Friends Like These

by Wendy Harmer

  ‘More than anything! I’ve never seen her want anything as much. And she deserves it. It’s karma,’ Suze said emphatically. She’d reacquainted herself with the notion over the past few days.

  ‘With a bit of extortion thrown in,’ Patrick added.

  They exchanged looks around the table, all wondering the same thing. Would Jo have the guts to face him?

  ‘The first thing he’ll do is threaten to go to the police about Suze,’ said Rob.

  Tory nodded. ‘I know my father; if he’s backed into a corner, he’ll come out swinging.’

  Patrick agreed. ‘We just have to take the punt that he’s not prepared to risk his reputation. It’s not a sure bet.’

  ‘I’ll take those odds,’ Suze interrupted. ‘I can’t let all the crap I did ruin Jo’s life.’

  ‘Her life won’t be “ruined”,’ Patrick reassured her. ‘Jo’s already made peace with her decision. No matter what, you’re safe.’

  Then Tory, who had sat back for a moment to collect her thoughts, said: ‘He’s going to be at that thing tomorrow night. He told me. Carol said I could come if I wore a dress. I told her to piss off.’

  ‘You could raid her wardrobe and go as an endangered African animal,’ said Suze.

  ‘I will!’ Tory laughed. ‘I’ll take my sneaky little camera and record feeding time at the zoo.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ said Rob.

  ‘You can’t,’ said Suze. ‘JJ will recognise you straight away.’

  ‘Yeah, and you too,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Damn! I always wanted to see inside Lady Holt’s place,’ she said.

  Tory picked up her phone from the table and punched in a number. ‘I know someone who’d be thrilled to join the Liberal Party. Especially given their enlightened stance on gay marriage...

  ‘Siiimon,’ she teased. ‘How’d you and a few of your ugly stepbrothers like to go to the ball?’

  Chapter Forty-one

  The view from the vast lower terrace at Carol Holt’s palatial pile in Dover Heights was one hundred and eighty degrees of undulating Pacific Ocean grandeur. From where Suze stood, the next landfall was New Zealand and, beyond that, Peru. Carol could probably see it on a clear day.

  She braved the blustery breeze on the terrace despite the imminent threat of her blonde wig being blown clean off. She clutched her champagne flute with one hand and used the other to flatten her fringe of real human hair. If Suze had been worried that Carol would recognise the carefully teased and sprayed coiffure Tory had pilfered from the bathroom at Parklea, there was no danger of that now. The wig was being slowly deconstructed into a straw-coloured haystack.

  Suze finished her champagne, tore herself away from the darkening, dramatic panorama and clambered up a steep flight of stairs magically suspended over a flood-lit waterfall. The flight was one of five she counted that would take her to the second-floor reception room where some one hundred guests were milling and murmuring. Then, way above, Carol came to the edge of the balcony and pointed—no doubt indicating the magnificent lights of the city of Lima. Suze lumbered up more stairs and into the shadows of the next terrace. The joint had more terraces than a Vietnamese rice paddy.

  Curse the high heels she’d squeezed her lumpy feet into. She hadn’t worn them for years. She’d also wriggled herself into her only decent black skirt and buttoned her bosom into a red velvet blazer decorated with a bunch of real violets pinned on the lapel. What to wear to a night that promised cocktails, canapés and social justice issues had almost defeated her. She wished Rob had come, but he’d begged off to stay home with the girls, worried that if he had to spend the evening with the glitterati of the Eastern Suburbs he might haul off and punch someone in the face.

  Suze edged into the main room. The guests, all engaged in urgent conversation, missed her entrance. She hugged the wall and found herself a spot where she was half concealed by a tumble of gold brocade drapes. Peeking out from her hiding place Suze saw that no-one in the room seemed to have any better idea of what to wear than she did. The attire on show ranged from jewel-coloured cocktail frocks to black, draped arty folds of fabric and neat jeans worn with ballet flats.

  The chandeliers were dimmed. Lamps with creamy silky-fringed shades sat on low tables. It was an attempt to give the vast room an intimate feel, but when Suze compared it with her own tiny lounge room the space had the ambience of a hotel lobby filled with conference delegates. Waiters threaded through the assembled with champagne flutes on silver trays and Suze extended an arm from behind the curtains to steal another glass. Nice. French. She’d developed a taste for the real stuff during her days at Darling Point.

  She considered buying a raffle ticket from one of the tall, blonde teenagers who were selling them for five dollars each for a chance to win an eight-thousand-dollar Hermès handbag. The proceeds would benefit an orphanage in Mumbai. Suze had sold enough raffle tickets to know there were extremely good odds of a win given the number of punters in the room, though the odds were perhaps not so good for the orphans in the teeming slums of Mumbai.

  She recognised a few VIPs. That celebrity gardener off TV, a politician (she couldn’t remember what part of the landscape he inhabited), a talk-back radio personality, former Olympic swimmer, magazine editor...and Jennifer-Alison Strong, BA Hons MA MBA AM.

  Suze was just wondering whether her disguise was good enough to go and say something completely insulting to the harridan when the announcement was made that JJ Blanchard, host of the evening, would like to say a few words. Jennifer-Alison would never know how close she had come to wearing a tray of smoked-salmon-and-caper canapés for a hat.

  Tory sidled up to Suze, looking elegant, classy even, in a slim-cut navy suit and black pumps.

  ‘We’re fucked,’ she whispered. ‘Simon and his friends want to go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kim’s here.’

  ‘You mean the same Kim? His ex, Kim? You’re kidding! What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Apparently he’s Carol’s new personal trainer. Come on.’ She grabbed Suze’s hand and pulled her through the throng.

  ‘Personal trainer? Have a look at her. She hasn’t got a bloody personal trainer,’ Suze babbled, and wrestled with her itchy wig as she was dragged along in Tory’s wake.

  When they got to the entrance hall Simon was collecting his jacket from the cloak room.

  ‘John and Angelo are already in the car. We’re leaving. Kim’s here. Jo will understand. You tell her from me that I don’t blame her.’ He wiped away tears. ‘It was the most beautiful wedding and I’m glad she went through with it, even knowing, you know, everything she knew. It was the happiest day of

  my life.’

  ‘Simon, you can’t go. We need you. Mum needs you,’ Tory pleaded. ‘Dad will finish his speech soon. You have to go and talk to him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetie. You know I love you, but I’m a total wreck.’ He ran down the front steps and up the footpath flanked with Balinese statues wrapped in fairy lights.

  ‘We might as well go too. We’ve failed,’ said Tory. ‘Crap.’

  ‘I’ll drive you home, but not before I’ve at least had a look around,’ said Suze.

  They headed back to the gathering and stood glumly at the back of the room as JJ Blanchard—philanthropist, humanitarian, raconteur and humble businessman—took the floor to say a few words about the various challenges facing modern Australia.

  ‘It comes down to two words,’ he said. ‘Hard work, hard work and hard work. Or is that six words?’ Pause for laughter. ‘My father Fred owned a used-car yard in Kensington. I started out in life washing cars and I have always known the value of hard work. I remember the day...’

  ‘I’m going for a fag on the terrace before I chuck.’ Tory poked her fingers down her throat. She fumbled in her jacket pockets. ‘Shit, I haven’t got any. Let’s go and see if Carol’s got some stashed upstairs.’

  They edged their way along behind the crowd and headed for a white
stone staircase. A young man wearing a suit and tie barred the way.

  ‘I’m sorry, ladies, upstairs is off limits this evening,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I’m Carol’s stepdaughter,’ Tory said, not missing a beat. ‘Victoria Blanchard. I’ve been here all afternoon and left my bag upstairs.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just check, Miss Blanchard,’ he said, and turned discreetly away to say a few words into a lapel mike. Then he turned back and smiled deferentially. ‘Of course, my apologies. Go right ahead.’

  ‘Thank you so much, you’re doing a great job, I’ll be sure to let Mum know.’

  Suze, standing right behind, pinched her bottom.

  They skipped up the stairs and then trawled through densely carpeted corridors and grasped crystal doorknobs to explore empty rooms. Carol’s taste, as they had expected, was execrable.

  ‘What’s the fascination with fluff, frills and fringing? It’s like a kid’s nursery where everything’s padded in case someone falls over. And Christ! Look at the art,’ Tory said as she appraised an oil painting of a pelican in a heavy gold frame.

  ‘I’m sure some decorator told her it’s “sumptuous”—but suffocating’s more like it,’ said Suze.

  Suze hit the jackpot when she discovered Carol’s vast marble bathroom. Tory explored the adjoining spa, sauna and massage complex. This part of the house was, unlike the rest, all gleaming tiles and endless mirrors, a shiny temple of gold plating and tawny, flecked stone. Suze could only marvel that someone with so much floor space dedicated to the arts of beautification could look so bloody ordinary.

  Tory opened the doors of Carol’s vanity unit and a few heavy glass bottles tumbled out and clattered into the basin. ‘Look at this! There’s enough anti-wrinkle gunk in here to restore dead tree bark to silky smoothness with three months of continued use.’

  Suze put her hand to a hefty bottle of Joy perfume and considered hiding it in her handbag. But her days of pilfering stuff were behind her, she reminded herself. Instead she began poking the catastrophe on her head back into place with the aid of a maze of illuminated mirrors.

  Tory caught sight of her own reflection. ‘Fuck! I look like I’m in drag!’ She picked at the hem of her jacket and pulled at her skirt.

  In fact, to Suze’s eye, she was the image of her mother. ‘I think you look wonderful,’ she said.

  ‘It’s such a revolting colour. Ugh!’

  ‘It’s navy. Jo always looked good in navy.’

  ‘Yeah, well, after seeing her wear navy every second day for my entire life, I’m allergic to it. No wonder she left this get-up behind. There’s still a whole lot of her stuff in a wardrobe upstairs at Parklea that Carol hasn’t found. Of course she reckons I look faaabulous! She didn’t even recognise her own pearls. I’m sure she thinks they’re fake. Aren’t they gross?’ Tory wrestled with the iridescent choker at her throat.

  Once Suze would have coveted that necklace, this house and everything that came with it. ‘You know, I always thought I wanted to live in a place like this. But now I’m here...’

  ‘Yeah, it’s an ostentatious shit-heap. Gold taps! Hostess soaps in the shape of shells! The woman’s a troll. Did you check out the bedroom?’

  ‘Should we?’

  ‘It sounds like Dad’s still crapping on, so let’s.’

  From the bathroom they stepped into the dark cocoon of the bedroom and pulled the door half-closed after them. Even as she felt in vain for the light switch, Suze knew that the décor would be a bog of overworked embroidery, beads, brocades and velvets. The perfume of sweet florals—jasmine and roses and orange blossom—was cloying. So strong that Suze could taste it.

  ‘Ack! It reeks,’ whispered Tory. ‘Let’s get out of here before—’

  The clatter of thin heels on marble floor echoed from the bathroom.

  ‘No-one saw you outside with Kim, did they?’ said a voice that Suze and Tory both recognised as Carol Holt’s.

  ‘Relax, daaarling. We went to the pool cabana. I’m not that stupid. I swear, if that man wasn’t a screaming queen, I’d fuck him in two seconds. Oooh, just hold on a tic. I’m desperate for a wee.’ That charming sophisticate was none other than Didi Brigden.

  There was a swish of silk and then the trickle of urine on finest Swedish porcelain.

  Tory felt in her pocket for her tiny video camera.

  Chapter Forty-two

  On the day before Jo went to see JJ, she and Suze—on opposite sides of town—were taking care of business.

  Our Lady of Perpetual Cashflow was now in a skip in the alley behind Geraniums Red. Suze tipped a cardboard box of business cards and pamphlets onto the pile and returned to the shop to collect more rubbish.

  She bundled up the last of the flowers into a few buckets. Most of them had been sold over Easter. It was a sad irony that just as the business was at last on its feet it had to be sold. But then, she reminded herself, the whole enterprise hadn’t been much different to a bouquet which looked pretty, but underneath was held together by a large block of ugly florist’s foam and lengths of wire. Maybe in a few years she could start over, and this time it would be an eco-friendly florist selling simple bunches of natives and locally grown cut flowers. The industry could do with a few more shops like that.

  Suze was dismantling her shrine, up on the bench taking down a poster of Lord Ganesha, when the bell over the door tinkled.

  ‘Good morning!’

  Suze recognised the voice of Sarita.

  ‘Sarita, I’m in the workroom—come through,’ she called as she climbed down from the bench, poster in hand.

  ‘We are all so sorry to hear of your departure, Suzanne,’ said Sarita. ‘You will be missed here by everyone. I especially will miss our conversations and I am sorry that the business has not been a success at this time.’

  ‘I’m sorry too, Sarita. I’ll miss our talks and your cooking as well.’

  ‘I see you have taken down your image of Lord Ganesha.’

  ‘I thought he was the remover of obstacles, but it seems he’s put plenty in my way,’ Suze sighed.

  ‘Ah, but what you have been overlooking is that he is riding on a tiny mouse. Let me show you.’

  Suze laid the poster on the benchtop and Sarita pointed out the mouse at the feet of the Elephant God. She was right; Suze had never noticed it there.

  ‘The mouse is the ego and the pride of the individual. Lord Ganesha rides atop the mouse showing us that he is the master of these destructive tendencies. This is the power of reason and intelligence over our petty desires.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You can also see that the mouse, a very greedy creature, is holding a morsel of food in his paws, but he will not eat it unless Lord Ganesha gives him permission. Thus he is a very good deity to have in mind if one is wanting to go on a diet.’

  Suze laughed and patted her belly. ‘I was going to throw this poster away, but perhaps I should take it with me.’

  ‘Oh, never forsake the Lord Ganesha! His lesson is that wisdom and patience are what is required before we attain prosperity and success. From mastery of the small and petty come great and powerful things.’

  ‘Well, I have a lot to learn, Sarita. I’ll be starting from the ground up and trying to do things a bit better next time.’

  ‘Well, I wish you every success. But we always have to remember what my father said to me: “There is nothing noble in being superior to some other man. The true nobility is in being superior to your previous self.”’

  ‘I think my father said the same sort of thing to me,’ Suze agreed.

  ‘And a farewell present for you. Perhaps before you begin your diet.’

  Sarita presented Suze with some large tubs of curry: her favourite—aloo palak.

  In her report for Rosalind Calwell AO, chair of the Heritage Council of New South Wales, Jo put as much information on The Cape as she was able. Even though Rosalind said she had enough to be going on with and would make ‘a few urgent calls’.r />
  ‘It’s our heritage, Jo, and we all know what contribution the women of Darling Point have made, even if the men are still under the illusion that they run the show. I’ll enjoy disabusing a few of them of that fact this afternoon,’ she had said cheerfully. ‘Amazing women, those Walpoles. To think they had the bravery to sail across the ocean and make a new life on the other side of the world. Get the report to me as fast as you can, would you?’

  Jo had said she would, so she spent a good few hours scanning documents and photographs and then putting together as much of the story as she knew in a detailed PDF file.

  Hannah had been extremely diligent and after hours of research using various sources had come up with the story of Henry Donnithorne and his untimely demise. ‘Typical Sydney saga,’ Hannah had said. ‘Nothing changes much around here.’

  Hannah had also discovered that Eunice had died in 1931 at the age of seventy-eight and her sister Augusta a few years later at eighty-four years of age. They were buried in Waverley Cemetery, Bronte. ‘There’s a lovely view of the ocean from there,’ said Hannah. ‘People in the Eastern Suburbs always like a view, even when they’re dead. We must go and see if we can find them when we get the time.’

  Hannah had even managed to track down some of Henry and Eunice’s descendants, who were now living in Adelaide. It seemed the house had finally passed out of family hands in the 1980s after being the subject of a squabble between siblings. It had been sold and the money divided.

  Father Patrick had shaken his head when he heard that. He was still trying to negotiate with his sister Sheila over the family house. Things didn’t seem to have advanced much.

  ‘She thinks I want the house for myself. I’m a Jesuit priest, I’ve taken a vow of poverty—what would I do with the damn thing? I’m just trying to keep Mum at home as long as I can,’ he’d complained. ‘Bloody real estate and the misery it causes.’

  Jo had said ‘amen’ to that.