PRAISE FOR FEARLESS
‘In turns gripping and moving, as entrancing as Bali itself … Higgins is a consummate storyteller.’ Kylie Ladd, author of Mothers and Daughters
PRAISE FOR THE MOTHERS’ GROUP
‘… it has that capacity that good social novels should have of creating meaning and intensity from what on the surface may appear to be ordinary … Higgins looks at the difficult moment of becoming parents with an unflinching but powerful humanity … Like its Allen & Unwin stablemate, The Slap, The Mothers’ Group is a top-shelf novel about contemporary Australian life.’ Weekend Australian
‘… an enthralling read. Be prepared to burn the midnight oil, as it is impossible to put down.’ Sunday Herald Sun, 4½ stars
‘The Mothers’ Group provides enough “aha” moments of recognition to make even the most sleep-deprived mum smile. And I should know: I read it while juggling my three-month-old daughter.’ Bookseller & Publisher
‘This heartfelt debut novel explores how challenging and bewildering motherhood can be—from postnatal depression and incontinence to loss of sexual desire—and how much empathy, reassurance and wisdom can be found in the shared experience of a support group.’ Better Homes & Gardens
PRAISE FOR WIFE ON THE RUN
‘Provocative, sharply insightful and wildly entertaining, Wife On the Run … is an engaging journey through love, heartbreak and self-discovery.’ Booked Out
‘Funny and sexy and briskly written, it’s a page-turning domestic melodrama for the social media age.’ The Age and Sydney Morning Herald
‘The perfect home-alone read.’ Country Style
Fiona Higgins is the author of two novels, Wife on the Run and The Mothers’ Group, and a memoir, Love in the Age of Drought.
Fiona has qualifications in the humanities and social sciences, and has worked in the philanthropy and not-for-profit sector in Australia for the past seventeen years.
Having recently returned from three years in Indonesia, she now lives in Sydney with her husband and three children.
www.fionahiggins.com.au
www.facebook.com/fionahigginsauthor
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
First published in 2016
Copyright © Fiona Higgins 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia
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ISBN 978 1 76029 422 9
eISBN 978 1 95253 541 3
Cover design: Alissa Dinallo
Cover image: Shutterstock
For Stuart, the most fearless person I know.
CONTENTS
FLYING
PUBLIC SPEAKING
HEIGHTS
INTIMACY
DEATH
FAILURE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
FLYING
Janelle’s eyes flew open as the aeroplane shuddered.
Not that she’d been sleeping, which seemed to be the preferred activity of most normal people on aeroplanes. No, she’d simply closed her eyes and succumbed to the numbing effect of the three vodkas she’d slammed down at Melbourne Airport before the flight. Followed by the sedative chaser prescribed by her doctor for emergency use only.
The fasten seatbelt sign pinged above her head. That was emergency enough.
Janelle closed her eyes once more and consciously attempted to slow her breathing. It was a technique she’d learned at university, a strategy for managing exam-time anxiety. With each outgoing breath, she counted backwards from ten to one, and imagined herself in a peaceful place. Typically a tropical island—not dissimilar to the photos she’d seen of her destination, Bali—with the rhythmic sound of waves lapping at the shore, the long fronds of coconut palms swaying in the breeze, and the lazy chirruping of crickets drawing her towards a calm core of inner stillness.
Except this time, turbulence was interfering with her serenity routine. The PA system crackled and the captain’s voice addressed the passengers. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, an update from the flight deck. We have some weather ahead and ask that all passengers and crew take your seats immediately and fasten seatbelts.’
She resented the euphemism. It was never merely weather. Almost as soon as the captain had finished speaking, the aeroplane began to lurch.
Janelle stared at her lap, wishing she’d never booked the ticket. Remembering how she’d sat in front of her computer only a fortnight earlier, dithering about dates and departure times. Checking for ominous flight numbers divisible by the number thirteen, pondering if this or that flight might be an ill-fated one. In the absence of any available seats in the statistically safest tail section, she’d checked the emergency exit rows over the wing, but all had been occupied. Frustrated, she’d selected a row towards the rear, between two seats already reserved.
The plane pitched suddenly and several passengers cried out. The portly European man in the window seat next to her put down his newspaper. Tears of panic pricked Janelle’s eyes.
It’s just like driving on a corrugated road, she told herself. The plane is designed to withstand this.
‘Excuse me.’ The woman on her other side spoke to Janelle. She appeared rather agitated. ‘I really need to go to the toilet. Would you mind holding my baby? I’ll be quick.’
Janelle looked down at the tiny infant sleeping in the woman’s arms. ‘But the seatbelt sign is on.’
‘Please?’ The woman forced a smile.
Janelle was dismayed. It was hard enough holding herself together on a flight, never mind comforting a baby as well. Then, feeling sorry for the woman, she nodded.
The woman unbuckled the infant harness and secured it to Janelle’s seatbelt, clipping the child in. The infant opened its eyes just as soon as its mother stood up. Janelle watched its lips quiver, but it was too late to call the woman back. She was already stumbling along the aisle, steadying herself against seats as she went.
‘Madam.’ A stern-faced flight attendant hailed the woman, moving after her. ‘Sit down.’
The woman gestured to the toilet cubicle then disappeared into it, locking the door behind her. The flight attendant clawed her way back to her seat and sat facing the passengers, without looking directly at any of them.
Janelle glanced down at the baby. It stared solemnly back, perhaps searching for some recognisable feature. She couldn’t guess its sex, nor how many months old it might be. She hadn’t conversed with its mother at all; she’d been too focused on her deep breathing to engage in pleasantries. Yet here she was, holding a nameless, vulnerable infant during the roughest turbulence she’d experienced in her life.
The plane dipped and yawed. An overhead locker fell open, emptying its contents over the passengers below. A
woman groaned and clutched her head, but Janelle couldn’t see how badly hurt she was. A man nearby crossed himself, and the child next to him burst into tears.
‘What’s happening, Daddy?’ the child screeched.
Janelle leaned towards the window, trying to orient herself, but could see nothing beyond a blanket of malevolent green-grey cloud. The engines whined, seemingly working at full capacity.
The plane jolted violently and Janelle felt dizzy, unable to determine if they were climbing or descending. A man across the aisle vomited, and some of it sprayed over Janelle’s knees. She gripped the baby tightly, bile rising in her own mouth. An Indonesian-looking man several rows ahead began praying loudly, repeating the sames word over and over. Allahu Akbar … Ya ampun … Allahu Akbar.
The plane shook with unnatural, arrhythmic spasms, as if it was coughing. The seatbelt slashed across her waist, forcing her body against the seat. The baby wailed from its infant harness, connected to Janelle like a strange umbilical cord.
An almighty bang caused her to shriek with alarm and a sharp, pungent odour filled the cabin. Janelle looked around wildly, her ears ringing, but the lights flickered then went out. Passengers began to scream.
Oh my God.
A sensation of weightlessness, a nauseating pressure in her ears.
Suddenly, blinding sunlight speared through the window as the plane cleared the cloud. The turbulence eased immediately and air rushed out of Janelle’s lungs.
‘It’s over,’ announced the man next to her.
Janelle’s heart was still pounding as if attempting to batter its way out of her body. ‘What was that sound?’ she asked, turning to him. ‘Like … an explosion.’
‘Lighting strike,’ he replied evenly. ‘It happens a lot in the tropics. That strange smell is ozone.’
Ozone? She stared at him, absently patting the baby in its harness. ‘I hate flying,’ she murmured. ‘That was my worst nightmare.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ The man winked at her. ‘We didn’t crash.’
The lights in the cabin flickered on again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, apologies for the bumps,’ announced the captain. ‘While I know it’s uncomfortable, there is absolutely no threat to the aircraft. I’ve asked the crew to suspend cabin service for the time being, because we don’t want you wearing your hot coffee in your lap.’
Janelle didn’t even smile. How could the pilot make light of the situation?
‘We anticipate a smoother ride in around five minutes, at which point I’ll be able to turn off the seatbelt sign and the crew will continue looking after you. Again, apologies for the inconvenience and thank you for your patience.’
The woman from the aisle seat returned from the toilet, her face flushed red—from embarrassment or fear, Janelle couldn’t tell.
‘Oh, sweetie,’ she crooned at her baby, sitting down. She slid the harness off Janelle’s seatbelt, secured it to her own, then cradled the infant in her arms.
‘Thank you so much,’ she gushed to Janelle. ‘That was a wild ride, wasn’t it?’
Janelle could barely nod. Instead, she pressed the call bell with a trembling hand. Deep breathing was useless now: she needed something stronger, and fast.
She closed her eyes, waiting for the five minutes to elapse, involuntarily thinking of her mother. How it had all started, when Janelle was just nine years old. They’d been travelling from Melbourne to the Gold Coast for the school holidays—Janelle, her brother, Kyle, and their mother—for their first ever family trip interstate. Her father couldn’t join them, being unable to take leave from his work as a construction engineer, but Janelle had been thrilled all the same. As the aircraft started to taxi, she’d squealed with childish excitement. But her mother had gripped Janelle’s arm and told her to shut up. Unusually harsh words, and her face was strangely white and contorted.
‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ Janelle had asked shakily.
Her mother had whispered a reply. ‘When I fly, I think I’m going to die.’
The flight to Queensland had been entirely uneventful, however. The plane had taken off and reached cruising altitude, the inflight entertainment was activated, an unexceptional snack was delivered, then the plane had descended and landed at the Gold Coast. And yet her mother’s dire declaration—when I fly, I think I’m going to die—had impressed itself indelibly upon Janelle’s mind, and carried disproportionate psychological weight ever since. Wasn’t it always like that, with mothers and daughters?
Mercifully, Janelle had only had to fly infrequently since then. Mostly interstate within Australia, and once to Vanuatu on a university field trip. After graduating with double honours in sociology and anthropology, Janelle’s first foray into full-time work—an entry-level market research role, for which she was thoroughly overqualified—had required little travel. Even so, her fear of flying grew, stoked by media coverage of major aviation disasters. Kyle had dubbed her a ‘crash junkie’ for her compulsive consumption of every harrowing detail: a clipped tail on take-off, a blocked Pitot tube, a disintegrating fan blade.
As her career progressed to more sophisticated consumer research, including political polling, Janelle had been relieved to remain grounded. But her flying phobia persisted and became a sticking point in her four-year relationship with Nick, her first serious boyfriend after a series of short-lived romances at university. A suave advertising account manager, Nick was almost certainly The One—a fantasy she’d held onto since adolescence, despite knowing better.
Every Christmas for the duration of their relationship, Nick had invited her to visit his parents with him in Perth. And each time, she’d staunchly refused to fly, suggesting they travel by car instead. Unprepared to commit to a week-long road trip, he’d finally stopped asking. Then, just over a year ago, he’d replaced Janelle with an adventurous redhead he’d met at a work conference—with whom he was now backpacking around Europe, posting nauseating Facebook updates:
Downing the biers in Dusseldorf!!
First time skiing in the Alps. Woo hoo!!!
Loving romantic Italy with Cherry. Pizza in Pisa—that’s amore!!!!
Life had turned into one big exclamation mark for Nick, it seemed, since he’d hooked up with Cherry. And judging from their Facebook photos, she was exactly as the name implied—glossy and luscious. The polar opposite of Janelle, whose life to date had been an exercise in mediocrity.
For as long as she could remember, Janelle had seen herself as Miss Average: normal height, regular weight, unremarkable features. Shoulder-length brown hair, a smattering of moles across her face. A modest bust, a curvy behind, too heavy-hipped for her liking. But the prettiest hazel eyes, Nick had said, a long time ago.
A high-pitched dinging sound made Janelle jump. The seatbelt sign had been switched off.
‘Yes?’ A flight attendant stood in the aisle nearby, the picture of coiffed composure. ‘May I help you?’ The woman’s eyebrows were mesmerising: strong dark arches, perfectly plucked.
‘Can I have a vodka, please?’ asked Janelle. ‘A double. On the rocks.’
The woman pursed her lips. ‘In a moment. We’re busy with injuries and vomit right now.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m a …’ Janelle began, but the flight attendant whirled away.
She returned ten minutes later with two plastic cups. Four ice cubes in one, some vodka in the other. She leaned across the woman with the baby and placed the items on the tray table in front of Janelle. ‘Twelve dollars, please.’
As Janelle fished about in her purse—locating, inadvertently, another Xanax to take with the vodka—the man in the window seat glanced her way.
‘That looks good.’ He waved a hand at the flight attendant, who took Janelle’s payment before turning her attention to him. ‘Can I have one of those too?’
Janelle detected a flicker of irritation in the woman’s eyes, before the polite mask returned. ‘Certainly, sir.’ The attendant moved off once more.
Janelle fumbled with the silver
blister pack, discreetly popping a pill into her palm. Then, without glancing at either of her fellow passengers, she put the pill in her mouth and raised the vodka to her lips. She drank greedily, feeling the instant relieving heat cascading down her throat. Stifling a cough, she placed the cup back on the tray table.
A moment later, the flight attendant returned and delivered the man his drink.
‘Thank you,’ he said, before turning to Janelle and baring his yellow teeth in a smile more akin to a grimace. ‘You like to drink vodka?’ His accent was German, she guessed.
‘Not usually,’ she said. ‘It just steadies my nerves in the air.’
It was blatant binge-drinking, Janelle realised, but she didn’t do it at any other time. Nor did she usually take benzodiazepines; she’d only sought a prescription before the flight.
‘I fly all the time,’ said the man, unprompted. ‘Domestic flights across Indonesia. Some of them are even worse than what we just went through. Do you travel for work?’
She toyed with the idea of divulging everything. I just tossed in my job of five years. I’m almost thirty, reluctantly single and my life needs an overhaul. I lost my last boyfriend to my flying phobia a year ago, so I’ve booked myself into a fear-facing retreat in Bali. But after surviving turbulence like that, I might not need it now.
Instead, she shook her head. ‘I mostly do desk-based research. But I just resigned from my job, actually.’
In spite of spending the past five years progressing through the ranks at Preston Polls, Janelle had never felt terribly passionate about consumer research. Telephoning random numbers—ignoring the answering machines, the ring-outs, the hang-ups, the children who refused to fetch their parents—before seizing the moment when someone actually allowed her to speak.
Good morning, sir/madam, my name is Janelle from Preston Polls. Today we are conducting a survey about the buying habits of females aged eighteen to forty-four who use feminine sanitary products. Is there a female in your household of that age available to speak with me now?
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