by Wendy Harmer
‘The dialogue works well, and moves at a cracking pace . . . It is a warm, assured comic voice, less strained than Kathy Lette, more laid-back than the gals on Sex and the City.’
—Australian Book Review
‘A wickedly funny examination of coitus’ past . . . a truly entertaining read. Beware, giggling whilst reading when significant others are watching The Footy Show may result in domestic disharmony . . . oh, bugger it, laugh out loud, there are some wickedly funny lines in this book bound to be repeated for years to come!’
—Geelong Times
‘The plot is cleverly crafted, but the really nice surprise is the fluency and verve of Harmer’s prose.’ —The Age
‘A scream. A must read.’ —The Cup Of Life Book Café
‘Harmer has written a sexy romp with an underlying core of morality and an overlay of the ace comedienne’s characteristic wit and humour . . . Harmer’s approach to love, marriage and growing older is both funny and spot-on.’ —Sunday Telegraph
‘Wendy Harmer was talking about chick lit . . . It turns out she knows quite a lot about it — apart from writing a brilliant example of her own.’ —The Age
‘An easy, light-hearted, funny read . . . Harmer makes a grand job of her first novel, pioneering a warm and welcome Australian chicklit genre about beautiful, interesting and intelligent women who aren’t invited to 30th birthday parties any more. And don’t really care.’ —Newcastle Herald
WENDY HARMER is one of Australia’s leading humourists. She is a mother of two, veteran of the Edinburgh, Montreal, Glasgow and Mayfest comedy festivals, hosted 2Day FM’s top-rating Breakfast Show for eleven years, and now hosts the morning show on Vega FM. Wendy is also the author of three books for adults, two plays and a highly successful series of children’s books about Pearlie the park fairy.
Wendy has hosted, written and appeared in a wide variety of TV shows including ABC’s The Big Gig and In Harmer’s Way. She has also hosted the Logies for the Nine Network and has been a regular newspaper and magazine contributor, writing columns for the Australian Women’s Weekly and the Sydney Morning Herald’s Good Weekend magazine.
Farewell my Ovaries
Wendy Harmer
Lyrics on p. 20 are from ‘Embraceable You’ by George Gershwin and Ira Gershwin, © 1930 (Renewed) WB Music Corp. For Australia and New Zealand:- Warner/Chappell Music Australia, Pty Ltd. (ABN 63 000 876 068) 39 Albany Street, Crows Nest NSW 2065. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorised Reproduction is Illegal; p. 192 ‘Hair’ by James Rado, Gerome Ragni and Galt MacDermot © United Artists Music Co/CBS Catalogue Partnership. For Australia and New Zealand:- Warner/Chappell Music Australia, Pty Ltd. (ABN 63 000 876 068) 39 Albany Street, Crows Nest NSW 2065. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorised Reproduction is Illegal.
This edition published in 2006
First published in 2005
Copyright © Wendy Harmer 2005
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 Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Harmer, Wendy.
Farewell my ovaries.
ISBN 1 74114 665 8.
I. Title.
A823.3
Set in Sabon by Bookhouse, Sydney
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Brendan
Six foot plus and perfect
Contents
Saturday Night: The Wedding
Sunday Morning: The Post-Mortem
Sunday Afternoon: The Going-Away Party
Monday: Two Weeks and Counting
Tuesday: An Indecent Proposal
Wednesday: The Company She Keeps
Thursday: All About Meg
Friday: The Birthday Party
Saturday: Unfaithful Aphrodite
Sunday: The First Day of the Rest of Claire’s Life
Monday: Travelling North
Tuesday: Going South
Postscript
Acknowledgments
Saturday Night
The Wedding
It was late when Claire finally found her means of escape from the dance floor. It was hardly the discreet exit she’d been planning for the past two hours. She was flung off the end of a giant conga line into a pot plant.
The conga line is like the Chaos Theory in action, Claire thought to herself as she picked a dead frond from her cleavage. The theory goes that somewhere in the world a butterfly flaps its wings and eventually there’s a tsunami on a remote island off Japan. It’s the same thing with a conga line. The person up the front seductively wiggles a hip and down the end, sixty drunken idiots later, someone is whiplashed at terminal velocity into a miniature golden palm. On this occasion, that someone was Claire.
She quickly realised that no one had seen her. Unsurprisingly, all eyes were on the bride and groom, so she hauled herself to her feet, checked spaghetti straps and slingbacks, smoothed her satin skirt, adjusted her sequins and tried to affect an air of insouciance.
Peering through the gloom at the back of the ballroom Claire saw her lilac evening bag glimmering by the light of a cluster of gardenia-scented candles. She strode purposefully towards the bag and swept it from the table with what she hoped looked like a simple, elegant, bangled gesture. And she would have made it out the door too, with the same simple elegance, if she had managed to adequately judge the distance between two chiffon-swathed chairs. After a passable impression of a human pinball, Claire was catapulted outside and found herself hanging over the railing looking into the inky blackness of Sydney Harbour.
A damp shawl of misty, cool darkness draped across her shoulders. She breathed deeply and looked back through the glass into the room where bodies surged in a chaos of light and magic.
Claire loved weddings. There was always some moment when the civilised veneer of the ceremony fell away and the primal pagan ritual was revealed. It didn’t matter whether the bride and groom were waltzing under a crystal chandelier to the strains of a classical quartet or wandering up a dirt road followed by a horde of toothless villagers banging on goatskin drums. At some point in all wonderful weddings there was a moment when everyone believed. Believed in the transcendent magic of love. Two single people, by some ancient alchemy, became one. Forever.
Watching Rose and Dermott gyrating at the head of the conga line like a couple of Britney’s back-up dancers, Claire reckoned they’d be ‘as one’ for about eighteen months, tops.
With the wildly entertaining foreplay being conducted in front of two hundred friends and family, Claire wondered whether the bride and groom would have sex tonight. Or were they, in fact, having it now?
As she fumbled in her bag for a cigarette, Claire thought back to her own wedding nights. There was certainly no sex on offer at either of them. Just two individuals in a mild state of shock looking at each othe
r thinking, what the hell have I done? Who is this person I just agreed to spend every night of my life with? Where the fuck is the mini-bar?
‘Oh God, I’m pissed,’ Claire said out loud as her cigarette lighter clattered to the deck.
‘Looks like a good night,’ said a disembodied voice from the gloom as the lighter came back into focus and burst into flame. She could now see a pair of shining eyes and a gleaming smile hovering above a white bow tie.
‘I’m at the Willows–Papandreou wedding at the other end of the yacht club. We just got through the speeches.’
‘Hope it wasn’t too excruciating,’ said Claire as she bent her head to take the proffered light. She reached out to steady herself with a hand on his forearm. She dimly registered that his arm was very firm, warm and that he smelled of violets (Grey Flannel, her favourite) and something else she couldn’t quite place.
‘Well, they were mostly pretty awful, but the groom’s speech was fascinating. It’s always entertaining watching a mate struggle to give an account of himself as an upstanding member of the community in front of the in-laws when you’ve always known him as an unreconstructed bastard,’ he laughed.
Claire also noted that it was a very nice laugh. Throaty, relaxed and . . . young.
‘That’s a pretty cynical view of proceedings,’ she said, inhaling.
‘Maybe. Maybe it just takes a bastard to know one—and correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought all men were bastards.’ And he laughed again.
‘That’s a healthy persecution complex you’ve got there too,’ Claire added.
‘Just kidding. Of course all men are bastards—except me.’ And here he looked at Claire with a grin.
‘Oh no—that’s the oldest pick-up line in the book!’ Claire jabbed her finger accusingly into his chest.
There was an awkward silence as they both wondered if that’s where this conversation was heading. And if it was, who was picking up who?
‘So how has the whole day gone?’ he asked, turning to take in the churning goldfish bowl in front of them.
‘It’s been lovely,’ Claire said, realising that it had been a very happy day. ‘Really lovely. We had the ceremony at sunset out on the lawn under the trees in the park over there. Which was gorgeous. Well, except that the page boy got hit by a cricket ball. Full tilt.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Tall, Dark and, well, very dark actually . . . She still couldn’t quite make out his face, although she was sure she could discern amusement bubbling just below his concern.
‘He was fine. He owes his life to a little leather bible he had in the top pocket of his jacket.’
‘Stopped the bullet, huh?’ And then they were both laughing out loud.
‘So where are the bride and groom?’ he asked.
Claire pointed. ‘Can you see the bloke on the stage swinging a cummerbund over his head? That’s the groom.’
‘Hmm,’ he answered, lowering his head next to hers to see.
Claire could now smell cigarettes and—what was that other smell? Improbably enough she thought it was coconut.
‘And that pile of vanilla organza and peony roses on the floor over there . . . that would be our bride.’
‘Uh-huh. Well, looks as though they’re going for it. My bride and groom were attempting some strangulated waltz last time I looked. I escaped before one of the dreaded country bridesmaids got hold of me. By the way, I’m Connor. Pleased to meet you.’
‘I’m Claire—pleased to meet you too.’
Claire looked up to see the face now illuminated by the soft candlelight coming through the window. He was indeed young, and utterly beautiful. His tanned, perfectly symmetrical face was framed with tawny blonde curls. His eyes were that sort of vivid sea-green you see in travel brochures of the Seychelles. And they were looking at her. Intently.
‘You seem a bit tired to me, Claire,’ he said, leaning his face close to hers.
I’m not tired, she thought defiantly. I’m just old. Get used to it, Sonny Jim, this is what middle age looks like. In fact I could sleep for a month and I would still look like this.
‘Oh well, I have been up since—’ she started to say, turning her face from his.
‘What I mean is, how’d you like a nice little pick-me-up? Come with me, honey, and let’s get this party started.’
With that Connor took hold of Claire’s shoulders, turned her towards the darkness and steered her up the length of the deck. She could feel two large hands in the small of her back pushing her along insistently. They walked quickly past the windows of the Willows–Papandreou nuptials. Claire saw an altogether different tableau slide by. A snowy white meringue with arms and an emperor penguin sat side by side at the head table. It seemed very quiet in there.
‘See what I mean?’ said Connor. ‘What’s the difference between a Willows wedding and a funeral? One less stitched-up wanker. They’re all spun out cos she’s Greek. See that table over there? They’re the in-laws.’
Out of the corner of her eye, before she and Connor turned in to a doorway, Claire could see a flash of colour in an expanse of beige. It looked like a flock of parrots had landed in the middle of a wheat field.
Before she had time to think about this, or indeed where they were going, she found herself blinking in the fluorescent light and pushed up a flight of stairs. Connor disappeared into the men’s toilets and in a heartbeat he was back. He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside. She was startled by the sound of her shoes clacking on the tiled floor and echoing off the row of ceramic urinals. Instinctively she checked her reflection in the mirror.
Despite the lighting, reminiscent of the inside of a frost-free fridge, Claire was pleased with what she saw. Lilac was the colour that suited her best. It set off her green eyes and pale skin. Her mid-length chestnut hair was shiny and full. Her silk camisole showed off her cleavage (still good), arms (just passable) and her stylish Donna Karan sequinned skirt skimmed her curves (not too bad). She had received a lot of compliments when she wore the matching jacket as the wedding guests assembled in the park.
Hang on, she thought in a sudden panic. Jacket, wedding guests? What the fuck am I doing here in the men’s toilets with a stranger when I should . . .?
At that moment Connor’s arm snaked around her waist and dragged her forcefully into a cubicle.
‘Shh, someone’s coming,’ he hissed. He clamped his hand across her mouth and pressed himself against her. It was a small space and Connor took up most of it. He was tall and broad, he had amazing jade-green eyes and he smelled of violets and . . . coconut. Claire could feel her entire body go limp.
All this would have been incredibly erotic if it had not been so utterly sordid. They were both tense now, listening to a trickle of urine which seemed to go on for minutes. At last they heard the sound of a zipper, a nasty phlegmy hoik in the sink and the door slamming.
‘Now,’ said Connor, looking down at his startled charge. ‘Let’s get you sorted.’ He stood back and grinned a luscious grin. Claire suddenly saw a lion taking its paw off an antelope’s neck just to see if it wanted to run away. She stood perfectly still.
‘How long since you’ve done this?’ asked Connor as he fished around in the back pocket of his tux pants.
What could he possibly mean? Claire wondered. How long since I’ve been in the men’s toilets at a wedding with a boy half my age? Erm, now let me think.
‘The devil’s dandruff, the old marching powder, blow, gear, Charlie, okey-doke? How long?’ he asked, jiggling a small plastic packet in front of her eyes.
Well, Claire thought, if he only knew. But let’s just say, for the sake of a young man’s ego: ‘Oh God . . . years.’
Claire watched Connor as he chopped out lines of white powder on top of the cistern. According to Claire, there were a few ways to judge what a man would be like in bed. You could look at the way he ate, dressed, danced or . . . the way he chopped out lines of cocaine. The best indication of a wild and generous spirit was a snakey, fluffy lin
e of a good length and width.
‘You first,’ he said, handing her a small, artfully fashioned metal tube. Claire examined the little device, which felt cool in her hand.
‘Got it in Germany. It’s a stainless steel coke straw. Cute, huh?’ he smiled.
So, he’s done this before then, Claire rather stupidly concluded. She put the rounded end up one nostril, bent over and there it was—a long, sinuous curve, as she predicted. She inhaled deeply and stood back, handed over the straw and watched his broad back expand under the cloth of his tuxedo as he bent to do the same.
They both fell against opposite walls, taking each other in under the harsh toilet lights. Yes, he was every bit as beautiful as she first thought when she saw him by candlelight out there near the water. But she hadn’t realised that his mouth was so full and soft and pretty.
‘How does that feel?’ he asked.
Claire could only manage ‘Mmm’ as the familiar numb sensation started her tongue tracing patterns on the inside of her teeth.
‘So Claire . . . what do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘About everything. You look like a very clever woman behind those lovely green eyes.’
‘So, ask me something then.’
‘OK . . . um . . . do you think your bride and groom will be having sex later tonight?’ Connor asked as he reached out and smoothed her hair.
‘Come on, everyone knows,’ she quietly smiled. ‘There’s no sex on a wedding night.’
‘Are you sure?’ he whispered as he leaned into her neck and placed a hand on her hip. Claire could feel his fragrant warm breath in her ear. She shivered from top to toe as a cool current rippled through her body. It was followed by a warm tide which washed into every corner of her.
‘You smell of coconut,’ she sighed as her little lilac evening bag dropped to the floor.
‘Hot Sex board wax,’ he mumbled, and then he was on top of her.
In one move he had slipped the straps of her camisole off her shoulders, pushed the silky garment down to her waist and was now working on the straps of her bra with his teeth. As he chewed he made small growling noises like a hungry puppy being fed. Then he was tracing the edges of the cups with his tongue and sucking her nipples through the French lace.
