Chapter 36

chapter thirty-six

Last October

Do a reverse image search, suggested the internet when Brooke asked how one would go about doing a background search on a suspicious person staying with one’s parents. It’s easy!

Not if I don’t have a photo of her,Brooke told the internet. She locked her hands together and raised them high above her head.

She was sitting at her desktop computer in her study at home, except it felt like she was sitting in Grant’s study at Grant’s computer in Grant’s home. It had technically been a shared study, but Brooke had been the one who always worked on her laptop at the dining room table, as if Grant’s career was the one that mattered. It had felt more important, although she didn’t know why Grant’s work as a geologist in a government ‘geoscience’ department should be more important than hers as a physiotherapist.

Why was she thinking this? Grant had never once implied that his work was more important than hers. He also had bad posture so he needed the chair with better lumbar support. That was absolutely her choice. She’d insisted on it, in fact.

Her marriage had been an equal modern partnership: nothing like her parents’ lopsided, old-fashioned marriage. It had been a shock to hear her mother say she hated cooking. No wonder Joy thought Grant was so wonderful. Grant was a great cook. They had never had a single argument over who did what around the house. It just wasn’t an issue for them. Everything was split so fairly.

Brooke was nothing like her mother. Nothing.

She readjusted the chair to suit herself. It was a good chair. Grant’s lower back probably missed it.

She turned up the volume on Taylor Swift to inspire her. She loved Taylor Swift. Grant said she couldn’t possibly love Taylor because she wasn’t thirteen, but she did so love her. It was kind of a relief not to have to sit and listen to the latest album from an alternative rock band Grant had discovered. You had to listen to the full album in the correct order because that was what the artist intended. Brooke just liked to listen to her favourite song on repeat.

Brooke had Googled Savannah weeks ago, as soon as she got her full name. Initially her mother said she didn’t know it. ‘I didn’t ask! Why would I ask?’ Yes, indeed. Why would you ask for the full name of the person who has moved into your home? And then her mother said her name was Savannah Polanski, ‘just like that dreadful film director’, and nothing had come up for Savannah Polanski except an obituary, and then, days later, ‘Oh, actually I got that wrong, it’s not Polanski, it’s Pagonis.’ Brooke had Googled again, and still nothing turned up except for a three-star review of a sushi restaurant in Byron Bay.

Now she stared with blank frustration at the computer screen. She was used to the internet providing all the answers she needed.

Wait, Brooke did have a photo of Savannah.

Her mother had texted her a photo of them on their shopping trip: a selfie of the two of them looking radiantly happy wearing new dresses, tags dangling, in a change room. The photo was in focus so Savannah must have been the one to take it and hold the phone steady. Apparently they’d spent six hours at the shopping centre! They stayed so long they would have had to have paid extra for parking if Savannah hadn’t discovered some extraordinary loophole regarding parking validation, which saved them seven dollars! They had apple crumble! It wasn’t bad!

Brooke had been irritated by the photo and the shopping expedition.

Now she found the photo on her phone, cropped out Savannah’s face and did her first reverse image search.

The internet said, That’s not Savannah Pagonis, that’s Savannah Smith.

Two years ago, ‘Savannah Smith’ had been photographed at the bookstore launch of a celebrity chef’s new recipe book. It was definitely Savannah, although her style had changed dramatically. Her hair was longer and curlier then and she wore bright red lipstick and big earrings.

But what did that tell Brooke? That Savannah once had a different surname and hairstyle? A former marriage? It was hardly shocking that Savannah had been at the launch of a recipe book.

Brooke sighed. She shouldn’t be disappointed. She didn’t want to find out that her parents were living with a serial con artist, did she? Maybe she did. Maybe she was hoping for an excuse to drive over there and yell at Savannah, You stop being so nice to my parents!

She looked at the time. She kept forgetting that her friend Ines would be turning up soon. Word had recently got out about the separation (not thanks to her, she’d told no-one except her family) and people had begun to message Brooke their condolences, as if Grant had died. Ines’s text had been brief. Just heard. I’ll come over tonight.

Brooke texted back, I might have plans!

Ines texted, No you don’t.

Well. It was true. Her only plan had been to investigate Savannah and write an article, Ten Tips for Back Pain, in the hope that she could get it placed on a women’s health website. She was trying to ‘build her profile’. She also needed to do a new ‘engaging’ post on Instagram.

She kept Googling ‘Savannah Smith’, trawling through multiple wrong Savannah Smiths across the world until she stopped on a grainy black and white image from a newspaper article dated fifteen years earlier. The headline read: ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD SAVANNAH DANCES INTO A BRIGHT FUTURE!

It was only a very short one-paragraph story from a local newspaper in Adelaide about how Savannah Smith had won first place in the biggest ballet competition in the region and how it was a great thrill for the quiet, shy, talented little girl because it was her dream to one day dance professionally.

The photo on Brooke’s screen showed a little girl in a tutu, up on her toes, arms above her head in that classic ballerina pose. A very skinny, almost skeletal, intense, serious-looking little girl with her hair pulled so tightly back from her head in a bun that it looked painful. Her elf-like ears stuck out. She didn’t have the right ears for a ballet dancer.

Years ago there had been similarly hyperbolic newspaper stories about the future tennis careers of Brooke and all three of her siblings. It happened all the time. Talented kids turned into ordinary grown-ups: butterflies became moths.

Apparently her dad had a project underway where he was carefully laminating every single one of their ancient press clippings for posterity, which made Brooke feel melancholy. What a monumental waste of time.

Something about the photo tugged irritably at Brooke’s memory. The little girl reminded her of someone or something in the past. Something to do with a migraine, her vision blurring, the smell of fresh-cut grass, someone shouting.

The doorbell rang and she jumped, startled out of her reverie.

Ines arrived with a bottle of champagne and an overloaded recycled shopping bag looped over one shoulder.

‘Too heavy!’ said Brooke as she swiftly removed it and led Ines to the kitchen, suddenly filled with affection for her old friend. She hadn’t forgotten her friends but it did strangely feel as though she was just now remembering them.

‘Love the overalls,’ said Ines, indicating Brooke’s blue denim overalls, which she’d pulled out from the back of a drawer on a whim. ‘Very retro.’

‘They’re comfortable,’ said Brooke. ‘Grant said they made me look like a zookeeper.’

They opened the champagne and Brooke filled her in on everything Savannah. ‘She’s been doing all the cooking for them.’

‘What a lowlife.’ Ines handed her a fizzing glass of champagne.

Brooke giggled, and then stopped abruptly, because she realised how the sound and feel of that voluptuous giggle was both familiar and unfamiliar, like something she’d thought she’d packed away forever along with her old schoolbooks and uniform. This had been happening more and more as the weeks went by and Grant’s presence became fainter. Brooke was discovering old habits, old clothes, old music and now, her old laugh. It was absurd to think she hadn’t laughed in ten years. She certainly had laughed because Grant was funny. So funny. He was proud of his wit. It was important to him that he be recognised as ‘the funny one’ in their relationship.

Ines said suddenly, ‘It’s really nice to see you.’

‘I know, I’ve been so busy with the clinic –’

Ines interrupted, ‘I meant it’s nice to see you without Grant.’

‘What do you mean? You liked Grant, didn’t you? Everyone liked Grant!’ Brooke looked at the bottle of champagne. ‘Wait, is this champagne celebratory?’

‘I didn’t dislike him,’ said Ines. ‘He’s one of those people you feel like you should like . . .’ She paused. ‘It just always felt like you were concentrating.’

‘Concentrating?’

‘Like you were very aware of him.’

‘Isn’t that just being a good partner? Being aware of the other person?’

‘Sure. But it seemed like it only went one way. I never felt like he was concentrating on you. It was like he was the CEO and you were his devoted assistant.’

‘No,’ said Brooke. She was a strong, smart, educated woman who had no problem with flat tyres, spiders, light globes, overcharging mechanics or tough-talking real estate agents. She was deeply offended. ‘That’s not true. That is absolutely not true.’

‘I’m sure it’s not,’ said Ines steadily. ‘What would I know?’

They silently drank their champagne.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ines. ‘That was a stupid thing to say. Look, I’ll show you what I bought.’ She heaved up the grocery bag onto the counter. ‘I got mood-boosting foods. Salmon. Bananas. I seem to remember you were always eating bananas at school.’

‘I did love bananas,’ said Brooke. ‘But then one doctor told me to cut them out in case they were triggering my migraines so I stopped eating them.’

She took the bunch of bright yellow bananas from Ines. ‘Sugar bananas,’ she said vaguely as a memory from childhood materialised, the image becoming slowly clearer, like a developing photo.

She was in her winter school uniform, dropping her schoolbag on the back veranda and running to rescue a tennis ball from the mouth of their extremely naughty black labrador. When she came back to retrieve her bag, a strange kid was on the back veranda, which was nothing new. There were always strange kids in their backyard, stealing their parents’ attention, except this one was rifling through Brooke’s bag, helping herself to a banana: an unbruised sugar banana Brooke had run out of time to eat at school, but one she still had every intention of eating, and there were flashing lights in Brooke’s eyes that she didn’t yet understand, but every time she told her mother about them, she was too busy to listen, too busy with other kids like this one, and how dare this stupid strange kid go through Brooke’s bag and steal her banana? Brooke felt enraged, violated, sick to the stomach.

She’d yelled, ‘Hey! You! Put it down! That’s my bag! That’s my banana!’

Brooke had never been a yeller. She was more of a sulker. It had been almost exciting to know she had the ability to yell as loudly as that, with righteous fury. The little girl looked up. Hair pulled back so tightly off her forehead her eyes were pulled into cat’s eyes. Elfin ears. Resentful face. She’d dropped the banana. Run away.

That’s why Brooke had recognised that little girl’s face in the article. She’d met Savannah as a child. It was no coincidence that she’d turned up at her family home: she’d been there before.