She nodded ever so slightly. ‘Get me the Kentridge file, please, Arnold.’
But work was a farce; all she could think about was having sex with Daniel. On Curl Curl beach, in her car, against the wall in a public toilet, from behind on the roof of his apartment. He was insatiable, devouring her body and reconstituting it in written form. His poetry was sensuous, simple. She’d never felt so sexually liberated.
Six weeks later, she began to feel sick.
*
‘It’s not a disaster,’ he said, reaching across the restaurant table to take her hand.
‘I’m almost forty,’ she snapped. ‘Having a baby wasn’t part of my life plan.’ Daniel had been using condoms, boxes and boxes of them. But even so, here she was, pregnant at thirty-nine. A statistical anomaly.
‘Life doesn’t always go to plan.’ Daniel smiled. ‘It’s only taken me about thirty years to learn that.’
She sat back in her chair and considered him.
A waiter approached, but she waved him away.
‘How old are you, Daniel?’
They’d been having sex for two months and he’d dodged the issue with smart-alec quips like ‘over the age of consent’ and ‘old enough to know better’. She’d assumed they were roughly the same age.
‘Does it matter?’ he replied.
‘Not really,’ she said. Thinking, maybe it now does.
‘How old do you think I am?’
‘No idea. I’m not good at guessing games.’
‘Go on, have a swing at it.’
‘Well . . .’ She surveyed his tanned skin. ‘Maybe thirty-seven?’
‘I’m thirty-two,’ he said. ‘The surfing makes me look older. Way too much sun.’
‘Oh.’ She swallowed hard. I’m pregnant to a man seven years my junior.
She studied the menu. ‘Are you eating?’ she asked.
‘Are you buying?’ he replied.
She looked around for the restrooms. ‘I think I’m going to vomit.’
She slammed the bathroom door behind her and leaned heavily against a wash basin, her forearms resting on the cool marble. She turned on the tap and watched the water cascade down the plughole. Slowly the nausea receded.
She splashed her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror. An accidental pregnancy. So fucking adolescent.
She could abort it now, and no one would ever know. She’d already googled a clinic on Macquarie Street that could practically do the procedure in her lunch hour.
The thought made her retch. She pressed her hands across her stomach as she heaved into the basin. There’s something growing inside of me, she thought. Someone.
The door swung open. It was Daniel.
‘This is the ladies’ room,’ she snapped.
‘Clearly,’ he replied. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I don’t know.’
He walked across the tiles and slid an arm around her waist.
‘Marry me,’ he whispered. His breath was warm on her face.
‘What?’
‘You heard me. How about it?’
She stared at him, stunned. ‘And why would that be a good idea?’
‘Because we’re great together, Ginie. Okay, we haven’t known each other for very long. But we laugh, we have fun. We have fantastic sex. And when we’re apart, all I think about is you.’ He pulled her closer. ‘I could spend the rest of my life making you happy.’
No one had ever said anything like that to her. Frederic had only managed ‘I love you’ two years into their relationship.
‘But . . . I’m pregnant.’
‘Icing on the cake.’
‘You’re crazy. It’d be the biggest risk of our lives.’ She knew about risk. She spent her working day managing it.
‘Living is risky business,’ he said, smiling. ‘We’re two intelligent people. We’ll make it work.’
She’d always been so measured in her life choices. Prudent, her mother called it, as if it was a good thing. But all this risk aversion had got her where, exactly? At the top of her game, having take-away Thai dinners on a Saturday night, alone.
She was ready for a change. Daniel’s confidence was infectious.
*
A month later, she’d taken Daniel to dinner at her parents’ home in Lane Cove and announced their engagement. Her mother, unable to conceal her alarm, was silent throughout the meal. Her father seemed much more relaxed; relieved, almost. He kept winking at the two of them, leaning back in his chair and saying, ‘Well, well.’
As Ginie cleared the plates after dessert, her mother followed her to the kitchen and ushered her into the walk-in pantry. Ginie could remember scaling its broad shelves as a child, in pursuit of the biscuit barrel. It had seemed so spacious at the time, concealing all manner of tantalising treats. Now, face to face with her mother inside the pantry, she felt claustrophobic.
‘Who is this man?’ her mother hissed. ‘And why are you in such a hurry to marry him?’
Ginie sighed. ‘Mum, I don’t expect you to understand. But Daniel’s a good person. You just have to get to know him.’ She considered blurting out the news of her pregnancy.
‘Do I just?’ Her mother’s lips quivered. ‘And how long have you known him?’
‘Long enough to know he’s worth marrying.’
Her mother frowned. ‘But he doesn’t seem . . . your type.’
‘Opposites attract.’
‘This is so unlike you, Ginie.’ Her mother’s voice was anxious. ‘Be careful.’
Ginie shrugged.
‘Mum, I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I hope you can be happy for us.’ She pushed open the pantry door.
‘Have you told Jonathan or Paula yet?’ her mother called after her.
Ginie shook her head. Her mother would telephone her siblings, she knew, as soon as she and Daniel had left.
Her mother had never offered guidance when it mattered. Ginie had sought her opinion on countless occasions throughout adolescence, on issues that seemed so important at the time—the machinations of female friendships, the uncertainty of future career paths, the angst of unrequited love. Irrespective of the question, her mother’s response had always been the same: ‘You’ll do the right thing, Ginie. You’ll be fine.’ Compared to Paula, was the inference. The daughter with special needs, the one who monopolised her mother’s time and attention.
‘Paula won’t be as lucky in life as you,’ her mother had often whispered. ‘She’ll have to choose her career carefully, she’ll have trouble finding a husband. Nothing will be easy for her. You’ll be fine, Ginie.’
But despite her mother’s assurances, Ginie hadn’t been fine. As the recipient of an equity scholarship at an elite Catholic girls’ school, she’d never felt entirely accepted by her peers, most of whom were the daughters of doctors, solicitors and accountants. With a teacher for a mother and a plumber for a father, her lower socioeconomic status had been obvious to all. But she’d been blessed with natural intelligence and she’d worked hard to gain entry into law, a prestigious career path that carried the social cachet her family lacked.
It was in her first year at university that she’d met James, a handsome postgraduate with an internship at one of the Big Five law firms. She’d seen him around campus; he was outgoing vice-president of the Law Society, a member of the Student Representative Council, and a regular at student debates. She couldn’t believe her luck when a friend introduced him at the end-of-year law revue. And she couldn’t believe her ears when he asked her out for coffee the following evening, the last day of semester.
He’d arrived at her parents’ house in a navy Alfa Romeo just after eight o’clock.
‘It’s my dad’s, don’t worry,’ he said, grinning at her mother. ‘He’s a QC and he’ll put me behind bars if I scratch it.’ His laughing eyes turned serious. ‘I won’t have her home too late. We’re just going for a coffee.’
‘James, don’t be silly,’ her mother purred. ‘You two just enjoy yourselve
s.’
Their conversation in the car was stilted. Ginie was nervous and desperate to please: she’d never had a boyfriend before. James seemed preoccupied and, unlike the night before at the law revue, a little reserved.
When he turned into a dark cul-de-sac that bordered parkland at the back of the university, she was confused.
‘Come for a walk,’ he said, flashing a disarming smile. ‘Then we’ll go for coffee.’
‘Okay.’
The night was moonless and the terrain unfamiliar. They hadn’t gone far before she was disoriented. Suddenly she found herself pinned against a tree, his mouth all over hers. She tried to follow his lead, but his tongue thrust so deeply she gagged. His hands moved up under her shirt and into her bra, tugging at her nipples.
‘Ouch,’ she said.
‘What, first-year nerves?’
‘No, it’s just a bit . . .’
‘Whatever.’ He breathed into her ear, biting hard on the lobe.
‘That hurt. James . . .’
His hand groped beneath her skirt.
‘No,’ she said, pressing her thighs together. ‘Can we . . . go for coffee?’ She tried to move away. But he was much bigger than her—a second-rower in the university rugby union team—and she found she couldn’t.
In the darkness, the whites of his eyes hovered centimetres from hers.
‘Please,’ she begged, unable to believe this was happening. ‘Let me go.’
James said nothing at all.
Afterwards, he drove her home in silence.
She turned the key in the lock, pale and shaking.
Her mother looked up from the newsletter she was reading. A pile of documents was stacked on the table next to her, work she’d brought home for the weekend.
‘Oh dear,’ she said, in a disapproving tone. ‘You didn’t have a very good night, then?’
Ginie shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ her mother said, before returning to her newsletter. Ginie stood for a moment, blinking back tears. Then she retreated to the bathroom, betrayed for the second time that evening.
And so Ginie had buried the experience deep inside herself, carrying the shame around like an invisible, oversized coat. But she’d sworn that she’d never be so vulnerable again. She’d avoided sexual relationships, focusing instead on her studies and, later, on advancing her career. Until Frederic came along, with his innate solidity that, at last, signalled some kind of safety.
It was only in her late thirties, prompted by the life coach she’d hired after breaking up with Frederic, that Ginie recognised how angry she was. The first time the life coach had articulated it—gently asking Ginie if she felt abandoned by her mother—she’d sat dumbfounded, tears streaming down her cheeks. It wasn’t her mother’s fault that James had assaulted her, Ginie realised. But like so many other times in Ginie’s life, her mother hadn’t been there for her. She’d either failed to see the signs of Ginie’s distress, or simply ignored them. It was the common pattern of her childhood: you’ll be alright, Ginie.
Weren’t mothers supposed to have some sort of instinctive maternal alarm bell, Ginie had demanded of her life coach. Weren’t they the ones who knew how to nurture and comfort their children best? And if your mother doesn’t look out for you in this world, who will?
I can’t answer these questions for you, Ginie, her life coach had said. I can only help you answer them for yourself.
But when Ginie met Daniel, she’d cancelled her life coaching sessions.
In a matter of months, she’d reinvented herself. Suddenly she had sex, love, a pregnancy and wedding plans. Even an invitation to apply for a partnership at Coombes Taylor Watson.
Life had never been better.
It was while compiling the guest list that Ginie learned that Daniel’s parents had died in a car accident when he was fifteen years old. An only child, Daniel had gone to live with his aunt for the remaining three years of high school. After that, he’d lived independently and worked his way through university.
‘That must’ve been terrible for you,’ Ginie had remarked, shocked. She couldn’t conceive of losing both parents, even now.
Daniel grunted. ‘Growing up, it was always the three of us—Mum, Dad and me. Then suddenly it was just me. I’d never wanted a sibling until then.’
Ginie reached for his hand, unsure what to say.
‘My aunt was great,’ he continued. ‘She didn’t try to pretend it away. The night I moved in to her house, she said, “Dan, I’m never going to be your second mother, but I’ll always be your friend.” And she has been.’ His eyes were watery.
‘I understand,’ said Ginie, although she wasn’t sure she did. ‘Were you lonely?’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘When I wasn’t at my aunt’s place, I hung out with my best mate, Chris. He’s like a brother to me now. And I wrote pages and pages in my diary. Lots of bad poetry.’
Ginie smiled.
‘And I got serious about surfing. It was my lifeline.’
Ginie nodded. Somehow she’d sensed that Daniel’s connection to the ocean was more than just a hobby.
‘I’ve asked Chris to be my best man.’ He passed her a list of names. ‘But I don’t have too many people to invite, really. Aunt Emma and Uncle Dave are the only family I’ve got.’
Ginie scanned their two lists: sixty-four on her side, twenty-three on Daniel’s. Why did he have such a limited circle of friends?
‘What?’ asked Daniel.
She gave him the benefit of the doubt.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I just can’t imagine what you’ve been through.’
They were married on Curl Curl beach on a Sunday afternoon in early January. The day was stifling, a typical summer scorcher, but by mid-afternoon a bracing southerly had sprung up. The theme was ‘Barefoot on the Beach’ and, much to the bemusement of Ginie’s mother, most of the guests were shoeless. Ginie wore a simple champagne-coloured slip with spaghetti straps and a beaded bodice. It was a floating, summery kind of dress, not particularly bridal. She knew she could wear it again.
Her whole family attended, apart from her brother, who couldn’t extricate himself from his work in London. The market was skittish, Jonathan had explained, and trading across equities had slumped. A holiday to Australia was out of the question, even for his sister’s wedding. Ginie hadn’t been particularly disappointed. His absence was more than compensated for by a swarm of other friends and relatives.
‘You’ve got dozens of cousins.’ Daniel laughed as they stood side by side, greeting arrivals near the North Curl Curl Surf Club.
It was all over in thirty minutes. The celebrant, a woman in her fifties with wild red hair, had difficulty projecting her voice above the wind. But Ginie didn’t care. She stood, goosebumps creeping across her arms and chest, looking into Daniel’s eyes. Her world was changing right now, she realised, in this very moment. The predictability of her former existence was gone forever: this was day one of the rest of her life. It was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
They exchanged white-gold wedding bands and kissed as the crowd cheered. Ginie had never envisaged herself as a crying bride, but the tears came. She clung to Daniel, beaming and snivelling. This must be what true love feels like, she thought, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hands.
Afterwards, guests milled about at the top of the dunes, sipping champagne and nibbling canapés. Ginie felt positively buoyant as she watched them. She was a married woman now, a surprisingly satisfying thought. The guests appeared to be enjoying themselves, despite the persistent wind. She closed her eyes and inhaled the sea air. When she opened them, she found Daniel among the throng, talking to her sister. Ginie stared at Paula’s transformation from dowdy housewife to flirty coquette, twittering like a canary in Daniel’s presence. Ginie downed the rest of her champagne, before realising she’d just flouted the alcohol guidelines for pregnancy. She touched her belly reflexively. She’d have t
o be more careful in future. At eighteen weeks, her slightly rounded form was still concealed by the contours of her dress. No one knows what’s inside me, she thought.
‘You look beautiful,’ said a voice behind her. She turned to see Chris, the best man, holding out a bottle of champagne. ‘Can I get you another one?’
‘No thanks,’ she replied. ‘That’s enough for me.’ She nodded towards the horizon. ‘I don’t think we’ll be here much longer anyway, by the look of that.’ Dark clouds were rolling in from the south, hanging low over the ocean.
‘Great ceremony,’ said Chris. ‘Very Daniel. I’m glad you’ve made an honest man out of him. I didn’t think it would happen.’
‘Oh?’ said Ginie. ‘Why’s that?’
‘You know, with his parents and everything. Dan’s always been a rolling stone.’
Ginie looked at Chris, wondering what else he knew about her husband that she didn’t.
‘It’s a good thing we can all change, isn’t it?’ she said, feeling a little queasy.
Suddenly the clouds opened overhead and splinters of rain fell across the beach. Guests scrambled for cover, holding handbags, esky lids and overcoats above their heads.
‘Time to go!’ called Daniel. She ran towards him, giggling and kicking sand behind her.
She was thirty-two weeks pregnant when she fronted the interview panel, wearing black to minimise her bulge.
Ginie wanted the role of partner more than anything, but she knew she didn’t stand a chance. Not now, anyway.
The week before, Arnold had printed out a confidential email and slipped it into her in-tray. He’d risked his job to do it, transgressing the firm’s privacy protocols.
‘Sorry, hon,’ he’d whispered, raising a finger to his lips and backing out of her office.
As she’d read the email, from the firm’s managing partner to the selection panel, the blood had drained from her face. It confirmed the candidates shortlisted for interview and singled out Ginie for comment:
While I have added Ginie’s name to the shortlist, in my view she will struggle to be the preferred candidate. While her pregnancy should not, in itself, be an impediment to her appointment, we all know what kind of commitment a partnership requires. It is important, however, that due process be observed.
The Mothers' Group Page 4
