by Cate Kendall
‘Want me to drive you?’ Chantelle offered.
‘Thanks, but I’d like to just be alone.’ Gemma paid her bill and the two left the clinic.
‘Okay, well, you take your car and I’ll grab a cab back to the spa to get mine.’ Chantelle searched her huge bag for Gemma’s keys. She passed the keys to Gemma then lay her hand on her friend’s arm. ‘Are you sure?’ Her eyes searched Gemma’s.
Gemma smiled in reassurance. ‘Thanks so much for being here for me, but I really just want to go home and relax now. I promise not to go mental again.’
‘Well, thank God for that,’ Chantelle said with a smile. ‘But seriously, you know where I am if you need me, and you did not go mental. Your poor head just let you know it needs a rest, so listen to it,’ she waggled a manicured finger in Gemma’s face and grinned again, ‘or else.’
Chantelle gave her a last squeeze and teetered off to flag down a passing cab.
How ridiculous, Gemma thought on the way home through the leafy Hawthorn streets. I’m not depressed. How could I be? I don’t mope about the house all whiny, moaning about how unfair it all is. I’m a go-getter, a doer. Depression. Rubbish. But as Gemma got closer to where her house lay nestled among English greens and perennials, a rush of guilt rose within her again.
She pulled up in the driveway, her finger poised over the triple-car garage door button. What was she doing with her life? She stared at their French provincial mansion. A tennis court-sized front lawn sprawled before her. It was lush and perfect, thanks to their loyal weekly gardener.
She normally felt great pride in the beautiful house that she and Stephen had worked so hard to build and maintain. But tonight was different. She felt melancholy somehow. A little embarrassed and ashamed. She shook herself, pushed the button on the remote and drove the car to its resting place. She was being ridiculous.
But later that night as she lay in the bath, hoping to soak off the remnants of the day’s mud wrap with the day’s anxiety, she wondered if maybe her guilty feelings were justified. She stared, with despondence, at the bathroom countertop. For God’s sake, she had a cut-crystal Tiffany box to store her cotton balls in. How spoilt was she?
It was all such a waste. She couldn’t go on doing this anymore, throwing extravagant party after extravagant party, each more over the top than the last, for clients more spoilt than the last, for pointless, empty products. She had to do something. Something meaningful. Something more than attending a black-tie charity event, something more than buying a book of raffle tickets for the school’s latest fundraiser. Gemma decided that she wanted to make a difference. But how?
‘What is taking you so long?’ Dame Frances’s rasp cut through the kitchen counter’s plantation shutters. Julian squeezed enough orange juice into the glass to get an authentic-looking pulp then topped up the rest from the juice container in the refrigerator.
‘Sorry, Dame Frances.’ He hurried in with a tray bearing the glass of juice.
He placed the drink in front of his boss then sat down, pulling his chair up to the ornate Louis Quatorze dining table that was their workspace. Beside them a window overlooked the Domain Parklands. The Dame held her charity meetings at the dining table, wrote her memoirs there and of course used it to host dinner parties with Melbourne’s affluent philanthropists.
‘Where were we? Come on, Julian, focus. We’ve masses to get through before the meeting tomorrow.’
Julian picked up the pile of mail. He was well versed in the Dame’s system and could predict the quality of a missive by just a glance at its envelope. He flipped past junk mail, bills and administrative letters to separate the large envelopes that had weight, handwritten addresses or boasted an interesting colour or texture.
Dame Frances received an inordinate amount of mail each day. She was hugely influential and, just as she regularly asked Melbourne’s movers and shakers for help, handouts, sponsorships and contacts, many similar requests were directed to her. And thankfully there was, Dame Frances would often say, that last bastion of true communicators, those with a pen, a box of good stationery and the ability to string a sentence together, a place where words were spelled in full and punctuation was given the respect it deserved.
‘Right, first cab off the rank,’ Julian said. He tore open the rose-coloured square envelope with the gemstone letter opener.
‘Ooh,’ he squealed, ‘a wedding invitation.’
‘Really?’ Dame Frances’s voice dropped an octave. ‘I’m listening, whose is it?’
‘Elizabeth Margaret Penwood to Howard Lyall Stewart.’
‘Where?’
‘St James Church in South Yarra and then Patagonias.’
‘Patagonias? For a reception? And the ceremony at St James? There can’t be many going. No. Politely decline, thank you, Julian. Besides, Liz’s mum is just trying to butter me up because she’s hosting a breast cancer lunch and she wants me for guest of honour. I hardly need to be a ribbon wearer.’
‘But Margaret and John Penwood have been loyal supporters for years. They’re friends, aren’t they?’ Julian shook his head. The Dame could be frustrating about invitations. She was no longer able to discern the difference between work and personal commitments. It was all about UP-Kids, and if an event couldn’t benefit the charity directly, she wouldn’t go. He had to beg her to go to her own daughter’s family Christmas last year. Dame Frances had protested, citing that no one interesting would be there. This comment had reminded Julian to frame the three photographs of the Dame’s grandchildren and put them on the mantelpiece.
‘Well, I can’t help it if Margaret and John’s daughter decided to marry a tradesman, can I? Next.’
‘He’s a Stewart,’ Julian singsonged in a last-ditch attempt.
‘With a W, not a U,’ Dame Frances mimicked Julian’s singsong voice with her own baritone. ‘It’s not like he’s a Stuart or anything important.’ She then snapped, ‘Next.’
‘It’s an opening.’
‘To what?’
‘The new D’Angelo restaurant.’
‘Excellent,’ Dame Frances said.
‘Okay, so that’s a yes.’ He put the black glossy card carefully on his left-hand side.
‘As long as Patricia hasn’t been invited, it’s a yes. But if she has been invited, be sure to tell them I’m on a cruise in the Mediterranean. However –’ at this she held up one long, gnarled, manicured index finger, ‘if Patricia has been invited but, and this is important, if Helena has been invited too, then accept, but only at the last minute and only after the restaurant’s PR team calls you.’
‘Okay then,’ Julian said, scribbling down notes in his leather compendium. He knew by now not to ask questions. There could only be a long-winded, complicated story involving social slights or seating slurs from decades past. He reached for the next envelope. A slim, white envelope with a gold embossed seal on the back looked professional and important.
Dame Frances polished her small rectangular half-rim eyeglasses and perched them back upon her nose as Julian sliced.
‘Dear Dame Frances,’ Julian began. ‘We here at AIDS Awareness are constantly moved by the depths of your generosity . . .’ Julian sat upright and put some oomph into his reading. This charity was close to both of their hearts and he needed to make this letter sing. He continued to read. His heart sank. Unfortunately it wasn’t written particularly well and the function they were attempting to promote was quite feeble by the Dame’s standards. He was afraid he wouldn’t get past the first paragraph. He was right.
‘Enough. No,’ she said.
He sighed and put the letter in the reject pile.
‘But I will buy a thousand dollars’ worth of raffle tickets. Next.’
‘Oh, really?’ Julian said in delight, clapping his hands. ‘That is so generous of you. You are just too sweet.’ He scribbled a note on the page and put it back in its pile.
Dame Frances could not abide compliments. They made her very uncomfortable, as Julian should have rem
embered. She glared at him over her glasses.
‘Yes, well, as you know from our history, Julian, I quite like the gays,’ she said, ‘when they’re not irritating the hell out of me. Next.’
Julian entered his flat at three pm, still smiling over the morning’s correspondence and the unending eggshell diplomacy. It may be an emotionally draining job but at least he had every afternoon off when Dame Frances took her siesta. It more than made up for the number of nights out he had to work. Still they were no chore; being the Dame’s function poodle was fun.
Oscar wouldn’t be home until very late. His job at the law firm was increasingly demanding and Julian fretted for him, especially with his cholesterol level so high.
Binky sprang into his arms and purred, presumably grateful that someone was finally back to admire his gorgeousness.
Julian zapped a late lunch of Lean Cuisine Vegetable Cannelloni, picked up the remote and he and Binky curled up on the sofa to watch last night’s TiVo of Dancing with the Stars.
Julian’s life was good. He and Oscar were happy together, Binky was the only baby they’d ever need and his job, although sometimes a bit busy, was sheer bliss. How easy to be personal assistant to a rich old lady, helping her float around Melbourne’s social scene. Oscar told him he was too much of a pushover, that he let Dame Frances walk all over him. But Julian didn’t mind. Sometimes her requests were a bit much but he was proud to be entrusted with all the intricacies of the Dame’s life.
According to Oscar, personal assistants in his law firm didn’t even make coffee for their bosses nowadays; it was too beneath them. But Julian liked the Dame and let her digs and nastiness just slide off him. He had a job he loved, a man he loved and plenty of time left in each day for shopping – what more could he wish for?
Raucous laughter broke out just as Gemma pushed open the door to the bar. She was immediately assailed by a waft of warm air, ripe with the smell of Friday night drinks and too many bodies squeezed into a small space.
The Bot, in trendy South Yarra, was the place to be after work on a Friday. Gemma weaved her way through the throng of overexposed cleavage and charcoal suits, wincing at the blaring doof-doof music and sidestepping to avoid her new Manolo mules being stilettoed. Her navy Jil Sander jersey sheath dress would absorb the body stink of the crowd if she didn’t slip by quickly.
God, is everyone in this bloody place twenty-seven? she wondered, shouldering her way through. The familiar feeling of panic started to build in her chest as she took in the fake laughter, the overdone faces and the try-hard guys with their hair product and Calvin Klein cologne.
Since seeing the doctor, Gemma had tried to cut back on coffee, but it was a hard habit to break. However, even just cutting down to half her usual caffeine intake had reduced the waves of anxiety. Except right now, she thought as she got caught between two broad-shouldered blokes swapping stock tips loudly over the intense music.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, pushing past. The men ignored her and carried on their conversation over her head, holding their drinks out to one side to prevent spills as Gemma fought past them.
This was Mercedes’s stupid idea, Gemma grumbled as she finally got to the end of the long room and made her way to the Bubble Bar.
It was Mercedes’s birthday and in typical fashion she had arranged the night, invited the girls and would then no doubt sit back, sip sparkling and not lift a credit card all evening. Gemma wondered how she’d become such close friends with the woman.
She thought back to their meeting; Gemma had had a last-minute hair disaster and rushed into the nearest salon. Mercedes had saved her social life that day and Gemma had been so grateful that she’d given her two tickets to a nightclub opening. In the end Mercedes had invited Gemma to go with her and they’d had a ball, drinking shooters, flirting innocently with good-looking guys and dancing all night long. They’d become friends immediately. At first Mercedes seemed to be an amazingly attentive friend who had only praise and support for her new BFF. But lately Gemma wondered if maybe Mercedes was getting somewhat bored with her. She seemed more interested in the parties and events that Gemma could provide access to than their friendship.
A drunk punter staggered past her in the dimly lit corridor and sloshed beer onto her foot.
I’m too old for this crap, Gemma decided as she reached the much quieter, more sophisticated Bubble Bar. She stood at the entrance for a few seconds to steady her breathing; her reflections on Mercedes had managed to make her all panicky and anxious again. Gemma’s eyes adjusted to the subtle lighting of the room.
Okay, this is better, she thought to herself, taking in the sheer curtains that muted the view of a striking Japanese-style courtyard. The decor was plush and ornate, quite French in persuasion, Yael Naim’s lovely tones were soothing, and the bar exclusively served Gemma’s favourite drink: champagne.
She cheered up instantly and decided that maybe the night hadn’t been such a stupid idea after all.
The girls had already secured a table in the corner. Mercedes flicked up one silver-draped arm. ‘Yoo-hoo, the party’s started. Where have you been?’
Gemma stopped to talk to the bartender then strode over to the ladies.
‘Happy birthday, darling,’ Gemma said and kissed Mercedes on each cheek and then greeted Chantelle in the same way.
‘You both look divine,’ Gemma said, even though she was a bit worried that Chantelle looked slightly like a stripper. Her dress was made from white clingy cotton with rips down the sides, leaving no doubt that her underwear was absent. High gladiator bootsandals were the perfect complement to the look. The curling leaves of her bicep tattoo peaked out of the white cotton jungle.
‘Here’s your present,’ Gemma said as the waiter arrived with a ninety-dollar bottle of Veuve Clicquot. She felt slightly petty doing this, but she knew from experience that she’d be buying the bubbles all night anyway and in the past she’d bought a present too and usually came away just feeling plain overgenerous and used. But it was worth it now that she witnessed the glimmer of a pout from Mercedes’s lips. It seemed the birthday princess had expected a gift-wrapped trinket as well.
‘Ohhh, thanks, you shouldn’t have.’ Mercedes recovered her decorum and they all raised their glasses. ‘Happy birthday, me!’ she toasted herself. The flutes chinked and the night began.
The girls were on their second bottle of bubbles and the hush of the room had been replaced by loud conversation and laughter as the place filled.
‘So it’s just been dreadful, you know what I mean?’ Chantelle was regaling the girls with her recent dates. ‘And then, not only did he vomit all over my new shoes in the limo on the way home, but I lost my house key so had to wash my feet off with the garden hose and climb over the balcony to get in. Gorgeous shoes, they were too. He was such a wanker. Too young.’
‘Ewww,’ the two others squealed.
Chantelle went on. ‘And then today, it was just horrible; I couldn’t find a handbag the exact white of my bootsandals. I thought,’ she pronounced it ‘fought’, ‘that my Choo would do the job and all, but it was dreadful. I looked a right prat so I had to go out to Chaddy and nip into Coach for a new one. It’s fab though, innit?’
The girls nodded enthusiastically. They were all Coach fans. Coach worked with everyone’s style; Chantelle’s urban whore, Mercedes’s European Versace glamour and even Gemma’s staid Armani elegance were all catered for at the slick American accessories boutique.
As Chantelle prattled on, Gemma watched her and thought back to when they’d met. Chantelle had travelled from the UK to see the world. She was twenty-one when she’d got the temp job as receptionist at IQPR, the international PR firm where Gemma was the rising star. It hadn’t taken long for management to notice Chantelle’s eager-to-please attitude and upbeat personality and offer her a full-time position on the front desk.
It hadn’t taken much longer for the CEO, multimillionaire, player and divorcee extraordinaire, Ed Portsmouth, to fall i
n love with her and offer her a full-time position in his marital bed.
He was fifty years old to Chantelle’s twenty-five as she walked down the aisle, or more accurately, a Thai beach. ‘It’s so romantic,’ Chantelle had sighed when she’d struck upon the idea. And so different, she’d decided, because no one got married on the beach. She opted for a white sarong and bikini instead of a dress and all the guests went barefoot. There were hibiscus bouquets and the bride and groom sported matching tattoos on their biceps. Gemma was one of the handful of guests.
The gossips loved the fact that Chantelle was Ed’s fourth wife and the same age as his twin sons from his first marriage and that Chantelle was a receptionist from a working-class neighbourhood in Essex who dressed like Pink, with a body like Barbie.
But Gemma knew her friend was truly in love. She also could see from a mile away that Chantelle was looking for a father-figure and found it in Ed.
Tragically Ed keeled over from a massive heart attack on their first anniversary during a lovemaking session. It had actually been the fifth session for the afternoon so Chantelle had been racked with guilt. Her sobbing at the funeral, ‘I’m a murderer; it’s all my fault, I killed him,’ had not assisted her at all in the resulting bitter court case where the twin boys fought her for the millions of dollars in assets and capital she’d inherited on Ed’s passing. The case was eventually thrown out but she’d split the fortune evenly in the end and gave the boys half. ‘Just to make them go away,’ she’d told Gemma, ‘annoying little sods that they are.’ She’d always treated them more like brothers than stepsons.
The grief hit Chantelle hard. She had loved Ed and their romance was just in its prime. She mourned for three years before feeling ready to face the singles scene again.
‘So it’s just a hell week,’ Chantelle concluded, then downed her glass and sat slumped. But she pepped up again within seconds. ‘Oh, what am I like? Going on like this after your nasty turn at the spa the other day.’ She turned to face Gemma.