Gucci Mamas

by Cate Kendall

  She was still excited about the new life awaiting them in the country, but she couldn’t shake this niggling worry that she was doing the wrong thing. It was a massive decision to inflict on the children: to take them from their schools, their friends, to turn them from urban kids to rural ones. Of course they were excited now, it was all still a novelty, but what about when they realised that their friends weren’t a bike ride up the street; that sports and activities would be greatly limited; and that their school wouldn’t be anything like the one that they were leaving.

  James seemed fine. Since resigning from his job he hadn’t looked back and had revelled in the packing and organising. In fact, he was currently down at the new place doing what he quaintly termed ‘odd jobs’ around the farmhouse. Cute, thought Mim, but quite frankly you’d be more useful here.

  She was worried that he also might find being stuck out in the sticks a tedious way of life six months down the track.

  And what about her? What was she doing to herself? She was leaving her friends; her support network. Who could she turn to in an emergency? Well, she reassured herself, James, of course, that’s the point – he’ll be around now.

  And of course they’d make new friends.

  But it’s so far away from the culture of the big city – Melbourne’s theatres, art galleries and museums, she pondered, scratching some dried Weet-Bix from the kitchen bench.

  Don’t be stupid, she scolded herself for sitting there and working herself into a state. You never went to the theatre or the museums anyway. And the peninsula is renowned for its artists and galleries: there’ll be plenty of culture around every corner!

  She steeled her resolve, grabbed the markers and tapes and went back to work. Tackling the laundry first, she picked up a Tuscan vase, a gift from Ellie. While she wrapped it she thought of her friend and her family swanning their way around Italy. The Ashcombes had left by ship almost immediately after the nude photograph incident. The thrill of the art exhibition scandal sank without a trace in the wake of their departure. It was no fun if the gossips couldn’t bear witness to Ellie’s shame, and Mim and the others had heard little of the event since.

  Mim moved to the enormous linen press and started piling mismatched towels into a box marked St Kilda Angels.

  Ever since Liz had told the Mothers’ Group about her newly found daughter the women had done their utmost to help the Mission with funds and household donations wherever possible.

  Of course, the scandal had been absolutely delicious to the other Langholme Grammar mums, and Liz had been ostracised by the various cliques with the utmost enthusiasm. Outstanding invitations had been reneged; she was no longer called for casual coffee mornings; and even the exclusive tennis club to which she and Sebastian belonged had mysteriously declined to renew their membership.

  It was funny, Mim mused, how important all that stuff had been to Liz and, admittedly, to herself in the past, and now there were just so many more important things to concern oneself with.

  Liz had taken Mikaylah and Nathan away with Sebastian and the boys on a family bonding holiday to give everyone a chance to get to know one another. I can’t wait to hear how that’s going, Mim thought, as she wrestled an enormous glass vase down from the highest laundry shelf.

  The house slowly started to get past its tsunami stage and gradually began to take on some order. Mim had a section of the living room devoted to the items needed for the crossover week when they were going to stay with her parents before the new house was ready. She tossed onto the pile a suit-bag containing outfits and accessories for both her and James to wear on Saturday to Derby Day.

  She was still amazed at how little she cared now for events such as these. Derby Day had once been a social highlight; details meticulously planned down to colour of pedicure polish and size and shape of brazilian wax. But now she had so many more issues far greater weighing on her, and so much to do! The only reason she didn’t cancel was that the tickets had been bought months ago. Besides, it was a lovely opportunity to say goodbye to her true friends. Quite a fitting farewell, really.

  Tiffany would be there on Saturday: stag, of course. It is quite strange to see one of us out on the prowl again after years of marriage, Mim thought and smiled. She somehow felt that Tiff would take to the situation like a fish to water. Still, it was always such a shame for the children, not that they’d be in the minority at Langholme Grammar: half the year level’s parents were divorced.

  Mim was shocked, but not surprised, when Tiffany had given her the update on Cliff. Apparently three months after ‘the accident’ he had recovered enough to be pushed around the grounds of the rehabilitation home. But there was no hope that he would walk again, or even pee normally, having lost all feeling below the waist.

  Tiff had joked that having the pretty young nurses bathe him or change his colostomy bag was probably the highlight of his day. The children visited occasionally, but their schedules were hectic and they had few windows of time available.

  Clary had left for a journey of self-discovery to Kathmandu and no-one had heard from her since.

  Mim sighed to herself as she finally developed the knack for the hand-held sticky-tape dispenser. Poor Cliff, she thought, what an idiot though. As boxes were sealed and stacked at a rate of knots, she began to feel more organised and more together, and with this came a resurgence of anticipation and excitement for the move.

  It’s going to be fantastic, she thought, as she threw away piles of redundant household items. The fresh air, the beaches – and the mums at the school looked really down-to-earth and lovely. Darling Mocha will have to get a couple of the local canines to teach him how to dig holes, he’ll enjoy being a country dog. Maybe we could train him to round up cattle? Oh no, that’s right, we don’t have cattle. But anyway, Chloe can start pony club, the boys can get trail bikes, they’re going to be so happy. They will – I am sure they will.

  It really is a perfect situation: to start afresh, to simplify. I can’t wait. I wonder how you make scones? It can’t be that hard.

  ‘Darling, I know the whole “Tree Change” thing is so the go at the moment, but moving to Red Hill? Isn’t that a tad extreme?’ Monique tilted her head to peer from under the brim of her stunning Melissa Jackson hat.

  ‘Surely you want to hold on to Malvern just in case it gets a bit, you know, tedious,’ Tiffany suggested with a big smile and just a hint of bitchy undercurrent.

  Right! Game on, thought Mim.

  ‘It’s actually Malvern that I’m finding a bit tedious, Tiff, and all the snobs that go with it,’ Mim grinned happily back, not interested in being anything other than honest.

  It was Derby Day and the women sat in a prestigious marquee on the ‘The Rails’ at Flemington Racecourse, which was filled, like a teeming aviary of exotic birds, with delicate creatures of every hue and style, proudly preening and flaunting their wares. Flemington’s famed roses were a blooming mass of fragrance, the carpet of lawn was manicured to the last blade, and cheerful bunting sailed atop celebrity-packed marquees.

  ‘It’s not a temporary move,’ explained Mim, patiently keen to get the conversation back on friendlier ground, ‘it’s a lifestyle choice. We need to simplify. We’ve sold the beach-house, and Malvern. It’s quite liberating really. We will miss you guys but it’s only an hour away and you must promise to visit us.’

  ‘Sounds a bit Buddhist to me,’ Monique said, ‘… but then I suppose that’s not a bad thing … I mean Richard Gere’s gone a bit that way, hasn’t he – and he’s gorgeous!’ She sipped her pink piccolo through a colour-coordinated straw while keeping a shrewd eye on the passing parade of fashion.

  Derby Day is quite possibly the biggest fashion moment in Melbourne every year. Blow this one and you could forget about invites to the next season’s best soirees. Therefore the Mothers’ Group girls all started working in earnest on their Derby ensembles a good two-to-three months ahead of time. There were appointments with the city’s best milliners; out
fits to be chosen; accessories perfectly matched; and the right Nancy Ganz underwear bought to suck in any excess rolls. One year Tiffany had flown to Sydney because she’d heard an exclusive lingerie boutique had an all-in-one undergarment that actually made the wearer appear taller.

  Precisely five days before the day, hair salons and beauticians in Melbourne’s best suburbs were booked solid as body maintenance became an obsession for the frenzied fashionistas. Spray tans were booked for the Friday. This crucial job needed to be done twenty-four hours before to allow the tan to darken marginally before the big day.

  It was essential that blonde locks were highlighted on the Thursday; anything more than forty-eight hours of regrowth would require a last-minute emergency dash for a crown touch-up. It didn’t matter that most heads were hatted – one could potentially make an eleventh-hour decision to swap to a fascinator, so foregoing foils was just playing with fire.

  Manicurists and pedicurists whipped up an emery frenzy across the suburbs, and if one could book both hands and toes simultaneously, it was truly a time-management coup. Fat-free bodies were buffed and exfoliated to a newborn softness, all unnecessary hair ripped, lasered and waxed to oblivion, eyebrows shaped and lashes tinted, and slight tummy bulges remedied by manipulation of the pill or colonic irrigation. Monique had an annual standing booking for the first week of November at Maison Merdon, and swore by their famous Bowel Burnish treatment.

  Amid a flurry of fittings, numerous panicked phone calls and credit-card damage, the big day had finally arrived. The much-phoned weather number had threatened rain, but had, thankfully, been wrong and the sunshine burst its way through morning drizzle just in time for the first round of Fashions on the Field.

  Hollywood-taped and cellulite free, the flamboyant hordes teetered and fluttered through the Flemington gates, alighted from chauffeur-driven vehicles, spilled off the train platform in cheap knock-offs with too-high shoes and too-silly hats or – in the best cases – emerged like butterflies from the flock of helicopters landing on the centre of the racecourse.

  The lip-sticked, hair-sprayed and Botoxed masses took their places in the caste system of the course. Distinguished members in morning suits linked to immaculate wives in George Gross or Escada headed straight for the Champagne Bar or The Chairman’s Club. Robbie Williams lookalikes eagerly followed scantily clad gaggles of twenty-something girls who screeched hysterically while balancing on pencil-like heels and flaunting thigh-baring skirts while enjoying Mum and Dad’s $1500 car spot in the Nursery carpark. The corporate marquees were the plum pick. An invite to the Emirates, Myer or L’Oréal marquees in the prestigious ‘Birdcage’ area was social gold.

  Each year, favoured Langholme Grammar parents were invited to the Forsythes’ car spot on The Rails. The most prestigious of each of the available carparks, The Rails was situated right at the edge of the action. Flanked by the Birdcage on one side and the home straight on the other, it was an excellent, and envied, position.

  The Forsythes’ carpark was more lavishly styled than their own wedding: silver buckets iced dozens of mini bottles of French and Crown lagers, trays of sushi and crustless chicken sandwiches garnished with roses competed with other cutting-edge delicacies. Pristine white-linen napkins and white china leapt from the hot-pink tablecloth. Bunches of fuschia roses in floral vases complemented the table, carefully placed under the huge white market umbrella, which was also draped in garlands of pink roses.

  But for Mim, this year’s Derby Day preparation had lost its thrill and she had simply pulled her hair in a low pony at her neck and, with relief and little care, stepped into last year’s Lisa Ho outfit and matching hat.

  ‘Love your frock, darling,’ LJ Mahoney had commented, then added nastily, ‘Isn’t it lucky that pastel is still in, it looks just as good on you this year as last year!’

  Mim had just smiled at her. ‘I don’t care what anyone says,’ she told her assembled friends as she related LJ’s catty remark, ‘we’re broke and I couldn’t afford a new outfit this year.’

  ‘Shush, Mim,’ said Monique, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Someone will hear you.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Mim repeated with a self-satisfied smile. ‘James has finished up at work and until we settle on the house we are broke and I really couldn’t give a stuff who knows.’

  ‘Can’t you just say you’re budgeting,’ insisted Monique. ‘Broke sounds so … well … poor.’

  They all laughed but were easily distracted by the sight of a group of young women sauntering past with breasts barely contained in their halter tops, and flippy skirts hardly covering their bottoms.

  ‘Will you just look at that,’ Tiffany indicated to Mim with her piccolo of pink champagne. ‘How ridiculous.’

  ‘I know, it’s such a shame, no class any more, no sense of style. And they’re not even wearing hats!’ said Mim, with more than a touch of sarcasm. ‘Alert the media!’

  ‘How on earth they get into the members’ is anyone’s guess,’ moaned Monique.

  Tiffany nudged Monique as she spied well-known hotel-chain heiress Anastasia Sebleton escorting a woman in a stunning sequined gown complete with chiffon diamantéstudded wrap. ‘Check this out,’ whispered Tiffany, ‘who’d wear Collette Dinnigan to Derby Day, I mean really!’

  ‘Careful, Tiffany,’ whispered Monique, ‘that is Collette Dinnigan!’

  ‘Collette, darling!’ Monique gushed and tilted her head a full ninety degrees so that she could air-kiss the bronzed cheeks of the fashion designer from under her mammoth hat.

  Tiffany, horrified by her fashion faux pas, waited chastened for an introduction to the international haute couture creator.

  After a quick show-and-tell session …

  ‘Love your bracelet – platinum is it?’

  ‘Have you been in the Emirates marquee yet – gorgeous!!!’

  ‘Love the shoes – Manolo?’

  ‘Yes I got them in LA for the event.’

  ‘That hat is the most!’… the two celebrities continued on their way, leaving the girls to their banter.

  ‘Boys, we’re here,’ Mim sang out to their husbands, who were heading towards the carpark from the bookies, somewhat distracted by a slinky nubile duo that was passing them by.

  James and Malcolm grinned sheepishly when they realised they’d been caught out.

  ‘Ladies, looking lovely,’ said James, and the men stood next to their wives and bestowed the required attention before they could break away, get a cold Crownie and discuss their next wager.

  Petrice Forsythe floated over, decked out in a flamboyant haute couture floral chiffon layered dress topped with a Peter Jago hat in a rainbow of pastel, as her husband Montgomery joined the group.

  ‘So James, old chap,’ said Monty, ‘what’s this I hear about you taking the family up bush? Won’t you all be a bit isolated?’

  ‘Hardly up bush,’ said James. ‘We’re off to live on the Mornington Peninsula. It’s only an hour from town, it’s hardly Flying Doctor country.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you’ll be close to some halfway decent golf courses, at least it’s got that going for it,’ conceded Monty. ‘It all sounds a bit feral, though, and what about the Gentlemen’s Club? We expect members to attend the monthly breakfast meeting, how will you make that?’

  ‘I’m letting my membership lapse, old man, don’t think I need any of that pretentious crap any more,’ said James.

  ‘What!’ Monty turned puce with indignation. ‘But it takes years to get admitted into the Club, you can’t just let it lapse, what will people think?’

  ‘I really don’t care what people think, I might join the CFA instead!’

  ‘Well, it’s all a bit too pedestrian for me,’ said Monty, storming off, his sensibilities highly offended. He loudly whispered to Petrice, ‘Time to cull the guest list yet again. The Woolcotts are no longer our kind of people.’

  James turned back to put his arm around Mim and said quietly, ‘What a wanker! I can’t believ
e I’ve ever aspired to being part of his golfing four.’

  ‘Darling, you don’t need to rub his nose in it, his Gentlemen’s Club is his life, you know,’ chided Mim.

  ‘Well, he should try to get a more interesting life then.’

  James and Malcolm headed off to find cold beer and help out a neighbouring carpark that was having trouble with its market umbrella. Tuning back in to the conversation, Mim heard Petrice crowing, ‘Can you believe the news about Liz Munroe? It’s just too tacky to be true! LJ phoned me yesterday morning, and obviously I rang Liz immediately to un-invite her today but her machine said she’d gone away.’

  Liz’s best friends shared a glance and said nothing.

  ‘Fancy just flitting off like that without letting me know she couldn’t honour her invitation,’ Petrice continued, fingers splayed across her chest. ‘How rude! I thought she had more class than that! Of course I thought she had more class than to have an illegitimate daughter too … honestly, you think you know someone. Suzanna! Dahhling!’

  Her attention was captured by Suzanna Smythe sweeping in, wearing a frothy Show Pony dress. It was obvious by the blinding sparkle of her ring finger that her cheating rat of a husband was back. Every time Barry Smythe upgraded Suzanna for a younger, prettier model, he bought his way back into the family home and her affection with a bigger, more impressive diamond. This one was at least five carats and, judging by the clarity, it had cost a bomb.

  ‘Suzanna, it’s gorgeous.’ The women crowded around Suzanna’s ring finger exclaiming loudly.

  ‘Just incredible. Kozminsky’s?’ Monique asked.

  ‘Naturally,’ replied Suzanna, holding out her hand and admiring the token of renewed affection. ‘I just love it. Barry will be here shortly – he’s so generous, so thoughtful, he’s taking me out tonight to Silks to celebrate our twelfth wedding anniversary.’