The Plastic Seed

by Maisie Porter

  “Carlana, you ready to present?” Bettina asks. I don’t feel ready – but I take a big breath and walk in front of the group that has filled up the rows of chairs. I notice that I have a good turnout today, there is only one seat that is empty.

  Jean, 9:55AM

  I sit down in an aisle seat behind a modest-looking woman in a brown knitted jumper. Carlana is reading from her latest book; I recognise the page. I bought her book when it was newly released. It was a difficult purchase, knowing that my few dollars would be contributing to her fortune.

  If I hadn’t hesitated, I could have come into the room with the rest of the group, but now all eyes are upon me. Along with Carlana, her attendees are staring at me. She doesn’t smile, and quickly her eyes shoot away. I glance to the side of the room at her assistant, a short girl with light brown hair scrapped tightly into a bun; in her hand, she clutches a microphone. She looks like she is hiding her voluptuous body in a loose, unflattering, oversized brown knee-length skirt and blouse, her large blue eyes behind black-rimmed reading glasses. Why are these people trying to downplay their looks? The assistant holds the microphone like she already wants it to be question time. Does she want this talk to be over already, like I do? But it can’t be over yet, as I still have to plan precisely what I will do. From what Carlana is saying, it’s not the time for questions yet; I believe the talk schedule pamphlet I picked up from the table on my way in said the talk lasted for half an hour, with a ten-minute break in between sessions. Then question time.

  I shuffle in my seat as Carlana speaks. I have already heard her babble about her enchanting, mindful life in interviews with other likeminded, pompous philosophers, and I find it tedious to listen to. But it’s been a necessary part of my research. She is evading my eyes, and I can sense discomfort in her voice. It is because I am here. I am pleased she’s struggling with hiding her discomfort. I look at the far corner of the room; there is a table lined with cups and saucers and an assortment of teas and coffee. I rest my eyes on a computer that is lying on a table directly in front of her assistant. The cornerstones of an idea take shape.

  My eyes travel back to the assistant, our eyes meet, I give her a slight sympathetic smile. The poor, plain, unassuming helper, having to be caught up in this ruckus. I look back at the computer that will not be projecting my images. My heart increases in pace; there is only one chance for me to be close to her laptop. I hope that this two-faced bitch, pretending to be absorbed by her audience, will keep her attention on me and the computer. She might even approach me during the break and ask me to leave, but if she gets angry and loses her cool, then she will lose her licence. Carlana can’t lose her licence, if she does I won’t have anyone to train me to get mine. Please don’t get angry, Carlana. I don’t envisage that Carlana would dare make a scene in front of her supporters, and ruin the false illusion of her calm demeanour.

  “There is tea and coffee as refreshments, and Carlana will sign the books that you bought at the start of the talk.”

  Carlana has finally stopped preaching and her assistant has taken over the podium and is gesturing to the side of the room. There is a shuffling of chairs and the audience moves over to the table. I follow, walking behind a lady that omits a strong musty smell, thankful when she walks away towards Carlana at the signing table. At the treats table, I pick up a white cup and place a tea bag in it, then I fill it up a quarter of the way with boiling water and the rest with cold milk. A young lady next to me who, in contrast to the others in the room, is dressed in fitness clothes, looks at my cup then back up at me.

  “I like my tea weak,” I say. She gives me a questioning look and continues to concentrate on stirring her own tea. I think, you will thank me in a moment that the liquid isn’t hot. I place the cup on the edge of the table, so it is just waiting for me to knock it over. Next I lean over to grab a spoon at the far end of the table. Just as I am about to swipe the cup with my hand, which I have crossed over beneath my belly, the lady picks up the cup

  “Oh dear, this was about to topple off the table,” she says, thrusting the cup and saucer into my dismayed hand. Frustrated that she has disrupted my diversion plan, I don’t say thank you. Now I will need to drop the cup in the middle of the room, so no one can save it.

  It takes two steps to hobble to the table holding the computer. I hear a chattering behind me. I look over my shoulder and scan the room, observing what is happening around me; I take note of Carlana already signing books at the table for the ladies standing in the line in front of her.

  There’s one more step I have to take before I move over to the computer. I put my cup down and reach into my bag; my hand reaches past the yellow envelope, and I take out the new USB I just bought that is in the side pocket. I hold it in my palm and pick up my cup and saucer. I look back over at Carlana. She is deep in conversation. I scan the room for the assistant. She stands in front of the computer, her head bent over it; I can make out a look of concentration on her face. As she clicks the key on the keyboard, a new image appears on the projector; a diagram of a chart, then next is a photo of Carlana. I wait until it looks like she has finished viewing all the images. Satisfied that they are ready to be displayed, she stands up straight and neatens the papers that lie next to her computer. I eye the laptop and the USB attached to its side. Red is the colour of the USB secured to the computer, the one I hold in my hand is blue. How well does anyone remember the colour of the USB attached to their laptop, merely a moment ago? Why am I going to all this trouble to put an empty USB into her laptop? I know the answer to this question, it is because I want to weaken her resolve. I want her to acknowledge the possibility that I could ruin her life in one moment and she can’t stop it. But this time she will only witness my inventiveness. This is just a taster, a notification that I am here. The conversation we will have shortly is something that she won’t have any choice over.

  Taking a step forward brings me closer to the computer, within an arm’s reach now. With a quick glance around me, I can see there is now only myself and the assistant on this side of the room. She looks up at me before looking at some papers. I take a step forward and bend my ankle, immediately I feel myself falling, measuredly I let go of the cup, and as I fall, I watch the not-too-hot contents create a stream and pour onto the floor. ‘Ouch,’ I cry out, hoping now I have everyone’s attention. Now that the cup has crashed to the ground, there is a wet dark stain appearing on the carpet beneath and around my knees. The assistant is bending over me, and I hold my empty hand out to her indicating that I want to be picked up. She hoists me up as I mutter to her, “I am so sorry.”

  I take a step forward, and I think I hear behind me the word ‘loser’ being whispered, and I imagine the cup and stain are being attended to.

  I do not allow myself to look back. I expect a hand to grab my shoulder, and I am prepared for showtime. I stand next to the table and lean over to touch my ankle to express my pain. With my left hand that is still clutching onto the edge of the tabletop, I pull the USB from the computer and drop it into my pocket.

  I insert my own USB that I am holding in my right hand into the laptop instead, then stand upright, take a breath and turn to face the assistant. In the meantime she has got a few napkins and is using them to blot them the wet carpet. I make my way to a chair and sit down.

  “Would you like some ice on that?” she asks me as I stretch out my leg in front of me.

  “No, thank you,” I assert, thankful that the cleaning of the carpet was her priority.

  I look past the assistant, who I think has mumbled something about going to the bathroom, and over at Carlana. I’m hoping she was watching me exchanging the USBs at the computer. I hadn’t expected sympathy from her over my orchestrated fall, and I presume her interest in the commotion I was creating was limited, but I want her to suspect me, I want her to sense the fear that this was just the start of me sabotaging her.

  An unguarded Carlana is signing books. Momentarily, the aficionado that stands in
front of her moves aside, and I see her head is down signing a page of the book. I watch the assistant walk angrily out of the room, and I wonder if she will return. The time between me sitting amongst the empty chairs and the guests clutching their signed books coming back to their places seems like an eternity. When slowly they do trickle back to their seats, I receive a sympathetic nod from each person who walks by me. The thought crosses my mind that if I walk out of the room purposely, Carlana might follow me outside to confront me, but no, I went to all this trouble to plant an empty USB. I must stay, if only to prolong her uneasiness and embed some grittiness into her perfect life. I watch as Carlana gets up from behind her chair and walks to the front of the room. She looks at me, and I am sure she mouths the words ‘troublemaker’. I pretend to look into my bag, and when I look back up, she is positioned behind the podium, ready to address her group.

  Bettina, 10:10AM

  I grab one more paper towel from the bathroom dispenser and brush at the wet tea stains on the ugly pants I am wearing. Who even is that woman in the audience? She came into the talk late. She keeps looking at me like she knows me. Without staring back at her, I have been trying to figure out where I have seen her before. She doesn’t look like one of the mums from Butter-River Primary School; too old. Perhaps she is from my yoga class. Probably not; anyone who would be clumsy enough to trip over their own feet at an author talk most likely doesn’t attend yoga classes.

  Even before she tripped, she already looked out of place, in her brightly coloured jumper amongst the sea of grey and brown clothing everyone else is wearing. Why draw any more unwanted attention to yourself?

  I look at myself in the rectangular bathroom mirror. My light brown hair is fastened up in a tight bun, and I give myself a small smirk of appreciation, as I do every time I look in the mirror. Even behind these thick fake glasses, it is easy to see that my features are exquisite. People often tell me that I resemble the actress that played Liesel in The Sound of Music. I do, but I always have to inform them that she wasn’t really German – I am.

  The plan that Carlana and I have constructed and are ready to put into action today should play out smoothly. My only role this afternoon is to attract Carlana’s husband and then get caught seducing him. Carlana told me that I might have to wait for a few months before she can pay me my share of the settlement money, which she will receive from her divorce. But I don’t think I will need to wait for Carlana to settle. If Carlana doesn’t want Evan, I’ll just have him, thank you very much. That will be quicker to achieve than having to wait for the payout Carlana promised me.

  I lost my job as a receptionist last month, it was my fourth job this year. I am not happy in any workplace. I always tell myself, if I am still miserable in the job in twelve months’ time, I will quit – but I always get fired before then. Now money is seriously getting tight. I am growing exhausted of being stone broke. Carlana has kindly let me assist her with her admin work to get me through the next few months. I dread to think that, once I spend the last of the savings I have left, my only option will be to apply for a job at a factory like the Glassport Recycling Plant. My references for my previous jobs haven’t been that great, but I have read that when you apply for a job at the factory, they aren’t too strict on following up references. I would be so embarrassed, though, if any of the mothers at Butter-River Primary School found out I had got myself a job at the recycling plant. I don’t want to give them another reason to gossip about me; losing job after job and boyfriend after boyfriend is enough fuel for their nastiness. They will chat about me, just like we all talk about Carlana.

  Therefore I choose the next best option for security that I have noticed is available. Carlana’s husband Evan is the owner and director of the recycling plant; they are wealthy even though they pretend not to be. So I intend to punch straight for the top.

  It is just convenient that Carlana needed someone to work on this plan with her. Finding out she needed an assistant was a valuable discovery I made one night when Evan and Carlana came over for dinner. That night we went from being school mum friends to something slightly more gratifying for the both of us, while Evan dozed off his alcohol intake.

  Men, women, whatever; securing a comfortable existence is my priority in life, and I don’t discriminate over who I have to connect with physically to achieve it.

  Evan and Carlana are lovely people, very hospitable, but Carlana is definitely one of a kind. Even my lifestyle, which is full of parties, and then having to look after Haydee the next morning, doesn’t exhaust me as much as following Carlana’s rules, such as ‘plastic wrapping should never be used.’ What the hell do I wrap my kid’s lunches in, then?

  She is also against the use of social media between the hours of 12pm and 2pm – torture.

  Last week I signed up as a consultant with a cosmetics company, pushing organic vegan makeup. I was proud that I was trying to do something good for the environment, even though I am struggling financially, but when I mentioned it to Carlana, she just scoffed, as if it was beneath her to be associated with such a company. Her reply was, “Why wear any makeup at all?”

  I actually feel a little sorry for Evan. Carlana tells me regularly how controlling he is, but imagine living with her holier-than-thou attitude; anyone would want to squash that shit down. Therefore, whatever should happen today, I am confident that I have a chance to keep Evan for myself. Whenever I see him, he always seems slightly confused. I think he has the characteristics of a follower; how he ever became the director of a company, I have no idea.

  I throw the paper towels I have been using to blot the stains on my knees into the bin and walk back into the room; everyone is already sitting in their chairs. That woman’s eyes are drilling into me again. I stand in front of the computer ready to press play on the presentation. Carlana starts saying how her daughter is sick, and how she needs to leave the talk to pick her up from school urgently.

  She is saying my name. I look up from the computer at Carlana, confused as to why she is saying this; it wasn’t part of our scheduled plan.

  Jean, 10:20AM

  I notice the assistant walking back into the room, she has two wet, damp stains on her knees, peppered with bits of white paper. She seems quite frazzled, her eyes darting around the room, perhaps her meditation tactics are not too efficient. Unlike Carlana, who does not seem rattled by anything or anyone in this room. The initial shock of seeing me here appears to have passed. I suppose that is the reason why the assistant isn’t the one selling the books and presenting the speech about how to achieve success in life while looking after the planet.

  “As I was telling every beautiful person with whom I spoke while I was signing my book just now. It’s because of this community of like-minded people we are part of that I can stand here, and have the opportunity to share my knowledge with you, about how together, by taking small steps, we can contribute to making the world a better place to live, while looking after our own wellbeing.”

  Carlana stops talking and looks around the room, putting on a face full of regret.

  “I did have a presentation prepared to show you, outlining the small steps to take in your own lives that will make a difference to us all as a collective. Unfortunately, I have received a call from my daughter’s school. Looks like she caught a stomach bug, maybe from eating something rotten.” Her eyes, which have been scanning the room, come to a bitter freeze on me.

  “As I have to cut this presentation short, if you have given me your email or would like to do so, I will send you the information I have prepared on the steps I took in my life. These saw me go from a highly-strung real estate agent, almost on the verge of a nervous breakdown, to living a purposeful life.”

  “Bettina, Bettina?” Carlana is seeking to gain the attention of the assistant, who has started to press the buttons on the laptop keyboard, giving Carlana cause to be concerned that, any moment, an incriminating image could be displayed on the white screen.

  “Please don
’t turn the presentation on,” Carlana says. I can sense a tone of apprehension in her voice, now. I am pleased there was a chance that she noticed me fall and replace the USB. Bettina gives Carlana a perplexed glance, then the assistant stares at me like I had a role to play in the sudden change of plans.

  “To thank you all for coming here today, I will be standing at the door to say goodbye to each and every one of you.” Carlana looks at me and doesn’t take her eyes off me. I look over at Bettina, who still seems confused at the sudden change of instructions. I stand up from my chair, my leg miraculously healed now, as the other guests walk towards the door. Only because suddenly facing Carlana seems too intimidating, I conceal myself behind anyone that is walking in front of me; unfortunately, it’s the lady with the musty smell. I walk as close as I can behind her to the door. Carlana has already taken her place next to it. Her voice is set and calm as she bids her fans farewell. It’s my moment to be bold and instigate the confrontation. On cue with my thoughts, she grabs my arm, and she pulls me in next to her. Through my jumper, I can feel her bony fingers, and her being so close to me makes my skin crawl. I am standing so close to her I can examine her face, which is bare of makeup. I can see a few imperfections on her pale skin, and I don’t know if I feel bad for her that her skin isn’t perfect or if I am envious that she is brave enough not to conceal it. She nods her head at the remaining guests lined up behind me, who are now making their way out of the door. Her clasp on my upper arm tightens, and I try to shake it off, but that makes her deepen her grip.

  When the final person has left, she turns her attention to Bettina.

  “Bettina, could you go grab yourself a coffee? I’ll text you, when, if, I need you back here, otherwise see you this afternoon,” her voice softens. Bettina picks up her bag and swings it over her shoulder, looking from Carlana to me. Carlana’s voice croaks as she speaks. “It’s all right, go.”