by Cate Kendall
Society decided the beautiful model Ellie Fitzpatrick had married down in the looks department, and way up in the finance department. But Ellie had ignored the whispers. Sure, Bryce was no oil painting with his thinning hair, expanding waist and large nose, but Ellie saw so much more. So much, in fact, that she was happy to leave her successful and high-profile modelling career behind to be with him.
Bryce had swept her around the globe immediately after the wedding on an international adventure of exotic locations, experiences and glamour that lasted eight years until they’d decided to settle back in Australia and start a family.
‘Mmmmmm,’ murmured Bryce and reached out his arms to his wife as she came to prise him out of bed.
She deftly slipped out of his grasp. ‘No you don’t, big guy,’ she smiled. ‘Once a morning is enough for you.’
‘Oh, am I on rations?’
‘You most certainly are. Time for work,’ she said sternly, her eyes laughing.
‘Oh, you’re mean,’ he grumbled, climbing out of bed and staggering into the ensuite. Ellie slipped out of her robe and joined him in the double shower, where his rations were very quickly increased.
A little while later, Ellie contemplated her wardrobe thoughtfully. This was her art – fashion – and her body made the perfect canvas. She had the poise and shape to make any outfit look great.
The Guess jeans and her new little Tommy Hilfiger white top would be just right for today, she decided. She had always had the knack of grabbing any old (designer-label) bag and shoes from her vast collection and by calling it ‘eclectic’ and wearing it with aplomb, she easily got away with it. It was so much less effort than stressing about matching accessories, like her best friend Mim always did.
‘Ursula, I think the school run is just a tad beyond me this morning, love,’ she called down the corridor. ‘Would you be a darling and take them for me please?’
‘Certainly, Mrs Ashcombe,’ Ursula responded. She quickly had the two children dressed, organised and, after farewell cuddles with their parents, in the car headed to school.
Fresh from her regular five-kilometre power walk, Liz stepped into her minimalist foyer. She preferred an uncluttered entrance in order to highlight their collection of Australian art. She was particularly proud of the Albert Namatjira piece, which filled the main wall.
She unclipped Strauss, their white standard poodle, and he rushed to his water bowl. She followed him into the kitchen and flicked on the music system that piped classical music throughout the house. It was her gentle way of alerting the children that the day had begun.
Sebastian entered the light-filled room, his long, grey hair messy on his shoulders. His gaze was fixed on the score in his hand and he was muttering to himself.
‘Good morning, darling,’ Liz said brightly as she started to get the breakfast things out. ‘Big night tonight?’
‘Hmmm, what, oh, yes … morning,’ Sebastian said absently as he sat at the bench, continuing to mutter and wave his hand. As second conductor of the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra, Sebastian was preparing for the opening night of a new piece – a tribute to Beethoven – and he was understandably distracted.
Roman entered the kitchen and climbed up onto a stool at the breakfast bar. With his dressing gown tied about his waist, his slippers on and his glasses folded neatly in one hand, he resembled a little old man.
‘Good morning, darling, how was your sleep?’ his mother asked as she started boiling eggs and cooking toast.
‘It was all right but I had a song in my head all night. I think I have to write it down. Have you got a pen?’ he asked, tapping one finger in time to the music in his head.
‘Certainly, darling, here you are.’ She handed him a pen and a sheet of music paper and he started scribbling madly. She stood back and smiled at the sight of her husband and eldest son, bent over side-by-side, immersed in their music.
Hubert ran in and threw himself into his mother’s arms. ‘Mummy,’ he yelled out, his words muffled against his mother’s legs.
‘Hello ragamuffin,’ she said, and gave him a squeeze. ‘Eggs for brekkie?’
‘Mmmmm, yes please,’ he yelped, and clambered up onto the stool in between his father and his brother. He didn’t bother greeting the other two males in the room, he’d learned from experience that they wouldn’t hear him.
Liz doled out four serves of egg and toast and opened the paper to the cultural section. She was hoping to catch a recital at the Windsor Hotel next week and she needed to find the details.
The social pages caught her attention and she looked with distaste at the photo of LJ, with too much make-up and too much wine under her belt. What a nasty piece of work, Liz thought. So NOCD (Not Our Class Darling), as she and the girls said. LJ’s top plunged almost to her navel and her tiny skirt left little to the imagination.
There was a gorgeous photo of darling Ellie too, and she looked as divine as ever. It had been a fun evening. The artist was perhaps not her taste, though. Although she prided herself on being a lover of contemporary art, Liz felt that Dan Dandrews was perhaps still an amateur and yet to develop maturity in his subject choices.
She put the paper away, efficiently stacked the dishes into the Miele dishwasher and removed all evidence of breakfast. The cleaner was coming today and she certainly didn’t want the place to be in a mess.
In her ensuite, Liz removed her navy blue legging track pants and white tee and splashed cold water on her face. Soap and water was the beauty regimen to which Liz attributed her translucent complexion. She never used products on her skin and rarely wore make-up. She twisted her long blonde hair into its trademark chignon and went into the robe to choose her outfit for the day.
Understated elegance was Liz’s traditional look, to the point of almost being a uniform. Most days she teamed tailored trousers with a unique blouse. Today’s choice, however, was a lot more understated than usual.
Slipping on trainers and transferring her wallet, keys, mobile and diary into a basket-weave handbag she walked back into the family area. A testament to contemporary minimalism, low white couches accented by cushions in orange, yellow and red squatted on recycled timber floors. Modern sculptures stood tall in each corner.
The boys squatted at the low timber coffee table, dressed and ready for school. She interrupted their game of chess, ‘You’re all ready then I see. Have you done your homework?’
Neither boy deemed the question worthy of a response and both merely shot her a look of disdain.
‘Of course you have,’ she corrected herself. ‘Okay, in the car then. I guess being ten minutes early to school won’t kill anyone.’
As she followed her two little men down the hall to the garage she couldn’t help but wonder at their seriousness. Of course she was thrilled with their gift for music and academia, what parent wouldn’t be? But sometimes she almost wished they’d muck about a bit more, play in the mud, get dirty. She quickly corrected herself as she reversed the Volvo down the driveway. She was very fortunate to have her boys.
Dropping the mobile into her lap, Mim nudged her way into a parking spot at the front of Langholme Grammar. She grabbed Jack’s autumn project, which was rapidly shedding debris through the car, nagged the boys into their blazers, straightened ties, hastily dabbed at stray cocoa spots on their cheeks and wet their hair with a discreetly licked hand.
‘Mum, gross,’ Jack complained, pulling away.
‘Well we don’t want another uniform demerit, do we? And pull your socks up too. People will think your mother doesn’t care.’
She quickly unstrapped Chloe and, dragging her by the wrist, shepherded the whole bunch toward the entrance just as the final bell sounded.
The Car Park Mafia (CPM) was in its usual spot at the front gate. First to arrive and last to leave, this group of fashion victims never set foot in the school yard or classrooms, yet they always had their over-manicured fingers on the pulse of all the gossip.
The CPM was easily ident
ifiable in their dress code of spiky stilettos and flared designer jeans for school drop-off; Reebok tennis-dress combo for social mornings; or tight Lycra crop tops and bike shorts for meetings with their personal trainers. They were the new money. Footballers’ wives, rock stars’ wives and ex-models past their prime. They flaunted their wealth with flashy accessories. Lashings of gold was a must, but diamonds were the ultimate fashion statement. These chicks were hooked on bling. Ever since the thrill of their first diamond hit, they’d become desperate junkies pursuing the next glittering high.
Body diamonds were the ultimate trip. Their taut midriffs sparkled with them; manicured pinkies dangled dainty rocks, and you could catch a glimpse of the occasional incisor sparkler if you were lucky. Their acrylic nails were a dazzling spectrum of hues and designs, from Hawaiian sunsets to glittering silver shooting stars for special occasions – such as Brownlow night and the Logies.
They had produced offspring only because there was little else to do once the wedding was over. Of course, any evidence of pregnancy had now been erased by the local plastic surgeon – the same guy, coincidentally, who had straightened their noses and homogenised their breasts to an unrealistic 10DD.
Mim bustled past them with a tight smile, feeling their appraising eyes on her back. She wished she’d had time to properly blow-dry her hair this morning. She muttered a quick hello to the Triple Ds (divorced, desperate and dateless), with their bloodshot eyes. The Triple Ds were career divorcées, women who married for money and status, drained their men of money and affection and then headed on to the next conquest. They were jaded, shallow souls who had lost their looks to vodka and the sun. Most of the Triple Ds had started out as nannies, screwing the husband on the sly and eventually making off with him and the house, leaving the wives and kids to sink or swim. Invariably they’d then play happy families for a few years, even producing a kid or two, but they’d soon get bored and move on to bigger bank accounts.
When they weren’t marrying or divorcing, the Triple Ds were popping over to Hong Kong to find shoes small enough for their tiny feet. Their little-girl figures were maintained by careful adherence to a host of eating disorders of which they were inordinately proud. Their expensive manicures did little to disguise the nicotine stains on their fingers, and the litres of French perfume they were doused in never quite covered the smell of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol.
The few lines of coke the Triple Ds snorted every now and then helped them kick-on at all-night parties and still be glassy-eyed and conscious to take the kids to school (once the nanny had them ready). School drop-off was a must-do event each day: a chance to be seen; brag about their latest boozy exploits; and eye off any new prospects among the dads. These creatures of the night then dragged themselves home to bed and the daylight hours of misery when the harsh reality of their empty lives seemed too great to bear. But there was always the night, and the hunt for a new victim to look forward to again.
Having run that particular gauntlet, Mim kissed Jack absently as he headed for his class, and attempted to steer Charley into the Grade One room where another group of mothers barred her entrance. These were the Mothers Superior, a formidable bunch of mothers who made parenting their career. They were self-sacrificing, self-important women who suffered from empty-cot syndrome and now made the school the centre of their lives. Any well-intentioned mums who came to help were quickly shunned by this powerful group, who made life a misery for the teachers. They read all the latest pop-psychology books and education texts and had a better way to do everything. They regularly voiced strong concerns about education styles, parallel learning, discipline and stimulation issues. They relished the challenge of a detailed school note, attended every assembly and supervised every excursion. They invited the reluctant teachers home for dinner, emailed snappy letters of thanks to the principal and ran all the committees.
This was the inner-core of school mums. They always looked right, always finished their homework on time, always had a beautifully presented home-baked cake for the fete and knew the ins-and-outs of all the school families. A huge team of nannies, au pairs, housekeepers, personal assistants and lifestyle coaches worked behind the scenes to give their lives the façade of seamless perfection.
‘Late again Mim?’ said Hortense Mathews, a longstanding member of the Mothers Superior.
Hortense was originally from Surrey, England, and despite having moved to Melbourne when she was eight years old she had maintained her plummy accent, which resulted in a most disconcerting affectation. She had a horse’s laugh and a face to go with it, and the entire package had Ellie and Mim convinced that she thought she was actually Princess Anne. None of the teaching staff was excluded in her determination to impress. The senior and junior school headmasters had both learned to look busy whenever she approached, to avoid her waxing lyrical on what a wonderful educational institution Langholme Grammar was.
‘Slept in, did you, darling?’
Mim acknowledged them with a brief smile as she edged past the tight-knit group, but determinedly ignored the question.
The women slid their eyes over Mim, registered her hair, shoes, outfit and (thank God) professionally applied mascara. They avoided full eye-contact, however, and subtly angled their bodies away from her as she passed.
Mim popped her head into Charley’s class and mouthed a silent ‘sorry’ to Mrs Keith, who nodded sternly at her.
Hurriedly unpacking Charley’s bag by the door she rummaged through the flotsam of contents. ‘Charley, where’s your reader?’ she asked frantically.
‘I dunno,’ he mumbled.
‘I put it in your bag, where is it now? Did you take it out in the car?’
‘Oh yeah, that’s right, I took it out so I could look for my PSP.’
Mim stamped her foot in annoyance. ‘Why can’t you be more responsible, Charley? Stay here in the corridor with Chloe and I’ll get it.’ She stormed off back to the car in irritation, and once again ran the gauntlet of the CPM.
‘Love those jeans,’ LJ Mahoney said, still smarting from seeing Mim’s best friend Ellie trump her in the publicity stakes. ‘They look fab on you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mim, surprised.
‘Yeah, I wore mine to death – last season.’ The stick insect took a satisfying pull on a fag and smirked at her clan.
Mim hurried away and almost threw Charley’s reader into the circle of Mothers Superior, who were set for action in the corridor. They wore holier-than-thou expressions of patience and tolerance and held big red pens for marking mistakes.
‘Forgot our reader, did we, Mim?’ one mum said, smiling at her nastily.
‘Actually, Charley forgot it,’ she spat back. ‘Where’s Chloe, Charley?’
‘She went into the playground,’ he said, one finger searching keenly in his nostril.
‘Stop that, and get into class.’ Mim pushed him toward the door and then, remembering, added: ‘I love you; you’re special and unique, make good choices today’.
‘Reading today, Mim?’ asked Mother Superior Mary, lifting her perfectly shaped eyebrows and making not a crease in her botoxed forehead.
‘Oh, sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to put together a proposal for a new client.’ Thank God she had work for an excuse.
‘Shame. You always seem to be so busy these days, Mim. We miss your input into the literacy program. It’s so important for the children to have parental support in their educational endeavours, don’t you think?’
Guilt nibbled at Mim. She had helped out in first term, but the sheer boredom of listening to kids stumble helplessly over words had been more than she could bear.
‘I’ll see what I can do next week,’ she offered weakly.
Christ, she thought to herself as she escaped into the autumn sunshine, I hope Charley and Jack like this place better than I do. I can’t stand to be here for more than a few minutes.
The disloyalty of the thought startled her. After all, this was one of the country’s best juni
or schools, and the boys had been enrolled when they were still just foetuses.
And the bloody fees could probably go a long way to reducing Third World debt too, Mim thought grimly. Shame it was such a bloody awful place to spend time.
She found Chloe drenched from the drinking taps. ‘Come on,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Time for kinder.’
She dried the child as much as possible with the beautiful Armani towel that had somehow been relegated to car towel, and pulled out of the car park behind the other shiny black European SUVs.
Chloe’s Reggio Emilia kindergarten, TJs (Toorak Juniors), had originally been a Victorian cottage. Mim loved the fairytale cuteness of the place. The storybook feel of the centre had remained even after extensive renovations. Vibrant red geraniums spilled from the timber window boxes and with the picket fence and white shutters it wasn’t inconceivable that the three bears were on the other side of the little red front door grousing about the temperature of their porridge.
Mim led Chloe into the front foyer, which opened on to a roaring fire flanked by mini armchairs and a mini couch. Perry, the centre’s vivacious director, greeted all parents and children personally with warmth and smiles and the stark contrast to the boys’ school was not lost on Mim.
‘Good morning, Mim,’ smiled Perry, ‘and good morning to you too, Chloe, are you both well today?’
‘Yes thanks, Perry, good weekend? Did you go boot-scooting?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ replied Perry, with a quick little two-step, hands on hips. ‘It was so much fun, I just love it!’
‘It sounds great. I’ll have to find out more about it from you one day.’
Perry’s much-loved teddy bear collection smiled benevolently down at the trio from every shelf and bookcase. ‘I’d love to chat right now, but today I’m going on the Phar Lap excursion,’ she said with a smile. ‘The children decided they were really into horses, so we’ve extended their interest. Ellie’s actually volunteered to drop off their pony Dumpling for an afternoon – won’t that be exciting!’