slightly over three million dollars? Congratulations?’
I had to hold onto the counter. I clutched my bag and stared at her, stunned wordless.
What followed were three days of dumbfounded movement. With the money safely clearing to my bank account, with my bags stowed somewhere in the bowels of an aeroplane, with my head crammed with innumerable emotions and questions, I arrived in Florence and made my way to Fiesole. In a rented car, a luxury at which I would usually have frowned.
My writing made me an adequate income, and John was by no means stingy, but having over three million dollars in the bank – in cash – was a very new sensation I would never get used to.
What went on in my head during the twenty-two hours it took to get from Melbourne to Fiesole was a repetitious debate with myself. Would I tell John about the win?
No – no. He did not deserve to be told. He had paid the fourteen dollars for the ticket, but leaving as he did, and leaving me in such misery, entitled him to nothing. I was so angry; so aggrieved. So wounded by his numb thoughtless exit from my life. Recompense in the form of a lot of money was my … my what? My what? Just deserts. This one I could win. I was wronged, and the universe sent me compensation, instantly. All I wished was that John had said something dramatic like, ‘I’m leaving! I’m taking what’s mine! Damn you! You can have the rest!’
He hadn’t, of course. John never spoke in forceful exclamations. He was measured, quiet, deliberate. His action that day, however, made me feel as though he had, for once, shouted his disgust at me.
The events of the last three days were overwhelming, incredible. If I had included them in a novel, readers would discount them as totally implausible. That so much should have happened to me, and all at one time, was not the stuff of fiction, however. It was all unaccountable in a way that could only happen in a life that was unfortunately all too real. All too overpowering. No one would believe me, but I was not about to tell a soul, least of all my siblings.
I saw Nigel and Harriet had some sort of struggle they would not talk about. The likelihood it was financial was quite high. I felt Brod did not care much about money. His career in banking brought in enough for him never to be worried. He lacked for nothing. Suzanna – the most prosperous of us four – oozed success like Mama’s pancakes would ooze blackberry juice.
Ah – those pancakes. She had me in thrall, knocking a quiet knuckle on my door late on a Sunday morning, ‘Paola – pancakes.’ She made it special, so special – a change from Matilde’s Italian meals and treats. At the kitchen table, just me and Mama. This was nothing like the biscotti or pasta the Italian woman whipped up so easily. It was nothing like the pistachio ice-cream, or delicious panna, the whipped cream the Italian maid floated on our bowls of milky coffee. It was nothing like dark crispy fried zucchini curls we clamoured for. Mama’s pancakes were Mama’s pancakes.
And now, having driven up the driveway, round the green cypresses, and parked near those slippery grey front steps, I had come close to making a decision about myself. Now I lay in the same bed I battled my adolescent demons in, I could think about what I would do – and how I wanted to live the rest of my life – so clearly it was starting to unsteady me. Or set me straight. Or something. I was never more confused in my life. Still, I had had a win.
I could spill the beans and tell everyone my marriage was over. It might either surprise them or not. I was not about to make it an announcement – I would tell them individually and in private. I would never tell a soul about the three million, however. It was impossible to know this early whether it would be enough to buy Nigel, Brod, and Suzanna out and take on the big house on my own.
Oh – as I turned a particularly sharp bend in the near-new rental car, I realized I had
I had to hold onto the counter. I clutched my bag and stared at her, stunned wordless.
What followed were three days of dumbfounded movement. With the money safely clearing to my bank account, with my bags stowed somewhere in the bowels of an aeroplane, with my head crammed with innumerable emotions and questions, I arrived in Florence and made my way to Fiesole. In a rented car, a luxury at which I would usually have frowned.
My writing made me an adequate income, and John was by no means stingy, but having over three million dollars in the bank – in cash – was a very new sensation I would never get used to.
What went on in my head during the twenty-two hours it took to get from Melbourne to Fiesole was a repetitious debate with myself. Would I tell John about the win?
No – no. He did not deserve to be told. He had paid the fourteen dollars for the ticket, but leaving as he did, and leaving me in such misery, entitled him to nothing. I was so angry; so aggrieved. So wounded by his numb thoughtless exit from my life. Recompense in the form of a lot of money was my … my what? My what? Just deserts. This one I could win. I was wronged, and the universe sent me compensation, instantly. All I wished was that John had said something dramatic like, ‘I’m leaving! I’m taking what’s mine! Damn you! You can have the rest!’
He hadn’t, of course. John never spoke in forceful exclamations. He was measured, quiet, deliberate. His action that day, however, made me feel as though he had, for once, shouted his disgust at me.
The events of the last three days were overwhelming, incredible. If I had included them in a novel, readers would discount them as totally implausible. That so much should have happened to me, and all at one time, was not the stuff of fiction, however. It was all unaccountable in a way that could only happen in a life that was unfortunately all too real. All too overpowering. No one would believe me, but I was not about to tell a soul, least of all my siblings.
I saw Nigel and Harriet had some sort of struggle they would not talk about. The likelihood it was financial was quite high. I felt Brod did not care much about money. His career in banking brought in enough for him never to be worried. He lacked for nothing. Suzanna – the most prosperous of us four – oozed success like Mama’s pancakes would ooze blackberry juice.
Ah – those pancakes. She had me in thrall, knocking a quiet knuckle on my door late on a Sunday morning, ‘Paola – pancakes.’ She made it special, so special – a change from Matilde’s Italian meals and treats. At the kitchen table, just me and Mama. This was nothing like the biscotti or pasta the Italian woman whipped up so easily. It was nothing like the pistachio ice-cream, or delicious panna, the whipped cream the Italian maid floated on our bowls of milky coffee. It was nothing like dark crispy fried zucchini curls we clamoured for. Mama’s pancakes were Mama’s pancakes.
And now, having driven up the driveway, round the green cypresses, and parked near those slippery grey front steps, I had come close to making a decision about myself. Now I lay in the same bed I battled my adolescent demons in, I could think about what I would do – and how I wanted to live the rest of my life – so clearly it was starting to unsteady me. Or set me straight. Or something. I was never more confused in my life. Still, I had had a win.
I could spill the beans and tell everyone my marriage was over. It might either surprise them or not. I was not about to make it an announcement – I would tell them individually and in private. I would never tell a soul about the three million, however. It was impossible to know this early whether it would be enough to buy Nigel, Brod, and Suzanna out and take on the big house on my own.
Oh – as I turned a particularly sharp bend in the near-new rental car, I realized I had
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