Gazing upon her Apollo now engulfed in sleep, she smiled at the memory of worrying over whether male models were good providers, or ‘marriage material’ in the words of her cherished great-aunt and great-uncle. The sunny-faced orphan depicted in their shaky home videos, Dette rehearsing a dance routine in her callisthenics leotard, had once been the frightened three-year-old they’d pledged to raise with all the care they could muster. ‘You can just as easily fall in love with a rich man, Bernadette, as you can a poor one,’ her great-aunt had advised. ‘You don’t want to go gallivanting around the countryside with motorcycling hoodlums and unshaven hippies. You can do much better than that sister of mine.’ And Dette’s great-aunt should have known. She’d married above her station: a Brit with a title.
The senior couple had been quietly pleased with Dette’s choice of second husband. His financial position and polished English accent won much of their approval, although Colonel Doulton had failed to hide his disappointment in Matthew’s lack of pedigree.
And on the subject of marital commitment...Adam had surprised her in bed the other night. He’d said he loved her in a desirous groan.
Things were progressing nicely! It was time to have that little chat. She’d tell him how much she would spoil him if they lived together. And they were yet to play tennis, despite Adam being a keen sports all-rounder. She’d suggest they play a few games tomorrow, on Honeymooner Haven’s sycamore-edged courts. Matthew had loved that she was such a skilled player. Many of their first dates had revolved around zealous matches, which Matthew later fondly referred to as ‘courtship’.
Adam would have to understand, of course, that she wouldn’t move anywhere without her daughters. If he ever dared to suggest she send them to their dad’s Punchbowl flat, he would have to contend with the discomfort of her alarmed hostility. Adam’s home was a sumptuous, white five-bedroomer. Four of these rooms were unlived-in. What would two more in that palatial house matter to him if she and he were getting along brilliantly? And who wouldn’t love having Laura and Sara around? The girls won people over wherever they went.
Matthew had grown to love them as though they were his own. Adam was just as big-hearted as Matthew. He’d undoubtedly make an excellent stepdad. To add to this, he was dazzlingly generous. His gift to Dette from Tiffany & Co was locked away within a drawer inside her walk-in-robe, sparkling with secret beauty, a symbol of their undercover love.
On the day of her flight to Vanuatu, Dette had endured another of Diondra’s shopping-spree phone boasts, related, as per usual, in a hushed voice from the Wallaces’ poolside. Dominic was indoors, evidently under the illusion that his wife had nipped out to inspect the greenhouse orchids. Once the rave had dwindled into a discontented sigh, Diondra took the phone inside and instantly turned the topic around.
And then Dominic’s jarring voice had fired through the earpiece. ‘Hullo, Dette! If you’re needing a lift to the airport, I’ll be happy to oblige.’ He didn’t know she wasn’t going on her own. Diondra was good like that. Knew how to keep things confidential.
Dette was well aware of how Dominic Wallace’s mind worked, having resolved months ago he was too twisted for her liking. It had been good at first, sneaking out under the guise of cosmetic surgeon or beauty therapist appointments. He was such a good-looking man, in a clean-cut sort of way. But then he’d suggested she do things she would never want to do, had never heard of anyone doing—despite her own inherent raciness and knowledge of the latest trends—so she’d told him where to get off and scolded him for seducing his wife’s best friend.
He’d called her unrepeatable names in the ostentatious art deco mansion he reserved for flings. On its manicured front lawn was a Sold by Wallace Real Estate sign, dominated by a close-up of Dominic winking, an aspect of him she’d once considered to be devilish. He’d previously confided that the property hadn’t been on the market for a decade, that he’d bought it back in ’98 for an exorbitant sum, and every few years ensured it was advertised as ‘sold’ to garner the interest of prosperous home hunters. Diondra would have been shocked if she’d known he owned a love nest.
The next time she and Dominic had happened upon each other, it was back to normality, free of insult, but also devoid of the flattery…of Dominic saying quietly in her ear exactly how she’d made him feel when she’d swanned around the beach in her yellow bikini.
Dette adjusted the underwire of the bikini she was wearing today, a strapless pink floral that she struggled to keep on in the water. It was lovely to have been appreciated for that yellow bikini for a while. Matthew hadn’t been appreciative at all, not once he’d found out it had cost him $2000 . She sighed as she remembered his reaction.
‘But it’s designer,’ she’d argued, handing him the bag with the bikini inside.
‘For two skimpy pieces of fabric? Come on! You’ve been conned, Bernadette.’ He looked at the tag. ‘Is this an Australian designer?’
‘Lee-Lee Wagnell? She is now. She’s out here from Shanghai. Just started up.’
‘Made in a sweat-shop, I bet.’ Matthew threw the bikini top down on the dresser in annoyance. ‘I don’t mind you spending a reasonable amount if it’s quality or Australian-made, baby, but this sort of shopping’s insanity.’
‘But I loved it,’ Dette said in her best little girl voice. ‘And you’re the only person I know who cares about sweat-shops.’ Matthew considered himself to be an Ethical Consumer. Dette believed this to be a waste of time, as well as stuffily limiting. ‘You’re a hypocrite, Matthew. You, just like me, buy things made in sweat-shops.’
‘Of course I do. I hate that there isn’t total transparency yet.’ He ran a hand impatiently through his hair, which tended to fall into waves when due for a trim. ‘But if everyone at least takes action and supports fair manufacturing where they can, then we’ll ultimately make a difference.’
‘How?’
‘By stamping out slavery.’
‘When are you going to realise that there’ll always be rich and poor, Mattie? It’s just a way of life. Let the rich be rich and let the poor be poor. That’s what I say.’
‘Yeah, right, Bernadette, love ya work. Remind yourself of that if ever you wind up in poverty.’ That had rattled Dette. Was Matthew still doing okay financially? She certainly hoped so.
Dette adopted a facial expression she’d borrowed from Diondra, which didn’t seem to cause unnecessary brow furrows. Pushing her lips forward into a pout and speaking as a mother would to a grizzling toddler, she said in drawn-out syllables, ‘Okay, diddums, keep up that ethical consumption of yours. Good luck with getting support on that.’ And she stuffed the bikini into her duffle bag, then drove herself down to the beach, only to happen upon Dominic drinking a macchiato at the surf club café.
...‘And that,’ Dette whispered to herself, basking in the memory of Dominic’s unconstrained admiration, ‘was when our affair began.’ Too kinky. How Diondra put up with him, Dette could not for the life of her fathom. She could never have stayed with Matthew if she’d caught him sneaking her lip pencils. And Geranium Blaze of all colours! So obvious! So...ugh!
At last Adam woke. He brushed the sand from his legs. Adam was kinky too, she supposed. But the difference with Adam was that Dette loved him. With every millimetre of her heart.
Adam raised both the God-awful sunnies and one of his brows. His emerald eyes stared into hers. Why would she bother swimming in the Coral Sea when she could swim in these?
The edge of Adam’s lip curled upward adorably. ‘Hey there, Tootles,’ he said, and then he addressed her in his naughtiest voice. ‘You’re looking pretty hot there right now. Wanna go back and make some noise?’
****
On Sunday morning, Izzie awoke to a knock on her bedroom door and her mother cooing, ‘You awake, Sleeping Beauty?’ Rosetta’s tone turned nostalgic as she tiptoed into the room. ‘Sixteen years ago, in late April, a dear little bunny-rabbit leapt into the world.’
‘And that rabbit was me,�
� said Izzie on cue. Lethargically, she opened her eyes. Their annual birthday dialogue from the time she was five. Or had it started when she was six? Six most likely, because the first time her mother had greeted her this way, she’d responded in a toothless lisp. ‘A rabbit?’ she’d said. ‘Yipee! Where ith he then?’
Today, Rosetta sat beside the bed nursing an armful of purple-wrapped presents she was yet to hand over, took on a faraway look and said, ‘You were so much like a rabbit, you in your little fluffy-hooded jumpsuit. In the first week of your life, while I was still getting used to Isobel as a name, I resorted to “Flopsy”.’
‘I know.’
‘And from then on, weirdly enough, you were never satisfied with being a little human. You’d continually ask me to make rabbit ears for you, out of cardboard, and then you’d bound around the garden, happy as anything.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh, I know you know, birthday girl, but I’m just making sure you don’t forget it.’ Rosetta waved a finger at her.
‘So when will this annual reminder become obsolete?’ an amused Izzie demanded.
‘When you leave home, I guess.’
Izzie wondered whether today would be the last time she’d hear about her former similarities to long-eared rodents. Before reaching the sophisticated age of seventeen, she might have already secured the full-time job she longed for, since her mum’s ability to support her financially through the Higher School Certificate and uni was understandably zilch. A waitressing job in some groovy café would be far more exciting than attending exams and tiptoeing through libraries in search of meaningless facts.
Then she would rent a balcony apartment in the city with a couple of kids from school and hold regular sketching parties and visit pricey hair salons where the stylists excelled at disguising carrot-coloured hair with shades more fashionable. A live-in boyfriend, a Dalmatian puppy, a ’60s beetle car and a camper-van with all mod cons to escape the urban scurry on weekends. In her first year of independence, her introduction to the rest of the world would be spent hiking somewhere in Scandinavia during half of her annual leave, to tour castles and swim in glassy lakes. From there, she’d travel to Peru for two weeks where she’d explore the ancients’ ruins and converse with locals in the Spanish she’d have already mastered at night school.
She’d hinted this to Rosetta not so long ago, hopeful of getting her used to the idea that her only child had grown up and wouldn’t be around the following year. When she’d made reference to the things she’d spend her money on, she’d been disgusted with the patronising tone of her mother’s reaction: ‘On a junior waitressing wage?’
So she’d kept her dreams to herself. With practice she would become frugal enough to afford these. While Rosetta was a good manager of money, Izzie would be a better one. She felt sure of it.
Her eyes were now fully opened and resting on the chart blue-tacked to the dresser mirror, a horoscope wheel containing squiggly symbols that resembled hieroglyphics. ‘Mum, does that horoscope say what my Rising Sign is?’
‘I seem to remember Eadie telling us your Rising Sign was Libra.’
Rosetta moved to the dresser and peered at the chart. ‘Yep. A Libran Ascendant. And a Cancerian Moon. She’s written below the chart that Taureans born around your birth-time of 4.18 p.m. in Sydney have Libran Rising Signs. It says here: A strong Venusian influence such as this indicates sociability and artistic flair. Can’t argue with that.’
She moved to the corkboard and waved a hand towards Izzie’s sketch of a jewel encased in silvery-gold lunar-gilt. ‘I really like this pendant, Izzie. Love the shade of pink. When did you draw it?’
‘A couple of months ago.’
‘It’s beautiful! Reminds me of something. Can’t think what at the moment. Did you copy it from a picture?’
‘Nope. From imagination. It appeared in my mind and I just had to get it down on the sketchpad. Did it within about five minutes.’
‘Amazing! I thought it would’ve taken you hours! It has the look of a photograph.’
Izzie leaned back against her bed-head. While Rosetta continued to rave about the ‘realness’ of an image conceived when her mind was filled with Glorion, she pondered the horoscope over on the mirror. A Rising Sign, of course, revealed more about a person’s personality and physical appearance than the Sun Sign did. Izzie had guessed Glorion’s might be Libra because of his dimples and diplomacy, but she hadn’t known that this was her own Rising Sign. What if she and Glorion had Rising Signs that matched! That would be sooo sooo freaky.
Glorion, Izzie had learned, was an early August boy, three months younger than Izzie, and a Leo. Regal, affectionate, sun-ruled Leo. She’d recently asked Eadie the time Dutch Leos needed to be born to have Libra Rising, and Eadie had said around 10 a.m. But what chance did Izzie have of confirming that? They were yet to have their first real conversation, and so she could hardly charge up and casually say, ‘What time were you born, Glorion? And what date in August is your birthday?’
Now that she’d invited him to the afternoon’s picnic, talking to Glorion seemed more impossible than ever. As expected, there hadn’t been any feedback on whether he or Tyson planned on turning up. It was starting to look like a boring all-girl get-together.
Perhaps there’d be a group of Year Eleven guys at the beach throwing a party too. At least then Izzie and the birthday boy would have something in common to break the ice: sharing the same Sun Sign. They could discuss their love of comfort and eating, and brag about their generally placid natures.
Rosetta returned to a chair beside Izzie’s bed and presented her with the bundle of gifts. Swathes of violet-tinted cellophane fluttered to the floor as Izzie feverishly unwrapped a boxed aventurine-quartz necklace from Crystal Consciousness. Pretty, but something she probably wouldn’t wear, not that she admitted to this when she thanked her mother exuberantly...a little carved wooden zebra, which she loved, purchased from the African charity stall at the craft markets...a psychedelic covered journal she didn’t believe she’d ever find the need to write in but gushed over its design and voiced how much she valued the energy Rosetta had put into tracking down—and parting-out for—each of the offerings. Added to that was a satin, hideously elaborate, multi-coloured bag that her mother believed would be ‘cool’ for art.
‘Absolutely!’ Inwardly, Izzie disagreed, visualising the looks she’d have to endure lugging such a loud and outdated Father Christmas sack into class. ‘Wait a minnie, what’s in it?’ A flat tin fell onto the bed. Pastels. ‘Excellent! I’ve been wondering how I’d do my next pastel pictures!’ The last gift was a hamper full of foodstuffs. ‘Awesome!’ Izzie seized up two of the eight plastic-wrapped satay veggie pies.
‘For your picnic, courtesy of Lena. I’ll warm them in the oven just before you leave.’
‘Mum this is great,’ Izzie enthused, genuinely excited at the thought of presenting her friends with a variety of tastes that she, herself relished. As well as the savoury pastries, Lena had contributed from her shop a mountain of sushi: gleaming dark-green envelopes of seaweed bursting with rice, and a collection of other tempting treats. ‘And champagne,’ Izzie said in a squeal when Rosetta handed her a bottle with a squiggly ribbon tied about it.
‘Not quite. Sparkling grape juice. Take the pink plastic wineglasses with you if you like.’ Rosetta’s face grew serious. ‘I couldn’t get you much in the way of presents this year, honey. I feel awful about that.’
Izzie comforted her mother with a hug. ‘But I love everything you’ve given me. Anyway, I’m practically a grown woman. I’ll be buying my own things when I leave school next year. And you know I mentioned the other week that I didn’t want presents, so getting these after all is a beautiful surprise. Thank you, thank you, thank you!’
Izzie took extra care with her grooming that morning, stretching frizz out of her hair with the aid of Rosetta’s chia-seed serum, a paddle brush and the stoic patience deemed obligatory when wielding a low impact heat style
r on a slow-drying mane. ‘It’s a wonder my hair doesn’t stay damp for an entire week when I leave it to dry naturally,’ she commented at breakfast. ‘It’s as thick as.’
‘As thick as what?’
‘It’s a saying, Mum.’
‘I know,’ said Rosetta. ‘I was only teasing. Eadie uses that term all the time. I reckon it’s a stupid term. Stupid as.’
When Izzie hurried out to the verandah on her way to the bus stop, Rosetta called from the hallway, ‘You look gorgeous in that butter-coloured dress, Izzie. Enviably slim, and radiant as a faerie princess.’
‘Great op-shop find. Goes well with these sandals.’ Izzie stuck out one foot and pointed her toes to admire the faux-pearl emblems. ‘Don’t know about the faerie princess bit though. I’m thinking more freckled pixie.’
‘But you’ve hardly got any freckles now.’ Rosetta wandered to the front door, tea-towel and dish in hand. ‘Like I’ve said, the lemon juice you’ve been using works amazingly. And the remaining freckles you have aren’t anything to worry about. They make you look sweet.’
‘Sweet,’ Izzie thought with annoyance, was never used in the same sentence as ‘hot’. Not unless it was describing a fried-on-the-spot cinnamon doughnut.
The phone in the hall rang. ‘That might be Rella,’ Izzie said. ‘She said she’d call on the landline if she can’t get to the picnic.’
‘All right, well, we’ll soon find out.’ Rosetta lifted the phone and swung her hair away from her ear. ‘Caroline!’she said. ‘I’m glad you called. I actually wanted to let you know I can work next Sunday.’
Izzie turned to go.
A gasp. ‘You’re joking,’ Rosetta murmured. ‘Cazzie, that’s awful!’
Curious as to what the bad news was, Izzie paused between the edge of the verandah and the steps.
‘Look, I don’t mind a bit if you reduce my pay until...Yeah, I know you feel bad about doing that, but just until you’re back on your feet.’ Rosetta’s voice grew soft. ‘Please don’t cry, hon. Things can still work out. I’m sure the rest of us can band together. We could organise a promotion blitz...we could...Oh I see. Tim too? Oh, no.’
The Golding Page 31