‘You’re absolutely glowing. It’s so nice to see you like this. You deserve it.’ I pushed some mushrooms around on my plate and took a sip of my long black coffee.
‘How are things with you?’
I shrugged. I really, really didn’t want to get into any of my stuff. I felt self-conscious about my messy, complex life in contrast to Hattie’s perfect, beautiful, romantic new love where even clothes could be interchanged easily.
‘Same old,’ I said, nonchalantly.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Oh, I got the first pages of Parricide back from the designer. I sent it on to Suzi, the author, to check and guess what? She comes back with pages and pages of new manuscript. Whole new slabs of text. This is her fourth book and she still has no respect for the process. I’m tearing my hair out!’ It was hard being freelance sometimes. I missed being in-house, where at least I’d have colleagues to vent to and bond with over our mutual frustrations.
‘Did you tell the publisher?’
‘Yeah, I did tell him, but I’m not expecting much. He thinks the sun shines out of her ass. The longer I keep freelancing, the more I try not to get stressed out by it. If they can’t manage the author properly, then they can pay for all the extra rounds of corrections and all my extra work. Fuck it.’
‘Hear, hear!’ said Hattie. ‘How’s Luke?’
‘He’s growing a beard.’
‘No! What made him do that?’
‘Suzi. We had her over for dinner the other night. She told him she fancies a thick brown beard.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. Look around. See that waiter over there? How can you not find it attractive?’
‘No, I’m not talking about the beards. I mean Suzi and Luke.’
‘Oh.’ And although I’d sworn that I wasn’t going to tell Hattie anything, I couldn’t help myself. ‘You should have seen the two of them. They’ve certainly hit it off. My plan is working. It was so cute, like watching them on a first date.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘I know. And she visited him at the Patch the other week. He’s been walking on air ever since. He’s much more pleasant to be around.’
‘Doesn’t it make you feel weird?’
‘Not really. It feels like a relief.’
‘So, what happens now?’
‘I sit back and watch while she takes him off my hands, hopefully.’
‘Do you like her?’
‘Look, I do. There are things that annoy me about her, like the book and her author corrections. But her son is nine and he’s a very well-adjusted kid. She’s done a good job raising him. And she seems to have a nice nature. She’s not too bossy; she can have a laugh. I think she’ll be all right for Max.’
‘That’s full on,’ Hattie said. ‘Are you really sure about all this? It’s a big thing you’re doing here.’
I felt my back tense up. ‘I know it’s a big deal. But I’ve thought about all of it. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s the only way it can be. Going along like I have is unsustainable.’ Then I changed the topic, because I couldn’t stand any further questioning on the matter. I had to have strength in my resolve. I was able to rationalise everything in my head. In fact, in my head it all sounded perfectly sensible and reasonable. It just sounded a bit odd when I spoke it out loud.
25
Luke’s beard was even more attractive than Jarvis’s. It had completely changed his face; his eyes looked greener, it softened his nose, and it hid the scar on his chin from when he fell through a window at nineteen. Suddenly his haircut looked good. The beard made him look masculine; it defined him and gave him a personality.
He seemed to be walking around with more confidence, too. If we went out together on Sundays, to the park or down the street for a pastry and coffee, women would look at him and men seemed to treat him with more respect. I felt proud. Not all men can wear a beard so well. Some beards look patchy, undergrown, overgrown . . . and some beards are just plain terrible. But Luke had perfect, even coverage, and he nurtured his beard like he nurtured those plants at the Patch. He shampooed it every day and pruned it on the deck each week.
Max hated his beard. ‘It’s gross,’ he said to Luke over dinner one night. ‘Can’t you shave it off? It’s embarrassing. I liked you better before.’
‘It’s not gross,’ I said. ‘It’s manly.’
‘It’s stupid,’ Max said.
‘Hey, that’s not nice. Don’t say that about your dad! Really, that’s not a nice thing to say.’
‘I hate it.’ Max slammed his drink down on the table, spilling water on our circa-1970s teak table.
‘Max, you need to speak nicely,’ Luke said, upset about his meal being disturbed. ‘You can go to your room if you’re going to act like this.’
‘Fine,’ Max said. ‘I hate casserole anyway.’ And he stormed off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
‘What’s got into him?’ Luke asked me.
‘I don’t know. He’s like this all the time now. Hormones probably.’
‘I’m tired of it. I want the old Max back. He’s watching too much TV and playing too many computer games. Every time I see him, he’s in front of a screen. Why don’t you send him outside more?’
‘Are you blaming me?’
‘You shouldn’t have given him a milkshake after school. Of course he’s not going to eat dinner after that.’
‘Are you kidding me? Why don’t you take him for a bike ride after school or something? Take him all day on Sunday to that track by the Yarra River. He’s bored. He needs to do more activity.’
‘I do lots with him.’
‘I know. But he needs more. He’s so hard to please now. Do you remember when he was delighted by everything? It was so easy.’
‘He’s growing up. We all seem to get more dissatisfied as we grow older.’ And there he was, looking at me. ‘We should have had a sibling for him.’
‘But we only wanted to have one child. What about all that sustainability stuff, the world being overpopulated? That’s what you used to say.’
‘I’ve been too principled. We should have given him a buddy.’
‘You’ve never said that before. Anyway, we can’t regret the choices we’ve made.’
‘Really? You seem to regret all your choices.’
‘What?’
‘You seem so unhappy with everything.’
‘I’m not unhappy.’
‘Don’t you think he picks up on it? The way you speak to me?’
‘What about the way you speak to me?’ I stood up. Suddenly my casserole didn’t seem so appetising. I scraped my meal into the bin and chucked my dish in the sink and then I walked back over to Luke. ‘I’m not unhappy. It’s just I’m not excited about anything. Where’s the fun anymore?’
‘We have lots of fun with Max.’
‘I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about you and me. When was the last time we went out together? Did something just the two of us?’
‘You want to be twenty again.’
‘I don’t want to be twenty. I want to be my age, but having fun with you. It’s all so bland around here. I feel like you’re repulsed by me. I feel like we can’t even stand to take a sip from the same water bottle anymore.’
‘That’s crazy.’
‘Is it?’
‘What about the other night?’
‘After Suzi? That was the first time in a year. Do you want a medal?’
‘You want too much. We should have marriage counselling.’
‘Is that so? Dr Lawson suggested it last year and you were dead against it. Maybe, back then, it could have been saved. But it’s too late now.’
‘I didn’t want to see Dr Lawson because you see her every other week. You’ve got an unfair advantage.’
‘I’m not stuck with you.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Exactly what I said. I’m not stuck with you.’
‘Yo
u’ll find it even harder on your own.’
‘Do you want me to stay with you because it’s easier than being on my own, or because I love you?’ I asked him.
Instead of answering, he began chewing on his casserole again, which by then had started looking like one of those fake displays in a Japanese restaurant’s window.
‘Would you even care if I was with someone else? Would you be jealous?’ I asked.
‘You don’t need to threaten me.’
‘No, I’m serious. Would you even care?’ Perhaps I was looking for his permission, for him to say, fuck it, go be with someone else, just don’t ruin our family unit.
‘Of course I would care. I don’t want you to be with anyone else.’
‘Then why don’t you want me?’
‘I’m exhausted all the time. I work hard’
‘And what about you? Do you ever think about being with someone else?’
‘Never,’ he said, his mouth full of chewed-up meat and carrots, a spot of gravy on his beard like a raindrop on a spider web.
‘Because sometimes I don’t even think I’d care if you were. It could be good for you.’ Here I was giving him my permission.
‘Well, that’s screwed-up.’
‘Do you even wank?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘When?’
‘In the shower.’
‘When was the last time?’
‘I don’t know. Last week, the week before.’
‘It’s weird. Maybe you’re asexual.’
‘I am not fucking asexual.’
Then we heard Max’s little voice calling out from his bedroom. ‘Can I come out now?’ We looked at each other, each silently wondering how loudly we’d been talking.
‘Yeah, come on out,’ Luke called. When Max returned to the table, his father and I were rosy and ashamed. Max’s emotional wellbeing was the most important thing to us: in that, we were a team. ‘What do you have to say?’
‘Sorry,’ Max said.
‘For what?’ his dad prodded.
‘For being rude.’
‘Apology accepted,’ I said, because I could hardly even remember what he’d been sent to his room for.
‘Can I have some ice-cream?’ Max asked.
‘No way,’ Luke said. ‘You didn’t finish your dinner. You can have some fruit.’
And so it was that, like so many arguments between parents, this argument was never resumed or completed. It was interrupted midway, and allowed to fester like rotting compost. But it had planted a couple of seeds.
26
I received an invitation from Dave to go to the book launch of one of my crime writers. This author, who went by the pen name Gina Patterson, was launching True Crime: Dancers, a book featuring a random assortment of dancers who had been killed: ballerinas, pole dancers, clubbers, hip hoppers and ballroom dancers, as well as two killers who were dancers, including the little-known male belly dancer in Wales, who used to lure women home from events and then slash their stomachs open. It was actually one of the more enjoyable books I’d worked on. Half the images were of the dancers in their costumes, which were far more pleasant than the usual grizzly crime shots.
In true true-crime geekery, the invitation said that we had to dress as our favourite dancer.
‘Come on, let’s get a babysitter,’ I urged Luke.
‘It’s two of my least favourite things: dressing up and dancing.’
‘I know. But we were talking only the other night about doing more fun things together. I can get Hattie to babysit. It won’t be a problem. Come on, we never do anything just the two of us. We can be adults for the night.’
‘Dress up as my favourite dancer? Who the hell is there?’
‘Fred Astaire.’
‘Everyone will be Fred Astaire. Who else is there?’
‘I don’t know. One of the Russian ballerinas? Michael Jackson?’
‘See, it’s shit already.’
I had to laugh, because it really was kind of a shit idea.
‘What about those two from Dirty Dancing? Or John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John in Grease? No, actually, wearing shiny leggings is a crime against humanity. We need a bearded dancer. Do you know any bearded dancers?’
‘I don’t think any man with a beard has ever danced. I know. Let’s do Strictly Ballroom: Paul Mercurio and the curly-haired lady. We can take the piss. Just don’t make me shave the beard.’
‘Fine. I’ll find you a bolero jacket.’
‘Jesus, do we really have to? Can’t we just turn up and pretend we’re something?’
‘Come on, let’s get into the spirit of things. Just a bit.’
Of course, I was hoping that Suzi would be there. The true-crime scene in Melbourne is small and close-knit. Her book was back with the designer, so I didn’t have an excuse to contact her and ask if she was coming. Besides, the last time I had spoken with her, I’d been rather short. She’d asked whether we could replace pages 127 to 143, and I had to put on my teacherly tone, the one I use with authors when they’re being unreasonable, and remind her of the costs of corrections and the schedule and tell her that if she wanted the book out by Christmas then she would have to stop making changes.
***
I found a bolero jacket for Luke in an op shop. It wasn’t the fancy gold of Paul Mercurio’s, and I suspected that it was actually a lady’s jacket, but it was black and he was just able to squeeze his shoulders into it. He wore a white shirt and black pants and some black desert boots. In a different op shop down the street, I found an orange, layered Spanish dress. There was nothing glamorous or Baz Luhrmann about it: I looked frumpy and the colour did nothing for my face. But I’d already wasted half a day searching for costumes, so I had a massive ‘that will do’ moment and bought it. I wore my hair tied back in a ponytail, smoothed down with some of Luke’s hair product. I tried creating a couple of curls around my ears, but they fell limp. I looked like a teenager who refused to wash her hair weekly.
‘Maybe we should just go as ourselves,’ I said, ten minutes before Hattie arrived. ‘I’ll get back in the shower and wash my hair out. Half the people there won’t be dressed up.’
‘Come on, we don’t have time. You look fine.’
‘I look ridiculous. This dress is stupid. I feel like one of those vintage dolls that cover a toilet paper roll. You know, with the crochet skirts?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘No one is even going to know who I am.’
‘Who cares?’
‘You’re right. Who cares.’ I looked ridiculous already, so I went crazy with my makeup; I put thick eyeliner on my eyelids and dotted a black mole above my lip. I put some blush on, something I hadn’t used since 1989. I applied lipstick in such a rich red colour it made my teeth look yellow.
When Hattie arrived she said, ‘What have you done to your face?’
‘I don’t know. I went a bit silly. Does it look terrible?’
She looked me up and down. ‘Who are you?’
‘Fran from Strictly Ballroom.’
‘Oh.’
Just then, Luke came out looking suave, his body shown off in his lady’s bolero jacket and tight pants.
‘Paul Mercurio!’ Hattie sung out, moving forward to give him a tight hug. ‘You look fantastic!’ They kissed European-style on both cheeks.
It had been a while since Hattie and Luke had seen each other, and I suddenly felt like a fraud. Hattie knew all about my extramarital problems and here I was playing happy wife, getting dressed up and going out with my husband. It felt odd and I wished that I’d never said a thing to her, as she was probably feeling awkward, too. But maybe I was reading too much into everything. Maybe I was feeling particularly weird because I’d overdone my face and my dress looked stupid and I didn’t even feel like going to a ridiculous fancy-dress party thrown by a true-crime author anymore. What kind of author launches their book in fancy dress anyway? She was obviously even more insane than me.
‘Let’
s go,’ I said, throwing on a coat. ‘Max should go to bed after eight. Just remind him to brush his teeth.’ Then I yelled out, ‘Max, we’re going now — love you.’ Max came out of his bedroom, having separated himself from whatever device it was that he was playing, and gave us a kiss each.
***
The launch was at a bookshop in Brunswick. They’d put quaint pastel bunting along the back wall and fairy lights were hanging from the ceiling. I was pleased that the lighting was dim and my face wouldn’t look so obviously tragic.
Dave came over. He was dressed as Fred Astaire. I reintroduced him to Luke and they exchanged some pleasantries together.
‘Who are you?’ he asked me.
‘Fran from Strictly Ballroom.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘And you’re Paul Mercurio?’
‘Yep.’
‘Hey, Suzi rang me the other day,’ Dave said. ‘She was worried about her book. She said that you were resisting making some changes.’
‘Dave, you know it’s too late . . . We’re at second pages and she wants to add new text. It’s ridiculous — it’ll cause heaps of repagination, and the index is already being drawn up.’
‘Look, I know. But she’s got some pretty compelling reasons . . .’
‘I hope you backed me up.’
‘Well, I’ve pulled it back from the designer.’
‘You did what? How are we supposed to get it out on time? It’s already running late.’ I took a deep breath and reminded myself of my resolve to remain calm about such things. If a publisher wanted to muck around with a book, then it was their problem, not mine. Although I knew the pressure would get thrown back on me to make up the time and get it over the line.
‘Speaking of the devil . . .’
I turned, and there was Suzi dressed as Shirley Temple. She looked really cute. She was wearing a pretty white dress with a bow at the back and red Mary Jane shoes. Her curly hair was tied up in a way that made it look shoulder-length and childlike. She looked perfect and I looked like such a loser. I felt like stamping my feet in frustration.
Replacement Wife Page 10
