Gucci Mamas

by Cate Kendall

  The principal moved on but the little girl ran back, obviously taken with LJ, and tugged at her sleeve. The transformation was striking, Mim thought in shock. LJ stared down her nose in disgust and pulled her arm from the child. The little girl, in confusion, forgot what she wanted to say and ran back, face crumpling, to her father.

  Mim closed her eyes and prayed for strength as she noted her stall was in fact the trio’s target. She plastered a smile onto her face as they approached. ‘Morning, LJ,’ she said as brightly as she could, over the heads of the customers.

  LJ had been bitter since failing in her bid to wrest the coffee stall from Mim, so had instead decided on a chai-tea latte stall as direct competition. Of course she’d hired a lackey to run it, but Mim had noticed earlier that the teenage girl was more interested in flirting with the older Langholme boys than selling LJ’s wares.

  ‘One skinny double decaf latte with NutraSweet, please, Mim,’ said LJ, pushing her way importantly to the front of the queue, much to the irritation of the other parents.

  ‘Coming right up,’ said Mim. She moved proficiently at the machine and quickly presented LJ with a perfect coffee, complete with ironic love-heart pattern in the foam.

  LJ’s top lip curled up and she peered at the coffee as if it was infested with leeches.

  She tentatively sipped it and looked up with her verdict. ‘Bit weak, Mim. Shame you couldn’t have outsourced like the other gourmet stalls, it would have been so much more professional to have a barista making the coffees.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ smiled Mim, determined not to let LJ wreck her good mood. ‘I felt it was more personal for the mums to be supplying the coffees. How’s the chai-tea latte stall going? Good business?’

  ‘Hmmm, yes, great,’ murmured LJ. ‘We’re just on our way to check on the stall now. Ladies, shall we?’ and she stormed off before Carleen and Melody had a chance to get themselves coffees.

  As the three walked off together LJ hissed, ‘I hate her. She thinks she’s so good, but an espresso machine, how pedestrian! Chai-tea latte is the latest hot drink, doesn’t she know that?’ She continued to mutter about Mim, declaring her outfit ‘naff’ and her hair ‘dull’ as she rounded a corner to see her chai-tea stall unattended. She peered around the back of the tent to find her young stall-keeper with her tongue down the water-polo captain’s throat.

  ‘Adriana!’

  The hapless teen jumped. ‘Oh, sorry, Mrs Mahoney, it’s just that there were no customers and I was having a five-minute break.’

  ‘You’re fired.’ LJ pointed a red finger away from the stall.

  ‘Cool,’ said Adriana, and the two teens grinned and ran hand-in-hand towards the hedge bordering the football oval.

  LJ turned to Carleen and Melody. ‘You’re hired, get your aprons on.’

  The two women knew better than to argue. Anyway, it would be a relief to work the fete rather than trail after LJ all day, so they willingly donned their aprons and started cleaning up the mess Adriana had left.

  LJ had had the chai-tea mix made by a Chinese tea emporium in Little Collins Street, but the mix was too heavy on the cinnamon, and the overwhelming scent of the heated spice was repelling customers. She was fuming. She was determined to beat Mim no matter what it took. She’d hiked the price of her oriental beverage up to a lofty six dollars a cup, hoping that would make it appear more exclusive.

  But with no customers keen on chai tea and a steady swell of caffeine junkies lined up for Mim’s stall, LJ knew it was time for desperate measures. If she was going down, Mim was going with her. Leaving Carleen and Melody waiting for customers, she slipped across the oval toward the school building with just one thought on her mind: sabotage.

  The school’s gleaming commercial kitchen was empty; with the fete largely outsourced it was only needed for storage. Many of the stalls’ supplies were piled up in boxes along the stainless-steel benches.

  LJ snuck around the island bench to ensure she was alone, then sidled over to the walk-in refrigerated room. She pulled open the heavy door and snapped on the light. The shelves were lined with smallgoods, dairy products and a box of meat for the barbecue stall.

  She found her target sitting on the ground: an open box full of bottles of special foaming milk for coffee machines. Smiling evilly to herself, she reached in her pocket for her key chain. The sterling silver unit opened out to reveal several useful tools, including a nail file and a bottle opener. But the small lethal stiletto knife was the one LJ needed today.

  She pulled out the plastic two-litre bottles one by one, and stabbed savagely into each base. Milk began quietly emptying into the waxed cardboard box.

  She stood back and surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. That’ll show that little upstart, she thought, when suddenly she heard the fridge door open. She spun around, preparing for a swift getaway, and came face-to-face with Mim.

  ‘Hello LJ,’ Mim said warily, immediately catching sight of the now milk-filled box. ‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed in horror, while LJ inwardly grinned with joy. ‘What’s happened to your milk?’

  ‘My milk?’ LJ spluttered, ‘What do you mean?’

  Mim, in one stride, reached the site of destruction and flipped over the box lid. Clearly marked in black texta on the top it read ‘CHAI-TEA STALL – LJ’.

  ‘You poor thing! That’s just such rotten luck!’ Mim said in genuine sympathy, not thinking for one minute that LJ would stoop so low.

  She went over to the top shelf at the back of the room and lifted down a large box marked ‘LATTE STALL – MIM’. ‘I’m glad I thought to put mine up out of harm’s way. Probably the year eights, they’re a bugger of a group this year.’

  She carried her box from the kitchen away to her bustling stall, as LJ watched her profits snake from the corner of the box, across the small room and down the drain.

  Mim and Tiffany burst into the ladies’ room at Crown Casino after nimbly skirting the gaggle of fashionistas, minor celebrities and society types who were mingling with intent in the foyer of the Crown’s Palladium ballroom. It was the Child Victims of Landmines Lunch, and Mim and Tiffany needed a chance to check their reflections and swap crowd observations. It was clear that this was the year of the boot – and everyone who was anyone was boasting a pair under the ubiquitous wrap dress. High boots, low boots or ankle boots – boot-mania had obviously struck.

  ‘Thank God I wore my boots!’ said Mim with a sigh of relief, fondly surveying her outstretched leg clad in calf-height pale suede. The boots were teamed with a pale-blue silk wrap dress with a tiny charcoal print that enhanced her neat waist.

  ‘I know! Same here!’ squealed Tiffany, bending down to stroke the chocolate-brown, knee-high footwear that she wore beneath her kimono-style red wrap dress.

  Monique sailed into the ladies’ room, distributing air kisses all round.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ she breathed. ‘I just did two laps of the foyer looking for you and trying to look content with my own company, but I was dying a thousand social deaths out there alone! And I almost wore pumps, can you imagine?’

  Mim and Tiffany burst out laughing.

  ‘Pumps! Monique! Really!’

  ‘Don’t stress, Mim, they were slingbacks,’ Monique assured her, banishing the thought that she was actually suggesting a court shoe this season.

  The women giggled loudly as they touched up their lippy and headed back to the pre-lunch drinks. Snapping up glasses of bubbly from a passing waiter, they found a vantage point to appraise new arrivals above the teeming sea of 500 women pretending to talk among themselves, but who were actually talking about other women, who were talking about them.

  The Mothers’ Group girls were happy to keep together, as none of them really minded each other gazing distractedly over their shoulder mid-chat to subtly scan the room for important faces and questionable fashion. After all, the measure of a successful function was not who sang what, or what was served for lunch: the only true barometer of success or failure
hinged entirely on Who Was There. After that the need-to-know information was: who was she wearing? Where was she sitting? And how close was your table placed to hers? If you were at least five tables away you might as well pack up your Gucci bag and go home because you were clearly a social failure. If, however, you were a mere two-to-three tables away, then you could bask in the glow of social acceptance.

  Monique lifted her champagne flute to mask her lips as she passed comment on a nearby fashion victim – a tactic that would have been much more effective had the flute not been made of glass. Her eyes locked with Mim’s and slid pointedly to the left.

  ‘That’s Belinda Purcell, you know, wife of Andrew Purcell? Daughter-in-law of Lindsay Purcell? I heard that she’s flown in from Sydney simply for today’s function.’

  Mim casually glanced toward the woman in question. ‘Oh, she’s beautiful!’ She turned back to Monique. ‘Where does she get those highlights done?’

  ‘That is the thing,’ Monique declared triumphantly. ‘No one knows. It’s a secret.’

  ‘And over there,’ Monique continued with her up-to-the-minute social gossip, ‘Lady Penelope, you’ve heard about her, of course?’

  ‘No, what?’ Tiffany and Mim had sadly neglected to do their homework in the social pages lately.

  ‘Well, the rumour is that while she appears to live a wealthy aristocratic life, floating between England and the ‘colonies’, in truth she works undercover for a private global security company committed to ridding the world of evil.’

  ‘NOOOO!’ The ladies were amazed and somewhat incredulous.

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ said Monique, draining her glass. ‘Of course, it’s just a rumour.’

  A waitress wandered past in a futile mission to offer a tray of salmon and caviar hors d’oeuvres to groups of women who simply glared in amazement at the insinuation, while the drinks waiter rushed back to the bar to re-fill his fifth tray.

  Fashion designer Katie Davenport walked by, the violet of her chiffon shirt-dress a stunning backdrop to her long, raven tresses. A striking brunette woman accompanied her. Her dark hair and open, friendly smile were so similar to the younger woman’s it was obviously her mother – internationally renowned designer Liz Davenport.

  Monique nudged Mim excitedly. ‘Look who just walked by,’ she said.

  Mim followed Monique’s eyeline. ‘Oh, isn’t that Liz Davenport?’

  ‘Yes, well done, but she’s with her daughter, Katie – you know her label, Show Pony?’

  ‘Oh I LOVE Show Pony – I’m considering a piece for the races.’

  ‘You’ll look stunning, her stuff’s amazing,’ Monique assured her.

  ‘Did you check out the table plan?’ Mim asked Tiffany as she sauntered back from a ‘wander’.

  ‘Yes, I did – we’re number twelve, it’s very good. We’re right next to Lillian and two over from Sarah Murdoch.’

  ‘Excellent. I knew Mildred wouldn’t let us down.’ Mim smiled in smug satisfaction. The day hadn’t been a waste of fashion after all.

  ‘Have you seen her yet?’ enquired Tiffany.

  ‘Who? Monster-in-law?’ said Mim.

  ‘Yes, this is a big deal for her to have done on her own,’ Tiffany said generously, although she felt sure Mildred’s motives were more about raising her own profile than helping children from war-torn countries.

  ‘She does have that committee of hers, although most have never worked or studied a day in their lives and couldn’t organise a manicure, let alone an event.’ Mim said flicking her eyes past Tiffany’s to check out the women mingling behind her. ‘Oh, sorry, Tiff, I hate it when people do that to me, always searching for someone more interesting to look at. You know that wasn’t my intention.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Mim, of course I know, but you do realise that’s about the tenth time you’ve done it,’ said Tiffany with a smile.

  ‘Oh, God, how awful,’ Mim said, and slapped a palm to her forehead. ‘Pinch me the next time I do it so I know. It’s a frightful habit.’

  ‘Where’s Liz?’ Monique asked, deftly claiming another full glass from a nearby waiter.

  ‘Oh, she’s got a thing on. She was a bit vague about it actually so I’m not sure, but she is coming, she’ll be here after entrée.’

  ‘Ladies!’ a bright voice called out.

  The three women turned and smiled as one at Ellie. She pranced her way towards the trio, not unlike a dressage horse. Her hair, as a change from the usual straightened look, was bouncing with large curls. The Donna Karan empire-line, sleeveless dress in taupe was accented with a black velvet bow under the bustline. The look was completed with elegant, strappy velvet sandals in black and taupe, the two-inch heel tapering to a killer stiletto.

  Every woman in the room surreptitiously clocked Ellie’s arrival and wished they’d worn a strappy shoe.

  ‘Oh look, girls, just in the nick of time,’ Ellie pointed, as three huge double-doors were drawn back to display the elegant dining room, awash with the colours and fragrance of spring. A dainty vase of spring blossoms bloomed at each place setting and more flowers burst from the walls, threaded on invisible lines. The chairs wore pretty skirts in a rainbow of soft pastels, and two-foot tall cylindrical centrepieces were stuffed with citrus immersed in water and topped with Magnolia branches.

  As they threaded their way to the table Mim couldn’t help asking, ‘Ellie, I love your shoes, but what made you choose stiletto strappy numbers for today’s lunch?’

  ‘It was sunny, darling, I was feeling cheeky,’ Ellie replied, completely confident in her look regardless of the fact that she was the only woman in the room not wearing boots.

  The four friends found their assigned table and immediately dipped into the supplied goody bags at each place. No function was complete these days without a top-notch goody bag.

  ‘Ooooh yum, Aveda Hand Relief, I love this stuff!’ squealed Tiffany. ‘And there’s also a sample of Ralph Lauren’s new fragrance, Pure Turquoise.’

  Mim, not above scrabbling for a freebie, added: ‘And there’s two different colourways of Revlon’s Top Speed Nail polish, and neither’s crap – they often stick in the non-sellers in these bags.’

  ‘Revlon?’ said Monique screwing up her nose.

  ‘Monique, if you’re still using Chanel nail polish you’re crazy!’ said Mim sternly to her friend. ‘Revlon, in my humble opinion, is the best.’

  ‘Really?’ Monique looked doubtful. ‘Okay, then I’ll give it a whirl.’

  The ladies looked at the patterned stockings, the vouchers for facials and the scented soaps, then tucked the bags under their chairs. ‘We don’t want them nicked by the goody-bag grabbers,’ warned Tiffany. ‘Such a tacky habit.’

  Goody-bag grabbers were a cheap bunch of opportunists. They’d collect as many of the bags as they could from vacant spots and then either sell them off on eBay or hoard the stuff for themselves. So while everyone pretended to be nonchalant about the freebies – some women didn’t even touch the bag until they carelessly picked it up as they were leaving – they all took them very seriously and guarded them jealously.

  ‘Two o’clock, Mim,’ Monique murmured, and turned on an enormous social beam directed over Mim’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh crap, it’s Mildred, isn’t it?’ Mim replied, and looked over her shoulder, forcing a smile onto her face. ‘Mildred!’ she exclaimed, and pushed back her chair to stand, turn and greet the other woman, desperately trying not to sound as phoney as she felt.

  Mildred made such little effort in leaning forward to deliver the obligatory social kiss that the gap left between her and Mim was wide enough for a fit-ball. ‘Mim, darling, glad you could make it, you look …’ (having started the standard line Mildred was trapped with having to finish it, but, after giving Mim the speedy once-over decided she certainly couldn’t say ‘lovely or gorgeous’ as one normally would) ‘… like you’re having fun,’ she ended creatively.

  Mildred Woolcott had a single raison d’être – to b
e seen as a tireless fundraiser for charity. As such it was crucial to keep oneself on the A-list. The more glamorous her functions were, the more well-known and wealthy the attendees, the more likely it was that Mildred would remain top-of-mind (and top-of-list) when the invitations were sent for the most prestigious functions in Melbourne.

  Mildred could readily whip up 500 or 1000 guests willing to fork out $500 per head and then part with another $100 or so for the obligatory raffle and auction.

  The funds raised today would pay for a life-saving operation for little Prewitt Gahungu, a child from Burundi in Africa who had been flown to Melbourne from his birthplace only days before.

  Mildred had pulled off the ultimate PR coup, arranging for the current affairs program The Hard Word to film a documentary on the boy during his stay.

  To have the child at the luncheon, complete with television crew, would draw even more newspaper and magazine photographers. The publicity of this one event was destined to spread far and wide and last a good month or more, and Mildred would feature in every photo, newscast and article. It was the stuff of which socialites’ dreams were made.

  Mildred had seen a photograph of the child, and he was perfect. Cute little nose, bright sparkling eyes and huge smile. The low lighting in the ballroom was going to prove problematic, of course – he was very black. Never mind, she was sure the professionals could Photoshop the images later.

  And just think how philanthropic she was going to appear, how generous and giving. She was bound to be asked to all the right Carnival Marquees this year, and of course the Hamilton Mid-Summer Ball in Sydney. Only the best Who’s Who were invited to that.

  Mildred had been darting around nervously all morning, ensuring the right tables were close to the runway, relieved to note that the right people were socialising with the right people and ensuring that the unattractive, unconnected people were placed up on the back tables, in the dim light. But her eyes had continued to nervously flicker at the door, awaiting the arrival of her little celebrity (and the all-important accompanying camera crew).