Free Lyrebird Hill by Anna Romer Page B

Hadn’t she commented, only last week, how much nicer my hair looked short?
    In translation: With long hair, you remind me of Jamie .

    Rob’s apartment in Coffs Harbour was on the top floor of an older style block on the hill. Inside, the renovations were extensive, and the suite now boasted a huge open plan area withwindows overlooking the jetty and Muttonbird Island, and then beyond to the Pacific Ocean.
    I shifted uncomfortably on the sleek leather sofa. I had a champagne flute in one hand and a stick of cucumber in the other, and my bare feet were buried in the thick pile of a black flokati rug.
    I should have been in seventh heaven.
    Instead, I was glaring at the back of Rob’s head, quietly fuming.
    Two weeks had passed since my mother’s opening in Armidale. In that time we hadn’t returned to the subject of the lace bra. For Rob, it seemed to have passed into ancient history; meanwhile, I continued to brood.
    ‘How’s that?’ Rob asked, glancing over his shoulder. He’d hammered a nail into the wall and was attempting to straighten his new painting.
    I shrugged. ‘Maybe a bit to the left.’
    He adjusted the painting, then moved back to assess the effect. Obviously pleased, he shuffled onto the couch beside me and poured himself a drink. Mum’s exhibition had closed yesterday, and the painting Rob had bought – the antique Singer sewing machine – had arrived by courier at Rob’s therapy rooms this morning. He had waited until I turned up before hanging it, and then insisted we celebrate the occasion with bubbly.
    ‘You’re very quiet,’ he noted.
    ‘I’m just not entirely convinced that it suits the decor. I mean, look at all your other stuff.’ I waved my cucumber stick at the room. ‘There’s all this chrome and leather and smoked glass, it’s all so mid-century. Mum’s old Singer would be more at home in a place full of older-style furniture, and . . . you know, antiques and collectables, that sort of thing.’
    ‘You mean, like your place?’
    I slumped. Yes, of course I meant my place. And of course I couldn’t say so, because that would make me look selfish. But I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment; Mum’s paintingseemed too personal to be displayed just anywhere. To me, it was more than just a work of art hung on the wall to enhance the decor; it was a fragment of my forgotten past, an image that held meaning for me. It was too fragile to be exchanged for money like ordinary merchandise. Too precious. Too full of memories.
    My memories.
    Abandoning my empty flute on the coffee table, I crossed the room to the balcony doors and stepped outside.
    Rob caught up with me. ‘You’re not upset about the painting, are you, babe?’
    ‘Of course not. It’s just that . . .’ In truth, I was upset. I didn’t understand why he’d bought it and hung it on his feature wall, when he knew how conflicted I was about Mum. I gripped the railing and gazed unhappily at the street below. Light puddled beneath the street lamps, and two women in batik dresses laughed quietly as they hurried past. ‘I can’t stop thinking about seeing Mum, and then running into Esther Hillard. I know a fortnight’s gone by, but it all keeps replaying in my mind. It’s making me nuts.’
    ‘You still haven’t told me what you and your mum talked about.’
    I shut my eyes, and when I opened them again, the world was still there; odd, I’d have sworn it had rocked off kilter for a moment. I felt woozy, cold. My fingers tightened around the rail.
    ‘Mum told me Jamie’s death wasn’t accidental.’
    Rob shifted beside me. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you said she fell.’
    I stared out across the dark sea. ‘There was an investigation,’ I said quietly. ‘Jamie’s injuries weren’t consistent with a fall, but the police never found any evidence of a third party. Apparently the only ones on the rocks that day were Jamie . . . and me.’
    There was a stillness. I imagined I could