Armani Angels

by Cate Kendall

  Gemma knew their names immediately and what their husbands and families did. Money market, furniture industry, hospitality industry, she thought as she shook each woman’s hand.

  Gemma was easily at least twenty years younger than everyone there bar Julian. But she figured it was all part of the succession plan and if the younger generation didn’t take up the reins in the next decade, then Melbourne’s charitable institution, UP-Kids, which relied heavily on the Dame’s generosity, would fade away.

  The Dame looked up, straight at Olympia. ‘I saw your eldest girl at the Carrington wedding.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Olympia said, ‘Soula said she saw you there.’

  ‘She was wearing the same jade-green Dior that she wore to the Rose Ball.’

  ‘Er, yes, well, she looks gorgeous in it,’ Olympia stammered.

  ‘Let’s begin, shall we,’ the Dame went on, ignoring Olympia’s pink-stained cheeks.

  ‘Busy, people, busy, busy, busy. Julian, let’s have the minutes from last week, and try to speak up, will you – it’s like listening to the mumbles of a teen.’

  Julian ran through the items of the previous week.

  ‘How’s the Fashion Luncheon coming along?’ The Dame pointed at Bobbi.

  ‘Great, fine. Father is giving us the ballroom at the compound and providing the catering,’ Bobbi said.

  Gemma was astounded that rather than ‘thank you’ the Dame snapped, ‘About time.’ With three more snaps she sorted invitations, valet parking and raffle prizes. At $250 a head the event could raise $50,000, provided everything was donated.

  ‘Flowers?’ she asked and glared at each woman. They fiddled with their jewellery, glanced at each other, doodled on their notepads. The mounting pressure was undeniable. The tick of the antique mantel clock grew louder as each second sounded. Gemma felt sweat prickle in her armpits as Dame Frances’s ice-grey eyes moved down the table. They eventually reached her. Gemma had never felt so intimidated in her life. But what could she offer? She didn’t work in the flower business.

  Well, I guess I could always ask my supplier, she thought. I give them good business. Maybe in exchange for the Rolex gig next month . . .

  The steely ocular lock fastened on Gemma’s eyes. ‘I’ll sort floral!’ she squeaked. The entire room exhaled.

  The meeting continued for another hour. Julian was pouring out his third Bodum of coffee to the women. The silver salver of delicate pastries remained untouched but was eyeballed often by Bobbi.

  ‘Now, the Chocolate Ball,’ the Dame announced, looking at her notes. Gemma snuck a peek at her watch. She really had to get to work. Without looking in her direction, the Dame said, ‘Are we keeping you from something, Gemma?’

  ‘Er, no, I –’ she stuttered and felt like a high-school kid caught texting.

  ‘It was rhetorical. About the name,’ she said. ‘It’s crucial we get this right as numbers have been down in the last few years – in fact, it’s appalling we haven’t sold out in five years. Thoughts?’ the Dame scanned the table.

  ‘The “Chocolate Ball” does tell it like it is,’ Olympia offered.

  ‘Hmmm,’ the Dame countered, ‘it’s not frightfully original though, is it?’

  ‘What about the Snowball?’ Rebekah said brightly. ‘They’re chocolate.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Dame Frances said. Rebekah perked for a moment until the Dame finished with, ‘If the ball were to be held in winter and we were children.’

  To fill the silence that ensued, Gemma jumped in. ‘We could call it the Lindt Ball, get sponsorship from Lindt with naming rights costing them fifty Gs,’ she said. ‘They are, after all, the epitome of the elite chocolate ball, which is definitely the brand link that you want to achieve. We could have a website, run a competition, giveaways, each table would be covered in the balls, have them hanging off the centrepieces as Christmas-style decorations. As an additional income stream we could use new SMS software to send out a contest e-vite and charge one dollar per vote with the prize being a luxury night on the town including tickets to the Lindt Ball. With my database, we can do a mass mail-out to your exact demographic . . .’

  Gemma realised that as she was pitching this volley of ideas, there was little eye contact or encouraging smiles from the committee. In fact, the only eye contact was coming from Dame Frances who was offering more a withering gaze than an encouraging smile. Everybody else was scratching away at their manicures as if their lives depended on it.

  Silence.

  ‘Well, I vote we call this year’s ball the Rum Ball and it will have a pirate theme and will be sponsored, as usual, by Terry’s Chocolate Orange,’ Dame Frances said.

  A chorus of ‘brilliant’s and ‘well done’s followed, accompanied by a smattering of applause.

  Hmmm, Gemma thought as she looked around the table of sycophants. I should have been given a list of rules as to how this mob operates. Even Lady Patricia was sucking up to the Dame, Gemma thought.

  ‘I’ll have an invitation designed and then get it to the printer once the sponsors come in,’ Bobbi offered. ‘I can drop it off after the October meeting – it’s only twenty minutes out of my way.’

  Gemma couldn’t hold her tongue. ‘Drop it off?’ she said. ‘Why not save time, money and petrol and email it?’

  Bobbi sniffed with superiority and looked down her little snub nose. ‘I am not on the email. My kids are very good at the interweb but quite frankly I don’t see how it could be useful for any aspect of my life.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine,’ Gemma said quickly, although inwardly quite aghast there were still people on the planet who were not online. ‘But why a printer? Why aren’t you doing an e-vite? You don’t personally need to be online to invite everyone. I’m happy to volunteer to do that. It takes a fraction of the time, money and again resources.’

  Dame Frances intervened. She removed her spectacles and spoke to Gemma as though she were a little slow. ‘Gemma, dear, I have been running this committee for fifty years. During the past five years there has never, and I repeat, never, been a child picked up off the streets after dark recorded by police, thanks to the safety nets at UP-Kids that are, need I remind you, paid for by us.

  ‘Our income has increased by ninety per cent in the last seven years. I think I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, Dame Frances, please don’t get me wrong – you’re the best. It’s just that there is so much technology at our disposal that could help you even further, that could make your message louder, your income greater.’

  Dame Frances considered Gemma for a few more seconds. She put her glasses back on and picked up her heavy Mont Blanc pen. ‘Julian, I need you to sort out everyone’s schedules for a working bee six weeks prior to the event for hand-addressing of the envelopes. Fountain pens mandatory.’

  Gemma’s jaw dropped – then clenched. Rather than feeling dejected and discarded, her typical fighting spirit welled deep within. This was a very good cause, crucial to the Melbourne kids who might fall through the cracks, and damned if she was going to let this group of old dinosaurs take it with them to extinction.

  ‘Hellooo?’ Stephen’s baritone bounced off the walls of the house. He flicked on the light as he closed the garage door. Dropping his briefcase onto the floor, he made his way down the corridor, loosening his tie and intermittently repeating his greeting. He knew that Gemma wouldn’t be home till late, which is why the guys were coming over for a card night, but he’d expected Tyler would be home. Stephen was usually home much earlier than this but had stopped for a drink at the pub with colleagues.

  The mess in the kitchen suggested Tyler had been at home at some point. The cereal box was spilled over, the milk carton was warm, and a half-empty bowl sat on the bench. He opened the fridge. The lasagne Gemma had made for dinner sat on the middle shelf untouched. How hard was it to zap a quick dinner for himself? ‘No wonder he’s so surly,’ Stephen muttered to himself, ‘he lives on a diet of sugar.’

  Stephen
placed the bowl next to the sink, put the cereal box in the cupboard and the milk back in the fridge and wiped the kitchen bench. He went over to the bin to dispose of the crumbs. As he turned back to the sink to rinse out the cloth, the display shelves above the bench caught his eye. It was a general pile of untouched inessentials that kitchens tend to clutter: rarely referred-to cookbooks, old take-out menus, a kitsch biscuit jar. The shelf above it displayed a hodgepodge of ceramics and glassware. At first glance it was a visual disaster of clunky, tacky junk. But Stephen realised he’d never actually looked closely at the shelf. It was like a little museum of the Bristol family. He stretched to pick up the piece at the back. It was a mosaic picture frame that Gemma had helped Tyler make when he was ten, from the Bunnikins plate he’d so loved as a child and then accidentally dropped and smashed. A photo of the three of them at Tyler’s eighth birthday party was inside the frame. In the picture Stephen’s arm wrapped around the back of his son’s neck and loosely rested on his wife’s shoulder. She was so thin in the picture. She was slim now, but in the photo she looked almost skeletal. He remembered the time. He had been in-between jobs and she was fighting desperately for a promotion. The stress had taken its toll.

  It was about that time when things really started to go bad between them. He remembered Gemma yelling that he was lazy, not trying hard enough to find a new job. But it wasn’t that he was lazy; she was on such a great salary package that there seemed no point in him working twelve-hour days as well. It was good for the boy too. He and Tyler had spent some brilliant days together that summer, real male-bonding stuff.

  He put the photo down and picked up the cheap glass vase next to it. Why would the aesthetically sensitive Gemma keep such a piece of shit? He plucked a folded note from inside it. I luv my mum, luv from Tyler. Of course. A Mother’s Day present. Judging from the handwriting, he must have been about eight. It might have been the year when Stephen arranged for the three of them to have a helicopter ride over the city. Tyler had been beside himself with excitement.

  Stephen smiled to himself as he remembered the grateful look Gemma had given him as she saw the thrill on her little boy’s face. The earphones had been so big on that little head. Stephen carefully put the vase back. As he slid it along the shelf, something stopped its movement. His hand patted the shelf. It was a piece of paper folded in four. He opened it up. A letter from Tyler.

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  I am so so so so so so sorry that I wos vary nawty tonite. I will not eva thro my ball inside eva again espeshally when you sed for me not too. I will by you a new lamp with my poket munny. Plis don’t get a divaws. I wont do it agen.

  Tyler Bristol aged 6 and a kwarter.

  The tears pricked like acid behind Stephen’s eyes. What in the hell kind of childhood have we put this kid through? Stephen had thought the marriage problems had only been serious recently but clearly they’d been in trouble as far back as when Tyler was six. Maybe the bloody counselling session that Gemma had arranged for tomorrow might be a good thing.

  He put the letter back where he’d found it and walked down the hall. He called up the stairs. No response. That meant nothing, Stephen thought as he climbed.

  There was no light coming from Tyler’s closed bedroom door, again, meaningless. He knocked.

  ‘What?’ came the muffled reply.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Stephen opened the door and shook his head at the chaos in the room. Piles of clothes, towels and comic books dotted the floor. Tyler’s desk, a mountain of books, papers and notepads, was a paper avalanche waiting to happen. The bedclothes were in tight knots, the blanket jammed down the side and a pungent smell of rotten lunches and BO hung in the air.

  But that wasn’t the worst bit. Dark, violent imagery covered the walls: medieval beasts bared their teeth; tattooed and pierced musicians scowled down at him; the symbols of the dark arts were unnerving. All fond memories of the struggling six-year-old went out the window. That kid didn’t exist anymore. This . . . this . . . this . . . creature had taken him away.

  Stephen punched the wall in frustration.

  ‘Tyler, will you just have a look at the state of this room?’ He hated the fact that he sounded so damn dad-like.

  Tyler, sitting on the bed, with his back to the door, rolled his eyes and went back to staring out of the window.

  ‘It’s just take, take, take with you.’

  ‘Oh, what-ev-ah,’ Tyler said. ‘Just back off, will you, Dad?’

  Stephen took a deep breath and tried a different approach.

  ‘Maaate,’ he tried again, ‘I know you need your space and all that, but seriously you need to pick up some of the filthy socks and jocks – man, the smell is rank.’

  Tyler just stared at him blankly and idly picked at a zit on his chin.

  Stephen wanted to slap him, hard. He clenched his hands at his sides and had one last try at communicating with his only child. He wished Gemma was here; she seemed to do better at this than him, but as usual she was off at some work thing, and in a few days she was flying to New York again, leaving him alone with this teenage misery. It was a never-ending thankless task being a parent. This morning for instance, he’d made the boy porridge, which Tyler just ignored. He’d tried to jolly him into a smile with his impression of Monty Python’s Silly Walk sketch, again nothing. He was just a sack of sulks. It was draining being around him. Which made Stephen react in kind.

  He dragged a pile of clothes and an empty pizza box off the armchair and sat down.

  ‘Mind if I sit?’ he said.

  ‘Free country,’ his son snarled from the bed.

  Stephen sat and considered the black-haired, slump-shouldered figure of his son. If Tyler would only just try a bit harder at school, make a bit of an effort around the house, maybe he’d find life less challenging. He should play a sport; that would fix him, Stephen thought as he looked around at the macabre posters on Tyler’s walls. All he ever did was stay in this putrid room or roam the streets with that Mathew Gillespie. He shuddered; he was so glad to escape that graffiti meeting with the vice-principal. He’d gone sailing but had told Gemma he’d had a meeting. The last thing he’d needed was that self-satisfied Mrs Carruthers to look down her nose at him and bang on about how useless his son was. Like he needed to be told.

  ‘So, Tyler, what’s going on, dude?’ A sharp glance warned him to quit the feeble attempt at cool talk. ‘What’s happening? Anything much? How’s school?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Study? Guitar? Xbox? Anything not fine? Anything I can help you with? How about, I don’t know, everything? How’s everything?’ He heard himself getting sarcastic and terse but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to smack the sulkiness from the boy’s face. But he didn’t, he was determined to keep his patience. His hands clasped, his forearms rested on his open knees. Tyler answered his last question.

  ‘Fine.’

  Stephen leaped to his feet, red-faced with anger. ‘Why you little . . .’ he shouted.

  Tyler looked up with slow eyes, an almost imperceptible smile creeping over his face showing how pleased he was at earning such a reaction.

  Damn, he’d been got. Stephen sat back down, rubbed his head in his hands. His hands remained sheltering his face as if he could hide from this horrible, ungrateful fruit of his loins. He felt tears of frustration prick. How stupid. He brushed them away.

  He felt Tyler’s eyes on him. He looked up. Tyler had moved his body around facing his. His head was tilted, as if curious, as if Stephen’s pain was an interesting scientific experiment. Stephen sat, not daring to say a word, not daring to breathe, to scare what was a precious sign of engagement.

  ‘Dad,’ Tyler eventually said, ‘what was it like for you? School, I mean.’

  Hallelujah, the kid was showing interest. So Tyler wanted to hear all about his old man and what a legend he was at school. Maybe it’s a motiv
ational opportunity; maybe when he finds out how his dad was the hero of the soccer field, tennis court and swimming pool, he might have something to look up to.

  Stephen put his locked hands behind his head, stretched out his legs and nodded slowly as the fond memories came flooding back. He told Tyler about the time he kicked the winning goal in the footy championship, about skiving off and not getting caught, about all the cruel and clever ways he and his mates made life miserable for the nerds. His words trailed off as he noticed Tyler’s hooded eyes just staring at him. Not responding. This wasn’t working at all. Tyler needed to know that his dad suffered too. But Stephen hadn’t. Well, not too much. It would have killed him to tell his own son that he got picked on relentlessly by the gang of kids from the year above him. But maybe it would be a bonding moment? It was just so hard to relive it, to admit it to his son. He didn’t know what to do.

  ‘But there were some tough times too, I suppose,’ he eventually said. Then Stephen added, ‘School pretty much sucks.’

  ‘It sure does,’ the boy replied and turned back to the window, leaving Stephen in no doubt the conversation was over. He sighed. He desperately wanted to pat that long bony back but was terrified Tyler would flinch away. He picked up a pile of clothes from the floor, dumped it in the hamper and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  The next afternoon Stephen pulled his BMW into the car park at the back of the renovated house. He was thankful that Gemma had chosen a counsellor in an area where he’d be unlikely to run into anybody he knew.

  He checked his BlackBerry. He was a few minutes late. He breathed deeply and rested his head on the seat back. They’d tried this once a few years ago. It had been a massive failure with the session resulting in accusations and he-saids, she-saids. The counsellor had been a pathetic curly-haired mouse of a woman who proved useless at guiding the meeting. Nothing had been resolved. Of course that was probably because neither Gemma nor Stephen had been interested in continuing with the recommended ten sessions.