by Cate Kendall
‘You should do a line of cocaine. It works wonders for balance,’ Mercedes offered, her head also back with eyes closed.
‘You know I don’t do that shit, Mercedes,’ Gemma said, sitting up again to continue her conversation with Chantelle.
‘You know how Wally left?’ Wally Robinson had been the ineffective CEO at Gemma’s firm for the past five years.
‘A coupla months ago, yeah?’ Chantelle sipped her herbal tea.
‘Well, the powers-that-be in bloody New York have been dragging the chain on hiring a replacement.’
‘So who’s running the place then?’ Chantelle asked.
‘Me! That’s who. The bastards are so cheap they’ve got me doing twice the work on half the salary of the CEO because, unlike the useless Wally Robinson, I don’t have a me to help me. If you get what I mean.’
‘So why don’t they make you the permanent CEO?’ Chantelle asked.
‘No chance. A: I’m not male, and you know how “glass ceiling” PR is. And B: I’m far too young. I’m a good ten years off being considered.’
‘Can’t you, like, ask them anyway?’ Chantelle asked. ‘You could do that job in handcuffs, you’re so good. And what about that Peter bloke? He’s beautiful, he’d support you. I think he fancies you.’
Mercedes sat upright, interested now that the boardroom gossip had ventured a little closer to the bedroom.
‘Ooh,’ she teased, ‘you got an admirer, have you? What would your Stephen say?’
‘Oh, shut it, Mercedes. He’s IQPR New York’s CEO. We’re colleagues; of course we have to get along. Get your mind out of the gutter.’ She turned back to Chantelle. ‘You’re a troublemaker.’
‘He does, but. I saw him looking at you at the IQPR Down Under conference last year. He’s a bit chunky but so loverly and all.’
‘Thanks, Chantelle. But you’re right, though; I do need to call him about this situation, to find out when a new CEO will be appointed so I can stop working so damn hard.’
Mercedes piped up again. ‘Oh, any excuse will do to call your mystery Yank.’
Gemma just rolled her eyes at her and continued to talk to Chantelle.
‘I figured that if I just kept the company running smoothly, the recruitment process would kick in eventually, but I think I’m going to have to start making some noise.’
Mercedes was back in coma pose but mumbled, ‘I bet Peter would like to make some noise with you.’
‘Mercedes, just drop it,’ Gemma snapped angrily.
Mercedes’s bottom lip stuck out slightly and she turned her head away from the others.
Gemma felt immediately guilty. My God, she was on edge. Mercedes was giving her the shits big-time, but such good-natured teasing never normally bothered her. And today her heart was racing, her hands were shaking and she was finding it difficult to get her breathing into the deep, slow rhythm that Plethora usually commanded.
Chantelle’s eyes continued to rest gently on her friend. ‘And I know things haven’t been easy at home, either,’ she said.
Gemma just sighed in response. ‘Where do I start?’
‘Well, how are things going with Tyler these days, then?’ Chantelle asked.
Gemma rubbed her hand across her forehead. ‘I know teenagers are supposed to be hard work, but he does seem to go out of his way to give me grief. I’m so worried about him.’
‘Kids. It’s just a phase; he’ll be fine,’ Mercedes said as she stood to follow the therapist into a treatment room. ‘Ciao, girls. See you in the massage room when I’m plumped, pricked and polished.’
Another therapist guided Chantelle and Gemma into a second room. The ladies nestled into their heated cocoons as the threading and plucking began.
‘Oh, that’s a shame, that is, about your boy, darling,’ Chantelle said. ‘He’s brill, that kid. What do you think went wrong, Gemma? He seemed so great a couple of years back.’
‘He was doing so well, but since halfway through last year he’s just become more miserable and withdrawn.’
‘Do you think it’s the stress of Year Eleven, maybe?’ Chantelle asked.
‘I don’t think so. He just seems to have lost interest in everything and seems so angry all the time.’ A tight ball of tension formed in her chest as she thought about her son. ‘Do you know he’s even stopped playing guitar?’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Chantelle said. ‘That’s terrible.’ She squeaked as the threading came close to her upper lip. ‘Is there any chance he could be, you know, acting out because of the distance between you and hubby? I know that’s quite bad at the moment.’
Gemma folded her arms across her chest. ‘He’s one of the lucky kids whose parents are still together. That’s a rare thing these days, you know, even if we’re not crazy in love anymore. At least he’s not damaged from coming from a broken home.’
Chantelle’s voice was gentle as she responded. ‘Sometimes being in a home with both your parents is not the ideal situation though, luv.’
‘I suppose if Stephen and I were screaming and yelling at each other all the time it might affect him, but we want Tyler to have a real family,’ Gemma said.
‘The way I see it, darl, is that families come in all shapes and sizes these days,’ Chantelle said. ‘My dad left us, but still my childhood was happy and I turned out all right.’
Gemma thought for a second about Chantelle’s fondness for father-figures in her romantic life but kept the observation to herself.
‘I guess everyone’s different,’ Gemma said. ‘I just want the best for Tyler. Stephen and I are okay.’
‘Really?’ Chantelle raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. ‘Do you laugh together, have lovely chats, share hobbies and stuff?’
Gemma snorted. ‘What? Are you high? We’ve been married so long – all the conversations are done, the laughter has finished and as for hobbies, he has his model kits, his sailing, his golf, his drinking buddies, and I have my . . . er . . .’
‘Yah, luv, go on then,’ Chantelle prodded.
‘Well, I don’t really have time for hobbies, what with IQPR being so busy. We’ve got the recent bloody scandal with that feral, Johnny Jackson – why those footballers cannot keep their pants on, I don’t know. Then there’s the Porsche awards night coming up, not to mention the Barry Humphries tour. He’s a beautiful man, but God, that Dame Edna can be a real bitch!’
Chantelle sat quietly and watched Gemma who was staring at the ornate crystal chandelier.
‘I should have invested way more time in my marriage over the years, Chantelle, I really should have. But I was so focused on university, my career and raising Tyler, I put Stephen and me at the bottom of the list.’
‘You were pretty young when you had Tyler.’
‘Yes, we got pregnant right in the middle of our Arts degrees. Stephen did the wrong thing and proposed. Then I did the wrong thing and accepted.’
‘The wrong thing?’
‘Yeah, we were too young. Who says you have to be married to have a baby? We should have just stayed a couple and seen where it went. We were so great together but honestly, parenting puts so much strain on a marriage. Then it went pear-shaped when Stephen got a sales job at the radio station to support me while I was at home with Tyler. I think he still resents the fact that he never finished his degree.’
‘But you got your degree in the end?’ Chantelle asked as she inspected her face in the mirror proffered by the attendant.
‘Of course I did, with a combination of summer school and night school. It was important to me.’ She felt a catch at the back of her throat and gulped in a deep breath to calm herself down. Not again. She was getting weepy over the most ridiculous things lately. Just yesterday when the admin coordinator had announced she was pregnant, Gemma had run to the toilet to hide an unexpected wave of emotion.
‘Well, if it was so important to Stephen, he could have done the same thing,’ Chantelle said. ‘Is it fair that he resents you for that? He should get over himself
.’
‘Yeah, I know, Chantelle.’ Gemma swung her legs around and sat upright. ‘I guess things have been a bit ugly at home lately. Stephen and I snarl and snap at each other like pit bulls sometimes. It’s easier to stay at work.’
‘Darl, if you think Tyler can’t sense the tension at home, you’re a bit of a nuffer,’ Chantelle said.
Gemma sat with her forearms on her knees and her hands clenched.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ she said, her voice a strained whisper. ‘And you know, the other thing that’s really bothering me is all this.’ Gemma swept one arm around the room, encompassing the high gold ceiling, the heavy antique sideboard that held glowing tea lights, the cabinetry that groaned under the weight of expensive creams that were probably all tested on baby animals.
‘What do you mean, then?’ Chantelle looked around, her big blue eyes blinking in wonder as if taking it all in for the first time.
‘The luxury, the money, the excess. It’s really got me thinking.’
‘Thinking what?’ Chantelle asked.
‘Thinking about what it all means. Wondering what the point is to it all. We live such a pampered, indulgent life. Yet all over the world people struggle just to feed their kids. I can’t stop thinking about it lately, about the amount of money wasted on publicising an event so some company can sell people a whole lot of crap they don’t need. It just all seems so fake and meaningless.’ She took a big breath after her tirade.
‘Wow,’ Chantelle sat back on the chaise, ‘but that’s how you’ve got where you are, by being a part of that world. Might seem a bit hypocritical to question it all now, luv. And anyways, what can you do to change it?’
Gemma shook her head. ‘I just don’t know,’ she said.
She tried to fill her lungs, but her breath was strained and tight. She gulped in air and tried again. And then again, with one hand on her shuddering chest. It was no good. She tried to lie back against her lounge and relax.
‘Would you like to come through?’ the therapist asked, and led Gemma and Chantelle into a treatment room that Mercedes was already muddily ensconced in.
Gemma lay on the bed and tried to tune into the rainforest music.
The therapist began to apply the face mask, a mixture of minerals from Lake Dumbleyung, a salt lake in Western Australia. The music was soft and soulful, the quiet murmur of her friends’ voices next to her, reassuring. Everything was drifty and delightful.
But then an insidious kernel of a question started to nibble at her subconscious. Do you deserve this? it said.
Shhh, Gemma’s conscious mind retaliated and pushed the troubling thought away. But like watching a microscopic video of cells dividing, the thoughts increased in size and doubled in weight. What do you think you’re doing? Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with your son? It’s Saturday sports. What about the house? There’s a thousand jobs that need doing at home. You could try spending some time with your husband for once and maybe your marriage wouldn’t be so hollow. How much money did you send to the World Vision kids last month? Just the standard amount? Why not more? What’s a hundred bucks to you anyway? Maybe the kid would appreciate a card? A communication? Something that acknowledges that they’re flesh and blood and not merely a Western guilt-assuaging device.
The thoughts were whirling, dizzying her mind, and her breathing began to get shorter. Her throat constricted. She reached up to remove the thing that was choking her, but there was nothing there, the soft terry of the robe was loose at her bust. The therapist, unaware of Gemma’s inner turmoil, placed a warm towel around her client’s face to cleanse away the mud. The towel seemed to take on a life of its own, suffocating her like a great O2 pillow sucking the air from her lungs. The blockage in her throat slammed shut. She sat bolt upright, clawing at the face towel, desperate for oxygen and release from the claustrophobic threat. Her breathing was short, sharp and jagged. She had to get away, she needed to run; she was sure she was going to die from this feeling.
She leaped from the bed in agitation, her mind a terrifying spiral of panic.
Oh God, she thought, maybe I’ve lost my mind; I’ve gone mad.
She threw her arms out in terror, trying to steady the world that whirled around her, and swept a tray of tiny glass aromatherapy oils to the ground in a noisy crash.
‘What the hell?’ Mercedes and Chantelle sat up, shocked.
‘Wow, good detox!’ Mercedes exclaimed.
Gemma sat rigid in the vinyl waiting-room chair. She clasped her handbag tightly on her lap. She stared unseeingly at the posters for STD and H1N1 prevention, and others urging patients to have mammograms and Pap smears. Her head was still aching and her body felt bruised all over. The panic had subsided, but she still didn’t quite know what had happened to her.
Chantelle had insisted on bringing her to the doctor after her bizarre behaviour at the spa. She sat next to Gemma absently stroking her arm whilst she devoured an old copy of HELLO! Magazine.
Gemma felt tears pricking her eyes. She felt so stupid, and so frightened. The sense of building pressure had happened a few times of late, but nothing as bad as today. Life had just been so full-on recently, with the increased responsibility at work and the unpleasantness at home. The more her marriage splintered at the edges, the more she thought back to her own parents’ dysfunctional relationship with a sense of impending and inevitable doom.
They’d split when Gemma was fourteen and had never spoken a civil word to each other since, not even managing to be in the same space long enough to see their only daughter married or only grandchild christened. Their hatred and bitterness towards each other had barely waned in the decades since they had stormed and raged at each other as their daughter cried herself to sleep. Their split had only created more pain – at least there was less shouting when they were apart – but each parent had used Gemma as a pawn to score points against the other, constantly deriding the other to her, always in competition to buy her the most expensive gifts or designer clothes. Gemma’s teen years were spent being ferried from one angry parent to the other, listening to each catalogue the faults of the other. It was exhausting.
She was determined that things would be different for Tyler; he would have stability and never be caught in the ugly place her parents had forced upon her.
She thought back to the incident of this morning and the look on the spa therapist’s face when the panic finally ebbed away and Gemma was left breathless and shivering.
You’re a mental case, the look had said.
Gemma’s doctor, Kerryn Davis, stepped into the waiting room and motioned her to follow her into her surgery.
Kerryn was a trim woman with a very quiet voice who immediately instilled confidence.
‘Thanks for fitting me in at such late notice,’ Gemma said.
‘It was good timing, actually. I just had a cancellation. Now what’s going on with you?’ Kerryn enquired gently, sliding a box of tissues towards her patient.
Right on cue, Gemma grabbed a tissue and her will faltered. Heavy tears fell down her cheeks. ‘I know it’s silly, but I just can’t control my emotions at the moment. I cry over everything, and then today, I’m not sure what happened; I think I had a panic attack.’
She described how she’d felt at the spa, the terror and the fear that seemed to have come from nowhere.
Kerryn nodded sympathetically as she jotted down some notes on Gemma’s file.
‘And work is so stressful. I’m acting CEO at the moment until they hire someone. Which means I have to go to the States for a conference but I can’t leave my son – he’s going through a hard time. And my marriage is in ta-a-a-a-attterrss,’ she sobbed finally.
‘Is it?’ Kerryn asked. ‘Tell me more about your marriage being in tatters.’
Gemma looked up. Had she said that? She wondered, again, if she was going a little bit loopy. She did a complete flip. ‘Oh, look, it’s not; it’s fine. We’re fine. I’m quite mad to have even said that.’ She was beaming through he
r tears, aware that this watery Cheshire cat impersonation was only making matters worse.
A few more sobs from Gemma and a few more gentle probing questions from Kerryn followed: about previous episodes (a few minor ones), her alcohol use (probably one glass too many each night) and her general diet (healthy if erratic).
‘Hmmm, okay, and do you drink much caffeine?’ Kerryn asked.
‘Oh, I’m rather a caffeine junkie,’ Gemma gave a small smile, ‘I’d had about four cups before reaching the day spa.’
‘Okay,’ Kerryn murmured thoughtfully. ‘Well, there are some investigations we need to do then. I’d like to do a blood test to rule out an overactive thyroid, and I’d like you to come back and see me again next week. In the meantime I’d suggest you cut back on the coffee, and maybe consider some ways to manage stress better. Have you ever tried meditation or yoga? Deep-breathing techniques can also help.’ She reached for some brochures in her desk drawer. ‘Here’s some information on panic attacks and some hints for dealing with them.’
Gemma scanned the brochures quickly and sighed; she really didn’t have time to cope with this at the moment.
‘It’s important that we monitor your moods over the next week, so I think it would be useful to keep a note of how you feel each day, just a simple description in your work diary will do. Maybe try ranking your mood out of ten, with ten being the best feeling, and one being the worst.’
‘Okay.’ Gemma nodded reluctantly.
‘That way we can get a clearer picture of your emotional state. I want to rule out depression.’
‘Thanks.’ Gemma shook hands with her doctor and stood to leave.
‘You have a lot on your plate at the moment, Gemma. Try to cut back where you can.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, thank you so much.’
Chantelle stood up in concern as Gemma came back to the waiting room.
‘Thanks for waiting,’ Gemma said and gave her friend a hug.
‘Of course,’ Chantelle assured her. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I will be. I think I just need to go home now.’
