Occasionally the Mosman Matrons surprised me. When one of the Blonde Beauties came to pick up her son from an afternoon play date, I offered her a cup of tea, strongly suspecting she’d just grab her child and run. Instead, she held out her hand in friendship, and we sat down in the kitchen with a pot of tea.
Normally it’s alcohol that makes tongues wag, but I’ve always found that pots of tea work just as well. While Susie chatted gaily about who vomited into their tiny little Dior evening purse at the last Summer Ball, my thoughts drifted.
‘Well, that’s just what I think,’ she was saying. ‘Don’t you agree?’
I nodded lamely, hoping that an affirmative was needed and not a negative.
‘Exactly. It’s a wife’s duty to give her husband some fellatio every now and again.’
Excuse me! Did I hear correctly? This was better. At least I could contribute to a discussion like this. Let’s talk about sex!
But on the whole I felt much more comfortable among my old friends from the Northern Beaches, discussing down-to-earth subjects like the best methods for growing vegetables, ridding children of hair lice and how to make Asian chilli jam. So I went to find a little solace with Angie. But her life had moved on. She had a part-time job and had her own worries, juggling family and work commitments.
Next stop was Jane’s little café in Avalon. Mimi had maintained her friendship with Jane’s youngest child, Juliet, from her days at Avalon Primary School. Juliet would often come over to Mosman for sleepovers.
‘Jane, have you ever wanted to just pick up your girls and run away?’ I asked her.‘Ever want to rule a line through your life and start again?’
Jane was short with me — and with good reason. She worked hard, and here I was whingeing about my life when most people would probably think I had it made.
‘Sure, I get that feeling most mornings,’ she replied brusquely. ‘But I’m so tied to this café and my other obligations that it’ll be years before I can move an inch. Don’t tell me that perfect Mosman isn’t so perfect. Look, I’m very busy.’ She threw a pile of magazines across the table at me. ‘Sit here and look at these and I’ll chat to you when I have time.’
That conversation changed my life.
I was flipping through the travel and cooking magazines when something caught my eye: an advertisement for self-catering holidays in France and Italy.
There had been a little grain of an idea in the back of my mind for a long time. Travel had helped me gain some perspective in my life so many times before. If I’d learnt anything from my recent bereavements, it was that life was too short for compromise. Better to change the things you don’t like. Jack had found his new beginning — could this be mine?
All my life I’d clung to my dream of the perfect husband and the perfect house. I’d lost the husband, but I’d found the house — only now I suspected it wasn’t what I wanted at all. It was slowly dawning on me that there was more than one way to find happiness, and that it wasn’t always where you expected it.
The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that a six-month break while the kids were still little would do no harm to their academic life. In fact, just the contrary; they could only be enriched by the experience of attending school in another country. They were growing up so quickly that if I didn’t go soon they would be in high school and the opportunity would be lost, or at least so much harder.
I wrote down the phone number and called later that afternoon. The office was in Melbourne and an efficient woman named Valerie answered the phone and explained the service she offered. Basically, she matched her clients to the properties she had on her books. The easiest job in the world, I guessed — but what did I know?
I gave her a list of my prerequisites. I wanted to stay in a village with a small local school, either in the south of France, or in Tuscany or Umbria in Italy. The house should have three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a fireplace, and reasonable winter rates. It should be as far south as possible, where the climate was mild and there was very little risk of snow or constantly icy roads. Could she find me somewhere for twenty weeks?
After further investigation, it turned out that all the beautiful properties that I had earmarked as possibilities already had some weeks booked up months in advance by an international set of clients with busy lives. But finally Valerie came up with the right property, for next to nothing (I would in fact be house-sitting), and for almost a continual twenty weeks; we would just have to move out for one week over the Easter period.
Place de la Fontaine was a house in Saignon, a small village perché, (which must mean it would be perched on top of something or hanging off something). Saignon was located in the far south of France, in the Luberon region of Provence — a region I’d never heard of. According to Valerie, the Luberon was a highly desirable holiday destination for Francophiles all over the world. She told me that if I was interested or had the time, I should read the books written about the area by an Englishman called Peter Mayle.
After two days of indecision, I rang her back to say that I would take the house for twenty weeks from January to June 2000. It was now August 1999; it would take me all of the five months to prepare.
I paid more visits to accountants, financial planners, bank managers and consultants to try and get a clearer picture of my income stream. It had been spelt out to me in no uncertain terms that my financial future was now totally my responsibility. Any mistake would be entirely mine. I still couldn’t even balance a cheque book, so who was I kidding?
The Mosman house could be rented out for a six-month period while we were in Europe, so there would be money coming in. Food cost only marginally more in France than in Sydney. A car could be leased, which would be expensive, and the diesel fuel in France was double the Sydney price, which was bad, but considering we would be having the trip of a lifetime, these costs weren’t excessive. I’d also be spending a lot more on telecommunications, as I still hadn’t mastered the skill of communicating via email, but again, it would not be disproportionate. All in all, the trip wouldn’t break the back of our savings. As long as I kept the budget in check, nothing could go wrong.
One thing I was unsure about was how I would cope without my Latin Lover, who had become part of our daily life. The two of us still hadn’t come to a fixed understanding of whether we were in fact a committed couple heading for something deeper than just a great friendship with loads of sex. I couldn’t entertain the idea of him as a permanent fixture in our lives. I just wasn’t ready. But as far as our relationship was concerned, I’d stopped thinking about the future and got used to living in the moment.
By now we had found a rhythm that suited us all. Things were easy and peaceful. Latin Ray still lived in Seaforth — a good forty minutes’ brisk hilly walk to our house, which was loads better than where we’d lived at Bilgola. Now he was able to walk from his place in the afternoon to pick up the children from their schools, then spend the afternoon playing with them, helping with their homework and ingratiating himself into my good books by washing dishes and taking out the garbage so that he’d score a dinner and bed invitation. Then he’d walk home again the next day.
In summer he’d even have us round to his place. He had a very grand house that he’d built in the eighties with the money from his high-powered job — a tribute to the eighties bachelor, a house of bump and grind. Everything was on a very opulent scale: the big pool overlooking the big view, the billiard room with every Playboy magazine ever published (no articles were ever read), the bedroom a shagging paradise with a huge sunken spa bath next to the bed. There were no curtains, for maximum advantage of the splendid view — I only hoped scorecards would never flash up from the restaurants below. Twenty years later, he still had the house, even if he had modified his lifestyle. When it was warm enough for swimming, we’d take a dip in his pool, and on hot evenings he might cook us a barbecue supper on the deck.
For me the relationship was ideal. No washing, no ironing, no comp
laints, and lots of sex with no strings attached. We enjoyed being together as long as there weren’t too many constraints on either of us. It was an unusual relationship, but it worked well.
Ray had even agreed to accompany us home from France via Italy. He wasn’t the one I was worried about when I made my decision; my father was.
‘Dad,’ I said to him one night, ‘I’ve decided to go on a holiday to France and take the children out of school for two terms. How would you feel about that?’
Jack was busy cooking a roast leg of lamb. The smell of roasted garlic and rosemary was overwhelming. He and Lucy were often seen by the Mosman War Memorial, tending the remembrance rosemary garden. People remarked what a wonderful man he was to prune and care for the Garden of the Fallen Soldier. The reality was that I had told him the secret of where to find a limitless supply of rosemary for roast lamb dinners.
His response was typical — though I hadn’t expected such a quick surrender. ‘Look, you’re all grown up; you have your own house, your own children. You don’t need my approval. Make a decision and stick to it. I’m sure that a few months off school won’t damage them. What will you do with your house? You and the kids can always stay here for a while if you need to.’
And that was that. We started the planning for the big trip that would change our lives forever.
I had virtually no idea of where this village of Saignon was or how far it was to the nearest large town. I had put my trust in a voice on the telephone that told me all about the house and the district around it. I assumed I was going somewhere that was similar in climate to winter in Sydney; for the moment, and not for the first time in my life, ignorance was bliss.
Jo, the mother of Mimi’s school friend Millie, mentioned that she had an English friend who lived in Provence and who might be able to help me with any problems that arose during our stay. In an incredible twist of fate, this friend turned out to be Lizzie, the owner of Place de la Fontaine. She’d wanted someone to house-sit the property during winter, paying for the utilities, as she didn’t like the house to lie empty for months at a time.
Lizzie and her family would be visiting Sydney for a fortnight just before our departure date, to enjoy the new millennium celebrations, so we made loose arrangements that we would meet at the start of January so she could answer any queries I had about Provence, and more importantly, about why I couldn’t find Saignon on a map.
New Year’s Eve 1999 was shaping up to be the biggest party Sydneysiders had ever seen. It was going to be a dress rehearsal for the Olympic Games in September 2000. Everyone talked about the forthcoming fireworks, the big parties, New Year’s resolutions and the Millennium Bug that would supposedly wreak havoc on computers worldwide on 1 January 2000.
I was still limping along just trying to learn how to work a computer, so I suspected the Millennium Bug wouldn’t bother me. I had more of a problem with the resolutions. I knew that for the children and me to move on with our lives, before we left for France we needed more than anything to resolve the dispute with Norman’s family. The battle had been concluded in the courts, but as yet neither side had made a move to re-establish contact. The children needed to keep in touch with their father’s sister and his side of the family, even if I did not.
When I approached my sister-in-law she was only too happy for the lines of communication to be reopened. During the weeks leading up to our departure she and her husband took any and every opportunity to spoil the children rotten with an overkill of love, toys, clothes and books. How could I refuse such unabashed affection towards my children? I even invited them to visit us in Provence towards the end of our stay. It was so important to me that my family should start the new millennium on a clean slate.
When it arrived, New Year’s Eve was the most splendid night. For me, it was the perfect farewell to Sydney and celebration of the holiday ahead.
Latin Ray and I had been invited to a party by my friends Deborah and Cedric Lee, who had an apartment in the city with a fantastic view of the harbour. The children would be staying with Kate and Mark for the night. I dragged out the big frock with the taffeta and tulle skirt and boned corset underneath that had last been seen at the Mosman Prep cocktail night. This would be its last outing; happiness was affecting my waistline. The Latin Lover bent me over in all directions in an attempt to zip me into the frothy pale mauve concoction. It didn’t matter that the skin around the zipper was red and sore. Nobody would see.
It was an extraordinary experience for Sydney when everybody took to the buses for transportation into the city to experience the night’s entertainment. Tuxedos and ball gowns mixed with jeans, shorts and baseball caps. Half of these people probably didn’t know where they would be spending the night. Looking around our bus, I could see that young men who probably wore board shorts most of the time had made a huge effort and were decked out from head to foot in borrowed or hired suits. I hoped that everyone had photos of how wonderful they looked, because they certainly wouldn’t look like that by the time they went home.
Sydney showed its harbour to the world and the fireworks were breathtaking. It was difficult not to be amazed by the colours and lights, and the hundreds of boats bobbing on the harbour. The city was seething with excited partygoers. Never had there been so many people squashed onto the foreshores. The noise was unbelievable. There were bands playing, and people dancing literally in the street. Strangers held hands and wished each other well for the forthcoming year. It seemed the greatest moment of hope and goodwill on earth — a rare night of pure innocence. It was inconceivable that less than two years later in New York that innocence would be shattered.
Ray and I saw the New Year in, and at two in the morning we said our adieux to our hosts, who still had their hands full with boisterous guests. We stopped off at every watering hole on the way home, dancing and drinking the night away. Why would you want to stop? I already had a fair idea of how ill I was going to be the next morning. I hadn’t drunk heavily since Argentière, so it was really going to my head.
It was when I felt a hand shaking me violently awake at ten o’clock, and heard a derisive snort as the telephone was shoved into my face, that I realised just how ill I was. Forcing one eye open, I spotted a heap of diaphanous mauve tulle in a corner. Obviously I had managed to get out of the frock, but the corset underneath still had me in its iron grip. I could barely breathe. A false eyelash was stuck to my cheek, and I was pretty sure that the rest of my elaborate make-up would still be on various parts of my face. Not a great look.
‘Hello?’ I groaned into the receiver. ‘Kate? What’s the matter? Are the children okay?’
‘Hello, this is Lizzie. You’re going to be staying at my house in Saignon. We arranged to meet while I’m here in Sydney, but I don’t think I’ll have the time to see you now. Did you see the fireworks last night? Weren’t they spectacular! It was certainly a night to remember. What time did you get home?’
Oh, fuck. I was going to be violently ill. My list of important questions about Saignon was lost somewhere inside my befuddled mind. I wished she’d just stop talking. I needed her to get off the telephone and leave me alone to tend to my throbbing head and the spinning room. How could she not have a hangover on New Year’s Day?
By the time I got off the phone Latin Ray had been for a swim, walked to the shop for the paper and was in the process of cooking a huge greasy breakfast, to be washed down (in his case) with copious beers. My hero. He knew the way to a girl’s heart. I was going to miss him more than I’d realised.
By 2 January 2000 our life in Mosman had been packed away in boxes and stacked under the stairs, tenants had been found who were happy with a furnished house, and Sam the gardener (and tango aficionado) had agreed to make monthly visits to check on my manicured lawn and extricate weeds from the beds of well-behaved plants. The neighbours helped organise a big garage sale. I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by their generosity and friendliness, but I couldn’t share the strong ties to the communi
ty that they all had.
It was time to go elsewhere. In the words of my Park Bench Guru, we were going to start all over again.
At the airport, the children and I walked through the departure gates blowing kisses to the entourage of well-wishers who had come from all parts of Sydney to send us off. Even Lucy the dog was sitting in the car, waiting patiently for Jack. I would have the next twenty-four hours to pick the dog hair from my jacket; I thought sometimes it would be nice if he left her at home. The children were gleefully clutching their new Gameboys, with a supply of batteries to last at least the length of the flight.
As we were about to go through the gates the Latin Lover had handed me a small package. Knowing that his abhorrence of shopping hadn’t abated since the first time our paths had crossed almost two decades ago, I couldn’t begin to think what it could be. On the flight I spent hours musing over this gift, hoping it was something wildly romantic and sentimental. My hopes were dashed when it turned out to contain a copy of an old learn-to-type program. There were no words of love or encouragement, just a floppy disk — and I wasn’t even sure where you stuck it into the computer. I realised there were some things about Latin Ray that I wouldn’t miss at all.
I sat back in my plane seat and reflected on how different this was from the last time I’d travelled with the children. No more playing with the armrests; these children had grown up a lot — and come to think of it, so had I.
My eyes grew misty as I thought of everything we were leaving behind for five whole months. Ever-resourceful Mimi threw me a packet of tissues, telling me with a sigh that once again my non-waterproof mascara was making rivulets down my face.
Escaping Page 16
