Tash woke feeling groggy and queasy. She sat up, unable to work out what was wrong, then the memory of the night before slammed into her. A heartbroken sob burst from her lungs and flattened her back to the bed. Huddling protectively under the doona, she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, but the tears came anyway.
How she had any left she didn’t know. They’d flowed like rain the night before. No matter how many times she told herself that it wasn’t true, that neither Patrick nor Ceci would do that to her, her broken heart kept the tears coming.
She still didn’t believe it was real, yet there was no mistaking Patrick’s ute parked in the street out the front of Ceci’s unit. And there was no escaping the lie he’d told.
Why? That’s what she couldn’t understand. Why treat her like this? Why not just tell her it was over and walk away? Why be so cruel?
It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.
And yet, somewhere in her soul, it did. Beautiful people always drifted to one another. It was nature or karma or something. People like Tash and Thom could dabble in their worlds but they could never hope to stay. They didn’t fit. But Patrick and Ceci, with their gorgeous faces and perfect bodies, were aligned like stars.
No wonder they’d looked so guilty on the weekend. They must have planned this then.
Anger rumbled inside Tash. How dare they? Her hospitality, her warmth and love, her life trampled on, and for what? Their inability to keep their beautiful hands off one another? It was disgusting.
She scrambled out of bed, only to be forced to sit on the edge when her head swam. After disconnecting from Thom, Tash had wandered the tiny flat, touching familiar things for comfort. She’d ended up in the pantry, where a form of insanity had her dragging a bottle of cooking cognac off the shelf. She’d poured a hefty dose and drank it, then another and another until a fire ignited in her belly. Better than the horrible numbing cold that had settled there.
Or so she’d thought. The moment the alcohol kicked in, she’d begun to cry in earnest, and hadn’t stopped until the early hours when, finally, exhaustion had taken over and she’d collapsed into bed.
Tash waited until her head settled, then stood. With her parents away, she had chores to do. Misery could wait until later. Throwing whatever clothes were nearest on over her pyjamas and yanking a pair of gumboots onto her feet, she trudged outside and whistled for Coco. The dog lolloped over and sat on her haunches, eyes bright and mouth open like a grin.
Tash stroked her head. ‘At least you love me.’
Love. Right now she hated the word. Even the mention of it made her throat choke up and her eyes heat with welling tears. For several seconds she breathed harsh, shaky breaths then with a sniff Tash swallowed away the roughness and forced herself on.
She drove the ute one-handed around the cows and calves, her other arm tucked over Coco. The farm looked fine, the stock content. The troughs were full, the fences tight, gates secure. Wind scudded cloud shadows across the paddocks but their bellies looked dry. Great for Pa and his bowls competition but not so great for Tash. She wanted rain, lots of rain. Nature crying in sympathy for her. If the forecast was correct she’d get it, but not until late afternoon, perhaps evening.
As soon as the stock run was complete, Tash parked the ute back in its bay and trudged home, the breeze cutting through her inadequate clothes, slicing a heart that already felt shredded.
One look at her laptop, still open on the bench, and the tears started again. She slammed the lid shut and retreated to her bed. Mercifully, exhaustion claimed her within moments.
It was after lunchtime when she woke but at least the extra sleep made her feel semi-human, and a long shower helped a little more. The hurt was still there, deep in her bones and heart, so deep and so damaging she wondered if it would leave scars. Probably. Losing Mitch had, and her feelings for him were nothing compared to her blistering passion for Patrick.
Tash made a cup of sweet tea and sat at the bench sipping it. She stared hollowly at her stove, remembering her excitement when it was installed. The way she’d danced in the paddock with joy because the future had seemed so alive with possibility and adventure.
That joy seemed forever ago now. Perhaps it would never come back.
No. Tash refused to believe that. Besides her family, cooking was the one solid thing in her life. The one love that never let her down, that she could turn to for comfort no matter what, plus she was the one always advocating the healing power of food. Why not food to mend heartache? She could even include a chapter on it in her cookbook.
Gulping down the last of her tea, Tash slid off her stool and began.
‘I had my heart broken last night,’ said Tash to her camera.
At the crack in her voice she took a few seconds to press her hand to her chest and breathe. She’d been filming the ups and downs of her life for years now, from hangovers to hilarities and everything in between. This was no different. All it took was courage, and Tash had plenty.
‘It hurts, badly, and although I know that in time that pain will disappear, right now it feels like someone’s taken knives to my insides and I don’t understand why. All I did was fall in love and love’s a good thing. Love is what makes us special and human, it’s what brings joy and colour and beauty to the world. It should be treasured, not treated with contempt.’
Her head dropped as she fended off a sudden urge to bawl. Why had she thought this would help? Tash was feeling raw enough without exposing her personal agony to the world. She’d probably end up laughed at and hammered by trolls, but ‘warts and all’ was the way of her business, and maybe someone else out there was hurting too and could take solace in knowing they weren’t alone.
With a sniff and a straightening of her shoulders, Tash addressed the camera once more.
‘Time might be the only real cure for heartbreak, but did you know that there are foods that can help? It’s true. Some food—like oranges and other citrus, for instance—are loaded with Vitamin C, which is important in the production of the feel-good hormone serotonin. Chocolate is brilliant too because it contains a substance called PEA that triggers the release of endorphins and dopamine, and those babies are good.’ She smiled crookedly. ‘Most of the time. The irony is that they’re also known as love drugs. In other words, they’re the very things that got me into this mess.
‘I thought maybe, in that case, they could bloody well help me out of it, but I’m not in the mood for chocolate. I’m empty and cold, and I need filling up. And I’m angry too. Angry that two people I loved decided I didn’t matter.’ She felt a tear trickle down her cheek and wiped it away with her sleeve, then picked up her favourite chef’s knife, holding it like she was going into battle, which she was. Battle against her hurt and self-doubt. ‘So I’m going to make my version of chilli con carne. I’m not going to kid myself or you by claiming that it’s even remotely authentic. It’s not, but it’s hearty, nutritious and hot, and with a bit of luck it might help. Or burn the roof off my mouth in the attempt.’
Tash followed her usual routine of pointing out ingredients and talked about those that were missing. She could have driven into town for fresh coriander but she was feeling too fragile to risk facing people without the distance of a lens. Cameras didn’t judge or make sympathetic noises liable to induce tears, or try to draw out explanations.
She began to chop the vegetables. The carrots were fine, as was the celery, but the onions brought her undone. What started out as garden-variety onion tears somehow morphed into real ones as her bitterness leaked out.
‘You know the trouble with falling in love with a beautiful person? It never lasts. It’s like they live on a different planet with different morals and think they can treat the people who love them like dirt.’ The knife blade thudded into the chopping board as her cutting turned savage. ‘Well, you know what? You beautiful people can shove your good looks and perfect bodies because it means nothing if you’re ugly inside. I might not have your supermodel looks or clotheshorse body, but I’m beautiful where it counts.’ She thumped a fist against her heart, tears streaming so hard it sent drips trickling down her neck to wet her top. ‘In here. And if you can’t see that then that’s your loss. You’re the ones who are missing out.’ She hacked viciously. ‘You’ll never know real beauty and your lives will be poorer for it. Oww!’
Slapping one hand over the cut, Tash jerked her fists to her chest as she closed her eyes against the pain. After a couple of shuddery breaths, she looked down and groaned at the blood seeping over her wrist and into her shirt. She snatched up a tea towel, wrapped it around the wound and held it tightly. Leaning against the sink, she closed her eyes once more and slid raggedly to the floor, sobbing.
Everything throbbed with pain—her cut hand, her head, her heart. Tears came in bursts as Tash railed against the unfairness of her heartbreak, against the double betrayal of friend and lover. Of a dream left in tatters.
Finally, when she’d sobbed herself empty, Tash staggered slowly upright. Holding her hand over the sink, she unwrapped the tea towel to check the damage. A nasty gash ran across the three middle fingers of her left hand, just below the nails. Tash grimaced at the blood still seeping from the worst two fingers. Given its position and depth, this one would take a while to heal, the scab at risk of breaking open each time she curled her fingers and stretched the skin. She sniffed, feeling even sorrier for herself, and with a resigned sigh, washed off the worst of the blood before drying and disinfecting the area carefully, and wrapping her fingers in wide blue Band-Aids.
Tash rubbed her eyes and stared at the mess on the bench. She was tired, so tired, and cooking had been a stupid idea. Coming home to Castlereagh had been stupid too. Falling for Patrick even more idiotic.
She lifted her gaze to the camera and frowned. For a long moment she stared at the lens, then her gaze dropped in defeat, her body slumping with it.
‘I don’t want to do this anymore.’
With a click of the remote, she cut the recording.
It was nearing sundown and the wind was rising, bringing with it the chill of the south. Tash checked the sky, trying to guess how long she had before the clouds released the contents of their dark bellies. She’d been huddled on a log on the far side of the swamp for hours now and was still no closer to working out what she wanted to do.
Each time she thought of leaving Castlereagh and returning to Melbourne she’d think of the garden and wood-fired oven, Khan and Coco and Pa and her parents, of new and reignited friendships, of possibilities still to be reached, and her heart would ache. Then she’d think of Patrick, and her heart was so heavy it felt like a lump of cold granite. In Melbourne Ceci would be easy to avoid, but here Patrick would always be close, reminding her of inadequacy and failure.
Movement at the corner of her eye had her gasping as a swamp rat scuttled through the reeds and disappeared. The sight of it brought a small smile and a glimmer of hope. Like that rat, Tash was a survivor. This emotional winter wouldn’t last forever. Life would go on and so, eventually, would love.
She stayed sitting, scanning the reeds for another sign of the rat or its mate, but it made no further appearance. Tash inspected the sky again. Time to go. She sighed and rose, grunting as her stiff muscles protested, and the boggy ground under her right foot gave way. Tash swore as cold mud seeped over the top of her boot and inside. Using the log as a brace she tried to drag her foot free but the mud had closed over like quicksand and suction held it tight. Hand still propped on the log, she worked her foot harder.
Without warning, the log shattered. Tash collapsed with it, scrambling madly as she tried to find purchase to stop her face planting into the rotten wood. To her horror, the entire log began to slip towards the swamp edge.
She flung herself aside but her foot was still trapped. The sliding log crashed into her ankle. Tash heard the nauseating break of bone, then howled as searing pain shot up her leg and exploded over her body.
Freezing water soaked her clothes but did nothing to extinguish the fire in her ankle. Every movement burned. She tried to ease her ankle free but the log had it jammed. Tash tried to keep calm, panting her way through the agony like a woman in labour, but she could feel hysteria rising with the pain. The sun was fading, darkness was only half an hour or so away, and rain probably not much further. She was soaked and already shivering, with a trapped broken ankle and the farm a kilometre and a half away. Worst of all, no one knew she was here.
Whatever it took, she had to get free and get home.
Tash swallowed, and placing both hands against the jagged end of the log, she pushed. The end crumbled in her hands but the heavy main body, which was still mostly intact, refused to budge. She tried again, only to sob when a thick splinter drove into her palm.
Panic rose higher. Though it caused a burst of agony, she leaned forward, forcing herself to assess. The log was too heavy to budge. The only way out was to dig.
Tash began to scoop away the soil near her ankle, every bend forward torture. The mud was peaty and cold but at least it was soft and came away easily. Her foot, however, did not. As it remained lodged, her movements became more and more frenzied, the pain more and more excruciating, but she had to get free, she had to.
Tash was making terrified, choked noises when she finally felt some give. With a cry, she dug harder, then scrambled backwards as her leg sank into the cavity she’d dug and the log, loose of its chock, slipped into the swamp.
She collapsed on her back, panting and staring wide-eyed at the ash sky. A fat raindrop hit her cheek, then another. She groaned and rolled over, before gingerly easing onto one knee to look across the swamp towards home. A light, car, tractor, anything would do, but all she could see were the ruins of the old cottage.
Rain began to fall in earnest. Tash fought for strength, drawing on the willpower and courage she knew lived inside her. She scanned her immediate vicinity for a stick or branch solid enough to use as a crutch. A promising-looking one lay to her right near where the log had once rested. She dragged herself towards it. Planting it in the ground, she used it to push herself up, only to bellow in pain and frustration when it shattered. She crawled on, trying others, but the tree had died long ago and every branch proved rotten.
As the darkness crept in, and cold and shock had her shivering violently, Tash’s hysteria rose. She swallowed it down. Panic wouldn’t help and unless she wanted to die from exposure, she needed to move. If she could make it to the fenceline, then she could use it for support while she hobbled home. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was a bucketload better than dying.
With a grunt of determination, she lurched on.