Food, Sex & Money

by Liz Byrski

  It was a small Federation terrace, one of six, renovated in traditional style, but with all the convenience of a new townhouse. The walls of the original entrance hall had been removed so that the front door opened into a light living room, with a broad shallow arch to the kitchen. Beyond that, the old sleepout had been converted to a breakfast room with glass doors opening to a small courtyard enclosed by walls of recycled brick. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and a bathroom fully tiled in black and white. If she had to design a place for herself, Fran thought, it would have looked like this. Not for the first time, she sighed with pleasure at the sunlit spaces, the pale polished timber floors and the freshness of the new interior within the original shell.

  She glanced at her watch. David had promised to come and help her but there was plenty to be getting on with until he arrived. Carefully she checked the measurements of the fridge alcove. Her commercial fridge was to go to the Boatshed, as was the huge freezer. How nice it would be to have a normal domestic kitchen, to keep her work away from her home. Sylvia was due back the following day and Fran wanted to get her ideas about curtains and colour schemes as soon as possible. She measured the width of the lounge windows and set up the ladder to measure the height of the glass doors at the rear.

  ‘Come on in, it’s open,’ she called when she heard a tap at the front door. ‘You’re just in time to help me with this. I need you to read the height measurement.’ And she twisted slightly on the ladder and saw not David, but Caro, an awkward, rotund figure shifting her weight from one foot to the other in the middle of the empty room.

  ‘Hi,’ Caro said. ‘I came to see the house and … well … you.’

  Fran stepped down and stared at her daughter. It was more than four weeks since she had seen her at the hospital and Caro seemed to have got much bigger very quickly. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You’d better sit down,’ and she carried the steps through so that Caro could sit on them.

  Mother and daughter looked at each other across a silence charged with unspoken accusations and misunderstandings.

  ‘How are you?’ Fran asked, breaking it.

  Caro nodded. ‘Okay, I suppose, I don’t know, really. I don’t know how it ought to feel.’

  ‘No one does,’ Fran said quickly. ‘Best not to worry, just take it one day at a time.’ She knew she must sound pathetic but she was operating in a purely mechanical way, unable to summon any feelings, as though a surfeit of them had made her shut down.

  There was silence again. Caro rubbed the toe of her shoe against the edge of the steps. Fran, wary and wondering why she had come, leaned against the kitchen bench and folded her arms.

  ‘So, what do you think of it?’ she said eventually.

  ‘Lovely, really lovely,’ Caro said, looking around. ‘Two bedrooms upstairs?’

  Fran nodded. ‘You must be pleased,’ Caro said.

  Looking beyond Caro, out through the front window onto the street, Fran could see David sitting in his car reading the paper. Obviously this was a put-up job, an ambush. ‘Why did you come, Caro?’ she asked. ‘Was it the visit from Gran?’

  Caro looked away, brushing her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Partly … we did have a talk.’

  ‘I bet you did,’ Fran said dryly, surprised at her own cynicism. ‘And she told you to come and see me and apologise.’

  Caro nodded. ‘She explained a lot of things, and she told me what she thought about the way I’ve been. Not just now, for a long time.’

  Fran waited, trying to quell the resentment that was rearing its head. What was she supposed to do, open her arms to Caro only to get knocked back yet again? It had happened one time too many. ‘I’m sure you had your reasons,’ she said, hearing the flat, uncompromising tone of her own voice. ‘But thanks for coming. I wanted you to see the house.’

  A few weeks earlier Fran would have grasped this moment irrespective of the emotional cost, but that day in the hospital she had crushed the inner victim that had for so long dominated her relationship with her daughter. She loved Caro as much as ever, but they had to move on to something new and different, and she knew it would take more than this tense encounter to get them there. Caro’s eyes were bright with tears. Fran handed her a packet of tissues from her bag and slipped an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘David’s out there in the car,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go and tell him to come in. I can finish these measurements and then we can go down to Acland Street and get some lunch. You shouldn’t be standing about here like this.’

  *

  Lila was quite pleased with herself. Her crusade to sort out her family had been at least partially successful. She was pretty confident that she had straightened David out and brought Caro back into line – only Fran had remained recalcitrant and told her to mind her own business. But Fran had always been stubborn and Lila had to admit that she’d put up with a lot from Caro over the years. Even so, she remained concerned about the two of them. Caro needed her mother right now and Fran would always regret it if she let her pride get in the way of sharing this time with her.

  Lila realised she might have to put a bit more work into resolving that particular crisis; meanwhile, she had other things on her mind. Taking the initiative had done her good, brought back the confidence she’d lost. She was only eighty, or maybe a bit more, not that it really mattered. She had plenty of energy but she couldn’t walk as far as she used to, and that interfered with her independence. There were a few people in the retirement village who used four-wheeled motor scooters to get around, and one even had a sun canopy. Now that, she thought, might be just what she needed to help her get out and about a bit more.

  ‘I want to buy one of those scooter things, Ray,’ she said, sitting down on the chair in the village manager’s office. ‘Something like Mr Pirelli has up in Eden Close.’

  Ray Barton got up from the desk and took a box file down from the shelf. ‘Easy-peasey, Mrs Whittaker,’ he said, shuffling through some brochures. ‘Lots to choose from. Have a look at some of these. I can even get the salespeople to bring a couple over for you to try out.’

  Lila liked Ray, but she did wonder why he insisted on always wearing a safari suit. She didn’t really follow men’s fashion but even she knew that safari suits had been out for years. She’d often thought of mentioning it to him but had never found quite the right moment. She also detested it when he said things like ‘easy-peasey’ or ‘okey-dokey’, which she was sure he only said to the residents – he’d hardly be talking like that to his mates at the golf club where he played a round every Wednesday and Sunday. But he was a good-hearted man and he ran the place efficiently, so she hadn’t said anything.

  ‘They run on rechargeable batteries,’ Ray explained, spreading the brochures out on the desk. ‘Most of them do about thirty kilometres per charge. They start at just under three thousand dollars, but we can get a better price for you if you buy it through the village. This is the one Mr Pirelli’s got.’ He pointed to a smart looking scooter with gleaming silver paintwork and a black trim. ‘Very reliable and absolutely stable, easy to get on and off.’

  Lila looked at the pictures with a rising sense of excitement. She’d been worried about the price, but they weren’t as expensive as she’d expected. It would be an investment, a small price to pay for independence. She’d spent a bit in the last couple of years what with changing her colour scheme, but she could still afford this.

  ‘Will I need a licence for it?’

  Ray shook his head. ‘No, but of course it’s pavements and footpaths only. No tearing up and down the freeway.’

  Lila turned over another page and saw a slightly sleeker design, this time finished in canary yellow, with a shiny black basket on the front.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘Pity it’s not purple.’

  ‘It comes in a range of colours, I think,’ Ray said, picking up the brochure. ‘Yes, look here. Available in a range of colours: cobalt blue, emerald, ebony, crimson and purple. Just your colour, Mrs
Whittaker. Want me to arrange an inspection?’

  Lila walked back up to her unit holding the papers. Ray had photocopied the brochure for her, and given her an article from Choice magazine comparing the merits of various brands. He’d even got on to the sales rep while she was there and arranged for a couple of models to be brought over for her to try out later in the week.

  ‘I’d like you to come along too, Ray,’ she’d said. ‘You’re experienced in this sort of thing.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he replied. ‘And you don’t have to make a decision on the spot. Try them out and then you’ll probably want to talk to your daughter about it, get her to come and have a look. The rep can always come back.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Lila said, feeling pretty sure that Fran would not approve of the idea. ‘Fran’s got enough on her plate at present. I trust your advice, and I’m going to have a chat with Mr Pirelli.’ But as she put her key in the front door, Lila knew for sure that very soon she would be cruising around Hawthorn and Abbotsford under her own steam, and she thought she’d go for yellow. She could see herself in her purple pants and jacket astride the yellow scooter – she’d always had a flair for colour combinations.

  David had not recovered from Lila’s visit. His grandmother’s desire for his happiness had touched him deeply, there was something strong and proud about her determination to sort them all out, but her method had embarrassed him. Worst of all was the thought of Lila and Jodie discussing him over the blood samples. If there was anything designed to make him panic and back off even further it was that. The morning following Lila’s visit he didn’t walk down to the coffee shop, and he didn’t go the next day, or the day after that. And when he got off the tram in the evenings after teaching late classes, he walked a longer route home to avoid passing Jodie’s house. But all the time he was desperately trying to avoid her, he desperately wanted to see her.

  About four days later he hurried from the shower to hear her leaving a message on the answering machine and stood there naked, dripping onto the polished boards, listening to her telling him she’d missed seeing him around, and wondered if he was okay and did he want to go to a party on Saturday.

  ‘You’re a total dickhead, Davo, you know that, don’t you?’ Matt said at half-time as they sat with a pizza miserably watching Geelong make mincemeat of Essendon in the semi-final. ‘You are going to fuck this right up if you don’t sort yourself out, mate.’

  David reached out for another slice of pizza and drew back again as his liver flagged a warning. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know what to say to her.’

  ‘Just have it out,’ Matt said, getting up to fetch a second Coke from the fridge. ‘You can’t go on like this. Your gran’s right. Look, what’s the worst that can happen? You talk to her and she tells you to fuck off. At least then you’ll know where you are. Better than being stuck here in no-man’s land. If you’re not careful she’ll tell you to fuck off anyway, for being a dickhead. What have you got to lose?’

  What he did have to lose, of course, was hope. A mindless sort of hope that somehow he’d wake up one morning and it would all be all right without him having had to do anything about it. It wasn’t much of a consolation but it did form the basis of most of his daydreams at present. It was only when reality got in the way that he was reminded that he was simply being childish.

  Finally, on the Monday morning after Jodie’s unreturned phone call, he summoned up the courage to walk down to the coffee shop, playing mind games with himself all the way. If she was there it was a sign that he should bite the bullet, ask her out and then have ‘the conversation’, which had by now assumed ridiculous proportions in his imagination. If she wasn’t there it would be a sign that it wasn’t meant to be.

  Turning the corner to the coffee shop, his heart was thumping as though he’d done a couple of circuits of the park at a fast run. He was half a block away from the café when he saw the glass door swing open and Jodie walk out, coffee in hand. He jogged a few steps to catch up with her but stopped in his tracks as a man followed her out and over to her car. He watched as they both got in, talking, sipping coffee from identical cardboard beakers. He was too late, there was someone else. David wasn’t a natural pessimist but he couldn’t avoid the feeling that this was the way his life would be from now on.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Now, Fran, I really want you to try and play it cool,’ Bonnie said. ‘Don’t be too enthusiastic, we want to strike a good deal. Bannister Books want you and it’s up to them to come to the table with a good offer.’

  ‘But I want to do it anyway,’ Fran said. ‘Even if they weren’t paying me anything I’d want to do it. It’s what I’ve always wanted. This must sound ridiculous coming from me but the money almost doesn’t matter.’

  Bonnie shook her head as she clicked the remote control to lock the car. ‘I know that, but it’s the principle. We have to get it right. The concept has to be what you want and they’ve got to demonstrate a commitment by paying for it. We need to make sure they’ll market and promote it effectively. And you have to have a say about the photographs and the cover, all that. They know the deal, they’re not expecting to get you for nothing, not even for peanuts, so wind your neck in and try not to look as though you just won Lotto.’

  ‘I may have stuffed up the negotiating position already, actually,’ Fran admitted. ‘I almost kissed Jack Bannister the first time he mentioned it. In fact, I was so ecstatic that if it hadn’t been for having to race off to the hospital I’d have had sex with him on the restaurant table if he’d asked. But then, he probably wouldn’t have asked anyway.’

  ‘Don’t be so negative,’ Bonnie said, taking her arm. ‘He should be so lucky, to get you to write a book let alone have sex with him anywhere. Self-esteem, Fran, come along now. What’s he like, anyway?’

  ‘Not bad looking, very nice, sense of humour. You’ll like him.’

  ‘Not till I see the colour of his contract,’ Bonnie said, decisively straightening her shoulders as they walked through the Sofitel Centre. ‘He’s bringing someone called Len with him. He’s the food books publisher, the person who’ll work with you on the book.’

  Fran was more than a little impressed to find herself on the way to a meeting with a publisher, accompanied by her agent. She took a deep breath as they knocked at the door, and then another even deeper one when she saw the size of Jack’s hotel suite and the stunning views from the windows. Bonnie squeezed her elbow painfully hard just as she was about to launch into a flood of nervous appreciation.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Fran,’ Jack said, leading the way through to an alcove off the main area where a meeting table was set up. ‘I hope your daughter’s doing well. This is my sister Len – Lenore. She’s in charge of our food books. Please make yourselves comfortable. Would you like coffee or a drink?’

  The sight of Lenore Bannister pushed all Fran’s worst inadequacy buttons. She was probably around sixty, and from the top of her wildly curly mop of grey hair to the toes of her elegant black boots, she oozed power and energy.

  ‘I’ve read many of your columns, Fran,’ she said, ‘and the transcript of your speech. I’m really looking forward to working with you.’

  She wore a long-sleeved black t-shirt and a long black skirt, and around her neck was a heavy silver chain with a large turquoise pendant almost the exact same colour as her extraordinary eyes. Beneath the close-fitting top the powerful muscles across her shoulders and upper arms were obvious and her large, strong gestures reminded Fran of some exotic bird. This was a woman who worked out. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her, and while her face carried signs of age, her complexion glowed with health. Fran, who had reluctantly gone back to the gym to pursue her painful relationship with the cross-trainer the previous week, felt a surge of self-pity combined with hostility. It was a bad start, and she sat down at the table, hoping to disguise her bulk. Bonnie had nothing to worry about, she thought: she would be keeping very quiet during this m
eeting.

  Jack had ordered coffee and it was delivered along with a selection of pastries that almost had Fran drooling, but with admirable restraint she waved the plate away. There was no way she would be caught eating such sinful food in front of Lenore, who probably lived on miso, carrots and tofu. But to her amazement, Lenore tucked into the éclairs, strawberry tartlets, and mille-feuilles with enthusiasm. It was immediately clear who would be doing the deal. Food and wine was Lenore’s area and while Jack was the managing director, she too had a seat on the board as well as being the publisher of gourmet titles. But while Lenore was clearly out to strike the best possible deal, so was Bonnie, and Fran watched in awe as her friend dealt with Lenore’s offer, playing through the deal until she got exactly what they had agreed to try for.

  ‘Impressive, aren’t they?’ Jack whispered to her as he refilled her coffee cup. ‘Lenore always leaves me for dead when it comes to doing deals.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Fran said. ‘You’re a team, you do the softening up and then in comes Lenore with both barrels blazing.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, Bonnie has a few barrels blazing herself,’ he said. ‘And that Boatshed project is a stunner. I’d like to see our books in the gallery there.’

  It took about forty-five minutes to nut out the basics of the contract and Fran, delighted by the results, began to relax at the prospect of leaving.

  ‘Can we have some more coffee, Jack,’ Lenore said. ‘And some sandwiches and bottles of water. I need to talk to Fran about the concept.’ Fran stiffened as Lenore turned her turquoise gaze on her. ‘We need to firm this up now, Fran, so you can start working on it as soon as possible.’

  Fran was transfixed by Lenore’s mesmerising eyes. She opened her mouth and shut it again.

  ‘Contact lenses,’ Lenore said. ‘Just got them last week. What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Amazing,’ Fran said, relaxing a little. ‘Stunning but also a bit scary.’