All Together Now

by Monica McInerney

  Jeannie saw the note immediately. It was propped in the middle of the kitchen table, with her pay envelope alongside.

  Dear Jeannie,

  Sam and I have been away since you last cleaned and we won’t be back for another fortnight, so please take a holiday on us. The reason?

  We’ve eloped.

  I’m sure it must seem drastic, but it felt exactly right to us. You don’t know how much you helped me make this decision, Jeannie, listening to me each week and being so calm and understanding. I kept thinking of something you said to me and you were so right. It was all getting taken away from us and turning into someone else’s day. We finally realised it was up to us to make it ours again and this seemed the only – the best – way to do it.

  I know from what you said that day that you’ll understand. I just hope Mum and Dad and Amanda will too …

  Thank you again, Jeannie, for everything.

  Kate and Sam xxx

  Jeannie read the note again. Amanda’s news yesterday had surprised her, but not touched her. This was different. This she understood. It was a happy, nervous, excited note. A grateful note too.

  But all Jeannie could feel was guilt. The last thing she deserved was Kate’s gratitude. Because those wise words that Kate had found so helpful hadn’t been her words, had they? Jeannie had heard them from someone else, someone very close to her, not in person, but in a phone call, more than four months earlier.

  And how had she reacted that time? Had she listened calmly? With understanding?

  No. Far from it. She’d lost her temper. Accused the speaker of being selfish, after all that Jeannie had done for her. Cried and shouted and eventually hung up. She’d reacted so badly, been so angry and so hurt that since that day there had been only silence between them, despite the fact they lived less than twenty minutes apart, in the same city.

  Her ex-boyfriend Richard had been with her when the phone call came. He’d done his best to act as a go-between. ‘Jeannie, I know it’s upsetting, and of course you feel hurt, but try and see it from her point of view, can’t you?’

  She couldn’t. She hadn’t wanted to. So she told Richard she didn’t want to see him again either.

  In the weeks that followed, she’d thrown herself into her studies, taken on the cleaning jobs, done all she could to wear herself out so she didn’t have to think about either of them.

  But it hadn’t worked. She’d still thought about them both every day. Watching the battles between Amanda and Kate and their mother, she’d pictured herself in their place. It had been easy to do. Because she had been there herself, in almost that same situation, hadn’t she?

  Jeannie read Kate’s note again. She thought of Kate’s joy in her wedding being whittled away by everyone else’s expectations. She even felt sympathy for Amanda, and the sisters’ mother, for not getting what they wanted either.

  What on earth happened to some women at wedding times? Jeannie knew the answer. All sense and reason deserted them. She knew because it had happened to her. It had taken long lonely weeks of thinking to let her see the obvious. She’d been the one at fault.

  The solution was even more obvious now. She had to be the one to fix things.

  She hesitated for just one moment before taking out her mobile phone and making the first call. As she heard his voice on the answering machine, the measured words she’d planned disappeared. She spoke from the heart instead. ‘Richard, it’s me. It’s Jeannie.’ She paused, then forged ahead. ‘I’m so sorry for everything. I miss you, every day. If it’s not too late, if you’d still like to, would you call me back sometime?’

  She needed to take a breath before making the second call. The harder call. She was midway through the number when she changed her mind again. It suddenly didn’t seem right to phone when she could be there, in person, in less than fifteen minutes on her bike.

  Leaving her cleaning gear behind, she hurried to the front door. Nervous now, she stopped in front of Kate’s hall mirror to check her appearance.

  An anxious-looking 55-year-old woman looked back at her, in her cleaning outfit of T-shirt and jeans. A stubborn, stupid 55-year-old woman who’d caused her own 25-year-old daughter as much drama and distress as Amanda had caused Kate, as the girls’ mother had caused them both.

  It seemed so obvious now. Yet for weeks, months even, Jeannie had refused to listen to what her daughter Sarah had been trying to tell her. She’d tried to take over from the first night, when Sarah and Luke told her they’d decided to get married. Not just tried, she had taken over, making plans, deciding on arrangements, ignoring Sarah’s wishes, Luke’s concerns, turning their day – Sarah’s day – into her day.

  She’d had enough time over the past lonely months to reflect on it. The truth had dawned slowly and painfully, complicated and layered. Had she seen Sarah’s wedding day as a chance to make up for the things her daughter had missed out on when she was growing up, with Sarah’s father long out of the picture? Yes, that was part of it. She’d also wanted to show off. Not just her happy, well-adjusted, clever daughter, but herself as well. She’d wanted – needed – to prove to her family, her big, judgmental, conservative family, that while she’d made different choices to them over the years, gone down alternative routes, raising Sarah as a single mother, moving from job to job and state to state, even doing something as crazy as throwing in a good job to go back to university at her age – she could still give her only daughter a big, traditional wedding, couldn’t she?

  A kind of fever had possessed her. Wedding fever. She’d become blind to anyone’s suggestions but her own. She’d ignored her daughter’s wish to wear a vintage silk dress and taken her to froth- and frill-filled wedding shops instead. She’d ignored Sarah and Luke’s idea of a beachside ceremony and insisted on a big wedding in their hometown. She’d become the wedding planner and the mother-of-the-bride from hell.

  Sarah had tried to call a halt to it from the start. Jeannie saw that now. So many times she’d started sentences with phrases like, ‘Mum, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but …’ ‘Mum, I agree that would look nice, but it’s not what Luke and I want …’ ‘Yes, Mum, it would be great to have everyone in the family there, but it’s not really our style …’

  She’d heard, but she’d chosen not to listen. She’d wanted the wedding day she’d never had, the family approval she’d always sought, the opportunity to show off with the best of them. So she’d hijacked her own – her only – daughter’s wedding.

  Until, two days before it was due to take place, her daughter hijacked it back. Sarah did the one thing she could do to stop it happening.

  She’d eloped.

  Just like that, she and Luke crept out of the house like two teenagers, caught a plane to Brisbane, met the marriage celebrant they’d secretly organised a month earlier and got married on a beach, with two witnesses and a glorious sunset behind them.

  Sarah had rung Jeannie to tell her. It was the worst phone call Jeannie had ever taken. Tears, anger, long silences, pleas for understanding on both sides. Jeannie had been overcome with a rush of hurt and humiliation. Her only daughter hadn’t wanted her own mother at her wedding.

  She wouldn’t listen to Sarah’s attempts to explain, not that day on the phone and not since. She had returned any letters Sarah had sent. Not opened any emails.

  She had sulked, there was no other word for it. A woman of her age, behaving like a child. Sarah’s elopement hadn’t been a slap in the face, she realised now. It had been a wake-up call: Sarah’s only way of showing that she was now an adult, that she could and needed to make her own decisions. That it was time for Jeannie to let go.

  And how had she repaid her? With months of silence.

  As Jeannie cycled through the Melbourne streets now, she could feel the tears welling. She hadn’t let herself cry since the day of the phone call, hanging on to the hurt and anger instead. She didn’t try to stop the tears now. Not until she had arrived at the door to Sarah and Luke’s apartment
building. She got off the bike, breathed slowly, wiped her eyes and prayed that luck would be on her side, that Sarah, an architect, still worked from home on Tuesdays.

  She pressed the intercom button, realising she was holding her breath. Thirty long seconds passed before she heard a voice. Her daughter’s voice, turned tinny by the speaker.

  ‘Hello?’

  Jeannie’s heart started to beat faster just hearing it. She sounded busy. Distracted. Jeannie hesitated for one second, and then spoke.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Mum? Mum, is that you?’

  Jeannie nodded, then realised how silly that was. Sarah couldn’t see her. ‘I’m downstairs. I’m —’ Sorry. Heartbroken. Ashamed. All of those things. ‘I’m downstairs,’ she said again.

  There was no answer. No buzz of the front door being opened for her. No voice in reply. Jeannie stood, staring at the intercom, willing her daughter’s voice to sound from it again.

  It stayed quiet.

  Jeannie couldn’t blame her. How could she? Who did Jeannie think she was, turning up, expecting instant forgiveness after the way she’d behaved?

  She was turning to unlock her bike, to cycle away again, when she heard something.

  It was footsteps. A person in a hurry, their feet pounding down the staircase inside, getting closer and closer.

  The door flew open. It wasn’t just a person. It was her daughter, her Sarah, dressed only in a towel, obviously just out of the shower, her hair streaming wet, her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Oh, Mum!’

  That was all Jeannie managed to see and hear, before she felt the beautiful, familiar rush of her daughter flying back into her arms.

  Odd One Out

  1

  Though Sylvie Devereaux didn’t realise it at the time, her life began to change at exactly five minutes past seven on the evening of her sister Vanessa’s second wedding.

  The instigator was her Great-Aunt Mill. ‘Mill-as-in-short-for-Millicent,’ as she always introduced herself. Great-Aunt Foot-in-Mouth, the rest of the family privately called her.

  It had been a hectic day for the Devereaux family. As the Sydney society pages would report the following morning: Two artistic dynasties came together yesterday with the union of fashion designer Vanessa Devereaux and actor Jared Rowe. A who’s who of the Sydney art scene was in attendance, including the bride’s mother, the celebrated artist Fidelma Devereaux, the bride’s sister and bridesmaid, jewellery designer Cleo Devereaux, and her brother Sebastian Devereaux, winner of this year’s Green Room Award for outstanding achievement in lighting design. Vanessa, a rising star in the Sydney fashion scene, designed her own dress, a daring and colourful interpretation of the classic Grecian shift style … There would be no mention of Sylvie.

  The reception was taking place in the city’s most talked-about harbourside restaurant. Dinner was served by waiters who looked like models. Rock oysters to begin. Pan-fried sole with truffle shavings and porcini mushrooms on a bed of baby spinach for main course. A concoction of summer berries in an amusement of toffee for dessert.

  Sitting one row away from the main bridal table, Sylvie was catching her breath. She’d been on the run all day. Checking details with the celebrant, the photographer, the caterer, the musicians. Fetching the flowers. Returning the flowers when Vanessa wasn’t happy with them. Moving furniture in the hotel suite at Vanessa’s insistence. Moving it back at the photographer’s insistence. Driving to the family home to fetch a handbag her mother had left behind. Stopping on the way at her mother and sisters’ studio to collect a necklace Cleo had forgotten. Going back to the studio and the house again for more handbags and necklaces when they changed their minds. Keeping everyone fed and hydrated, dialling room service so many times she was on first-name terms with the receptionist.

  She’d had fifteen minutes to race home again, do her own make-up and try to style her short curly hair. One minute to lament her ordinary brown eyes and freckled skin, so different from her sisters’ blue-eyed classic features. Five minutes to change into her wedding outfit. A normal outfit, not a bridesmaid’s dress. Vanessa had asked Cleo to be bridesmaid, again. ‘It’s good for both our profiles, Sylvie. You understand,’ Vanessa said. Sylvie said that of course she did, and hoped her smile hid her hurt. She’d secretly hoped this time it was her turn. Or that Vanessa would have two bridesmaids. When she tentatively suggested this, Vanessa explained it was more fashionable these days to have one.

  In her room, Sylvie thought her outfit looked lovely, a green silk dress and matching jacket, green high-heeled shoes and glass earrings. At only five foot two, she’d learnt to avoid complicated patterns or fussy designs. ‘You’ve come as an elf, how sweet,’ was all Cleo said. Her mother was too busy directing the hairdresser to pin up her long hair in a particular way to notice Sylvie’s outfit. She just gave her a vague wave and said she looked charming. She’d said the same thing about Sylvie’s working clothes of jeans and T-shirt that morning. Vanessa didn’t say anything. She was too busy posing for photographs. Sylvie’s only hope for a compliment was from her big brother, Sebastian, her closest ally in the family. As a child, Sylvie had secretly thought of him as her separated twin, cheerfully ignoring the seven-year age difference. They were very alike in appearance even now. Unfortunately, his flight from Melbourne had been delayed so many times it looked like the most he’d see of the wedding was the cutting of the cake.

  Sebastian finally arrived at the reception at seven p.m. Sylvie’s spirits lifted as he came through the garlanded door. Although they’d spoken on the phone now and again, it was the first time they’d seen each other in ten months. He was out of his normal jeans and casual shirts, dressed in a dark-blue suit and a red tie, his unruly hair tamed into a more sober style than usual. Short for a man, only five foot six, he was often mistaken for a mid-twenties student, not the thirty-six-year-old success story he was. ‘It’s my boyish charm, not my height,’ he always said.

  Sylvie had heard Vanessa on the phone, unsubtly telling him he needed to dress up for the occasion. ‘A lot of my clients will be here, Sebastian. I want to make the right impression. Not like last time.’ He’d come straight from a country film set to her first wedding, dirt still on his shoes. She hadn’t spoken to him for weeks. ‘I can see her point,’ he’d said to Sylvie. ‘It’s my fault the marriage failed. If I’d worn a suit they’d be celebrating their fifth anniversary about now.’ When he’d heard the decorative theme of this wedding was water, he’d told Sylvie he was thinking about coming in a wetsuit.

  Sylvie was waving to get his attention when she heard her name being called. Shouted, in fact. It was Great-Aunt Mill, across the room at the elderly-members-of-the-family table. In her early seventies, short and plump, she was dressed in a red dress with a wide cream collar. She had pinned her white hair into a lopsided bun, adding a jaunty red bow to the back. The whole effect was unfortunately like a giant jelly cake.

  Sylvie excused herself to her neighbour (an old school friend of Vanessa’s who’d spent the past hour talking about his stock portfolio) and made her way through the round, beautifully decorated tables. Each blue and white flower arrangement had cost more than Sylvie’s dress. She’d barely sat down before Great-Aunt Mill took her hand.

  ‘You’re not to worry, little Sylvie.’

  ‘About what, Aunt Mill?’

  ‘About being left on the shelf.’

  ‘But I’m not worried.’

  ‘Of course you are. Any girl would be on a day like today. You’re probably thinking, “It’s not fair. One of my sisters is long married, the other has been married twice. That’s our family’s share of weddings all used up.” Unless Sebastian surprises us, of course, but they don’t tend to marry, his sort of people, do they? They’re not allowed to, are they? We all guessed even when he was a young boy, you know. Always putting on those little plays and asking for dance lessons. Is he here yet? I haven’t seen him. But it’s not him I’m concerned about, it’s you. “I’ve
missed out,” you’re thinking. “I’m going to be single for life.” ’

  ‘I wasn’t, really.’

  Mill patted Sylvie’s hand. ‘It can be hard being the youngest one, I know. My youngest sister, Letitia, that’s your other great-aunt, was never happy. Couldn’t seem to find her place in the world. You look like her, you know. Small. That same springy hair. Same big smile too. You might be taking after her in life as well. Not that she lived long. Died aged twenty-four, God rest her soul. Measles. Or was it chicken pox? Something spotty anyway.’

  ‘I’m nearly out of my twenties, Mill. I should be okay. And I’m fit as a fiddle.’

  ‘Of course you are. Anyone can see that. You’ve got your grandfather’s farming genes in you. Fine agricultural bloodstock. Strong and sturdy, like a little ox.’ Aunt Mill leaned in close enough for Sylvie to get a quick blast of sherry-scented breath. ‘Which is why I have a proposition for you.’

  ‘To sell me as breeding stock?’

  Aunt Mill gave a burst of laughter. ‘How funny. Now, you’ve been working around Sydney as a pimp for the past few years, your mother tells me.’

  ‘A temp, Mill.’

  ‘A tip? What about?’

  ‘Temp. I’m a temp, Mill. It’s short for temporary secretary.’

  ‘Nothing to be ashamed about. It can’t be easy to find permanent work these days. And not everyone gets given a special talent like your mother did. And your sisters. And your brother. Your father too, though I probably shouldn’t mention him on a happy day like today. He’s not here, I suppose? No, of course he isn’t. As I was saying, the rest of us are the worker bees. I was a housekeeper all my life, as you know, and it never did me any harm. Where is it you said you’re working?’

  Sylvie was tempted to say a side street in Kings Cross. ‘I’m working back at the studio again, with Mum and Vanessa and Cleo. Doing their admin.’ They’d called her in a panic six months previously, when their regular PA walked out in a huff on the eve of an exhibition opening. Sylvie had been there since. Apart from answering the phone, typing letters, sending orders, updating databases and doing filing, she also ran errands, booked restaurants, sent flowers and kept an eye on their supplies of herbal tea, spring water, rice cakes, pecans, blueberries, vitamin tablets and eye gel.