The Best Kind of Beautiful

by Frances Whiting

  Florence nodded. ‘But no sugar.’ The last time Amanda had made her tea at Kinsey was when the blue feather had floated back into their lives, its descent taking everything Florence knew with it. But that had not turned out to be an entirely bad thing, she thought, listening to Amanda moving about the kitchen below, as if Amanda Saint Claire making her tea and dispensing advice was the most natural thing in the world. The blue feather had given her family a jolt, and perhaps this party would give Albert one too. Albert Flowers could do with a jolt, Florence thought.

  ‘Here we are, darling,’ Amanda said, bringing in the tray and putting it down on a small side table. She sat down on the chaise longue and patted the space beside her. ‘Come and sit next to me while I tell you how to throw a party that doesn’t make you want to set yourself on fire with the bombe Alaska . . .’

  Florence was right, Amanda said, it was all in the invitation and the execution. The invitation, she said, set the tone of the party, so that everyone knew how to behave, and the execution made sure they did.

  ‘You just say that you are holding a small drinks party to celebrate Christmas, and also to raise a glass to Albert for all the festive cheer he’s brought to all of you over the years. Then you give the details, mention you’d like to keep it a surprise for Albert, and say you hope to see them there. You don’t want to sound desperate, darling, you want to sound as if you’ve just thought of it in passing. Your Aunt Margo used to sound so desperate when she asked people to her parties, like she was one of those little animals caught in a trap, trying to gnaw off its own leg.’

  Amanda poured the tea and looked around the lounge room. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve had a party here, it will be nice to see people filling in the corners again.’

  Florence stared at her mother. ‘I’m not having it here, I’m having it at the cottage.’

  Amanda sighed. ‘I don’t think so, darling. From what you’ve told me, the numbers might be a bit low. But if you say you’re holding it at Kinsey, at least some people will come just to have a good old look at it. And at me,’ she said, sipping her tea. ‘I’m not being vain, Florence, I’m being practical.’

  It was true, Florence thought, they might not come for Albert, but they would come for her mother. Florence looked around the lounge room and thought it was just the right room for a drinks party. Or for anything else that might happen at it.

  ‘All right, Lamanda,’ she said, ‘we’ll have it at Kinsey.’

  *

  Monty Rollins smiled at Florence as she knocked on his glass office door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’m just attending to some last-minute library business before we close our doors for the holidays.’

  Florence sat down opposite Monty, who was wearing a bow tie patterned with dancing sugar canes.

  Monty glanced down. ‘From Sharon,’ he smiled. ‘The woman can’t resist a holiday accessory. Now what can I do for you, Florence?’

  Florence plunged in before she had a chance to bottle out.

  Monty and Sharon and their Maltese terrier Ruby had lived with Albert for two weeks earlier in the year while their own home was being renovated. ‘What’s it like to live with them?’ Florence had whispered to Albert in the Green Team office the morning after they had moved in. ‘It’s all right,’ Albert had whispered back, ‘sort of like being in the first row of a vaudeville act.’ Monty, she knew, would want to come to Albert’s party, and so would Sharon and her holiday accessories.

  ‘I’m having a small Christmas party for Albert, just a few of his friends to say cheers for all the things he does for people . . .’

  ‘Will he be serving the drinks as well?’ Monty asked. ‘Because he makes an excellent Tequila Bon Bon.’

  Florence didn’t falter, of course Monty knew about Albert’s second job. His eyes saw everything as he glided his library trolley around, gathering intelligence.

  ‘Sharon and I have attended two events now where Albert has provided the liquid conviviality,’ Monty smiled, ‘but on both occasions he was unaware of our presence, and we decided it behoved us to remain undetected.’

  Florence looked again at Monty, past his bow tie and into the place where he knew how to keep a secret.

  ‘You know who I am, too, don’t you, Monty?’ she said. ‘You know I’m Miss Suki.’

  Monty bowed his head briefly. ‘Guilty as charged, Florence, and I must say you have inherited every bit of your mother’s talent. I said to Sharon, why that girl doesn’t let her light shine, I will never know, but then we both agreed that you’d have your reasons. Quite the pair, you and Albert, aren’t you?’ he smiled.

  Florence smiled back. ‘The party is at my mother’s house – at Kinsey,’ she said, ‘and she would love to see you there.’ Florence wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw Monty’s bow tie give a shiver of excitement.

  ‘Albert doesn’t know the party is for him, Monty, so I’m going to ask him to arrive half an hour or so after everyone else is there.’

  Monty clapped his hands. ‘And then we’ll all leap out at him from beneath the candelabras!’

  Florence sincerely hoped not.

  ‘Something like that,’ she said, although what the something was, what she’d say to Albert Flowers when he stepped through Kinsey’s heavy front door and straight into the overlapping parts of his own Venn diagram, she hadn’t thought of yet.

  Florence stood up. ‘I’ll let you know all the details as soon as I have them, Monty.’

  ‘It’s going to be some enchanted evening, Miss Suki,’ he beamed.

  *

  Adelaide Flowers was no shirker, Florence discovered. And it seemed she really did have a lot of time on her hands. A couple of days after they had settled on a date and time, and Adelaide had made sure Albert wasn’t donning his black apron that night, she rang Florence and said, ‘I’ve had a yes from the Coxes, their daughter Laura, the Davenports, Megan Stewart and her mother – who probably wants to thank him for getting all that vomit out of her daughter’s hair – Natalie, Simon and Siobhan Bishop, a maybe from the Jacksons and a no from Eve Blake, the Lanzos and Hannah Luck. Everyone’s promised to keep mum. Who have you got?’

  ‘Mum, Isolde and Puck, Monty Rollins and his wife Sharon, and Fiona Wilson from the bookshop. Not Cat Morrison – that was a long shot, anyway, and a yes from my neighbour Victor. How many is that?’

  ‘Including you and me, about twenty, I think, and if my parents come, two more.’

  ‘Have you asked them?’ Florence said. ‘Have you told them what we’re doing?’

  She and Adelaide Flowers had become co-conspirators, Florence realised. She hadn’t said, ‘What I’m doing’; she’d said, ‘What we’re doing’. We are in cahoots, she thought.

  ‘Not yet,’ Adelaide answered. ‘I can’t decide if Albert would want them there or not, or if they’d want to come or not.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, but I think Albert would like them to come.’

  Florence also thought it would be good for Georgina and Laurence Flowers to see their son outside the shadow of his older brother.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Adelaide. ‘I’ll have a think about it and let you know, but otherwise we’re all set.’

  Florence felt the niggle’s tug but ignored it. It was easier to do when you were knee deep in cahoots with someone, she found.

  *

  The shoe was still on the post, Florence noticed, cutting through the park to the library the next morning – Cinderella, or her mother or father, failing to claim it. It was far grubbier than when she had put it there weeks ago, sooty patterns of mould on its fabric and its laces gone, undone by clever hooked beaks.

  All the tiny marvels, she thought, the micro armies marching all around us, all the unseen work being done.

  The park was empty, its swings still, its jacaranda carpet thickly damp and pungent.

  Florence sat on the swing, her feet on the ground, her hands curled around the chain, and began to pitch herself slowly back
and forth. She lifted her feet a little off the ground, feeling the swing take her weight, and pushed them down again, leaning her body back, then pitching it forward as it gathered its slow, metronome strokes through the air. I am gathering momentum, she thought. She closed her eyes and let the swing take her higher, then as it was returning to the ground, she uncurled her hands and let go.

  It wasn’t the most graceful of landings; her body jerked when her feet hit the ground and she had to run a little to regain her steadiness, but it was, she thought, what you might call a lark.

  Florence picked up her handbag from the grass and slung it over her shoulder. Then she walked into the Green Team’s office and, carried along by the swing’s momentum, asked Albert to the party.

  ‘It’s just Christmas Eve drinks at my mother’s house, next Friday night, if you’re free,’ she said, hoping she didn’t sound like one of Aunt Margo’s poor trapped animals. She waited for Albert to say, ‘I’ve got Christmas drinks with my imaginary friends Jeremy and Lydia,’ even though she knew he was free because Adelaide had checked the date.

  Instead, he said, ‘I’d love to . . . so it’s at Kinsey?’ and Florence thought that even Albert Flowers was not immune to fame’s siren song. Or her mother’s.

  ‘Yes, Isolde and I thought our house might be a bit small, even though I’m not sure how many people are coming . . . I’ve left my run a little late.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be there with Christmas bells on,’ Albert said, and Florence didn’t have to look at his face to know he wished he hadn’t.

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘Monty’s coming too, and you’ll know Isolde and Puck, and Victor as well. Don’t let him corner you to ask about the whiteflies on his hydrangeas.’

  Albert smiled. ‘I won’t. Thanks for asking me, Florence. What should I bring?’

  Courage, she wanted to tell him.

  *

  ‘Ooh, a party,’ Orla said, ‘and ’ere’s Veronica finking you didn’t ’ave any friends.’

  Veronica snapped her head around. ‘I didn’t say she didn’t have any friends, Orla, I said she didn’t have many friends.’

  ‘No, you said any,’ Orla insisted.

  They were sitting on the floor of Veronica’s flat, having a glass of wine while sorting through costumes and deciding which ones were, as Orla said, ‘done for’.

  Florence laughed. She would miss this. She would miss them both when Miss Suki and her Nightshades bowed out, Orla throwing her signature kiss to the audience, Veronica leaving rows of bloodied men in the aisles. The costumes were arranged in piles of colour on the floor, the greens and silvers and hot pinks vibrant against the timber, making Florence feel like she was sitting in one of Natalie Bishop’s flowerbeds.

  She had not told Orla and Veronica of her decision to retire Miss Suki from the footlights, but she thought perhaps they wouldn’t mind. The act, as most did eventually – except, apparently, Amanda Saint Claire’s unflagging stories she could tell you – was growing tired. It happened to the best of them, Florence thought – Miss Betty and her Bon Bons, Miss Otis Regrets and the Ragtime Dolls – and it was happening to them. Florence sensed Miss Suki and the Nightshades were calling it a night, and her departure would only hasten things along a little. Orla, she thought, might return to London. She had begun to speak of pints and crisps and London’s sodding rain with increasing fondness. Veronica would probably go with her, crossing the ocean to break an entirely new nation’s hearts, having depleted the supply at home.

  ‘Remember these?’ Orla said, unzipping a suit bag and pulling out three long red sheaths they had worn for their first, early performances.

  ‘I do,’ Veronica said. ‘We looked like blood clots.’

  They began to laugh, Orla putting her hand to her mouth, eyes darting, and Veronica throwing her head back, Florence’s chuckle somewhere in between.

  Veronica was wrong, Florence thought. She had friends. She had these two.

  She would tell them about retiring Miss Suki another time. For now, she just wanted to sit on the floor between them and listen to their bickering. She found it strangely comforting. ‘Tell us about this party, Florence,’ Orla was saying. ‘Any good sorts going?’

  Florence didn’t know. She didn’t know who was going yet, and if she did, she wouldn’t know if they were good sorts or not. She was giving a party where she didn’t know what most of her guests looked like. Florence straightened. ‘Well, you’re going, Orla, so that’s one,’ she said ‘and Veronica, so that’s at least two good sorts already.’

  ‘No fit fellas then?’ Orla sighed. ‘There never are – and Veronica’s not a good sort, she’s hideous.’

  Veronica tucked a russet curl behind a perfect creamy ear and smiled.

  ‘I know,’ Florence said. ‘I can barely stand to look at her.’

  Florence found she was delighted at the thought of Veronica and Orla both being at Kinsey, Veronica undulating up the front stairs, Orla taking them two at a time behind her. Of course, neither of them knew Albert, which strayed from the point of the evening, but Florence needed them to bookend her.

  Veronica refilled Florence’s glass. ‘So the party is at Kinsey?’ she said. ‘At Amanda Saint Claire’s house?’ and Florence flinched.

  She had never discussed her family with Veronica or Orla, just as she knew only the bare bones of their backgrounds. Particularly Veronica. Florence still had no real idea of where she had sprung from. Veronica Allen could have been poured from a tall glass of water for all Florence knew.

  ‘How is your mother, these days?’ Veronica asked, and Florence answered calmly, ‘Well, thank you,’ because it was clear the jig was up.

  ‘We knew your name wasn’t Florence Jones from the first day we met you,’ Orla rushed in. ‘Your ’and got all shaky when you wrote it down at the audition, didn’t it, Ronnie?’

  Veronica nodded. ‘Plus, Jones is a stupid name to pick,’ she said. ‘So obvious. You may as well have said your name was Florence Smith. Anyway, we figured it out eventually.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ Florence asked. ‘Why have you never said something?’

  Veronica shrugged. ‘No need to until now. I don’t think you thought through having us at your mother’s house, Florence.’

  Florence hadn’t thought about it at all, she had missed that particular part of the party’s execution.

  ‘Wot was the big deal that made you tell us your name was Jones anyway?’ Orla asked, plucking some fluff off a long black velvet skirt – they’d been a mistake, thought Florence; by the end of the night they’d all looked like they’d been rolling around in sandpaper.

  ‘There wasn’t one, as it turned out,’ Florence answered, ‘I just needed to get away from my surname for a while, to find out who I was without it.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Veronica said, standing up and stretching. ‘I’ve still got three outstanding arrest warrants back in Tulsa.’

  That, thought Florence, could actually be true.

  ‘Anyway, we’d love to come to your party, Florence,’ Veronica said, ‘and meet all the Joneses – now, what do we think about the purple satin?’

  Another mistake, Florence thought. She had felt like an overripe grape in it.

  Orla yawned. ‘Are we done yet?’ she asked.

  Not quite, thought Florence.

  *

  Isolde and Florence sat on the back deck, watching faraway lightning throw its spiky fingers across the sky. It was the night before the party, and Florence had just come back from making trays of blinis with Richard, who had slipped into the planning quietly, carrying a tray of canapés. Florence had gone to Kinsey earlier in the week to find him in the kitchen, Gilbert and Sullivan on the speakers, spooning teaspoons of mixture into tiny pastry cups. ‘Mini quiches,’ Richard had smiled at her. ‘I’ve also made sausage rolls with a pepper glaze – they’re in the freezer – and I thought perhaps some spring rolls. Do you have a dip preference?’ Florence thought of all the times Richard had
inserted himself into their daily lives like this, filling spaces before they realised they were empty. Or in this case, realising that if people were going to a party, they expected to be fed.

  When she was younger, Florence had prickled with resentment at Richard’s presence, shouting, ‘You are not our father,’ when she had come home from school to find him hanging pictures in the hallway. But all she’d felt when she saw Richard marching around the kitchen like a modern major general in a floral apron was a rushing gratitude.

  ‘Thank you, Richard. I’m very new to this party thing. The last one I went to was at Amy Burton’s. I was going to serve bowls of chips and lolly snakes,’ she’d said.

  He’d laughed, holding out a pair of oven-gloved hands for her to take.

  ‘My pleasure, treasure,’ he had smiled.

  ‘Richard’s been wonderful,’ she told Isolde now. ‘He’s always been wonderful to us, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Isolde said, ‘because he’s in love with Amanda.’

  A long, spiky branch of lightning streaked across the sky, briefly illuminating Isolde’s face as she said it. Did Isolde somehow time these things?

  ‘No, he isn’t, Issy,’ Florence said, and Isolde rolled her eyes to half-mast.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Isolde answered, ‘always has been.’

  ‘No, he isn’t.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘No, he isn’t.’

  Florence felt the familiar back and forth rhythm of her and Isolde’s arguments, the two sisters serving their version of the same facts to each other, playing ping-pong with their words. Isolde, she knew, would never put her paddle down. Florence was exhausted already.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, putting up her hands. ‘Can we talk about the party? The thing is, Issy, I feel like it’s gotten away from me, and that I couldn’t stop it now even if I wanted to, and I think I want to.’

  Her week had been filled with updating the year’s planting records for the Green Team, making paperbark Christmas cards with distracted classes from East Elm Primary and spooning beetroot jam onto blinis with Richard. She hadn’t had time to think, and now that she did, she felt like the momentum was gathering without her.