by Cate Kendall
Dame Frances scanned the four pages of her paid-up RSVPs. ‘I don’t even know half these people,’ she muttered. ‘Where’s Cilla Grange? Isn’t she coming?’
‘Well, I haven’t really heard . . .’ Julian was feeble in his excuse.
‘Phone,’ she demanded. ‘Dial Cilla now.’
Julian grabbed the cordless phone and the Dame’s address book. He dialled the number and passed the receiver over to his boss.
‘Cilla, darling, it’s Dame Frances. How are you? . . . Fabulous, darling. How’s Eric? . . . Grand. What’s happening, darling? . . . You haven’t replied to the Rum Ball.’ She waited while she listened. Julian watched her lips tighten. She obviously wasn’t enjoying what she was listening to. ‘But, Cilla, my sweetheart, we’ve got the Bradley Myers Orchestra playing; it’s going to be such a hoot. I won’t take no for an answer. We’ve got one table left, darling, and I was just saying to my assistant, Julian, no, don’t sell it, we have to save it for Cilla, she’d be mortified if we didn’t save it for her. You must take the table – it just won’t be the Chocolate Ball without you.’ She listened further. ‘But, sweetheart, your grandson can graduate another day, surely? I simply insist that you come, my sweet. As I’ve always said, it’s not a party without Cilla starting.’ She listened further and a smile approached her wrinkled lips. ‘Fabulous, darling, wonderful, I am so relieved. I’ll pass you over to Julian – he can take your credit card details over the phone. Farewell, darling.’ She passed the phone to Julian. ‘That’s how it’s done,’ she hissed. ‘Hurry up – we have more people to call.’
Julian finished taking the unfortunate Cilla’s credit card details and hung up. Meanwhile the Dame had been scouring the list. ‘Who in the heck is Mandy Luk?’
‘Oh, you met her, she’s the wife of the Ambassador to Thailand; she offered her support to you at the Fashion Luncheon.’
‘Oh, I remember her. She looks like a stripper. We’ll have a table of strippers – that’s just wonderful.’
‘Well, a table’s a table. We’ll put them at the back if you like.’
‘Yes, we certainly will put them at the back. For goodness sake, Julian, where are my people?’ She flicked through each page of the list in anger.
‘Where are the Foxes? The Smorgons? The Pratts? Where, Julian? Why wouldn’t they want to come?’
‘Oh, Dame Frances, I can’t answer that. Here, I’ll go and put the coffee on and we’ll have a brainstorm.’
Julian raced into the kitchen. After pouring the boiling water into the Bodum and waiting for it to steep, he leaned against the bench, his head drooping. He sighed. He didn’t have time for this. They had probably sold 490 seats, what with Cilla and the batch that had arrived in today’s mail. That was more than enough. He had much bigger fish to fry. He had to confirm the orchestra, organise the floral art, phone Bobbi and the other team members to get the update on where they were with pirate-themed decor. He needed to phone Opera Australia and confirm the Pirates of Penzance were ready for their performance.
To make matters worse, their special guest celebrity songstress, Callie Cooper, had pulled out yesterday citing the flu – although he well knew Callie’s flu was an ongoing condition and could only be cured with rehab not Codral. He had to ring all the entertainment agents in Melbourne and scratch up another big name by the end of the week. He had a call in with Kyan Holden’s agent – it was a long shot, but Kyan was an exceptionally generous man who had helped them out in the past.
He picked up the Bodum, placed it on the tea tray and carried it back to the dining room. Dame Frances was on the phone. ‘Bobbi, you need to ring all your friends who haven’t replied . . . I don’t care if they’re busy . . .’ She clasped her hand over the receiver so Bobbi couldn’t hear her. ‘Julian, get on your mobile and find out how Gemma Bristol’s ticket sales are going.’
‘How am I going to do that?’ Julian said.
‘I quite frankly don’t care . . . just do it.’
Julian took out his phone and stared at it. He flipped it open and scrolled down and rang the first number he thought of.
While Julian’s phone burred, he watched the Dame talking.
‘Bobbi, we need more ticket sales, just do what you can . . .’
She was acting so desperate. And for no reason. They were practically a sellout. He felt so sorry for her. This was to have been her last hurrah, her night to shine. He knew she was panicking and he racked his brain to think of ways to help. Oscar’s office had already bought a table. He made a mental note to call his posse from the old days. A pirate-themed evening should prove suitably camp to be of interest to them.
‘Oscar here.’
‘Oh, hi, it’s me,’ Julian whispered into the phone. ‘How am I going to find out about ticket sales for the Mal-Teaser function? The Dame wants to know how they’re selling.’
‘Hmmm, let me think. I might know someone. Call you back.’
The Dame slammed the phone down. ‘Useless. How did you go?’
‘I’m waiting for a call-back with the information,’ Julian said, crossing his fingers that Oscar would come through.
‘Get last year’s guest list out and we’ll see who came then but hasn’t bought tickets this year.’
Julian dug last year’s guest list out of his folder. He passed it to her.
‘Here, Fred and Valerie King, what about them? They bought a table.’
‘Fred’s dead and Valerie’s in a retirement home.’
‘Bother. Here’s one, this table, High-Top Industries, why aren’t they coming?’
‘Oh, they were a dotcom business that went bust in the recession.’
‘What about Eloise and Patrick Potter?’
‘They were coming, but they had to cancel: Eloise fell in the shower and broke her hip.’
‘But the table’s still sold, yes? We won’t refund their money or anything daft like that.’
‘Well, actually they hadn’t paid yet,’ Julian said.
‘Julian,’ she scolded, ‘how could you have let that happen? Get the cash, you know the rules: they say yes and you pull out the credit card machine within sixty seconds.’
Julian’s BlackBerry started playing ‘La Dolce Vita’. It was Oscar. ‘Yes? Did you find out? . . . Right. Thank you. See you later.’ He hung up.
‘Well?’ she asked.
Julian’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he took a big swallow. ‘Gemma’s function is a sellout, Dame Frances.’
‘Shit,’ the Dame said, and it was the first time Julian had ever actually heard the refined Dame Frances swear.
Julian stared wide-eyed at Dame Frances. He dared not draw breath. How would she react to the news that while she was desperately trying to sell the last few remaining seats at her function, Gemma had already sold all of her tickets?
The Dame breathed deeply. She sat stock-still for what seemed to be several minutes, staring at, but not seeing, the pages in front of her. Eventually she placed her hands on the granite tabletop and struggled to her feet. Her pallor was grey.
‘Dame Frances?’ Julian said. ‘Are you okay?’
She ignored him and, pushing the chair back, picked up her cane and turned to face the living area. Her breathing became louder; she winced and touched her chest. She took two steps away from the table then, to Julian’s horror, crumpled to the floor.
‘Dame Frances!’ Julian called out and rushed over to her side. One arm was caught at an awkward angle under her body. The other arm was slung out, reaching across the room, her fingertips skimming the cane. Her eyes were closed and her glasses crooked. Julian leaned down to check that she was still breathing. He stood to run for the phone when she groaned. He crouched back down. ‘Dame Frances? Are you okay?’
‘Stay with me, Julian.’ The words were croaked.
‘I should call an ambulance, Dame.’
Her eyes fluttered open and her voice was stronger. ‘Don’t call me that.’
After an interminable minute, the Dame pushed
herself up to a sitting position. ‘I’m fine. We don’t want the drama of an ambulance – the papers will get hold of the story and Gemma will know she’s won.’
‘Oh, Dame Frances, it’s your health. I’m worried. I really think . . .’
‘Nonsense, it was just a good old-fashioned swoon. Nothing serious. Help me up.’
Using her cane and Julian’s fine but wiry arm, she struggled to her knees and then to her feet. The effort of standing caused her breathing to shorten again and she remained standing and clutching Julian’s arm until it calmed down.
‘Help me over to my chair.’ She pointed at the Jason recliner in the corner. The Dame had insisted on the eyesore as it tilted forwards enabling one to stand without too much struggle. At least the decorator had had the victory of being able to re-cover it in the buttercup toile de Jouy the other armchairs were covered in.
With slow steps, the pair made their way over to the Dame’s chair. She collapsed into it, dropping her cane to the floor and her head back onto the headrest. She closed her eyes.
‘I’m tired, Julian.’
‘No wonder, Dame Frances. It’s been manic these past few weeks.’
‘No, it’s more than that; I’m just so tired. I’m tired of fighting for every last dollar from my supporters. I’m tired of begging funding from the sponsors. I’m tired of being turned down. I’m tired of being tired.’
Her eyes opened, they were glassy, rheumy, old-lady eyes. Without make-up and sitting in her oversized chair, she looked every bit like somebody’s ancient grandmother and not at all like the powerful doyenne she was in public.
Julian moved the small club chair from the coffee table to her side and sat down. He picked up her hand and squeezed it. She didn’t pull away; in fact, she squeezed back.
‘It’s not fair,’ she said, looking at him.
‘What’s not fair, Dame Frances? Is it that you feel your support has dropped off, that you’re not as famous anymore?’
‘No, it’s not about that, Julian. It’s not fair that these people can’t see the children that we’re helping. Naturally I don’t want to trot the tykes out at my functions like some kind of circus ponies – that would be demeaning. But I wish there were some way my supporters could see what I see when I go there.’
‘You go to the UP-Kids office?’ Julian said in surprise. He hadn’t known that.
‘Yes, and then we all go together into the homes of these poor mites. It’s wonderful to see the children’s faces but the conditions are appalling, Julian, and it’s overwhelming just how much money they need to survive. I do like to see where our funds are going, but they really need the physical help. They struggle to get volunteers.
‘The last time I went was on Christmas Day. Remember how I refused to go to my daughter’s house?’
‘Yes, I do, Dame Frances.’ That was when Julian had her grandchildren’s portraits framed and placed on the mantelpiece.
‘Well, it was actually so I was free to visit with some of the families. It’s unfathomable, Julian, the squalor that some Australians are forced to endure. One family I remember in particular. The mother was in an abusive relationship and was unable to work in her factory job because the rotten boyfriend had broken her arm and there was no money for Christmas.
‘We had a truck full of food hampers and toys. We brought our goodies into this dreadful building. I have seen some shocking things in my time, Julian, but this was just awful. The little girl, a sweet dear thing with the most enormous eyes, actually had rat bites on her arms and legs.’
Julian gasped.
‘Can you imagine, Julian? Can you imagine being forced to live in such conditions? It was a one-room apartment with a tiny kitchenette and a disgusting mouldy bathroom.
‘This slip of a woman had two children: the little girl and a baby that just would not stop howling the whole time we were there. The counsellor who was with me rang a doctor to come and examine the infant. We put the basket of food on the table and the mother, who was a child herself, really, just looked at it while tears ran down her face. Then I gave the girl the Christmas stocking. She smiled for the first time since we’d entered and ripped off the paper so quickly, gasping in delight over the ball, book and doll that she unwrapped.’
‘Oh, Dame Frances, why didn’t you tell me? I would have come with you, I could help.’
‘Julian, I can’t force others to help out; if people wanted to do more, they would, off their own bats.’
Dame Frances stared out of her apartment window at the trees lining the park. ‘I’ll never forget that little girl. I often wonder how she’s doing.
‘There were others, so many other homes with children, some were young teenagers with no adult presence, although they assured us their dad was just up at the shops. There was no dad of course, but what could we do?’
‘How often do you help out?’ Julian asked.
‘Not as much as I used to, I’m afraid; it’s hard to get about since my fall.’ She kicked out at her stick. ‘I hate that thing. But because I can’t be hands-on any longer it’s crucial for me to send them money. They’re such a tremendous organisation, helping the wee kiddies. I am always so frustrated that I can’t give more, raise more, do more.
‘So you see, Julian, it might come across that I’m just a fame-hungry socialite desperately trying to get my ugly mug in the social pages, but the bottom line is, I know that having a high profile increases the fundraising which allows even more children to be helped.’
‘Dame Frances, I owe you an apology. I had no idea.’ Julian dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief.
‘You don’t owe me an apology, Julian; you do a wonderful job helping out here. We’d be lost without you. I am sorry, dear, that I don’t tell you that enough. But I thought you probably knew how I felt about you.’
Julian thought back to his Christmas gift from the Dame. She’d sent him and Oscar on a cruise around the Fiji Islands. Yes, he knew.
‘Oh, yes, Dame Frances, yes, of course. Now let me get you a glass of water.’
‘That would be lovely, dear,’ she said and Julian scuttled from the room, returning with a glass and a full crystal jug.
He poured and passed her the drink. She took a long draught then, with shaking hands, placed the glass on her side table. Julian shifted her numerous pillboxes to make space.
‘But it’s all over, Julian. I have to finish up at some point. I can’t keep on going forever. The children will just have to find another patron. Not that any of the foolish women I know have the heart to get involved.’ She gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Imagine if they’d seen the great Dame Frances climbing broken stairs to a urine-soaked corridor on Christmas Day. Those princesses would have dropped me like a hot potato.’
‘Surely not, Dame Frances. Surely they would want to help out if they only knew.’
‘Julian,’ her voice had regained some of its fierce timbre. ‘They don’t know and they won’t know if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Of course, I’ll keep your secret,’ Julian assured her.
The Dame sighed. ‘So it’s over. What a ride. I’m seventy-seven and I must take my final curtain call. This is why the Rum Ball is so important to me. It’s not about Gemma Bristol and the blinking contest – well, it is a little bit – it’s about my final stand. It needs to be a sellout, it needs to be a success then I will take my leave, retire to Noosa Heads and have my grandchildren visit me during the school holidays.’
Julian considered her words with his head tilted to the side and smiled. ‘Well, we’ll just make sure that happens, won’t we?’
The Dame squeezed Julian’s hand in her two. ‘You’re a good boy, Julian. Thank you.’
Gemma swung her chair around and stared out of the window. Her mind clattered away.
She’d returned this morning and still hadn’t had a chance to speak with Stephen. This was obviously not a conversation that she could have over cornflakes and between rubbish collection d
iscussions. Besides, the Mal-Teaser was in two days’ time. And there was so much pressure on her to ensure it was the best party the town had ever seen. Not to mention beat that old crone. Gemma had heard that the Dame had secured a fifty-thousand-dollar donation towards the event and that her Rum Ball was sold out. That would make her neck and neck with Gemma’s team. Gemma needed more money, but from where? She had squeezed every last drop out of her sources.
Her mind wandered back to Peter Blakely again. It was wrong, what they’d done in New York. A thrill that started in her Victoria Secrets shuddered through her body, the momentary guilt dissipating with the thrill of the memory.
The whole thing was so impossible, though. Peter lived on the other side of the world – talk about long-distance relationships – and she was not about to move to New York.
She sighed as she decided it was just a stupid, badly timed one-night stand that was headed nowhere.
The guilt crystallised again and her sweet memories vanished. What had she done? Ever since she’d left New York, she’d been swaying between guilt and joy.
She’d had a panic attack on the plane just as it had started to taxi away from JFK. The flight attendant had given her cold face washers and a paper bag. It hadn’t been as bad as the one at the day spa, but it had still frightened her.
The feeling of claustrophobia, of being trapped, of never being able to get out of the closed-in steel cylinder had overwhelmed her. She’d gotten worse, her breathing shorter. The passenger next to her had stared at her strangely, and she knew she just needed to calm down but it was impossible. It only lasted minutes at the most. By the time the plane was in the air she’d managed to get herself under control. But the anxiety continued to stalk her mind.
In fact, she was feeling the same sense of anxiety welling right now. If she didn’t take action, make some decisions, she’d be crippled with these panic attacks forever. She needed to talk to Stephen. Her temples thumped with an immediate headache at the idea.
She’d just wanted the best for Tyler, and if she was honest, to maintain the domestic ideal; the whole white picket fence and family fantasy that she’d so badly wanted in childhood. To fail at marriage herself, to put her son through a divorce had seemed an unimaginable failure, but now she saw that living this half-life of unhappiness and discontent was just as bad for him. She would have to let go of the fantasy and face the reality that the marriage was over, that she and Stephen would need to act like adults for the sake of their son and do their best to separate amicably and remain friends.
