The Eldest Girl (eBook)

Chapter two

2010

Bent over in the streaming shower, Miriama rustled through the half a dozen plastic shampoo bottles in the tiled tray. They were all empty except the purple T-rex bottle, containing baby shampoo that smelled of strawberry bubble gum.

Five minutes later, her arms were aching from the effort of massaging the gloop through the extraordinary length of her hair. As she rinsed, the last bit of suds got in her eye. Contrary to all the advertising, it stung. ‘Ow! Geez, fricken Jesus!’

Timothy rushed into the bathroom, naked except for a cowboy hat, and held out her phone. ‘Daddy.’

Miriama opened the shower door, snatched the phone and leaned out of the cubicle, holding it away from her wet ear. ‘Karl?’

His voice shook. ‘I know I’m supposed to see the kids …’

‘You can’t cancel again. You promised.’

‘I’m swamped.’

‘You haven’t seen them for months,’ she squealed, squeezing her smarting eye closed. ‘You can’t cancel!’

He hung up.

‘Bastard,’ she roared into dead air.

‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ Timothy mimicked, racing around the bathroom.

‘Mummy shouldn’t have said that.’ She slumped against the shower wall. ‘It’s not a very nice word.’

The sound of a crash sent her skidding, naked and dripping, into the kitchen. Damien had shoved a stack of dishes onto the floor; there was broken crockery everywhere she looked.

Zoe, upstairs in her cot in the nursery, having heard the commotion, was screaming.

‘Oh, for fu – feck — sake.’ She scooped Damien off the bench and put him into the playpen. She swept the chaos into the bottom of the pantry and jammed the door shut.

‘Mummy.’ Timothy appeared in the doorway, holding winged maxi pads to his face. He pulled them away and blood splashed his front. ‘I godda bleeding dose.’

‘What the hell did you do?’

She swept him up and hurried back to the shower, where she scrubbed the blood off him, swaddled him in a fluffy grey towel and plopped him onto the floor. ‘Go get dressed, sweetie.’

‘Can I have chocolate sauce sandwiches today?’ he shouted, running around the room, using the towel as a cape. ‘Wiv a yoghurt?’

‘Get dressed,’ Miriama said.

He held out his arms like an aeroplane and spun around.

‘Please,’ she begged. She dried herself and wrapped the towel around her middle. Her teeth clattered together. ‘Go put on the clothes I put on your bed. No costumes, okay?’

‘A yoghurt wiv a cookie?’

He grinned, showing off the gummy gap where his front teeth used to be.

She carried him to his room and wrestled him into clean underpants, a T-shirt, jeans and odd socks. Back in the kitchen, she sat him at the table with juice and dropped some bread into the toaster.

She ran back upstairs, hoisted Zoe out of her cot, pulled open her own shirt to release an engorged breast and plugged the baby onto her nipple. While Zoe guzzled, she undressed her, gave her a quick scrub with a handful of wet wipes, changed her nappy and dressed her again. Back downstairs, she plopped the sated baby into her bouncer, smeared a glob of Nutella across the burned toast and dropped it in front of Timothy.

She was feeling pleased with herself until she saw Damien was still in the playpen, dressed in his pyjamas.

She flicked a frantic look to the wall clock: 8.44am. She was going to be late again, damn it. She lifted him out. He threw his little body around, thumping, kicking and wriggling himself free. His face reddened and he screamed. ‘No’. He ran across the kitchen. ‘No, no, no, no, no!’

She held out her arms and advanced on him slowly. ‘Come here, darling. We have to get dressed.’

He clenched into a ball of muscle. ‘No.’

She chased him around the room, crashing into the benches. ‘Damien darling, please come here.’

‘No.’

‘Please, let’s get dressed.’

‘No.’ He scuttled under the table and jammed himself in among the kitchen chair legs.

She threw her hands in the air. ‘Get out of there, you little pain in the arse!’

A huge shadow rose and engulfed the room. Miriama jumped, and spun into the concrete chest of her brother-in-law, Cassius.

‘You gave me a fucking heart attack.’

‘Oi, don’t swear.’ His deep voice calm, he looked around. ‘Okay, why don’t I sort out Damien? You shove toast in the Timster’s mouth and pack up the baby.’ His black eyebrows bounced on his abundant forehead. ‘And for the sake of my sight, woman, close your shirt. I’m in danger of seeing nipples here. Geez.’ He shuddered, laughed and reached under the table for Damien, who was still squirming.

Miriama looked around at the chaos. She thought about the glossy six-page spread that had appeared in New Zealand Home and Garden only a few months ago: ‘The architecturally designed hilltop sanctuary of Kiwi film producer Miriama Samson.’ Karl had been mentioned twice, as the estranged third son of a British earl, and his name spelt ‘Carl’.

They’d created this mess in the three weeks since her au pair had flown back to Germany and her housekeeper stormed out, telling her to go screw herself.

In a fit of hormone-driven insanity, Miriama had decided she could take care of the house and the children by herself. Why not? Millions of women did it every day.

She had discovered, fast, that she was not, nor would ever be, one of those women.

Cassius reappeared with Damien dressed and dangling from his bicep. Miriama could see that Cassius had even put a bit of product through Damien’s hair; it was spiky.

She grabbed Damien’s rosy cheeks and planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘You’re gorgeous.’

He batted her away. ‘No. No. No.’

Miriama pretended Timothy wasn’t squirting Hershey’s syrup into his mouth, and scooped the baby into her arms.

‘Come on, people.’ Cassius ushered everyone out to his van. His five-year-old twin boys, Tane and Mahuta, were strapped in, as far apart as possible. They’d learned the ancient art of Chinese burns and dead legs and spent most of the time trying to cripple each other.

In the time it took her to climb into the front passenger seat, Cassius managed to click her boys and baby into their car seats, shut the doors and climb into the driver’s seat.

She elbowed him in the ribs. ‘You should have the tits. You make a much better mother than me.’

‘Nah, I wouldn’t get anything done.’ He winked at her. ‘I’d be too busy playing with them.’

‘Ew.’

Cassius flipped open an imaginary notebook and started ticking things off with an invisible pen. ‘Now let me see. We have school for Timothy, Tane and Mahuta, day care for Damien and, most important, grocery shopping for the ladies.’ He looked at Miriama and lifted an eyebrow. ‘Er, you might need a touch of lippy.’

She flipped the sun visor, peered in the vanity mirror and spotted Nutella smeared across one cheek. ‘Shit.’ She scrubbed at it with a baby wipe.

‘Shit, shit, shit, shit,’ four kids started chanting.

‘What Aunty meant to say was “goodness gracious”.’ Cassius started the engine. ‘Off we go.’

‘Talking about s–h–i–t,’ she said, ‘Karl cancelled out of seeing the kids again.’

‘What’s the matter with Prince f–u–c–k–i–n–g Charming this time?’

‘Apparently he’s swamped.’

‘Swamped?’

‘I’m so knackered. Maybe I should cancel out of Kiri’s birthday thing this Saturday?’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Of course not.’ She averted her eyes and stared out the passenger window. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this for ages.’

‘Sure you have,’ Cassius scoffed.

‘I have. I just can’t believe she’s eighteen. Oh my God, do you know how old that makes me?’

‘If it’s any consolation, you will always be younger than me.’

‘Ha.’ Miriama thought about the reflection she’d just been looking at in the vanity mirror; as usual, she’d scanned it for the lines she felt sure were about to appear. ‘In western society, men and women age at different sociological rates. You get windswept and interesting, while we crust over.’

Cassius laughed. ‘You’re only old when you’re hooning around the mall on a mobility scooter, trying to run over skateboarders.’

‘I’m too old to look at young guys with lust in my eyes,’ she said, pouting.

‘No, you’re not. At our age we’re just a little less equipped to get them to look back.’ He flicked his eyebrows. ‘Eh, Aunty.’

‘You b–u–g–g–e–r.’ She thumped his concrete ribs.

‘You and your d–i–c–k–head ex should be taking care of those kids together. He hasn’t seen them once since you fullas separated.’ He scowled. ‘He hasn’t seen the baby, ever.’

‘I know.’

‘He wasn’t even there when she was born.’ Cassius pulled a face. ‘Not me – you almost broke my arm.’

‘How many times do I have to apologise for that?’

‘Shut up. It hurt.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Hey.’ He touched her hand. ‘I’ll fix it.’

‘How are you going to do that?’

‘Smack ten shades of s–h–i–t out of his a–r–s–e.’

‘You will not.’

‘Hit him where it hurts.’

‘His nut sack?’

‘No, you bloodthirsty wench.’ He laughed. ‘It’s about time you dealt with all the legalities.’

‘I don’t need his money. I’ve earned a lot, and I have a good broker.’ She glanced over...