Friends Like These

by Wendy Harmer

  No doubt the chefs were already at work on the wedding feast—rolling pastry, simmering sauces, dipping strawberries in chocolate. There were stacks of perfectly starched tablecloths to be draped; crockery, cutlery and glassware to be polished; place cards to be set. Suze would soon be tying flowers with white satin ribbons. And if the centrepiece of this whole elaborate performance was a faithless man? Jo could only hope that Simon had a Plan B for that, too.

  A chilly wind was blowing up. Hugging her white silk robe around her, Jo walked inside to fix herself a wake-up coffee. She’d earlier resolved to drink only tea this morning, but, because she’d hardly slept, reasoned she now needed a strong shot of caffeine. But before she’d downed even half the cup her nerves were taut and pinging.

  Mentally walking herself through the morning’s schedule would calm her. She opened the Simon and Kim folder and ran her fingers down the multicoloured tabs: Arrival. Photos. Seating/Table. Music. Sound System. Order of Ceremony. Vows. Props. Signing of Register. Reception. Gifts.

  It was no more onerous than what Jo had done hundreds of times as deputy head at Darling Point. She’d organised speech nights, summer fairs, graduation balls, sports days and many a Mother and Daughter Day before that memorable Last Hurrah, but she couldn’t remember ever being this nervous.

  A quick look in the mirror confirmed that curls had sprung up around her face like a hundred question marks and she had no answer for any of them. She kept coming back to the matter of Kim. Should she confront him, despite what Patrick and Suze had said? When, where, how? Jo had been good at grilling the teenage girls who sat in front of her desk. But that was about missing berets and contraband iPods. Was she brave enough for this encounter?

  There was one task Jo could manage. She could press the outfit she’d splurged on. A new powder-blue linen Armani suit. She had never bought anything so expensive in her life. But when she’d looked in her wardrobe last week, seven dowdy suits in drab shades of navy, brown and grey were hanging like bats in a cave. She’d never had a powder-blue suit before. It was a perfectly joyous, yet serene, shade for a wedding.

  The ritual of setting up the ironing board in the kitchen, filling the iron, finding her Crabtree & Evelyn Lavender Water and smoothing the garment flat on the board was soothing. Just a small crease on the lapel to iron out. Jo had also been inspired to hunt out a scarf she had bought in Venice years ago. It was cream silk, finely pleated in the Fortuny style and trimmed with tiny amber beads.

  When she had left JJ, Jo had taken all her boxes with her and going through them now was like an archaeological dig. Somewhere down there, all kinds of fashionable treasures were waiting to be exhumed. She kept opening them to find silly lacy bras, impossibly high heels, oversized earrings and ridiculously short skirts. Some of the accessories were only suitable for a bad-taste party—furry handbags, jumbo tartan coats with massive jewelled buttons, spider-web-patterned tights. She’d even found a wiglet or two!

  But along with the musty garments, Jo had also unearthed a person she had all but forgotten. A confident, sexy show-off who had somehow been consigned to the fossil record. Perhaps her new incarnation as a single woman would help her find even more she’d lost along the way. That’s how she had resolved to think about the kiss with Michael. As an initiation into her new life. The roses were still blooming in the vase, but as they wilted, so would her memories of him. She hadn’t answered any of his calls or text messages, although she knew she’d have to. But not today.

  Jo gripped the iron and pressed it to the front of her jacket. Her phone beeped with a message. Jo reached for it and saw Michael’s number. Again. He’d been trying to reach her for two days. She paused a moment, considering whether to read it, pressed ‘delete’ and dropped it back on the counter. She was jolted by a nasty sizzle and the horrifying smell of burnt linen.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she moaned. Holding the jacket up Jo saw a hole, right through to the lining. A thousand-dollar suit absolutely ruined.

  Brrring, brrring!

  This time it was the landline that rang. Jo turned to grab the handset, became tangled on the iron’s electrical cord and pulled it down on the inside of her wrist. A painful sizzle this time.

  ‘Ow! Ow!’ The tip of the iron had burned a red triangle into her flesh. Jo put her mouth to the welt and snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Josephine! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ It was JJ. He was calling from the Bentley judging from the hollow tone of the line. No doubt he was off to his Saturday-morning golf game.

  ‘And good morning to you too.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic. It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘What can I do for you? I’m busy.’

  ‘Tory was over here last night and she told me all about this crap with James. You’ve put him up to it, haven’t you? You and your Bible-bashing Catholic mate. Do you have any idea how much that course in London cost?’

  ‘I did not do any such—’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Jo! It’s bullshit! Do you want him wandering around the world’s churches with bloody terrorists on the loose? Tory tells me he’s in fucking Israel. He’ll be wandering around the Gaza Strip with Hamas next—like the idiot he is—and if he gets blown up, it’ll be your fault! “Serving Christ.” Does he imagine it was Christ Almighty who paid for those years at Canonbury?’

  In a way it was. JJ always liked to think he had some divine authority over all their lives.

  ‘What can I do about it, JJ? Apart from going over there and dragging him home? He’s twenty, he’s an adult.’

  ‘An adult? Ha! That’s a friggin’ joke!’

  Jo could almost hear the veins in JJ’s neck engorging as the blood pumped ever more urgently. She could see his fists gripping the wheel of the Bentley. Pity any hapless ducks out for a stroll near the golf course this morning.

  ‘I order you not to send him any money!’ he roared. ‘Then we’ll see how much of an adult he is. If you think I’m going to give you what I’ve got just so you can send it to him to piss up against a wall, you can think again!’

  Now Jo’s blood pressure was rising. ‘You can’t “order” me! And anything you think you have, remember half of it’s mine. I can’t believe the first time you ring me and mention the settlement, you’re trying to blackmail me.’

  ‘You’ve never had the first idea about money. You should be grateful that you haven’t got your hands on any yet. You’d only give it to some mangy fucking cat charity!’

  Jo slammed down the phone. It was silent for just a moment before it began to ring again. She pounced on the handset, threw it in the kitchen tidy and marched towards the spare room. Damn Tory and her big mouth! If she couldn’t resist telling her father about James, no doubt she had blabbed about Gemma Brigden as well. Surely she hadn’t said anything about Michael’s midnight visit?

  Where was that girl, anyway? Her bed hadn’t been slept in. Tory had taken on the job as the photographer! It was already 8.30 and Jo wanted to leave for the gardens in an hour. That would give her plenty of time to set up before Simon and Kim arrived to greet their guests at eleven. She hadn’t even given Tory the directions.

  Jo tried frantically to work out what Tory did know. She knew the ceremony was in the Botanic Gardens, but did she know where, exactly? She had to be there early to catch Simon and Kim’s arrival. Jo’s stomach was tumble-turning as she found her mobile and dialled Tory’s number.

  ‘The mobile phone you are calling is switched off or unattended.’

  Her wrist throbbed painfully and Jo saw the burn had already blistered. It was bigger than she’d realised and would need a bandage. Brilliant! No dress, no photographer and an ugly bandage on her wrist. And then she was reminded of what would be the worst nightmare of all...no Kim.

  Sitting at the bar in Pavilion on the Park, Jo checked her mobile and saw that it was almost 10.15 a.m. She’d forgotten her wristwatch again. She was losing her mind. Observing the staff bustling about the room setting up table
s, she did the unthinkable. Reached behind the counter, poured a neat vodka and swallowed it.

  It wasn’t more than a minute before the alcohol hit her empty stomach, burred the edge off the sharp pain in her wrist and turned down the volume of the anxious voice in her head.

  The dark clouds she’d seen at dawn had by now been blown out to sea somewhere off South Head and, while it wasn’t exactly a perfect morning, there was barely a breeze. Jo had set up her table on the grass near a Moreton Bay fig and covered it with an antique embroidered cloth. She’d sewn weights into the hem so that on windy days it would be secure. The baby-naming on Bondi Beach had given her that idea.

  She was nursing a photograph album in her lap—a wedding gift from Father Patrick’s mother years ago. It was covered with exquisite handmade paper and inscribed on the cover in gilded calligraphy was a verse from Shakespeare:

  Doubt that the stars are fire;

  Doubt that the earth doth move;

  Doubt truth to be a liar,

  But never doubt I love.

  Jo had slipped her scripts inside and it was perfect for the task at hand. She inspected her outfit...again. Her old chocolate-brown jersey wool suit had been press-ganged into service and happily rejuvenated by her Fortuny scarf. Her faithful tan snakeskin sling-backs looked the part. All in order.

  It was now 10.20 a.m. She was torn between downing another vodka and ringing Tory’s mobile to hear the same frustrating pre-recorded message. The glass front doors swung open. Tory was here! Instead, a double bass was wheeled into the room, followed by a set of drums and a PA system.

  Jo tried once more to settle her mind. She reread her celebrant notes: It is most important to take a quiet moment to contemplate the occasion and focus on personal performance. The celebrant should be relaxed and confident at all times, ready to guide all participants through the day in an easygoing yet authoritative manner.

  In her present state of mind she’d be flat out guiding paper boats down a gutter in a rainstorm. There was a tap on her shoulder and Jo almost fell off the bar stool with fright. She turned to see Kim.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ she gasped.

  ‘Sorry, sorry! Obviously I’m not the only one who’s nervous.’ He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘So, how do I look? You know, for a condemned man?’

  Hardly ‘condemned’. He was a fantasy groom snipped from the pages of a glossy bridal magazine. Blonder-than-blond cropped hair sparkling with gel, teeth unnaturally white and tanned skin still glistening with almond-scented moisturiser. He was immaculate in a sharp black suit, white shirt and white satin tie and, sure enough, his lapel was decorated with a chantilly rosebud and white hyacinth.

  ‘You look wonderful!’ Jo could have cried with relief. Kim was here in the gardens, on time and ready to be married! He called for a champagne and Jo could see that his hands, supple with cream and nails manicured, were shaking.

  ‘My God! I don’t think I’ve ever felt this much adrenalin in my body. Not even standing on the starting line for a marathon—although I am, in a way, I guess.’ He managed a nervous grin. ‘I’ll admit that for the past two weeks, with Simon stressing out over every tiny detail and being a nightmare to live with, there were times I wanted to just run away or do something stupid...’

  Was it Jo’s imagination or had this little speech been prepared especially for her? Kim fixed his eyes on her with an intensity she couldn’t quite meet. She fingered the amber beads on her scarf.

  ‘But I just kept thinking how much I want to spend my life with him. I can’t describe what this day means to us. Thank you so much for being here.’

  Of course, it was at this point Jo could have asked: ‘So who was that man I saw you with in Oxford Street last night?’ But she now knew what Father Patrick had been talking about: ‘What’s my script?’ As she watched the waiters tying aprons and setting the last ice buckets in place, the band patching leads through the mixing desk and tuning instruments, she knew it would be a very brave or rude person indeed who would put such a question. She was probably mistaken, she reasoned, although she knew in her heart she wasn’t. But even if she had seen him in the back of that cab, so what? Maybe it had stopped at the next set of traffic lights, just beyond where she could see, and let Kim out. Evidence. That’s what Patrick had said she needed. And, in the end, who was she to judge?

  ‘I’ll be there for you and Simon,’ Jo said, patting his knee. ‘The wedding is just one day. I’d like to be there to support you in your decision to be a couple.’

  Kim’s champagne arrived. He fished out a strawberry with his fingers. ‘Be there to pick up the pieces when it doesn’t work out? That’s a bit cynical, isn’t it?’ He eyed her coolly. ‘But, then again, you wouldn’t be the first straight to think gay people can’t make a go of a long-term relationship.’

  Jo opened her mouth to explain. It wasn’t what she—

  ‘Don’t move! That’s perfect!’ Tory burst through the doors and Jo froze. A rabbit caught in the flashbulbs.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Jo stood back to admire the reproduction of a Margaret Preston painting that was now hanging on her wall. Pink gum blossoms and leaves in a sage-green vase. Simon had chosen the picture as a gift and it perfectly complemented the art already displayed. There was his eye for detail again. The same discernment that had made his commitment ceremony such a success. ‘A triumph’, ‘gorgeous’, ‘really moving and funny’ and ‘just sublime’ were the reviews. Jo still felt a tingle of pleasure when she thought back.

  It had been Simon’s idea how the ritual should go, but Jo had added the details that really made it work. Twenty-four friends, both men and women, had met in the gardens. After champagne and music from a classical trio, they formed a circle on the grass. A sudden sun shower had sent them scurrying under the fig tree for cover, but barely a minute later the clouds had parted to reveal...a rainbow! The gorgeous serendipity of it! Its appearance had been greeted with applause as if it was all part of the show. It tied up nature’s gift-wrapping of sunshine refracting through wet glistening grass with a radiant bow. The circle they had made lit up with an almost unnatural brilliance and was indeed a sacred space.

  The two gold rings were passed from hand to hand in opposite directions. As each person took a ring, they warmed it between their palms and offered a personal blessing. Simon’s friends spoke about him. Kim’s friends told stories of him. The offerings were droll anecdotes and sweet memories from the past. The mention of dear friends who had passed away from HIV/AIDS brought everyone to tears, including Jo.

  Finally, the couple held the rings blessed by friendship in their hands. Kim’s sister Helen then stepped into the middle of the circle and read ‘Love’s Philosophy’ by Percy Bysshe Shelley, a verse Jo had suggested by one of her favourite poets.

  The fountains mingle with the river,

  And the rivers with the ocean;

  The winds of heaven mix forever,

  With a sweet emotion.

  Nothing in the world is single,

  All things by a law divine,

  In one another’s being mingle:

  Why not I with thine?

  Simon and Kim exchanged the rings, swore eternal love and sealed their pact with kisses. Jo had declared the circle to be unbreakable, no matter what life had in mind to unmake it. And to wild cheers, it was done. Simon and Kim were a couple. Kim had seemed genuinely moved and Jo decided to write off his transgression in the street as pre-wedding nerves. Simon was deliriously happy.

  Jo couldn’t see how the ceremony could have been any more beautiful and heartfelt, or meant any more to anyone, even if it had been conducted in St Peter’s in Rome in front of the Pope, although she couldn’t expect Father Patrick would agree. As for her own performance? She’d taken too long to settle everyone down and hadn’t been able to control a couple of the younger children as well as she would have liked. And she wished she hadn’t cried. The point was to be able to say things that were heartfelt,
but not get caught up in the emotion. Her opening words had gone on a minute too long and...well, she had plenty to work on before her next outing.

  Tory seemed to have had the event covered. She’d darted here and there during the ceremony, snapping furiously.

  For the whole afternoon and evening, Jo had felt exhilarated. There had been a powerful force at work there in those gardens that had reduced everyone to tears. Some elemental force that she was only dimly aware of, and still didn’t understand. She was on the right track, though, she was sure of it.

  Jo had been thinking about all this today, and then found herself sorting through one of her boxes of keepsakes on a nostalgic expedition to hunt out her own wedding album. She was sitting on the floor, an open cardboard carton in front of her, when she turned to see Tory at the end of the hall.

  ‘Looking for your old rubber diaphragm, Mum?’

  Jo thrust her hot head deep into the box. ‘Piss off,’ was her muffled response. Then Tory was sitting beside her on the floor and wrapping her arms around Jo’s shoulders.

  ‘I haven’t had the chance to tell you how great you were yesterday. You just came in and then stood back at exactly the right time. I couldn’t write it down on a piece of paper what you did, but it was like you knew what everyone was thinking and then when something needed to be said, you said it. I was proud of you, Mum. You were amazing.’

  Jo’s spirits soared and she kissed Tory’s cheek. ‘Thank you, my darling. Do you know, I think that is the most wonderful thing you’ve ever said to me.’