by Kris Webb
‘To Hong Kong,’ David said, holding out his glass. Smiling, I touched my glass to his and then took a sip before tucking into my dinner, which tasted as good as it looked.
‘How’s Debbie’s chickenpox?’ David asked, unable to keep the smirk off his face.
‘She’s spotty, itchy and miserable,’ I smiled. ‘I’m actually quite glad I’m on the other side of the world. Debbie’s one of the world’s worst patients.’
David’s reference to Debbie gave me the opportunity I’d been looking for since I’d allowed myself to believe that maybe his interest in me was not just a business one. ‘David, Debbie mentioned to me that you had been living with someone for a few years,’ I began awkwardly.
‘When I met Debbie I was,’ David replied easily. ‘But Angela and I decided that we were together more out of habit than anything else and that our relationship wasn’t making either of us happy. So we broke up a couple of months ago. Unfortunately, though, we work together, which means we still see each other every day. I wish we could just move on and be friends but it’s not that easy when you’ve been together for five years.’
‘Relationships certainly aren’t simple, are they?’ I mused, regretting the trite words as soon as they were out of my mouth. God, I thought, next thing I knew I’d be telling him life wasn’t meant to be easy.
‘What about Sarah’s father?’ David asked.
‘Kind of similar, I guess. Max was transferred to the States and it brought things to a head. It had got to the point where I wanted some kind of commitment from him which he didn’t want to give.
‘Not marriage or anything,’ I continued hurriedly, concerned that David would think I was sizing him up for a walk down the aisle. ‘Just some kind of feeling that we could plan past the next dinner party.’
Deciding that was enough sharing of past relationship sagas, I tried to think of a way to change the topic. Determined not to talk about Sarah, I searched my memory for some item of current affairs. As I did, I realised that I hadn’t read a newspaper for at least a fortnight and that for all I knew world war three could have broken out.
‘So do you play any sport?’ I asked, cursing myself as I heard how awkward I sounded.
‘Yes, and my hobbies are stamp collecting and horse riding,’ David replied.
We both burst out laughing and, ice broken, talked comfortably for the rest of the meal. Once we’d finished, I picked up the phone to order some coffee, which arrived quickly. After the waiter had left, taking our dinner table with him, we settled back into the lounge chairs.
‘Before the airport was moved, you used to be able to watch the planes landing and taking off over there every few seconds,’ David said, pointing across the harbour.
‘You seem to know Hong Kong well,’ I said.
‘Pretty well,’ he replied. ‘I come here a few times a year.’
He looked out across the harbour again.
‘Look,’ he said, standing up. ‘You can actually see Felix at the top of the Peninsula.’
I stood up to see where he was pointing. ‘Yes, I can see it,’ I lied, too aware of David’s proximity to concentrate on picking one brightly lit building out from the hundreds lining the opposite shore.
Feeling David’s eyes on me, I turned my head to look at him. He reached out a hand and threaded it into my hair then pulled me towards him, touching his lips gently against mine. But as much as my body wanted to be carried away on a wave of passion, my mind wouldn’t let it. Debbie’s taunts about my not wanting even to think about sex for months after Sarah was born echoed in my ears. Competing for attention was my worry about whether, three months post birth, my body was in a satisfactory state for viewing by anyone else.
Pulling back, I looked at David. ‘I really . . .’ I began.
‘Sophie,’ he interrupted, ‘I think you’re beautiful and it doesn’t bother me in the slightest that you have a baby. Just relax, would you?’
Flattery has always been one of my weaknesses. While I was under no illusions that I really was beautiful, if David wanted to tell me I was, then he was a friend for life. At the sound of the compliment my sensible mind threw in the towel and surrendered to my lustful body and I let David lead me towards the bed, with only a vague wish that I’d bothered to read the ‘Sex after Baby’ chapter in my book, which I’d dismissed with a snort at the time.
When Sarah’s cry woke me hours later I automatically went to sit up. Usually I could make it into her room without opening my eyes. However, this time there was a weight across my chest, which my forever-damaged abdominal muscles were unable to shift. Lying back down I opened my eyes and looked sideways at the arm flung across my chest and the unfamiliar body lying beside me.
The events of several hours ago flooded back; but, oblivious to the fact that I was engaging in a pleasant reverie, Sarah continued yelling. Realising that being woken to the sound of a screaming baby might be slightly more than David was prepared for at this stage, I carefully lifted his arm off my chest and eased my feet onto the floor before slipping into the dressing room to feed Sarah.
Sitting in the dark, I ran the evening over in my mind, unable to believe that it had happened and that I’d actually slept with David only the third time I’d met him. To my surprise, I realised I didn’t have any regrets. It had been a long time since Max and I had split up and, despite the horror stories I’d heard, the sex had been great, regardless of whether or not anything came of it. After feeding Sarah I slipped back between the sheets, enjoying the feeling of having someone else in bed with me.
It was David’s voice, not Sarah’s crying, that woke me for the second time. He was standing over the bed fully dressed, looking down at me. Damn, I thought. I knew I should have turned off the bedside lamp while we were having sex.
‘Sophie, it’s seven o’clock. I’ve got a flight to Beijing in two hours. I’m really sorry but I’ve got to leave.’
I sat up with the sheet clutched to my chest feeling ridiculously self-conscious. My clothes were scattered on the other side of the room and I had no intention of collecting them while David was watching. I had learnt from bitter experience that, while it always looks effortless in the movies, wrapping a bed sheet around you is best left to the experts. On my one and only attempt, I’d spent a couple of minutes dragging the sheet out from under the mattress and then found myself suddenly naked when the corner caught on the foot of the bed.
Seeing my predicament, David passed me one of the white hotel robes hanging in the cupboard. I quickly slipped it on and stood up.
We spoke at the same moment.
‘David, I . . .’
‘I had a good . . . ’
I smiled and gestured for him to go on.
‘I really do have to go, but I’d like to see you again . . . Can I call you?’
‘That would be great,’ I said, trying not to look as pleased by his words as I felt. David hesitated and then stepped over and deposited a stiff kiss on my cheek. Turning quickly, he walked to the door and I tried desperately to think what Debbie would say in this situation. However, before I could come up with anything, he was gone.
TWENTY-ONE
Accusing me of being too soft in my negotiations, Debbie, still spotty but no longer contagious, had taken over ordering the books while I finalised the designs. So a few days after we’d arrived home from Hong Kong, I left Sarah with her while I went to meet the designer. My house looked and sounded amazingly calm as I put the key in the lock on my return.
As soon as I walked inside I spotted what must have been two dozen red roses crammed haphazardly into a vase which was perched precariously on top of the television.
Debbie was sitting in the lounge room, Vogue in one hand, glass of champagne on the table, and Sarah kicking happily on a rug at her feet. When she saw me come in, she stood up. The look of glee on her face made my heart sink. Maybe she’d stolen the flowers from a neighbour or, my breath caught in my throat at the thought, maybe she’d found my credit
card and decided she should celebrate her emergence from the social oblivion of chickenpox quarantine.
‘What have you done? Debbie, if you’ve bought all these with my money, I swear I’ll kill you.’
Her smile increased, which only made me more nervous. ‘Darling, how little you think of me. I understand perfectly that your days of fun are over. At least I had thought so until that nice deliveryman showed up. Who’ve you been sleeping with and, more importantly, why didn’t you tell me?’
I still didn’t believe her – she looked way too innocent. ‘Debbie, it’s not funny any more. Tell me what you’ve done.’
‘Sophie, read my lips. I haven’t done anything apart from accept your delivery. For once I’m perfectly innocent. You might find a clue in the flowers, though – they came with a card.’
Still not entirely sure what to believe, I pulled out the envelope stuffed in amongst the flowers.
As soon as I saw my name on the front of the envelope I knew Debbie had been telling the truth. I’d never seen David’s handwriting, but my name was written with the kind of flourish I would have expected from him. I tore open the envelope and scanned the white card inside.
Sophie. Thanks for a great night in Hong Kong. David.
Debbie was standing with Sarah on her hip and looking at me with raised eyebrows. Something, probably the fact that I suspected nothing would come of it, had stopped me telling Debbie about David. Figuring there was no point in trying to hide the truth now, I flicked the card across to her. Catching it deftly with her free hand she looked at it in puzzlement.
‘David . . .’ she mused. ‘Do you know a David?’ Her eyes widened suddenly as she made the connection. ‘Not David Fletcher!’ she exclaimed.
Seeing my guilty look she continued, ‘It is David Fletcher! No wonder he’s giving us a good deal if you’ve been bestowing your charms on him!’
Smiling bashfully I said, ‘We had dinner together in Hong Kong and I figured that I was in grave danger of being expelled from the King Street Cafe mornings if I let this celibacy thing continue any longer.’
Debbie’s jaw dropped. ‘You slept with him?’ she exclaimed. ‘But Sarah’s only three months old, what about . . .?’
She interrupted herself and held up a hand. ‘Nope, forget that, I don’t want to know. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, you dark horse. Have you seen him since you’ve been back?’
I shook my head, pleased by the look of grudging admiration on Debbie’s face. It wasn’t often that I managed to impress her where men were involved.
‘Well, he’s certainly making up for that now,’ Debbie crowed, examining the card again as if looking for further clues.
‘But what about the girlfriend? Don’t tell me he’s cheating on her.’
‘They broke up two months ago, apparently.’
‘Well, I have to hand it to you, Sophie,’ Debbie said. ‘You’ve only had a few months without a pregnant belly and you’re already dating one of the most eligible men in Sydney. Whatever will Max think?’ she continued mischievously.
Despite myself, I couldn’t help feel a flicker of guilt at the mention of Max. ‘This has got nothing to do with him, Debbie,’ I said fiercely.
She threw her free hand up in mock surrender. ‘Okay, okay, just joking. Are you really interested in David?’ she asked, suddenly serious.
‘I think maybe I am,’ I said. ‘He’s good fun and easy to be with.’
‘Not to mention drop-dead gorgeous,’ Debbie interrupted.
‘And he seems totally relaxed about Sarah,’ I continued. ‘It’s all taken me by surprise, though. A relationship was something I really hadn’t counted on, and it’s strange enough thinking about being with anybody, let alone someone who isn’t Max.’
‘Well, I think it’s great,’ Debbie said. ‘Don’t think too hard about it and just see what happens. If it’s not something that’s meant to last, then at least you’ll have had a good time.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Speaking of men, I’ve got to go.’ She handed Sarah to me, kissed my cheek and headed out the door.
Things were looking up, I thought, as I punched David’s number into the phone. I’d just received fabulous flowers from a man I was definitely interested in, and we now had a supplier as well as a buyer for our baby books.
Suddenly I changed my mind and put the phone down before it connected. ‘Come on, Sarah,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and thank David in person.’
Even though I knew that buying fake designer clothes was theft of copyright, I hadn’t been able to resist picking up some fabulous pieces for Sarah in Hong Kong which had cost me about a tenth of the amount of the real thing. Deciding that a trip into the city justified a change of outfit for her, I pulled off her white cotton grow suit and slipped on a bright pink pinafore of a brand I was sure would have impressed even Debbie.
My wardrobe was still in its pre-pregnancy time warp. The few maternity clothes I had reluctantly bought certainly didn’t count, and since Sarah’s birth, the mind games involved in choosing which of my existing clothes I’d try for size had given me enough traumas without venturing into the world of shops, pushy salespeople and full-length fluorescent-lit mirrors.
The only piece of clothing I’d bought since Sarah’s birth was an orange and white striped sleeveless top. I’d found it in a store that boasted of selling no item for more than ten dollars and had felt proud of my budgetary inspiration the first time I wore it with a pair of trousers I’d paid about twenty times as much for. However, the next time I’d gone to wear it, I’d discovered that the intervening wash had caused it to shrink so that it only reached halfway down my stomach and that the arm and neck holes now sagged towards the bottom of my bra. As a result I’d abandoned my trawling of bargain bins and decided to give up clothes shopping altogether until my finances improved.
The sun was beating down out of a cloudless sky, leaving no doubt that the heat of summer wasn’t far away, and so I changed my jeans and T-shirt for a pair of black three-quarter length trousers (which admittedly had always been rather loose) and a sleeveless lime green top that hadn’t seen the light of day for at least a year.
I pushed away the vague recollection that the ‘Hot and Cold’ section in last month’s Cosmopolitan had identified both Capri pants and lime green as definitely ‘cold’. Sliding my feet into a pair of black mules, I picked up Sarah and my bag and headed for the door. Catching a glimpse in a mirror on the wall, I paused for a moment. We looked pretty good, I acknowledged with a burst of optimism.
My attention to what I wore when out and about with Sarah had been sharpened by a recent episode in the nearby park.
Needing a change of scenery one afternoon, I had put Sarah in the pram and wandered down. Given that Sarah couldn’t move, she wasn’t exactly old enough to make the most of the play equipment the park had to offer, but I figured that she should see more of nature than our little back garden could provide.
The park was fringed by gum trees and on the street side was an area of play equipment which had brightly coloured swings, tunnels and climbing platforms. Without making a conscious decision, I drifted around the edge of the park and ended up at the play area, where I propped Sarah up in her pram so she could see what was going on.
Looking around, I noticed three other mothers. They had their backs to me and were playing with their children on the plastic play equipment. Except they couldn’t be real mothers, I thought, they all looked too good.
The woman closest to me had on a light pink linen top and a pair of straight black trousers, which tapered beautifully over her high-heeled black boots. Even in my most ambitious moments since Sarah’s birth, I hadn’t considered wearing any of my linen clothes, having no doubt that I would look as though I’d slept in them for three days before I even left the house.
The second woman was wearing a brightly patterned skirt, black lycra top and patent leather sandals with a small heel. The third woman had on tailored cream trousers, tan boots and a top that s
imply had to be dry-clean only.
I swivelled my head to see if I could spot a TV crew, thinking that maybe I had stumbled across the filming of an American sitcom. Unable to see anything, I resumed my inspection of the women and moved closer on the pretext of showing Sarah a nonexistent butterfly. As I did so, two of them turned slightly towards me so that I could see what I’d suspected, but had been hoping wasn’t the case – they were wearing full faces of makeup, including foundation and glistening lipstick.
The articles featuring movie stars and models looking fabulous with their angelic babies hadn’t prepared me for seeing glamorous mothers in Erskineville. In LA maybe, or Central Park, but not the Lion’s memorial park at the back of the local supermarket. These women had definitely never arrived home after several hours in public to discover a trail of vomit over their shoulder and down their back, as I had the week before.
I’d felt underdressed at restaurants, bars and parties, but feeling underdressed in the playground was a new one for me. Oh well, I comforted myself. They were obviously all friends who felt they had to compete with one another for the position of best groomed mother on the block. However, this last illusion was shattered as I caught some of their conversation and realised that the three of them had only just met and were making small talk.
The woman in the skirt caught sight of me and smiled welcomingly. ‘Hi, how old’s your little girl?’ she asked (I had figured out recently that ‘How old is your boy/girl?’ was the baby group conversational equivalent of ‘So what do you do?’).
‘She’s three months,’ I answered, pleased to see that dressing Sarah from head to toe in pink was finally making her recognisable as a female.
‘Duncan is eight months,’ she said, gesturing towards the baby crawling around the ground picking up cigarette butts and attempting to swallow them.
Despite their friendliness and willingness to tell me exactly what Sarah would be doing shortly (I was hoping she might miss the cigarette butt obsession), I felt somewhat out of place in my washed-out jeans, old T-shirt and deck shoes, and shortly after made my excuses and headed off. However, the incident had stayed in my mind and I had been trying at least to iron my clothes since then.
