by Fiona Lowe
‘But as you just said, bland Dan isn’t Robert. You’re depending on him to make your money work for you, which is fine if you’re happy and confident in his skills …’
Her unease morphed into a sharp shard of worry. ‘What are you saying? Have you heard something about Dan?’
Cameron shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is once a firm believes they’ve got you for life, they see you as an easy target to charge you exorbitant fees for doing not very much. If Dan’s new Merc is anything to go by, I’d say he enjoys spending money as much as his vapid mother.’ He sipped his tea. ‘All I want is for you to be confident in Dan. If you’ve got concerns, I suppose I could carve out some time and take a look at the figures. You know, just to make sure he’s doing his best by you and not ripping you off to pay for his new toys.’
Her mouth dried. Robert had always complained about Mary’s voracious spending. What if Dan was taking advantage of her to pay for his lifestyle? He’d always been a mummy’s boy and nothing would make Mary happier than for Dan to be skimming money off the top of Margaret’s investments. She wanted reassurance but Cameron was busy with his new business and being a modern hands-on father, despite that wife of his not working.
‘You’re got far too much on your plate as it is.’
Cameron leaned forward, picked up her hand and folded it in his. ‘Mum. I’m never too busy for you.’
CHAPTER
5
Sarah sprayed Sophie Fotina’s hair with half a can of hairspray, reinforcing the 1960s beehive that most of the girls in the cast of Sweet Charity sported. ‘There you go, Soph. You look fantastic. Break a leg.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Hadfield.’
Sarah dropped the round hairbrush into the large pocket of her apron that contained bobby pins, blue eye shadow, pancake stage makeup, a long-handled comb and hair ties, among other things. She’d been part of the Mingunyah High School production’s hair and makeup rodeo before and having everything she needed on her person made the job more efficient. She glanced around. Thankfully no one else was waiting to be turned into a hippie or a stripper, which meant she had just enough time to dash out and collect her mother and be back before curtain. Grabbing her bag, she jogged to the car. Two days earlier she’d explained to Margaret that she was a parent helper before the show and that afterwards she’d be tied up chatting to other parents and waiting for Gus. ‘It’s probably easier all round if you drive yourself, Mum. It’s not far and that way you can go straight home and avoid the foyer crush.’
But despite the short distance between Mill House and the high school, and the fact that her mother often drove herself an extra kilometre to the bowling club for dinner, her suggestion had been met with judgemental dissatisfaction. ‘It will be cold and dark. And that gravel pit of a carpark is a long way from the auditorium.’
She’d had a point—the surface was a little uneven. The spectre of her mother lying with a broken hip haunted Sarah. ‘How about I ask Alex or Cameron to pick you up?’
‘They’re both very busy. If you want me to see Gus’s play, you have to take me.’
Now Sarah parked the car outside Mill House and ran up the path. She pressed the old brass doorbell before quickly shoving her hands into her coat pockets to protect them from the pricking chill of the icy air. Margaret answered the door with her hair set and her face made up but still in her bathrobe.
‘Mum!’ Sarah wailed, her heart sinking. She’d asked her mother to be ready for 7.15. ‘We’ll miss the start!’
Her mother pursed her lips. ‘Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’ Why are you apologising? You’re not twelve. But she didn’t have time to analyse old habits; she needed to get her mother dressed and out the door. Rushing upstairs to the bedroom, she stopped short in surprise. Her mother’s bed was piled high with frocks—a veritable fashion history of gowns from the seventies to the new millennium.
Sarah recognised the royal blue, pink and green check Thai silk gown Margaret had worn to the opening of The Phantom of the Opera in Melbourne in 1990. Peeking out from under it was the heavily beaded bodice of her Mother of the Groom frock for Cameron and Anita’s wedding. One dress was pulled from its protective plastic; a silver and black lurex gown Margaret sewed in the seventies from a Vogue pattern. As a little girl, Sarah had adored that dress, believing Margaret to be even more elegant than the model on the pattern envelope. It was one of the last frocks Sarah recalled her mother making. By the eighties, the sewing machine was mothballed and Margaret regularly went to Melbourne on shopping sprees.
During her teenage years, Sarah loved the run-up to the Spring Racing Carnival when her mother’s shopping expeditions took on epic proportions. On the four significant racing days in Cup Week, ‘the frock’ was only one part of a very strategic ensemble where hat, gloves, shoes, earrings, bracelet, necklace and handbag all played equal roles. As part of Margaret’s preparation for Derby Day, Cup Day and Oaks Day, she gave the family an annual fashion parade, inviting opinions and comments. Sarah, always in awe of her mother’s taste and style, could never find anything to criticise and 1988 had been no different …
‘Your hat’s wrong,’ Cameron said bluntly. ‘It looks stupid.’
‘Shut up, Cam.’ Sarah flashed a triumphant look at her mother. ‘Don’t listen to him, Mum. You look perfect.’
‘There’s no such thing as perfect, Sarah.’ Margaret fiddled with her hat. ‘There’re always ways to improve, and your brother’s right. I need to tilt this further forward.’
While her mother busied herself with the hat and her father took a familiar blue and gold box out of his pocket, Cameron gave Sarah the finger. She gave it straight back.
‘Here’s something that might help complete the outfit,’ her father said in the same wry tone he used every November.
Margaret’s grey eyes lit up the way they always did when she was given a gift. ‘Oh, Kevin,’ she breathed, fingering the jewellery. ‘How did you know?’
Most years her father laughed, but this year he said, ‘I know the rules of this game, Margaret, and many others.’
Her mother, gazing lovingly at the heavy sterling silver chain, didn’t seem to have heard him as her response was her standard, ‘Please fasten it around my neck.’
It wasn’t until the Cup Week after her father’s death, when Cameron produced a familiar blue box, that Sarah had discovered her mother’s spring carnival preparation always included a visit to Rubensteins Jewellers. Margaret chose the item of jewellery she wanted and gave instructions on when and to whom the necklace or earrings were to be delivered.
Sarah gave herself a shake and refocused. Handing her mother a cream silk blouse that hung neatly in front of a pair of black tailored pants with a matching jacket, she said, ‘I’m thrilled you’re finally having a clear out, Mum.’
‘What?’ Margaret’s arthritic fingers struggled with the blouse’s fine pearl buttons.
Sarah stopped herself from reaching out to help. History taught her it would only slow things down—Margaret hated anyone touching her clothes. ‘Donating your old clothes. Kerry at the op shop will be beside herself with that haul.’
‘The op shop?’ Margaret gasped as she snatched the trousers from Sarah’s hand. ‘Don’t you dare take my clothes to the op shop.’
Sarah didn’t have time to argue. ‘No, Mum. Of course not. Got your shoes? Good. We have to go.’
Sarah rally-drove the short distance to the school, ignoring her mother’s comments about her preference to arrive alive, and dropped Margaret off at the door of the auditorium. As it was now almost show time, the car park was full and Sarah was forced to use the overflow paddock. When she flicked up the handbrake, the dashboard clock displayed 7.27 and her heart raced. She hated being late and she still had to navigate her way across a dark and tussock-filled paddock. Despite using the torch app on her phone, she still managed to sink ankle deep into a puddle. Who needed clean boots anyway?
Wet and
muddy, she finally arrived at the theatre just as the doors were closing. Of course, her seat was in the middle of the row and nine people needed to stand to let her pass.
‘Sorry. Excuse me. Thank you.’ She scuttled along the row, ignoring muttered comments about mud and, just as the house lights went down, slid into her seat next to Alex. She craved an understanding smile and a kiss hello, but all Alex said was, ‘You’re cutting it fine.’
Frustration boiled. ‘You think?’
* * *
‘Sarah! Hello!’
In the post-performance crush of parents and students, Sarah turned to the voice. Her heart sank. ‘Stella.’ She forced enthusiasm into her greeting. As much as she disliked the Mingunyah Herald journalist, it wasn’t worth getting offside. ‘How are—’
‘Look at you.’ Stella’s eyes raked her up and down with a look that left Sarah wondering if she’d somehow managed to get mud on her cheek as well as her boots or if she had something green stuck in her teeth. Before Sarah could decide if Stella was complimenting or criticising her, the woman was leaning in. Air kiss one. Air kiss two. Job done. Stella immediately fixed her full attention on Alex. ‘Of course, you’re looking as handsome as ever, Alex Hadfield.’
Sarah watched Stella’s lips push through the air before leaving a bright pink lipstick imprint on Alex’s cheek. She’d been watching similar scenarios play out all her married life. She called it the ‘Alex Effect’. If she ever put out a range of greeting cards, one would say, ‘The woman who marries a handsome man becomes invisible’. It seemed to be one of life’s lessons.
Early in her relationship with Alex, episodes like this stroked all of Sarah’s insecurities like a bow sliding over strings. But Alex had chosen her. And Alex was impervious to flattery. Twenty-two years on, her confidence in their marriage was strong, and bolstered by all they’d achieved together with the business and as a family. These days she derived an element of amusement from the antics women employed to get Alex’s attention.
‘Alex, you must be so proud of Gus,’ Stella cooed.
‘We’re both proud, Stella,’ Sarah jumped in, the current strained relations between Gus and his father front and centre in her mind.
Usually in situations like this, Alex gave her a wink or an eye roll but tonight he grimaced as if he was swallowing his words. The strain rode up his jaw and she saw a muscle twitch, making her glad she’d spoken first. Alex usually had the energy of two men but tonight he looked worn out. Solicitude filled her. On top of a busy work week, he was probably overdoing the cycling, training for the Victorian Three Peaks challenge. Why anyone would want to ride 235 kilometres in thirteen hours was beyond Sarah’s comprehension. It sounded like torture. As far as she was concerned, mountains existed to be skied down after a leisurely sit on a ski lift spent admiring their stunning and craggy vistas. But Alex was hell bent on competing so she was supporting his dream. The sooner they got home so he could get some sleep, the better.
Stella’s palm pressed against her generous décolletage. ‘But what a surprise. I mean, who knew the boy could sing?’
In a town where athletic prowess was king and the arts languished a long way behind, Sarah had her suspicions as to why Gus had spent years focusing on football. If Stella’s feigned attempt at surprise was anything to go by, Gus had every reason to have hidden his singing talent for so long.
As if on cue, Stella added, ‘It’s a brave move in more ways than one.’
Alex laughed at the barb but Sarah heard the tension woven through it. ‘I think it’s got everything to do with Sophie Fotina being cast as Charity.’
‘Ah, young love,’ Stella said, throwing a meaningful glance at Alex. ‘Oh, to experience that delicious and addictive rush again.’
‘I don’t know …’ Sarah curled her arm through Alex’s, staking a claim now that Stella was openly flirting. ‘I can live without all the angst that goes with young love. Besides, like port, there’s depth, flavour and a certain comfort in a well-aged love.’
‘God, Sarah. We’re not old.’ Alex pulled his arm away and waved at Gus, who’d just emerged from the dressing rooms in the middle of a crush of students.
Sarah caught the slight lift of Stella’s well-shaped brows and the questions in her eyes. Damn it, Alex. Of all the people to get snippy in front of, why Stella?
She smiled at the woman. ‘Lovely to see you, Stella, but please excuse us. We have to join the rest of the family and congratulate Gus.’ She grabbed her husband’s hand and pushed through the crowd.
Gus was being hugged and kissed by girls, and hugged and thumped on the back by boys. Today’s teenagers were far more emotionally demonstrative than back in her day, but then again, this was a theatre crowd. She was suddenly struck by the similarities between the footballers and the performers; did they realise they celebrated highs in the same way?
‘Gus, you were amazing,’ she said proudly, giving him a kiss. ‘Wasn’t he, Alex?’
Alex’s dark brows furrowed, giving his handsome features the thunderous look she’d dubbed ‘Zeus’ year ago. ‘Yes.’ The word sounded like it had been wrenched out of him.
Gus shrugged. ‘It’s okay, Dad. I know it’s not your thing.’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it. You did a good job. Sang well. Doesn’t change the fact you’ve let your team and yourself down. Without you on the ground today, Dylan Morton was the standout player. He’ll be the one to catch the eye of the scouts, not you.’
‘Not here, Alex. Not now,’ Sarah muttered, furious at him for spoiling Gus’s moment. ‘Finn! Over here.’ She hailed her eldest son, who was chatting with friends, and glanced around for the rest of the family.
‘Well done, Gus, darling.’ Margaret presented her cheek for a kiss. ‘It took me back to my twenties and the first time I saw Sweet Charity. Can someone get me a cup of tea?’
‘Gus! Gus!’ Noah barrelled into his cousin, hugging him around the hips. ‘Why have you got makeup on?’
‘Great job, Gus.’ Ellie kissed him before explaining to Noah that actors wore makeup because of the bright lights.
‘Bro!’ Finn put Gus in a head lock and playfully punched him on the arm. ‘Never thought I’d see you singing and dancing when you’re sober.’
‘Shut up,’ Gus said good naturedly, but he studiously avoided his parents’ gaze.
Sarah’s anxiety ratcheted up a notch. The fact Gus wasn’t looking at her made her worry that his assurances—‘I’m an athlete, Mum, I’m not going to write myself off’—weren’t strictly true. She mentally added, Find time to chat with Gus, to her never-ending to-do list. Perhaps she could drive him to school one morning this week. One-on-one chats in the car had worked with Finn. She hoped they would be as successful with Gus.
‘Oh, Sarah!’ Anita arrived next to her. ‘You must be bursting with pride. He was fantastic!’
‘He was, wasn’t he.’ Sarah automatically kissed her sister-in-law, loving that Anita’s enthusiasm matched her own. It was only as she drew back that she realised far too late that she hadn’t greeted Ellie the same way. Turning to Ellie, she said, ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Noah was very excited. It’s all he’s talked about today.’
Sarah, who was still nursing a bruised ego that Ellie had called Alex first about jobs for her Burmese clients, tried unsuccessfully not to take offence at the inference that Ellie hadn’t come for the family. ‘I hope he enjoyed it.’
‘Gus,’ Cameron boomed. ‘Did I ever tell you that I played Judd in Oklahoma! at uni? Your grandfather had a great voice too. Jamieson genes, eh?’
With a pang of nostalgia, Sarah remembered her father’s coveted World Record Club collection of Broadway musicals. Did Margaret still have the black vinyl discs in their leather-bound and gold-embossed book? Kevin had loved Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals and he’d played them all, from Carousel to The Sound of Music. Her fondest memories weren’t his pitch-perfect renditions of ‘People Will Say We’re in Love’ but when he drop
ped the needle onto ‘Shall We Dance’ from The King and I. He’d grab her hands and spin her around the lounge room until they were both breathless and laughing. Or until her mother said, ‘For God’s sake, Kevin, turn it down.’ Twenty-six years and she still missed his warmth.
‘Sport and music, eh.’ Cameron slapped his nephew on the back. ‘Alex, you sure you had a role in this boy’s DNA?’
‘He got my good looks.’
‘Lucky for him,’ Cameron said jovially. ‘Then again, you were always prettier than Sarah.’
At the mention of her name, Sarah turned—her brother’s voice breaking her reverie. ‘Sorry? What?’ Her words collided with Gus’s.
‘Steady on, Uncle Cam.’
She took in Cameron’s unusually florid face and Gus’s worried expression, and wondered exactly what her brother had just said about her.
‘Had a few, Cam?’ Alex asked wearily.
‘You bet I have. I just sold the Murchison property on Woolscour Lane.’ He leaned in and touched his nose. ‘You two aren’t the only successful business people in town.’
‘Congratulations,’ Sarah offered against a flinch of resignation. It would be much easier for her to be pleased for her brother if he’d stopped talking at the word ‘Lane’. Instead, he’d turned his good news into a competition. But what did she expect? In some ways, she was responsible for their rivalry; it had started the day he was born and been fostered as he grew and consumed vast amounts of their mother’s attention.
‘Cameron’s exactly the sort of businessman this town needs,’ Margaret said. ‘Someone with some get up and go.’
‘Here’s your tea, Gran.’ Phoebe held out a cup and saucer in one hand and a cupcake-loaded plate in the other.
