Page 10 of What Did I Miss?

Speaking of bad dates, Makayla’s ex-mother-in-law has summoned her to brunch. It’s definitely code for ‘bitch session about Warren’s girlfriend’.

The mid-morning sun glares through the cafe’s arch windows as Makayla waits.

Would it be rude to pre-order their coffees?

It’d certainly help get this catch-up over and done with quickly, which is precisely her plan.

In twenty minutes, she’ll run off to a fake specialist’s appointment.

Trish is far too proper to ask for details.

Makayla re-reads their text chain. They’re supposed to meet at ten thirty, and it’s not like Trish to be late. She expected to find her flitting between tables, catching up with the other posh widows of Goldbrooke.

Among the sea of cream linen dresses, Makayla sticks out like a sore thumb in her all-black ensemble.

Her leather jacket earns her the label of ‘bikie gang member’ among the biddies, who are terrible whisperers.

That’s one reason she never comes here. It also has something to do with the way this suburban establishment thinks it can charge city prices just because they’ve slapped on a fresh coat of white paint and replaced the mismatched chairs with sleek timber ones. Nine bucks for a coffee? Rip-off!

The door jingles like a Christmas song as Trish hobbles in on crutches.

‘What happened?’ Makayla helps her to their table.

Before speaking a word, Trish reapplies her matte Estée Lauder lipstick without a mirror. She rubs her lips together and puckers twice. ‘I got carried away at dance class and twisted my ankle. The foxtrot isn’t as easy as it looks.’

Since when does Trish go ballroom dancing? And with whom?

‘I’m okay, love.’ Perusing the menu, which she already knows by heart, Trish deftly blocks any follow-up questions. ‘I wouldn’t let a little accident get in the way of seeing my favourite daughter-in-law.’ Only daughter-in-law. ‘Order whatever you like. My treat.’

There’s no way Makayla can sip and dash now. The poor lady has dressed herself to the nines – pearl earrings and all – and carted herself here despite her injury. It’d be cruel, not to mention bad manners, to let her dine alone.

Makayla stops ignoring her stomach, which grumbles each time a plate of overpriced smashed avocado comes out, and orders her go-to breakfast meal – egg and bacon roll with a slather of mayo, barbecue sauce and sweet mustard.

Trish and the mousy-blonde server raise their eyebrows simultaneously. Neither comment.

They make polite chit-chat until Trish pops an artificial sweetener tablet (smuggled in via her purse) into her skinny cappuccino. And then, as expected, she goes to town on Warren’s new partner, or ‘The Fling’, as Trish calls her.

‘What kind of name is Diamond? Sounds like a stripper if you ask me. She looks like one too. You should see her. Fake hair, fake nails, fake everything.’ Trish’s cheeks redden as she works herself into a tizz.

Makayla sips her scalding long black to give her hands something to do.

Diamond’s a bartender at the Goldbrooke Cricket Club, Trish tells her.

Anger creeps in, sitting heavy across her chest. Not the jealous kind – it’s more a reflexive response to the cricket club.

Warren used to spend more time there than at home.

The place holds a lot of bad memories for her.

Three bites in, Makayla pushes her food away, appetite gone.

Why can’t she have Trish in her life without being dragged into Warren’s?

Whatever issue Trish has with Diamond, it’s her problem.

After today, Makayla’s going to stay as far away from all their drama as possible. It’s the only way to move on.

‘I’d like to speak to you about my birthday,’ Trish says suddenly, eyes twinkling.

They have a long-standing tradition to celebrate with a lavish high tea at the heritage estate, Cloverhill Manor, before scooting off to a day spa.

Although she hates being touched by strangers, Makayla sucks it up for Trish.

All the woman ever wanted was a daughter; instead she got lumped with a son like Warren.

‘When I went over to Warren’s for dinner, he mentioned our ladies’ day and suggested Diamond join me.

Can you believe it? He had the audacity to suggest she and I go.

I should’ve known they’d ambush me. It was probably her idea.

He says I need to make room in my life for his partner.

Partner? I give it a month … no, a week, tops!

My boy is clearly trying to make you jealous.

Don’t worry, petal, I called him the next day and said, “Enough of that nonsense. Either Makayla is invited or we cancel the whole thing.” He said, “Fine, Ma.” You know how he is.

Oh, Makayla, I can’t think of anything worse than spending my birthday with her.

I know it’s a lot to ask, but you’ll still come, won’t you? ’

Makayla doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry or fake her own death. Trish can’t be serious. It’s time to be firm with her once and for all.

‘Trish—’

‘Who knows how many birthdays I have left? I’m so fragile, even a little dancing brings me undone.’ Trish slides out her bandaged ankle to prove her point.

Oh, she’s good.

Although Makayla can see straight through the guilt trip, it’s still working.

Besides, when Quinn goes overseas, Trish will be the only family she has left.

Things are getting better with Cece, but they’re not quite back to where they were.

And her relationship with her parents isn’t about to improve.

Where were they when Makayla locked herself away at home, wallowing in bed?

They didn’t smash a window with a Saint Laurent handbag to check on her like Trish did.

‘Will Waz be there?’ Makayla asks.

‘I can uninvite him if that’ll make you feel better.’

‘No. He can come. I have something important to share.’ Wait until he finds out Makayla’s getting the car he’s always wanted.

‘Does that mean you’ll be there?’ Trish shimmies her shoulders in excitement.

‘I wouldn’t miss it.’ Time to twist the knife.

Every Friday at recess, the faculty are summoned from their silos to congregate in the main staffroom for morning tea.

The leadership team introduced the initiative last year to reduce the number of fed-up, overworked staff calling it quits at the end of the week.

Apparently, lamingtons and mini cupcakes are enough to lure burnt-out teachers back each Monday.

Jeffrey greets the staff with a phony smile, pretending to be ‘one of the people’ instead of the useless principal that he is.

He’s perfectly positioned to get first dibs on everyone’s dish, repeatedly joking that he has a duty of care to ensure the food isn’t poisoned.

Makayla squeezes in on the other side of Rongo, praying Jeffrey won’t notice she’s empty-handed.

She could do without the passive-aggressive email reminder that ALL STAFF are required to contribute.

Jeffrey’s so daft, he doesn’t see the irony of adding another thing on the teachers’ plates.

Surely, he could spare a few coins to put on a spread.

Unlike Makayla’s office in the South Wing, which can feel as small as a confessional booth, the staffroom is spacious enough to avoid Beau. That is, if he bothers to show up – he’s probably kept Ebony in for detention again.

For the past two weeks, the extent of Makayla and Beau’s interactions has whittled to ‘good morning’ and ‘enjoy your night’. If she can keep this up, hopefully he’ll stop appearing in her dreams. Clearly, it’s taking her subconscious a little while to catch up.

Ignoring Jeffrey’s instruction to sit with someone from another office, Makayla joins Cece and Rongo hiding in the corner. As if anyone is going to mingle; the staff are far too cliquey for that.

The under-twenty-fives convene near the vegan/organic/blessed-by-a-monk spread, wearing upcycled clothes and casually mentioning that they listen to music on vinyl, despite always having a stray AirPod in their ear.

Then there’s The Whiny Bunch, never too far from the Arnott’s bikkie tin, huddling together and cackling like the witches that they are.

There’s no way Makayla’s sitting with them; she prefers to stay off Agnes’s radar.

And let’s not forget the old duck at the back, who’s flopped across the table.

Asleep or dead? No one will check; they don’t want to risk missing out on Imogen’s freshly baked brownies.

The same ones Imogen is teasing at Beau’s lips over by the coffee and tea station. Vomit.

At least that’s keeping him occupied – until Rongo goes and screws things up.

‘Beau! Hey! Over here!’ He waves his arms like a hitchhiker in the rain.

Agonising too long over whether she should do a runner, Makayla misses her chance.

It might look suspicious if she leaves as soon as he arrives.

With Agnes’s eagle eye always on her, she doesn’t want to raise the alarm.

She wiggles back into her seat, mumbling a half hearted, ‘Hi’.

Just because he and Rongo are all buddy-buddy doesn’t mean she has to be.

Beau acknowledges her with a slight nod, like she’s not someone who lay in his arms for hours, stroking his chest until his breathing slowed and he drifted off to sleep. If she wants him to forget it ever happened, why does it sting so much when he acts like he has?

Makayla stuffs her face with custard-filled doughnuts while Cece munches on sad little carrot sticks. Since when does she eat rabbit food?

‘Here, try this.’ Cece holds up a container of chocolate muffins that look as good as they smell. ‘I made them.’

One bite and Makayla spits it out, more concerned she’ll die if she ingests it than about hurting her friend’s feelings.

‘Don’t you like beetroot?’ Cece asks.