Along one wall was a set of larger cages. While the others contained kittens by the batch, the adult cats had enclosures of their own.
‘What about these cats? Don’t they have homes? Aren’t they micro-chipped?’
‘Sometimes the scanner can’t read the chip. Sometimes the owners don’t get it done.’
Clem went to a cage holding a slinky grey cat who was determinedly licking her paws.
‘That’s Sadie,’ said Carmel. ‘She has been here since she was a kitten. We just can’t seem to find a home for her.’ Carmel opened the cage and lifted Sadie out. ‘Not many people adopt full-grown cats,’ she said. ‘But they are far less trouble.’
She handed Sadie to Clementine. Sadie was warm and had a coat as soft as mink. She sat peacefully in Clem’s arms. As Clementine stroked her back, the cat started to purr. Clementine liked her quiet dignity and felt a sense of kinship with her.
‘Poor Sadie,’ she said, looking at the rows of fluff-ball kittens who would be picked over the older cat. ‘I’ll take her.’
‘Wonderful,’ Carmel put her arms around Clem and the cat, and cuddled them both.
The whole drive home, Sadie meowed. It wasn’t a complaint or a sign of distress, but cat conversation. Clementine took her upstairs and laid out her new bowl. Sadie looked around, observing her new home for half a minute. Then, unfazed, stuck her leg in the air and began licking her backside.
Sadie’s presence lifted Clem’s mood immeasurably. She loved to hear the cat following her around as she did her laundry. She liked watching the grey dart as Sadie chased shadows across the lounge room. That night Sadie sat on Clem’s lap as she watched television and awkwardly tried to paint her toenails. A documentary on mountaineer Tenzing Norgay made Clem think of Damon and his mountaineering charity work. She didn’t do anything selfless like that. Her idea of charity was eating most of the trifle to protect Dani from the risk of developing diabetes.
Clem grabbed the remote and changed the channel.
‘We’re done with all of that scheming and plotting,’ she told Sadie, and gave her an affectionate squeeze.
Chapter 23 Annabel
Hilary and Byron had given Annabel half an hour at 8am to win them over. The night before the meeting, Annabel drove to Black Jacques cafe in Rose Bay. Jacques — a Francophile whose real name was Graeme Gross — charged $6 for his takeaway coffee, and people came from miles to try it. He blended and roasted the beans on site. Black Blend was the top-selling mix, and came in a special cup decorated with images of an Ethiopian goat herder. Annabel bought herself a coffee and then asked the barista if she could buy another three, but could he only give her the cups.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘I just want the coffee cups; I don’t want the coffee.’
‘We don’t give our cups away.’
‘I realise that, which is why I am happy to pay for the coffee. But I don’t want the coffee; I only want the takeaway cups. And a carrier, please.’
The barista looked at her suspiciously. He called over the manager and they had a quick, hushed conversation. It seems they couldn’t argue with the economics of $18 for three paper cups and a carry tray. Annabel handed over $24 and took her purchases. The next stop was the supermarket. There she bought three different varieties of instant coffee, including the off-label supermarket brand. That night she spent a couple of hours experimenting with mixes and blends — one teaspoon of that two teaspoons of this — until she had something suitably original tasting. She wrote down the measurements, ironed a Ralph Lauren shirt and went to bed.
In the morning she brewed a large pot of instant coffee made from the previous night’s specifications, filled the Black Jacques takeaway cups and put them in the carry tray. She offered the hot cups to Hilary and Byron when she arrived at their office.
‘I’ve heard of Black Jacques coffee, but I’ve never tried it before,’ said Byron, accepting a cup. He took a sip.
‘What do you think?’ asked Hilary.
They drank small, thoughtful mouthfuls.
‘I bought them as an exercise in marketing,’ Annabel said.
‘Oh?’
‘First, let me tell you a story. There’s a Starbucks café in Seattle that has been nicknamed the stealth Starbucks. It has no Starbucks branding, no logos on the coffee cups, but it sells exactly the same product all of the other stores do: Starbucks coffee. Only it looks like an ordinary corner coffee shop. Locals are even encouraged to bring in their own music, to sticky-tape up their own flyers for live shows and causes. The company realised people are starting to reject corporate brands. In part that’s why Eve’s Garden has been so successful. It’s seen as anti-establishment. It is locally made by academics who have perfected a method of growing, harvesting and juicing fruit that minimises damage to the environment. Enjoying your coffee?’
‘Mmm,’ Byron slurped.
‘The question for Eve’s Garden is: how do you create a brand, a logo, a series of labels that sets your new cider range apart from everything else out there without it looking like something that looks like it’s part of Big Brewers Inc.? Boutique breweries are everywhere. The homemade, hokey labels have been done to death.’
She had their attention.
‘I propose something entirely different. Something that has never been done before. I’ve brought some prototypes.’
Annabel lifted one of the bottles out of the brown paper bag she had with her. The label was completely plain; pale green with not a letter of text.
‘I see what you’re trying to do, but isn’t it a bit pretentious?’ said Byron.
‘It’s the opposite,’ Annabel said. ‘Give it a scratch.’
‘A scratch?’
‘Scratch the label. With your fingernail. Give it a rub.’
Hilary picked up the bottle and rubbed it with her nail.
‘Now smell the label,’ Annabel said.
Hilary held the bottle to her nose.
‘Granny Smith apples!’ There was a look of wonderment on her face.
Annabel pulled out the other bottles. All bore bare labels in different colours. Byron and Hilary took one each. Byron cleared his throat.
‘How will people know what the flavours are? We know pink is strawberry and pear, but it could be anything. It could be raspberry or just plain strawberry.’
Hilary nodded. ‘It could be cherry,’ she said.
‘Scratch it,’ Annabel said. Hilary looked at Annabel sceptically while Byron scratched. They sniffed.
‘Strawberries and pear!’ Hilary said.
‘If you like the idea, we can work on the scent to get them as close to the flavour of the cider as possible.’
Byron and Hilary looked at each other. They didn’t seem to know what to say.
‘Are you enjoying the Black Jacques?’ Annabel asked.
‘I must say I can see what the fuss is about. It’s very different to the normal takeaway coffees you get around the place,’ said Hilary.
‘Mmm,’ Annabel said appreciatively as she sipped hers. ‘It’s actually instant coffee.’
‘What?’
‘Instant coffee? It doesn’t taste like any instant coffee I’ve ever had,’ Byron blustered.
‘Two parts International Roast. One part Nescafé Gold and some home brand. All freeze-dried and bottled up, available for purchase at your local supermarket.’ The couple was aghast. ‘The power of marketing,’ Annabel smiled. Without skipping a beat she continued. ‘The best part about the labelling concept I propose is that it forces people to interact with the product. They walk past a refrigerator full of drinks and they see Eve’s Garden. There’s no name, no branding. They’re curious. They pick it up and turn it over in their hands. Not a word. They’ll scratch it. They’ll have heard about the labels, as we’ll do a very low-key advertising campaign; subtle signs on the fridges, that sort of thing. Customers will be able to smell the cider without even opening the bottle. But, best of all, it will be in their hands
.’
‘It’s different,’ said Byron.
Hilary beamed. ‘I like it.’
Annabel left the office grinning from ear to ear. She had nailed it.
She pulled out her phone to tell Patrick, then stopped herself. She had called him the morning after the Randwick race day, but he hadn’t picked up. Putting her mobile phone back into her Christian Lacroix satchel, she hailed a cab.
It was only 9am when she got to her desk, but after her morning’s work it felt as though it was the middle of the day. She was bright and full of energy. At lunchtime they had a cake for Kathy’s birthday. Kathy sniffled with pride while they sang and then presented her with a box of silver Tiffany’s earnings.
‘It’s too much,’ she said, reaching for the blue bag Ant was dangling in front of her.
‘This company would be nowhere without you,’ Annabel said. ‘I wish I could afford to pay you all better for all the hard work you do. But we’re still growing. Hopefully things will change soon.’
She had already calculated that the Eve’s Garden account would allow her to give the staff a small raise.
After they had all had two pieces of cream-stuffed sponge, Annabel went back to her desk and admired the tiny empire she had created.
Since moving to the larger premises she had taken on two new full-timers. There was Calvin, who at first had seemed out of place in his blue suits and financier’s haircut, but whose ambitious streak was attracting new clients weekly. And Ann, whose quiet, almost mousy demeanour hid a determination and attention to detail that was astounding. Annabel had come to value and trust each of them, and their pride in their work was gratifying.
Mid-afternoon she decided she would like to see Harry for dinner. She was feeling powerful and in command of her own destiny. He had called to apologise about leaving Randwick, and Annabel had accepted the apology. But when he had asked her out to dinner that night, she had told him she wasn’t available. It hadn’t been to punish him; she just hadn’t been in the mood. After the big day at Randwick, she had been tired, and she had also been surprised to discover she actually hadn’t minded not having him there. But with things in her business life clicking into place, she was keen to project-manage her personal life, too. She had in mind a nice dinner at Food Society. She would wear her new Manning Cartell dress with the blue hydrangeas on it. Harry would like that. They would continue on the path they had started.
She sent him a text message, asking if he was free.
When he hadn’t replied by six o’clock, Annabel picked up the phone and called. It went to voicemail. She figured he was at the library and left a message asking him to ring back when he was finished. Then she packed up. Still no call.
Annabel didn’t feel like eating dinner alone; she felt like talking and celebrating. Clementine’s phone rang out, and Daniela’s was switched off. The one person she really wanted to speak to was Patrick. She thought he would be particularly impressed by the scratch-and-sniff label concept. Annabel flicked through her phone until she found his contact details. Her finger was poised above the dial button, but she decided not to call. If he wanted to speak to her, he would have called her back. With that depressing thought on her mind she picked up some takeaway Lebanese and a DVD. She fell asleep on her couch in front of the film.
She was woken by her phone around 11pm.
She put it blindly to her ear. All she could hear was muffled whimpering on the line. She recognised the distinct tone.
‘Humpty?’
‘It’s Mirabella …’ More sniffling.
Annabel sat up straight. ‘What is it?’
She could sense what was coming.
‘It’s over. I found her in bed with someone.’
‘Oh, Humpty, no! Tell me what happened.’
There was the sound of blubbering followed by a muffled trumpet as he blew his nose.
‘I’ve been in Melbourne on business,’ Humpty sniffed. ‘I came home a day early to surprise her. She always says she hates it when I go away. And when I walked into our bedroom, there they were. Together. In our bed. Wrapped up in our sheets. The set my mother gave us for our wedding.’
‘Oh, Humpty, I’m so sorry,’ Annabel said. The fact that this didn’t come as a surprise did not diminish her anger or disappointment. ‘Do you have any idea who he is?’
There was a pause while Humpty composed himself.
‘He’s … he’s … her ex-husband.’
Annabel’s heart stopped. Of course. She listened to Humpty say that he had left her and that he was going to stay with his mother for a little while. She said she would buy him lunch the next day.
After Humpty hung up, she called Daniela. This time she answered.
‘Humpty found Mirabella and Harry in bed together,’ Annabel announced.
For a moment Daniela didn’t say anything. And then she said, in very small voice: ‘My ma died.’
Chapter 24 Daniela
Mannaggia. The kink of hair just wouldn’t sit flat. Daniela had slept terribly and her mane had become mangled and mattered. She unleashed another dousing of hairspray, but the kink boinged back up, resilient. The human brain has an amazing capacity to compartmentalise. Gia had died on Monday night. Daniela’s life would never be the same. And now she was fixated on an errant hair kink.
Daniela replayed the final hours in her head again, watching Gia’s weakening breath leave her, bit by bit, until there was none left. She had felt helpless. Waiting. Knowing there was no stopping it. She had wanted to shake her mamma, to hold her and squeeze her so as to not let the life escape. But it was futile.
They hadn’t even known she was sick. On the previous Monday they had been eating dinner together, unaware that it would be the last time. Even then, the vessel in Gia’s brain would have been strained. The blood was pooling, putting pressure on the thin venous wall. Five nights later she had collapsed. Vincenzo hadn’t had time to call Dani as they rushed Gia to the hospital; he was in the back of the ambulance, holding her hand.
Surgeons had operated immediately to try to contain the damage. She lived almost forty-eight hours after the reservoir of blood that had slowly built up inside her head burst its banks.
‘I knew,’ Vincenzo had said to Daniela as they held a vigil by her bedside, the heart monitor silent. ‘I looked at her on the stretcher and something was different. I knew that she wasn’t going to come back.’ He didn’t wipe away the tears that rained down his cheeks. Dani took his hand and they watched over Gia, his cold, papery palm in hers.
Dani thought of all the things she would have said to her mother if she had known the aneurysm had been there the whole time. As she looked at Gia’s thin body, she thought: Is there a time bomb inside me? Then scolded herself for being selfish.
Afterwards they had stayed at the hospital. Daniela, Silv and his wife, Joey and their pa had all drifted around like spirits locked in limbo, unsure what to do with themselves. Directionless. Purposeless. When it was time to go, Dani returned to Leichhardt with Vincenzo, where they continued their ghostly pantomime. They cried. Dani cooked and tried to get her pa to eat. They gnawed on bread rolls and left the rest of their food untouched. Each forkful was a painful reminder of the millions of meals they had eaten with Gia. Every hour, they received relatives, who brought zuppa di cozza and comforting words. Vincenzo swallowed two forkfuls of risotto, then Dani took his plate into the kitchen, where Zia Loretta was preparing his favourite dish.
‘Oh, here Dani, let me take that,’ Zia Loretta said, coming to her with oven-mitts outstretched.
‘Va bene, Loretta. I’ll do it.’
Loretta’s mouth trembled. She put her hands on Dani’s shoulders and looked at her through watery eyes.
‘Yes. You’re so capable,’ she said. ‘She was so proud of you.’
Loretta was not Daniela’s zia — her aunt — at all, but an old school friend of Gia’s who was like an aunt. Better than an aunt, in fact. Dani had a stronger rapport with Loretta than with either o
f Gia’s sisters. But on this one Loretta was wrong. Gia had never got to see what she so wanted for her daughter. She never would. If Dani ever did get married, it would be less joyful than it would have been if she had been able to share it with her mamma. She sniffed and nodded and let Loretta believe she had comforted her. But all she could think of was how her ma would never be part of her own children’s lives.
And yet now, five days later with St Augusta’s filling up with black-clad mourners, she was able to stand there, in front of the mirror, and worry about and a wayward curl. She reached for a bobby pin, speared it into place, then gave her head a final spray.
‘Your brothers have gone to the church, but I said I’d drive your father.’ Cameron had come into the bedroom.
‘I should be there already, greeting people, I suppose.’
‘There’s no hurry.’ He put his hand on Dani’s shoulder. She moved away, letting it slide off.
‘Loretta is there,’ he said. Loretta had arranged the music and a slide-show of photos of Gia. ‘Clementine and Annabel are there, too, doing their best to be helpful.’
‘Thank you.’
Daniela felt detached.
Clementine and Annabel had performed miracles. Dani’s phone had been ringing non-stop, so Annabel had taken charge of it and was answering all questions about parking arrangements, directions and whether they needed more meatballs for the wake. Clementine had ordered flowers, made sure Pa and Dani ate, liaised with the funeral director, and kept the peace between Dani’s brothers who, in their grief, had regressed to the state of six-year-olds. They both helped with the catering. It would have been Gia’s job. She had always been the hostess of the family. Not Dani, of the store-bought cannoli.
When Daniela arrived at the church, a line of people clutching damp umbrellas snaked out the door, waiting to be seated. All greeted her with hugs and told her how generous her mamma had been. Daniela accepted their compliments with a vague nod. She was comforted by people she hadn’t seen in ten years. It all had a slightly bewildering effect. For the past few days, Dani had been locked in the house undertaking the tearful work of helping Vincenzo sort through Gia’s affairs, and was surprised to discover that news of their tragedy had reached the world outside their family, and who, along with the relatives, were arriving in fifteen-minute intervals with consignments of food.
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