Food, Sex & Money

by Liz Byrski

  ‘Well, all the indications were that it would be,’ Mike said, putting down his spoon and pushing his cereal bowl aside. ‘You should be fine, but then all pregnancies are different, or so I’m told.’

  ‘I wish you’d told me,’ Caro said grumpily. ‘I wouldn’t have got pregnant if I’d known it was going to be like this. Look at my fingers – they’re all swollen, and so are my ankles. You never told me about that.’

  Mike stroked her hand and then studied her ankles. ‘Mmm, you do look a bit puffy. Better keep an eye on that. Stay home, put your feet up and rest. Ring Des at the office and tell him you’re not going in and ask him about leaving. And I wish you’d ring your mum. A girl needs her mother at a time like this.’

  ‘Fuck off! You sound like an agony aunt. Is that what you tell your patients?’

  Mike stood up and put Caro’s foot gently back on the floor. ‘Only if they’re stubborn, temperamental pregnant women who need to talk to their mothers.’ He picked up his cereal bowl and carried it to the sink, rinsing it under the tap. ‘Seriously, babe, give Fran a ring. I don’t know why you won’t – she loves you to bits, and anyone can see she’s dying to get involved.’

  Caro pushed the toast away and sighed. ‘I suppose,’ she said, standing up.

  Mike put his arms around her and hugged her. ‘I love you to bits too, you know,’ he said. ‘Even though I almost can’t get my arms round you.’

  Caro grinned and looked down at the large bulge that had replaced her taut midriff.

  ‘It’ll be all right, won’t it?’

  ‘Course it will,’ he said, kissing her. ‘She’ll be a beautiful, stubborn, crotchety dame like her mother.’

  ‘Or he’ll be a great big boofy sex maniac like his father?’

  ‘Yes, or that! Anyway, I’ve gotta go. The ER calls – oh, the glamour and romance of it all. See you later, babe. Ring Des.’ And he was gone.

  Caro wandered aimlessly around the kitchen and stood by the window staring out into the tiny paved courtyard, where a couple of honeyeaters fluttered competitively around the bottle-brush. Perhaps Mike was right, she should give up work. It was all getting a bit much, not at all as she’d expected. She wondered if she was not essentially a motherly sort of person, and felt, once again, a stab of the fear that had dogged her over the last few weeks, the fear that she would prove to be totally incapable of looking after a baby. So often she still felt like a child and had to remind herself that she was almost thirty.

  She inhaled deeply, trying to breathe it away. What did you do with babies all day? Did they just lie around in between being fed? What would you do if they woke up at night? Fear of her own ignorance haunted her dreams as well as her days. Last night she had woken, sweating, from a dream in which a tiny wrinkled baby with unbearably knowing eyes and an expression of disgust had looked up at her from the pram. ‘Really, Caro,’ it said, ‘you are so incompetent. I could die any minute and it would be your fault. Don’t you know that babies don’t eat steak?’ The stupidity of it did not ease the effect. Two nights earlier she dreamed that she had completely forgotten about the baby, ignoring it for weeks, only to remember and discover it a starved, neglected corpse, swarming with maggots in an otherwise pristine crib.

  Caro put her empty glass in the sink and sighed. She would do it: give up work, and talk to her mother. The trouble was that Fran was so good at everything, there was so much to live up to. Lots of Caro’s friends and their mothers read Fran’s columns and articles, followed her recipes and constantly commented on how lucky Caro was to be her daughter. She had long resented this irritating reflected glory that made her feel inadequate. For a long time she had felt that her only position of strength with her mother was grounded in her knowledge of Fran’s insecurity about her weight and the way she looked. Slim, fit and cool Caro had, for years, been able to dispense fashion and grooming advice and roll her eyes in a superior, told-you-so sort of way as Fran crashed into and out of crash diets and punishing exercise regimes while her body remained unchanged. But now Caro’s own body was out of control, her waistline had disappeared, she had become a blob; she craved pickles, rollmops and chocolate, and everything gave her indigestion. Aerobics classes were impossible, swimming made her skin itch, yoga bored her and nine months was proving to be longer than the whole of the rest of her life.

  The honeyeaters flew off chattering at each other and Caro picked up the phone. She’d call Des, tell him that she couldn’t come to work but that she would pop in around lunchtime because she needed to talk to him. By that time the nausea might have eased; she would tell him she wanted to stop work now. Then she’d call Fran, swallow her pride and own up to how truly awful she felt. It wouldn’t be easy, but as David had pointed out recently, it would actually be an entirely grown-up thing to do. Holding Fran at arm’s length was the behaviour of the sort of teenager who tacked pink ribbon across the carpet, not that of a responsible woman who was herself about to become a mother.

  FOURTEEN

  Fran stood outside the restaurant, stamping her feet against the cold and wondering if she should wait inside. She was early for the appointment but waiting added to her irritation. The last thing she needed was some tedious publisher wasting her time trying to schmooze her into writing glowing reviews of some wanky cookery books which were probably more style than substance. She was quite sure that was what this lunch was about, but he’d been so persistent that agreeing to it seemed the only way to get him off her back. He’d introduced himself as she was leaving the Wine Club dinner. Quite a distinguished looking older man, he’d congratulated her on the fascinating talk and given her his card.

  ‘I really admire your work,’ he’d said. ‘I read your column online and I’ve seen some of your articles in Gourmet Traveller and the Qantas magazine.’ Fran had smiled and thanked him, taken the card and prepared to make her way over to where Bonnie and Sylvia were waiting. ‘I’d like to catch up with you sometime,’ he persisted. ‘Perhaps we could meet for lunch? I’m in publishing – Bannister Books, you might have heard of us. We’re based in Sydney and we have a rather strong list of food, homes and gardens books. I’m Jack Bannister. Do you have a card? Maybe I could give you a call before I go back to Sydney?’ Fran forgot about it until three days later when she found a message on her answering machine.

  ‘Jack Bannister here, Fran, just hoping we can fix up that meeting. I’m in Melbourne until Friday. Would you call me, please?’ She decided to ignore it. He’d be gone in a couple of days, anyway. But on Friday morning there was another message saying he was just leaving and would be back the week after next. He hoped they could get together then.

  ‘Just so I can give you some great publicity for your lousy books,’ Fran yelled irritably at the answering machine before erasing the message. But when he called again ten days later, he caught her at home, and she’d agreed to lunch on the principle that for two hours and a good meal she could get rid of him. It was only now, as she waited outside the restaurant, that she realised she could have given him Bonnie’s card and told him to contact her agent. She let out a short burst of laughter at the thought of ever being confident enough to say something like that, and pulled her scarf more tightly around her neck.

  Fran was not at her best. Her anxiety levels were very high, she was sleeping badly and her eating was totally out of control.

  ‘You really have to do something about your weight, Fran,’ Glenys, her doctor, had told her the previous week. ‘You’re not getting any younger and your cortisol levels are very high.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Fran had asked, rolling down her sleeve as Glenys folded up the blood pressure machine.

  ‘Cortisol is the stress hormone. When you get stressed you create too much cortisol and that stimulates the release of insulin in your blood. So, your appetite increases, you crave carbohydrates, and you eat more of all the things that are bad for you.’

  ‘That’s me,’ Fran said grimly. ‘But food is my job, and stressed is a co
nstant state. It’s worse right now because I’m selling the house, Caro’s pregnant and David, well, you know about David.’

  ‘David’s doing fine,’ Glenys said. ‘I’ve not seen Caro but pregnancy is a perfectly natural state for a woman, nothing to worry about. I know food is your job, but eating it doesn’t have to be. Just try to calm down. Have you tried meditation? And remember to keep up the exercise.’

  Fran flushed. She hadn’t been near the gym for weeks. ‘I’ll try,’ she’d said, and she really meant it, but when she got home she had this overpowering urge to whip up a batch of cheese and sundried tomato muffins, despite the fact that they were her favourites and there was no one else in the house, so she would inevitably eat several while they were still warm, and with lashings of butter. ‘A last fling,’ she promised herself. ‘Tomorrow I’ll really start a diet.’

  Perhaps this Bannister person wasn’t going to turn up, she thought now, glancing at her watch, but it was still five minutes before the time they’d fixed to meet. She snuggled further into her coat. It was a new coat and she loved it. Sylvia and Bonnie had forcibly removed her old leather one.

  ‘It does nothing for you, Fran,’ Sylvia had said.

  ‘No,’ said Bonnie ‘leather is not the thing for you. It doesn’t work for … well, for bigger people. Makes you look …’

  ‘Bulky,’ Sylvia had supplied.

  ‘Yes, unnecessarily bulky. You need something softer, softer colour and fabric.’ And they had marched her down to the outlets in Bridge Road and she’d ended up buying this coat in soft charcoal wool, light but very warm, plus a pair of chunky heeled leather boots and this gorgeous purple cashmere scarf.

  ‘No,’ she’d protested when Sylvia held up the scarf. ‘It’s lovely but it’s purple.’

  ‘Just because your mother has a purple fetish doesn’t mean you can’t wear it,’ Sylvia said. ‘Try it, the colour suits you.’

  ‘It looks gorgeous,’ Bonnie agreed. ‘Just don’t wear it when you go to see Lila or she’ll pinch it.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be spending all this,’ Fran said nervously, loving the scarf and the coat. She had already bought the boots.

  Bonnie drew her into the fitting room and pulled the curtain. ‘Look, this is a little bit of the money you’d saved for the tax. Use it, you’ll feel better. You get so worried about your size and how you look, if you have a few good quality things that you know you look good in, you’ll feel more confident. You have a financial plan now, we worked it all out. This is wise spending, Fran, you’re not frittering it away.’

  ‘Like I have in the past, you mean.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. How you spend your money is your business but you asked for my advice and I’m giving it to you. You need to look the part if we are going to start charging like a wounded bull for your services.’

  Fran softened and grinned. ‘I love you, Bonnie,’ she said. ‘For your subtlety!’

  ‘Good,’ said Bonnie. ‘I love you too, for lots of things. Now shut up and buy the coat and scarf.’

  ‘Fran,’ Jack Bannister said, interrupting her reverie. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope I’m not late.’

  ‘No,’ she said, trying to smile graciously. ‘I was early – it’s not even one yet.’

  ‘I should have suggested we meet inside. You must be frozen.’

  He steered her into the restaurant, where she relinquished her lovely coat and was glad that she had also succumbed to the black pants and the purple cashmere tunic that went with the scarf. Bonnie was right, a few well-chosen things made a big difference, and a large gin and tonic made an even bigger difference. Perhaps that was the answer to stress, she thought, more gin, and she began to unwind.

  Jack Bannister looked older than she remembered, sixty perhaps. He had a rather nice, lived-in sort of face, thick grey hair and very bright blue eyes. He was also an entertaining companion, and before she knew it they had eaten their way through the entrée and the main course, and Fran, in a fit of conscience, was waving away the dessert menu.

  ‘No?’ said Jack. ‘Perhaps just some coffee, then.’ And the waiter disappeared to fetch it.

  ‘Now, Fran,’ he began, ‘the reason I wanted to talk to you …’

  Fran stiffened with resistance despite the gin and the wine. She had forgotten there was a price to pay for this delightful interlude. She straightened up and tried to look polite but firm and unapproachable.

  ‘I’d been thinking for some time of contacting you and I was here in Melbourne and a friend invited me to the Wine Club dinner. You speak as well as you write and you have a great ability to draw together a range of ideas on a theme. I was wondering whether you might consider writing a book for us.’

  Fran stared at him and then realised her mouth was open, so she shut it. ‘Write a book?’

  ‘Yes … along the lines of your talk the other night, but expanding on those ideas of food in relation to love, nurturing, lust, food porn, duty – all the rest of it. And, of course, including all those fascinating bits of history and the quotations you used, perhaps in sections with recipes in each one … is anything wrong, Fran?’

  ‘You are asking me to write a book for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Publishers don’t just ask people to write books. Writers have to struggle and send manuscripts and get rejected, all that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Well, yes, but it often happens the other way around. And, by the way, this is the point at which you’re supposed to play hard to get.’

  ‘You mean, like, I should say you’ll have to talk to my agent?’

  ‘That’s a very good start. But you might want to tell me whether or not you’re interested at all, because if you’re not it will save us both a lot of time.’

  ‘Interested? Of course I’m interested.’

  ‘That’s good, then – ’

  ‘I thought you were softening me up with lunch to get me to write about some of your cookery books.’

  ‘Do I look like a sleaze?’

  Fran blushed. ‘Well, no, it’s just that – ’ She jumped as her mobile rang loudly from her handbag. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘So sorry, I should have switched it off.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jack said with a smile as the waiter refilled their coffee cups. ‘Just take the call.’

  ‘I’ll take it and call them back,’ she said. ‘It’s my son-in-law. Hi, Mike, can I call you – ’

  ‘Fran, Fran, listen, ‘ Mike interrupted and she listened, turning white as he spoke.

  ‘Yes, oh god – yes, of course, I’ll come immediately,’ she said. ‘I’m in the city, I’ll get a cab.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Jack asked. ‘You’ve gone very pale.’

  ‘My daughter,’ Fran said, getting to her feet. ‘She’s been in an accident. She’s pregnant. I have to get to the hospital.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, signalling to the waiter. ‘Come on, get your coat, and I’ll call a cab. Would you like me to come with you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no, I’ll be fine. My son-in-law’s there, he’s a doctor. Thank you, Jack, and I really do want to do the book.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that now,’ he said. ‘Take care. I hope she’s okay, and the baby too. I’ll call you.’

  FIFTEEN

  The first time Will saw Sylvia she was standing by the window in Bonnie’s kitchen drinking a cup of tea and wearing a paisley-patterned dressing gown in dark blue silk. Bonnie had mentioned that she had a friend staying, but they had gone straight to lunch from the airport and Sylvia was out when they got back to the house. As Will was out in the evening, their paths didn’t cross until the following morning.

  ‘You must be Will,’ she said with a smile, and he felt something very strange happen to him: his heart seemed to speed up and he had trouble getting his breath. ‘Would you like some tea, or maybe you’d prefer coffee?’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, wondering if he looked as winded as he felt. ‘Coffee would be great.�
�� And he sat down on one of the stools at the benchtop while Sylvia refilled the kettle and got out the coffee plunger.

  Will had not given a thought to what Bonnie’s friend might be like. She was, after all, Bonnie’s vintage, ten, maybe fifteen, years older than him, and he was not a man given to noticing older women. Not that he had anything against them. Will liked women of all ages but while he might flirt with older women who responded to a certain boyishness in him, he had never ever been attracted to one. He loved Bonnie like an older sister, and while he thought she looked good for her age, the idea that a contemporary of hers could interest him had never crossed his mind.

  As he sat facing Sylvia across the benchtop Will wished he’d combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and hadn’t come downstairs wearing just the pyjama trousers and t-shirt he’d slept in. He liked to be in a control of a situation, especially when it came to women, and he felt at a distinct disadvantage. He’d accepted Bonnie’s invitation to stay at the house because it was the first time he’d seen her since they had been sorting out Jeff’s estate together in Zurich, and he wanted to make it clear that he was there if she needed anything. Business required that he travel frequently from his home in Perth to Hong Kong, where he kept a flat, and he had just signed a deal with a company in Melbourne which meant that he’d be making frequent trips there over the coming months. He’d been wondering how he could organise it so that when he returned in three weeks’ time he could decently stay in a hotel. Will was a hotel sort of person. There was a freedom and independence to hotels which he enjoyed, and you never knew when you would want five star accommodation on standby if you wanted to ask someone back to the room for a business meeting or something more intimate. But now, sitting across from Sylvia, Will was revising his future accommodation plans.

  Cautiously he steered the conversation around to whether she might still be there next time he was in town. Having established that she almost certainly would be, he felt more confident, and then suggested that if she and Bonnie were free that evening he might take them both out for dinner.