Versace Sisters

by Cate Kendall

  Okay, she thought to herself as she took a deep breath, well done. It was time to play the doting aunty to Sera's little ones.

  She cruised through Nordstrom's toy department. All the plastic, commercial rubbish was so boring. Teddy bears? Too babyish. Remote-control toys? They already had plenty. She wanted to get something special, something Sera wouldn't buy them.

  At five, Maddy was a girly girl who loved anything shiny or pretty. Bella pursed her lips as she strolled down the boulevard. Ah perfect, she thought, catching sight of a Swarovski shop. She could start a crystal collection for her niece; a sophisticated, valuable collection that would make Madeline feel grown-up.

  Next, something for little Harry. Bella laughed at the thought of her fashion-conscious nephew. She knew just the thing. White Calvin Klein jeans. She scooped up a pair with a guilty smile – they were completely impractical for a three-year-old, but she knew he'd love them.

  Bella's mobile rang as the shop assistant handed over her stylish CK carry bag.

  'Hello, Bella Walker,' she sang into the mouthpiece.

  'Oh,' came the deep reply. 'You've changed your name back.'

  Bella's heart clenched. It was the intonation that Bella recognised first, the way he stretched out his vowels and his deep, gravelly timbre.

  She hadn't heard his voice in weeks and the shock of hearing it – here, anywhere – swept over her entire body.

  She felt as if she'd been dumped under an enormous wave at Bondi, losing all sense of direction as the air was forced from her lungs and her throat clamped shut with fear.

  She stumbled blindly to a bench in the shopping mall's busy thoroughfare, her legs buckling with relief as she dropped to the slippery plastic surface.

  'What do you want?' Bella asked, as her initial nausea was quickly replaced with a hot bolt of anger. A cocktail of bitter emotions swirled in her head, tipping her towards another anxiety attack as she fought to squeeze oxygen into her lungs.

  Images flashed before her eyes: the young flight attendant in the cockpit moaning as her husband's hand disappeared up her skirt. The coy looks and sly giggles from the other flight attendants that stopped abruptly when Bella walked into a room. Coming home from a trip a day early to find a nubile young blonde naked in her ensuite, happily using Bella's favorite Chanel shower scrub.

  How could she have just let him lie to her again and again? She hated herself for swallowing his flimsy explanations; for ignoring the winks, the flirtations, the little secret waves directed at her philandering husband from so many of her colleagues, even as she walked beside him through terminals across the world.

  Of course she'd seen them. Of course she'd been aware. Then why in the hell had she denied it for so long? She had tortured herself with this question every day since he'd walked out on her.

  Her stomach lurched with unhappiness. How long would it have gone on for? How long would she have lived in her carefully constructed fantasy world, refusing to wake up? God, she was useless and pathetic and hopeless and weak and –

  'That's no way to talk to your captain,' Curtis drawled, interrupting her angry thoughts.

  'Oh, are you on Flight 421 tomorrow?' she asked, struggling to keep her voice even and detached, but failing miserably.

  'Sure am, baby, and I checked the flight-attendant schedule and saw that you are too.'

  Flight attendant schedule, she scoffed, more like shopping list. Any fresh meat you haven't tasted yet, darling? There was no way she would put herself through that. She'd ring in sick as soon as she got the creep off the phone.

  'Listen, babe,' he continued. 'Can't chat, this isn't a social call, I need you to do something for me.' He spoke with a casual familiarity that made her gasp and she held the phone away from her ear in disbelief. Do something for him? Was he delirious?

  Maybe he'd been drinking, Bella thought, ready to tell the snivelling cheat that he was dreaming if he thought there was anything on this earth she would do for him.

  'Sure, what's up?' she heard herself respond coolly. Damn my weakness, she thought, stamping her foot.

  'I need those divorce papers signed, baby, aysap.'

  The divorce papers had been sitting in the bottom of Bella's travel bag for weeks waiting for her signature, but for some reason she hadn't gotten around to it yet. It wasn't as if she didn't want to get divorced. God no. Bring it on!

  'Yeah, sure, I'll put them in tonight's mail.' Her breathing had almost returned to normal. See, she thought with relief, I can manage a normal conversation with the filthy, dirty low-life. I'm not going to have a meltdown; I'm doing well.

  'Thanks, baby, you're a star. I need them pronto because I'm getting married next month. Oh shit, must fly, ha-ha, pilot joke. My limo's just arrived. Ciao, Bella.'

  Although the line was dead, Bella still held the phone to her ear; her face lifeless, her body motionless. She was snap-frozen. Eventually her body's survival mechanism kicked in, forcing her to take a deep, mindless gulp of air.

  Her sister, her little sister, she needed her right now, more than ever before. Sera was the only one who could help her through this. She fumbled with the phone. Her fingers seemed numb and disconnected. She gave up. Who was she kidding? She couldn't call Sera. Sera's life was crazy. There was no way she was going to drag the poor thing down further with this crap. The best she could do was to keep her ignorant from this . . . this . . . nightmare. Besides, there was so much background she'd have to fill her in on. The affairs, the betrayal, the hideous night he'd left her. She'd been unable to articulate it to anybody yet. It was too sickening. Nausea surged up from her gut.

  Bella's head dropped back and the ceiling seemed to be corrugated and undulating. The floor suddenly tilted and she only caught herself from flipping off the bench by falling heavily onto her hand.

  A tangerine-coloured woman passing by took one look at Bella's dilated pupils and the glistening layer of perspiration that coated her cheeks and tutted in a superior manner. 'Junkie,' she muttered and teetered off as fast as her two-inch- high Jimmy Choos would allow.

  Bella threw her head between her knees and waited for equilibrium to return. Within a few minutes the blood returned to her head, her breathing slowed and she was able to collect herself.

  So he was getting married. Fucking hell. Who to? The same bimbo bunny he'd left her for? Bella felt nausea rise in her throat again, and dipped her head back into her lap for a few more minutes.

  But what the hell do I care? she thought. She wanted him out of her life. She wanted this terrible, humiliating episode to be over. Surely this meant she could now be truly free of him and get on with her life? Maybe she'd even consider dating again, though something told her the damage to her heart was going to need time to heal properly.

  So what was this reaction about? Maybe it was just the unexpectedness of his announcement, Bella thought. What would her therapist say? A glimmer of an answer shone at the bottom of her mind. The glimmer intensified as it floated up closer to the surface and she realised that she had been avoiding this thought for a long time. Oh God, what was wrong with her! It couldn't be, it just couldn't be . . . Was it possible she still loved him?

  ~ 3 ~

  Chantrea Kim exploded from the plane behind the last straggling, jetlagged passengers. A tiny dynamo of energy and frustration, she barrelled past two burly airport security guards, almost bowling them over in her haste.

  She'd been stuck on board with that insipid wet rag Caroline for the nine-hour flight from Hong Kong; that woman made the whole trip hard work.

  She charged into the first ladies' room she came across, wrestling her pin-tucked uniform blazer off as she pushed through the door. Dumping her bag on the counter, she struggled to pull her shirt over her head without unbuttoning it as she replayed the trip in her mind.

  The shrill cry of a grumpy infant blasting like an air-raid siren from the moment its parents took their seats should have given her fair warning that it was set to be a shocker of a trip, she thoug
ht, spinning her skirt around to fiddle with the clasp and escape its confines.

  Then there was Pudgy Vomit Boy; what a delightful mid-air treat he'd been. The little charmer had sent a spray of projectile spew across three passengers just after take-off. She'd spent her first hour on board cleaning up the remains of his regurgitated Big Mac meal and offering First Class amenities kits to his disgusted victims.

  The lecherous advances of the First Officer, who tried to go the grope every time she delivered refreshments to the cockpit had increased her anger further, especially when he'd whispered that she looked 'positively edible' in her uniform. She'd nearly vomited herself.

  Then what with Catering short-changing them fifteen meals, one of the economy-class toilet sinks mysteriously blocking up and three passengers with various phobias, it had been a tough flight. She was shitty, tired and over the whole business of pandering to demanding passengers.

  Clad in only her black lace bra and g-string, Chantrea flipped back the cover of her wheelie case and began to rifle through it. She pulled on black leggings, a vintage Merivale and Mr John purple glittery top and added a long, purple and apple green crocheted vest. Her burgundy Doc Marten boots completed the outfit.

  One more thing to go: she scrabbled in her toilet bag for her favourite accessory, a bright purple hairpiece that she clipped above her nape to create a funky and authentic-looking mullet.

  In front of the basin mirror she ruffled her slicked-back androgynous hairdo into spiky points, smeared vibrant purple eye shadow across her almond-shaped lids and high cheekbones to obscure the airline's regulation Clarins Taupe foundation. The bright shade enhanced her southeast Asian complexion perfectly.

  She shoved her uniform into her case and flew out of the ladies' room and down the corridor, propelled by the ease and comfort of her Docs. A quick glance at her chunky plastic watch told her there was time to hit her favourite vintage store in Oxford Street before picking Sally up from crèche. A tendril of guilt at this decision gripped her conscience but she quickly brushed it away.

  *

  Chantrea was always entranced by edgy Darlinghurst with its glitz of hookers and queens, juxtaposed against regular glimpses of celebs – it wasn't unusual to see Cate Blanchett or Daniel Johns mooching along the street among the suburb's beggars, trannies and home boys. Darlinghurst was a wild place with a tinge of Sydney glamour, but like an old slapper's Glomesh purse, its shine was tarnished and torn at the corners.

  Chantrea was in her element among the vintage fashions, the daggy cast-offs and dusty interior of the second hand shop, Decades. She quickly unearthed a body-hugging vintage Pucci mini-dress with flared arms, which would be perfect to wear to Stitch 'n' Bitch tonight. It would look awesome with her new espadrilles.

  She spent another hour rummaging through the treasures, imagining their past owners and outings, and her diligence paid off with a stunning caftan that had Cher written all over it and a pair of white gloves the shopgirl swore were once worn by Doris Day.

  Hugging her purchases to her chest, Chantrea emerged back into the sunlight and headed for a grungy Italian café to drink a double espresso while she watched the passing gay parade.

  Her mobile announced a new message with a tinny version of Dead or Alive's 'You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)'. The very camp waiter did an impromptu dance routine to the ringtone as he walked by.

  The text message was from her friend Sam. It read: 'What on earth does a hetero father of two bring to a mothers' sewing circle?'

  Chantrea smiled. Tonight would be Sam's first foray into the Stitch 'n' Bitch group. When Sera had called earlier in the year to invite Chantrea to join a knitting group, she had laughed openly at her.

  'One thing I really can't ever see myself doing – or at least not until I'm eighty – is knitting, thanks,' Chantrea had said.

  'But knitting is the new yoga,' Sera had argued. 'It's so cool – everyone's doing it. Anyway, it's really just a good reason to get together and have a couple of chardies . . . and if we do make anything worthwhile we're going to donate it to charity, the "Woollies for Wars" project.'

  'Oh good lord, it sounds hideous,' Chantrea had moaned.

  'I promise it's very cool and hip,' Sera had insisted. 'It's called Stitch 'n' Bitch.'

  The name won Chantrea over. 'Oh, all right, I'll give it a try,' she had agreed reluctantly.

  At the first meeting, Chantrea had met Sera's sweet friend Mallory and her neighbour Jacqueline (who was much too uptight for her liking), and had discovered that she had a real flair for knitting chunky, colourful garments in mohair and cashmere.

  Tonight she was introducing her own new Stitch 'n' Bitch member, Sam, a single dad from Sally's crèche whom she had chatted with at pick-up and drop-off. He seemed lonely and very sweet, so she had dared him to come and join their group. She was very surprised when he'd agreed.

  She chuckled at his troubled text and replied: 'Butterick Sewing Patterns, lace doilies, eyelash curlers and an apron.'

  On the timber table that filled the small office of his Bondi Junction terrace, Sam's phone beeped. He apologised to his client, dug the phone out from under the drawings for the Woolloomooloo warehouse conversion and glanced at the message from Chantrea. He grinned.

  After he'd walked his client to the front door and vowed to deliver the next update by the following week, Sam checked his watch. He had just enough time to get to the shops before picking up the girls.

  Forty minutes later Sam was standing awkwardly in the middle of a barn-like toy shop. Isabelle and Alexandra needed costumes for a fancy dress party that weekend and he had promised to find fabulous outfits for them.

  After much bedtime whispering, Alexandra had announced that morning that she wanted to be Mike Wazowski and Isabelle wanted to go as Ariel. Sam had responded with a vague 'Okay' as he listened to Isabelle finish her reader and made school lunches while hastily gulping down his coffee.

  But now Sam was in a quandary. In one hand he held a blue velvet Snow White dress, and in the other a blue-and-white- striped B1 costume, and he stared at them both as he wished he had taken the time to ask Isabelle who or what Mike Wazowski and Ariel were. Since his wife had died there had been countless moments where he had been lost without her, and this was just one more to add to the list.

  Staff members in the mega toy warehouse were elusive and thin on the ground. Sam turned his head sharply to the right as he caught sight of a blue-uniformed teenager whip by. He turned quickly to the left as his peripheral vision picked up another running across the end of the aisle using a cut-out of Buzz Lightyear as a shield.

  He trudged back to the information desk, where he was quickly dissuaded by a long queue of disgruntled customers. Right, this is going to require a proactive approach, he murmured to himself, wandering over to a small boy who was admiring the skateboards.

  'Have a go,' Sam said breezily. 'I'm sure they won't mind.'

  The child looked up with a grin – it was all the encouragement he needed. He dragged the biggest, meanest-looking board off the shelf and jumped on, shrieking with delight as he flew down the Barbie aisle.

  The ploy worked like a charm.

  'Hey kid,' a wavering pubescent voice called. 'You can't play with that.'

  The voice's acne-faced owner magically materialised and scurried toward them. With a quick scowl at Sam, the small boy ditched the skateboard and fled the scene.

  'Damn it,' the gangly teen surveyed the state of the once-pristine Barbie lane.

  'Here, let me help you,' said Sam, picking up several Chanel Barbies from the floor.

  'Thanks,' the teen mumbled.

  'Not at all,' Sam smiled. 'And by the way, I wonder if you could help me?'

  The boy's back stiffened as he bent to retrieve a Zen Retreat Barbie. 'Oh, uh . . . well . . . I finish soon . . .' he stammered, looking keenly at his Rip Curl dive watch.

  'Costumes,' Sam said firmly. 'I need costumes.'

  'Oh, yeah, cool,' the teen replied
, relieved to have escaped any greater demand. 'Aisle six. Knock yourself out, dude.'

  'No – ummm . . .' Sam looked at the boy's name tag, '. . . Victor.' What optimistic parents, he mused. 'I know where the costumes are,' he continued, before the dishevelled creature could escape again. 'I just can't find what I'm looking for. What is "Mike Wazowski"?'

  'Monsters Inc.?' Victor replied sympathetically, as if sorry for such an out-of-touch old man.

  'Ri-i-ight,' said Sam uncertainly.

  'He's a round green guy? A ball? With arms and legs? And one eye?'

  By now Sam badly wanted to smack each upper inflection out of the teen's mouth.

  'Okay,' he said patiently. 'What about Ariel?'

  'Mermaid? You know? From The Little Mermaid? And The Little Mermaid II ? Oh, and I think she was also in The Little Mermaid III?'

  'Do you have these costumes in stock?'

  'I dunno, we might. We did. So we could. But we mighta sold 'em, then in that case we wouldn't.'

  'Hey, here's a crazy idea, how about you go and take a look for me?'

  'Umm, okay then,' Victor replied, his dull gaze on Sam's face for a moment to gauge just how serious this bloke was about him actually walking all the way over to aisle six to check. Picking a pimple on his chin, he decided Sam was pretty intent on it, so he turned and, dragging his feet, meandered to the nearby aisle, with Sam following close behind.

  Victor flicked a cursory glance up at the wall of costumes. 'Nah, we haven't got them,' he said.

  'What's this one?' Sam asked, holding up a circular green shape with one eye.

  'Oh, that's Mike Wazowski?' Victor replied. 'From Monsters Inc.?'

  Sam held up a red-haired wig and a fish tail with a bikini top attached to the hanger. 'And what about this? Is this Ariel?'

  'Nah, that's Ariel. Sorry we couldn't help.' The teenager shuffled away, holding his pants up with one hand. Sam sighed and headed for the checkout.