The Sparkle Pages

by Meg Bignell

  I coughed on nothing. She waited. Her eyes were kind but serious. A simple question. God, she’s so black and white, it hurts my eyes. ‘I don’t think so, darling.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, satisfied. ‘Well, I wasn’t meant to say but Ria also told Raffy and me that you change people with your music, and that you could probably change the world. That’s pretty cool.’ She smiled a proper, big, Eloise smile. I love that smile. ‘And just so you know, I don’t have any hard feelings about your work – I don’t even remember – so whenever you’re ready.’ She did a little viola-playing mimicry, then took a mouthful of soup, swallowed and said, ‘Tracy Chapman changed the world with her voice. This soup needs salt.’

  But I sold my voice for a manicure and some nights in a haunted house. And it’s too late for me to change the world.

  THURSDAY 30th NOVEMBER

  Nothing to note. And I just don’t feel all that inclined to sit in the wardrobe. Really, chairs in wardrobes are for not-clean, not-dirty clothes and wet towels.

  Although I can be a bit of a wet blanket at times.

  FRIDAY 1st DECEMBER

  It’s December – eeeeeek! This is the moment when we panic about all the things not done and we make a things-not-done list and run around half-doing everything. Badly. The December List. I’ll make mine here, as proof:

  – Mulch garden

  – Christmas pudding ingredients

  – Get photos printed and put them in an album

  – Wash curtains

  – Air bedding

  – Nativity costume (not fitted sheets)

  – Optometrist!

  – Find lost printer cartridge receipts

  – Buy Mary-Lou a new schoolbag before next year

  – Bicarb soda for smell in car?

  – Hugh’s birthday present

  – Retrieve Sparkle Project from Too-Hard Basket.

  I might as well cross off the washing of curtains and the photo albums; they are just perennial To-Do list items. One must have pies in one’s skies.

  Hi-ho, hi-ho …

  WEDNESDAY 6th DECEMBER

  Right, so I’m well into the December List. I even got the photos printed! Four hundred and sixty-eight of them. I’ve put them into albums to give to Hugh this afternoon for his birthday. Hugh’s birthday is the perfect time to fire up my resolution again. It’s seen some bumps and twists but I refuse to leave this year with less sparkle than the last.

  Hugh’s been just as busy as I have, getting the year wrapped up and tied in a bow, so there’s been little time to move beyond pecks. But so little time, so much old flame to reignite (which reminds me, there’s a bit of burnt toast stuck in the toaster). I think I’m going to have to bring out the big guns, so to speak. The flame throwers. Time is short and I’ll be damned if I’ll let this resolution waft away and disappear into next year. Will deploy secret weapon and report back …

  LATER:

  So I didn’t attack Hugh with a flame thrower but I did give him a (dum-di-dum) blow job! This is not such a secret weapon after all; everyone knows that a blow job is the quickest way to a man’s heart.

  The blow job gets quite a bit of bad press among women, actually. I mean, I’m never in raptures at the prospect of giving one, but they serve some important purposes:

  – It seems to be, in a man’s eyes, the ultimate expression of love. They will be genuinely thankful in ways never seen by the likes of chopping onions and folding smalls.

  – They are useful preludes to significant requests such as pet insurance.

  – They are relatively quick (particularly if the job hasn’t been done since his last birthday).

  – There will be no surprise postliminary drips from bits.

  – They can actually be, if you block out the fact that there is a penis in your mouth, quite horny, actually.

  Before said blow job, we had a nice family birthday dinner at The Don Camillo (Hugh’s favourite) at which we presented Hugh with his five photo albums, one from each of us. (I know, how organised.) And then it was early home because school tomorrow and once the children were in bed I led him into the pantry and surprised him by pulling down his trousers. He did get a shock!

  I kissed his stomach and thighs and it wasn’t long before his penis was responding with little nudges on my chin, as though it was nodding its agreement. And when I did actually start with the in-mouth part, I was surprised to feel a sudden desire jolt through my body. It was only a few minutes before his breaths became gasps and he sent me a warning on a whisper. I stopped, held him but moved my face clear. (I just can’t swallow. Erk.)

  Afterwards he said, ‘Susannah, that was really, really nice, but don’t feel you have to, you know …’

  ‘I don’t feel I have to,’ I said. ‘I enjoyed it.’ And I meant it, actually.

  ‘But about the spark thing, your resolution,’ he stroked my cheek. ‘We’ve had a tough year, there’s plenty of time for all that. Let yourself get through it all.’

  But we kissed and there was definitely some newly generated sparkle there, so I took a moment to feel a bit smug.

  But perhaps he’s right. Perhaps a marriage is a thing that generally muddles along with the occasional sparkle but no actual hot sparks, until you make them. And as long as you know how to make them when the need or desire arises, you’ll be okay. I can just whiz him into the pantry for a quick blowie and presto! Instant passion. Occasionally you might stumble into some passion, and then you can just delight in the spontaneity. For the rest of the time we should all be recording our family history (the good bits), making up photo albums filled with happy memories and carrying our children on our backs when they hurt their knees. Aren’t those the things that keep it all together?

  We don’t have to be constantly overwhelmed with desire; no one would ever get anything done. It needn’t underwhelm us either … I suppose we just need to be whelmed. Orderly, motherly, productive and content. Content in the whelm.

  And another thing: I should stop trying to express in detail the ins and outs (!) of our sex life. The best way to describe it is not to describe it at all. The beauty of lovemaking is the intimacy of it, the thing between you and your love. It’s the act, not the description. That must be why there are ugly words like scrotum and vagina and root, so we SHUT UP about our private lives.

  Therefore, after all these months of attempting to detail our sex life in frequent despatches from the front (bottom), I am going to stop. Now (for fuck’s sake).

  Gosh, it’s been a while since I’ve felt so insightful. There’s a refreshing clarity of thought here in the whelm. Mostly I’m like the hard, blue half of an eraser that’s meant to rub out ink but just makes smudges.

  WEDNESDAY 13th DECEMBER

  And, joy-joy-jingle-jingle, Eloise begins her Christmas holidays this afternoon. Ho ho. I’m clutching a rocking-chair moment while I can.

  School has said that I can take her home early from final assembly – if I so wish. So I will (even though there’s a good two hours between final assembly and the end of school in which I might well get some exercise, find a job, make a croquenbusch croquenbush soufflé or wash the curtains).

  I am very much looking forward to spending more time with her. The others don’t finish until next Thursday so there’s scope for all sorts of bondy moments. We could go on some outings, think about what Christmas baking we might do this year, etc. It’d be good to veer the children away from the errant commercialism that is Christmas. Perhaps we could make everyone’s presents. Valda suggested those oranges with cloves stuck in that people can hang in their wardrobes. I’ll keep one for me. It might have a smudging effect on this wardrobe, detoxify it of any inappropriate thoughts I might have had here.

  Valda isn’t doing well in rehab. She wouldn’t get out of bed today. Her nurse says she is ‘impossible’. I know what she means.

  ‘Can I get you anything, Valda?’ I said.

  She sighed and said, ‘Bonox, I suppose,’ and then told me
again the story of Neville and the Bonox. ‘Once Neville drank too much of a Russian white spirit called vodka and the next morning he thought he’d die. I gave him Bonox and it saved his life. He said after that it was his duty to protect me forever. I never went anywhere without him after that.’

  ‘How romantic,’ I sighed and she gave me a hard look.

  One of her bad days.

  Hearty old Bonox. I wish I had some Bonox for my heart. Or botox, for that matter; a frozen heart is preferable to this leaping, dipping, cracked one.

  Anyway, off to be personable, logical, caring and productive. Perhaps I should study nursing?

  FRIDAY 15th DECEMBER

  I had a Very Sad Day yesterday. I even bought some Bonox but it evidently does nothing for that horrible feeling you get when you can’t ever see your best most beloved friend ever, ever again. I can hear her, though, I suppose. I put some of her music on late last night, very quietly in the wardrobe. Hugh must have been awake because he got out of bed and came in and hugged me. There were already tears, of course, but the hug brought on proper crying, partly because it felt so nice to be snuffling into his chest without anything chilly between us. Also because it’s so rare for him to know that trying to fix things is for structures and appliances, and that shut-up-and-hug works best for sad people.

  I cried and cried and cried. He sat on the floor next to the rocking chair and leaned on my legs and we listened to more of Ria’s music. I embellished it with varying degrees of sob. Hugh cried too. I stroked his cheek and said, ‘Do you think we’ll ever not be sad about Ria?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ll always be sadder than we were before. Maybe a bit wiser too.’

  That sounds right, I think now, from my small distance of two months. Perhaps the pain, while it stops shooting, just softens and turns into a slightly wonkier form of normal. And we all go on, somewhat misaligned, and with more shadows in our years. Absence is such a presence.

  He kissed me then, on the rocking chair and through my tears. (I don’t think he notices them any more, like cracked tiles in the kitchen.) The kiss had some unexpected passion in it, and went on for much, much longer than seven seconds. And then the passionate kissing turned into proper horniness, sudden and sharp. I won’t be elaborating because I’m all about the action not the description now. Suffice to say, WOW. It was amazing. Also, this is the first time in ages that Hugh has initiated sex. Apparently extreme emotions can turn into sudden desire, known as ‘the grief horn’, but even so, there’s more proof that we can access passion when we need to. There are quite a lot of sparkles in the Susannah vase. By New Year’s Eve it’ll be positively iridescent.

  WEDNESDAY 20th DECEMBER

  Eloise hasn’t been quite as engaged with our mother–daughter time as I’d hoped. She’s spent a lot of it talking on the phone to her friends, meeting up with them, then coming home and talking to them on the phone again. She’s not being unpleasant or distant or rude, just, I don’t know, thirteen, I suppose. Very nearly fourteen, for goodness sake. I’m trying not to appear desperate but I must have been gazing wistfully at her too much because yesterday she picked up one of my hands and held it to her cheek for a long moment, then kissed it. Then she stole my toast and skipped off to meet Rebecca at the pictures.

  I looked for a long time at my hands and then rubbed some lavender lotion on them. Lavender and tears.

  Today, having directed myself to stop adding the weight of my need to all the other pressures placed on teenage girls these days, I buggered off to help Mum and Dad with their Christmas preparations. They’re to host this year but have asked if I can step in as a sort of event manager. I think they want to keep me busy. I’m happy to. Mum’s quite distracted – she says it’s because her hollyhocks have rust and the cat’s had to start anxiety medication, but I suspect it’s because there’s a parcel under the Christmas tree with a French postmark. She has too much bounce and glow for her distraction to be coming from worry. I wonder if she’s upped the botox, or whether extra admiration has an uplifting effect on the skin. I wouldn’t know. Dad saw me eyeing the parcel and said, ‘It’s a Fabergé Christmas bauble or some ruddy thing. Doing the trick already.’

  Anyway, helping with Christmas is a timely boost to my inner glow and renewed family focus, and it means that I can add a few guests to the invitation list. I’d quite like to ask Hannah and Charlie as this is their first Christmas since they moved back here. Mum’s already asked Henry and Valda. Charmian? Father Graham will be busy with Jesus’s birthday, etc. but I might ask him as well. Oh, April will be fresh back from Antarctica so we should ask her too. They won’t all be able to come, of course. Such short notice.

  Who else can I ask? Isobel and Josh? Mum said, ‘The more the merrier.’ And the busier the better, I suppose. And perhaps it will counter any horrible pains we’ll have over not having Ria in the world for Christmas. She always used to skype the children in her Father Christmas get-up and read them their sins. ‘Jimmy Benjamin Parks, you are guilty of eating all the neenish tarts and blaming your farts on the dog,’ etc. And her Christmas mixed tape – she always sent me a mixed tape, on cassette, of the best music of the year. I can’t bear that there won’t be one this year … must stay busy.

  THURSDAY 21st DECEMBER

  Nearly everyone can come! I hope Mum’s sorted out the cat.

  Isobel and Josh are the only ones who can’t. Isobel turned up this afternoon with a little bag of shortbread and this (!!):

  ‘I’m sorry. We’re taking the children away for Christmas. We have some things to talk through with them.’ She paused, and I noticed that her eyes were shadowed with dark, that her hair was unusually stringy. ‘And, Susannah, I have to tell you that we’re putting the house on the market. Josh and I are separating.’

  I think I just gaped at her for a full ten seconds. I really couldn’t believe it. ‘Not you and Josh, surely not.’ I was properly floored. And dismayed. What chance do any of us have if the best couple in the neighbourhood can’t love one another enough?

  She gave a little sad smile. ‘I worked really hard at it, but in the end, I just can’t keep up with Josh.’ She started to cry. ‘He has such drive – I mean, his sex drive, his ambition, his commitment to quality family time; honestly, I just want a good rest, in a tracksuit, eating bad food.’ She sniffed. ‘Sorry, I’m not devastated. I’m sad – for the children, and for him. But mostly I’m so, so relieved. Is that terrible?’ Her mascara ran. I wondered if I should pay forward Hannah’s waterproof Chanel.

  ‘No. I’ve heard it said that if you put too much strain on your heart, it will fail,’ I said.

  ‘Yes!’ She laughed. ‘I have to look out for my heart. Cardiac tissue never heals. Any longer and my ankles would have swollen up.’

  ‘Or your vagina walls would have worn away.’ Then I clapped my hand over my mouth and added, ‘God, sorry. That was inappropriate.’

  But Isobel was laughing: proper belly laugh, cry laughing. ‘You are hilarious, Susannah. You really are. You always make me smile.’ Do I? ‘And you’re right. My vagina needs a break too. I once suggested he have an affair, but he’s so loyal to perfection.’ She sighed. ‘I’m so ready for some perfunctory living.’

  Poor Isobel. You’re only perfect until your facade crumbles, aren’t you? She needs some good plain cake and some ants in her sugar.

  Meanwhile, if they’re the only refusals, Mum and Dad have eighteen people for Christmas Day!!! What was I thinking (for Christ’s sake)? I haven’t told Hugh exactly how many people are coming because he’d be all ‘what the bejesus?’ about it and ring all the warning bells instead of the Christmas ones and I’ll fall to inadequate bits. I’ll just pretend I can do it until it’s done.

  I have ordered two Christmas puddings from Hill Street Grocer, Mum is doing salad, Alison is bringing condiments and brandy butter. I just have to manage the turkey and the pink-eyes and the nibbles and the drinks. And the Florentines to have with coffee. And the crackers. The chi
ldren can decorate the table.

  Jingle-jingle go our bells.

  SATURDAY 23rd DECEMBER

  Everyone has officially started holidays, including Hugh. This morning we all pottered about together being productive. It was a nice feeling. The sun shone and the children played – actually played. They tramped dirt into the house, ate all the chocolate stars from the Christmas tree and demanded pizza for lunch but Hugh yelled, ‘STOP BEING SO SELFISH. Mum washed the floors this morning.’ And he shook his head and smiled at me. We felt like a team again, with a remnant throb of that amazing wardrobe sex. (I don’t think I’ll hang a cloved orange in there after all.)

  We had a family outing to the botanical gardens. With Valda. It was one of those glorious, golden afternoons, the sort that heats up the jasmine and sends the happy sounds of family summers out across the scented suburban air. Out-and-about air. It had us packing up a picnic lunch and sitting under a giant oak. The children went off to play, leaving Hugh, Valda and me in warm, bird-chirpy silence. Hugh had the paper; he read us a bit now and then. We drank apple cider. Valda complained about it being too fizzy. I looked up into the trees to see if I could find the birds, and the tears welled and spilled, like only tears with the siphon of real heartache can.

  Valda patted my hand and said, ‘Birds dream, you know. They dream about their songs and have little dream rehearsals so that the next day, their singing has improved.’ Hugh glanced up from the paper, gave me a little smile. Valda helped herself to a shortbread and the birds kept rehearsing. I thought about some Ria things, and some Eloise things, nibbled cheese and discovered a coarse hair on my chin that I cared about. The tears dried and someone walked past wearing a tulip-shaped hat.

  Grief is an ordinary thing. I should do a little bit of it every day. I wonder, could I put it on my Things to Do list? Should I rehearse my chirp until it’s real?

  But then, on the way home, Raffy said, ‘Mum doesn’t like her new viola.’ And Valda said, ‘Well, she hasn’t tried to like it.’ And I was suddenly tense again. We passed a young woman strolling in a floaty shirt dress and thought, I wish I could be her, strolling in a floaty shirt dress with no apparent baggage, but here I am, with all my baggage, in a hot car that smells like the inside of schoolbags. I was feeling anything but floaty. Feeling shirty, actually.