by Murray, Lee
Fuck. Fifteen minutes! This is an emergency! I start rifling furiously through the racks, yanking out bras and thrusting them back.
‘Mel! Slow down. What’s going on?’
‘Winston fired me!’ Yank and thrust.
‘No!’
‘Yes!’ Yank and thrust.
‘But you’ve been there forever!’ Instinctively, Janeen hands me a dazzling Valisère bra in inky purple. Old-gold filigree piping edges the cups. ‘You are Sportzgirl, Mel. He can’t just fire you!’
‘I know. I am. He did!’ I wail, taking the bra and throwing it over my arm. ‘What I need is one of those squishy foam boss-dolls. God, I’d love to pummel a squishy foam Winston.’ I stop rummaging for a second. ‘No, no! Better yet, a game of Whack-a-Mole with Winston’s face darting from the mole holes!’ I let out a tiny snort and shove another hanger back in place.
‘Whack-a-Winston. Whump! Whump! Whump!’ I say, pushing knickers back and forth across a rack in time with the whumps.
Janeen joins in. ‘Yeah! Here, let me pass you a bigger hammer.’
‘Why, thank you. That’d be perfect!’ I reply.
‘I beg your pardon, madam? Can I help you ladies with anything?’ says Charlotte, putting paid to the pantomime.
‘Er…do you have panties to match this bra please?’ I hold up Janeen’s selection. The silky fabric caresses my fingertips. It’s positively delectable. Charlotte produces two versions in the same inky purple.
‘She’ll try both,’ says Janeen, who can always be counted on to say the right thing in a crisis. I hold up another whimsy, this time in creamy froth.
‘Can I try this too, please?’
‘The new season Oroton? Yes, of course. We still have both the boy short and the thong in the Chantilly there, or perhaps you would prefer Dangerous Black?’
‘Definitely Dangerous Black,’ Janeen tells Charlotte, before I can open my mouth. ‘She’s a 10DD. And the panties, please.’
‘Janeen, this is the one. I have to have this one.’ It’s a diamante-encrusted Elle MacPherson masterpiece in sumptuous scarlet. I hold it in front of my cleavage, one elbow still stuffed full of try-on items, and admire my image in the mirror.
‘Panties for this one too please,’ I call to Charlotte’s retreating back.
‘Which style?’ says Charlotte.
‘All of them,’ says Janeen, her tone definitive. Charlotte, bless her, finally cottons on to the urgency of the situation and hurries off to the storeroom. I take a final swish through the racks and then nip into the fitting room where I undress and start trying on bras.
‘How much time left?’ I call through the curtains to Janeen. There’s a pause.
‘Eight minutes.’
‘Bugger!’ Bras are so hard to get off the hangers when you’re in a hurry. Ribbons get caught in the sticky-out bits and straps tighten into a tangled mess whenever you attempt to adjust them. The strap has detached on this pink and yellow one and I can’t get the little fish-hook back into its crochet. For goodness sake, I’m under acute time pressure here!
‘Did you tell Jack yet?’
‘Janeen! I have less than eight minutes. I don’t have time to call Jack.’
Rejected garments are heaped on the fitting room floor. I stand sideways, trampling an already-tried-on bra, and check out my pointy silhouette in pink and yellow. Janeen pokes her head through the gap in the curtains.
‘Too Annette Funicello,’ she says. She’s right. I whip it off and drop it on the floor with the other rejects. A wave of anger engulfs me.
‘How can they do it to me, Janeen? Chuck me on the scrap-heap, like this?’
‘I know, Mel. It’s that Winston. He’s a toad!’
‘Yeah.’ If only Winston were a real toad. I’d take great pleasure in popping him in a fly-free Agee jar, screwing the lid off from time to time and poking him hard with a stick. I smile a little as I conjure up this delightfully satisfying image of a bottled-up Winston. You see? Already I’m feeling better.
‘Pardon me, madam,’ interrupts Charlotte from outside the fitting room, ‘Your Seduction store will be closing in five minutes.’
‘Righty-o,’ I huff, peeling off the Victorian push-up and passing it through the brocade to Janeen.
‘She’s going to want the panties to go with this,’ I hear her say to Charlotte.
Electing to wear the Elle MacPherson scarlet home, I get dressed, gather up my pile of keepers, and bring them to the counter. Then Janeen and I rummage about in the pile making sure I have at least a couple of pairs of briefs to match each bra because eventually the elastic will give in one pair, that goes without saying. Charlotte reappears with the last pair of Victorian panties in hand. I toss them on my pile because a body-skimming corset panty is a must in any woman’s repertoire. Ask Trinny and Susannah.
‘Mel, sorry, I have to go,’ says Janeen. ‘I’ll be late picking up Caro.’ Caro is Janeen’s 10-year-old daughter, and my goddaughter.
‘It’s okay. You go. The initial crisis is over. I’m not about to do anything stupid.’ Janeen looks doubtful. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. Give Caro a kiss for me.’
‘I will. Call you later, okay?’ Janeen leaves.
Charlotte tallies my items, and slides them into a floral carry-all. I hand her my credit card. She swipes it and smiles as she waits for my signature. The number on the chit is equivalent to the Gross Domestic Product of a small island nation.
Excellent.
4
Oh thank heavens! I’m home now. Back in my sanctuary from the world, in my serene two-bedroom apartment on the sixth floor of Cityscape Towers, the quintessential home of a person going places. A clear statement of elegance, taste and making the cut. I first saw it advertised in a real estate brochure that described the Towers as a luxury, award-winning complex, superbly located in the heart of the CBD. For discerning buyers (me), a must to view. The skinny agent who showed me through the apartment gushed about its open-plan contemporary living area, spacious entertainment deck, and its dazzling view across Tauranga Harbour to the Papamoa Hills. Not that I have ever been out on the spacious entertainment deck. Not with my fear of heights. But in spite of its being on the sixth floor, this truly is a great place to live. It’s conveniently close to some fabulous restaurants and shops, with a pool, gym, sauna and free parking on site. Admittedly, this convenience comes with a cost, but I’m happy to pay because it frees up my time to focus on my career.
Ha! A fat lot of use that turned out to be.
Throwing my Seduction treat-bag on the white sofa, I cross the lounge to the kitchen, open my sleek double-door ice-making fridge and grab myself a can of Diet Coke.
Technically, the apartment is still more than half owned by my building society, but it’s still a thrill to see my name, Melanie Short, typed on the title. When I handed over my first offer, at significantly lower than the registered valuation, the skinny agent sucked in her breath, pulled her thin lips taut over her teeth, and frowned. Well, it was a very low offer. In the end, Skinny was as stunned as I was when it was accepted that same day. The owner reasoned that the less it went for, the less his estranged wife was going to get of his money. But even with the lower price, it’s a stretch.
Now it’s going to be more than a stretch to make the mortgage repayments.
Ohmigod! What if I can’t make the payments? My fingers go numb around the cold can. I suddenly feel like I’ve been hit with the flat of a cricket bat. How could I be so stupid not to realise? I could lose my apartment!
I do some quick mental arithmetic in my head and reel with dizziness. The thing is, after my little splurge at Seduction, I can only make two more payments.
Two.
Coke sloshes over my wrist. I put the can down on the low-line table and quickly cross the lounge, momentarily running my fingers along the upright pillars and clutching at the soft folds of beige taffeta curtaining. Already my apartment feels ephemeral. Less solid. Two payments from foreclosure and a mortgagee
sale. The tears well up. It’s unthinkable. My hands quiver on the drapes. I lay my palms on the mantel above the gas fireplace. The fire is out and the apartment is suddenly cold and draughty. In my dreams the people from Belle magazine would have photographed me right here on this spot, wineglass in hand, dressed in casual weekend linen. The headline would have read:
Not Short on Style: Inside Melanie’s Designer Home. Or something equally catchy.
In my dreams! But I never thought it was simply an old dream I’d get out in my old age and reminisce about. I thought I could make it happen. I believed it. Now it looks like I might never be famous.
Just homeless.
A fat tear rolls down my cheek. That’s when the front door swings open.
It’s Jack.
‘Janeen called me.’ He crosses the apartment in two long strides. ‘Baby, I’m so sorry. They’re crazy. Winston’s crazy.’ Strong arms envelop me. I bury my face in the folds of Jack’s t-shirt, smudging my tears in the fabric. He smells faintly of Diesel cologne and washing powder. ‘So what excuse did Whingie give?’
‘Takings are down. It’s all my fault,’ I snuffle.
‘That’s bullshit! He’s the CEO. He makes the strategy. He’s the one at fault. Not you. You’ve worked hard for that company, Mel. Takings are down. Huh! I’d like to take him down,’ Jack says into the top of my head. I knew Jack would want leap on his white charger and rush into the fray to rescue me. I picture him slashing his way into the Sportzgirl office to slay the evil Winston. The image comforts me briefly, but I glimpse the Seduction bag, remember the two payments, and the horror hits me again.
‘Jack!’ I pull away. ‘My apartment. I won’t be able to afford it. Imagine someone else living here in my beautiful apartment. I can’t bear it!’ Jack draws me back into his embrace and rocks me gently.
‘Shhh. Mel, it’s okay. We’ll work something out. You’ll get another job. You might be able to hold on to the apartment, and if not, there’s always my place.’
I was expecting this. Some might say I’m delaying the inevitable, but I can’t move in with Jack. He’s lovely. I love him. But he’ll see my moving to his place as a step up in our relationship, and I’m not ready for that yet. I place my fingers on his lips.
‘Can we not go through my options tonight, Jack? Please?’ Kissing my fingers, Jack says nothing. Instead, he slips his hands under my top and rubs my back in long velvet strokes. Sighing, I lean into him, letting him support my weight, dissolving beneath his touch. We stand there for a time. Then Jack lifts my hair and kisses the silky skin at my nape. I shiver. Surrender my neck to his caress.
‘There are other options,’ he murmurs. He runs his hands down my body, clasps the hem of my top and slips it gently over my head, exposing the Elle MacPherson bra. His eyes widen as he takes in the swell of my scarlet-clad breasts. When he drags his eyes away, the irises are a limpid blue. Jack cups my face in his hands and tenderly kisses away salty tears. I feel like crying again, but it’s another kind of anguish.
He pulls away and looks at me intently. ‘There’s this.’ His kiss is less tender now, his lips more insistent. I wrap my arms around his neck and press myself against his mouth, savouring the taste of him, taking comfort from his strength.
Slipping both hands under my bottom, Jack sets me on the table. I let him push me backwards, raising my hips for him to slide off my jeans. Under my buttocks the concrete is solid, cool. I gasp.
Jack’s voice is low and muted. ‘And this.’ He presses me back and dips his head and I abandon myself to his option, to the pleasure of his touch, releasing me from the burdens of employment contracts, mortgage payments and deeds of sale.
‘Oh yes, I love this option,’ I breathe before I lose all coherent thought.
5
A couple of hours later, the phone rings.
‘It’ll be Janeen,’ Jack and I say in unison.
‘I’ll go.’
Jack mumbles something unintelligible which I take to mean, ‘Would you? Okay, Mel, that’d be great.’ Leaning over, I kiss him lightly on the forehead. I don’t want to leave him, he’s so deliciously tousled. He looks like a mattress ad guaranteeing restful slumber.
‘Oh, yeah. I was supposed to tell you she has some hokey pokey in her freezer,’ Jack says as he burrows under my duvet. The hokey pokey reference is Janeen’s way of telling me she commiserates. Ice cream always makes things better, however dire or dismal the situation... In an instant, the day’s events come rushing back. I’m suddenly wide awake.
Slipping into my dressing gown, I close the bedroom door on Jack and make my way to the lounge to take the phone there, but by the time I pick up the answer-phone has switched on and Cushla’s voice comes down the line. My heart sinks. Could today get any worse?
‘Hello, Melanie. This is your mother speaking.’ In her heyday, my mother was on the radio panel of a weekday morning Agony Aunt show, and she’s been careful to maintain the cultured Remuera diction she perfected during that period.
‘I want to remind you your stepfather and I will be holding a small garden party for your sister to celebrate her new beauty franchise.’ Yes, things can get worse. I’d forgotten about my step-sister’s party. Okay, I hadn’t forgotten. I didn’t want to remember.
‘Please try to resist spoiling Cherry’s day, dear. I know how you girls like to play pranks on each other, but one can go too far.’ I suspect she’s referring to the time Cherry ‘hid’ my personal diary on the top dive board of the local swimming pool, where the local teenagers, including my secret crush Bradley Stuart-Forbes, congregated to devour its contents. Naturally, I retaliated by ‘painting’ her breakfast avocado with wasabi sauce.
‘We’ll expect you at 2:00pm tomorrow afternoon. Good-bye, dear.’ There’s a muffled thump as the phone is replaced on its cradle. I erase the message.
I try not to think about how Cushla and Marcus will take the news of my redundancy. Maybe something will come up before I have to tell them. Hopefully, before the mortgage repayments swamp me, before I’m a bedraggled homeless person wandering about Tauranga aimlessly pushing my worldly belongings before me in a pensioners’ shopping trolley.
Damn!
I march into the kitchen and rummage around in the freezer, desperately searching for a big tub of ice cream to fill the despair in the pit of my stomach. But then I remember Janeen and I ate the last of the lemon ripple when she broke up with Ants. I close the freezer and open the fridge instead.
Yoghurt?
No.
Smoked chicken?
No.
Aha! Here you go. Right at the back.
Mince pies. A pack of four. There are three left.
Lovely.
Jack says that after his weekend endurance cycles of 100km, a pie is just the thing. There’s no doubt today has been an exercise in endurance. I get a pie out of the package and read the label: For a crispy flaky crust heat the pie for twenty minutes in a conventional oven. Twenty minutes! Way too long. I stick the pie on a plate, thrust it in the microwave, program in two minutes, then stand beside the appliance watching it circle round and round on the glass platform.
PING.
Whoops, that was loud. I hope Jack didn’t hear it.
I take the pie out and, still standing by the microwave, I pick it up with both hands. It’s slightly soggy and sags in the middle. I don’t care. I take a ravenous wolf-sized bite and instantly burn the top of my mouth.
Oow!
I reverse the bite, suck in a few quick breaths to fan my singed membranes, and then bite down through the pastry into the hot casserole at the pie’s centre. A waft of steam escapes from the bite hole. It’s fabulous.
Jack’s right. A pie is just the thing. [Bite.]
Hot and hearty and fat. [Bite.]
Great chunks of gristle in gray gelatinous gravy. [Bite.]
I take a couple more fast mouthfuls, switch the pie to my left hand and use my right to put the second pie into the microwave. I punch
in another two minutes.
The first pie is almost history. I inhale another huge mouthful and cram the remaining edge of pie-crust into a space in my right cheek. I can barely get my lips closed as I chew.
PING.
Yes! The second pie is ready. I take it out and repeat my ‘eat and heat’ manoeuvre with the third. A dribble of pie filling oozes out of the casing, rolls off my palm slides down my wrist. I barely pause before licking it off. Whoever knew a pie could be so good? Why would anyone stop at one?
PING.
I polish off the second pie and begin on the third. I should enter a pie-eating contest. They must exist. The medicinal effects of my pie prescription are beginning to kick in; the triple dose of yellow pastry infusing my veins with stodgy sluggish comfort. I’m saturated in fat and chemical-sounding things that don’t get a supermarket heart tick, the blessed lard-laden mixture filling the terrified hollow in my stomach.
6
Bloated and exhausted, I plonk myself down in front of the telly with my half can of now-flat Coke. I pick up the remote and flick through to Karen Ropati reading the ten o’clock news.
….an amendment to the bill was thrown out this morning in a vote which saw…
Karen Ropati is exquisite. I so want to hate her. I bet she’s never eaten a meat pie in her life. Tonight her black hair is pulled back off her face and secured in a pony-tail. A pair of retro red glasses cover most of her face, which on anyone else would make you think Elton John, but on Karen Ropati they’re perfect, both standing out and fitting in at the same time. I look across the room at my own reflection in the glass sliding door. I think maybe I need a haircut. One of those symbolic life-changing cuts, like Brittany Spears (but without the derailment.) The sort of haircut you get after a break-up with a cheating boyfriend; a bold and sassy style that shouts, ‘You walked away from this?!’ I sigh and take another look at my reflection. I like my nose though. I turn my head sideways to take a look at my profile. Yep, my nose is okay. And my boobs are okay, too. I like them. But jeepers, my stomach is totally distended, as if I were pregnant. I rub my hand over my over-inflated belly. I guess that’s what comes from consuming a couple of thousand comfort calories of pie.
