Head Over Heels

by Felicity Price

  Felicity Price is the author of five novels: Dancing in the Wilderness (2001), No Angel (2002), Call of the Falcon (2004) and the two Penny Rushmore stories, Split Time (2005) and Sandwich Short of a Picnic (2008). She also wrote the best-selling biography Dare to Dream: the John Britten Story (2003). Felicity began her writing career at The Press in the 1970s before moving on to journalism at TVNZ, Radio New Zealand and North and South. Since 1987, Felicity has run an award-winning public relations company in partnership with her husband Chris Rennie. Felicity and Chris have two adult children.

  www.felicityprice.com

  Head Over

  Heels

  Felicity Price

  Dedicated to my Dad, Eric Price, and my Mum,

  who died last year in her 95th year.

  Without their love and guidance neither

  I nor my books would exist.

  Chapter 1

  Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any crazier; just when I thought my cup had well and truly runneth over from overcommitment; just when I thought the best thing to do was escape from the rat race and get me to a nunnery; my mobile rang. My Way burst into life beside me on the passenger seat. It’s hardly my favourite tune, but the ringtone had been planted some time ago by a workmate and I’d never had the time to figure out how to remove it.

  There I was, negotiating one of those complicated motorway exchange spirals, cars coming at me from all sides, feeling totally out of control and spiralling into my own spin cycle while My Way demanded my attention.

  ‘It’s my way or the highway,’ I muttered as a car swerved towards me. I joined Sinatra’s refrain, ‘Get out of my-yy wa-aay.’

  If I knew how to change it, I’d have chosen a tune more appropriate to the frenetic pace of my crazy existence, like Flight of the Bumblebee or, even better, something more calming like Take It Easy.

  But this was no time to take it easy. I could see whose name was flashing on my caller ID: my sister Stephanie. Warning bells rang inside my head, countering the cacophony of My Way.

  Normally a thousand kilometres away, living in a different town and quite possibly on a different planet, right now my big sister Stephanie was jetting first class around the world to meet her adoring readers — pale, spotty-faced teens who spend their days glued to the endless adventure sagas she seems to write effortlessly, like everything else she’s done all her life. Of course she tries to convince everyone that she works day and night in solitary confinement at her laptop to churn out her doorstop-sized novels, but how tough is it to work the hours you please, with your office right next to your bedroom? No gnashing of teeth every day commuting in rush-hour traffic, no clients to please and no endless proposals to write to keep the mortgage money coming in. No wonder she’s always so immaculately dressed, as well as being disgustingly slim, tall, blonde and Botoxed to eternal youth. She’s the only person I know whose beige designer shoes never bear the slightest trace of dirt, whose beige linen outfits never look crushed, whose carefully controlled beige hair is never allowed to have a bad day.

  Pass the barf bucket, please!

  So Stephanie’s name, backlit by blue neon on my mobile screen, didn’t exactly fill me with glee. I briefly considered not answering. After all, I was in heavy traffic, about to cross the bridge to get to a client appointment — late again, of course, after trying to cram in just one more task before I left the office — and it was pouring with rain.

  My Way was reaching a climax. Sinatra needed to be shut off. I sighed and flicked on the hands-free.

  ‘Hi, Steph.’

  ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened!’ she crowed.

  There is never a ‘Hi there’ or ‘How are you?’ from Stephanie when she calls. It’s always, inexorably, about her.

  I sighed more deeply. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘The plane’s delayed,’ she said, ‘so I’m holed up here in the Platinum Lounge in Dubai having a glass of Perrier-Jouët with nothing to do.’

  ‘So you called me to pass the time!’

  ‘If you want to put it that way. I thought you’d be pleased to hear from me. You’re always complaining I don’t keep in touch.’

  ‘Oh really!’ I said, exasperated. Steph has always been adept at twisting things around to make me the meanie. ‘It’s not about keeping in touch. You ring me plenty. It’s about being there to take responsibility for Mum and Dad. You’re continually off on some stupid book tour.’

  Stephanie always manages to be at the other end of the earth whenever I need help with our parents. A few months ago, our father had moved in with me and the kids, after a lot of persuading, soon after Mum had been permanently committed to the St Joan’s Retirement Village dementia unit — or the Camellia Wing, as it’s euphemistically called. Funny how so many people end their lives in places with names that remind them they’ll be next to be planted!

  Things had come to a head (literally!) after Mum clocked Dad with the fruit bowl, thinking he was the armed robber on the television show she was watching. Dad had been taken off to hospital in an ambulance. That had been the final straw for St Joan’s and Mum had been confined to the Camellia Wing ever since. Dad’s loneliness and occasional boredom, living on his own in the little villa he used to share with Mum, had been relieved by shifting into the daily turmoil of our home, where he could compete with my two teenagers and a badly behaved cocker spaniel to see who could come up with the most bizarre behaviour.

  ‘Book tours are not stupid. They’re a valued response to the demands of my readers,’ Steph said somewhat sniffily. ‘That’s why I’m sitting here waiting for this invisible plane. I’m halfway to the UK for a writers’ festival where I’m going to be one of the keynote speakers.’

  ‘I know, you told me already,’ I sighed.

  ‘And Mum’s in a safe place and Dad’s living with you.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I huffed. ‘How am I supposed to get a break? And what if something happens to Dad while you’re away? You know he’s prone to having heart attacks. What if he has one while you’re on the other side of the world?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen.’

  ‘Me? Me a drama queen?’ I squeaked. ‘You’re the one who makes the dramas. Remember last Christmas …’

  ‘Don’t you dare mention it,’ she intervened. ‘I never want to be reminded of that episode ever again.’

  Stephanie had made an absolute ass of herself last summer after falling for the rugby league star Tim Sayers, only to discover he was bisexual and was using her as a sort of celebrity handbag. It had nearly spelled the end of her marriage.

  ‘You idiot!’ I shouted at a driver who’d cut in on me from the next lane, causing me to brake suddenly and Rosie, my red Jag XJS V12 — a squat, full-frontal classic like me, but as high maintenance as Stephanie, and almost as old — to veer to the left. She didn’t like wet roads. In fact, she could sometimes be a bit of a brute to restrain. Like a lot of Jags ancient and modern, Rosie had an enormous bonnet containing a thumping great engine, proof positive as far as I was concerned that she had been designed by a man with a very small shlong.

  ‘Hey …’ Stephanie protested.

  ‘Not you. I’m not shouting at you, I’m shouting at that idiot driver who’s just cut in front of me. Obviously his speedo exceeds his IQ.’

  ‘You should have a personalised numberplate saying “PMS” — then he’d avoid you.’

  ‘You should talk!’ I brought Rosie back on track and indicated I was taking the next exit. The car behind me tooted loudly. ‘Look, Steph, I can’t talk to you now. The traffic is appalling, the weather is foul and I’m late for an appointment. I’d better go.’

  ‘You’re always late for something.’

  ‘What
do you mean I’m always late? This is early for my late.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know how you ever keep that business going, what with that alcoholic bimbo running amok all over the social pages and that other mad woman with the hyperactive kid. You make a right trio. But I suppose that’s typical of the PR world.’

  ‘Really, Steph, I can’t believe you just said that. I’m not going to give it the dignity of a reply.’

  Actually, it was just the sort of comment I’d come to expect from my big sister. Ever since we were kids, competing for Mum’s favour — for the lick of the mixing bowl, the first helping of pudding or who’d be awarded new shoes and socks — Steph always knew just how to get the upper hand, how to wind me up.

  ‘You’re so sensitive. I was only joking. You know I was.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I took the exit and slowed down for the approaching traffic lights. ‘Look, Steph, I really do have to go. I’ve got to watch where I’m going now. The turnoff is easy to miss.’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ she sighed dramatically. ‘I’ll just sit here and talk to myself.’

  ‘Yeah, right. I bet you’ve a long list of people to phone.’

  ‘They’re all at work.’ She sounded genuinely hurt, as if it was their fault they couldn’t stop to talk to her.

  ‘What a surprise,’ I laughed. ‘That’s what people do in the real world.’

  ‘You just don’t understand how hard I work,’ she snapped. ‘Nobody does. It’s so unfair. You all think I live a life of luxury, flying business class and staying in posh hotels, but that’s only a veneer. The reality of going on the road is incredibly lonely. And writing is just as lonely.’

  ‘So you keep telling me. But it’s hard for me to swallow when you’re jetting off to a northern summer while I’m drowning in the pouring rain.’

  ‘You see? You just don’t get it, do you? It might be summer up there, but I’m not going to be seeing much sunshine. I’ll be stuck inside most of the time …’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you,’ I said as I swung Rosie through a large roundabout, hoping I was taking the right turnoff. The wiper blades on Crackling Rosie were showing signs of age and my visibility wasn’t great. ‘I’ll send your regards when I see Mum tonight,’ I added sarcastically, then had a flash of panic. How on earth was I going to get over to St Joan’s to see Mum? My last appointment for the day wouldn’t finish until five at the earliest, then I’d have to call by the office and pick up my laptop and messages before I went home. Then there was dinner to cook, kids to calm, a father who’d need listening to, a report to write and a dog to walk before bedtime …

  I swallowed back a wail. ‘Seriously, Steph, I’ve got to go. Have a great book tour. Bye.’

  ‘Oh … er, well, okay.’

  I heard her draw breath to have another go at reviving the conversation as I flipped the phone shut.

  It’s always been a mystery to me how she does it — how she manages to write for such a discerning, fussy market — because Stephanie’s understanding of the teenage mind (now there’s an oxymoron) beggars belief. Her only daughter, Seraya, passed through puberty with hardly a dent in her Pantene perfection and Steph’s engagement with the outside world is similarly unreal. An army of cleaners descends on her white-carpeted, white-walled, white-furnitured apartment once a week to remove any speck of dust that dares show its mote, and her sartorially splendiferous advertising guru husband Marcus does most of the cooking, regularly whipping up gourmet Japanese meals — no fat, low carb and therefore entirely in keeping with Steph’s vision of a perfect world where nobody is overweight, overcommitted or over a certain age. Whereas I’m the exact opposite: overweight, overwrought and too scared to try Botox. Plus I look and feel decidedly over the hill.

  Sometimes I wish I could reach her level of perfection. In some ways, Stephanie is the most religious person I know: absolutely devout in worshipping herself. And Marcus shares her piety: he is devoted to her too, while my husband — the far-from-devoted Steve — left me for the disgustingly young Jacinta.

  Jealous? Moi?

  Why should I be? After all, Steph’s older than me, so she has to face the spectre of advancing years first, but I can’t fathom how she ages like a fine wine while I age like a banana.

  My stress level, already pretty serious when I’d left the office at a run, was now arcing sky-high. There’s nothing like an injection of envy to make me break out in a hot flush, even in the middle of winter.

  The rear-vision mirror confirmed it: I looked like a tomato with sweat glands. This was not the ideal first impression to be conveying to my new client, even if he was the manager of a sewage treatment plant.

  I get all the good clients!

  My colleagues at Project PR, Ginny and Nicky, get to work with wineries, cheesemakers, chocolatiers, celebrities and sports jocks. I get sewage.

  ‘You know more about the business of sewage treatment better than anyone, Penny,’ Ginny had said when we had discussed who would be best to take on the assignment. We’d agreed that working on promoting the project — to produce biofuel using the algae from the oxidation ponds — was a bonus in this age of environmental responsibility, and a good green client to be able to boast about to people like Stephanie who thought all I did was organise endless parties and drink myself silly at them. I wish!

  ‘Ha ha, very funny. I suppose you’re referring to all the crap I have to write,’ I’d retorted.

  ‘You’re always complaining you get all the shit jobs,’ Nicky had added. ‘Well now you’re right — literally.’

  ‘Don’t get into it too deeply,’ Ginny said, grinning.

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. I get my kicks from champagne,’ Ginny said. Ginny’s our inveterate party girl, and I have to admit she does it well, organising everything to the last detail then schmoozing like a pro. If there’s a product to be launched, an announcement to be made, a celebrity to be pushed up the ranks, it’s always Ginny who’s in demand. I only have anything to do with those clients when something goes badly wrong and they want to be kept off the front page of the paper.

  ‘Not that you drink all the time, of course. You have to take the occasional break — to sleep!’ I said, trying to divert them.

  ‘Don’t take it to heart,’ Nicky said, putting a consoling arm round me, but barely concealing her amusement. ‘You might meet yourself a nice handsome sewage engineer.’

  ‘Watch out, you’ll make Penny flush!’ Tracey, our PA, threw in.

  I wrinkled my nose and pulled a face. ‘Thanks, girls, you’re too kind.’

  ‘A sewage engineer,’ Ginny mused. ‘Now there’s a career pinnacle if ever there was one. I wonder what he’d be like.’

  ‘I bet he’d know which way the water swirls when it goes down the toilet,’ Tracey chuckled. ‘But what’s the bet he never puts the seat down after he flushes.’

  ‘Well, he’d be in good company there. I’ve never known a man yet who did that,’ Ginny added.

  ‘And you’ve known a few,’ Nicky threw in.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ Ginny grinned, ‘but I’ve never come across a sewage engineer. I wonder …’

  ‘I’ll give him your card if you like, Ginny. You never know when you might need extracting from the doo-doos you get yourself into.’

  ‘Really, Penny, that observation was beneath you. I get my clients on the front page, not myself.’

  ‘Not yet anyway, Ginny,’ Nicky cried. ‘But Penny could give you a few pointers …’

  ‘Okay, okay, I know my place,’ I said, holding up my hands to call a truce, wanting to stop Nicky in her tracks before she reminded everyone of the whole embarrassing episode where I had found myself on the front page, linked to one of my clients in trouble. ‘My role is to attend to the basics of life while you two swill your clients’ champagne and chocolates to your hearts’ content.’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t send Ginny trekking round a sewage plant in her short skirts and h
igh heels anyway — she might fall in!’

  ‘Now that would be worth paying to see.’

  Chapter 2

  I’d expected to smell the oxidation ponds before I saw them, but there was no smell, just great stretches of water with lots of birdlife and native shrubs and flaxes around the edges. I was so engrossed in this unexpected scenic wonderland that I almost missed the turnoff to the treatment plant.

  The smell really hit me when I swung Rosie into the car park, however. Crikey, what a pong! I wasn’t sure I could cope with this.

  I’d never met Ted Philips, only talked on the phone to the softly spoken plant manager. He’d sounded nice enough, though somewhat reticent. I’d figured he’d turn out to be a typical engineer — when I’d tried to jolly him along he’d shown absolutely no sign of a sense of humour.

  Ted, it turned out, was almost as towering and solid as the massive concrete tanks looming behind him. He greeted me and explained where he was taking me. After a safety briefing, which including donning one of those bright orange vests that make you look like a road cone, we embarked on a tour of the plant — which couldn’t have been quick enough as far as I was concerned — then headed off in his ute to the nearest pond, putting a more acceptable distance between me and the unbearable smell. It was still raining, so Ted extracted a tattered golf umbrella from the back of the ute and held it over my head as he led me down to the water’s edge. There he proudly indicated a block of mini sewage ponds separated off from the big pond, each covered with a thick layer of lime-green algae that was being constantly rotated by large paddles.

  ‘This is our green gold,’ he said, pointing to the algae covering the dark water. ‘And it’s a totally natural process. It copies what the sun and nature do, but speeds it up a million times.’

  ‘But I don’t understand how you can get fuel from those algae. You can’t tell me that’s a natural process?’

  Ted grinned at me and his eyes sparkled with excitement. Clearly he took great delight in explaining his pet project.