by Lette, Kathy
What else had I lied about in my marriage? I pondered, pouring myself a vodka from the minibar. Allergies. Yes, I’d developed some imaginary late-onset allergies to a few things, but this wasn’t deceit so much as survival. One of life’s great mysteries is why people are divided into those who like the outdoors and those who like the indoors, and why they invariably end up married to each other. On our honeymoon, I’d foolishly confessed how much I hated camping, only for Harry to then spend every holiday for the next five years trying to convert me. A couple of nights under canvas and I discovered that the worst aspect of tents is that it’s so hard to be tense in them; it’s just not so dramatic, storming out and slamming the flap. But I soon realised it was easiest to keep my loathing of camping a secret from my husband and invent some allergies – to flies, ticks, flowers, frogs, even fresh air itself. We’ve been holidaying in comfy coastal rental cottages ever since. But was that really such a terrible crime on the morality rap sheet?
What else had I lied about in our 28-year union? I lay on the soft cream couch in the cabin and contemplated this query. Well, as far as Harry knew, I was sponsoring a goat in an African village; I saw no need whatsoever to tell him it was actually an entire goat herd, and all of the village’s goat herders and their extended families.
As the clouds parted and the moon shone silver through the balcony doors, I wondered, what were my other little white lies? I knew for sure that no wife ever admitted to her husband the true number of men she’d slept with before him. When we got engaged, I’d told Harry about some of my sexual encounters during our two-year break – the ski instructor, the guitarist from that band in Byron on the schoolies weekend – but not all of them. But that’s not lying, really. It’s more a case of selective honesty. I’d also always exaggerated the size of his equipment. In my view, Freud got it wrong: it’s not women who suffer from ‘penis envy’ but blokes. ‘Is mine big? Is mine the biggest?’ How many times I’d been tempted to snap, ‘Look, I’d love to sit here all night discussing your appendage, but I’m just not into small talk.’
Clearly, the secret to a happy marriage is to keep most things, well, secret. But not an affair. That wasn’t just a lie, that was a betrayal. I would never lie about an affair. Mainly because I would never have one.
No, if Harry wasn’t going to tell me who he was screwing, then I was not going to tell him I was okay. I wanted him to sweat, the worm. Of course, I didn’t want my kids to suffer, so I answered Zoe and Jake’s texts and emojis with the news that I’d had a second opinion and was going to be fine! It was all a false alarm. If they told their dad he’d probably just think I was being brave for their sakes – which should only make him feel worse, I thought. Surely his guilt would be so strong it’d be radiating from him in zigzags visible to the naked eye. But still, nothing.
You know you’re in a bad way when you wake up with a terrible ‘morning after’ feeling and you didn’t even do anything fun the night before. Watching the sun rise over the sapphire sea, I wrote up my to-do list.
Stave off breakdown.
Divorce husband.
Become lesbian.
Have a great time bonding with your sisters.
Yes, sisters fight. Look at Jo and Amy’s rivalry in Little Women, the Queen and Princess Margaret’s power struggles in The Crown, and the one-upwomanship of those literary lionesses Charlotte, Emily and Anne Bronte. But loyalty and love are encoded into our DNA. I would literally die for my sisters, which was ironic, because when they found out about my lie, they would literally kill me.
9
My mind was going around in circles so constantly, I felt as though my dress had been caught in a revolving door.
‘Some therapists believe there are times when an affair can rescue a marriage, and even make it stronger,’ Amber counselled as we sat down to breakfast. ‘It’s not about assigning blame, but finding out the root causes of the infidelity so you can improve your relationship from the ground up.’
By the time our cappuccinos arrived she was more pragmatic. ‘Sometimes I wish Scott would have an affair. Then I wouldn’t have to have sex with him so often!’
‘Don’t get sad or mad, get bad,’ was Emerald’s advice. ‘After marriage, a cougar needs to be rehabilitated and released back into the wild. Let me lead you astray. Leave it to Diva!’ She laughed.
To alleviate my Harry-induced despondency, both sisters were determined to distract me, but in very different ways. It was a tug-of-love. While Amber liked to work hard at having a good holiday (attending Cardio Combat sessions, spin classes, acro-yoga, tango lessons and ‘enrichment lectures’ where she sucked up information on the Pacific’s cultural and historical aspects like a human hoover), the only thing Emerald wanted to work on was her tan.
‘Come join me in the jacuzzi for a cocktail, Rubes,’ she tempted. ‘I usually need a holiday to recuperate from my holiday, but on a cruise you just go with the flow. Literally. I’m just sitting back, drinking it all in – while drinking. What’s not to love about that?’
On the drive to the departure terminal at Circular Quay, Emerald had predicted that a cruise would be like a three-week wedding reception, complete with notoriously bad band. ‘The promotional brochure may promise the “new Beatles”, but what that means is four frickin’ Ringos,’ she’d moaned. But it had taken only one day for her to be converted.
‘No. Ruby’s coming to a photography class with me, aren’t you, Rubes?’ Amber had been equally critical of cruising. For the duration of the taxi ride to Circular Quay, she’d predicted the worst. ‘I’ve heard too many horror stories – the salt, the sand, the exotic insects – and that’s just in the sandwiches!’
But it had also only taken about a day for Amber to eat her words – well, she would have eaten them if she wasn’t too busy devouring the gourmet tucker. ‘I’m comfort eating, clearly. It’s the only time I stop worrying about you, Ruby. The chefs really need to install speed bumps to slow down my progress to the buffet,’ she’d said between mouthfuls of marinated crabmeat gateaux, tournedos of black Angus beef and waggles of lobster tails.
I was used to Amber spending more time chewing over the merits of each mouthful than actually masticating, a habit that made the rest of us want to impale her on our fork prongs. So it was a novelty to see her delighting in food as though it were a whole new experience. In some ways it was; it was rare for her to have the opportunity to eat anything she hadn’t had to cook.
Emerald, meanwhile, was more interested in the human menu. Her carnal appetites were just a different form of comfort eating, really. ‘It’s a male smorgasbord out there. Shall I go for the athletic or the aesthetic? The manly, the laddish, the beardy or the blondie, the purple-tipped dreads, the man bun or the baldy? Two glasses of white wine and I’m anybody’s,’ she giggled.
While drowning your sorrows in semen may not be recognised by therapists as a legitimate coping strategy, it’d been decades since I’d seen Emerald so upbeat and happy, or Amber not short-tempered due to hunger pangs and low blood sugar.
I did feel wretched about causing my sisters angst over my false diagnosis, but I convinced myself that I was also doing them some good, as both had embraced my ‘carpe the hell out of the diem’ approach to life with alacrity. Displaying my professional dedication to the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the varnished truth, a commitment that has clearly made me the respected and acclaimed journo I am today – ha-ha – I said to them, ‘The best thing you can both do for me is to have fun.’
The first sign that Emerald was going full cougar was when she burst back into our suite fresh from the boutique, festooned with shopping bags – including one that held a new olive-green bikini for me.
Amber and I were in the middle of changing out of our wet cossies to get ready for lunch in the Tuscan Grille when she summoned us to survey her purchases.
‘Jesus,’ I laughed, riffling through the bags. ‘David Attenborough could make a documentary on your wardrobe. I mean,
there’s more leopard print in here than on the Serengeti.’
With pincered talons, Amber picked up a jungle-print halter-neck dress. ‘Gosh, Emerald, you’ll have to start taking malaria tablets.’
‘Perfect for prowling!’ Emerald chortled, stripping off to her bra and pants before pouring herself into a figure-hugging leopard-print minidress that offered maximum décolletage.
‘Your neckline’s got lower as your hemline’s got higher,’ Amber said disapprovingly. ‘You’re the inverse of an iceberg – ninety per cent of you is visible.’
‘It’s just camouflage for when I go hunting in the disco. You’ve got to come with me, Ruby.’
‘Two old chooks on the dance floor? It’ll be poultry in motion,’ I punned, but, as usual, my sisters were too focused on their bickering to pay me any attention.
‘Ruby’s far too busy for such inanities,’ Amber said, squeezing my arm proprietorially. ‘I’ve signed us up for the rock climbing wall, yogalates, macramé . . .’
‘What about man-cramé? I’d rather tie up a man in knots,’ Emerald chuckled, appraising herself in the mirror and giving a twirl.
Amber continued obstinately circling activity start times on the information sheet. ‘Ruby, there’s a general knowledge quiz every night after supper, oh, and charades. You love charades!’
‘Bondage charades would be more fun – one bloke on each team is tied up and the rest of us make him guess what we’ll do to him,’ Emerald tittered as she changed outfits.
‘A lot of blokes are better imagined in your bed than found there in the morning,’ Amber warned.
‘I’m sorry, Amber, but how would you know?’ Emerald struck a pose in her next outfit. ‘So, what do you think of this?’
Amber and I surveyed our sister’s mammaries, which were now encased in a bustier big enough to house Meatloaf and his twin brother.
‘Well, you’ve certainly perfected your drag queen look,’ Amber adjudicated.
‘Hey, there’s a lot of female competition on board, so I thought I’d better go for the full MILF.’
‘MILF,’ Amber decoded, sternly, ‘is a guerrilla movement in the Philippines.’
‘Farc!’ Emerald replied, with mock shock.
‘Emerald, darling, you’re regressing.’ Amber tut-tutted. ‘Plus, you’re too old to be a “mother I’d like to fuck”. Picture it. Once you take off all the scaffolding, he’ll go to grab a boob and find it halfway down your thigh!’
‘Emerald, you are not setting booby traps,’ I consoled, patting our big sister’s arm. ‘Goddesses never age.’
‘Don’t humour her, Ruby. She’s so old she’ll have to say to her toy boy, “Shout dirty to me!”’
‘I know it’s ridiculous,’ Emerald admitted. ‘But we’ve accidentally set sail on a cougar cruise, and I, for one, am not going to waste the frickin’ opportunity. Nor should you, Rubes. You’ll never get this chance again. If you and Harry do split up, you’ll have to start dating again.’ Emerald’s face clouded as she remembered my ‘condition’.
‘Speed dating, clearly,’ I interjected, so she wouldn’t feel bad. I knew it was wrong, I knew it was bad. I hated myself for perpetuating the lie, but I just wasn’t ready yet to put my head between my legs and assume the brace position for the truth to come out.
‘Sorry.’ Emerald faltered. ‘Anyway, I’ve been talking to other women on board and let me tell you, back in the real world, men our age expect to date women half our age, and women our age are forced to date men twenty years older; blokes who are always calling on their mobiles from hospital forecourts saying “It’s okay. It’s not malignant.” You spend nearly every first date in casualty because another part of him has fallen off.’
‘I think you’d have to call that “going out on a limb”,’ I joked, seemingly for my own amusement, as my sisters were wholly focused on each other again.
‘Ruby is not going to divorce Harry. There’s no need to split up her family. All marriages can suffer from a little fidelity fatigue. You’ll get past it. And, anyway, younger men aren’t so great,’ Amber countered. ‘You’d have to spend all your time reversing out of rooms so he can’t see the backs of your thighs and compare them to the last teenager he dated.’
‘Speaking of teenagers, I quite fancy our cabin steward,’ Emerald said, practically drooling. ‘He’s Russian. I can think of nothing better than doing the horizontal hopak with a couple of carnally inclined Cossacks, can you? It’s practically a poem. Is there anything more masculine than a husky Ruskie?’
‘Well, if you insist on having a fling with a toy boy, make sure you use the dimmer switch,’ Amber teased, watching as a now-topless Emerald examined her breast buoyancy in the mirror. ‘On second thoughts, forget the dimmer switch. Just turn the lights off. In fact, unscrew the light bulbs.’
‘Use it or lose it, kiddo. That’s my motto. My basement has atrophied from lack of use. And I don’t feel guilty about Alessandro, either. He should feel guilty for leaving me high and dry for years.’ Emerald’s face lost its vibrancy and a shadow came over her. ‘I’m just tired of feeling invisible,’ she said, sadly, then rallied. ‘Just because a woman’s getting closer to her pension, why should “a bit of rough” refer to a leaf of bloody lettuce and not a tattooed toy boy? In the real world you’d have to endure caustic cracks about childproofing your love life and needing to buy a booster seat for your car. But not on a cougar cruise! We’re on the Love Boat, baby, headed for Fantasy Island.’ Emerald, having settled on the jungle-print halter dress, slipped on a pair of brand-new Roman-inspired gold sandals and announced, ‘Right. I’m ready. Let’s go get ’em!’
Locking our suite and striding to catch up with my sisters, I realised that of all the onboard activities offered, the fine art of table-turning was the favourite. Women who’d been judged, ranked, rated on their looks from car windows and building sites their whole lives were now judging, ranking and rating men, with a casual sweep of a hungry eye.
All except Amber, of course, whose preferred leisure pursuit was turning out to be ‘raining on parades’.
Emerald hated gyms, especially the illogical instruction to wear loose-fitting clothing. ‘If I had any loose-fitting clothing, I wouldn’t have to come to the gym, now, would I?’ she always said. But strolling past the fitness area on the way to lunch, Emerald paused to watch a tanned he-man with pneumatic buttocks performing chin-ups with one hand. ‘Now that could tempt me to the gym. What machine should I use to impress that hunk of spunk?’
‘Um . . . the ATM?’ Amber suggested.
As we passed the rock-climbing wall after lunch, Emerald paused to watch a taut-torsoed Apollo hauling himself upwards with gravity-defying ease.
‘Oh my god. Check out the guy with the pecs. I’d like to ride that bucking bronco all over the rodeo!’
‘Okay, this is getting pervy, now,’ Amber rebuked. ‘The guy’s so young his pyjamas probably have little feet.’
At dinner, the spectacle of middle-aged women flirting with cubs had Amber rolling her eyes so often I worried people would think she was having a seizure.
‘Emerald, as a vet, aren’t you finding these human mating rituals a tad dull? I mean, at least in the animal kingdom you’re occasionally treated to a flash of bright feathers or a cascade of lovely song. Braindead boys strutting and flexing and setting fire to their farts doesn’t quite compare,’ she said.
‘Just because they’re young doesn’t mean they don’t have things to offer,’ Emerald countered. ‘Or that they’re not smart. Millennial males get a bad rap. To be fair, quite a few defy their stereotype . . .’
On comedic cue, the boys at the next table, most of whom seemed to have only recently been introduced to cutlery, started throwing food at each other and attempting to catch it in their mouths like Sea World seals, which set Amber off on another bout of frenetic eye-rolling.
‘You keep doing that and you’re going to shake something loose in there,’ Emerald said, laughingly.
&
nbsp; Our big sister kept right on cooing over the selection of men on offer as though she were trying to find the Caramel Indulgence in a box of Milk Tray. The more she looked, the more determined she became to sample every flavour, even if it meant taking a nibble of one then popping him back in the box.
The first toy boy Emerald brought back to her cabin didn’t pass the taste-test. Emerald described him as the hard toffee that’s always left over in the chocolate box.
‘He expected me to deep-throat his chrome dome!’ she reported after kicking him out and joining Amber and me in our shared living area for a hot chocolate. ‘“Blow me, babe!” he said. I told him not to be ridiculous, and that the last time I was on my knees was two years ago when I was looking for a contact lens.’
Her second cub, however, was more appetising. ‘Apparently he loves skydiving,’ she told us, after finally emerging from her bedroom, spent and dishevelled and ravenous for breakfast. ‘You name a sky and he’s dived from it . . . I hate being in the air, but I thought it best not to mention that until after the wedding.’
‘I’m sure your husband will be pleased to hear that,’ Amber said through a clenched picket line of perfect white teeth. ‘And please tell me that’s mayonnaise on your dressing gown.’
That night Amber wore earplugs so as not to hear the laughter and shrieks coming from our older sister’s cabin, but I listened on, enviously, and yes, salivating slightly.
At breakfast the next morning, just as I was polishing off a tower of cinnamon pancakes, while Amber played with some exotic concoction involving coconut and quinoa, Emerald staggered into the dining room, late.
‘You’re starting to look as though you’ve just crawled out from under a Stone . . . most probably Keith,’ I ribbed her.
‘Hey, it’s not my first rodeo, kid. That’s why I’m having a mimosa for breakfast.’ She winked.
‘So, who was your poor victim last night?’ Amber asked, censoriously.