Too Close to Home by Georgia Blain

family again.’
    Paolo’s daughter spends most of the year in Italy, coming out for brief visits.
    â€˜We talked about this,’ he continues, ‘early. She, too, said she did not want children.’
    â€˜She may have changed her mind,’ Matt suggests. ‘It happens.’
    â€˜No,’ he says. ‘I know Anna.’
    Well, Matt wants to tell him, if you know her, what advice can I offer? Instead, he pours himself another glass of wine, not because he wants it but because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.
    â€˜I guess you’re going to have to sort it out,’ he finally says. ‘Ultimately if that’s what she wants, you’ll both have to make a choice.’
    â€˜But it is not what she wants,’ Paolo insists.
    Matt flicks a shrivelled jacaranda blossom into thepool of water next to him. It sits on the surface, and he watches it for a moment before flicking another and then another into the stillness. He stands and walks to where the stream spurts out of a stone lion’s mouth and he stops it with his finger.
    Paolo watches him.
    As he takes his finger out, the trickle continues, the sound irritating in the still heat of the early evening. He picks up his glass and drinks the rest of the wine, already slightly warm, in one gulp.
    â€˜I’m going to have to go,’ he tells Paolo. ‘We were meant to talk about Freya’s birthday.’ He nods in the direction of the house.
    Paolo stands.
    â€˜Don’t,’ Matt tells him. ‘I’ll just let myself out.’
    In the kitchen, Anna leans against the cupboard, one hand resting against the smooth enamelled surface of the Aga cooker, the other cradling the phone, as she tells the caller how wonderful the rest of the cast were. She looks up at him. He points to the door; he has to go, he will call her.
    She puts her palm over the mouthpiece and whispers, ‘Wait.’
    â€˜Can’t,’ he says, and turns quickly before she can stop him with a promise that she will only be a few more minutes, truly.
    He walks through the wide expanse of hallway, glass wall on one side, a succulent garden pressing up close, until he reaches the door, and breathes a sigh of relief.
    Outside in the quiet of the street, he stands against the cement wall in front of the house. It is still warm fromthe sun, despite the fact that twilight is becoming night, the sky purpling overhead, the lights on. In the distance, there is the click of a car door being opened remotely, and the gentle purr of an expensive engine as it starts. A cat rubs up against his ankle and he shoves it away, its weight warm and heavy, its body curled around his leg only moments later, and he pushes it a little harder this time, the cat hissing as he sends it towards the gutter.
    â€˜I’m on my way,’ he tells Freya when he gets to the car, but it is not her that he is speaking to, only the voicemail. (She rarely picks up the phone, and he can see her, oblivious to its ring as she gets dinner ready, Ella lying in the lounge room, watching a DVD, also quite capable of ignoring the phone anytime someone calls.) ‘Give Ella a kiss for me,’ he adds, unsure whether he will be back before she goes to bed. He is about to hang up when Freya speaks.
    â€˜How far are you?’ she asks and he can hear kids screaming in the background.
    â€˜Half an hour,’ he says.
    She tells him to get a move on. ‘Archie and Darlene are here.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜So, nothing.’ She sounds exasperated. ‘I don’t know where Shane is.’
    â€˜Call him,’ he suggests.
    She tells him he isn’t answering. ‘I’d better go.’ There is a particularly loud shriek, and she shouts out to the kids as she hangs up.
    The telephone beeps in his ear. He turns it off, pulling out from the kerb and flicking the lights on in a series of swift movements as he turns and heads for