His Brand of Beautiful

by Lily Malone

  The same watercolour crowded the framed certificates and medical credentials on the wall behind his head: swallows playing in an English country garden among tall pink and white flowers she thought might have been foxgloves. Each time she saw that picture she wondered if he’d painted it himself. He looked the type to spend his Sunday afternoons painting small birds. He probably liked a harmless hobby that didn’t require him to break terrible news to broken women.

  He glanced up then, smiled, and years dropped from his face. “You’re looking well, Christina? Pregnancy must agree with you?”

  Lily Malone

  Doctor Busby had a manner of speaking that turned everything he said into a question. When she’d first met him she never knew when he expected an answer. Now she knew to wait for the pause.

  He surveyed her file. “It was four years in March since we took out those fibroids?”

  “And your last scan was clear?”

  “And can you tell me when your last period began?” Pause.

  “Around May 15. I can’t remember exactly. You know they haven’t been regular since—” her gaze collided with the huge blue tissue box on his desk. The first time she’d been in this room she’d worked her way through half a box while he explained the term products of conception, “—since the miscarriage.”

  He tapped something into his computer, fingers soft and white, nails blunt. “That makes you about ten weeks now. Due on February 22?”

  “You miscarried, Christina, at eight weeks?” He scrolled back to the top screen. “Any pains this time? Any bleeding?” Pause.

  “No. It’s not like last time. Last time I threw up morning and night for weeks, well, you know. Until…”

  “Go-od.” He gave the word two syllables, finishing on a lower pitch, two-finger‐typed another note, staring at the keyboard. The angle gave him triple-chins.

  “Are you worried about miscarrying again?” Pause.

  She shook her head once, a fast jerk to the left. “I think I’ve been in denial. I mean—I never dreamed I’d get pregnant so fast once I started trying. I haven’t used birth control for years. I didn’t get any of the signs, like morning sickness. I mean… I’ve lost weight, not gained it.

  “I’m sorry, I’m babbling. The answer is yes, and no. I wasn’t worried at all about miscarrying until I knew I was pregnant. Since then I’ve been counting every unit of alcohol I’ve had since June and Googling the risks of taking Panadol when you’re pregnant.”

  “Panadol is pretty safe.” His chins wobbled into a smile. “Every expectant mother goes through that guilt and it’s worse when a woman’s miscarried before. Statistically a previous miscarriage puts you only very slightly at higher risk of miscarrying again, compared with a woman who has never miscarried. You’re fit and healthy, Christina, don’t beat yourself up. Nine months is way too long to spend tying yourself in knots.”

  The tight feeling in her spine relaxed a notch.

  “Now if you can hop yourself up on that table, Christina, I’ll have a look at you.”

  And it ratcheted tight again. Sweat broke across her lip. She unbuttoned her jacket and it seemed to squeak in protest as she laid it over the chair. The edge of his examination table imprinted the back of her thighs and she swung her legs up and laid back.

  “Don’t cross your ankles please, Christina.”

  He took her blood pressure first while she stared at the pattern on his tie and hoped the frantic rush of her pulse wouldn’t wreck his measurements.

  Castles! The tie waved as he bent over her. Twin battlements and a lowered drawbridge.

  “Now if you can tuck up your shirt for me?”

  He folded the waist of her trousers down and she tugged at her shirt, exposing her abdomen to fingers soft as floured buns. The prodding took forever.

  “Well that all feels fine.”

  There was a tube on a shelf near his ultrasound machine. When he reached for the gel, a wave of nausea rocked her. She inhaled air infused with the sweet scent of his breath and she recognised the smell, finally. Barley sugar.

  “This might be a bit chilly.” He spread gel over her skin.

  The device carved a path over her stomach like the prow of a boat through water.

  She tried not to breathe or blink or do anything except stare at the exact point where spearmint paint met antique-white cornice, listening with every cell in her body.

  Then she heard it. Pow. Pow. Pow.

  All the air rushed from her lungs and she felt tears overflow, slide down her cheeks.

  My God, Tate! It sounds like a hammer. Like our kid’s a fucking carpenter.

  “Doctor Busby? Is that normal? I mean, that heartbeat? It’s so fast.”

  “Perfectly normal. Everything looks good.”

  He ripped paper towel from a dispenser and wiped gel from her abdomen then helped her sit. She adjusted her clothes and returned to her chair. Her legs felt like matchsticks.

  He loaded forms into a printer, and it sputtered to life. “This is for an ultrasound.

  They’ll get an exact date for you and test for Downs Syndrome. You have to be between eleven and thirteen weeks so make the booking as soon as you can. How old are you now, Christina?” He scrolled back up her file and didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh. Happy birthday for yesterday.”

  She flapped her hand at him, stole a tissue from his box and blew her nose. He typed some more. The printer whined and chugged. “This is a referral to an obstetrician colleague of mine who does a lot of work with my fibroid patients. You don’t need to see me again until our routine check-up after you’ve had your baby. All being well.”

  “What about exercise, Doctor Busby?”

  “You’re not planning on running a marathon?” Pause.

  “I’m entered in the City to Bay.”

  “Let your body be the guide, Christina. Gentle exercise is a good thing. I’d probably suggest walk the City to Bay, don’t run. But then look at me.” He tapped the cushion of his stomach. “We Englishmen have never been much for running. We’re happier watching the cricket over a pint.”

  ****

  The fastest route home from Doctor Busby’s clinic passed the Blue Box Bar, North Adelaide side of Adelaide Oval. Christina would have detoured but she didn’t want to risk North Terrace where traffic was hamstrung by work on the new tramline.

  The lights turned orange as she gained speed down the hill and for a second or two she thought she could chance the red. At the last minute she chickened-out, braked so hard her handbag slid off the passenger seat. Now she sat tapping her boot on the floor-mat watching suits cross the road, willing the light to turn green before her memories could turn red.

  There were people entering the Triple B for an after-work drink, ducking between a pair of spiked yuccas. When she and Bram had been regulars here, those yuccas had been cordylines but the blue ceramic pots hadn’t changed and if she wound down the window, she was pretty sure the music would be the same, too. Billy Idol. Duran Duran. Aha. Pseudo Echo. Politicians knew shit about classic rock.

  Lily Malone

  Drivers turning across traffic had the green arrow now, the light above her lane still glowed devil-eyed red.

  Bram’s political aspirations began here. What she remembered most about the Blue Box Bar was the night their relationship ended.

  Bram hadn’t been in their normal spot, and she’d been running late. She had to fight a path through the Friday evening uni crowd—sweat and Lynx clogging her nostrils—until one of the Young Liberals told her Bram was in a room at the back. When she finally found him, Bram’s back was to the door and he’d been deep in conversation with a walrus-nosed stranger, a huge man wearing a suit the same grey as depression.

  She’d been about to call out a greeting, poised with her hand on the doorframe.

  Then her eyes had met the stranger’s, and something about him skewered her in place. He had fingers like sausages and he’d thrust the biggest of these at Bram’s chest. She’d heard
every word.

  “Mercury Developments is our largest campaign donor and what do I see on the Channel 10 news tonight, Abraham? An interview with your tree-hugging little squeeze who’s there telling all of Adelaide some rare frog is more important to McLaren Vale than a new housing estate!”

  Bram flapped his hands like a panicked penguin. “I’ll talk to Christina, Jack.”

  “Do more than fuckin’ talk.” The sausage stabbed. “If your missus gets any more airtime for her Greenie rants, you—” stab “—won’t have to worry about pre-selection because you—” stab “—will be the guy handing out how-to‐votes for Brendan McPhee. His missus runs a fuckin’ coffee shop. She ices fuckin’ cakes.”

  “Okay, Jack. Okay. Jesus.” Bram rubbed a hand through his hair.

  Walrus-nose wasn’t finished. “And get her to tone down her fuckin’ clothes. No punter will listen to your policies about health and education if they’re more interested in where your missus buys her fuckin’ shoes.”

  “Yeah. Okay, Jack.” Bram’s hands patted the air at his hip. They were still patting as Christina backed silently out of the Blue Box Bar, and out of his life.

  Six weeks later, she’d lost Bram’s child. It was the only thing of his she’d had to show for four years of her life.

  The traffic lights turned green.

  ****

  When her ringtone burst into life just before nine-thirty that night, Christina jumped so hard she nearly sewed her index finger into fleecy fabric. Beside her, the phone vibrated, bumped against her dressmaking scissors. Her stomach clenched. Tate? Then she saw the caller ID

  and cut Jagger off mid-note.

  “Hey, sweetie.”

  “It better be good!” Lacy pounced. “I waited at our tree for fifteen minutes.”

  Shit. It was a running night.

  “Lace, I’m so sorry. I had a physio appointment and I forgot to call. I’ve been working on labels with the graphic designer, all the stuff for this launch. Things are manic.” Head jammed to the side, Christina clamped the phone between the point of her shoulder and her cheek so she could keep her hands free.

  “Physio? You poor old crock. Turn thirty-five and everything falls apart. So did he find anything wrong?”

  Christina cleared her throat. “He thinks I might have tendonitis in my right Achilles.

  It’s been hurting like hell. He gave me a set of exercises and said rest it is the best thing. So I don’t think I can run in the City to Bay now, Lace. But I should manage to walk.” She pressed the pedal on the sewing machine and the Bernina purred.

  “What else is wrong?” Lacy shrilled.

  Christina lifted her foot from the pedal and cursed beneath her breath. Lacy knew her too well. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? That new-fandangled sewing machine gizmo of yours may be the quietest on the market but I know it when I hear it. It’s Wednesday night. Sons of Anarchy starts in exactly three minutes and you’re sewing? You never miss SOA and you sew when you’re trying to put off thinking about stuff you don’t want to think about.”

  “Sheesh, Miss Marple. I’m just mending a curtain.”

  “Are you cheating on me with all your single mates? Is that why you stood me up?

  Am I only good for cups of tea and scones now? We didn’t even have champagne for your birthday. I didn’t get leprosy, I got married.”

  Christina chuckled. Even when the world was black, Lacy could make her laugh. “I’m having an alcohol-free week that’s all, not an orgy.”

  “You know what I thought?” Lacy’s tone turned winsome. “I thought you’d tell me you missed our training session because Tate came back and he’s had you tied to the bedposts all afternoon.”

  There was a muffled protest from Lacy’s end of the phone, then Lacy’s voice again:

  “Michael says that was TMI.”

  “Darn tooting,” Christina agreed.

  She looked at the tiny yellow scrap of bodysuit under the Bernina’s presser foot. Half the embroidered cherub was done. She’d sewn chubby pink cheeks, curly hair, huge eyes, and arms with dimpled creases. The pattern was the closest thing to a Reubens’ cherub she’d been able to find. The suit seemed impossibly small. Surely babies were born bigger?

  “What?” Lacy exclaimed.

  Oh my God, did I say it aloud?

  She heard Mikey shout and the sound of a television volume ratcheted higher.

  “What is it, Lace?”

  Lacy’s words tumbled down the phone. “CC, Tate’s on Lateline. Turn on the ABC. The Minister’s thrown out the live cattle export ban. Tate can come home.”

  Lily Malone

  Chapter 17

  Bitumen under the Jeep’s wheels felt great after weeks banging round on dirt. So did Springsteen on the radio and the smell of a briny sea. Only right now Tate couldn’t smell anything except sausage and liliums. The Linkes’ mettwurst even overpowered the flowers, which wasn’t a bad thing—five minutes in the Norwood Florist and his nose thought it had been mugged.

  But the weather sure sucked. Flying into Adelaide had been like entering a bushfire zone except instead of orange flames there were boysenberry clouds, some near-green in the centre, threatening hail. First thing he’d done on landing was hunt out a jacket. The air tasted like chipped ice.

  Cellophane crackled. He juggled the liliums—masses of apricot and pink-tinged buds—across a box filled with crackers, mettwurst, cheese and dips. His other hand held two bottles of champagne in a brown paper bag.

  Making it up the steps was easy. The door presented a new set of problems.

  Balancing the box on his raised thigh, he was reaching for the doorknob when the door swung toward him, propelled by a muscled forearm the colour of dark coffee.

  “Bwana, jambo. Need a hand?”

  “You’re not kidding, Jobe. Take these before I lose the lot.”

  Jobe Basel grabbed the brown paper bag in one hand, tucked it to his ribs and pumped Tate’s palm. “Good to see you, man.”

  Clapping Jobe on the back was like smacking a wall. “Good to see you, too. Thanks for holding the fort.”

  Tate wiped his feet and stepped into Outback Brands’ reception. He smiled at the Lisas. One of them blushed; caught shoving closed—way too hard—a compartment of the photocopier.

  The office smelled of sausage and liliums underlined by printer ink, microwave lunch leftovers, coffee. A day’s worth of grit tracked across bright blue carpet and footsteps thudded on the first floor above his head. It felt like he’d never left.

  He dumped the box of nibbles on the counter.

  Receptionist Lisa chirped a greeting. Short, blonde and bubbly, she was the opposite of Leesa number two—his first-year graphic arts trainee—the one slamming paper trays and swearing under her breath.

  “Photocopiers build character, Leese,” he told her.

  “I’ll take an axe to it in a minute.”

  He sympathised. Photocopiers were like toilets—they jammed when you were up to your eyeballs in crap.

  “Take it all upstairs, Jobe, and spread the word. Early knock-off tonight. Friday night drinks.”

  “On it, Bwana.” Jobe took the carpeted stairs two at a time.

  Like ants after spilt sugar, Outback Brands’ staff swarmed from adjoining offices.

  Ruth Landers was about half a minute behind the first wave. Watching her come down the stairs, he could see the difference. Ruth had flown up and down those stairs for six years, now she moved like she carried something precious.

  “I’d almost forgotten what you look like.” Her smile showed the wide gap between her two front teeth. Gold links around her neck blinked in the reception foyer lights.

  “Congratulations on the cattle job. I bet Jancis tries to hang an AMPRA medal around your neck this time for sure.”

  Tate aimed a kiss at her cheek. His nose bumped the arm of her glasses and she blushed, pleased. He held out the flowers. “You’re the one who deserves congratulations.

  Bu
t I don’t know what I’m going to without you around here. Maybe I’ll start a workplace crèche.”

  She put her nose into the bunch. “I would have told you about the baby sooner, but I figured you had enough on your plate.”

  Leesa slammed the toner cartridge back into its slot and the buzz of conversation stopped. She held up her hand, index and middle finger crossed, and hit copy.

  “Drinks and nibbles in the boardroom, everyone,” he called.

  Blonde Lisa’s face fell.

  “You can put the answering machine on, Lisa,” Ruth said, and the receptionist’s face lit up. Usually she was the one who got stuck minding phones while everyone else had fun.

  Ruth peered into the box on the counter and made a face. “I can have dried apricots, dry crackers and a bunch of grapes.”

  “I thought pregnant women weren’t supposed to diet?”

  She chuckled. “It’s not about losing weight it’s about listeria. You’ll learn all about it one day.”

  “What have the Lisas done now?” Jobe called from halfway down the stairs. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, people: beer’s getting warm.”

  Leesa kicked the storage doors at the photocopier’s base.

  “Let me take a look before you break it, Leese,” Ruth said, not unkindly, bustling around the reception counter into the alcove which held printers, photocopiers, a scanner and a fax. She opened compartments filled with enough yellow warning triangles she could have been about to dismantle a bomb.

  “Here.” Ruth’s fingernails hooked beneath a roller and she began a long, steady pull.

  A crumpled piece of paper unfurled like pasta from a machine.

  “You’re a lifesaver, Ruthie,” Leesa breathed, placing her own skinny fingers on the emerging page. Her dark skin stood out against the white.

  Something in the picture caught Tate’s eye. “Show me that.”

  Leesa shielded the paper with her hip and pretended she hadn’t heard. He beckoned with his hand. “Leese? I want to see that.”

  Her hand shook as she offered the page over the reception desk. He laid it flat, ran his finger over the page, half expecting to feel the grit of red dirt. The colours glowed.