After the Blues

by Kathy Lette

  You all dive into an Olympic pool of self-pity. Wallow. Polish off the giant packet of CC’s between you. ‘Oh well,’ you tell the others, ‘at least we know now what to do in those boring moments. Flex those vaginal muscles! Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two …’

  Julia’s love interest finally turns up. As the dungaree-clad figure flops onto the grass beside me, my heart lurches up into my mouth, rendering me momentarily speechless.

  ‘Deb?! Oh my God. Is that really you? I can’t believe it. I kept hoping I’d run into you one day,’ Sarah exclaims. ‘It’s been so bloody long.’

  ‘Has it? I didn’t notice … How time flies when you’re suicidal,’ I recover quickly.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry … about the whole Garry thing. It was a terrible accident.’

  ‘You guys know each other?’ Julia asks, amazed.

  ‘We were best friends,’ Sarah explains.

  My lips feel numb with shock, but they seem to be making shapes as words are coming out. ‘So, where did you go after Byron?’

  ‘Hippie commune up north, near Nimbin.’

  ‘How was that, being a hairy-legged tree hugger?’

  ‘Let’s just say that I used to believe in karma, but that was in a past life.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I think I know you from a past life … and you owe me a hundred bucks,’ I joke to cover up my bewildered astonishment.

  ‘I know what I do owe you – an apology. God I’ve missed you. I’ve missed just mucking around, the way we always did. We were so in sync. I always knew what you were thinking before you even said it.’

  ‘Well, then. I’m sorry you had to hear that.’

  ‘Ha ha. You see, that’s what I’ve missed – your daggy sense of humour. Don’t be mad with me anymore. Please Deb. It was a terrible, horrible mistake. And I’ve paid the penalty, being banished into social Siberia for all this time … I mean, I’ve been living in Adelaide for God’s sake.’

  When I discovered my best pal fucking my boyfriend, I’d fantasised about revenge tactics – sneaking into her house and turning her bathroom scales up by half a stone, secretly applying Nair hair remover to her mascara wand, smearing Tiger Balm on her panty liners … When I’d woken up to see Sarah and Garry screwing, it had given me enough chips on my shoulder to open a casino. For years the only way I could soothe my anxieties was to simply bury my face in a pillow and scream.

  But now that I saw her, just sitting there next to me, all I felt was love.

  Good girlfriends have an emotional patois only they can understand. We can speak fluently to each other only using our eyes. A few cold beers later, Sarah and I were howling with laughter loud enough to be heard in one of those base camps in Antarctica.

  The brekkie

  Laugh and laugh as dawn breaks. Link arms with Sarah and Julia. Kerrie says she has a bad case of the ‘Zacclies’ – ‘When your mouth tastes zacclie like your arsehole.’

  High heels in hand, you all walk down the grassy slope by the art gallery, then wander along the docks at Woolloomooloo, waving at sailors and looking into the shop windows full of Santa Clauses in swimming costumes still there from Christmas, then up the steep sandstone steps to Kings Cross, where the neon Coca-Cola sign blinks neurotically night and day. Watch the dawn from the top of the Cross, sucking on the last of the tinnies. Buoyed up with camaraderie, you drink to ‘success’. Inoculated with ambition, you make a pact. Yours is a burping- and bootie-free zone. Drink a toast to careers, not creches. To boardrooms, not babies’ bottoms. To feminist independence, not domestic slavery.

  ‘Never will our vocabularies be limited to “Elbows off the table; Don’t pull a face, the wind might change”,’ Ro exclaims.

  You agree to a ban on domesticity. Never will you knit anything other than your eyebrows. Never, ever, ever.

  Ooze with the confidence of being young, strong women in a young, strong country. Be thankful for having all the benefits of feminism but none of the battle scars. Slap each other on the back for being lucky enough to live in the age of Options.

  It’s breakfast at the Bourbon and Beefsteak, yawning into cups of black coffee. You suddenly feel flat. The tide’s gone out in your tummy. It crosses what’s left of your mind that maybe Soula’s right – maybe you will end up selfish and lonely, living in a vacuum. So much for the age of Options. The only thing you’ve decided is that you can’t decide. You feel a passing nostalgia for the good, old-fashioned, uncomplicated days of your mum’s pre-pill generation, when you knew you wanted a kid one day, sure, but didn’t have to plan and schedule it – you just got up the duff without doing it on purpose. Silently brood over the attractions of breeding: a cleavage, for one. And amusement for another. Kids are such great philosophisers, plus they never drop round at midnight to whinge about their de-facto troubles, or try to talk you into Scientology or EST courses.

  Sitting round the table waiting to order, we’re serious, 80s female sophisticates. The waiter hovers. We immediately fire out requests – hash browns, croissants, ham and tomato omelettes …

  ‘That’s what’s so good about our generation,’ Julia lectures, menu tucked neatly underneath her teapot. ‘We’re decisive. No faint-hearted, gutless vacillation for us!’

  ‘How would you like your eggs?’ the waiter asks me.

  Rationalise to yourself that car salesmen are not genetic, but created by their environment. Besides, it really does depend on the type of car. Second-hand panel vans? No way. But imported Porsches?

  ‘Lady?’

  Shrug. Look sheepish. Tell him ‘fertilised’.

  Kerrie chokes, spluttering orange juice all over Soula, who begins frantic frock-mopping. Sarah’s chortle starts a chain reaction. Kerrie’s cackle is contagious, setting Cheryl off. Ro is now delirious. Julia’s stern lips start to crease. Our laughter finally subsides to a wheeze.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Soula asks.

  This sets you all off again. You’re laughing at each other’s laughs, pointing fingers, clutching abdomens, choking, convulsed, mouths wide open, holding each other up, dizzy with delight, laughing and laughing, thrilled and aghast at your own hypocrisy.

  Epilogue: Letter to my teenage self

  Dear teenage self,

  God, apparently as a prank, devised two sexes and called them ‘opposite’. If I could have my teen years over again, I wouldn’t spend so much time angsting about what the male of the species thought of me. I would understand that the reason men like intelligent women is because opposites attract.

  Okay, okay, it’s not true of all blokes, but it is a pretty accurate description of teenage boys. What excites the average teenage male is food, footy and Pornhub. The trouble is, teenage girls get all excited about nothing … and then we fall in love with him. In hindsight, a lot of teenage relationships break up for religious reasons – he thinks he’s a God and well, she just doesn’t. Oh yes, love may be blind, but dating is a real eye-opener. To save you from broken hearts, broken plates and divorce lawyer bills, let me share with you what I wish I’d known about men when I was seventeen.

  Don’t fall for a bloke because he’s tall, dark and bankable. It’s more important to find a partner who can talk about his feelings – even if it’s just to tell you that he doesn’t have any! After all, wordplay is foreplay for females. (Hey, how else is Woody Allen still getting laid?) Which brings me to sex.

  Unless crossed, the female of the species tends towards fidelity and constancy. There are a few species where the male stays faithful until he dies – but mostly as a result of being eaten by his partner after mating. I wish I’d known as a teenager how to spot the males likely to go straight from puberty to adultery. A good start is to work out up front if you have the same understanding of the word ‘commitment’. Then I wouldn’t have wasted two years with a musician who didn’t want love, marriage and happy-ever-afters. No, he thought ‘commitment’ meant a ‘meaningful’ one-night stand – preferably with seven bisexual hookers. This type of male should b
e evaded with same zest you’d avoid a venereal disease.

  On the rebound, I went on so many blind dates I should have been given a free dog. And what I learned from this is that it’s imperative to find out before a date if you have similar ideas on how to impress a member of the opposite sex. Most women respond to tenderness, intelligence, trust and devotion. Many immature males, however, are only impressed if you:

  a) turn up naked,

  b) bring a naked, double-jointed supermodel who owns a brewery and has an open-minded twin sister, and

  c) wrestle in mud.

  Do not waste a nanosecond of time on such selfish blokes. If a man makes too many demands it’s clear that he keeps fit by doing step aerobics off his own ego. Put it this way: when he comes, he’ll call out his own name.

  A very good sign that a man has partner potential is if he puts your sexual satisfaction before his own. Hey, a smart bloke knows that this is in his own interest. The happier a woman is in bed, the more often she’ll want to be there, right? Unfortunately there are way too many fellas who think that the Kama Sutra is an Indian takeaway. If your paramour persists in this attitude, may I suggest you adopt the ‘doggy position’… This is where he begs, and you just roll over and play dead.

  And the most important lesson I wish I could tell my teenage self is to never ever delude yourself into thinking you can change a man. The only time a female can successfully change a male of the species is out of a nappy, when they are a baby.

  I also wish I’d known that you should never put a man on a pedestal. Not only will you get covered in bird poop, but it’s so hard to make love on a pedestal.

  In truth, the only quality a woman should look for is a man who is perfect enough to understand why she’s not. And, teenage self, you will meet many kind and clever men who’ll love and encourage you, so don’t make do with second-best.

  So, teen queen, another issue I wanted to raise is that, you won’t have realised this, kiddo, but you’ve been taken hostage by your hormones. The truanting, the tantrums, the shoplifting, the sulking and the sleeping-in are boring. So, be nice to your mum who is putting up with this crap. No woman should have to go through menopause and teach her kid to drive in the same month. That can just never, ever work. You’ll have your own kids one day and believe me, you’ll feel guilty then about your eye-rolling sarcasm.

  And then there’s your dress sense. Dear sixteen-year-old self, your mum is right about lowering your hems. Your dresses are so short I’m not worried about people being able to see your pants – I’m worried they’ll see you ovulating. A sequined boob tube and micro-mini is a look which doesn’t quite come off, but definitely gives the impression that it will later – for the entire band!

  Finally, but most importantly of all, take heed of these words of wisdom – boyfriends come and go, but your girlfriends last forever. And never forget the golden rule: your female friends are your human Wonderbras – uplifting, supportive and making you look bigger and better. And you’d be totally flat without them. Do you know why it’s called a wonder bra? Because when you take it off, you wonder where the hell your tits went. Don’t ever wonder where your girlfriends have gone. Keep them close always.

  So that’s it really. Pursue your career dreams, stand on your own two thongs financially and emotionally and never wait to be rescued by some knight in shining Armani.

  And for God’s sake, have fun. It’s a man’s world. Even though I’m writing this in 2017, women still don’t have equal pay and we’re getting concussion hitting our heads on the glass ceiling – plus, we’re still supposed to clean it while we’re up there. Sexism is innate in the language. A man who’s dynamic at work is a ‘go-getter’, ‘strong and dependable’, ‘leadership material’… A woman with the same strengths is a ‘bitch’, a ‘ballbreaker’, ‘ambitious’ and ‘pushy.’

  The same double standards apply when it comes to attitudes to sex. A man who is sexually active is a ‘love god’, a ‘Romeo’, a ‘stud muffin’, a ‘spunkrat’… A woman with the same sexual appetites is a ‘slut’, a ‘tramp’, ‘skank’, a ‘moll.’

  Even in this progressive millennium, men still expect a woman to be so virginal. The man is like, ‘Oh darling, darling, am I the first man to make love to you?’ To which the woman replies, ‘Of course … I don’t know why you men keep asking the same silly question!’

  So go forth, teenage self, and be feminist, funny, fierce and fabulous. And always remember what Eleanor Roosevelt said – no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

  Don’t consent. Not ever.

  Love from your older, middle-aged self.

  Oh, and P.S., most important of all, wear sunblock. And never, ever get a melanoma called Bruce.

  Acknowledgements

  This book’s mantra is that your female friends are your human Wonderbras – uplifting, supportive and making each other look bigger and better. I am blessed with the friendship of so many inspiring and wonderful women, but I’d like to give special thanks to a few.

  To my dearest sisters, Jenny, Liz and Cara – thanks for all the love and laughter.

  And to my warm, wise and witty Mum – thanks for giving me the greatest gift possible – three sensational sisters.

  For my darling daughter, Georgie, you enrich my life every day. I could not be more proud of you.

  My most treasured group of girlfriends need a big vote of thanks too. We’ve been mates for nearly forty years. (We’re called ‘The Girts’, as our home is girt by sea). To Jean Kittson, Susie Carleton, Alison Magney, Jenny Bott, Emily Booker, Angela Bowne and most of all, my best friend, Catherine Dovey – thanks for all the joy and jokes, the loving camaraderie and delicious cuisine on all our many raucous girls’ nights in. (Catherine made us stop going out as we were just too noisy.)

  To the Campbell clan – Nell, Ruth, Cressie, Sally and Tilly – what would Sydney be without you? Love our girlie gatherings.

  To my old surfie girlfriends and schoolmates, most of whom I met cross-legged on the mat in kindy – Louise, Tracey, Debbie, both Gails, Toni, Marcia, Lisa and Sue – how great that we are still mates.

  To my editors, Meredith Curnow and Kathryn Knight, thanks for applying the editorial defibrillator to this little tome. I loved working with you both. And to Karen Reid – as ever, you’re the best.

  And there’s a few blokes to thank too, Brian O’Doherty, my muse, Patrick Cook, my amuse, and Jules Robertson, my darling son. Some of the characters in this book first found life in a play I penned in my early twenties for the Sydney Festival, called Wet Dreams. So thanks also to the director, Lex Marinos, for inspiring me to try my hand at dialogue all those decades ago.

  Thanks also to my brilliant libel lawyers, Patrick George and Rebekah Giles at Kennedys, two legal eagles poised to swoop to my rescue at a moment’s notice. And to the other lawyer in my life, thanks also to Geoff Robertson, for all your encouragement through the years.

  So, what next? As my literary life started with Puberty Blues, perhaps I should bookend my career with Menopause Blues? It’ll have all the same angsty humour and hilarity, except with wrinkles instead of pimples. What do you think, girls? Let’s have a Girls’ Night Out, to discuss.

  About the author

  KATHY LETTE is a celebrated and outspoken comic writer who has an inimitable take on serious current issues. She is one of the pioneering voices of contemporary feminism, paving the way for writers like Caitlin Moran and Lena Dunham.

  She first achieved succès de scandale as a teenager with the novel Puberty Blues, which was made into a major film and a TV miniseries. After several years as a newspaper columnist and TV sitcom writer in America and Australia, she’s written thirteen internationally bestselling novels in her characteristic witty voice, including Mad Cows (made into a film starring Joanna Lumley), How to Kill Your Husband (And Other Handy Household Hints), which was staged by the Victorian Opera, The Boy Who Fell to Earth and Best Laid Plans (soon to be adapted for TV by Frema
ntle). She is known for her regular appearances on BBC and Sky news programs. She is an ambassador for Women and Children First, Plan International and the National Autistic Society.

  Kathy lives in London with her two children, and can often be found at The Savoy drinking a cocktail named after her. Kathy is an autodidact (a word she taught herself), but received honorary doctorates from Southampton Solent University and Wollongong University, and a senior fellowship from Regent’s College, London.

  Visit her website at www.kathylette.com to read her hilarious blog, and find her on Twitter @KathyLette and Facebook/KathyLetteAuthor.

  Also by Kathy Lette

  Best Laid Plans

  Courting Trouble

  The Boy Who Fell to Earth

  Love is Blind (But Marriage is a Real Eye Opener)

  How to Kill Your Husband (And Other Handy Household Hints)

  Nip ’n’ Tuck

  Dead Sexy

  Altar Ego

  Mad Cows

  Foetal Attraction

  Men: A user’s guide

  To Love, Honour and Betray (Till Divorce Do Us Part)

  Hit and Ms

  The Llama Parlour

  Puberty Blues (co-author)

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