Donna and the Debbies were always offering to babysit. One year they even took Reuben and Scarlet off to PixiFoto for Christmas snaps. When the pictures came back they were Anne Geddes-esque; Reuben sat in a pumpkin while Scarlet had been dressed up like a baby snow leopard. The aunts were right – they were very cute. As the 3Ds oohed and aahed and looked expectantly at Lizzie for a thrilled reaction (which she gave them, half faked, half dinkum), Donna said, ‘Oh my God, they are adorable. Enjoy them, Lizzie, because one day they’ll turn into little fucking arseholes. Christian! Get off him! I tell you what, I’m gonna crucify you when I get you home …’
When Lizzie’s kids were born, the 3Ds brought food over twice a week for the first six weeks. Tuna mornay, shepherd’s pie, pasta bake and rissoles. Food Lizzie hadn’t eaten in years because she was too groovy to cook it and far too cool to eat it. Until then, Lizzie had looked down her nose at them a little. But this simple gift made with love made her see them differently. It also made her start cooking shepherd’s pie.
The 3Ds adored Jim. Jim was the one bathing the kids and cooking the meals and the girls never missed an opportunity to point it out to their husbands. ‘Take a look at that, Shane. That’s something I’ve never seen before. A dad bathing his kids. Jesus, hell would freeze over before we saw that at our place.’
‘I don’t normally do it,’ Jim would shrug. ‘I’m just doing it to impress you. Normally at this time of night I’d be having it off with Lorna over the road, but she’s up at bingo tonight.’
Despite Jim’s reputation among the women-folk as a prize-catch husband, Lizzie thought about Tom non-stop. She didn’t feel good about it but she couldn’t help it. She went to sleep with him and woke up with him and he kept her warm day and night. She replayed their moments in London over and over again and recalled every detail she could from their time together ten years before. She constantly scanned her brain for something new to add to her collection. Anything.
One day, round at her folks’ place just after Christmas, she’d dug out a box crammed with old letters and travel souvenirs. He’d written her only one letter from Boston. Well, it wasn’t actually a letter. He had climbed into a photo booth and held up a different word in each of the three frames. They read:
I
MISS
YOU
She could see his sweet face poking out from behind the words and she rubbed the strip of pictures, knowing he had put it into an envelope with his own hands. She remembered how touched she’d been at the time. She’d used it for months as a bookmark. How had she forgotten about it? It made her heart flutter to see it again. Maybe he had loved her.
She would vague out while pushing the kids on the swing or making sandcastles, just thinking about being with him. The glances, the accidental touches, the kissing, the fucking, the flirting. That feeling of being alight and never needing food or sleep.
Lizzie spent those two weeks down at Rosebud constantly wet, not eating much and daydreaming about a boy – just like when she was a teenager. She would conjure the memory of the two of them in the London Eye. She would see them walking towards one another and feel the warmth of his breath on her. Then with his index finger he would gently push that stray hair from her eye.
Most of the time she would cut off the memory abruptly so as not to be shaken by the reality of what came next. But sometimes she would picture the two of them kissing the whole way up to the top of the wheel, Tom running his hands over her arse and thighs, putting his hand up her skirt and touching her through silk knickers until she couldn’t take it any more and she would push him to the floor and not even bother taking off her underpants – she’d push them to one side and slide onto him and savour him and then he would roll her over, get on top and finish her off. And as he came he would say, ‘Fuck, Lizzie, I love you.’
And then she would snap back to reality and wonder how he was. And Celia. And Felicity.
She would paint sunscreen onto the kids’ faces, all the while hypnotised by a young couple on the beach who were in that place where she and Tom had been. That magical place of newness, lust and fearlessness.
‘Mum. MUM! MMMMMUUUUUUUMMMMMM. Why are you looking at me but not talking? Are you asleep?’ demanded Reuben impatiently. ‘Can I not wear my rashy but wear sunscreen like the Elfs?’
‘What? Sure, Reub. Whatever you want.’ And off he ran. And of course he got burnt.
Jim kept asking her where she was. ‘Miles away,’ she’d say. ‘Miles and miles away.’
‘Well, this holiday seems to be doing you good. I haven’t seen you this relaxed in years.’
Jim’s normal affection seemed clunky and awkward and she felt guilty accepting it. She loved Jim. He was a great father and a loving partner, she knew. She didn’t want to leave Jim but she wanted to be with Tom just for a second, just to get that hit. That rush. Just a weekend, she thought. Just one weekend together, with no partners and no kids. No regrets.
What she really wanted was for the kids and partners never to have existed for a weekend and then to get them back at the end. But that was impossible. She was realistic enough to know that she and Jim might not be together forever, but she also thought it highly unlikely that they wouldn’t be. Like two pieces of a puzzle, they fit. Jules had once said to her, ‘You know, I can’t imagine anything you two couldn’t get over.’
Deceit and infidelity were not her style. Tacky, tacky, tacky, she always thought. Leave that to the desperate housewives. But this taste of longing made her understand why people risked perfectly good lives for a bonk and a pash. She kept thinking of that line of Billy Bragg’s, ‘Virtue never tested is no virtue at all.’
She wondered what would happen now, what could possibly happen. She missed Tom painfully. Nothing, or almost nothing, for years and suddenly she ached for him. She longed for him. She missed the way he made her feel and how funny and smart and sexy she felt with him. And young. She missed that version of herself.
She couldn’t remember Tom ever having bad breath, ever farting, ever even taking a crap. Of course she knew he did but that was how selective memory worked, and that was what kept drawing her back. She knew almost everything that would come out of Jim’s mouth before he spoke. In their twelve years together they had covered every topic, every childhood memory, every fear, love and theory. He would sit on the toilet and read the paper, yelling out to tell her about some article he thought might interest her. When they went out, she would have to plead with him not to wear the same old cardigan – not every time, just when she felt strongly about it. It was against his ALP leanings to spend more time on grooming than absolutely necessary. But he loved it when she looked good. He always told her when they went out, ‘Geez, Lizzie, you scrub up alright for an old bird.’
‘More than I can say for you, Jim. Would it kill you to change your shirt?’
‘Alright, Lizzie, only because you asked so nicely. But I’m still wearing the cardigan.’
On their second-last day in Rosebud she returned from her morning walk and Jim and the kids were nowhere to be seen. She was in the caravan shaving her legs with Jim’s razor when she heard Donna and a Debbie outside.
‘No! I don’t believe it. Who told you?’
‘Heidi’s mum from school. Rhonda.’
‘Do you believe her?’
‘Absolutely.’ Donna took a drag of her cigarette. ‘She asked Tony and me to a key party once. I said we had a wedding that night but she told me she and her husband go to swingers’ nights all the time.’
‘So when did she see Shane and Debbie?’
‘A couple of weeks before Christmas. She thought I already knew so I acted like I did. She said they looked like they were pretty experienced with the whole thing.’
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe it. Hang on: I babysat for them a couple of Saturdays before Christmas. They said they were having
dinner with friends.’
The two women laughed.
‘Well, they probably were. In the nude.’
They laughed even harder.
‘So, what do you know? What some people will do to keep their relationship alive. Oh my God, I just thought of something. Rhonda didn’t have it off with Shane, did she?’
‘Oh God, I didn’t even ask.’
‘Next time I babysit for them I’ll get Tony to follow the car!’
‘He may never come back.’ They shrieked with laughter.
‘I’ll give them some frangers and lube to take with them.’
‘And a video camera!’
The women laughed and laughed and eventually wound to a halt.
‘Oh well, I suppose you might as well get a bit while you still can.’
‘You won’t be young forever.’
‘That’s right, we’ll be old ladies before long and who’ll have it off with us then?’
‘Our husbands, I s’pose.’
‘Mine doesn’t even have it off with me now.’
Lizzie was shaking with silent laughter. So Shane and Debbie were swingers. She couldn’t wait for Jim to get back so she could tell him. It sounded so grubby. But at the same time, she felt very straight and boring by comparison.
Lizzie was thrilled when they finally packed up the car and strapped the kids into their car seats. She couldn’t wait to get home and immerse herself in Tom memorabilia. And she wanted to talk to Jules about it.
They headed back to Melbourne on a slightly gloomy day. They had to be back that night for Jules’s mum’s seventieth birthday party. There was a huge do at Malvern Palace, as Lizzie called Jules’s parents’ place, to celebrate.
She hadn’t had an opportunity to tell Jim about the sexual escapades of Debbie and Shane. There were always too many people around. So as soon as they’d buckled themselves into the Peugeot, she put on a Thomas the Tank Engine talking book and gave Jim the lowdown.
‘You are having me on, Lizzie.’
‘I wish I was, mate. But they’re having it off. I heard it from the horse who heard it from the horse’s mouth.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Jim’s tone said that he did but wished he didn’t have to. ‘Well, I guess if they can, you know, cope with it. I don’t know if I could. Have you been with anyone else since we’ve been together?’
Lizzie was shocked. ‘No!’ she spluttered. ‘Of course not.’ She paused. ‘Why? Have you?’
‘Have you ever felt like you’ve missed out on anything from me?’
‘No.’
‘Could I have loved you any more?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
They drove in silence for a while until Lizzie asked again, ‘Well, have you?’
Her heart was beating fast. She wasn’t sure she really wanted the answer.
‘No, Lizzie, of course not.’ Jim flicked the indicator on. ‘No, you know my heart belongs to you, the kids, the Labor Party and the mighty Bombers.’
Lizzie looked out the window and felt sick. Jim put his hand on her leg. ‘Look, an accident.’
A car had veered off the road into the median strip up ahead. There were police, an ambulance, tow trucks and chaos. But they sped right past on the way back to their little house.
‘There but for the grace of God go I,’ said Jim. ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’
It was great to get home. The kids played happily with their Christmas presents while Jim and Lizzie unpacked, opened mail, checked emails and listened to the fifteen messages on their answering machine, even though they’d recorded a message asking people not to leave messages. Lizzie’s mobile had no reception in Rosebud so the same fifteen people had left messages on her voicemail as well. The last message on both was from Jules: ‘Call me.’ I’ll see her tonight, thought Lizzie.
She had enjoyed her beach routine, but now it was exhilarating to have a long hot shower and wash her hair, and heaven to be scrubbed and buffed. She pulled on a hot-pink silk dress with shoestring straps, tied a white ribbon around her neck and slipped on her red jewelled bracelet. She hadn’t worn it since the London Eye, when it had pulled a thread from Tom’s jacket.
Jim’s mum arrived to babysit and Lizzie and Jim headed off to Eunice’s seventieth, windows down and Died Pretty on full blast. When they pulled up at Malvern Palace, the place looked magical. Fairy lights festooned the trees and flaming torches lined the driveway. They waded through a sea of tanned, well-fed retirees to find Eunice holding court on the back terrace.
‘And the girl said, “Venice? Where’s Venice? Is that at Chadstone?”’ Everyone broke into civilised laughter and Eunice stood up to greet them, kissing them each on both cheeks. It was a habit she had affected since she and her sister had bought a holiday house in Tuscany.
‘Happy birthday, Eunice.’
‘I’m so glad you’re here. Has Julia seen you yet? She’s been driving me mad all night. “Are they here yet? Are they here?” It’s like she’s four years old.’
‘I haven’t seen her,’ said Lizzie, handing Eunice a gift.
‘Oh, there was no need for gifts.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s just a little something Jim made.’
As Eunice opened the present, she introduced Lizzie and Jim to the other guests. ‘This is Lizzie Quealy, Julia’s friend. She’s a comedian. She’s just sold her series to the BBC.’
Lizzie always found it slightly embarrassing to be introduced surname and all. In Sunshine no one had a surname unless they were unlucky enough to have a very common name like Steve or Julie and weren’t well liked enough to have a nickname like Ox, Scrubber or Wanger. ‘And this is her husband, Jim Cake. He’s a sculptor. Oh, now isn’t this divine?’
‘Actually, I’m a high school teacher, Eunice.’
But no one was listening. They were all nodding at the sculpture. Eunice had always been a big fan of Jim’s work. She had come along to his very first exhibition and bought three pieces for her garden. When he was working as a labourer she had hired him for odd jobs and told her friends to do the same. Some people adopted pets. Eunice adopted people. If you stopped by for coffee, as likely as not you’d meet a Somalian refugee, a street kid from Dandenong or a recovering junkie from Tullamarine. Jim had been one of her little projects for a while – her struggling artist.
The sculpture was a wacky-looking dog made of steel with springs for ears and a bottlecap for a nose. Eunice was mad for it.
‘Lizzie!’ Jules, wide-eyed, seized Lizzie by the arm and dragged her away from the throng. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ she panted once they were down behind the tennis shed.
‘We only got back today.’ Lizzie looked at Jules. She was a pale greeny-grey. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you don’t look good.’
‘Lizzie. I’m pregnant.’
‘No!’
‘Yes.’
‘You are shitting me.’
‘I am so not shitting you.’
‘That’s fantastic. That’s amazing. Fuck! When did you find out?’
‘Three days ago.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘I’m stoked, but I’m sick as a dog. You remember when you left I had gastro? Well, that wasn’t gastro. That was morning sickness.’
‘You poor thing. How’s Cam?’
‘Stunned. He said he won’t believe it until he’s seen it. He’s too busy getting me flat lemonade and toast at the moment. One of the first things he was worried about was whether we’d still have to pay for the three cycles of IVF we’d already booked. But that’s why I left all those messages. I was dying to tell you so that I could tell Mum.’
‘You haven’t told your mum?’
‘I promised you’d be the first to know
and I am a woman of my word.’
‘Oh, Jules.’ Lizzie hugged her. ‘I’m so rapt for you. You’re going to be a great mum and this is going to be a fucking great baby.’
As they pulled apart, Jules saw the tears on Lizzie’s face and laughed. ‘You dag.’
‘Sorry. I don’t know what got into me.’
‘Alcohol, I’d say.’ They linked arms and walked back across the yard towards Eunice.
‘When’s it due?’
‘Late August, early September. It’s what they call a Christmas-party baby.’
‘I tell you what, you don’t muck around. The last I heard you were calling this the year of the baby. The next thing I know you’re knocked up.’ As they neared Eunice, Lizzie let go of Jules’s arm. ‘I’m going to get a drink.’ When she was a safe distance away, she turned around and watched Eunice’s face as Jules told her the news.
As the days got warmer and the nights shorter, Lizzie’s time was filled with play dates, ice-creams at the pool, trips to the zoo, afternoon teas with Nana and fish and chips on Fridays. It was the languid life of summer – but Lizzie couldn’t stop thinking about Tom and she felt herself sinking into a funk.
She would go walking at night, listening to Billy Bragg and The Blue Nile. When Jim was at his union meetings, she’d get out her old photos and hold that bookmark in her hand.
I
MISS
YOU
She would imagine what it would be like if they were together. She was dying to talk to Jules about it, but it never seemed a good time. Jules had the worst morning sickness in the history of the world. This baby was eating her alive.
Every now and then, when Lizzie was getting serious cabin fever and she and Jim were getting snitchy, she’d go into the State Library to ‘work on the series.’ She did very little work. What she did was float around the building drinking coffee, flicking through magazines and occasionally googling ‘happiness.’
The Happiness Show Page 14