by Unknown
‘There, there. Come on now. I know it’s been a difficult time for you. The thing is, darling, that I think you never do get over it when he leaves. But that’s not something to worry about, because you’re just not the same person you were when you were with him. That person’s gone.’
She took Francie’s face in both her hands. ‘And hopefully, there’s an older and wiser woman in her place.’
‘It hurts so much, Mum.’
‘I know. I know, sweetheart. But time will heal all, you’ll see.’
It was the cliché which snapped Francie out of the tender moment. What was next? You’ll get over it, there’s plenty more fish in the sea, you should be glad it happened now, it’ll all be for the best in the long run.
Francie sat back and wiped her face with her sleeve.
Carol went on with quiet determination: ‘I’ve got no use for passion, Francie. It was something my mother said to me and she was right. It took me a long while to understand that passion is a degrading emotion. It leads you down all sorts of paths you don’t want to go down.’
Francie sniffed and saw that her mother’s face had settled back into its soft contours in the same way a quilt can be pulled over rumpled bedsheets. Could she really mean that a life without passion was something to strive for?
‘But you’re a Christian. What about Christ’s passion?’
‘Goodness me! We’re Anglican! We leave all that nonsense to the Catholics. I think you’ll find that quiet forbearance will be of greater use to you. I think the secret of life is to be resigned to your fate. That’s the way to achieve real peace of mind.’
Forbearance and resignation. They were the twinned emotions which had enabled Carol to endure twenty years of loneliness and despair and lead her to this place. Which was . . . nowhere.
‘And what is my fate?’
‘It’s the fate of all women, Francie. To never be truly loved in the way you would imagine. That’s what happens when you put your faith and your fate in the hands of men.’
If this was actually true, and so far it was what Francie had experienced for the first thirty-two years of her life, then it was a terrifying prospect. But what had her counsellor Faith hinted at? That it was possible to be truly loved, and that all Francie’s life she hadn’t dared to imagine it.
Looking at her mother, who was now rummaging through her knitting basket, Francie could see very clearly that Carol’s disappointment had been handed down as a tangible object by her mother before her. It was a family keepsake, like a precious gold locket or a diamond ring. Francie, in her turn, had probably been given it, along with her first training bra, when she was thirteen.
‘You know, Francis—’ Carol’s needles clicked methodically as she spoke—‘there are only two men in this life who will not let you down. Jesus and Our Heavenly Father. That’s the place to put your faith. Faith, hope and charity are what’s left when the illusion of romantic love falls away. You might not see it now, but you will. And with faith, hope and charity comes real contentment.’
It was then that Francie knew she couldn’t stay here. Everywhere she looked she was reminded that this was a house of unfulfilled promise. Francie and Joel had lived their whole lives in a quiet suburban street knowing that either side of them there were houses where love was so abundant it spilled out the windows and into the front yard. They would watch fathers washing the car, mowing the lawn or up on the roof at Christmas time, stringing up lights and cardboard Santas while mothers impatiently called them in for dinner. They had watched as children reluctantly straggled to cars piled high with suitcases for annual beach holidays while parents squabbled in the driveway. There was enough love in those houses that it could be taken for granted.
But in Francie and Joel’s house, love was something you treated as a precious, fragile commodity. If you were careless it might dissolve or evaporate. The only way to be loved was to be good and kind and quiet and compliant. And even though Francie had been all that, love remained elusive. It was like quicksilver, running through your fingers whenever you tried to take hold of it.
She stood and tugged at her shirt, patted down her skirt. ‘I’d better get going, Mum. I’ll just go and say goodbye to Joel.’
‘Are you going already?’ It was her mum’s standard query. She would even say it to the postman if she had the chance. Francie felt guilty saying goodbye so soon, but she also knew that it wouldn’t matter if she stayed here for eternity. Nothing would change.
‘Yeah, I should get back. I’ve got a lot on . . .’ Like getting my hands on enough prescription drugs so I can kill myself.
Francie tapped at Joel’s door and, getting no reply, tiptoed into his room. His bulky frame was silhouetted against the glow of his computer.
‘Whacha doin’, bro?’ She bent to peer over his shoulder when he suddenly swivelled in his chair, blocking her view of the screen.
‘Hi! Nothing! Just stuff, you know, nothing interesting,’ he stammered as he pushed the hair from his eyes.
‘Come on! What? What are you up to?’ Francie teased as she attempted to duck under his arm. It was their old game of curious big sister and secretive little brother. They’d played it all their lives. Joel knew how it went. But tonight he was having none of it.
‘Hey! You can’t just walk in here like you own the place!’ he protested. He reached behind him and shut down the machine.
‘Joel . . .’
‘You think nothing happens in this house when you aren’t here. You imagine everything’s the same from when you moved out. Well, it’s not, and if you came here more often . . .’
‘What?’
Joel shifted in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Nothing.’
Francie sat on Joel’s bed and tucked her hands under her thighs. She shook her head to bring him into focus in the shadows. Even through the fog of her own misery she could tell this was a moment when she needed to be clear.
‘Tell me. What?’
‘You’re fucking kidding me! What’s the point? Telling you anything right now would be like chucking a rock into a mine shaft. We could sit here for a year and still not hear it hit the bottom. Go home, Francie, you’re not much use to anyone the way you are.’
Seventeen
Later that night Francie was sitting in the car outside the St Kilda 7-Eleven. For company she had a plastic container of cold chicken Maryland and a tray of caramel slice on the back seat. She turned on her mobile phone. There were twelve messages on Francie’s voicemail, signalling a rising crescendo of concern.
Francie . . . it’s Johnno, Olga, Amanda, Johnno, Olga, Gabby, Dave, Amanda, Robbie, Auntie Kath from Benalla . . . where are you? Are you OK? Do you want me to come over? Do you want to talk about it? Don’t worry, it’s no big deal, everyone’s done it, no-one takes that stuff seriously, it’ll all be over by tomorrow. I’m sorry, we’re sorry, he’ll be sorry, she’ll be sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Are you sure you’ll be OK? Call me back. In the morning, now, immediately!
But there was one message which was genuine cause for alarm: ‘Hello, Francie McKenzie? This is Sheridan Waters from the Sunday Star. We are running an interview with Poppy Sommerville-Smith for tomorrow’s paper about the stalking and vandalism allegations she made against you on Talkfest last night. I would like to hear your side of the story. It’s Saturday morning and my deadline is midday, so if I don’t hear from you I will be going with “declined to comment”. Please call me as soon as you get this message. I’m at the Star on extension 1723. Thank you.’
Midday. That was twelve hours ago and in one minute it would be tomorrow. Francie watched as people walked from the dark car park into the fluorescent light of the shop. She saw them stop near the paper stand, pay up and then walk past her car with the Sunday Star tucked under their arm.
She felt sick and considered opening the window to vomit up the remains of her pineapple chicken and lemon meringue. Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car and walked to the shop d
oor. Was it the blinding brightness which made Francie fumble for her sunglasses? Or an attempt to go incognito? She didn’t know, but standing there looking at the front page of the Sunday Star she knew that any attempt at disguise was futile. There was a red banner right across the top of page one. At either end of the headline PAYING BACK POPPY were two full-colour head shots. On the left was Ms Sommerville-Smith looking like an adorable wounded faun, and on the other was Francie’s portrait from her column in the Sunday Press—unbearably smug and self-congratulatory.
There wouldn’t be one person who picked up the paper who could resist turning directly to page three for the full story. Well, maybe one person, and that was Francie.
Her hands were shaking as she took both the Star and a copy of the Sunday Press. She knew what would be in her Seriously Single column in the P.S. liftout. A collection of marvellously witty, carefully constructed replies to the lovelorn. Nothing in there (go figure) about a vicious act of vandalism on your rival’s knickers with a pair of scissors.
Francie’s mind and body were numb with shock. Now she did feel she was going to vomit, right here in front of the cash register. She turned and stumbled towards the fridge. She needed a bottle of water, fast.
As she turned around the end of the aisle the colours of the packets of chips and chocolates began to swirl. She lurched and reached blindly to push the man standing in front of her out of the way. She clutched a handful of black leather and looked up to see—Dave. It was the final shove her stomach needed to bring up a boiling mess of dinner, shame and humiliation. She bent over and heaved all over Dave’s Cuban-heeled boots. And while she was down there, the acidic bile burning the back of her throat and bringing tears to her eyes, she noticed another pair of feet dancing out of the path of the noxious tide. They were, unmistakeably, the ten French-manicured toes of Gabby Di Martino.
Dave was soon beside Francie with his arm around her waist and holding back her hair as she kept heaving until there was nothing left. The shop attendant was soon on the scene with a mop and bucket, complaining loudly about weekend drunks. Dave helped Francie to the front door, Gabby paid for the bundle of newspapers and the bottle of water and then, mercifully, they were out in the night air.
‘How do you feel now?’ asked Dave. ‘Are you OK?’
Francie wasn’t looking at him, she was leaning against her car, pressing her face into the cool metal of the scratched roof.
‘Yeah, yeah. Thanks . . . I’ll be fine,’ she replied shakily as she unfurled her fist and her car keys clattered onto the concrete.
‘Give ’em to me. I’ll drive you home.’
‘No, I’m OK, really. You and Gabby go . . .’ And then she wondered where exactly they were going at midnight. Back to her place? His bedroom? If they were in the middle of some romantic assignation Francie had certainly wrecked that. But then, Francie wrecked everything. Even Joel had told her she was useless.
Dave took Francie firmly by the waist and deposited her in the passenger seat of her car. She watched in the rear-vision mirror as he had an earnest discussion with Gabby about the direction the rest of the night would take. Again she was reduced to a problem being discussed. Francie guessed correctly that Gabby was keen to come along for the ride, but that Dave was pulling the pin on their night together.
Gabby knocked on the car window and Francie reluctantly wound it down.
‘Look, Francie, this . . .’ she said, waving the Star in front of Francie’s eyes in case she hadn’t seen it, ‘is a piece of shit. It’s so badly written. Sheridan Waters is a total fucking hack!’
Oh good! So not only was Francie portrayed as a maniacal stalking vandal, but they hadn’t even put a decent writer on the job. Who would Gabby have preferred the story to have been written by? JK Rowling?
‘It’s all . . . well, it’s all . . .’ Gabby was struggling for words.
A complete and utter appalling disaster.
‘Call me tomorrow morning. We have to talk about this. From my point of—’
Dave leaned across Francie and called out the window. ‘Thanks, Gabby. She’ll call you tomorrow morning. Goodnight.’ He backed the car and almost squashed Gabby’s perfectly tanned toes. Francie watched her stomp with annoyance to her smart pale green Peugeot.
Francie wound the window up and was hit by the disgusting smell of her own vomit on Dave’s shoes. She quickly wound it down again. They didn’t speak on the three-minute drive to Elysium. Francie swigged from her water bottle. Neither of them had the slightest idea what could possibly be said.
Inside the house Francie was heading determinedly for her own bedroom when Dave took hold of her again.
‘At least let me make you a cup of tea. I know you’re not going to get to sleep any time soon. Come on.’ He tugged her towards the kitchen.
He was right, Francie was looking down the tunnel of a long, sleepless night. She might as well have a cup of tea with Dave. He knew everything now. Everyone did. No amount of sitting in her room by herself was going to change things. Francie was surprisingly calm—she supposed it was from sheer physical exhaustion—when she walked into the kitchen to find Jessie and Johnno and Robbie all standing around the table with the Sunday Star open to page three.
There was a profound silence as all five of them regarded each other. The first to break rank was Dave: ‘Evening all.’ He crossed to the sink and found a dishcloth to clean his shoes.
The second to speak was Jessie: ‘Oh Jesus, Francie, this is all my fault! I am so sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.’ She slumped into a chair with her head in her hands.
The third was Johnno: ‘Fucking hell, Francie! Why didn’t you tell me about this? Fuck!’ He turned from Francie, picked up the newspaper and threw it into a corner of the room.
The fourth was Robbie: ‘Well . . . all I can say is the bitch had it coming to her. She deserved it. And that was just for murdering Chekhov. She was shithouse in The Seagull!’ It was a decent attempt at a joke, but no-one laughed.
Dave wrenched open the door of the freezer and retrieved a bottle of frozen vodka. Cranberry juice and three beers followed from the fridge. It was the signal that the Elysium discussion group was now in session.
In the first instance the group came up with the expected platitudes: Don’t worry. Today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish and chip wrapping. No-one reads this rag anyway. But none of them believed a word of it. The fact was, this was a public humiliation on a scale no-one could have imagined. Francie’s reputation, both on a personal and professional level, was toast.
And that this should happen to Francie—of all people? Nice, quiet, friendly Francie! And that she should do it to Poppy Sommerville-Smith—of all people? The gifted, intelligent, intuitive Poppy!
No-one could think of a strategy that would get her out of this any time soon. Francie, for her own part, just sat there, figuring that she was like a fish on a hook and that if she didn’t wriggle it wouldn’t hurt as much. But then, as the alcohol kicked in and midnight gave way to early morning, something interesting happened. Francie realised that, beyond the caring platitudes, her four companions were utterly fascinated by what she’d done. They interrogated her about every minute detail of that bizarre evening back in August.
‘Did you plan it, or did it just happen?’
‘How did you get in?’
‘What were you wearing?’
‘Were you worried about the neighbours?’
‘What did you cut up . . . exactly?’
‘What sort of scissors did you use? Hairdressing? Dressmaking?’
‘What sort of underwear does she have?’
‘Where did you cut it? Crotch? Nipples?’
‘What else did you destroy?’
‘How did it feel when you were doing it?’
‘How did you feel when you finished?’
‘Have you ever done anything like that before?’
‘Would you do it again?’
‘How did they know it w
as you?’
‘What did Nick say?’
‘What did she say?’
‘Why didn’t she go to the cops?’
As Francie downed one drink after another she offered a full confession. She knew why Poppy hadn’t gone to the police. Nick had intervened on her behalf and, anyway, it was all highly embarrassing for everyone. As Francie told the tale, even she had to admit that it was compelling. It had everything—heartache, grief, rage, celebrity and very expensive underwear. Her heart sank some more as she realised the story would be repeated endlessly around the country for a long time to come.
In fact the story was so compelling that everyone at the table felt they had to contribute their own tale on the topic: the most shameful thing you’ve done in the name of love.
‘OK, I’ll go first,’ Johnno volunteered. It was the least he could do. After all, he’d known Francie the longest. He’d been there the night she met Nick.
He sat back in his chair, smoothed his Greenpeace T-shirt over his chest, pushed the hair from his eyes and was about to begin. Then he stopped.
‘I’m not sure I can tell you this in front of Jessie.’
‘Confess!’ cried Jessie. ‘I want to know everything! We all do. Full disclosure. If Francie can do it, we can too.’
Jessie, Dave and Robbie started banging their glasses on the table. ‘Confess, confess, confess!’ they chanted.
‘Alright, alright.’ Johnno held his hands up. ‘Here it is. I was seeing this chick for about six months—’
‘Who was it? Anyone we know?’ said Francie, who was glad to be asking the questions for a change.
‘Yeah. You remember her, France—Elinor. You know that Polish chick I met at film school?’
‘Oh yeah, that sociopath goth with the long black plaits. She was a weirdo,’ Francie muttered.
‘She was a weirdo? Thank you, Francie Scissorhand!’
It was the first time anyone had dared make a joke at Francie’s expense and when everyone laughed she managed a rueful smile.