Versace Sisters

by Cate Kendall

  Mallory sneaked through the back door that led directly into the staff room, placed the basket on the kitchen table and opened the door into the office area. He wasn't at his desk and the office lights were off, so Mallory pushed open the heavy glass showroom door.

  From the huge spa, pergola and faux patio in the corner of the massive space came the roar of the Jacuzzi jets. Vince had installed it to create an air of luxury, he'd once told her.

  Giggling with excitement, Mallory tiptoed closer to the softly lit spa. She rounded the enormous bow of a boat to be slapped hard in the face by a sight that took several seconds to sink in.

  What the fuck? Sex? In the spa? Mallory registered Sharee's bleached, bedraggled mane, and her tattooed anaemic back hunching mid-thrust.

  'Oh, yeah baby, you're my little fuck-puppy, aren't you, baby?' came Vince's growl.

  Mallory paled; the floor tilted. She grabbed the boat to steady herself. That was Vince's nickname for her. She shuddered, suddenly cold in her lace and satin. It wasn't only her nickname that was being shared. That was her husband, pumping away in the surging water.

  At the door of her car, Mallory vomited. She ripped off her bra and suspenders in disgust, her hands shaking violently, and left them where they fell on the cracked bitumen. She pulled a cotton dress from the backseat over her shivering body and slumped into the front seat, only to lean out the window and vomit once more.

  She had to get away – she didn't know where to, she just had to fly, as fast as she could, get to safety, away from the danger, away from what she'd seen.

  As the car skidded into the street, tears cascaded down Mallory's cheeks, dissolving the glue on her false eyelashes. She tried furiously to brush them away but the left one reapplied itself to her upper cheekbone, blocking her vision.

  She stomped on the accelerator as she turned onto the highway and slammed straight into the garbage truck reversing out of a driveway on her left. There was no time to brake. Her little Golf made hardly a dent in the massive truck as it buckled and folded into the metal.

  *

  The sickening sound of shattering glass, the shriek of the truck's brakes and the squeal of twisting metal penetrated the rhythm of the hydro love-making.

  'What in the hell was that?' Vince said, pulling away from Sheree's probing tongue.

  Sheree looked up momentarily in the direction of the noise, and listened.

  'Who gives a shit?' she said, and leaned over to pick up the facemask and snorkel.

  ~ 33 ~

  Jacqueline was worn out. She'd been extra, extra good this afternoon. She'd volunteered for school tuckshop duty, and washed, polished and vacuumed not just her car, but Thomas's car as well. She'd straightened up the garage, purchased every requirement for the boys' summer school uniform, booked dental appointments for all three of her boys and cooked and served dinner – boeuf bourguignon, their favourite. After dinner, when her husband had retired to his study and the boys were upstairs doing their homework, she'd whipped up a lemon-poppyseed cake and dropped it around to Thomas's father at the nursing home.

  It was after ten when she finally dropped the keys on the hall table and entered her kitchen. Her jaw dropped. Sitting opposite, eating a mandarin, was Joan.

  'Hello, Jacqueline,' Joan said.

  'Joan, what are you doing here?' Jacqueline asked.

  'I thought we needed to have a little talk,' the older woman said calmly.

  Jacqueline feigned innocence. 'Goodness, Joan, what on earth could be so important we have to discuss it in the middle of the night? Shall we talk another time, perhaps when –'

  'Don't bother, Jacqueline,' Joan replied quietly and the other woman wilted in defeat. 'Pop the kettle on, will you, love?' she added.

  Jacqueline gratefully slipped into hostess mode, preparing tea and offering Joan a cup with shaking hands.

  'Sit down, dear.' Joan nodded at the seat opposite and, anxiously, Jacqueline sat. 'It's tough, isn't it, love?' Joan started.

  'What do you mean?' Jacqueline said, suspiciously.

  'Life, kids, husband, home – it's all very difficult.'

  'I cope, thank you very much,' Jacqueline said defensively, glancing behind her to ensure the kitchen door was closed.

  'I know you cope, Jacqueline, I think you do an amazing job. You're truly the ultimate home-maker.'

  Jacqueline's fragile ego revelled in the compliment and she relaxed a little.

  'And how someone can be so busy, yet still be able to whip up the most amazing fruit flan I've ever tasted, is truly a miracle.'

  That had her. Jacqueline beamed: she was putty in Joan's hands.

  'And look at this place. It's a museum piece, it must be difficult to keep it so immaculate all the time.'

  'Well,' Jacqueline confessed, 'it isn't easy. But Thomas insists it's perfect when he gets home each day, so I have no choice really – he works so hard. There's a lot of pressure on an orthodontist, you know.'

  'What about you, though? You work extremely hard too, there's a lot of pressure on you as well, you know. You've got a far more important job; you're raising two young men to go out into the world and be productive members of society. All Thomas does is make pretty smiles prettier, and charge like a wounded bull for the privilege.'

  Jacqueline laughed and then her face dropped. 'I know, Joan, it is a great deal of pressure. I lie in bed at night worried sick about the boys – do I over-mother them or under-mother them? Do I do the right thing by Thomas and keep the house to his standard? I just need to get it right. When it's all okay, Thomas is happy, then I'm happy and then the family is happy. You see? It all starts with Thomas.'

  'You know,' said Joan, 'you remind me of how I used to be with my late husband, Barry. He was such a severe man. So strict. Of course, in my day it was expected that women stayed at home. Those who worked were frowned upon for neglecting their families.'

  'Exactly right,' Jacqueline said primly. 'I couldn't agree more.'

  'But at what cost, Jacqueline?' Joan asked. 'At what cost to us as women? I did what you do now: I did everything for my family. We sacrifice sleep, our appearance, our friendships, our youth. And all for what? So our children and husbands can go out into the world and achieve? What about us?'

  'But Joan, that's what I chose, to help these men be great.'

  'Have you ever considered that a great woman can be greater than even a man?' Joan asked.

  'Of course she can,' said Jacqueline, folding her arms. 'But not me. I couldn't have a career, I'm not that clever.'

  'Oh Jacqueline, you're very hard on yourself, and this kind of pressure can manifest itself in dangerous ways, my dear,' Joan said gently.

  'What do you mean, exactly?' Jacqueline's voice was steely.

  'I think you know what I mean. I'm not blaming you, I understand. You feel stifled and invisible. It happened to me too, dear. I did things that jeopardised my marriage and threatened my reputation. I hate seeing it happen to you.'

  I don't know what you mean,' Jaqueline insisted, refusing to meet Joan's eye.

  'Jacqueline,' said Joan, looking pointedly at her neighbour's special drawer on the other side of the kitchen. 'I know it's just a form of escape for you, but it's dangerous, this little habit of yours.'

  'Please don't tell anyone, I'm begging you,' Jacqueline implored, grabbing Joan's hands. 'It's such a thrill, at the time, but later I feel so sick and I just hate myself.'

  'I know, love, I know. It's a dreadful feeling, guilt, isn't it?'

  'But then I do it again, the very next week,' Jacqueline continued. 'And again, and again. And every time I get away with it, I'm so relieved and so overwhelmed with guilt that I vow I'll never do it again. But then I do! I don't understand,' she cried.

  'It gives you a feeling of control and nobody's caught you – yet – so it's your little secret. The sense of freedom it gives you must be exhilarating.'

  'Yes, that's it! It's the freedom!' Jacqueline looked up at Joan with red-rimmed eyes. 'I just wan
t to break the rules completely, be wild and bad for a few minutes and to have a tiny corner of something just for me.'

  'Why don't you consider getting a job?' Joan asked.

  Jacqueline stared at the table top, scratching an invisible mark. She eventually looked up.

  'Oh, Joan, I couldn't. I just couldn't. I wouldn't be able to, I'd be hopeless.'

  Joan tsked. 'That's a shame, love, because I think you can do anything you want to.'

  ~ 34 ~

  The room was black. As Bella's eyes adjusted to the darkness she tried to remember which city she was in. Location dislocation was a common side-effect of her job.

  Before she actually worked out her geography, she identified a sick, heavy feeling inside. She felt terrible. Why?

  Then everything came flooding back. She had taken herself on a mini break to Palazzo Versace in Surfers Paradise in the hope of distracting herself from today's big event: Curtis's wedding.

  Memories of her own wedding day rushed in and were as vivid as if her walk down the aisle had been last week. But by the time the tears of self-pity had travelled down the side of her face and pooled in her ears, Bella had pulled herself together.

  She sat upright and grabbed a Kleenex. Right, she had an intensive schedule of self-indulgence to throw herself into and no quickie wedding ceremony in the Maldives was going to distract her.

  She pushed the bedside button on the electric curtains and they slid open to shine warm Queensland sun on the room's opulent creams and golds. Bella focused on the relax - ing surroundings while trying to calm her breathing.

  *

  At the day-spa Bella wrapped the fluffy bathrobe tighter around herself again, touched her hair, checked her nails, looked down at her pedicure; then did it again, and again. It was only when the other patrons started giving her odd looks that she realised what she was doing. She picked up a waiting room magazine and forced herself to focus on it.

  Later, under the beautician's gentle hands, rather than letting her mind dwell on Curtis and his wedding day, she thought back to her morning. She must have checked her reflection at least ten times to make sure there was nothing in her teeth, no stray lashes, no lipstick bleed. Then she thought she'd found a spot on her bag, and that took another fifteen minutes of wiping, re-wiping and buffing before she was satisfied that it had simply been her imagination.

  The beauty therapist left her to meditate while her face mask set and Bella felt the familiar tentacles of panic begin to entwine her. Her mind flashed up images of Curtis marrying a younger, prettier girl and she suddenly realised that with thoughts of him came physical reactions. As he came into her mind she had unconsciously sucked her stomach in and checked her nails.

  The link was clear; she could see that now. Her obsessive tendencies were triggered by the emotions she felt about Curtis. But she didn't want to count floor tiles and spend her life in front of mirrors aiming for some idealised version of perfection. She was so sick of feeling inadequate. Maybe today was an opportunity to put an end to her compulsions. Just understanding the trigger had been a big step, and now she felt ready for more progress.

  Bella held up her left hand and flicked at her index finger's acrylic nail until the plain stubby nail underneath was exposed. She looked at her ruined manicure and distress surged through her, but she took a deep breath and looked again.

  This time it didn't look so bad. Maybe she could find out who she was under all the desperate striving for perfection. She laughed to herself nervously.

  ~ 35 ~

  Mallory wanted the drugs back. Drugs to cancel out the pain, but mostly to stamp out the ache in her heart. She could cope with the agony of her broken ribs and crushed hip, but the emotional pain was too much to bear. Each time a nurse released more opiate into her system she sank blissfully away from the wrenching sting of betrayal that haunted her conscious moments.

  But today they'd taken down the drip, said she would manage without it. Mallory knew they were wrong: she didn't know how she would ever manage again.

  It's funny how they talk about heartache, Mallory thought, staring out at the heavy grey rain clouds threatening the CBD. The pain really is in my chest; like a serrated knife plunging straight into my heart. The doctor said that pain was from her broken ribs. But she knew better.

  Showering today, for the first time since the accident, had been excruciating. But she'd welcomed the physical agony, spitting out the weak painkillers the nurse had given her. If she couldn't have drugged oblivion, she figured, it might help to lose herself in the searing pain of her battered body.

  The woman she'd seen in the full-length bathroom mirror had aged fifteen years. She hadn't recognised the sad, downturned mouth and the hooded eyes. Her hair hung flat against her face in lifeless sheets. Her lips and cheeks, usually rosy with exuberance, were grey. A greenish-yellow bruise on her cheek and under her eye was the only colour in her face. Her collarbone jutted from the top of the white hospital gown that swamped her skeletal frame.

  Now, as she lay back in her bed, she watched the clouds release their burden onto the skyscrapers and her eyes followed suit. She'd given up trying to control her tears in the days since the accident. It seemed like all she had done was cry.

  When her lovely friends had heard what had preceded the accident, they had ministered to her broken ego as gently as the nurses had tended her broken bones. Sera had held her hand, listened patiently and dried her tears. Sam had offered to beat Vince up and then spent an hour gently brushing and plaiting Mallory's unkempt hair into her familiar plaits, as he did with his own daughters. His gentle touch had made her cry even harder.

  When Chantrea heard, she'd ranted and raved and kicked the metal-legged visitors' chair and come up with plots to slash Vince's tyres, graffiti the walls of his dealership and hide dead fish in the boot of his car.

  Jacqueline had tsked in disgust and for once had no suggestion for how Mallory could have been a better wife; it seemed even she knew an arsehole when she saw one.

  Mallory turned her head at the sound of the door opening and stared numbly at her husband as he entered her private room, his arms filled with long-stemmed roses.

  'Hi, how are you doing?' he asked, placing the flowers gently across the foot of her bed.

  'Fine,' she said flatly.

  'You had us worried. Thank God you came out of the coma.'

  'Mmmm,' Mallory said, wishing she was back in that lovely dark place.

  'Darling, I am so sorry,' Vince said, with a quiver in his voice. 'You have no idea how sorry I am.' He picked up her hand and squeezed it tightly. She looked at him, desperately wanting to believe him.

  'I love you, my little Pookie, you know I love you more than anything.'

  'What about Sharee?' Mallory asked. 'Do you love her?'

  Vince scoffed. 'Of course not. It was a stupid, stupid mistake. A one-off. I'd had too much to drink. I wasn't thinking straight. I'd been working so hard I wasn't using my head at all. You must believe me, Pookie, you must.'

  'Vince, I wish I could, I really do.' Mallory's eyes started to fill again.

  Vince rubbed his own eyes with the heel of his palm and sniffed. 'Please, Mallory, you and Tilly mean so much to me. I don't know what I'd do if you left me.'

  'I'm sure Sharee would take you in,' Mallory said bitterly.

  'There's nothing between us, honestly. It's all over; she's just a filthy little scrag. She hit on me that night and I fell for it. I'm a weak, useless man and I let my dick rule my head for one stupid moment. What can I do to get you back, my beautiful wife?'

  'Well,' Mallory said looking at him doubtfully, hoping she was doing the right thing, 'we'll have to have marriage counselling.'

  'Absolutely,' he said with a grin, knowing he'd won. 'Anything else?'

  'You'll have to sack Sharee,' she said.

  'Sacked! Gone! Outta there! I'll do it today.'

  'Oh, Vince.' She melted. The nightmare was over; they'd get through this together.

&
nbsp; He wrapped his arms around her broken little body as she sobbed into his shoulder. 'It's all right, darling. It's all right, little Pookie, Vincie's here. I'm going to protect you, I'll never let you get hurt ever again.'

  'Oh Vince, I love you so much. I thought I'd lost you,' she said between sobs.

  'No, don't be silly, you'll never lose me, ever. I'll always be here for you, I promise, my beautiful little girl. I promise I will never ever let you down again.'

  ~ 36 ~

  What to wear, what to wear? Another blouse flew off its padded hanger to land in a heap on the floor. Jacqueline's hands shook as she flicked through the array of floral, silk and knits.

  She pulled another contender from the wardrobe and held it up against herself. Beige was respectable. Beige was humble yet reassuring. She threw it to the ground and sank down onto her bed.

  What was she thinking, going to a job interview, for goodness' sake? She should never have taken Joan's advice. Her time would be better spent visiting poor Mallory in the hospital, or taking casseroles over to young Tilly. Now here she was with this ridiculous plan, already creating chaos and reducing her to a jittery, dishevelled mess. She looked at her reflection. Her baby paunch hung over her stockings, her auburn bob straggled across her face and her eyes were dull with sleeplessness.

  Who'd want her in a patisserie? Patisseries were refined, elegant places where mille-feuille pastries were delicately layered into fine lacy towers; where high tea was sipped from fine china. And Laurent Boulangerie Patisserie in Double Bay was all that and so much more. It was French!

  Finally she decided to team a knee-length black skirt with a crisp, white blouse, emulating the uniform of the elegant staff at the world-famous patisserie. She pinned her silver cupcake brooch to her shirt for luck.

  *

  Jacqueline's knees were shaking as she entered the shop. The customers were three deep as orders for brioche, baguettes and olive sourdough were drowned out by demands for éclairs, croissants and galettes.