The First Year Read online

  Contents

  Day 1, Sunday, October 12

  Day 2, Monday, October 13

  Day 3, Tuesday, October 14

  Day 7, Saturday, October 18

  Day 11, Wednesday, October 22

  Day 13, Friday, October 24

  Day 16, Monday, October 27

  Day 19, Thursday, October 30

  Day 20, Friday, October 31

  Day 23, Monday, November 3

  Day 25, Wednesday, November 5

  Day 61, Thursday, December 11

  Day 62, Friday, December 12

  Day 65, Monday, December 15

  Day 70, Saturday, December 20

  Day 72, Monday, December 22

  Day 75, Thursday, December 25

  Day 77, Saturday, December 27

  Day 86, Monday, January 5

  Day 96, Thursday, January 15

  Day 103, Thursday, January 22

  Day 125, Friday, February 13

  Day 126, Saturday, February 14

  Day 132, Friday, February 20

  Day 152, Thursday, March 12

  Day 150, Friday, March 20

  Day 163, Monday, March 23

  Day 155, Wednesday, March 25

  Day 176, Sunday, April 5, Easter

  Day 180, Thursday, April 9

  Day 196, Saturday, April 25

  Day 203, Saturday, May 2

  Day 204, Sunday, May 3

  Day 234, Tuesday, June 2

  Day 236, Wednesday, June 3

  Day 242, Monday, June 8

  Day 248, Tuesday, June 16

  Day 250, Thursday, June 18

  Day 251, Friday, June 19

  Day 263, Wednesday, July 1

  Day 268, Monday, July 6

  Day 283, Tuesday, July 21

  Day 285, Thursday, July 23

  Day 300, Friday, August 7

  Day 338, Tuesday, September 15

  Day 355, Friday, October 2

  Day 262, Friday, October 11

  Day 363, Saturday, October 12

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Genevieve Gannon

  Copyright

  Day 1, Sunday, October 12

  ‘Every day forever?’ he asked.

  ‘Every day for one year.’

  ‘Only a year? But yesterday we said forever.’

  Saskia propped herself up on the bank of pillows. Their brocade cases were stiff and glowing white, having been purchased by her mother-in-law only the day before. Except now there were fine black marks where Saskia’s mascara had smeared the cotton in her sleep.

  ‘I don’t think what we were pledging to do every day ’til death do us part was have sex,’ she said.

  Her new husband leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, tenderly picking a piece of confetti from her hairline. ‘I thought it was implied.’

  ‘What about gastro?’

  ‘Gastro?’

  ‘Vomiting. Night sweats. Bile.’

  He furrowed his brow. ‘What has bile got to do with our sex life?’

  ‘If one of us got gastro we wouldn’t be able to . . . you know. And it’s bound to happen eventually. We couldn’t pledge to do something every day for the rest of our lives when we know there are going to be times when it will be impossible. But a year . . . we could last a whole year without spew and bile.’

  ‘You are such a lady,’ he said.

  ‘Hmph.’ The bride pointed her nose in the air and adopted a British accent: ‘Well I never.’

  He traced a finger across her collarbone, a smile on his lips. ‘Where did you say you went to finishing school, again?’

  Saskia’s eyes widened in mock horror as she picked up a surplus pillow. ‘Up your arse,’ she said, flogging him across the face.

  Andy spluttered as he took a mouthful of goose down. There was a small part of him that wished his new wife wouldn’t say things like ‘up your arse’ and ‘shit-a-brick’ and, if he was really honest, fuck. But it was a very small part. Another part, moderate in size, liked that she was bawdy and a little rough. That part of him was relieved she was different to the starched women he knew from university, who hung around the rowing club, their faces crimped at his customary cox/cocks double entendres. The largest part of him, the ruling majority, just wanted to press his face to Saskia’s skin and never let her go.

  He pulled her closer and breathed in the smell of expensive moisturiser, her only concession to luxury. It came in a frosted glass jar with a gold lid and sat proudly in the centre of her dressing table, as if just waiting for Indiana Jones to burst in and swap it for a bag of sand. The most potent of the all-natural ingredients was a blend of citrus peel. For the first three months of their relationship Andy had found himself becoming inconveniently aroused every time he was served a glass of orange juice. Which unfortunately, for a lawyer required at many breakfast meetings, was often.

  ‘I think your father should write a very sternly worded letter to his so-called finishing school of the arse,’ he said.

  Saskia sniggered and rolled back into the pillows. He reached out and caught a handful of her hair, which also reminded him of the morning. Her skin may have smelled like oranges but thanks to her questionable practice of using coffee grounds on her scalp (‘It stimulates the follicles!’) her hair smelled like a cappuccino.

  He gave a theatrical sigh: ‘Although I suppose we can’t expect too much from a finishing school located in a rectal cavity.’

  Laughter brewed in Saskia’s chest. ‘You’re such a snob.’

  ‘And you are a ragamuffin. Look at this.’ He picked out more confetti tangled in the black forest at the base of her skull. The necklace she’d worn at their wedding was still clipped around her neck and strands of hair were ensnared in it. Flashes of gold caught the sunlight as he nuzzled her with his nose, his lips.

  ‘In sickness and in health,’ she chirped.

  ‘Okay.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, a year.’

  Her expression grew serious. ‘They say the first is the hardest.’

  ‘I thought we’d survived our first year. Well, nearly a year.’

  ‘The first year of marriage is hard, not the first year of love. That’s the easy part. The honeymoon period.’

  ‘And what is this expensive holiday we’re taking?’ He drew her to him so that her cheek lay against his chest.

  ‘That’s part of the honeymoon period too. I think it lingers into the marriage for a bit. I imagine it will all go to crap at about the three-month mark.’

  ‘I’ll have my secretary put it in the diary.’

  ‘Which is why we have to do it every day.’

  She emphasised the words by pressing her finger into his right pec, watching it turn white where she applied pressure. He was naked to the waist, and below that he was wearing nothing more substantial than a white cotton bed sheet. It had been savagely ironed by his mother the morning before as she scolded the pair for not booking a hotel suite for their wedding night.

  ‘It’s a sound argument.’ He rolled onto his side and started unlacing the ribbon that held his bride’s corset together. ‘Why are you still wearing this?’

  ‘I think you were too impatient to remove it last night.’

  ‘How discourteous of me.’

  ‘I’m glad. I wanted to get some wear out of it. It took a long time to make.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  He traced a fingertip over the tiny stitches that held the eyelets in place. He could not conceive of how she made them so small, or that somebody who bellows ‘up your arse’ could have the aptitude and patience for such delicate work.

  ‘You could do this for a living,’ he said. ‘Expand your jewellery line to include clothing.’ He started fiddling with her ribb
ons. ‘I had better remove it and take a closer look.’

  She ignored his efforts to undress her. ‘I figure that if we promise to make each other feel valued every single day our relationship will survive anything because we made it a priority.’

  ‘By having sex?’

  ‘It’s symbolic. You can give me daily foot massages if you’d prefer. I thought suggesting sex would make the idea more appealing to you.’

  ‘It’s certainly worth a try.’ He loosened a loop of ribbon.

  ‘This is serious Andy.’ She grabbed his finger. ‘This is our marriage we’re talking about.’

  ‘And I’m demonstrating my support for your idea by getting started right away.’ The ties loosened, he was able to the pull the two stiff halves of the corset apart.

  He paused a moment to appreciate her body. She didn’t squirm to cover up the little lumps and puckers of flesh, like other women did. Her skin was pale and perfectly clear, and as she lay back, cradled by the white cotton ranges that encircled them both, the folds of her flesh reminded him of just-poured cream.

  Her skin’s one imperfection was a series of miniature bullet holes that ran up her left ear. The punctures left by the piercing gun were as a clear as if someone had drawn a deep dot with a felt-tip pen.

  He unlaced the last of the ribbon. It was exciting to be able to unwrap her, like she was a present, and he told her so.

  Saskia smiled, satisfied. ‘I wanted something just for us, for the wedding night.’

  They both looked at her dress, which had been discarded beside the bed. It was drooping and deflated, but still stiff enough to stand, like a haystack made of tulle and taffeta. If Saskia had worn the type of dress she’d wanted it would have been a puddle of silk and beads. And instead of her mother-in-law’s heirloom veil, which she had carefully removed as soon as the ceremony was over out of fear she’d tear it, she would have worn a headpiece she had made herself.

  Andy worked the corset out from under her and slid his fingertip up her stomach until it reached the soft, yielding flesh of her left breast.

  ‘It’s really beautiful. It’s a lot more like . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘It’s just . . . it’s a lot closer to what I expected you to wear. It’s more your style.’

  ‘You didn’t like how I looked?’ Saskia sat up.

  In the clear air of morning it occurred to him the dress was not her usual style, but he also realised he shouldn’t have said anything.

  ‘You looked like an angel,’ he said quickly and kissed her. ‘You looked not of this earth.’ He kissed her again. ‘I was just surprised you went with that style of dress.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have a signature wedding-dress style. It’s not something I often wear.’

  ‘You’ve had some experience.’ Again, he’d spoken without thinking, and felt her flinch at the comment. ‘I didn’t mean — sorry, that was stupid. I was trying to be funny.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘That came out all wrong. I was trying to make a joke.’

  When she spoke, her voice was soft. ‘You weren’t trying very hard.’ Then she shook her head. ‘Let’s not fight again.’

  ‘Agreed,’ he said and pulled her back into the nook under his arm.

  *

  Since Saskia had met Andy her life had been filled with unbridled bliss. But after they announced their engagement a palpable tension had arisen. Saskia traced it back to the day her soon-to-be mother-in-law Millie Colbrook marched her out to Armadale where her old friend had an exclusive bridal shop. Millie had been immediately taken by a frock with puffed-up sleeves that was lurking in the corner of the boutique like the headless ghost of Marie Antoinette.

  ‘Saskia, look at this,’ she commanded.

  The sound of Mrs Colbrook’s voice never failed to transport Saskia back to the high school days she’d spent sitting in the principal’s office where she was a frequent flyer for her various school-yard crimes. Like the time she clocked Connie McKeith over the top of the head with a copy of Great Expectations because Connie called Saskia’s father a jailbird.

  ‘It’s not the type of thing I’d normally wear,’ Saskia said.

  ‘No,’ Millie agreed, eyeing Saskia’s op-shop shift-dress with distaste.

  Saskia felt the wedding dress fabric between her fingers and tried to think of something polite to say. The outmoded style called to mind a remote workshop buried in Germany’s Black Forest where the machinists relied on curling magazine clippings of Princess Di’s dress for information on the latest trends.

  Saskia stoically took the dress into the fitting room because it seemed like the fastest way of ending the excursion.

  ‘It suits you perfectly,’ Millie pronounced seventeen minutes later, when Saskia had finally managed to get the dress on.

  Sas tugged at the sleeve and grimaced at her reflection. It didn’t look as ridiculous as she had expected it to. It made her look refined. Sort of.

  ‘It’s nice, but I was going to ask my friend Annie to make my dress,’ Saskia said.

  As Millie pinched her lips and raised an eyebrow all of the warmth seemed to be sucked out of the room.

  ‘A homemade dress?’

  ‘Not homemade, she’s a dressmaker,’ Saskia said. ‘She—’

  ‘My dear,’ Millie cut in coolly, ‘there are going to be a lot of important family friends at this wedding and they have certain . . . standards.’

  ‘Standards?’ Saskia said, shocked. ‘Standards!’

  She had been prepared to humour her mother-in-law for Andy’s sake, but at that moment she imagined herself defiantly walking down the aisle swathed in a bed sheet from Target, her head held high as she flicked a cape made of hairnets over her shoulder like a Disney villain.

  Millie lay her ringed fingers on Saskia’s arm. ‘Saskia,’ she said, ‘you don’t want to embarrass Andy.’

  The words cut right through Saskia. The next thing she knew she had signed an order form and was standing on a velvet box in her underwear having her measurements taken.

  ‘I assure you, this is what everybody is wearing this season,’ Millie purred, victorious.

  Saskia covered her light-blue cotton knickers with her hand, wishing she’d worn underwear that hadn’t come in a pack of six from Woollies.

  *

  ‘I picked up the dress,’ Saskia said the morning of the rehearsal dinner. ‘It finally fits.’

  Andy grabbed at the flesh on her bottom. ‘You’ve been losing weight. You’re not dieting, are you?’

  ‘Stress burns up an awful lot of calories. If I ran Weight Watchers, I’d make all the members plan a wedding,’ Saskia said.

  She walked into the kitchen to test out the gleaming space-age coffee machine that had arrived from Andy’s family friends in Italy. It was the same brand as the commercial machine in the cafe where Saskia worked, but the household version was temperamental.

  ‘You’re a mind reader,’ he said, taking a seat at the kitchen table with a fistful of documents.

  ‘Let’s see if I can get a decent cappuccino out of this thing.’ Saskia concentrated on the jug hovering under the spout. The machine gurgled and slurped. A piece of metal slid off the bottom of the steamer and landed with a ‘plop’ in the hot milk. ‘Oh, shit,’ she said. ‘I mean, shoot. I swore I wouldn’t swear. I’m not giving your mother any reason to criticise me over the next two days. Put that work down and have a rest. Andy?’

  ‘Huh? What, sorry?’ He looked up from his work.

  ‘Take a break. I was going to drive to that wedding outlet in Springvale to get the napkin rings Millie wanted but then I thought, fuck it, I mean, fig it, we should enjoy our last hours of freedom.’

  ‘About that, I think I’m going to have to go back into the office for a few hours.’ Andy was frowning at his paperwork.

  ‘Aren’t you officially on leave for the wedding?’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, but I’ve just been reading through this advice and it’s riddled with errors. We can’t afford to send it out in this state. Not with the way business has been lately.’

  ‘Didn’t you once tell me they employ other lawyers at the firm besides you?’

  He pulled down on his face as if it was a rubber mask he was trying to remove. ‘I know it’s bad timing but we’ve lost a few big clients lately.’

  Saskia paused. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s too much of a big deal. But it’s important we get this right.’

  She dunked her hand into the milk jug, retrieved the fallen knob and tried to screw the attachment back onto the spout.

  ‘I won’t be late.’ Andy stood and put his arms around her.

  She let her head rest against his shoulder for a moment. He turned her around and cupped her face.

  ‘Your mother was the one who insisted we have this dinner,’ she countered.

  Millie had been firing text messages at her all week.

  ‘Did you pick up the cake boxes?’

  ‘Have you finalised the seating chart?’

  ‘Are you sure you want freesias in the bouquets?’

  Saskia sighed and rinsed her hands, then went into the laundry where her best dress was drip-drying over the trough. She felt its hem — still wet — and looked at her watch.

  ‘I know she can be hard to please,’ Andy called. ‘But it doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you. Try not to let it get you so worked up.’

  ‘I’m trying,’ Saskia said. ‘But if we’re late she’ll blame me.’

  ‘Sas, I have to get this done. I promise we’ll get there for six o’clock. It’s not a big deal.’

  She walked briskly towards their bedroom. ‘It shouldn’t be a big deal,’ she said hotly. ‘If you’d heard what she said about — ow!’ She’d stubbed her toe on a box labelled ‘pots’. ‘Dammit,’ she said, hopping and rubbing the end of her foot.

  The lounge room was full of boxes that had been delivered from her old flat. The misshapen packages were the only items in Andy’s former bachelor pad that didn’t look like they came from the pages of Vogue Living. Saskia felt a pang of longing for her careworn sunken red couch and 1940s light fittings.

  Andy came over to inspect her foot. ‘Let me take a look at that.’