Food, Sex & Money

by Liz Byrski

  David grinned again. ‘The orange chair?’

  ‘An inadequate description, your honour: the fluorescent orange, synthetic fur chair with bald patches and the reek of cat’s piss.’

  ‘Mmm!’ David nodded. ‘I think I’d had a couple of spliffs the day I went to that garage sale.’

  ‘That would also account for the lime-green lava lamp, and an almost life-size statue of Jesus with most of the paint flaking off?’

  ‘I guess so, but you must admit the chair was very comfortable.’

  ‘Only after being doused with a whole can of lemon air-freshener and hidden under a blanket. Anyway, this place is brilliant. Women will fall at your feet when you bring them here.’

  David said wryly, ‘Not a good idea under the circumstances.’

  Matt swung round to face him. ‘You don’t have to be a monk, you know. Just take care of yourself, eat properly, exercise, and decide with your doctor what treatment you’ll have.’

  David, smiling, said, ‘You sound like the blurb on the support group website.’

  Matt looked awkward. ‘Yeah, well, just wanted to find out a bit more.’

  ‘You forgot the bit that says no screwing around.’

  Matt shrugged. ‘It doesn’t say no sex, it says safe sex and … anyway, you know all about it. But take it easy, mate, you’ve got to get better – you’re my oldest friend.’

  David smiled at him again and swallowed down the flood of emotion that suddenly welled. He nodded.

  ‘So,’ Matt said, ‘get some cool gear in here. Then you can get back into it all again, the old party animal.’

  David shook his head. ‘A quiet life, I think.’

  ‘You! I doubt it.’ He paused, looking up, the cheerful mask suddenly dropped. ‘It seems so fucking unfair. All those years we were messing around with drugs, popping stuff up our noses, down our throats and in our veins and I’m healthy as an ox and you’re … well …’

  David said, ‘Luck of the draw, I suppose. Only myself to blame. Just be thankful you didn’t share that particular needle. We’re both lucky to be alive, really, when you think about the way we were in that flat in Brunswick.’

  Matt nodded. ‘Our parents must have been shitting themselves. Now look at us. Respectable professionals. No drugs, no fags and only the occasional bottle of red. Gee, it’s bloody good to have you back, mate, shonky liver or not. Best to be near friends and family when you’re not too hot healthwise.’

  David nodded, sitting down on one of the boxes. ‘I know. It makes sense, especially while I make up my mind about treatment. Trouble is, though, I’m stuck with it for life.’

  Matt looked awkwardly at the floor, rubbing the toe of his shoe around a polished knot in the timber. ‘But you can have a life, a normal life. It says so. Lots of people do.’

  ‘If I decide on the treatment the best it can do is stop it getting worse. I’m stuck with this. What woman would have a relationship with me? I can’t even drown my sorrows in drink. I’m thirty-two and I feel like I’m fucking sixty, like my future’s been ripped away, and the worst thing is I’ve only myself to blame.’

  Irene swam slowly back and forth along the length of the villa’s small pool. She thought it must be fifteen years since she’d been swimming and as she felt the pleasant tug of her muscles in the sparkling water, she wondered why she’d ever stopped. She turned over onto her back, hooking her hands over the rail, and let her body float out in front of her as she gazed up at the fleet of small white clouds skidding across the sky. Perfect, she thought, cooler than summer at home but delightful, and she sniffed to catch the scent of the pines and olive trees that spread in neat rows up the hill behind the villa. Looking down again at the surface of the water she contemplated her body, a wavy blur in the navy blue bathers, her legs, white by contrast, looking quite acceptable under the sparkling surface of the water. Such a shame that when she relinquished its flattering distortions age and gravity would once again take their toll. Not for the first time Irene was confronted by the strange contradiction that she could still feel so young in so many ways, but was living in the body of an old woman.

  Beside the pool, Marjorie, wearing bathers under a cotton shirt, was stretched out on a banana lounge under the umbrella, book in hand. ‘Gin time!’ she called imperiously, waving a glass at Irene. ‘Costas just brought the drinks. Lunch is in twenty minutes.’

  Irene turned over onto her stomach, swam slowly back to the end of the pool, pulled herself up the steps and picked her way cautiously across the wet stone paving.

  ‘This is the life!’ she said, picking up her towel and drying off her hair. ‘They’ll all be freezing back home and look at us. I feel like Joan Collins.’

  Marjorie raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ll refrain from commenting on that. Here’s your drink, have an olive.’

  Irene spread her towel over the banana lounge and settled herself back on it. ‘How old do you feel, Marje?’

  Marjorie peered at her over the top of her glasses. ‘At what particular moment in time?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so pedantic, for heaven’s sake. Any time – how old do you feel?’

  ‘Sometimes I really feel my age,’ Marjorie said thoughtfully. ‘Like while we were trudging around Athens in the heat and dust. I felt about a hundred then, and when we landed after that long flight. But most of the time I feel quite young in myself. I think the essential me is still somewhere around thirty – it’s just my body that gets in the way. Why?’

  ‘Just wondered. I feel much the same. In some ways I like being old, feeling I’m wiser and it’s okay to do what I want to do. But you’re right, although I feel young in my head there’s stuff I just don’t have the stamina for anymore.’ She paused, contemplating the view across the sparkling water. ‘Do you think it’s different here?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being old. Europeans treat their old people differently. I don’t feel so past it here as I do at home. Anyway, I’m glad we didn’t go on the trip today. It’s been a bit hectic so far – temples, carvings, vineyards, ruins, traditional dancing – all perfectly wonderful but so exhausting. So much for the leisurely pace. I don’t know how the others can cope.’

  ‘They’re just the same but they’re too proud to admit it,’ Marjorie said. ‘Tomorrow they’ll be wiped out and we’ll be fresh and rested. Anyhow, when you phone Bonnie, don’t tell her we’re exhausted or she’ll send the Red Cross in to airlift you back to Melbourne.’

  ‘Actually,’ Irene said, sipping her drink, ‘I think Bonnie’s got her hands full at the moment. She’s helping Fran to sell her house and look for something new, and Sylvia’s been staying there for the last couple of weeks. She’s left her husband.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Marjorie said. ‘Still doing the looking after but at least it’s justifiable. So, what’s going on with you and Hamish?’

  ‘Hamish? What do you mean?’

  Marjorie closed her book and put it on the table, turning to face Irene. ‘Hamish. He’s following you everywhere like a devoted labrador.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Irene said. ‘He’s doing nothing of the sort, and he certainly hasn’t followed me today. He’s gone off on the fishing boat with the others.’

  ‘Only because George shamed him into it. He wouldn’t let up on him at breakfast about how Hamish had said going on the fishing boat was one of the things he most wanted to do.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he’ll enjoy it,’ Irene said, picking the slice of lemon from her gin and tonic and sucking it.

  ‘Maybe, but every time I see him he’s either pulling out your chair, getting you a drink, or casting you furtive longing glances across a crowded minibus.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Irene said. ‘Hamish and I have known each other for years. He was Dennis’s closest friend.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it? Heavens, Irene, haven’t you noticed? He’s flirting with you.’

  Irene laughed out loud. ‘Is he? Oh well, so what? He’s hard
ly going to race me off into the cabana for a moonlit night of passion – then Bonnie really would need to mount the rescue mission.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Marjorie said speculatively. ‘Hamish is very fond of you. Always has been. I think it would be lovely. Wouldn’t you like to have a bit of a fling again, Irene?’

  ‘For goodness sake, Marjorie,’ Irene said. ‘That Jungian stuff has gone to your head. I’m eighty and Hamish is eighty-one. I’ve enough to do getting myself from place to place. Come on, time for lunch, Costas is waving to us and I’m starving.’ She got up, pulled the cotton beach wrap around her and headed for the table on the patio.

  ‘Methinks she doth protest too much,’ Marjorie said, picking up her glass and following Irene to the table. ‘You’re never too old for love. That’s vintage Marjorie, by the way, nothing at all to do with Jung.’

  ELEVEN

  Fran stood on the stool in Irene’s dining room thinking about very rich, very short, blue cheese pastry with fresh raspberries and mascarpone, while Sylvia crawled around on the floor pinning the flared hem of the long sable brown velvet skirt.

  ‘Stand straight, please, Fran,’ she mumbled through a mouthful of pins. ‘You’re lurching.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Fran said, straightening up and looking longingly at the dish of pistachios and dried apricots that Bonnie had put on the table just out of reach. Since she’d put her house on the market her eating was more out of control than ever. It was the mix of anxiety and excitement that did it, that and the fact that she had a lot of work on. It had always been a fatal combination which resulted in her stuffing herself in an effort to feel calm and safe, and as though she could cope.

  ‘You look beautiful, Fran,’ Bonnie said. ‘That colour is great for you and the cut of the jacket and skirt are so flattering, very slimming.’

  ‘Really?’ Fran said, looking down at the skirt and bending slightly.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ Sylvia said. ‘I’ll never get this hem right.’

  ‘You’re brilliant, Syl, designing it and making it. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  Sylvia put in the final three pins, and then got to her feet and stepped back, looking critically at her work. ‘Yes, that’ll be okay. You can take it off now, Fran. That tin is full of buttons – see if you like any of them. If not, we might need to get some.’

  ‘It feels lovely,’ Fran said, peeling off the jacket. ‘I could never have found anything so nice ready made. Everyone at the dinner will think it cost a fortune and wonder where I got it.’

  ‘Have you sorted out your talk yet?’ Bonnie asked.

  Fran shrugged. ‘More or less.’

  ‘I hope they’re paying you a good fee,’ Sylvia said, taking the skirt from Fran and spreading it out on the table to check the pins.

  ‘Oh, they don’t pay. That’s what makes it such a pain. All the preparation, then the anxiety, then sitting through dinner being polite to people you don’t know. Then just as the dessert appears, I have to speak. You can’t believe how agonising it is to watch everyone tucking in to their crème brûlée while you stand up to speak.’

  ‘You mean you’re not being paid?’ Bonnie said in disbelief. ‘So how long does all this take and how often do you do it?’

  ‘I get asked quite a lot,’ Fran said, stepping back into her black trousers. ‘But I often say no because it takes about a day to work out the talk, and another half to worry about it, and then, of course, the whole evening at the thing itself. I get very anxious about it because all these people have turned up, paid a bomb for the evening and I’m the entertainment.’

  Bonnie and Sylvia exchanged a glance. ‘Well, who are these people? Have you asked to be paid?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘Oh no … they just assume you’ll do it. Sometimes people actually invite you as though they’re doing you a favour.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Bonnie said. ‘People get paid hundreds of dollars for public speaking. Why are you doing it for nothing?’

  ‘Famous people get paid,’ Fran said. ‘Not people like me.’

  ‘Yes they do,’ Sylvia cut in. ‘I often organised speakers for some of the church groups and for the diocesan dinners, and people charged anything from three to five hundred dollars a time. People like you.’

  ‘I organised some international people for Jeff sometimes,’ Bonnie said. ‘They sometimes got several thousand, plus first-class accommodation. I know it’s not quite the same but you should be getting a sensible fee, Fran.’

  Fran looked from one to the other, feeling a flush of inadequacy creep up her neck.

  ‘I couldn’t. Some of them are just clubs, you know, like Rotary or – ’

  ‘So what?’ Bonnie said. ‘Sylvia’s stuff was for the church but they paid. You’re a local celebrity, Fran, you’re an expert, you have a weekly cookery page in the paper and that column in Eating In, you do recipes and restaurant reviews. I bet that celebrity chef you interviewed would charge and he’s just a chef, you’re a writer as well … it’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Oh well,’ Fran said, helping herself to a handful of pistachios. ‘If they offered I’d take it but I couldn’t just ask.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Bonnie said. ‘If you can’t do it you need an agent who can.’ She paused and swung round to face her. ‘I could do it. I could be your agent.’

  Sylvia clapped her hands. ‘Brilliant, Bon, of course you could.’

  Fran stared at them in amazement. ‘But I couldn’t … Bonnie, why should you … ?’

  ‘Because I can and because I want to,’ Bonnie said, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘You’re so talented, Fran, and hardworking. Honestly, you might be pissed off when I say this but when I was looking at your invoices I was horrified. You work so hard and what you do is so popular, you should be earning at least twice what you’re getting at present. But you’re not very businesslike.’

  ‘And you’re too modest,’ Sylvia added. ‘You don’t realise how many people read your articles and use your recipes. Bonnie’s right, let her be your agent – your business manager.’

  ‘But it’s just me, it isn’t really a business …’

  ‘But it is,’ Bonnie insisted. ‘It could be a really profitable business if you’d take that side of it seriously. Having the ideas and being a terrific writer and a wonderful creative gourmet cook isn’t enough. You need to deal with the business side to make it work for you.’

  Fran stared at them, battling with a part of herself that was so deeply ingrained it felt unchangeable. It wasn’t just that she hated bookkeeping and found the tax system confusing and frustrating, it was a resistance based on childhood hurt and resentment. She was back in the kitchen standing behind her father’s chair as he did his record keeping, entering neat columns of figures into a book, checking orders and planning calls.

  ‘Not just now, Fran,’ he’d say, ‘no time tonight. Another day, Saturday maybe. I’ll take you and your mother on a picnic.’ But however long she stood there, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other, twisting her hair, tugging at her socks, sighing noisily to attract his attention, he never found the time for her. Even if he finished his work before her bedtime, he would be out of the door and down to the pub.

  ‘Your dad’s very busy, dear,’ Lila would explain, sitting on the end of Fran’s bed. ‘He’s got a lot on – we just have to be patient.’

  Fran looked at Bonnie and swallowed hard. ‘You already helped me with the tax and you’re lending me money. And you, Syl, at the worst time of your life you’re making clothes for me, and you’re both helping me find a house. It doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘But I want to,’ Sylvia said with a smile. ‘Fran, doing this with you is helping me.’

  ‘Yes but – ’

  ‘Yes but nothing,’ Bonnie cut in. ‘Sylvia’s right. Doing your tax made me feel useful. It needed doing, it wasn’t something I made up to occupy myself, like terrorising Mum by taking over her life. You’re so good at what you do, Fran, and Sy
lvia’s such a great designer and dressmaker and an organiser, I felt absolutely useless. But you’ve helped me realise there are things I’m good at.’

  Fran looked at Bonnie. She certainly looked very different from the day they’d first met. Now she was more like the Bonnie of the old days, confident, energetic.

  ‘Okay,’ Fran nodded. ‘Thanks, Bonnie, let’s see how it goes.’

  ‘Yes!’ Bonnie cried, punching the air.

  ‘Good decision,’ Sylvia said. ‘The lesson for this week is learning to accept help. Next week’s lesson will be actually asking for it.’ She hugged Fran. ‘You’ll look gorgeous at that dinner.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bonnie said. ‘You will and, Sylvia, you and I are going to go along. I want to take a good look at the talent I’m marketing. Meanwhile, let’s go house hunting.’

  *

  Caro let herself in through the front door, looked around at the immaculately tidy living room and wandered through to the equally tidy and gleaming kitchen. The kitchen was usually a work-in-progress, cluttered with lists, recipe ideas, or ingredients waiting to be lashed into the service of some new culinary creation, but since she’d put the house up for sale Fran had done a massive clear-up and a ruthless rationalisation of her possessions. Recipes had been filed, ingredients stored in cupboards, and old magazines, non-matching cushions, ornaments, pictures and other things accrued over the years had been loaded into boxes and moved outside. A monster garage sale was threatening and meanwhile the house was to be immaculate at all times in case of sudden visits from the real estate agent accompanied by prospective buyers. Caro dropped her keys and bag on the empty coffee table and wandered down to the bedrooms and the sound of David’s CD player.

  ‘Hi,’ she yelled, opening the door.

  ‘Oh! Hi!’ he said, dumping a pile of t-shirts into a suitcase that lay open on the bed. He leaned over to turn down the volume. ‘Didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘Not surprised,’ Caro said, sitting on his bed. ‘You’re still playing Elvis Costello – he’s so yesterday. I could get you some really cool stuff from work if you like.’