by Toni Jordan
Praise for Toni Jordan and Addition
WINNER, BEST DEBUT FICTION, INDIE AWARD, 2008
WINNER, BEST THEMED FICTION, UK MEDICAL JOURNALISTS ASSOCIATION 2008
SHORTLISTED, BEST GENERAL FICTION BOOK OF THE YEAR, 2008 AUSTRALIAN BOOK INDUSTRY AWARDS
SHORTLISTED, NEWCOMER OF THE YEAR, 2008 AUSTRALIAN BOOK INDUSTRY AWARDS
‘Toni Jordan has created such a real character in Grace that you are cheering her on, willing her to get to the top of the staircase, intact and unharmed. Jordan’s voice is distinctive, refreshing and very Australian. Her debut novel is juicy and funny, just like its protagonist…this is a gem.’ Sydney Morning Herald
‘Snappy, sassy, superior chick-lit with a twist…Jordan portrays Grace’s quirks with poignancy, pathos and, most importantly, humour.’ Canberra Times
‘Tremendously enjoyable…a romantic comedy with a light touch and a quirky and unforgettable central character.’
Adelaide Advertiser
‘Excellent…a light and lovely story that champions being different in a world where being different is treated with suspicion…Jordan strikes a fabulous blow for resolute individuality.’ Sunday Telegraph
‘One of Jordan’s many strengths is that she never patronises Grace…This novel is energised by Grace’s grumpy, funny, obsessive, fearful and insightful voice. Her strangeness is beautifully crafted…A winning love story, a sorbet for tired souls.’
Michael McGirr, Age
‘Smart and sassy, cool and seductive…A writer destined to make her mark on the Australian literary scene.’ Brisbane Affair
‘A Trojan horse of a novel. It has a cutesy cover, a kooky love story and a “hot” wisecracking blonde heroine…But the heroine, Grace Vandenburg, is no ditsy Bridget Jones everywoman…Addition raises a lot of questions about our values and our society, couched in disarmingly easy-to-read prose…lashings of spot-on satire.’
Australian Book Review
‘Interesting, funny and engaging.’ Harper’s Bazaar ‘An empathetic journey, both heartbreaking and hilarious.’
Good Reading
‘Fizzes and sparkles…It is, of course, also a love story with a happy ending, which is one of the most satisfying narrative trajectories there is.’ Kerryn Goldsworthy, Australian Literary Review ‘Sensuously written, fabulously entertaining…a first novel that takes your breath away.’ West Australian
‘Delightful…full of charm and humour…Addition is an excellent debut novel, and Toni Jordan is a novelist to look out for.’
The Press NZ
‘Bringing a quirky humour and a sympathetic view of diversity to her story, the author sustains the momentum to the end of this engaging romantic comedy.’ The Times
‘An unusual and intriguing novel, written with a very light touch.’
Daily Mail
‘Brimming with sarcastic humour.’ Guardian
‘Mature, witty and entertaining.’ Irish Times
‘You’ll be hearing more from this talented author.’ Choice UK ‘Sweet, charming, witty, romantic.’ The Weekender BBC RADIO 2
‘Gemlike debut—think The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time thrown into the world of chick-lit…A smartly written comedy that cheekily suggests recovery may not be for everyone.’
Kirkus Reviews
TONI JORDAN was born in Brisbane in 1966. She has a BSc. in physiology from the University of Queensland and qualifications in marketing and professional writing. Her debut novel Addition was first published in 2008 to critical acclaim. It was shortlisted for the Barbara Jefferis Award and longlisted for the Miles Franklin in 2009. It has been published in sixteen countries worldwide. Toni lives in Melbourne, where she works part-time as a freelance copywriter, and has a column in the Age.
Toni Jordan
FALLGIRL
TEXT PUBLISHING MELBOURNE AUSTRALIA
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Copyright © Toni Jordan 2010
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First published in 2010 by The Text Publishing Company
Typeset in Bembo Book by J&M Typesetting
Printed and bound by Griffin Press
This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
To Bobo
Thanks for all the coffee
From the beginning it is the glasses that give me trouble. They have a mind of their own. When I practised back at Cumberland Street they behaved perfectly yet now, in the sittingroom of the mansion, they are heavy and uncomfortable. They pinch my nose and won’t stay still. When I raise my head to look at the Streeton landscape on the opposite wall they sit so flat against my face that my eyelashes brush against them when I blink. When I bow my head in contemplation they slide down my nose. I am continually propping them back up the bridge with my middle finger.
This erratic spectacle dance is not a good sign. I have worn these glasses before without this problem; perhaps I have bent them, squished them in my purse or against the arm of a chair without realising. Still, all this fidgeting makes me look nervous. This is an important interview. It would seem odd if I wasn’t nervous.
Finally Professor Carmichael appears in the doorway. ‘Dr Canfield?’ he says, and he introduces himself, bestows a handshake.
I am following him down the fine wide corridor two paces behind and this is when the glasses earn their keep. I think fast, on my feet. Ruby would be proud. Daniel Metcalf himself is standing across from the doorway to the boardroom. He is leaning against a grandfather clock, mobile against his ear, finishing a call before we go in for the interview. I bend my neck in a sharp movement to rifle through the papers in my briefcase, checking I have everything I need. The glasses fall. The heavy tortoiseshell frames bounce on the Persian runner and clatter against Daniel Metcalf ’s left boot. They are outdoor boots, scuffed and water-marked.
We kneel at the same moment. Our knees almost touch. He sets the phone on the floor; it makes muffled sounds that he ignores. He picks up the glasses with his thumb and index finger as if they might bruise and folds each arm closed with a clack. Down the palm of his right hand, from the inside tip of his index finger to the folds of his wrist, is a straight white scar raised like a thread.
‘Sorry,’ I say. I bite my bottom lip and tilt my head down.
‘You should be,’ he says. He rests the glasses in the centre of his palm, raises and lowers his hand to gauge their weight. ‘In the wrong hands these could be a deadly weapon.’
‘Just as well I’m not the wrong hands,’ I say.
My father often says that the very rich surround themselves with objects that increase in value, while the average person selects things that decrease in value. This house contains, among other assets, the Streeton landscape, the clock in the hall, the antique dining table with gleaming French polish, and Daniel Metcalf. He too is worth more with every year that passes. He is not as tall as the clock and easier to transport than the table. He does not wear glasses: even a minor weakness such as this can be fixed with money.
I would recognise
him anywhere from the photos in the social pages. He is thirty-four and his hair is brown and slightly too long. He could use a shave. He is not nervous or awkward. He’s wearing jeans and a striped linen shirt that is either the work of a very expensive designer or else needs an iron. I learned long ago that immaculate suits and shiny shoes are for men who rely on the opinions of others for their livelihood.
I do not know him, but I do not need to. I can tell the way he votes, the restaurants he frequents, who cuts his hair. I knew the house would look like this and would be located here in Toorak among the other mansions. People everywhere play the roles they are assigned. Being very rich is like belonging to an excessively controlling cult.
The light in this room is calmer, more refined than outside. It is softer, as though nervous about resting on an antique. On the other side of the table, Professor Carmichael is on Daniel Metcalf ’s right. Carmichael has a young face for a man in his mid-seventies, with pink skin like a baby’s stretching to the top of his head. His age and general level of disapproval are revealed, though, in the saggy baggy skin of his throat, which could fold over itself and conceal a small Volkswagen. Before he began administering the trust, Carmichael was a researcher in pure mathematics at a sandstone university on the other side of the world. He appears to have no connections in science these days, no friends or colleagues at the universities I have chosen. Since his retirement due to ill health this is his only professional commitment. Apparently he was a friend of Daniel Metcalf ’s father, so this job is a lucrative debt of honour.
Carmichael fulfils his obligations without diligence. The decision has always been his and seems based on very little. Daniel Metcalf himself is a rubber stamp. His attendance at these final interviews is a formality. For a Metcalf, twenty-five thousand dollars is tax-deductible small change.
On Daniel Metcalf ’s left is a dowdy woman, mid-fifties, seventy-five kilos with cat-green eyes. She has a notepad in front of her and a pen in her hand and keeps her head down. She is the secretary, Mrs Tesseraro. I can disregard her.
We sit on redwood chairs with curved legs and crimson velvet seats and backs, evenly spaced around the table. For a moment I find it hard to concentrate on the three people across from me: every wall of this room holds rows of soft leather books, probably bought by the metre for their patina. The faces blend in.
I force my eyes back to Daniel Metcalf. He has a bearing that betrays his pedigree. His clothes might be casual but he belongs in this house in a way the others do not, a pharaoh flanked by two bumptious high priests. For an instant I try to imagine him somewhere else: a student squat, a hospital, a playground. It’s no use. He doesn’t belong anywhere but here.
The opulence of the room makes me thirsty. I blink a few times, then catch his eye.
‘This could be the Toorak and district public library,’ I say. ‘Have you read all these books?’
‘I get people in to do that. It’s a big job best left to professionals. Most of that wall is poetry and it’s not going to appreciate itself,’ he says. ‘They’re not damaged, I hope?’
I realise I am fiddling with my glasses, twirling them by one arm. ‘They’re bulletproof,’ I say. I rest them on top of my head then slide them down like I am dropping the visor on a helmet before a joust. ‘I should do something about it. Laser surgery or something. Without these I’m blind as a bat.’
At this moment I don’t feel like a real scientist. Ruby taught me elegance, and part of every job is to make best use of the assets available. I chose my outfit carefully today: tight khaki trousers, tailored, with a flat front and snakeskin belt. A sleeveless fitted top with a slight khaki shimmer that highlights my green eyes. Open-toed black heels. I am wearing classic styles, solid colours. I straightened the curl from my hair this morning but I ought to have dyed it last night. It is too red for a serious person.
Now I think I might as well have worn a tracksuit and a stained lab coat. Daniel Metcalf does not seem interested. He is sitting back in his chair, still holding his mobile.
Carmichael clears his throat ostentatiously. ‘Dr Canfield. Your application. We have some concerns.’
I lean forward. I am alert, alarmed, shocked. My pulse is beginning to race.
‘My paperwork,’ I say. My eyes dart from Daniel to Carmichael and back again. ‘Everything was in order?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Carmichael says. ‘Your academic achievements are exemplary. Your university webpage was very helpful, all those links to your research papers. The media coverage, the awards. And thank you for sending us your thesis.’ He rests his hand on a tall pile of paper beside him. ‘I confess I haven’t finished the entire document, but, ah, very impressive.’
I am beginning to hyperventilate, just a little. I rub my hands together, twisting the fingers, curling and looping. Any moment now they will mention the tiger.
‘My referees, then? Did you speak with them? It’s hard with the time differences. And they’re so busy.’
‘No, no problem with your referees. I spoke to them both,’ Carmichael says. ‘Very distinguished. One so young, and Professor Weldon soon to be announced a Nobel laureate, indeed.’
‘A Nobel prize?’ I say. ‘He didn’t mention that to me. He is notoriously modest.’
‘I was honoured to speak with him. He was familiar with my work and said some kind words about a particular theorem of mine. He spoke glowingly of your potential. And your post-doc. Harvard. First rate.’ Carmichael plucks the skin of his throat like someone playing a jazz riff on the double bass. ‘That’s not the problem.’
All the while I am speaking to Carmichael I am watching Daniel from the corner of my eye. He seemed bored before but now he is sitting forward. He is frowning and his hands are on the table in front of him. The corner of his mouth twitches. He stretches one arm over to Carmichael’s folder and angles it so he can read my application. He is becoming interested. This is good.
‘What exactly is the problem, then?’ I say. This is a demand, not a question. I steel myself.
‘The project you have submitted for support is not related to your previous work. It’s entirely unconnected to your career so far,’ Carmichael says.
‘The trust encourages that. It says so on the application form.’ I rifle through my papers then stab the document with my finger. ‘Here. “Researchers should not be discouraged from nominating novel projects in areas that are unlikely to receive funding from their universities or from other sources.” Novel projects. That’s what it means.’
‘I know what it means,’ Carmichael says. ‘Dr Canfield. Please understand. Twenty-five thousand dollars is a considerable sum.’
Daniel Metcalf has been absorbed in Carmichael’s folder, flicking the pages, running his finger down my CV, but now he speaks. ‘What the professor means,’ he says, ‘is that we like to verify the sanity of anyone who applies for money. It’s a little quirk we have.’
For a long moment I freeze. I look down at my notes, lift my glasses, pinch the bridge of my nose. I wait, then I make a decision. It is time to go. I gather my folders and papers, then I lift my briefcase up onto the table with a thump. I’m upset. I’m not thinking about scratches on antiques.
‘Dr Canfield?’ Carmichael says.
I stand. ‘You’re right. It must sound crazy. I’ll withdraw the application.’ I purse my lips and narrow my eyes. ‘Forgive me for wasting your time.’
Daniel frowns and stands as well. He looks a little bemused. ‘Please sit, Dr Canfield. Maybe we could waive the sanity rule just this once.’
I glare to show I have nothing more to lose, then shove the papers in my briefcase and fumble with the clasp, which refuses to click. I can’t speak. Now the bag won’t close because of my haphazard stuffing. I blink faster. Soon it will look as though I am about to cry.
Daniel walks around the table and takes the briefcase from my hands before I throw it out the window. ‘Sit down. Sit and tell me what you’re thinking. Carla, a glass of water for Dr Canfield.
’ He places the briefcase next to me and perches on the side of the table.
That’s when I look into Daniel Metcalf ’s eyes with something like a plea. I am deciding whether to push him aside and bolt for the door or do as he says. I sit. I take a deep breath, compose myself. ‘I’m twenty-nine years old,’ I say. ‘I’ve been an evolutionary biologist since I was twenty-one. Since my post-doc I’ve done the right kind of research. I’ve had good jobs and great papers in the right journals. And now…I thought this was my chance. I know this project is unorthodox, but it’s been my dream. Since I was a little girl.’
‘You honestly want to find a Tasmanian tiger in Wilsons Promontory National Park?’ Carmichael’s voice is on tiptoes, like he’s breaking bad news. ‘Dr Canfield, they are extinct. And it’s been thousands of years since they lived here in Victoria, even when they weren’t extinct. Do you know how many tourists visit that park? Campers and hikers, for weekends and longer? It’s teeming with people. And you’ve wanted this since you were a little girl?’
I don’t look at him. He can say what he likes. It’s not his money. I keep my eyes on Daniel, who shrugs.
‘It’s different,’ he says. ‘Most little girls want a pony.’
The secretary places a coaster on the table in front of me, and a glass of water. I sip it, steady myself. I’m not done yet.
‘This wouldn’t be the first unorthodox application you’ve awarded. Your trust is renowned for it, for giving people a chance. There’s a science grapevine, you know. We talk.’
Carmichael sniffs. I’ve said the wrong thing. ‘You’re mistaken,’ he says. ‘We are, ah, lateral in our choices, but prudent. This is one of the oldest privately funded trusts in Melbourne. We have a reputation to uphold.’
‘What about the year we gave it to that guy who wanted to know if dogs bark in different accents?’ Daniel says.
‘That was excellent research,’ says Carmichael. ‘Cutting edge communication theory.’
