False Advertising

by Dianne Blacklock

  *

  One week later

  ‘Actually, it was my husband’s, um, my parents-in-law who thought I should come.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Jill. She’d told Helen to call her Jill. She was the bereavement counsellor provided through the State Transit Authority to the families of accident victims. It was a free service. She’d be mad not to take advantage of it, Jim had insisted.

  ‘Have your husband’s parents received any counselling?’ Jill asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Helen.

  ‘Well, if they needed you to come,’ said Jill, ‘you can tell them you came.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You don’t have to stay, Helen,’ she said plainly.

  Helen was confused. Was she being dismissed? ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Helen, this is an incredibly personal and painful thing to have to talk about, and if you’re not prepared to do that, if that’s not something you want to do, or feel the need to do, well, you shouldn’t have to do it because someone else thinks it’s what you should do.’

  Helen nodded faintly.

  ‘Please, feel free to go. It’s okay.’

  Helen let a moment or two pass, and then shrugged. ‘Well, I guess I’m here now.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jill. ‘We can talk for a while if you like.’

  ‘About the accident?’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘But you do know what happened, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve read the report from the inquest, if that’s what you mean. That didn’t tell me much.’

  That’s what Helen thought as well. The inquest didn’t tell her anything, except too much detail about David’s injuries, which only served to further fuel her nightmares. But it didn’t tell her how something like this could have happened, much less why it happened.

  ‘It certainly didn’t tell me anything about you, Helen,’ Jill went on, ‘and you’re the one sitting here in front of me.’

  ‘What do you want to know about me?’ Helen said warily.

  ‘Whatever you feel like telling me.’

  Helen wasn’t so sure she felt like telling Jill anything about herself. Besides, what was there to tell?

  ‘I think they . . . my parents-in-law expected that you’d fix me up somehow, so that I can get over it and move on. They want me to go back to work.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘I don’t feel ready. I’m a nurse; I don’t think I’d be very good at taking care of other people at the moment.’

  ‘That’s understandable. People going through a bereavement often describe a “limbo” period where they just don’t want to have to do anything, or make any decisions.’

  Helen was listening. ‘Is that one of the stages of grief? I remember learning about them during my nursing training. Um, somebody Kübler-Ross, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Jill. ‘But it’s not really the accepted theory any more. Not that someone who’s grieving might not have all the feelings Kübler-Ross described. But to fit them to prescribed stages is to ignore that we’re all individuals and that we all grieve in our own way.’ She paused. ‘Have you heard of chaos theory, Helen?’

  ‘When a butterfly flaps its wings there’ll be a hurricane on the other side of the world?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Jill nodded. ‘The theory is about cause and effect, but how, why, when and where a cause will lead to an effect we can rarely ever know, because of all the unpredictable variables.’

  ‘I’m not sure what that has to do with me.’

  ‘You’re an individual, Helen. There are plenty of people who have suffered loss as great as you, there are people suffering the same loss as you now – your in-laws, for example. However, no two people will experience the same bereavement. There is no one with your precise history, in your precise circumstances, so no one can tell you how or what you should be feeling.’

  Sometimes Helen wished someone would. Tell her what to feel, what to do next, how to go on.

  ‘I guess I just want to know how to get over this.’

  ‘Forgive me for being blunt, Helen, but why should you get over it? You’ve suffered an enormous loss. I don’t imagine you’ll ever get over it.’

  Helen was taken aback. What Jill was suggesting was too frightening a prospect. If she couldn’t get over it, she’d end up like her mother, and she simply couldn’t do that to Noah. Somehow she had to stop herself from sinking.

  ‘But I don’t want to feel like this forever,’ said Helen. ‘My mother, she never got over the death of my father, and now she has Alzheimer’s.’

  Jill’s forehead creased into a slight frown. ‘Surely the doctors have told you that Alzheimer’s is a physical deterioration of the brain; it’s not caused by grief?’

  Helen just looked at her.

  ‘But it worries you anyway?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Helen, when I said that I can’t see you’d ever get over the death of your husband, I wasn’t suggesting that you’ll feel this intensely for the rest of your life,’ said Jill. ‘But this will change you immutably. You can’t ever be the person you were before the accident; it’s impossible. It’s like saying to someone who’s lost an arm, you won’t be any different. Of course they will. But they can learn to adjust, learn ways to get by. They can still have a full life.’

  With only one arm, Helen sighed inwardly.

  ‘The point I’m trying to make,’ said Jill, ‘is that if you only focus on trying to get over David’s death, to move on, it will feel insurmountable because it is insurmountable. The reality is, his death will be a part of your life from now on. It’s not the end of your relationship. You’ll always have a relationship with him in your heart, and if you can come to terms with that, own this new reality, you can adjust and live your life within it.’

  Helen was still doubtful. Her father’s death had remained the defining feature of her mother’s life, and Marion’s reality had been altered forever, but not in a way Helen wanted for herself, or for Noah. Helen was frightened to let go, but holding on was frightening as well; it seemed she would remain in limbo for some time yet.

  *

  Sydney Airport

  ‘As you can see from my résumé I’ve had experience across all aspects of the advertising industry,’ Gemma said confidently.

  ‘Yes, and all under the one roof, the very same one you want to come back and work under again.’

  She had finally been granted an audience with the infamous MD, at four in the afternoon at the airport, take it or leave it. After postponing twice, he’d finally agreed to meet her in the business lounge between flights. Okay, he was a busy man, she got it. Five minutes into the interview Gemma was already regretting she’d come. The MD had the personality of a slab of granite but with less charm. And he needed a stylist. Badly. He was wearing grey pants with a white business shirt and a navy tie; he looked like he was a clerk in the tax office, not heading up the cutting-edge advertising agency in Sydney. And while his glasses had black frames in the latest profile, his haircut was a shocker; Gemma doubted he’d changed the style in a decade, possibly longer. Clearly the glasses had been a case of more good luck than good taste.

  ‘You’ve had far more extensive experience waitressing and bartending,’ he was saying.

  ‘You have a problem with that?’ asked Gemma, hanging onto her dignity by a thread.

  ‘Not at all.’ He glanced at her over his glasses. ‘I’d just like to understand how all of your previous experience equips you to fill this position. You worked for a lot of years in the hospitality industry. Then you started here in an admin role, and in no time you’d made it onto a team.’

  ‘What can I tell you,’ Gemma shrugged. ‘I have a knack.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that,’ he returned. ‘Your progress was almost as rapid as your departure.’

  Bugger. He’d been talking to people.

  ‘Look, Kelly has recommended you
highly – it could only be an asset to have someone with your experience. But I want to make something very clear, Ms Atkinson.’ He was looking straight at her. ‘I need someone who will be committed to this role, not have their eye on another section the whole time. This is not a foot-in-the-door job. I need a stayer. Someone reliable, someone I can trust.’

  Fuck. This was it. The man was asking her for something she couldn’t give. Not long-term.

  But on the other hand, how did anyone know what life held for them next year, next month, Christ, even next week? She certainly hadn’t even expected to meet Luke, let alone get pregnant and then get dumped. She hadn’t predicted any of what had happened to her in the past few months, so how could she predict the next few months?

  Gemma had always held to the mantra ‘Be true to thyself’. That didn’t necessarily mean being true to every Tom, Dick and Managing Director, blabbing every last intimate detail about herself in a job interview. She was entitled to hold onto a little privacy; she had no doubt the MD kept plenty to himself. So she would do what she usually did: go with the flow and worry about the consequences once the consequences made themselves known.

  ‘Mr Davenport,’ Gemma began, ‘this is the job I’m here for and this is the job I want. I’ll be the best PA you ever had, and if you don’t think so in three months, then you won’t have to ask me to leave – I’ll go of my own volition.’

  Genius. That last stroke had been pure genius. It gave her at least one, albeit tenuous, hook to hang onto when and if she lasted long enough to have to explain herself to him. She walked away with the job, and walked straight into a newsagent’s to buy today’s paper. Gemma had to find her own place as soon as humanly possible. Cameron had made it abundantly clear he couldn’t abide living with her longer than he absolutely had to, and Gemma was only too happy to put him out of his misery.

  She sang out as she came through the door of the apartment, but only the ubiquitous traffic noise greeted her. She glanced at the clock on the wall; it was probably a little early for either of them to be home. Gemma kicked off Phoebe’s shoes and unzipped her skirt, breathing out with relief. God, she was going to have to start getting those ugly elastic-waisted clothes before long. She walked over to the stereo and flicked through Cameron’s selection of CDs: fashionable, yes, but popular? Perish the thought. Avant-garde, certainly, but trendy – he’d rather die. Contrived and pretentious? You bet. Gemma just wanted something upbeat, and eventually she found one that would do. She opened the player and removed a disc, dropping it onto a stack of covers. She popped in her chosen CD, closed the drawer and pressed Play, turning the volume up loud to drown out the traffic noise. She wiggled out of the skirt along to the music, stepping out of it where it had dropped, and slipped off her jacket, tossing it onto the sofa. She danced across to the fridge and opened the door of the freezer, where she knew she would find Phoebe’s illicit stash of Caramel Toffee Crunch ice-cream. Grabbing a spoon from the cutlery drawer and the phone from its cradle on the wall, Gemma sashayed across to the dining table and plonked herself down on a chair. She put the ice-cream aside for now: she liked to wait for it to soften. She should have been toasting her success with champagne, but Caramel Toffee Crunch would have to do. At least she didn’t have to worry about her waistline, seeing as she barely had one to speak of any more.

  Gemma opened the newspaper to the property section, scanning to find share accommodation. She couldn’t afford a place on her own, especially once the peanut arrived. Not that she was altogether sure yet that she was going to be bringing it home. She didn’t like thinking about the alternative, but it was even worse when she tried to imagine herself with an actual baby, caring for it, being responsible for it. It was slightly terrifying, in fact. So she would continue to focus on one thing at a time. She had a job, now she needed a place to live. And sharing was her best option for the meantime.

  However, half an hour later, and after nearly half the container of ice-cream, Gemma was rapidly getting nowhere. She had made a dozen calls but as soon as she mentioned she was pregnant, the person on the other end of the line went into a spin, becoming flustered as he or she tried to come up with an excuse that didn’t sound like an excuse. Others were more blunt – no dogs, no kids. One woman just hung up on her. Gemma didn’t really blame any of them; if she was in their shoes she wouldn’t want to live with her either. The prospect of sharing a house with a screaming, poo-shooting bundle of helpless humanity was daunting enough for Gemma, and she was going to be related to it.

  ‘He-llo!’ Phoebe and Cameron had suddenly materialised in the entrance to the living area. Gemma hadn’t heard them come in, probably because of the music.

  ‘Good news,’ she announced loudly. ‘I got the job!’

  Phoebe gave her a weak smile. ‘That’s great,’ she said, watching Cameron as he strode across to the stereo and flicked it off.

  ‘Can’t hear yourself think in here,’ he muttered as he picked up the previously discarded CD, shaking his head like a disappointed headmaster.

  ‘Sorry,’ Gemma chirped. She wasn’t even going to let Cameron get to her today. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’m looking for somewhere to live, as we speak.’

  ‘Alleluia.’

  ‘Cam,’ Phoebe chided lamely as she proceeded to pick up the pieces of her suit from the floor and the sofa.

  ‘Hope you’re enjoying that ice-cream,’ Cameron said to Gemma, crossing his arms and glaring at her. ‘Seeing as no one else can now you’ve eaten it straight from the carton.’

  She frowned at him. ‘I’ll replace it, okay?’ Gemma glanced across at Phoebe for backup, but she apparently had nothing to add.

  ‘So, have you found anything promising?’ Phoebe asked, coming over to the table.

  ‘Plenty, it’s just that they don’t want me.’

  ‘And to think, these are people who don’t even know you,’ Cameron sniggered.

  Phoebe sighed quietly, returning her attention to Gemma. ‘What do you mean, they don’t want you? Why not?’

  ‘What do you think? The peanut, of course.’

  ‘Peanut?’

  ‘The sprog, the spawn, the bun in my oven . . .’

  Phoebe looked troubled, frowning and biting the edge of her lip. But Gemma had a feeling it didn’t necessarily have anything to do with her.

  ‘No worries,’ Gemma said brightly. ‘I’ll keep trying. It’s only the first time I’ve looked. Something’ll come up.’ She peered at the paper again, tracing down the columns with her finger. ‘I was about to call this one actually . . . where is it . . . Ah – “Quiet thirty plus pref. female to share three-bedroom house with woman and four-year-old boy. Board and bills.”’

  Cameron was making a low, chuckling sound. ‘You, quiet?’

  Fuck off, Cameron.

  ‘I am a lot quieter these days,’ said Gemma squarely. ‘I’m a nonsmoker and a nondrinker, at least for the next few months. And as of today I have a decent job. I think you’ll find I’m quite the model housemate.’

  ‘Except you’re pregnant.’

  ‘Except for that,’ she relented. ‘But if this woman’s got a child of her own she might be more open to the idea. I mean, she’d have to like kids at least.’

  ‘Having one doesn’t automatically mean you like everyone else’s,’ said Cameron. ‘She’s got inside information, remember; probably the last thing she wants is another screaming brat running around.’

  ‘Cam, don’t talk like that,’ said Phoebe. ‘Gemma’s baby’s not going to be a screaming brat.’

  He grunted. ‘Why should it be an exception?’

  Phoebe opened her mouth to say something, but she couldn’t seem to get it out. She shook her head instead, made an exasperated groan, then turned and headed up the hall to their room. A moment later they heard the door slam.

  Gemma looked over her shoulder at Cameron, but he just shrugged. ‘I’m thinking PMT.’

  Dickhead.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ he sai
d pointedly, ‘I’ve got some calls to make.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Gemma, sliding off the chair and gathering up the newspaper. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She leaned across the table and plucked up the bucket of ice-cream. Cameron gave her a look that could have curdled it.

  ‘It’s not as though you’re going to want any with my germs all through it,’ she quipped as she turned on her heel and walked up the hall, straight past her room to Phoebe’s. She knocked lightly on the door. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Come in.’

  Gemma opened the door holding the ice-cream out ahead of her, like a flag of surrender. ‘This’ll make you feel better.’

  Phoebe was sitting back on the bed, a pillow propped behind her. Their room was so pristine that the mere presence of a human being was like an unsightly stain. It was the type of room you saw in magazines, which you could never imagine real people living in. Which was why it suited Cameron perfectly.

  ‘Ice-cream will only make me feel better for a minute or two,’ said Phoebe, shaking her head regretfully. ‘Then I’ll just feel fat and guilty and loathe myself even more.’

  ‘I think it’s going to take more than a little ice-cream to fatten you up, Ms yoga-pilates-run-ten-k’s-a-day,’ Gemma taunted, closing the door.

  ‘I don’t run ten k’s every day,’ she denied. She frowned, eyeing Gemma up and down. ‘Are you wearing any pants?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gemma guilelessly, lifting her shirt up to reveal her knickers.

  ‘I don’t mean underpants.’ Phoebe rubbed her eyes wearily. ‘Could you please make an effort to put some clothes on when you’re at home, especially when Cam’s around?’

  ‘You can’t seriously think Cameron would give me a second look? He can’t stand me.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he’s not going to perve at you given half a chance.’

  Gemma considered her. ‘Did you two have a fight?’

  Phoebe sighed. ‘Cam and I don’t fight. We “discuss”.’

  Gemma climbed onto the bed next to her sister. ‘So, did you have a “discussion”?’