by Lisa Heidke
‘Exactly. You’d look like the back end of a truck,’ Tara said.
Sophie gasped in horror.
‘No, Tara’s right,’ said Angie. ‘It was gross. I don’t know how I got sucked into trying it on in the first place.’
‘Vanity,’ I answered. ‘Vanity will get you every time. I had a pair of white stilettos once.’
Jack raised an eyebrow.
‘Unless you want to look like a ten-dollar hooker, white stilettos should be avoided at all costs,’ I explained.
‘You women have bizarre conversations,’ said Jack, fidgeting in his chair.
‘So you don’t chat about hookers and stilettos with your friends?’ Angie purred.
Excuse me, but was Angie flirting with Jack? Who did this English harlot think she was? She’d been out of the game for a year and obviously starved of male companionship — but flirting with Jack? It wasn’t on. Not that Jack was exclusively mine but it showed particularly bad form and her behaviour was giving everyone (well, me) the impression she was desperate and man-hungry.
‘I’ve got to tell you,’ said Angie after we’d finished our meal, ‘these have been the best couple of days Harry and I have had in a long time.’
I could have sworn Angie’s eyes were planted firmly on Jack’s crotch.
‘Didn’t you go on holidays when you were married?’ Sophie asked.
‘Hardly! Pete couldn’t stand being out of his carefully controlled environment. Holidays made him anxious. He preferred spending his time making sure he knew exactly what I was doing, who I was seeing and where I was going. Sodding toxic. In contrast, this past year has been exhilarating . . . You know,’ Angie said, twirling her wineglass, ‘it wasn’t just our neighbour Pete was banging. He loved the conquest and control. There were others. I’m just lucky I found out when I did.’
‘That’s shocking,’ I said, feeling truly sorry for her despite her horrid accent. I was also wondering what Jack was making of this conversation. ‘You must have been devastated.’
‘I was initially, but it’s okay. I could never picture Pete and me on the porch growing old together. I never had that image in my head.’
I could see the clogs churning in Sophie’s mind before she spoke. Nodding, she said, ‘I can see Alex and me clearly. He’s much older than me, of course, and his hair is white and thinning, but I’m still sitting beside him.’
Can’t say that vision had ever popped into my head, not even with George. But then, I never thought much about the future. I lived in the present, or at least I tried to. I was of the Albert Einstein school of thought: ‘I never think of the future — it comes soon enough.’ Planning for my old age wasn’t high on my agenda, except when I was feeling maudlin and lonely. Maybe that’s why I’d ended up where I was. I’d always gone with the flow, instead of pushing to take charge.
Tara looked up. ‘What if you don’t have a porch?’
Sophie sighed. ‘It’s a metaphor.’
Tara’s sarcasm was lost on Sophie.
‘I still fancy Alex but I don’t think he’s interested in me any more,’ Sophie continued, poking around her ribs. ‘Too much baby flab.’
‘Sophie!’ I yelled.
‘All right. All right,’ she sulked. ‘Maybe he’s just bored with me.’
‘But Sophie,’ Tara enthused. ‘He won’t be, once you’re a fabbo stylist. That’ll put the oomph back into your lives.’
‘So you reckon he is bored with me?’
Tara sighed. ‘I didn’t say that. So, Jack,’ she said, turning her attention to him, ‘what draws you to Claudia, other than her cute freckles and large breasts?’
I almost spat out my wine. I knew buying a cheesecloth top was a fashion faux pas. I looked enormous.
‘What?’ said Tara. ‘I assume he’s drawn to you, Claud, or he wouldn’t be sitting here listening to our ramblings.’
‘You’re quite right,’ said Jack. ‘And I’d have to say that it’s the ease with which Claudia handles awkward situations.’
Jack was so sure of himself and full of easy charm, I was almost hyperventilating. But I wasn’t venturing down that track again. Jack could ogle my breasts all he wanted, there was no way he was getting anywhere near them.
It was late. We were tired. It was time for bed.
Still, when Jack called it a night and offered to flag Angie and Harry a taxi to make sure they got back to Kamari safely, I felt somewhat disappointed. I’d assumed this late into the evening Jack might have asked to kiss me. Either that or he fancied Angie. A distinct possibility and probably not a bad idea. If he tried anything, I’d have to reject him anyway, causing untold hurt and offence. Still, a little harmless flirting was always good for the ego.
Licking my lips, I noticed how dry and in need of lip balm they were. I was thinking about my chapped lips when Jack turned to me, reached for my face and planted his lips on mine, leaving them there for what seemed like minutes. It was probably closer to five seconds.
‘You were licking your lips and I couldn’t resist.’
It came as an even bigger surprise when Jack took my hand, pulled it around his waist and guided my lips to his again. He was forceful without being overly dominant. And strong. I couldn’t have escaped his clutches even if I’d wanted to. It was all very exciting. Exciting but over within minutes. Four minutes and forty-three seconds to be precise.
‘Sorry,’ he said, standing back a little shyly. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. See you soon.’ With that, he and Angie, carrying a sleeping Harry, walked up the stairs towards the path.
As Tara and I stood on the terrace waving them off, I secretly cursed Angie. Not that I was jealous. The three of them made a nice little family.
Heading inside, Tara pinched my arm. ‘Love is in the air.’
‘God, I hope not.’
‘But I thought you liked him?’
‘Not so soon after Mar —’
‘Huh?’
‘George. Not so soon after George.’
‘That was years ago. You and Jack have got chemistry, sweets! And you have to climb back on the pony sooner or later.’
‘Whatever.’ I gave Tara the brush-off and headed upstairs, my heart still pounding. Close call.
Chemistry! Ugh! That’s all I needed. Thank goodness Jack hadn’t tried to seduce me. It had been a long day. I doubt I would have had the strength to resist him . . . I couldn’t put myself in that vulnerable position again. So I focused on finding things about Jack’s personality I mightn’t like. Maybe he had some peculiarity that prohibited him from having intimate relations. Or he’d want me to howl like his childhood cat or bark like his fifth grade teacher. I made a mental list of the many perverse activities Jack could be involved in. He seemed quite fond of fruit, for example.
12
I peeped over the sheets. Light. Threw the covers back and basked in the morning sunshine. I was thirty-nine years old. Well and truly an adult. Technically, I had been for years, but sometimes I still didn’t quite believe it.
And this year I was celebrating in Santorini. What a gift! Now that I was a woman of mature years, I’d behave in a dignified manner. In my mind, I compiled a list of what it meant now that I was entering my fortieth year:
• no more one-night stands, or affairs with married men; in fact, men, period;
• no more getting drunk in bars and singing bad karaoke tunes;
• no more frivolous spending — I had enough clothes, cosmetics and costume jewellery to last a lifetime; and finally:
• no more running around nude clanging saucepans at three in the morning.
Now that I was of a certain age, it was all about moderation and respect for oneself. And another thing — I needed to diligently apply an SPF moisturiser during the day and wash my face clean of makeup at night, every night. (Up until now, I’d been notoriously bad at this.)
I climbed out of bed and padded over to my empty suitcase, empty, that is, except for the neatly wrapped (hot pink tissue pa
per complete with magenta bow and ribbon) solid, rectangular parcel from my sisters. It had to be a book. And indeed it was. Things To Do Now That You’re . . . 40.
Inside the front cover was the inscription, Clauds, we can hear you squealing from here! Okay, we know you’re not forty (yet!) but we thought you might like a head start as to what to expect from here on in . . . it’s a slippery slope. Love, your ever-thoughtful sisters, Lizzie and Sunbeam xx.
Opening a random page, I spotted this gem: ‘Mix your own cement and build a stone wall.’ Useful.
I threw it on the bed, walked over to the dressing table and confidently faced myself in the mirror. Hmm. Not so good. I could almost see the huge thirty-nine tattooed across my forehead. Make that thirty-nine, single, confused and penniless though hopefully not in debt too much longer. Too many words. Etching the word loser on my forehead would get the message across just as well. Damn. I’d vowed not to wake up depressed this morning. Add that to my list: no more feeling sorry for myself. It was my life and I was in control. I was living.
I studied my reflection and counted the pimples on my jaw. Too much Santorini baklava. I felt the wrinkles around my eyes. Too much Santorini sun. Was I the only person who used both wrinkle and pimple creams? It didn’t seem fair. Why couldn’t I have had a few years where I didn’t need either?
I smeared on both creams as well as a day cream, eye cream, sun cream, body lotion and hand lotion. Yes, I owned all these potions, but I hardly ever used them. Nevertheless, if I didn’t make an effort on my birthday, when would I? From today, I promised myself I’d be more diligent in their application.
I did a quick swing around to check out my backside and caught a fleeting glimpse. I really needed to lose the stray kilos that had attached themselves to my frame. Strictly speaking, I should have exercised the extra kilos away last week because from today onwards they’d be doubly hard to shift. An article in Marie Claire specifically said that once a woman (me) turned thirty-nine, she (me again) had to work twice as hard to lose excess kilos. Exactly how my body knew I was into my first eight hours of being thirty-nine was a question only the gods could answer, but apparently that was the case. Sagging skin and sun spots were also about to feature in my aging exterior. So much for life beginning at forty!
I checked my messages. There were three. One from Mum and Dad and one from Lizzie. Happy birthday to our favourite daughter, Mum and Dad’s text read. Hmm. They said that every year to the other two as well. All three of us were our parents’ favourite.
The third was a text from Marcus telling me he’d transfer twenty thousand dollars to my savings account in the next couple of days. Call it a birthday bonus. Hope it provides you with enough incentive to be civil to Con when you meet up with him again.
Twenty thousand! I could hardly believe it! I’d be rich! Okay, I wouldn’t be rich but at least I’d be well on my way to breaking even. Still, I wasn’t about to jump for joy until I actually saw the money in my bank account.
‘Happy birthday, Claudie,’ Levi sang and clapped when I walked out onto the patio. Wow! Balloons, streamers, presents and many exotic cakey treats and chocolates greeted me.
‘You remembered,’ I said, feigning surprise.
Tara handed me a glass of birthday champagne.
Levi was the first to give me a gift: a picture he’d painted of me falling in donkey poo and crying.
‘Levi, that’s the best present ever,’ I said, hugging him. Sure, it was Tara who’d slipped on the excrement, but he’d gone to so much effort I wasn’t about to quibble.
Then he gave me the second best gift, a silver and diamond encrusted tiara (well, plastic actually) which I quickly popped on top of my head. He thought it was hilarious.
Tara and Sophie clapped their hands. ‘Come on, Claud, open these,’ they said, handing me two more gifts.
I unwrapped the first parcel, a delicate gold and turquoise necklace. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘We got a special deal from Nikos,’ Tara beamed.
‘We’re easy targets,’ added Sophie.
‘Thank you. I love it. It’s divine.’ I clasped the necklace around my neck then opened the next one. ‘Neck cream! Great.’ I wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or insulted.
‘Not just any neck cream, it’s made from caffeine! All the rage in Paris,’ said Sophie, her tone serious. ‘Look at Carla Bruni, not even the merest hint of turkey neck.’
‘Err. No.’ I caressed my neck before stretching out my chin as far as it would go.
‘Lolly bags?’ Levi asked hopefully.
I shook my head. Obviously, this was not the kind of birthday he’d had in mind. He looked expectantly at the chocolates beside me, then together we ripped the cellophane, opened the box and began devouring them.
‘Happy birthday, Clow-di-a,’ trilled Marcella a few hours later as we headed up the stairs and past her office. She kissed both my cheeks and presented me with a delicately etched, blue bottle of ouzo.
‘Thank you, efcharisto, Marcella. You shouldn’t have.’
‘No problem. Kalimera, Levi,’ she said, kissing Levi’s forehead. ‘I look after this gorgeous boy while you party tonight, okay, endaksi?’
After much arm twisting, Sophie agreed to let Marcella mind Levi for the evening. At five o’clock we’d be heading into Fira, child-free. Yippee. Could this day get any better?
That sorted, the four of us skipped up the road about sixty metres to a quaint little taverna with superb views across the caldera, and plonked ourselves at an outside table. This was the life. Levi happily picked at his kebab and cheese and played dinosaurs in the sand and gravel while we worked our way through a carafe of red wine and a mountain of souvlakia and salad.
‘Sitting here, drinking this lovely little Santorini red, reminds me of the time you were going out with that crashing bore, Claud,’ said Tara dreamily.
‘Which one was that?’
‘The boring wine buff. What was his name again? Stan? Simon?’
‘Samuel,’ I offered. I’d met him at a winter wine tasting I’d coordinated.
‘That’s right. Remember that dinner party at your place, Soph? It was so bad.’
‘Please don’t remind me,’ I protested, knowing full well they were about to relive the whole horrid evening in vivid colour.
Samuel was in the wine trade, which made him perfect . . . to begin with. Initially I was impressed, if slightly embarrassed, by the way he swirled the wine around his glass somewhat furiously before almost inhaling the liquid through his nose as he smelt the bouquet in an overexaggerated way. However, the euphoria soon wore off in the middle of the second date when he insulted a waiter by sending back a pinot gris three times! But by then we’d already made plans for our third date, to attend Sophie and Alex’s anniversary dinner, and I was too gutless to disinvite him.
Tara laughed. ‘He was a tosser.’
‘A wine connoisseur, I think he liked to be called,’ Sophie chimed in. ‘He was impressed with Alex’s stemware as I recall, the Riedel glasses.’
‘Had a huge honker, didn’t he?’ Tara said.
Funny the things that pass you by on a first, even a second date. These days Samuel was a big wine critic and wrote a regular piece in a national newspaper. Whenever I glanced through his columns, he still sounded like a pompous wanker. I was happy knowing he hadn’t changed.
‘Come on, it’s my birthday. How about we talk about someone else’s failed romances?’
‘Don’t look at me,’ Sophie said, flicking dust from her Moroccan-inspired espadrilles.
‘What happened to Jules after you dumped her?’ I said, trying my luck with Tara.
‘Come on. That was years ago. I’ve been married since then, and had my share of lovers.’
‘Do tell,’ I enthused.
Tara grimaced. ‘I wasn’t very nice to her, was I?’
I waved my hand in the air. ‘She’s probably living happily ever after with her gorgeous Natalie Portman lookalike girl
friend in New York, leading a wild and exciting life.’
‘Hopefully,’ Tara mused. ‘But straight after we broke up she joined a bizarre religious order.’
‘Pardon? How come you’ve never told us this before?’
‘Because I felt responsible, Claud. We were so young. It was horrible.’
‘Horrible maybe,’ I said, refilling everyone’s glass, ‘but it’s an excellent basis for a story. Find out what happened and write about her adventures and how religion helped heal her broken heart. Ha, ha. The very thing that caused you two to split became her ultimate saviour. How about that? People love a good spiritual memoir.’
‘Even better if there’s a bit of romance in there as well,’ Sophie chimed in.
‘Exactly, but you need a death too. People love tragedies. Tragedies and titillation. Think Jesus Christ Superstar,’ I said, laughing. ‘I never tire of this game.’
‘You’ll have to invent a new one when I actually write a book.’
‘We will,’ I said. ‘Especially when yours is on the bestseller list.’
Tara rubbed her chin. ‘That was a crazy time, wasn’t it? Falling in love with Anthony, marrying him, falling out of love with him, the divorce. What the hell was I thinking?’
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘What were any of us thinking back then?’
‘What about the egomaniac I went out with — that Luke guy?’ said Sophie. ‘The I’m six foot one and built for fun! fool. Let me tell you, Luke was never six foot one despite the rubber lifts he wore in his shoes. I fixed him when we broke up,’ she said. ‘Made sure he had to buy a whole new collection of shoes. Yep, I’ve been out with a few tossers myself.’
Sophie turned to Levi, who’d weaselled a bowl of water from the wait staff and was now sitting in the dirt making mud pies. ‘Until I fell straight into Alex’s arms. Although, why I had to fall in love with a divorced guy who already had a child! Harriet still blames me.’
‘But she was the one who had the affair!’
‘She conveniently glosses over that part. Says she was lonely because Alex was always at the office. Maybe I should have listened to her.’