by Isla Evans
‘It’s a particularly nice drop,’ Kate mimicked Oscar’s voice. ‘From a wonderful little winery that’s off the beaten track up Seymour way. Superb place, m’dear.’
Angie grinned. ‘Don’t be mean. And try not to overindulge while I’m gone.’
Kate watched her cousin close the sliding door. She had turned the spa temperature down earlier but now, with the onset of early evening, the water was starting to feel cool. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before gathering the energy to get out.
Kate dried herself off as best she could and then shrugged her terry-towelling dressing-gown on and, underneath, awkwardly shed her wet T-shirt. Leaving it spread out on the trellis with the towel to dry, she picked up her glass and went inside just as Angie came into the kitchen, now dressed casually and with her hair in a ponytail.
‘Nice outfit,’ commented Angie as she added some rice to a pot of boiling water.
‘Thanks.’ Kate tucked her dressing-gown securely around her and sat down at the table, immediately feeling the dampness of her knickers soak into the terry-towelling.
‘So how’d Sam take you leaving today?’
‘He’s fine,’ replied Kate airily. ‘I mean, he’s not happy about it, but I think he understands. And I’ll make it all up to him down the track.’
Angie glanced over at her expressionlessly. ‘And I take it we didn’t start writing our masterpiece today?’
‘I don’t know about you but I didn’t. Today was settling-in day.’
‘Mission obviously accomplished.’
‘You’re not going to turn into a nag, are you?’ asked Kate mildly.
‘Sorry,’ Angie sighed, then smiled wryly. ‘I’m just tired. Back-to-school rush.’
‘Well, you can relax now. Have a glass of wine.’ Kate looked around and took a deep breath. ‘God, I love this place. There’s no clutter. No piles of crap needing to be put away. No music blaring, or socks to be sorted, or dishes to be washed. And no bickering either.’
Angie stirred the rice. ‘Give us time.’
‘You know what I mean. Anyway go on, have that wine. I’d get it for you but my dressing-gown isn’t terribly secure and I don’t want you to lose your appetite.’
‘Believe me, nothing ruins my appetite. You could dance naked on the tabletop and it wouldn’t make any difference. Although I’d probably disinfect it afterwards.’
‘Are you saying I’m not clean?’
‘I’m just saying that I prefer to eat my meals on surfaces that haven’t been contaminated by naked females going through a midlife crisis.’
Kate leant back in her chair and regarded Angie thoughtfully. ‘Is that what you think I’m doing? Going through a midlife crisis?’
‘Well, aren’t you?’ Angie opened the fridge and took out the bottle of wine, pouring herself a glass and then refilling Kate’s. ‘I mean, don’t see it as some sort of derogatory label, but you are middle-aged, and you are going through a crisis. Ergo, you’re going through a midlife crisis.’
‘But it makes it sound like I’m about to buy a red sports car or pick up some blond toy boy.’
‘You wish.’
‘Not really.’ Kate grimaced. ‘Firstly, I don’t find the wind-blown look terribly flattering. I just end up looking like a stunned mullet with beehive hair. As for the toy boy, I’ll take quality over quantity any day. Young guys are like rabbits.’
‘Interesting comparison.’
‘What about you? Planning on replacing Oscar any time?’
‘Believe me, he’s irreplaceable.’
‘What happened to that guy you went out with last year? The one with the nose?’
Angie shrugged. ‘He was okay, but did I tell you he collected Disneyland memorabilia? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it was all through his house. And opposite his bed was a poster of Goofy saying “aw, shucks”,’ she glanced over at Kate expressionlessly. ‘Which, without going into details, could be rather disconcerting at times.’
‘Oh, details please!’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Spoilsport. So tell me about the other people here then. In the units.’
‘Well, next door is Mrs Jarvis, she’s an older lady. Very nice. And up the front is Terry but she’s in Tasmania for a while, so her daughter’s looking after the unit. The guy next to her is away as well, he’s some type of actor and he’s in a play touring Australia. So his unit’s empty. And that’s it. Not terribly exciting, I’m afraid.’
‘Not terribly exciting is exactly what I want.’ Kate took a sip of wine and watched Angie as she stirred the rice. ‘What about you? Is exciting what you’re after?’
‘Not necessarily.’ Angie hesitated, as if in thought, and then began stirring again vigorously. ‘Melissa wants me to move over to England.’
‘What!’
‘Just for a year or so,’ added Angie quickly, still stirring. ‘She reckons I could afford to take a year off now that . . . you know.’
‘I know.’ Kate waved a hand dismissively over that part of the equation. ‘But don’t tell me you’re thinking of it seriously? What about Fully Booked?’
‘Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? There’s no way I’d find a manager I could trust enough for me to flit over to the other side of the world. Except maybe you, and you’re not interested.’
This last was said almost as a question so Kate shook her head emphatically to lay the idea to rest. Then she looked at her cousin curiously. ‘But would you have considered it? If I’d been willing?’
‘Not really,’ Angie shrugged, lifting the ladle out with a few grains of rice clinging to it. She blew on them lightly. ‘I’ve got to sort myself out here first.’
‘Maybe you could go over on a holiday? A month or so?’
‘Maybe. I’ll play it by ear.’
‘And in the meantime, do find yourself a toy boy. Reclaim your youth.’
‘Reclaim it? I don’t even remember it.’
Kate ran her fingers through her damp hair to fluff it up, and then tucked it behind her ears. She took another sip of wine and smiled contentedly. It felt very strange to be sitting and watching someone else prepare a meal, with nothing to do but engage in light conversation. And every so often a stray thought would sidle away to wonder what was happening at home. She had left a casserole there also, but had anybody thought to put it in the oven? Had Jacob emerged from his room? Was Emma being strapped securely into her highchair? Was Sam just now getting home, tired and dirty, only to be confronted with the reality of her absence? Would she ever find somewhere to store her residual guilt so that it was unable to seep out and infect her enjoyment?
‘I suppose we should really work out something about cooking.’ Angie carried the pot of rice over to the sink and poured it into a colander. ‘I mean, it’s not fair that you should do it every day just because you’re home.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Well, you should. You’re supposed to be working, and you need to treat it just like you would if you were at an office.’
Kate thought about this and then nodded. ‘You’re right. Well, what about taking it in turns?’
‘Okay, but don’t forget I’m on a diet.’ Angie banged the colander sharply against the side of the sink and then spooned some rice onto two plates. She waved a hand dismissively at Kate, who had just started to rise. ‘Sit down. It’s under control.’
‘You sure?’ Kate remained half out of her seat as she looked at her cousin questioningly. It wasn’t just that she felt she should help, but she actually wanted to. It wasn’t an altogether pleasant feeling merely sitting by.
Angie waved her down again as she set the table briskly. ‘Anyway, so when does the masterpiece begin?’
‘I wish you’d stop calling it a masterpiece. It makes me feel weighed down by expectations before I even begin.’ Kate smiled to lighten the words.
Angie ladled chicken and thick honey-soya sauce over the rice and then brought the two plat
es over to the table. ‘Actually it’s a bit pretentious of you to assume I was serious. But no problem, how’s this? When does work on the mediocre opus begin?’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘Mediocre opus,’ repeated Angie in low, sombre tones, as she sat down opposite Kate. ‘See, it’ll be your MO. And if you aim for mediocre, you can’t fail, can you?’
‘Actually, yes. I could finish up with below average, or just plain lousy.’
‘A real positive thinker, aren’t you?’
Kate didn’t bother answering, instead she picked up her fork and began eating.
‘So what’s your MO going to be about anyway?’
Kate looked up. ‘I don’t really know yet.’
‘No ideas at all? You’re just going to sit there and wait for divine inspiration?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Great plan.’
‘I thought so.’
Angie rolled her eyes and went back to concentrating on her meal. Kate popped a piece of chicken into her mouth and began chewing pensively. It was true that she didn’t know what she wanted to write, but it was also true that inspiration was one thing she had never had to worry about. Ideas about plots and characters and story-lines had always appeared, even at the most unlikely of times. Like while waiting in the car for the kids, or during rather average sex, or while reading through other people’s manuscripts. One of her most memorable had even come to her during the long and painful labour with Shelley. Something to do with a reproductive breakthrough that involved implanting the embryo just beneath the flat skin of a male stomach and then providing special medication that would enable the baby to grow steadily, until the male could no longer see his own toes, and then have the child burst forth. Sort of like that scene from the movie Alien, complete with all the screaming and wailing and rending of flesh.
However, now that she really thought about it, when was the last time she had dashed off to write down a really great idea? When was the last time she’d reached out to grasp a half-baked notion, and then gradually fleshed it out until it throbbed with the oh-so-sweet promise of a fully fledged story? Kate thought, but wasn’t exactly sure, that it had been quite a while. And this realisation gave her a sense of righteousness over what she had done. It was a rescue mission, to peel away the layers built up over the years and uncover, once more, all those embryonic ideas that had been forced to lie dormant as her creative side had been smothered by everything else.
Kate smiled to herself, both at this concept and its inherent melodrama. Then she let herself be warmed by the fact that tomorrow morning she would begin writing. A series of words that would turn into sentences and then paragraphs and then chapters. An achievement that would then raise her up and propel her forwards. And it didn’t matter that she hadn’t had an idea for a while, because the desire to write was still as strong as ever. So given the right circumstances, and these were the right circumstances, then inspiration would occur naturally. It was just a matter of sitting back and letting it come.
SEVEN
Title
By KR Painter
Kate stared at the cursor, which was blinking cheerfully two rows below her name while it waited for her to type something. Anything. She narrowed her eyes and quickly typed Screw you, cursor. The cursor paused as soon as she finished and, clearly not offended, immediately started blinking again from the edge of the full stop. Kate hit delete and erased her suggestion before it embedded itself like a virus. Then she put both elbows up onto the desk, lowered her chin into her cupped hands and went back to staring at the screen. It had been two and a half hours since she had called out goodbye to Angie and danced up the stairs to begin her career. Two and a half hours in which all she had accomplished was a rather unimaginative working title and the decision to use her first two initials rather than her full name.
The problem was that she had absolutely no idea what she wanted to write about. She ran through all the ideas that she could remember ever having had, even including the vengeful one with the embedded embryo, but nothing seemed right. None of them demanded to be written, none of them filled her with any sense of passion. And the situation was made even worse by the fact she hadn’t slept well at all. It was strange sleeping alone, and not altogether pleasant. And the bad dreams had come regardless.
At just past eleven, Kate went downstairs and fetched a couple of biscuits from the cupboard. She wandered into the lounge room while she ate them, absentmindedly fluffing up some pillows and straightening the magazines on the coffee table. She thought about vacuuming but the carpet didn’t really need it and, besides, she recognised that as classic procrastination. The doorbell rang just as she was rather reluctantly walking upstairs again. A delivery man stood on the porch, holding a small, very colourful flower arrangement. He smiled at her.
‘Kate Painter?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Kate stared at him with surprise as she took the flowers.
‘Someone likes you,’ said the man, still smiling. He held out an electronic pad with a style-pen and Kate signed awkwardly.
‘Thank you.’
‘Have a lovely day!’
Kate closed the door and then carried the flowers through to the kitchen, where she put them on the island bench. She slipped out the attached card and read it quickly. To Mum. Good luck with the writing! Lots of love from Shelley, Emma, Caleb and Jacob.
Kate stared at the flowers with amazement. It was a modest arrangement, a few orange gerberas and purple irises set amongst some vivid green fronds. But the size was immaterial, because it was the thought that was bringing tears to prick behind her eyes. So absolutely unexpected. Although it would have been even better if Sam’s name had been there also.
After one last smile towards the flowers, Kate went into the lounge room to the telephone. First she tried ringing home, and then she tried each of the mobiles, but was unable to reach anyone. Instead she left messages of effusive thanks and then went back into the kitchen to gaze at the flowers once more.
The only problem with such a gesture, she eventually decided, was that they were like Angie’s use of the word ‘masterpiece’. Carrying with them expectations that were cumbersome in themselves. However, this last thought broke her reverie and sent Kate back upstairs, determined to accomplish more than simply the word Title. She sat down at her desk, stared at the computer for a while and then picked up the copy of So you want to write? Then enough with the excuses – just do it! She flicked through the pages slowly until she got to where the author advised yoga as a method of channelling ideas. Kate threw the book onto the bed and watched as it fell open at the page containing the author’s picture with his smug, yoga-induced smile. She turned her back, staring at the computer screen again and praying, without much hope, for inspiration.
Kate took a deep breath and then let it out in a rush. It seemed ironic that the problem had been the rapidity of time, yet now time seemed to be almost standing still. She gazed out of the window. Perhaps she should just give up for now, go for a drive or do something. A small blue hatchback drove slowly down the shared driveway and parked outside the neighbouring unit. The driver’s side disgorged an elderly lady, her thin figure clad in a coat despite the warmth of the weather. Kate leant closer, trying to ascertain if this was actually their neighbour or a visitor, but the angle of the porch roof cut her vision and the lady disappeared from sight.
As she straightened again, Kate noticed another two elderly women walking down the driveway. They were dressed more comfortably, and one even wore a royal-blue visor perched on her head. As the women reached the porch, the visored one turned and waved to something or someone behind her. Shortly afterwards, yet another older lady came into view and then the three of them stood for a while, talking animatedly, before moving up onto the porch and out of view.
Kate sat back again and amused herself for a while by imagining all the different reasons that a group of elderly ladies would get together. Perhaps it was a bake-off, or a
knitting circle, or something more sinister like a coven. Or maybe they simply got together once a week to strip off and share a spa, where they played show and tell with their bunions. Most probably, though, it was just lunch. Which seemed like a good idea.
Kate went downstairs and fixed herself a ham omelette, with grated cheese sprinkled over the top. While it was cooking, she moved her flowers around, finding the best angle to catch the sunlight. Then she took her lunch into the lounge room and switched on the television before settling herself on the couch. She flicked through the channels with the remote control until she found a talk show where the male host seemed to be solving each of his guest’s problems between fairly constant ad breaks. Kate ate slowly, as a man with a self-diagnosed sex addiction was followed by a mother and daughter who couldn’t be in the same room without resorting to physical violence. As the daughter launched herself across the stage, and security rushed forward, Kate decided that even if one of the upcoming guests didn’t have a problem like writer’s block, she was justified in watching it as other people’s issues counted as potential material. Grist for the mill, even if the mill was stuffed.
At about one o’clock, having decided that residual guilt might well be blocking the creative flow, Kate drove to the Lysterfield house. There were no cars there so she let herself in and then stood just inside the doorway, breathing in the familiar smells for a moment before getting to work. She started in the main bedroom, where Sam’s clothes from yesterday lay across the carpet, and entrails of bedding trailed from the unmade bed.
The lounge room wasn’t as bad, with only evidence of last night’s occupation scattered around. Coffee mugs, a few magazines, some baby toys, Sam’s reading glasses tucked between the couch cushions. Kate worked quickly. She wondered what her family were having for dinner that evening but, when she checked the refrigerator, could find no meat being defrosted. Afterwards she went outside to the shed and, with some difficulty, located the cardboard box containing her old writing. She dusted it off perfunctorily and then carried it inside to the kitchen sink where she gave it a more thorough clean. Corners of the box curled upward, revealing a honeycomb of cardboard and dust. Just as she put the box down on the table, Jacob materialised in the doorway and made her start.