by Cate Kendall
‘DAMN!’ she cried out and looked up at her group of friends. ‘That was Cliff, he’s cancelled on me again! That’s the third time this week. I’m going to have to deal with his parents by myself!’
As each of her friends murmured words of sympathy to Tiffany there was no longer any doubt in their minds.
Cliff was clearly having an affair.
September 1998
Half-wits and morons – that’s what I have to deal with, Liz thought in exasperation as she bustled along the high-ceilinged hall of their newly-built modern, streamlined home. Good Lord, what a day she was having already. Why could nothing go right? What with the nanny whingeing about baby Roman keeping her up at night and the nightmare of their move a few weeks ago, it was all too much. No matter how hard Liz supervised the cleaning team, removalists and unpacking specialists, none of them could get anything the way she wanted it. No wonder people in the suburbs did things for themselves, she thought wryly, as one of the little men from Moveurs – the unpacking firm – placed her objet d’art in completely the wrong light yet again.
And tonight she’d decided to host a small soiree, just a casual get-together for the other mothers she’d just met last month at the upmarket private hospital where seafood, fine wine and vaginal bypass (aka caesarean) were all on the menu.
She’d met a few of the other mothers at the postnatal manicure morning provided by the hospital and, deciding it was never too soon to start acquiring the right sorts of playmates for her newborn, had planned tonight’s dinner. Parchment-printed invitations had been sent out with spearmint-coloured teddies in cute boxes to some of the most promising prospects. That lovely Mim Woolcott who had been so friendly in the maternity ward, and Monique, whose husband ran the family business importing bottled water from Europe and seemed to do very well out of it.
She wasn’t quite sure about that Ellie, married well, of course, and the figure had snapped back almost immediately post-birth – naturally can you believe? But there was something a bit flashy about her that Liz couldn’t put her finger on.
Tiffany had amused the women greatly because she had chosen the birthing facility largely for its comfortable approach to cosmetic caesareans – after the money she’d spent on labioplasty to acquire a designer vagina she was hardly going to have it mashed out of shape by giving birth the old-fashioned way, thank you very much. Liz didn’t hold out much hope that she’d become close friends with the woman – her idea of classical music was ‘Hooked on Classics’, for heaven’s sake. However, she had invited her and her husband Cliff as the other women seemed fond of her.
With the plans made, invitations sent and caterers booked, Liz was hoping for a smooth day, but so far it had been a nightmare. She fiddled nervously with her three-carat brilliant-cut diamond ring and tried to blot out Roman’s wails from the nursery.
The front doorbell rang and she opened the grand, timber and opaque-glass door by its long, stainless silver handle and tutted to find the caterer standing there.
‘Yes, hello, I’m glad you’ve finally arrived,’ she said to the young woman obscured by a huge load of foil trays. ‘I did make it clear to your company, however, that I expected you to unload your van at the service entrance around the back.’
‘Oh, I am sorry, I didn’t get that message,’ the girl said with an exasperated sigh. ‘While I’m here, do you think I could drop this lot off and I’ll drive the van around the back for the rest of the unloading? It’s just that it’s very heavy.’
‘You’ll find the rear entrance is off Sandford Lane,’ Liz replied, closing the door firmly in the girls’ face.
She immediately regretted being so rude, but it had been one hell of a day. Her exclusive dry-cleaners had not managed to clean and press her Dior silk blouse by this morning, which meant she’d have to send someone back there to pick it up this afternoon, and if they didn’t have it done by then, well, she may as well call the whole evening off. The blouse, in its gentle taupe, was the centrepoint of the evening’s colour scheme, and nothing else in her several wardrobes would suffice.
Then the florist had phoned, to explain they didn’t have any of the Stella roses in the beige that matched the dining room and her outfit perfectly – they only had white. White, honestly!
Experience told Liz not to depend on Sebastian – these creative types found it so hard to live by a schedule, so she’d booked a waiter through Dial-an-Angel. It was too much to expect that Liz could also pour guests’ drinks. She’d be flat-out mingling, making small-talk and supervising the catering staff as it was. She was only one woman after all. And then, just to put the icing on the cake, she’d broken a nail. Really, what more could life throw at her today? Her eyes filled with tears as she surveyed the torn cuticle. I mean honestly: this morning, ten perfectly manicured fingers, and now this. She wondered if Larissa would make a house call, after all it was an emergency.
Her eyes scanned the room for faults, alighting on the timber Indigenous sculpture inside the front door. She sighed heavily as she noticed the dust resting on it. She must get Lenore on to that when she’d finished polishing the cutlery.
She glanced anxiously into the formal dining room. The Minotti glass-topped table and steel chairs had been shipped from Italy, arriving only days earlier. It had been an extravagance, but the gallery-style dining room was a space that afforded such a striking piece.
She sped her way back to the kitchen and pressed the garage door remote to allow the caterer entry through the rear four-car garage when the front doorbell summoned her again. She nearly screamed in exasperation. If that bloody florist has had the nerve to come to the front door I’ll spit, she fumed, retracing her steps, her Chanel loafers muffled by the Persian runner.
She flung open the front door, ready to snap, but was caught off-guard by the bizarre sight that greeted her. A hideous-looking creature stood there, startling blue eyes peering up at her through a horrifying wild nest of black hair.
‘Yes?’ she said officiously, immediately relieved that it was clearly nothing that concerned her. The child had obviously got lost or come begging, though one would have thought the council would have taken better care with such things.
The creature simply stood and stared. Her jaw dropped open, then closed.
‘Yes, whatever is it? I am a very busy woman.’
‘Are you Elizabeth Munroe?’
‘Yes, I am, what can I help you with?’ Liz was getting very impatient and folded her arms in front of her, contemplating a glare – although tempting fate for future wrinkles, it could well be worth the cost in this situation.
The child paused and then said, ‘Were you Elizabeth Hepburn?’
‘Yes, I was,’ said Liz suspiciously. ‘What’s going on here?’ The stench from the child was starting to seep into the front hall and an odour issue was the last thing Liz needed today.
The phone began trilling and she just knew that it was that damn florist with another excuse, and she really had to get a wriggle on if she was going to apply a face-mask before the evening’s function.
The girl anxiously looked past Liz and into the house within. She took in the stark interior and warehouse-style foyer. Her eyes followed the clean lines of the sweeping staircase up to the second floor.
‘Look, child, if you want money I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place,’ Liz said, shooing her off the front step in frustration. ‘I’m not in the habit of making doorstop donations to beggars. Now please leave.’ She moved to shut the door.
The girl, who had recoiled at Liz’s words as if she’d been slapped, stepped forward, took a deep breath, shook her dreadlocks from her face and said:
‘I am Mikaylah Boomhauer. I am your daughter.’
September 1998
Liz paled. Her manicured hand, the one with the five perfect nails, fluttered to her pearl choker. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, then opened it, but could only manage a sharp intake of air.
Mikaylah stood trembling,
frightened she might black out at any moment. She’d rehearsed this moment many times on the long hitchhike from Moe, but the reality of it was much more intense than she could have imagined.
Liz’s mind was blank, empty, groping for information, for a way to process this scenario.
Then it was full, buzzing and spinning wildly.
Oh God, it was true. Well of course it was true. It’s just that, well, she’d buried it so deep, almost convinced herself that it had never happened, but it must have, because the proof apparently now stood on her doorstep.
She’d worked so hard to seal over the damage from her hideous mistake fifteen years ago and moved on – fast. Her life had been full and busy – and, well, perfect, really. How dare this dirty child turn up and spoil everything she’d worked so hard for.
Liz felt her world slipping out of her grasp: her marriage, child, lifestyle, the reputation she’d fought so hard to maintain. No way was she going back, she would not go back to that awful time when everything was so ugly and hard.
Girls from the exclusive Catholic school, St Bernadette’s, just didn’t go and get themselves knocked up. It was not the done thing. Most of the junior-school girls still believed in the Immaculate Conception, for goodness’ sake. And the senior school girls, although they knew better, would hardly have dreamed of squandering their virginity before marriage. An intact hymen was a valuable bargaining chip into the best families.
In particular, one should not be deflowered by the gardener – no matter how green his thumb.
But to fifteen-year-old Elizabeth, succumbing to the masculine charms of Thomas was irresistible. An only child whose parents were often on extended overseas work commitments, the impressionable teen was attention-starved and ripe for the picking that summer. Her lonely hours led her to the garden, where she soon struck up conversation with Thomas, only two years her senior. At first she had hung around watching him work, but eventually she was compelled to kneel beside him in the dirt as he tenderly bedded seedlings and whipped unruly weeds into submission.
He ignited a passion for literature within her, recommending the books that would always remind her of that summer; Hamlet, Catcher in the Rye and Moby Dick. Her intrigue with his large dark forearms and torn denims, his clear laughing green eyes and shock of unruly hair, was only heightened by his obvious love for and knowledge of books.
The day of her sixteenth birthday simmered with languid heat, which had her glowing with sweat before she even stepped from her bed. She showered and put on a bikini top and denim cut-offs and went to find him.
Possibility buzzed in the air, and now, officially a year older, Elizabeth felt emboldened, as if she might just do anything today. She slapped away a mosquito that was droning lazily around her long, tan legs and searched for Thomas in her mother’s rose garden, where the David Austins were already swollen and drunk with heat.
He worked quietly and efficiently, snipping the best blooms for the house. Choosing huge cabbage-like heads in pinks and mauves musky with perfume. His calloused fingers held each bloom tenderly as his secateurs snapped the woody stems of the roses. She watched as he carried a fragrant armful into a shaded gazebo to keep the blooms cool.
Elizabeth followed him. And soon the heady perfume of roses and summer-sounds of clicking sprinklers, strumming crickets and children shrieking in a neighbour’s pool formed a gentle backdrop to their love-making.
She went to him eight weeks later. His hands were grimy with fertiliser, his face masked when she told him her news.
‘Our love can survive this,’ she smiled at him, caught up in the tragedy and romance of the moment. She clutched her battered copy of Romeo and Juliet to her heart and swore, with teenage naivety, to run away with him, to leave this ‘shallow world’ and be with him forever.
His eyes above the mask were still and shuttered. But he smiled his slow grin, kissed her cheek and told her that he loved her.
Her parents were annoyed when they discovered that their gardener had walked off the job without a word, but they quickly found a new boy and life returned to normal.
But something ended for Elizabeth; there in the garden, something died amongst the weeds and the compost.
Too stunned to even think clearly for several weeks, and still holding to some faint hope that he had simply gone ahead to set up their new life and would contact her soon, Elizabeth was too far gone by the time she confessed the truth to her family. She spoke from somewhere far away from her body, somewhere a long distance from her father’s shouts and her mother’s slap. They couldn’t touch her – neither they, nor the child blithely growing inside her, ignorant of how unwanted it was.
Elizabeth was sent away until her ‘little problem’ resolved itself. Her parents publicly announced a six-month stint in a European ‘finishing school’, anxious of the need to keep up appearances.
They’d called her Liz at the unwed mothers’ hostel and the name had stuck. When she came back she insisted everyone adopt the more casual address. Elizabeth was gone. That name had been extinguished with the hopes of the innocent girl who’d believed the romance of the classics was possible; who’d believed true love was possible. She’d been pregnant, given birth and given the baby away in a tidy, sanitised manner and now it was time to knuckle down to her studies and let those vulnerable parts of her heal over forever, lest she be hurt again.
She would never again forget that there was no stronger force in the world than the expectations of society.
‘Look, I just don’t have time for this,’ was all Liz could splutter.
Mikaylah’s pale face turned even whiter and then quickly went red as she was suffused with anger, disappointment and confusion. It wasn’t like she’d expected this strange woman to wrap her into her arms or anything, but to be dismissed like some kind of annoying bug was too much. She wanted to scream at the woman, to lash out at her, to just crawl up and die with humiliation on the spot.
She did none of these things. Instead she turned around and ran down the sweeping driveway.
A tiny, buried seed of compassion uncurled itself from Liz’s core and rushed up into her consciousness.
‘Wait!’ she called out, and ran down the front steps after the child. She rushed into the street and wildly turned left and then right, but the black-clad figure had disappeared.
She stood there by the kerb in stunned silence, staring at nothing, numb of mind.
The sound of next-door’s garage door opening stirred her.
‘Oh goodness, what will the neighbours think?’ she murmured, and she turned on her heel and slunk back into the house.
Present Day
Mim was busting. The gurgling of waterfalls and rushing of rivers on the rainforest CD was playing havoc with her bladder. She gripped the edges of the therapy bed and willed herself to be calm; to ignore the demands of her body and to just bloody well relax, for God’s sake. James would be home tonight in time for the school fete and she wanted to be buffed and shiny – and hopefully reasonably serene – for his return.
It had been two weeks since her last visit to Moi, her favourite St Kilda day spa, and knowing how stressed she’d be after a week of single parenting she’d planned this visit well in advance. Not to mention how bristly certain parts of her had become in the past fortnight.
Her regular Moi visits were usually sublime. Hardly an indulgence, she reassured herself, but a necessity for maintaining her wellbeing and body-hair-free status.
As she headed toward her forties she appreciated more and more the benefits of a good ear-candling or lymphatic drainage to manage stress and sagging skin tone. But today nothing seemed to be working. Lying tense and naked under a towel, she wished she’d listened to Ellie and Tiffany and got a nanny in to help out while James was away. She’d had too many freelance projects on deadlines, too much going on with Sophie’s party, the fete and the production to manage the children and the house alone.
Not that James was home much when he was in the count
ry, but she had to admit he was a great dad and would play and romp with the children while she got dinner underway or take over the bedtime routine so she could hide out in the office.
After a week of juggling alone she was a frazzled mess incapable of relaxation.
‘Now, Mrs Woolcott,’ crooned the sleek beauty therapist with tattooed eyebrows as she swept into the room, ‘we’re grinding our teeth again.’
Are we? Mim thought. I know I am, but you seem just fine, pet.
The therapist dipped an applicator into the hot wax and began spreading it on Mim’s legs. Giving up on the fight for calm, Mim tried to distract herself as layers of wax, hair and skin were shredded from her body.
No pain, no gain, she reminded herself as the therapist moved on to Mim’s more delicate regions. Suffering for beauty was a small compromise at her age, she figured, fighting the urge to shriek as a particularly sensitive area was stripped.
With the wax treatment over, she tried again to relax as the therapist began rubbing granules of desert-salt and oil into every inch of Mim’s body to stimulate circulation, drain toxins from her lymphatic system and leave her skin exfoliated and glowing. A day at Moi could be like stepping back to the womb. From the tranquil sari-clad girls at the front desk to the comfortable day beds and herbal teas in the waiting rooms; the entire experience was usually very special. But not today. Mim had salt in her mouth and oil dripping in her eyes. She spat delicately, hoping the therapist wouldn’t notice.
She tried to clear her mind, but instead found herself thinking, God, my pores are huge. What happened there? she wondered, staring at the mirror above her. Where did the peaches-and-cream look go? Now I’m more ‘pizza-with-the-lot’.
The young therapist interrupted her thoughts as if reading her mind, ‘You have lovely skin … for your age,’ she smiled.