by Murray, Lee
...crossed the floor.
The last item of news is controversial. I know this because Karen Ropati has flashed us her signature expression, raising her left eyebrow to cause a lopsided crinkling of the forehead. It’s a quizzical look which seems to say ‘So what are they going to do about this one? Even her eyebrows have something to say. I check the sliding doors again to see if mine want to contribute anything other than ‘Pluck me.’ I try to replicate Ropati’s quizzical look. Best not.
…In an innovative move the Government announced plans today to reduce the nation’s incidence of obesity and the associated risk of Type II diabetes and heart disease…
Ropati’s face is as ubiquitous as mine. She’s everywhere. She appears on every other cover of Belle, whenever there’s no scandalous news to report of Tomkat, Brangelina, Posh and Becs, or anyone who has ever had a role on Coronation Street. Last week Belle showed Ropati relaxing in her restored-to-its-original-state Wellington Victorian villa. Here she is in her favourite distressed blue rattan garden chair reading a Matthew Reilly thriller while dressed in a Trelise Cooper gown and a pair of gumboots. And here’s her grandmother’s recipe for café-style tuna avocado stack, which she invites readers to share with friends and family. A couple of months back there was a four-page article on her winter holidays in Thailand, with photos of her touring in a long-tail boat, riding a water buffalo, and frolicking about feeding an elephant.
…joint initiatives with the private sector intended to stimulate greater levels of physical activity amongst…
There’s a chance if you surveyed a sample of ten New Zealanders, an equal number would recognise our faces (I estimate a ratio of say 9:7 for Karen to me.) The difference is Karen Ropati is truly Someone. In the Who’s Who of New Zealand Celebrity she’s the first entry.
An über-celeb.
Sales of her tell-all book about her mother’s struggle with an aggressive breast cancer were phenomenal, the first ever publication (other than the bible) to outsell the Edmonds cook-book. And that was in spite of the fact the publishers issued it in August, instead of December, in time for Christmas. She’s in demand for book signings, documentaries, public speaking engagements, and women’s group meetings. The Tauranga Branch of Zonta waited a full year for her to come and deliver her talk ‘Screen-Sista’ about the role of women in television.
…opposition leaders, while not rejecting the proposal outright, have serious doubts about the Government’s ability to make good on the subsidies. And in sport, the Black Ferns recorded a win...
I switch channels. They’re rerunning the thirteenth series of The Bill. I switch again and up comes an episode of It’s Me or the Dog. That pretty well sums up my chances of ever becoming the next Karen Ropati. Even Seymour the Telecom dog is better known than me. At least he has his own moniker. I’m just the Sportzgirl girl, and soon I won’t even be that. I’ll be nobody.
Disgusted, I turn off the television. I won’t worry about it now. I’ll think of something tomorrow. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll think about it tomorrow.
It always worked for Scarlett O’Hara.
7
As a compromise, Jack and I arrive ten minutes late to Marcus and Cushla’s event. The delay means I’m not submissively early, and nor am I defiantly late. Mind you, it’s a miracle I’m not late because I dithered for ages over what to wear. After my Seduction deduction I couldn’t afford to buy something perfect so I was forced to try on everything in my wardrobe, with the exception of pyjamas and hand-knits. I decided on a pair of dark dress jeans, pink strappy sandals, and a layered lime green chiffon top sprigged with tiny antique pink flowers. My hair I swept into a loose updo, an unstudied look that took me an hour to achieve.
Parked on the verge outside my parents’ house, I’m still not sure I’ve got it right. I flick down the sun-visor and examine myself in the mirror. I turn my head left and right. Perhaps I should have chosen some danglier bling? Something expensive and flashy. Instead, I’m wearing a silver chain carrying the ring my Dad sent me for my fourteenth birthday, a rose quartz chip set in a simple gold band. It arrived after my actual birthday and has always been too small, but I love it because Colin chose it for me. Cherry had smirked. She says it’s likely to be a pink glass chip set in simple gold-plate, but I notice Marcus never gave her a ring on her fourteenth birthday.
My cheeks already need a touch up so I delve around in my bag for my Softly Sensational pink blusher. There are still a few minutes left before my timing passes from subtle statement into the category of defiantly late. Jack opens my door. He takes my hand and diverts my attention from the mirror.
‘You look beautiful,’ he assures me. I look into his eyes and can see he means it. I stop fussing and step out of the car.
Cushla and Marcus’ Omokoroa townhouse is a two-storey 1980s establishment, recently refurbished. The new designer latte stucco is nice, an understated backdrop for the line of white standard roses Cushla has planted on either side of the path, marshalling visitors toward the entranceway. The blooms are past their best, their fluffy petals littering the path and one or two already bruised and browning. The white, painted wooden window frames have been removed in favour of sleek black aluminium joinery and the wrought iron zig-zag balustrades of the upstairs balcony have been replaced with reinforced polished glass. Marcus and Cushla will probably want to hurl me from that balcony when they learn I’m to be unemployed in less than the gestation period of a hamster. Which is why I’ve decided not to tell them yet.
Jack rings the doorbell. The muffled chimes of Big Ben can be heard through the new fake cedar door. My step-father Marcus opens the door. He’s a stocky man, shaped like a wine-barrel and equally solid. His face is pale gerwürtz with cheeks the colour of a newly opened bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau.
‘Hello there, Flakey. Good of you to come.’ Flakey is Marcus’ personal nickname for me, probably because I’m about as welcome as psoriasis.
‘Thank you Marcus, it’s always lovely to be home.’
Jack steps forward. ‘Very kind of you to invite us, sir,’ he says, firmly shaking Marcus’ hand.
‘Your mother is in the kitchen, Melanie. I’m sure she’d be grateful for your help.’ Into the kitchen with you, Cinders!
‘Jack, come through to the garden and have a glass of champagne. I don’t expect you teachers get much opportunity to imbibe – that’d be flouting the rules.’ Jack slings me a bemused backward glance as he dutifully follows Marcus through to the terrace and the garden.
In the kitchen, every black Italian granite surface is covered in white platters, each smothered with bite-sized morsels. I catch sight of an expanse of profiteroles, golden, puffed up, crammed with cream and splashed with dark chocolate.
Yum. There’s an upside to everything if you look hard enough.
A couple of waitresses in black skirts and crisp white shirts dart about carrying glasses and trays from the kitchen to the patio. Cushla has hired a few of the local teenagers, judging from their school lace-ups. My mother breezes into the kitchen as I’m making a beeline for the profiteroles. Heading me off, she plants a dry kiss on my cheek. She’s wearing a diaphanous mother-of-the-bride creation and smells of Nina Ricci.
‘Melanie. Hello, dear. Please don’t touch the profiteroles. They’re for the guests.’
Rats.
‘Would you mind putting the first tray of dim sum in the steamer, sweetheart? And you won’t forget the slice of lemon in the bottom tier, will you? I absolutely must phone the florist. She’s sent gladioli instead of irises, for heaven’s sake. I’ll have to sort it out.’ She floats out of the kitchen again wafting l’Air du Temps in her wake.
I find the pre-prepared dim sum in the refrigerator and set about cutting off the plastic wrap and arranging them so they don’t touch each other in the top tier of the steamer. There are shrimp in rice flour pastry, miniature pork buns, parcels of pickled cabbage and mushroom, squares of taro dumpling, and sweet custard tarts. Tiny pi
eces of heart. I pop a cold parcel into my mouth and savour the salty taste.
Marcus and Cushla married when I was twelve. They met across the reception desk in the solicitors’ office where Cushla worked. I still don’t know if Cushla truly loves Marcus. I think you only get one searing, passionate, no-holds-barred love in your life, someone for whom you would throw caution to the wind, no matter how improbable that person might be, because you simply can’t help it. In Cushla’s case, that person was my dad, but by then Colin was long gone.
When Marcus, a widower of two years, came along he seemed to me dependably boring. If he told the babysitter they would be back by 10:00pm, 10:00pm it was. Cushla and Marcus’ courtship wasn’t the Cary Grant silk-scarf-billowing-behind-a-convertible kind. I don’t recall Cushla waltzing about our two-bedroom weatherboard house singing about how she could’ve danced all night. Their seven months of dating involved dinners and movies, window shopping, occasional walks and some local theatre performances. And then, one evening, Cushla announced that she and Marcus were going to be married and she hoped I was okay with that. It was as if she was asking me to remind her to put out the rubbish.
While my mother came to the relationship with a carry-on (me), Marcus came with excess baggage (Charles and Cherry.) We became a blended family. Unfortunately, apart from Cherry’s ringlets, we did not resemble The Brady Bunch in any way. Charlie wasn’t too bad. Four years younger than me, he was too busy tearing up trees and practising on his skateboard to give me any real bother. On the other hand, Cherry and I blended like oil and water.
‘Is there any more cassis?’ Speak of the devil. The shrill voice is followed up by my step-sister who bounces into the kitchen, her blonde locks bobbing.
‘Hello there, Melanie. I thought you were the kitchen help.’ She giggles.
Briefly, I turn away from the steamer and a fat egg tart drops down the front of my blouse. It rolls over my breasts, bounces off my thigh and lands with a greasy plop on the floor.
‘Whoops! Butterfingers,’ says Cherry rolling her eyes. ‘You’d better leave that to the professionals, Melanie. Where is everyone, anyway? We need some more cassis for the kirs royales.’
‘Cushla’s gone to phone the florist,’ I reply, stooping to mop up the spilled tart. ‘Something about gladioli and irises…’
Cherry isn’t listening. She’s rummaging about in Marcus’ liquor cupboard, her pale blue satin-clad bottom pointing skywards as she pulls out bottle after bottle, reading the labels and dumping the rejects on the floor.
Calvados…Cointreau…Pastis…Kir!’ Cherry straightens up. ‘Excellent. Champagne on its own is dull. Bubbles should be fruity. Ooh, I wonder if we have any strawberries like they do at Roland Garros.’ She begins a cursory poke around on the shelves of the fridge, but it’s packed full of food for today’s celebration. She gives up and shuts the refrigerator door. ‘Never mind,’ she says. She looks me up and down in an obvious manner. ‘Melanie, my guests will be arriving soon. You need to get changed. You look a mess. You know what? There are some free samples in the upstairs bathroom. I’ve been testing them for the salon. One of them should totally sort out that frizz for you. Green bottle, swirly, on the left of the cabinet,’ she says, holding the kir bottle away from her dress with right hand, twirling a curl of hair with the other, and smirking openly.
I suppress a frisson of rage as Big Ben chimes again.
‘That’ll be my first guest. I’LL GET IT!’ she trills, setting my teeth on edge. She rushes out, abandoning, half a dozen liqueur bottles on the floor.
8
My top is not too bad. I could probably sponge the custard off. But there’s a greasy blob on my thigh near my crotch and sponging will only make it look like I’ve wet my pants. I’m going to have to change. I stomp my way upstairs to the bedroom that used to be mine and throw open the wardrobe. Please let there be something in here I can wear.
Oh my gosh! Look at this. It’s the I Dream of Jeannie costume I wore to the Y13 fancy dress social. I forgot it was here. And here’s the red leather skirt I had Janeen make me when I was completely infatuated with Elisabeth Shue in Leaving Las Vegas. I used to wear it with a Coff’s Coast Rally promotional t-shirt Colin once sent me. I finger the soft leather. I saved for a whole term to buy this leather. I had to do Janeen’s hostel duties for a month too, but it was worth it. It’ll probably be back in fashion again soon.
I push the skirt aside and keep looking. There must be something else. Here you go! These gorgeous chocolate brown Thai silk pants. I bought these in Auckland’s Victoria Park when the market was still quirky and bohemian. I only wore them a couple of times because they’re difficult to get in and out of. I peel off my grease-stained clothes and try them on. They’re made from a single piece of fabric with a pair of ties at each end. I tie the first set of ties around my waist at the back like an apron. The fabric cascades down my front to my ankles. I hoop it between my legs and bring the second pair of ties around my waist, this time tying at the front. It takes me a while, but I finally get them on. They have a soft, glossy feel to them. Floaty.
I fumble around in the wardrobe and find a pale pink t-shirt. Whipping across the hall, I take a peek at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not bad. I swish the fabric about, feeling exotic. But now my hair isn’t quite right. Taking a comb from the cabinet I scrape my hair into a tight pony tail and tie it low at the back of my head. Where is that product Cherry was talking about? I find it where she said it would be, on the left. Cherry is right. This stuff is nice. My hair is smooth and elegant. Perfect! I hurry downstairs because now I can hear that quite a number of the guests have arrived and Jack must be wondering where on earth I’ve got to.
At the bottom of the stairs, I run in to Charlie.
‘Hey, Mel. What’s up?’ Attack of a custard tart.
‘Oh, I had to change,’ I say absently, looking past my step-brother for a glimpse of Jack.
‘Looking for Jack? I saw him on the terrace talking to one of the brothers from Evermore.’
‘Evermore? The Band? Really?’
‘Yep. Apparently. Cherry was in same class as one of his cousins.’
‘Cool! Which brother is it? Peter, Jon or Dann?’
‘I don’t know. One of them. The cute one, I guess,’ his voice trails off.
I look up sharply.
‘Charlie?’ While things between me and Charlie started out frosty, they changed abruptly one weekend when I was on a rare visit home. Marcus and Cushla had been to brunch in town and when they returned Marcus detected the smell of marijuana in the upstairs bathroom. It wasn’t too hard for Marcus to pinpoint Charlie as the likely guilty party. Charlie didn’t admit to anything, but it didn’t stop Marcus storming about threatening to revoke permission for Charlie’s trip to Australia for a cook school. Poor Charlie. He was sixteen, skinny, and he looked so green and miserable hunched over on the couch staring at the pattern on the carpet that I felt sorry for him. So, I told Marcus the joint was mine. I was twenty and had left home anyway, and Cushla certainly wasn’t about to let him call the police. Marcus blustered about, mumbling through clenched teeth about ‘life lessons’ and ‘putting the wind up me.’ Then there was a long-winded-rant about setting a better example for one’s younger siblings and how I was not welcome under his roof unless I was prepared to abide by his rules; rules which did not at any time involve the smoking of illegal substances. I didn’t come home for four months after that, which took the heat off Charlie. So Charlie and I are friends.
‘Everything okay? What’re you doing lurking about in the hallway?’
‘Avoiding the kitchen. Cushla’s looking for my professional advice. I’m hiding out here to avoid getting stuck in a pinny all afternoon. I’m pushed enough already at the restaurant.’
‘Busy?’
‘Frantic. And Ben’s asked me to re-invent our entire menu by next Wednesday.’ Ben, Charlie’s business partner, is a brilliant entrepreneur, but Charlie is the culinary genius. O
ne of Charlie’s signature dishes is a dessert made from celeriac and mascarpone. Imagine. Celeriac and mascarpone! I can’t think of anything worse, and it’s divine.
‘Hang on a minute. Redesigning the entire menu? That’s a big ask, isn’t it?’
‘Yep. It’s this war on obesity, Mel. It’s now to be played out in our top restaurants. Who can produce the leanest menu, ladies and gentlemen, without sacrificing an iota of taste? Three course meals with fewer than 300 calories. And nothing less than sublime will do either. Let them try making authentic New York Cheesecake without cream cheese! It’s not possible, Mel,’ he sighs.
‘What about dishing up less?’
‘Hah! We tried that, but consumers don’t like it. Even the foodies like to see value for money. Sure, I could put a tiny stack of scallops in the centre of a plate, drizzle it with a dash of plum sauce and name it something snazzy like ‘Stacques de St Jacques,’ but Kiwi blokes won’t buy it. To them stacks means stacks, preferably haystack size.’
I immediately think of Jack’s preference for chunky meat pies and dinner platefuls of cheese toasties.
‘Poor you. Why the big rush, though?’
‘It’s the lure of free government money. Ben thinks he can get us funding for a menu development proposal. He has this grandiose plan to franchise and push it in the direction of the polytechnic hospitality courses.’
‘Sounds like it could work.’
‘Yeah, probably. Ben’s ideas usually fly. It’s just me who has trouble seeing the future of fine dining as oversized piles of shredded lettuce leaf and a tuft of grated beetroot.’
I rest my hand on Charlie’s shoulder. ‘Imagine if you pull it off though, Charlie.’
‘Huh!’ he snorts. Do I tell Charlie about toady Winston firing me? I know he can keep a secret. I decide against it because he’s already feeling wretched.