Deep down, I felt guilty that I couldn’t be the wife he wanted me to be. Why didn’t I want to settle down and have kids and live in a nice house? Who wouldn’t want that? I thought maybe there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I remember Murray had once shown me pictures of great houses we could buy in a newly developed suburb that were only forty minutes from the city in peak hour. He’d had a look of excitement in his eyes. For me it felt as exciting as a root canal.
A few days later, Murray texted again, asking if we could meet. I read his text over and over for days. In the end, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t hear what he had to say.
All I knew was I had to leave – immediately. I felt a strange mix of self-loathing and guilt and anger, at Murray, but also at myself. I was unsure why I didn’t seem to want to fall into domestic bliss like everyone around me. Plus, everywhere reminded me of Murray, and I couldn’t be around the places we used to visit. Where we had coffee. Held hands. Got engaged. Planned a future. I had to get out of Australia, and not look back.
***
I arrived, relaxed and sun-kissed, at Sydney airport after sunset, where Mum and Dad were anxiously waiting. Mum gave me an extra-hard hug.
‘Hi Mum, it’s good to see you.’
Before she could utter a word, I raised my hand and said, ‘No, I didn’t meet anyone. But I took a cooking class and can make a mean lemony fish. Plus, I wove this basket.’
I held up a slightly wonky reed basket that the customs guys had ummmed about before finally letting me keep it.
‘I wasn’t going to ask that,’ Mum said.
I shared a look with Dad.
‘I wasn’t,’ Mum insisted.
Dad said, ‘Lorna,’ in a warning tone, then turned to me. ‘Hey, sweetie.’ We hugged.
‘Yes Lorna, listen to your husband.’ I said smiling gratefully at Dad. I’d taken to calling her Lorna when I was fifteen just to annoy her. When I’m irritated, it comes back out – like now, since I was feeling a bit weary that I hadn’t even stepped out of the airport, and already the Relationship Rant was beginning.
‘I mean, but did you meet anyone? Perhaps any kind of special someone?’ my mum asked, leading both of us out of the airport, marching ahead. ‘I think we’re parked over here, Ted.’
I thought about Nick for a second. ‘No one special, Mum.’
To make matters worse, she didn’t get the hint, and I had her smiling at me over the parking machine, suggesting it was time to start dating.
‘I can’t just start it, Mum. It’s not a car engine, or a board game.’
‘Well, try that on-the-line meeting thing perhaps?’
‘Online dating?’ I screwed up my nose. ‘No, thanks. It just doesn’t seem natural. Organic. Who picks out a date from a series of photos like one would pick a jumper out of a catalogue?’
‘Well, I got this top on-the-line,’ Mum said, pointing to her silky pink T-shirt. I had meant to ask where she got it and tell her not to go shopping there again. It looked strange, almost like PVC, too shiny and a little too tight, too.
‘Online,’ I corrected her again, stuffing the money in the ticket machine.
‘Just give it a go,’ she said, nodding. ‘You never know.’ She paused while my dad heaved my backpack into the boot of the car in the parking lot. ‘Ted, don’t put it in that way!’ Dad leaned in, and turned the backpack the other way. Mum nodded and slammed the boot.
‘Now, Ted, take the trolley back to the trolley bay. Why are you just staring into space like that?’ She waved her hand in front of his face. Then turned to look at me. ‘Did you know Bec has a new baby?’
‘Yeah, I saw. But how do you know that?’
She waved her hand as if I’d asked something silly. ‘Facebook, dear.’
‘But they’re not your friends on Facebook. Are they?’
‘No, but they’re your friends. I think they call it face-stalking.’
‘Have you liked one of their photos by accident?’ Oh, God, I felt mortified. How could I explain that? ‘Oh, sorry, guys, that was just my grandkid-wanting mother wanting me to have a life like yours. Please excuse her.’
‘No, of course not! Dear, give me some credit.’ She paused. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’
‘Mum, please don’t do that again.’
‘Doesn’t everyone in this day and age?’ she said casually, getting into the car.
She talked non-stop as Dad drove us out of the airport and pulled onto the highway for the hour’s trip home to Sydney’s North Shore. For the entire journey I managed to get in about twenty words, and the rest of the time I heard about the Chus (our neighbours) putting in a pool, whether or not the Sinclairs (other neighbours) were having marital problems, and something about a grey cat that kept finding its way into our yard and mewing for food at the back door.
When I got home, it was 11 p.m., too late to do anything but fall straight into my old, comfy bed.
***
The next morning Mum dragged me out of bed to go to the pool.
‘I’m still jet-lagged,’ I mumbled into Mr Bear.
‘You’ll love it, Emma, it’s good for your physique.’ She looked at the empty bowl on my dresser, and raised her eyebrows. ‘Ice cream? In bed?’
‘Actually, it was yoghurt.’ It wasn’t. It was ice cream.
Mum stripped back the covers then clapped her hands, ‘Right, up you get!’ When I didn’t move, she reminded me, ‘Betty’s been asking about you ever since you left.’
‘Betty?’ My ears picked up. ‘She’s still alive?’
‘Yes, Emma,’ Mum sighed. ‘She’s only in her early seventies.’
‘OK, OK, I’m coming.’ I stumbled out of bed, threw my swimming costume and towel in a bag. The truth is, I love aqua aerobics, even though I’m decades younger than everyone else. Before I left for London, I went every Saturday to the local pool with Betty and the gang.
In the pool change room I changed into the old swimming costume I’d found in the bottom of my closet. It was chic black Speedo, size fourteen, with a large print on the front that read in white letters ‘HAWAII’. I got the right side strap on, but the left side just wouldn’t stretch. I caught sight of myself in the bright changeroom mirrors and realised something terrible: it didn’t fit. Damn.
Under these horrid lights, my pale thighs appeared clotted with cellulite. But when I stepped out of the lights, the cellulite didn’t disappear as I’d thought (hoped) it would. My belly, which had always been somewhat flat, had a roll and a mound of pudge, that I’d never noticed in London, being dressed in jeans and jackets most of the year. My arms were undefined, and, when I held them up, the lagging skin where my triceps should have been, moved with a three-second delay, as though it was perpetually trying to keep up.
My dark blonde hair, long and wavy in the best of conditions, was now frizzy with humidity and escaping like a prisoner from my ponytail, my green eyes looked dull and sunken into my face and, to make matters worse, my chin had broken out in a heap of whiteheads since I’d got back. I looked like a very large, hungover version of Kate Winslet.
Had I looked like this in Fiji? During my night with Nick? I felt horrified … surely not. But it had been less than a week and so I guessed I really had looked like this.
‘Oh God, it doesn’t fit any more.’
‘Hmmm, yes.’ She was looking me up and down. ‘It doesn’t.’
I sat on the wooden benches feeling deflated. I stared at her trim figure; her string-bean legs were smaller than my arms. How did I even come from her?
‘Well, Emma, that’s why we’re here. So you can exercise your way to a tight tum and bum!’
‘You sound like one of those annoying motivational personal trainers,’ I said glumly.
Lorna laughed. ‘Funny you should say that. I’m thinking of getting my certificate.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘You’re going to be a personal trainer?’
‘Well.’ She looked at herself in t
he mirror and flounced her blonde shoulder-length hair. ‘Why not? Ted’s so busy in that damn garden, he may as well live in it. I want to do something for me.’
She fished around for fifty dollars in her purse and put it in my hand. ‘Now go and get yourself a new costume from the shop upstairs.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
The class had almost started by the time I slipped into the pool wearing a new black costume and pool-regulated swimming cap. But they’d run out of the normal swimming caps, and so I’d had to buy a new petal-covered old-woman’s swimming cap, in a soft baby pink. It made me think of Nick. His hands. His kisses. But that was in the past, Emma, I told myself. Stop thinking about Fiji!
Tina, the class instructor, was getting everyone to do eggbeater legs and arms.
‘Emma!’ a raspy voice called from the other petal caps.
‘Betty!’ I exclaimed, swimming over to her.
‘How was your trip?’ she said breathlessly, keeping her wrinkled face above the water. Some grey curls had escaped out of the side of her pink petal hat and were wet and plastered across her forehead.
‘Great!’
‘Got any goss for this old girl?’
‘Well, I learnt how to do the American two-step. I celebrated the Mexican dance of the dead. And I’m very good at telling an enchilada from a burrito.’
She laughed and I could see the gold fillings in her teeth. Her robust arms and legs pumped hard, moving her thick body up and down in the water.
Tina blew her whistle, and we started running clockwise in a circle, creating a whirlpool.
‘How was London?’ Betty spluttered.
‘Grey!’ I spat out a mouthful of chlorinated water.
She laughed. ‘You are a little pale.’
‘And fat.’ I grunted.
‘Nothing like some indoor exercise for that!’ She winked.
Tina blew her whistle again. We turned against the whirlpool current and went anti-clockwise. For the next hour, it took all my effort to keep my head above the surface.
I was absolutely exhausted by the end of the class; I needed to float a little on my back before my shaky legs could kick me to the edge of the pool. And even then, it took me five attempts before I could pull myself out of the water.
Chapter 5
‘Why haven’t you called him?’ Tansy demanded.
We were sitting in Miss Marmalade, a cosy bungalow café, nestled into a corner booth, filled with plump pink cushions. Tansy, sleep-deprived, had almost fallen asleep twice in five minutes. She’d apologised – having three children meant sleep was a foreign concept. She’d also brought her toddler Brie with her, who was happily biting down on an old rabbit toy as if it tasted like chocolate.
In a few minutes, we’d managed a quick catch-up of events. Tansy had shared how it had been seven years since she’d gone to the toilet or had a shower by herself, and thank goodness for the new au pair who was looking after Toby, all of which reminded me of what my life might have been like, had I stayed and married Murray. And I’d given Tansy my highlights reel of my last seven years, finishing with Nick without adding in the not showing up to a seafood lunch bit, because I couldn’t bring myself to say it aloud yet. Which had made her eyes widen. She’d muttered, ‘Oh, wow, single life,’ and then demanded I call him.
‘Nick sounds really nice. Give me one bad thing about him,’ Tansy protested on behalf of a man she’d never met.
‘He sleeps with girls on the first night,’ I pointed out then added silently, and he gives girls the wrong phone number.
‘And so did you,’ Tansy challenged me.
‘Exactly! It was a fling, and a really good one, but nothing more than that.’ I took a bite of my sourdough toast with avocado. ‘Besides, I’m not looking for a fling. I want to find someone, you know, forever.’
‘Well,’ Tansy said, thinking aloud. ‘He seems to like everything you do: travelling, he’s got banter, he’s apparently gorgeous, he’s got a good career—’
‘Which he seemed to really hate.’
Tansy raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ve never regretted a job?’ Then kept on rattling off her list. ‘He’s got a timeshare in Fiji, which means he’s financially stable, he’s spontaneous, going for a skinny dip, but seemed attentive what with getting you drinks and towels, and being quite a gentleman. Yes, he slept with you on the first night – I’m not suggesting you marry him, but a little coffee date could be good,’ Tansy said, nibbling the side of her cream cheese blueberry bagel, then she put it down and yawned. ‘Speaking of coffees, where are ours?’
She looked up at the waitress in hope, who signalled they’d be out shortly.
‘I think really all he wanted was to get in my trousers.’ I smiled wryly. ‘And he did a very good job.’
Tansy looked down at my comfy extra-large black trousers, which I’d chosen because they were the only ones in my wardrobe that still fitted. ‘Well, they are nice trousers.’
We laughed. We’d always shared the same type of humour since we met at kindergarten.
‘These? Did you want a catwalk? I’ve been to Italy, I know how they do it in Milan,’ I said in a fun, teasing voice, kicking out a leg trying to look seductive, but ending up looking more like an awkward newborn fawn learning to walk.
‘Well, I think you should consider him, at least for a coffee.’ Tansy was as stubborn as a mule most of the time. But I loved that about her.
I shrugged.
Tansy swallowed audibly and paused, before finally saying, ‘Have you talked to him since you got back?’
‘Him?’ Then I realised she didn’t mean Nick, she meant Murray. He’s not coming.
Tansy must have seen the look on my face, because she quickly said, ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’ She looked flustered.
‘It’s OK.’ I looked at her. ‘It was a long time ago. And no, to answer your question, I haven’t seen him, talked to him, thought about him. Much.’
‘Facebook stalked?’
I half smiled. ‘Maybe once. Years ago.’
‘And?’
‘He’d blocked me. But I heard through the grapevine, he’s married. Kids. House in the burbs. All the trimmings.’
‘Oh.’
I took a sip of water. ‘It’s OK, Tans, it is. I didn’t want those things.’
‘Didn’t or don’t?’ she asked softly.
‘Didn’t.’ I looked up at her. ‘I mean, I still don’t want a house with a massive mortgage, on the busline, and a nine to five job in an office for another forty years. But I think I do want to get a job, buy a house, and get married.’
‘You think?’
‘Fine, I want. Is that better?’ I decided to tell Tansy about The Plan. It was pinned to my corkboard at home, so it was the first thing I saw when I woke up each morning. I’d even gone as far as to cut out some images that looked like the house I’d want (country cottage) and some really cheesy advertisements of couples laughing as they did things together (I think they were trying to sell mortgage insurance). It felt extremely cheesy, but vision boards were a thing, apparently; besides, it couldn’t hurt. I confessed all this to Tansy.
When she finished laughing, she said brightly, ‘Well, didn’t Nick give you his number? Step three, possible tick.’
I groaned. ‘Marrying us off already? Please. Anyway, the number he gave me could be a fake. It could be for the local pizza place.’
‘Well, I could go for a full meat-lovers with barbecue sauce.’ Tansy sighed. ‘I’m all for eating my feelings at the moment. Or just eating for energy. I’m so tired I can’t tell any more.’ Tansy was as slim as a rake, and tall, she’d be a size ten at the most, and had beautiful long dark hair, dark cocoa eyes, and olive skin. The last thing she needed to worry about was eating too much.
I handed her the menu. ‘I’m a supportive friend – if you need to eat everything on this menu, I’ll pay for half. I’d pay for it all, but, you know.’ I shook my wallet and a scant few coins jangled. ‘I
don’t know if I could cover it.’
Tansy grinned ruefully. ‘This friend doesn’t need your money. She just wants her friend to find a partner, so she has something to do on the weekends when the rest of us are knee-high in diapers.’ She scanned the menu. ‘Although a little piece of lemon pie couldn’t hurt, could it?’
‘Get the lemon pie,’ I encouraged her. ‘Anyway, sometimes it’s better not knowing. What if I tried to call Nick, and got Luigi’s pizza palace? Sometimes ignorance is bliss.’
‘What do you mean?’
I quickly told her about sitting at Freshwaters, and his disconnected number. I brushed it off a bit, but it had really hurt. She let out a long huffy breath ‘What is with some people? God. I’m sorry that happened to you. You’re right don’t ever call him. Well you don’t have his number to call, do you? What a dick. We shall never ever speak of him again.’
I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me, she really was the most loyal friend. ‘Thanks Tansy. Anyway’ I said, keen to change the subject. ‘I do need to find a job though.’ I opened up the newspaper on the café’s table in front of us. All I could see were ads for chefs and kitchen hands, so I shut it firmly. It reminded me too much of Los Tacos, which made me shudder as the waitress delivered our coffees. ‘What about public relations? Or marketing? Do you think I could do that back here?’
Tansy narrowed her eyes at me suspiciously. ‘Need I remind you of how much you wanted to leave your marketing job? I believe you told me never to let you work in an office again.’
I laughed. ‘I did say that, didn’t I? Well, I’m older and wiser now,’ I teased. ‘Plus, I made great tea in the London office and didn’t get too claustrophobic.’
‘Hmm …’ she said, staring at me. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded my head. ‘Ever since I realized I was leaving London months ago, I’ve been sending out my CV for any PR job I can find, even assistant ones, gosh, even receptionist roles in PR firms. But not one response.’ I was feeling quite dejected about that. ‘I keep getting told “you don’t have enough experience”, or “you don’t have the right experience”. All those long days working at Forster & Wolfe, as a PR Assistant, hasn’t helped me at all.’
Just As You Are Page 5
