And just what, you might well ask, was Fran doing with edible panties in her handbag? Ever since her slimeball husband left her for a buxom busybody ten years his junior, who just happened to live next door, Fran has gradually been finding her true self. We’re still not sure just who that person is yet and, we suspect, neither is she, but so far she’s experimented with having platinum blonde short hair, green and purple highlights in a long red mane and — her latest persona — dark brown dreads. The underlings at the software firm she runs don’t seem to mind — in fact, they probably haven’t been able to tear their eyes away from their screens long enough to even notice.
Helen never went through a midlife crisis but her husband George did, arriving one day to pick up their teenage kids after school affecting Raybans, leather keyhole driving gloves and a Porsche — the perfect accessory for the man in search of a status symbol to cover up his personality bypass. Helen makes up for what he lacks with personality plus — she’s a larger than life woman in every sense of the word who doesn’t let her Rubenesque proportions or her management position get in the way of wearing wacky, way-out outfits that ignore all the rules of the colour wheel while surpassing all budgetary boundaries. And she’s as generous with her time and expertise as she is with her credit card. Helen’s been my saviour on one memorable occasion, outing my husband Steve’s infidelity by broadcasting a few pertinent facts on one of the radio stations in the network group she manages.
Unlike me, both Helen and Liz manage to leave their jobs behind them when they clock off at six. If I were running a pile of radio stations, I’d be plugged in 24/7, making sure they were sticking to the playlist or whatever. But the only time I’ve seen Helen listening to the radio outside the office is when she was waiting for the big reveal after I’d delivered Steve’s beloved Triumph Stag to his office car park painted bright yellow with big red flames down the sides. Helen had arranged for an outside broadcast from the radio station’s Black Blunders promo team, who rocked up to Steve outside his office while he was still fuming with rage and caught his reaction on air.
Paint job: $3000. Red flame decals: $300. Live broadcast of your ex-husband’s humiliation: priceless.
Last but by no means least there’s Di, the only one of us who’s childless, and defiantly so. As a result, she’s twice as well off, looks half our age and can call her time her own.
I’ve lost count of the number of luxury resorts she and her husband Evan have visited while we’ve been running the kids to hockey and football and swimming and ballet and spending enough at the supermarket to sustain a small country. While we’re making sandwiches or hounding the kids out of bed and then out of the bathroom, Di is doing neat circuits at the gym, keeping her compact little body taut and trim.
Unlike me.
I tottered across to the table to be the recipient of the send-up I knew I deserved.
‘I see you’re trying for a part in Sex in the City,’ Helen laughed. ‘Carrie would approve.’
‘I’m still wearing them in,’ I admitted. ‘I figured that I could cope if I was going to be sitting down for most of the evening.’
‘I’ve often wondered how Carrie and co. manage to get around in those things, anyway,’ Helen said. ‘It’s a wonder they don’t break their ankles.’
‘I know. I’ve come close to falling off them a couple of times already. I’m beginning to think I’m too old for stilettos.’
‘Nonsense. If it’s good enough for those Sex and the City girls, it’s good enough for us,’ said Fran. ‘They’re about our age, anyway.’
‘They probably practice walking in them with handrails.’
‘I could’ve brought you a Zimmer frame from work,’ Di laughed. She manages a group of private hospitals and can be a veritable treasure trove of medical advice.
‘That would be a good combination — tottering along on a rhinestone-encrusted Zimmer frame while wearing high heels,’ I chuckled.
‘Don’t laugh,’ she said. ‘It could happen. I can’t see Carrie Bradshaw in a pair of comfy slippers.’
Of course, they all fell about laughing when I told them how Phil Wiggins had had me on about going mountain-biking and how I’d managed to make and then break an appointment with a personal trainer.
‘You should see my personal trainer,’ Fran said, affecting a sexy, throaty growl. ‘His six-pack is my inspiration to get up early and go to the gym. Although I still don’t manage it as often as I should.’
‘The last time I went to the gym, I ached all over for a week afterwards,’ I said. ‘Why on earth someone would want to go to step classes when the world is full of perfectly good escalators is beyond me.’
‘Maybe going to the gym would help me lose some weight,’ Helen said. ‘I’ve been trying the thirty-day diet. So far, I’ve managed to lose ten days, but I haven’t lost an ounce of weight!’
‘I know the feeling. I’ve bought so many diet books over the years, they weigh as much as I do,’ I added.
‘A friend of mine told me the other day she’d worked out why she puts on more weight than her single friends,’ Helen said. ‘They come home, see what’s in the fridge and go to bed. Married women come home, see what’s in bed and go to the fridge.’
‘Unfair!’ Liz cried. ‘I don’t need an excuse to go to the fridge.’
‘It’s true for me, and I’m single,’ Fran said. ‘Food has replaced sex in my life. These days I can’t even get into my own pants, let alone anyone else’s!’
We fell about laughing. She’s not really overweight — not as much as me anyway — but she’s always putting herself down.
‘You need someone cracking the whip all the way to the gym, Penny, or you’ll never get there,’ Liz said.
‘What?’ cried Fran. ‘Don’t tell me you’re into bondage and discipline now? It didn’t take long for Graeme to move on from edible panties to the raunchy stuff!’
‘No, not that,’ Liz said. ‘I meant having a gym buddy. I never would have kept going if it hadn’t been for Katrina. Just the thought of letting her down by not turning up made me keep going, even when I desperately didn’t want to.’
‘I don’t know how you find the time,’ Di said. ‘With all those children running around at home demanding your attention, and having to fill in your quota of six-minute blocks of chargeable time at work every day, it’s a wonder you find time to put on your make-up in the morning, let alone get to the gym.’
‘I often don’t,’ Liz laughed. ‘Put my make-up on, I mean. I usually do it in the car on the way into town. That’s why my mascara sometimes strays onto the top of my cheekbones and my lipstick rubs off on my teeth.’
‘Isn’t it funny how waterproof mascara comes off if you cry, shower or swim, but never when you try to remove it?’ Fran interjected.
‘I don’t believe you, Liz,’ I said. ‘You always look so immaculate.’
‘I wish.’ Liz snorted. ‘I’ll never forget the time I turned up for a meeting and suddenly realised, after I’d shaken hands with the client, that my blouse was inside out.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Made an excuse to fetch a piece of paper from my office and dived into the storeroom to change on the way past. Luckily nobody needed any files while I was in there or I’d have been sprung.’
‘I still don’t know how you do it,’ Fran sighed. ‘I’ve only got one child and I can’t even manage to match my shoes to my outfit, let alone find a pair of pantyhose without a hole in them.’
‘Kids. Funny how the work-life balance gets tipped upside down when they come along.’
‘Not that men would notice,’ Fran said. ‘I’ve yet to hear a man worry about how to combine his career with having kids.’
‘Roll on the empty nest, then,’ I said. ‘I look forward to the day my last two can afford to go flatting.’
‘You say that now,’ Liz said, ‘but you’ll be in floods of tears as you help them pack up their rooms.’
‘I wouldn’t count
on it.’
‘You’ll be surprised,’ Helen said. ‘When James first went down to Otago I cleaned out his room, but I just couldn’t throw away his jumble of toy cars and bits of Lego. They’re still tucked away in a bottom drawer.’
‘In case he wants to use them after he’s graduated?’ Di said sarcastically.
‘He could build a Lego recliner with a hole in the arm for his beer can.’
‘Lego can have many uses,’ I said. ‘Nicky’s son Dylan managed to prove that small Lego pieces can pass intact through the digestive tract of a four-year-old boy.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ I added. ‘When Adam was four, he proved that Lego, when placed in an oven, melts at a hundred and ninety degrees Celsius and emits a toxic-smelling black smoke that sets off the smoke alarm within two minutes.’
‘That’s nothing,’ Liz said. ‘When Jack was five he proved that the motor on a ceiling fan can burn out in less than a minute when trying to rotate a twenty-five kilogram boy in a Superman outfit holding onto the end of the dog’s leash — fortunately without the dog attached!’
‘What, he’d hooked the dog’s leash over the ceiling fan?’
‘Temporarily,’ Liz laughed. ‘The insurance company didn’t believe me when I told them.’
‘They didn’t believe me either when I told them how Riley broke the living-room window with a cricket ball,’ added Helen. ‘Nothing usual about that. But he didn’t just hit the ball through the window, like most kids. No, he had to throw the ball up at the ceiling fan trying to see if it would slice it in two.’
‘And did it?’ laughed Fran.
‘He said he had to throw it up six times before he scored a hit. And no, the ball didn’t break in half. But the window sure did.’
‘Ah, children. You can’t wait to have ’em, and once you’ve got ’em, you can’t wait for ’em to grow up and leave home.’ I sighed long and loud.
‘Come on, Penny, it can’t be that bad.’
‘Not really. They could be worse. They have been worse. But I can’t believe we still have rows about who’s going to sit in the front seat. You’d think they’d be over that now one of them is old enough to vote.’
‘I don’t think Carly even knows who the Prime Minister is, let alone how to register to vote,’ Liz said.
‘How’s Charlotte getting on at uni?’ Di asked.
‘She’s doing an arts degree in Heineken,’ I said. ‘Except at the moment she’s given up drinking. She’s copying Jacinta again on the abstinence thing because this time Jacinta’s pregnant.’
‘She’s not!’ Liz exclaimed.
‘Sadly, yes. Jacinta’s due in January.’
‘Oh my God,’ Fran said. ‘That’s inconceivable!’
‘Apparently not. There’s definitely been a conception, and I doubt it was immaculate.’
‘But how can Steve be a father again? He still hasn’t grown up,’ laughed Helen.
‘You’re so right there,’ I agreed. ‘But that’s never stopped him doing anything. At least now he’s left home I’ve only got two kids to look after.’
‘That’s so true,’ Fran agreed. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’
‘And there’s another bonus,’ Liz said. ‘Jacinta’s not going to get any smaller. You know what it’s like when you’re pregnant — everything gets bigger except your bladder.’
‘And all the men look straight at your boobs,’ Fran said. ‘I did so like being pregnant. I went from a 34A to a 36DD almost overnight.’
‘If men got pregnant, there’d be a cure for stretch marks,’ Helen said wistfully.
‘And there would be maternity leave on full pay,’ Liz said.
‘And birth control would never fail,’ I added.
‘And they’d never ask you to lie down and spread ’em,’ said Fran, grinning. ‘I would never have believed it possible that so many people would want to look at my cervix until I was pregnant.’
‘You should have charged admission,’ Helen laughed.
‘If I’d had a dollar for every doctor and midwife who’d seen mine during six pregnancies, I’d be a wealthy woman by now,’ Liz added.
‘You know, it really makes me mad,’ Fran said, suddenly serious. ‘All these old guys running off with women half their age and starting a second family. It’s disgusting.’
‘They regard the first time around as a dress rehearsal,’ said Helen.
‘Well, if that was the dress rehearsal, it’s going to be a lousy performance next year when the baby’s born,’ I said. ‘Steve was never home when I needed someone to help with the kids. Especially when they were babies.’
‘Then Jacinta’s in for a big wake-up call,’ said Helen.
‘I almost feel sorry for her,’ I said. ‘You don’t know what a wake-up call is until you’ve had kids.’
‘And then you have them all the time — at two in the morning, at four, and again at six,’ Liz sighed. ‘So tell me straight, Penny. Do you want to go down that road again? Are you envious of Jacinta?’
‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘I can’t think of anything worse than going through childbirth again, followed by sleepless nights and pooey nappies and the terrible twos.’ I paused to think about it. ‘I suppose what’s really got to me is the thought of Steve going through it all again with someone else — and the possibility that the second time around he’ll be more attentive, that he’ll be a better father.’
‘I can’t see it myself,’ Fran said. ‘I mean, if he gagged at pooey nappies the first time around, it’s highly unlikely he’ll have found a sudden liking for them twenty years later.’
‘If anything, he’ll probably gag even more,’ Helen said.
‘And he’s hardly likely to start getting up in the middle of the night to change nappies and run around helping Jacinta at his age. If he found it hard when he was thirty, he’s not going to find it a doddle when he’s fifty, is he?’ Liz patted me on the arm and poured me another glass of pinot.
‘And just think of the fun you can have in the future sending presents to the little treasure — presents Jacinta will really appreciate, like a drum, or indelible paints, or an incontinent puppy …’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I said, smiling gleefully. ‘You sure know how to cheer a girl up.’ I raised my glass of wine in a toast to them all and took a gulp. It tasted a lot better already.
Suddenly Liz’s mobile rang. ‘Sorry, I have to take this, it’s home,’ she said, walking out of earshot.
‘I hope Liz’s kids are all right,’ I said.
‘Probably been trying out the ceiling fan again,’ Helen said. ‘Though Jack must weigh a lot more than twenty-five kilos now he’s nine.’
‘Perhaps he’s put his Superman outfit on again and tried to fling himself off the garage roof,’ Di said. ‘My nephew tried that once. Broke a leg and an arm.’
‘Oh dear, don’t joke about it,’ I said. ‘Liz is coming back.’
‘It’s okay,’ Liz said, laughing. ‘You should see the look on all your faces.’
‘We wondered if the ceiling fan had been used as a merry-go-round again,’ Helen said.
‘No, nothing as dramatic as that, thankfully. The nanny was just reminding me that she needs to get away bang on time at seven tonight. She’s got a hot date. And I’d completely forgotten the time.’
‘I suppose I’d better be getting home soon too,’ Fran said. ‘My father will be complaining I never feed him.’
Fran’s elderly father had been living with her for several years and she seemed to cope remarkably well, given that her house has only one bathroom. Her father vies every morning with Fran’s teenage daughter for bathroom space, meaning Fran has to get up at the crack of dawn to bags her share so she can get to work on time. I’m really lucky that we have two bathrooms so I don’t have to compete any more than usual now that Dad’s moved home.
‘Now you’re making me feel guilty,’ I said. ‘I’ve left Dad and Adam in charge of feeding each other.’<
br />
‘What’s the bet you’ll get home to a sea of takeaway wrappers and the bench covered with dried blobs of tomato sauce.’
Helen pulled a wry face. ‘Don’t you just love tomato sauce!’ she said.
‘It doesn’t matter how much effort I put into a dish, how clever I am with the herbs and spices, the kids always want to drown it in great gobs of tomato sauce. It kills me,’ Liz said.
‘Yes, they should put out a family cookbook with every recipe containing a large dollop of the stuff. It would save a lot of time and effort,’ I agreed.
We finished our drinks, split the bill and departed our separate ways. I got home to find Adam and his grandfather had indeed bought takeaways but I managed to avoid the leftover chips and cooked myself an omelette. Feeling virtuous, I pulled my new Lycra shorts out of the bottom drawer and seriously considered giving the gym another call first thing in the morning.
I felt a lot less virtuous by the time I’d got Adam off to school the next day, however, and left for work with the gym gear still on my bedroom chair.
It was to remain there for some time.
Chapter 7
I’d been looking forward to Friday all week. Since the previous weekend, when things had turned pear-shaped with Simon, I’d been angling for something better this time. In fact, I had a nice surprise planned for Saturday.
However, things didn’t get off to a good start. Instead of Steve coming over to pick up Charlotte after work on Friday, Jacinta arrived in her sporty little Mazda something-or-other with its MX personalised plate (MINX would have been more descriptive). I watched her pulling up in the driveway and immediately my stomach jumped up into my ribcage and my throat went dry. I toyed with pretending to be out until the doorbell rang and Charlotte shouted down the stairs, ‘Mum, can you get that? I’ll be down in a minute.’
Damn! I felt like a naughty child who didn’t want to be discovered. I felt like I was the one who should feel guilty.
Head Over Heels Page 6
