How to Be Second Best
Page 29
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been home for bedtime. I am now though, and Helen’s gone out for dinner and I couldn’t find the book.’
‘Oh no,’ I whisper. I can see where this is going.
‘I put all three of them in the car and drove all the way to the bookshop and bought her another copy—’
‘And you read the whole thing to her,’ I say, deflated.
‘What? What have I done wrong now? That’s what you do with a book. I read it to her and she’s totally lost it. I have no idea why. I can’t make any sense of what she’s saying.’
The wailing has given way to sobs now. Poor Freya.
‘She’s never heard the last page,’ I explain. ‘I glued it to the one after so she never knew the tiger didn’t come back. It’s the worst ending ever otherwise. There’s no hope. No wonder she’s upset. She feels like her favourite book is a lie.’
Troy is quiet for a moment. All I can hear is sniffling from Freya.
‘Emma, that is completely insane. Who does that to a kids’ book? Of course she feels like the book is a lie. You’ve lied to her!’
‘I was protecting her! She’s three, she doesn’t need to know how shit the world is. She doesn’t need to know what a let-down life can be, that people sometimes just leave and never come back.’
‘Jesus, Emma,’ he says with a sigh. ‘It wouldn’t have been that big a deal, if you’d just left it how it was. You don’t get to decide how a book turns out. It’s not a choose-your-own-adventure. And you should have told me, if it was that important. How am I meant to tell the right lies if you don’t tell me what I’m supposed to be lying about?’
‘I’d have thought you would just lie about everything as a matter of default,’ I hurl back. It’s not a mature response. But good God, who is he to lecture me about lying?
‘Can you put Freya on?’ I say. ‘I need to explain.’
‘I don’t think she needs that right now,’ he says imperiously. ‘She’s tired and disappointed. She needs to sleep. I’ll call you in the morning if she wants to discuss it.’
He ends the call. I’m shaking with anger. What in God’s name has been going on? Where is Freya’s proper copy of The Tiger Who Came to Tea? That poor kid. I can’t believe Troy’s buggered this up. I open the doors to breathe the cool night air.
On the doorstep is a bundle of paper. It’s Wanda’s final chapters.
* * *
An hour later, my mood has gone from bad to worse.
Wanda’s new chapters cover the period of her life when she had a long, torrid affair with a very famous man whom the world, including his wife, thought was happily married. She has filled it with not at all subtle hints about her unhappiness at not having a baby. This was when Wanda was forty-two. The ship for having kids had sailed and she was sad, she writes.
She uses it to justify what she did.
When I see what she’s done, I feel a bit pissed off. It’s exactly what I advised her against. I was stupid to have given her the idea.
She could have just accepted some culpability for her behaviour without bringing the idea of motherhood into it. I don’t think her readers would have turned on her. Her fans think she’s fabulous. They won’t care if she slept with one or two people’s husbands.
And even if they do think what she did is a bit on the nose, morally, everyone knows it takes two to tango. I never blamed Helen for what happened with her and Troy. Well, maybe I did at first, but not once I really thought about it. Because Helen isn’t the one who cheated on me. That was all down to Troy. He’s the one who broke a promise, not Helen. My problem with Helen has been her behaviour since she wrecked my marriage.
I realise this line of thinking is being influenced by both the Brazilian sugarcane liqueur pumping through my body and my own guilt at having recently slept with someone else’s husband, so I try hard to be measured in my analysis of what Wanda has written.
But fuck it. I didn’t force Adam to cheat on his wife, Helen didn’t force Troy to cheat on me, and Wanda didn’t force the Pulitzer prize-winning war correspondent who is the subject of these chapters.
She needn’t make excuses.
When dinnertime comes around, and Philip pops his cheery head over the hedge, I send him up to the house with a note for Monty, declining dinner, and a message for Wanda. I tell her I’ll have a report on the chapters ready to go through with her first thing in the morning. I want to go have it out with her now, but there’s enough sobriety left in me — only about six per cent, but enough — to make me realise it’s better to confront her in the morning. This is my job, after all, and I’m a firm believer that you should do your job, when possible, not shit-faced on caipirinhas.
What I can do in this state is call Laura. She may not quite understand the nuances of what’s making me so cross, but that doesn’t mean she can’t sympathise with me.
‘That sounds crappy,’ she announces, once I’ve finished outlining the situation.
‘It is,’ I say. ‘It’s wrong of her, and I just want to talk her out of it and make her see that she has a duty to be honest, because there is power in honesty. I’m going to rewrite it. Well, not rewrite it, but suggest some really serious edits. She’ll thank me for it, ultimately. I know she will.’
Laura pauses for a second. ‘This reminds me of a book,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘A book or a movie. Or maybe both. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. Oh wait, yes I can. I know who you’re reminding me of right now.’
‘Who?’ I have no idea what she’s talking about.
‘Misery,’ she says triumphantly. ‘You’re behaving like Kathy Bates’s character in Misery. What are you going to do, chop off Wanda’s foot if she won’t write what you tell her? Remove her thumb? For fuck’s sake, Emma. Get a grip. It’s not your book. It’s not your story. Let Wanda write it however she bloody wants to. Stop being such a mental control freak. It’s time for you to come home.’
And with that, she hangs up. She actually hangs up on me.
* * *
On Friday morning at nine o’clock on the dot, I am sitting on a hard chair in Wanda’s study. No buttery soft leather sofas for me this morning. I mean business.
In the cold light of morning, what Laura said last night stings. That means she is at least a little bit right. But I’m determined to tell Wanda how disappointed I am, even if she won’t change a word.
When she finally ambles in at about half past nine, carrying a giant cappuccino, Wanda smiles at me. ‘I like my coffee how I like my men — wearing a little cap made of chocolate,’ she says with a wink.
I don’t smile back.
‘Do I take it from your expression, Emma, that you didn’t love the chapters?’ she asks me lightly.
‘Wanda, we talked about this. You said you wouldn’t carry on with that business about how you slept with other people’s husbands because you couldn’t have a baby. It’s just not true.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ she says, and spoons the froth into her mouth. ‘And with all due respect, darling Emma, that’s my decision to make. Not yours. The chapters are great. Who cares whether they’re true or not? As far as I’m concerned, the only truth that matters here is the actual, factual questions of what happened between me and my lovers. That has to be true so we don’t all get ourselves sued. But as to my motivations and my interior life, well, it’s my story and I’m at liberty to make up anything I like. And what I’d like is for my many fans to still think I’m a delight, and that my womanly grief over not being a mother led me to misbehave.’
‘Why be dishonest?’ I ask. ‘Why not just say that you did what you did because you loved these men? Don’t you want to be a voice for people like you, who didn’t want to go down the road of having kids? You’ve been bold and brave in your actions. Don’t rewrite history now.’
‘Emma, my mind is made up. This is how I choose to tell the story.’
‘I think you’re making a mistake,’ I say, though I know it’s in vain.
So that’s how it’s going to be. Well, enough is enough. She’s right: it’s her story, she can tell it how she likes. All I can do is make suggestions. I’m supposed to do invisible mending and hemming of people’s stories, not tell them they should make their dress into a pair of shorts. It doesn’t make me wrong though. I’m sure the book would be loads better if she took my advice, but this is where I have to stop. It honestly feels like there was no need for me to be here in the first place. I’ve accomplished nothing except inspire her to lie to her readers.
‘I’ll tell Carmen how hard you’ve worked,’ Wanda says, and it’s clear that this lie is also a dismissal.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ll head back today, then, if I can get a flight. Would it be possible for Philip to drive me to the airport?’
‘Darling, that’s what I was supposed to tell you! I knew I was forgetting something. Philip’s had to leave already. He took the first flight this morning. He said to say goodbye to you.’
‘Oh. Where’s he gone?’
‘I want to say the Solomon Islands? Or is it Samoa? Somewhere like that. He flew to Sydney this morning, because obviously there aren’t direct flights from here to the Solomons. Or Samoa. Or was it the Marshall Islands? Somewhere Pacific, either way.’
I feel bereft. How silly. But he is so nice, and he gave me hope that maybe good men do exist. It would help if such good men existed anywhere near where I live, and didn’t spend their lives jetting from one third-world trouble spot to the next. We live in completely different worlds. But I still wish I’d been able to say goodbye.
* * *
The first flight I can get a seat on isn’t until four o’clock this afternoon. The sky is cloudy, and the estate is quiet. The girls aren’t by the pool. I spend the day in my room, editing the chapters. They’re well written, even if I think they aren’t written how they should be.
I leave Wandaland in a taxi. Wanda’s retreated to her study, and there’s no sign of Monty, so in the end it’s just Edie who sees me off.
As the cab pulls up, Edie says, ‘Emma? You should try and see Philip again. He’s a good guy.’
‘I agree,’ I say. ‘He’s very nice.’
Edie makes an awkward face. ‘I’ve known him since I was a little kid and he’s a really, really great person. I’d like something good to happen for him.’
She looks me in the eye for a quarter of a second, not nearly long enough to get a handle on why she’s telling me this. Then she grabs her phone and starts scrolling through. ‘See you,’ she says.
‘Bye, Edie.’
I drag my wheeled bag straight through the stones spelling out Wanda’s name and they scatter every which way.
* * *
At the airport, the clouds have lowered. There are rumbles of thunder and the sky feels like it’s about to break open.
I check in, and sit down to wait for the boarding call.
When the storm breaks, it sounds and feels like the end of days. Rain pounds on the airport’s tin roof, and everyone moves to the picture windows to watch the lightning shattering the sky.
‘Tropical thunderstorms are quick,’ says the woman sitting beside me in the waiting area. She’s drinking from a coconut and her sandals look homemade. She seems like a person who would know about tropical storms. ‘Won’t delay the flights. It’ll be all over in twenty minutes.’
Three hours after the flight was meant to leave, the airline’s ground staff announce that the rest of the day’s flights are cancelled. All the chilled-out travellers, who have been coping with the delay by taking moody photos of the storm and eating paleo muffins from the cafe, suddenly realise they aren’t going home tonight and there’s an unseemly stampede for the service desk.
Tomorrow is the Fun Run. I need to get back in time for that or my name will be mud.
Fired up with righteous indignation, I join the queue of everyone else who is determined to be on the first flight out of here, ready to plead my case and pull the single-mother-desperate-to-get-back-to-my-kids card. But it turns out I don’t need to. Everyone has a similar tale of woe and the airline only cares who paid the most for their seat. Because the publisher bought me a full-fare ticket, I get priority in the rebooking process and, weather permitting, I will be on the first flight out, at six-thirty tomorrow morning.
* * *
I spend the night in a cheap local motel. For a few minutes I consider going back to Wandaland, but having left with my tail between my legs, I feel like it’s probably better if I don’t do that.
My room is musty and damp, but the sheets seem clean enough and the toilet is reassuringly sealed with a paper sash. There’s a small pool, but it’s not appealing in the pouring rain. I order room service for dinner, and eat my lukewarm club sandwich in front of the TV. It’s a far cry from life at Wanda and Monty’s, but it reminds me of the motels we used to stay at when I was a kid, when Mum and Dad would take us on road trips to the far west of the state to visit their old school friends.
I set my alarm for five o’clock for the six-thirty flight. That should get me to Sydney by seven-thirty, which leaves me an hour to get from the plane to the Fun Run. It will be cutting it fine, but I can do it, I’m sure. Whether I can run for any distance when all I’ve done for training is loll by a pool for five days, eating and drinking, is another question entirely.
Chapter Twenty
At the airport at half past five, the weather’s looking promising, and the flight leaves on time.
Once we get to Sydney though, it’s a different story.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announces the captain, ‘it’s a busy morning here at the airport, and as anyone who lives in Sydney knows, parking is at a premium. We currently don’t have a gate, so we’re just going to be a few minutes longer. We appreciate your patience.’
I don’t have time for this. I can’t miss the race. And I have to get home first to get some running gear, unless I’m going to do the Fun Run in my new bikini and sandals.
Although the staff haven’t said we can, everyone around me has switched on their phones, so I ring Laura.
‘Hello, jetsetter,’ she says.
‘I’m stuck on the tarmac in Sydney, Laura,’ I say. ‘The Fun Run is at eight-thirty and I don’t have any running clothes with me. Can you meet me at the oval with sneakers and leggings and a sports bra?’
‘Sorry, matey, no can do. I’ve got to have three kids in three different parts of the city playing three different sports. I may be Wonder Woman but I can’t clone myself,’ says Laura.
‘Well, do you think Dad can?’
‘Possibly, but he’s going away for the weekend. He said he was leaving late morning.’
This seems unlikely. Dad never goes away. ‘What?’ I say. ‘Where? Who with?’
‘With someone called Penny, apparently.’
‘Who on earth is Penny?’
Laura is drip-feeding this information in the most annoying fashion.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘from the way he stammered and repeatedly called her “my friend, Penny, who’s just a friend”, I’d say she’s Dad’s girlfriend.’
Dad has a girlfriend? He can’t. He’s never had a girlfriend. Not in all the years since Mum died. I can’t think what to say.
‘And get this, Em,’ says Laura. ‘Penny’s a beekeeper.’
‘She isn’t,’ I say. ‘You’re lying.’
Laura bursts out laughing. ‘Of course I’m lying. That would be all kinds of fucked up. She’s a bookkeeper.’
‘Laura, I can’t deal with this information right now. I just need some runners and a pair of leggings. I’ll ring Dad.’
�
�Look,’ she says, ‘if you’re still on the plane now, you’re going to miss the race anyway. You can just go in what you’re wearing and cheer them on at the finish line. Troy can run the race with Tim.’
Yes. Yes he bloody can.
I ring Troy next. It’s not too early. He’s sharing a house with Freya, who’s up early enough to wake the early birds.
‘Emma,’ he says blearily. ‘You back?’
‘Not exactly. I’m stuck on the ground at the airport. We might be on the tarmac for a while longer and I don’t think I’m going to make it in time for the start of the race. Or maybe the whole race. You’re fine to run it with Tim, though, aren’t you?’
There’s a pause.
‘Well, actually I thought I might not because you were going to do it. I think I’m down for a shift on the bacon and egg roll stall during the race. And I’ll need to keep an eye on Lola and now Freya too, if you’re not going to make it back.’
‘You have to,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve cancelled on Tim enough times. This is not negotiable. It’s not even the five K. The kids’ race is two kilometres, and all the other kids will have a parent running alongside them. There is no reason on earth you cannot run two kilometres with your son.’
‘Em, I’m not feeling crash hot, if I’m honest.’
‘I imagine that’s what’s called a hangover, Troy. Drink some of your bullshit juice and harden up. If you disappoint Tim today, you will have me to reckon with and I really don’t think you want that.’
‘Fine. Jesus,’ he says. ‘I’ll run it. Hopefully Helen won’t mind looking after both the girls, even though she’s done it all week and she’s leading the warm-up for the runners today.’
I don’t even address that. Of course he’s dumped all the kids on Helen and Dad all week. Of course he has.
‘I’ll see you when I get there. Tell Tim I love him and I hope he has an awesome race.’
I hang up and let out a huge sigh.
The man in the next seat looks at me. ‘I’d do it, if I was him,’ he tells me. ‘I wouldn’t cross you.’ He moves his arm. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘You have the middle armrest; I think we’re going to be on the plane for a while.’