Finction: Turning Points #4

FOUR

Gennevieve Hope isn't a pretty woman. That is, according to most of the men she knows. But then again, the opinion of most men doesn't distract her much. 

She found out a long time ago where her prettiness rests, but not before her very soul had been slapped and beaten out of her, before it had been forced to succumb to the prying, nauseating, fingering words of the man who had vowed he loved her.

Gen moves around her inadequate third-story unit with purpose and a straight back. She keeps it spotless, free of the grime of city life and its insidious, creeping insistence. A tiny pile of crockery-for-one nestles in the drying rack beside a gleaming sink. Three pieces of cutlery, a Salvos purchase but shining as if they've been bought from Myers. 

Her eyes slip over them. A taught grin lifts her lips. If Todd was here, she thinks, he'd make some snarly comment about her supposed OCD (which she doesn't have) or deliberately wear his shoes through the house. He's turned into a little prick, just like his ...

She stops herself. No use blaming her son. He does try his best (mostly) and he visits more regularly than her much older daughter. She's doing her best as well, somewhere overseas. Married to someone she says she loves, who looks after her, who doesn't remind her of her father. Marcella hasn't set eyes on her dad once, not once, since he moved away after the Court Order. 

Almost a decade ago, Gen realises.

She spreads her dark eyes wide, lifting her eyebrows to release the tension. She would prefer to be more energised when she arrives at her appointment with Chrissy later. She can't afford to let her solitary life pull at her, distract her. She has to keep moving, keep finding new ways to control her own destiny.

Fifteen minutes and a quick shower later, Gen slides into her warm winter coat, her strong body (at least it is now) inhabiting the woolen fabric as if it was fashioned for her alone. 

She scans her face in the mirror by the front door. Pretty healthy. Some lines. Strong jawline. Good enough for me, she lets herself think.

The doorbell sings, and her shoulders jerk.

'Hello,' says the disheveled-looking man standing there on the landing in front of the security door.

'Hello.' It is all she can do to sound calm.

'You Gennevieve? Gennevieve Hope?'

Her mind refuses to answer his question. Instead, she reverts to uncertainty. 'Who are you, again?'

'I didn't say.' A huge smile transforms his otherwise unimpressive face. 'Apologies, madam. My name is Richard. My friends call me Rich.'

'You have no surname ... Richard?'

'Rich. Yep. I do. But that's not important.' He begins swaying slightly, his heels lifting to accommodate the movement.  How old is he? 'Might I come in, please?'

Gen realises that he looks younger than she had thought a moment earlier and feels embarrassment slide into her gut and up her chest. She opens the door and he steps though, past her. He leaves the faint waft of aftershave behind him. Nice.

Gen doesn't offer him a chair. 'What is it you need?' Her voice is somehow kind and unusually, for her, gentle. "How can I help you?'

'Actually, it is I who can help you, Gennevieve. I have something to give you.'

Gennevieve frowns slightly. Others have suggested that it makes her face appear dark and not a little aggressive.  She has steadfastly refused to believe them. 'Yes?'

'About three months ago, you noticed a parcel outside your door here. It wasn't addressed to you. You took that parcel to the Post Office and inquired as to the identity of the person named there. Am I on the right track so far?'

A tremor of anticipation (or is it doubt) ripples through her. 'Yes.'

'Good. I am told that, after a long series of enquiries, and covering many kilometres of walking, and driving, you discovered the correct address. My address. I wasn't home. Nor was my son. So, you left the parcel, unopened, inside my security door with a scrap of paper explaining what had happened, and with your own name and address.' He paused and a hint of something new dropped between them. 'Your correct address.' That smile again!

Richard reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a long, narrow envelope, of the sort people might still receive from the Police, or the Tax Office. He holds it in both his hands such that Gennevieve can't help but notice the lean, strong fingers and short, well-kept nails. Perhaps not so decrepit, after all.

'For you,' he says, handing her the envelope. 'For services rendered.'

Abruptly, he turns, pushes through the security door and disappears along the walkway to the lift. The clatter of the closing door makes her jump again.

She doesn't move, her friend temporarily forgotten. Tentatively she turns over the envelope. It has her name on the front. And something else.

With heartfelt thanks for your moment of generosity and kindness. Richard.

Later, when she tells Chrissy about the encounter, she still can't fathom how bringing a parcel of letters sent from somewhere in Eastern Europe, to their rightful recipient, could be worth ten thousand dollars.

Strange. She'd thought nothing of it at the time. She'd just acted. She vaguely remembers a foreign-sounding surname.

'You know what?' smiles Chrissy, a glass of bubbly wrapped delicately in her fingers.

'What?' says Gennevieve.

'It's like, one door closes. Another opens.'