How to Be Second Best

by Jessica Dettmann

  It’s not a kind thought, but the best-case scenario would be if one of the kids — preferably not one of mine — trips on the footpath and skins his or her knee quite badly. That would wrap things up far more quickly, because all the crying will ruin the parents’ chat.

  More quickly than I expected, I hear car doors opening and slamming, engines being started — though only one or two, as this lot mostly drive hybrid vehicles — and pretty soon I see them all drive off, almost in convoy. My guess is that Helen made it very clear that the party had ended, probably through the never-fail parental method of picking up your smallest child and pretending they’ve just asked to start their bedtime routine. Everyone knows they haven’t, but in polite society we understand these codes and know it’s time to end the long boozy lunch and remember our parental responsibilities, making noises about ‘warming up some leftover pasta and running a nice bath’ all the while knowing the vehicle is going straight to the McDonald’s drive-through and the kids are going to bed in their clothes.

  I feel a pang of longing. I want that. I want to host a lunch and have someone to go back inside with, once the guests have gone. Someone who will hand wash the good glasses while I wrap up leftovers and cover up the outdoor furniture.

  And then I remember what Helen and Troy are actually going to be cleaning up this evening, and my sadness washes away on a river of slightly maniacal laughter, as I picture Troy on his hands and knees, scrubbing my vomit from his staircase.

  I grab my bag and head out the door.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Feathers is the only pub in this suburb, and it’s pretty much pub perfection. Well over a hundred years old, all the good bits have been preserved beautifully by the current owners, who have added a beer garden and — best of all — no play area for children. It’s only a small pub, with one bar and a side room, but they’ve resisted the temptation to make it kid-friendly, which I think most of the parents in the area appreciate.

  Entering The Feathers is like time travel for me, back twenty years to the pubs of my young adulthood, just without all the smoke. This pub is, in fact, one of the main reasons Troy and I moved to the area. We came here one night for my friend’s twenty-seventh birthday, fell in love with the art-deco tiled exterior, the shining brass bar-rails, and we never wanted to leave. So when I was pregnant with Tim and we were house-hunting and stumbled across what is now my house, the worst house in the best street in the suburb, a mere three blocks from The Feathers, it seemed predestined.

  Of course I hardly ever come here any more. It’s really only to have a drink with Laura every few months. Pubs now seem like the past to me, and I look back fondly at the me who thought I’d be here every weekend once I had kids. I think I pictured myself nursing a leisurely glass of wine or a gin and tonic while I dandled a happy baby on my lap, surrounded by other, like-minded parents — mums and dads — as we nurtured new friendships and discussed world events and what fringe theatre we’d seen lately.

  I knew nothing. I had no idea that once I had a baby, I would be considered a marked woman. There would be no friendly socialising with dads. Mums hang out with mums, and dads hang out with dads — those are the rules in these parts. And around here mums don’t hang out casually in pubs. It’s only acceptable to be at the pub with your husband, or your sister, or bi-annually with a gaggle of six or more other mums, as long as it’s described as a Girls’ Night Out.

  Of course as a single mother the rules have somewhat changed. I’m allowed to be here now. But still, when I’m here I invariably see several dads I know from the school, who will nod nervously at me or say hello if we happen to be standing at the bar together, but they certainly wouldn’t venture a chat. Word might get back to their wives.

  Tonight The Feathers is pretty quiet. Sitting on a bar stool at a high table near the window is Laura, her face uplit by her phone in the comparative gloom of the dim pub lighting. Two other tables are occupied: one with four older blokes, who are dressed like they’ve come from the golf course, and the other with two men and a woman. One of those men is Adam.

  He sees me and his face lights up in delight. Equal parts of confusion and desire race through me. They’re followed by a guilt chaser, because of the Facebook-wife-stalking episode of last night.

  ‘Hi!’ he calls.

  I go over.

  ‘Emma, this is Maria and Jake. They’re kindy parents too. Guys, this is Emma. Her son’s in year one.’

  We all say pleasant hellos, and I note a slight tone of desperation in Adam’s voice when he asks, ‘Please, join us?’

  I’m torn. All I want to do is sit down with Adam and, I suppose, whoever these people are. Actually I want them to leave so I can somehow find out more about when Ilse is coming and what that situation is. But Laura won’t take kindly to me pretending not to know her. And I really do need to download to her about my day.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I say, ‘but I’m meeting my sister. Thanks, though. Have a great evening.’

  Adam looks crestfallen. My heart leaps.

  Laura has a bottle of wine and two glasses before her, so I bypass the bar. Astonishingly, given my state just a couple of hours ago, I quite fancy a glass of cold white wine.

  ‘What did you do?’ Laura asks, by way of a hello. She pours my wine so generously I’m forced to lean over and slurp some before it’s safe to lift it to my lips.

  ‘Oh man, what didn’t I do?’ I’m not sure where to start.

  ‘Why were you even at Troy’s birthday party?’

  ‘Helen asked, and do you know what? I have no idea why. I think maybe Troy really wanted me there. Maybe it was to show off to all his old mates that we’re still on good terms? It was the Daves and all that lot from uni.’

  ‘You don’t really see any of them any more, do you?’

  ‘Nope, not since we split. They all ran away. Anyway, so last night Helen texts me and asks me to come. I said yes, I went, and then I got pissed.’

  ‘How pissed?’

  ‘Quite pissed. I told Helen I’ve been wagging all Lola’s classes for the past week, then I fell off a chair, then I spewed on the stairs.’

  Laura is laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes.

  ‘And I may have pashed Troy,’ I add in a whisper.

  ‘You may have what?’

  ‘You heard me. I don’t know what happened. I went upstairs for a wee after I fell over in the garden, and everyone else was at the park, and he came up after me and then we were just kissing. And I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t had to throw up.’

  ‘Jesus, Emma. There’s a lot to unpack there. We’re going to need some chips.’

  * * *

  We end up eating three packets of chips — all salt and vinegar, tipped into small woven wooden bowls because this pub is old school. The chips form something of a defence against the two bottles of white wine we take care of while we unpack, to use Laura’s phrase, all the things I did this afternoon.

  As we talk, things that happened come back to me, things that I didn’t quite take in at the time. Like the fact that Helen more or less fired me from my position as Lola’s default carer.

  I wasn’t expecting that. I know I shouldn’t have skipped taking her to all those classes — I should have been upfront with Helen — but it wasn’t that big a deal. And to tell me I can’t see her any more? That’s a bit of an overreaction, surely.

  ‘What did you say to that?’ Laura wants to know.

  I try to remember. ‘I think I may have said something along the lines of “You can’t fire me because I quit”, you know, like people in movies say when they get the sack.’

  ‘Nice,’ Laura says approvingly. ‘Good comeback.’

  ‘Yes, I thought so. I was very restrained, I think. Even when she said I was a shit mother because I work while I look after the kids. Apparently, according to Saint Helen, you can only do work or mothering at one time — never both. Which is fine for her because she’s always had me to
do the mothering bit while she works. But I was very grown-up and I didn’t say anything terrible back to her because, Laura, I am better than that. However, I may have undermined my position by falling over straight after.’

  ‘Oh, you complete fool.’ Laura is loving this. She grabs my hands and gets very serious. ‘Those arseholes don’t deserve you, Em. They don’t. You have been a fairy stepmother to their little girl, who is so, so lucky to have you.’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I wasn’t even that. I’m not her stepmother, I’m like the reverse of that. We don’t even have a name for what I am to her, which is probably because anyone with half a brain stays the hell away from their ex-husband’s new kids, which is what I should have done.’

  We sit and drink for a few minutes in silence.

  Laura licks her finger and cleans the remaining chip shards and loose salt from the bowl. ‘Emma, you do realise that Helen’s got the shits with you because she’s threatened by you?’

  This doesn’t seem right.

  ‘How? There’s nothing threatening about me. She won. She has everything. She has the perfect house and the body and the well-behaved hair, oh, and let’s not forget, she has Troy. He picked her, remember.’

  ‘Then why is he pashing you when his wife’s just stepped out for a minute?’

  I steal a look at Adam to make sure he didn’t hear what Laura’s just foghorned across the whole pub. He seems engrossed in whatever Maria is saying. He doesn’t even seem to be trying to eavesdrop on our conversation, which is disappointing.

  ‘That was nothing. That was the booze. I think he was as pissed as I was. Anyway, I can’t be sure who kissed who, to be honest. I might have initiated it.’

  ‘You might have, but personally, I think it was Troy being Troy, and keeping you dangling, just like he always has. And no wonder Helen feels on the back foot in her own marriage, with you always right there, being all helpful and making those kids into a little family. Do you see the position that’s put her in?’

  ‘Are you defending Helen?’

  ‘I think I am. Helen’s got the shits with you because she can’t just have her own marriage, her own go at being a mum, without you there doing everything better. She wants her kid to do all these classes and lessons, but she also wants to be a Pilates guru, or whatever it’s called. She thought she had it all set up with you being so ready and willing to take over that side of parenting for her, but she didn’t realise that maybe now you know her daughter a whole lot better than she does. And that’s got to suck. I’m not surprised she sacked you from Lola duty. I imagine she’s just been waiting for a good enough reason to convince Troy you should get off the scene.’

  I think about that. It makes some sense. I mean, when you marry someone who had an affair with you behind his wife’s back, there are going to be some trust issues. And if he had me feeling for so long that there was a chance for us one day, then she must have seen that too. That’s got to have been quite unnerving.

  ‘But what about Lola?’ I ask. ‘What about what’s best for her? Like you said, she’s closer to me than she is to her own parents. What’s it going to do to her if I’m suddenly ripped away? And poor Freya and Tim. They love her.’

  ‘They’re still going to see her, Em. It’s just you who isn’t.’

  I can’t help it. I start to cry.

  ‘Em, I’m really sorry.’

  This makes me cry harder. Laura speaking so kindly to me is a sign that something is really wrong.

  ‘I’ve lost my job as a doormat. I wasn’t even a good doormat,’ I weep into my wine.

  ‘No! You were a brilliant doormat. You were too good at being a doormat, that’s all,’ my sister consoles me. Then she adds, ‘There’s a very handsome man over there who keeps looking at us. Which of us do you think he’s giving the eye to?’

  She must mean Adam. ‘Me,’ I say, without turning around.

  ‘Well you’re very sure of yourself, for a sacked doormat, I must say,’ Laura says huffily.

  ‘No, it’s not that, it’s just that I know who you’re talking about. He’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘A friend? He’s having a hard time taking his eyes off you. Wish I had friends like that.’

  ‘It’s not like that. He’s married. I used to know him through work, that’s all. He’s coming on the camping trip we’re going on.’

  I don’t know why I bother lying to Laura. It never works. She’s a human polygraph.

  ‘You like him,’ she says, in a voice filled with wonder. ‘Emma, I’m shocked! A married man?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I hiss. I reach into my bag for a tissue and attempt to wipe away my tears without removing all my makeup. I feel like an art conservator trying not to destroy an ancient painting. ‘There’s nothing going on,’ I repeat.

  ‘Not yet, maybe. But you’d like there to be — hey, his friends are leaving. Ooh, he’s coming over!’

  I barely have time to tuck my snotty, mascara-blackened tissue into my pocket when Adam’s hand is on my shoulder.

  ‘Hello,’ he says.

  ‘Hello to you. I’m Laura. Emma’s big sister.’ Laura thrusts her hand across the table at him, almost taking out her empty wineglass in the process.

  ‘Adam,’ he replies. ‘Emma was my editor, long ago, and now our kids are friends.’

  ‘Is that right? What a small world! Now, Emma tells me you guys are going camping together.’

  ‘I didn’t say together—’ I attempt, vainly, but there’s no stopping Laura.

  ‘That sounds awesome,’ she gushes. ‘Camping is so great for kids. I haven’t been camping with my lot for ages. Not since the incident down in the Mungo National Park with Bledisloe — he’s our Labrador — and some birds that just look like any old pigeons but turned out to be an endangered species called a plains-wanderer. They were considerably more endangered after Bledisloe got hold of them and there was a bit of a to-do with a ranger. It was very educational for the boys. They ended up doing a presentation on the plains-wanderer at school that term. But you’ll have a great time camping, as long as you don’t bring any dogs that are bred to retrieve ground birds. In fact I’d recommend not taking any dogs at all. Apparently it’s against the law.’

  ‘Good tip,’ Adam says. ‘Well, I just came over to say goodnight — I’m heading home.’

  ‘Where’s Bon tonight?’ I ask. ‘How have you managed a leave pass?’

  ‘Sleepover with the cousins,’ he says. ‘I came in for a quiet beer but I sort of got stuck with Maria and Jake.’

  ‘With the cousins? And where’s Mrs Adam tonight?’ asks Laura.

  ‘Amsterdam,’ he replies. ‘Bon and I have just moved back to Sydney and my wife’s not sure when she’ll be able to join us.’

  Well now, I think. That’s a curious lie. If Uncle Stijn is to be believed, Ilse’s coming here soon. And if it’s on her Facebook page then it’s not a secret. Unless she was going to surprise them and Uncle Stijn has blown it on Facebook. No, Adam must know. Maybe they really are on the rocks though, maybe she’s only coming back because of Bon. That’s totally plausible.

  ‘Actually,’ Laura almost shrieks, ‘I’m leaving now. Right now. In an Uber which I called and which is here’ — she pretends to check her phone — ‘so Adam, could you do me an enormous favour and have a seat right here and help Emma finish off this bottle of wine?’

  ‘Oh, I think I might have had enough,’ I say, giving Adam the chance to go. ‘I should probably head home too.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks disappointed. ‘I’m up for another drink if you are. Or you can just keep me company while I finish your wine.’

  ‘Bye, Ems,’ Laura says, and she smooches my cheek. ‘Have a good night. Love you.’ She leers at me with a wink that Benny Hill would be proud of and, giving walking straight her very best shot, zigzags out of the pub, only lightly clipping the doorframe as she leaves.

  ‘One more?’ says Adam.

  ‘Why not,’ I reply, because when has drinkin
g too much white wine and eating only salt and vinegar chips ever been the wrong decision?

  Over the last two glasses in the bottle, Adam regales me with stories of Maria and Jake, who have, over the last week, latched on to him like social barnacles. He has no idea why, but he reckons they’re either swingers or involved in a multi-level marketing scheme.

  ‘If it’s pyramid selling, they’re not very good at it. Or they’re selling lots of different things,’ he says. ‘Tonight alone they told me about their Thermomix, some smoothies they love that caused them both to lose fifteen kilos, and they talked a lot about essential oils.’

  ‘Maybe they’re not pyramid sellers,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe they just like buying all the products from those schemes. They might be the reason for other people’s success at selling Thermomixes and protein shakes. They could just be wildly enthusiastic consumers.’

  The barman comes over to tell us that it’s ten o’clock and he’s calling last drinks, and I realise I don’t want to go home. Adam’s so easy to talk to. After the day I’ve had, it feels simple and uncomplicated to sit and chat with him. Which it obviously isn’t, because he’s married and I might be in love with him. I push to the back of my mind the thought that wine is known for making people’s moral compasses go a bit funny.

  And I’m full of energy, all of a sudden. I want to go somewhere where the pub doesn’t shut at ten o’clock on a Saturday, where everyone I see isn’t a parent from school. I’m momentarily overwhelmed with the feeling that I live in a Lego village, with Lego people. And not many Lego people, either, like it’s a Lego village built by my children, who are known for losing all the mini figures in the garden and down drains, down the back of the car seats and very occasionally, into the vacuum cleaner, on the odd occasion I press it into service.

  I’m in a Lego town, with Lego people, and there’s only about five places for those people to go. God, you’d think we were in a country village, miles and miles from anywhere, not in a suburb a fifteen-minute cab ride from a buzzing metropolis that is consistently voted one of the best places in the world to live. But no one here seems to ever leave this suburb.