by Kris Webb
Unscrewing the jar, I looked at the opening in consternation. Doctors certainly didn’t try to make things easy.
Jack plopped down on the floor and dived for a small object lying in the corner. Hygiene was not my strong point, but scavenging on a public toilet floor didn’t seem ideal. Pulling him up again I put him next to the roll of toilet paper. The amount these doctors charged for a consultation, I figured they could bear the cost of a toilet roll.
Jack’s eyes lit up.
Taking advantage of the distraction, I sat down and focused on the job at hand. Intent on what I was doing, I didn’t notice that Jack had turned back to me until a small hand grabbed for the full jar.
‘Nooo, Jack!’
I jumped, only just keeping a hold on the jar.
I fended Jack off with one hand, holding the jar above my head with the other. I ran through the possibilities in my mind. If I stood up, Jack would be straight into the toilet bowl. If I put the jar on the floor while I picked Jack up, it would almost certainly get tipped over. Judging the distance, I let go of Jack and lunged for the hook on the back of the door where I’d hung my handbag. Dumping it on the floor, I landed back heavily on the toilet seat, beating Jack’s hand by no more than a microsecond. The contents of the jar swirled dangerously close to the top, but miraculously didn’t spill.
The bag was open and Jack dived for its contents, which were normally off limits.
I found the cap on the back of the toilet seat, screwed it on quickly, reassembled my clothing and stood up. Hefting Jack onto my hip, I ignored the fact that he was wrenching the arms of my sunglasses in different directions. I threw my bag over the other shoulder and burst out of the cubicle.
The room was miraculously empty, although the possibility that it had emptied because of the sounds the madwoman in the last cubicle was making crossed my mind. I stood Jack up and tried to figure out which parts of our respective bodies I needed to clean. Settling on a wash of my hands and a wipe of his, I leaned my hands on the sink and took a deep breath.
Would it ever get any easier? Surely women with children didn’t spend their entire lives lurching from one humiliating experience to another?
I looked into the mirror and noticed that my eyes were bright red and had great black rings under them. As I watched, they filled with tears. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be.
I glimpsed a movement in the mirror behind my reflection. Spinning around I saw a cubicle door close. Jack was nowhere to be seen. As I lunged for the door I heard a click. No – it wasn’t possible.
The door refused to budge, locked from the inside. Jack, with his love of all things bright and shiny, had obviously been fiddling with the lock and somehow managed to twist it.
‘Jack? Are you all right?’ I asked.
His answer was a wail as he decided that being alone in a small space was not a desirable situation.
Surely he couldn’t drown in the toilet bowl. I tried to remain calm.
There was no room to climb over the door, even if I could somehow vault up there off an adjoining toilet. There was, however, a gap at the bottom of the door. I looked at the rather grubby floor, calculating how long it would take me to run down the corridor to the doctor’s surgery to get some assistance. Too long, I decided, lowering myself onto the tiles. With an effort I was just able to squeeze through the gap and slither along the floor. Jack’s cries stopped abruptly as my head appeared at his feet. By curling around the toilet bowl I managed to get my whole body into the cubicle and struggle to my feet. Tearing off a strip of toilet paper, I wiped the side of my face, which was worryingly wet.
Jack looked up at me with a delighted smile on his face.
‘Fantastic. You think this is fun,’ I grumbled. ‘All I need is for you to turn into a serial toilet-door locker.’
His amusement was infectious, though, and I couldn’t suppress a smile as I looked down at my T-shirt and skirt, which hadn’t looked too good before but now looked as though I’d slept in them for a week.
I remembered the reason for my visit and my smile disappeared. ‘All right you. Let’s go.’
The doctor was mercifully swift and I was called into his office less than five minutes after I’d handed over my embarrassingly warm bottle.
‘Well you’re not pregnant,’ he announced.
The roaring in my ears drowned out his next words. Only now that I knew it wasn’t going to happen did I allow myself to visualise what it would be like trying to deal with Jack, a baby, no husband and, the way things were going, no job.
‘So you really need to take better care of yourself,’ the doctor was saying sternly as I tuned back in. ‘You need to get some more sleep . . .’ He paused as he saw my face. ‘All right, that won’t be easy, I know. But if you’re going to be up early, try to get to bed early. Go to sleep as soon as Jack does. You need to remember that you’re no use at all to him if you get sick.’
I nodded earnestly, while mentally prioritising the jobs I had to have done before nine the next morning.
His next words made their way through my thoughts. ‘Do you have anyone who can help you? Your parents perhaps?’
I still wondered on a daily basis if I was being an idiot not telling Mum and Dad what was going on. If I’d known how hard it was going to be, I would have been text-messaging them before Jack’s plane had even left Rome.
We’d got this far though. While I wasn’t in great shape, Jack was no longer the sad and lonely little boy who had arrived.
But he was still unsettled by the way his life had been turned upside down and I worried that introducing Mum and Dad now might upset the very tentative balance Carla, Patrick, Jack and I had found. I didn’t want to risk that, but it was very tempting to ask them for help. All I wanted was to go to sleep and let Mum sort everything out for me.
In deference to the doctor I stopped on the way home and bought some broccoli. Somehow I had always felt that regardless of the rest of the meal, my nutritional wellbeing was assured if there was broccoli on my plate.
Jack didn’t seem to agree and was in the process of tearing his to pieces and stuffing it down his shirt when Patrick trudged down the hall and onto the deck.
‘Not a good day?’ I asked, glancing at him.
‘No.’ Patrick’s hair was more dishevelled than usual and he looked truly miserable. ‘I have managed to lose my second job in less than a week. That must be some kind of a record.’
‘What do you mean? I thought you were just pitching an idea.’
Patrick sat down heavily at the table. ‘I know, but I might as well be realistic. Tony and I met with the guy who owns the station this afternoon. He said to forget the whole kids’ cooking show idea unless we could come up with some kind of angle to make it different. He’s given us another chance to pitch an idea tomorrow, otherwise he’s putting the old program back on.’
‘I thought your idea sounded great,’ I protested loyally, resisting the urge to ask if Tony had mentioned me.
‘You have no idea what a jerk this guy is. I don’t know how Tony can work for him.’ He was silent for a moment and then added, ‘And he has the worst comb-over I have ever seen.’
I laughed. ‘I thought that my day was bad, but I still have my job. At least I hope I have.’ I suddenly remembered that I’d been ignoring my mobile all afternoon. I pushed the thought out of my mind.
‘All right, let’s think about this. What was comb-over man’s objection to your concept?’
‘He said it was unoriginal, boring and not even slightly entertaining.’
‘Okay . . . Well at least he didn’t beat about the bush. Let’s think about this – there must be something we can come up with.’
‘Julia, you are a lawyer, I am an accountant – ex-accountant. Can you think of a less creative combination? There’s no way you and I will be able to think of something vaguely interesting.’
‘That’s a bit unfair,’ I said, offended.
‘Tell me the last
slightly creative thing you did,’ Patrick demanded.
‘That’s easy. I, uh, I pulled together a pretty gripping statement from an art expert in Florence the other day.’
Patrick looked at me and raised his eyebrows until I was forced to concede. ‘Yeah, all right, but I’m not paid to be creative. That doesn’t mean that a vibrant, dynamic mind doesn’t exist under this conservative lawyerly exterior.’
I wasn’t sure that I believed what I was saying. I had a nasty suspicion that any vaguely artistic tendencies I’d ever had had been smothered under years of trawling through dry legal documents.
‘Anyway, you don’t exactly have any wildly exciting artistic types with goatees and berets banging down your door to help you right now, do you?’ I asked.
‘I guess not,’ Patrick shrugged.
I removed the remaining pieces of broccoli from Jack’s plate in resignation.
‘Well, the way I see it, you need a theme – something that ties all the shows together and makes them a bit different.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Patrick said. ‘Except that themes are tacky. That’s something comb-over man and I would probably agree on.’
I shook my head. ‘Well, apparently they’re not. I read an article last week about Sydney’s top party planners and they all seemed to agree that themes are the way to go.’
‘What?’ Patrick said. ‘Are you trying to tell me that cool people with stacks of money have “Dress as One of your Parents” parties?’
‘Well, no. They were talking more about themes like “Medieval Madness” and – oh I can’t remember, but they had a two-metre high slippery slide made of ice. Can you believe you can actually hire baby crocodiles in Sydney to use as table centrepieces?’ We were definitely getting off track here. ‘My point is that if you can come up with a general idea, it will hold everything together.’
‘What about Charlie’s Angels? I could have three gorgeous women cooking for me. I could direct them from a speaker phone – no one would even have to see me.’
Before I could say anything he continued. ‘No, wait! I’ve got it. I could have a car that can talk – like in Knight Rider. Remember David Hasselhoff ?’
‘Patrick, those are fantasies, not themes. Anyway, I thought you were too young for Knight Rider?’
‘No way. I used to arrange my lectures around the daytime repeats while I was at uni. Great show.’
‘So did you talk about budgets in your meeting? Did you get the feeling they would spring for a computerised car?’
‘Good point. I think the technical term for the budget they have in mind is “bugger all”. Look, forget it. I don’t know what I was thinking anyway. I just need to sort my resume out and find a real job.’
He brightened. ‘You’ll never guess what I found in a corner store near the studio.’
He ferreted around in his shoulder bag and pulled out a plastic bag. Withdrawing the contents, he brandished a small bottle at me in triumph.
‘Magenta, I found magenta!’
‘Are you serious?’ I asked incredulously.
In the last week my collection of food colouring had grown from two ancient bottles to an array of over ten, which were lined up proudly on the bathroom sink. In a serious comment on both Patrick’s life and my own, we had become embroiled in a competition to find new and different colours. I had thought that a bottle green I’d picked up last week had been the pinnacle, but magenta left it for dead.
‘You know, it’s a shame the show isn’t for kids Jack’s age,’ I said. ‘All you’d have to do would be to add food colouring to just about anything and they’d think it was wonderful. That’d fit your budget too.’
Patrick pursed his lips. ‘Maybe that’s not so dumb. What about a colour theme? Each week we could pick a colour and make food that colour. Like pink – we could cook sausages and make strawberry daiquiris. Nonalcoholic of course,’ he added when he saw my expression.
‘That might not be such a bad idea,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘You could do a yellow day with scrambled eggs and . . . lemon tart,’ I suggested.
‘Julia, it’s for kids. What kid wants eggs and lemon tart? No, I’m thinking Twistie sandwiches.’
‘Twistie sandwiches? Are you serious?’
‘No, I guess not – it wouldn’t really amount to cooking, would it? They’re good though,’ he added. ‘Banana split – that’d be perfect. And, I don’t know, yellow fried rice or something.’
I could see he was getting excited. ‘Our logo could be a picture of fairy bread with hundreds and thousands. Kind of a dedication to Jack.’
‘Hang on,’ I interrupted. ‘What happens when you run out of colours?’
‘At this stage I can’t even think past the pilot show,’ he replied with a wave of his hand. ‘I’ll worry about that problem when I come to it.’
He sprang up from the table and headed for his bedroom. ‘I’ve got to try to get my ideas into some kind of script.’
His head reappeared around the living room door briefly. ‘Thanks Julia. I take it back. You’re a genius.’
TWENTY
It was five-thirty. Grant was arriving for dinner in two hours and I was still in the city, foodless and with no idea what I was going to cook.
As I hurried towards the bus stop, I remembered that I hadn’t called Maggie. Marcus was still in town and had arranged to meet her for a coffee that afternoon. This was definitely not part of their normal routine.
‘What’s it all about?’ Maggie had asked when she’d called me earlier in the day. ‘I mean, we do drinks, we do bands, we do sex. But we certainly don’t do coffee. It’s just not part of the deal.’
My mobile battery was predictably flat. I looked at my watch. I didn’t have time to stop. Spotting a phone box, I swerved towards it.
‘Hi Maggie, it’s me. So, what happened?’
‘Marcus is moving back to Brisbane,’ she said flatly.
‘But that’s great news, isn’t it?’ I asked, confused.
‘He wants to try again. Figures we should find out once and for all if we should be together. So he’s going to base himself here for a while.’
‘So why aren’t you jumping up and down in excitement?’
‘I don’t know. I pretended to be pleased when he told me, but I feel like running away. What if it doesn’t work?’
‘Well at least you’ll be able to finally move on and find someone else.’
‘Yeah, I guess so. But then I’d have nothing.’
I began to understand. At the moment, as deeply unsatisfactory as the relationship was, Maggie knew that Marcus wanted to be with her. In the scary singles market that was a comfortable fallback position.
‘I still think you’ve got to give it a try. And think how amazing it would be if it did work out.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
I could tell she hadn’t really heard a word I’d said.
‘Look, I’ll be fine. I just need to get my head around it all. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Okay?’
I hung up the phone slowly. Unable to bring myself to rush, I walked down the street, miraculously arriving at the bus stop at the same time as the Paddington bus.
A burst of laughter hit me as I opened the shop door. Carla poked her head around the door to the house.
‘Hi Julia. Come on in.’
Three of Carla’s regulars, whose names I couldn’t extract from the constant stream of chatter, were seated in the lounge room. Jack was in the middle of the room, clearly loving the fact that every person’s attention was focused on him as he trundled a toy truck along the floor. Smiling, he pushed the truck towards me and noisily ran it over my foot. I let out a squeal and pretended to limp. As he giggled, I couldn’t suppress a buoyant feeling – he seemed as pleased to see me as I was to see him.
Carla looked at her watch. ‘I’ll get Jack’s things together. I know you need to get going if you’re going to have time for a shower and to put some make-up on.’
I looked at her blankly.<
br />
‘Tonight’s the date with your ex-boyfriend, isn’t it?’
I nodded in surprise.
‘Patrick told me,’ she explained. ‘He’s such a nice boy.’
Patrick had collected Jack on Monday evening. He must have told Carla about my date then. A thought struck me – surely he hadn’t told her about my yelling at Grant or, God forbid, what I’d done to him at high school?
I looked at Carla, but if she did know, she didn’t seem perturbed.
‘Come into the kitchen for a minute,’ she said. ‘Jack will be fine here.’
On the stove was a large pot, which seemed to be responsible for the amazing smell that filled the place.
‘I hope you don’t think I’m interfering, but I didn’t think you’d have time to cook anything. So I made a pot of my meat-balls this afternoon. You don’t have to use it tonight if you don’t want to,’ she went on hurriedly. ‘Just stick it in the freezer for some other time.’
I stared at her, trying to take it in. ‘You cooked me dinner?’
Carla nodded and then hurried on, ‘But it’s only meatballs – I picked the recipe up when I was in Italy. It’s supposed to take five hours to cook, but I cheat a bit. Just give it to Jack if you don’t want it.’
I shook my head. ‘From the wonderful smell, it’s about ten times better than anything I could have made even if I had the time. I thought I’d have to go to the shops on the way home – I didn’t even know what I was going to cook.’
I took the lid off and looked at the tiny meatballs in the rich tomato sauce, breathing in the aroma.
‘Just pick up some bread on your way home and make a green salad.’
I hugged her gratefully.
‘Thank you for everything. I truly don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you to look after Jack – and me,’ I added. I was starting to think that if Mary Poppins did turn up, I’d tell her the position was filled.
Carla waved her hand. ‘It’s nothing. I love having him around. Now off you go.’
After putting the pot into a styrofoam box and extracting Jack from the admiring circle, she ushered us out the door.