A Dash of Reality

by Murray, Lee

  Ohmigod. I’ve run a marathon!

  A rush of warm exhilaration surges through me. It’s so overwhelming I’m forced to sit down on the floor in shock. I did it! At best guess, less than one per cent of the world’s population have completed the marathon. Less than one measly per cent and I, Melanie Short, am one of those.

  People who have run a marathon.

  Marathon runners.

  Marathoners! Some highly auspicious, respected, positively amazing people grace this group. Princess Beatrice, for example. If I never ever do anything else worthwhile with my life, I’ll have done this. Nobody took a single step for me. I did this myself. Me! It’s utterly utterly incredible.

  I’m still sitting on the floor.

  ‘You all right, down there? Here, have this banana. That’s it, get that down you. Looks like you need to get your sugars up.’ The banana-man helps me up.

  I collect my bag of warm clothes and, clutching my precious t-shirt, head to where the Road Runners have congregated. Rugged up and with my medal proudly on display, I share a hot Milo from Aaron’s thermos, a big gooey muffin plucked from the depths of Mark’s sports bag (I love that man), a warm hug with Fran, and general congratulations from the rest of the boys. They totally get the strange mix of exhaustion and euphoria I’m feeling, and from the way each of them in turn puts a hand on my shoulder, I know they’re proud of me too. It’s nice to sit here for a bit and savour their unconditional friendship.

  A bit later, after I’ve popped off for a shower and lamented at the state of several of my toes (black), I make my way back to the Sportzgirl team to await the day’s results. I sign my damp and stinky azure-orange costume for Martine, who doesn’t look impressed about having to hold it while I scribble. Kirsten has plans to auction it online (unwashed) on behalf of the Riding Centre, although why anyone would want to bid on a skimpy sweaty smelly running outfit, I shudder to imagine. That’s when Bloxham announces that the Racing Feat voting has closed. All the competitors are now in. Simon was the last of us to arrive. He and the stretchy pink Amazonian lunged for the line at a hair over five hours. Only minutes earlier the rain gods had thrown a hissy fit, which meant poor Simon finished soaking wet and bedraggled, but like me, utterly happy.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Bloxham’s voice is whale-like again, this time because the sound is bouncing off the centre’s vast ceiling. ‘I’d like to thank you for waiting so patiently. We’ve had the final votes in and these have been tallied along with the contestants’ predicted times, and it’s my very great pleasure to announce (there’s a drum roll, or possibly thunder) the supreme winner of the Racing Feat series, running in support of Tauranga’s Riding for the Disabled…’

  Ohmigod! I cover my face with my hands.

  ‘…is Melanie Short, in a time of 4 hours 3 minutes and 28 seconds! Well done, Melanie! It’s been a long road for this little lady, who’d never run a step in her life when she entered this competition…’

  I’ve won. Martine gives my hand a rapid squeeze and steps away. I’ve won the Racing Feat reality series! I’ve made it. I hug my arms to myself in excitement. I look around wildly, searching the crowd, hoping that Jack might have relented and come, longing for him to suddenly burst into view, pull me into his arms, cover me in merciful, magical kisses, and share in the biggest moment of my life.

  But instead, it’s Rico who rushes over and hugs me.

  69

  I pull Janeen into my bedroom and spit like a camel. ‘When you said you knew someone who could help, I didn’t think you meant Cherry!’

  ‘Give her a chance, Mel. She wants to help.’

  I snort derisively. ‘So did the fox and look what happened to the poor little gingerbread man! Boy scouts are helpful, Janeen, not Cherry.’

  ‘She’s here, isn’t she? She’s brought her gear and the gala is a little over two hours away. Unless you know someone else who can do an extreme makeover at short notice, then tough luck, she’s it.’

  ‘But it’s my night and she’s going to make me look like the Bride of Godzilla!’ I rail.

  ‘Annalise was going to make you look like one of the Girls of the Playboy Mansion. Probably in lurid orange. The way I see it, you’ve got nothing to lose. Now, will you get that dress off, please, because I need to adjust the hem.’ She conjures up a sewing kit from the depths of her patchwork handbag and lays it ready on the bed. I shrug the gown off and step out of it, taking care not to tread on the fabric. Janeen snaffles it up, disappearing behind a swathe of grey smoke. Only her head peeps out from behind the cloud of fabric.

  ‘Why is she really here, Janeen?’

  ‘Mrrrmph,’ she mumbles, a pin hanging from her lips. ‘Mmwhy bon’t woo ask er?’

  I chew my lip. ‘Could you ask her for me?’

  Janeen yanks the pin from her mouth. ‘Mel,’ she says impatiently, ‘would you get out there, get your hair and make-up done and let me sort out this dress. I only have…’ she pulls her arm out of the cloud and checks her wristwatch… ‘one hour and 53 minutes left and I don’t want to botch it. This is why I don’t do custom formalwear…’

  ‘But...’

  Janeen shoves aside the mountain of fabric and jostles me bodily through the door. No sooner am I through it, than she closes it behind me, leaving me on one side and her on the other. I imagine her leaning heavily on the other side, grumbling.

  Cherry is sitting on the sofa, long legs crossed, leafing through a magazine.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi. Janeen said…you...’ Ever noticed how difficult it is to feel on an equal footing with someone when clad only in your underwear?

  ‘Yes, I’ve agreed to be your stylist for the evening,’ she says, looking up and down at my current attire. She sighs, closes the magazine, unfolds her legs and gets up. ‘We haven’t got much time. Janeen gave me a swatch of the fabric so I’ve selected some colours that should complement both your gown and your natural colourings. I’ve set everything up in the bathroom.’

  Still shell-shocked, I follow Cherry into the bathroom where she’s set up a mini-Cherry Fizz salon in front of the mirror. I slip into the chair. Cherry picks up a wide brush and rakes it through my hair in long hard strokes, making my scalp tingle.

  ‘We’ll start with your hair…Did you have anything in mind?’ I want to shake my head no, but she’s snarled a stubborn tangle and it hurts. ‘I thought perhaps a low side bun, like the one Sandra Bullock wore once to the Golden Globes. We could dissect the bun with two horizontal plaits of your own hair to complement the bands of the gown. A gladiator princess effect, it’ll maximise the backless feature of the gown.’ She stops her raking and talks over my shoulder at my reflection. ‘It’s quick to achieve so if you don’t like it we can pull it out and start over.’

  In for a penny, in for a pound. At least, Cherry’s offered me an out if I don’t like her idea. I nod my agreement and Cherry starts teasing my hair.

  ‘Cherry?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Those Ross Sully articles have been pretty mean-spirited. We feel sorry for you.’ I don’t get it. She should be gloating, surely?

  ‘But you hate me,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. Why would you think I hate you?’

  I launch into a list of her transgressions: ‘Let me see…diary, dive board, entire senior school…’

  Cherry laughs, waving the brush causally. ‘Oh that! Get a life, Mel. I was 9-years-old.’

  ‘What about the interview?’

  ‘Those TV people took my comments out of context, didn’t they? Made it seem worse than it was.’ I ponder this for a second, then nod slowly. It’s possible Cherry didn’t intend the interview to come out the way it did. If I’ve learned anything from this reality series, it’s that occasionally the media can misrepresent you.

  ‘Anyway Mel, you haven’t been sweetness and light yourself. When I was still in primary school you packed my clothes in a suit
case and left it at the front door. Told me Cushla and Marcus were sending me to live in Antarctica. I was terrified. You made it quite clear you didn’t want a little sister.’ Her brush strikes another tangle and my head yanks slightly backwards.

  ‘Well, no-one asked me if I wanted a ready-made family,’ I mutter.

  ‘No-one asked me either!’ exclaims Cherry. ‘My mother died!’ The cynic in me thinks, oh, here we go, time for the sob story, but I don’t say anything because for the first time, I realise Cushla and Marcus’ union was foisted on her, too. And she was even younger than me. Cherry separates out two strands at the base of my neck and pins the remainder in a tousled bun. ‘Mind you, it’s not like my mother chose to die. She didn’t abandon me and Charlie on purpose. I’m not sure what’s harder; having a parent who ignores you, or not having one at all.’

  But Marcus doesn’t ignore her. He thinks the sun shines out of her bottom.

  ‘I hardly remember Desirée,’ Cherry goes on. ‘Dad says I’m a lot like her though. Perceptive. Sensitive.’ She looks dreamily through the mirror into infinity and I resist the urge to grunt because she is doing my hair and because Marge Simpson’s birds’ nest isn’t the look I’m hoping for. ‘Maybe that’s why Dad’s always wanted to keep me close. I love him to bits, but sometimes he makes me feel like a porcelain doll. God, it can be smothering. I was so jealous when he paid for you to go to boarding school.’

  ‘Small cost for getting rid of me!’ I prickle. ‘The four of you could play happy families while I was out of the way.’ I twist away from her angrily. We’re facing each other now, me in my underwear and Cherry brandishing her hairbrush like a foil.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ She lowers the brush, and says softly. ‘I wanted to go, but Dad wouldn’t let me.’ Daddy’s Little Girl. Cherry’s revelation shocks me. ‘He said I wasn’t resilient enough. Said boarding school was for independent, feisty girls. Girls like you.’

  ‘He calls me Flakey!’

  ‘Yes, Flakey. Like a snowflake: you want to hold it, but you can’t.’ Dumbfounded, I turn around and sit back down. Marcus thinks that about me? Cherry resumes her work and her disclosure.

  ‘I cried and I wailed and carried on about the school. Well, I can wheedle when I want to. But he insisted boarding school wasn’t for me. And usually, I can get around Dad. You know, I wasn’t going to come here today. It isn’t any secret we’ve had our differences, but Janeen called and said you needed help. She told us you’d managed to completely stuff things up with Jack, and that Annalise was plotting to make you over into a reincarnation of Amy Winehouse. Dad insisted. He helped us you see; helped me buy in to Cherry Fizz. And he supported Charlie and Ben with the restaurant.’

  It’s true. When Canine Cuisine listed on the Kiwi stock exchange, Marcus cannily sold his stock options and made a small fortune. A condition of the public offering was that key staff would stay on for five years, but nine years later, Marcus is still there, mostly because work gives him a reason to get up, put on a tie, drive the BMW to the office and justify the employment of his secretary. It’s probably just as well, because he’s not particularly gifted with a golf club.

  ‘Marcus says we’re already living our dreams, Charlie and I, so we ought to help you with yours. Besides, Dad thought you were too loyal to Colin to ask him for help.’ Cherry pauses for a split second. “Well, not for yourself, anyway.’

  She twists the last plait into place and secures it with a hairpin, then I hold my breath while she hairsprays the finished style with a dramatic sweep of her arm.

  ‘Charlie did help me with my nutrition plan,’ I remark, as Cherry holds up a mirror behind me, reflecting her handiwork. My hair is stunning. I turn my head left and right watching the escaping wisps bob gently as I move. The effect is captivating.

  Thank you, Cherry.

  ‘Yes, but Charlie owed you, didn’t he? For the joint.’ Startled, I drag my eyes away from my hair. I twist in the chair and fix my eyes on Cherry.

  ‘You knew about that?’

  ‘Of course, I knew,’ she says, ‘I read your diary.’

  Then I look at Cherry and she looks at me and, maybe for the first time ever, we share a smile.

  70

  The wind-up gala is being held at a boutique winery set in several hectares of lavender-filled gardens (minus the vines, since the grapes are conveniently brought in from sunny Hawkes Bay.) The venue’s so exclusive, there’s a helicopter pad in pride of place on the lawn, although the helicopter is absent tonight. Inside, the main hall has been festooned with white sheets and carefully-angled halogen spots sending light in every direction. It could be the scene of a mass prison break-out complete with search lights. Several big screens are positioned on the walls, each one flicking through scenes from the series and various photos of the contestants at home, in training, and in Tazza’s case, recuperating on the sofa. However, for the moment, the enormous screen positioned behind the main podium displays a static Racing Feat brand, sponsor logos, and a list of the various charities still with a chance at some money.

  The place is crowded. Everyone is here; from NZTV there are Bloxham, Good, Pays, Plumley, and his dogsbody, Hayleigh, and from Sportzgirl it’s Winston, Derek, Kirsten, Annalise, and her own dogsbody, Martine. Craig’s here too, but not as a guest, as I last saw him zipping out of the cellars for a shot of the region’s MP in serious tête-à-tête with the mayor. All the charities are represented, among them the Diabetes and Heart Foundations.

  The competitors and their partners, including Tazza and Ann, have been allocated seats at two large tables placed directly under the central chandelier. Although I’ve come sans partner, the gilt-edged place cards show I’m to sit next to Rico, so everyone will make the required assumptions anyway. It’s odd to see my co-contestants titivated up, instead of in their running gear. Sione, for example, looks sensational in a tailored black suit, stiff white shirt and blue and white striped tie (Auckland colours), but in spite of his get-up it’s impossible to hide the front-row-forward proportions of the man. His date for the evening is a tiny girl, his cousin. At 10-years-old, she’s fresh-faced, wide-eyed and dressed in a miniature gown of pale pink.

  By the time the meal (lean beef in red wine jus, with baby potatoes and seasonal vegetables) nears its end, I’m tense and, if I’m honest, a bit bored. I’ve found it hard to concentrate on Tazza’s blow-by-blow accounts of his rehabilitation exercises and the plot of his favourite television show, Pint of Lager, while avoiding dribbling beef jus on my gown. My other neighbour, Rico, is chatting to the neighbour on his left. I know, Rico and I should probably talk, since nothing has been said since the Belle photos were published, but I’m not in the mood, so I’m thankful he’s occupied flirting with Julie’s mother.

  I feel out of place. It’s odd because, really, this is my big night. I’m the triumphant victor, something I still have difficulty comprehending. Funny though, I can’t seem to shake this sense of being disconnected. I’ll be pleased when my speech and tonight’s gala are over.

  The Racing Feat signature music comes over the speakers. Good, the evening’s MC, gets the speeches underway. There’s a re-hash of the series purpose and the blah-blah thanking of sponsors before she finally calls the finalists to the podium to recount their experiences. Carline, looking resplendent in a red satin gown (and considerably less nervous than at our first meeting in front of the porta-loos), is the first to take the microphone.

  ‘Good evening everyone. As you can see, I’m half the girl I used to be…no, I’m exaggerating. I’ve lost 4kg and two dress sizes.’ On the big screen the static logos fade out and the traditional ‘before’ and ‘after’ images of Carline are projected behind her as she speaks. On cue, the audience erupts in congratulatory applause. ‘My husband Greg (she tips her head in his direction) thinks he’s got himself a hot new babe. And it’s not the only part of my life that’s shaped up. I’ve had to get myself organised. Who’d’ve thought you’d need time management skills to
be a runner? When I haven’t been able to get a sitter, I’ve put the girls on their bikes. They love riding while I run. So what if dishes haven’t always been done? I love that we’re setting our girls up with good exercise habits for life. And I had a good dose of adventure too, when Sione and I got ourselves lost on the Toi run. We weren’t in any real danger - the rescue teams were on their way - but believe me, it was more exciting than my typical Tuesday. I loved it! Thanks everyone.’

  There’s hearty applause as Carline steps down and Simon replaces her on the podium. The images of Carline are replaced by a medical laboratory form showing Simon’s comparative blood results.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Simon, angling his body toward the screen. ‘As you can see behind me, I achieved my key goal. My blood cholesterol levels show a significant drop. Like my friend Carline, I’ve lost a few kilos, six to be exact, but they tell me I’ve gained some muscle in exchange. Most of my dresses are too big now, too!’ Everyone laughs. Being a company CEO, Simon’s has fronted a few successful presentations. He allows just enough time for the audience to respond to his quips. ‘I’m still a long way from taking on Arnold Schwarzenegger. I’m not yet sporting a six-pack, but I’m convinced a promising two-pack is emerging…’ The audience laughs again. I make out Plumley’s ‘ahem’ in the background.

  ‘The biggest result for me is I’ve caught the bug. I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’d like to have another go at the marathon.’ There’s another roar from the audience. Dee’s face appears on the big screen looking as though Simon’s just beaten out Colin Firth for Best Actor in a Motion Picture. In the absence of a trophy, Simon clutches the side of the lectern. ‘Yep, lean and mean is my new life plan. I’ve already entered the Auckland Marathon, once again in support of the Heart Foundation, and my personal goal is to bring my marathon time down by 20 minutes. I believe I can do it. I’m going to use my watch this time!’ Simon steps away from the podium, pumps his fist in the air and shouts, ‘Thank you, everyone for your tremendous support.’