‘He’s beautiful,’ the woman said, and Nathalie shot her a smile as she covered Richie’s head and started feeding him again. ‘I’m Macie by the way.’
‘I’m Nathalie. Thank you again.’
‘Was that rude woman your boss?’ Emmie asked Alexandra. But she didn’t respond. Her eyes were glassy, her gaze distant.
‘I hope I didn’t jeopardise your job,’ said Nathalie, suddenly feeling terrible.
Alexandra shook her head vigorously, as though to wake herself up. She took a deep breath and put her hands on her hips. ‘Yes, unfortunately, she’s the owner. And no, Elizabeth is always like that. She just needs a good shag.’
‘Keep the scarf. It’s my gift to you so you’ll never have to encounter another Elizabeth,’ Macie said.
‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ said Nathalie, still burning with awkwardness.
‘I think your table will be ready next week,’ Alexandra said to Macie.
‘Thanks, that’s great news. Well, I’ll leave you ladies to it, and Alexandra, I’ll hear from you soon.’
‘Do you know her?’ asked Nathalie, watching Macie disappear into the crowd.
‘She’s one of our biggest clients. Hence Elizabeth’s reaction. In no way would she want to jeopardise that account. For a while I thought she was stalking me she buys so much.’
‘A lot of women have a throw cushion problem,’ said Emmie. ‘Dave calls them my pets.’ She patted a plump blue and white one beside her.
Nathalie laughed.
‘Yeah, she’s loaded,’ Alexandra said. She pointed to a huge mirror with gold gilding around the edges. ‘She’s bought that. She has quite the home in Mosman.’
‘Lucky her,’ said Emmie. ‘God, I’d love to see her throw cushion collection. So, you help people style their homes?’
While Emmie and Alexandra talked, Nathalie took Richie off her boob and reached for her glass of champagne. The cool liquid had an almost-instant effect on her body, and she leaned back into the lounge, letting Richie’s sweaty little milk-drunk body relax on her lap. She had counselled herself not to drink too much today, not to embarrass herself, especially with the kids here, but she’d already felt the humiliation of every eye on her exposed breasts. She drank the champagne down while Alexandra and Emmie had their backs turned. She reached for another glass and felt the sweet buzz take everything away.
CHAPTER 5
Pen
The mums were crowding into the playground for pick-up like industrious little ants scouting for crumbs. Pen marvelled at the effort so many of them made. Their shiny hair, their slim limbs, their pretty dresses, or the off-duty skinny jeans with artfully torn rips to reveal glimpses of tanned skin. Where did they find the time or the money to make themselves look so good? Compared to them she just felt monochrome. She never had the inclination to dress up. Even when she was photographing a politician or a celeb and was forced to make an effort, she wore boots under her dress. The whole fashion thing had just never made sense to her, though she did spend a lot on getting her short hair styled just right.
The bell trilled and she felt the familiar dread spread in her gut. Picking Will up always gave her this feeling. And the fact that she was feeling bad about picking up her own son on the only two days she was able to, made for a guilt that stuck to her insides all afternoon. It was clear he wasn’t coping with school very well. He either lashed out physically when he saw her, or he was sullen and withdrawn. And more and more the quiet, melancholy slant of his personality seemed to be taking over. He seemed contented enough playing or drawing in his room but there was a negative energy about him that she felt overwhelmed by, weighed down by. She was worried about him and she knew she needed to talk to someone, perhaps the school, but she was working such long hours, and often on weekends, to simply have enough money to pay the bills that mental health seemed at the bottom of the priority list. And to be honest, she just didn’t want to face it.
Sometimes she thought she was forgetting. Maybe Catelyn had been like this when she was younger. But when Pen really thought back, Cate had been, and still was, a pretty easy child. Sweet and fun, with the occasional difficult patch. Cate was the child that parents attribute to their own good parenting instead of just a lucky break. When you had a difficult second child you realised how deluded you’d been. That it was all just pot luck.
Pen spotted Emmie walking towards her. ‘Hi,’ she said and shifted over to let Emmie sit on the low brick wall in the shade. ‘How was your day?’
Emmie touched her fingers to her temples gingerly. ‘Serious hangover.’
‘That’s what the Melbourne Cup’s for, isn’t it?’ Pen couldn’t think of anything worse than dressing up and pretending to be interested in horses running around a track, but each to their own.
‘Yes, but there was another reason. I was a little over-excited because I won the raffle at the concert yesterday and I never, and I mean never, win things.’
Pen laughed. ‘Let me guess, a meat tray, a facial, a year’s worth of stationery supplies?’
Emmie shook her head. ‘Oh God, I need a facial. But no, it’s actually pretty decent. It’s a week in this huge holiday house on the coast. And it gets weirder. Findlay’s mum and Thomas’s mum – I’m not sure if you know them, they’re Year 3 kids too – were with me at the time and now we’re all going together. I’d never met them before yesterday.’
‘Thomas Maxwell? His dad’s that arrogant Maxwell guy on TV, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, and I always thought his mum – Alexandra is her name – looked a bit stuck up but it turns out she’s hilarious.’
‘And who’s Findlay’s mum?’
‘The stunning one who looks like a Russian model.’
‘Oh yeah. We all know her. Bitch. I can’t stop looking at that woman. I actually wanted to photograph her the other day. Just the way the light was falling behind her. It was, to be honest, a bit creepy and I caught myself.’
‘I know. But she’s so lovely. She cried about three times yesterday. Very sleep deprived. She’s got two kids under five.’
Pen groaned in understanding. ‘Oh, no, say no more. I wouldn’t go back to having kids that young if you paid me.’
Emmie laughed nervously and Pen wondered if she’d said something wrong. She was always wondering this. Why she couldn’t just talk to people like a normal person, without second-guessing everything she said, without feeling nervous and then replaying whole conversations in her head after the fact. Maybe that was why Will was so strange and sensitive. A friend who was a child psychologist had told her that he seemed like a normal eight-year-old boy, albeit a very sensitive and intelligent one. It was true, she never had to worry about grades or anything like that. It was more the social side of things that was his challenge.
Pen watched her son walk towards her. She felt her pulse quicken. He was the only one not buddied up with a friend, chatting easily. He walked with his head down, feet dragging. She knew this mood. It was the negative, passive–aggressive mood. Someone had probably said something to upset him. Sometimes food fixed it, other times it lingered all afternoon. He reached her and she took his bag, trying to lighten his load physically, if not mentally.
‘Can Will come for a play date? Pleeease,’ asked Seraphine, breathless as she ran towards them from the other side of the playground, red hair flying. ‘Please, please, please, Mummy.’
She saw Will’s whole mood shift, like the sun peeking from behind a bank of cloud.
Pen’s heart squeezed with gratitude for this child. Seraphine and Will did seem to have a lovely bond and they hadn’t quite got to the stage of feeling weird about their genders. She imagined having a beautiful, light-spirited child like Seraphine. She admonished herself silently. She was doing it again – comparing, being down on Will. She really did need to book in to see that psychologist for herself.
The kids bounced on the spot awaiting a response. Pen looked to Emmie hopefully. Seraphine genuinely seemed to have tak
en a shine to Will. If Emmie felt any negativity towards him, she hadn’t shown it. She’d had him over to her house twice, which was one more time than he’d been to anyone else’s house. Will would sometimes invite a friend to his house, but they were usually met with a barrage of excuses. It wasn’t that Will was a bad kid, he was just different. He was awkward. He didn’t connect.
‘We can’t today, sorry. Sera has swimming,’ said Emmie. ‘But hey, you know what? You guys should come away to this holiday house, too. Sera would love Will to come and you could bring Cate, too. We’re still throwing around dates.’
Pen was momentarily stilled by the graciousness of the offer. Someone actually wanted Will to go away for several days with their child. She felt emotion ache in the back of her throat. ‘That would be wonderful,’ she said, holding her voice steady to quell the emotion.
The thought of going away with other mums – particularly the gorgeous one and the TV star husband one, was fairly terrifying. She didn’t even know if she’d be able to get time off work. And God, how would she handle Will with other kids for a week? Probably perfect kids. The anxiety might push her over the edge. A week of battling with the threat that the other kids simply wouldn’t like her child.
Emmie must have read her mixed emotions because she added: ‘It’ll be fun. Plus, I need someone down-to-earth to come along.’
‘Are you sure we’ll fit?’
‘Plenty of room.’
Pen looked at Emmie’s kind, thoughtful face. They weren’t exactly close but she was the type of person that Pen felt she might even be able to confide in after a few drinks. She imagined saying the words out loud. The relief of getting the awful feelings out of her body. I don’t like my own son. See, I’m a monster. No, I don’t just mean when he’s being a handful, I mean ever. In eight years, I’ve never liked him. Deep down I wish I’d never had him. What mother feels that? Tell me, what mother feels that?
But Emmie was waving goodbye, Will tugging at the top of her jeans asking for a snack she didn’t have, and her blood was rushing in her ears.
Jean
1948
The music was much louder inside the hotel. She could feel its languid beat inside her, intoxicating her. She followed Magnus into the foyer, the fabled marble staircase sweeping up to her left. She imagined ascending those stairs to see the richly decorated hotel rooms and the balcony that jutted over the hotel’s entrance like a crown. He led her through a candlelit hall. The light burned from elaborate candelabra and the smell of wax mingled with other scents – perfume, whiskey, face powder, sweat. The walls were papered with blood red roses against a midnight blue and hung with pictures depicting nude women reclining on day beds, and various Australian bush scenes. She wanted to stop and admire them, run her fingers along the opulent wallpaper, but she didn’t dare. Clara’s slightly too-big shoes clicked on the ornate tiling under her feet, reminding her that she was an interloper. She smoothed her hair behind her ear, finding the beautiful clasp Clara had placed there. Before she could lose her nerve, they emerged into a big room filled with people. There was a magnificent chandelier at its heart, under which bodies moved lazily in the hazy air. All about the edges of the dance floor were small round tables filled with people smoking and sipping cocktails. Expensive jewels glittered on slim wrists. Vases full of wild roses overflowed and she longed to put her nose to the velvety petals. A band was set up in the corner, comprising of a piano, saxophone, violin, banjo and drums. She felt like she was in a Parisian salon, not a hotel in the middle of a vast Australian valley. A waiter appeared with a tray of champagne and she took a glass, heady suddenly with the smells and sounds around her. Magnus took the glass from her hand and put it back on the tray.
‘First we must dance,’ he said. She looked at him in profile as he guided her onto the floor. He was handsome, as though he should belong in films. She hadn’t noticed that outside. A blush crept into her cheeks.
She laughed and let him guide her onto the floor. Chandelier crystals sparkled above her and diamonds on pale fingers caught the light. She had never danced this dance. The pulse of the music seemed to make her feet move independently to her mind, as was always the case. She copied the steps of the other dancers, her limbs finding their place easily. She had known she loved to dance as long as she’d known music. Now she taught ballet lessons to children in the valley, but there had been a time when dance was the very air she breathed.
Magnus guided her, his hand on her back. He was an excellent dancer. She tried to imagine Robert doing this and laughed to herself. She was so far from her normal life at this moment. He took complete control, and she took cues from his body, as though they were dancing some secret language that no one else understood. She was breathless when the music changed.
‘You’re good,’ he said.
She felt her cheeks glow at his compliment. ‘I must admit I do love to dance.’
‘Come on, one more and then I’ll let you have that champagne, Miss Rose.’
The music was slower, but their bodies felt equally in tune. He dipped her back and brought her up, face suddenly close to his.
His breath on her cheek, his body pressed to hers. She felt her body respond before her mind, a visceral reaction to his. Panic rose in her throat. God, what was she doing? She had no place here. Lied about her name. She should go, now. What was she going to tell him about herself if they talked over champagne? More lies?
But how she longed to sit at one of those elegant round tables. Just to pretend. Just for a few more moments. The song finished and he guided her to the edge of the dance floor. Jean felt self-conscious suddenly. Could people tell she was a miner’s wife? Magnus waved over a waiter.
‘This young lady has well and truly earned a glass of champagne.’
Jean fanned herself with her hands. ‘Thank you.’ She took a sip and the cool wine moved through her.
‘So, what brings you out to the sticks, Miss Rose?’
Her mind reeled, spinning from the few sips of wine and the dancing. Oh, the dancing. How she’d missed it. ‘I teach ballet lessons to the children,’ she said. This, at least, was not a lie. ‘There’s a small school for the workers’ children and I take their dance lessons.’ She left out the small fact of her daughter being one of her students.
‘Oh, well, that’s a nice touch for them. I hear there’s a lot of complaints about living standards, but the children are doing dance classes and school lessons. It can’t be too bad.’
She said nothing. How to explain to a man like this, used to money and freedom, what they were living through in this valley? She needed to change the topic. ‘So, what brings you out here, Mr Varesso?’
‘Engineer by day. Chief engineer I should say. Entrepreneur by night. Let’s just say I have a deep interest in shale oil. I come out here every few weeks from Sydney. Bugger of a journey but it must be done and occasionally I’ll dig up a diamond in the rough.’
She pressed her cool hands to her burning cheeks and laughed.
‘Where do they have the local ballet teacher housed then? Do say the hotel and not one of those ghastly houses.’
Jean grimaced.
‘Oh dear. Let me see if I can remedy that. I have connections.’
Jean’s heart was racing. The lies were getting away from her, spooling out. ‘No, no, it’s really not that bad. I’m very happy. It’s close to the school. Please don’t trouble yourself.’ She should come clean. Tell this man she had a daughter, Liv, and a husband, Robert. A simple man. Not the kind of man to ever pine for this kind of decadent life. The guilt rose in her chest until she could hardly breathe.
‘Well, I daresay you could give some lessons to some of the officials’ wives. Perhaps that’s something I could organise.’
‘Oh no, I’m not sure I’d be good enough for that.’ She knew it was false modesty, but would he even believe her if she told him the truth? That she was once the feted Serpentine Rose who danced on Sydney’s finest stages. That it had all
fallen away on the cold stage floor that fateful night. That the tastes and textures of her former life haunted her. The smooth satin against her skin, flowers in her hair and bare shoulders dusted with gold. The hot lights and long nights. The swell of the crowd. But it was the music and what it did to her body that lingered most. The music’s seduction made it impossible to leave her past behind. Made it almost impossible to endure the daily hardship of this life as a miner’s wife.
‘And do you have any outstanding talents that you’re nurturing in your class?’
She smiled. ‘Well, yes, there is one little girl named Liv with a great deal of natural talent.’
The band began a popular swing song and the crowd let out a collective whoop, the dance floor filling with people.
‘Well, we must dance this one,’ Magnus said, leading her onto the floor.
The champagne made her more confident and she let her body really dance. She knew this one. And she could feel eyes on her. Magnus whistled through his fingers at her moves. She could feel the heat in her body rising, burning as the dance reached its crescendo, but she couldn’t stop. It felt like letting go. It felt like coming home. It had been so long since she’d danced. Really danced. It was a part of herself that she thought was dead, but she realised it had merely been waiting to wake up.
They collapsed – breathless once again on the edge of the crowd as the music ebbed away into a slower song. He took her hand to pull her back onto the dance floor, but she could feel eyes on them now. Perhaps they were wondering who she was, this interloper who they’d not seen before trying to command the dance floor. Her face felt hot and her palms clammy. She couldn’t breathe, as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. She broke away from him.
‘Mr Varesso, I should be going now. It’s late. Thank you for the dance.’ She headed away from the mass of hot, moving bodies, down the candlelit hall that led to the foyer. She could feel the heat of him behind her. She was desperate now to feel the cool night air on her face. She swung the doors open. Her ears rang with the quiet and the scent of new rain thickened the air.
The Valley of Lost Stories Page 4