Page 13 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

Not Home Alone

It is a little after eleven when I stumble home. It’s not exactly the wee small hours but it is the latest I’ve been out in a very long time.

The porch light is off, which makes finding my keys even more difficult than it should be, the copious bottles of Bin Ends notwithstanding.

When I finally fish them out from some long-forgotten pocket of my bag, I juggle then fumble them.

I end up on my hands and knees, playing blind man’s bluff with the pot plants and the door mat.

It is a good ten minutes before I manage to open the front door and tumble inside.

And straight away, I am struck by a sound I am not expecting: snoring.

I peer around the bedroom door. A large shape slowly emerges from beneath the doona.

‘What the hell, Eva? I was asleep.’

‘I thought you had a meeting tonight?’

‘It was moved to tomorrow. Where have you been?’

‘When you said you weren’t going to be home, I arranged to catch up with Katie and Rachael.’

He snorts disdainfully. ‘Try to be a bit quieter, would you?’ Each word lands as a rebuke. ‘You might have been out drinking and having fun but I have an early session at the gym tomorrow.’

And with that, he turns his body to the opposite wall and sinks back under the covers. The snoring starts up again almost immediately.

It is not exactly the warmest of greetings and I feel guilty for disturbing him, as he intended.

But I am also overjoyed. Jonathan is here.

He is not in some hotel room with a woman hell bent on tearing my life apart.

He is at home in bed. Our bed. He is not having an affair. So, fuck you, Ernest Friend.

I am sufficiently drunk that I want to share the news immediately with the person who sent my life into free fall in the first place. I tiptoe into the office. For once, Ernest is online at a convenient time. I give his user icon the middle finger. It’s a childish gesture but also very satisfying.

Eva Moore I see you’re lurking around again, eager to spread misery and disinformation.

Ernest Friend Well, hello to you too, Eva. I was wondering when we would next virtually meet. So what have you been doing? A little digging around, I hope?

Eva Moore No digging around required. My husband arrived home early this evening after his business meeting was cancelled. That doesn’t sound like a man in the midst of a torrid affair to me. I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not playing anymore.

Ernest Friend You are easily convinced, aren’t you, Eva?

So, his girlfriend blew him off tonight.

Literally and figuratively, at a guess. Maybe you should think about black lighting the leather upholstery in that Mercedes of his.

Just a suggestion. I bet the meeting gets shifted to another evening sometime very, very soon.

Eva Moore I’m not biting, Ernest, or whatever your name is. You’re just some nasty little troll, probably sitting in your mother’s basement, trying to ruin other people’s lives because you don’t have a life of your own. I’m not wasting another moment of my time on you.

I give the enter key an emphatic whack. On all available evidence, my husband is not having an affair. And I will not continue to engage with a person whose life’s purpose seems to be spreading gossip and stirring up trouble just for the heck of it.

I hit the block button before I can chicken out. I am angry. Really, really angry. And it feels good. Like I’ve loosened a zipper that was way too tight.

I am also done with all the self-doubt and self-sabotage.

It is time to whip myself into shape, both physically and emotionally.

I need to rediscover my mojo. The entries in my old journal have reminded me of who I was and who I wanted to be, and that is all the motivation I need.

As I reach up to return the tattered old book to its place at the very back of the highest shelf in the room, a mishmash of loose papers escapes from its pages and flutters onto my desk. The detritus of another long ago life.

I thumb through the letters and notes and receipts, curious as to what I had thought worthy of preserving. It’s a strange mix, a time capsule of missed opportunities and bad choices. And a reminder of how I ended up married and pregnant a decade ahead of plan.

From the journals and miscellaneous paperwork of Eva Reddy (Age 23–24)

Amberly House

Reception and Convention Centre

7 March 1996

Dear Mr Moore and Miss Reddy,

Thank you for your inquiry about our reception centre and congratulations on your engagement. Our location on Sydney Harbour is the perfect place to launch your married life.

We have spaces that cater for as few as 36 and as many as 300 guests, so, whatever the size of your wedding, we will be able to create an evening you will remember forever. We also have a number of different food and drink packages. I have enclosed a brochure with this letter.

You suggested a 1997 spring wedding. We are already receiving inquiries around these dates, so don’t hesitate to book if you decide Amberly House is the right venue for you. We charge a booking fee of $1000.

While you seem to have settled on a long engagement, I would like to let you know that we have just received a cancellation for Saturday, September 7th, this year. This is the very start of spring and one of the most popular dates on our wedding calendar.

If you want to take advantage of this unexpected opportunity, please call me as soon as possible. We are offering a 5% discount on the total cost of your reception, if you choose to book this date.

Again, thank you for your interest and we look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

The Events Team

Amberley House

September 6th, 1996

I can’t put it off any longer. I need to write my speech for our wedding reception. And I need to make it sound joyful even though all I want to do is throw up. And I’ve been doing a lot of throwing up lately. But as they say, ‘Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.’

And wow have my plans changed.

Wedding speech—final draft.

Hello everyone.

My husband Jonathan and I (pause for clapping) would like to thank you all so much for being here, especially those of you who have come a fair distance on what has been very short notice—by wedding standards, anyway.

We are both so grateful to be sharing our special day with our family and with our many friends old and new.

Over the past few weeks, a few people have asked me if I plan to take my husband’s name.

The answer is an emphatic yes. Several years ago, when I was sixteen, my mother started calling me Bunny.

I hate the name, but that hasn’t deterred her.

For those who haven’t figured it out, Eva Reddy is phonetically the same as Eveready—the battery that powers the Energizer Bunny, which, as the slogan says, keeps going and going and going.

The link between the battery and the bunny is tenuous at best. But for some reason, my mother thinks this is the perfect nickname for me.

(Pause for light laughter.)

I’m not sure whether being called Bunny is a compliment or a criticism.

Am I tenacious or tedious? Whatever the truth—and I don’t think I want to know—I prefer a name that is less open to interpretation and more suitable to a grown adult.

So, I am no longer Eva Reddy. I am now Eva Moore, which has a far more beautiful phonetic match.

I will be Eva Moore— evermore —forevermore.

With that in mind. I would like to beg my mother to stop calling me Bunny.

(Pause for expected interjection from my mother. Note—remind Dad to monitor her alcohol intake before dinner.)

Up until a month ago, the purpose of this speech was to recognise everyone here and the part you have played in our lives and I still want to do that.

Thank you to my parents, to Jonathan’s parents, to our extended family and friends.

Thank you to everyone who has helped get Jonathan and me to this moment, especially Rachael and Katie, my best friends, my always reliable sounding boards, greatest supports—and critics.

But there is someone else I need to acknowledge. I want to dedicate my speech and this whole day to this one special person. You don’t know him—or her. I scarcely know them. I haven’t met them yet, but they are the most important guest here tonight.

(Dramatic pause.)

Jonathan and I are over the moon to announce that we are expecting our first child in just under thirty weeks’ time.

You’ll excuse me if I toast with sparkling water rather than champagne.

(Raise glass.)

To our tiniest guest. To our first child. To love forevermore.

(Raise glass to thunderous applause.)

I guess everyone will be surprised, but nowhere near as surprised as I was when two lines showed up on my pregnancy test. I’d wanted to take a break from the pill before we got married.

I thought it might help me lose a few kilos; my most recent crash diet certainly wasn’t doing the trick.

And Jonathan was adamant that he had the self-control to withdraw at the right moment.

Attempt one. Strike one. He said I should be flattered that he loved me too much to stop.

But shouldn’t a former athlete have better body control?

Anyway, here we are. No point assigning blame. It is as it is.

I’m just going to have to work out a way to have a baby and a career. Is that too much to ask?