Page 4 of What Did I Miss?

After an eventful day, the last place Makayla expects to end up at is her mother-in-law’s – correction, ex-mother-in-law’s – who’s kindly invited her over for dinner.

She waits for Trish to answer the door, riddled with guilt after ignoring her calls for months.

It’s got nothing to do with Trish and everything to do with her prick of a son.

If they weren’t a package deal, Makayla would visit more often.

‘Nice to see you, Trish.’ Makayla sinks into a hug, inhaling the flowery scent of Chanel.

‘Trish? You can still call me Mum, petal.’ The hold tightens.

The unconditional love warms Makayla from within. She should have known better than to fear a cold shoulder. When Makayla eloped at eighteen, her parents kicked her out. She ended up on Trish’s doorstep, where she and Warren overstayed their welcome for years.

The heritage home looks as it always did, with dusk light pouring through bay windows, highlighting period features. It’s as timeless as Trish, who always dresses in pressed linen, like she’s about to sail off on a yacht.

Trish waves her in and glides down the hallway without a single icy-blonde strand moving from her shoulders.

It’s not unusual for her to have a face full of make-up, but Makayla suspects there’s something fishy going on.

Candles are lit, and their flames dance along to smooth jazz playing in the background.

They stop abruptly in the formal dining room, where the mahogany table is set with Trish’s best china, usually reserved for Christmas lunch. There are three place settings, and a soup entrée. Trish fixes Makayla’s fringe and picks fluff off her jacket, and she frowns. Is this a set-up?

Since the divorce, everyone’s been obsessed with her dating life.

‘Mr Right is just around the corner,’ they say.

Or, as Jeffrey once dangerously commented, ‘You’ve got a few more years to settle down and have a baby.

Don’t wait too long. You’re not getting any younger.

’ She’d imagined throwing a drink in his face. A cold one – she’s not barbaric.

But Makayla had never dreamed Trish would play matchmaker. What eligible bachelors does she know? The woman works part-time as a receptionist for a cardiologist; there’s a good chance she’s found Makayla a rich old man with a bad heart.

Trish pulls out a chair as the doorbell chimes again, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings. ‘Take a seat. I’ll get that.’

It’s too late to run, and besides, Makayla’s not a fan of confrontation. Especially with Trish, whom she’s indebted to. After all, Trish was there for her when Warren wasn’t. Laying a napkin across her lap, she resigns herself to her fate.

‘This day couldn’t get any worse,’ she mutters to herself.

The guest trudges in without greeting the host, and Makayla recoils at the familiar sound of his footsteps thumping against the timber floorboards. She spoke too soon.

‘What’s she doing here?’ Warren folds his arms across a flannelette shirt.

It’s strange seeing him out of a slogan T-shirt, or ‘bogan tees’, as Makayla calls them. His favourite features a Vegemite tub accompanied by the words ‘Spread it’.

‘Sit, sit, love. It’s been a while since we’ve had a Forsyth family dinner.’ Trish takes her place at the head of the table.

‘She’s not one of us. Big Mac’s an Anderson now, remember?’

Warren knows damn well not to refer to her as a burger.

Mentioning her maiden name doesn’t sit well, either.

If it wasn’t for the headache-inducing paperwork, she’d change it altogether.

After marrying a dipstick like Warren (her father’s words), interactions with her parents are far and few.

She’s lucky if she hears from them on her birthday.

The only decent thing they’ve ever done for her was move away to Brisbane.

‘You look nice, darling. Doesn’t he, Makayla? Very smart.’ Trish fusses with her son’s collar as he scrunches up his nose at the spicy carrot and lentil soup on offer.

Warren has had his usual long, scruffy hair clipped short.

While it’s neat, it doesn’t do his pointy ears any favours.

Makayla presses her nails into her thighs, stewing over his makeover.

For years she had to drag him to a barber and pick out his clothes so he’d appear half decent in public.

Now here he is, apparently completely capable of doing it himself.

‘Has Quinn told you her big news?’ Warren asks Makayla, daring to make eye contact.

Makayla shakes her head. Just because she’s being held hostage tonight doesn’t mean she’ll play nice. Even if that means not knowing what’s going on with her aunty, who’s been MIA lately.

Quinn must still get her Mustang serviced at Warren’s garage.

She’s always saying he’s the best vintage-car mechanic – a silly hobby the two of them had bonded over.

Warren would often tinker with it for free, no doubt bitching about how the old ball and chain wouldn’t let him own one.

Someone had to be financially responsible in their relationship, and that someone was always Makayla.

‘I was watching Dr Phil the other day,’ Trish says, breaking the silence. ‘There was a couple on there who got divorced and then reunited. Isn’t that romantic? They said having time apart helped them let go of their anger.’ Trish beams at them between soundless slurps.

It’s not the first time she’s quoted the sensationalised television therapist. It is, however, the first time she’s hinted at reconciliation.

Has she forgotten what her son did to me?

Makayla told everyone they’d drifted apart.

Not even Cece knows what really happened, and that’s how Makayla prefers it.

How is she supposed to get over it with people making sad eyes at her all the time?

Trish is the only person who knows the truth, which is why it’s surprising she thinks Makayla can let it go. Not just surprising. Unforgivable.

‘Cut the crap, Ma. I know what you’re doing,’ Warren says, gob filled with sourdough.

‘Is it wrong to want the two people I love most to be together? Hmm? And I’m not the only one. I’m sure Piper doesn’t like her parents living apart.’

‘Piper’s a dog. She’ll be fine,’ Warren says, with an eye roll.

Piper’s a French bulldog Warren brought home a few years ago without warning. When dividing their assets, he told Makayla he didn’t want the slobbering beast.

‘It’s too late anyway, I’m seeing someone,’ Warren announces. ‘You can come over to our place next week and meet her. She’s a good cook. Doesn’t burn things.’ Warren raises his eyebrows pointedly at Makayla.

Our place? She should’ve known he’d moved on by the way he’s spruced himself up.

It also explains why he was on board with fudging the dates on their divorce application.

Couples are supposed to be separated for at least twelve months, but they’d only been apart for two when she lodged the papers at the start of the year.

There was no point delaying it. She wasn’t going to change her mind.

The news settles, and she waits for the jealousy one might expect to feel when their husband of eleven years moves on in a heartbeat. It doesn’t come. All she feels is sympathy for the poor woman who has to put up with him now.

‘You have a girlfriend and she’s living with you? What about Makayla? How can you do this to her?’

‘Whoa, whoa. Don’t pin this on me. Your ex -daughter-inlaw is the one who overreacted and ended things.’

Makayla stands, and the room falls silent. If Warren hasn’t got it through his thick skull that he’s to blame, he never will. She’s not staying here another second and reliving the worst day of her life. Not when there are steak knives within reach.

‘I seem to have lost my appetite. Thank you for the meal, Trish … Mum. I’ll see myself out.’

Trish catches Makayla’s hand and apologises, stroking her thumb gently. Her skin is lovely and supple, like a baby’s. But her touch drags Makayla back to the moment when everything went to shit.

Trish speaks first. ‘We can talk about—’

‘Don’t,’ Makayla warns, tensing her jaw to stop herself from blubbering. That bastard will think she’s upset about him.

Makayla ignores her pleas to stay and retreats to the safety of her car, closing her door with a satisfying slam.

Warren’s announcement confirms what Makayla has long suspected: he doesn’t care.

Not about her, and certainly not about what happened.

Here she is going through the motions each day, feeling detached from her body, while he just happily gets on with things.

She squeezes the steering wheel to keep her tears at bay.

‘Up yours!’

The engine roars as Makayla hightails out of Goldbrooke and drives towards the city. Warren isn’t the only one who gets to have a happy ending.

Makayla stares up at Beau’s building for ten minutes debating whether to stay or go. Will he be happy to see her? She must’ve left quite the impression if he invited her out tonight.

What if he gets the wrong idea? Dating is the furthest thing from her mind.

She’s simply here to get Warren’s nasal voice out of her head.

Overreacted? Her response to his actions was perfectly normal.

If she ran a public poll, she’s sure it would swing in her favour.

Anyway, it’s in the past and she doesn’t want to dwell on it.

The only person who can mute her thoughts is Beau. He did it before, he can do it again.

Wanting to surprise him, Makayla slinks in behind a food delivery guy.

The scenario will go something like this – ‘Wow, what are you doing here? I was just thinking about you.’ Makayla will silence him with a palm and say, ‘Stop talking. Let’s get down to business.

’ Their lips will meet, clothes will fly, and they’ll finish up against a wall.

She’ll dress, kiss him on the forehead and leave, ignoring his promises of a cooked breakfast.