Farewell My Ovaries

by Wendy Harmer

  Meg: ‘Actually I was looking at a colour chart the other day and there was this shade called Fragrance. Try to think what colour that could possibly be.’

  Claire: ‘I think we’re back to poo brown again.’

  On regaining your figure . . .

  Meg: ‘You know in the old days there used to be a saying “nine months up and nine months down”, which meant nine months to put on the weight and nine to get it off again. Now it’s “nine months up and you can’t come home from the hospital looking like that”!’

  Claire: ‘I know, I know. It’s like some Olympic event. It’s bullshit.’

  Meg: ‘This time I’m planning on “nine months up and I’ll be a size ten for the baby’s twenty-first”.’

  Claire: ‘Good idea. I remember reading this Woman’s Day— all about Heather Locklear, who was trying to get her figure back. They reckoned she was spending two hours a day on the treadmill and only eating poached salmon and steamed broccoli. So what do you reckon the next story about Heather Locklear was?’

  Meg: ‘What?’

  Claire: ‘She had postnatal depression. Duh.’

  Meg: ‘Remember all those photos of Elle McPherson jogging with her son Flynn in the pram? The poor kid spent so much time clinging on for dear life against the headwind that his face was like a windscreen after a trip down the Pacific Highway. She probably had to get the nanny to clean the dead grasshoppers off his face every morning.’

  On domesticity . . .

  Meg: ‘The women who give me the total shits are those bitches like Nigella Lawson and Martha Stewart. I mean, you think you’re doing OK—the kids haven’t been taken into foster care; you still have the semblance of a sex life and you can get out the door looking presentable—and they come along and tell you it’s not enough. You’ve got to do more!’

  Claire: ‘As if everyone isn’t going as hard as they can already.’

  Meg: ‘Like, I was watching Nigella Lawson the other night and there she is whipping up food for the kids saying: “They just can’t get enough of my gorgonzola and broccoli soufflé”. You know, just once I’d like to see her standing there picking the red, yellow and green bits out of fried rice so Mister Six Year Old will eat it.’

  Claire: ‘I’d love to see that!’

  Meg: ‘Someone should volunteer to strangle the cow with one of those muslin bags she uses to tie up her homemade Christmas puddings. And while they’re there they could throw brandy over Martha Stewart and set her on fire as well.’

  Claire: ‘I have my hand up here.’

  Meg: ‘Cos the thing is, after you read their books you start to have completely idiotic fantasies about making your own food from scratch. Like, I was watching Jackie French on Burke’s Backyard the other night and she gave out a recipe for handmade dog biscuits. Yeah, as if! Must get around to attempting those as soon as I’ve mastered manufacturing my own Glad Wrap.’

  Claire: ‘One of the women I know, she’s this successful film producer, was telling me her husband gave her that Nigella book, How to Be a Domestic Goddess, for Christmas. She was so furious she hit him over the head with it.’

  Meg: ‘Serves him right.’

  On kids . . .

  Meg: ‘Do you realise that, if I have twins, I will have six under ten?’

  Claire: ‘Sounds like a cricket score! And here’s Meg Angelucchi bowling from the scoreboard end, she’s currently on six under ten . . .’

  Meg: ‘Yeah. I wonder who the winner is—the Australian champion? She probably has fifteen under twenty or something horrendous!’

  Claire: ‘Look at my pathetic effort. One under six.’

  Meg: ‘Well, Claire, at least you’re on the paddock. Think of all those women who never make the team.’

  Claire: ‘Can you imagine what your life would be like if you didn’t have kids?’

  Meg: ‘I often think I would be one of those women whose handbag matches her shoes. I reckon that if I tried to swap all the shit that’s in my handbag, I’d need a week off.’

  Claire: ‘And a forklift!’

  Meg: ‘But think about this, Claire! If I was ever marooned on an island I could start a new civilisation with the crap that’s in my bag. A brave new world built from Tic Tacs with fluff stuck to them, empty lip gloss containers, old tissues, orange peel and five cent pieces!’

  The next time Claire and Meg looked at the clock it was lunchtime. The house had been cleaned and, more importantly, the champagne was now cold. It was when Meg was reaching for the glasses that she suddenly turned to Claire.

  ‘Oh my God. I’ve completely forgotten the most important thing of all! You haven’t told me if you rang Mr Surfie Boy.’

  Claire waved her inquiry away. ‘I don’t think it’s very important in the scheme of things. I mean, in terms of what’s happening to you . . .’

  Meg shook her head emphatically. ‘Oh yes it is, Claire. You have to tell me everything. I want to know what it’s like to still have a life.’

  The two women repaired to their seats around the wooden table on Meg’s back deck. They had an icy bottle of Veuve Cliquot, still in its birthday present cellophane, and a box of cheese Tiny Teddies to share. The stage was set for a high-level conference.

  Claire told her the basics. Yes, she had rung Connor—twice. Yes, he had agreed to meet her. Yes, she was still determined to go through with her mad plan. Yes, she knew she was an idiot.

  ‘So what’s he like then?’

  Claire was soon on her feet and pacing as the words tumbled out. ‘Oh, Meg, he’s amazing. He’s thirty-three, seven years older than I thought, but that’s even better. And he’s so sexy. I mean, he really pushes all my buttons. Sometimes he’s thoughtful, or funny. I suppose I thought I’d be dealing with some boofhead surfer, but he’s really taken me by surprise. When I talk to him, I feel like he understands me. In fact, if he didn’t actually exist I would say that I’d invented him.’

  ‘Oh no! You’re not going to fall in love with him are you?’

  Claire sat down again and poured a glass of champagne.

  ‘No, I’m not. I love Charlie. Even if sometimes it’s hard to keep it all happening over the years. You know, the passion kind of waxes and wanes.’

  ‘Yeah, tell me about it. I reckon that after you’ve been married a long time what makes a man “good in bed” is the amount of time he’s prepared to stay out of it and leave you in there by yourself.’

  Claire laughed and continued. ‘Besides, he’s engaged to some marine biologist who’s working in Brazil at the moment. We both know what we’re in this for.’

  ‘Which is?’ mumbled Meg through a mouthful of Tiny Teddies.

  ‘I told you. Just one last amazing adventure, that’s all. I mean, it’s not complicated.’

  Meg leaned back in her chair and was thoughtful. She was trying to put this all some place in her mind where it made any sort of emotional sense. ‘Well, I suppose it’s like one of those internet sex chat rooms or something . . .’

  ‘Only this is live. God, Meg, you should hear his voice.’

  Meg refused to acknowledge Claire’s girlish breathlessness and continued, ‘The thing I’ve never understood about internet sex is how can it be any good if you’ve still got to keep on typing? I mean, the first thing that goes when I’m bonking is my typing skills. I reckon I’d get down to about four words a minute, and then they’d be mostly vowels.’

  Claire spluttered into her champagne.

  ‘A . . . E . . . I . . . O . . . U . . .’ Meg panted with her head thrown back and one finger tapping on an imaginary keyboard.

  When the laughing died down Claire dragged Meg back to the subject at hand.

  ‘You know, one thing Connor said and I’ve been thinking about—have you ever heard of the concept of “morphic resonance”?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, he said maybe we are all connected at an unconscious level. That maybe we’re all thinking the same thoughts.’

  Meg sat up and looke
d at Claire, her eyebrows working overtime with scepticism. ‘This better not be a repeat of that infatuation you had with that Ellery wanker.’

  ‘Pu-leese—I got over that years ago,’ Claire lied.

  ‘Uh-huh. Well for your sake, Claire Sellwyn, you better hope that Charlie isn’t reading your mind right now!’

  Claire looked back at Meg. She knew Meg wasn’t buying into the Connor scenario but, as usual, she did have a very good point.

  Later that afternoon Claire and Madeline heaved themselves through the front door and dumped a tangle of shopping, schoolbags, hats, keys and mail on the dining room table. In a flash Madeline was halfway across the slate floor to Charlie’s study.

  ‘Baby, baby, we’re having another baby!’ she chanted.

  Charlie appeared at the doorway. Surprise, disbelief and shock all collided in his face to give him the expression of a dead fish.

  Claire was quick to reassure him. ‘No, no, it’s not me,’ she called. ‘Maddie! It’s not Mummy who’s having another baby. It’s Meg!’

  ‘Meg’s pregnant?’ said Charlie. He bent down, picked Madeline up and absentmindedly kissed her ‘hello’.

  ‘Yes, she’s pregnant! Can you believe it? We did the test today. Don’t say anything, I don’t think Tony knows yet. I shouldn’t have told Maddie now I think about it. It’s very early days.’

  Charlie’s face reanimated into fatherly concern. It was a look Claire loathed. Her gears changed from ‘forward’ to ‘reverse’ in an instant.

  ‘So, how does that make you feel?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Me? I’m thrilled for her. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Well, you know . . . with all your challenges at the moment.’

  Claire was defensive. ‘Challenges? What “challenges”? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  This was probably a personal best for Claire and Charlie. They had managed to move from détente to nuclear stand-off in under ten seconds. Madeline caught the mood, struggled out of her father’s arms and was away.

  Charlie threw his arms in the air. ‘Jesus, Claire, I’m just trying to be empathetic here. I know how you’ve been struggling with this whole menopause thing. Give me a bit of credit!’

  When he had his arms in the air it was Claire’s cue to put her hands on her hips and turn up the volume.

  ‘Will you stop calling it a “menopause thing”? It’s called perimenopause. I thought you’d know that from those bloody books you’ve been reading. I’m sorry I ever told you about it!’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you did tell me about it, because at least now I have some explanation for your continually bitchy mood.’

  ‘I AM NOT BITCHY! I’ve had a completely brilliant day with Meg. It’s when I get home and YOU look at me as if I’m some sort of mental patient!’

  Charlie turned his back on her. ‘Claire, I’m not talking to you when you’re irrational.’

  She followed him into the study.

  ‘WELL, YOU’D BETTER FIND SOMEONE ELSE TO TALK TO BECAUSE, ACCORDING TO THOSE STUPID BOOKS YOU’RE READING, I AM GOING TO BE IRRATIONAL FOR TEN LONG YEARS!’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Charlie muttered. He picked up his mobile phone from the desk and threw it down again for no particular reason. ‘And they wonder why men start looking at younger women!’

  How long would you get for killing your husband, Claire asked herself. Had a decline in ovarian function ever been used as a defence in homicide?

  She could hear the judge: ‘Claire Sellwyn, the jury finds you guilty of murder. However, the court takes into account your approaching menopause as a mitigating circumstance. You will henceforth be taken from this place and administered conjugated equine oestrogen until your hair is silky, your vagina is supple and moist and you regain your calm and amenable demeanour. In short, until you become a fertile woman once more. That is all.’

  Claire went at Charlie for one last venomous bite. ‘Well, Mr Charlie Wallace. I’ve got a lot more chance of getting someone younger to screw me than you have. Ten years worth of chance, don’t forget!’

  And with this she turned, thought about slamming the door, realised that routine was getting a bit tired, so hastily clickety-clacked across the echoing hard floor to the fridge. She wrenched a bottle of chardonnay from the door, poured a drink and stepped outside to calm her nerves. It was only after she had drained half the glass that her heels stopped tap-tapping with annoyance.

  How had she and Charlie ever navigated their way to this foreign land? Men are from Mars and women are from Venus? Crap! Men would have been from Venus too but they got lost because they were too fucking pig-headed to read the map.

  How could men get it so wrong? What women wanted was not such a mystery. They just wanted their men to be . . . men. She couldn’t speak for all women but, anyway, that’s what Claire wanted. Somewhere along the way, Charlie had changed from being a man to a mediator. She noticed that whenever their male and female friends were together having a discussion, Charlie became a bridge of understanding between the sexes. It was like he was a translator at the United Gender Nations. She could see him sitting in the auditorium with his headphones on.

  ‘I think what Louise is trying to say here, John . . .’ ‘John, I don’t really think you’re seeing it from Louise’s point of view which is equally valid . . .’ For fuck’s sake!

  If they went to a party, he was torn. Should he be standing around the barbecue with the blokes or in the kitchen with the girls? What usually happened was that he ruined the night for everyone. The men couldn’t start a conversation about ‘tits’ without Charlie’s ‘Ah, come on now, fellas . . .’ And the women couldn’t get down and dirty about ‘dicks’ without hearing ‘Hey now, girls . . .’

  It was infuriating. And it wasn’t like he was sexually repressed. When Charlie met Claire eight years ago he was so sure of himself. She had been singing at an album launch. After the performance she was standing at the bar surrounded by younger men. There was a time in Claire’s late thirties when she couldn’t shake them off. It was as if every 25-year-old bloke had been on a high school excursion to see The Graduate and had decided Claire was to be his personal Mrs Robinson.

  She had had affairs with a few of them. Even gone back to their flats, which had distinguished themselves by their total absence of books, their fireplaces full of flavoured milk cartons and, in one shocking instance, a Superman doona cover. She had finally sworn off them after taking one youngster away with a group of friends to the Hunter Valley for the weekend. His name was Josh. He was twenty-three and looked all of seventeen. Her two gay friends, Peter and Nigel, had given her hell.

  ‘Oh darls, has he got any ID with him if we go to the pub?’

  ‘When’s his mum coming to pick him up?’

  ‘Oooh, have you sewed name tags in the back of his jumpers?’

  Josh had distinguished himself by ordering a Crown Lager in the restaurant of one of the best wineries in the district, and then throwing up after the two glasses of muscat Peter and Nigel had bullied him into drinking. And it was not even like the sex made it worthwhile. Of course, with young men there was plenty of it. She remembered the record being seven ejaculations in one night. Which had been alarming (and messy). But Claire always had to direct traffic, like a cop on points duty. ‘No, not there . . . there. Slower. Faster. Stop. No, not now . . . now!’ The novelty of real-live sex toys wore off fast.

  As she drove Josh back to the city in silence she made a pact with herself to make an extra effort to find a grown-up. This had not proven to be an easy task. It was a popular theme in newspaper and magazine articles—career women had only themselves to blame for their failure to find men. They were too selfish, too choosy, blah, blah, blah. Claire knew the truth of it. It was as much about timing and luck as anything else. She did marry Ben, but she was too young. She would have married Louie, but Zoe intervened. Ellery? Well, thank God she didn’t marry him. And her last failed attempt was Simon. He was certainly marriage material—if o
nly he had divorced his wife!

  And then, just when she thought she and Caspian the Cat would have to make a life together, along came Charlie. Standing at the bar that night she could feel someone looking at the back of her neck. What was it that Connor had said? That sense of being stared at. Something about absorption and projection. She had turned to see this tall man with short dark hair standing next to her. And then he spoke. As soon as she heard the voice she knew who it was. Charlie Wallace! She’d been listening to him on radio since she was at high school.

  ‘Good morning, Sydney. Charlie Wallace here with you for the next three hours playing classic hits from the eighties, nineties and the best of the new stuff. And how’s your day been so far? It’s about to get a whole lot better! Let’s get things under way with some Talking Heads . . . We’re On the Road to Nowhereaaaah!’

  She would never, ever forget the first words he spoke to her alone. ‘Claire Sellwyn. I have adored you from afar for years. I remember seeing you at the Blue Mountains Festival and thinking “that woman has the best pair of legs I have ever seen”.’ The sound of his voice was like dark melting chocolate. She recalled thinking, a man—an actual grown-up man!

  And Charlie was handsome in a grown-up man way. He had lines at the corners of his blue eyes. And, looking into those eyes, she saw kindness and intelligence. His hair, greying at the temples, was cut close to his head. His torso was still lean and strong. He was wearing an open-necked burgundy-coloured shirt and a black leather biker jacket. His lower half was poured into black jeans and finished at lizard skin cowboy boots. It all said: I’m comfortable with who I am. Put that look together with that voice, and the whole effect was unbelievably stimulating. Claire dropped the little boys standing around her like hot rocks.

  Claire and Charlie had talked for some time that evening and then he asked her to dinner. This in itself was a revelation. Despite all the men she had been out with, actual dinner dates had been relatively few. What usually happened was a late night assignation after a gig. Drinks, nightclub, souvlaki, sex. Her social life had been mostly conducted under the cover of darkness like some clandestine operation. More than once Claire had found herself at lunch at Bondi, blinking in the daylight at some blotchy, unshaven creature she couldn’t believe she had already bedded.