by Anita Heiss
‘Mum likes you,’ Izzy said, only half convincingly, unwilling to offer ‘love’ as the emotion Trish might feel for her daughter-in-law. Izzy also wanted to shift the subject away from calling her mother, which she was sure would not end well.
Nadine brushed off Izzy’s reply. Whether or not her mother-in-law liked her didn’t matter that much when she lived so far away. ‘The thing is, mothers are good to talk to about these things. And yours will be the same. I know, and don’t shout me down, I would be devastated if Brit thought she couldn’t come to me with something this big.’
‘And it is big, Izzy, it’s not something you should be dealing with by yourself,’ Veronica said.
‘Yes, it’s your decision, but either way, we’ll be here to support you,’ Ellen reassured her. ‘And Xanthe will come around, it’s just really hard for her right now.’
Izzy contemplated what it would be like to have the baby by herself, even though she didn’t believe she was emotionally, let alone mentally, equipped to do so. If she raised the baby alone would the child end up hating Asher, like Ellen hated her dad?
‘Do you ever hear about your fath– I mean the arsehole anymore?’ she asked Ellen.
‘No. And Mum never mentions him. He could be dead for all I know. And for all I care. I’m not scarred by not having a father. I was surrounded, am still surrounded, by people I love and who love me.’
Nadine smiled at Ellen.
‘You know you love me,’ Ellen grinned widely, wanting to reconcile for the sake of all the tiddas, but also because she loved Nadine too. ‘And I will be a wonderful aunty if and when the need arises.’
4
MUMMY’S WISH
The following week Xanthe was feeling lonely. Between Spencer’s humanitarian legal work and Xanthe being an active member of the local Aboriginal community – volunteering in a tutoring program and at Murri Radio – the pair were at an endless stream of charity events and fundraisers, sometimes together, but mostly flying solo. They both agreed that they would do as much as they could in terms of their paid work and ‘love jobs’ – volunteering – until they had a family of their own, because they knew that then their priorities would naturally shift.
Xanthe usually asked her tiddas if they wanted to join her at events, and when they could they would. Living almost thirty minutes from the city and not driving herself, Nadine rarely went but she always donated a box of autographed books for the raffles and, if pushed, would offer a manuscript assessment for auction as well. Given her celebrity status in Brisbane, such a prize became an increasingly lucrative money spinner for several lucky not-for-profit organisations.
Xanthe hadn’t mentioned one fundraiser to her friends when she’d heard about it a few days earlier. She was still stewing over the news of Izzy’s pregnancy and Ellen’s tubal ligation, which had left her the only Black woman in the group wanting to be a mother. Her head was still spinning about how different she had turned out compared to her long-time friends. Significant differences she’d never seen or even thought about before had arisen at the Easter breakfast. Differences she wasn’t sure they would overcome. She wondered if their shared history growing up in Mudgee, their commitment to community, their political views and their love of books would be enough to keep them as tight-knit as they were before the dreaded confessions of last weekend.
Xanthe had always imagined all their kids growing up together – except for Veronica’s, but she’d be having grandkids soon enough anyway – reliving the circle of friendship they’d had as young girls. Tonight, she was heading into the city, having not spoken to any of her tiddas since Saturday, and hoping that at least someone would get around to organising Nadine’s birthday which was fast approaching. It was abnormal to go so long without even a yarn on the phone; she knew it, they knew it too.
Xanthe had an ulterior motive for attending the Mummy’s Wish Glam It for Charity event at the Vintage Hotel in George Street. Of course she wanted to help raise money and would buy raffle tickets on top of her ticket to the fundraiser. She and Spencer didn’t skimp on charities. But the truth was she was hoping she might meet other women like her, women wanting children and still desperately waiting to conceive. She didn’t think of herself as selfish at all; she’d lost all notion of what was logical and fair in her obsession with getting pregnant. But she now felt there was no way she could ask Izzy or Ellen to go to anything like this with her. Nadine was just too high maintenance with her drinking and Veronica seemed to get upset at the slightest thing these days. Xanthe was quite happy to attend this one solo.
Being in the business of talking to people from all walks of life every day, Xanthe had no trouble mixing with strangers; she didn’t find it difficult in the least to strike up a conversation with someone she had no prior knowledge of. From a distance she spotted a woman who also ran the hills around Paddington and on recognising each other they started talking easily.
‘Great dress,’ the other woman said.
Xanthe smiled. ‘Sacha Drake, thanks.’ It was something she’d tried on one Sunday and Spencer had surprised her with it the next day. ‘Just because,’ he’d said.
‘And I picked these shoes up at DFO, a sale on the sale on top of another sale,’ the other woman said, impressing Xanthe; the one thing she loved more than anything was a good bargain.
‘That mauve is really your colour . . .’ Xanthe extended her hand.
‘Kylie, thanks.’
‘I’m Xanthe, this is my first Mummy’s Wish event. What a great turnout.’
‘Mine too. A good friend was recently helped enormously by this organisation so I wanted to come along and support them.’ She waved a handful of raffle tickets in the air.
‘I need to get some of those,’ Xanthe said, looking around for a seller.
Just as Xanthe turned around a staff member suggested the women take their seats downstairs.
‘I’m on table four,’ Xanthe said.
‘So am I. We probably could’ve shared a cab here,’ Kylie laughed.
‘Well, I’m happy to share one home.’ They hadn’t had more than a few minutes together but Xanthe was pleased to have relaxed into conversation with this woman so quickly, given her social life, as with the other tiddas, revolved around each other. Four close friends were better than dozens of acquaintances, she’d always thought, but now and then it was good to mix it up a bit.
At table four the white tablecloth was littered with little pink foil-covered chocolate hearts and handmade red cardboard hearts. There were brochures and business cards of supporters, and a list of raffle prizes. When Xanthe managed to finally buy her tickets she declared, ‘I don’t care if I don’t win anything.’ But in her head she was hoping her number would be called out for the remedial massage or the Princess Chic shoes.
‘It’s all about the cause, really,’ she assured herself and the other women at the table. They all nodded in agreement, while also scanning the prize list for what they secretly wanted to win.
A glamorous burlesque show with petite, elegant dancers was entertaining but slightly wasted on the all-female crowd. ‘They should’ve got Manpower!’ Kylie said, as the voluptuous women took over the restaurant for fifteen minutes.
When the dancing stopped, Kylie went to the bar. Xanthe discreetly listened to other conversations at the table, mostly about kids. She felt sad and started wishing she hadn’t come at all. She could easily have made a donation or bought $200 worth of tickets and increased her chance of winning something at the same time. Maybe she would’ve won the pearl earrings.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming along tonight . . .’ The speeches started and the coordinator, in a long emerald green dress, not only ran through the generous things the organisation did by providing domestic help, fuel vouchers, parking vouchers and even laptops to women in hospital so they could Skype their kids, but she also talked about women battling cancer while pregnant. Xanthe hated herself a little at that moment for not recognising how incred
ibly lucky she was; she might not be pregnant, but nor did she have cancer. She mentally smacked herself in the head, knowing she needed to look at the life she had and be grateful. As she slumped into her chair, she wallowed in her own guilt, but quickly became conscious of another woman at the table wearing a royal blue kaftan who was complaining about not winning in the raffle. Xanthe wanted to smack her as well.
Someone’s birthday is approaching. I hope we’re doing something fun!
The text message had been sent by Veronica. She couldn’t stand the silence that had shrouded the group since Easter. Someone had to break the ice and she had no qualms about being that person. It’d been ten days and communication between the tiddas had all but stopped, and every one of the women had felt the gap in their day. Even though they mainly saw each other at book club and for events that often took weeks to organise, most days there was a flurry of texts flying around with goss, jokes and anything else that kept them connected. Since their group confession, the days had been long, tense, awkward, silent and anxious.
The other four women were relieved and grateful.
‘Yes. When? Definitely. Please!’ came the responses from Izzy, Ellen, Xanthe and Nadine.
Each was conscious of her own role on that fateful Saturday. Each was missing her tiddas and wanting things to be back to normal, or as normal as they could be with each of the five struggling in a key area of her life. The tiddas loved each other; they just didn’t love themselves sometimes. A birthday celebration was as good a reason as any to try to move on as if nothing had happened. At least they were all willing to forgive each other.
They sat in Piaf on Grey Street, looking at the menu. Nadine put a $50 note in the middle of the table. ‘Dare someone to order the spatchCOCK!’ She rounded her mouth perfectly when she said ‘cock’ without even a hint of a smile. It was a game they had played before, laughing like teenage girls at something so stupid. But it worked a treat and the women were in tears of laughter again. ‘Thank God,’ Nadine said, ‘I was frightened we’d all lost our sense of humour.’
When a young waiter came to the table the tiddas were still catching their breath, giggling, wiping tears from cheeks.
‘I can see it’s going to be a long but fun night,’ he said cheekily. ‘Is that my tip already?’ He looked hopefully at Nadine’s cash.
‘Actually no, that’s mine,’ Ellen said, putting the note seductively in her bra. ‘I’ll have the spatchCOCK!’ she said, eyeballing the lad who would’ve been in his mid-twenties.
‘Oh, that’s original. Haven’t had anyone do that before,’ he fired back.
They all laughed some more. It was like old times, but after recent events, they knew the mood could change soon enough.
Their orders taken and drinks poured, the women relaxed, with no real agenda other than to celebrate Nadine’s birthday and hopefully get back to feeling comfortable with each other’s current emotional circumstances and life choices.
‘Are you going to the Brookfield Show?’ Izzy asked Nadine. ‘Thought I’d go with you and hang with d’niece and d’nephew.’
Nadine almost spat her wine out with laugher. ‘You must be kidding?’
‘No?’ Izzy was a bit confused. ‘Why would I be kidding?’
‘You know me well enough to know that I’m not remotely interested in cooking, drawing or needlework.’
‘Fair call,’ Izzy said, reminded of how undomesticated her sister-in-law was.
But she was shocked to hear Nadine continue, ‘I’m more likely to stick a needle in a voodoo doll of one of the women who live in Brookfield.’
Izzy couldn’t believe what came out of her sister-in-law’s mouth sometimes, but the one good thing about Nadine was you knew where you stood. She was brutally honest, but at least she was honest.
‘I’ll take the kids then, will I? And go with Richard.’
‘They’d love that. You are an excellent aunty,’ Nadine said, raising her wine glass in appreciation of Izzy’s efforts with her kids. No-one commented that she’d also make an excellent mum.
‘The kids do love buying butterfly cakes there, and Richard always wants to sit and eat scones. Me? I prefer the Happy Hour Bar, so I may just see you there.’
It was like nothing had happened two weeks before; conversation was easy, there was no bitching and the mood was gentle. They were all on their best behaviour. Xanthe was conscious of the effort she was making not to bring up her conception dramas, Ellen wasn’t talking about being single and shaggable, Izzy was twelve weeks and had started counting the days. Time was running out for a termination.
As the night got late, the spatchcock, the pork belly, the seared scallops, the almond-butter-glazed seasonal greens, and the roasted baby beetroots had disappeared. And Nadine was not-so-slowly getting pissed on what Izzy realised was the third bottle of Beaujolais to arrive at the table.
‘Must be time for presents, is it?’ Xanthe was conscious of getting home to Spencer, given he’d been away for three days and she was ovulating. She kept that information to herself though. ‘I hope you like this.’ She handed Nadine a white gift bag with canary yellow tissue paper sticking out the top.
‘I’m sure I will,’ Nadine said, peeking into the bag.
‘If they don’t fit, let me know; they’re easily exchanged.’
Nadine pulled out a pair of yoga pants and three tops.
‘I know you do Pilates at home but you still need the right gear to train in,’ Xanthe said.
‘These are perfect. You know I hate shopping and I do need some new clothes.’ Nadine leaned over and kissed Xanthe on the cheek, losing her balance just enough to be noticed before she saved herself from falling onto the table.
‘This is my funny gift for you.’ Ellen handed Nadine what was obviously a book.
‘Oh, let me guess, it’s a fit ball,’ Nadine shook it around, pretending to wonder what it was.
‘Just open it,’ Ellen said.
‘Fifty Shades of Grey, hmmm, yes, well, I think you need this more than I do. I’ve got all the sex I want, and I’ve got plenty of better books than this to read.’
‘Oh, I know, I just thought it was funny. I’m going to write my own book and call it Fifty Shades of Black, but it’s about identity.’ Ellen had it all sorted.
‘I like that,’ Izzy said, taking her notebook out and scribbling quickly. ‘I might pinch that title for a segment on contemporary visual art.’
‘And here’s my serious gift for you.’ Ellen slid a small box down the length of the table.
Nadine opened the gift as if it were a delicate egg, easily broken. ‘They’re gorgeous, El, thank you.’ She took out the hoop earrings she was wearing and with some help from Izzy, who was sitting next to her, put in the small sapphire studs.
‘I thought they were understated but nice, like you.’ Ellen rolled her eyes at her attempt to be generous and sincere without sounding too corny.
‘I am seriously lucky. You girls know I don’t really expect gifts, don’t you?’ Nadine meant it; even though she was incredibly generous herself, she really didn’t require her friendships to come with tangible evidence of caring. But the tiddas always celebrated birthdays in style.
‘Well, I’ll just keep this for myself then,’ Izzy said, waving a silver envelope in the air.
‘Oh, give it here. If you’ve written on a card, then at least let me read it.’
It was a gift voucher to a day spa in Brisbane.
‘I thought we could go together, you know, spend some sisterly time together or something,’ Izzy said, trying to play down the effort she was making, but acknowledging that Nadine and Richard and their children were her only blood family this side of the Queensland border.
‘It’s a great idea, thank you, Izzy. I’m really, really chuffed. Really, I am.’ Nadine was beginning to not only slur her words but also repeat them. ‘I’m really chuffed,’ she said again.
Veronica looked over towards the waiter and winked. The tiddas’ energ
y levels had lowered and the mood was peaceful.
‘I didn’t know what to buy you, Nadine, you seem to have everything, so I just made you something.’ Veronica smiled as, on cue, a pale pink cake made in the shape of a gift box with a white ribbon bow of icing appeared at the table. Four candles, one for each decade, had been lit and the cheeky waiter started the table singing a speedy version of ‘Happy Birthday’. The women cheered, hip hip hoorayed and Nadine made a wish.
‘This is absolutely beautiful, Vee,’ Nadine said, smiling through glassy eyes. ‘Thank you so much, you are very clever and generous. I can’t remember if I’ve ever baked a cake.’ Nadine started cutting slices and putting them on plates. ‘You are very clever and generous,’ she repeated.
‘I like to bake, it makes me happy. Well, happier,’ Veronica said sullenly. ‘I almost wish the boys were still at school so I could bake cakes for their fetes and fundraisers. It’s good to be busy.’
Veronica appeared a little scatty but she hadn’t been drinking. Xanthe wondered what was going on with her, and realised that she’d looked at her watch so many times during the evening, that she hadn’t noticed how sad Veronica appeared.
‘Are you all right, Vee?’ she finally asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’ve been drawing, and baking, and I joined a gym. I don’t really like doing weights, but it’s good because there are other women there, and sometimes we have coffee.’ She was rambling.
‘What’s going on, Vee? There’s something you’re not telling us,’ Ellen said.
Veronica felt embarrassed, ashamed even, but she didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because she’d seen how each of the tiddas had reacted to the various confessions of recent weeks.
‘I’m seeing a therapist,’ Veronica said softly, looking around to make sure no-one else in the restaurant could hear. ‘A Jungian therapist.’
‘Why?’ Nadine asked. ‘You are more together than any of us.’ It was meant to be a compliment to Veronica, but came out as a slap in the face to the others.
