Authors: Cate Kendall
Now, back to platters. The stainless steel Alessi was very
fashionable and would suit a more contemporary space,
such as Bella's apartment, but not the sixties retro look
that Sera kept insisting was done on purpose but which
was clearly just a kitchen in grave need of a renovation.
Jacqueline longed to choose the filigreed white metal cake
stand, which would look perfect with her dainty meringue
but she moved on to a cream, ceramic cake stand devoid
of decoration. The texture of her pavlova would work well
against it and wouldn't be overshadowed with unnecessary
frou-frou. Superb, she thought, gleefully clapping her
hands. She paid for the stand, insisted on two layers of
bubble wrap, and left the store.
Her phone beeped an incoming message from Sera, confirming
Sam's culinary contribution.
'Hope pâté is ok,' she read. Pâté? That wasn't what
they'd agreed. She stamped her ballet flat and spun on her
heel back to House. She'd have to exchange the cake stand
now and get the Alessi after all.
She texted Mallory: 'Don't bring meat product, Sam's
bringing pâté.'
*
Mallory Rimmel's phone tinkled with a message just as she
was about to step into her favourite jeans shop. She gave
Jacqueline's cryptic message a second or two of confused
thought before shrugging her shoulders and deleting it.
She skipped inside the dim shop, which was lit only
by garish disco lights that flashed in time to the blaring
doof-doof music. Skinny-leg jeans wallpapered the shop:
acid-washed, rock-washed, dark denim, light denim, white
denim, plain denim, distressed and depressed, sand-blasted,
rock-blasted, faded, ripped, zipped, tipped and tightened,
and every pair of them in stretch fabric.
A retro rainbow of acid-yellow, royal blue and turquoise
tops screamed for attention alongside blue-and-yellow-striped
tees with ripped necks, luridly coloured leggings
and leopard-print miniskirts. Scruffy bins overflowed with
a gaudy treasure trove of cheap bangles and baubles.
Mallory was in her element, delighting in each piece and
tearing clothes from hangers as she made her way to the
change room, conveniently forgetting that fifteen years earlier
she'd sent bags of exactly the same outfits to the op shop.
She bought contrasting leggings, leg-warmers and
skinny jeans for herself and her fifteen-year-old daughter,
Tilly, who was conveniently the same size as her young
mum.
As she waited for the sales assistants to finish exclaiming
over a friend's new nose piercing, Mallory checked
her phone and found a group text from Bella. 'Can't make
SNB 2nite, in Santa Monica. Sorry.'
Santa Monica? Mallory thought. Isn't that where Cyndi
Lauper lives?
*
Sera's house had the ultimate Paddington accessory – off-street
car parking. As she pulled into the carport behind
the house, she once again gave silent thanks for this residential
asset.
The wheelbarrow had fallen forwards, forcing her to
park halfway out of the shelter in the fine misty rain. The
half-bags of mulch that had spilt onto the driveway nagged
at her conscience. She'd wanted to fix up the veggie patch
for weeks but somehow hadn't got beyond buying mulch
and dragging out the rusty wheelbarrow. She sighed and
laid her forehead on the steering wheel to prepare for the
next challenge – the dinner and bedtime battle.
She could still remember the days not so long ago when
she could simply get out of the car, skip up the twenty steps
to the back door, walk in, pour a nice glass of wine and sit
down to relax. She had taken that freedom for granted and
now her body ached to have that sort of simplicity once
more – just for a day or two.
An image of Bella reclining in a luxurious bubble bath
sprang into her mind and she felt a stab of resentment.
There was her sister, in LA, living the high life, not even
able to organise her calendar to be back home for Stitch 'n'
Bitch once a month. And here Sera was, stuck in mindless
domestic servitude.
It was hours since she had finished work. She'd popped
in for an unplanned and very naughty pedicure, picked up
the kids from crèche, gone two rounds of chaos at the supermarket,
picked up her Pill prescription from the chemist, a
registered mail delivery from the post office and some wine
for tonight. The steering wheel was clammy under her tight
grip when she finally sat back and opened her eyes.
'Right!' she said determinedly to her children. 'Let's
do it!'
She got the kids out first, unbuckling their harnesses,
answering a dozen or so of Madeline's insistent questions
and trying to convince Harry not to plunge his fruit stick
into his ear. She strapped their overflowing backpacks
onto their little bodies, stooped to pick up the crayons and
lunchbox that fell from Harry's unzipped Thomas the Tank
Engine bag, then bustled them toward the stairs.
'It's raining,' whined Madeline.
'Well, get up the stairs quickly then,' Sera replied
matter-of-factly.
Harry was exhausted and stood mutely staring up at his
mum, his enormous puppy-dogs eyes pleading for her to
carry him. It was pointless to try to convince him to walk
when he was so tired, so Sera resigned herself to an extra
trip to the car and hoisted him onto her hip. She slung her
handbag over her other arm and scooped up a few shopping
bags from the boot.
The rain was getting heavier now and the trek up the
slippery stairs was difficult with the exhausted weight of the
child against her.
'Knock on the door,' she called to Madeline, who had
reached the top already. 'Nanna might open it for us.'
Maddy reached up, stood on her toes and hammered with
her child's fist several times.
Sera staggered up to the top step and lifted her knee to
balance Harry's slumped body on it. Standing on one leg,
she swapped all her bags into one hand so she could jiggle
the uncooperative key in the lock. When she managed
to push the door open Madeline instantly darted inside,
causing Sera to stumble and lose her grip on the shopping,
her handbag and keys, which all fell about her feet.
She deposited her son on the floor and as she bent
to retrieve an avocado from under the kitchen table she
caught sight of her mother-in-law's slipper-clad feet up
on the ottoman, and stuck her head into the lounge room
to say hello. A
New Idea
and the TV remote sat atop
the pink-and-white angora blanket on Joan's lap. The
noisy excitement of the
Family Feud
contestants filled the
room.
Joan looked up over her half-specs. 'Oh, it's you. I
thought it must have been by the way the knocking was
going on and on.'
'Well, why didn't you open the foor for us?' Sera tried
hard to keep the impatience from her voice.
Joan's lunch dishes were still on the coffee table. She'd
had five cups of tea today, Sera counted.
'What and risk getting wet? It's raining outside.' Joan
pressed the remote to drown out Harry's cries. 'Oh, and
your mother called.'
Sera groaned. That was the last thing she needed right
now. Harry was in full whinge mode. He waved his arms
in the air. 'Up, up,' he demanded. The shopping would be
getting drenched in the open car boot, but nothing could
be done until Harry was calm and sorted.
Sera carried him tired and protesting into the kitchen
to distract him with the Wiggles on the small TV/DVD.
Harry slipped his thumb into his mouth and settled his head
on Sera's shoulder, momentarily transfixed by Dorothy
and Captain Feathersword. She quietly opened a drawer,
keeping an ear tuned to the living room. Harry clung like
a needy koala to her hip. Timing was crucial. One wrong
move and the evening would blow up.
She deftly lifted out a baby bottle with her one free
hand, filled it with milk and added a very naughty squirt
of chocolate syrup, which would be exposing Harry's baby
teeth to decay but would buy her a few more minutes of
peace. Harry watched what she was doing and, placated by
her actions, allowed himself to be deposited on a kitchen
chair while Sera made his favourite drink. She screwed the
top on slowly and quietly, and handed over the bottle as she
nervously looked in the direction of her mother-in-law.
Harry's tired body relaxed and his eyes closed as he
eagerly sucked on the sweet milky treat. Sera realised she
had been holding her breath for the past few seconds and
let out a noiseless sigh.
'I hope you're not giving in to that child,' came Joan's
voice. 'He's far too old for a bottle, you know.'
Sera rolled her eyes. She'd been caught.
'He has you around his little finger, my girl. It wasn't
like that in my day. You've got to be strict on them . . .
hmmph,' Joan's sentence trailed off into oblivion.
Sera didn't have time to argue. She had just a small
window of opportunity before Harry noticed she was gone
and began to fuss again.
She raced to the back door, leapt over the grocery items
which still lay strewn across the floor, ran down the stairs,
loaded herself up with bags of shopping, locked the car and
staggered back up to the house, where she tripped on the
door jamb and once again dropped her shopping across the
kitchen, accidentally standing on the bread as she struggled
to steady herself.
Joan sat forward in her chair, affronted by the noise.
'Must you explode into the house every time you enter?'
she called out. Madeline sat on the floor beside her grandmother,
staring vacantly at the television screen. 'Anyway,
what's for dinner?' Joan added as an aside and flicked over
to see what that lovely Lavinia was wearing tonight.
Harry began to wail, 'Muuum, MUUUM!'
Sera scooped up as much of the dropped shopping as
she could manage and made her way awkwardly to Harry,
whose wailing had escalated into a full-throated scream.
He had managed to pull the teat off his drink, drenching
himself and the floor. Sera stepped over the spill and
dumped the shopping on the bench.
Harry's wet, chocolatey face was twisted in anger.
The contents of the shopping flicked through her mind
– oh no, ice-cream.
Madeline called out that she was hungry.
Joan asked again what was for dinner.
Harry stood on his chair and launched his pudgy, sticky
body at her and Sera quickly stepped into the milk puddle
to arrest his mid-air fall.
As Harry smeared chocolate topping and milk across
her white work uniform she remembered she didn't have a
clean one for tomorrow's shift.
She sighed again, and hugged poor little Harry harder.
Bugger the uniform, she thought, as she carried the little
bundle of chocolate, snot and misery up the stairs to the
bathroom. It nearly killed her that she'd had to give up
maintaining an organised house. It was frustrating to leave
the disaster zone all over her kitchen floor but Harry
needed her and that was more important.
'How about we have a bath together, my little man?'
she whispered into his ear.
'Mmmmm,' he snuffled, mollified now that he was
where he'd wanted to be all day; in his mother's arms.
He clung to her neck in case she changed her mind. But,
thanks to years of practise, she was still able to undress both
of them and draw a bath while holding him.
Sera sat in the bath with her baby and he finally separated
from her long enough to enjoy some quiet splashy
play. Madeline soon wandered up and joined them.
As Sera was drying them all off afterwards she heard the
back door open. 'What the hell . . . ?' she heard Tony say.
She suddenly remembered the state of the house
and quietly chastised herself. She felt like such a failure
when her husband came home to chaos. God, that was so
1950s housewife of her, she argued to herself. She was a
good, caring mother who prioritised her children's needs.
She pulled on a full-length bathrobe and hurried down
the stairs.
'Hello darling,' she said, tilting her face up to kiss him.
He returned her kiss distractedly as he took in the catastrophe
of melting ice-cream, squashed bread and various
groceries spread out across the floor. Joan deigned to peel
herself away from the television now that the apple of her
eye had returned home.
'Oh you poor love, you look tired and starving – I don't
think there's any dinner yet either,' Joan said pointedly.
'I'll be right, Ma,' Tony said, dumping his tool belt in
the closet and picking up the shopping while Sera hastily
assembled bowls of fruit and crackers and ran back up the
stairs with the children's rather feeble dinner.
'Goodnight little guys,' Tony called up to Maddy and
Harry as they peeped through the banister. 'See you in the
morning.'
As the children munched, Sera read them stories,
scratched their backs, tucked them in for sleep, then came
back downstairs.
Tony had put away the ice-cream and cleaned up the
milky mess on the floor. Sera put her uniform on soak,
retrieved the few hidden runaway groceries, and then prepared
tinned soup and toasted sandwiches. As she served
dinner in front of the television, she glanced at the starburst
clock above the manetelpiece. She only had an hour to pull
herself and the house together before the Stitch 'n' Bitchers
were due to arrive. How was she going to do it?
Joan peered suspiciously at her tuna toastie.
'Bread's a strange shape,' she said.
Sera didn't do skirts. Even with long skirts, there was far
too much risk of leg exposure for her liking. But what
could she do? White linen skirts were a major look this
season, and Sera was a woman who hated to miss a trend.
After the chaos of the day and Joan's usual sarcasm it
was a relief to finally escape to her room and get dressed for
tonight's Stitch 'n' Bitch.
She scrutinised her reflection in the full-length mirror,
assessing all angles. Both legs were almost entirely hidden by
the ankle-grazing, white linen wrap-skirt, but she still wasn't
sure if she had the courage to wear it. Maybe if she stood up
all night she could prevent any wardrobe malfunctions?
At least her taupe silk cami and new bejewelled flip-flops
from Witchery posed no such fashion concerns. She'd
seen the shoes at lunchtime, the shiny stones across the toes
glittering prettily, and had been unable to resist such a
must-have purchase.
Of course then there had been the problem of squeezing
in a pedicure after work and finding the right chocolate
nail polish to match the stones. But it had been worth
juggling an extra hour of childcare, getting off work early
and cancelling her much-overdue smear test one more
time, she decided, wiggling her toes happily.
Damn it! She hadn't had time to even think about
buying wool or needles for tonight's knitting session. It had
been months since she'd finished her last project: a rather
tragic-looking scarf which Madeline had refused to wear.
She'd made a half-hearted attempt to start a beanie for
Harry, in his favorite Roosters colours, but she'd lost her
knitting bag somewhere – a cute Olga Berg number she'd
picked up in the last Myer sales – and kept hoping it would
turn up. That was a great bag.
But really, Stitch 'n' Bitch was just a convenient excuse
for wine and a whine, and that was fine by Sera. She just
wished Bella was going to be there. They hadn't caught up
for ages.
She took a last look in the mirror. Her bare ankles sat
vulnerable and exposed beneath the hem of her skirt, un -
accustomed to the glare of daylight. She couldn't do it. She
ran back to her wardrobe and pulled on a pair of taupe
leggings from a drawer overflowing with tights, stockings,
footless tights and leggings.
'Hey gorgeous, nice to see you in a skirt. It suits you,'
Tony said, coming into the bedroom to change.
'Yeah, yeah,' Sera brushed away the compliment and
quickly ducked away as he moved to kiss her. 'You'd better
get a move on, your business studies class starts in fifteen
minutes.'
'Gettin' there,' he replied, slipping on his Nike laceless
street shoes. 'At least Mum's off to her Italian lesson so she
won't be underfoot for you and your friends.'
Sera shook her head. 'No, sadly Mavis's car has a flat
battery so she won't be able to go.'
'Oh, damn,' Tony halted on his way out of the room,
pulling a tight white T-shirt over his broad chest. 'And on
the night you're hosting too.'
'Never mind,' Sera replied with a brave smile, 'I'm
sure she'll behave when company's here. She's pretty disappointed
about missing Italian though.'
'You'd think she'd be fluent by now,' Sera said. 'She's
been taking those classes for ages.'
'Yeah, but she never uses it. Anyway, I'm off, gorgeous.'
Tony smiled, blowing her a quick kiss as he bounded down
the stairs.
Sera checked in on the sleeping children before heading
down to the kitchen to prepare some snacks for her
visitors.
'I'll have a cuppa thanks, Sera, if you're making,' Joan
called.
In the kitchen Sera gritted her teeth and filled the kettle.
'Won't be long,' she sang out with false chirpiness.
Joan shifted to a more comfortable position on her
Jason recliner. 'Chance'd be a fine thing,' she muttered
under her breath. 'She'll probably get distracted by something
shiny.'
Determined not to let her mother-in-law get under her
skin, Sera made the tea to Joan's strict requirements. Dunk
the teabag three times only, two sugars and very milky, but
boiling hot.
As she was sending the teabag to its third dunking Sera
tried to think good thoughts about Joan. It was, after all,
her mother-in-law's stunning double-storey Victorian
terrace they shared in the highly desirable suburb of Paddington.
Sera and Tony would never be able to afford such
a sterling address if it wasn't for Joan's generosity. But, boy,
did it come with a price. Not just the emotional pricetag
but the constant renovation the very beautiful but decrepit
old building constantly required.
The first renovation Sera had insisted on was to create a
day-spa-style bathroom on the second floor. She needed a
high-calibre facility for her grooming and beauty routines,
and Tony had, as specified, installed the mirrors only from
waist height up so Sera never had to be confronted by the
hideous scar that ran from her thigh to her ankle. To keep
Joan and her geriatric toiletry mysteries at bay, Sera had also
split the ground floor laundry and turned half into a practical,
if minute, bathroom for her mother-in-law. As Tony
was a builder it was crucial he had a practical space as his
home office, so the children shared the second bedroom
and the third upstairs bedroom was his office. The original
front drawing room opposite the stairs made a perfect
retreat for Joan, and the narrow hall led to the living area,
which had been the terrace house's original dining room.
The kitchen and laundry had been tacked onto the rear of
the house in the early sixties.
Sera had much bigger plans for the rest of the house
that would see some of the generous backyard sacrificed to
become a second living room with an open-plan kitchen,
which would allow Joan's TV-lifestyle to continue in one
area, while the young family had their own space.
But it would all cost so much. Tony and Sera already
had one hell of a mortgage. Although Joan owned the
house, Sera and Tony paid for its constant upkeep. Sera had
hoped to give up work completely after the kids were born,
but with her renovation ambitions, and her taste for labels
and expensive cosmetics, she had to work just to keep their
heads above water.
But, with fingers crossed, Tony's big job at Potts Point
would come off and they'd be able to begin the big reno
within a few months. Sera cringed at the thought of six
months of using their living room as family slash kitchen
slash homework space while the building was under way,
but hopefully it would all work out okay.
Shit, she'd dunked the tea bag for too long. And the
tea was less than boiling. She sneaked over to the microwave,
glancing furtively over her shoulder, and opened it
as quietly as possible.
'You're not going to nuke it, are you, Sera?' Joan called
out.
'Of course not, Joan,' she replied, swearing like a sailor
under her breath as she dumped the tea down the sink.
When Joan's perfect cup of tea was finally ready, Sera delivered
it to her mother-in-law.
'Shame you're missing your Italian class night, Joan,'
Sera said.
'No, not really, my diverticulitis is playing up again so
it's for the best. I hope I'm not underfoot for you though,
dear,' she said with a sly grin. 'What with your girlfriends'
sewing circle. And what's this about a new boy who's
joined? He'd be a poof then, would he?'
Sera swallowed her anger. 'No, Joan, he's straight. He's
recently widowed and just needs to get out of the house
and keep social, that's all.'
'Hmmph.' Joan was decidedly unconvinced. 'Bit odd,
a bloke coming to a knitting group though; knitting's
women's work.'
'Well, it's not really about the knitting, Joan,' Sera
patiently explained yet again. 'It's more a chance to catch
up. Like a book club, you know.'
'Book club! Ha! Don't make me laugh.' Joan's eyes
never once left the television. 'I wouldn't have thought
that Chantrea would choose reading as a favourite hobby
and as for that Mallory, I'd be amazed if she could even
read!'
Sera walked away before she lost control and slapped
the old biddy. Dear Lord, how was tonight going to pan
out? Where was she going to sit everyone? She knew there
was no chance of Joan retiring early. Even though Sera
had made Joan's downstairs bedroom into a quaint, Laura
Ashley-style bedsit with its own armchair and television,
she still preferred the main living room. 'Not going to be
shut away in that prison,' she'd grumbled when Sera first
proudly showed her the expensively re-decorated suite.
Sera decided her kitsch kitchen would be a perfect
Stitch 'n' Bitch venue for tonight. They could all pretend
to be 1970s housewives. Even Sam.
Embracing her theme with vigour, she dug around in
the back of the pantry for red and green cocktail onions.
Luckily cabanossi was a weakness of Tony's and she sacrificed
her vintage cheddar by cutting it into cubes. And with
any luck – she rummaged through the drawer Joan proudly
titled 'entertaining' – and yes, she hit the jackpot: tasselled
toothpicks. She whipped up a little hors d'oeuvres selection
and presented it on Joan's finest Bessemer party dish. She
was tickled pink with her irony and even donned a frilly
apron. All we need now are Splayds, she thought with wry
amusement.
'Door,' Joan yelled helpfully when the doorbell rang.
*
Mallory greeted Sera with her usual squeal of excitement,
wrapping her best friend in a rapturous welcoming hug.
She was the same ball of energy and enthusiasm that Sera
had been drawn to when they met at their tiny Tasmanian
primary school more than thirty years earlier.
Their hellos were accompanied by a loud derisive snort
from Joan.
'What's she doing here?' Mallory hissed in horror. 'I
thought she had Italian lessons.'
'Mavis's car has a flat battery,' Sera whispered back,
pulling a face.
'Curse the Corolla!' Mallory scrunched up her little fists
in frustration.
'When you two have finished your schoolyard gossip,
some manners might be in order,' interrupted Joan.
The young women swapped grimaces, then Mallory readjusted
her expression to her usual infectious smile. 'Good
evening, Joan.' She skipped in and bent over to kiss her.
'Lovely to see you again.'
'Hello, Mallory,' Joan replied proffering her cheek and
tearing her eyes away from the free-earrings-with-ring
offer on the screen to assess the younger woman's appearance.
She peered over her half-specs.
'Plaits, Mallory? Aren't you a bit old for a the schoolgirl
look?'
Mallory simply turned up the wattage on her incandescent
smile. 'Love your jumper, Joan,' she responded. 'You
don't see enough appliqué nowadays, and that's such an
interesting gum-tree motif.'
'Hmm, thanks,' Joan said, looking down at her sweater
and matching track pants. 'I like teal.'
'As you should. It works so well with your skin colouring,'
Mallory assured her as Sera gripped her arm and the
two nearly wet themselves with silent laughter. They made
it to the kitchen and shut the door behind them before they
collapsed in fits.
'You're wicked, you know that,' Sera said, grinning
at her life-long friend. 'But I forgive you because you're
wearing great shoes.'
Mallory turned her wedged espadrilles from side to side
for inspection.
'Thanks, I just hope I don't fall off them: they're very
tippy.'
Sera almost regretted her flat bejewelled choice of footwear,
but another glance at them reassured her.
The doorbell announced Chantrea and Sam's arrival.
'Ah, it's our knitting boy, is it?' Joan demanded, sizing
Sam up like a prize bull as he stepped nervously into the
lounge room.
'Joan, this is Sam,' Sera introduced her mother-in-law
reluctantly, waiting for a clanger to fall from her lips – and
she wasn't disappointed.
'So, got no mates, is that the problem, eh? Is that why
you want to sit around with a bunch of married women . . .
Or is it something else more interesting, hmmm?' Joan
winked meaningfully at Chantrea, who simply smiled and
looped her arm through Sam's.
'Yep, Joan, we're lovers and poor old Sam just can't keep
away from me; you got it in one,' Chantrea said cheekily.
'Well, there's no need for that sort of talk,' Joan said,
returning her focus to the jewellery sale once more.
Sam didn't know where to look and Sera wasn't sure
whether to laugh or cry, but Chantrea calmly led the way
through to the kitchen and took her place at the table.
'Christ, about time for a wine,' Sera exclaimed, pouring
generous glasses for each of them.
'Please,' Sam said gratefully.
'Hit me,' Chantrea added, holding out her glass.
'I'll just have a half,' Mallory said. 'You know how
giggly wine makes me.'
Sera reached for Chantrea's glass and noticed with an
unhappy jolt that she too was wearing espadrilles. How
could that be?
'Yoo-hoo, ladies.' Sera's next-door neighbour Jacqueline
popped her pretty powdered nose around the corner
of the back door.
'Good evening all,' she said, enjoying her grand entrance.
'And this must be Sam? How delightful to meet you.' She
smiled primly in his direction as she proudly placed a magnificent
tropical-fruit-encrusted pavlova onto the centre of
the table. There were gasps of admiration.
Jacqueline's ears soaked up their compliments for a
few seconds, closing her eyes happily to breathe in her
triumph before shrugging daintily and lifting her hands
in protest.
'Oh, it was nothing really,' she tinkled, swinging the
pink cashmere cardigan off her shoulders and hanging it on
the back of a kitchen chair.
Jacqueline knew exactly how the evening would pan
out. Everyone would bleat about their failings, how difficult
their petty lives were and intermittently remark on
her pristine life. She knew they were all secretly jealous of
her; with her two perfectly behaved teenagers, her loving
orthodontist husband and her perfectly maintained home.
Her life didn't have the cracks the lives of the others
did. Her life was as unblemished as the petals of an English
rose.