by Kris Webb
It turned out to be the best costume I had ever owned – even Debbie had approved. Debbie not only owns more than one costume, she has a matching wrap and shoes to go with each one. Not for her a beach towel slung over one shoulder. A visit to the beach is just another opportunity to reach the dizzy heights of fashion.
From then on, I bought exactly the same pair from the same shop at the start of every season (although admittedly at full price). I have vowed that I am going to keep doing this until the day I die. Although I live in terror that one day the manufacturers will change their design.
As was usual on a Sunday, the parking at Bondi was appalling and it was well after four by the time we arrived at the spot we’d arranged. Max, whom I spotted when we were still a distance away, seemed agitated, looking at his watch and then gazing towards the road.
‘Hi. I’m glad you could make it,’ he said when we reached him. He was talking to me, but his eyes slid to Sarah, who looked particularly cute in her pink corduroy overalls.
‘It’s a perfect evening for a picnic,’ I said, trying to pretend that this was just an ordinary get-together and not our first family outing.
‘It is,’ he agreed as he shouldered the esky and hamper at his feet and we moved towards the grassy slope overlooking the beach. ‘I hope you like what we’re eating. Are you still obsessive about Manchetti’s lime cheesecake? I convinced them to let me have two pieces to take away.’
‘Now, come on. Some things might have changed since we were going out but you should know better than to think I wouldn’t still kill for lime cheesecake.’
When we reached a clear space amongst the large, noisy families and chased away the seagulls, I spread out the old picnic blanket I had brought. As usual, Sarah was oblivious to the tension in the air, waving her arms in excitement at a sparrow on the ground. Her lack of awareness was just as well, I reflected, otherwise the situations I constantly found myself in would have made my daughter neurotic before she was three months old.
Max moved around setting up the picnic. First he opened a bottle of chilled wine and handed me a glass. Then he produced an antipasto platter heaped with stuffed mushrooms, olives, marinated tomatoes and cold meats.
When, to Debbie’s great amusement, I’d drawn up my first-ever budget a couple of months before Sarah was born, I had been horrified to discover the amount I spent at the little delicatessen down the road. Luxuries such as those spread out before me didn’t make it into my now home-brand-dominated shopping basket and it was only with great difficulty that I stopped myself from falling on delicacies I hadn’t tasted in months. Sarah lay happily playing with her feet as Max and I ate the food, which, with the sea breeze blowing and the sun setting behind us, tasted delicious.
‘So what brings you back to Sydney?’ I asked.
‘There was some follow-up work for the pitch I was here for last time, and the Sydney office wanted me to be involved,’ Max replied. ‘Look, Sophie, I’m sorry I ran out on you last time,’ he blurted. ‘The idea that Sarah was my child really freaked me out when I saw her. I’ve been feeling awful about how I reacted.’
‘Having a baby hasn’t been easy for me, you know. But running away isn’t an option,’ I replied tersely, unable to forgive him so easily.
‘I know,’ he said, looking genuinely upset. ‘I realise I’ve handled this whole thing badly and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to see me again. All I can ask is that you’ll give me another chance.’
Nothing could change the fact that Max was Sarah’s father, and my dad’s words about letting Max be involved had stayed with me. ‘Okay,’ I said slowly. ‘I do want you to be able to spend time with Sarah. So let’s just take it one step at a time.’
‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘Do you miss work?’ he asked after a moment, in an obvious attempt to change the subject.
I thought about it. ‘I certainly don’t miss doing the work – all the stresses of coordinating everything and always something not going to plan. But I miss the buzz I used to get when we pulled off a big event.’ Somehow the baby book venture still seemed like a pipedream and I decided not to mention it.
‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘You should see the performance that goes on in the San Francisco office when anyone does something big. There’s a huge party at the bar across the road. Just about everyone ends up dancing on the tables and there’s almost no work done the next day.’
‘Sounds like my kind of office. Don’t tell me that you dance on tables now? Two years we were together and I only saw you dance once.’
‘I just figured, you know, when in Rome . . . The whole thing gets a bit exhausting after a while, though. In fact I’ve been thinking about coming home.’
‘Wow. That’s a big change. Would the company transfer you back?’
‘I don’t know.’ Max hesitated for a moment and then went on. ‘Do you remember the old guy who chased us off his farm one weekend? We were after some of his goat’s cheese?’
‘I do remember. How could I forget?’
‘Turns out that someone in our Sydney office is his nephew or something. Don’t even ask me how that came up in conversation. Apparently the old guy’s planning to move up north to Queensland to retire and he wants to sell the farm.’
‘And?’ I couldn’t quite fit Max into this picture.
‘And I’ve been thinking about buying it.’
‘What?’
‘I know it sounds crazy, but I really think it could work. There’s a full-time manager there already, and he doesn’t want to leave. I could still live in Sydney during the week – maybe work four days or something, and then go to the farm on weekends. Just think of the great ad campaigns. Sydneysiders are into good food; I just need to tell them about it. I’ve seen the figures and it’s a pretty stable business.’
My eyes widened in surprise. Even though owning a business in the country was something we’d talked about, I was stunned that Max was thinking about actually doing it. ‘That’s a huge change from living the high life in San Francisco. Can you afford it?’
‘I met with a bank on Friday and I should hear next week whether they’ll give me the loan. They seemed pretty positive, though.’
‘That’s great. I hope it works out for you,’ I said, not sure that I really meant it.
Max turned to Sarah and began to talk to her. ‘So. Do you think your mummy might like some cheesecake now? It’s her favourite in the entire world. What was that? You don’t think she would? Well we wouldn’t like her to feel obliged, would we? Maybe we should just leave it in the esky?’
Sarah seemed to think the whole thing was pretty funny, but I punched Max in the arm and pulled out the cheesecake myself. True to his word, it was genuine Manchetti cheesecake and it tasted even better outdoors.
I looked over at Max. His face was much closer than I had expected, and almost as if by accident his lips brushed mine. His breath was warm and tasted of wine, and his lips felt exactly as I remembered. The kiss lasted only a second or two, but it made me forget that I was fine all on my own and that Sarah and I didn’t need anybody’s help. Suddenly I could think of nothing more wonderful than to curl up on Max’s chest and let him sort everything out.
But then our lips separated, we moved apart and the spell was broken.
Max’s face came towards me once more. I thought he was going to kiss me again, but instead he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, ‘I’ve missed you, Sophie.’
And with that, leaving me dazed and confused, he sat up and started to stack the platters and glasses as if nothing had happened.
Without a word we packed up the picnic and stood up.
‘I guess I’ll see you later,’ I said, desperate to say something to break the uneasy silence that had fallen.
‘I’ll call you,’ Max said.
‘Sure,’ I replied, not really believing him, and headed to the car with Sarah without looking back.
SEVENTEEN
My growing library
of baby manuals conflicted widely about when you should first give a baby solid food. One book said that if Sarah had anything other than milk for her first six months, she would have a much greater likelihood of being obese later.
Talk about a guilt trip. As well as worrying about turning my child into a responsible, non-drug-taking adult, now it seemed her waist size was my problem too.
Flicking to the end of the second book in the pile on the coffee table, I ran my finger down the index. ‘Feet, inward turning’, ‘Follicles, clogging’. I shook my head, convinced that these books could turn a well-balanced and confident mother into a paranoid stress ball.
Locating ‘Food, when to’ I turned to page 252 as directed but the commentary was vague and I couldn’t find any enlightenment about exactly when I should start.
Snapping the book shut, I decided to consult my most reliable reference material – Karen.
‘Karen,’ I pleaded as soon as she answered the phone, ‘I need some adult contact and some advice. Could I drop around?’
‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘As long as you can live with some minor pandemonium. Emily has two friends over and they’re charging around the house like demons.’
As I’d spent the morning in the house with Sarah, pandemonium sounded like a welcome change.
Swinging my ‘MacGyver Bag’ (as Debbie insisted on calling it, given that she was convinced I could pull something out of it to cover any eventuality) onto my shoulder and sticking my sunglasses on my head, I picked up Sarah and headed out.
As Karen opened her front door, three figures darted out from behind her and raced past me.
‘Sorry, Sophie,’ she apologised as I blinked in surprise. ‘Sam took Emily to the movies on the weekend and every time I walk around a corner I come across her pointing a gun at me and yelling, “Freeze!” Anyway, come in.’
Once we were inside, Karen reached over and took Sarah from me. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said, balancing Sarah in the crook of her arm in a way I still hadn’t mastered. Sarah rewarded Karen with a smile as I followed them into the kitchen, which was the nerve centre of the Jackson household.
It took up the entire front corner of the house and the morning sun streamed in the big windows, lighting up the marble benchtops and forming puddles of light on the huge pine table.
Pat, Karen’s youngest, was in a highchair at the end of the table and with great concentration was smearing his piece of Vegemite-coated bread across the armrests. Kissing him on the head (about the only part of his body not covered in black paste), I seated myself beside him.
Karen propped Sarah in a corner of the big yellow armchair next to the window and gave her a rattle. ‘Emily and co shouldn’t be able to stomp on her there,’ she said. ‘Right, coffee?’
I nodded vigorously and Karen moved across to turn on the chrome coffee machine on the corner of the bench. When she had finally accepted that the pain factor of taking Emily to a coffee shop far outweighed the enjoyment she got from the experience, she had bought a top-of-the-range coffee machine and tried to grab at least ten minutes to herself each day to sit in the yellow armchair, read the newspaper and drink her coffee.
While I still loved the time I spent with my childless friends, I definitely felt more relaxed in Karen’s busy house where a crying baby or a leaking nappy weren’t even worth mentioning. Karen twisted the knob on the side of the coffee machine and it made a comforting hissing noise as she began steaming the milk.
‘So what was the advice you needed?’ she asked.
‘I’m trying to figure out when I should start giving Sarah solid food,’ I said.
‘Oh, damn. Is that all?’ she replied, obviously disappointed. ‘You know that as a happily married woman I need to live through you. I was hoping you had a torrid sexual dilemma for me.’
‘Okay, okay,’ she continued on seeing my expression. ‘You’ve probably been stressed out by the books telling you that you can cause all kinds of lifelong problems for your children if you start feeding them at the wrong time or feed them the wrong foods.’
‘Exactly,’ I nodded.
‘Well, forget it,’ Karen said as she put the coffee cups under the machine and pressed the button to half fill them with coffee. ‘As far as I can see from my tireless research at years of playgroups, it doesn’t matter a bit. Just do it when you feel like it, although, trust me, the novelty wears off very quickly,’ she added, nodding at Pat who was now pulling his bread into pieces and dropping them over the side of his chair. ‘But on to more interesting topics. How was your weekend?’
I’d been trying to put Max out of my mind but it was no use. While my situation probably didn’t qualify as a ‘torrid sexual dilemma’, it was certainly something I needed to talk to someone about.
‘I saw Max yesterday,’ I said, spooning sugar into the coffee she had set in front of me and stirring it absently. ‘We had a picnic at Bondi and it was just like old times. He brought loads of great food and a nice bottle of wine and we sat and talked for a couple of hours.’
‘And?’ Karen pressed, sensing there was more.
‘He kissed me.’
Karen breathed out in a soundless whistle and looked intently at me. ‘And?’ she asked again.
‘And I kissed him back,’ I said. ‘God, Karen, I don’t know what to think. I was starting to convince myself that I was getting over him, but now I don’t know.’
‘How was he with Sarah?’
‘He seemed really taken with her. He kept looking at her and talking to her. But nothing has changed. The only reason he’s over here is because of work. Kissing me doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t want a proper relationship and doesn’t want to be a father.’
‘Is he enjoying San Francisco?’ Karen asked.
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘His work is going well and it sounds like he’s living life pretty hard socially.’
Now that I’d started talking about Max, I didn’t seem able to stop.
‘I’ve thought about it a lot,’ I continued, ‘and I figure that even if Max vowed undying love to me now and said he wanted Sarah too, it still wouldn’t work. He’s lived happily without me for a year and didn’t even know what Sarah looked like or what we were doing until he arrived in town for his pitch three weeks ago.’
‘Are you going to see him again?’
I shrugged and went to pick up Sarah, who had grown bored with looking around the kitchen.
‘Who knows. I don’t think even Max knows what he wants. It’ll probably be best for all of us when he goes home. Although he’s talking about moving back here to buy a farm.’
‘That’s something the two of you talked about from time to time, isn’t it?’ Karen recalled.
‘Yes,’ I answered miserably.
‘Back to food,’ said the ever-sensitive Karen, changing the subject. ‘I’ll bet you’ve been given at least one book of recipes for babies.’
‘Yeeess . . .’ I answered cautiously, not sure where she was leading.
‘Let me save you hours in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I guarantee that whatever book you’ve been given was written by a woman who was a gourmet cook and determined that her child wouldn’t eat boring food. So she adapted her recipes to suit her children and serves them things like asparagus and chicken risotto and Mediterranean couscous. But she’ll promise you that it takes no time at all and that the recipes will produce enough to feed your child for a week.’
Karen paused and then narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t believe a word of it. I got the guilts after months of feeding Emily various combinations of mushed vegetables, and so tried a couple of those recipes. They took me hours and I managed to use every pan in the house, and to add insult to injury, Emily wouldn’t have a bar of them. So I went back to the boring basics and now I have trouble keeping Emily away from all the olives, anchovies and capers in the fridge.’
‘Potato and pumpkin it is,’ I laughed, once again comforted by Karen’s practicality.
Later, as I
turned back to wave goodbye to Karen, who was standing in the doorway watching me leave, her eyes suddenly widened in surprise. She smiled ruefully as she raised her hands in surrender and turned back into the house, trailed by three little girls with their guns pressed firmly in her back.
EIGHTEEN
Despite the fact that I was thirty and had a baby, I still couldn’t quite get past feeling that spending Friday nights at home meant that I had become a social outcast. To make things even sadder, my father had taken to calling me on Friday nights. Although I’d never asked him why, I was pretty sure it was because he figured he would always find me in.
The terrible television programs on Friday nights just added to my paranoia. The only conclusion I could reach was that I must be the sole person in Australia home regularly on Friday nights, otherwise there would be a viewers’ uprising at the number of times one of the sixteen Lethal Weapon movies was rerun.
Despite the ‘entertainment’, I had developed a Friday-night ritual that made me feel at least a little as though I was still capable of celebrating the week-end. As soon as I put Sarah to bed, I’d pour myself a glass of wine, open up a bag of cheese and onion potato chips, and lie on the couch to plan my woeful television viewing.
I was just in the middle of deciding whether I could stomach yet another do-it-yourself program, when the phone rang.
‘Hello, Sophie. It’s David Fletcher.’
‘Uh, hi, David. How are you?’ I stammered in surprise. He had called a couple of days earlier to ask me if we could get him a finished product and firm prices within two weeks. He was confident that if we could, he would be able to do a deal for four thousand books. I hadn’t expected to hear from him again until our deadline, and certainly not on a Friday night.
‘Fine, thanks. I’m pleased I caught you in.’
There was no need to enlighten him about my standing date with a packet of chips. Instead I made a noncommittal noise, which I hoped he would interpret as meaning that there was some degree of luck in my being there to answer the phone.
