I grab the phone and shoo Annabeth out of the room. “Close the door behind you!” I call.
Who could be phoning me? Who even knows I’m back in Australia, let alone in my sister’s house?
“Hello?” My voice is craven, as though I’ve been caught somewhere I shouldn’t be.
“Iris! Thank goodness you’re there.” It’s Summer. Her voice breaks into jagged sobs. “You have to help me. We’re in trouble. You’re the only one who can help.”
I can’t quite focus, because I’m wondering whether Annabeth’s comment about the bra gave the game away. Summer can be oddly territorial about her clothes. But my sister doesn’t seem to have heard. She’s saying something about Adam, something about how she needs me, Adam needs me. Adam wants her to say that it was his idea and he’s praying I’ll accept.
I gaze at a rack of Adam’s white business shirts. Each one holds Adam’s shape as though a row of invisible Adams is wearing them, here in the closet with me. The shirts are so big in the chest, so long in the sleeve. I hold one to my face. It smells of cloves. I can see Adam in this pristine white, his skin glowing darkly.
“The poor little man, his pee-pee is swollen and red, and there’s something seeping out. It’s horrific. The foreskin is so stretched. He’s crying all the time.”
What is she saying? I’m agog. We’re twins, but we don’t have that kind of relationship. I’ve never heard Summer describe anyone’s penis before, let alone her husband’s. What the hell is wrong with him?
“The worst part is when he gets an erection. It’s excruciating. Babies do get erections, you know. It’s nothing sexual.”
Babies?
“Wait,” I say. “Are you talking about Tarquin?”
“Who else could I be talking about?”
Silence.
Tarquin. The other thing that Summer took over when Helen died, along with Helen’s house and Helen’s husband. The baby.
Summer is Tarquin’s mother now. Adam and Summer agreed that Tarquin deserved a normal family, so Tarquin calls Summer “Mummy.” Or at least he will if the kid ever learns to speak.
“Summer, I know baby boys get erections,” I say. “We have a younger brother, you know. I’ve seen these things.” Summer always assumes I know nothing about kids, explaining that they need a daily bath and a regular bedtime, or something equally fascinating, like I’m an idiot. The last thing I want to think about is Tarquin’s pee-pee, especially if it’s seeping.
“Trust me, you’ve never seen anything like this,” Summer says. “It’s becoming dangerous. The infection could spread. The doctors said he could lose his penis. He could die.” The word comes out with a sob. “He needs surgery. An emergency circumcision. They can’t fly him home. He’s having the surgery today, here in Phuket. We’re at the international hospital.”
Summer’s voice is fast and fluttery. She’s teetering on a tightrope between shouty hysteria and a flood of tears. Most of the time, Summer is the self-assured, gracious twin, while I’m nervous and gauche, but when the chips are down, I’m the one who keeps her head.
I step up to my role now. I hang Adam’s shirt back on the rack and smooth it into place. No one could tell it’s been touched. “An international hospital sounds good,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “They’ve been so kind to us here.”
“That’s good, and it’s good that you’ve rung me,” I reply. I say “good” like it’s a mantra, calming Summer. “Of course I can help. So you haven’t told Annabeth yet?”
“I couldn’t . . .” Summer’s voice quavers again.
“I can tell her. She can fly up to Phuket today. I don’t mind taking over the house-sitting for a few days.”
No response.
“For as long as you and Adam need it,” I add generously.
“No, no, Iris, we need you, not Mum.”
My head buzzes. Summer needs me. Adam needs me. But why? I’m no good with babies. Tarquin already has both his parents. The only parents he knows, anyway. What do they need me for?
I picture myself in Thailand, swanning around the Royal Phuket Marina with its flotilla of superyachts, drinking cocktails. Strong ones, not the virgin cocktails Dad bought us when we were kids. Surely not all those millionaire yachties want Thai girlfriends. Some of them must prefer blondes.
But what am I thinking? Tarquin is ill. It sounds like his penis is rotting off. There’ll be no time for drinking and flirting. Surely.
“We’re in a serious bind, Iris, and we can’t tell just anybody about it. Only people we trust one hundred percent.” Summer pauses.
“Well, obviously you can tell me,” I say.
“Of course,” says Summer. “I’m just saying, you must keep this a secret. The thing is, our import permit for Bathsheba has expired. We’ve already checked her out of Thailand. We were ready to go, but the beaches are so beautiful here. We thought we could spend another couple of weeks in a quiet anchorage and no one would know. We never imagined Tarquin would get sick. It’s terrible timing. If customs find Bathsheba’s still in Thailand, they’ll seize her. The people here are lovely, but there’s so much corruption.”
Summer makes it sound as though corruption is some affliction, like malaria, that the poor Thais suffer through no fault of their own. But I’m too keen to hear more to quibble with her.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Oh, Twinnie, I don’t know how to ask you such a huge favor. Adam’s a good sailor, but he’s barely been out of sight of land. You know how hard it is on the open sea. It’s a long passage to the Seychelles, at least a fortnight, and the end of the season is near. The typhoons start in April, but we can’t wait till April anyway. We need to get Bathsheba out of Thailand now. And you were always such a great sailor, Iris. We’ll pay your plane fares, of course, and Adam says you can stand whichever watches you want.”
As Summer speaks, I step back into her bedroom and approach the bay window. The water glitters far below, swirling around sun-bleached rocks. I can’t let myself believe Summer’s words. They’re too good to be true. I’ve melted through the glass, and I’m flying over the ocean, turning a joyous shade of aquamarine.
Adam’s speaking in the background now. Has he been listening all along? “Tell her I’ll do all the night watches,” he says, in that deep voice flecked with the cadence of the Seychelles. His voice goes on more quietly. I hold the phone close to my ear and shut my eyes, straining to hear.
“Believe it or not, Iris likes sailing at night,” Summer says. When she speaks to Adam, her voice becomes playful, smooth, liquid. No wonder I can barely stand to be in the same room as my sister and her husband.
But it seems I wouldn’t have to spend much time with the two of them. The plan seems to be that Summer will stay in Phuket with Tarquin and his festering genitalia, and I will leave behind my failed job, failed marriage, and failed life, and sail across the Indian Ocean on the yacht I have loved since childhood. And who will go with me? My brother-in-law, the wealthy, handsome, charismatic Adam Romain.