Last Chance Café

by Liz Byrski

  ‘This is lovely, Rosie,’ Grant said. ‘Aunty Phyl makes terrific cakes, doesn’t she?’

  ‘I made it,’ Rosie insisted, ‘and Mum made some of it too. She’s really good at cakes.’

  ‘Is she?’ Grant said, raising his eyebrows at Emma. ‘Well she’s obviously been hiding her talents.’

  ‘Fluke,’ Emma had said, blushing. ‘The last time I made one was probably in high school cookery.’ For a few moments she basked in the pleasure of his approval and then hated the fact that it meant so much to her.

  Later, as she thought back on the shopping trip and how much she’d enjoyed it, it occurred to her that she and Margot used to do more things together but that seemed to have stopped. When, she wondered, had Margot last confided in her, or asked her for anything? Some of the women at work were always doing things with or for their mothers: shopping, organising family stuff, going places together, to movies or out for meals. As she thought about it now Emma remembered that years ago, especially in the time immediately after she and Grant split up, Margot was in touch much more often. She would call to suggest that they catch up for lunch or go to a movie, or ask if Emma would go with her to buy shoes. And Emma remembers making excuses, wanting to keep her options open for more interesting invitations which never actually turned up, or for work things that always did. Back then it had seemed a bit pathetic to be going places with her mother.

  She had been promoted when she went back to work and so had more money to spend and more time to spend it, and she had been determined to make herself over. No more sour smelling trails of baby spit or vomit on her clothes, get her figure back after the birth, get rid of those first telltale signs of age, and look every inch the young, glamorous and sexy but professional woman. And of course she’d done it. So why did she end up feeling just as she had before, lonely, empty, a failure? And why is she now feeling warm, fuzzy and proud because her mother had not only asked her to do something but indicated that she trusted her to do it? Why had this, and making a cake with Rosie, made her feel okay?

  That same evening she had sat down with Phyllida and explained that Margot had told her everything. There had been the anticipated drama about Margot having broken a confidence, a lot of anger about May Wong (who Emma thought sounded rather fascinating), a lot of pain and grief, but there was more. She could see now that the protective shell of Phyllida’s life with Donald had been ripped away, taking with it her self-esteem, leaving her raw and exposed. And in understanding this Emma knew that Margot had been right in saying that she, Emma, was the best person to help. She, after all, knows all about shame, has lived with its vacillations and inconsistencies, its random attacks followed by brief periods of relief overshadowed by the knowledge that it could attack again at any time. And that night Emma sensed that their conversation might have made a difference.

  The following morning, for the first time since her visit to the lawyer, Phyllida had appeared in the kitchen before Emma left for work.

  ‘There’s something I want to ask you, Emma,’ Phyllida said. ‘And you must say if it’s too much. Hammond thinks we need to go through Donald’s office, the filing cabinet and the computer, to see if there is anything more about those payments to Trevor, and any indication of where the rest of the cash was going. It means going through all the files and the computer too, and feeling as I do right now, I don’t think …’

  ‘Of course,’ Emma said. ‘Of course I’ll do it. I’ll start on it this evening.’

  And so tonight she is here in the study making her first inroads into checking every file and piece of paper. Phyllida has given her carte blanche to keep or throw things out or to ask her opinion; she has trusted Emma to rescue her from Donald’s mess. And so thanks to a crisis, Emma has, it seems, gained a new level of significance in the life of her family. She has been acknowledged as a person who can sort out business and financial affairs (albeit not her own), and a woman who is really good with cakes (although this probably needs a bit more testing before final confirmation). Most of all, she has been acknowledged as a person who can be relied upon to help someone through a crisis. Perhaps it’s not permanent, just a flash in the pan, but she hopes not. It makes Emma feel less restless – in fact she feels quite calm – imagining herself this way, and she savours another sip of the wine Phyllida has poured her and turns her attention back to the paperwork.

  A lot of the stuff is easy to deal with. There are more catalogues of golfing equipment, fishing equipment and state of the art digital equipment for the home than any one person could possibly need. There is nostalgia – clippings and photographs of Donald’s triumphs on the rugby field, the golf course, and in the operating theatre; photographs taken at formal functions, cards and letters from grateful patients or their families, old birthday cards, and pictures of his parents. There are no letters or cards from May Wong.

  Emma packs everything into a plastic box file and labels it, ready to take it out to the storage racks in the garage. As she closes the box file and puts it near the door she realises that the framed wedding photograph that stood on the nearby shelf has gone, and maybe some other things as well, the shelf is bare. There are dark stains on the stone hearth and the carpet. She bends down to investigate a sliver of something bright and finds a tiny shard of glass buried in the pile. For a moment she stands, holding it, conjuring explanations, all of which seem to indicate that Phyllida is getting something out of her system.

  For a moment Emma considers stopping work – Grey’s Anatomy will be starting in ten minutes, and last week’s episode was a cliffhanger. She finishes her wine, stretches her arms above her head and then bends down to pick up the unlabelled box file which she plans to start on tomorrow. Quickly she flips it open. There are several loose pages of lined paper covered with dates, and sums of money and notes, all in Donald’s spidery hand which she has been trying to decipher most of the evening. Underneath the pages is a manila folder and she is about to close the lid when she notices that on the cover of the folder there is a name, a number and ‘DECEASED’ is stamped in red across the front above the warning: ‘HOSPITAL PROPERTY – DO NOT REMOVE’. Lifting the clip of the box file she takes out the folder and sits down again, turning over the first couple of pages. Why has Donald brought this file home? How long has he had it? Emma feels a horrible sense of unease creeping from her stomach to her chest.

  ‘Grey’s Anatomy in two minutes,’ Phyllida says, putting her head around the door, ‘but of course it never starts on time. Are you coming?’

  Emma’s heart is thumping so hard she believes her aunt might hear it. ‘I am,’ she says with a deceptively calm smile. ‘Just got to pop upstairs and I’ll be there. Don’t let it start without me.’

  And as Phyllida turns away and heads back to the television, Emma tucks the box file under her arm, puts out the lights in the study, closes the door, and runs quietly up the stairs to her own room, where she slides it under some jumpers on a shelf in the wardrobe. Then, glancing at her reflection in the mirror, she closes the door behind her and goes back down the stairs.

  ‘Lies, infidelity and heartbreak in the operating theatre,’ Phyllida says as Emma joins her on the sofa. ‘Not that there’s anything we don’t know about that, of course, it’s just that it’s so much more exciting and glamorous on the box than it is in real life, don’t you think? Any amazing finds this evening?’

  Emma shakes her head. ‘None,’ she says, keeping her eyes firmly on the wide opening shot of a Seattle hospital. ‘That man had enough golf and fishing magazines to account for the destruction of a small forest.’

  Emma pulls into the parking area of the salvage warehouse and switches off the engine.

  ‘I thought we were just getting party stuff,’ Lexie says irritably. ‘We won’t find anything useful here.’

  ‘Are you kidding,’ Emma says. ‘Have you ever been to one of these places? Come on, you’ll like it, it’s like Aladdin’s cave,’ and she gets out, slams the door behind her, and strides
quickly off into the warehouse.

  Lexie sighs. It’s a really hot day and the last thing she feels like doing is trekking through a warehouse looking for bargains. She thinks she may be getting like Margot and developing a hatred of shopping. Picking up her bag she follows her sister inside. Margot is throwing a party, a small party, for some women friends; at least it started as a small party but now it seems to be getting bigger by the hour. There will be women from the time when she and Dot were involved with the women’s movement, other friends from the law centre, the young women from the CASE campaign and of course the family: Lexie herself and Emma, and Vinka, who seems to have become part of the family, and Wendy; surprisingly, because she has always despised what she calls ‘girls together’ occasions, Phyllida has also agreed to come and is organising the food.

  ‘Come with me to get some things for Mum, Lex,’ Emma had said on the phone. ‘She needs more glasses and other stuff. I’ll come and pick you up.’

  And so here they are on a hot Saturday morning, the weekend before the party, and Lexie is confused. Emma and a salvage warehouse seem an unlikely match, but it’s even more weird that she’s asked Lexie to go with her. They rarely do things together, or at least they haven’t since Emma and Grant split up; that whole period seemed to fracture their relationship, although Lexie doesn’t really know why. Perhaps, she wonders now, she hadn’t been supportive enough at the time.

  The place is swarming with people, and there are a lot of small children with noisy plastic toys. Two small boys, hiding behind a litter bin holding plastic machine guns, are lining Lexie up in their sights and fire a cascade of imaginary bullets at her as she reaches the entrance. By the time she catches up with her Emma has already loaded the trolley with two boxes of plain wineglasses, two boxes of tumblers, a packet of plastic plates, some paper towels, and now she’s checking out the price of paper tablecloths and napkins.

  ‘Wow, these are a bargain,’ Lexie says, picking up the wineglasses. ‘I might get some for myself.’

  ‘Told you so,’ Emma says triumphantly. ‘What do you think of these?’ She points to a shelf of black metal lanterns. ‘We can put citronella tea-lights in them, they’ll keep the mozzies away.’

  They pile a dozen lanterns and a box of tea-lights into the trolley.

  ‘There’s a coffee cart out the back,’ Emma says. ‘Let’s get some before we go.’

  They push the trolley out through the back doors of the warehouse to a yard with tables where a young man is dispensing excellent smelling coffee from a mobile unit.

  ‘I didn’t really bring you here to shop,’ Emma says as they carry their cardboard cups to a table. ‘There’s a problem, and I need your advice.’

  And as Lexie sips her coffee from the spout in the cup, Emma fills her in on Donald’s affair with May Wong, and the extraordinary file she has found in his study.

  ‘So what do you think I should do?’ she asks. ‘I could show her now, but I thought maybe I should try and find out more first, try to fill in the gaps.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Lexie says. ‘Don’t tell her yet, she’ll freak out completely. Give her time, maybe after Christmas. I’ll help you, Em, if I can, just tell me what to do.’

  ‘I’m not sure what to do really,’ Emma says, ‘where to go next. I think it might be worth talking to May Wong, but she’s an unknown quantity. I mean, why should she want to help? It sounds as though Phyl was pretty unpleasant to her.’

  A small child on a plastic tricycle rides around their table in circles making motorbike noises as they speculate on what might result from a conversation with May.

  ‘More material for Mum’s book,’ Emma jokes as they walk back to the car park. ‘She can turn it into a mystery.’

  ‘I actually wanted to talk to you about Mum,’ Lexie says. ‘Not just Mum, her and Dot. You know about this campaign we’re working on?’

  ‘Vaguely. Wendy said something about it.’

  ‘Well I need to find a photographer, someone who does good portrait work, particularly portraits of women. I thought you might know someone.’

  Emma puts the box of lanterns into the boot and straightens up. ‘I know a couple – it depends what sort of thing you want. You’d have to talk to them, but probably Andrea Charlton would be good. She’s done a couple of exhibitions. I think one was about country women – yes, “Women on the Land”. What’s it for?’

  Lexie pushes the trolley away from the car. ‘An exhibition,’ she says, ‘so this Andrea sounds good. I want portraits of older women, it needs to be a photographer who can capture something I saw when I was with Mum and Dot, a sort of beauty and an inner light that old women get. I want an exhibition that celebrates age.’

  ‘Well I guess Andrea’ll know what you mean. I’ll give you her number. But I thought Wendy said the campaign was about girls – you know, Rosie’s age.’

  ‘It is, but you can’t really separate the sexualisation of little girls from the sexualisation of all women – it’s a continuum, isn’t it?’

  Emma shrugs. ‘I suppose, but I can’t say I’ve ever really thought about it.’

  ‘So, if I can get this together, will you see if you can get it mounted in the shopping centres?’

  Emma looks puzzled. ‘What for? I mean, I don’t really understand why you want to do it anyway, but why would Grangewood be interested in having it in the centres, because I suspect you’re going to want it for free?’

  Lexie looks at her, waiting until she’s sure she has Emma’s full attention. ‘What sort of women are in all the shopping centre ads and promotions now?’

  Emma shrugs. ‘Well … young singles, young professionals, mums with young babies.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well – attractive, fashionable, happy, sexy, airbrushed … you know.’

  ‘Exactly, and what about the fact that a large percentage of women shopping in the centres are well past middle age or old, and a lot of those women have money to spend?’

  ‘Hmm …’ Emma says, looking vaguely puzzled. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean. Well I could try, I suppose. If they looked good that is, really good.’ She tilts the mirror and peers at her face.

  Lexie watches her. ‘Your face looks a lot better.’

  ‘Yes. Theresa did a good job. I was going to get a brow lift and have my chin done too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mmm, but I don’t know … I mean, it doesn’t seem to have done me much good.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well here I am doing everything I’m supposed to do to look young and attractive and sexy, but you’re older than me, you do nothing to yourself, and you get the man.’

  Lexie laughs. ‘Last I heard you didn’t want a man.’

  ‘That was just bravado,’ Emma says. ‘I’m not desperate, but it would be nice.’

  ‘You don’t need to do anything, Em, just relax a bit, stop working so hard and get –’

  ‘Yeah, I know, get a life.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Emma pulls the seatbelt out and snaps it into place. ‘Aunty Phyl said I’d modelled myself on a Barbie doll.’

  Lexie takes a deep breath, hoping her guilt at having once said something similar about her sister doesn’t show. ‘I expect she was upset at the time. She wouldn’t have wanted to hurt you.’

  ‘I know that,’ Emma says, ‘but actually it did hurt, it made me feel ashamed. It was the way she said it. I think she was trying to tell me something and I didn’t quite get it.’

  ‘Did you ask her what she meant?’

  ‘No, no I didn’t. I can’t because it’s like I should know and I think I do but it’s really bugging me. So I thought I’d ask you instead.’

  TWENTY

  Margot is preparing for the party, unpacking the glasses and plates that Lexie and Emma bought last weekend, counting cutlery, worrying if she has enough chairs. It had started out small but the numbers kept growing as women called to ask if they could bring their now adult daughters wh
o, back in the seventies had sat around with Lexie and Emma during those interminable meetings, bored stiff and asking when it would be time to go home. It will be so good, she thinks, to see those women together, the past, the present and Alyssa and her friends who seem to represent the future. Most of all Margot is pleased that Phyllida has agreed to come.

  ‘She needs to get to know other women,’ Margot had said to Emma, ‘she doesn’t have friends of her own.’

  ‘What about the women at the golf club? They’re her friends,’ Emma had said. ‘And the people they were always having to dinner?’

  ‘They’re just golf acquaintances, and the dinner mob are Donald’s mates and their wives. Phyl’s never really had any friends of her own, she’s always rather looked down on women getting together. Does she ever go out for coffee with a friend? Think about it, Em, has anyone popped around to the house to see how she’s going? Brought soup? Asked her over for a meal?’

  ‘Well … no,’ Emma had said. ‘You’re right. There’s no one …’

  ‘Exactly. Make sure she comes, don’t let her wriggle out of it.’

  And although Margot has gratefully accepted her sister’s condition that she’ll come if she can organise the food, she knows what this is about. There is safety and focus in the kitchen, the work can expand to occupy the duration of the party, and to reduce social interaction to an absolute minimum. But getting Phyllida here is the main thing, Margot thinks, getting her out of the kitchen can be dealt with later.

  And so, with no food to prepare, Margot has plenty of time to set up everything else, at her own leisurely pace. At first she thinks she’ll ignore the door when she hears a knock – it’s becoming a habit these days, and it makes her feel she has control over who and what intrudes on her time. But the person knocks again, insistently this time, and she surrenders.

  ‘I knew you were in,’ Laurence says, ‘I can always tell. Is this a bad time?’