The Valley of Lost Stories

by Vanessa McCausland

  The lights dimmed and the music got quiet, suddenly.

  ‘What are you wearing on your head?’ Alexandra whisper-shouted to Nathalie, leaning over Emmie.

  Nathalie groaned.

  ‘Is it a bird?’ Alexandra cocked her head, squinting. ‘A squirrel?’

  Emmie laughed and then shot Nathalie an apologetic look.

  ‘It’s nothing. Not an animal.’ She rolled her eyes, but she was laughing. ‘I’m dressed for your bloody Melbourne Cup thing. I thought other mums would be dressed up for parties, wearing fascinators but it looks like I’m the only one. I’m mortified. I’m wearing freaking support underwear to fit into this dress, for God’s sake.’

  Alexandra raised one carefully manicured eyebrow. ‘Well, you look a million bucks. Every lady in her mum jeans is worshipping you right now.’ She shot a look at Emmie. ‘Sorry, no offence.’

  ‘None taken. Love my mum jeans.’ Emmie smoothed her best pair of jeans over her thighs and lamented that she’d always be one of the worshippers, but she couldn’t help smiling at Alexandra’s dry wit.

  ‘Oh my God, kid, pull your pants up. His pants are too small,’ Alexandra whispered, pointing at a boy on the stage. ‘I can’t watch. And look at this kid. He thinks he’s the next Justin Bieber. Are those tattoos on his arms? Who are these parents?’

  ‘That’s my kid,’ said Emmie, shooting her a disapproving look. Alexandra’s eyes widened in horror.

  ‘Kidding.’

  Alexandra slapped her on the wrist playfully. ‘Sorry, I’m Alexandra. My eldest, Thomas, is in Year 3. I’ve seen you around. Your kid is stunning. She’s that one with the incredible curly red hair, isn’t she?’

  Emmie nodded. As a parent of a redhead, she was used to people noticing Seraphine. She wondered what such renown would feel like. But she had boring brown hair. And a boring name – it was actually plain old Emma, but somewhere along the line, she’d attached the slightly more exotic ‘ie’ on the end. Even the fact that she thought that was exotic was plain sad.

  She was about to reply when they were cut off by the crowd erupting as all the kids poured onto the stage, pride shining on their little moonfaces.

  ‘Oh God, thank Christ that’s over,’ Alexandra muttered. ‘No one ever tells you just how many of these you’ve got to sit through when you decide to procreate.’

  Emmie laughed. It was refreshing to hear someone so searing about motherhood. Sometimes she felt like everyone else was in a silent competition that nobody acknowledged but everyone felt. She needed to get off Instagram.

  The principal was back on stage. Emmie had to admire the woman. She was always perfectly turned out, with her curled hair, pointy heels and red lipstick, as though she was from another era where children had more respect for authority. She was probably hoping it was so.

  Her voice was clipped, with a slight English accent. ‘Now we’re going to announce the winners of the lucky door prize,’ she said, and a hush fell over the audience. ‘The money raised this morning is going towards building a sailcloth over our asphalt play area.

  ‘And, Amanda O’Neil has kindly donated her family’s beautiful beach house for a week-long getaway. Now, I’m told that the house will fit three or four families and has a pool overlooking the beach. It’s a shame staff can’t enter.’

  Amusement washed over the audience. A little boy came onto the stage holding a cardboard box.

  ‘That house has got to be incredible,’ said Nathalie. ‘Amanda is the richest woman I know. She’s on the board of one of the big banks. Okay, if one of us wins, we’re all going, right? And we’re hiring a nanny to look after the kids. Pinky promise.’

  ‘Oh, Seraphine makes me do those. You do realise a pinky promise is serious shit,’ said Emmie, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Bring it,’ said Nathalie.

  ‘Deal,’ said Alexandra, extending her hand, so it hovered just over Emmie’s lap. Their little fingers intertwined.

  ‘Where’s yours?’ asked Nathalie, gesturing towards Emmie. ‘Come on.’

  Emmie placed her pinky carefully over both of theirs, unsure if she was really allowed to be included in this little pact. Her heart was beating fast.

  CHAPTER 3

  Alexandra

  Alexandra realised she was holding her breath as the principal rummaged around in the box. Just pick one, woman, she thought, so we can all get out of this sweat box. She needed this. If she won a raffle holiday Maxwell couldn’t possibly deny her that. She wouldn’t have to pay for much, except the groceries and maybe she could rope the nanny in for a day or two, although realistically the nanny was about as reliable as a child herself.

  Alexandra did have an uncanny knack for winning things though. She thought of herself as an exceptionally lucky person. She had the famous, handsome husband, the two kids, both of whom slept through the night at six months. Neither had learning difficulties or a terrible illness and she was an interior stylist even though she had never really earned any kind of formal qualification. She had straight teeth and skin that tanned. Both her parents were still alive and apart from her elderly grandparents, no one she knew and loved had ever died. Oh, and she won a lot of meat trays. She once even won a washing machine.

  But despite, or perhaps because of all this good fortune Alexandra often felt like an impostor in her own life. On the surface everything was perfect, and she did gratitude meditations to try to find a way to confer the happiness she was meant to feel into her body. But there was always an unease leaking into her, like a dripping tap that couldn’t be screwed tight. On long nights, when she couldn’t sleep and she lay there studying the shadows playing on the cornices in her lovely ceiling, she saw ghosts of another life. There were no celebrity husbands, there were no husbands at all. But that life seemed impossible, a night-time dream that would never find its way into waking hours. She was living a perfectly normal, successful life, but it didn’t feel like her own to live. Maybe that was the reason she’d given the washing machine she’d won away to the woman in the wheelchair that night. Maxwell had tugged her elbow so emphatically that she’d yelped. He would have sold it on eBay, of course. And so, to keep away the echo of that slow steady drip, to avoid a flood, she never stopped moving. She worked late into the night and checked her emails constantly during her one day off. She organised people and places, and sat on event committees, so that every spare second was filled up. She ran on her treadmill in the evening when the boys were in bed until everything went quiet and finally, finally she could sleep.

  ‘And the number is blue, 312.’

  Alexandra looked down at her number and her shoulders slumped. Her ticket was green. Oh well, first-world problems, she told herself. Wealthy, stingy husbands were better than poor, stingy husbands. An unreliable nanny was better than no nanny at all. And she certainly didn’t have a monopoly on modern discontent.

  She heard a little shout next to her. Emmie was holding her ticket up in front of her. ‘I think . . . yes, I think that’s me,’ she said in a small voice.

  Emmie was short and plump, with an air of innocence and shiny hair and eyes. She was the sort of person who Alexandra assumed made cookies for her kids after school and volunteered at the canteen. She was the archetypal mum, something Alexandra had made a concerted effort to avoid in her own demeanour.

  ‘Let me look at that.’ She leaned over to inspect the ticket. Blue 312. Shit. ‘It’s us. It’s us!’ She realised she was yelling. She tugged at Emmie’s sleeve. ‘Go on! Go up!’

  Emmie seemed to be in a state of shock. She stood, wobbled uncertainly for a second, shook her head and made her way towards the stage.

  Alexandra looked over at Nathalie, who was shaking.

  ‘You okay hon? Oh no, you’re crying.’

  Nathalie was wiping under her eyes. ‘I’m just so freaking excited. Tell me we can sip champagne by a pool for a week?’

  ‘A pool, a pool,’ said Sim, clapping her hands.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m roping in my nanny,
’ said Alexandra, extending her pinky finger and then pulling Nathalie into a hug. ‘Remember, he won’t be this little forever.’ She could see her friend was struggling but felt hopeless. There would be no way in hell she’d go back for a third, even though a tiny part of her longed for a girl.

  Emmie was heading back through the audience with an A4 envelope in her hands. Her eyes looked glazed. The poor love was in shock. She was breathless by the time she sat down between them.

  ‘Shit, we won!’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. I’ve never won anything in my life.’

  ‘I always win. I mean, I don’t mean to sound boastful, it’s just that I do,’ Alexandra said.

  ‘She does. It’s crazy. Remember that holiday you won to Vanuatu?’ said Nathalie.

  ‘It’s obviously your luck rubbing off on me.’ Emmie was looking between them, her eyes wide.

  ‘Open the envelope,’ said Nathalie, clapping her hands together. Then she straightened and pressed her hand against her heart. ‘Oh my God, we’ve totally crashed your prize. Of course, you can take anyone you want, you don’t have to take us.’

  Alexandra shot Nathalie a look, which said, What the hell?

  But Emmie held up her little finger. ‘Seraphine would kill me if I went back on a pinky promise.’

  ‘That’s our girl,’ said Alexandra, craning to see the advertisement photos of the property in Emmie’s lap. It was not to her taste – a bit too modern and predictable, with lots of harsh angles, but there was no denying the house was beautiful. It had seven bedrooms and a dedicated movie room. Alexandra loved the north coast with its blinding white sand and aqua water.

  So, who was this woman, Amanda O’Neil, and why wasn’t she friends with her? Of course, Nathalie already knew her. Everyone gravitated towards Nathalie, like a suburban mum towards activewear. It was inevitable. Alexandra’s job was all about symmetry – the arrangement of a room to look just so. And the symmetry of Nathalie’s face was like a beacon. Everyone was seduced by perfection, whether they knew it or not.

  ‘We have to celebrate, girls. Nathalie and I are heading to a Melbourne Cup party at my work now. Hence the reason for the squirrel on her head.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Like now. Emmie, you must come. We can discuss dates for our getaway.’ She picked up her handbag.

  Nathalie looked doubtful, stroking Richie’s head. ‘I should really get them home for naps. It’s going to be 40 degrees today. That’s what a good mother would do, right?’

  Alexandra cocked her head. ‘Girl, you’re dressed to slay. You nearly killed yourself getting into your support wear, there’s no way in hell you’re taking it off yet. You deserve something nice. You’re coming. Put Sim in the corner with my iPad. We’ll all keep an eye on her.’

  Nathalie laughed. ‘What could go wrong?’

  Alexandra nudged Emmie. ‘What about you?’ She had become surprisingly fond of this chick in a short amount of time and it wasn’t just because she was taking them away from their lives for a week. There was something about Emmie that seemed comfortably familiar. It was as though she’d known her for ten years, not ten minutes.

  ‘I’ve only got writing planned for today and I don’t have air con.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a writer?’ asked Alexandra, her interest piqued. Creative people were so lucky. They had a certain ‘flair’ that she always found intriguing. Alexandra had tried it all – art, writing, graphic design, but she just didn’t have it. She was good at organising, which was about the least creative thing you could do. And so, she managed Interiors Studio, which was really just an excessively expensive furniture shop in a posh suburb. She did a job that could be reasonably construed as an interior designer at parties, but was in actual fact, not much more than a glorified sales assistant.

  ‘I’m writing a book, but I’m not professional or anything, and I just blog a bit,’ Emmie said.

  ‘Oh, I’ve always wanted to write a book,’ said Alexandra. ‘I don’t think I’d have the patience, so I admire people who can sit still for that long.’

  ‘I’d love you to teach me this blogging stuff. I’m hopeless,’ Nathalie said. ‘Everyone’s always telling me to start a blog or go on Instagram, but I have no idea where to start.’

  ‘That’s just because we all want to stare at photos of you making smoothies and throwing your kids birthday parties, hon, ’cause you’re so gorgeous,’ said Alexandra.

  Emmie shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t even need to use a filter.’

  ‘It’s true, right? Oh, it makes me sick,’ said Alexandra. ‘If you weren’t my friend, I’d hate you.’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Nathalie. ‘I feel hideous. You don’t understand how tight this thing around my stomach is. You never truly recover from three C-sections.’

  Alexandra shook her head. ‘No sympathy, sorry.’ They all stood and stepped out into the sweltering day.

  CHAPTER 4

  Nathalie

  Alexandra’s interiors shop was like a portal into another world. Nathalie had forgotten that there was this much beauty still. The space was filled with gilded mirrors, sunlit and bright as though there was nothing to fear in life. Ornate carved wooden doors promised luxurious and fragrant places behind them. And it was cool. They could have been in crisp New York, not Sydney on the cusp of summer.

  Beautifully groomed people mingled among these stunning objects, as though their world was always this textured with promise. They sipped from delicate champagne flutes and it all smelled like exotic spice. She closed her eyes. Nathalie wished she could cocoon herself in the soft cream and white woollen throw in front of her and sleep. She envied Alexandra her job. She imagined coming to work here every day. Advising people on what type of timber to get their table made in, choosing pretty throw cushions to complement a lounge. Anything other than cleaning up spilled food, poo and doing the laundry three times a day.

  A beautiful young man with mahogany skin offered Nathalie a glass of champagne from a silver tray. She took it and drank the cool, crisp wine. Alexandra was right; she really needed this. She watched gratefully while her friend arranged Sim in the corner of the room, an iPad propped up on what was probably a $200 cushion. She just hoped Sim wouldn’t wipe snot on it. She was just beginning to feel the sweet ease of the wine hitting her bloodstream when Richie began to stir on her front. Would it be bad to down this glass and then breastfeed him? She shook her head. God, what was wrong with her? Where were these thoughts coming from? She patted the soft fur of his hair and felt a bolt of love. No one told you that motherhood would be like this – the love, intense and infinite and the exhaustion and the boredom and how they all fitted together into a strange, uneasy puzzle that became your whole narrow little life. She stroked his head, suddenly aware of the new smell of him, her annoyance overtaken by his physical pull on her body. She put the champagne down and went to the least populated corner of the room to feed him.

  She was just beginning to feel relief in her throbbing left breast when she felt the eyes. Quick, sidelong glances. Whispers. She squirmed and Richie let out a wail, as though sensing her resistance. More people looked over. Please, just leave me alone, she thought.

  A woman in a suit began to walk towards her. She bent at the waist and rested a perfectly manicured hand on Nathalie’s shoulder. ‘I’m the studio owner and I just wanted to let you know that while we fully support breastfeeding,’ her voice lowered to a whisper, ‘I think you’d be more comfortable in the back office.’

  Nathalie felt her face turning pink. She pulled Richie off her breast and he began to scream. She wanted to let him scream; show this woman how ridiculous her demand was, but instead she shoved a dummy into his mouth and struggled clumsily to her feet.

  What was she thinking, trying to look perfectly put-together, look like she was coping and strong and able to leave the house? Like she belonged in a place like this. That she was totally fine with having three small kids and a cheating husband, who she’d taken back the moment he’d apologised.
She could feel her eyes filling with tears. Now she was going to be the crazy crying breastfeeding woman. She should just go home and let her breasts leak uninterrupted on the couch, who was she kidding?

  Alexandra and Emmie emerged out of the crowd holding champagne flutes, sparkling water and a plate of mini quiches.

  The woman’s bright lips twitched into a smile. ‘Hello, Alexandra. I was just telling this lovely lady that she might be more comfortable in the office.’

  ‘Hello, Elizabeth. I see you’ve met my fabulous friend, Nathalie.’

  The lips twitched again, as if the smile was painful to hold. ‘Oh, wonderful,’ she said, and Nathalie saw the tension between the woman and Alexandra.

  ‘Since she had to feed her baby, we thought she deserved some food as well,’ Alexandra said, straightening to her full height.

  The woman clasped her hands in front of her, as though strangling something invisible. ‘I just thought she might be more comfortable feeding without all the . . . attention.’

  Nathalie wished she had the guts to tell this woman to bugger off, but she hated conflict. ‘No, I understand, I’m making people uncomfortable,’ she said, her voice small.

  She saw Alexandra’s eyes flare with what she recognised as suppressed rage. She opened her mouth to speak but another woman stepped into the tense little circle.

  ‘I’m really sorry to interrupt. I just heard what was going on and I’m pretty sure this woman is within her full rights to feed her baby on this couch.’ She gave Nathalie a knowing smile. She unwound a cream scarf from her neck and handed it over. ‘You’re welcome to use this if it makes you feel more comfortable, though you really shouldn’t have to.’ She shot a look at the owner, who backed away and then feigned sudden interest in something on the other side of the room.

  ‘Thank you, that was so awkward,’ Nathalie said, her heart beating fast as she took the scarf.