The Right Time

by Dianne Blacklock

  ‘What, I’m just expected to sit and watch?’ she cried.

  He groaned. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be into it. I dunno why you asked if you weren’t going to have an open mind.’ He stood up. ‘You were the one who said you don’t want to end up like Tim and Ellen.’

  She looked up at him. ‘You think partner swapping is going to keep our marriage together?’

  ‘Think about it, Evie, we’ve never even had sex with anyone else,’ he glared down at her. ‘How long do you think it’ll be before curiosity kills the cat? Don’t you reckon it might be better to at least try it, in a safe place, with both of us involved, giving our blessing?’

  How could she ever give her blessing to that?

  ‘Mother!’ Tayla cried. ‘Aren’t you going to do something?’

  Evie had been jolted out of her reverie in time to see Fanta streaming across the table and Cody in tears while Jayden laughed hysterically.

  ‘It’s going everywhere,’ Tayla squealed, jumping clear of the table and clutching her packet of fries to her chest.

  ‘Jayden! What did you do?’ Evie demanded, grabbing the cup, though there was nothing left to save.

  ‘I didn’t do nothin!’ Jayden protested. ‘He did it himself, the stupid dumbhead!’

  Cody wailed as Evie attempted to stem the flood with flimsy paper napkins. People were staring. A young boy in uniform appeared with a mop and bucket.

  ‘It’s all right, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’ll clean it up.’

  ‘My frieth are all wet, Mummy,’ Cody sobbed.

  ‘It’s okay, darling, I’ll get you some more.’

  ‘Go up to the counter, ma’am,’ said the boy, ‘they’ll replace his drink for you.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s okay,’ said Evie, trying to wipe Cody off with the sodden napkins. ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘It’s all right, ma’am, part of the service,’ he said. ‘Hey matey, you can get another drink, okay?’

  ‘Can I get another drink too?’ Jayden piped in.

  ‘Shoosh, Jayden,’ said Evie, gathering up their things.

  ‘How come he gets everything just because he’s so stupid?’

  ‘I not thtupid, Jayden!’

  ‘Are too!’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Evie hissed, ushering them out of the young man’s way. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Evie had herded the children over to the counter and bought them whatever they asked for. More fries, drinks, sundaes, whatever. She paid for it all, she didn’t care, she just wanted to get out of there.

  ‘But where are we going to eat all this, Mother?’ Tayla wanted to know as Evie bustled them out the door.

  ‘We’ll go to the park,’ she said.

  She’d sat on the park bench, watching the kids, her head still buzzing. Cody stayed snuggled in beside her, eating his sundae, out of harm’s – and his brother’s – way.

  Craig had stormed off to bed that first night, his back turned away from her when she came into the room. She thought about talking to him, coaxing him, offering sex. But she really didn’t feel like it, she was too upset. She climbed into bed and stayed over on her side, but she couldn’t get to sleep for ages.

  When she woke in the morning Craig was already up. He was sitting out at the breakfast table, reading the paper, totally ignoring the mayhem the boys were creating around him trying to make their own breakfast.

  ‘Why don’t you go and have the day to yourself?’ Evie had suggested wanly.

  ‘Fine with me,’ he’d returned, slapping the paper down on the table and walking out of the room.

  Evie leaned against the railing now, breathing hard, her legs rippling as oxygen pumped through her veins. She’d been surprised by that sensation at first, even a little startled, but now she loved it. It made her feel like she was alive.

  The next week had gone by in a blur. Evie had thrown herself into making the food for the anniversary party, back-to-school shopping and end-of-holiday outings and play dates for the children. She’d filled in every minute of every day, had said yes to every request from the kids all week, which had meant that although she’d been run ragged, she hadn’t had time to think.

  Craig had been morose, but Evie had managed to stay out of his way for the most part. Gradually, though, things had begun to thaw between them. Frostiness had melted into begrudging politeness, until, on the night before the anniversary party, he had called her Pud with some affection.

  When she had come downstairs that evening after putting the kids to bed, Craig was sitting at the table rather than in front of the telly. He obviously wanted to talk.

  Evie took a seat at the table opposite him.

  ‘I don’t want things to be like this, Craig,’ she said first.

  ‘Me either,’ he said, putting his hand over hers. ‘I knew you’d come around.’

  Her stomach lurched. She’d hoped he would say let’s just drop it, pretend it never came up. But she knew in her heart that wouldn’t work either. It would be the elephant in the room from now on. Evie knew what her husband wanted, and if she didn’t go along with it, he might go ahead and do it without her. Curiosity would one day kill the cat, he’d said so himself. There was no getting out of this.

  ‘I’d just like a little time to get used to the idea,’ Evie said in a small voice.

  He’d picked up her hand then and kissed it. ‘Take all the time you need, Puddin’.’

  So now it was hanging over her like clouds on washing day, threatening to ruin everything. She could think of little else, but she couldn’t talk to anyone about it. How could she? She’d foolishly tried to bring it up the next day with Emma, but it had just come out, she desperately needed to hear someone say that it was sick, or weird, or just plain wrong, so that she didn’t have to feel like there was something wrong with her. Maybe Craig was right, normal people were doing it on their very street, but she had her doubts. And if they really were doing it, then she had her doubts they were normal.

  A few days later, she had finally found herself alone in the empty house. She had taken the kids to school, and Cody to preschool, and returned home to get on with her chores. But the house felt strange and quiet, and her thoughts were too loud, echoing off the walls of her skull, replaying Craig’s words over and over. She decided she just had to face this head-on, see what she was up against. She googled ‘clubs for swingers’, and then clicked on the first thing that came up without looking too closely. A page opened, purple and black with blinking lights. She scanned the page, her eyes taking in random words and phrases – no prostitution, no single guys . . . adult play . . . fantasy . . . orgy room. Evie gasped. Her eyes drifted to photos down the side panel. At first glance they looked like those awful pictures from the holocaust, limbs and bodies all thrown together in a heap. She blinked, looking more closely.

  Evie’s heart had leapt out of her chest as she fumbled with the mouse to close the page. She felt sick. What if one of the kids stumbled across this? She knew there was a way to delete the history, so she searched through the menu until she found it. It went back day by day for a week, but something compelled her to click on ‘Show All History’. Evie sat stunned as pages of porn sites came up, all mixed in with the kids’ Google searches and fan sites, and her email. The proximity alarmed her: surely it wasn’t that difficult for any of the kids to come across this? Jayden was far more cluey on the computer than she was, and she’d found it easily enough. Evie felt the walls closing in around her, making it hard to breathe. She had to delete all of this, obviously, but then Craig would know she’d seen it, wouldn’t he? But she couldn’t just leave it here. Well, so what, what was he going to say to her? How could he defend this?

  With a trembling hand Evie clicked on Clear History and it was all gone. Just like that. Now she had to get out of here. She grabbed her keys and ran out the door in the clothes she was wearing – a skirt, T-shirt, and thongs on her feet. She hadn’t walked very far before her feet started to hurt, and her thighs began rubbing together unc
omfortably. But she couldn’t stop, and she couldn’t go back to the house, not yet. She walked and walked, till her thighs were chafed and the balls of her feet were burning, all the way to the local coffee shop. She ordered her usual skinny cappuccino, and a rich chocolate and caramel slice. But when it was placed in front of her, Evie had the same queasy feeling as she’d had that day at McDonald’s. Well, she had to get over this. Food was her comfort, her solace; nothing made her feel better than food. She took a tentative bite, then another, but as she swallowed it down, it felt slimy, like eating liver, leaving a sickly aftertaste. She pushed the plate aside and finished her coffee, blinking back tears. When she paid at the counter, she bought a bottle of water and began the long, painful walk home.

  The next day when the walls began to crowd in on her again, Evie changed into a pair of comfortable three-quarter length pants and put on socks and sneakers. It was a vast improvement on the day before, but the sneakers had thin soles, so her already tender feet were burning again before long. As were her nose and cheeks under the blazing late summer sun. So she went out shopping that afternoon and bought herself some proper runners – not expensive ones, they were only from Kmart – and a pair of stretchy gym pants. When she tried them on at home they looked hideous, she could almost see the cellulite on her thighs and backside through the fabric. But she could cover up most of that with a long T-shirt, and anyway, she didn’t care how she looked, she just wanted to be comfortable.

  Craig never mentioned that his porn sites had been deleted, however, that was the least of Evie’s problems. He had taken to showing her articles, even testimonials, about these so-called swingers’ clubs that were supposedly frequented by normal couples.

  Evie was beginning to wonder if she was naive, perhaps even frigid. But she didn’t really believe that; she was no more frigid than any of her girlfriends. When they got into bed at night they desired nothing more than an unbroken night’s sleep. Most admitted that once they got going, it wasn’t too bad, and Evie felt the same. It was just the getting going. She was sure she wasn’t frigid, in fact she knew women who simply refused to give oral sex, no matter how much their husbands begged for it. Craig should realise how lucky he was.

  But clearly he didn’t think he was lucky at all. Clearly Evie was not enough.

  The only thing that helped was to walk. She couldn’t eat; food didn’t comfort her any more. Anything she ate just sat in her stomach, setting like a lump of concrete. But walking felt good. And the longer she walked, the better she felt. Sometimes she wished she could just keep walking and walking, like Forrest Gump, till she was far away, out of reach.

  But Evie could never leave her children. This was her life, like it or not. But why did it have to be this? She was a good wife, a compliant wife, a willing wife. If Craig wanted to try sailing, she would have overcome her fear of deep water; if he’d wanted to start playing tennis, she would have taken lessons. She didn’t know how on earth she was supposed to prepare herself for this, and her time was running out.

  Wednesday

  ‘Do we need to know this, miss?’

  Ellen sighed inwardly.

  Education, in fact knowledge itself, apparently only had value these days if it was going to be in an exam. It drove Ellen nuts.

  ‘What do you mean, do you need to know it?’ she said, launching into her usual homily. ‘Why does anyone need to know anything?’

  She saw a few eyes roll. They’d heard it before.

  ‘If people only bothered to find out about anything because they were going to have an exam on it, where do you think we’d be today as a society?’

  It occurred to her that this would make an excellent assignment: choose a great discovery and imagine what the world would be like without it. But she couldn’t set something like that, because it wasn’t in the syllabus, or the exam. She was hamstrung by the very establishment she was trying to defend.

  The bell sounded, signalling the end of the period. Ellen was relieved she had a free next. And it was a proper free period, because the Year 12s had Maths now so she wasn’t going to be bothered by any earnest, or anxious, or otherwise needy students.

  The staffroom was empty. Ellen logged onto her computer and checked her emails.

  From: Emma Beckett

  To: Cara, Ellen, Evie, Liz

  Subject: Crunch Time!

  Well ladies, it’s down to the cinnamon or the pewter. I adore them both, and I don’t need to tell you that the final choice is going to affect everything – the flowers, the decorations, the entire theme, really. So I have to get it right. I wish I could have two weddings, I just can’t choose!

  The only way is to line everyone up and compare the colours against all the skin types. So I’m calling a meeting for a week from Thursday, in the evening, of course. That should give you all plenty of notice, so you really have to let me know straight away if you can’t make it so that I can reschedule. But I would like to get this settled before Easter.

  Looking forward to it!

  xx Emma

  Ellen groaned, picking up the phone and dialling Liz’s office on the off-chance she might catch her between patients. She was in luck, her receptionist put her through.

  ‘Did you get the latest email?’ she asked Liz.

  ‘Of course,’ Liz said down the phone line. ‘It’s almost fun seeing what’s going to come next.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I said “almost”.’

  The last few months could have been made into a reality series entitled ‘Crazy Emma, the Bride from Hell’, the kind of reality show that Ellen would never watch. In reality, Ellen didn’t watch reality shows. Ever. And yet she was being dragged into this one, whether she liked it or not. And she definitely did not. They were constantly being notified, updated, or ‘consulted’ (ha!) on every minute detail. And it was going to keep up this way right until the big day – Emma had already sent out a schedule of dress fittings and cake tastings and floral viewings, hair and makeup practice sessions and an alarming number of what she called ‘progress meetings’. She had just lately decided that she was accumulating so much information she needed to set up her own blog, so that everyone involved could simply subscribe and keep up to date. Fabric swatches had been dispatched physically – by courier, no less – because Emma could not ensure the colours would be reproduced faithfully on the computer screen. But apart from that, she had been so thrilled with the blog concept that she had decided to link a blog to the wedding invitations when the time came – a one-stop spot where her guests could find helpful gift suggestions, maps and directions to the venue, a tantalising glimpse of the menu, and even ‘what to wear’ guidelines.

  ‘It’s the exhaustive detail,’ groaned Ellen. ‘Don’t you find it . . . well, exhausting?’

  ‘What did you expect?’ said Liz. ‘Emma’s been planning this since she was, what? Six?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I just don’t understand why we all have to be involved in every little detail. I’d be happy just to show up on the day.’

  ‘That’s okay for you to say,’ said Liz, ‘you’re not a bridesmaid.’

  That had been Emma’s first major announcement. She loved all her sisters, wished she could have them all in the bridal party, but that was just not going to work. Blake didn’t have any brothers, so of course his best friend, Gordie, would be the best man. Liz was the perfect partner for him: complementary height, colouring, age. Of course she had to include Blake’s family, and they were both closer to his younger sister, Cara. Eddie was the obvious choice for her partner; again, they were physically a good match. Blake had no other significant male friends to pair with her remaining sisters, so Emma instead suggested a ‘representative’ from each of their families. Kate was to be the representative for Ellen’s family, as she would make the perfect partner for Blake’s eldest sister’s son. Emma would never have chosen Melinda herself; she was older and, frankly, she had let herself go since the divorce, Emma had confided. But she was sure her s
on, Chris, would clean up quite nicely with a decent haircut and shave, and a well-cut suit. Lastly she had to include Evie’s family, so Tayla was to be paired with Blake’s second cousin . . . or his second cousin’s son . . . Ellen was not sure of the genealogy. Tayla was beside herself, and Evie was so thrilled for her daughter it never occurred to her why she had not been considered.

  The brutal truth was that Emma had applied the same styling principles to her bridal party as she would to a magazine spread. Ellen was simply too plain and mumsy for Emma’s line-up. Kate was slim, honey blonde, and would be barely nineteen by the wedding. Kate could wear anything. Plump little Evie, on the other hand, could not. She would spoil the entire effect.

  So Emma would have her picture-perfect wedding. And Ellen found herself resenting the whole thing. She didn’t care how much time, energy and money Emma was prepared to waste, but she couldn’t expect the same commitment from everyone else. With each fresh email or blog post, the costs ratcheted up another notch, while Emma kept insisting this was a massive bargain, or that was an unbelievably generous discount. She really did live on another planet. Sure, she had a contact who was going to be able to get their shoes half-price, but they were shoes that retailed for eight hundred dollars. Ellen had never spent anything like four hundred dollars on a pair of shoes for herself, let alone her teenage daughter.

  ‘I told Tim if it kept on like this he was going to have to help out,’ she said to Liz. ‘He said he had enough expenses without having to pander to Emma’s extravagance, and that I should just talk to her and tell her how it is. Like it was that easy! Easy for Tim, he can sit back and be the nice guy, and never have to confront anyone, just like he did right throughout our marriage –’

  ‘Sorry Ellen,’ Liz broke in. ‘I’m going to have to go, I have a client in a few minutes.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry for carrying on,’ she said. ‘It just gets to me, you know, every single thing is a negotiation. It’s exhausting. Like the other day Sam brought home a note about the Year 11 camp, which costs a bomb, and so naturally I approached Tim about it. He said, “Doesn’t that come out of child support?” Well, I said that child support or no child support, as a sole parent I simply can’t afford extras like this, which means Sam would have to miss out. Then Tim tried to argue that I’m not a sole parent if I’m getting child support, but I think he’s missing the point, don’t you?’