by Bree Darcy
I nodded a greeting at Ashleigh but to avoid conversation scrambled around inside my handbag pretending to look for something until Grace declared the meeting open.
This fete had had more strategic planning sessions than the D-Day landing. At earlier meetings we’d covered the essentials of what to do in the event a donated cake did not meet standards; if the balloon clown was making inappropriately suggestive models; and if any animals ran wild during the pet show.
Today the treasurer discussed expenditure on a new tent, the social media officer outlined her tweeting strategy; and the activities co-ordinator revealed that a couple of national league soccer players would man the beat the goalie activity, thanks to a new school family whose father was the club trainer. The woman next to Ashleigh raised her hand in the air as everyone applauded her good connections.
Grace added her thanks before moving on to the next item on the agenda, the silent auction. “Kellie, how have you got on with your celebrity contacts?” she asked.
“What about 5 Seconds of Summer? My daughter loves them,” shouted one of the women who’d been eagerly partaking of Matilda’s wines.
“Not a problem, I’ll give the boys a buzz. Maybe they could be the opening act for our brass band.” I laughed but obviously my sarcasm went straight over the heads of many, including secretary Suzie, who entered my comments into the minutes.
Oops, I forgot these women needed a humour transplant. I coughed to clear my throat and consulted my notepad. “Well, Grace, I’ve made several preliminary calls. I think we can score a visit to the set of Acton Avenue and a backstage pass to the Star Power arena tour. Plus a session with a celebrity make-up artist, a signed cookbook from last year’s Celebrity Chef winner, some CDs and movie passes, as usual. And I’ve got my fingers crossed for a double VIP guest pass to the premiere of Surface Detail, starring Neil Lucas.”
I paused for the obligatory bit of swooning that always accompanied that Hollywood hunk’s name.
“What about Talia?” asked one of the mothers, referring to a former student who had been on the televised modelling contest, She’s Got It.
“I thought she might be a no-go, in terms of the school.” I looked towards Grace for guidance and she nodded. Talia had been thrown off the show after a drug-fuelled rant at a fellow contestant.
“Thank you, Kellie,” Grace said after I wrapped up by handing over my list of possible auction items for approval. “Anyone else with items to add can see me afterwards. Now on to how we can avoid last year’s security breach with our ride tokens …”
As soon as the meeting ended, I scarpered, grabbing a mini quiche and a couple of samosas to eat in the car. It was nearly noon, lunch would be getting underway at home soon. So I decided to kick off my heels and go for a relaxing stroll in the park first, before driving home a circuitous way, via the video shop where I spent ages perusing the latest releases.
It was half past two by the time I pulled into the driveway. And the Carmichaels’ Mercedes was nowhere in sight – hallelujah!
As I dropped my keys on to the foyer table, Curtis wordlessly stalked past to get his bike from the garage. Must have been a fun lunch.
After washing up the lunch dishes and dropping Ciara at Jenna’s house, I logged on to the computer to follow up on some of the silent auction items. But first there was a Facebook message from Nikki, with Dawn added into the conversation, seeking our opinion on what cupsize she should choose in breast enlargement surgery.
Nikki had been talking about this for years but never had the spare cash. Dawn, who blamed her frequent backaches on her overly ample bust, offered to donate some of her excess for free.
Now Nikki was lamenting not only the size but the sag factor as well. Obviously her break-up with investment banker Tim had shaken her confidence.
I clicked on a link Nikki had provided and my screen was filled with implant before and after shots. Although I couldn’t bear the thought of having such an invasive procedure myself, the improvements really were impressive. I jiggled my own breasts, imagining them bigger, firmer, higher. Like that girl from the ghost show, what was her name again? Jennifer something.
I searched for ‘celebrity cleavage’ and a screenful of websites dedicated to the specialised topic appeared, playing homage to the well-endowed such as Baywatch babe Pamela Anderson and Mad Men actress Christina Hendricks. And Siena Ellement. Of course.
In one photo, she was poured into a purple and silver beaded gown, her dark hair pinned into 20s flapper-style curls, her lips in her trademark red pout, and her perfectly formed creamy cleavage on display. I read the accompanying commentary: “Dangerous curves ahead: Voluptuous Siena Ellement’s rack is a certified chart-topper. A woman who oozes infinite sex appeal, it’s no wonder AJ Dangerfield hasn’t left her to go on tour for years.”
I tutted, was it any wonder ordinary women felt such immense pressure to measure up to these sexy starlets.
I dashed off a reply to Nikki, saying she certainly didn’t need a boob job but if she was determined, she had to hold off until I could go with her to see the plastic surgeon next month. (When I would use my persuasive powers to talk her out of it.)
With any luck by then some other young stud would have crashed into her life and she’d have forgotten all about it. Before her cup runneth over, so to speak.
* * *
The following weekend, I was relishing a lie-in, cocooned under my quilt as the rain pelted down outside. A fierce storm had passed through last night, cutting the power, so with no electrical diversions, we’d sat around the fireplace, playing card games and telling horror stories.
Looking at my family’s contented faces in the flicking candlelight, my chest actually heaved with emotion as I considered how my life could have ended up on a completely different path – without them in it. As Ryan chewed a toasted marshmallow and Curtis teased Ciara about a boy she liked, I realised that no red-carpet event, resort vacation or rock star mansion could top this.
Curtis popped his head around the bedroom door to reveal his mother was on her way, to drop off some baking.
“What?” I screeched, leaping out of bed. The house was a mess. The dinner dishes weren’t done and there would be cushions and blankets strewn all over the lounge room.
After a quick shower, I raced downstairs, yelling at everyone to help tidy up. I could have played the part of a demented woman in a cleaning aid commercial quite convincingly. In mere minutes, the carpet was dustbusted, the tiles were spot mopped, the dishes were cleared away, the rubbish was carted out to the bin and air freshener liberally sprayed around.
“At least your mother won’t have anything to complain about when she flies in on her broomstick,” I said smugly, finally having time to pour myself a juice on my gleaming kitchen counter. “Is that a crumb I spy under the …
My impersonation of his mother’s posh accent was cut short when the real thing appeared in the doorway.
“Delia, you’re here?” I squeaked.
“Yes,” she replied through pursed lips before placing several containers on the bench. “Ryan was kind enough to show me in.”
“You really shouldn’t have come out in this weather,” Curtis said, taking his mother by the elbow and steering her towards the lounge. “Come sit down. We’ll have a cup of tea.”
I stayed behind to boil the cauldron, I mean kettle.
* * *
Two days later, the sunny spring weather had returned to Sydney but I woke in a pool of sweat with a pounding headache. I walked dizzily to the bathroom before sinking back on to the bed. I’d had a sore throat last night so maybe this was the start of the flu.
“You look terrible,” said Curtis sweeping into the room to fasten his tie and pick up his jacket.
“I feel even worse.”
“At least you don’t have work today. Dose up on some cold and flu tablets and you’ll be as right as rain.”
With the most perfunctory peck on the top of my head, Curtis tore down t
he stairs, yelling at the kids that they needed to make their own lunches. He obviously had forgotten that despite having a husband in the pharmaceutical trade, I didn’t take medication unless it was totally necessary. My mum always preferred natural remedies. Colds and flus were handled with a honey and lemon hot toddy, cold flannels and bed rest.
I closed the blinds and climbed back under the covers to sleep it off.
I woke to find Curtis sitting by my side. “What are you doing home?” I croaked, trying to focus on the alarm clock to read the time.
“I’ve got a two o’clock meeting out near Homebush,” he said. “I thought I’d check on you first.” He put his hand on my forehead. “You don’t seem so feverish now.”
I nodded weakly, gesturing at him to pass me a glass of water.
“I’m heating up some chicken soup if you want some,” he said. “Plus I’ve got some treats for when you’re feeling up to it.” Curtis picked up a shopping bag from his feet, taking out a stack of magazines, a packet of mints and a Cherry Ripe bar. “And I rented you the latest Nicholas Sparks movie. I’ve put it in the DVD player so you just need to push play. Anything else you need?”
I shook my head, relieved it wasn’t pounding anymore. Curtis had also arranged for Delia to take the kids after school, her kindness only made me feel worse about making that crack about her being a witch.
“Okay, love you,” Curtis said. He was almost out the door when he swung around again, returning to my bedside with a serious look on his face. “I do love you, you know,” he said, stroking my bed-ravaged hair.
“I love you too,” I replied.
He returned to deposit a mug of soup on the nightstand and then after rubbing a liberal dollop of hand sanitiser into his hands, he departed.
* * *
The week ended with me restored to good health. Curtis, however, was not in a good mood. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he was hopping around the kitchen, snapping his fingers at me to get off the phone.
“Mmmm, hmm, I know,” I said, turning my back on my impatient husband.
Mum had been really supportive all those times I’d fretted about Ryan and the bullying. The least I could do now was listen to her talk about Kenneth, the new man in her life.
I nonchalantly plucked a few grapes from our fruit bowl and popped them in my mouth. “He sounds like a real gentleman, sending you a love poem. Curtis would never think of doing something romantic like that.”
The vein at Curtis’s temple throbbed. Realising he was set to self-combust, I wound up my call. “What’s your problem?” I snapped.
“I need my new suit, the navy wool one with the blue lining. You know the one Mr Chan’s delivered last week. It’s not in my wardrobe.”
“That’s because it’s hanging behind the door, with a freshly pressed white shirt and the square print silk tie – all ready for tonight.”
Curtis was on his way to his company’s annual sales award ceremony, where as sales director he presided over the night’s events. Spouses were never invited.
“The matching cufflinks are on the dresser and your brown shoes are all polished. Remember navy socks, not black. Will you be needing assistance selecting your jocks as well?” I smiled sarcastically.
Curtis didn’t reply, taking the stairs two at a time.
“You’re welcome!” I yelled to his retreating back.
I then dashed up the stairs myself to tell Ryan it was time to head off to his trial martial arts lesson. Although I thought his principal was a prat, I did like his idea of Ryan learning how to defend himself.
At the local community centre, while Ryan changed into a borrowed white robe, I leafed through the Cobra Ninjas’ pamphlet that promised to transform my son “by pushing his physical boundaries and expanding his mind” through a mix of jujutsu, karate and kickboxing. According to head instructor Masato, a Japanese man with long hair and distorted knuckles, Ryan would develop increased motivation, confidence and self-discipline and learn how to handle conflict situations. I took that to mean he would know exactly how to kick bully butt.
As I watched Ryan run through some elementary moves, I remembered an occasion where karate had come in very handy.
“Sssh.” I pulled Andy off the couch so we wouldn’t be visible from the door. Mum was back from her date with a delivery truck driver who begged her to go out with him every time he dropped off taco shells at her restaurant. Finally his persistence had paid off. Her being on a date was such a rare occurrence, I didn’t want to ruin a second of it.
Mum lingered at the door, making small talk.
“Is she going to invite him in?” Andy mouthed.
I shrugged, and kept on eavesdropping.
“Well good night then, Malcolm.”
“It’s too early to end it here,” he said. “I was thinking we could continue our night somewhere more intimate.”
Andy held his nose and gave that chat-up line a definite thumbs down.
“I don’t think so,” Mum said. “I’ve had a long day and am pretty tired.”
“You are certainly pretty,” Malcolm drawled. The next noise sounded like smooching. Eeeuww. I peered around the couch to see Mum push him away. “Please don’t. I really need to go in now. Thank you for tonight.”
“Just one little drink. That’s all I’m asking and who knows where the mood-”.
Andy burst out from our hiding spot. “When a lady says no, mate, she means no.”
Mum’s date took a step back before folding his rather meaty arms across his chest and sizing up his pint-sized challenger.
“This is Andy, my daughter’s boyfriend,” my mother said. You had to hand it to her, she was polite no matter the circumstances.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes at Andy, who adopted the crane stance like Ralph Macchio in The Karate Kid.
“He’s a black belt in karate,” Mum added.
“Maybe another time then, Carol,” Malcolm said, easing his way out of the doorway. A cat wailed as his footsteps trailed away.
Mum slammed the door before giving Andy a high-five. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s nice to have a man about the house.”
“My pleasure, Missus B.”
“But you might need to find yourself a belt – black or otherwise,” she said nodding at his unzipped jeans, “to help keep your pants up.”
As Mum headed off to wash away those bad date vibes, I had to listen to her knight in shining armour explain in great detail how he would have pummelled the enemy.
“So did you enjoy the class?”
Ryan had never been much of a joiner-in as a child. At playgroup, he’d sit in the corner by himself with a box of musical instruments or building blocks while the other kids tore around on trikes.
“S’alright,” he mumbled.
“So you’re happy to come back again?”
“If I have to – I’d prefer guitar lessons.”
It was time to broker a deal. “Alright, mister, you continue with the Ninja classes to keep your father happy, and I’ll buy you a guitar and some lessons for Christmas. How does that sound?”
“Throw in some money for new headphones, and it’s a deal.”
We shook on it.
CHAPTER TEN
“I’d like to propose a toast to my little brother.”
Ewan had been tossing back the Scotch all afternoon and now lurched to his feet to make the best man’s speech. I placed my hand on top of Curtis’ to stop his nervous drumming on the tabletop.
Ewan had become even more obnoxious lately after making a name for himself defending a cricket player on match-fixing charges. Not to mention that he and Felicity were expecting the first Carmichael grandchild. He meandered his way through some of Curtis’ more memorable and embarrassing moments before raising his glass. “You may not have got everything you wanted in life but here’s to you and your … um … lovely wife.”
All the guests cheered so perhaps it was only me who felt the sting of his insincerity.
&nbs
p; Delia had flatly refused to countenance two family weddings in the same year. Ewan as the elder brother simply had to take priority and dear Felicity simply had to have her moment in the sun. Which was ironic considering how carefully she avoided the sun to preserve her pale English rose complexion.
So Curtis was cajoled into delaying our wedding for a year. Mind you, it probably worked out for the best because it allowed us to settle into our new life together first.
Curtis had found us a two-bedroom flat near the university. It was small and needed some TLC but he was proud of the fact that he signed the loan papers without any financial help from his parents. And I knew there wasn’t much more out there within our price range because I was writing real estate copy for the local newspaper.
With the speeches over, Curtis and I were called to cut the cake, a six-tiered affair, covered in white fondant and decorated with rosettes. Very tasteful – if you liked fruit cake. Which I didn’t. Loathed the stuff in fact.
The cake selection, like all the wedding preparations, had been handled by Delia. Our reception venue, with its oak-panelled walls, heavy red velvet drapes and someone’s dreary ancestors looking down on us, was certainly not my thing but heck¸ the Queen had been to Carnaby Hall for a garden reception once so if it was good enough for her …
“Have I told you you’ve made me the happiest man alive,” Curtis whispered to me as we sunk the knife into the top layer of cake. “I can’t imagine standing here with anyone but you.”
“Me either.” I beamed at the guests who had gathered to take photos. “Say cheese!” cheered Felicity who, with her pregnancy nearly at full term, looked like she had stuffed a basketball under her dress.
To be honest, I didn’t care where the wedding was held, how many tiers the cake had and if great-aunt Tilda had to sit next to cousin Elizabeth even though they hadn’t talked since the great apple pie incident of 1974. The only parts I stood firm on was wanting Mum to walk me down the aisle and there were to be no bridesmaids. Neither Nikki nor Dawn were able to fly over and they were the only women I ever wanted standing by my side.