by Roxy Jacenko
I wasn’t about to admit this to Flossie, but I had once tried a yoga class, when I was on honeymoon in the Seychelles. The luxury resort ran classes every morning. The experience didn’t end well; in fact, I was evicted ten minutes into the class and banned from the studio. The teacher claimed my mobile phone was disturbing the other students, but I refused to put it on silent. I would be far from zen if I missed a call from the head of Versace in Italy. We were on the verge of a business deal . . . I’d thought yogis were meant to be accepting, but I’ve sensed less judgement at an X Factor audition. As I was being escorted from the class, the woman on the mat next to me tutted loudly, as if I had committed a cardinal sin.
I’d thought that incident had put me off downward dogging forever, but maybe it was time to give yoga another whirl. Maybe it would not only (hopefully) make me more tranquil but also give me some muscles. Fifi was getting bigger and my arms were straining to carry her (and our matching handbags). I’d taken a slight exercise hiatus of late. The Four Seasons has a heated swimming pool, and when I moved in I’d vowed to add fifty lengths a day to my schedule. Sadly, the one time I’d visited the pool area I’d got distracted by the jacuzzi and sauna, and hadn’t even got my hair wet.
The hotel also has a fitness centre, with high-tech machines that look like they belong on the NASA space station. Reception even provides gym wear to all the guests, handing you a t-shirt, shorts and socks. Although this was very generous, it was not a plus point for me. I do not like arriving at an event in the same outfit as someone else, whether it’s a VIP party or an exercise session.
I used to work out with a colossal personal trainer called Andy ‘Tank’ Jones (you might recognise him from the last series of The Bachelor). The muscle machine had helped me tone up for my wedding, but had then selfishly gone and got himself a lead role in the musical Tap Dogs. The last thing I heard he was in the West End and dating the leading lady from Legally Blonde.
I had searched for a replacement but it was difficult – both to find a spare hour in the day to work out and also to find a trainer who was compatible with me. A lot of the personal trainers in the health-conscious Eastern Suburbs of Sydney are just too . . . good looking. Really, they look like Hollywood movie stars (only with better tans and surf skills). I know you’re thinking, ‘What’s she complaining about?’, but I am not one of those women who look good when they exercise. I turn red, my hair frizzes, sometimes I come out in a sweat rash. The last thing I want is some Adonis standing over me as I fall apart. I want a trainer who is good looking enough to be motivational, but not so gorgeous as to be intimidating.
‘Will yoga give me a body like yours?’ I asked Flossie. ‘I don’t mean to sound creepy but you have one hot bod! Although I’m sure you’re told that all the time.’
Flossie laughed and accepted the compliment, which I admired her for. When a girl is unquestionably stunning, why waste time with false modesty?
‘Oh, it will definitely help you tone up,’ she assured me. ‘Although it’s not really about looking good, Jasmine. The best thing about yoga is it enhances your inner beauty. As my guru says, yoga isn’t about self-improvement, it’s about self-acceptance.’
I was gagging to reply, ‘Screw inner beauty! I just want glutes of steel,’ but I knew that wouldn’t be very ohm of me. Instead, I asked Flossie to recommend a good yoga school in my area – preferably a class where I wouldn’t have to chant or change my name to ‘Lotus’ to be accepted.
In this city, yoga studios are opening on every street corner and charging premium rates for a pick-me-up. I didn’t know where to begin: Bikram, Vinyasa, Hatha, Kundalini? I also wanted somewhere ‘shiny’. A lot of yoga studios, in Bondi in particular, advertise themselves as ‘authentic’. This really means ‘shabby’. If I’m going to lie on a rubber mat, it’s gotta be in a high-class establishment. Luckily, Flossie understood my requirements and recommended the newest yoga school in the trendy shopping district of Surry Hills, owned by an ex-fashion model turned yoga teacher called Sasia Abraham.
I knew a bit about the Flexi-Time studio already, because Queen Bee had organised the launch party when it opened the previous summer. It was all oakwood floors, mirrored walls and spa-like changing rooms with complimentary Jo Malone toiletries (I’m sure the Dalai Lama would approve).
After my conversation with Flossie, I checked their timetable online and noticed that they had a mother-and-toddler class called Yoga Hop (‘Think the Wiggles meets yoga. A workout for mothers and their offspring’). Usually I’m not big on mum-and-daughter workshops. For some reason, other mothers don’t seem to like me. However, this did sound interesting, and less intimidating than a standard yoga class. Hopefully it would mean nobody would take it too seriously, and the kids would be the centre of attention so nobody would notice my lack of coordination.
It would also provide great fodder for Fifi’s Instagram page. In my head I was already wording the caption:
A girl’s got to work on her core. I want the best abs in my playgroup. If you think this figure comes easily, think again. It’s hectic keeping healthy. #treepost #zen #fitspiration
On top of this, it would be a great excuse to go shopping. I’d heard rumours that funky fitness label The Upside might be bringing out a junior range, and I could just imagine Fifi and me in matching crop tops and yoga pants.
I was really starting to warm to this yoga malarkey, but I still felt like I needed a bit of moral support. Hmm, who had time on their hands and would be willing to risk ridicule for me? I could order Lulu or one of the other Bees to come with me, but there was a better option – Shelley!
Now, I have never seen my best friend do anything that even vaguely resembles exercise. I did see Shelley run once – but it was across the fragrance section of David Jones to grab the last bottle of limited-edition Balmain perfume. Surely it was about time she elevated her heart rate again.
‘Shells, I’ve decided we need to take up yoga,’ I texted my friend. ‘Next Wednesday. 7 am. Lock it in your diary.’ As Shelley doesn’t work, you can always rely on her to reply to a message before a ‘read receipt’ arrives. When I hadn’t received a response from her an hour later, I knew her silence meant no – and so I pulled out my secret weapon.
A few weeks ago, I’d read on Women’s Wear Daily that Gucci were bringing out a special-edition yoga bag. Made in the signature Gucci print, it was designed to hold your mat and a yoga block (whatever that was). And it was ‘only’ $2300. I texted Shelley a link to the bag on Net-A-Porter, with the message: ‘The answer to eternal happiness . . .’
Within moments my phone beeped with a message. ‘You manipulative cow. I’M IN!!!’ It was as easy as tempting a soccer player into a strip club.
A week later, I found myself in a room full of lycra-clad mothers and children in leotards, sitting cross-legged and humming in unison. Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore . . .
Beside me sat Shelley, dressed in an all-in-one playsuit by Stella McCartney, which she’d ordered from StyleRunner on an overnight delivery. And in front of her sat her surrogate child for the day, a two-year-old girl with blonde pigtails, wearing an identical outfit.
The yoga school had given Shelley permission to attend the mother–daughter class solo, but she had insisted on finding a miniature plus-one to bring with her. ‘Really, Jazzy Lou,’ she cried, ‘when have you known me not to have the right accessories? If it says bring a child then I am damn well going to bring one. Is there a place that hires out toddlers?’
In the end, she’d ‘borrowed’ a little girl from a friend with twins who was happy to loan out her spare. Before the class, Shelley took her fake daughter Poppy for a manicure, and her tiny fingernails were now painted with yin and yang symbols. It may sound cheesy but I was kind of jealous. I’d only colour-coordinated Fifi’s coral nails to her headband. How slack of me!
According to our teacher, Sasia, the ‘bee breath technique’ we were practising was meant to balance the two sides of our brain
s and help us to both stay alert and relax. If I’m honest, it was just making my nose tickle, and Fifi must have felt the same, because she had two fingers stuck up her nostrils.
I was also distracted by Sasia’s breasts, which seemed to have grown three cup sizes since the last time I saw her, and were defying gravity in a tiny strappy crop top. Wasn’t it against a yoga teacher’s code of ethics to have plastic surgery? I wondered how a boob job fitted into all this talk of self-love and inner peace. But, hey, who am I to judge?
As we bent, stretched and flexed along with Sasia, I have to admit it felt good to be moving. My lifestyle choices are not kind to my skeletal system. I spend my days either crunched up at a desk or sprinting around in five-inch heels, lugging a Birkin that weighs as much as my toddler. As Sasia guided the mums into a bridge, and the children crawled underneath us, my spine creaked and cracked (in a good way).
Next up, we lay on our backs and kicked our legs like upturned turtles. Do not fart, I willed my body, or at least not until someone else does first! Fifi was in her element – as was Shelley. My best friend had a huge smile on her face and was looking at Poppy adoringly as the little girl wiggled and giggled.
I had always thought Shelley hated children, as whenever a mutual friend of ours gave birth, Shelley always sent the biggest bouquet of flowers but said she was too busy to visit in person. The only child I’d ever seen my best friend interact with was Fifi, and I’d sometimes suspected that she might be a little jealous of her. Naturally, our friendship had shifted slightly when I became a mother, and Shelley couldn’t understand why I could no longer just fly to New York for a shopping weekend with no notice.
Yet as I watched Shelley help her fake daughter try a rolypoly, she looked perfectly natural playing the part of a parent. Did Shelley have a maternal streak that I didn’t know about?
It’s funny how, even though Shelley and I share everything, we’d always skirted around any mention of her lack of boyfriends or whether she was broody. That said, I also never uttered the b-word before having Fifi. My biological clock hadn’t even started to tick when Michael and I had our happy accident.
When the class was over and we were sipping dandelion lattes in the cafe beneath the yoga studio (where harem pants and prayer beads seemed to be the dress code), I gently raised the subject: ‘How fun was today, Shells? I can feel my butt tightening already. You know, fake motherhood suits you. You’re one yummy pretend mummy . . .’
For a second Shelley looked embarrassed, then she quickly recovered. She took a bite of her vegan bliss ball, and said with her mouth full, ‘Maybe I can find a fake man to inseminate me. Ooh, maybe you and I can live in a man-less share house. A child only needs two parents, right? Well, one and one mum makes two. We wouldn’t need any guys at all.’
I think she was joking, but I can never be quite sure with Shelley. And where would Michael fit into this scenario? Where indeed . . .
11
As we’d exited the yoga studio after my debut mummy-and-toddler class, Sasia had chirruped, ‘Same time, same mat tomorrow, yogis!’, but there was no chance I’d be back in the morning for a do-over. I had a breakfast meeting at The Grounds of Alexandria cafe to discuss them hosting a launch party for the Doncha Wanna Be Us fashion line (yep, the girls were adding another string to blogging bows).
I was glad I’d left Fifi with her nanny before dropping by the cafe. There are some things a two-year-old doesn’t need to witness, and that includes her grandfather pashing his new girlfriend in public like a couple of teenagers. I really didn’t know what had got into my dad, who was usually a stickler for social etiquette.
I had just strolled into The Grounds, automatically scanning the eatery for any people of importance (it’s a force of habit in my profession), when I spotted a silhouette on the coach in the corner on the other side of the room. Actually I spotted a familiar bald patch, as I could only see the back of his head because my father was too busy playing tonsil-tennis.
‘Are you kidding me?’ I muttered, my instinct telling me to get the hell out of there. But it was too late. My favourite barista Joey – a South American exchange student who works there part time – had spotted me and cried out, ‘Jazzy Lou! Where’s that beautiful daughter of yours?’
Despite the fact my dad was a good twenty metres away from us, Joey’s enthusiastic greeting could be heard across the room and both he and Tessa looked up like a couple of meerkats.
‘Jasmine!’ he called, waving his arm in a beckoning gesture. ‘What a surprise to see you here.’
Was it a surprise, Dad? Really? I’ve been coming to this cafe constantly ever since it opened, as my Instagram page would testify from the #coffeeselfies I often posted from there. Why did I feel like it wasn’t a coincidence he was here? Why did I feel like I was being hijacked?
In retrospect, I should have just made my excuses and not gone over. But, by this stage, Joey was standing awkwardly behind me with a coffee. ‘Jasmine, where shall I leave your drink? Over here with your . . . friends?’ Oh, fuck it. I’d give them a few minutes. The person I was meeting was running late anyway.
As I approached the table, the new addition to my family greeted me with two air kisses (that was fine) and then enveloped me in a bear hug (not so fine). Tessa then made a joke that was much too much, much too soon: ‘Jazzy Lou, it’s lovely to see you. Isn’t this a turn-up for the books, me dating your father? You can call me step-mummy. Hahaha!’
I raised my eyebrows and forced out a chuckle that sounded more like I was being strangled. I didn’t voice my thoughts aloud as it simply wasn’t worth the confrontation, but I was thinking that for you to be my step-mother my dad would need to act like a father and he had turned his back on those responsibilities when he turned his back on my mother. Bite your tongue, Jasmine. Bite your tongue.
‘Isn’t the coffee here just life-changing,’ exclaimed Tessa, waving her lipstick smeared cup. ‘We haven’t been getting much sleep lately, if you know what I mean.’
Oh my gawd! Don’t wink and nudge me. You’re talking about the man who changed my diapers. I really, really didn’t need to know about their slumber parties.
I knew Tessa hadn’t officially moved in with my father yet, because I’d read a news story in The Sun only yesterday about how she was renting a five-bedroom mansion in Double Bay at a cost of $4000 per week. ‘TESSA BLOW HAS NOT LOST HER TASTE FOR LUXURY!’ screamed the headline:
Despite an imminent divorce case which may leave her with nothing, Sydney socialite Tessa Blow doesn’t seem to be counting the pennies. The singer, who left the home she shared with husband Maximus Blow after their marriage ended last year, has now upsized to an even larger property in Double Bay, which she is renting.
Despite her troubles, the 28-year-old’s lavish lifestyle does not appear to be suffering. Last week she was spotted strolling through her new neighbourhood with one of her collection of Hermès Birkin bags worth thousands, and stepping out of her Ferrari 458.
Ah, the Ferrari. This was another sore point for me. It was Tessa’s pride and joy, but I’d heard on the grapevine weeks ago that because it was in Max’s name, she’d been forced to leave it behind when she fled their matrimonial home. Max had then decided to sell it, not wanting any reminder of his former love. Well, guess who the buyer was? My father. How romantic, buying your girlfriend’s car off the husband she’d cheated on. It now sat in my father’s driveway, still bearing the personalised number plate ‘T3SS’.
I knew I shouldn’t judge her too harshly before I saw how their relationship panned out. And I had to admit that my dad did look well. I shudder to use the phrase ‘he was glowing’, but it did seem appropriate. His eyes were shining and he’d definitely lost weight since I’d last seen him, which had been the week he announced to my mother he was leaving her (deep breath, hold your tongue!).
‘So how have you been, Jasmine?’ asked Dad, draping his arm across Tessa’s shoulders, his fingers playing with the strap of her sport’s
vest. I wish they could just stop touching each other for one moment.
‘I’m very well. Thank you for asking.’ My response had as much emotion as an automated telephone-banking clerk. I wasn’t going to give him anything.
It also looked as if somebody (one guess who!) had been influencing Dad’s dress sense. For years I’d been trying to get him to dress more imaginatively, but he just bulk-bought polo shirts from Target; refused to wear labels, claiming they were a waste of money. Now, my papa looked like a slave to fashion, dressed in a Tom Ford sweater I’d recently been eyeing up for Michael on Mr Porter. He was even wearing a pair of suede slippers I recognised as Jimmy Choo. And was that a necklace peeking out of his collar? OMG! My dad was actually accessorising! I suspected he and Tessa had been on a shopping spree. On his credit card, I betcha!
For a few minutes (that felt like hours) our trio made small talk. It helped that Tessa and I moved in the same social circles and could exchange industry gossip – did you hear that so-and-so is back with her ex? And did know that Channel Six is sacking so-and-so for a younger hostess?
Tessa also raised the subject of Fifi’s Instagram feed, claiming that she was her ‘biggest fan’. She even pulled out her iPhone (the latest diamond-encrusted version, worth $5600) to show my dad the photos I’d taken at our yoga class.
Then my dad cleared his throat. I knew that sound . . . Uh-oh. What was coming?
When I was little my father would take me along to his office on school holidays, where I’d hide under the table while he did business deals. I’m sure that’s where my entrepreneurial streak came from. When I was ten, I’d noticed that my dad has a ‘tell’ when he’s about to say something a colleague or client might not be happy about. And now I was on the other end of that awkward cough, which meant I probably wouldn’t like the next sentence to come out of his mouth.
‘Jasmine. It’s actually a lucky coincidence we ran into you. I wanted to talk to you about something,’ he started. ‘In fact, we both wanted to talk to you.’
