by Liz Byrski
‘Hmm. Lunch?’ Renée asked. ‘Looks like you need it.’
Jill glanced at a pile of brochures and press kits that had been sitting on the corner of her desk for weeks. ‘I do, desperately. Preferably something sinful like chips or chocolate mousse with cream.’
‘Or both?’
‘Yes, both.’ She picked up the pile. ‘You’re the boss, tell me it’s okay to dump these.’
‘It’s okay,’ Renée said. ‘Dump ’em and let’s get going.’
Jill tossed the brochures in the bin and closed the lid. ‘That feels a whole lot better,’ she said, grabbing her bag from the top of the filing cabinet.
‘So what’s bugging you?’ Renée asked when they had found a table at their favourite café. ‘You’ve been all over the place for the last couple of weeks.’
‘Have you brought me here to counsel me?’ Jill asked.
‘I’m concerned about you, that’s all. Concerned as a friend and a colleague.’
‘And as the CEO? Sorry, my inner bitch is on high alert at present. My sister-in-law getting herself shot has had a very strange effect on me.’
Renée raised her eyebrows. ‘She didn’t actually get herself shot, Jill, it’s hardly her fault. It’s not as though she organised it as a photo op.’
‘I know, I know,’ Jill agreed. ‘It really is awful, and the fact that the police don’t seem to be any closer to solving it just prolongs the agony. Part of my problem is that I feel uneasy about us. It must seem really selfish, but if someone hates Heather enough to want to kill her, it seems like a threat to all of us – Adam, me, the kids, Barbara. Does that sound a bit far-fetched?’
‘It does, but at the same time it’s understandable,’ Renée said. ‘I guess I’d feel the same. It’s the horrible sort of awareness of danger, and the feeling that it was always there before but you never thought about it. Like we don’t think about the risk of getting killed on the road, until it happens to someone we know.’
Jill nodded. ‘That’s it exactly. But . . . ’ she paused and realised she was glancing around to see if anyone could overhear her, ‘I’ll say this to you, Renée, but no one else: this has brought out the worst of my feelings towards Heather.’
‘I thought you two got on like a house on fire,’ Renée said, signalling to a waiter to take their order.
‘We do, but it’s on the surface. I don’t think we’ve ever really gotten to know each other, but there’s a part of me that’s always resented her. It’s not fair, it’s not logical, but it’s there.’
‘Why?’ Renée asked. ‘Heather’s really nice, and she’s done great stuff for women, the environment . . . I don’t understand.’
‘That’s the thing, nobody does, nobody could. It’s totally petty and unreasonable and it’s been worse than ever since the shooting.’
‘But you can’t blame her for getting shot?’
‘Of course not. I don’t, but . . . it’s hard to explain.’
‘I suppose,’ Renée said, ‘something like this happening is bound to open up some cracks in a relationship.’
‘Maybe,’ Jill said. ‘It goes back a long way and I know Heather’s a really good person, but there’s something unreachable about her. And, if you really want to know about the baser side of my nature, it’s probably about all the things she’s got that I haven’t.’
‘Like what?’
‘Prestige, respect, money, energy and, most of all, freedom – oh, and everyone’s attention every time she crooks her little finger.’
‘But you’ve got prestige and respect, you have a great reputation and a good job, and you’ve got Adam and the kids, a nice home . . . ’
‘I said it wasn’t fair or logical. I don’t like this part of myself, especially now that it seems to be taking a firmer grip on me, but I can’t seem to shake it off.’
‘We’ll have the grilled snapper with salad and a huge bowl of fries,’ Renée said. ‘Maybe you should see a counsellor.’
‘Huh?’ said the waiter, who was still writing ‘fries’.
‘Not you, I’m talking to my friend.’ She turned her attention back to Jill. ‘This isn’t something trivial. It’s affecting your work and presumably things at home too.’
‘Nobody’s noticed at home,’ Jill said. ‘Kirsty’s the only one who might notice and she’s working on her honours thesis so she doesn’t even know what day it is. But I know it’s been showing at work – I’ll get myself back on track in a few days, I promise.’
‘It’s not that, Jill,’ Renée said. ‘You always get things together, but this doesn’t sound like you. Really, I mean it, I think you should get some help. You look tense and worn out.’
Jill was shocked to feel a sob rising in her throat and her eyes filling with tears. ‘Maybe,’ she nodded, looking out of the café window. ‘There’s other stuff too. Being responsible for everything is getting me down.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, Adam, everyone thinks he’s a saint, right? And he almost is but he’s so . . . so passive. Loathes taking decisions, leaves it all to me.’
‘And then complains about it?’
Jill shook her head. ‘Never.’
‘Well, then . . . ?’
‘But, in a way, that’s the problem. He thrives on being out of touch with everything, almost not in the world, disappearing into his music when things get tough.’
‘But he’s great with the kids.’
‘Yes, he does his share. He does whatever I ask, but it’s as though he’s helping out because he loves me.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘All the responsibility is mine. I hold everything together and it’s wearing me down.’ She watched as the waiter set clean cutlery and a basket of bread on the table. ‘I know that no one else sees this, and they’d think it’s all in my head. Trouble is, it’s taking over my head. Sometimes living with a saint has its drawbacks. You feel guilty because you’re feeling exhausted or frustrated or bored or jealous or anything other than grateful. And that’s when the inner bitch becomes an inner python and rears up ready to strike.’
Renée helped herself to bread. ‘So is this about Heather or Adam?’
Jill shrugged and looked away again, determined to control the threatening tears. ‘Who knows? Either, both, whatever.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
‘Meaning I don’t know exactly, Renée,’ she said, irritated now. ‘I just don’t know.’
Later that afternoon, sitting at a desk liberated from every unnecessary piece of paper, folder, file, magazine and report, Jill waited for the purge to take effect at a deeper level. But clarity of the desktop failed to translate into clarity of mind. Shortly after they’d got back from lunch, Renée had sent her an email with the contact details of the counselling service provided by the council for its executive staff. Revealing her vulnerability and her irrational emotions to the boss had been the ultimate stupidity. Renée was an old friend, and she was professional, supportive and discreet. Jill knew that the subject would only be discussed again if she raised it herself, but by blurting it out she had not only created the elephant in the room that they would both now struggle to ignore, she had destroyed the comfort zone that work had afforded her as the only place where she felt competent and, until now, absolutely clear about her own boundaries.
In the cosmetics section of David Jones, Diane tried the new Dior lipstick on the back of her hand.
‘Nice,’ she said, moving it around to catch the colour in a different light. ‘What d’you think?’
‘Yeah, it’s okay but a bit crimsony for you,’ Charlene said.
‘I like dark lipstick,’ Diane said, twirling the tester down into its case. ‘I need something to make my features stand out more now I’m older.’
‘I know, but women over fifty shouldn’t wear those very strong colours. You need something more subtle.’
Diane stared at her. ‘Says who?’
‘Everybody. All the mag
azines. I read it the other day. They said dark colours and dark reds are out for the over-fifties. You don’t want to look older than you are. Subtle browns and golds are the thing.’
‘What, and I should wear beige too? How come you’re reading about the over-fifties? You usually think embalming fluid is the only thing I should be using.’
Charlene slipped her arm through her mother’s. ‘I don’t. You look great, Mum, you always do. I’m just telling you what I read. C’mon, let’s get out of here. I want to go in to Skin Deep before I go back to work.’
The city centre was busy with lunchtime shoppers and the two women weaved their way through the mall where a young man, coated from head to foot in silver paint, stood on a small platform moving like a puppet.
‘That’s what I need,’ Diane said. ‘A nice, quiet, well-behaved boy to be my puppet.’
Charlene stifled a laugh. ‘You do not! You’d hate it. You need a nice, quiet, well-behaved man to make a big fuss and take care of you. Big Daddy protective thingo.’
Diane nodded. ‘True, but most men my age seem to want someone to look after them, to replace their mothers or their wives. Or they’re sitting on stools in pubs getting drunk.’
‘Someone’ll turn up someday,’ Charlene said. ‘You should get out more.’
‘You speak with the confidence of youth, naturally straight blonde hair and newly capped teeth,’ Diane said. ‘It’s not so easy at my age, especially the getting out bit – like, where should I get out to?’
‘You could try Internet dating,’ Charlene said. ‘Lots of people are doing it. That’s how Lauren’s mum met that guy she’s been seeing.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep, and they’re getting married at Christmas.’
‘Married? She’s actually marrying him? Didn’t she only just get divorced?’
‘Six months ago,’ Charlene replied.
‘I thought he seemed a bit . . . well . . . sleazy.’
‘Lauren thinks so too, but she says her mum wants the security. Apparently he owns a vineyard.’
Diane took a deep breath. Security was something else she had lost when Gerry left, security and a sense of the future, but the sleazy vigneron was a high price to pay – there were worse things than being alone and insecure. ‘Oh well, good luck to her if that’s what she wants. By the way, I gather Shaun’s off visiting Heather today. Taken her some work. I don’t know why he couldn’t have sorted it over the phone instead of leaving us to cope with the office.’
‘Isn’t that Fred person still there?’ Charlene asked, stopping to look in the window of a shoe shop.
‘Just the same, there’s plenty to do. They’ve got me stuffing envelopes again.’
‘Well, if you don’t like it, don’t go there,’ Charlene said. ‘It’s not as if they’re paying you, and you’re always complaining about it. Get a proper job.’
‘I don’t want a job,’ Diane said irritably. ‘I don’t need one, and I like my freedom. And I shouldn’t have to be working at all at my age.’
Charlene broke away to pick up a leaflet on the benefits of wheatgrass from the stand outside the health food shop. ‘You’re only fifty-six. Heather’s older than you and she’s still working.’
‘I don’t need to,’ Diane said.
‘Only because Dad pays a load of money into your account every month to stop him feeling guilty for buggering off.’
Diane halted in her tracks, tugging on her daughter’s arm to make her face her. ‘Are you saying I’m not entitled?’
Charlene rolled her eyes and tipped her head to one side. ‘No, Mum, I’m saying it’s stupid to volunteer for something you’re always grumbling about when you could get a job you’d enjoy. But you won’t do that because you want to make Dad keep paying.’
‘He should pay,’ Diane said. ‘I’ve got more right to it than that little tart he lives with. She’s only a few years older than you.’
In the wake of Gerry’s desertion, Diane had made up her mind to hurt him in the only way she now knew how – through his wallet. She resisted all his efforts to get her to sell the house, insisted on maintenance and refused to get a job. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of her earning her own living and, anyway, she had been out of hairdressing for too long. Going back would mean retraining and there was no way that she, who had once been a senior stylist, was going to sign up as a junior to someone the age of Gerry’s girlfriend.
She found herself a lawyer who had recently dealt with the divorce of a prominent AFL hero and won him a huge settlement from his equally famous soapie-star wife. ‘Take him to the cleaners,’ she had instructed in those dark early days when life as she knew it seemed to be over. ‘Get me everything you possibly can, no holds barred.’
These days she blushed to think how mercenary she must have seemed, how clichéd she must have sounded, how much like a wronged wife in a B-grade fifties movie. But it was her only revenge – at least, that is, until she had thought of volunteering in Heather’s office. It was a year after the break-up and Heather was leading a protest against a high-rise development a little further up the coast. Gerry was part of the consortium, his first involvement in anything outside the housing market, and it was sweet satisfaction to work (at Gerry’s expense) with the person who was instrumental in ensuring that the project never got off the ground. Despite some occasional unease over her uncharacteristic ruthlessness, Diane’s anger burned on. It kept her going, kept her turning up at Heather’s office, kept her struggling to maintain a youthful, attractive appearance.
‘Anyway,’ she said now, grabbing Charlene’s arm, ‘you shouldn’t grumble. You get plenty from what your father pays.’
‘I’m not grumbling, Mum, I’m just saying –’
‘What about you and Shaun, anyway?’ Diane said, changing the subject. ‘I thought you might have some good news waiting for me when I got home.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like getting engaged.’
Charlene sighed. ‘I’m sure he’s getting round to it, but he’s worried about all this stuff happening with Heather. When it calms down, I’m sure he’ll ask me. Come on,’ she said, steering Diane towards the beauty salon, ‘my lunch break’s nearly over and I want to find out the price of their tanning and Botox.’
Diane peered at her daughter’s face. ‘What for?’
‘The lines on my forehead,’ Charlene said, lifting the hair from her brow and pointing. ‘They’re really horrendous.’
‘I can’t even see them,’ Diane said. ‘ I’ll wait outside.’ She hated that salon. All the girls were about twelve and looked as though they’d been cloned from the same host: long, straight blonde hair; perfect teeth; and all-over tans that bordered on orange. Was this the ideal that Charlene was aiming for? Why did young women all want to look the same? The place made Diane feel like a fossil. It was bad enough in David Jones’s cosmetics department, where she felt she shouldn’t trespass with less than perfect make-up and newly styled hair. Not that Diane would ever dream of going outside the house looking less than her best anyway, but these days her best just didn’t seem good enough. Facing the mirror was becoming a torture, noting the bits that seemed to have dropped further overnight, noticing new lines every day. From here on it would just be a daily process of crumbling and flaking, but then, what did it matter? There was no one around to notice. She could grow mildew, rust and hairy warts and no one would blink an eyelid because she was, essentially, invisible.
THREE
Ellis woke to the sound of a pair of parrots scrabbling about in the tree outside his bedroom window. It was a perfect awakening – indeed, this was why he had designed a house built on stilts and nestling in the tree tops. Here he could wake daily to the sound of birds and the rustle of twigs and leaves. He had dreamed of a house like this since the fifties, when he had seen a Movietone newsreel of the Kenyan hunting lodge where Princess Elizabeth received the news of the death of her father, King George. Ellis didn’t hold any sp
ecial brief for Princess Elizabeth, or the royals generally, but the hunting lodge remained engraved on his memory.
In the News Cinema at London’s Victoria Station, where he sat with his mother killing time before they caught the train back to Brighton, he stared at the lodge on its high stilts and vowed that he would, one day, live in a house just like it. At twelve it seemed to Ellis to be reasonably easy to achieve; he simply had to persuade his parents to move from the three-storey terrace in Hove to a hunting lodge. It wasn’t necessary for it to be in Kenya – anywhere in Sussex would be fine. Strangely enough, neither of his parents took to the idea, but while his mother told him he was being silly and to get on and eat his tea, his father commended him on an admirable plan and built him a tree house in the branches of the oak tree at the bottom of their narrow garden.
‘There you are, lad,’ he’d said proudly, snapping his son with the Brownie camera as Ellis made his inaugural climb up the rope ladder. ‘There’s your tree house, you’ll never find one better than that.’
Delighted though he was with this new hideaway, Ellis was absolutely sure that he would find a better one, that one day he would have the real thing, and it would be as good as, or better than, the one in which the Princess had spent her holiday. It took several decades, by which time he’d long since moved to the other side of the world, before his dream became reality. When he decided he was done with the law and planned his transition from city to coast, from legal rat race to spiritual life-coaching, he drew his dream and handed it over to an architect. Before long the dream was alive in seasoned timber, on solid brick piers, nestled among the eucalypts and palms on a steep hill overlooking a glorious beach just outside Byron Bay. It had an open living area, two bedrooms and a bathroom and, unlike the Princess’s lodge, deep shaded balconies on three sides. Ellis was confident that if the Queen, now in her eighties, ever saw it, she would confirm his excellent taste.
Living in the tree tops did, however, have some disadvantages. Branches constantly needed to be cut back to prevent them pounding the roof loudly enough to wake the dead; possums found their way too easily into the roof space and peed with abandon; and squirrels, and the occasional rat, scampered noisily across the corrugated metal. None of this, however, detracted from Ellis’s enjoyment of his property. Not only was it a glorious place but it contributed considerably to his image of himself.