a pretty generous boss, so I should think I’ll get accepted considering
my income.” I laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

I unclipped the pram buckles and carried a very snuggly Vincent up the front
stairs. I wasn’t entirely sure if I was pushing for the right thing for us, but I
did know it was the right thing for me. I needed to set myself up. I couldn’t
just stay still while the world spun around me. I needed to renew my purpose.
I needed Daisy Dreams.
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Chapter 38

Cosying up beside Mariella on the couch that night, Jamie was worried about
her. He had faith in their relationship and he trusted that her desire to find her
own home was coming from a good place. But she had gone through so
much. Just as she seemed to turn a corner after losing her baby, she then had
to endure the grief of divorce. And Franco sure wasn’t making it easy on her,
digging up graves and sending threats via his lawyers. It was no surprise to
Jamie that Mariella’s milk supply had tanked.

Although Vincent was still determined to comfort nurse when he got tired,
any attempt to breastfeed during the day was frustrating for him. He was
quickly approaching toddlerhood and was down to just two feeds a day,save a
lot of suckling overnight. Realistically, the feeds could be replaced with a
plant milk or allergy formula now. He ate food passionately and was no
longer completely dependent on milk, nor was he cluster feeding. These
developments should have helped Mariella relax, but they seemed to be
thorns in her side; she couldn’t shake the feeling that her worth was directly
impacted by her breastmilk. And, of course, at first it had been. But now she
was so much more than just a source of nutrition for Vincent. She was
family.
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The little boy had just dozed off in Mariella’s arms, so Jamie and her could
talk and daydream in peace. He grabbed a bottle of wine and switched all the
lights out. Three peach candles were flickering from the top of the
mantelpiece and fairy lights in the oak outside shone warmly through the
window. They talked about their future and all that laid ahead. Then Mariella
broke the news that had been on her mind in recent days.

“I’m going to relaunch my floristry business,” she said, glowing with

excitement, “but on a smaller scale. When I get a place, one of the bedrooms
will be an office. And in the business model, this time I want to include
regular floral donations to the local maternity ward. For bereaved mothers
and for new mothers. For all mothers.”

Mariella’s hazel eyes sparkled as if they were gold when she spoke about her
plans. She was emblazoned with passion and purpose; it made Jamie fall for
her even more. He was supportive of her plans and couldn’t wait to see her
flourish. That very night, he started to draft an email on Mariella’s behalf to
some of his contacts at the maternity ward of the hospital, while she typed an
email to the flower farm she previously worked with.

“I’m going to grab my phone charger so we can keep at it,” she said softly, as
she slid the sleeping baby into Jamie’s waiting arms.

Mariella took a few steps toward the hallway and fell to the floor.
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Chapter 39

I woke up and tasted blood in my mouth. I looked across to my arm that had
been laid out deliberately. An IV had been placed inside my elbow. I could
hear my heart being monitored and familiar voices.

“…she has been really stressed. I’ve tried to make extra food for her, but I
don’t think she’s eating much.”

“I know, thank you, I think you’re right. Her blood pressure is pretty low
too.”

It was Maple and Jamie. I realised that I was in his surgery; he must have
carried me there. I closed my eyes out of embarrassment, hoping to
disappear. But in the dark of my eyelids I was haunted by memories of being
in hospital. The same beeping machines, the IV…it was all bringing me back
to the last time I was on a bed like that. I had cried, the midwife had cried.
She was perfect. Beautiful. It was just too soon.

“Mariella?”
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I realised that the tears had crept out of my memories and down onto my
cheeks. Maple left to check on Vincent, leaving us alone in the brightly lit
room.

“I’m sorry,” I cried, “I’m so embarrassed. Again.”

Jamie held my hands in his and smiled gently.“You have nothing to be

embarrassed about. I am just worried. But, hey, it was an easy walk next door
so no hard feelings,” he said with a goofy smile.

Jamie noticed I was looking at the IV and told me it was just a precaution in
case I had collapsed from dehydration. He had also added some vitamins into
the fluids and taken blood to examine.

“Breastfeeding for a year is exhausting, even more so when you’re grieving a

child and a marriage,” Jamie said reassuringly, “you probably just need extra
rest and some nutritional tweaks.”

“Thank you doctor,” I smiled, still blushing slightly from making a fool of
myself.

Jamie ordered an assortment of supplements on his computer while I rested

with the fluids for another hour, then we returned next door and went to bed.
It was time to focus on strengthening myself. If I wanted to successfully
return to being a business owner I needed to toughen up. Even more so,
because our court date with Franco was fast approaching. And he hadn’t done
his worst yet.
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Chapter 40

Monday morning, Jamie went into the surgery early and took Mariella’s
blood samples from the fridge. He noted to test for pretty much everything
and put a rush on it for the lab before he sent his receptionist to submit them.
He was a doctor, for Christ sake. He would not lose another love in his life to
something preventable. Jamie intended to make improving Mariella’s health
and wellbeing his personal mission.

He had six patients to get through that morning and then he was meeting
Mariella and Vincent for lunch at home. He couldn’t remember ever feeling
so excited to see anyone as he did with those two. It made inspecting warts
and bandaging eczema bearable. His clientele were mainly elderly during the
week. They all adored him, and many had commented on him having a new
pep in his step lately.

When the clock finally ticked over to 1pm, Jamie rushed out of the embossed
surgery door and into his home. Mariella and Vincent could be heard playing
in the back garden, sniffing at nasturtiums and tickling the grass. A blue and
white China plate was stacked with beef and mustard sandwiches, and a
pitcher sparkled with strawberry punch. The sun was glistening through the
trees and Mariella was smiling in a floral sundress. She had news: Daisy
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Dreams had an office. Barbara had just called and offered her the townhouse,
which she accepted.

“I’ve already started a moodboard for the office space,” she gushed, clearly
buzzing, “I get the keys Friday and I’ll have some furniture delivered that
afternoon!”

Jamie hugged her, enjoying her enthusiasm. Vincent clearly was too, as he
clapped and babbled. But his heart sank a little knowing that Mariella would
be around less. Jamie knew she still intended to be with them a lot during the
week, popping out intermittently for meetings and deliveries, but then she
would be very busy on weekends with her business. It was wonderful, but at
the same time hard to fathom. He knew Maple had his back and would care
for Vincent whenever needed, but thinking of their current dynamic changing
was difficult.

By that evening, Mariella had ordered a suite of office furniture: a desk,

monitor, stationery, a purple boucle office chair, floral art for the walls and a
spring water dispenser for clients to enjoy. The flower farm she had used for
Daisy Dreams were on board and ready for action when she launched. She
reactivated the company social media and started posting content pointing
toward the launch date in just a month’s time. It was all happening. Jamie had
never seen anyone work with such passion and drive.

He hoped the new surge of happiness and excitement would help them
through the coming days of meetings with Claudia and, finally, their day in
court the following week. Jamie knew that Mariella was dreading it but he
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couldn’t wait. He wanted to get it over with, to put the past behind them, and
to move forward together.

After he finished work that evening, Jamie told Mariella to get ready. They
were going to dinner at Bella’s. He had waited long enough. And just as he
had expected, dressed in a forest green silk dress, with a baby on her well
rounded hip, Mariella turned heads when they walked in. Jamie opted for a
table outside on the terrace lit with fairy lights rather than his usual spot and
asked for a bottle of Italian sparkling water with sliced blood orange. He
thought of all the other times he had sat at this restaurant, and for the first
time he felt complete.
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Chapter 41

“I’m sorry, what?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Claudia looked at me as if I were dim and

promptly repeated herself at an increased volume.

“I said, Franco has demanded a 50/50 split of the marital assets and he insists
the copyright of trading name Daisy Dreams remains his property. As
purchased by the Sainti family trust in 2016.”

Claudia flicked her blonde ponytail as her pearlescent green eyeshadow

glimmered. “Not the worst outcome,” she added reassuringly.

“Mariella has just started to relaunch Daisy Dreams. There must be a way
around this?” Jamie frowned.

“Sure, always,” Claudia nodded, “but, again, your lovely husband has
supplied a nice little threat with this claim.”

I braced myself. Jamie knew the truth about Bobo now, so he couldn’t hurt us
with that. But what Franco was blackmailing me with this time would affect
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Jamie much, much more.

“Franco is pushing for the mentioned conditions, due to suing you for
adultery…” Claudia seemed to be stifling a smirk, which seemed fair enough
considering, so Mariella took it gracefully.

“Surely we can prove that Mariella hadn’t even been living with Franco for
months before our relationship began? Mrs G, Maple and Joseph could all
give witness statements. That’s just absurd. Sure, they were legally married,
but I’m sure any judge would consider that scenario at least separated,” Jamie
responded, not as fazed as I thought he might be by the accusation.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Claudia quipped, “this is a prior

alleged…incident. That, it is noted, resulted in an illegitimate pregnancy that
did not last to term.”

Jamie’s expression darkened and he looked at his feet. My cheeks burned and
my breath quickened. The same insane accusation, again and again. It was
like Franco had to hold onto it to free himself from any guilt - or from any
grief. He didn’t need to grieve another man’s child, or feel guilty for the fact
he was never involved in the pregnancy. It was better for him to keep at it.
But I wouldn’t back down this time.

“No,” I said firmly, “the house split is fine, we will sell, but Daisy Dreams is
mine.”

Jamie and Claudia both looked apprehensive, but I was standing my ground.
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There was no way Franco would take the future of my business from me. He
had already taken so much: my youth, over ten years of my life, my sanity,
any joy I could have had in my pregnancy. He wouldn’t take Daisy Dreams
away from me.

“I love a good fight,” Claudia smiled, “but I’ll warn you Mariella, and you
too Jamie, brace yourselves. Jamie’s lawyer has confirmed that they have
concrete evidence that will be supplied in court.”

I had been threatened with this supposed proof since the day of my positive
pregnancy test. I had never been told what it was, much less seen it, but it
simply couldn’t be so.

“What could that possibly be?” Jamie asked, looking ashen.

“Nothing, I guarantee it’s nothing,” I spat back.

“Usually this sort of threat would be backed up with something along the
lines of text messages or emails, CCTV footage, videos or photographs.
Sometimes it’s evidence that the husband had been out of town at the time of
conception, or some sort of document that confirms the marital act could not
have occurred, such as a serious injury or illness,” Claudia was rattling off
her response as she typed away at our counter offer, as if this was child’s play
for her. I was sure that it was.

I thought back to Dr Hendricks’ call. Had he given me a hint? I couldn’t

remember Franco having any injuries in recent years, besides stupid falls
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while intoxicated. Although garnished with some mental eccentricity, he

wasn’t ill. Franco did spend time away to attend art shows interstate semi-
regularly…but why was I even entertaining the idea? Just like during my
pregnancy, Franco was playing some sick mind game and almost convincing
me that I had done something wrong. But I hadn’t. Had I?
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Chapter 42

Jamie put down the last of the boxes of office supplies while Mariella
arranged clay vases of tulips on her desk. Vincent was in the corner, playing
with blocks in a play-pen while his two adults worked hard. It was Friday
evening and the sunset was charcoal and orange outside the window. Cicadas
hummed while Jamie and Mariella sipped on cool water from the new
dispenser.

Jamie was feeling ungrounded. His sweet, darling Mariella had been accused
of conceiving a child outside of her marriage. But what was worse was the
thought that it might be true after she had so vehemently denied it. Jamie
could understand how Mariella might have been led astray, considering how
warm the kindness of strangers must have felt compared to Franco’s manner.
But he wasn’t sure he could get past how firmly she had dismissed it, even to
him.

“If you got together literally by having an affair with her, then she will do the
same to you.”

Camille’s voice was in Jamie’s ear warning him. Taunting him. He wondered
if Claudia was secretly bemused by the whole thing. Jamie being made to
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look like a fool. But maybe he had been all along. What if it had been more
sinister than Mariella feeling neglected and mistreated by her husband?
Perhaps after their first miscarriage Franco had decided against having
children and Mariella couldn’t take no for an answer. Would a woman so
driven to build a family, after her own had disintegrated, use an affair as a
way to conceive while her husband withheld? The thought made Jamie feel
irksome and hot under the collar, so he focused on taking some deep breaths
while Mariella hopped into the play pen to attend to Vincent’s fussing.

Jamie didn’t know how she could be so focused on setting up her business
when even that was at risk of being taken away from her in a mere few days.
He trusted in Claudia’s abilities, but how much could they help if Franco had
solid evidence on his side? Had Mariella even considered that she might be
packing these things back away by next week? He hoped it wouldn’t happen,
but he was consumed by worrying about what ugly truth would be revealed to
them on Monday.

“I’m so excited that you secured a meeting with the maternity ward, Jamie,”
Mariella smiled, caressing his denim jacket while the other hand was busy
holding Vincent, “thank you.”

It was obvious that she could feel the tension bubbling away under the
surface and was trying to redirect the mood. Jamie appreciated the attempt,
but he was a man possessed. In his mind, he had already written to his contact
to cancel the meeting.

“Apologies, Dr Wren, my girlfriend can no longer contribute flowers to your

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patients. She’s lost her business as a result of her adultery.”

“Mari,” he started, “I’m worried about being shocked by what Franco

provides in court on Monday. You really have no idea? At all?”

Mariella’s smile instantly crumpled into a frown, her pillowy lips parted
softly in surprise.

“You seriously think he has evidence? Jamie, you think that I’ve been lying
all this time?” Her voice cracked.

“I’m not saying that. But his lawyer has confirmed they have proper
evidence. How could that be? I’m racking my brain trying to design a
scenario where this works out for us, Mari.”

“Works out for us? So, basically, you’ve already decided we are breaking up
on Monday. Nice.”

The tension thickened; Vincent sensed it, and stopped babbling to quietly
cuddle up to Mariella like a koala.

“I’m not giving up on this family. There probably isn’t much that we couldn’t
get through at this point. But there’s a very real possibility that you will lose
Daisy Dreams. Do you realise that?” Jamie’s voice softened.

“Jamie I have not been lying to you - or to Franco - so what he provides in

court on Monday would have to be entirely shocking to have any impact on
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my future,” Mariella replied, confidently.

But then Monday came and what Franco showed them really did shock
Mariella.
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Chapter 43

Waking up to Vincent’s little fingers stroking my face, I couldn’t quite

believe it was the day I would finally face Franco again. The day my divorce
would be put into motion. Hopefully well into motion instead of continuing to
just hang above me like a mythical creature, waiting to strike.

Knowing that the adultery accusation would be thrown at me, I made a point
to dress demurely. Baby pink satin high waist trousers and a matching
cropped blazer with a buttoned up white shirt underneath. Although my
supply was drying up, I remembered breast pads that day just in case.
Although freaking Franco out with leaking milk would have been quite fun.

It was an early meeting, so Jamie and I drank our coffee in pronounced

silence and skipped breakfast. As we hopped in the car, I wished that he
would smile, joke, laugh - anything. I knew he was terrified of being
embarrassed by whatever Franco produced at the mediation, and I couldn’t
blame him. I was a nervous wreck over it too. I reached over to hold Jamie’s
hand and told myself it would all be over soon.

“All parties are present,” Claudia stated loudly, in a play ball sort of way, as
we all took our seats at a black oval table.
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I was relieved to find it wasn’t a scene out of Judge Judy, and that we were
just sitting at a table with no audience. I sat in between Claudia and Jamie,
while Franco was flanked by his two lawyers as a final power play toward
me. He looked confident, well slept and nonchalant. I tried to not let it worry
me, but it did.

Claudia spoke first, of course, and reminded Franco’s lawyers that we would
accept the 50/50 split of assets but Daisy Dreams would be my business, no
exceptions. Franco smirked.

“Well, we will duly remind your client that she is being sued for adultery. So,
based on that misdemeanour, our terms do not beg for negotiation,” one of
Franco’s lawyers responded. He too appeared uncomfortably cocky and
confident.

Then, he slid a file to Claudia. My palms began to sweat, and I twisted my

fingers beneath the table. I heard Jamie swallow, hard. Claudia didn’t miss a
beat, eagerly flipping open the file like the Sunday paper. After a silent
perusal, she slid it to me.

I read the words and gasped. My mind was racing. It suddenly all made
sense, yet, it didn’t. I felt sick with rage. The sheer deception of it. Not telling
me, his own wife, before doing something that would impact me - us - so
harshly.

“Yes, Mariella,” Franco leaned forward and rested his arms on the table, “I
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had a vasectomy. Mr Hendricks referred me just a few days after the

miscarriage and, as you can see, it was performed.”

I didn’t understand. Firstly, how my husband of so many years could be so

sneaky. I knew he had been scared after our first pregnancy didn’t go to plan,
but he still listened to me describe my hope for a baby and at times indulged
the fantasies I had. All the while knowing what he had done.

But most of all, I didn’t understand how it could be true. Because I knew I
had been faithful to Franco for all of those years. I had been pregnant. I had
been a mother, although so briefly. It had been real. She had been real. But
how?

I looked over to Jamie; he was holding his chin with his hand and looked
utterly defeated. He had been expecting a blow and, sure enough, Franco had
landed one. Again. Claudia slid the file over to him to look over. I could tell
they were both thinking the worst. That they had trusted me and worked hard
to support and protect me. And for what? But then Jamie’s green eyes lifted
and got their sparkle back. He whispered something to Claudia and she
grinned devilishly.

“I’d like to ask my client to confirm the due date of her ill-fated child,” she
said to me, but without breaking eye contact from the other side of the table.

“February 8th,” I responded. I knew it off by heart. I had fantasised about all
the birthdays we should have celebrated on that day. Instead, she had arrived
before Christmas.
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“So, I would speculate that this child was conceived around May the previous
year? Is that ringing any bells, Franco? Any romantic evenings in that lovely
Autumn weather?” Claudia asked, with a smirk.

Franco’s eyes darted to Jamie.“I’m sure there were,” he hissed, “but I’ve
already proven those happenings wouldn’t have been fruitful.”

Jamie smiled then, and I wondered what on earth they were getting at. I
hoped and wished they knew what they were doing; that they weren’t
prodding the bear for nothing.

“Franco, I think you possibly have a strong case here,” Claudia nodded, “I’m
just sorry it is not with my client. I would suggest you redirect your dogs to
attack elsewhere.” She glanced at the document. “Specifically, Dr Highland.
Clearly, he has sold you on the effect of your surgery, while neglecting to tell
you when it would be effective. I have a medical professional sitting beside
me right now who has confirmed that you should have been using
contraceptives for weeks after the procedure. And been given follow up
testing. I would suggest that this is quite common knowledge that maybe a
Google search could have even helped with. But instead you’ve carelessly
hopped into bed barely healed. And guess what? Conceived a child.”

Absolution filled my body and my grieving heart. I watched as Franco’s face

paled, realising the truth. He had denied his own child. He had tortured his
wife. I watched the grief creep into his eyes, finally. Finally. And I didn’t
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look away. I soaked it up and something within me finally felt closure. For
this doomed marriage, and for my lost little baby. It was finally over.
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Chapter 44

Walking out of the sterile air conditioned law rooms that day, the warm
sunshine felt electric on their skin. Jamie was buzzing with relief and pulled
Mariella into an embrace, letting their kiss linger long enough that Claudia
whispered a “ciao” and strutted off on her way. They both couldn’t wipe the
smiles off their faces. It was pure bliss. It was finally behind them, once and
for all.

Since Franco and Mariella had already lived separately for close to a year,
their divorce would be finalised within the month. Mariella and Jamie could
be together properly, as a family, with their little Vincent. More than that, the
torture she had felt over Franco’s accusations finally dissolved. He had been
the one in the wrong, in so many ways. It was Franco’s turn to feel the loss
and the suffering that she had carried all alone.

Joyously, Daisy Dreams was safely Mariella’s, signed over by Franco’s

quivering hand along with 50% of their assets. When they arrived home,
Jamie happily phoned the ward to confirm their meeting for the next day.
Then Mariella interrupted for a moment.

“Please tell them the business will be renamed Garden of Eden.”

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She started dreaming of the designs she would bring to the hospital for the
mothers. Maple popped a bottle of champagne while Mrs G beamed with
delight and Joseph gifted Mariella roses from the garden. Vincent clapped
and laughed as glasses clinked and everyone merrily cheered.

Jamie kissed Mariella, and it felt different than ever before. He did it in front
of everyone, and with his whole heart, with all his trust.

“I love you. I’m so happy.” Mariella cried.

“I love you, Mari,” Jamie grinned, “I just have to make another phone call
and then we’re off to Bella’s to celebrate”.

Jamie left the room as Vincent reached up for Mariella.

“Mama.”
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Chapter 45

We walked into the maternity ward hand-in-hand, both cradling in our arms
abundant bouquets of chamomile, irises, spray roses and jonquils. We still
couldn’t wipe the smiles off our faces, and probably looked like a pair of
giddy teenagers. But when Jamie spotted his old colleague, I tried my best to
embody a serious businesswoman manner.

“Great to meet you, Mariella! Please, both of you, come straight through.”

I wasn’t sure what was happening, as I had imagined we would drop off the
bouquet samples and some business cards then they’d politely promise to get
in touch. But Jamie had planned more than that for me. Much more.

We walked through four sets of automated hospital doors to a large room

with glass windows overlooking the river. It was bursting at the seams full of
women; some pregnant, some cradling their newborn babies. Some had
empty arms, and an empathetic look on their faces. I recognised those women
the most.

As we walked in, everyone clapped and cheered. There were floral balloons
and a three-tier vanilla cake covered in little smiling daisies. I gasped and
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teared up. We placed the bouquets in two awaiting large crystal vases and I
grabbed Jamie by the arm with both hands, nervous but thrilled. He led me
over to a small podium, clearly not surprised by any of this in the slightest.

“Hello, patients and staff, thank you for coming this morning. When Mariella
told me she wanted to relaunch her business, with a focus on regularly
donating flowers to the maternity ward, I was thrilled. It was a way for our
two worlds to collide to help mothers of all stages. I’m so proud to be here
today supporting you, Mariella.” Jamie beamed, stepping aside and
motioning for me to stand before the microphone.

“Ah!” I smiled, “I don’t know what to say. This is so wonderful and

unexpected. Thank you to Jamie for organising this, and to the ward for
having us! I couldn’t have imagined this, not in my wildest dreams,” I wiped
a tear away before continuing, “the last time I was here was a very different
occasion. It was the day I delivered my daughter, Eden. But I didn’t get to
take her home. Leaving this hospital, over a year ago now, empty handed…I
just wish I could tell myself that it would never be okay, but in time, things
could feel good again. I mean, look at this. I am so happy. And I just wish
you all happiness too. It will come. And when it does, please let it come.”

The room burst into applause. As I looked around, I saw many women were
crying for me, many with me. It was overwhelming.

We stayed a while and mingled. I cuddled newborn babies and ate two slices
of the vanilla cake. When it was time to leave, Jamie and I handed out single
blooms from our sample bouquets to all the mothers. My heart was full, but
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the surprises weren’t over. After we said our goodbyes, Jamie led me down
another hallway and into a small dark room. I hadn’t been in this particular
room before, but I had been in many rooms like it. It was a sonography room.
But there was no technician, just us.

“Did I tell you that before I became a GP, I trained in sonography?” Jamie
asked, switching on the machine.

I didn’t understand, and I felt slightly queasy with confusion. I didn’t have
the best memories in these rooms. My first early loss was confirmed in a
similar space, and concerns of Eden’s health not long before she arrived were
raised there too. What on earth was Jamie playing at?

He held my hands gently and smiled. “I know this is going to be scary for
you. I promise it is for me too.”

“Cut it out, Jamie, what is going on?” I asked.

“That blood test. I ticked to check for basically everything, just to be careful.
Deficiencies, illnesses…pregnancy.”

My heart was thumping in my chest. It couldn’t be.

“Mari, we are having a baby.” Jamie smiled with tears brimming in his
beautiful eyes.

My heart was throbbing. I could barely speak. I just laughed and cried while I
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laid back on the chair and Jamie scanned our baby. Our baby.

My voice cracked as I asked the question: “Jamie, does it look viable?”

“More than viable. Perfect.”

He hugged me so close that I could feel his heart thumping along with mine.
While we listened to our baby’s heart thump along too.
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Chapter 46

Just as Mariella expected, Vincent grew and grew. He didn’t have time for
nursing anymore, as he cheekily ran around the Garden of Eden office. But
he did still need his Mama. The business had expanded quickly; which was
lucky, as Mariella had a spare townhouse with three bedrooms to fill. Vada
and Harriett were very happy with their quaint little offices and even more
thrilled with Vinnie, their new little colleague. Mariella personally delivered
floral donations to the maternity ward weekly. The hospital had been taken
over by happy memories now. With her flowers, the love of her life and her
baby.

Rocking slightly on her office chair, Mariella glanced down at the little baby
on her breast. Dozing off happily, unaware of all the grief that her Mama had
endured before she arrived. But Mariella wouldn’t forget; she would always
carry it with her. No longer as a burden on her mind, but as a blessing on her
heart. However brief. And if she ever did forget, even for a moment, she just
needed to admire the engraved gold bangle from Jamie on her left wrist.
Eden - Vincent - Goldie