Gucci Mamas

by Cate Kendall

  Mim could tell at a glance that, beneath the icy-cool demeanour, Mildred was in a dither. It was the way she kept flicking her acrylic nails and twisting the Belcher bracelet that gave her away. The only way to hold Mildred’s attention when her mind was on the million details of the function was to tell her how good she was. ‘I was just saying to the ladies how good you are, Mildred, raising money for the poor children in the war-torn countries,’ raved Mim, fervently hoping that the girls wouldn’t pick up on her sarcasm and start giggling.

  Mildred turned her attention to her daughter-in-law. ‘Yes, of course, Mim, but it’s so necessary, don’t you think? I mean we do live in the Lucky Country, and it’s so hard for those little poppets with landmines left, right and centre, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Oh definitely,’ said Mim, and with a wicked sense of irony she moved swiftly into, ‘and I love your hair!’

  Mildred’s hand automatically moved to pat the same steel-grey back-combed bob she’d worn for decades. ‘Thanks, darling, I thought I’d try something a bit different in honour of today,’ and she smiled at the compliment – at least it would have been a smile, but she’d had $2000 worth of dermal filler last week and her face was completely immobile. Her icy eyes continued to flicker around the room and caught sight of something infinitely more important than Mim.

  ‘Must away, my girl, I’ve just realised that Prudence Hargreaves is endeavouring to take a seat next to mine when I gave Amy strict instructions to seat her opposite me. Honestly, social seating can be a minefield if not handled appropriately,’ she muttered under her breath, then flew off like a witch astride her broom, to chastise her personal assistant.

  The entrees had been served and the trio of salmon – carpaccio, roe and mousse – was being nibbled daintily. The room was a cacophony of chinking cutlery, brittle laughter and staccato chatter.

  Mim, Monique, Ellie and Tiffany were busily ignoring the other women who’d joined their table (they weren’t from Langholme Grammar or Barlyn so what was the point really?) and having a grand time giggling among themselves.

  A flurry of activity caught their attention as the little boy and his entourage arrived.

  ‘Oh God, no, you can’t be serious,’ Mim said as she realised what was happening. ‘That’s the poor little kid who’s here from Africa to have an operation. I saw him on the news last night. Surely Mildred’s not using him as her own personal PR vehicle?’

  Monique turned back from the media circus and looked in horror at Mim. ‘She wouldn’t go to those depths, would she?’

  Mim raised an eyebrow at Monique and said in resignation, ‘Obviously you don’t know Mildred.’

  At the first sight of the television crew Mildred catapulted herself from her seat and across the room as quickly as decorum and her girdle would allow. She recognised the ‘talent’ immediately in reporter Mike DeLuca, and made the error of presuming he was in charge.

  ‘Hello Mr DeLuca, I am Mildred Woolcott. I spoke to your station yesterday. I am delighted you and little Prewitt could make it today.’

  ‘Hello Mrs Woolcott, this is my producer, Annie, you’d better talk to her. I have no idea what I’m doing here.’ And he turned to help himself to a glass of chardonnay from a nearby table.

  ‘Mrs Woolcott, I’m Annie Westlake. I am grateful for your generosity in taking the time to meet Prewitt, his mother, and his doctor.’

  Once Mildred struggled to understand that this very young woman in denim jeans and a felt tunic was in charge, she half-smiled and replied, ‘Yes, of course, my pleasure.’

  ‘If you would like to go with my PA, Rachel, and meet Prewitt, get to know him, perhaps put him at ease a bit, we’ll set up our equipment and start shooting.’

  Mildred preened her hair and moistened her lips, frustrated that she’d left her compact and lipstick on the table. Rachel steered her to the back of the room where half a dozen people huddled nervously, awaiting further instruction.

  ‘Prewitt’s very self-conscious about his condition, Mildred, and extremely shy,’ Rachel explained. ‘He’s a great little guy once he feels comfortable, but this place is freaking him out a bit, so anything you can do to settle him down would be greatly appreciated.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mildred, slightly affronted, ‘I had a child once, you know, I am accustomed to … them.’

  Prewitt sat in a wheelchair, his eyes saucers of shock as he took in the opulent room, the flowers, the hundreds of blonde-haired women and the plates of food being casually distributed. Until two days ago he’d rarely seen a white person and never left his village, so the scene before him was more than his small mind could process.

  His mother, a painfully thin woman, looked down at her son and managed a watery smile. Prewitt felt his nerves failing him, even though he’d promised himself he’d be brave.

  As Mildred clacked triumphantly towards her ‘little project’ she was suddenly and grotesquely assaulted by a thick wall of stench emanating from their direction. She stopped mid-step, her fingers flying to protect her nose. The putrid odour was more than her sensitive nostrils could bear.

  She grabbed Rachel’s arm. ‘What is that unbearable smell? We’re about to serve lunch, for heaven’s sake.’

  Rachel looked blankly at Mildred. ‘Did no one explain the nature of Prewitt’s injury to you, Mildred?’

  ‘No, why, what is it?’ Mildred snapped.

  Rachel looked evenly at her, and, attempting to keep her voice level, explained, ‘When Prewitt’s older sister was killed by standing on the landmine, Prewitt was standing ten metres away.

  ‘The shrapnel embedded in his lower abdomen. His intestinal tract was shredded and had to be removed. The doctors here intend to rebuild his bowel and his intestinal tract. In the meantime the child requires a colostomy bag.’ Rachel searched Mildred’s stony face for a response.

  ‘Oh, right, oh, dear me.’ Mildred was at a complete loss, she couldn’t possibly go over there, not one centimetre closer. The odour was threatening to overwhelm her and she knew she’d faint clean away and that simply wouldn’t do. She glanced desperately around at the nearby tables but thankfully none of her guests appeared to be affected by the stench.

  ‘You see, I have a highly heightened olfactory sense, it’s quite a unique condition,’ she explained weakly. ‘I smell four hundred percent more than the average person. I simply can’t continue the interview under such extreme conditions … But wait! I know someone who can.’

  Mildred wasn’t going to watch her golden PR opportunity fade away completely. ‘Mim, quick,’ she shrieked, sprinting across the room to accost Mim, grabbing her upper arm and hauling her to her feet just as she was about to taste a tender piece of lamb bathed in a merlot jus.

  Mim, dropping first her fork then her napkin, was shocked at her mother-in-law’s sudden lack of decorum. ‘Why Mildred, whatever is it?’ she managed as the woman dragged her across the room.

  ‘It’s the little boy, Prewitt. I simply cannot sit next to him and be interviewed for The Hard Word so you’ll have to do it for me.’

  ‘But why not, Mildred, is something wrong?’

  ‘Prior commitments,’ Mildred gasped, and thrust Mim towards Rachel before turning on her heel and practically racing to the Chanel No. 5 atomiser in her handbag.

  Rachel and Mim quickly introduced themselves as Rachel outlined the requirements for the piece. Mim was to sit next to Prewitt and Mike DeLuca would interview her about the function and the fundraising committee. The camera crew was all set up and nearly ready to go and poor Prewitt looked like he was about to burst into tears from the pressure.

  ‘Hello there,’ Mim knelt down to Prewitt’s eye level. ‘How are you doing today?’

  Prewitt’s mother leaned down. ‘No English,’ she explained. ‘He only talk French.’ And she indicated the translator in earnest discussion with the camerman.

  ‘French, hey?’ said Mim, and wracked her brain in an attempt to dredge up her finishing school French. ‘Bonjo
ur, Prewitt,’ she started again.

  ‘Bonjour, madame,’ replied Prewitt.

  ‘Comment ça va?’ said Mim.

  ‘Ça va bien,’ replied Prewitt, relieved to be speaking in his familiar mother-tongue.

  ‘Comment vous aimez l’Australie?’ asked Mim

  ‘Australie est très belle,’ said Prewitt.

  ‘Et des kangourous, ne sont-ils pas drôles?’ asked Mim.

  ‘Oui, madame, ils sont très drôles!’ Prewitt returned with a giggle, remembering how funny the kangaroos were at the Melbourne Zoo yesterday.

  Mim smiled at the poor little boy caught up in this ugly media frenzy. Prewitt, now visibly more relaxed, reached out to pat Mim’s hand in an effort to say thank you. Mim smiled in return and pulled over a chair so that she could sit and continue her chat with her new friend. Her French was rusty but she struggled on as she and Prewitt got to know each other. On camera Mike DeLuca asked a few questions of Mim while she and Prewitt sat side by side.

  Mim had first-hand knowledge of Mildred’s committee, having been a member until she could use her children as an excuse to wriggle out of the commitment. As such she was able to answer the questions easily and painted a picture of a truly benevolent organisation.

  After the camera stopped rolling Prewitt was able to relax again, and told Mim how scared he was about the operation. He didn’t understand what they meant about putting him to sleep and he was worried that he might die.

  Mim explained to him what a western hospital was like, what happened during an operation, and how lovely and helpful nurses were. She explained that it would hurt a little bit but that he would feel better in a few days.

  Then it was time for the entourage to head for the hospital.

  Prewitt looked up at Mim as he was being wheeled from the dining room. ‘Vous veuillez me rendre visite dans l’hôpital?’ he asked.

  ‘Oui, mon petit chou, bien sûr!’ she replied with a smile. ‘Of course I’ll come and visit you in hospital.’

  Once Prewitt and the TV crew had left, Mim turned her attention back to the dining room. The luncheon was set to reach its conclusion with the drawing of the mandatory raffle. Tickets had been sold for $50 each or three for $100. The first prize was a $75,000 diamond pendant, the second prize was a trip for two to Tahiti, business class, and the third prize a twelve-course Menu Gastronome at the chicest, newest restaurant in town, Vue de Monde on Little Collins Street.

  Mildred, suitably recovered from her near miss of earlier, had floated onto centre stage in a waft of Chanel No. 5. All eyes were on her as she started to draw the tickets out of the velvet bag.

  ‘Purple ticket, everyone, B-15, Collette Wright!’ she announced, and looked over the top of her reading glasses at the crowd. It was the only time all day that anybody on the stage had the complete attention of the group. Even the performance by the world-renowned Debra Scorch had been largely talked over and ignored by the group of chattering women.

  A squeal went up as the raffle number was called and a bouncy, buxom woman jiggled her way around and about the obstacle course of chairs and tables to reach the stage, her hand waving her little purple stub the whole time.

  ‘Now for the trip to Tahiti, orange ticket, C-34!’

  The room murmured as everyone shuffled through their tickets. Then the incredible wealthy and well-connected Jeannie Curlew called out from the crowd, ‘It’s me, darling!’ An almost imperceptible mutter could be discerned coming from the core of the crowd. How unfair, the wealthiest woman in Australia had picked up the second prize.

  ‘Re-draw!’ Jeannie called out, and the room burst into applause. Ridiculous really, Mim thought, everyone being so grateful that Jeannie had tossed her prize back in for another draw, when the woman owned property in nearly every glamorous location in the world and certainly wouldn’t have flown business class anyway.

  When the prize was re-drawn, the winner’s table all leapt up screaming at once. The table had been donated to the hospital’s paediatric nursing staff, which would have been a generous act on Mildred’s behalf – except it was really just a good way to cover the embarrassment of not having sold enough tickets. The winning nurse had been through a difficult time personally, so when her ticket number was called out she was stunned and promptly burst into happy tears.

  Then the big one. The diamond pendant. Mildred rummaged around in the bag.

  It was a black ticket. A-1. Uh-oh. Mildred’s mind raced a mile a minute, processing what she was looking at.

  Mildred always bought the first $500 worth of tickets to kickstart the buying and demonstrate the level of generosity that was expected. And because she was always on table one she always got tickets A1-A15.

  The ladies’ eyes were all on her, breath bated. Everybody in the room wanted this prize.

  Mildred certainly couldn’t say that she’d won. How would that look, she’d been the one to draw the ticket, after all.

  She could make the generous re-draw call, à la Jeannie Curlew, and win everyone’s admiration.

  But the necklace was very beautiful. It was four carats. She really, really wanted it.

  The split second was up, she had to make a decision.

  ‘A-1!’ she called out, ‘Martha Fitzgerald! Martha?’ Mildred made a show of shielding her eyes to the spotlight and looking around the room. ‘Martha, where are you hiding? Oh, that’s right, I just remembered. Martha made her apologies earlier, she had to go to a meeting. I’ll be sure she gets the prize.’ She waved the velvet box in the air and called out, ‘Goodbye, and thanks for coming, everyone, and for your generosity.’

  Mildred’s PA, Amy, still smarting from the bollocking she got earlier over seating arrangements, was the last one left on her dimly lit table at the back of the room. She fiddled with her napkin and tilted her head thoughtfully to one side. Something about that last ticket draw puzzled her. She’d been up to 2 a.m. for the past three nights, drawing and redrawing the table plans, and she couldn’t remember anyone named Martha Fitzgerald at the function. The only Martha Fitzgerald she knew was Mildred’s poodle’s pedicurist – and she knew for a fact that Mildred was the only one with A tickets.

  Half an hour later, she wandered over to her boss’s table. Mildred was at the double doors farewelling the last of the guests. After looking around to ensure she wasn’t being watched, Amy peeped into Mildred’s bag … sure enough, there was ticket A-1.

  Amy dashed up to the stage. The velvet bag was there, the four drawn tickets crumpled underneath the podium. She knelt down and un-crumpled Jeannie’s, then the nurse’s, then the third prize winner, Collette something. There was one ticket left. Amy slowly unscrewed it … Mildred Woolcott. She gasped. Oh, this was great.

  Amy grabbed her bag along with the evidence, and left hurriedly before Mildred could collar her for any last-minute jobs. As soon as she got to the carpark she rang an acquaintance who worked at the trashiest of the gossip mags. Oh, this was better than great. This was AWESOME!

  Mim printed out the final mock-up for Taylor’s Tarts new bakery brochure with a sigh of relief. It was 3.10 p.m.; she’d finished just in time for school pick-up.

  Taylor’s Tarts was her biggest client, but also the most disorganised. This morning they had decided to set up snap meetings with all their sales reps and rang Mim for more than a dozen different pieces of print material, asap. After she’d returned from visiting her new little friend, Prewitt, in hospital, she’d spent the remainder of her day at the keyboard, fielding email briefs, whipping up mock-ups and trying to get Taylor’s to decide on a design direction. At last they were happy.

  She hurriedly changed from her work clothes of wide-legged hipster tracky daks, Bonds singlet and her secret ugg boots that were so comfortable but too embarrassing to be caught dead in, into a caramel suede A-line skirt, matching suede boots and Marc Jacobs western-style shirt in teal and caramel.

  After pick-up she ran Charley to his orthodontist appointment – he needed a new retainer, $1500
– Chloe to her violin lesson – she was ready for a larger instrument, $750 – and Jack to swimming.

  ‘He’s showing great promise,’ his instructor said as Mim groaned inwardly. Compliments like that only ever meant one thing – more money.

  Sure enough: ‘So we’d like him to come an extra afternoon a week and receive some specialised one-on-one training from our pro. Of course it’s pricey, but you can’t deny talent, can you, love, eh?’

  Biting her tongue, Mim smiled and practically threw her credit card at the pretty blonde receptionist. ‘That will be $50 extra weekly, but we only accept six-monthly block payments, so is that what you’d like to do?’ she breathed in a little-girl voice.

  ‘No,’ said Mim, just to be difficult, ‘it’s not what I’d like to do.’

  ‘Oh,’ the girl blinked blankly, ‘but, that’s the only payment plan we accept.’

  ‘So why did you ask me if I wanted to do it then?’

  ‘Ummm … should I get the manager?’ The blonde now looked close to tears.

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ Mim was shocked at her own rudeness. ‘Here, just charge the six months,’ she said, picking up a pen to sign the charge and trying hard to ignore the tension building in her head.

  A few thousand dollars later they were home. The children quickly demolished their tabbouleh and crudités snack, and parked themselves in front of the television (ABC only in the afternoons).

  Mim was left clearing up the detritus they left behind. Chloe had upended the sugar bowl during her baby-cino construction and grains crunched under Mim’s feet as she moved around the designer kitchen.

  She loved this house, she thought as she paused, Enjo mitt in hand, staring out at the open-plan design. They’d snapped it up five years ago, moving in just before Chloe was born. With her design flair and eclectic taste for interiors, Mim had seen the potential of the grey-brick 1970s flat-roofed home.