A Pretty Mess

by Carla Caruso

  Bailey had been his date the other week. Women with names that sounded like alcoholic drinks seemed to be a theme at the moment. He wasn’t serious about any of them, but surely there was no harm in having fun. There’d be a long wait until he found a woman who lived up to his mother.

  The balcony offered a bit more elbow room. The darkening sky looked as though fairy floss had been spun through it, and the air was punctuated by the occasional lion’s roar or monkey call. He moved to swipe a Wagyu beef skewer from a passing waiter’s tray, but found his gaze pulled askew by a familiar face in the crowd.

  Honey-brown bob, peachy skin and grey-blue eyes that matched the sleeveless number she was wearing. The collar was to the neck, but for once the legs were exposed — and they were quite magnificent. Her frock was a little less obvious than Shandee’s, but much more to his tastes.

  She was edging closer— Hang on a second. The pompous git with the foppish brown hair, lurking near her elbow, appeared to be her date. What was going on there? Celeste’s head turned and her eyes locked with Lenny’s. The apparent surprise made her champagne slosh in her glass. Suddenly, the evening looked set to become a lot more entertaining. She couldn’t just walk past now.

  ‘Celeste Pretty.’ He bent to peck her cheek, breathing in the faint whiff of lavender mingled with shampoo. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. And on another balcony.’

  ‘Well,’ she dusted down her dress one-handed, ‘I used to work in interior design, so I’m still on the invite list in property circles.’

  Lenny winked. ‘Then we’ve probably been to loads of bashes together before, but we just didn’t know each other.’

  Though he was sure he would have noticed her. There was a cuteness about Celeste, when she didn’t open her mouth. Then again, he never lasted much longer than half an hour at these things, so that could explain it.

  ‘Anyway, I’m being rude.’ He extended a hand towards Celeste’s snivelly date, whose barest hint of a tan was evidence of too much time in a fluorescent-lit office. ‘Lenny Muscat’s my name. I’m currently doing some building work for the same client as Celeste.’

  The guy’s handshake was firmer than expected, though on the clammy side. ‘I imagine building is dirty, back-breaking sort of work. Not my kind of expertise. I’m Mitchell Craven.’

  Lenny wrestled a grimace from his face. ‘And what do you do for yourself, Mitchell?’

  The guy did a hair-flip worthy of a boy-band member. A haircut was definitely in order. ‘I work for the family company. Craven Biscuits. I’m a senior product range strategist.’

  It sounded like a nebulous title to Lenny, but at least it explained the callus-free, well-moisturised hands.

  ‘I see.’

  Celeste was looking between the pair like she was watching a tennis match. Some fervent tugging started up on Lenny’s arm. He turned. Shandee. He’d almost forgotten her existence.

  ‘I’m going to go get some water,’ the model informed him, all doe-eyed. Obviously she didn’t care much about introductions — or do kilojoules of any kind. It was going to be an early night. Women with not much of an appetite in the kitchen were often the same way in the bedroom.

  ‘No problems,’ Lenny said, knowing he should do the gentlemanly thing and go to the bar for her, but too amused by the present company to move. Just as Shandee wafted off, Mitchell excused himself for the men’s room, and then it was just him and Ms Little Blue Frock, from their group at least, left on the balcony.

  He quirked an eyebrow at Celeste. ‘Mitchell seems … nice. Is he your boyfriend, or something more serious?’

  Her cheeks turned as pink as the dusky sky. Really quite adorable. ‘We’re seeing each other, yes.’ She tossed her hair. ‘Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to even catch your date’s name.’

  ‘It’s Shandee.’

  ‘Huh! Sounds like a drink to me — beer mixed with lemonade,’ Celeste said and promptly downed the rest of her champagne, which made for good timing. Well, they were on the same wavelength there with the model’s name.

  ‘I didn’t picture someone like Mitchell being your type,’ Lenny said mildly.

  Celeste’s gaze narrowed. ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘I don’t know, your work’s a bit more creative, outside-the-box, while he seems kind of … bland. You know, works for the family business, still thinks Hugh Grant’s hair from the ’nineties is the bee’s knees.’

  She banged her glass on a bar table. ‘And I didn’t think empty-headed bimbos were your type either, although perhaps I should have known better. Do you “collect” models — the younger, the better? Have notches on your bedpost for all the ones you’ve dated?’

  ‘Shandee could be an astrophysicist for all you know.’

  Celeste’s expression made words unnecessary, so he pushed on. ‘Let’s just say all I want from dating right now is a good time. Nothing wrong with enjoying the view while I do it. My career is all-consuming at present, and I don’t plan on being serious with anyone until my company is where I want it to be.’

  ‘You know, I was only being mean about Shandee before because you insulted Mitchell. I’m sure she’s lovely and smart. Unfortunately for her, she’s probably unaware of your intentions, or lack thereof. I might be a professional organiser, but even I don’t think we’re meant to live tidy, predictable lives with everything laid out neatly before us. Because often things don’t go according to plan. You’d have to have a more serious reason for wanting to eschew relationships — something, I don’t know, life-threatening that could affect a potential partner — not just work. What if the woman of your dreams walks past tonight? What then?’

  A grin tugged at the corners of his lips. Celeste looked even more adorable angry. ‘Then I’ll give her my number and tell her to call me in ten years.’

  Perhaps he deserved the eye-roll.

  ‘Ageing playboys are never a good look.’

  He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. ‘I don’t know, George Clooney did all right for himself – before he met that human rights lawyer.’

  ‘I suppose girls have flattered you by saying you look like him.’

  ‘On occasion. In his younger, wilder days.’

  A sigh escaped Celeste’s glossy lips. ‘His type is not something to aspire to. I just pity the poor woman you marry one day for timing’s sake.’

  ‘I suppose Mitchell is your dream guy.’

  He didn’t know what it was about the bloke that bothered him, but even he could see she was too good for Mitchell.

  Celeste’s lips tightened. ‘Shall we talk about work? For example, have you used the tool-belt yet?’

  He was saved from answering by a whirlwind of dark blonde hair, shimmery skin and sickly perfume descending on Celeste. The party-goer wore an odd ensemble of a fur vest and black leather shorts, but then high-fashion stuff always looked weird to him.

  After air-kissing Celeste, who looked plain uncomfortable, the blonde turned his way. ‘Lenny Muscat, I’ve heard a lot about you! I’m Imogen Karmel. I run an interior design firm. You might have also seen me on the TV show, The Bachelor.’

  ‘I don’t watch much television,’ he replied smoothly.

  Nor did it sound like something he’d want to advertise, if he were her.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a friend of Celeste’s,’ the blonde pushed on. ‘Where’s she been hiding you? Did she tell you I gave her a leg-up in the biz? And now she’s even got her own assistant!’

  A crude person might imagine Imogen putting her leg up before to seal the odd business deal.

  ‘Really?’ He shook the proffered hand, almost feeling the talons dig in. ‘I suppose we all have to start somewhere.’

  Any further scintillating conversation was interrupted by a photographer, asking if he could take a social snap of their trio.

  ‘I’ll leave it to the ladies,’ Lenny politely declined, stepping back. ‘It’ll make a better photo.’

  Imogen i
mmediately struck one of those exaggerated hand-on-hip poses that always baffled Lenny, while Celeste just looked more uncomfortable than ever. He couldn’t help finding her vulnerability appealing. Lenny noticed Mitchell weaving through the crowd again and took it as his cue to quietly leave. Hey, Shandee would need her beauty sleep.

  Celeste was almost glad Mitchell hadn’t invited her back to his after the paint company party. He’d made off early as he had a breakfast meeting the next morning. To be honest, she wasn’t sure she could stomach hearing his tennis trophies shaking above his bed that night anyway. Though at least he preferred it with the lights off, so she didn’t have to see them.

  A few things he’d done had annoyed her more than usual that night. Like not walking her to her car at the end, having met there. She couldn’t imagine Lenny being so unchivalrous, despite being quite the lady-killer. She’d gotten a jolt akin to static shock when she’d seen Lenny there, all suited up with his hair slicked back. There was no denying he was an attractive man. Pity about the arrogance.

  It hadn’t been Lenny’s business to know that she and Mitchell weren’t a proper item. Just a mixed-doubles pair socially, who occasionally provided each other with no-muss, no-fuss companionship, which was how Celeste liked things right then.

  Still, her cheeks burned at the memory of how she’d spoken to Lenny just moments ago. Ageing playboy, model ‘collector’ … It was all highly unprofessional, no matter how much ribbing he did. He seemed to have a way of bringing out the worst in her.

  Which was why it was a good night for a purging. It would help her soul feel less grubby. And this was why she was sitting in the dim light of her attic, staring into what she described as her Trunk of Shame. A decorative, dark wood, antique-style trunk that had belonged to her late mother.

  A colourful mess of clothing, scarves, jewellery and more spilled out, which Celeste should have gotten rid of aeons ago. She had no use for any of the items — they weren’t her style and, in some cases, were unusable — and her philosophy was that if she didn’t need something, it had to go. Especially if it reminded her of a difficult time in her life. The trunk had been left open from her last not-so-successful visit to the attic. It was the only area of her house that wasn’t immaculate.

  Celeste picked up a green silk-scarf poncho top, decorated with a brown floral print. Her mum’s signature scent, Chanel No 5, wafted under her nose, which was ironic because her mother had often reminded her of Marilyn Monroe. Though the likeness may have become more exaggerated in her mind over the years.

  Her mum had sold haberdashery by day and dabbled in amateur theatre at night. Who knew how bright her star could have shone had she not put her dreams on hold to raise Celeste, before being cruelly taken by cancer? It was another reason why Celeste had gone out on a limb in starting her own business, even though the rest of her life was fairly measured. One thing she’d learned was you never knew what was around the corner.

  Celeste extended both arms, holding out the poncho top, and eyed it critically. She’d never wear it. Unlike her mother, she didn’t have the élan to carry off such a piece. Or the curves. She was more straight-up-and-down in figure. Maybe she could give the top to Betty-Lou. In some way, her friend reminded her of her mother.

  She knew who would know how to ‘work’ the top. Imogen. She’d probably team it with something weird like a gold chain belt and fuchsia hot-pants, and somehow it’d all gel. It was just her Bachelor-style brazenness. Like how she’d posed with Celeste for the social photographer that night, then told Celeste she had something green stuck between her teeth. Which meant it’d been there when Celeste was talking to Lenny, too. Cringe.

  One good thing had been the way Imogen had gushed about Celeste’s business and her having an assistant already. Almost like she was slightly envious. Not that Celeste could remember telling her ex-boss she’d hired Flip— Hold the phone …

  What had Flip said after she’d hung up on that potential client, asking so-called dumb questions, yesterday? That she thought it was really a competitor, trying to steal Celeste’s ideas. It looked as though Flip had been right all along. Imogen would be just the type to do that — she’d seen Imogen do far worse when she’d worked for her. What a snake in the grass!

  Celeste put the poncho top aside. Nope, it had a hole near the hem. She couldn’t pass it onto a friend or even give it to charity until it was mended. Next item.

  Feeling around in the trunk, her hands closed around her mum’s old hot-roller set. Gently, she lifted out the maroon case with its clear lid. Each curler was cream in hue and spiky-looking. While Celeste had gone to the ‘honey’ end of the spectrum in dying her mousy brown locks, her mum had gone the other way: decidedly blonde. This had only gotten lighter with age and the Marilyn curls more pronounced.

  Celeste remembered her mum wearing the rollers in her hair one night not long before she died. Celeste, being only eleven, had gone to bed early, but had gotten up a few hours later to get a glass of water. She’d stopped short when she saw her parents through the kitchen’s wooden slat doors having a whispered conversation. The exchange had seemed quite heated to her young eyes.

  She remembered her father repeating, ‘No, I can’t, Denise’, even though her mum had seemed quite insistent about whatever the issue was. It had ended with her dad using a hanky to wipe away his tears, which had shocked Celeste. It was the first time she’d seen him cry. And she only ever saw it happen again at her mother’s funeral.

  The night her mum passed away, Celeste remembered her blonde hair beautifully curling against her pillow. Almost like she’d known it was her time to go and wanted to enjoy some glamour in her final moments. She’d painstakingly regrown it after having lost it through chemo. Despite her frail state, to a young Celeste she’d looked beautiful.

  Celeste found herself humming Elton John’s ‘Candle in the Wind’ as she gently placed the roller set back in the trunk. Unfortunately, unlike her mother, Celeste was the world’s worst singer, but humming was harmless.

  Unleashing a yawn, Celeste suddenly decided it would be best to leave the trunk clean-out for another day. Her eyelids were growing droopy and she had another busy day at Natalia’s tomorrow. She’d shut the attic door once more and try again another week, when she was in a better frame of mind.

  6.

  ‘Up to much this weekend?’ Betty-Lou’s cheery voice came down the line as Celeste scanned the shelves in IKEA’s self-serve area for an item number. ‘Besides your usual Saturday-morning housework routine, that is.’

  The furniture Celeste was looking for was the pièce de résistance to complete Natalia’s home-office makeover: a sort of sideways bookcase in white, with big square drawers instead of shelves, for housing stock samples, stationery and the like. Celeste had also gotten a pink rug to offset Natalia’s rock-melon-coloured swivel chair, and abstract wall art in both hues. Custom-built storage was unnecessary half the time. Whether you were loaded or not, IKEA gear could work fine. Trailing behind Celeste somewhere was Flip.

  ‘Not much this weekend,’ Celeste murmured. ‘Oh, aside from a charity tennis challenge to kick off the club’s season on Saturday.’

  ‘Sounds thrilling — the company and the sport,’ Betty-Lou replied dryly.

  ‘Don’t be mean. Why are you puffing, by the way? Sounds like you’ve just played a tennis match of your own.’

  ‘I’m with Peta’s mothers’ group, on a pit-stop from hiking up Waterfall Gully. It’s her version of a day off. I’m carrying Mariska in a BabyBjörn at the back of the pack while Peta and her cleaner are up the front with the other two. I feel like a veritable packhorse.’

  ‘Now that does sound like fun,’ Celeste teased.

  ‘Tell me about it. Anyway, besides wanting to have a breather, the reason I rang is because I was wondering if you’d be keen on going to this French market they’re having at Lavender Park on Sunday. I thought we could devour cheese and wine and laugh at all the Astonvale ladies who consider themse
lves one-eighth Parisian just because their homes are decorated French Provincial-style and they pronounce “Target” as “Tarjay”.’

  Celeste couldn’t help laughing. ‘Sounds like a hoot.’

  A-ha! The item number she’d been looking for suddenly stared back at her from a shelf. She looked around for Flip for help putting the box onto a trolley, but her relative, who’d since reappeared, was now too busy with her own phone.

  Betty-Lou pushed on. ‘And what about your birthday next week? Anything planned there yet?’

  ‘No, no. You know I don’t do birthday parties. If anything, it’ll just be something, you know, quiet.’

  Celeste hated being the centre of attention; she hadn’t even put her birthdate on Facebook.

  ‘Well, that’s not much fun for your best friend now, is it? You’re turning thirty, girl.’

  ‘Exactly. What’s there to celebrate?’

  ‘Plenty. Like starting your own business, buying your own home, meeting swoon-worthy builders.’

  ‘Stop already.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to at least let me make you a cake. It’s what I do.’

  ‘Fine. Go crazy. So long as the thing doesn’t have thirty bloody candles on it.’

  ‘Done. And please — no talk of portion control on your birthday. You’ll be having your cake and eating it, too, that night. Hmm, all this cake talk has given me half a mind to head back to the café at base and pretend I’ve been up the track and back already.’

  Celeste grinned, shaking her head, though Betty-Lou couldn’t see her. ‘Only you could get away with it.’

  Disconnecting, Celeste turned in the hope of garnering Flip’s attention, but another recognisable face bobbed into her eye-line.

  ‘Celeste, is that you? I haven’t seen you since school!’

  Groan. Celeste faked a smile.

  Ursula Zink. She could have picked the girl out of a police line-up. Her old school-friend still looked the same as ever: pale freckly face and dishwater-brown curls, in crinkled clothing, pointing to an obvious lack of owning an iron. The lass’s unfortunate nickname at school had been ‘Urgh-sula’, and, as a pair, they’d spent many a lunchtime holed up in the library. Celeste hoped she’d changed a bit more since school than Ursula, while at the same time feeling guilty about not having stayed in touch. It was just that she’d wanted to leave that part of her life — that part of Adelaide — behind.