by Kris Webb
Scrambling out as soon as the car stopped, I managed to have Sarah in her pram before David had locked his car and wandered back to join us. The change of position improved her temperament dramatically and she sent David one of her most winning smiles. I had already noticed that Sarah seemed to produce her cutest smiles for men. Perhaps Debbie had been indoctrinating her in feminine wiles during the couple of times I had left them together. If Debbie had her way, Sarah would be putting on eyeliner when other babies were still scrawling with crayons.
Throwing every toy I could find into the pram, I hoped desperately that Sarah’s newfound good humour would last.
David stood back and gestured for me to precede him up the three small steps that led to the door of the restaurant. My pram stair-mounting technique was still a bit shaky and I managed to wedge the front wheels against the bottom of the top step. David saw my predicament and squeezed himself between the pram and the terracotta-tiled wall. Together we awkwardly heaved the pram onto the small landing in front of the door, only to discover that the door swung outward and there wasn’t enough room for both it and the pram in front of it.
‘Ah well,’ I said brightly, inwardly cursing the stairs, the restaurant, the pram and the people who had designed each of them. ‘I guess we’ll have to hold it up over the steps while we swing the door open.’
David hefted the pram and held it awkwardly out to his side as I swung the door open, trying to ignore the queue of men and women in business suits behind us. The pram hit the floor of the restaurant with more force than I had intended and I looked up into the startled eyes of the maitre d.
‘I have a booking for Fletcher,’ David said, appearing not at all fazed by our undignified entrance.
The maitre d scanned the appointment book perched on the chrome lectern in front of him. ‘Ah yes, please follow me,’ he said, leading the way through the bright restaurant with its blond wood, starched white tablecloths and sparkling glassware.
I concentrated on not colliding with any of the tables we passed and tried to ignore the interested glances we were given by the other diners. We stopped at a table for four in the middle and a hovering waiter whipped away one of the chairs to make room for the pram.
As I settled back in my chair, I realised that I couldn’t leave feeding Sarah much longer. But should I disappear into the toilets to feed her, which would mean leaving David twiddling his thumbs for twenty minutes or so? Or should I just feed her where I was?
I decided on the honest approach. ‘David, I’ve got to feed Sarah. How would you feel if I did it here?’
‘Sure,’ he replied easily. ‘Do you want me to call a waiter over and ask him to heat the milk?’
‘Ah, no, it’s actually already warm,’ I said. ‘You see, I breastfeed Sarah.’
‘Oh, right,’ said David uncomfortably. ‘Sure, go ahead,’ he said, with a bit less of his earlier bravado.
I pulled Sarah out of the pram and across my lap as David buried his head in the wine list. My discreet public feeding abilities were improving and I put a little pink cotton sheet over Sarah’s head and my chest, unclipped my bra and started feeding. David looked up briefly and seemed surprised to see nothing but Sarah’s legs sticking out from under the sheet. A look of relief spread across his face and I could only imagine he had been expecting me to throw off my shirt and bra and sit in the restaurant topless.
‘Will you have some wine?’ David asked.
‘Sure,’ I replied, hoping that no members of the Mother Police were within earshot.
A waiter approached to take the wine order and I leant forward to move Sarah into a more comfortable position. As I did, I dislodged a decidedly wet breast pad and it fell with a thwack on the floor at an equal distance between myself, David, the waiter and the two neighbouring tables. Seven sets of eyes looked at the white concave pad and then up at me, obviously not knowing what it was, but in no doubt that its presence on the floor was inappropriate. In a less stressful situation I would have sympathised with them, never having encountered a breast pad myself until Sarah was born.
I froze for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a couple of seconds as I tried to figure out how to deal with the situation. Picking the breast pad up seemed like a good place to start, so I leant over to grab it, only to realise that with Sarah wedged between my chest and knees I couldn’t reach it. I mentally ran through the possible options. I could detach Sarah from my breast and slide off my seat to pick it up – that seemed likely to produce a screaming baby and an exhibition of my newly acquired breasts. Alternatively, I could ask David or the waiter to get it for me – that didn’t even bear thinking about. In a sudden fit of inspiration I stuck my foot out, secured the breast pad under my heel and dragged it towards me until it was close enough to pick up.
Grasping it in my hand, I realised that I still had to figure out what to do with it. Stuffing it back in my bra didn’t seem like a good idea, nor did depositing it on the table, so I threw it into the basket under Sarah’s pram.
Vainly I searched my mind for a witty comment that would relieve the tension and unfreeze this tableau of horrified expressions. The only thing that came to mind was a comparison with dropping condoms or tampons (until now something I’d thought of as the ultimate in embarrassment), which I decided could only make the situation worse. In desperation I smiled faintly and murmured an apology, which seemed to do the job. Conversation resumed at the neighbouring tables and David looked back at the menu to find the wine he’d planned to order.
As the waiter left I sneaked a look to see if David was still sitting there or was halfway to the door. To my surprise he was actually smiling, which gave me the courage to say, ‘Well, I think we can safely say that Sarah and I are the last mother and baby team that will be let in here for the next ten years or so.’
David laughed. ‘I think you could be right.’
Sarah finished feeding, and I reassembled my clothing and laid her back down in her pram without further incident. But when she closed her eyes, I didn’t relax. Nothing had gone to plan so far and I didn’t really expect that she would just fall into a blissful sleep now.
Every time someone scraped back a chair loudly or cutlery clattered, I tensed, all the while searching my mind for something vaguely interesting to say.
‘How long will you be in Perth?’ I asked. Not exactly inspired, but better than nothing.
‘Just a few days,’ David replied. ‘I need to meet with the general manager of our Western Australian stores to figure out what we should be stocking for next season. I always enjoy my trips to Perth – it’s such a laid-back city compared to Sydney and I’m lined up to crew on a boat race tomorrow.’
‘I noticed the photo of the boat on your desk. Do you sail often?’
‘Not as often as I’d like. I love to race but I have to travel a fair bit, which makes it hard to do regularly.’
‘From memory it looks like a nice boat.’
He flashed a smile. ‘You might regret saying that. I picked up the photos from our last race this morning and I haven’t had a chance to open them yet – do you want a quick look?’
His enthusiasm was infectious and I nodded.
He produced a photo wallet from inside his suit jacket and broke the seal. He glanced at each photo before handing it to me with a glowing description.
‘The boat’s gorgeous,’ I said, meaning it. ‘The pattern on the spinnaker looks great.’
‘Spinnaker? Sounds like you can sail.’
I nodded. ‘I haven’t raced much but my dad’s a mad keen sailor. We used to spend lots of weekends on the water in our eighteen-foot TrailerTri.’
‘Lots of weekends’ was definitely overstating my occasional nautical venture, I thought. But as I opened my mouth to set the record straight, David spoke.
‘You should come out on Aslan sometime, then. In fact, our yacht club’s annual fun race is on next weekend. Are you interested?’
Regretfully I shook my h
ead. ‘I’d love to, but I don’t think Sarah is quite up to it yet. Maybe next time.’
David glanced at Sarah almost as if he’d forgotten she was there. ‘I must admit, I’ve never seen a life jacket quite small enough. Sorry – I guess I do get a bit carried away when it comes to my boat.’
‘Don’t apologise. I’d love to go out when Sarah is a bit older.’ As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them.
A waiter arrived to take our orders. The breast pad incident hadn’t given me time to check the menu. Glancing at it quickly I looked for meals that I could eat with one hand – in case I had to hold Sarah with the other. I ordered the risotto, mostly because it was the only dish that I could identify from the description.
‘Is it just me or do you think that restaurants deliberately invent new and obscure names for ordinary ingredients?’ I asked David as the waiter left. ‘I eat out a lot, or did until Sarah arrived, and read the occasional food magazine but every time I open a menu at a place like this I have to guess what half of the things listed are.’
David laughed. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘The last time I took a gamble and didn’t ask a waiter what was in a dish, I ended up with lamb’s brains in my pasta. Not something I’m dying to repeat.’
Sipping the very good riesling David had ordered, I felt myself relaxing. Sarah was fast asleep, I was sitting in a great restaurant with a surprisingly pleasant lunch companion, and it was looking as though our baby book venture might just work.
Discovering that we had tastes that were similar in books and opposite in movies, we chatted easily as we ate our meals.
‘I must say I was surprised that Debbie stayed at Mr Cheapy as long as she did,’ said David. ‘It really didn’t seem like her kind of thing.’
‘That’s something of an understatement,’ I replied. ‘Do you know her very well?’ I asked, trying to fish subtly for information.
‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘I’ve come across her in work situations a number of times and at a few social events, but that’s all.’
Not from any lack of effort on Debbie’s behalf, I thought to myself.
‘From what I’ve heard, though, she’s very good at her job,’ David continued.
I nodded, ‘I think she’ll make a great partner.’
‘And what about Sarah’s father?’ David asked in a sudden change of subject, obviously having noticed that I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. ‘Is he involved in the business as well?’
‘Sarah’s father and I aren’t together any more,’ I replied. ‘It’s just Sarah and me.’
There was an awkward silence as both of us tried to think of what to say next. Thankfully the waiter chose that moment to take our dessert orders.
Both David and I just ordered coffee and moved back to safer topics of conversation. The time passed quickly and I was surprised when he said, ‘Well, it’s two-thirty. If I’m going to make my plane, I really need to get moving.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
David signalled for the bill. When it arrived I tried to take it but he pushed my hand away firmly. ‘Sophie, this is a business lunch and you’re my guest; please let me get this.’
For some reason I felt deflated. Of course it was a business lunch. Why else would he be taking me and Sarah out? The man passed up Debbie, for heaven’s sake – if he wouldn’t entertain thoughts of infidelity with her, there was no chance for someone with a baby.
‘Sarah’s lunch manners are impeccable,’ David continued, oblivious to my thoughts.
I decided not to disillusion him.
Stopping next to my car, David opened the door and stood beside me as I lifted Sarah out of the pram. She opened her eyes and I tensed, expecting her to cry. Instead she bestowed another beaming smile on David. Little hussy, I thought.
‘Well, I’ll talk to you next week.’
‘Sounds good,’ I replied as I straightened up and held out my hand to shake his. ‘Have a good trip.’
Sliding into the front seat, I started the motor and pulled out into the traffic, wishing that our potential buyer wasn’t quite so attractive and personable.
SIXTEEN
Debbie and I were seated at my kitchen table making plans for her trip when the phone rang.
‘Hi, Sophie, it’s Max.’
‘Max … Hi,’ I stuttered.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’
‘Ah, no,’ I replied inanely.
‘Listen, Sophie, I know it’s short notice, but I wondered if you and Sarah felt like a picnic dinner.’
‘A picnic?’ I repeated, wondering vaguely when I was going to get my brain back.
‘Yeah – I was thinking maybe Bondi. You don’t need to worry about food, I’ll deal with that.’
As I recovered from my surprise at hearing Max’s voice, my anger that he’d disappeared so suddenly after seeing Sarah for the first time resurfaced. ‘Look, Max. I haven’t heard from you since you ran out of here three weeks ago. I didn’t even know you were in the country, so a phone call asking me to go on a picnic isn’t exactly what I was expecting.’
I could hear the strain in his voice as he replied. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Why don’t you have a think about it and give me a call back? I’m staying at the Park Hyatt – room 310.’
I paused. ‘All right. I’ll talk to you soon.’
‘Bye,’ he said softly as he hung up.
Debbie was staring at me as I replaced the receiver. ‘I gather that was Max wanting to catch up?’
I nodded. ‘Sunset picnic at Bondi. I really don’t see the point.’
Debbie had obviously made up her mind about this before I had even got off the phone. ‘You need to talk to him, Sophie. It’s a beautiful day and it will do you both good.’
‘Maybe you’re right. I just wasn’t expecting to have to deal with it today. Anyway, what about our business meeting?’
‘There’s not much more that we need to do. Call him back and tell him you can meet him at four. That gives us another few hours to finish what we’re doing here.’
The prospect of a couple of hours at the beach did sound nice. I called Max back and was surprised to hear his relief at my decision.
Once our plans and budget were finalised, Debbie put her pen down and sat back. ‘I now officially adjourn this meeting. You need to go and meet the father of your child. At least it’s too cold to swim so you can’t produce that damn swimming suit.’
Like ninety-eight per cent of the population, I used to only go swimwear shopping when my suit was practically falling off me, and even then I would go to extraordinary lengths to avoid looking at myself from behind in a mirror. But after years of being traumatised by swimwear shopping trips, I had come up with a technique which I was so proud of I had even considered patenting it.
It all began about three years before Sarah. I had braved the first day of the post-Christmas sales during my lunch hour and all around me was chaos as women of varying ages snatched up twenty different outfits and then locked themselves in the change rooms for the rest of the day. I was just about to leave when I spied a black two-piece in my size on sale for less than a third of the original price. Feeling reckless (and happy to find an excuse to skip the change rooms) I paid for it and took it home.
It turned out to be the best suit I had ever owned – even Debbie had approved. Debbie not only owns more than one suit, she has a matching wrap and shoes to go with each one. Not for her a beach towel slung over one shoulder. A visit to the beach is just another opportunity to reach the dizzy heights of fashion.
From then on, I bought exactly the same pair from the same shop at the start of every season (although admittedly at full price). I have vowed that I am going to keep doing this until the day I die. Although I live in terror that one day the manufacturers will change their design.
* * *
As was usual on a Sunday, the parking at Bondi was appalling and it was well after four by the time we arrived at the spot
we’d arranged. Max, whom I spotted when we were still a distance away, seemed agitated, looking at his watch and then gazing towards the road.
‘Hi. I’m glad you could make it,’ he said when we reached him. He was talking to me, but his eyes slid to Sarah, who looked particularly cute in her pink corduroy overalls.
‘It’s a perfect evening for a picnic,’ I said, trying to pretend that this was just an ordinary get-together and not our first family outing.
‘It is,’ he agreed as he shouldered the cooler and hamper at his feet and we moved towards the grassy slope overlooking the beach. ‘I hope you like what we’re eating. Are you still obsessive about Manchetti’s lime cheesecake? I convinced them to let me have two pieces to take away.’
‘Now, come on. Some things might have changed since we were going out but you should know better than to think I wouldn’t still kill for lime cheesecake.’
When we reached a clear space amongst the large, noisy families and chased away the seagulls, I spread out the old picnic blanket I had brought. As usual, Sarah was oblivious to the tension in the air, waving her arms in excitement at a sparrow on the ground. Her lack of awareness was just as well, I reflected, otherwise the situations I constantly found myself in would have made my daughter neurotic before she was three months old.
Max moved around setting up the picnic. First he opened a bottle of chilled wine and handed me a glass. Then he produced an antipasto platter heaped with stuffed mushrooms, olives, marinated tomatoes and cold meats.
When, to Debbie’s great amusement, I’d drawn up my first-ever budget a couple of months before Sarah was born, I had been horrified to discover the amount I spent at the little delicatessen down the road. Luxuries such as those spread out before me didn’t make it into my now home-brand-dominated shopping basket and it was only with great difficulty that I stopped myself from falling on delicacies I hadn’t tasted in months. Sarah lay happily playing with her feet as Max and I ate the food, which, with the sea breeze blowing and the sun setting behind us, tasted delicious.
