Last Chance Café

by Liz Byrski

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you, dear,’ Phyllida begins. ‘I haven’t been entirely honest.’

  Emma’s stomach churns. More secrets, this time Phyllida’s, or is it perhaps a change of heart in the plan for dealing with Trevor? She nods to her aunt to go on.

  ‘I have something to give you,’ Phyllida says, drawing a sealed manila envelope from the pocket of her dressing gown. ‘Something I should have given you a while ago.’ She turns the envelope in her hands, looking down at it. ‘I had no right to keep it so long.’

  Emma takes the envelope; it is addressed to her but not stamped, and bears the logo and name of Hammond & Partners, Solicitors. ‘Hammond?’ she says in surprise. ‘Why is John Hammond writing to me?’

  ‘Open it and see.’

  Emma rips open the envelope and takes out the contents – it’s a letter and attached to it is a cheque for $25,000 made out to her.

  ‘It’s a bequest,’ Phyllida says, ‘from Donald’s will. It did take a while to get the probate sorted but it took me time to hand it on to you. You see, Em –’

  ‘Oh my god,’ Emma says in amazement, her mind buzzing suddenly with what this means. She can feel her face flushing with pleasure. ‘That’s so kind of him, and of you …’

  ‘Well it was supposed to be a bit more than that,’ Phyllida says, ‘but he hadn’t actually got around to changing it, so when I’ve sold the house there’ll be some extra to come. But the thing is, Em, the reason I didn’t give it to you earlier –’

  ‘But what about Lexie?’ Emma cuts in.

  ‘She gets the same,’ Phyllida says. ‘I shall give it to her next time I see her, so please don’t tell her – I’d like it to be a surprise. But the reason –’

  ‘Of course,’ Emma says, ‘I won’t say a word. It’ll really help her with uni.’ It will, she knows, be a big help to Lexie, almost as big as it will be to her in helping her along with this new thing she’s exploring, and in her excitement she nearly blurts it out, but then reality hits her.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Phyllida says. ‘But about you, Em …’ she hesitates. ‘I thought perhaps … well I was hoping you might use it to … well –’

  ‘I can’t take it,’ Emma interrupts. ‘It’s lovely of him, and of you, Phyl, but I can’t take it. I owe you it anyway, let alone the fact that I’ve been living here rent-free for months.’ She folds the letter and the cheque back into the envelope and holds it out to Phyllida. ‘Can you ask Hammond to cancel the cheque and pay the money to you, then I will at least have paid back what you lent me.’

  Phyllida is taken aback. ‘No,’ she says, moving a little further back down the bed. ‘No, Em, Donald wanted you to have this and I want it too. The reason …’ She pauses and then sighs. ‘No,’ she says again, ‘I was going to ask you to do something with it, but that wouldn’t be fair … no, forget it. I want you to have it. Donald wanted it, and although in view of what’s happened doing what he wanted is not my priority, this is important. I want you to take it, and I am cancelling your debt to me, Em. Having you here has been a real joy, but much more than that. I don’t know how I would have got through these months without you. I know I haven’t been the easiest of companions. This year is a big new start for me and if it weren’t for you I don’t think I’d be looking forward to it in the way that I am. So please, take it, use it wisely, and enjoy it.’

  By the time Phyllida leaves, sleep is far from Emma’s mind. Use it wisely, her aunt had said, and in that moment Emma had almost blurted out that she knew exactly how she would use it and how much help it would be, but she held back. She was sure that what she intended was indeed wise, and in fact it was already proving its value, but she just wasn’t sure how Phyllida would view it and the last thing Emma needs now is a critical or dismissive reaction. As she slides further down in the bed Emma can barely believe her good fortune. Whatever it was that Phyllida had planned to ask her to do with it couldn’t, she believes, be more valuable than this and one day, hopefully not too far away, she will tell her, and by then Phyllida will be in no doubt that it was worth it.

  Laurence stares at the emergency alarm in his hand; the act of slipping it on over his neck seems like an act of surrender but if it’s going to be any use then he ought to be wearing it. He won’t of course, he’s already decided that. He’ll keep it somewhere out of sight but easy to get to if he needs it. He’s certainly not going to answer the door with an alarm hanging on a lanyard around his neck, but having it does seem like a good idea, as long as no one knows. No one must ever know.

  His back is a worsening problem and what concerns him most is that his shower is above the bath. Some years ago when they renovated the bathroom Bernard had insisted that they retain the period character of the house. He wanted a claw-footed bath and had trawled the city and its suburbs and found a magnificent one, and then he’d found a modern shower fitting designed to work perfectly with a character bath. The challenge of climbing in and out of the bath to take a shower as one gets older was something neither of them had considered at the time, but now Laurence curses it every day and fears that his back might just ‘go’, lord knows how, and then he’ll be in deep shit. It happens, he knows that, he’s often heard people say ‘my back just went and there I was – stuck’; it’s usually followed by descriptions of excruciating pain and various humiliating medical interventions.

  ‘Where did your back go when it went?’ he had once asked, and the person of whom he’d asked it had said: ‘Don’t be fucking facetious with me, mate, you won’t be laughing when it happens to you.’

  And now of course it so easily could. It gives Laurence a gloomy sense of satisfaction to know that all this is Bernard’s fault and that if his back does go and he dies of neglect while trapped in the bath, Bernard will have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. Meanwhile he’ll have to take care in the bathroom. Perhaps, he thinks, he should keep the alarm in the bathroom, somewhere he can reach from the bath. As he’s pondering this he hears the sound of Emma’s car pulling into the drive and quickly drops it into the central cardboard tube of the spare toilet roll that is standing on top of the cistern.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, opening the door. ‘Where’s our Rosie?’

  ‘We’re picking her up from a party on the way,’ Emma says, kissing him on the cheek. ‘Can I use your loo?’

  ‘Sure.’ He steps back to make way for her and spends a few anxious minutes hoping that Emma will not need to use the new toilet roll.

  ‘I thought we’d go for a walk along the river and have something to eat at the Boatshed. They’ve started doing light suppers,’ Emma says, emerging from the bathroom.

  ‘Sounds good,’ Laurence says, relieved that his secret has not been discovered. ‘You look terrific, Em. Where’s the party?’

  ‘South Yarra. Rosie has a new friend, Jacinta, she’s very taken with her. She’s much more of a girly sort of girl so I think she’ll be good for Rosie.’

  Laurence, who has spent the last few weeks researching material on the branding and sexualisation of children, resists the urge to tell Emma that she should be thankful that Rosie is happy conducting bird funerals and using her compass to draw maps of the park. But they’ve been getting on well the last few weeks and so he decides not to rock any boats. Collecting his keys and sunglasses from the kitchen, he locks the door and follows her out to the car.

  ‘Wendy, of course, doesn’t have a good word to say for them,’ Emma says, buckling her seatbelt.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jacinta’s parents. She says they have more money than sense or taste, the house looks like the Pope’s summer palace, and Jacinta’s going to turn into a pretentious airhead. But you know Wendy; she does have a rather narrow viewpoint.’ She hands him the street directory and a piece of paper with the address. ‘Can you navigate when we get a bit closer? I don’t know that area.’

  Laurence takes the directory and gets his glasses out of his top pocket. It gives him time to co
nsider his reply, and then he decides to risk it. ‘I like Wendy,’ he says. ‘And I think she and Grant are doing a good job with Rosie.’

  ‘They are,’ Emma says. ‘I quite like Wendy too, now, but you must admit she’s a bit lentils and Birkenstocks, and she’s tediously super green.’

  ‘I see nothing wrong with any of that,’ Laurence says gamely.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ Emma says, but she says it affectionately and turns briefly to smile at him. ‘I just hope Jacinta will get Rosie dressing up a bit, like the other girls. Anyway, before we pick her up I need to update you on the secret life of Donald.’

  Laurence listens with growing interest as Emma relates the saga of events following the death of Tony Stiles.

  ‘I never liked him and I never trusted him,’ he says now. ‘Most of all I never understood what Phyllida saw in him or why she couldn’t see through him. He was an arrogant, self-serving, duplicitous bastard.’

  ‘None of us saw through him,’ Emma says, ‘not even May Wong, who’s actually really nice. I can’t imagine what she ever saw in him.’

  Laurence shrugs. ‘So what’s Phyl going to do about Trevor?’

  ‘She wants to talk it through with us, you and me. So can you come back home with me and Rosie after the Boatshed?’

  ‘You need to take the next turn left,’ Laurence says, ‘and it should be right on the corner. Yes of course I’ll come. Bloody hell, is that it?’

  The house is enormous and sports more clashes of architectural styles than seems possible in one building. There are ornate white wrought iron balustrades, fake Doric columns, porthole windows, and what look like remnants of the Parthenon frieze randomly set into the walls. At the top of the steps, which run the full width of its façade, an archway more suited to a small palace leads to the front door which is decorated with a huge pink bow. Pink bows also adorn the manicured miniature trees that stand in pots on either side of the arch.

  ‘Perhaps Wendy was right,’ Emma says. ‘It really is hideous. Come on then.’

  ‘I think I’ll just stay here,’ Laurence says. Now that Emma has switched off the engine he can hear music pumping, and it’s not his sort of music.

  ‘Please,’ Emma says, sounding surprisingly plaintive. ‘Don’t make me go into this place on my own. Besides, there’s that sign on the gate.’

  ‘What sign?’ Laurence asks.

  ‘Look there – “Parents and grandparents! Come inside to pick up your gorgeous girl and have a glass of champagne with us. Mick and Sue”.’

  ‘Shit!’ Laurence says.

  ‘Please, Dad.’

  ‘If I wasn’t here you’d have to go in alone.’

  ‘But you are here, and you’re my father. I need you to come with me.’

  Just a few months ago Emma had been ready to disown him; now she needs him. Laurence reluctantly gets out of the car and follows her along the path, up the steps and into a huge marble floored foyer with a fountain in the centre.

  ‘Crikey,’ Emma says, ‘this is pretty gross. I’m beginning to worry about the dressup bit now. Jacinta’s mum was supposed to be hiring heaps of stuff for them to choose from. Look, there’s another sign.’

  The sign is made of bright pink cardboard scattered with crimson sequins. In one corner there is a large silver Playboy Bunny logo, and beneath it an arrow above the words To Jacinta’s Party. Beneath it is a white basket of large pink and white bunny ears on headbands, standing on top of a table. Come in if you’re wearing ears, the sign on the basket says.

  ‘I think you should give the ears a miss,’ Laurence says. ‘I’m going back to the car.’

  Emma grabs his sleeve. ‘Don’t go, Dad, please, we’ll just get Rosie and leave.’

  Shrugging, he follows her along the corridor to where the music is blasting out of the open door to a dance studio lit with flashing lights and a mirrored disco ball. At the far end there is a small stage on which a dozen little girls are strutting their stuff in time to the music. Dressed in pink and black Bunny costumes with pompom tails, long ears and fishnet tights, they walk, one hand on hip, the other holding a pink card with a number on it. The tight-fitting satin costumes are cut and padded to create eerily mature curves, and as they walk they sing. Laurence can’t quite hear the constantly repeated phrase but each time they finish it there is a pause, a double drumbeat and they swing around to face the front, thrust their hips suggestively forwards, then turn their backs to the audience and bend over to wiggle their bums, and start walking again. Behind them a pink satin banner announces Jacinta’s Birthday Bunny Beauty Pageant. Watching in open-mouthed delight, a group of parents, clap and shriek at every thrust and wiggle. Off to the side a woman in a pink leotard and tights is sliding up and down one of two pink poles, watched by four even younger girls, dressed like her in pink leotards over obviously padded bras. They take it in turn to copy her moves, wrapping their legs suggestively around the other pole, pumping, twisting and thrusting in time to the music.

  ‘Pole dancing?’ Laurence gasps in shock. ‘Christ, they’re only four or five. And what is that thing they’re singing? It sounds like “is your girlfriend hot like me?”’

  ‘That’s exactly what it is,’ Emma says, tight-lipped. ‘This is really gross. And where’s Rosie? Poor darling, she’s probably hiding somewhere. Can you see her?’

  ‘Number eleven,’ Laurence says, pointing to the stage. ‘Black satin, pink ears and fake tan. I think you’ll have to wait for them to finish before you take her home.’

  The colour drains from Emma’s face and she stares at the stage as if unable to believe what she’s seeing. Laurence reaches out to her but before he can grasp her hand she has leapt up the steps two at a time and strides across the stage to where Rosie is wiggling her satin clad bum. Emma grabs Rosie’s arm and, ignoring the squeals of resistance, pulls her daughter to the edge of the stage. ‘Stop the music,’ she shouts, ‘turn that music off now.’

  A man wearing jeans, a pink shirt and pair of bunny ears turns off the music and marches across to confront her.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demands, and one of his pink and white ears gets an attack of vertigo and flops down over his forehead. ‘You can’t just walk in here like this and ruin my daughter’s party.’

  ‘What am I doing?’ Emma asks, looking down at him from the stage, fury burning in her face. ‘What am I doing? I’m removing my daughter from this disgusting spectacle. How dare you abuse my child like this, turning her into some sort of sex object. What is the matter with you?’ She looks away from him to the group of dumbstruck parents. ‘What’s the matter with all of you, can’t you see what you’re doing? That song, these costumes, the pole dancing – pole dancing? They’re practically toddlers. You’re either evil or insane – I just hope it’s the latter.’ And dragging the protesting Rosie behind her she heads for a rack where the children’s own clothes are hanging. ‘Pick up your shoes, Rosie,’ she orders as she grabs Rosie’s clothes and heads for the door, Laurence turning to follow her.

  ‘The costume,’ Jacinta’s mother calls, running after Emma. ‘You can’t just take that with you, it has to be returned – you can’t just keep it.’

  Emma, who has now reached the huge entrance foyer, stops so suddenly that Laurence and Rosie almost crash into her. She turns and draws herself up to her full height, looking stonily into the woman’s face. ‘I have no intention of keeping it,’ she says, and her tone is icy. ‘I wouldn’t have that thing in my home if you paid me, but I am not allowing my daughter to undress in something akin to a nightclub. You’ll have to wait for it.’

  And turning away she continues across the foyer, out through the front door and down the path to the car.

  ‘It was soooooooo embarrassing,’ Rosie wails, perched on the lid of Laurence’s toilet while Emma attacks the makeup with a face cloth. ‘Jacinta will hate me now. And you were horrible to Mrs Fletcher, and now I’ll never get invited again.’

  ‘You’
re never going there again anyway,’ Emma says. ‘Those people must be mad – all of you dressed up –’

  ‘I told you it was a dressup party, and I told Wendy too. So it’s not my fault. You’re so mean. Jacinta’s mum got all those bunny things just for us. She had two ladies to do our makeup, and a hairdresser. She used to be a glamour model and she taught us how to walk and wiggle and stuff. I hate you.’ The tears begin again, coursing down her cheeks leaving more pale streaks in her foundation. ‘You could’ve let me show Aunty Phyl how I looked.’

  ‘Aunty Phyl would have had a fit,’ Emma says, standing up straight and inspecting what other bits of Rosie need to be washed.

  ‘And you said we were going for a walk and out for tea.’

  ‘Well there’s no way we’re going anywhere until we’ve got you cleaned up,’ Emma says. ‘This orange stuff is everywhere.’

  ‘It’s called Magic Tan, and Jacinta says you can wash it off but I like it. Jacinta says I can go with her and her mum to get a proper spray-tan next week.’

  ‘You are going nowhere with Jacinta ever again –’ Emma is shouting now – ‘and you are certainly not getting a spray-tan.’

  ‘But you did, you got one.’

  ‘Rosie, once and for all –’

  ‘Go easy on her, Em,’ Laurence says from the doorway. ‘It’s really not her fault.’

  The bathroom is silent. Rosie, tearful and tan-streaked, kicks her legs back and forth against the lavatory bowl and Emma, her hands now orange, stops scrubbing, pushes her hair back from her own tear-stained face and stares at him.

  ‘No,’ she says eventually. ‘No it’s not,’ and she drops to her knees on the tiled floor by Rosie’s side. ‘Grandad’s right, Rosie, it’s not your fault and I shouldn’t be blaming you. I’m so sorry, darling.’ And she pulls Rosie into her arms. ‘I think I’d best get her into the shower, Dad, if that’s okay.’

  Laurence leaves them to it, goes to the kitchen, switches the kettle on and stands with his hands on the bench top, his back to the door, while silent tears slide down his cheeks and into his beard. His tears are not for Rosie, for her humiliation or disappointment; she is young, she’ll bounce back. They are for his daughter, for the confusion, the realisation and the anguish he saw in her eyes. For she always knew it was not Rosie’s fault but now Laurence can see that she thinks she’s to blame.