Versace Sisters

by Cate Kendall

  If he could just spot another dad in the playground he'd be fine; but on his own he was easy prey for many of the school's single women.

  He scanned the milling parents as he headed toward the school: not a Y chromosome in sight. He sighed, his thoughts drifting to his date tonight with the bikini model. What the hell had he been thinking? He wasn't the sort of bloke who dated models, for chrissakes. Come to think of it, he wasn't the sort of bloke who dated at all.

  What was he supposed to talk about with this woman? Did women like her want to be complimented, or was that cheesy? He still hadn't decided where to take her; he didn't want to come across as too contrived. But, on the other hand, without a plan it might look like he didn't care. What did they like to do? What did they like to eat? What do women want? He laughed at himself. If he knew that, he'd be a millionaire.

  He wandered through the school gates, all thoughts of the impending date leaving his mind. He needed to keep his wits about him here. Last week he'd received three meaningful smiles and one phone number before he got to the school door.

  He called them the Seekers. The divorced women desperately looking for a partner; someone to ease the burdens of child-rearing; to help with the mortgage and fulfill what appeared to Sam to be quite insatiable needs – if the way they casually pressed their bodies against him in the crush of the playground was anything to go by. He couldn't remember women being quite so forward back when he was single all those years ago – and it scared the hell out of him.

  There was one particularly determined mother, Muriel, who had been stalking him since the day after he had buried his wife. She had the stealth (and the dress sense) of a leopard, the personality (and laugh) of a kestrel and all the subtlety of a rubbish-foraging raccoon. She made him terribly nervous. In their first playground conversation she had jumped from asking how old his kids were to why he wasn't wearing a wedding ring with a startling lack of segue.

  He excused his way past the sea of gigantic handbags attached to teeny, tanned women to position himself away from the crush of the group, but with a view of the school door. He hadn't seen Muriel yet so he allowed himself a tentative sigh of relief.

  'Hiya handsome.' Curved talons snaked around his left bicep. God, he'd be crap as a gazelle.

  'Muriel,' he exclaimed and took a step back from her cleavage before he tumbled into the chasm.

  'So how's it going, Sammy, sweetie, you poor man?' Muriel purred, affecting what she hoped was an endearing, yet sympathetic, pout.

  'No, no, all good, we're great, fine, no problem.' Sam knew he was stammering but was overcome with a primal need for flight. He looked nervously around the playground for an escape path, but he could only see another group standing nearby sizing him up as if deciding which vegetables would go nicely with Coq au Sam.

  'It's so difficult, isn't it,' she sighed dramatically. 'The meat market is so tough, believe me, I know.'

  I bet you do, Sam thought. He saw another dad, Dave, coming in the gate. He used all his willpower to reach Dave's mind and get him over, but as a professional athlete, Dave had very little in the mind department, and was probably using it all up just for walking. Usually Sam found Dave's constant sporting commentary to be very draining, but he'd happily endure the Wallabies' latest game blow-by- blow if only Dave would come and save him.

  'I think it would be lovely to just find someone to be friends with, you know.' Muriel looked up at him, batted her falsies and grinned. 'Friends with perks. You know what I mean, no strings.'

  'Yeah, sounds like a plan,' he muttered, not really listening as he madly flicked his eyes over to Dave who finally registered, put a great plank of an arm in the air in greeting and started pushing through the forest of handbags.

  'Really?' Muriel squeaked, alerting Sam to further danger. What had he said?

  'Er, yeah, for you I mean, whatever you need, I'm sure it's a good plan, for you that is, I mean . . . DAVE, MATE! Great to see you.' He put his hand out for a handshake that was well worth every metacarpal-crushing moment.

  'Sam, Sam, old buddy boy!' Dave punched Sam on the deltoid – a blow that he was pleased not to be knocked sideways by. 'How are those piss-weak All Blacks, dude? We got 'em big time, didn't we?'

  'Yeah, Dave, that was something else all right.'

  Muriel dropped back into the female jungle with a disappointed sigh.

  The bell finally rang and Isabelle came running out into Sam's arms. 'Come on, sweetie,' he said, 'let's get out of here and pick up your sister.'

  ~ 23 ~

  Bella's luxurious flat boasted sweeping harbour views that compensated for its fourth-floor position in a very ordinary Darling Point 1980s high-rise. Rushcutters Bay Park, the Cruising Yacht Club, Sydney's impressive skyline, the Opera House, the Harbour Bridge and the boat-filled waters of Point Piper and Double Bay were laid out below her tiny balcony.

  Bella's main criterion in searching for her first piece of Sydney real estate was finding a magnificent view, and her persistence had paid off. She had quickly set about indulging her love for Versace in designing the flat's interior. Although she and Sera had spent their teens and twenties idolising the gilt and glamour of Versace fashions, which seemed the antithesis of everything their drab childhoods had been, they soon matured into the lure of new designers.

  Brands such as Ralph Lauren, DKNY and Lisa Ho became their labels of choice in their late twenties; and while in her late thirties Sera still enjoyed a gaudy touch in some of her fashion, Bella had toned her own look down to sophisticated Armani as she moved toward her fourth decade.

  Except at home. Bella opened her front door and smiled as she surveyed the two-bedroom flat that was her Versace castle.

  The living room walls were awash in navy flock embossed with gold fleur de lys. A royal blue studded couch stood centre stage scattered with gold Medusa-head tassled cusions. Persian rugs in jewelled tones led towards her bedroom. The queen-size bed was engulfed in the burgundy and hot pink of a faux mink throw, brocade canopy and velvet headboard.

  Bella took off her pumps and after carefully brushing them, stored them in the first of her ten cupboards; the court shoe section.

  She slid out her hairpins, placing them one by one in her hairpin holder, then threw her head upside down and scratched her head, wildly tousling her usually constrained locks. But before she could indulge in the freedom of unkempt hair she quickly swept it into a casual ponytail and checked it four times for lumps. Then she folded her clothes into their allocated storage spaces and dragged on track pants and her favourite worn flannelette shirt.

  Suddenly she was filled with an overwhelming urge to check that the front door was locked. She had checked it when she'd come home (twice) and knew logically that it was locked. She took a deep breath, counted to ten, and the urge passed. She quietly congratulated herself on her strength.

  She opened her MacBook Air and stared out at the city lights while her emails downloaded. She would usually have called Sera by now, perhaps arranged for a coffee in the morning. But she just didn't feel like it. She felt terrible about losing her temper with her little sister in the Botanic Gardens; it wasn't like her to snap like that.

  After all, it wasn't Sera's fault that Bella had grown weary of always being the listener. Sera was just doing what she had always done; dumping all her problems on her sister and expecting her to fix things for her.

  But Bella had just had enough. She was worn out. The failure of her marriage had been a painful shock that had seriously battered her self-esteem. The sense of loss was overwhelming – not just of Curtis – but of the ideal of a happy marriage that she'd strived so hard to achieve. So hard, in fact, that she'd been able to deny the truth of their relationship for years.

  She had few real friends. Curtis had discouraged her inviting guests around, so she had isolated herself and concentrated on him for the past few years. Now she was alone.

  She'd worked long hours since the end of the marriage, simply to distract herself and t
o avoid the sheer loneliness of sitting in the quiet flat. Even thinking about making the effort to reconnect with her old friends made her feel exhausted; and she didn't think she could face the humiliation of explaining her situation.

  She turned to her laptop and scanned her emails. She saw there was one from Sera.

  'Dear Bella, I'm a stupid, selfish cow. How can you ever forgive me? You've always been there for me and I didn't even notice you were suffering. Please call me when you're in Sydney so we can have a proper catch-up sans kids. Love Sera.'

  Bella smiled and picked up the phone.

  *

  'Two hundred and four, two hundred and five . . .'

  'Darling, how are you?' Sera was effusive as she swept into the Four in Hand bar.

  Bella was pleased to see her sister, but anxious that she hadn't managed to finish counting the whole row of white tiles at her feet before she'd arrived. She shook the agitation from her head and stepped down from her stool at the bar to give Sera a hug.

  'You look wonderful,' Sera enthused, determined to heal the rift between them.

  'So do you,' Bella replied less convincingly as she took in Sera's orange face and garish eye make-up.

  'That was a rotten catch-up on the weekend, I'm so sorry,' Sera started once she they had settled back at the bar and ordered Tanqueray and Tonics.

  'Don't be silly. I'm the one who should be sorry, I should know when to shut up,' Bella said.

  'Well, let's not dwell on it, it's behind us now. The important thing at the moment is you. What's happened with Curtis?'

  Bella's mouth felt as if were full of cotton wool. She couldn't verbalise it, she just couldn't admit she'd failed. She checked her white T-shirt, it was immaculate, she looked at her nails; her watch; her shoes.

  Sera grabbed Bella's hands to stop their compulsive fiddling. 'Stop it, darling, you're so twitchy. It's just me, you can trust me, I won't judge, I'm just here to listen.'

  Sera's soothing words worked. Bella told her everything; the betrayals; the two-timing; the constant criticism that coloured her marriage. The sense that no matter how hard she tried she couldn't get Curtis' approval; could never be enough for him. Sera shook her head in shock and sadness. Her poor Bella.

  Bella had believed his criticism; had swallowed his rejection and tried to fight harder to be better at everything just so that he might love her again. 'I really thought that if I could just be less of a failure; if I could be a better, happier, more beautiful woman, he'd want me again. Now I guess I can see that he was just projecting his own shortcomings on to me; that he needed me to be the cause of his discontent because it meant he didn't have to take any responsibility for his own issues.

  'It's taken time and therapy, Sera, but I am starting to come out of the shadows of that relationship bit by bit, and do you know what?' Bella faced her sister with determined eyes. 'I will never, ever let anyone treat me that way again. I will never depend on someone so fully for my own self-esteem again.' Tears ran down her face and she whipped them away savagely.

  Sera's heart ached to see her sister in such pain. 'I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you, Bella,' she whispered.

  'I wasn't there for myself,' Bella sighed. 'I stayed with him for twenty years – and for what? Now here I am – single, no babies, no friends left, and a back-breaking career to keep up.

  'And now he's getting married.' Her tears turned to sobs and Sera put her arm around her sister's shoulders as grief stormed through her.

  'You don't still have feelings for him do you?' Sera asked with trepidation.

  'I don't know, at first I thought I did, but I worked it through in therapy. It's more just the overwhelming enormity of the wasted years I can't shake.'

  'Oh, thank God for that,' Sera said, relieved. 'In a way it's good that he's getting married, it's the ultimate closure for you, now you can move on.'

  The waiter returned with more drinks and the sisters continued to talk long into the night. By the time Bella returned to her apartment she was exhausted but relieved. The evening had been cathartic; Sera had been a wonderful support. It was just what she'd needed.

  ~ 24 ~

  Sam's neighbour Jenny looked after his girls every now and then, and the three were happily reading The Little Mermaid by the time he was ready to go at eight o'clock that evening. He'd half expected them to beg him to stay home, and was a bit disappointed at not having a reason to cancel.

  He got into his Saab and negotiated his way through the back streets until he got to the main drag of Paddington. He couldn't believe how nervous he was. What was a daggy thirty-seven-year-old father-of-two doing thinking he could cut it with a bikini model? Who did he think he was, Hugh Hefner?

  He got to the Darlo Bar early to give himself time to sit quietly – well, as quietly as possible on a boisterous Friday night – and drink a Stella to take the edge off his nerves.

  The Darlo was a remarkably soothing space to be, despite the noise. His architect's eye enjoyed the retro-kitsch mix of 50s and 60s styles. It was exactly like being in someone's home with its low-maintenance, low-glamour style. The crowd was a collection of hip dudes in skinny-leg jeans playing pool; inner-city types with metallic accessories; a pair of Armani-suited businessmen with loosened ties trying their luck with some leggy blondes; and a Goth waitress chatting with a group of old booze hounds who'd been drinking here for decades.

  Then his date, Phoebe, sauntered in. The women in the bar looked up: the attractive ones in envy, the unattractive ones in awe. One of the guys playing pool nudged his mate and pointed with his chin. His buddy was already drooling.

  The bar staff stared openly. Two trannies perched daintily on bar stools gave her the once over. 'She's fucking hot. I'd do her,' said one in a deep voice.

  'You bitch!' the other shrieked, slapping her friend on her bulging bicep.

  Sam had no idea how he would be able to muster the strength to stand and greet this goddess. He was thankful for every inch of his six-foot-three frame as he took in her Amazonian height enhanced by stiletto boots. Her tiny chocolate-and-lime crocheted dress sat daintily over her tanned skin.

  'Phoebe, lovely to see you,' Sam said, smiling nervously, and he pecked her on the cheek.

  'Omigod!' she squawked. 'I didn't realise how much you look like Mick Jagger!'

  'Oh, really?' Sam said.

  'Yeah, so much. But not now he's old, not like you're old or something, but you know, like from when he was younger, you know, like your age.'

  The magic died. The patrons went back to their business. The trannies bickered over their Mai Tais, the pool player potted the white off the black, the other punters returned to their chatter and Sam found himself talking to a sort-of-pretty girl.

  'Can I get you a drink, Phoebe?' he asked.

  'Omigod, yeah, what am I, a camel?'

  'Ahh, no . . . I don't think you're a camel . . . um . . . what would you like?'

  'What a charmer!' she said, through peals of laughter. 'Beer for me thanks, hon.'

  Sam headed for the bar. Did she just call him 'hon'? He hated that or any form of endearment from people he didn't know well. Grace had hated it too. He smiled as he thought of her. Oh jeez, what kind of a pathetic loser was he? Here he was on his first date with a beautiful woman, reminiscing about his dead wife. Tragic. But Christ he missed her. He'd have given everything he had to go home now and hold her just for one more night.

  He got the drinks and returned to his date.

  '. . . So anyway, I said to the photographer, no fucking way am I shaving it all off, leave me a bit of muff for God's sake. I mean what's a Brazilian without fucking Brazil, I ask you? Well, it was on! I'm not working with him again EVER!'

  Sam was quite thrown by this. Had she been talking to him the whole time he was over at the bar? Or was she just a mid-conversation starter?

  'Really?' he asked as politely as he could.

  'Yeah, totally!'

  She sat back and waited. It was obviously his turn. />
  'So what's it like being a model?' He could have slapped himself. What a lame question, he sounded like a dickhead.

  'Omigod!?' She squealed as if he'd just asked her the meaning of life. 'It's like sooo amazing. Honestly, I am so glad you asked.' And she went on. And on. And on. He thought at one point she was going to stop. But it was just an intake of breath. Then she went on again.

  Eventually she had to stop because she wanted a refill of her beer. When he returned she said. 'Listen to me going on, why doncha? Tell me about you. You've got, like, kids or something?'

  Sam smiled proudly at the mention of his favourite subject. 'Yes, I do. I have two girls, their names are –'

  She interrupted, 'I love kids, it's so hard to believe, but I was a kid once you know.'

  'Well, yes,' Sam said, 'we all were.'

  'Omigod,' she gasped, 'that's, like, so insightful, you're like a philosopher or something. I'm so old, you know, don't you think? Do I look old? How old do I look?'

  'Oh, gosh, I wouldn't like to say,' Sam muttered.

  'Go on,' she leaned forward and gave him a playful shove. 'Say how old you think I am. I won't get cross, promise.'

  'Okay, I dunno, twenty-seven?'

  'What!? How can you say that to me, you big meanie?' She crossed her arms and slumped back into the couch.

  'Well, tell me, how old are you?'

  'I'm twenty-seven, but that's not the point.'

  'Okaaay then,' he said slowly and excused himself to go to the men's room.

  *

  They ordered pizzas and finished their beers. Luckily the music got louder and Sam didn't have to listen anymore, he just nodded a lot and tried to look vaguely awake.

  Finally it was time to walk her out to find a taxi. She'd started having vodka shots with every beer and was now considerably unsteady on her very pointy heels.

  'Absolutely, taxi to my house,' she slurred. 'You are so hot, wanna come?'

  'No, I'd better get back to the girls.'