Page 1 of Unforgivable

ONE

Our suburb is perched on a hill, and what makes it exceptional is its stairs. There are over a hundred of them, zigzagging everywhere, connecting streets from top to bottom and back again so that from above our suburb looks like a giant board of snakes and ladders but without the snakes.

There’s a set of old concrete stairs just thirty feet from our house. Once upon a time, they would have connected tramlines to each other, but now they link one end of a cul-de-sac—where we live—to another dead end below. They are divided into three sections by two landings with a sharp turn at each and overshadowed by a large canopy of trees. Hardly anyone uses them because they’re steep, crumbling along the edges, and they lead nowhere useful.

The police think this is why she wasn’t found sooner. It had rained all night, there was no moon, and for almost fourteen hours, she lay on the first landing with her head at an odd angle, tree leaves slowly falling over her. If you’d stood at the top and craned your neck, you might have seen a leg or a foot, but you wouldn’t have been sure. But anyway, nobody stood there and nobody looked.

But we’re not there yet. For now, I’m in the back, unwrapping packages that the courier brought, sent to us for the new exhibition, the one that opens in two weeks. An exhibition that I’m hoping is going to cement my career as a curator. This is what I do, I’m an exhibitions director, a grand title considering there’s just me and my assistant Gavin, although Gavin is about to leave and I haven’t found a replacement for him yet. I didn’t choose what to call myself. My boss, Bruno did. This is his space. A long time ago, I was a painter doing mostly portraits and I had some modest success. I topped up my income by teaching art in elementary schools until I woke up one day and realized I’d been teaching for so long and done so little painting in that time that I probably could no longer call myself an artist. I wasn’t even really a proper teacher; I was a primary school relief art teacher with no qualifications, an income that barely covered my living costs and no regular hours. I didn’t enjoy teaching back then, although I think I would now. But then later, once I had a family, I decided it was time for a real career and a reliable salary, and yes, I wanted Jack to be proud of me.

I was on the wrong side of thirty and had no skills to speak of except a love for art—is that even a skill?—so I decided to become a curator. I studied in my spare time, and I was lucky to find work at the Bruno Mallet Gallery although, to be fair, he didn’t hire me for my curatorial abilities, but because I agreed to adjust my salary according to how much money I made for him.

Turns out, I did well. I have an eye, apparently. We now represent some very successful artists and we do okay.

As I slice off the wrapping, I am thinking about Bronwyn.Bronwyn Bronwyn Bronwyn, like a broken record, her face filling up my head, taking up all the available space becauseBronwyn is coming.That’s what Jack said this morning as I was leaving for work, like an afterthought.Oh by the way, before you go, do you know where my blue shirt is? Oh by the way, the electrician called, they can’t make it today. Oh by the way, Bronwyn called, she’s coming.

Beautiful, dazzling Bronwyn with long raven hair and porcelain skin, a face like a Renaissance painting. And that was before she got engaged to a plastic surgeon. I wonder what she’ll look like now. Like a goddess, probably. I wish I wasn’t thinking about Bronwyn, today, of all days. The artworks I am carefully unwrapping are very important to me. They are to be included in a new exhibition I’ve planned and curated for over a year now. The culmination of my career so far. So yes, I resent Bronwyn for robbing me of this moment, although to be fair I resent Bronwyn all the time but most days, I manage not to think about her at all.

I am so absorbed in my task—and in my thoughts—that when the front door chimes, I don’t register it immediately. It’s the sound of rubber soles squeaking on the timber floor that makes me realize that someone has come in the gallery and for a crazy moment I think it’s her, that she’s already here. I put down the Stanley knife, pull off my gloves and walk into the main area, and of course it’s not her. It couldn’t have been her; she couldn’t have arrived here that fast. It’s a young woman in high-top sneakers, skinny black jeans and faux fur jacket in black and gold animal print slumped back off her shoulders. I guess she’s too warm, because it is too warm for a jacket like that, and underneath she’s wearing a black camisole with thin straps that barely cover her shoulders.

“Hi!” She smiles at me, a lovely big smile, lots of teeth, straight blond hair parted in the center.

She looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t think she’s a buyer. I would have remembered. She points to one of the artworks and shakes her head. “These are awesome.”

I come to stand next to her. “Aren’t they?”

The show is calledLittle Ones,and it’s by a seventy-two-year-old artist called Claire Carter who is small and shriveled up and claims to have shockingly bad eyesight although I’m not sure I believe her; she builds miniature scenes that are so precise, so beautifully crafted you can’t take your eyes off them. They’re housed inside glass bulbs, snow domes and test tubes, or sometimes nothing at all, just tiny shop fronts or doll houses that live on a piece of board the size of a paperback and sometimes even the size of a playing card. On the surface, they seem exquisite and delicate and charming, but look closer and that tiny figure lying on the couch isn’t sleeping, they’re bleeding from the head, and is that a shotgun on the floor? And leaning against the tiny piano is a white cane; does that mean the woman playing is blind? And the little boy sitting cross-legged on the rug is holding a tiny goldfish in both hands, watching it squirm. Her pieces are dark and weird and surreal, but the craftsmanship is flawless. I went to her studio once—a small austere building on Washington Street—and it was like walking into a crazy toymaker’s workshop; bits of dolls scattered among dead clocks spewing out their entrails; glass eyes staring at you from the counter; springs and tiny beads surrounding jeweler’s tools and absurdly small paintbrushes. She offered me a piece of lemon cake that she took out of a little fridge in the corner, and it had a thin film of mold on it, like someone had sprinkled strands of pale silvery cotton and finished it off with a scattering of gray dust. That was the only time I thought maybe there was something wrong with her eyesight, after all. Or maybe she just didn’t like visitors. I ate the cake. That goes without saying. Although I scraped the top layer with my spoon and fed it to the cat under the table.

“They’re wonderful,” my visitor says.

“This is one of my favorites,” I say. “It’s calledThe Inverted Garden.” It’s a take on the hanging gardens of Babylon but even more magical. Small trees and shrubs in all shapes and colors, tiny mushrooms, ivy climbing everywhere, even peacocks wondering around. Every nook and cranny of the crumbling splendor of a white building, more Roman than Babylonian, is covered by this enchanted garden, with stairs linking tiered levels and columns and arches and even fountains. It’s also the only work of hers, as far as I know, that doesn’t have a dark side. It must have taken years to make, and if it was mine, I’d never part with it. “But it’s just been sold, I was about to put a red dot on it, in fact. But if you’re interested, this one is available.” I point to the piece next to it, tiny swimmers playing with a beach ball in a swimming pool, ignoring the woman drowning just feet away. “Also one of my favorites.” She raises an eyebrow at me. I laugh. “Okay, I’ll come clean. They’re all my favorites.”

She laughs too. “Oh, I wish.” Her outstretched hand shoots out from the ripples of her jacket. “I’m Summer. You may not remember me, but I’m a photographer. We met once, at the Carrie Saito opening. We talked about me having an exhibition here, but it wasn’t the right time.”

“Oh yes! I do remember you. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. And that was a great show too, by the way.”

I nod. “She’s brilliant.” I do remember her. It was a busy exhibition opening and everything was going wrong that night. Gavin called in sick at the last minute and I had to rope Jack in to tend the bar which he wasn’t thrilled about. She’d brought her portfolio and she wanted me to look at it right there and then. I was distracted, I glanced at the work, I could see she had talent, but I didn’t find any of her photographs exciting.

“You said I should develop my own style.”

“I’m sorry—”

She raises a hand. “Don’t be. It was good advice. I’m still learning.”

She reaches into her satchel and I’m thinking she’s going to pull out her portfolio, the updated, stylish version, but she says, “I saw there was a job advertised on your website.” She pulls out a simple white envelope. “I brought my resume.”

“Oh? But it’s an administrative position.”

“I know. But I have the skills, I promise. I know I could learn so much working with you, and if you’d give me a chance, I promise you won’t regret it.”

She tells me about her somewhat limited office experience but I’m not listening because behind me my cell is ringing in my bag. I recognize the ringtone I set for Charlie’s school. I raise a finger. “I’m sorry, I need to get that. Could you excuse me for just a moment?”

There’s a tiny pause. “Of course,” she says, twirling her envelope between her fingers.

I thank her, running over to dig out my cell. “Laura, it’s Tara Fuller, from Greenhills Elementary?”

“Yes, Tara, is everything all right?”

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