by Roxy Jacenko
I had a sick feeling in my stomach, which wasn’t from Joey’s perfect beverage. My instinct told me that the reason my dad had clearly laid in wait for me at the coffee house wasn’t going to please me. Until this point I’d been standing awkwardly next to them, but he gestured for me to take a seat and, like an obedient child, I did. Why is it that, at any age, our parents seem to hold some power over us?
‘As you know, Tessa is currently . . . tying up some loose ends with her marriage. As part of the divorce proceedings, her husband’s lawyers are calculating how much she owes and how much she owns in assets – real estate, possessions.’
I really should have put a stop to the conversation there, but I let my father continue as I had a feeling he’d practised this speech and was about to reach the grand finale.
‘In the interests of protecting Tessa’s assets,’ he continued, ‘she needs to do a little bit of careful . . . reallocation. We thought you might be able to assist by storing a few personal items she’d rather the court didn’t find out about.’
At this point, Tessa put her hand on my father’s arm and butted in. ‘Let’s cut to the chase, Jasmine,’ she said. ‘We’re all grown-ups here and we’re all businesspeople. Locked in a safe in my flat I have $800,000 worth of diamonds that my husband bought me. I’m not about to give them up without a fight.’
I had heard all about Tessa’s infamous diamond addiction. In fact, in her music video she sang naked wearing only a diamond choker. That chick was classy. According to whispers, she’d had enquiries from the Victoria & Albert Museum in London, who were interested in buying the vast collection, because a lot of the items were vintage. Which meant the divorce lawyers would surely already know about it too.
‘So, what exactly do you want me to do?’ I asked, directing my question at my father. Was he really asking what I thought he was?
‘We wondered if you could . . . look after the diamonds for Tessa . . . for both of us,’ he replied, looking embarrassed. ‘It wouldn’t be for long – probably a few months at the most. It’s just until the courts reach a decision and all this mucky business is over and done with.’
I couldn’t believe he was asking his own daughter to commit a crime, and for the sake of a woman he’d known for a matter of months. Where was the loyalty? Where was the concern for my safety and my reputation? If it came out I’d helped her swindle the courts, Queen Bee could also go down in flames.
‘Umm, Dad, can I speak to you alone?’ I asked politely. ‘I don’t mean to sound rude, Tessa, but there are only certain trusted people I talk business with, and I’d like to talk to my dad separately.’
She raised her eyebrows but didn’t protest. ‘Sure, whatever. I need to return a phone call outside anyway,’ she said. ‘Think about it carefully, Jasmine. I know you don’t owe me anything, but my welfare also affects your father now. If I’m happy then he’s happy, remember that.’
As she exited the coffee shop, I noticed the red sole of her Christian Louboutin shoes still had the sales stickers on the bottom of them (she’d probably try and take them back after she wore them). Then I turned my attention back to my father.
‘Dad, how could you hijack me like that?’ I said, trying to keep my voice low, as I really didn’t want the whole cafe to know our business. ‘It’s bad enough you’d ask me to do something like that in the first place, but you should have asked me privately. It is not cool, calling a “family meeting” with the three of us.’
I felt like freaking Cinderella, faced with an evil stepmother. I bet Tessa would steal the crystal slipper from my foot if given half a second – and my dad would probably let her.
‘Don’t exaggerate, Jasmine,’ he replied. ‘And don’t pretend you wouldn’t do something similar if you were in Tessa’s situation. I can’t imagine you’d be happy to give up the lavish lifestyle you’re so used to. Imagine if Michael ever walked out on you – god forbid. Would you give away the things you’ve worked so hard for, or do everything in your power to keep them?’
The difference is, dear Daddy, I would never get myself into that situation in the first place. Okay, once upon a time I might have been guilty of leading a million-dollar lifestyle on a $30,000 salary (and several credit cards), but I now only spent as much as I earned, and I never relied on Michael for a handout.
‘That’s totally irrelevant,’ I huffed at my father. ‘And I don’t appreciate you trying to guilt-trip me into committing a crime. In case it’s escaped your attention, I have a two-year-old daughter, your granddaughter. What about her welfare?’
It was time for me to leave. My blood was starting to boil and I needed to get out of there before I said something I would regret. I’d also just seen my breakfast meeting companion walk through the door. I had Talent Hive business to deal with and I wasn’t going to let Dad’s soap opera get in the way of that.
When I’d witnessed Tessa and my father snogging on the sofa, I had for a moment considered the notion that I might just be jealous. Was I really envious that Dad was dating like a teenager while my own relationship was fizzling? But no, my gut reaction was right. This woman was a gold-digger and a con artist, and she and my dad were welcome to each other. I’d made my decision.
‘You can tell Tessa it is a resounding, unequivocal, never going to happen NO,’ I told them. ‘I don’t ever want to talk about this again. What you decide to do is your business, but I am not being dragged down with you. Oh, and here’s one piece of advice – if you want to fool people into thinking you’re poor, you might not want to be photographed at a five-star hotel. Come on! Have some common sense!’
I didn’t even give my father a chance to reply, as I spun on my heels and slapped on a happy smile to face my next meeting. Through the cafe’s big, open doorways I caught sight of Tessa, with her phone pressed against her ear, leaning against a fence in the courtyard. The problem was that the gate lead to the home of the cafe’s pet . . . a pig.
Quickly I pulled out my phone and snapped a shot. Tessa jowling into the phone, unaware the cafe’s pet porker had stuck his head between the fence posts and was currently taste-testing the trail of her dress. It was the perfect double portrait, although I wasn’t mean enough to post in on social media. But it was good to have in my arsenal (and it certainly made me laugh!) #twinnies.
12
Forget fathers, the only man a woman can rely on is her interior designer. Put that slogan on a greeting card and I’d buy it. As the men in my family continued to disappoint me, at least I could rely on Jackson to boost my mood. I woke up every morning to at least three texts from my creative soulmate, with an update in the form of a photo essay of whichever part of my house he was currently transforming.
At the moment, it was the bathroom. The theme was ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’; the bathtub was the centrepiece, according to Jackson, and was made of solid walnut wood. Yes, a bath made out of wood. If you think it must look like a boat then you’re spot on the money. Jackson had modelled it on Michael’s yacht, the Adventuress, which he parks (docks, moors, whatever the word is) in Sydney Harbour. He only takes it out once a year, on New Year’s Eve, to get a good view of the fireworks.
Unlike my husband, my interior designer didn’t think my ‘quirks’ were annoying – in fact, Jackson seemed to thrive on the challenge. Aside from my wardrobe, my bathroom is where my OCD really kicks in. I need everything to be impeccably planned, organised and structured. Clean your teeth, put your brush back in the concealed cupboard, place the toothpaste tube back in the silver toothpaste squeezer (yes, such a contraption exists, google it). Is your towel hung up on the heated rail, folded into a perfect rectangle so you can see the FRETTE logo on the bottom right-hand corner? It better be, buddy! Okay, I admit I have issues, but Jackson didn’t mock them, he worked around them.
He’d even built a display case into the bathroom wall to store my toiletries in chronological order of expiration date. He’d also made all the bathroom cupboards sensor-operated so they didn’t n
eed handles. This impressed me on two levels: no ugly handles ruining the lines, plus it was far more hygienic. I’d just have to teach Fifi that not all cupboards can be opened by waving your hands over them. That could be really inconvenient when she started preschool.
All in all, Jackson was proving to be a godsend, even if the interior project was taking far longer and costing far more than I’d initially intended. I was glad that something in my life was going smoothly – even if it was just the wallpaper.
The Saturday after the argument with my father, I decided to visit my house to see how the work was progressing. I needed something to cheer me up, as the row with Dad was causing me sleepless nights (and a girl needs her beauty sleep).
Since our fraught family meeting, neither of us had tried to contact the other. My dad seemed to think that I’d done something wrong and he was sulking. Pleeease! He was lucky I hadn’t leaked Tessa’s plan to the press – or dobbed her in to her husband’s divorce lawyer.
I had, however, dobbed him in to my mother, his ex-wife. I didn’t mean to. But when Mum had called from St Tropez, she had asked how my father was keeping and I didn’t want to lie. So I filled her in on exactly how he was doing – and who he was doing it with.
My mum wasn’t too impressed, especially as it turned out that her second cousin, a plastic surgeon, had given Tessa a little nip-and-tuck a year earlier and was still waiting for her to pay the bill. Who wasn’t she trying to fleece out of money?
I know I shouldn’t have told Mum, because it would surely stir up trouble, but whatevs! I wanted my team to be bigger than Dad’s was. He could expect a strongly worded postcard to arrive in the mail any day now, postmarked Europe. ‘Wish you were here . . . wish you weren’t dating a gold-digger.’
Before heading to the house, Fifi and I swung past Westfield for some retail therapy. First we hit up Sass & Bide, then Armani, followed by a visit to the Nike superstore to stock up on yoga gear. I was really getting into this fitness malarkey. Well, I hadn’t yet attended another yoga class, but I had stocked up on gear. It turned out that sports kit has come a long way since gym knickers, and I’d swapped my Net-A-Porter addiction for StyleRunner.com and The Upside.
After a few hours and a lot of credit card scanning, we called it a day. Call me superficial, but I did feel better. I snapped a mega-cute photo of Fifi laden down with heavy carrier bags, clutching her arms with a pained expression on her face. I posted it on Instagram with the comment:
My mum says I’m suffering from ‘shopper’s elbow’. Need to build up my muscles. Shopping bags are the new dumbbells. #retailworkout
That post got 819 likes – the numbers were going up every day.
By the time Fifi and I made our way back to the car, we were both shattered. When we pulled into our driveway, Fifi was fast asleep in her Gucci car seat, so I decided to leave her there with the door open so she had plenty of air and I could listen out for her while I did a quick tour of the house to see how it was developing. I also didn’t want to risk her running into any wet paint. Fifi had chosen her own outfit that morning and had erred on the side of impractical. I’m not sure why she even owned a pink furry dress and an orange feather boa – or why she thought they went together – but she insisted.
I left my little muppet snoring in the car seat and let myself into my old–new home. It even looked different from the outside, as Jackson had changed the front door to a high-tech version which opened with a buzzer key ring. The first thing I noticed when I entered the house was the cream and leather panelling which now covered every single wall . . . in every single room. Call me over the top, but once you bite the bullet you may as well go the whole hog.
Jackson had left a note for me on the kitchen table: ‘Remember, it’s not finished! You shouldn’t open an oven door before a soufflé has risen.’ Oh, these crazy queens. He had tried to put me off coming at all, but I wasn’t going to be barred from my own home. Anyway, he was just being a perfectionist (which was why I’d hired him in the first place), because the house looked spectacular, even though it was semi-covered in dustsheets.
The sleek cream-coloured furniture came from Cavit & Co, and I’d asked on of my Talent Hive creatives, a fashion illustrator called Felicia Penfold, to create a one-off piece of art to go over the fireplace.
Jackson had done an ah-mazing job, so I texted him: ‘I am HERE. I am astonished. You are the ultimate remodelista!!’
My interior maestro is a Grindr addict so is always glued to his mobile. I knew he’d reply instantly, and he did: ‘You like it? PHEW! Who am I kidding, I knew you’d love it. How splendiferous is the leather coating on the fridge? It’s the same one as Tom Cruise has! Although that husband of yours didn’t seem so impressed when I showed him yesterday. Philistine!’
I was about to write back telling him not to listen to Michael – what did he know about interiors? – but then Jackson’s text sunk in . . . Michael. Yesterday. He was meant to be in New York. He couldn’t be home. Why wouldn’t he tell me?
That’s when I heard a noise from upstairs. A thump and a shuffle, as if someone had got out of bed and was walking across the bedroom.
‘Umm, hello?’ I called, automatically reaching for my Birkin and iPad, which were on the kitchen table. If I had to run from an intruder, I was taking life’s essentials with me.
I turned to see a silhouette of a man in the kitchen doorway. That man was my husband, dressed in grey linen pyjamas, looking decidedly jetlagged. Although it was two o’clock in the afternoon, he’d clearly just woken up, which made me think he must have only flown in yesterday.
‘Michael, what the hell are you doing here?’ I asked, as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. I should have been happy to see him, but I felt infuriated . . . and hurt. I didn’t know how long he’d been home, but if it was long enough to manage a freaking conversation with my interior designer, why hadn’t he come over to see me?
‘Hey, Jazzy Lou,’ he said, crossing the room to kiss me. ‘This is a nice surprise. Is my little princess with you? I was going to come over and see you this evening. Oh, come on, don’t glare at me like that, Jazzy Lou. I really didn’t think it was worth calling you earlier as I know you work most Saturdays these days.’
Despite the pyjamas, which are not an item of clothing I think any grown man should own, my husband was looking dishevelled and gorgeous. It felt like so long since we had slept in the same bed that I’d forgotten how adorable he looked just after waking. I didn’t want to hold a grudge now that we were finally reunited. As Fifi was asleep, maybe we could christen the newly decorated bedroom.
I gave in, put my arms around Michael’s waist and nestled my mouth into his neck in a way that I know always gets him excited. But after a moment, Michael pushed me away. ‘I’m dying for a coffee,’ he moaned, glancing at the state-of-the-art espresso machine that Jackson had installed. ‘I think that thing makes coffee, but I can’t for the life of me work out how to use it. Why don’t we own a fucking kettle?’
I told myself not to be offended by the rebuff, or his grumpiness. He was jetlagged, he was tired, he was clearly not in the mood – a long-haul flight isn’t exactly a libido booster.
‘I can see if Lulu’s close by and can pick up a coffee order,’ I said, pulling out my iPhone. The best thing about having employees who are addicted to social media is that you can easily track their movements. Ah, see, Lulu had updated her personal Facebook page two minutes earlier, and it showed her location as ‘Redfern, Sydney’. Even I couldn’t ask her to come all this way to grab me a coffee on a Saturday.
Then I remembered a new app I’d downloaded called Coffee Runner, which promises to deliver a coffee order to any location in Sydney within ten minutes. Time to road-test it. Sure enough, exactly eight minutes and fourteen seconds after I logged our request, a guy on a motorbike screamed up outside our house and handed over two non-spill cups.
I don’t know how he did it, driving through Sydney’s winding streets, but the chocolate du
sting on the milk foam was still in the perfect shape of a love heart. That was well worth the $12-per-cup of coffee price tag, in my opinion.
As soon as Michael took a sip, a mask seemed to fall from his face and he instantly looked more alert (yes, we’re addicts, but it’s not like it’s heroin). He then uttered the words that no wife wants to hear. ‘Jasmine, we need to talk.’ My stomach filled with butterflies – although that could have been the caffeine kicking in.
I took a seat at one of our new kitchen bar stools (polished chrome, very ergonomic, very uncomfortable), and Michael sat down opposite me at the countertop. My husband is a very smart businessman, very eloquent, used to public speaking. I knew that if he was going to deliver bad news, it would be clear and succinct. Just how I prefer it.
‘Jasmine, I might be working away for a while,’ he said, looking stern. ‘It could be for up to five years.’ What was he talking about? Why would he ‘need’ to go away? As I sat in stunned silence, trying to digest the news, Michael filled in the details. The reason behind his trip to New York had been a job interview with Chad Turner. The Chad Turner whose motivational CDs he was so fond of.
‘I didn’t want to tell you before in case I jinxed it,’ Michael said excitedly. ‘He wants to launch a new financial coaching program – how an average Joe can become a millionaire. He wants me to oversee the whole thing: plan the twelve-step program, run seminars from Madison Square Garden. Can you imagine! And you should see their offices. They have sleep pods where you can take a power nap.’
I frowned. When did my husband become impressed with corporate gimmicks like that? He’d once turned down a job with Google because they had a pool table in the middle of the office. He’d told me this on our first date, and it was one of the reasons I fell for him. And what about me? What about Fifi? And why the five-year time limit?
