“Are you going to admit to being forty,” Erin asked, “when someone asks you your age?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. “It’s an inescapable fact of life.”
“You don’t declare your real age when you’re in an odd year,” Erin replied.
“Yeah, but I always go up, never down.”
“It doesn’t make much sense to say you’re younger than your years,” said Amber. “Because then people will say you haven’t aged well. It’s best to add on a few years so people will say you look great for your age.”
“People are always going to say you look great for your age, Amber,” said Sophie. “You look twenty-five, if that.”
“There are more important things in life than looking fabulous for ever,” Amber replied with a smug smile.
We all laughed.
“What have you been drinking, Amber, or smoking?” Sophie asked. “What could be more important in your life than your looks?”
“Jake, marriage, babies.”
“Oh my God,” I mumbled. “She’s taken some mind-altering drug.”
“Maybe she has just finally met the right man,” Kimba offered.
“How could this be, Amber?” I asked.
“Kimba is right,” she replied. “Jake is perfect for me.”
“Does anyone else remember Samuel, the first husband?” I asked. “He was perfect for you too, until you met…what’s his face?”
“Caleb,” she answered. “It’s different this time.”
“I don’t think you’re capable of a long-term, forever relationship,” said Erin. “None of your relationships have lasted more than two years.”
“Well, Erin, you’ll be eating those words,” Amber replied, “with a dose of red hot chilies. You’re still allergic to chilies aren’t you?”
“I hope I’m wrong,” Erin replied. “But I doubt it.”
“Everyone can change,” said Kimba. “He seems like a really nice guy, Amber.”
“Does he know he’s being considered for the role?” I asked.
“Not yet, but soon.”
“I can’t believe you’re seriously thinking of getting married,” I said sculling another glass of merlot.
“You’ll be the only single left, Mace,” Erin added, as if she needed to state what was bleatingly obvious.
“What about Kipper?” Amber asked. “He still asks about you.”
“Writing another article is he?” I replied.
“Why would anyone pursue a relationship already based on betrayal?” Sophie added.
“No argument on that point,” I said, “And please, it is my birthday and I have no interest in seeing Kipper again. Got that, Amber?”
She shrugged.
“Speaking of betrayal,” Erin began then paused. “I’m not sure I should even mention this…”
“You have to now,” said Amber. “You can’t say something like that then stop and think we’ll let it rest.”
“It’s Mace’s birthday,” said Erin. “I don’t want to spoil it.”
“Say it!” Sophie ordered.
“Nice, Sophie,” I said. “Thanks for caring, but go ahead, Erin. I doubt you could ruin my birthday. It’s a somber day anyway, because of mother.”
“Well…I saw your brother the other day, Jason. He was having lunch.”
“Wow,” yelled Sophie. “That is unbelievable! Are you okay, Mace?”
“He was having lunch,” Erin continued with a glare at Sophie, “with a beautiful blonde woman.”
“Sounds like Alexis, the cow,” I said.
“It wasn’t Alexis,” she replied. “She had blonde hair, but it was really short and she was wearing jeans and boots.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Alexis would never be seen in jeans or with short hair.”
“So two people were having lunch…I hope this gets better, Erin,” said Amber.
“Not much more than face stroking and loads of kissing,” she replied.
“You’re kidding?” I asked. “You saw my brother, Jason, kissing another woman?
“Really kissing,” Erin answered.
“They didn’t notice you stalking them?” Sophie asked.
“I wasn’t stalking. They were at a window table.”
“Wow,” I whispered.
“Sorry to tell you this on your birthday, Mace.”
“Are you kidding? That is great news.”
“It’s not surprising,” said Amber. “You can’t maintain a loveless marriage forever.”
“I’ll have to call him for lunch,” I said.
“Call who for lunch?” asked the Bobmeister who appeared suddenly from the downstairs den where a card game was in progress.
“What are you doing up here?” Erin asked.
“I just came up for more snacks. I didn’t hear anything,” he said with a wry smile.
“You better not have,” said Erin, and the Bobmeister had every reason to be afraid.
“If you enjoy our conversations so much, why don’t you stay up here with us and leave the boys to their card games,” said Amber.
“What do you all talk about down there?” I asked.
“Nothing,” said the Bobmeister. “We don’t talk about anything.”
“Rubbish,” I said. “There’s no way you could be sitting down saying nothing to each other.”
“We can hear you laughing from up here,” added Kimba, smiling.
“So someone must be saying something,” I said.
The Bobmeister shrugged and disappeared with nuts and chips.
“Do you think Adam talks about our marriage to the others?” Sophie asked. “Erin? Has the Bobmeister said anything to you?”
“No. More wine?” she said abruptly then rushed to the kitchen.
Sophie brooded for a while. “If you knew Adam was cheating on me,” she asked, “would you tell me?”
“Absolutely,” I replied without hesitation.
“For sure,” said Amber.
“Erin?” Sophie asked.
“Adam would never cheat on you, Sophie,” she answered, filling her glass.
“Answer the question,” Sophie ordered.
“I don’t know,” she said. “You would only hate me for it.”
“No I wouldn’t. I’d be grateful.”
“You’d be angry and you’d take it out on me.”
“So you wouldn’t tell me,” said Sophie. “What kind of a friend are you?”
“At this point I’d like to remind everyone that today is my birthday and just for once I’d like us to get through one night without an argument.”
“Hey!” Amber yelled, which caused a mass reflex flinching that spilled wine everywhere.
“Oh my God, what!” I yelled back.
“I just had a déjà vu—I saw you saying that, Mace!”
“Is that it?” Sophie moaned wiping merlot from her blouse.
“It’s weird.” Amber continued. “Like I saw the future before it happened.”
“Just goes to prove that people really are psychic,” said Erin and we all stopped to stare at her. “You know, people who can see the future before it happens,” she added as if we were after a definition.
“Erin, I think that is the most logical observation you have ever made,” said Sophie, clearly disturbed. “That really does make sense.”
“Maybe you should see a psychic about you and Adam,” Erin suggested.
“Maybe I will,” said Sophie. “We could all go.”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Don’t you want to know if there’s a man on your horizon?” Amber asked.
“I already know the answer to that,” I said. “Oscar says to love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance, so that’s my plan.”
This was apparently very amusing for my friends all laughed heartily, except for Kimba who said it was a good plan and one she supported.
“Before you can fall in love with yourself, you’ll have to get to know yourself,” said Sophie with a sm
irk.
“Your romance will only go from bad to worse then,” Amber added with similar impudence. “There’s a lot you’ll need to keep secret from yourself.”
“It’s my birthday,” I whispered as more insensitive laughter bounced from one former friend to another, but not from Kimba.
“Only for another fifteen minutes,” said Amber.
I did not care. I would get to know myself and love myself too and this was possible it seemed from glancing through the books Kimba and Kenneth had given me, and Oscar says, “To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest one’s own development. To deny one’s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one’s life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.”
Chapter Twenty-one
DAY ONE of the newer new Mace was full of contempt and anxiety for it was a record cold autumn day in Melbourne. I wanted to go home with a pizza and a bottle of merlot to read my books, and perhaps even write a word or two, but instead, I had my first session with the personal trainer after work. I hoped he would not begin with an expose on the dismal weather because, as Oscar says, “Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative,” and I was in no mood for a hackneyed, purposeless parle that would only lead me into a monologue on why I did not want to be there.
I checked-in at the gym, changed, and waited in a mini cubicle for Cameron the personal trainer. Amber made no mention of the health assessment that compulsorily precedes personal training and so my mood did not improve. I thought his questions too personal, for example, ‘What did you eat today?’ ‘How often do you drink alcohol?’ And worse still, ‘How regular are you?’ I answered, “I’m always on time,” and left it at that.
He gave me a food diary I will not write in since our affiliation will not last long enough for it to be a concern to him. I was a little shocked though to learn that the kilos from last winter had not budged at all over the summer months, and I feared I had succumbed to the dreaded spreading of middle age.
There was no training that first night, only the assessment, although Cam suggested I spend some time on the treadmill. I headed for home stopping off for a pizza and bottle of merlot in Hawkesburn. As Oscar says, “To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.”
I had an assignment to do for my writing course so I settled on the sofa with a bloated, yet comforted, midriff and another glass of merlot. It had been eight years since my last assignment (for an MBA) and I was looking forward to getting back into it.
There were three parts to the first one: my biography (easy), up to 500 words on why I wanted to be a writer (tricky since I just wanted to write two books, not become a writer) and a further 1,000 words describing a scene using all five senses (sounded easy enough, although I planned to be clever and incorporate intuition). I was going to be a star.
The biography was done in five minutes so I progressed onto part two and a block of Cadbury Dairy Milk. I thought to write the truth—that I had no intention of giving up a perfectly good career in finance to be a creative unpaid genius for as Oscar says, “It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.” So I wrote instead that I had always wanted to write, and had dreamed of becoming a writer since the age of nine when I won a prestigious writing competition defeating children many years older, and that my grade nine teacher, Ms Jenkins, had urged me to become a writer and not waste my god-given talent.
I was pleased with my effort since it proved that I did in fact have a talent for fiction, although my two planned books are both non-fiction. For part three of the assignment, I decided to write about Chapel Street and downed the pen to call Amber.
“I have to do some research,” I said, “for my writing assignment.”
“And what makes you think I can help?” she asked. “What about Erin—she has actually written a book.”
“No, you’re the right person. I need to hang out down Chapel Street to observe life happening.”
Amber laughed. “You do know it’s autumn, and a non-daylight savings month? You sure you want to go out into the big, cold world?”
“I have to,” I said. “For the assignment.”
“Okay. When?”
“Friday night? Can you get away from the Jake-man?”
“Sure. Rudy said to say hello.”
I disconnected the phone, and put away my writing things for the nine o’clock movie was about to begin. I had not yet told Erin that I had cable—she would find out soon enough as she always checks for a cable box whenever she visits, and checks the channels on my television too, just in case I had been devious enough to hide the box, which proved to be too difficult.
I had called Jason for another lunch, and could barely contain myself as the hours flicked towards one o’clock. Yet despite the excitement of pending revelations, I was irritated all morning, as was Rachel, because a song had wedged in my head, made worse because I only knew two lines to repeat ad nauseam: “Ding dong, the witch is dead. Which old witch? The wicked witch! Ding dong, the wicked witch is dead.”
Jason was on time, calm, and cheery, which is what sex with a mysterious short-haired blonde woman does for a man married to a cow. I had prepared myself to waste some time on usual conversation points, but rushed in with an involuntary, “Who is she?” before the drink waiter had even arrived.
“Who?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“The other woman, the blonde one who wears jeans,” I said, but wanted to say, ‘the other woman, not the Jersey (cow) you’re married to’.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, peering into the menu.
“You were spotted, Jason. Give it up.”
He put down the menu and smiled. “Stephanie.”
“Stephanie? Sister of Alexis, Stephanie?”
“It wasn’t planned. It just happened.”
That’s what we all say, I thought. “Alexis will kill you.”
“I know.”
“You don’t seem too bothered by the prospect of imminent death.”
“It’s time.”
“To die?”
“No,” he laughed. “Time to move on.”
“What about the kids?” I asked. “You said, not so long ago I might add, that you would always be with Alexis because you want to be able to see your children every day.”
“I’ve come to realize that this is not a good reason to stay in a relationship, for them or for me, and besides, they’re at an age now when they would rather be with their friends than anywhere near a parent.”
“So what’s next? It sounds serious. How long has this been going on? Who else knows? How do you think she will kill you? Arsenic? Hemlock? Does mother know?”
My artillery of questions were held in abeyance as we ordered, hastily since I am not known for patience, but I would live to regret choosing the ox tail, the first item on the specials menu.
To abbreviate a rather long, yet enthralling exchange, Jason has always liked Stephanie and vice versa, but had maintained an appropriate, brother-sister-in-law distance until her marriage dissolved several months ago. Stephanie contacted Jason post-separation, purportedly for some financial advice, then like a dry Christmas tree near a slow-burning log, it all caught fire.
Stephanie is nothing like Alexis, he said, chalk and cheddar, complete opposites, like Shannon and I. No one else knew of the affair to his knowledge, although this seemed rather optimistic given the dynamism of good gossip. As Oscar says, “My own business always bores me to death. I prefer other people’s.” I assured Jason that Erin would not be one to spread the word as she is truly fond of him and thinks of him as her brother, and despite all her many failings, Erin is rather loyal to the people she likes.
The secret to a successful break, we agreed, was a speedy divorce before the truth revealed itself at which time Jason would come to learn the meaning of Hell on Earth. Fortunately for Jason, Alexis is self-absorbed so she would not notice any changes in her epicen
ter like springing soles in Jason’s old shoes.
His approach to an amicable divorce was to give Alexis most of anything she wanted, including the house, Mercedes, children, and sufficient alimony to maintain her meaningless extravagance. He did not care about the money, he said, for freedom and love had no price tag. I might have cried at such a sentiment, but solace was at hand in the form of a chocolate soufflé. I thought about my personal trainer, Cam, and the food diary I would not complete.
Telling mother was more of a problem than Alexis, Jason said, not because he was fearful, as I had been all those years ago, but because she was fragile. We wanted to believe it was a transitory state, and assured each other it was, but with so little conviction it was farcical.
I had a dream that night, that mother was moving interstate. There was no sign of dad in the dream, which was odd. Alexis had made the travel arrangements and had booked mother on a train that departed at two in the morning and would take three days to her destination. I asked Alexis why she had not booked a flight that would only take an hour, and she brushed me off with a shrug. I was under pressure then to make other arrangements for mother, and fumbled around on a computer unable to complete the simple transaction. The stress was very real. Then Shannon arrived at the scene and went through all the boxes I had packed. There was trouble, predictably, because I had packed fruit and vegetables with the glassware that rolled around loose in the boxes, cracked and broken. I woke from the dream with a fright.
I did not want mother to go anywhere, especially not on a slow-moving train, so I began impromptu drop-ins after work, once or twice a week, which did not feel anything like a chore. I packed a small travel bag with a tracksuit and socks to change into after a warm shower and hot meal. Then the three of us would settle in the living room to watch the ABC—news, current affairs and documentaries. Occasionally there were four of us with Lauren, who was more often with Patrick. It was not a mere stopover at a roadside inn for warmth and sustenance, but an odyssey for as Oscar says, “Life is a pilgrimage. The wise man does not rest by the roadside inns. He marches direct to the illimitable domain of eternal bliss, his ultimate destination.” I hoped mother was not on the road to her ultimate destination, and I hoped it would not be long before I could say, “Please do not leave me.”
Being Anti-Social Page 11
