Madness, Mayhem and Motherhood

by Nikki McWatters

  ‘Sheesh,’ I said, licking the froth off my cappuccino. ‘You poor thing, George. That sucks big-time. I’m so sorry … it’s … that is awful.’

  ‘And bloody Kelly’s husband is best friends with Mike and she’s calling me a liar about him being violent and yeah … just being a total bitch about the whole thing.’

  ‘Well,’ I said carefully, because I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and I didn’t know these people at all, ‘I don’t know that I can give you any advice. Just hang in there and make sure your daughter …’

  ‘Sophie.’

  ‘Make sure Sophie is OK, you know – just try not to fight in front of her or let her know how shitty it all is.’

  She nodded. Girl George was very pretty. Her nails were perfect. French polish to my Grunge Matte.

  ‘I really appreciate you talking to me,’ she said. ‘I’ve been kind of monopolised by Kelly for so long that I don’t really have any other friends. Oh, a couple, but they’ve all taken Mike’s side and he’s got his lawyer mates … and I’m just so scared that I’ll lose Sophie.’

  She put her head in her hands and began to cry. Two other women at a nearby table raised their eyebrows and I gave them a glare.

  ‘Do you want to come over to my place this afternoon after school? Bring your boys?’ she asked, and I felt a bit pushed, a bit like I was being stifled into a friendship I wasn’t sure I wanted. ‘We can drink wine and bitch about men.’

  That was me sold!

  ‘And maybe gossip about how cute the Wiggles are?’ I laughed.

  ‘I liked the drummer.’

  ‘More of a yellow girl myself. I’ve got to do a few things,’ I said, looking at my watch. ‘But yeah, I’ll meet you in the playground under the big tree at bell time, hey?’

  ‘Kelly waits there,’ she said. ‘So how about we grab the kids at the door near the hall?’

  ‘OK,’ I replied and I knew I was going to have to run to get the cleaning done and then bus up to Waverley and then Randwick, back to Waverley, then Clovelly by three because I usually got Ben first. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  ‘I’ll fix this up,’ Girl George said, getting out her purse.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Here.’ I gave her my last five-dollar note, which left me with just enough for the pension all-day bus ticket the next day. I was a two-dollar-fifty-onairre. ‘Put that in.’

  ‘I’ll give you some change,’ she said, fumbling in her wallet.

  ‘Don’t be silly. See you this afternoon.’

  That was my milk and bread money for the afternoon, but I didn’t want a charity cup of coffee. We weren’t friends yet.

  At Girl George’s place, I was impressed to see she had a pool. It explained the tan. The woman must have spent most of her life lying in the sun out there on the deck, just like my fantasy. The kids all headed for the trampoline.

  ‘Nice place,’ I said, looking around at the very slick terrace house, and I knew right then there was no way in hell I was going to invite this woman to my shambles of a unit any time soon.

  ‘Yeah, but the first thing Mike is insisting is that we put it on the market,’ she said sadly. ‘He plans to try to get out of paying me anything. He’s moved into our investment property in Coogee while we sort things. He’s coming back with a truck tomorrow to take all “his” stuff.’

  I told her about my husband putting all the furniture and personal items on the footpath and she shook her head, horrified. I refrained from telling her that most of that furniture had been found by us on the street in the first place.

  ‘Hey, but Nikki,’ she smiled at me and I could see a glint in her otherwise swampy-sad eyes, ‘Mike’s not here now. And his fancy goddamn wine collection is. Can I interest you in a nice glass of Grange Hermitage?’

  She could!

  We took the bottle and two glasses out to the deck and sat to watch the kids at play. It was warm and the sun was high and heading west. A beautiful pink creeping bush tumbled over the back fence. The little girl, Sophie, was an energetic sprite with dark curls and eyes and I figured she must take after her dad. Girl George was petite and tanned but without the sun gloss I thought she would be quite fair. I sipped the red wine and it was smooth and fruity. Very, very drinkable. Much better than wine out of a box!

  ‘Nice drop.’ I nodded, trying to sound sophisticated.

  ‘Well it would want to be, at over four hundred dollars a bottle!’ She laughed.

  I gagged and red wine came out my nose. That was an expensive dribble. Girl George gave me a conspiratorial smile.

  ‘And I’m feeling particularly thirsty this afternoon!’

  I was feeling seedy and guilty the next morning. That thing I had heard about the more expensive the booze, the lighter the hangover was complete rubbish. In fact, I wondered if it wasn’t supposed to be the other way around. Girl George’s hospitality had left a sour scum on the roof of my mouth. She had very generously paid for a taxi to get me home and the boys and I had fallen into bed late. I think I even had an erotic dream about the Wiggles. All of them.

  It hit me like a tsunami, as soon as I woke up to very bright sunlight, that I had a vital interview that morning at the family compound of Australia’s most wealthy man – at least I thought he was the most wealthy. A very wealthy family nonetheless. No. Yes. The wealthiest man in the country! I thought about my cash wealth, which was sitting at exactly two dollars fifty, and laughed out loud at the irony of it. My brain hurt.

  Without milk and bread I had to scramble to find something for us to eat for breakfast. I heated up a cheap processed tray of lasagne because there was very little else in the small bar fridge. It was iced into the freezer. I looked at the finished product after microwaving it and it looked nothing like the picture on the packet. The little serving-suggestion photo, with its nice side salad, should just have been a picture of the meal in a rubbish bin.

  Toby had a foghorn of a voice – I’d even gotten his hearing tested, but it seemed he was just really, really loud. That morning I was finding the shouting really, really painful.

  ‘Don’t even mention socks, Sonic,’ I warned him in a werewolf growl as I tied his shoelaces. ‘Just put them on your feet and then your shoes and walk. If you complain about your socks I will lose my mind.’

  I delivered the boys to school and kindy in a whirl of bustling, busy public transport. The crush of people felt claustrophobic and I kept doubting the outfit I’d chosen to wear to the interview. I’d wanted to look stylish but comfortable. I was going for a job as a cleaner so there was no point dressing up too much, but I didn’t want to look too casual or frumpy. I was going to a billionaire’s house. It was tricky. Style. Functional style? I just wore a pair of nice black pants and a button-up burgundy shirt. No jewellery. That bit was easy, as I had none. Flat, comfortable shoes. Hair in a pony-tail. Just a little foundation, mascara and a slash of my signature cheap orange lipstick to hide the chapping – I had had to scrub the red wine stains off my lips with a toothbrush, so they were a bit raw.

  I’d seen Gretel Packer – hopefully my new boss – in the glossy mags and socialite pages. She was my age. I suspected she probably had her act together a bit better than I did. Apparently her house was next door to her father’s on some incredibly large compound, like a little satellite suburb within Bellevue Hill. I smelled my breath by breathing into my hand and didn’t think I reeked of Grange, though I felt like my eyes had been stitched in with red twine. The heat of the day was suffocating and my pores were oozing alcohol-flavoured sweat.

  The whole bus commute was a blur of people and squealing tyres and car-horns and bus jolts. I questioned my sanity and secretly cursed Girl George for pouring so much expensive wine down my throat. I almost never drank red. And I hadn’t drunk all that much. Well, enough. We’d definitely opened a third bottle.

  I knew I would have to have a cleaning tr
ial as part of the interview that morning. Bobby’s friend, who’d told her about the job, was a chef on the premises. She’d lined up the interview and I was very grateful – but I felt a bit angry with myself for walking in reeking like a Hunter Valley winery that had just exploded. I knew there was an element of self-sabotage going on. I’d lived with myself long enough to know there was a sneaky pattern emerging. Whenever opportunity presented itself to me, I managed to blow it. But not this time, I thought, taking a deep breath. Hangover or not, I was going to this interview. It was the first time in a long time that I’d got this far. I’d applied for many jobs but almost never even got a call back. I slugged from my bottle of water and thanked the universe I’d had the forethought to bring it along. I was trying to rehydrate and fast.

  I walked down the tree-lined street, past houses masquerading as resorts. Topiaries, sculptures and water features decorated the front yards and I walked slowly, drinking it all in. One day, some day, I would live like this, I told myself, which was kind of ironic, as I got ever closer to an interview for a job as a housekeeper. I just about had a freaking heart attack as I walked past one mansion and two Dobermans warned me, vociferously, that they would tear my legs and arms from my body if I even attempted entry to their property.

  ‘Settle down, fellas.’ I recovered and smiled at them as I readjusted sunglasses that had slipped from my nose in my adrenalin-powered jump back from the exposed teeth and gums between the gate palings. I was just super glad I hadn’t peed myself a little, because then I’d be fronting up to the richest man in Australia’s family compound stinking of alcohol and urine. And sweat. I was already sweating like a pig. It was going to be a hell-hot summer.

  The security gates were set well back from the road, down a long driveway. I pressed the intercom and waited. This is stupid. This is really, really stupid, I kept telling myself. I might have been a cleaner but I wasn’t like a Savoy maid. I wasn’t that good.

  ‘Yes?’ came a serious male voice.

  ‘Nikki.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I’m here about the housekeeper job.’

  There was a metallic click and the heavy black gates rolled open.

  I entered another world.

  I walked stiffly down the gently sloping driveway towards the man in a suit waving to me from the front door of a surprisingly modest house – by mega-mansion standards. A fenced pool area lay to the right and a gardener clipped roses to my left.

  ‘Hi.’ She smiled widely.

  I pulled up in front of the butler and froze as he gave me the once over. Feeling ever so like Fräulein Maria from The Sound of Music, I wondered if I should turn around to give him a three-sixty view.

  ‘I’m Davidson.’ He nodded and smiled.

  Not tall, immaculately groomed and of swarthy complexion, Davidson had piercing green eyes. He was a little older than me, perhaps, but not by too much. He was very upright and proper as he welcomed me into the home. Not at all like the old Sir John Gielgud’s character from the film Arthur, as I’d expected. He had a mischievous glint in his eye.

  ‘This is Gretel’s place.’ Apparently the ‘compound’ was made up of about five houses that the Packers had engulfed from former neighbours, like a ripple in a pond. There was the main house, the little staff cottage, Gretel’s place, brother James’s place and a nice big house just for the butlers.

  The front doors opened and we were met with a sweeping, grand staircase that curled to the upper level.

  Davidson explained that the boss-woman’s name was pronounced not grettle but grate-ul, and warned me to never call her Gretel as in ‘Hansel and Gretel’ because he said ‘that is just wrong’. I would try to remember that.

  ‘She’s not here so she’s given me the power to hire a housekeeper on her behalf.’

  ‘So, can I have the job then?’ I laughed and it hurt again.

  ‘We’ll see.’ He smiled back. ‘I’ll show you around.’

  The house was comfortable and classy. Big but not too big. Opulent but not too opulent. Family photographs smiled from heavy silver frames and indoor plants lent a tropical flavour. The kitchen looked over a sweeping expanse of lawn where two black dogs danced about. Yes, I could have lived there and been very happy and comfortable. I imagined myself stretched out over the perfectly dressed master bed, waking to the sounds of birds in trees instead of the sirens and bus groans that greeted me every day in my Purple Palace. In this place, I could get up and run my toes through soft, green, velvety carpet as I padded to my generous walk-in closet to choose from a hundred pairs of shoes, before soaking in a sparkling tub. There were two smaller bedrooms down the hall for the boys, and another huge one, which could be my office. What would I do in my office, I wondered? Answer my fan mail? Consider the stack of film scripts sent to me by Steven Spielberg and the like? Any number of things. Pen a memoir, perhaps.

  Davidson was a charming host. I’d never met a man so well groomed. I couldn’t stop staring at his unbelievable perfection. He was a masterpiece. I felt, by comparison, that I was a drawing, a scribbled outline some useless kid had drawn and totally crayoned the shit out of but Davidson was the drawing the teacher holds up as exemplary, where the best kid in the class has not gone out of the lines not once. He was neatness and sharp angles and … Jesus … like a pretend person he was so perfect. I must have looked and smelled like something the cat left at the back door, like the carcass of a headless, rotting possum or something compared to his extreme impeccability. I cannot overstate this – this man was perfection.

  Davidson instructed me to iron a shirt and a sheet. That was the first of my ‘tests’. I could iron with the best of them because I’d had all those childhood years of tea-towels and pillowcases for practice, and I presented him with crisp, starchy angular products. He nodded favourably. He unmade the master bed and left me to remake it (this seemed ridiculously stupid but I looked at it like a game and just went with the flow). I took my time to make sure the corners were tucked well and the folded-down blankets and sheets were geometrically balanced. More than a year of doing this mundane stupid work had made me understand the mathematics involved. It was equal parts geometry and art.

  He got me to clean the en suite bathroom. I did my very, very best, taking my time. When he came back in he seemed pleased and touched surfaces, looking around the white marbled space.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘The bath is positively sparkling. How innovative to leave it wet. It makes it just shine.’

  I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not. I had never thought to dry a bath after washing it. But this, it seemed, was a thing! I had just entered a whole new stratosphere of housekeeping. I was going to have to start drying the bathtub?

  ‘So do you iron underpants too?’ I asked because I just couldn’t help myself.

  Davidson did a goldfish thing with his lips like he was puckering up for a kiss and cocked his eyes, and one eyebrow. ‘But of course,’ he said and then shook his head as if I had just told a joke he didn’t get.

  Finally I was shown to a living room awash with sofas that looked as inviting as cumulus clouds and I knew my shitty stinky-cheese sofa would be way jealous.

  ‘There are ten things in this room that need attention. I’ll leave you to figure them out,’ Davidson said and walked out of the room.

  I looked around at the perfect room and raised my eyebrows. Ten flaws in that masterpiece? What a funny, cryptic test to set. I immediately spotted a scruffy pile of books on the coffee table and arranged them neatly. One. It felt even more like a game by this stage and I was starting to have fun. I was brightening up, smiling at the silliness of it all. Fancy being in a position where you had so much money you employed someone to straighten your books! I wanted to be so rich I employed one person to massage my feet at any spontaneous moment that I got the urge to have them rubbed and another person to play with my hair whenever I wanted. Those things I couldn’t really d
o myself, but I thought I would probably always be fine to straighten the books on my coffee table – if I had a coffee table, because at that moment in time I had two plastic milk crates with a tablecloth thrown over them. If anyone put a glass on it, the glass fell over.

  I got to five. No problem. A photo frame lying down. That was too easy. One curtain needed pulling back to be symmetrical with the other. Wildly obvious to even the untrained eye. While I was searching for the sixth flaw, the gardener poked her head through the open French doors.

  ‘Hi there, how’s it going?’ She was pretty with short hair and a very wide smile.

  ‘I’m trying to find things wrong with this room.’ I shrugged and laughed.

  ‘Davidson’s a character.’ She laughed back and came in to spray the leaves of the indoor plants.

  ‘How many people are going for this job?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, you’re the only one. This is just a formality. You’ve got the job. He’s just torturing you. Your friend gave you a glowing reference.’

  A sense of relief washed over me and I felt less stressed about finding the other five secret mistakes.

  I watched the gardener head out over the cricket-pitch lawn to throw a ball for the dogs. Back to business. I looked at all the ornaments and knick-knacks in the huge wall cabinet. Delicate china, foreign objets d’art. A little bronze yacht. I picked it up, intrigued. It had the name Gretel etched on it. As I turned it over in my palm, the mast fell off.

  ‘Shit!’ I cursed under my breath.

  I tried desperately to fix it, to no avail. The stale red wine in my belly surged into a giant squall of vinegar and I melted into a mini-panic topped with a mouthful of acid reflux.

  At the door leading to the terrace, I stood and waved like a lunatic to the gardener and beckoned her back to me. I was afraid I was going to vomit on the Ming Dynasty rug.