by Lia Weston
‘Mica, do we have any more pictures of this one?’
‘I’ll check.’
My intercom shrieks.
There’s a crash from across the room.
‘Morning, Tarik,’ says Mica cheerfully.
‘Oh God, okay, I’m awake,’ says Tarik.
‘Tom, they’re waiting for you,’ says the voice from the intercom. (Felicity doesn’t tend to come into the basement. It’s probably a good thing: she once gave Mica a Country Road voucher for Christmas, and Mica’s never forgiven her.)
‘Shit. Sorry.’ Grabbing my notebook, I take the basement stairs in fours.
‘He loved pyramids. Perhaps we could go to Egypt.’
I make a note. ‘Did Walter like activities, or was he more of a sightseeing person?’
‘Walter liked to keep his feet firmly on the ground.’ The client winds the long gold chain of her necklace around her finger. ‘I couldn’t even get him on a bicycle.’
‘No camel rides, then.’
She smiles. I note the careful maintenance on her shoes despite their age, the lipstick she’s not used to wearing. Her clothes confirm she has no pets. Her hands confirm she does not garden, nor does she play golf or tennis.
IF relies on face-to-face meetings. It’s much easier for me to get information out of someone when I can actually see them. Besides, Ro finds it easier to upsell to more expensive packages: people feel obliged to make the trip in worthwhile.
Judi’s photos reveal Walter as red-cheeked and thin-haired. He really didn’t like having his picture taken. He towers over his wife like a floor lamp, hands jammed in his pockets, the telltale stiffness in his shoulders and jaw when the subject of a lens. His informal photos reveal far more. He was affectionate to his friends as well as his wife. His grandchildren adored him; they’re climbing over him like a jungle gym in more than one shot. I also notice that he drinks lemon squash instead of wine and has a favourite blue shirt for birthday parties.
Details like this are IF’s currency. Our books work because they feel like a genuine photo album. You’re already thinking this is nuts. I get it. IF’s clients commission the photos; they know they aren’t real. But sometimes lately . . . I mean, you can actually see it happening. Their language changes. ‘If we could go to Paris . . .’ becomes ‘When we went to Paris . . .’ As far as these particular people are concerned, what we make is the real thing.
‘That’s a lovely locket, Judi.’ Kain, who never quite manages to look as if he won’t shank you for $20, is occupying the adjacent couch. He gives what he thinks is a charming smile, but just imagine a horse eating a toffee apple. I wonder yet again why he has to sit in on client meetings. ‘Was it a gift from Walter?’
Judi’s gaze whisks to him, one swift assessing glance. ‘No,’ she says, closing her fingers around the chain.
She’s lying.
I address Judi as if we’re alone. ‘Where did you and Walter first meet?’
She becomes less self-conscious as she tells me their history. Walter worked as a waiter; Judi was stuck at his restaurant on a bad date. Memories skim through; she sits up straighter to correct the timeline, stops clutching the necklace as she relaxes. She talks about their elopement, the way he made her breakfast every morning, his cruel and sudden illness. Her hands flutter like birds.
Ro eyes the box of tissues on the table but there’s no need; Judi’s not a crier.
‘Why didn’t you go travelling?’ I say.
‘We were going to. But we wanted to pay off the house first, so we worked instead. He would have worked seven days a week if I’d let him. We fought about that. We fought about a lot of things. Lots of broken crockery.’ She gives me the ‘you know how it goes’ face.
I don’t, though. June and I don’t fight because there’s nothing to fight about. Any disagreements are short, punctuated by silences (mine) and tears (hers), until she can’t stand it any longer and apologises for something that isn’t usually her fault and then I apologise too and then we’re back to normal. It’s a strange sort of equilibrium. Sometimes I want the kind of argument where you throw plates, just to see what it’s like to be so angry with someone that smashing things is the next natural step. I’ve never said this to June. It would lead to lots of long conversations about our feelings.
That being said, the equilibrium is tipping. I’m willing to bet she’s sending me a text right now. Don’t forget to wear pants tonight. Don’t take dim sims to work. On cue, my phone vibrates.
Judi’s sigh brings me back. ‘And then, once we’d finally paid everything off and retired to enjoy it, he got sick and that was that.’
‘No holiday,’ I say.
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry.’ And I am.
‘Thank you.’
Kain is wisely quiet.
I make a final note in my book. ‘I think Walter would enjoy the Valley of the Kings.’
Judi smiles. ‘You read my mind.’
CHAPTER TWO
My mother kisses my girlfriend hello, then me. She and June coo at each other like pigeons, love your skirt, what a gorgeous jacket. June keeps self-consciously patting her hair, which was cut shorter than she wanted. I spent the drive over to my parents’ reassuring her that she didn’t look like a prison guard. It’s one of her favourite topics: Tell me I’m okay. I’ve never worked out why someone so attractive needs such constant reassurance.
Mum has changed the pictures in the hallway. They’re all mine, pen and ink sketches, mostly of my grandfather. He hated having his photo taken, like Walter, but he didn’t mind if I drew him, as long as he could watch the cricket while I did it. Typically he’d shout at the TV for the first innings, have a whiskey, start grumbling about sponsorships and advertising, have some more whiskey, then tell me the story about how he won my grandmother at a dance. (Not true, but who cares.) It was always brilliant.
‘Oh!’ June stops in front of one. ‘I’ve not seen this before.’
It’s a portrait of Ro, back in the day. Unshaven, head thrown back laughing. It’s a safe bet he was hosed at the time. His beer jowls have since disappeared; present-day Ro prefers clear liquors. Sometimes I miss the old Ro.
‘I wish you’d go back to portraits, Tommy,’ says June, moving to the next sketch, a years-old study of my best friend Dan. She sighs at Dan’s big block head and open smile, the freckles across his nose like he’s been flicked with a paint brush. ‘Look at this. It’s perfect.’
It’s not. There are errors in it. But June sees what she wants to see.
Mum touches the frame. ‘This won the McLaughlin Prize in his final year at uni. I had to use a cattle prod to get him onstage.’
‘Can’t pay the bills with portrait work,’ I say, trying to move them both along to the kitchen rather than pick apart my career choices.
‘But there are grants available,’ says June. ‘You could apply for funding. Surely it’s better than . . . I mean, not that IF isn’t . . .’ She trails off awkwardly. This is another of June’s favourite topics, especially of late: Tom’s job is weird. Tom is wasting his potential.
‘Maybe I’ll just do graffiti,’ I say.
June pokes me affectionately in the arm. ‘That’s not real art, you know that.’
Like many people, June believes that spray-painting is vandalism unless it appeals to her particular aesthetic. Two of her Instagram photos are actually of my street pieces, but she doesn’t know it. I’d tell her, but I enjoy the joke.
Not for the first time, I wonder if that’s a bad sign.
‘Christopher’s still locked to his keyboard,’ says Mum. ‘We’ve got time for a quick drink before the exhibition starts.’
‘I didn’t know you were a glass art fan, Amanda,’ says June, obediently following her into the kitchen.
‘The curator’s a client,’ says Mum. ‘I’ve made a lasagne for dinner if you feel like joining us afterwards. It’s a new recipe. Dairy-free.’
‘Great!’ says June, who can normally in
hale a wheel of brie.
Always fine; never good, never great, bobs to the surface like a stubborn cork that I’ve been trying to submerge ever since Mica said it. I shove the cork back underwater.
Dad’s office door is closed, an aria from his favourite Gluck opera pushing against it from the inside. I don’t knock. Instead, I go to the next doorway and stick my head through the opalescent bead curtain. Genevieve is curled up in an armchair by the window, knees to chest, screen to nose. Her hair drapes over the back, almost touching the floor.
‘Hey,’ says Gen, nodding vaguely in my direction. She continues scrolling.
‘We still on for Sunday? Zombie double feature. You’re OK with gore, right?’
She beams. ‘The best part’s when their heads come off.’
‘Gen, come and be sociable,’ shouts my mother.
Gen and I share a look that only siblings know.
The bead curtain catches in my hair on the way out. Bead curtains are completely useless, but they’re shiny, so Gen likes them. She would make her bedroom out of a nest of iridescent paper if she could, and Mica would probably join her in there, which would make Gen’s week. She idolises Mica.
Here’s a family secret for you. (We have several.) If you ever visit my parents, remember that the finger food is booby-trapped. Chocolate mousse is made from avocado. Guacamole is made from peas. It’s not bad, it’s just a bit of a surprise sometimes.
‘Is that the Juiciliser?’ says June in the kitchen.
‘Have a beet shot,’ says Mum, offering June what looks like a beaker full of blood.
June’s wearing her favourite top, which is covered in geometric shapes. She looks like a jigsaw puzzle. She leans her palms on the counter, lifting her heels out of the back of her new shoes, one then the other. She’ll never kick them off, though, even if she’s bleeding. Especially if she’s bleeding, actually, because blood equals mess which equals inconveniencing someone else. June is extremely considerate of others. It’s been almost three years and she still refuses to help herself to a drink from my fridge without asking first.
‘I loved your last video,’ she says to Mum. ‘Did you see it, Tommy? How to ferment your own watermelon rind.’
‘Was Amity in it?’ I say.
‘Amity is always in it,’ says Mum, tossing back her beet shot.
Amity and my mother are dietitians. They were doing moderately well until they launched a YouTube channel several years ago and unexpectedly discovered that thousands of people wanted to watch them talk about amino acids and blenders. I’m pretty sure that a large chunk of AA Wellness’s success is also due to the fact that Amity looks like Nigella Lawson, if Nigella liked kale more than butter. Amity is the visual opposite to Mum, who’s a pocket-sized blonde. Thanks to their videos and two subsequent bestselling books, Mum and Amity now suffer from an extremely specific form of fame where to some they are revered as goddesses, while to those people’s friends they’re just two women who really like vegetables. Mum has taken to fame like a duck to water. She is very sweet to people who want selfies while she’s buying buckwheat at the markets, and she’s stopped going to the pharmacy in her dressing gown.
Despite claiming to be unimpressed by celebrity culture, June treats Mum with an increasing amount of reverence. She’ll be genuflecting soon. Case in point – the conversation happening right now:
Mum: I need to buy some more celery.
June: Amazing.
I can think of a thousand things that are more amazing to buy than celery. Seriously, literally a thousand.
I shake off my irritation and go get a beer.
The new head shot for Mum’s book is on the fridge door, stuck above a renewal for health insurance. Mum’s normal grin has been replaced by a serene half-lidded smile. ‘This is what it looks like when you don’t eat sugar,’ her expression says.
One of Gen’s old pics is underneath the head shot. Boy, she was an ugly baby. I used to love watching my parents’ friends try to hide their surprise at how two attractive people had produced this strange monkey child. No one’s poker face is ever as good as they think it is. You’ll be happy to know that Gen grew out of the monkey stage and now looks like a normal fourteen year old: sarcastic.
There are five family albums hidden in the hallway cupboard, documenting the evolution of the Lash family. We even have the traditional dorky Christmas picture, taken in the same spot in the house every year, except when I was fourteen. There was no Christmas photo that year.
(See? Told you there were secrets.)
*
Gen wanders down to the kitchen in Ugg boots. She has a verboten candy cane sticking out of her mouth.
‘Say hello to June, Genevieve.’ Mum offers June a canapé.
‘’Lo,’ says Gen, moving the candy cane to the other cheek. She collapses into a chair, exhausted from the marathon trek of ten metres, and puts her ugged feet on the coffee table.
‘Go and put your shoes on,’ says Mum.
‘You coming to the exhibition?’ I say to Gen.
‘We’re dropping her off at a friend’s on the way,’ says Mum.
Gen opens her mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again.
‘Will Christopher be joining us?’ says June.
Mum thunks the canapés down on the coffee table. ‘If he can tear himself away from his computer.’ The last few words are pitched down the hall towards Dad’s office door. Gluck continues regardless.
Despite side-sniping Dad, Mum is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed due to a recent vitamin D injection. This is how dietitians have a good time. I didn’t even know vitamins were injectable. If my mother, who eats so many green things she probably sprouts at night, needs extra nutrients, the rest of us are screwed.
June gamely attempts to engage Gen in conversation. It never goes well; after several years spent working in aged care, June tends to talk to my sister as if Gen’s slightly deaf. There’s a lot of Very Clear Speaking and I Am Taking You Seriously nodding. It’s good for June’s work – they all love her, as people tend to love June – but it has the opposite effect on Gen, who has no interest in returning the effort.
Dad emerges from his den, half of his hair standing on end. He kisses my girlfriend, who suddenly remembers her Pilates posture, and pulls a box of Panadol out of the cupboard. His shirt is so creased I wonder if he slept in it. It would also explain his hair.
‘You need to take breaks or you’ll ruin your eyesight,’ says Mum to him.
Dad sighs and rubs his eye while popping a pill out of its foil.
‘Did you try the timer I gave you?’ Mum continues. ‘I bet you didn’t. No wonder you’ve got a headache.’ She casually flicks Gen’s feet off the edge of the coffee table. Gen falls forward with a thump and glares at her, the angry kitten.
I spear what I think is a dolmathe from the canapé plate, and fetch Dad a beer to wash down the medication.
‘We’ve swapped our office chairs for fitballs. You should think about that, too, Thomas,’ says Mum. ‘Great for the lumbar.’
‘Mmmph,’ I say, through a mouthful of not-dolmathe. I know what Mica’s reaction would be to a fitball chair, and it would involve my Stanley knife.
‘God, Mum, what is this?’ says Gen, holding a not-dolmathe at arm’s length.
‘Kale roll-ups with raw cashew cream.’
‘Ugh,’ says Gen, putting hers back.
‘For God’s sake, Gen, go and put your shoes on or we’ll be late,’ snaps Mum.
June politely finishes her roll-up, though she reaches for a drink straightaway. I catch myself laughing and immediately feel guilty again. June writes thankyou letters, remembers everyone’s birthdays and brings in her neighbours’ bins. She forgave me for not introducing her to my parents until we’d been going out for over a year. She constantly tries to help other people, even if they don’t really want it. But lately even her good points – her selflessness, the never-ending desire to make sure everyone’s all right – are starting to shi
t me. You don’t need to be needed all the time, I want to tell her. People can cope without you.
I watch June sponge cashew cream off the hem of her jigsaw top. She catches my eye and smiles. God, maybe my respirator’s not working and I’m slowly being poisoned by aerosol. Maybe I’m having some sort of breakdown.
No. Everything’s fine.
Always fine; never good, never great.
For a moment, the world seems to close in. I go to get another beer, ignoring June looking pointedly at her watch.
If you’re five foot seven or under, a Mini is great. If you’re six foot four, however, you feel like a bear crammed into a clothes basket.
‘Can’t we take Dad’s car?’
‘It’s at uni.’ Dad squeezes behind the wheel. ‘I’ve been cycling to work instead. Field studies haven’t been great for my cardiovascular fitness.’
I wedge in between Gen and June and attempt to avoid kneecapping myself with my face.
‘Do you have plans for the long weekend?’ says Dad, who looks like he’s going to try driving with his shins.
‘We were going to go to Phillip Island and see the penguins,’ says June, ‘but Tommy has to work.’ There’s a noble edge to her voice I hear a lot lately, more pings on the radar of Things Tom Does Wrong.
‘You’re my favourite work widow,’ I say, briefly leaning my head against hers, feeling her instantly forgive me, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
‘Surely you can take a holiday, Thomas,’ says Mum. ‘It’s your company.’
‘When it’s your company, you usually get less holidays,’ I say.
‘Fewer holidays,’ corrects Gen immediately.
I reach under my arm and rub her skull with my knuckles until she squeaks.
‘Tommy’s frantically busy. Did he tell you about the Christmas photo he’s doing?’ says June. ‘A family portrait with children the parents aren’t allowed to see without legal supervision. It’s crazy.’