Friends Like These

by Wendy Harmer

  Jo was silent. That was another reason why Didi had been in such a state. Jo couldn’t help but think she’d been responsible for pushing Didi to the edge and she, of all people, knew what that felt like. She should have followed her instinct in the first place and refused Gemma’s request. And then, like Patrick said, examined her heart for her true motive in meeting Michael. Revenge wasn’t a dish best served cold, hot or lukewarm. She didn’t have the taste for it at all.

  ‘I didn’t ever think the state of my private life would have to be the subject of a press release, but there you go,’ said Michael. ‘I don’t suppose we could meet and talk about it?’

  No. That was her first reaction and this time she’d listen.

  ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate,’ she said.

  ‘“Appropriate.” Do you know, that’s the worst word in the English language?’

  ‘Please let Gemma know I’m here if she wants to talk,’ said Jo. ‘Thanks for ringing to let me know.’

  ‘Quite appropriate. Nice to hear your voice, just the same.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

  Jo checked her emails and, sure enough, there was one from Gemma Brigden.

  Dear Jo,

  I’m sorry, but the wedding’s off. It just caused too many problems with me and my mother!!!

  And when I think about it, it’s no big deal. Yoshi and I don’t care where we get married, really. And Mum has had her heart set on St Anne’s almost her whole life!!

  I’m just sorry that you spent so much time on us. It was great to have dinner with you. Dad sends his love.

  So, thanks for everything. Maybe when we have children, I will be back in contact!!!

  Thanks for everything,

  Gemma xx

  By seven o’clock she had cried. Had a bath. Cried in the bath. Changed into her pyjamas. There she was, nursing Calpurnia and pathetically pondering the lonely landscape of her life, when her phone rang. She didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Mrs Blanchard? It’s Eleanor Hazeltine. You might remember me as Eleanor Prince? I was a boarder at Darling Point. Our family had a farm in the Southern Highlands.’

  Jo remembered a small girl with mouse-brown hair and a sweet nature. An extremely talented artist and now a celebrated ceramicist. Jo admired her work.

  ‘Of course I remember you, Eleanor.’

  ‘I live in the Blue Mountains now with my husband, Geoff. Your father, Reverend Brown, told me you were a civil celebrant and I hope you don’t mind, I got your number from him.’

  ‘Not at all. How can I help?’

  ‘It’s my daughter, Charlotte. She’s had a fall. From her horse, Minty. She passed away yesterday afternoon. She is...she was...eight years old.’

  Jo grabbed the fabric of her dressing gown. What were the right words here? There were none adequate.

  ‘Oh, Eleanor. I am so deeply sorry. How may I be of help to you and your family?’

  ‘Could you come and do the funeral for us?’

  ‘It would be an absolute honour and privilege to come and help you celebrate Charlotte’s life.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what we want. Not a funeral. A celebration. She was only little. Chazzie loved parties. We want to have a party for her. She loved horses. That’s why we came up here to the mountains, so she could have a horse. Now Minty’s dead too. We had to put her down. Do you think we were wrong to come here?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me more about Charlotte? What you loved most about her? Everything you can think of. Her virtues and her blessings. The joy she gave you. It will help us compose some words that are meant just for her and everyone who

  loves her.’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The Thursday morning before Good Friday saw a steady stream of customers. Rob had turned his talents as a jack-of-all-trades to bending florist’s wire and fashioning novelty bouquets of ribbons, Easter eggs and pink lilies. They were selling like hot cakes...make that hot-cross buns.

  Suze was amazed by his efforts and had told him more than once that he’d missed his calling. But then, she realised, he hadn’t missed it at all, because that’s what he was doing. Working in a florist’s shop. Geraniums Red. Their shop.

  They’d spoken about the money and decided upon a plan. Their plan was...to do nothing.

  ‘We’ll just wait for them to find us,’ Rob had said. And Suze had agreed. They couldn’t think of any way out of it. If they sold everything they had, there still wouldn’t be enough. There would be all the time in the world for the repercussions of what had been done, but right now they would pretend that they were a normal married couple, in business together. They’d pack in as much sweetness as they could until the police turned up on their doorstep and took their lives away.

  It had been many years since they had worked together with a common purpose. Oddly, their predicament had led them to a renewal of marriage vows of sorts and they toiled tirelessly, as if they could sell almost half a million dollars’ worth of flowers to the good people of Kingsford.

  The girls were away on Easter camp in the Southern Highlands. They had been reluctant to go now that their father had moved back into the house and their parents seemed to have rekindled their love for each other. Suze and Rob were equally sad to see them leave, but knew that it might be the last time they would have with their classmates. One last innocent, carefree holiday.

  ‘I’ve always loved Easter,’ said Rob as he tied a yellow ribbon around a foiled chocolate egg. ‘On Good Friday Mum used to get the saucepan out and the food colouring and we’d dye the eggs ourselves. Dad would hide them in the garden on Sunday morning. There were always one or two we couldn’t find. Once, days later, we found one of next-door’s chooks sitting on a blue one.’

  They were telling each other stories from long ago as if they were picking up stitches and mending a hole in a hand-knitted sock.

  ‘We used to go camping at Crescent Head every year,’ said Suze. ‘Us and all the cousins. We used to have to help put up the tent, one of those big old striped canvas monsters, and we were always a tent peg short. It used to drive Dad crazy.’

  ‘Maybe it was in the same place as Mum’s eggs.’ They smiled at each other through the comforting warmth of nostalgic memories.

  ‘I’m glad Dad’s not around, in a way—you know, to see everything.’

  ‘Don’t ever be glad he’s gone. He would have forgiven you. The thing is, have you forgiven yourself yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Might be a while. Not yet.’

  He wouldn’t ask if she’d forgiven him. He just had to live in hope that she would one day.

  ‘Today’s Maundy Thursday,’ he said.

  ‘“Maundy.” What does that mean?’

  ‘Dunno. My mum used to call it that. It’s the night of the Last Supper Jesus Christ had with the apostles. There’s a service on at St Bernadette’s tonight. Then on Saturday there’s the Easter Vigil and that starts at 7 p.m. I think the idea is that you get there when you can and try to stay late, to see Jesus resurrected at midnight.’

  It was still startling to hear Rob talking like this. But if Christ Almighty was going to keep Rob away from the pokies, Suze might even consider putting a statue of him over the workbench.

  ‘Be a bit embarrassing if he didn’t turn up this year.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Rob smiled. ‘Would you like to come with me?’

  ‘No.’ The candle in the workroom wasn’t lit. Like her faith, it had burned down to the stump. She was numb. Couldn’t think about anything at all except cutting and trimming flowers, winding wire around stems and handing bouquets to Rob, who expertly positioned them in brightly coloured cardboard boxes.

  ‘You have to take that money back.’ Rob refrained from saying Jo’s name, knowing the hurt it would cause.

  ‘I know. I will tonight while you’re at church.’ At church. The words sounded strange in her mouth. ‘Is there anything specially religious we’re supposed to eat tonight?’ she asked.

 
He knew she was humouring him, but went along with it. ‘Bread and wine. Not much else I can think of. Can’t imagine anyone was very hungry at the Last Supper. I’ll bring a couple of bottles back with me.’

  ‘There’s some money in the till.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ve got thirty dollars.’

  ‘Thirty pieces of silver. Isn’t that what Judas got for betraying Jesus before the Last Supper?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘How did he live with the guilt?’

  ‘He didn’t. He hanged himself,’ said Rob.

  It was just before closing time at Geraniums Red. Rob had driven off in his car with Juanita on the delivery run and Suze was alone in the shop. She was filling buckets with water, ensuring everything was in order for the busy Easter Saturday trade when the bell at the front door tinkled. She looked up and there was Doug McIntyre.

  Suze straightened herself, wiped her hands on her apron. She might have expected a visit from him. She’d managed to banish him from her waking hours; now here he was, an emissary from her nightmares. She was in the dock in a courtroom and Mr Douglas McIntyre for the prosecution had risen in his sombre black suit to point an accusing finger. ‘That’s her, Your Worship. She’s the one. I’d know that ugly, lying face anywhere. Her heart is a rotten, shrivelled thing.’

  ‘Can I help you?’ was the best she could manage.

  ‘It would seem that you’ve already helped yourself, Mrs Reynolds.’ Doug stood ramrod straight in front of the door, blocking the way of anyone who might intrude on the scene.

  Suze hung her head. ‘I...don’t know what to say,’ she mumbled.

  ‘“Sorry,” would seem to be the first requirement. I would have at least expected that you might have the decency to pick up the telephone, or come and see me. I assume Mrs Blanchard told you that I discovered your theft.’

  ‘She did. And I...’ Was there any point in saying sorry? It seemed utterly inadequate.

  Doug was rooted to the spot. One move might make him forget his rehearsed speech, and he had carefully scripted how it would go. Like Suze, he’d also imagined in detail the role he would play in the courtroom.

  ‘You were clever. I’ll give you that. But the next time you plan to defraud and swindle, it would be better not to round out the numbers in your withdrawals. It was those double zeroes that gave you away. They stared at me from the accounts like the eyes of a snake. What you did was—’ he had the precise word for it ‘—evil.’

  Evil. Yes, that was her. Thank God someone had finally said it.

  ‘You took everything Darling Point had to offer and threw it back at us with contempt. I do not know why. I cannot begin to understand your motivations. I suppose you have an excuse for it. Others may understand, but I simply cannot.’

  Suze couldn’t understand either. She had no excuse. She must have been born with a part missing. A small widget that was common decency. Most other people she knew seemed to have it.

  ‘And to think that I, and Josephine, counted you as a friend! You betrayed both of us, and your children. I ask myself, as a good Christian, what kind of mother would ruin their future in this way? I pity your husband. I grieve for your parents.’

  Suze took it all. She knew she had it coming. She pitied Rob too. His gambling? Her stealing? It all came from the deep pit of her insecurity that expressed itself as a grasping, endless neediness. She had never felt good enough and now it was plain that she wasn’t.

  ‘I haven’t been able to sleep. My heart...my wife...’ Here Doug faltered, but before Suze could express any concern for him—ask if he needed a chair, a glass of water—he gathered his strength for his summation.

  ‘I’ve heard nothing from anyone and it’s been almost a week. I’ll have to go to the police. If I don’t hear from someone within the next few days I’ll have no option. I am already implicated in a criminal act that will see my long and respectable career end in ignominy. That’s all I have to say to you. Good evening.’

  And then Suze blinked and he was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  ‘Your next match with her should be to the death, in a cage. You definitely won round two.’ Father Patrick, patting a grateful Calpurnia in his lap, was in his familiar place sitting beside Jo’s kitchen counter. He seemed to find her plight amusing, which, admittedly, was a welcome relief after the agony of embarrassment she’d suffered all day yesterday.

  He was right. Didi had come off worse. She would never live down the ‘modesty star’ the Daily Telegraph’s ‘Confidential’ column had thoughtfully placed over her not-so-private parts. The whole of Sydney must have been laughing at the high-flying PR agent who’d become a ‘page-three girl’ with a difference. Jo could only imagine the jokes being told at Didi’s expense. She’d certainly garnered a lot of exposure for what Suze had said was her biggest celebrity client—her vagina. It had received stellar coverage in the papers, been given an airing on two national current-affairs shows and had some seventy thousand viewings on YouTube. The saying ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’ was coming back to haunt her.

  But Jo hadn’t got off scot-free either. That ridiculous photograph of her looking down her nose had been given another run and her indiscretions at DPLC had been exhumed for further inspection. Jo imagined JJ would be furious at the reminder to voters that he and Carol had got together in less-than-salubrious circumstances.

  There was enough evidence from that red-letter day at the college last year for the gossipmongers to conclude that Jo, Didi and Carol were playing out another chapter of some long-standing simmering enmity, like the trio of witches in Macbeth. Carol’s words—‘Didi! Forget it!’—had been quoted, but Didi had been careful to ensure that only Jo heard her desperate threats. Michael had been mentioned in speculation that his wife’s antics must be highly embarrassing to him. The reports implied—and Jo had scanned the stories online so many times she’d developed a mighty headache—that Jo had been attempting to evade Didi and Carol when Didi’s busted shoe had sent her sprawling. Jo could only think that the ‘Guess Who, Don’t Sue’ piece had been written off as unsubstantiated gossip, which it was. No-one had more to report than a very public dinner engagement at which she and Mr Brigden were accompanied by his daughter and a business associate. And now, that’s all it had been.

  Judging by the angle of the photographs, one of the women at the lunch had employed her mobile phone to take those pictures of Didi. It would have been someone with a grudge against her and most of them could have qualified. Prized A-list invitations were given or withheld according to Didi’s divine whim. Sometimes she was capricious, at other times malicious. A socialite still smarting over her seating at the gala dinner for Princess Mary of Denmark could easily have distributed those fanny happy snaps. Who had sat next to whom at that event had made the newspapers; that’s how coveted the invitations had been. Didi relegated people to the B- or C-list with an enthusiasm usually reserved for the governing body of the English Football League, and that fostered a suppurating hatred beneath the fawning air kisses and compliments she was always greeted with.

  Poor Didi. Jo felt sorry for her. After her own disgrace she sympathised with anyone who found themselves in the middle of a media scrum, no matter how appalling their behaviour had been. The fall from grace was never easy and Didi had further to fall than most.

  The mention of Jo’s name in the story had been enough for two of her professional engagements to be cancelled—another wedding and a baby-naming. She had also been treated to a visit from Tory, who’d come over to fall about laughing over the lurid headlines.

  oh, didi, don’t!

  from red carpet to red face

  didi’s star turn

  ‘She had it coming,’ Tory chortled. ‘But eeuw, wearing no undies with a skirt that short? Who does she think she is, Britney Spears? Fancy flashing that tired old—’

  ‘Thank you!’ Jo had interrupted.

  They sat together and resolved their dispute over S
imon and Kim’s wedding photographs, with mother once again reassuring daughter how talented she was. Jo was thankful that Tory was as quick to forgive as she was to blame.

  Jo had then spent the afternoon speaking with Eleanor Hazeltine and her husband Geoffrey, reading many melancholy, doleful texts and composing her own words. It was an agonising business.

  This Thursday night she was glad for Patrick’s company, even if he was teasing her mercilessly.

  ‘It’s not funny, Patrick. I don’t think I’ll ever show my face around here again,’ Jo moaned as she opened the bottle of wine he’d brought. ‘So much for Didi’s daaarling friends. One of them took those photos.’

  ‘Betrayal. A fitting theme for this Maundy Thursday. From the Latin—“Mandatum” Command. It was the command from Jesus at the Last Supper that we should love one another,’ Patrick explained. He watched with gratitude as Jo lifted the lid on a bubbling Moroccan lamb tagine in the oven. ‘Oh, I get it. Lamb of God. The Middle East.’ He laughed. ‘Nice. I might start with holy wine, if that’s okay.’

  Patrick accepted a glass of his favourite merlot. ‘Good drop from Sevenhill. The Jesuit winery in the Clare Valley. They started out producing sacramental wine back in 1851, so here’s a toast to our Lord this Holy Thursday. Up yer bum.’

  Jo doubted she’d ever get used to his blasphemies. ‘How did it all go at church today?’ she asked, hoping to distract him from discussion of her own dramas.

  ‘Surprisingly big crowd. The foot-washing went well. Most people had cut their toenails this year, so that was good. I saw Rob Reynolds there.’

  ‘Did you? He’s going on with it, then? I hope he does, for all their sakes.’

  ‘It was pleasing to see him there taking communion and not down at Star City with the other sad buggers. He’s got a hard road ahead of him.’

  ‘Maybe not so hard.’ Jo took a seat opposite him. ‘I’ve got the money for Suze.’