by Wendy Harmer
‘She has!’
‘She has not!’
‘You go up to her and tell her a sad story, like your cat died or something, and see if she can frown. I’ll bet she can’t.’
‘How much do you want to bet?’
‘Four vodka jelly shots.’
‘OK, you’re on.’
Claire watched as a lovely young thing in a hot pink beaded slip and bare feet made her way over to a group standing by the pool. The target was a woman of indeterminate age whose face was well-known from television. Claire sidled up to the knot of young women who were watching the exchange across the terrace.
‘We’re talking Botox, right?’ Claire affected a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Yeah,’ answered a brunette in emerald green satin and heels which stood her over six feet tall. ‘That’s the least of it. We reckon she’s had a nose job, cheek implants—and check out those lips!’ she squealed.
‘Beesting lips,’ said Claire.
‘Beesting? More like she’s swum face first into a swarm of box jellyfish. You wouldn’t know whether to kiss her or give her some vinegar to get the swelling down!’
Their laughter was like a chain of small bells tinkling.
Miss Hot Pink Slip was soon walking back to the group and rolling her eyes. ‘Fuck you, Lucinda. I owe you four jelly shots.’ More laughter.
‘Oh come on,’ said Claire. ‘I think she looks pretty good for her age.’
‘Which is?’ asked another striking looking young woman in a slinky red jersey halter dress. A tumble of black curls reached halfway down her bare back.
‘Well . . .’ Claire’s newly acquired expertise at putting an age to everyone she met was failing her in this instance.
‘I’d say she’s at least fifty,’ the girl whispered.
‘Which isn’t that old,’ said Claire quickly.
Miss Emerald Green Satin bent down to Claire’s face. ‘No, it isn’t. But at that age you’ve got to put your tits away!’
‘Actually I think she could put her tits away. They’re definitely not hers!’
General falling about. Claire was feeling quite thankful she was wearing a demure black satin tuxedo jacket and her pearls.
Miss Red Jersey Halter Neck was the first to regain her composure. ‘Aaron says that you can tell if a woman has implants because when you run your hands over them they’re a different temperature to the rest of her body.’
‘Really?’ Claire was fascinated.
‘Apparently they’re a couple of degrees cooler.’
‘Eeew!’ There was general distaste at this. A waiter with a tray of Peking duck approached the group. He was waved away as if he was offering toxic waste. Claire was famished but decided that actual ingestion of food would be considered bad form in this company.
‘You wouldn’t have implants?’ Claire addressed the group.
‘Oh no . . .’ they chorused.
Miss Hot Pink Slip, now with a plastic cup of orange jelly in either hand, spoke. ‘You can get these fillet things now. They look just like chicken breasts and you pop them into your bra.’
Claire scrunched up her face. ‘I’ve heard of those, but it sounds a bit sad. I mean, a bloke’s bound to be disappointed when he dives in and comes up with two handfuls of wobbly silicone.’
‘Actually, my boyfriend asked if he could take mine home with him the other night,’ she laughed. ‘I said, “Go on, take ’em, honey—knock yourself out”.’
It was Miss Red Jersey Halter Neck’s turn again. ‘Did you know you can get fake nipples now?’
Claire did not know.
‘Uh-huh. It’s to give you that permanent “high beam” look. You know, so you look like your nipples are erect.’
Claire’s hands went involuntarily to her bosom. Bizarre, she thought, since she’d spent years trying to make sure hers didn’t show.
Miss Emerald Green Satin, who was obviously the wit of the group, said, ‘The trouble with those is, you have to be really careful that they stay where you put them, otherwise you start off the night looking like you’re turned on, but by the end they’ve gone for a wander and you look like you’ve got two warts!’
There was unbridled hilarity at this image. Claire thought this was the perfect time to put forward what was on her mind. ‘I’m thinking of having a Brazilian,’ she ventured. Her idea was met with general enthusiasm.
‘Oh, you must,’ said Miss Hot Pink Slip. ‘We all do. It hurts like hell, but the boys absolutely adore it. In fact, they’re all so spoilt these days that if you haven’t had it done they point-blank refuse to dine at the Y.’
Claire almost choked on her champagne. She’d never heard that expression before, but at least she now knew that Connor’s request wasn’t as outrageous as she’d first thought.
‘And it feels divine when you’re wearing satin.’ Miss Emerald Green seductively wiggled her hips.
‘Do it once and you’ll never go back. And neither will your . . . husband? Boyfriend?’ Miss Red Jersey Halter Neck asked diplomatically.
And that, thought Claire, is a bloody good question. ‘Oh, I’m just doing it for me,’ she said.
The girls all looked at her.
‘For you?’ said Miss Emerald Green. ‘Don’t be fucking insane! It hurts too much to do it for yourself! First thing I do when I’m away from my boyfriend is let the pubes grow back. I went off to Bali for three weeks this year and came back looking like a Kodiak bear!’
There was more giggling and laughter as Claire was treated to a graphic description of pubic hair waxing. It all sounded so appalling, she was now having second thoughts.
With another two glasses of champagne behind her, Claire headed for the group standing by the candelabras. She was nervous. She imagined they could tell. She knew these women, but was not part of their inner circle. Barbara, Laura, Gillian and Carolyn. She calculated their ages (between forty-nine and fifty-six), the number of children between them (ten) and the remaining number of husbands (two—at last meeting anyway). They were all beautifully turned out. Hair perfectly styled, designer outfits, full make-up, an impressive array of jewellery. There was not an elasticised waistband to be seen and Claire reflected that there didn’t seem to be an end in sight to the daily devotions at the shrine of female vanity. It was at this point she realised her feet were killing her and made a mental note to start carrying a pair of flat shoes in her handbag.
These women were just a few steps ahead of Claire in life’s journey. It seemed that in the decade between forty-five and fifty-five, a life’s worth of accumulated experience hardened into diamond brilliance. There were some, like Gillian and Barbara, who had grown a hard carapace of cynicism to protect themselves from pain. Others, like Carolyn and Laura, had grown into themselves with a calm and grace which Claire envied. They all seemed individuated at last. Where the younger women could really only be identified by the frocks they were wearing, these women were as different from each other as it was possible to be. Amongst them, Claire felt a half-formed girl-woman. She felt almost reverential in their company and a pressure to be witty and worldly wise.
Gillian was the first to spot her approaching. ‘Claire! Where have you been? We saw you come in about an hour ago.’
‘Hi! Just doing the rounds. Lovely party, isn’t it?’ Claire kissed everyone and the usual compliments were batted back and forth—‘Love your hair! What a fabulous colour! You look heaven in blue! I want those pearls!’ etc, etc.
‘So . . .’ Gillian had a hard edge to her voice which always made Claire feel uneasy. ‘What’s up? Tell us something we don’t know.’
‘Well,’ said Claire, who started by offering up a salacious tidbit. ‘I’ve just been talking with the young chicks over there about their pubic hair. Or, rather, lack of it.’
‘Silly tarts,’ said Barbara. ‘Can you believe they all go and get those Argentinians?’
‘Brazilians!’ the group shouted at her and roared with laughter.
‘Oh shit!
That’s old age for you. I’m losing my mind! Anyway, it’s bloody stupid, if you ask me. Do you remember when we were their age? I mean, a man wouldn’t have dreamed of asking you to get it done!’
‘That’s true,’ Gillian agreed. ‘I had hairy legs, hairy armpits, hairy fanny—the lot. Mind you, in the seventies the blokes were hairy too. Hair down to their bums. Beards, moustaches.’
‘I think there was a musical about it, Gillian!’ teased Laura.
‘Give me a head with hair . . . long, beautiful hair . . .’ Claire sang.
‘I couldn’t give a bugger about most of my body hair,’ Gillian went on, ‘but I’ll tell you something—these ones growing out of my chin are a worry! When the kids eventually stick me in the old folks home I’m going to have written into some contract that the nurse has to come and wax my chin every fortnight!’
Barbara ran her fingers over her chin. ‘They’ll need a bloody angle grinder to get mine. Honestly, they’re like fuse wire!’
‘How about when you get the hairs on your nipples!’ added Laura.
‘Christ, I’ve had them since I was thirty,’ said Barbara, throwing back half a glass of red wine.
Inexplicably, Claire felt that the responsibility for keeping the conversation moving had fallen to her. ‘I went to the doctor this week and she says I’m perimenopausal,’ she blurted.
‘Well, at least you know,’ said Carolyn, resting elegant jewelled fingers on Claire’s sleeve. ‘I remember a couple of years ago I was standing in the supermarket and I was looking for this packet of biscuits. I couldn’t find them and I just burst into tears.’
The women all nodded. Here was a familiar scenario!
‘A woman came up to me and said: “For God’s sake, get a patch.” And do you know, at the time I had no idea what she was talking about.’
Claire wasn’t all that sure she did either. Although, obviously, it was some sort of hormone replacement device.
Barbara hooted. ‘I can imagine you walking around with a bandaid on your bum, saying, “Oh, that feels better.” But there’s a lot of hooey about menopause. You blink and it’s over. Of course I’m such an old hag now that even the butcher won’t flirt with me!’
Gillian’s voice cut through the merriment. ‘You’re talking crap. Your whole menopause was a hard road. Don’t tell Claire lies.’
‘Well, yes, I am bullshitting,’ said Barbara in a more sober tone. ‘Andrew left me in the middle of it. I hit fifty and he was gone. You know, I think it was all because of the doona.’
‘The doona?’ said Claire.
‘I had these God-awful night sweats. I’d wake up and feel like I’d been caught in a tropical monsoon. I’d be drenched in sweat. Literally dripping. And this would happen two, three times a night. I’d have to throw off the doona and actually change the sheets. It was worse then getting up to the kids when they were little.’
‘And then I’d be shivering. I’d feel chilled to the bone. Anyway, a couple of months of this and with Andrew being woken at all hours, he started staying in hotels. And that’s when he met her.’
There was a nod of heads at the mention of her. Each woman cast her in their own individual mould. She was either tall and brunette and professional, or an arty bohemian redhead, or a pedestrian little curly-headed blonde secretary. In each instance the prefix ‘young’ was added.
‘So what’s the latest there?’ Laura was obviously dreading the answer, but knew the question had to be asked.
‘Oh, he’s taken up windsurfing, would you believe? And they’re building a holiday house up the coast. I hope the arsehole drowns!’
Mercifully, at this moment a waiter offered miniature hamburgers. The group descended on them like birds of prey.
‘I’ve found all the herbal stuff to be very helpful with moods, tiredness, all that,’ said Laura. ‘Mind you, when I send Patrick down to the naturopath’s for Wild Mexican Yam, Blessed Thistle, Skullcap and Motherwort, he looks at me like I’m some sort of mad witch.’
‘Tell him it’s when you start asking for Deadly Nightshade that he has to worry,’ said Gillian.
‘Well, my worst thing is forgetfulness,’ said Carolyn, who had managed to eat a hamburger as daintily as she would a Belgian chocolate.
‘Considering what that prick of a husband of yours did to you, I’d say you should be grateful,’ commented Barbara acidly.
Carolyn turned to her and said in her mild and gentle manner, ‘I can’t walk around being bitter. In fact, the boys are over in Florence with him now. You know, I sometimes look back and wonder—if he hadn’t left me, would I have left him?’
‘But if you had left him, I bet you wouldn’t have written a fucking awful novel about him.’
‘Leave it alone, Barb,’ Gillian commanded in an icy tone. But Barbara had drunk too much to leave it alone.
‘It’s the truth. He’s a cunt. I read that book. It wasn’t just about you. It was about all of us. That’s the reward you get for staying home and raising the kids while he fulfils his God-given creative urge. You end up as a used-up old bag with a dry fanny.’
The group began to shuffle and look about uneasily.
Carolyn bravely stayed the course. ‘I can’t punish him. He has to live with what he did. As I say, I might have left him.’
Claire picked up the nuance in Carolyn’s voice. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that . . . I’ve met someone.’
Barbara rolled her eyes and lurched off, waving her glass over her head. ‘Christ, I need another drink.’ Everyone was glad to see her go.
‘So come on—details. Who is he?’ Gillian demanded.
Carolyn ducked her head and spoke into her champagne glass. ‘It’s not a “he” it’s a “she”.’
Claire’s eyes opened wide with surprise. A perfect sitcom moment. Fabulous.
Gillian was unimpressed. ‘Jesus, not another one! You’re not a fucking lesbian, Caro. You’re the most un-lesbian person I’ve ever met.’
‘Well, I am now,’ Carolyn sang.
Laura attempted to make this all seem as normal as possible. She asked sweetly, ‘So—where did you meet her?’
‘At embroidery class. She was my teacher. She’s five years younger than me and got one daughter at university. We’re moving in together.’
‘Look,’ said Gillian, ‘I think it’s a great idea for single women our age to move in together and share the electricity bill. But do we all have to fuck each other as well?’
‘It’s not just about sex. We laugh a lot, we’re great companions. I just think she’s the loveliest person I ever met. I feel like I’ve met my soulmate at last.’
Gillian was looking at her doubtfully and about to speak again when Claire felt she should come to the rescue.
‘Well, I think it’s brilliant. I hope you share the same shoe size.’
‘As a matter of fact, we do,’ Carolyn giggled.
Gillian: ‘And the same tube of KY, no doubt.’
‘Gillian!’ Claire and Laura chorused.
Gillian relented and gave Carolyn a peck on the cheek. ‘Half your luck. Don’t take any notice of me—I’m jealous. Not of the sex, mind you—since Viagra, there’s plenty of that. It’s getting to fall in love again. I’d love to experience that one more time. Got to be better than any plastic hormone patch.’
‘I wish I’d been to bed with a woman,’ sighed Laura.
‘I tried it,’ said Claire. ‘It wasn’t that I couldn’t love another woman. The sex didn’t work for me. It felt like one long session of foreplay. And—no offence, Carolyn—unfortunately I felt like a fuck afterwards.’
Clare could see Carolyn’s face turn fuschia even by candlelight.
Actually, the sex had worked for Claire in one way. It had made her understand what men loved about sex with women. She had been just out of her bruising affair with Ellery when she met Carrie. Claire and The Company had been playing at the Blue Mountains Festival when a petite blonde, toting a saxophone w
hich seemed almost as big as she was, sat in one night on a jam session. She and Claire made great music together, which was always a turn-on. It couldn’t have been more than half an hour later that she found herself lying back on a double bed upstairs with Carrie sucking on one of her nipples. Claire was surprised, but undeniably aroused. She could also feel a wet spot on her thigh as Carrie rubbed against her.
Claire’s hands found Carrie’s breasts. They were small bumps on her chest, barely enough for a handful, but they were hot-wired to her crotch. The harder Claire squeezed, the more Carrie moaned and writhed against her. And then, with what seemed indecent haste, Carrie wriggled up the length of Claire’s body and presented a gingery thatch. Claire tentatively put out her tongue. She came up with an unappetising mouthful of hair and decided this operation needed a more considered approach. She laid Carrie on her back and dragged her to the edge of the bed. Claire kneeled on the floor and pushed Carrie’s thighs apart.
There it was. Two fat curved lips which formed a glistening shell. A pattern repeated over and over in nature. Clare had never been this close to a woman before and the first thing she thought was that all the ‘smelly, ugly cunt’ jokes she had ever heard from men were absolutely wrong. This was pretty and pink, and gave off a musky scent she was very familiar with.
The second thing she thought was that there was no way you could look at this shell with its mysterious slit in the middle without wanting to stick something inside it—your fingers, your tongue, your . . . er . . . dick.
She did all the things she imagined she would want a man to do to her. And then, with her tongue inside Carrie and her hands cupping her firm bottom, came the insight which Claire had never forgotten. I’m at the centre of the universe, was the thought that came into her head. The place from which all life comes.
She felt a weird compulsion to climb inside Carrie and pull the inner folds of her vagina right over her head. The image in her mind was of a tiny fairy creeping inside the petals of a rose and using the bump of the clitoris as a weeny pillow. This was clearly not an image a man would come up with, but right then Claire knew why most men loved going down on women.
