Free Forbidden Fruit by Ilsa Evans

father now under suspicion, plus impending grandmotherhood, and questionable adoption plans, and visits from potential in-laws, and a house that qualified as a disaster zone, I already felt like I was in one of those rooms with the walls slowly closing in. The last thing I needed was more walls, or depth, or whatever it was that crushed one to death in those scenarios. Instead, I was going to do the sensible thing and stay away. The police would be gone soon and then they could investigate to their hearts’ content; out of sight, out of mind. Then maybe things could get back to normal.

Chapter Six
    Loved your list of quotes about middle age in last week’s column, but you didn’t mention my favourite, which is from Doris Day (believe it or not!): ‘The really frightening thing about middle age is the knowledge that you grow out of it.’ Really puts everything in perspective, doesn’t it?
    It was another forty-eight hours before the police finally vacated my property. Their actual presence had been reduced, and the Channel 7 van disappeared in search of more compelling news, but the yard itself remained out of bounds. Nor did I have any further communication with Detective Sergeant Eric Male, although I did hear, from Petra, that he paid a lengthy visit to our mother for background information on the shop. But that was to be expected.
    Tuesday I spent in my study working steadily. I had a conversation with my editor about whether recent events merited a column, or if they would affect my ‘vibe’. ‘After all, you do seem to do this type of thing a lot, Nell. It might be overkill.’ With the eventual decision being to wait and see, I was able to complete a draft column for the following week, a relatively inoffensive one about moving house, and then answer thirty-seven emails. This was a new record so I wrote it on the wall by my desk.
    The remainder of the afternoon was spent helping Quinn choose an outfit for a friend’s birthday dinner that evening, to be held at the Pancake Parlour in Bendigo. Although ‘help’ was probably a loose translation of what occurred. Much of our conversation consisted of Quinn giving me a list of reasons why my opinion was invalid, and then berating me for not giving her feedback. ‘You’re not even looking! Thanks for nothing! You always helped the others!’ The latter comment being entirely untrue.
    By the time she was collected by Lyn Russo, whose son Griffin was also invited, there was discarded clothing draped over the banisters, birthday wrapping paper scattered over the couch, and the remains of a microwave noodle dish abandoned on the bench. But at least the teenage angst, that multi-hued, frenzied vortex that seemed to surround Quinn nowadays whenever she was under pressure, had departed along with its owner, leaving an oasis of peace, despite the disaster zone.
    I thought of my own birthday, coming up in just under two weeks. Normally I would have already started planning something, whether it was lunch at the pub or a barbecue or even a series of events where I spread myself thinly so that nobody missed out. Like Vegemite on toast. But this year, it was impossible to think so far ahead. Impossible to imagine that by that time, at least one baby would have been born and the other imminent. It was going to be a time of great joy and great adjustment and, perhaps, great despair. My birthday paled into insignificance.
    I spent the first part of Tuesday evening unpacking. As something of a reward, the second part was spent out in the garage working on my latest doll’s house, with Gusto curled in the corner napping. I had three of these now: a Tudor-style, cantilevered cottage; a Victorian mansion with leadlight windows; and the new project, a Swiss chalet with a sloping roof and flowering window boxes. The aim was to eventually have five, one for each of my daughters, but as I had yet to complete even one, I expected the task to be accomplished in about ten years. Maybe