Three Wishes

by Liane Moriarty

  "Sorry," said the girl. "I realized I should have said first left, not first right. So it's left, left, then right."

  "Ha!" said Cat, as if giving a polite response to a bad joke. Lyn leaned forward and gave an awkward little flutter of her fingers. "Thank you very much!" Gemma's stomach cramped as she tried to suppress a gigantic wave of laughter. "That's O.K.," said the girl. "Left, left, right." "Yep," said Lyn heartily. "Got it!"

  The girl smiled and walked back toward her flat.

  "She's nice." Cat's hands were clenched around the steering wheel. "The bitch is fucking nice!"

  "It's not relevant," said Lyn.

  "Actually, I don't think she was that nice," said Gemma. "She seemed a bit dull to me. Lacking in personality."

  "Can we just get out of here?" said Lyn. "Please?"

  That night, while Charlie was eating free garlic bread, the three of them watched videos at Lyn's place. Michael cooked them pasta. Cat cheered up a little after reading Lyn's mortifying She article. Maddie skidded maniacally back and forth among all three of them until her bedtime, when Lyn suggested they introduce her to the "igloo" game.

  It was a game Cat created when they were little. It involved huddling under a white sheet and pretending they were three Eskimos in an igloo. It was extremely cold and icy in the igloo of course, so you had to put your arms around each other and snuggle close, shivering and trembling and making your teeth chatter loudly. Sometimes Cat would bravely venture out into the snow and catch a fish or kill a polar bear for their dinner. (Gemma and Lyn weren't allowed to go hunting because it was Cat's game, so she made the rules. They had to stay in the igloo and get the fire ready.)

  It was their favorite game for when their parents were fighting. When the yelling started, Cat used to say, "Quick! Into the igloo!"

  Maddie thought the igloo game was hysterical--and it was a good way for Lyn and Gemma to secretly give Cat a hug, while they huddled and trembled.

  Gemma laid her head back against the rim of the bathtub and was suddenly intensely uncomfortable, too hot and headachy. Baths, she thought, were just like her relationships, all "ooh, ah" in the beginning and then suddenly, without warning, she had to get out, out, out!

  She walked gingerly across the slippery tiles to reach blindly for the light. Rubbing steam from the bathroom mirror, she stood sideways and gave herself a sultry centerfold pout over one shoulder. It was her secret opinion that she looked sexiest when her hair was wet.

  Sex.

  It was such a funny thing. Sometimes, she found it amazing that she actually had sex with anyone. It was so, well, shocking.

  "Ladies and men do what?" eight-year-old Gemma had exploded, when their mother sat all three of her daughters down to briskly and precisely explain the grisly facts of life.

  Maxine sighed and went over the fundamentals one more time.

  "I don't believe you!" Gemma was horrified.

  "Neither do I." Cat folded her arms aggressively. She always kept a careful eye out for conspiracies, especially when it came to her mother. "You're making it up."

  "I wish I was," said their mother.

  "I think it might be true," Lyn said sadly. How did that girl come into the world knowing everything already?

  Sometimes when Gemma thought about sex, sometimes even when she was having sex, she felt a faint echo of that horror she felt as an eight-year-old. My goodness, she'd think, looking up at the ceiling as some boyfriend earnestly scrabbled around her body, what in the world is he doing now?

  It didn't stop her from having quite a lot of sex.

  She rummaged through the bathroom cupboard for the Listerine and thought about Charlie, standing in the Penthursts' kitchen that morning. "This fridge is the saddest thing I've ever seen," he'd said, taking out a bottle of milk, sniffing it suspiciously, and then throwing it straight into the garbage. "You really don't cook, do you?"

  "Nope."

  He closed the fridge door and leaned back against it, folding his arms. "Well, what are you going to feed me, Gemma?"

  He had a lovely, slightly wrong way of saying her name, a caressing emphasis on the second syllable. Gemma.

  She took him to a local cafe where they served breakfast all day and the patrons sat on low, cushiony sofas reading free magazines and newspapers, looking self-consciously relaxed over their Big Breakfast Specials.

  As first dates went it was promising. There was a pleasing crackle of sexual tension that caused their eyes to keep meeting and sliding away and meeting again. Charlie seemed slightly flushed and she felt a heightened awareness of everything: the smells of coffee and bacon, the edge of his T-shirt against the caramel skin of his neck, her own hand reaching across for the sugar. But there was also an odd familiarity, as if she already knew him, as if they'd been to this cafe dozens of times before, and this was just an ordinary Saturday. Instead of sharing vital information about jobs, hobbies, ex's, and families, they flicked through the magazines and shared stupid information about celebrities and diets.

  "Did you know that the shape of Nicole's head proves that she could never have been happy with Tom?"

  "Check out this woman. She lost over forty kilos by walking up and down her hallway. Now her husband says he liked her better when she was fat."

  And then, when they were leaving and Charlie asked, "What are you doing tonight?" something about the slightly defensive way he was standing and the way his eyes grinned straight into hers, made her want to cry and laugh at the same time.

  Wrapping a towel around her, her mouth minty with Listerine (tonight was most definitely first-kiss time) she went dripping down the hallway into her bedroom to choose her most unsexy, unmatching underwear so she wouldn't be tempted to sleep with him too soon.

  Probably, she thought, it was always this good in the beginning.

  She imagined her fourteen ex-boyfriends, all lined up one after the other in an orderly queue. The plumber who liked country music, that funny redheaded guy with the glasses, the graphic designer who talked too much in the movies, that big guy who was obsessed about losing his hair. At one end was Marcus, grinning a bit contemptuously, the farthest away, but still clearer and sharper than the rest of them. And, now right up front, chuckling his belly laugh, was Charlie. The queue dipped suddenly in height. He was at least a head shorter than the rest of them.

  Would Charlie one day be giving her that puzzled, hurt look? "But why? I thought we were going so well?"

  At least, thought Gemma, Cat knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted Dan and she wanted a baby. She also wanted a Ferrari, a house by the beach, Lyn's Italian leather jacket, and for some man at Hollingdale Chocolates to get run over by a bus.

  And that was it. No doubts. No confusion. No lying awake at night trying to work out the magic formula for happiness. Even if she didn't exactly have what she wanted at the moment, at least she knew what it was. Gemma couldn't imagine a feeling more peaceful, or exotic.

  The doorbell rang in an impatient way, as if it had already been rung once. She threw on some clothes over her unsexy underwear and went running down the stairs to stop him from breaking in again.

  Perms and the Pill

  It must have been in the late sixties. I remember I was wearing my mauve miniskirt, long yellow socks, and platform shoes. Paula and I were off to the hairdressers for our first ever perms.

  We had to walk through that park on Henderson Road and we saw this girl about the same age as us. Tall, with gorgeous long red hair. She was running around after these three adorable little girls. All identically dressed in little yellow sundresses with their hair up in top knots. At first, we thought she was just minding them. But then we could hear them calling out, Mummy, watch me! Mummy, come here! The poor girl was running this way and that, trying to keep them all happy.

  Paula said, "Triplets! Aren't they sweet!" And at that very moment, one child grabbed another one and sank her teeth into her bare arm! The bitten child screamed blue murder! And the mother said, very firmly, somet
hing like, "I said no biting today! That's it! We're all going home!" Pandemonium! They scattered, like a bomb had fallen, pelting off in different directions! How that poor girl managed to get them home I don't know.

  Well, Paula and I were gob-smacked. We had no idea children bit one another, like savage little animals! You know what we did straight after our perms? We went to the new Family Planning Clinic in the city and got ourselves prescriptions for the Pill. We did! Perms and the Pill on the same day. I've never forgotten it.

  CHAPTER 4

  "My wife is a triplet, you know," Dan said chattily. He leaned back against the squeaky vinyl sofa and crossed his arms comfortably behind his head. Cat watched him suspiciously. He was finding marriage counseling far too enjoyable for her liking.

  "Really!"

  The counselor wriggled with delight. Her name was Annie and she was a bubbly ball of spiritually advanced energy and positive new age vibes. Cat couldn't stand her. She could feel her sulky teenage self reemerging in the hard line of her jaw. It was like religion classes when soft, oozy Miss Ellis made them share their feelings with the class. Gemma adored her, obligingly spilling her soul, while Cat and Lyn listened, appalled, at the back of the classroom. Cat would have taken a double period of calculus with psychopathic Sister Elizabeth Mary over one squirmy religion class with pink-fluffy-cardigan Miss Ellis.

  "And are you close to your siblings, Cat?" beamed Annie. Her green dress was covered in a diseaselike rash of sunny yellow polka dots. No doubt there was a pink fluffy cardigan in her wardrobe. She leaned forward, presenting them both with an uninterrupted view of endless freckled cleavage.

  "Not really." Cat concentrated hard on Annie's forehead.

  "Are you kidding?" Dan, who had been observing Annie's breasts with awe, took his hands out from behind his head. "She adores her sisters! They're unhealthily close if you ask me."

  "Except no one did ask you, Dan," said Cat. Annie sat back in her chair and tapped her pen against her teeth with gentle empathy.

  "The three of them are like this exclusive little club," said Dan. "And they're not taking any new members."

  "I want to talk more about Dan's infidelity." Cat shifted noisily on the green vinyl.

  Dan looked irritated. "I don't think it's constructive to keep going over and over it." He looked at Annie for approval.

  "Cat has a need to work through her feelings about this, Dan," replied Annie. "We probably should respect that, yes?"

  Ha! Annie was on her side! Cat gave Dan a triumphant look, and his eyes glinted back at her.

  "Annie, you're right of course," he said admiringly and gently patted Cat's thigh.

  Competition was an aphrodisiac for Cat and Dan. Their relationship was all about smart verbal jabs and wild wrestling for the TV remote and flicking each other with tea towels. Whether they were skiing or playing Scrabble or avoiding each other's cold feet in bed, they were both equally, aggressively, in it to win.

  They had fun together. Sometimes, just for the pleasure of it, they went through all their friends, trying to pick a couple who had more fun than they did. No one came close. They were the winners!

  Not any more though. Now they were the losers. The couple going through a "rough patch."

  To her disgust and horror, Cat heard a sad, strangled little sob come out of her mouth. With practiced soothing murmurs, Annie nudged the discreetly placed box of tissues across the coffee table.

  Cat grabbed a handful, while Dan cleared his throat and ran his hands up and down his jeans. "I went to see her, you know," said Cat, looking at them both above her tissues, snuffling noisily. "She gave me directions back to the Pacific Highway."

  "Who?" asked Annie.

  "Angela. The girl Dan slept with."

  "Goodness me," said Annie.

  "Fucking hell," said Dan.

  To: Lyn; Gemma; Catriona

  From: Maxine

  Subject: Proposal for Christmas Day

  Girls:

  It seems to me that it is quite ridiculous and inequitable that I am always responsible for cooking a hot Christmas lunch. I have done so for the last thirty years and it is becoming tiresome. This year I would like to propose a cold seafood picnic somewhere by the water. Everybody could contribute. Your thoughts, please?

  To: Maxine

  cc: Cat; Lyn

  From: Gemma

  Subject: Proposal for Christmas Day

  MUM! You have made exactly the same proposal every Christmas for the last five years. Every year we ACCEPT your proposal with enthusiasm. Every year you IGNORE us and continue to cook a hot XMAS lunch. You are so funny! This year I would like to make a counterproposal. Let's have Christmas lunch at Lyn's!! She has an exquisite harborside home as we all know. That way we could all swim in her exquisite harborside pool and enjoy observing her shapely legs as she brings us drinks. We'd be lovely and cool and polite to one another. It would be fun! We could all contribute something. I will contribute my potential new boyfriend, Charlie. He is delicious.

  With much love, Gemma

  To: Gemma

  cc: Maxine; Cat

  From: Lyn

  Very funny G. But a good idea. I will have a seafood lunch for Christmas at my place. Better for Maddie anyway. Everybody can bring something. We'll give you Christmas off this year, Mum. I shall e-mail more details. O.K. with you, Cat?

  To: Maxine; Gemma; Lyn

  From: Cat

  Re: Christmas

  Fine with me.

  To: Gemma; Lyn; Cat

  From: Maxine

  If you would all feel more comfortable at Lyn's place then I won't raise any objections. I do apologize that past Christmases have obviously been so unpleasant for you all. I shall bring a turkey and roast potatoes, Lyn. Otherwise there are sure to be complaints. Gemma, Lyn has a lot on her plate! She certainly won't be serving you drinks on Christmas Day. Everybody will have to roll up their sleeves and pitch in! As for bringing a new boyfriend, who we've never met, please don't be ridiculous.

  To: Maxine

  From: Gemma

  Subject: Christmas Day

  You're a classic, Mum.

  Love, Gemma

  "You look very nice," said Dan.

  They were crossing the Harbour Bridge in the back of a cab, an hour late for Dan's Christmas party in the city. "Thanks." Cat smoothed down her skirt and scraped at her lipstick with her fingernail.

  It was her fault they were late. Over the last few days her body had become a leaden weight that needed to be dragged around from place to place. It was a tremendous effort to do anything at all.

  Dan had sat silently on the end of their bed while she paused to rest and sigh after doing up each button on her shirt, his feet tapping a violent rhythm on the carpet. He liked parties.

  Cat watched the lights of the city reflecting red and blue on the harbor's murky depths. She liked parties, too. In fact, December was normally her favorite time of year. She loved the way Sydney become all giggly and light-headed. She loved the way nothing mattered quite so much and work deadlines lost their power. Of course we can't even think about that until after Christmas, people said happily. But this December didn't feel special at all. There was no special December smell in the air. It could just as easily have been March, or July, or any boring old month.

  The car careened across two lanes as they took off from the tollgates and Cat fell against Dan's shoulder. They both laughed polite-stranger laughs and Dan looked at his watch. "We're making O.K. time, we won't be that late."

  "That's good."

  They sat in silence while the cab headed toward the Rocks. Cat spoke to the window. "Do of any of your friends know, you know, about..."

  "No."

  He took her hand and put it in his lap.

  "Of course not. Nobody knows."

  Cat looked out at George Street. Traffic had slowed to a jolting stop-and-start crawl. Horns tooted. Men and women in business suits spilled out of the pubs and their laughing faces seemed hard and stride
nt. People in the distance kept seeing Cat and Dan's cab, throwing one arm in the air and then dropping it with aggressive disgust when they saw it was taken. Sydney wasn't giggly and light-headed at Christmastime; Sydney was just drunk and sordid.

  "I wish you'd got the Paris job," she said.

  "Yeah, well, I didn't."

  Ever since Dan had started working for the Australian branch of a French company, they had dreamed of a transfer to Paris. The Christmas before, he had made it onto the short list for a management position and the dream got so close they could touch it. They even enrolled themselves in a Beginner's French course at the local evening college. In France, they would be themselves, but better. They'd wear French clothes and have French sex, while still, of course, maintaining their fundamental Aussie superiority. They'd be more worldly, more stylish, and in years to come, they'd say, "Oh yes, we both speak fluent French! Naturellement! We had a year in Paris, you see."

  But he'd missed out, and it had taken weeks to recover from the sour disappointment. And now here they were trapped in their stale, same-old Sydney lives. The only difference was a girl with shiny black hair and fresh young skin.

  Cat turned away from the window to look at Dan. "Did you kiss her good-bye?"

  He let go of her hand. "Oh, Cat, please no more, not tonight."

  "Because you called a cab, didn't you? What did you do while you waited for it? Did she stay in bed or did she get up and wait with you?"

  "I don't understand why you can't leave it alone," said Dan. He was looking at her as if he didn't know her, as if he didn't even particularly like her. "You're actually getting pretty fucking boring, Cat."

  "What?"

  The rage was a glorious relief after the apathy. It went straight to her head, like tequila.

  "I can't believe you said that."

  She had a vision of his head snapping back as her fist slammed into his chin.

  In a sudden rush of movement she leaned forward, so that her seat belt pulled tight against her and tapped the taxi driver on the shoulder.

  "Can you believe he said that?"

  "I was not listening, sorry." The driver cocked his head politely toward her.

  "Oh, Jesus, Cat." Dan bunched his body up into the corner of the cab, as if he were trying to disappear.