‘Hey Di-Di, don’t get so upset. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, girlfriend, but honest to God you are hard to understand sometimes. Even my dad commented on how thin you’re getting. Maybe it’s time for you to see someone again. I know you saw that shrink when your mum, you know, went.’
People always find it so hard to say ‘died’ and Zoë never says it even though I do.
‘Maybe someone different would help you. The new school counsellor is great. Naomi Vockler told me she helped get her an apartment to live in so she can leave home but still study for her finals. And you know all that trouble Saji had about wearing the hijab? Well, Ms Freeland got it sorted out with those bully girls who were picking on Saji and saying it wasn’t school uniform. Saji says she’s been great for her and I’m worried about you, Di. Don’t say no straightaway, just think about giving her a go. And come with me to Macca’s this arvo, please!’
I dried my tears and reluctantly went to Macca’s. But I got away as soon as I could. Unlike Zoë, I find it hard to talk to new people.
That night I thought a lot about what Zoë had said. And the next day I took her advice about the counsellor. Zoë can be harsh but I know she really cares about me.
Seeing the new school counsellor turned out to be a good thing. First of all she linked me up with Leila Rowland, a psychologist at the hospital where Mum had spent a few weeks.
Leila (and I’m allowed to call her that) somehow made me talk and talk in a way I haven’t been able to before. I talked about the special relationship I had with my mum and how I had hated having to share her with Graham, let alone Marcus. And how terrible those few months were as I watched someone so strong and so major in my life fade away. And how no-one can ever take her place.
Leila talks a lot about my body image and how it’s linked to my feelings about everything. The advice she gives me is actually really useful. Especially about balance with my diet. Still, even though I know it makes sense, I’m finding it hard to follow her suggestions completely.
I am talking small steps, though, like eating something before I go to school. And I’ve stopped going to the gym too. But I still do my own workouts. I get out of bed extra early every morning to do push-ups to make up for eating breakfast and not going to the gym. I try to increase the number of push-ups I do every day because it makes me feel strong and ready to face the day. So why should I stop just to make Zoë or Leila or anyone else feel happy? It really has to be like this and I know I’m becoming a pretty healthy person. Actually, I’m feeling so much better that I’ve told Leila I don’t feel the need to see her so often.
3
Babs is indignant because some aristocrat in the English parliament called Princess Diana ‘a loose cannon’ when she began campaigning against landmines. Babs brought me a photograph of Diana with a little boy who’d obviously trodden on a mine.
‘It’s heart rendering,’ she said, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s actually heart rending.
‘Someone like her, a princess who’s so much in the spotlight, well, she can do so much to change world opinion just by being with those little kids who’ve suffered,’ Babs raged.
‘And then that announcer on the radio this morning added fuel to the fire by saying the subject of landmines was too complicated for her little bird-brain. What an insult!’
I agreed wholeheartedly.
‘I’d like to bird-brain him!’ Babs thwacked the window with her duster as she spoke in angry bursts.
‘Why in hell doesn’t he get out there and do something useful instead of saying things just to sell newspapers? What’s so complicated about getting your foot or your leg blown off by a landmine, I’d like to know!’ I thought a pane of glass might break as she thwack-thwacked with each word.
After Babs left I really wished I could talk to Mum. Not so much to tell her about Princess Diana, though I know she’s suffering at the hands of the press, but about Babs and the way she gets so riled up. I knew we’d laugh together about it, like we used to. But of course I can’t talk to Mum and that makes me feel panicky sometimes. Like now. I wanted to go for a run but it was getting dark and I knew Graham would have a fit.
‘Breathe deeply,’ I heard Leila’s words in my head just in time, ‘Think of a lovely memory of your mum.’
I lay on my bed and for once the house was quiet. I could smell the jasmine bunched up outside on the fence. I thought about how much Mum loved jasmine. She would always point out the tiny flowers and comment on how incredibly sweet they are. She loved the way they became points of light, like small gorgeous stars at night. It was working, I felt as though Mum was near. But then I sat up with a jolt. I wanted to make real contact with her, not all this memory stuff. And I felt a surge of anger that I could not see her, talk to her. Again that calm voice: ‘You could write to your mum, you know. Put down all your thoughts.’
‘What’s the use of that?’ I’d said at the time, rather rudely, ‘she’s dead!’
‘Just try it some time,’ Leila had answered calmly. I suppose she was used to brats like me.
I got off the bed slowly and took up my pen at the desk. I thought about what I’d like to say to Mum. But a gust of real fury swept through me and I wrote, ‘Where are you, you total bitch, when I need you most?’ I felt horrible for writing this so I threw the pen down. I felt panic rising again.
‘Breathe deeply,’ Leila’s calm voice came to me again, despite myself.
‘Breathe deeply,’ I murmured aloud but my breath came in sharp jabs that hurt. I just kept clinging onto that soft voice until gradually, gradually my breathing slowed down and I felt calmer. But the pain inside didn’t stop. I was still angry when I looked up and saw Diana’s face smiling down at me from one of the pictures on my wall. That was when I decided to write to her again. I needed to talk to someone who was alive; tell her some of my thoughts.
Dear Princess Diana,
It’s late at night and hot, with mozzies batting the flyscreen and the night noises of a party on Bondi Beach keeping me awake. My psychologist, Leila, has told me to write down my feelings but I can’t, so instead I’m writing to you again. I want to tell you a little more about my best friend Zoë, who is a bit of a princess too. Or so she says.
Zoë and I met at Sydney Girls’ High School. My mum took me on my first day there, which was just as well because I was terrified of the big dark brick buildings and the huge grounds that are like a park. So different from Bondi Beach Public School which I knew so well.
When Mum did the tour of the school grounds with me and we learned it had been the site for the first zoo in Sydney and that there was still a bear pit in the grounds, she said, ‘Watch out Diana. They probably lock the new girls in there for the night!’ But then she quickly gave me a hug and said, ‘Joke Joyce’. She always said that when I didn’t get her jokes. ‘You’ll find a friend,’ she promised as she kissed me goodbye. And I did.
In my first Maths lesson during my first week at Sydney Girls’, I sat next to a tall blonde girl. She asked to borrow my pen, even though I could see she had several on her desk. Anyway, it broke the ice. We found out we lived a few streets away from each other and we’ve been best friends ever since. There’s always something to talk about with Zoë, which is funny because we are opposites in so many ways. She’s untidy, she’s easygoing, and she doesn’t worry about assignment deadlines or anything else like I do. And to be honest, she kinda toys with the truth with lots of her stories. The princess story for example.
Zoë says that her mother, Bee, is related to Dutch royalty not so far back. This is despite the fact that Bee is plump and friendly and a hairdresser in a really uncool suburban salon.
‘Her name is Beatrice, really, like the Dutch Queen. Bee is just an Aussie nickname. Most of her relatives live in Holland. And I can’t tell you who phones her on a regular basis! But it’s someone royal! No, truly! So in a way I’m a princess, you know. No really!’ Zoë brags.
Zoë told the whole
story to Mum not long after we’d met.
‘But didn’t you say your great-grandparents come from Wagga Wagga?’ Mum asked.
‘Yes,’ Zoë said, not flinching, ‘they had to go somewhere and hide out after some big war in Europe. They were on the run so what better place than Wagga Wagga? I’ll have to ask my mum the story again.’
Zoë also likes to talk about her dad, Jack. He’s a real prankster who jokes around with Zoë and her sister and brother in a way that makes me envious. They play ball or sit on the verandah and play Scrabble or they compete at computer games. They’re always laughing. According to Zoë, her dad ‘is on the verge of cracking the biggest business deal ever with America or with China or Europe or wherever. But that’s absolutely confidential.’
‘How come he has so much time to be with you kids then?’ my mum asked her at the time. It was a bit unkind but Zoë wasn’t fazed.
‘He’s between deals, but this one will be …’
That was three years ago and he’s still between deals, not to mention between jobs.
I know that Zoë knows that I know she tells lies. But she’s funny and brave and Zoë, in her Zoë way, ususally tells me the truth eventually. As I reckon the truth usually does come out with everyone. It’s like Martin and the smoking thing with Babs. He pretends he doesn’t know she has that stinking habit. What a joke! Locks herself in the bathroom with the exhaust fan on. You just need to stand near her and you know she’s a smoker.
Zoë likes you as well, Princess Diana, but not in the same way I do. She humours me with my ‘freaky Diana craze’, as she calls it. But then we compete even with that. We spend time Diana-hunting, as we call it. We collect pictures of you and we try to outdo each other and see how many we can cram on our bedroom walls. I win outright because she has to fit Brad Pitt in somewhere, whereas I only have you.
I’m lucky because Babs has a friend who works on the checkout at our local supermarket. If a magazine is torn or creased, she saves it to give to Babs. Babs passes it on to me, and most of the time there’ll be a picture of you in it, of course. Plus, when I do my Fruit Mart job I sometimes find magazines that are tossed out round the back, and I go through them hungry for the goss. Sorry if that sounds a bit desperate.
Sometimes at school when we’re bored, Zoë and I go through the magazines together.
‘Skiing again. I wonder if we’ll run into them at Aspen, my deah?’ Zoë joked last week. We were looking at the photograph of you in the snow with William and Harry.
‘Aren’t those two little boys the sweetest? Actually, that one’s not so little anymore, he looks just like her. How cute!’
It was Zoë who noticed how the magazines and papers don’t seem so much in love with you after your divorce, which is so unfair.
‘Doesn’t pay to be famous, Di. Absolutely does not!’ Zoë said.
‘We needn’t worry,’ I quipped.
‘Speak for yourself,’ Zoë came back at me. Zoë makes no secret of the fact that she wants to get into NIDA, the most competitive acting school in Australia. If I have dreams about being a writer, Zoë is hell-bent on becoming an actor. ‘And if I don’t make it as an actor then I’ll just have to settle for a career in modelling!’ she says. I never quite know if she’s joking or not. Probably not!
But Zoë and I both feel sorry for you. I mean, I can’t believe the press hid and took photos of you sweating it out at the gym. No-one looks good after a hard workout!
Anyway, I just want you to know how much support you have here in Australia. We’re all mad about you!
Okay, I’m mad about you! And that’s the truth.
Your Aussie fan,
Diana Moore
4
My second letter to Princess Diana was really a lifesaver. I told Babs about my desperate night of writing and she was so happy that I’d found a way to turn my black mood around.
‘You and the Princess, you have a lot in common you know,’ she said, tying a clean apron over the old striped blue dress she always wears when she’s cleaning. And not just your names either!’
‘Oh please!’ The idea that my life has anything in common with Princess Diana’s is ridiculous. I looked around the modest kitchen of our suburban home, at the grease-marked table, the calendar hanging askew on the wall and the faded photo of Mum and Graham on the noticeboard which nobody uses anymore. ‘How can you say that? What exactly do you mean?’ I asked Babs.
‘Well, you both feel things deeply and want to do good in the world.’ I wasn’t sure I’d shown this goodwill at all, except for a one-night fast for starving kids a couple of years back.
‘And you both have the eating problem,’ Babs kept on. ‘Now don’t get cross, Di, I know you hate my mentioning it but the Princess has overcome her problem—well, seems to have—and that means you can too. Look, dear, it’s something Martin and I want to talk about with Graham. You know it can be serious if it gets out of hand. You know you can even die of it, love! Martin read that somewhere. People become so thin, just like skeletons. Now I know you’re not like that but we think you need a bit more help. There was this young girl Martin knows of who …’
‘Princess Diana had bulimia, Babs,’ I interrupted. ‘That’s when you make yourself throw up. I don’t do that!’ This was a bit of a lie because I had on some occasions when I’d eaten too much and felt sick, but I didn’t do it on a regular basis.
‘Same thing. Well, it’s related anyway. What you’ve got can lead to what she had,’ Babs argued.
I felt angry that Babs was harping on to me about this and even angrier that Martin had stuck his oar in.
‘I’m already seeing another counsellor about Mum and all of that,’ I said and told her about Leila, lying just a little about how often I see her.
‘Why didn’t you say, love?’ she sounded relieved.
‘I’ve got to keep it a secret from Marcus or he’ll give me heaps. Like he used to when I couldn’t stop crying about Mum.’
‘That boy has no right! I should give him a piece of my mind.’
‘Please Babs, don’t make trouble. You’ve tried before and it just makes it worse.’ She pursed her lips and I thought I was in for trouble but then she gave me a smile. The Leila news must have satisfied her because she got off my case.
‘I’ve something very good to tell you. You’ll like this, Diana!’
‘What? I could do with some good news.’
‘It’s about Princess Diana. I’ve just read it in Australian Woman’s Weekly so it has to be true. She’s coming to Australia! To Sydney too!’
‘No way!’ It took all my willpower not to grab for the phone right then to tell Zoë the good news.
‘She’ll be here in a few weeks, in time to open a wing of that medical centre right next to St Vincent’s Hospital in Darlinghurst. The one near that café you and Zoë like so much. You might get to see her, Di. You might even get to talk to her!’ Babs exclaimed.
My heart was beating wildly. Maybe I could find out where she’d be staying while she was in Sydney and send the letters to her there. Better still, go there myself and hand them to her. But who would ever let a 15-year-old schoolgirl anywhere near a real live princess? And even if they did, why would she be interested? But to see her in the flesh, wow!
When I finally told her about Princess Di’s visit, Zoë topped it with news of her own. As of Thursday at 5.30 pm she and Jason Chee were officially ‘an item’. Zoë was ecstatic and I was more than a bit pissed off. Suddenly my Diana news didn’t seem so exciting.
‘After the movie he asked me to go out with him. Just him and I,’ Zoë babbled on.
‘You and Jason—no way!’ I was jealous and she must have heard it in my voice.
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘D’you have a problem or what?’
‘No problem. He’s nice. But you said you thought he was a bit of a shortie and …’ my voice trailed off.
‘He’s exactly my height,’ she said coldly. And even if he weren’t, everyone
knows he’s a pretty cool guy with a great sense of humour. And anyway, I said yes!’
‘That’s great!’ I replied.
She just looked at me.
‘I mean it Zoë. It’s great for both of you.’
She slipped her arm through mine. ‘That’s really good news about the Princess visit Di-Di,’ she said, obviously trying to make me feel better. ‘We’ll have to work it with Miss Pate so that we can go to that medical centre to see her. We can write it up for our Journalism assignment.’
I agreed that it was a great idea but I didn’t think Miss Pate would ever let us go. Which just goes to show how wrong you can be.
Jason is a good-looking guy, I suppose. He’s good at soccer and not so good at school work. But, hey, who cares, right? Zoë doesn’t seem to mind.
Lots of boys like Zoë. I’ve always been in her shadow when it comes to socialising. It’s just not that easy for me to think of things to say to boys. Sometimes Zoë teases me. ‘C’mon Diana, who do you like? You can tell me …’
There is this one guy, Seb, in our group who sometimes talks to me. I know I blush like mad when he looks at me. I think he’s pretty hot but there’s no way I’d ever tell Zoë because you can’t predict what she’ll do or say.
Graham came home early that night with my favourite ‘Lite’ frozen dinner, but I just couldn’t eat any of it. All the talk about Zoë and Jason, and thinking about Mum, had put me off.
‘Not this damned no eating thing again, Diana! I won’t put up with it!’ Graham shouted.
‘She’s crazy. She needs a pie-chiatrist,’ Marcus said as he swiped my share of the food. When Graham left the room he added, ‘Ugly Di gets uglier. And ugly Di, dies. Ha, shitface!’
‘You’re a pig! An absolutely disgusting pig!’ I came back at him as he stuffed his mouth, but I had the good sense to leave the room as I said it.
Letters to a Princess Page 2
