The Making of Christina

by Meredith Jaffe

  ‘Tell him I’ve made my offer,’ Jackson said when she told him.

  ‘Yes but . . .’

  ‘But nothing. He can take the offer or watch the price go down.’

  Each time she presented the agent’s demands, Jackson swatted him away like a fly. Her apartment had cost $250,000. Now they were talking ten times that amount. Christina fretted thinking all her aspirations might come to nothing and eventually she said so.

  ‘Jackson, please talk to Michael yourself,’ she begged. ‘I’m a hopeless go-between. If the sale falls through I’ll never forgive myself.’ Tears of frustration pricked her eyes. Their dream was going to be just that. There would be no castle in the sky.

  Jackson switched the television over to the rugby. ‘It’s not the money, CC, it’s the principle. Mick Spalding thinks that because I’m loaded he’s somehow entitled to a chunk of it. I’ve got news for him.’

  ‘But what if we lose the property?’

  ‘CC, the place has been on the market for years. Who’s Spalding kidding? What, buyers are lining up and this is a Dutch auction? All he’s thinking about is his commission cheque. It’s a game. Go back and tell him it’s the final offer. Take it or leave it.’

  Christina twisted her fingers in misery. She hated negotiating and because of her they would lose the house. ‘I’m just worried all our efforts will be wasted,’ she tried again.

  Jackson rested his heels on the coffee table. ‘CC, you are way too emotionally invested in this purchase. If the answer’s no, we walk away and look for another property.’

  ‘What! But we’ll never find anywhere like Bartholomews Run.’ Her despair made her shrill but at least Jackson looked away from the TV.

  ‘It’s a house, CC. There are plenty of houses for sale.’

  Christina dragged herself to the kitchen and picked up the phone. As Jackson had stipulated, she made their final offer. After the call, she burst into tears. She couldn’t help herself, the strain was too much.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jackson asked from where he sprawled on the couch. ‘Did he say no?’

  Christina shook her head and reached for the box of tissues. ‘No,’ she gasped between sobs.

  ‘Shark.’

  Christina flapped her hands. ‘No, I mean yes. He said yes. We got the house.’

  She thought sharing the good news with Della would be easy. Despite Della’s entrenched views about married men in general and Jackson in particular, how could Della be anything but thrilled? After all, Jackson had turned out to be the exception that proved the rule. Here was a man prepared to leave his wife for his mistress. Contrary to Della’s dire and oft-repeated predictions, Christina had not invested years of her life in a dead-end relationship when she might have been meeting Mr Right. Surely that Della had been wrong on this matter should have been a positive? But no.

  Whilst Della prepared lunch, Christina outlined what she thought was the perfect solution to her dilemma.

  ‘You’re selling your flat?’ Della stopped buttering garlic bread, the knife poised midair. ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘I can’t see any way around it, Dell.’ Christina continued laying the table for six. ‘I mean, Bartholomews Run is amazing but there’s an incredible amount of work to be done to make it even habitable. Remember what this place was like when you bought it?’

  Della dismissed five years of renovating an enormous Victorian terrace and gardens with a wave of her hand. ‘I appreciate that it’s a lot of work but we had somewhere else to live whilst we endured the worst of it. That’s my point.’

  ‘But Della, I can’t supervise tradesmen and suppliers in Bartholomews Run from Sydney, plus keep working at Peterson Partners. Can you imagine it? Pick Bee up from school at three-thirty on a Friday, a mad dash up the mountains to miss the peak-hour traffic and same all over again on Sunday nights. Apart from being utterly exhausting, it would take forever and a day to finish the house. I’m not superwoman, Della.’

  Della stabbed the butter knife in Christina’s direction. ‘And dare I point out, CC, that Jackson has neither left his wife nor sold his business. If that doesn’t happen, you will be left high and dry.’

  Christina winced. Rosa had said something similar. ‘How can you be happy when this bastardo is cheating on his wife and lying to his children?’ Rosa had yelled down the phone. ‘You think he’s gonna treat you any different?’ For years Christina had used the twin advantage of her parents’ geographical distance and Bianca’s ignorance of Jackson’s other family to shield them from the truth. But the truth had a way of revealing itself eventually and ever since Christina had to endure Rosa’s glaring disapproval and Massimo’s sad shake of the head. That Rosa thought Christina a fool for throwing in her lot with Jackson she expected, but it wasn’t entirely fair either, given that Rosa had followed the love of her life to the ends of the earth. Of course, there was no comparison in Rosa’s eyes.

  What all of them failed to grasp was that Jackson leaving Sarah was a detail Christina had no control over. And anyway, it was too late to change plans now. Bianca would start at Valley View Grammar at the end of January and Jackson was already making noises about how the farm needed to start paying its way as soon as possible. How he could place the farm’s financial viability ahead of the renovations was beyond her comprehension. By her estimates, making the house liveable was a full-time job for at least the next twelve months. Something had to give.

  Della’s husband Tony wandered in from the patio carrying a platter of barbecued steaks.

  Della pounced. ‘Tones, CC wants to sell her flat. Tell her she’s crazy.’

  Tony placed the steak on the kitchen bench and took his cue from Della. ‘Mate, you need to keep your assets for a rainy day.’

  ‘Sure, but with the money I’ll have left over after I’ve repaid the mortgage, I can buy a house in town that I can do up and let. That way my money is still working for me and because it’s local I can keep an eye on it.’

  ‘She’s got a point, Dell,’ Tony appealed, helping himself to some marinated olives.

  Della shrugged. Unfazed she tackled Christina on her next point. ‘Darling, it’s not just about financial security. If everything goes pear-shaped, you may very well end up back in Sydney.’

  Christina stopped folding napkins. Della’s pragmatism sometimes strayed into tactlessness. Taking a deep breath, she explained her position. ‘Della, I can’t be half pregnant. Either I throw my lot in with Jackson and trust him to fulfil his side of the bargain, or I don’t. It’s that simple. I can’t say I want a future together that I won’t commit to myself. Everyone has to make sacrifices.’

  Della snorted, ‘Exactly what sacrifices has Jackson made?’

  ‘That’s unfair, Della. He’s selling his business and leaving his wife and children for me. I can’t question his intentions just because it’s not happening at the pace I’d like.’

  ‘I thought he was keeping the penthouse?’ Tony asked as he grabbed a beer from the fridge.

  Christina fetched the salt and pepper grinders. ‘For now, because in the short-term he needs a place to stay in Sydney. But not once this business with Sarah is sorted out.’

  She felt rather than saw the look that passed between them.

  ‘And Bee? What does she think about her life being uprooted?’ Della persisted.

  Unlike her father, Christina was a hopeless poker player. ‘She’s over the moon,’ she said, focusing her attention on laying out cutlery, side plates and napkins. ‘The promise of a pony has her totally sold on the move.’

  ‘And changing schools?’ Della wrapped the loaves of garlic bread in foil ready to be put in the oven.

  Christina kept her back turned. ‘We’ve talked about it and she’s accepted that she can’t have one without the other. Plus, of course, I told her you guys would be up all the time.’

  How can she tell
Della that Bianca sobbed at the thought of leaving her friends behind? That Christina had rocked and soothed her, talking of all the wonderful things they could do once they lived in the country. Grow their own veggies, collect baskets full of warm eggs for breakfast. Just like at Rosa and Massimo’s.

  ‘I’m allergic to eggs,’ Bianca had wailed.

  ‘Since when are you allergic to eggs?’ Christina had asked, wiping the tears from her daughter’s eyes.

  ‘Since forever,’ Bianca insisted. ‘Izzy’s allergic to eggs and so am I.’

  ‘Izzy’s not allergic to eggs. She just doesn’t like them. It’s not the same thing.’

  Bianca collapsed, sobbing into Bluey Baa-Baa’s already sodden coat. Christina had to try hard not to cry herself. This was going far less smoothly than she had envisaged. Here she was busy upselling all that fresh air and sunshine but who was she kidding – at ten, Bianca was far more concerned about her familiar social networks. She knew Bianca would be fine once she got there and settled in, it was getting her there in one piece that was proving the problem.

  ‘We could have a dog, two dogs even. Any kind of dog you want. You’ve always wanted a dog, haven’t you?’

  Bianca dragged her nose along the length of her sleeve. She lifted her mottled face to Christina’s, saying, ‘A beagle? Maddy has a beagle.’

  Christina nodded. ‘Sure. We could get a boy and a girl. What will we call them?’

  Bianca wrinkled her forehead. She thought for a while before taking a shuddering breath, ‘Tilly and Tully.’

  Christina pulled Bianca into her embrace. She shared happy memories from her childhood – Pizzazz, pony club and the annual show. How growing up in a small community meant you knew everyone and everyone knew you. And you could just run and run and run, as wild and free as you liked. City kids had no idea what they were missing out on. How lucky were they to be able to escape? Christina omitted to mention the downsides.

  ‘Can I have a pony too?’ Bianca eyes had widened with possibilities.

  That was the deal clincher. As if Christina would ever have said no.

  ‘What about Jamie?’ Della slid the garlic bread into the oven.

  Christina perched on a bar stool and accepted a top-up on her glass of red from Tony. ‘I haven’t told him yet.’

  ‘No, I meant how does Bee feel about seeing less of her father?’ Della disappeared into the walk-in pantry.

  Christina was glad Della couldn’t see her face. She’d never dream of saying so within Bianca’s hearing, but the thought of leaving Jamie behind in Sydney buoyed Christina with relief. Parenting had enough challenges without juggling the whole drama of access visits, conflicting schedules and Jamie’s no-shows. Not once had Bianca mentioned her father as a reason to stay. Christina knew she did not enjoy sharing her father’s scant attention with the baby. She had been more disappointed there was no surf at Bartholomews Run. As far as Christina was concerned, this was proof that Jamie’s relationship with his daughter was beyond repair. Della had already heard this a million times before, so all she said was, ‘You know Jamie doesn’t have that much to do with Bianca any more. If he wants to continue their relationship, it won’t kill him to make the trip.’

  Della accepted a hug from Tony. She sipped her wine, her eyes round and thoughtful. The silence lingered before she said, ‘Well, it’s your life, darling. It’s not for me to tell you how to run it. I just want to make sure you’ve thought through all the issues.’

  But Christina left Della’s house heavy with dissatisfaction. The evening had not gone as planned. She had assumed Della would be thrilled for her and instead she was left with the sense that Della thought her a fool, or at least impulsive. She couldn’t bear to lose Della’s friendship and, for the first time ever, feared she might.

  Mary-Lou’s reaction was to throw a party. ‘You’re not riding off into the sunset with Lover Boy without a proper send-off. I’ll brook no argument, CC,’ she said. Over the years, Christina had learned that you disagreed with Mary-Lou at your own peril, so she said yes.

  A few weeks later Christina walked up Mary-Lou’s driveway hearing the sound of people enjoying themselves bubbling out into the late December afternoon. Who on earth had Mary-Lou invited? Reaching the garden, she found women milling about in clutches of three or four. Children raced between their legs and their partners thronged around the barbecue or the grog table. Bianca disappeared with her friends, engrossed in ten-year-old chatter. These were women Christina only knew because they were parents of Bianca’s schoolfriends. Their telephone numbers were stored in her phone with the name of their child in parenthesis to remind Christina who they were. They were not what Christina would describe as real friends and certainly not people she would ever consider inviting up for a weekend at Bartholomews Run.

  Christina heard Della’s signature guffaw and began picking her way through the crowd.

  ‘CC! You’re here!’ Mary-Lou appeared from nowhere. She wore a sundress that flared out over her hips, swishing as she waltzed over to peck Christina on the lips, leaving a smudge of fuchsia in her wake.

  ‘That is one amazing dress, Mary-Lou.’

  ‘Christmas present from Brian. He likes to see my pins.’ Mary-Lou twirled so the skirt flared up. ‘Oooh, I’m a terrible hostess. You haven’t got a drink. Champagne?’

  Mary-Lou grabbed Christina’s hand and led her over to a trestle table groaning under the weight of ice buckets. Christina accepted a glass of champagne but declined to be force-fed pâté, smoked salmon blini or a mini asparagus and goat’s cheese tart.

  ‘Well if you won’t eat, Skinny Minny, let’s mingle.’ Mary-Lou renewed her grip on Christina’s elbow and prepared to set-forth.

  ‘Not yet, Mary-Lou.’ Christina removed her hand. ‘I just want to let Della know I’m here.’

  Mary-Lou pouted and dismissed Christina with a wave. It was only seconds before Christina heard Mary-Lou descending on her next victim.

  She found Della sitting on a stone bench in the dappled shade of a Chinese tallow tree. Dressed all in white bar a slash of her favourite red lipstick, Della looked like a miniature goddess.

  ‘Darling, you’re here!’ She grabbed Christina’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Sit down and give me an update.’

  Della shuffled over and Christina sat next to her. ‘We settle on the eighth of January and I’ve booked the removalists for the ninth. That’s it. We’re gone.’

  Della sucked in her bottom lip. ‘I can’t get my head around the fact that you’re actually leaving. We’ve spent almost all of our adult lives together and now I’ll never see you again.’

  Christina slipped her arm around Della’s shoulder. ‘Don’t exaggerate, Dell. Bartholomews Run is only a couple of hours away. The house is enormous – you guys are always welcome, you know that. Anyway, there is this invention called the telephone, you know.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing.’ Della sniffed. ‘I feel like I’m losing you forever.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. I’ll be in Sydney all the time. We’ll catch up then.’

  Della nodded and rested her head against Christina’s shoulder.

  From this position they had a clear line of sight to the house. They watched Jackson saunter across the verandah, giggled as Mary-Lou accosted him and kissed him full on the lips. Jackson squirmed like a small boy forced to kiss his lavender-scented aunt. Mary-Lou offered him a drink, he shook his head no, she insisted and dragged him over to the trestle table, holding the dripping bottle of tonic water up to his face. Glass in hand, she dragged him over to Brian and Tony who separated, allowing Jackson to join what was almost certainly a dissection of their morning’s round of golf.

  ‘I should probably rescue him.’ Christina placed her champagne glass on the grass behind the seat.

  Della patted her knee. ‘Of course you must, darling.’

  The afterno
on wore on; the guests with tired toddlers left, leaving a smaller contingent to carry on for dinner. Someone had lit the barbecue and the fragrant aroma of herbs, garlic and chilli wafted on the breeze. Christina fetched Jackson another tonic and noticed that the bathroom was empty. It seemed as good a time as any.

  She was washing her hands when a sunflower-scented cloud drifted in through the tiny window above her head. There was a clink of glasses then Mary-Lou said, ‘Whatcha thinking about, Della Mac?’

  There was the click of a lighter and the smell of cigarette smoke. Della had snuck out the back for a quiet smoke where Tony couldn’t find her. Christina always teased Della that she hung on to smoking as the last vestige of her wild days and not actually because she enjoyed it. Since Della had never contradicted her, she knew it must be true. Della exhaled, saying, ‘Oh, I don’t know, Mary-Lou. Am I the only one who thinks Christina is throwing her life away on that man?’

  Christina stopped drying her hands.

  ‘What do you mean, Della?’ Mary-Lou replied. ‘He’s handsome, rich and he’s taking her off to live in paradise. Women kill for less than that. Lucky for CC, I already have Brian.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d marry a man with money, Mary-Lou,’ Della said. ‘It’s different when you earn it yourself or have been together forever and it’s a team effort like you guys and us. But having it handed to you on a plate changes the power dynamic.’

  Her words cut Christina. It was all very well for Della who met Tony at uni and never looked back. Not everyone had the luck to meet Mr Right so early in life. It was no reason to judge her.

  ‘I never figured CC for a gold digger, Della Mac.’ Mary-Lou’s voice sounded hard and Christina silently thanked her.

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ Della hurried to explain. ‘But let’s face it, it’s impossible to separate Jackson from his money. And it’s impossible to deny that CC’s going from making ends meet to a blank cheque. Of course her life will change.’

  Mary-Lou tapped the rim of her glass. ‘As my mum would say, it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man.’