by Lette, Kathy
A traumatised gasp rose up from the audience. Not again, I could hear them thinking.
‘What the fuck?’ I heard my husband moan as he put his head in his hands. Clearly this performance of mine was rating high on the old Jerry Springer–ometer. Not wishing to be carted off in a straitjacket before I’d said my piece, I put down my notes and picked up my glass of champagne from the podium.
‘About cheating death, I mean, before it’s too late. So, please join me in raising a glass to my mother – to Ruth.’ I saluted our departed matriarch.
‘As I said at the beginning of this mea culpa, which is going on longer than War and Peace, so I’ll shut up in a minute . . . Once upon a time there was a woman who discovered she’d turned into the wrong person. But no longer. My sisters and I have a new motto, don’t we, girls? Growing old may be compulsory but growing up is optional. Adventure before dementia!’ I shouted into the mic, before laying it down and polishing off my glass of champers in one long gulp.
I walked towards the front of the stage to enthusiastic whoops and cheers from my two loyal sisters. The rest of the function room stood spellbound in overawed silence. But then Leyla joined in the clapping, moving next to Amber and linking arms. ‘I’ve Got Scott’, who post-divorce would be demoted to ‘I’ve Not Got Scott’, glowered nearby, arms folded, clearly contemplating ringing Amnesty International to say that his pampered husband rights were being abused. I then saw Alessandro close the space between himself and Emerald and slide his arm around her. I noted how she leant into him affectionately. The surreptitiously applied testosterone gel was clearly working its hormonal magic. Sandro didn’t cheer me on, but didn’t look at me as though I had coronavirus, either, which was something, all things considered.
Legs trembling, I went down the steps, trying not to fall arse over tit, then made my way through the startled crowd. Sally from book club started to clap as I passed. Celeste and Debbie, my two former ‘besties’, joined in, as well as some of the other school mums. It was just a few tentative claps at first, but soon crescendoed to cheering and stomping from most of my female friends, who I was sure must also nurse secret fantasies of running away. I fleetingly imagined myself standing in the alps of New Zealand, France, India, Peru or Switzerland, unable to throw a stick without hitting a retired headmistress, seamstress, stewardess or postwoman on a mountain bike.
I approached the big glass doors looking out over the cerulean sea. I’d nearly made my escape when Harry took hold of my arm. ‘I’m a builder. I’m good at papering over cracks.’
I turned and held him close. ‘Oh, Harry. It’s thrilling to see our kids making their way in the world. And we should be so proud that our parenting’s been competent enough to result in fabulous, fully formed, functioning adults. But, honestly, now that it’s just the two of us for the first time in twenty-one years, do we still have anything in common?’
‘Whaddya mean? Of course we do . . .’ He trailed off.
‘Be honest. How often have you thought, It’s irritating that she’s such a bad cook, but she’s a good mum. I know I’ve said to my sisters a gazillion times, “Harry gets on my nerves occasionally, but he’s such a great dad.” But now parenting’s no longer a daily requirement, what if all we’re left with is irritation? Isn’t it better to get out before that happens and salvage a friendship?’
‘Jeez, Ruby. I didn’t realise the dress code for today was “hearts on sleeves”,’ my crestfallen husband said. ‘Did you have to do this so publicly?’
‘I’m sorry, Harry. Ripping off the psychological bandaid in one quick wrench seemed the best way.’
‘For you, maybe. I can’t believe you spoke to the kids before you told me. That’s some top-notch parenting right there, Rubes.’
‘I wanted to get their blessing before I made my move. We both want different things, Harry, and we have to be brave enough to say it. That’s why you had an affair. And why I followed suit. Besides, I didn’t say everything in front of our family and friends. I didn’t mention the fact that I found your work phone with loads of other sexts under coded, professional-sounding contacts like “Big Boys’ Steel Erection”, “Cox’s Outlet” and “Knobs and Knockers”.’
He dropped my arm. ‘Oh.’
Women were moving in Harry’s direction, hovering nearby with commiserative, comforting looks on their faces. A single, heterosexual man in Sydney attracts women like flies to a dropped chop. I had no doubt that Hire A Hubby’s services would be in great demand.
‘But it’s all chardonnay under the bridge now. I love you. And I love our kids. We done good, matey,’ I said, and brushed my lips across his forehead.
With my heart drilling hard in my chest, I walked outside onto the balcony. When the glass doors whooshed closed behind me, I took in a great gulp of raw sea air. My heart was still beating out a staccato rhythm against my bra but, for the first time in months, I felt the weight of despair lift, all my anxieties and neuroses suddenly in the rear-view mirror.
Bubbles of children’s laughter floated up on the breeze from the beach below, as they paddled in the cool of the evening. The sky was a fluorescent tangerine and turquoise spectacle. Colour was seeping back into my sepia world.
I presumed the huge, flannel-grey clouds looming over the sky was bushfire smoke, but cool sprinkles suddenly peppered my face. It had been such a hot, dry, bushfire-ravaged start to the summer. The welcome sound of the rain grew louder and then exploded around me. I kicked off my shoes, flitted down the stone steps and felt the warm, wet sand between my toes. Then I was running and splashing up along the beach, towards the end of the Insular Peninsular, with the rain pelting down and the waves hissing and sighing onto the sand.
My plan was to quit work and head off on a big adventure – a case of ‘have globe, will trot’. On my own. It would be the first time I’d been on my own in my whole adult life. I wanted to hoover up the sunshine and let the cares of life roll from my shoulders. Although, there was nothing to stop me detouring to some exotic Pacific locations along the way.
I reached into the pocket of my sequined dress, which shimmered in the sunset like a mermaid’s scales. Extracting my phone, I punched in the number I’d got from Zahra Hanbury.
‘Who is it?’
‘You know how they always say, “If symptoms persist, you should consult your doctor?”’
‘. . . Ruby?’
‘Well, I seem to have a case chronic of doctor-itis.’
‘Ah,’ he said, and I could hear a smile surfacing in his lovely, warm voice. ‘I believe that’s only curable with a lot of bed rest in the arms of your favourite medic.’
‘Funny, that’s what I diagnosed too. I mean, who better to administer husband replacement therapy than a doctor with a good bedside manner?’
Brody chuckled. And I did too – a joyous burst effervescing up in us both like champagne. For so long I’d been telling myself that the trouble with the future is that it wasn’t what it used to be, only to suddenly realise that the present had turned out to be beautifully gift-wrapped.
Acknowledgements
With thanks to my darling sisters, Jenny, Cara and Liz, for their perspicacious editorial notes. For adding various bits of verisimilitude, thanks to Detective Niall O’Caroll, Doctor Clio Kennedy, Adam Hills, Steve York, Michelle Black, Angela Bowne, Fran Delano, Kate Shea and Patrick Cook. With love to my cherished mum, the crossword queen, for our daily dose of mental aerobics. Thanks also to Georgie and Jules, and Brian, for your unconditional love and days of laughter.
On the publishing side, thanks to Meredith Curnow and Kathryn Knight for nursing the novel through conception to the delivery ward. But next time, may I have a creative epidural, please?
And to PR queen Karen Reid, also known as Chopper, and my agents, Tara Wynne and Jonathan Lloyd.
To Zahra Hanbury and Jaynie Morris, good on you for supporting osteoporosis research and the Country Fire Authority of Victoria by bidding for roles in HRT. I hope you’re both gr
ateful I kept your pants on.
Finally, to all my female friends, enjoy your second act. Hope to swing from a chandelier with you soonish.
About the author
Kathy Lette is a celebrated and outspoken comic writer with an inimitable take on serious current issues. She is the author of fourteen bestselling novels, including Puberty Blues, which was made into a major film and a TV miniseries, Mad Cows, which was also made into a film, starring Joanna Lumley, and How to Kill Your Husband (And other handy household hints), which was staged by the Victorian Opera. She pioneered smart, funny, feminist fiction and has been published in seventeen languages.
Kathy is an autodidact (clearly it’s a word she taught herself) but has honorary doctorates from Southampton and Wollongong universities, and a Senior Honorary Fellowship from Regent’s University London.
She is an ambassador for Plan International and the National Autistic Society UK. Kathy lives in Sydney and in London, and can often be found at The Savoy Hotel drinking a cocktail named after her. She cites her career highlights as once teaching Stephen Fry a word and Salman Rushdie the limbo, and scripting Julian Assange’s cameo in the 500th episode of The Simpsons.
Visit her website, www.kathylette.com, to read her blog, follow KathyLetteAuthor on Facebook, @KathyLette on Twitter and @kathy.lette on Instagram.
Also by Kathy Lette
After the Blues
Best Laid Plans
Courting Trouble
Love is Blind (But Marriage is a Real Eye-Opener)
The Boy Who Fell to Earth
Men: A User’s Guide
To Love, Honour and Betray
How to Kill Your Husband (And Other Handy Household Hints)
Nip ’n’ Tuck
Dead Sexy
Altar Ego
Mad Cows
Hit and Ms
Foetal Attraction
The Llama Parlour
Girls’ Night Out
Puberty Blues (co-author)
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First published by Vintage in 2020
Copyright © Kathy Lette 2020
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, published, performed in public or communicated to the public in any form or by any means without prior written permission from Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd or its authorised licensees.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover photography © MC Kennedy/Gallery Stock/Snapper Images, Maite Pons/Stocksy.com, Mohamed Ajufaan/Unsplash, DisobeyArt/Shutterstock.com, Ramil Gibadullin/Shutterstock.com, Leonardo Gonzalez/Shutterstock.com, New Africa/Shutterstock.com, alinabuphoto/Shutterstock.com, Wichai Wongjongjaihan/Shutterstock.com, Serhii Tsyhanok/Shutterstock.com
Cover design by Louisa Maggio © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd
ISBN 9781760890148
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