How to Be Second Best

by Jessica Dettmann

  Yesterday? She only invited me last night. What’s going on? Did Helen pretend to Troy that she had invited me and that I’d said I wasn’t coming, and then panic at the last minute? Why? Why would Troy want me here?

  Is he trying to prove to his mates that he’s not the bad guy? That has to be it. He wants them all to see that he, Helen and I are one big happy family. He really is clueless. I mean, it’s fine to tell everyone we get along and that the split is amicable, but seriously, no one wants to see it put to the test over lunch.

  But for all his flaws, and he has plenty, Troy isn’t like that. He’s held on to this idea that all this happened to him — this new love, this new life. I can see now this is pathological, but he believes it.

  The animated conversations that were taking place around the table subside when people see me. It was a terrible idea to come. It’s as awkward as a stripper jumping out of a cake, if the stripper is also your ex-wife. I just have to hope everyone here feels the awkwardness too and decides we should all pretend everything is absolutely fine and there is nothing at all excruciating about this.

  One of the Daves — Sofia’s Dave — leaps to his feet. ‘Emma, mate! It’s been ages. We were just saying.’

  ‘Dave, good to see you too.’ We do a sort of will-we-hug-or-will-we-kiss dance that ends with him crushing me to his chest and kissing me on the top of my head. I feel like a five-year-old.

  Troy shoves a glass of champagne into my hand, Sofia scoots over so a chair can be brought out from the kitchen for me, and then suddenly, bizarrely, I’m back in the fold. The conversation resumes, wine flows, and I’m laughing with my old friends — our old friends.

  Three glasses of champagne later, the awkwardness has completely drowned in the bubbles and it feels like I’ve never been away. Everyone is being so lovely to me, filling me in on what’s been happening in their lives and asking about mine.

  No one else from this gang has split up. Almost all of them coupled up during or shortly after university, and until their mid thirties they regarded Troy as the wild singleton of the group. I was the first person he settled down with, and so they welcomed me with open arms. After all, people were getting engaged and Troy having a different girl on his arm each week was starting to get a bit awkward for them, socially.

  Now they’ve reached their forties and they’re all homeowners with two cars, two kids, and an au pair each.

  I look around and everyone seems so happy. Troy looks happy. Helen looks happy, now that her snapper has been a triumph and everyone’s praised and eaten the five different salads. Even I feel happy. Maybe that’s why Troy invited me — to show me and to show his friends that happiness can take different forms, that even if we aren’t the traditional structure of a family we are still able to find joy and contentment in our lives.

  The children, having already been fed barbecued organic chicken skewers and grilled sweet potato slices, are nowhere to be seen, and when I inquire after them, Kate explains they have gone to the park with the au pairs she and Sofia have brought to lunch.

  ‘How long have you had the au pair?’ Helen asks Kate.

  ‘Well, Clara is our second, and we’ve had her for a month, so I suppose for about seven months altogether. It’s the best thing we’ve ever done, isn’t it, darling?’

  Her Dave momentarily breaks off from a conversation about superannuation to agree that having a nineteen-year-old French girl sharing their house has indeed been life-changing. ‘Can’t walk around in the nude any more though, can we, love? Ha!’

  Kate ignores him and turns back to Helen. ‘Really though, it’s excellent. You guys should try it.’

  ‘Helen doesn’t need an au pair,’ I say. ‘She’s got me! I mean, I’m no French babe, but at least I’m not subject to a six-month working visa.’

  Kate looks confused. ‘Sorry, Em, what do you mean?’

  ‘Just that I do the work of an au pair for Helen and Troy, so they don’t have to get a French girl and then have to wear dressing gowns around the house.’ I think I’m sounding a tiny bit pissed.

  ‘You look after Lola?’

  ‘Yeah! Didn’t you know that? I’ve looked after Lola since . . . well, basically since forever. We’re mates, me and Lols.’

  ‘I didn’t realise. How often do you look after her?’

  ‘Oh a few days a week — three, really. And then I pick her up on her two kindy mornings and drop her and Freya off, and bring her home after. I take her to all the classes she does, except the weekend ones.’

  The look on Kate’s face is of polite bemusement, but it’s nothing compared to what’s happening over on Helen’s face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was embarrassed. No, ashamed. Ashamed? Of what? Of me? Of our arrangement?

  It occurs to me that it’s odd that Helen and Troy’s friends don’t seem to know that I look after Lola. What’s that about? Has Helen been making out like she’s able to run a Pilates studio and be a growing Instagram star with a toddler underfoot? Why, I believe she has! The fucking cheek.

  Someone opens another bottle of wine — something special they brought back from France, because they thought of Troy for some reason when they tasted it. At this point all the wine is delicious to me. I’ve stopped counting drinks because why should I? I have no kids to look after this weekend, so I am free to indulge and free to waste the day tomorrow in hungover misery if I choose. I finish the last of my champagne and hold out my glass for a refill.

  ‘No, no,’ says the other Dave, looking quite offended. ‘Not in your champagne glass, Emma,’ and he replaces my slim flute with a goldfish bowl on a stem, which he generously fills. It’s so big I have to hold it with two hands, bring it up to my mouth like I’m taking communion.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say loudly, in case the conversation has moved on, ‘so, yeah, I am basically Lola’s nanny, most of the week. It’s fantastic. My kids love her, and she loves us. I can work anywhere, and the girls entertain each other most of the time.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Kate. ‘That’s generous of you.’

  ‘No!’ I tell her. ‘It works for everyone. It makes the kids feel like they’re all one big, weird family, which we are, aren’t we, Helen?’

  Helen gives me a tight smile and starts stacking people’s plates. ‘Who’s ready for dessert?’ she asks the table.

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ says Troy’s friend Luke, who has an uncanny ability to draw awkwardness out into the public realm like a splinter from a toe. ‘Emma, you take care of your kids and the child of your ex and his new wife, basically full-time? While you work freelance? Is that what you said? And you take Lola to loads of activities and classes? Does Freya do the classes?’ Luke worked briefly as a journalist before moving into insurance, but he still knows how to ask the hard questions.

  Helen’s watching me. ‘No,’ I say, ‘Freya doesn’t do the classes because, well you know, she’s only little and when else can you just play? I mean, no disrespect to Helen, because everyone does things the way that works for them and their kid, right? I’m totally happy to take Lola to her stuff. And I mostly do.’

  ‘You mostly do what?’ asks Helen.

  Oh shit. Why did I say that?

  ‘You’re mostly happy or you mostly take Lola to her classes?’

  Well, she was going to find out sooner or later.

  ‘Sometimes — not often, just in the last week or so — we don’t go to the classes,’ I say. I hold my hands up. ‘Arrest me! Cuff me and lead me away! We’ve wagged ballet. And gym. And French.’

  They’re all laughing now, even Troy. Everyone except Helen. She’s plainly furious, but Helen won’t make a scene. Not in front of everyone.

  ‘How dare you?’ she says, in a voice white-hot with rage.

  I stand corrected. Maybe she will make a scene.

  ‘How dare you show such disrespect to me, as a mother? We had an arrangement, Emma. If you weren’t happy with it, you should have told me. Who are you to decide what’s best for my child?’ />
  A few people get up from their seats, suddenly very interested in clearing the table.

  ‘Dave, shall we . . . er, maybe head down to the park, see how the kids are going?’ says Luke.

  One by one they find reasons to leave, until it’s just Helen, Troy and me.

  ‘Helen,’ I say. ‘It’s only been a few times. Just when Lola’s not been that into it.’

  ‘You don’t get to make that decision,’ she says. ‘I’m her mother, not you. If you agree to help out by taking her to classes, then you need to take her to classes. Where on earth have you been taking her instead, by the way? What’s she been doing?’

  ‘Nothing, nowhere.’ I’m pretty flustered. ‘We haven’t gone anywhere. Well, Ikea, once. Other than that we’ve just been hanging out, you know in the park and the graveyard and stuff.’

  ‘The graveyard? We’ve been paying for ballet and French and God knows what else you’ve skipped and you’ve been dumping our child in a graveyard? God, Emma, how you raise your children is up to you and Troy, and if Troy’s happy for you to give them absolutely no developmental advantages in life then that’s between you and him. But Lola is my daughter and she will go where I say.’

  ‘Will she? Then maybe you’d better start taking her yourself. I don’t need this shit. I was doing you a favour, Helen, and I was trying to help Lola bond with her sister and brother, but if that means nothing to you then I am more than happy to let you take over.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ says Troy, ‘let’s not say anything we might regret.’

  Helen turns on him. ‘I regret ever letting your ex-wife get her hands on our daughter.’

  ‘I have done nothing to your daughter except love her and care for her — and actually spend some time with her, which is more than I can say for you.’

  ‘I spend plenty of time with Lola,’ Helen says scathingly. ‘And when I am with her, I’m actually paying attention to her. You’re never giving the kids your full attention when they’re with you, are you, Emma? You’re always trying to work too, so they get the worst of both worlds.’

  ‘Now, now . . .’ says Troy, but he trails off as if he doesn’t know what to say beyond that.

  I can’t quite believe I’m hearing this. She’s having a go at me for looking after her daughter for free, for years, and telling me I’ve been doing a bad job.

  ‘If you really thought that, why haven’t you taken Lola back before now?’

  ‘Because Troy wanted the kids to be siblings and spend time together, that’s why.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Troy, ‘I think it’s impor—’ but Helen cuts him off.

  ‘And you’re right, I should have said something before now because it’s been clear for a long time that you are not up to the job.’

  I reach for my glass but it’s empty. There’s another glass beside it, that’s mercifully still about half full, so I drain that.

  ‘Oh, nice,’ Helen says. ‘Just keep drinking, Emma, that’ll fix your life.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my life, and thank you, I will keep drinking.’

  ‘I think you’d better go home.’

  ‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day,’ I spit back at her.

  I stand up, the world does a magnificent spin around me like I’m in The Matrix, and the next thing I know I’m lying on the patio looking up at the bougainvilleas growing over the pergola.

  Troy leans over me. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ says Helen. ‘I’m going to get people back from the park. We need to serve dessert so they can fuck off home.’ She turns and marches off through the house, towards the front door.

  I think it’s the first time I’ve heard her swear.

  I’m all right. I haven’t broken anything. I think all the alcohol made me floppy, like a baby, so I didn’t get hurt when I fell. I don’t mean babies don’t get hurt when they fall because they’re drunk, obviously, just that I seem to have very little control over my limbs right now.

  ‘Let’s get you up,’ Troy says. He leans over, grabs my hands and pulls me into a sitting position. ‘Can you stand?’

  ‘Of course I can stand.’ I haul myself to my feet, and sway dangerously. Troy grabs me, putting one arm around my waist.

  ‘How about I walk you home?’ he says.

  ‘Home? But we haven’t had dessert yet!’ I say. ‘I made the chocolate peanut butter thing, the one you used to love, remember?’ My legs feel shaky. ‘Can I have a little lie-down?’

  He looks worried. ‘Can’t you lie down at your house?’

  ‘I won’t be sick,’ I tell him.

  ‘Let me just have a piss,’ he says, ‘then I’ll take you home.’ He trots off towards the downstairs bathroom, giving me a concerned glance over his shoulder.

  I need to wee too. I’ll go up to their ensuite, I decide. It feels like it’s taking me forever to get up the polished wooden stairwell. I have a rest halfway, then haul myself the rest of the way up to Troy and Helen’s room.

  It’s really beautiful. It’s like a room in a smart hotel. There are no piles of laundry, children’s books or stacks of newspapers. The bed cover is so smooth it looks like fondant icing. The walls are covered by pale oak panels, and behind one of them, somewhere, must be the bathroom. I’m about to randomly start opening doors when I hear Troy behind me. I turn to ask him where the loo is, but I trip. There’s nothing to trip on, only acres of smooth cream carpet, but I manage it nonetheless.

  Troy catches me before I hit the floor this time, and suddenly I’m in his arms. I wrap my arms around his neck and push my face into his shirt and breathe in his scent.

  I look up and say, ‘Thank you. You’re being lovely to me.’

  He moves one hand up my spine and cups the back of my head. There’s going to be kissing.

  I can’t remember the last time Troy and I properly kissed. I mean apart from accidental lip-brushes. It might have been the day Freya was born, but I was so high on oxytocin and other, less natural drugs, that my recollections are hazy. Or maybe it was four days later, when we had our photograph taken by a nurse as we left the hospital, Freya in the car seat and Tim standing over her like a little bodyguard in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt.

  Lasts are funny like that — you rarely know they’re the last so you rarely know to remember them.

  So whatever this is — our last kiss after the last kiss, or our next first kiss — this is a kiss I pay special attention to. It’s at once familiar and strange, and ridiculously erotically charged. I’m completely lost in it, and all I can think is that the only reason I want this to stop is so we can take our clothes off and go to bed. That is, until I’m distracted by the urgent need to vomit.

  I tear away from Troy and, gagging, turn every which way, realising I still don’t know which of the seemingly dozens of doors leads to their bathroom.

  ‘Emma. Shit. Wow,’ he says. ‘What are we doing?’ He moves towards me and leans in for another kiss.

  In desperation I shove him aside and make for the stairs, and from the top step watch as a tsunami of champagne, red wine, snapper and five kinds of salad sails to the bottom.

  ‘Oh my God,’ says Troy.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘There’s a tummy bug going round at school. There was a note about it in the newsletter yesterday.’

  He just stares.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again.

  ‘You’d better go, I’ll take care of this.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ll go. Say bye to the kids for me? What time will you be dropping them back tomorrow evening?’

  Troy looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. ‘Maybe I’ll just text in the morning to let you know. Seriously, Emma, you need to go now.’

  I pick my way down the stairs, avoiding my splattered lunch as best I can.

  * * *

  My walk of shame is mercifully short. As I close my front door behind me I hear the rest of the lunch party approaching up the street. They’ve retrieved the kids and
the au pairs and they’re heading back to eat my peanut butter chocolate cheesecake and whatever sugar-free concoction Helen had planned before I dessert-bombed her lunch.

  I rinse my mouth from the bathroom tap, do a wee, then flop face-down on my bed. I feel wretched. What have I done?

  Reaching for my phone, I find a text from Laura, sent a few hours ago.

  How’s the bbq?

  Where do I begin?

  Disgraced myself in front of everyone. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.

  NO. Really? Pub in a bit? I must hear this.

  Oh yeah, the pub. That’s definitely the right place for me. They probably wouldn’t even let me in.

  Sure, I text back. Give me an hour.

  Now that I’ve ejected several hundred dollars’ worth of champagne from my body, I feel considerably better. I’m still drunk, I’m not denying it, but I don’t feel like I’m going to fall over or be sick again, so that’s something.

  The mirror tells a different story. My skin has a greenish hue, all my mascara has migrated south under my eyes and my lips look cracked and bloodless. My hair probably doesn’t have any sick in it, but I don’t think ‘probably’ is good enough in these circumstances, so I strip, climb gingerly into the shower and wash every part of me.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m clean, my hair’s once again blow-dried, I’m dressed in jeans and a jumper, and ready to face the world again. Four slices of buttered toast and a cup of tea complete the transformation.

  I’m ready to go, but before I can there’s something I need to check. I pull my bedroom curtains open a tiny crack, just enough to see what’s going on in the street. Suddenly half a dozen kids from Helen and Troy’s party, one of them my own son, thunder past having a running race.

  Shit, they’re all still there. And what’s worse, I think they’re in the phase of leaving that involves everyone standing around out the front for half an hour making hollow promises to have each other round more often. Then there will be another fifteen minutes of strapping children into car seats and one parent going back inside four or five times for forgotten jumpers, insulated wine carry-bags and sunglasses that have been left on the table.