Spinning Around

by Catherine Jinks

  The first time I met him, at a family beach picnic, he spent most of his time talking to other people on his mobile, while the rest of us polished our fillings on chicken sandwiches full of wind-blown sand. I suppose it wasn’t his fault that, after this first disastrous effort at socialising, he had me labelled as a complete bonehead. (It’s hard to make coherent conversation when you’re trying to keep an eye on two kids—neither of whom can swim—in a beachfront setting.) But the second effort wasn’t much better. After practically taking out a second mortgage on the house, Matt and I had hired a babysitter for three hours and joined Giles and Miriam for dinner in the city. A Big Deal for us—our first night out in something like fourteen months. Anyway, although it was a pretty flash restaurant, with pretty fancy food, Giles had found fault with everything from the poor mobile reception to the pedestrian wine list. Not that he wasn’t an amusing whinger—you couldn’t help laughing when he compared his antipasto selection to something cleaned out of a badly maintained aquarium. But the way he talked, you found yourself wondering what he’d be saying about you, the minute you turned your back.

  He gave you the impression of a person who, though easily bored, was not easily impressed. Perhaps that’s why Miriam behaved in a slightly uncharacteristic way when he was around; she’s always been dry, but with him she was positively brittle. The two of them kept indulging in these witty, sophisticated exchanges about plastic surgery and tax havens and architect-designed beach houses. It made Matt and me feel like a pair of clodhopping preschoolers.

  In other words, quite frankly, I think Giles is a bit of an arsehole.

  Or maybe I’m just jealous, now that I’m not even ahead in the relationship stakes. I mean, I used to be the one who pulled the halfway decent men. It’s petty, I know. It’s unforgivable. It’s a measure of the depths to which you can sink, when you’re sleep-deprived. But I get so depressed when she starts talking about a peaceful stroll through the art gallery, followed by afternoon tea at Watson’s Bay. The last time we were at Watson’s Bay, Jonah dropped his chocolate ice-cream down the front of my white blouse, Emily trod dog poo all over the picnic rug, and Matt caught his hand in the stroller’s fold-out mechanism. Par for the course, I’m afraid—though I shouldn’t complain, I know. After all, both my kids are healthy. And the trip wasn’t a complete disaster. It’s a nice feeling, when you’re sitting in the golden afternoon light, watching your gorgeous husband play with your chortling son, while your beaming daughter runs towards you with a blue-tipped feather in her hand. You learn to enjoy these heavenly Hollywood moments while you can, knowing full well that any moment your daughter’s going to trip and fall, your son’s going to cry for his mum, and your husband’s going to get hit in the face by someone’s Frisbee.

  Oh dear, there I go again. Moan, moan, moan—it’s a psychological tic. And what am I moaning about? The fact that I have a full, rich family life? Other people don’t even have that. I feel so embarrassed sometimes, when I listen to some of the single mums at playgroup; it makes me realise how lucky I’ve been. (How lucky I am, please God.) I’ve got to be more positive— more glass-half-fullish. It’s that North Shore perfectionist coming out in me again. I’ve got to squash the tendency, it’s like a weed. And of course it’s made worse by the fact that I’m not even consistent. Because when I realised, this evening, that Miriam wanted to talk about Men, part of me (the bad part) was relieved at the possibility that she’d stuffed up yet again, while another part was appalled at the prospect of having to Give Counsel. Giving Counsel was always my role in these situations, but I don’t have the energy any more. How can you display a boundless interest in every inflection of a man’s voice, every enigmatic phone call he makes and statement he utters, when you know that with each tick of the clock you might be losing a heaven-sent opportunity to give the kitchen floor a quick mop before Jonah finishes his Vegemite sandwich and has to be coaxed into the bath?

  If Matt had been available, I could have sympathised at my leisure. But Matt was on his evening shift. What’s more, the dinner–bath–bedtime routine was looming. I could see that if Giles proved to have a bloke on the side, or was living under a false name, or had ordered Miriam to shave off all her pubic hair, the kids wouldn’t be getting to bed until after eight.

  As it happened, however, I needn’t have worried. Miriam was short, sharp and to the point.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she declared, settling down in my grease-spattered kitchen with a frown on her face. There was a pause as she drummed her fingers on the tabletop. She seemed uncharacteristically tense. Almost jittery, in fact.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ she continued, ‘but after a lot of thought I’ve decided to tell you something that you’re not going to like. Something that you’re not going to thank me for. I was wondering what I should do, because it’s difficult, but I’ve decided to bite the bullet. It’s the best thing, I think, for both of us.’

  I stared at her in astonishment, my mind racing and my cheeks reddening. I couldn’t imagine what it was that she proposed to tell me. Did I have BO? Some kind of annoying mannerism? Was she going to take me to task about my negative attitude, or the weight I’d put on?

  ‘It’s about Matt,’ she said, and her fingers stopped moving. ‘Maybe I’m out of order here—maybe there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation—but I saw him in a restaurant at lunchtime, today, cuddling a girl who can’t have been more than twenty-two.’

  I just gaped at her.

  ‘She was snuggling into his neck, and he was kissing her hair. This was on Oxford Street, by the way—the Indigo café, you know? I’d been at the courts.’ Miriam sighed. ‘I saw them there once before, about three weeks ago, and he was holding her hand, but I thought—I mean, it could have been a secretary with AIDS, or something. I was a bit surprised, but I didn’t like to overreact. Maybe I’m overreacting now. She had purple hair, and pale skin. One of those tattooed bracelets on her upper arm. A kind of orange chiffon singlet slung over a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Three studs in her left ear. I couldn’t see what she was wearing on her bottom half—it was behind the table. I couldn’t see her face very well, either.’ Miriam cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘Sound familiar?’ she asked.

  I shook my head, speechless. During the brief silence that followed, I could hear Sleeping Beauty singing ‘Once Upon a Dream’ in the next room.

  ‘You might end up hating me for this,’ Miriam concluded, ‘but in the end I felt that I couldn’t walk away from it. Not with my background. I’ve had too much to do with guys who’ve gambled away all their money, and lost their jobs, and started juggling credit cards and signing away their houses and their wives haven’t had a clue, though they must have sensed that something was going on. You’ve got to nip deceit in the bud, or it’ll end up just the tip of the iceberg. Believe me. I’ve seen it. All these fraudulent lending managers who start off with a mistress on the sly and end up draining church bank accounts. It happens.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I know. I know.’ She lifted a hand. ‘Matt isn’t a thief. But if he turned out to be throwing away all your mortgage money on this . . . um . . . person, I’d never have forgiven myself if I hadn’t told you. That’s all.’

  Tick, tick, tick. The kitchen clock ticked away. I checked the time automatically. Five to six.

  ‘What time did you see him?’ I asked. ‘In the restaurant?’ Normally, on a weekday, Matt leaves home around twelve, so that he can work for Rural Spotlight. (He does sound mixing for a lot of ABC programs, including Rural Spotlight, the news, and that arts one whose name always escapes me.) This means that he’ll either grab a bite of lunch at home, before he leaves, or drop into a coffee shop on the way—when we can afford it. That day, he had left a little early. I remembered the excuse that he had given: namely, lunch with his friend Ray. Ray was one of Matt’s colleagues who had also become his friend. He was like a younger version of Matt, because they both enjoyed the same kinds of music, bars and telev
ision shows. Unfortunately, Ray had recently moved from the on-air mixing desk to postproduction, which offered its staff more sensible hours—so Matt didn’t see as much of him any more. Hence the need for lunch appointments. ‘Matt has to be at work at one,’ I pointed out. ‘When did you see him? Exactly?’

  ‘About half past twelve.’

  ‘Oh.’ So that fitted. I scratched my arm, avoiding Miriam’s eye. ‘I’ll ask Matt,’ I said, in a surprisingly calm voice. ‘There must be an explanation.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘I mean—was he really cuddling her?’

  ‘Well, he had an arm around her shoulders, and he was pulling her against him. And her face was buried in his neck.’

  ‘And he was kissing her hair.’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  I swallowed. ‘Are you sure it was Matt?’

  ‘Dead certain,’ Miriam replied, with a level gaze. I turned away from her. I couldn’t think.

  ‘Mu-um!’ Emily called from the living room. ‘I’m finished!’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m finished, Mum!’

  ‘All right. Good girl.’

  ‘I’m still hungry!’

  ‘You can have an apple.’

  ‘Oo-oh.’ Whine, whine. ‘I want something else.’

  ‘It’s nearly dinner. Just wait.’

  ‘But I’m hungry . . .’

  ‘Just wait, Emily!’ I found myself rubbing my forehead with one finger as I lowered my voice. ‘He has a cousin in Perth, but she’s got multiple sclerosis. He has a bunch of sisters-in-law, but they’re older than I am. He has a niece, but she’s only twelve. This girl—are you sure she wasn’t twelve?’

  ‘I doubt it. I very much doubt it. Unless his niece has been on the streets for a while? Doing drugs?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and realised that, in any case, Christine would never have allowed Sophie to dye her hair purple. Not in a million years. ‘But there must be an explanation.’

  ‘There probably is.’

  ‘I’ll ask Matt.’

  ‘That’s the best thing.’

  Suddenly my daughter appeared. She came and swung on my chair.

  I was grateful for the interruption.

  ‘Jonah made a mess,’ she informed me.

  ‘Really.’

  ‘What are you cooking, Mum?’

  ‘Nothing, right now.’

  ‘Can I have chips for dinner?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘You’re having rice.’

  ‘Can you put tomato sauce on it?’

  ‘I’d better go,’ Miriam announced, rising abruptly. ‘Unless you want me to stay. Do you? I’ll stay if you want.’

  I looked at her. She wore a grave expression, to match her sober suit. I wondered if I wanted her around. Probably not, I decided. It would be hard enough, feeding the kids while I digested this unwelcome news, without Miriam watching me burn the sausages.

  She had never, I recalled, been all that enamoured of Matt. Not disapproving, exactly—just unconvinced.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Helen,’ she said, studying me intently. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s okay.’

  ‘I feel awful about this. I didn’t want to do it. I just felt I had to. Before—’ She stopped suddenly, and swallowed, glancing at Emily. Emily, of course, wasn’t interested in the esoteric pronouncements of her elders. She was rearranging the fridge magnets. I could tell, however, that Miriam was trying to assemble cryptic phrases that wouldn’t alarm my daughter. ‘Before things get out of hand,’ she finished.

  ‘I know.’ I didn’t blame Miriam—I really didn’t. She had always been a very loyal friend. ‘I’m glad you told me. Though I’m sure it’s nothing.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t screwed up here. Well—I hope I have, of course. Made a mistake.’ She gave a dismal little laugh. ‘Thanks for not shooting the messenger. Are you sure you don’t need anything?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . maybe Sara Lee chocolate ice-cream? I could go and buy some for you.’

  ‘Yes!’ Emily exclaimed. Even I smiled at that. But I assured Miriam that I required nothing special, not even a cup of strong coffee. Then I said goodbye, and she told me she’d call me. She said she was sorry, and on the front doorstep she gave me a hug, holding me tight. I noticed at once that she was wearing perfume, but I didn’t know what kind it was.

  I’ve no idea what any of the new fragrances smell like, these days. I just haven’t been keeping up.

  So there I was, calmly putting the kids to bed while inside my head it was like that movie Twister, with thoughts and emotions careering around, tumbling, colliding and whirling away again. ‘Big Bear took Little Bear’s hand,’ I read, telling myself all the while that it must be a mistake. ‘Five little ducks went out one day,’ I sang, as surges of panic made me break into a sweat. And Jonah was restless, of course, calling me back again and again, disturbing Emily, refusing to lie down. And you can’t afford to lose your temper in these circumstances, or it’s going to take the Problem Child even longer to settle.

  As for Emily, she was so unbearably sweet that I nearly burst into tears. ‘I want to whisper in your ear,’ she said, and when I leaned over she confided that she loved me, and daddy too— just like something out of a Disney movie. I needed a glass of wine, after that. (How do they always manage to hit you right where it hurts?)

  I knew that it had to be a mistake. I knew that there had to be a reasonable explanation. But even so, deep down inside, a little kernel of doubt was starting to shoot. It had been sitting there in the dark, all these years, and it needed only the smallest gleam of light—the faintest trace of moisture—to encourage it to take root. Right from the beginning, you see, I had always had this . . . doubt. This tiny, unquenchable fear. Because the fact is, I had married a wild one.

  Now I know it sounds phobic. I know that. But just consider the circumstances. Matt and I, we were a classic case of opposites attracting. Matthew was a tattooed, dope-smoking, shaggy-haired musician from Newcastle. I was a typical North Shore girl from Killara. God knows how many times I’ve tried to hide this fact—especially from myself—but whenever I used to visit my parents (before they moved), and went to buy brie at the local deli, I would look around at the sleek blonde Anglos, with their small ears and delicate gold jewellery and pastel sportswear, and I would know that I blended in there as I never will here, in Dulwich Hill. Dulwich Hill isn’t an Anglo sort of place. You can always get decent baklava in Dulwich Hill, and the butchers stock interesting things like rabbits and sheep’s heads. All of the doctors bulk-bill. If the churches aren’t Greek Orthodox, they’re holding services in Vietnamese. I’m not saying that I stick out like a shag on a rock, exactly—I’m just saying that this isn’t my natural milieu. It’s an inescapable fact of life. I’m North Shore from pedicure to perm: my father was a lawyer, until he retired; my mother is, and always has been, a housewife. I went to a private school. I have a law degree from Sydney University. I simply can’t pull off a grungy, gothic, feral or flamboyant look. I’m the sort of person, in other words, who looks hugely out of place in a bar in King’s Cross.

  That’s where I was when I first met Matthew—in a bar in King’s Cross. I was there by invitation because a friend of mine from school, who also lived in Paddington, was throwing a sort of postmodern hen’s night. The idea was that we would go on a traditional hen’s-night pub crawl, taking the piss out of the vulgarity of it all while secretly enjoying it at the same time. (The equivalent of having your cake and eating it too.) I should point out, here, that Caroline, the bride-to-be, was never a great friend of mine. We simply knew each other from school, and associated because we lived in the same street. Having studied at the Darlinghurst College of Art, she had become a graphic designer, though she’s now living a luxurious life in the most exclusive part of Vaucluse with her (wait for it) second husband. Miriam had got to know her too, throug
h me, so we were both invited—probably because Caroline wanted a crowd. I think it was a boost to her ego, having a lot of people following her around; at any rate, there must have been a good twenty women who turned up that night, and traipsed from one end of King’s Cross to the other—past staggering junkies and touts and alcoholics—like a pack of sailors on the prowl.

  I can’t say that I enjoyed the concept very much. I’m not a big drinker, you see; I start to throw up after I’ve had a couple. As for Miriam, she doesn’t drink alcohol at all. Consequently, when the other girls started to get pissed, and joined up with a mob of young lawyers and stockbrokers who were enjoying a buck’s night (though not a postmodern one), Miriam and I bowed out. We withdrew from the fray, and went up to the bar. Which is where I got talking to Matthew.

  He was working there, at the time. It was one of his many jobs. When I asked him for an orange juice I noticed that he had tatts on his arms, and a missing tooth, and dismissed him from my thoughts immediately. Not because I was a snob, you understand. It was simply because he obviously belonged in a bar in King’s Cross, whereas I didn’t. North is north and west is west and ne’er the twain shall meet, in other words. I had never sat on a motorbike before, and knew that I wasn’t the sort of person who would ever feel comfortable doing so. Therefore, Matthew didn’t recommend himself to me at first. It didn’t even cross my mind that he’d be remotely interested in someone who didn’t do drugs.

  But when he brought me my juice and my change, he stopped to talk. He said that he had seen me on the premises before, trying to give some guy the brush-off. That’s when I started paying attention, because it was true; I had been in there some weeks previously, with a nasty piece of work named Colin. Matt asked me if I had ‘got rid of’ Colin, and upon learning that I had, made approving noises. Colin, he said, had looked just like the bad guy from that movie Big. Did I remember him? The corporate wanker with the blond hair? I replied that Matt was exhibiting the most extraordinary grasp of Colin’s character, and we then started discussing movies, with particular reference to Tom Hanks and Ron Howard. Of course we kept on getting interrupted—Matt had a job to do, after all—but even so, it soon became apparent to me that Matthew’s rather aggressive appearance was totally misleading. Not that he looked like a gorilla, or anything. Don’t get me wrong. He has a very nice face (what you can see of it, under the hair and stubble), and his eyes are lovely. But there were the tatts, and the missing tooth, and the easy familiarity with King’s Cross slang . . . well, you know what I mean.