by Kris Webb
‘Our product is baby books,’ I began and saw him grimace. ‘Baby books that are designed for real people,’ I hurried on. ‘Not books that have storks and cherubs all over them.’
I passed him a vibrant pink book and followed it with a green one. ‘The concept is that people buy a cover and the pages and they then mix and match whatever pages they want. Christenings might be relevant for some people, naming ceremonies for others.’
‘Makes sense,’ he said, nodding as he flipped through the mocked-up pages. ‘Do you have costings?’
Debbie handed him her file. While he looked through it, Debbie and I chose our own coffees and sipped nervously. None of us touched the bagels.
‘And how soon could you have them delivered?’ he asked, still reading.
‘The covers are arriving in three weeks.’ I couldn’t see much point in hiding the truth. ‘The pages could be printed by then too.’
That got his attention.
‘You’ve ordered the products and are still looking for distribution? That was brave.’
Neither Debbie nor I responded. Brave wasn’t the word I would have chosen.
Peter put the file down and looked at us. ‘Look, ladies. This isn’t how I do things. I have twenty outlets and people to source products for me. I don’t get involved with decisions about small product lines any more.’
My hopes, which had started to build as he read through the file, vapourised. Another knockback, I thought.
‘But . . .’ Peter interrupted my vision of Sarah and me queuing for soup and bread at the Salvation Army, ‘I actually think these look great and I admire your energy. The coffee and bagel bribe didn’t go astray either. So if you’ll reduce your price to give me fifty-five per cent of the retail value, I’ll buy five hundred of them. If they sell I’ll take more.’
He scribbled a name and number on a piece of paper and pushed it across the table. ‘Call this person later today to sort out the details.’
‘Sorry, Peter, we can’t do that,’ Debbie said calmly, ignoring the piece of paper in front of her.
I looked at her incredulously. This man was offering us money and as far as I was concerned we should just take whatever he was prepared to give us and get out of there before he changed his mind.
‘We can absorb the price drop, but only if you take one thousand copies,’ she continued.
Peter pursed his lips and scribbled some numbers on the pad in front of him. ‘All right, I’ll take nine hundred,’ he said, a faint smile playing across his face. ‘Deal?’
‘Deal,’ Debbie replied, scooping up the piece of paper and then standing and holding out her hand.
I smiled in what I hoped was a businesslike manner as we left, resisting my urge to hug him for saving my daughter and me from poverty.
‘Yes!’ I punched the air as we reached the stairwell. Nine hundred books at the lower price meant we wouldn’t quite cover the costs of importing the covers, but if I could swing a longer credit period for the printing and artwork fee, I would only have to borrow money for a couple of weeks. And if we could sell some more books to House Arrest or someone else, then maybe we could actually make some money too. The feeling of relief that rolled over me made me light-headed.
Debbie grinned at me. ‘Know anywhere that will serve us champagne at this hour?’
TWENTY-FIVE
‘Debbie, what are you doing in there?’
Banging on the door to the spare bedroom where Debbie had closeted herself, I had a sudden feeling of déjà vu, as though we were back in high school and my dad was waiting downstairs to take us to a school social.
Instead, I was about to belatedly celebrate my thirtieth birthday, my daughter was in the next room, my daughter’s father was about to arrive, and my date was waiting impatiently downstairs.
I looked at my watch – seven fifty-five.
‘Debbie, you said yourself it was a miracle we got a table at Eat Drink for eight-thirty on a Friday night. I reckon they’ll wait for about thirty seconds before they give it away.’
Debbie opened the door to the bedroom. Despite the fact that she had been in there for almost an hour, she was still wearing nothing more than her underwear.
‘I can’t decide what to wear.’
This was amazing coming from Debbie. While I often went through five different outfits before settling on the first one I’d tried, Debbie always seemed to know exactly what she was going to wear days before any event. She even managed to coordinate her toenail polish with her outfits. However, I noticed that tonight even her toes were bare.
‘Deb, what’s going on? I’m the one who is supposed to be stressed. It’s my party.’
‘Sophie, I can’t explain now. I just need your opinion. Should I wear the black dress or the black trousers and paisley top?’ Before I could answer she added, ‘Or the gold top?’
‘Well, considering I’ve never even seen any of this stuff before, I don’t really know. When did you buy all this?’ Seeing the look on her face I realised now was not the time to lecture her about clothes expenditure. ‘Okay, forget it. Let me see what the dress looks like on.’
As she pulled the dress over her head, I pondered this very un-Debbie-like behaviour. She hadn’t even invited anyone along, insisting that she’d get ready at my place to keep me company.
The dress looked great and I convinced her to leave it on without showing me all the others. I left her to finish off her makeup and headed downstairs.
My birthday had been months earlier, but having had visions of nursing one glass of champagne while all my friends became riotously drunk in my honour, I’d refused to have a celebration while I was pregnant.
When we’d finally set a date for the festivities, I’d been in favour of going to a bar in Newtown, followed by a meal at Sahib’s, the Indian restaurant around the corner. But Debbie had insisted that Eat Drink was the place to be seen, and that she and everyone else wanted to take me out for something slightly more glamorous than a dodgy curry.
However, as I tottered downstairs again in my ridiculously high Prada heels (courtesy of Debbie) I had my doubts. There was something very appealing about celebrating moving into my thirties in jeans and a T-shirt, propped up at a low-key bar with my friends. After all, I reasoned, who was I trying to impress anyway?
When we were together, Max and I had spent a small fortune on trying out new restaurants and we had developed a theory that the most successful of them operate on a policy of fear and intimidation, which their highly trained staff carry out with great skill. We had concluded that the purpose of this is to ensure that by the time you actually have your meal you are so confused and cowed that there is no chance you could ever complain, no matter how bad the food is.
But it was far too late to change my mind now. As I looked at my watch again, I realised that if we didn’t get a move on, we were going to be very late.
‘How’s she going?’ David seemed more amused than stressed about the lateness of the hour.
‘She’s pretty close to ready. Are you sure I can’t get you a drink while you wait?’
‘No thanks, I’m fine.’
Despite his last visit, and the fact that Debbie and I had managed to place the order with House Arrest, things were still strained between us and we were both trying a bit too hard. As if that wasn’t enough pressure, I had also let Max talk me into letting him babysit Sarah for the evening.
‘Sophie, I’m going to have to learn how to do it some time – I might as well start while she’s asleep. She won’t even know you’re not there,’ he had argued. ‘I’ll line my mum up so she’s at the other end of the phone if I need some advice. You can take your mobile and if things really get serious I’ll call you and you can be home in fifteen minutes.’
I didn’t want to tell him that I was less worried about Sarah’s wellbeing than my own, that I didn’t know how I’d feel about getting all dressed up and going out with David and leaving Max at home. The whole thing was just too weir
d to contemplate.
‘And besides,’ Max had continued, ‘who else are you going to get to babysit? Won’t everyone be out at the party?’
He had a point. Karen had been looking forward to the dinner since we had first started planning it and had already arranged for her usual babysitter to look after her kids. I hadn’t been out enough to develop my own network of babysitters and I hated the idea of leaving Sarah with a stranger.
Debbie had looked at me strangely when I’d told her my dilemma. ‘Just take him up on his offer, Sophie. I thought you two had decided to be grown-ups?’
I didn’t feel very grown up, though, when Max arrived on the dot of eight with a video and plastic bag full of containers of takeaway Thai.
‘David, this is Max. Max, David,’ I said, trying to act casual.
If I hadn’t felt so stressed, I would have had to laugh. Each looked seriously unimpressed by the other’s presence, although I had already warned both of them separately. Max had promised to be on his best behaviour, but I could feel the chill in the air as the two of them shook hands.
Despite having told myself many times that I didn’t have to fill every conversational void, I couldn’t help myself from babbling as I prayed desperately for Debbie to hurry up. ‘Sarah’s already asleep,’ I told Max.
‘She shouldn’t wake up until three or four,’ I continued. ‘And I’ll be home by then. But just in case, there are some bottles of milk in the fridge. She likes them warmed up, so if you just put the bottle in the microwave for about thirty seconds, that’ll take the edge off it . . . Make sure you test it before you give it to her, though.’
‘Got it,’ Max answered. ‘Relax, Sophie, we’ll be fine.’
‘I know you will. But if you do need me, here are some contact details – my mobile and the restaurant and also some emergency numbers just in case.’ I waved a page covered with numbers in front of him.
Max took it and put it down on the table beside him without a glance. ‘Got it.’
I hoped I only imagined the look that passed between the two men.
‘We’d really better get going,’ David spoke up. ‘Do you want me to have a go at yelling at Debbie for a while?’
After a couple more shouts up the stairs, Debbie finally emerged, having changed outfits again. She was now wearing a pair of fitted black trousers and a stunning halter-neck.
Max looked very relieved to see us leave. ‘Have a great time,’ he said and I couldn’t help but feel a pang as he closed the door behind us.
When we arrived at Eat Drink, I was greeted with yet more evidence of just how far out of the social loop I had fallen. The burly, not-too-bright doormen I was used to seeing at restaurants that had a happening bar attached had been replaced by a new breed of security guard, which Debbie informed me quietly were known as door bitches. Tall, razor thin and with dead straight black hair, the woman outside Eat Drink looked more like a model than a bouncer. However, she was definitely making the decisions about who was getting into the bar and who wasn’t.
According to Debbie, the theory was that women were better than men at negotiating their way out of tricky situations and were therefore less likely to have to resort to unseemly violence. Apparently this new trend had begun after a series of unpleasant and highly publicised incidents in which patrons had been badly injured by overzealous security staff.
This particular woman didn’t appear to have a great deal of confidence in her negotiating ability, as she was flanked by what looked like the entire Manpower troupe. Tight black T-shirts emphasised huge biceps and thick necks, and I was seized with a desire to give them some simple maths problems, to check if they were really as dumb as they looked.
Our reservations worked like a secret password and we moved inside without incident. Karen, Sam, Ben and Anna were already there. They all eyed David with undisguised interest.
‘We need champagne,’ Debbie declared after I had finished the introductions. ‘And lots of it.’
Standing in the cool, if decidedly pretentious, restaurant surrounded by good friends I was glad that Debbie had insisted on us coming here. By some kind of miracle the champagne Debbie had ordered arrived straightaway and everyone raised their glasses as she said, ‘To Sophie, our wonderful friend and now Sarah’s devoted mother. Happy birthday!’
Andrew arrived as we drank, attracting approving glances from a number of women as he pushed his way through the other people at the bar to join us. I noticed with surprise that he was wearing a very fashionable three-quarter length black jacket over a light blue shirt, neither of which I’d ever seen before. The only clothes Andrew ever showed interest in buying were made of special sweat-absorbing material and I could only remember him buying a handful of going-out clothes in the whole time I’d known him.
He and David shook hands in what I could see was the usual male ‘I have stronger grip than you’ tussle. Debbie handed Andrew a glass of champagne and he took a deep sip and said something to her that I didn’t catch.
David turned to me and said quietly, ‘I couldn’t say it before when Max was around, but you look great.’
‘Thanks,’ I smiled.
I felt great. Figuring I had a double reason for celebrating now that we’d done the deal with House Arrest, I’d splurged on a red dress from a shop on King Street. I’d been looking at it through the window for months and it had miraculously been on sale. I hadn’t bought anything other than fat clothes, as Debbie called them, for a year and it felt fantastic to be wearing something new.
‘I have some good news,’ David said as Debbie and Andrew turned back towards us.
‘The Sydney Morning Herald is running your baby book story tomorrow morning – including those glam photos of the pair of you.’
Debbie and I looked at him incredulously. The kind of exposure the article would give us was something we could never have contemplated paying for, even if there had been room in our business plan for an advertising budget. With all the people who would read the article over breakfast and morning coffees, our business had just gone from being a candidate for a chapter in a ‘How not to run a small business’ textbook to something that could take off.
‘How did you manage that?’ Debbie asked, always the cynic.
‘I went to school with the features editor and he owed me a favour,’ David answered, ignoring Debbie’s sceptical tone. ‘Besides, it’s a good story.’
‘That’s unbelievable news, David. Thank you.’
‘It was the least I could do after what happened,’ David said happily. ‘I’m really glad I could help.’
‘This definitely calls for more champagne,’ Debbie declared, catching the eye of a passing waiter. We polished off the champagne as the waiter arrived to show us to our table.
David was sitting across from me. He seemed to be very comfortable with everyone and was chatting animatedly to Anna beside him. It was only after the waiter asked us for the third time if we were ready to order that we all made an effort to stop talking and look at the menu.
The meals, which were presented on huge moss-green plates, looked like works of art and tasted great too. They were also decently sized, something to be thankful for in Sydney where you could easily pay fifty dollars for a beautifully presented but minuscule piece of meat in the middle of a plate half the size of the table.
A silence suddenly fell over the group and I realised that looking down at David was Angela; tall, thin, gorgeous Angela, whom I had last seen leaving David’s office in a fit of pique. She looked stunning in a pale blue suit – at least she would have looked stunning if her eyes weren’t bloodshot and she wasn’t swaying slightly.
‘Hello, David,’ she said and I could hear the effort she was making not to slur her words.
‘Hello, Angela,’ he answered, with a decided lack of enthusiasm.
A strained silence descended.
‘How are you?’ she tried again.
‘I’m well, thanks,’ he replied. Obviously deciding that it w
ould be rude to go any longer without introducing her, he turned reluctantly to the table.
During the introductions Angela’s eyes didn’t move on past me. After several excruciatingly long seconds she obviously realised that she was staring and wrenched her gaze away.
‘I’m here with the usual crowd,’ she explained, gesturing towards the other side of the restaurant. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘enjoy your dinner,’ and with that she walked back towards her table, negotiating the gaps between the tables with some difficulty.
‘Sorry about that,’ David apologised. ‘We used to go out together and it’s still pretty awkward,’ he added unnecessarily.
Ben changed the subject expertly and before long the conversation was back in full swing. The whole scene had unsettled me, though, and I excused myself, heading to the bathroom to gather my thoughts.
I was standing at the basin washing my hands when Angela walked in. She was obviously as surprised to see me as I was to see her.
She smiled awkwardly at me and went to walk into one of the cubicles but then stopped suddenly. ‘Sophie, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you so much trouble,’ she said to my back, taking me totally by surprise. If anything, I’d expected her to be unpleasant. ‘I wasn’t really thinking straight after David and I broke up.’
‘Why would you be sorry?’ I asked, turning around.
It was her turn to look confused. Even three sheets to the wind, she obviously realised she had made a mistake. ‘Um, nothing,’ she muttered and turned towards the cubicle.
There was something about her manner (and maybe the champagne and wine I’d already consumed) that made me reluctant to let the matter drop. What did Angela have to apologise for?
I made a big show of reapplying my makeup, even though I’d just done it, and was still standing at the mirror when she re-emerged.
She looked anything but delighted to see me still there.
‘Angela, maybe I’m missing something, but I don’t know what you were talking about just then.’
