Free Relativity by Antonia Hayes

was punishing her back. Ethan shut himself away: closed his bedroom door, refused to speak during dinner. This secrecy, this lack of eye contact, was unusual. Claire missed him and the relaxed ease of their bond.
    â€œWe just want everyone to touch base, discuss the matter face-to-face,” Mr. Thompson had said over the phone.
    Claire shrank. “I suppose Will’s parents will be there too?”
    â€œYes, I’ve already spoken to Helen and Simon. I’m sure this will be quality face time.” Mr. Thompson paused. “Claire, I want to reassure you that this won’t be a blamestorming session.”
    â€œThanks,” she’d said, in a measured tone.
    Claire ran late to the meeting. The ballet company held a fund-raising afternoon tea with the new artistic director and she got stuck speaking to one of the most generous philanthropic supporters. As she sat on the bus, she felt jittery and agitated. The neckline of her dress was too tight. Claire felt apprehensive about Ethan’s disciplinary meeting but mostly she hadn’t prepared herself to see Simon again.
    They’d met five years ago at the school Christmas play. Claire knew Helen, but Simon worked long hours and was never home when she dropped Ethan off at their house. That Christmas, Ethan and Will were wise men in the nativity, clutching oversized frankincense and myrrh in their tiny hands. Helen had insisted on sewing Ethan’s costume so that all three wise men matched.
    After the production, Claire ran into Simon, who was leaning against the school gate.
    â€œThese things always go on forever,” he said. “And your kid is only onstage for five minutes but they still make you watch the whole school perform.” Simon smiled. He reminded Claire of one of her high school boyfriends with his warm face and sensible haircut, the sort of practical boy she’d fancied before disappearing from her local school to study ballet full-time.
    â€œI’m embarrassed to admit I don’t know your name,” Claire said. “I only know other parents by the names of their children. You’re Will’s dad.”
    â€œSimon. I have the same problem. You’re Ethan’s mum.”
    â€œClaire.” She reached out to shake his hand.
    He had a firm handshake. “Will talks about Ethan all the time. So you’re Claire.” Simon said her name slowly. He looked at her for a moment; the intensity of his stare made her feel uneasy. “The ballerina, right? Helen mentioned something, when we were at the Opera House recently. That you work there.”
    â€œOh, ex-ballerina. Now I just work behind the scenes.”
    â€œMore interesting than my job anyway. I’m an accountant. Punchline to lots of jokes. Everyone is more interesting than me.”
    They briefly maintained eye contact. Simon fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt. He looked at her in a way that she’d forgotten. Like she was visible, under the spotlight on a stage.
    â€œFunny you mention it, but I need an accountant,” Claire said. This wasn’t true. She’d never had any trouble sorting out her tax returns.
    Simon took a business card out of his jacket. “Here,” he said, putting it in her hand. “Call me if you have any questions. About accounting.”
    â€œThanks,” Claire said and walked away to collect Ethan from backstage.
    She didn’t call him. The glossy business card turned gray at the bottom of her handbag, lost beside the old receipts and grimy bus tickets. But their offices were nearby and they kept running into each other around Circular Quay. Suddenly, Simon was everywhere. He’d always be so friendly, invite her to have a coffee or lunch; Claire always refused. Over time, she grew addicted to his persistence and if she didn’t see him for a while, she’d miss getting her fix. Finally, after a long day at work, Simon persuaded Claire to have a drink with him.
    They