by Liz Byrski
‘It was a really silly thing to do, Emma,’ Kristy says, peering down at Emma’s lips. ‘You should’ve waited until you got back and had it done here. It’s a mess. What did the doctor say?’
‘He said I shouldn’t have had it done at all. I think I might change and go to a woman doctor next time. Anyway, he gave me antibiotics to kill off the infection but it doesn’t seem to be working yet. It’s ages now. I keep thinking it’s clearing up and then it flares up again.’
‘Mmm. These are a mess too,’ Kristy says, looking now at Emma’s eyes and moving an eyelid with a latex covered finger. ‘Even when it all settles down, if it does, they’re still going to be a mess. Look here.’ She holds a magnifying mirror in front of Emma’s face. ‘See – just here the lines aren’t even and there are blotches.’
‘But you can get rid of them?’
Kristy shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know if there’s a process for removing tattoos from eyelids. It’s not like a tattoo on someone’s arm, you know. And it’s the same with the lip lines and colour. Even when you get rid of the infection and the swelling goes down, it’s not going to look good.’
‘But it must be possible to fix it,’ Emma says, her voice rising in panic. ‘I can’t keep on walking around looking like a freak.’
Kristy shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I’ll talk to Theresa, she’s got more experience, but it’s her day off. I suppose you might have to end up going to a cosmetic surgeon.’
Emma sighs. ‘I can’t believe this. And the Botox didn’t even work, not like when you do it. My forehead was frozen for a few hours and then it wore off and the lines were still there. Anyway, can you just top it up for me now, at least I won’t have wrinkles on my forehead.’
‘No way,’ Kristy says. ‘I’m not touching you until all this has cleared up, or at least until I’ve talked to Theresa about
it.’
‘Well I’ll just have to find someone who will help me,’ Emma says, and she swings her legs down from the reclining chair and stands up. ‘I might try that place in the arcade, perhaps they’ll be a bit more helpful.’
‘Don’t,’ Kristy says, grabbing her arm. ‘Seriously, Emma, don’t do anything ’til I talk to Theresa. You could end up worse than you are now. Come in tomorrow and I’ll get her to take a look, round twelve o’clock, say? And keep taking the antibiotics.’
Outside the salon the sky is darkening with storm clouds but Emma puts on the new and genuine designer sunglasses which she bought to replace the fakes, and makes her way slowly down the street. The last thing she feels like doing now is meeting her father but yesterday, at the funeral, he’d made no attempt to hide his shock when he saw her face, and before he slipped away from the wake he’d asked her to meet him for lunch.
‘I’m working, Dad,’ she’d said.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t have time for lunch,’ he’d replied. ‘Twelve-thirty at Christo’s. I’ll see you there.’
She glances at her watch: twelve-twenty-five. Too late to cancel, and anyway, if she doesn’t turn up he’ll track her down in the office or at home. He’s like that, hands off for months at a time and then full-on interference. It’s as though every now and then he remembers he’s a father and turns up to put in a bit of a performance. Anyway, she knows what this lunch is about. He had been horrified when he saw her face yesterday, so if it’s going to be an interrogation she might as well submit to it now, when she can legitimately cut it short by going back to work.
The lighting in the restaurant is low but she manages to spot Laurence reading the paper in his favourite booth by the window.
‘Are you planning to keep those glasses on all through lunch?’ he asks once they’ve ordered their food.
‘I was,’ Emma says. ‘I managed it yesterday at the funeral; nobody seemed to think it was odd.’
‘They assumed you’d been crying,’ Laurence says. ‘Believe it or not, some people had been crying a lot, not, I noticed, any of the family, not even Phyllida.’
‘Aunty Phyl did cry a bit last night,’ Emma says.
‘Well that’s probably a good thing. She was scarily calm all through the service and at the wake.’
‘Not that you’d know much about that,’ Emma says. ‘I saw you skulking off; you were only there about ten minutes.’
‘Twenty-five actually,’ Laurence says, ‘but we’re not here to talk about me.’
‘I thought you were going to tell me all about your pilgrimage,’ Emma says, emphasising the word in a way she hoped would distract him into talking about himself.
‘That can wait,’ Laurence says. ‘We have more important things to talk about, namely you. And can you please take off those fucking glasses and look me in the eye, this is serious.’
Reluctantly Emma removes her glasses and lays them on the table.
‘Christ!’ Laurence says. ‘You look like a panda.’
‘Thanks, that makes me feel a whole lot better.’
Laurence takes her hand across the table. ‘I’m sorry, my darling, but they have made a mess of your beautiful face. Can they sort it out?’
Emma shrugs and relates her conversation with Kristy. ‘It’s a nightmare, Dad. I guess it’ll look better when the infections have cleared up but it’s been really badly done, and I think I might just have to wait for it to fade, and that can take years!’ Emma puts her hands over her face. ‘You can’t believe how awful this is. I feel like a freak.’
‘Em, look, it’s not as bad as you think …’
‘You just said I look like a panda.’
‘Yes, but like you said, it’ll be better when the infection clears up. But why did you do it anyway? I mean, pumping lethal poison into your face is bad enough, but this …’
‘My lips are much too small and they fade into the rest of my face.’
‘Not anymore!’ Laurence says.
Emma glares at him.
‘Sorry, that wasn’t funny.’
‘No, it wasn’t. The woman said my eyes would look piggy once my lips were done.’
‘And you believed that?’
Emma shrugs. ‘I have to do something. I don’t want to get old.’
‘No choice about that,’ Laurence says, ‘and frankly the alternative is not appealing. It’s okay, Em, getting older is okay, in fact it’s quite nice.’
Emma sighs with irritation at his inability to understand. ‘For you maybe,’ she says. ‘Not for me. I’m a woman. I don’t want to look in the mirror and see an old woman.’
Laurence raises his eyebrows. ‘Old women can be beautiful,’ he says, an edge of frustration in his voice. ‘Your mother, for example, she’s a good-looking woman, a beautiful woman.’
Emma grimaces. ‘I certainly don’t want to get like Mum, or Aunty Phyl, thank you – wrinkles, age spots, all that loose skin … no way am I ever going to look like that. And right now I don’t want to look like a forty-two-year-old has-been.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Laurence, clearly irritated. ‘Are you saying that who you are isn’t good enough so you have to pretend to be something else? I suppose it’ll be surgery next – a new nose, perhaps, or bits of fat cut off your arse and implanted somewhere else? You’d rather go through agony and shell out a small fortune to end up looking younger? It’s madness.’
‘This didn’t cost a fortune,’ Emma says, fidgeting uncomfortably. Laurence seems really overbearing today, and he really hasn’t a clue what it’s like for her, single, past forty, and no man in sight. She just wants to escape back to work.
Laurence raises his eyebrows. ‘I know exactly how much it cost, Em,’ he says, dropping several envelopes onto the table. ‘Here’s your mail. As you can see, a lot of it’s still coming to me, so can you please get it redirected? It’s more than a year since you started using my place as a mailing address.’
‘Sorry, I’ll do it this week,’ Emma says, sweeping the envelopes across the table towards herself, but as she does so she realises that the top o
ne, from the bank, has been opened. She has a horrible sick feeling in her stomach and it begins to rise up into her chest. ‘Hey, you opened my mail. You have no right to do that, Dad. How would you feel if I opened yours?’
‘Annoyed,’ Laurence says. ‘But it was a mistake. There was a pile of mail when I got home, and we have the same bank. I assumed it was addressed to me.’ He puts down his knife and fork. ‘They’re cancelling your credit card, Em, and they’re threatening to freeze your cheque account. How long is it since you looked at one of these?’ He picks up one of the unopened bank statements and waves it at her. ‘Or made a payment on the credit card?’
Emma hesitates and glances around the restaurant. ‘A while, I suppose. Anyway, you haven’t told me about the pilgrimage. How are the blisters?’
‘Don’t change the subject. You owe them more than twenty thousand dollars. And where’s it gone? Beauticians, clothes, handbags, cosmetics, shoes, shoes, shoes – there aren’t enough days in a year for you to wear all those shoes.’
‘It’s okay, I’ve got another credit card,’ Emma says. Her whole body is rigid with embarrassment. She feels like a child again, caught out doing something wrong, knowing she’s let her father down. ‘Anyway, you had no right to open my mail.’
‘No, but I’m glad I did. Have you been paying your share of Rosie’s maintenance?’
Emma glances out of the window, longing to escape into the busy street. ‘I could have missed a few …’
Laurence throws his hands in the air. ‘Look, Em, it’s not just the money, there’s all the shopping and the things you’re doing to yourself. I’m worried about you. You need to make a plan, start paying back the money. I’ll help you with that, but the main thing is I want you to see someone … a psychologist, a counsellor … I don’t understand why –’
‘No,’ Emma cuts in, standing up and scooping the mail into her handbag. ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you, you never have. But don’t worry, Dad, you don’t have to. It’s none of your business anyway, so why don’t you just eff off and mind your own – that’s what you’ve always done anyway, isn’t it? Okay, I’m a lousy mother, and you think you were such a brilliant father?’
And before Laurence can get to his feet to stop her, Emma jams her sunglasses back onto her face and strides out of the restaurant.
Phyllida has made herself a rule for coping with her grief and adjusting to the enormity and silence of the house. She has a list of things that have to be done and at the end of each day she must be able to cross off at least one thing that will demonstrate progress; progress to the future, a different sort of future, although so far she has no idea what that might be. It’s helping. She has already crossed off many of the smaller things – the letters of thanks, approved the plaque for Donald’s portrait at the hospital, organised the headstone – and has put in writing her agreement to the naming of an operating theatre in his honour. She has gone through the tedious process of advising the banks, the health insurance company, the superannuation people, and more. Three significant and burdensome tasks remain. Sorting out and disposing of his clothes, and the contents of his study, and making an appointment to see the solicitor who has already left several messages saying he needs to see her about matters relating to the will. Right now it’s the clothes that are occupying Phyllida’s attention; the will, she thinks, can wait. She knows she gets everything other than a couple of small bequests each to Emma and Lexie. What’s the rush? The solicitor is at the bottom of the list.
On several occasions Phyllida has stood helplessly in Donald’s walk-in robe and then walked out, daunted by the prospect of all those suits, shirts and shoes. Now she is undecided about whether to take Margot up on her offer of help, or wait for Emma who, just this morning, called to ask if she might stay for a while as she had to give up her flat.
‘How lovely, Em, of course you can stay,’ Phyllida had said, ‘if that’s what you really want, but I’m fine here on my own, you know.’
‘Oh I know that,’ Emma had said. ‘It’s … well, between you and me, Aunty Phyl, I’m having this teeny financial crisis, and the rent here is pretty hefty. It would help me out while I look around for something a bit cheaper. I’ll pay my way, of course, food and things, share the bills …’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ Phyllida had said. ‘It’ll be an absolute pleasure to have you here and while I am certainly a widow I am not a destitute one. Now, when would you like to come? Soon as you like as far as I’m concerned.’
They made a date for the end of the week.
It is a couple of hours later, when she is upstairs considering whether it should be Margot or Emma who helps her with Donald’s clothes, that the bell rings and she opens the door to find her neighbour standing very close to the entrance and about to put his foot inside.
‘G’day, Phyl,’ Trevor says, edging forwards so that she has to let him in. ‘Just came around to check up, see if you need a hand with anything,’ and he strides past her to the kitchen. ‘Thought we’d have a cuppa and a chat. Got the kettle on?’
‘Was there something specific you wanted, Trevor?’ Phyllida asks, following him into the kitchen. ‘I’m rather busy and don’t have time for a chat.’
‘Won’t take a minute,’ Trevor says, settling himself on a stool at the breakfast table. ‘And it’ll be to your advantage. White, three sugars please.’
Phyllida sighs noisily and switches on the kettle, keeping her back to Trevor. She has always thought him a singularly unattractive man, large but not in Donald’s rubbery, cuddly way. Trevor’s body is a solid mass in the style of a commercial refrigerator, and he doesn’t have the height which had always added some dignity to Donald’s enormous girth. Trevor’s neck is thick and red, his slightly greying hair shaved close to his head; in a suit he looks like an escapee from a James Bond movie, a Goldfinger acolyte, likely to pull a revolver from his inside pocket at the least sign of trouble. Today, though, he has no inside pocket, no hiding place for a weapon, as he is wearing an unattractively tight pair of jeans and an even tighter black t-shirt that rides up to reveal an area of fat white belly where his waist might once have been. Donald had believed that Trevor was employed by some sort of local mafia chief in the car business as there was no way he could have made the money to buy his enormous house in this extremely expensive suburb, several investment properties on the Gold Coast, a massive yacht and more, just by selling cars. ‘Trevor’s part of the Melbourne underworld, you can take my word for that,’ he’d said on more than one occasion.
Phyllida doesn’t care how Trevor makes his money. She has always disliked him and now just wants to get rid of him as soon as possible. She pushes a mug of tea and the sugar bowl towards him and sits facing him across the benchtop.
‘So what was it you wanted, Trevor? As I said, I don’t have a lot of time.’
‘No worries,’ Trevor says, piling sugar into his tea and stirring it. ‘I had a word with your sister after the funeral, expect she told you.’
Phyllida waits for him to go on.
‘Thought I’d leave you to think it over for a while and here I am now, following it up so to speak.’
‘Following up what exactly?’ Phyllida asks, knowing just what he means but determined to make things as difficult as possible.
‘Well,’ he clears his throat, ‘as I told your sister –’
‘What was it that you told Margot?’ Phyllida says, looking puzzled. ‘I can’t quite remember.’
‘About the house,’ Trevor says, obviously struggling with the effort of managing his frustration, and as he launches into his idea of helping her out by taking the house off her hands, Phyllida sees now that he really has assumed that she has been considering his offer, and preparing to do a deal with him.
‘Of course,’ she says now, standing up and walking over to the sink. ‘I do remember Margot mentioning that, but I’m not thinking of selling, so I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.’
Trevor leans precar
iously backwards on the stool and clasps his hands behind his head. ‘I realise it’s not long since the dear old Don departed this earth, Phyllida, but you don’t want to leave it too long. You’ve seen the news, the sub-prime crisis in the US, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac getting into trouble, Lehman’s looking wobbly, Iceland teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, we’re on the verge of a financial crisis, and it’s global and that means Australia too.’
‘I am well aware what global means, thank you, Trevor, and I do follow the news. What does this have to do with my house?’
‘Real estate will plummet,’ Trevor says. ‘House prices will hit the bottom of the shit tank – the value of this place will drop by half. You need to offload it now before the crisis really hits.’
Phyllida tips her almost full cup of tea down the sink and turns to look at him. ‘Well thank you for your concern, Trevor, but it’s entirely unnecessary as I am not intending to sell now or at any time in the near future.’
Trevor sucks in his breath and shakes his head. ‘Not wise,’ he says, ‘not wise at all. Very big place, expensive to maintain, and you here on your own. Who knows what might happen?’
‘No one knows,’ Phyllida says, ‘least of all you, I suspect, Trevor. And with all this gloom and doom on the horizon I certainly wouldn’t want to saddle a neighbour with a property which, from what you’re saying, is something of a burden, a white elephant. And you really don’t need to worry about me, my niece is moving in here.’
Trevor slams his mug down on the benchtop, splashing the remains of his tea. ‘Well don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he says, shaking his finger at her. ‘Don’t come moaning to me wanting today’s price in six months’ time, because right now, Phyllida, it’s deal or no deal.’
‘No deal! And if you don’t mind, Trevor, I have things to do.’
‘I had a deal with Don, you know,’ he says, heading for the door, his face now a shiny flushed crimson. ‘I suggest you think again. I’ll be back.’
‘Please don’t bother,’ Phyllida says, grasping the door handle. ‘It’s no deal, remember. No further discussion necessary.’ And she slams the door and leans back against it, her heart pounding. ‘Bastard,’ she murmurs under her breath in a most un-Phyllida like way. ‘You won’t intimidate me.’ And she goes straight to Donald’s study, pours herself a large whisky and downs it in two gulps. ‘A deal with Don indeed! You can stuff your deal up your arse, you greedy, obnoxious little bastard,’ she says aloud, and immediately bursts into tears.
