Page 5 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Unless Ernest Friend makes contact again, there is nothing much I can do until Jonathan gets home. Not that I have any inkling what I’m going to say to him. ‘Oh, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Are you having an affair by any chance?’

Still, I have several hours to come up with a better strategy.

The rain is continuing to bucket down, so I can’t ponder on the beach or go for a walk in the park. And I certainly don’t want to spend the day sitting and staring at the four walls of my bedroom. If I’m stuck inside my house and my head, I may as well do something useful.

I march to the laundry cupboard and pull out every broom, bucket and cleaning product I can find.

Cleaning isn’t something I necessarily enjoy, but it is repetitive and mind-numbing while also delivering a result.

Much like watching motor sport but without quite so much noise.

I do some of my best thinking wielding a vacuum cleaner.

I scour and sweep and disinfect and dust with the frenzied zeal of a Stepford wife on an Adderall high. When I finally finish several hours later, the house is gleaming like the set of a life insurance commercial.

I pour myself a finger of whisky and survey my handiwork. If only you could solve life’s problems the way you cleaned a home. Dirty laundry? Wash it. Sticky mess? Mop it up. Marriage lost its shine? Get out the Mr Sheen.

I give my drink a little swirl. The ice clinks soothingly.

I’ve developed an unexpected taste for $200 a bottle scotch.

Or perhaps I’ve developed a taste for plundering my husband’s special occasion liquor cabinet.

Depending on how the evening goes, I’ll move on to his vintage cognac collection.

But for the moment, a single nip to calm my nerves is as much as I dare.

The house is silent but for the sound of the carriage clock on the mantle, ticking off the seconds before Jonathan arrives home.

On the opposite wall, framed photographs showcase my supposedly perfect life.

There is the obligatory wedding shot. What had made me think that a perm the week before the ceremony was a good idea?

But there is Jonathan gazing at me as if I am Elle Macpherson, the Virgin Mary and Jessica Rabbit all rolled into one dazzling white meringue-and-lace package.

Then come the photos with Emily. The baby pictures.

The gap-toothed school portraits. The holidays.

Graduation. And always the beaming parents by her side.

Wall-to-wall smiles. We were so happy. Or appeared to be.

Looking at the photographs now, dispassionately and with a measure of distrust, our expressions aren’t so much joyful as complacent.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I pick up the TV remote and idly flick through the hundreds of shows that I have no interest in watching. Divorce Court. My 600-Pound Life. Married at First Sight. Cheaters . The television is mocking me.

Mercifully, my mobile begins blaring ‘Dancing Queen’ just as I am contemplating my movie choices. Fatal Attraction is playing on the classics channel. Of course it is.

I pick up the call, grateful for the distraction. A chat with my best work buddy Katie is a much more attractive option than torture by television.

‘Hey, Katie.’ Miracle of miracles, I sound normal and not at all like a neurotic and spiralling clean freak who is maybe minutes away from finding out that her marriage is a humiliating sham.

‘Oh my God, Eva. I would have called earlier to wish you a happy birthday but when you weren’t at work, I presumed you were sick. Now I know it’s so much worse than that! Are you okay?’

What on earth? How does Katie know about my husband’s philandering? Alleged philandering, I remind myself. Was Ernest Friend trolling my friends as well?

‘How did you find out?’

There is a puzzled silence at the other end of the phone.

Then I realise—Katie is at the office. She is talking about the company’s latest round of job cuts. Katie doesn’t know that my marriage is on the brink. I’ve been so focused on Ernest Friend’s bombshell that I have completely forgotten that I am now unemployed.

Katie tries again.

‘You weren’t at your desk. That tipped me off. I was kind of hoping you’d come down with Covid or something. I mean that in a loving way. But the wunderkind made it all official twenty minutes ago.’

‘Dominic Malouf announced to the entire office that he had fired me?’

‘Well, it’s not just you and he didn’t put it quite like that. He said the company was “re-struct-ur-ing”.’ I picture Katie using air quotes and rolling her eyes as she carefully enunciates each syllable.

‘We lost eight people. And get this. Every single one of them was a woman over forty. I guess it’s just lucky that I’m dating the son of the chairman. Although it means I’m now stuck with the bloke until Dominic fails upward again.’

It’s a hideous thought. Katie’s latest beau has loads of money but little by way of a chin or charm. Given the choice, I’d opt for unemployment. Not that I have a choice.

‘But that’s a problem for another day,’ Katie hurries on as if reading my mind. ‘I’ll be fine. How are you coping?’

I search for a response that fairly reflects my current feelings. ‘I’m not letting it get to me.’

That is true enough. Losing my job really hasn’t bothered me at all, given that I am on the verge of losing a great deal more.

‘But it’s not fair. You deserve so much better than getting shafted by Dominic Dumbfuck Malouf. I mean, the bloke has the brains, body mass and ethical compass of an Alaskan oil spill.’

‘And I’m just the poor old polar bear floating away on a slick black ice drift.’

‘Actually, you’re more like one of those wide-eyed baby fur seals about to get clubbed to death.

But that’s one of the reasons we’ve been friends for so long—you’re a sweetheart.

I do wish you’d channel your inner arctic bear and grow some claws, though.

Of course, I’ve been saying that for twenty years now. ’

Many more than twenty actually. Katie and I started at the television station together in the early nineties.

We’d both been young back then, and ambitious.

The difference is that Katie is now a moderately successful lifestyle reporter and I anchor the research team.

Was anchoring the research team, I remind myself.

I always put our different career trajectories down to marriage, child rearing and general lack of talent.

Katie maintains that it isn’t the fact that I am married that has stalled my career—it is the fact I am married to Jonathan.

The way Katie sees it, I always put Jonathan’s career first, so mine has never had the chance to get off the ground.

‘You’re the smartest of all of us and an amazing writer. Yet you’ve been stuck behind that stupid desk for years and now they’re getting rid of you? I am so angry.’

‘Thanks for the support, but I’m fine, really. Maybe this is the kick in the butt I need to make some changes. It’s not like I actually enjoyed the job. I’ve just been going through the motions each day.’

The kick in the butt I need? Going through the motions? Maybe that is true of my marriage as well.

I push the thought away and refocus the conversation on our common foe, the wunderkind.

‘What I can’t get over is that he sacked me over the phone.’

‘The bloke is an unqualified, upward-managing coward. There’s another “c” word I could use but I have way too much respect for my lady bits. What did Jonathan say? He’s a lawyer. Maybe you can sue or something?’

I tighten my grip on my glass. ‘I haven’t told Jonathan yet.’

‘You haven’t told Jonathan! What do you mean you haven’t told Jonathan?’ Katie’s voice is shrill and fast becoming uncomfortably loud. I move the mobile away from my ear. ‘He’s a lawyer, for crying out loud. This is his chance to finally make a positive contribution to your career.’

‘I thought I’d tell him when he got home tonight. I couldn’t see any point in worrying him while he was at work.’

‘Eva, this is exactly the kind of thing your husband should worry about.’ Katie stops, as if reminding herself that she called to offer support and not to harangue me about the power imbalance in my marriage.

‘How about drinks tomorrow night? We’re overdue a boozy catch-up and it is your birthday after all.

You can fill me in on what Jonathan has to say. ’

I start to mumble my usual excuse about needing to have dinner ready before remembering that I might only be cooking for one.

‘Can I let you know?’

‘Really? You’ll actually think about it? This is brilliant. I’ll get back to you with a time and place.’

Katie ends the call before I can make it clear that I have not committed to anything. But that problem can wait until tomorrow. First, I need to get through tonight.

I drain my glass and place it carefully in the dishwasher.

A pot of stroganoff simmers on top of the stove.

I give it a half-hearted stir and add a pinch more salt.

Everything is ready and in its place for Jonathan’s arrival, as it was last night and almost every other night for the past twenty-five years.

The table is set. The ninety-second rice is ready to go into the microwave.

The bench top is wiped down. There is nothing to do but wait.

And wait.

The minutes drag on. What is the time? I glance at the clock above the fridge.

Just after eight o’clock. Jonathan should have been home more than an hour ago.

I’m not sure if I’m thankful for the temporary reprieve or annoyed that he is running so late.

I am certainly suspicious. Every instinct tells me that he isn’t at his desk, calculating billing hours.