by J. C. Grey
May last year …
‘Keep them closed,’ Marc says.
Not averse to a little cheating, I’ve been attempting to surreptitiously open my right eye a crack, but he is wise to me. So I squeeze my eyes shut, grip his hand tighter and follow his directions as he walks me across the uneven ground. We are high on the cliffs near South Head on the morning of my twenty-fifth birthday. From the smug and sneaky smile that has played around his face for the past couple of weeks, I know he has something up his sleeve. Despite regular inspections of his phone and email, I have no idea what it is.
My best guess is a champagne breakfast at this scenic spot overlooking the ocean. He knows it is one of my favourite places in Sydney with panoramic views of the sparkling harbour and ocean. I just hope James and Will aren’t going to leap naked out of the bushes and perform one of their ritual celebratory dances.
‘Okay, open!’ Marc says, standing back.
The autumn sunshine is bright this Sunday morning and I blink for a moment. I recognise our picnic rug, with a silver ice bucket, crystal glasses and bottle of French champagne. A vintage platter and bowl that I bought last month at a market hold croissants and berries.
‘We’ll go to a café for coffee later.’ He gestures across the road, knowing I can’t make it past ten o’clock without an espresso.
‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’ I blink again, nothing to do with the sunshine this time. It is beautifully styled, and although Marc has good taste, I suspect Claire’s hand in this, or possibly Brendan’s. ‘No one has ever …’ I falter, not wanting to bring up unhappy times when I am happy. And I have had a couple of good birthdays since arriving in Sydney. Just last year, Claire organised someone to come and give us home facials and massages before we went out for cocktails. I think it is the surprise element, the fact that Marc has planned it in secret, that touches me so. He waits for me to continue but when I silently hand him the champagne bottle, he doesn’t push me to continue.
A second or two later, the cork has been popped and we are clinking glasses. I sip and glance around. The view is sweeping and dramatic, of cliffs and sky and pounding surf.
‘Maybe we should move away a little.’ I nod towards the dark grey car parked nearby, wondering why they have stopped so close to our picnic. Then the large red bow around the wing mirror captures my attention and I lower my glass and stare at Marc.
He has the biggest, soppiest grin on his face.
‘But it’s a car,’ I say stupidly, walking forward. ‘You can’t give me a car … an Audi.’
He follows and clinks his glass to mine again. ‘Happy birthday, gorgeous girl.’
I try again. ‘It’s a car.’
‘A small one.’
‘With four hoops.’ I know nothing about cars except the ones with hefty price tags, and this is in that group. It’s also seriously good-looking.
‘You need a car.’
I do. I’ve been borrowing his for my client meetings when I need to transport samples, magazine and books. Yet there is nothing on Marc’s face to suggest that this is about him not wishing to share. All I can see is pleasure on his face and I can hear it in his voice. Nevertheless, a spark of resentment leaps to life. Doesn’t he see what position this puts me in? How it makes me even more beholden?
Marc’s delight dims a little as I don’t react quite with the delight he expects, and my guilt increases. What is it in me that will turn a gift freely given into something faintly grubby?
Desperate for anything that will save the moment, I take another sip of champagne to steady myself and saunter up to him. Careful not to tip bubbly down his neck, I loop my hands around his neck and smile into his eyes.
‘I do confess this charming picnic is not what I expected,’ I murmur, ‘after your birthday surprise.’
‘Ah that.’ He nods. ‘I thought you’d prefer something classier than Will and James dressed as can-can dancers.’
Yvette had organised the French-themed soirée (her word), after Marc had returned from Europe, as a belated birthday celebration, even though I’d suggested a family day at the cricket. Everything was oh-so-chic—on the terrace surrounded by French lavender, with salmon to start, followed by beouf and Crêpes Suzette. And Will and James in drag.
She still doesn’t believe I had nothing to do with it.
‘I do.’ Dropping my arms from his neck, I walk to the car and run my hand over its curvaceous lines. I see the slightest of dents down low, and glance at the number-plate. I realise then that the car’s not new, and feel the immediate release of pressure. I look away as tears sting my eyes. How can he know that a pre-loved car would be easier for me to accept than something right out of the showroom?
‘It’s nearly four years old but it has relatively low mileage and it’s in good condition,’ he says from behind me. There is the faintest note of uncertainty in his voice. ‘I thought a new car might make you uncomfortable.’
‘You’re right.’ Stupidly, the tears are running unchecked now.
‘I didn’t notice that ding. I’ll get it fixed up.’ Now he sounds worried.
‘No. No.’ Turning to him, I smile through my tears and shake my head. ‘No, it’s just right as it is. Perfectly imperfect.’
‘Sure?’ He doesn’t sound certain.
‘Absolutely.’ I nod and swallow a mix of champagne and tears.
He takes my glass and places it and his on the ground. I walk into his arms and push my damp face into his neck. We stand there for a few moments, swaying a little. There’s this enormous beast clutching at my entrails. You always think love should feel like butterfly wings or sunshine inside you, something sappy. In fact, it feels like a Rottweiler has a grip on your throat.
There’s so much I want to say it’s overwhelming and I haven’t a clue where to begin.
‘You’re a good husband,’ I mutter, knowing that my words are woefully inadequate.
Below his breath, he laughs.
‘I’m a terrible wife so maybe that evens us out,’ I add.
Drawing back a little, he studies my face, which I’m sure is a disaster zone. I’m just glad I opted against mascara. ‘You’re not a terrible wife. What on earth gave you that idea?’
I shrug. My inadequacies are so legion, where do I start?
Fortunately at that moment, there is a shout from the beach below, and up, into our line of sight, rises a bright red kite in the form of a Chinese dragon. Marc refills our glasses and we settle down on the rug to eat our breakfast picnic and watch the kite rise and fall with the wind current.
When we are done, I take the Audi for a brief circuit, enjoying the way she hugs the road and takes the corners. The wheel feels right in my hands, and the manual gearstick puts me back in control. When I return, I am steadier and Marc is holding two steaming takeaway cups of coffee.
The roller-coaster has hit a straight stretch.
Thirteen
Present day, afternoon
The driveway is clear and I have been busy pruning the rest of the front garden. It seems like a never-ending task. This afternoon, though, the rain has intensified and I have been forced indoors. Over a lunch of chicken and vegetable soup, I doodle landscaping ideas in a dog-eared exercise book found in the library. It is turning yellowish with age and the ruled lines are so faint they are almost invisible.
The centrepiece will be the spring-flowering Magnolia x soulangeana, with large white and mauve teacups for flowers. Even on my phone, it looks magnificent. When I next go into town, I will buy some gardening books and study up on the conditions it needs to thrive. Around it will be strappy Brazilian walking iris and a new lawn of soft green. The perimeter will be camellias in whites and soft pinks and—
My phone beeps to announce an incoming email, interrupting my train of thought. It is just as well. Despite my vow to rein in my creative spirit, my imagination was starting to run away with me as I planned how the garden would look.
When I check my email, it’s from the Small Poppies website. Sinc
e the night I’d submitted the blog and photos—and felt the small sticky hand clasp mine—I’d put it out of my mind. If I was deluded enough to be feeling things that weren’t there, I was also deluded to think that my creative ideas might be interesting to others.
Feeling more than a little nervous, I scan the email. It’s from someone named Alicia Vere, who informs me that she and her colleagues love my blog and plan to publish it in late July. She adds that she thinks I have utterly captured the zeitgeist, contextually and visually. Everyone, she says, is looking for ways to reduce their imprint while expressing their individuality. Furthermore, she would love my piece to become a regular feature if I am interested and have time. There is even a fee attached—small, but a fee nonetheless.
My pride is a warm glow inside, it really is. Working and thinking alone is freeing—you can let your imagination soar without anyone to bring you down to earth. But it is a double-edged sword. When your doubts are crushing, there is no one there to raise you back up. When you are beginning to suspect you might be going mad, there is no one to reassure you that you are not.
Now, the knowledge that someone else sees what I do signals that I am not utterly delusional. The relief is immense, as is the realisation that I have no reason to continue keeping my creativity in check.
After re-reading the email several times simply to draw out the pleasure, I write back to confirm that I am happy for Alicia to publish the blog and photos for the fee proposed, providing the copyright is cited as belonging to Chartreuse. I am reluctant to commit to a regular column—what if my confidence deserts me?—but promise I will work on another idea that has been fermenting and send her something in a couple of weeks.
There are plenty of ideas, although I don’t tell her that, but I am thinking about my brief career as an interior style consultant and the lessons I learned from those experiences. I even have before-and-after photos stored somewhere on my phone that Ina Johnson and Claire’s friend have already cleared me to use. I think they thought that with my profile they would see their homes in Vogue Living, which of course was never going to happen.
Forgetting my mantra about controlling my imagination, I now throw caution to the wind. As the rain splatters ceaselessly against the windows, I fill page upon page of the exercise book with jottings and notes, ideas and sketches. I pull out a dove-grey cropped jacket with a mandarin collar from the vintage store that I hadn’t known what to do with a few days ago. Now I pair it with my skinny indigo jeans and a second-hand peaked cap in amethyst, and the result is cool Oliver Twist.
Liking the idea of giving each look a name, I glance at the other outfit I’ve pulled together—a bright floral skirt with striped shirt—and call it The Odd Couple. Those two should not go together, but together they are. The third of the ensembles consists of slouchy tweed pants and a silk camisole, both from my own wardrobe. This is a look I have worn before many times because the combination of sober and sexy drives Marc crazy. I add a lacy alpaca shrug to the ensemble and call it Siren.
Sitting back in my chair in the dining room, which seems to have become my default studio, I let out a breath. My brain is still whirring with half-formed ideas.
While they ferment, I light the fire in the study and then move around the house, drawing the drapes and enjoying the feeling of shutting myself away from the dark. Tonight, I am hungry for more than soup and decide to roast the hunk of lamb I bought the other day.
Roast lamb is a favourite of Marc’s and I have learned to cook it with some success since we began living together. We used to eat out a lot and initially Marc would often cook on weekends as my skills were limited to toast and salad. But by trial and error, I gradually became competent in the kitchen.
The first time I bought a leg to roast, I thought it was outrageously expensive—and a waste, considering there were just two of us. I remember Marc and I standing in the kitchen after dinner, staring at the huge pile of leftover meat. It ended up feeding us for days after in warm lamb salad and delicious meaty sandwiches. We even made a rather odd-looking but tasty pie for a midweek supper with Léo, who described it as ‘rustic’. In the end it worked out to be very economical, although working out how to use all the meat took some effort.
Now, in the midst of rubbing the beast with oil and rosemary from the garden, I stand stock still, my mind ticking over. There’s a young woman in my mind—and for once she’s not me. Her features are a bit fuzzy but she’s in her early twenties, just starting her career and living in a shared house. She has some money but not much once rent, bills and fun are paid for. She loves clothes and is developing her own style. She’s learning to cook and make a home and planting a few herbs or pots of colour on her windowsill or out on the balcony.
Ten years on, like Claire’s friend, Anna, she has her own place or shares with her boyfriend. She is either paying off a mortgage or saving for one. Her tastes are a little more sophisticated, but the purse-strings are still tight. Then, in another decade or so, she has a bigger home—a house this time—a demanding job and perhaps a couple of kids running rampant. There’s a bigger mortgage, childcare or schooling to pay for, and dental fees. There’s a bit more money but spare time has vanished. Fifteen or twenty years later, there’s Ina, still yearning for that beautiful home and lifestyle. She has more time and more money but is finding it difficult to break free of the past.
All women, I think. All women want to dress well, eat well and live well. They just need a little inspiration and sound advice that doesn’t involve rushing out to buy designer fashion or expensive clothes, or hiring stylists, cooks and landscapers.
They don’t have the time to work it all out for themselves, but I do.
Throwing garlic, onions, potatoes, carrots and parsnips into the roasting tray, I shove it all into the oven. I rush to wash my hands and then race back to my ‘studio’ to flick through my exercise book and the garden sketches and notes. Most of what I’ve done requires a lengthy visit to a nursery and a hefty credit card bill for new plants. But if I simply re-use many of the existing plants and invest in just one or two new trees, I could keep costs to a bare minimum. If I can reimagine the garden from what is already in front of me, others could too—particularly if they have just a small inner-city courtyard or suburban backyard to work with.
The room is quite dark, only a lamp spilling a circle of light onto the paper in front of me. Apt, then, that this is my light-bulb moment. A lifestyle website—down to earth and achievable yet gorgeous, with not a celebrity endorsement in sight—for what women of all ages want, in their wardrobes, interiors, kitchens and even gardens. I can make it work. I feel it. I know it. I have already started.
The big question is how to make it pay. I’ve not made a cent for months now and my cheque account is dwindling fast even though my outgoings have been modest. There is, of course, the account that Marc set up for me but things will have to be dire before I access it.
I need to make a proper, steady living—I make myself say it—whether or not my marriage can be salvaged. For my own self-respect, I need to know I can make my own way, live more than the hand-to-mouth existence I led before Marc. I need to be able to make a life on my own terms if I must.
Many of the lifestyle sites I’ve visited either take advertising or have an associated online shop, or they are cyber-egos of overseas celebrities who have largely lost touch with the real world. On my website, there will be no chia seeds or six-hundred-dollar bags. It has to be real. It has to be for Australian women. But how can it pay for itself and earn me at least a small salary?
I’d love to discuss it with Marc. He has a passion for entrepreneurship, and since I’ve known him, he has been mentoring the mother of one of his staff who has set up a floristry business.
Claire and Brendan would be great to brainstorm with, too. Claire’s wardrobe and studio would be thrown wide open and she’d know just the right person to design the website. Brendan would be trying to take over the photography, calling me an am
ateur when I refuse and then giving me tips on lighting and mood.
All of a sudden I have an urgent longing for my old life.
Abruptly, the dining room door slams and sweeps my notes from the table. Sighing, I realise it’s time to put work away. Across the hallway, the fire in the study is crackling merrily but it will need another log soon, and the scent of roasting meat from the kitchen reminds me to baste the lamb.
I pour a glass of wine and take it through to the study where I stoke the fire, watching the yellow flames reach higher. Half an hour later, I am tucking hungrily into my dinner, hoping that tomorrow morning will bring enough of a break in the weather to allow me to work it off.
The day after tomorrow, I plan to go to Lammermoor. It will be market day, and I hope the crowd will mean I can shop without attracting attention. I plan to pick up some fashion and interiors magazines to feed my own creativity, along with a gardening book. I need to know what I’m doing before I inflict my wisdom on anyone else.
The garden of Lammermoor house will be my lab, a place to experiment and a source of ideas and images for gardening tips, just as the house has provided a backdrop for my fashion photographs.
It will need more than a few months to get this off the ground, though. I will have to see Val to see if my lease can be extended. Given the low rent I am paying, the owner probably has plans to develop it.
I am not hopeful that the new owner will agree for me to stay on but I will ask, nonetheless.
As a nebulous future takes form in my mind, I latch on to it. It is so easy to grab at the new and the shiny, to let it consume me so I do not have to think of the failures of my past. But even as I am snatching at it, I fear that this time is different because this time I have not simply left behind a mess but my heart.
Can I simply skip off towards a new dawn, leaving Marc broken, and myself still incomplete? Once upon a time, I’m sure I would not have looked back. Now I’m not so certain.
June last year …