That night as I lie on the cool white sheets the smell of lavender lingers. A bright patch of moonlight falls across the bed. I get up and open the doors to let the moon in and find Dog stretched out on the verandah. The garden is lit with a vivid fluorescence. The warm night resonates with a chorus of clicking, thrumming and twittering, a delicate undulating sea of sound. I leave the door open and climb back into bed; soon I hear soft shufflings as Dog migrates across the threshold.
It is odd to think that my grandparents once lay in this bed, on the same mattress by the feel of it. I wonder what they talked about, what they worried about. I wonder if they made love in the light of the moon. I sleep soundly that night, for the first time in months – a deep, dreamless sleep. I drift off to the percussion of tiny feet running up and down in the roof space and wake to the cries of the kookaburras.
Apart from the birds, the mornings are so quiet here. I miss the hum of distant traffic, the sound of the lift arriving on our floor, even the ‘bing’ of next-door’s microwave. For me these are the sounds of people with purpose, people with places to go. I feel as though I am marooned. It’s as though no one can reach me. No one even knows I exist.
Again, I try to keep busy. Polish, clean, clear. The curtains are gone and the furniture glows as the sun sends prying fingers through clear glass. The living room has come to life with the blue rug, a bowl of tiny cream gardenias from the garden on the side table and an exquisite blue, white and gold coffee set out on a tray on the chiffonier.
I discover Jack has records and a record player. The rich sounds of Ella Fitzgerald melt like butter through the house. My steps slow. I find myself humming. The phone rings.
‘Adrienne? How are you, Sweets?’
‘Fine, Diane. I’m fine.’
‘Now look, I know things are a bit tough at the mo. Remember, everything happens for a reason. This was meant to be, Girl, for whatever reason, it was meant to be.’
I hate that hippyshit. ‘Thanks for the wise words, Di. So, what’s been happening?’ There’s no stopping her then – she comes out with all the industry gossip I’ve been hungry to hear. A major client has moved agencies; an embargo was breached on a critical press announcement – riveting stuff.
‘There’s a marcoms position coming up with Dalkeith, Gregg & Smith, high-level account exec,’ reports Diane. ‘Top consultancy – I’m sure they’d be paying over the hundred-and-fifty-thou mark to start. You interested?’
A hot sweat moves the length of my body and wraps itself around my face like cling wrap. ‘Maybe,’ I say as coolly as I can. ‘Do you think they’d be interested?’
‘Oh, they’d be lucky to have you! I’ll make some discreet enquiries. So how’s country life? Must be divine! Do you have frogs? I looove frogs – I’ve got a gorgeous froggy screensaver.’
‘Frogs … I guess there are frogs. Di, have you seen Charles?’
‘Speaking of frogs … Are you sure you want to know?’
‘I’m a big girl.’
‘Charles will always find a new groove, Adrienne. He’s picked up a CEO position with a US agency.’
‘Hmm,’ I sniff. ‘They’ll find out the hard way.’ I hate the bitter edge to my voice.
As soon as I put down the phone I turn off the record player and pace the floor. I’m out of the loop. I need email and I need it now. A US agency! That could have been me. That bloody well should have been me! Charles has ‘moved on’, despite the mess he made of my business. He was the one man I really thought I could rely on; a family man with kids in the best bloody schools in Sydney, an impeccable business background. Solid. We were equally ambitious, committed to acquiring smaller agencies to build the company into the biggest corporate communications group in the country. He had the MBA, the contacts, the credibility. He had a board-table manner that was practically irresistible. The business took off. I gave him an executive title and a slice of the action. It was hard to see then but he was a broad brushstroke man. When it came to the due diligence, he slipped up. Badly. Details were his weakness; details and a dangerous belief in his own bullshit. He took risks he had no right to take, risks that ended up costing me my business. The thing I’m truly pissed off about is that I believed his bullshit and let him convince me to sign the personal guarantees that ended up costing me my home.
If Charles can do it, I can do it. I need to be connected with the real world. I go out to the shed and unpack one of my many boxes marked ‘Office’ and find my laptop. I take it inside, open it up and slide my fingers over the keys. It feels good. Damn. The cable with the phone jack is missing. I unpack the whole box – still don’t find it. But I’m on a roll now. This is going to happen. There’s a little computer shop in town that’s bound to have the cable. I grab my bag and jump in the ute. Dog just makes it into the tray before I spit gravel all the way down the drive.
I park right outside. With my new sense of purpose I’m in a jovial, chatty mood, but the guy behind the counter seems depressed. Perhaps it’s the minimal nature of my purchase. I get the impression that if people are going to come blundering into his shop and disturb his meditative tinkering, they better have a bloody good reason.
Wordlessly he gets the cable, puts it in a bag and enters the sale on the cash register. I remain cheerfully patient while he laboriously writes out a docket and then enters the item in an exercise book.
When all the paperwork is taken care of and I turn to leave he suddenly gets chatty. ‘Looks like rain.’ He raises his eyebrows to the skies. He’s right. Huge cumulus clouds are forming pyramids in the sky. I dash into the butcher’s.
‘How are yer, my lovely?’ he says, wiping his meaty hands on his apron.
‘I’m simply divine, thank you. I need some mince, please.’
‘And what would you be making tonight, Princess?’
‘Shepherd’s pie, actually.’
‘Lovely.’ He gives me a slow wink. ‘I’ll bet yer quite a cook.’
‘The best,’ I lie, winking back.
I quickly pop into the tiny post office to send a card to Diane for her birthday next week. I find one with a fat green frog on it. Several people come through the door as I’m scribbling a message on the card. The woman behind the counter greets each by name, almost without looking up. By the time I finish I’m third in line.
‘What you having tonight, Mavis?’ the woman asks as she pounds an account with not one but three different stamps.
‘Well, I always do sweet and sour veal chops on Friday. Ces likes his sweet and sour.’
I want to get home before it rains and am now itching with impatience. If I hadn’t already written on the card, I’d drop it and run.
‘How about you, Mel?’ she says as she enters the details in the computer.
The man in front of me ponders for a moment. ‘Friday, eh? Sausages, I reckon.’
‘I’m having shepherd’s pie,’ I volunteer, to speed things up. All three look at me and look away again. No one says a word. I feel quite unreasonably left out. Finally, it’s my turn at the counter. ‘Yeah, good idea,’ says the woman belatedly with a smile. ‘Yer can’t beat a good shepherd’s pie.’
By the time I have finished my other shopping the light has vanished and the sky has darkened to a dusky grape. I let Dog into the cab with me as fistfuls of rain are flung on the roof. It buckets down. The wipers simply rearrange the water pouring down the windscreen and I have to drive at 10 kilometres an hour all the way home. Thunder rolls over us like a barrel. The roadside trees shudder, the tops of the big gums dance madly in the wind. Branches and twigs ping off the windscreen. I feel the panic tight in my chest; I can hardly breathe.
I get to the top of the driveway and creep up the drive, which is sheltered by trees on both sides. The creek that runs beside is swollen and running fast. As I near the dip where the driveway turns I see that there is no dip – the water has broken the bank and has reached the high ground. Even Dog looks worried. I slowly drive into the water and hear it swishing a
round the doors as I ease the ute through. Suddenly, water starts to leak in through the bottom of the doors, swilling around my feet. There are blinding white flashes as lightning cracks overhead. Dog barks madly. It’s chaotic. The ute gasps and dies. I give it several tries but the engine won’t turn over.
I take off my shoes. I love these shoes. Bought on my last junket to Milan, they are the most comfortable shoes I have ever owned – although there’s not much in the way of competition. I put them in the carrier bag from the computer shop and stuff the bag down my shirt. Hanging my handbag around my neck, I wind down the window and very inelegantly clamber out, feet first. It’s like being at sea in a gale, knee-deep in water, wind and rain tearing at my clothes and hair. It’s cold.
‘Dog! C’mon!’ My voice is shrill as the wind. Dog doesn’t move. He sits and shivers. I hurl a few threats his way and a couple of expletives he might not have heard before. No go. I throw myself back in through the window. I manage to coax him across to the driver’s seat with me and command him to stay. I climb back out the window with my hand firmly on his collar. Gravity and Dog join forces – it’s as though he’s fused to the upholstery, it’s impossible to lift him.
I take the plastic bag out of my shirt, stuff it down the front of my pants and wrap my shirt around the idiot dog. Rain slaps at my body with great wet sheets. Now, clad only in a bra and pants, I wrap my arms around Dog and lift. Suddenly he demagnetises and practically throws himself into my arms. He’s heavier than anticipated and I stumble backwards, dropping him as my feet slip from under me and we both slide sideways into the creek. Water closes over my head and, gagging on the earthy taste in my mouth, I roll on the bottom, arms flailing wildly for something solid to hold onto. My knees hit the creek bed. I begin to get my balance and come up for breath. I find I can stand waist-deep in water in a shallow part of the creek. Still wearing my shirt, Dog has struck out for the high ground, front paws churning like a paddle steamer. The force of the water rushes against me, carrying sticks and branches twisting with the current. As I wade slowly towards the bank my precious carrier bag dislodges itself and one shoe spins away with the tide. Furious, I hurl the other one after it and crawl up the bank with my handbag still around my neck and the phone cable between my teeth.
Nothing, I tell myself as I stagger back to the house, nothing will stop me from getting online today. I burst in the door and flick on the light switch. No response. Flick, flick, flick. I run to check the phone. Silence.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!’ I rage around the room looking for something to vent my frustration on, something to kick, something to smash. I pick up the tray holding the blue and gold coffee set and in one motion hurl the lot against the wall. Once the damage is done I feel calmer. Not in control, but calmer.
I calmly light some candles, run a hot bath and peel off my clothes. Calmly, I salt three fat leeches feeding off my thighs. Calmly, I tip the entire bottle of Jardin de l’Olivier bath oil I have been hoarding into the bath. I lie in warm oily water doing deep-breathing exercises I learnt at an executive stress management workshop. Stress? Pah! They wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.
I get into my pyjamas and dressing-gown, pour the filthy water out of my handbag and throw my ruined Palm in the bin. God knows what happened to the mince. I let the whining bloody troublemaking dog inside and we sit in the living room grimly eyeballing each other for quite some time.
He tires first, gets up and flops down on the rug in front of the fireplace with a wet and windy sigh and gazes at me with the bored expectancy of a palace pet. There’s kindling, wood and newspaper. Why not? Perhaps I should rephrase that – why? Why do people light fires? It looks so simple and yet it’s so extraordinarily difficult, dirty, messy and smoky – plus you get burned. It’s dangerous. It torments you with a tiny hopeful flame, then a frisky little blaze. Then it dies. I try again. And again. And again. I’m not angry, I am determined. I will light this fire if it takes me all night. Finally, I give up. I lie beside the dog and contemplate my miserable ineptitude and bawl sooty tears. Dog looks concerned.
Suddenly, a crackling sound. There’s a hint of warmth and the smell of wood smoke. I sit up and see a perky little fire. Almost as though it started itself, it has eaten through the twigs and nibbles vigorously at a log. I long to take control, prod it with something, show it who is in charge. But I wait. Finally, we have a blazing crackly fire – heat! I am so excited I dance a victory lap of the living room and jump up and down on the sofa, tunelessly bellowing ‘I am Woman!’. Dog sighs and looks away. I think my mood swings are getting him down.
I take my place by the fire. It’s 7 p.m. I wonder what the rest of the world is doing right now. What are normal people who lead normal lives doing on this rainy Friday night? I know what they’re doing. They’re chugging champagne at the Summit bar, eating freshly shucked oysters at Lombards, raking over the wins and losses of the week, criticising movies as if they actually knew something about them. They’re in noisy bars shouting ‘Where are you now?’ into their mobiles, getting belligerent at dinner parties, talking about ideas, flirting, laughing, shopping, eating, drinking, joking … without me.
I don’t recall it ever raining so much. Or was it just that I didn’t notice?
Saturday mints a fresh new day. The world washed clean. A fat kookaburra sits on the verandah railing, watching the lawn intently for worm activity. Tiny swallows practise their stunt flying around the garden. Little clouds of insects jitterbug in the air. I put on some old clothes, tuck my pants into my socks as an anti-leech strategy and put on some gumboots I find in the shed. The driveway is now clear and the ute starts first time. I park it beside the house.
My dog and I take a stroll in the olive grove. The trees seem reasonably intact despite the storm, although there are plenty of broken branches lying about. Groups of wallabies, nibbling the grass, sit up still and quiet when they see us. Dog is remarkably restrained, or too lazy, to chase them. They scatter as we approach, bouncing away towards the hills. I need to buy some sturdy walking shoes; I’d like to explore the hills and see what the valley looks like from up there.
We make our way up and down the rows, inspecting the troops. These olive trees are taller than any I’ve seen and more twisted and gnarled too. Their uppermost branches stretch towards one another to form a glittering cathedral of silver and green.
Dog stops and listens. After a moment he starts to bark. A car horn beeps from the direction of the house. We tramp back to find a little green car parked outside and a young woman in an ill-fitting maroon suit standing on the verandah, peering into the house.
‘Can I help you?’ I say, sounding a little waspish.
She leaps back from the window. ‘Oh, there you are – the door was open so I knew you were about. Natasha Jones, my card …’ Her hand is outstretched.
I glance at the card. Real estate agent. She lifts her sunglasses for a moment and smiles at me with her eyes. Part of her sales training, no doubt.
‘Yes?’
‘I have a buyer who is very interested in this property. He has asked me to act on his behalf – arms-length and all that – and I wondered if you had a moment to chat.’
‘No. I don’t, actually.’
‘Perhaps another time?’ she says, smarmy now. She’s trying not to sound huffy. She’s got far too much make-up on. No one wears eye shadow any more, let alone blue.
‘I can’t imagine that a man with a car that big and shiny would consider living in a house like this.’
‘Oh, he wouldn’t live in it,’ she says, in an ill-considered moment of breathtaking honesty. ‘He’d knock out the walls and use it to store his machinery. He wants to build up on the hill. He’s showed me the plans, it’s huge – it even has colonnades.’
‘He must be very sure of himself to have plans.’
She shrugs. ‘I guess.’
‘You probably shouldn’t have told me that. Tell him I’m not selling,’ I say impulsively. Foolis
hly. If I could get that job Diane mentioned I’d sell this place in a minute and convert the money to a deposit on a new apartment. I just need to know I have the job.
She bites her lip. ‘His offer is very generous. I really think you should hear it.’
Despite myself, I turn away and walk to the front door.
‘Please,’ she calls, a little note of panic in her voice. ‘My client doesn’t like people saying no to him.’
‘Who does?’ I say with a shrug and a smile. ‘When I’m ready to sell I’ll put it out to the market – he can make his offer then.
I step inside, shut the door and wait there until I hear her drive away. Jeez, I’d like to know what his offer is. I find the lights are on again. The phone’s on too. Within minutes I can be online, connected to the world! All in the fullness of time, as Joy would say – tea first.
Before the kettle has even boiled I get a call. It’s someone called Leonie phoning on behalf of the Duffy’s Creek Business Women’s Network. She has heard about me, she says. She would like to invite me to be the guest speaker at their next meeting. Perhaps I could talk about corporate communication – or whatever, she suggests. I’d be happy to, I hear myself say charmingly.
On checking emails I have 263 unread messages. I skim through my in-box looking for something beyond the spam and subscriber mail. There are three. One is from Diane, saying that the marcoms job looks promising. She gives me a contact number to call and organise an interview. There’s one from my friend Sarah in London, asking how I am. How is it that she and Diane are the only decent friends I’ve got? And one from Lauren:
Are u sure Benz has to go? 2 cool 4 words. Can you just pay my next month’s rent? Lu
I hit Reply.
Hi Lauren, Please call Mr Arnold, he’s the administrator in charge of closing down the company. Call him immediately and ask him where he wants the car delivered. His number is on the paperwork I gave you. Otherwise he will be on my case. I’ll see what I can do about the rent. Possible job on distant horizon.
The Olive Sisters Page 7