Gucci Mamas

by Cate Kendall

  The children whooped with delight as they settled at a low table surrounded by cushions, but Mim quickly regretted the choice, as they turned the table – which was sunk into a pit – into a cubby furnished with the floor cushions.

  ‘Get out of there, immediately,’ Mim hissed at them. ‘Remember the restaurant manners we discussed?’

  The children took their places once again and Mim beamed with pride at her beautiful family. She thoughtfully perused the menu, thinking happily that any passing ad execs would quickly nab this attractive family group for their next Country Road commercial. Then she looked up again, smiling benignly at the children, to catch Jack with his eyelids inside out, chopsticks up his nose and in his ears, making terribly politically incorrect impersonations, to the delight of his siblings.

  Goodbye Country Road, hello minimum security, Mim thought despondently. ‘It’s okay,’ she said to the nervous-looking waitress, as she ordered tempura vegetables, sashimi, sushi and teriyaki chicken. ‘We won’t be here long, and I promise there will be no damage.’

  Mim could feel the eyes of the other diners on her and willed her children to behave. Glasses of apple juice silenced them for a few minutes at least. But Mim had unresolved juice issues and spent the precious seconds of peace conducting an internal debate on the topic. Those television current-affairs shows insisted that juice was a sugar-laden, tooth-rotting ruse and that she may as well buy them those caffeinated fizzy drinks. But what else could she do? The children flatly refused to drink water, even in those trendy bottles.

  Maybe this water aversion stemmed from her not drinking four litres of water daily during breast-feeding, as all the books advised? Well, juice it would have to be tonight, she finally decided, and at $4 per glass, she hoped that at least they enjoyed it.

  ‘Can I have another one?’ Jack asked, slamming down his empty glass.

  ‘After you’ve eaten something, or you’ll dilute your gastric juices,’ Mim warned.

  Finally, the meal arrived.

  ‘Raw fish! You’re joking!’ Jack spat the contents of his mouth onto the tablecloth. ‘Yuk!! Why didn’t you tell me first?’

  ‘Because you seemed to be enjoying it, darling, I didn’t want to put you off it,’ said Mim, regretting her honesty.

  ‘Next you’re going to tell me it’s wrapped in seaweed or something,’ said Jack, wiping his tongue with a napkin.

  No, not if I’m smart, thought Mim.

  The chicken teriyaki was also a failure, apparently the sauce was filled with too many unidentified ‘green things’ and was too ‘weird’-tasting to be tolerated.

  Third time lucky? Mim hoped, as the tempura vegetables made their appearance and the children hungrily grabbed them.

  ‘Well, that was a triumph,’ she laughed, until she realised the children were just eating the batter and leaving the naked vegetables on the plate. ‘For goodness’ sake, children, do you realise how lucky you are? Do you know that there are children in the world whose parents take them to fast-food restaurants several times a week? Can you imagine the condition of their arteries?’

  The children ignored her and went back to bickering over the last crumbs of batter.

  With relative peace at her table, she sat back to survey the restaurant and noticed Seth Barlow walk in with his two children. Mim waved congenially to hide her evil thoughts.

  What a pig, she fumed to herself. Poor Gwendolyn had taken on night work at that twenty-four-hour hair salon (which had such unsavoury clients) to help pull them out of a financial crisis induced by Seth’s fondness for a flutter – and here he was easily squandering twice what she would earn tonight!

  ‘Good evening, Mim,’ Seth said greasily. He had always been a slimy little number.

  ‘Hi Seth, having a family night out, are you?’ Mim asked cattily.

  ‘Just doing a bit of babysitting for the wife,’ Seth explained, as he shepherded his children to a table.

  Mim turned away from him to prevent further conversation. Dreadful man, she thought. According to the rumour mill, Gwendolyn had been getting the kids in the car outside their (heavily mortgaged) Malvern house when two enormous tattooed beasts had approached to repossess her red four-wheel drive. Seems Seth had been secretly gambling away the repayments for months. How mortifying for poor Gwendolyn, especially right in front of her neighbours, who had hit their phones within minutes.

  Bastard, thought Mim, turning her attention back to the children, who had at least managed to swallow some boiled rice along with their batter-fest.

  Mim was starving and went to launch into the sashimi just as Chloe crawled into her lap, spilling her second glass of juice into the teriyaki. Then Charley insisted that Jack kept looking at him ‘funny’ and set Mim’s teeth on edge with his squeaky Pee-wee Herman impersonation.

  ‘Mmm, that’s delicious,’ Mim said, intent on ignoring her children’s irritating behaviour and making the best of the evening. ‘Isn’t this fun? Do you know that the Japanese culture is one of the world’s most ancient? In fact – ’

  ‘Muuuuum,’ wailed Chloe, ‘Charley’s kicking me under the table!’

  Cultural lesson over, she snapped, ‘Charley, stop it! Jack, where are you going?’

  ‘Toilet.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘Me, three.’

  ‘All right, but don’t be long.’

  Mim sat revelling in the sudden calm and took the opportunity to enjoy several mouthfuls of the chicken, before she suddenly realised it was too quiet and went in search of her offspring. As her stringent public-facility rules stipulated, they were all in the ladies’ toilet, but not acting in any manner that made her want to claim them as hers. Her private-school-educated, well-brought-up-children-from-an-excellent-family were bellowing like maniacs. But worse, they had made huge, wet, toilet-papier-mâché balls and were aiming them at each other, the walls, the windows and the ceiling.

  ‘OH … MY … GOD!!!’ Mim exploded. ‘I can’t leave you alone for one minute! Clean this mess up!’

  Still sniggering and hiccoughing with over-excitement, the trio made a half-hearted effort at scraping soggy toilet paper from the walls and floors; but Mim got the worst of the job, ruining her French polish and ripping off two nails altogether.

  Mim couldn’t breathe. She was blind with rage; this was beyond any mass destruction she could have possibly imagined her children capable of. Her mind raced with unflattering thoughts about the so-called top private schools in the city for which she and James paid an absolute fortune. So much for the best education money can buy, she thought, as she grabbed her bag and pushed her brood out of the restaurant. You’d think they could have taught her kids how to behave better than this.

  Guilt at the frightening and soggy mess in both the bathroom and at the table made her drop a $100 bill on the front desk as she left, knowing she could never show her face in the restaurant again.

  Chloe arched her back and screamed as Mim bundled her into her car seat and tried desperately to connect the harness. ‘For Christ’s sake, Chloe, I am going to throttle you.’ Mim’s controlled, mum-in-public demeanour slipped for an instant to reveal her much less attractive at-home self. Her heart sank as she bent to extricate herself from the car and heard the unmistakable sound of stilettos clacking against the concrete.

  They were still a distance away, but even from here Mim’s finely honed aural fashion sense could detect that several women were about to descend on her, in tiny shoes, with heels a good two centimetres above acceptability.

  ‘Oh no,’ she shuddered. It could only be the Triple Ds, the trio of diabolical mothers from the boys’ school. Truly the perfect ending to the perfect night, she sighed, looking up to face the enemy.

  Trip-trapping up the street with all the finesse and charm of the three Billy Goats Gruff came the Triple Ds, their beady eyes locked on her as if she were prey.

  ‘Hiiiiiiii, Miiiiiim,’ the group sang out in unison.

  ‘Bad night, lovey?’ smirked
Bindi Munt, the most feral of the group, indicating a still-screaming Chloe.

  Shelby Harrison and Trixie Casey-Roxborough-Jones (a keen surname collector) lagged behind Bindi as they stopped to use the ATM. Sure they had their gold Amexes, but their dealers insisted on cash. Although it was past bedtime on a school night, Mim noticed with distaste that they were well on their way to being drunk.

  Bindi was feeling particularly chuffed with herself having persuaded some rich geezer in Harvey’s Bar to shout her a Slow Comfortable Screw followed by a Screaming Orgasm. It was more than she got most school nights as a single mum.

  ‘Been out for dinner, Mim?’ asked Bindi, cornering her between the car and a street pole.

  ‘Yes, the children and I have had a delightful meal out together at Osaka’s,’ Mim lied, refusing to admit a less-than-perfect life.

  ‘Oh God, you’re lucky, my Minx and Devlin do my head in. Thank God they’re both at their dad’s places this week.’

  Parenting really wasn’t an issue for the Triple Ds, who had strings of ex-mothers-in-law and ex-husbands to take over when the Early Learning Centres and After School Care closed. The biggest role they played in their kids’ lives was choosing their seasonal wardrobe – and then borrowing from it.

  ‘So, the word on the playground is that Ellie’s, like, next on LJ Mahoney’s hit list,’ said Bindi with a hint of glee.

  Mim’s blood froze at the mention of LJ’s name. Now there was a true personification of evil. Caught hideously out of the loop, she covered as best she could.

  ‘Ellie? I doubt it, that … um … incident … was nothing. Why, what have you heard?’

  ‘Well I heard that Ellie went to the preview of LJ’s exhibit last month and then so totally trashed it to Bryce that he, like, yanked the Today-Live coverage.

  ‘LJ is, like, so furious and reckons that she’s totally going to bitch-slap Ellie when she catches up with her.’

  Mim was shocked. Ellie would never have got Bryce to pull TV coverage. And it wasn’t like Ellie even had any idea about art: she liked what she was told was good and ignored the rest like everyone else did. Ellie might be vacuous at times, but she wasn’t nasty.

  But this could become a serious issue. LJ Mahoney was a self-proclaimed artist, and megabitch, and would make life hell for anyone who slighted her.

  In reality, LJ was more of a magpie than an artist. Her style was to collect other well-known artists’ work and arrange or replicate it in what she called an ‘arty’ fashion. Her work was constantly exhibited at an exclusive city gallery (owned by her uncle) and sold mostly to young, impressionable collectors who were readily sucked in by the buzz created about her exhibitions thanks to her husband Philby’s PR firm. LJ’s low self-esteem and desperate need for the limelight meant nobody stood between her and a photographer. She’d cut acquaintances with a look, elbow family out of the way, bad-mouth ‘friends’ to reporters – anything to get her mug in the social pages. It was a bit daunting that Ellie appeared to be her next target.

  ‘I am sure that Ellie didn’t do such a thing,’ Mim said loyally. ‘She certainly didn’t mention it to me. Perhaps Bryce simply had something else come up for Today-Live and LJ just got bumped. These things happen,’ she said hopefully.

  ‘Well, you should never let the facts get in the way of a good story,’ Bindi cackled, snapping her gum.

  Mim overtly glanced at her watch and was about to make her excuses when Shelby and Trixie scuttled over, tucking hundreds into their gaudy beaded purses.

  ‘Join us won’t you, Mim?’ Trixie smirked.

  ‘You’d make great bait – a bit of fresh meat and all that,’ simpered Shelby, who’d just left husband number four.

  ‘We’re going to The Anchorage for after-dinner drinks, or, in our case, instead-of-dinner-drinks.’ At this the three shrews threw back their hair extensions to cackle with brittle laughter.

  Mim was hot, flustered and food-stained. She was fed up and angry and would have killed for a quiet drink in adult company – but would never be desperate enough to be seen with these overdone tarts. And anyway, with the three kids still bickering noisily in the car, the Triple Ds’ invitation was only a spiteful swipe at her lifestyle.

  ‘Well, girls, as much as I’d love to, I’ve got my mummy hat on tonight and I’ve promised the children some more quality time together,’ Mim said, heading swiftly to the driver’s door and away from this ugly social moment.

  ‘Shame, Mim, maybe next time.’ Bindi flashed her laser-whitened teeth insincerely at Mim, displaying for an instant her savage incisors.

  ‘Goodbye then,’ Mim said tightly as she started up the engine.

  ‘See you later when your hair is straighter,’ the trio screeched back at her as they stalked down the street.

  Mim didn’t match. Well, obviously, given that she had a different bag over each arm and a different shoe on each foot. She stood debating which worked best with her raspberry Alannah Hill chiffon-and-lace skirt and matching three-quarter-sleeve cardigan.

  She sighed deeply. The challenge of accessorising was usually so much fun, but lately she seemed to lack the spirit for it.

  She’d made an initial effort to find an outfit after the invitation to the Forsythes’ fifteen-year wedding anniversary arrived six weeks ago, when a delicious pastel candy-striped box had been hand-delivered by a liveried courier. Lifting the lid she had been greeted by the gorgeous fragrance of French Delbard Roses, the petals of which served as a luxurious bed for a small crystal vase. Mim lifted up the delicate object and it twinkled and shimmered in the sunlight. Engraved on the front was an invitation to the Forsythes’ anniversary – crystal, of course.

  The thrill of the invitation was soon replaced by the angst of the ensemble-decision. Normally she relished the thrill of the chase: the strategic planning that went into sourcing a winning outfit balancing the variables of weather, event theme, fashion competition and setting (stilettos would not do if the function was to be set in the Botanic Gardens, for instance). But this time Mim had uncharacteristically left it until the week of the function to begin her ensemble sourcing.

  She was aware of the parameters of her task: the Forsythes had invited 250 of their closest and most intimate friends to a garden party to be held at their home in Grange Road, Toorak.

  Mim had known Petrice Forsythe from their uni days. However, due to Petrice’s recent attachment to LJ Mahoney, their friendship of convenience had wilted considerably. Petrice had seemingly used her Arts Degree as a convenient fill-in until she snared herself an appropriately wealthy and socially well-positioned husband in her late twenties.

  So what if it was politically incorrect, Petrice had told herself – wasn’t feminism all about having the right to choose?

  Mim and James had been guests at Petrice and Montgomery’s opulent three-day wedding in the Bahamas, and still caught up with the Forsythes occasionally, usually at the yacht club over a Pinot Gris or at their famous marquee at the Spring Racing Carnival. Monty came from ancient money with tenuous links to a title. His family’s strong dealings in the futures market had freed Monty up for a life of golf-course networking, beach-side ‘business’ lunches and weekly schmoozes with Daddy over a game of squash.

  Together, Petrice and Monty made a formidable partnership based on shallowness, consumerism and shameless social climbing. Mim and James often shared a giggle over the Forsythes’ latest wild extravagance: the sea-cruising yacht upon which neither would set foot; the Geelong Grammar boarding school education for their eldest children – both sent away before their tenth birthdays.

  And the naming of the children – each after the exotic location in which they were conceived. Poor Morocco, Roma and Tuscany would never live it down.

  Sometimes Mim felt a twinge of jealousy at the ultra-privileged lifestyle of the Forsythes. When they had snapped up a chalet in Vail, for instance, she had been shocked to find herself feeling discontented with her own life and wishing for a bit of the Forsythe
glamour.

  A week before the big event she had tried summoning the energy for her traditional reconnaissance trip but despite visiting all her familiar Melbourne hunting grounds – the QV, GPO, and of course Chapel Street – she found no inspiration for her mission. She traipsed from boutique to boutique, waiting for the expected fashion excitement to build, but somehow she just didn’t feel the same thrill of anticipation or the familiar urgency to get the perfect outfit for the event.

  In the end she’d settled on the Alannah Hill because it was there; it fitted; it was pretty and it would do. She’d hung it in her wardrobe without a thought for accessories.

  Which is why she was standing there, an hour before the function began, with odd shoes and two bags.

  She assessed her image in her floor-to-ceiling mirror one more time, and suddenly felt a smile tickling her lips. For goodness’ sake, she’d been standing here asymmetrically for more than twenty minutes trying to decide on handbags and shoes. What was her life coming to, she wondered, shaking her head

  Such essential decisions once haunted her. Deciding well in advance what or ‘who’ she was wearing was imperative for her enjoyment of the event. Failing to make a firm accessory decision at this stage was terribly out of character and Mim vaguely wondered if maybe she needed a vitamin supplement.

  Focus, she told herself, reassessing the situation.

  The Miu-Miu bag with the Jimmy Choo stilettos? Or the more decorous Stepford Wives look of new clutch teamed with slingbacks?

  She gave a little shiver, and finally made the correct accessory choice – she chose not to give a shit. She tossed one bag back on the shelf and grabbed a pair of shoes at random. And, as she’d suspected, the sky did not fall down.

  Petrice’s tongue toyed nervously with her pinkie acrylic, her sharp incisors threatening to nibble the delicate coral. The weather was infuriating.

  Petrice had refused to back down on her plan for an outdoor event despite the teeming rain; the forces of nature were no match for her steely resolve that this meticulously planned celebration of her life – oh, and Monty’s – would be a social success.