‘No, but it will help us explain why Jeannie and her parents —’
A voice was audible in the background calling Maxie’s name.
‘Coming,’ Maxie called back. ‘Olivia, sorry, I’m needed. Thanks so much again. It’s wonderful news. It will make my wedding, it really will.’
‘Maxie, wait. Before she gets here, can you please try to find those postcards?’
There was no reply. Maxie had hung up.
Olivia put down the phone with a deep sigh. She sat still for a moment, staring out the sash window opposite her desk. It was raining, turning the rooftops of Edinburgh to a glistening sheen. At least there was a fuzz of soft green appearing on the oak tree outside her window. It had been a long, cold winter. Spring seemed to be taking forever to arrive.
She massaged the back of her neck, trying to ease the sudden tension. We tell her the truth, she’d insisted today. If only it was that simple.
She stood up and walked across the room. A large framed photo had pride of place by the window. It had been a farewell gift from Eliza, at the end of Olivia’s last trip to Australia. Maxie had received a copy in the post too. An enlarged version of the school concert photo taken all those years ago.
Olivia studied it again now. It always made her smile. Not least because of their terrible hairstyles. Admittedly, it had been the early 2000s, but what had she been thinking with those feathery waves? Thankfully, soon after that photo was taken, she’d decided on what was now her signature style: a sharp dark bob. Maxie was barely recognisable in the photo, her hair a mass of red curls for her Australian TV soap role at the time. Since then, she’d had multiple hairstyles, usually for roles, sometimes for fun. She now had a flattering pixie cut, dyed white-blonde. It was much copied by fans of her current hit TV series.
Eliza had changed the most since that photo had been taken, of course. The pale, red-cheeked eleven-year-old girl with long black plaits had slowly transformed via awkward teenage years into a tall, striking woman. In the photo she was wearing a cherry-red dress and bright-yellow cardigan. Jeannie had always dressed her in bright clothes. As a teenager, and then afterwards, at university, Eliza had kept dressing in colourful op-shop finds, wearing her hair long and loose. The casual near-hippy look had belied what a serious student she’d been.
All that had changed overnight once she started full-time work. Olivia had often wished her goddaughter hadn’t adopted Gillian’s bland corporate style of dressing so obediently, or started tying that glorious long hair into a too-tight low bun. At least she seemed to have finally grown comfortable with her height. Over the years, she and Maxie had often had to gently tell her off for hunching her shoulders, for trying to appear smaller than she was.
But some things hadn’t changed. Eliza still had that lively, alert expression. And those spots of red on her cheeks. Olivia had always loved how easily Eliza blushed. She knew Jeannie had loved it too.
Jeannie. There at the centre of the photo. Petite, with that mop of black curly hair, the wide, cheeky smile, the dimple. Mischievous in looks and in personality. Naughty. Bold. So many words always came to mind when Olivia thought of her friend. Wild. Quick-witted. Loyal. Fun. Defiant. Reckless.
Troubled.
She and Maxie hadn’t realised until too late how troubled she was.
More than thirteen years had passed since that awful night, yet Olivia still often felt the punch of grief. The sadness. The guilt, most of all. She’d relived it so many times: Eliza’s panicked phone call from Australia, her voice unrecognisable, babbling, talking about the bath, the water, her mother, how she’d tried to ring Maxie, she wasn’t answering . . . It had taken a few moments to make sense of what she was saying. Once she had, Olivia had needed to shout at her, to order her to hang up quickly, to phone for an ambulance, quickly, now, Eliza, now!
The hours following had been like a nightmare. Olivia could still recall the flight she’d taken that same day, cursing the distance between Scotland and Australia, wishing she could be there instantly, beside Eliza in that shabby house. Wishing she’d somehow been able to protect her goddaughter from what she’d seen in that bathroom, all she now had to go through. Thank God Maxie had still been in Auckland, able to get to her within hours, to stay close until Olivia’s arrival. In the days that followed, the two of them had so often wanted to fold themselves around Eliza, to shield her from more hurt, even as they grieved for Jeannie themselves.
They’d always taken their role as godmothers seriously. Jeannie had made sure of it.
‘I don’t want two wishy-washy godmothers,’ she had said that afternoon in the country hospital when Eliza was only a day old. ‘No dolls. No pink dresses. Just lots of adventures. Lots of spoiling. The pair of you like two mighty warriors protecting her at every step.’
They’d laughed, imagining themselves in suits of armour, clanking bodyguards shadowing a little girl to the playground. But they agreed to everything Jeannie asked. They took turns holding her, amazed at how tiny she was, how lovely, how cross. Olivia smiled now at the memory. Baby Eliza’s constant frowns had made them laugh. It was a deceptive start. As she grew older, she turned into the sweetest of children. So clever. So watchful, too, of Jeannie and her moods especially.
Olivia felt a flash of guilt again. Eliza should have had a much happier childhood. Known nothing but security, safety. Not the constant moves Jeannie insisted on, the upheaval of new houses and schools, trying to cope with her mother’s mood swings. Her temper. Her drinking.
If only Olivia and Maxie had known how bad things were. But they’d been living in other states, then countries. Caught up with their own careers and lives. They’d always stayed in touch with Jeannie, of course. Sent Eliza birthday and Christmas presents, receiving sweet handwritten thankyou cards in return. Their relationship might have stayed like that, fond but distant, if Jeannie hadn’t contacted them out of the blue the year Eliza was eleven, begging them to come to her school concert.
‘I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important, I promise. She’s the only one in this town without any family nearby. Please, can you both come? For her? For me?’
Olivia had fortuitously been back in Australia at the time, visiting her family. Maxie had still been living and working in Sydney. That three-night stay with Jeannie and Eliza shocked them both. The house Jeannie and Eliza shared was so run-down. Jeannie’s fragility was immediately apparent. So was her heavy drinking. But they’d also seen firsthand Jeannie’s intense love for her daughter. Their close bond. Eliza was the best thing that ever happened to her, Jeannie said often, over too much wine each evening.
It had been an important weekend in so many ways. Maxie and Olivia realised they needed to pay more attention to their goddaughter. That Jeannie needed more support, not only financial but practical. On the second night, while Jeannie was helping Eliza get ready for bed, they’d hatched up the holiday idea between them.
It hadn’t gone down well. Jeannie was fiercely proud. She didn’t want their charity, she’d practically spat. She’d already drunk three times as much wine as them. Eliza was now asleep down the hallway. They’d chosen their words carefully, spoken softly, slowly defusing Jeannie’s temper.
It wasn’t a question of charity, they insisted. Jeannie would be doing them a favour. Neither of them had children yet. Jeannie was the lucky one, a mother already. That’s all they were asking, that Jeannie share her beautiful Eliza with them. And yes, of course they’d cover all the costs. Spoil her rotten. What had she expected, a birthday card and a packet of hankies once a year? No, they continued, hoping their lighthearted tone was hitting the right mark, Jeannie was just going to have to accept it. They’d whisk Eliza away on two godmotherly holidays a year, in Australia or even overseas sometimes, and that was that.