The Tea Chest

by Josephine Moon

  They sat in silence for some time while Elizabeth cried. Annie passed her tissues and fetched her a glass of water, tidied up her bed, hung up her bath towels and tipped the empty minibar bottles into the bin.

  Then she stood in front of Elizabeth, her hands on her hips. ‘Now, this is the plan.’

  Thank God. There was a plan. She didn’t have to try to figure out this horrible mess herself. She just had to follow the plan.

  ‘I’ve told work you’re not coming in for a few days. Your sister has organised for John to be out of the house for the next two hours. We’re going to your place and we’re packing three suitcases of your things. Then you’re coming back to my house for two days, and I will feed you cups of tea, chocolate, ice cream and vodka on constant rotation as the mood necessitates. You can resign from your job when you feel ready. Then you’re getting on a plane.’

  ‘A plane?’

  ‘Your parents have organised a ticket home to London.’

  Elizabeth stared at Annie. She was going home to London? To live with her parents?

  ‘Surely . . . isn’t this a bit premature? It’s only just happened.’

  Annie arched a bushy brow. ‘Well,’ she said calmly, ‘do you intend to go back to him?’

  Go back? She turned this option over in her mind. Played the idea like it was a movie: arriving home, John saying he was sorry, going about business as normal.

  But there was no normal anymore. He had another wife. They couldn’t exactly all live together.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. John would have to choose one of them.

  Would he divorce Elizabeth?

  He would, of course. He had no choice. He had children with the other woman.

  It was so unfair. So shameful and sordid. So humiliating.

  ‘It’s really over, isn’t it?’

  Annie took Elizabeth’s hand in her own warm one.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ Elizabeth said, and Annie helped her to the bathroom just in time.

  Twenty minutes later, Annie led Elizabeth by the hand to the underground car park and they were on their way.

  And two days, a kilo of chocolate, a litre of vodka and two tubs of ice cream later, Elizabeth was on a plane to London.

  3

  Six years earlier

  ‘I’ve been following your tea for a while now,’ the woman said. Her voice carried the last vestiges of an English accent. She sniffed a bowl of Kate’s Christmas Stocking blend. Manicured fingers shook the white porcelain gently, releasing the scent of cinnamon. She inhaled, closing her eyes.

  ‘Really? Thanks.’ Kate smiled, adjusting Keats to sit his small frame on her left hip. He sucked his thumb and swung his tiny shoes against her leg. Kate hardly noticed it anymore. She swayed slowly, rocking him, grateful for his patience and tolerance. Not many people would brave taking a two-year-old to work with them at the markets each week. But Keats was a pro.

  The Riverside markets were frantic leading up to Christmas and it was shockingly hot, even though it wasn’t yet midmorning. The roof of their pop-up stall provided shade, but the humidity clung to her skin. Beside her, Mark was in consultation with a bare-chested man wearing fisherman pants, who wanted acupuncture for his knee. He was half out in the sun and she was momentarily concerned his shaved head might be getting sunburned as he tapped needles into the man’s thighs.

  ‘Can I help you choose something?’ she prompted, simultaneously eyeing two teenage girls who had a box of spearmint and mandarin Afternoon Tea in their hands and were discussing the value of it as a gift for their mother.

  The woman screwed up her nose as she sniffed Mark’s Chinese tea blend that was part of a liver detoxification program. She hastily replaced it on the table.

  ‘Do you have anything new?’ she said. ‘I’ve tried everything here already.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The woman’s charm bracelet jangled as she picked through the boxes of tea. She pushed a strand of smooth dark hair back into the clip at her nape and waited for Kate to respond.

  Kate reached her own hand up to the shabby orange scarf covering her unwashed hair. A shift in air pressure brushed against her bare back, exposed in the cotton top she’d picked up for ten dollars.

  This apparently rich and sophisticated woman had tried not just one but all of the tea blends Kate mixed on the wooden table in her courtyard at the back of her falling-down rented home in West End.

  The woman sidestepped a twin pram and two sweating parents as they pushed through the walkway.

  ‘Have you even tried the Christmas Stocking tea?’ Kate said, suddenly anxious. ‘I only brought it out last week.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I picked it up at your other stall on the south side.’

  Kate was simultaneously flattered that this woman appeared to be some kind of tea groupie and mortified she hadn’t noticed her before now.

  The back of her neck tingled. She extended her hand.

  ‘I’m Kate.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ the woman said, taking Kate’s hand. ‘I’m Simone.’

  On the day of their first meeting, Kate checked the back of Simone’s heavy gold business card, which carried the scent of the same Chanel perfume Simone had been wearing at the markets.

  The Emporium. Tuesday 11 am. Cocktail lounge.

  She’d heard of the newly opened Emporium, but she’d never been there. She’d left the side of town she was more familiar with—where dried ducks hung upside down in Chinatown windows, a young guitarist busked outside the Night Owl, and men with more facial piercings than face stood against graffiti-covered walls near the Hare Krishna café. Now she was on the other side of the Valley, where men in impossibly tailored suits and crisp pale-pink business shirts stood with lattes and mobile phones, watching women strut international fashion labels from behind thousand-dollar sunglasses, and where shopping for a Mercedes-Benz was something people did on their lunch breaks.

  Her nerves were taut from the intense traffic and multi-lane one-way streets. And now, standing in front of the entrance to the Emporium, her hands began to quiver.

  The tall double doors, with their gold-leaf pattern, loomed before her. They opened with a gentle pft of air.

  The Emporium was red and black and glass and gold. A doorman in a suit and cap watched Kate enter the building. Soft lighting bounced off shiny surfaces. Even the air felt cushiony and welcoming, neither noticeably cool nor too warm.

  ‘Wear something nice,’ Simone had said at the markets. Kate had baulked, but now she was grateful. She was wearing her organic cotton black pants, beautifully tailored, and a red Asian-inspired sleeveless cowl-neck top from a Brisbane label she admired but could rarely afford.

  Inside, Simone was already seated in a plush, high-backed red armchair. Her glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, her mobile phone was jammed to her ear and her laptop and papers lay strewn across the glass table top at her knees. Above her, a chandelier sparkled. A sleek, black baby grand piano sat idly by and Kate wished someone would start to tinkle its keys, if only to complete this scene that looked straight out of a Hollywood movie.

  Simone caught her eye and waved her over.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Judy. Kate’s just arrived.’

  She snapped her phone shut and stood, clutched Kate’s biceps with her gold-polished fingernails and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘I’m so glad you could make it. Take a seat. You look stunning, by the way.’

  Kate arranged herself neatly on the armchair next to Simone, careful not to bump knees with her. She had read books on body language and knew that if she sat directly opposite Simone she was setting up an air of confrontation, and she already felt awkward enough.

  Simone signalled the barman. He appeared a millisecond later carrying cocktail menus with an elaborate gold typeface. He was as shiny and sparkly and squeaky clean as the bar behind him.

  ‘Let’s celebrate,’ Simone said, smiling.

/>   Kate smiled too. Part of her wanted to challenge Simone (I haven’t accepted anything yet) and part of her purred under Simone’s infectious enthusiasm. Kate’s ego was deeply thrilled. It wasn’t every day she was offered a job by a complete stranger.

  ‘She must want you,’ Mark had said. ‘She’s not the type to haul you over for a meeting just to chat. The job’s yours.’

  ‘If I want it,’ Kate had said, kissing him as he ran his hands up under her shirt.

  Simone ordered without looking at the menu. ‘Long Island iced tea,’ she said. She squinted her eyes at Kate in a wincing gesture. ‘I know it’s rather retro but I do love them.’

  Kate fingered the menu, her mouth watering at the descriptions of chocolate decadence, summer fruit-inspired bouquets and exotic numbers she would never have dreamed of. It would be a toss-up between at least five of them, if she drank alcohol.

  ‘I’ll have a lemon, lime and bitters,’ she said. Beside her, Simone sat up straighter, just enough to alert Kate to the possibility that she’d offended her. According to body-language rules, she should be mirroring Simone and in this case that meant ordering a cocktail.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ Kate explained, going with the easier option. People were always so suspicious when you said you didn’t drink.

  ‘Oh.’ Simone’s eyes dropped automatically to Kate’s navel, her expression unreadable. Kate thought it best to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible.

  ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’ she said lightly, trying to keep her voice even.

  ‘Not at all.’ Simone recovered. ‘Congratulations. When are you due?’

  ‘May twenty-first, give or take a few days. It’s our second. Obviously. You met Keats the other day.’

  Simone seemed to register all of this as mildly as if Kate had given her the weather forecast for the next few days.

  ‘Right, let’s get down to business,’ she said. She handed Kate a manila folder that was stuffed with pamphlets and A4 papers. ‘Here, you can read these in your own time. They’ll give you lots of information on The Tea Chest, its history, its products and so on.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve looked up your website,’ Kate said. ‘You’ve got a lovely range.’

  Simone nodded. ‘It’s served us well up till now, but we need a fresh new line to keep our customers interested. A line that will run alongside the old favourites while keeping new ones coming all the time to hold interest. That’s where you come in. We’ll be culling half our current lines at least. Women have entered a new era—one of self-determination, autonomy and celebration. I need someone with flair and creativity to lead us into the future, keep us ahead of the game. I’m offering good money with all the perks, including—’ she again cast an eye south to Kate’s navel, ‘—twelve weeks paid maternity leave.’

  Kate nodded, breathing to quieten her beating heart. It was a dream.

  ‘You can have flexible hours and you can even work from home half the time, so you can achieve that whole working-mother, super mum, work–life balance thing.’

  The drinks arrived and Simone murmured with delight at her first sip.

  ‘This is very generous,’ Kate said, humbled. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘I’m a businesswoman, Kate. The Tea Chest is my baby. I have birthed it, watched it grow and mature into a profitable business. Now, it’s ready to expand, with a second store in Sydney in the first phase of development, then one in London and another one overseas—I’ve yet to decide exactly where—in the second phase.

  ‘Our customers are smart, loyal women, an interesting mix of stay-at-home mums and fully corporate working women. They work hard and know how to treat themselves, know good tea, value luxury and beauty and modern lifestyles but also retain old-fashioned values at their core. They’re nostalgic, maintain strong relationships with their family—even if they don’t have children. Do you see?’

  She paused and Kate stared at her in admiration.

  ‘We know our customers down to their weekly incomes, their star signs, shoe sizes and menstrual cycles.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. That was a joke.’ Simone leaned forward. ‘We don’t know their shoe sizes.’ She winked at Kate and laughed. ‘So what do you say, Kate? Would you like to come and work for The Tea Chest as the lead designer and pull us all into the Age of Aquarius?’

  Kate didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes. I would like that very much.’ She raised her glass and clinked it to Simone’s.

  ‘That’s my girl. Now, when can you start?’

  ‘We’ll have to arrange childcare for Keats. Maybe in a week’s time?’ She felt a sudden pull in her heart as the reality of leaving Keats behind for at least half the week sank in. She had to fight back sudden tears. Her excitement about this job was intense but the cold winds of guilt and a good dash of pregnancy hormones threatened to undo her.

  Simone finished her drink. ‘Call me as soon as you can. I’ll have to organise a time for you to meet Judy Masters, by the way.’

  ‘Who’s Judy?’

  Simone’s face closed and her foot began to tap on the chocolate-brown carpet at her feet. ‘Jude’s my financial investor. I started The Tea Chest but I needed some capital to get it to where it is now. She’s not really supposed to have anything to do with the day-to-day running of the business but her involvement has grown more than I’d like, frankly.’ She signalled to the waiter to bring her another drink.

  Kate decided to ask nothing more about Judy Masters until she’d met her herself.

  When Elizabeth was a normal person who lived in Brisbane, she had a life. A job, a husband, friends, a garden and plans for a baby. Of a workday evening, she left her office cubicle and swapped her silk and heels for lycra and running shoes and jogged home.

  The Beautification office, where she was a content (if not terribly excited) dispatch manager for organic beauty products, overlooked the Brisbane River. But Elizabeth’s path home weaved through the suited pedestrians on Park Road, passed the school where her future children would be educated, and climbed the hills to Rosalie.

  The first thing she saw when she reached her house was the immaculately tended garden, in which she’d spent time on the weekend nurturing her ferns and hedges and her carefully hand-mown four square metres of lush green lawn.

  Breathing hard from the last segment of her run, she’d turn her key in the lock of their perfectly renovated colonial cottage, pausing first under the bullnose verandah to sit on the whitewashed bench and remove her running shoes.

  Inside, she was greeted by stained timber floors, whitewashed walls, an open-plan space that seemed far too large for such a tiny home, and a romantic, curving internal staircase that led to the master bedroom.

  Each day, she worked hard to ensure the master bedroom was neat, clean and inviting, that the doors to both sets of walk-in wardrobes were closed properly (John was distracted by a door being even slightly ajar), and that the modern white bathroom had fresh towels and bath oils ready to go.

  The baby-making business was hard work.

  If John was late coming home, or if he was on one of his overseas trips, Elizabeth delighted in sitting on the bedroom’s balcony with a cup of herbal tea, enjoying the expansive views of the city and thinking positive thoughts about her upcoming pregnancy.

  Sometimes, she allowed herself to imagine what her life with John and this child might be like. Saturday mornings wandering Rosalie’s gourmet market and selecting imported cheeses, breads, dips and marinated baby octopus. Weekday afternoons waiting under the huge leafy trees on the perimeter of the school for Jessica (if it was a girl) or Geoffrey (if it was a boy) to come running out, backpack swinging and bursting with excitement over the day. Or perhaps they would take a drive up to the bookstore and sit in the children’s corner and read aloud together.

  Perhaps the boy would look like John and the girl would look like her. Or maybe it would be the other way around. That was if they were lucky enough to have more than one.
Maybe both Jessica and Geoffrey.

  But at the rate they were going, she’d be lucky to get even one.

  Apparently, that was a premonition she should have heeded.

  Now she found herself back in her family home on Hemberton Road, Clapham, childless, husbandless, jobless and humourless. And right at this moment lacking in sobriety.

  ‘Elizabeth, dear, you look dreadful,’ Margaret Plimsworth said, clutching her daughter to her chest and rocking her roughly from side to side in a manner Elizabeth supposed was meant to be nurturing. ‘What an awful, wicked man.’

  Elizabeth was touched by her mother’s stern sympathy and relaxed into her wiry arms.

  ‘The shame of it,’ Margaret went on. ‘How will you ever be able to hold your head up high again?’

  Elizabeth pushed herself out of her mother’s arms. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Margaret studied her face. ‘Is there no chance it could all work out?’

  ‘You just called him wicked.’

  ‘Of course, yes. It’s just that he was always so thoughtful at Christmas time. He did have some good qualities, didn’t he? I mean, he didn’t smoke, never drank too much, opened the car door for you, did some housework and was always pleasant on the phone.’

  Oh great. Perfect. She was trapped here now and had no strength to contest her mother’s absurd list of qualities necessary in a marriage. Like, say, fidelity.

  Victoria closed the door behind them. She’d met Elizabeth at the airport, having plenty of time to fill. From what Victoria had told her on the ride home, her finest accomplishment of late was completion of a one-week at-home course to become a nail technician. Her nails were currently zebra-striped with diamanté details and tiny gold bells that jingled when she waved her hands. Which was a lot, given she tended to leave sentences incomplete and insert vague gestures in the spaces.

  Elizabeth dragged herself down the narrow entranceway. It had been five years since she’d last visited but the house looked almost the same as she remembered. There was still the forest-green carpet from an era that pre-dated the Mesozoic, the frosted-glass windows, the smell of years of frying bacon, and her father in front of the blaring television in his reclining chair.