Gucci Mamas (21 page)

Mim decided it was time for an emergency cigarette. She looked at her watch yet again. Almost midnight. She’d tried James’s mobile numerous times but it just rang out. At what point should she start ringing the hospitals? Her fatigued mind started to wander and before she knew it she’d imagined everything from the police arriving at the door to choosing her outfit for the funeral.

Then the garage door sounded. Thank God he’s safe, she thought. Now I’m going to kill him. She remained seated in the armchair in the living room and waited for him to enter. James was heading into his study with another overloaded briefcase when she startled him by speaking.

‘Long day at the office, honey?’ she said without a smile.

‘Oh, Mim, you startled me,’ said James as he turned to face her. ‘Yeah, I had to get this report finished for a client meeting first thing.’

‘Did it occur to you to ring me?’ Mim asked.

‘Well, I did try at around seven but it went to Message
bank, then I kinda got distracted and kept on working. You should have called if you were worried.’

‘I tried your mobile and it rang out and I tried your direct line and you didn’t answer,’ said Mim, getting up to follow James who had walked into his office.

‘Oh, sorry darling, we were working in the conference room. I must have left my mobile on my desk,’ said James as he started unpacking his briefcase.

‘We?’ enquired Mim.

‘Lauren, our new account executive, and I. We were going over the PowerPoint presentation.’

With Tiffany’s recent drama fresh in her mind, Mim was overcome with paranoia. She put her hand up to her throat to settle the stronghold.

‘Lauren? I don’t remember you mentioning her?’

‘Oh, didn’t I? She’s new to Melbourne, we must have her and her husband over for lunch one weekend – their three are the same ages as ours.’

Her paranoia momentarily settled, Mim moved on. ‘James, I have been worried sick. I was about to call the hospitals,’ she began.

‘Mim, you really do overreact sometimes. You know I am hellishly busy at the moment, where else would I be? When have I ever just gone out and played up? I am either here or at the office.’

‘Tuesday.’

‘Hmm?’ he was distracted again.

‘Last Tuesday, remember? The business lunch that went until 1 a.m. and you didn’t call me.’

‘Oh, yeah, that. Well that was a one-off, wasn’t it – we all had to blow off some steam after working so hard to win that automotive client.’

‘Fair enough, James, but I am sick of the excuses. I am so over these ridiculously long hours. I am sick of being a
single mother and I am sick of explaining to the children every night that they probably won’t be seeing Daddy before bedtime.’ Mim stood with her arms crossed and her pale grey silk and cashmere robe wrapped tight to her neck.

‘Now look here, Mim,’ said James, finally paying full attention. He pointed a finger at her. ‘Do you think it’s easy for me? I am working my balls off to keep up at the moment, and all I get when I walk in the door is another screaming match! I am sick of your attitude, I swear to God it’s always about you!’

Mim spluttered in indignation. ‘Me? My God, James, it’s about us! Don’t you see where this marriage is headed, don’t you see that it’s falling apart and that we’re both too busy to even realise? I’d much rather have a husband at home being a hands-on father and support team than this ridiculous show of wealth.’

‘Then why don’t you fucking well take your little tail out there and get one of those magnificent husbands,’ he said nastily, and headed off to the kitchen.

James was pouring himself a double scotch by the time Mim flew angrily into the kitchen and stood opposite him, the limestone bench a barrier between them.

She was furious. Blood pounded in her ears as she forced herself to calm down.

‘How dare you!’ was her strangled cry.

‘How dare I what?’ he retorted, playing the innocent, a familiar fight strategy that drove her crazy.

‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ she screeched at him. ‘I am genuinely worried, James. I am constantly juggling funds, I am sick of being broke. I lie in bed at night doing the maths and it scares the shit out of me.’

‘Me too! I’m working as hard as I can to make the money!’ said James, taking a gulp of his drink. ‘How about
you stop spending it all?! For chrissakes, I make a friggin’ fortune.’

‘That’d be right, blame me,’ she countered, ‘but it was you and me together as a team that made these decisions. We spend
more
than a friggin’ fortune just keeping up, and now we’re in a hole. How do you suggest we pay the $20,000 we owe in school fees? The $10,000 land tax? God knows what else we owe the tax department, then there’s $25,000 in credit-card bills. The bloody mortgage payment has just been wrenched from the bank account which barely leaves me enough for staff and groceries. And we owe so much on this place that I can’t see when we’ll ever pay it off.’

‘Yes, we did decide on this life together,’ snapped James, ‘but it means I’m the one who has to work to afford it. And then you get pissed off when I’m never home. Look, I’ve got a new client biting at the moment – I know, I know, it’ll mean more travel, but think of the commission. It’ll be fine.’

‘IT’LL BE FINE!?!’ Mim spat out. ‘FINE! How on earth can you say that? Aren’t you even a little bit worried? Don’t you care? Don’t you even miss us? You’re so wrapped up in your own grand high-flying world you don’t even seem to notice the children. You miss the big events, you don’t even ring them!’

‘Oh, really? Is that what you think? I was at the fete. And, as a matter of fact, I emailed Jack today, and I have been emailing him regularly …’ James returned.

‘That’s just great, James, a really solid virtual relationship you’ve got going there with your son. If you’ll remember, however, HIS PC IS STUFFED! You were supposed to upgrade the virus software two weeks ago! Anyway, this isn’t about email, this is about you, James. When are you going to wake up and realise that there is more to life than work? That we are in strife? I can’t live like this any more!’

‘What are you trying to say, Mim?’ James’ voice dropped several octaves, his eyes boring into hers, just daring her to say it.

‘I am saying that we need to take a good hard look at ourselves, at where we’re going, because the future scares the shit out of me. I didn’t want this, James; I didn’t want to be stretched so tight. I don’t like the person I have become. Hung up on labels, no time to be a decent mother, shoddy work, horrible clients. I feel trapped, like I’m in a vortex and you’re never around to help.’

‘Goddamnit, Mim!’ James exploded, crashing the glass onto the benchtop. ‘Do you think I like what I’ve become? You know this was never my dream. You know I wanted to start my own business, work from home, be a great dad, instead of chasing the next big break.’ He took a breath and continued in a sarcastic tone, ‘But first came the private school babies, then came the flash house with the right postcode, then the beach-house. It’s never-ending and you always want more!’

‘That’s bullshit! I’m the one holding this all together day after day. Don’t you dare put this on me! I’m stressed out of my mind as it is. I can’t handle it any more! I am about to explode, and all I want is a happy family. Something has to change, I can’t live like this any more!’

‘Well then friggin’ well don’t,’ finished James, and stormed out.

It was six years since Liz had caught sight of her daughter. Six years since she had started her desperate search – beginning the day after she had seen her living on the streets. At first she went regularly to the mission to look for Mikaylah, but despite constantly questioning the staff, no one remembered the forlorn girl with the dreadlocks, and she never returned. She had simply disappeared.

Despite the constant disappointment, Liz continued to visit the refuge weekly, and eventually she realised it had become a small lifeline for her: the tiniest connection with her absent daughter.

She was back for her fourth time when one of the staff suggested she pick up a broom and lend a hand if she was going to stand around all day scanning the faces of each kid who walked in. Liz initially baulked at the idea, but was too embarrassed to say no. She self-consciously slid the broom over the tattered lino and then decided to find the mop to get out some of the uglier stains.

The next week she came back with the donation of a
new industrial broom and mop and found they did a much more efficient job of the floors.

The week after she brought her own pink rubber gloves and started work on the dirty basins in the communal bathrooms. After that it was some carpet pieces for the office and then some warm blankets for the kids’ beds.

She’d been coming for six years now but felt no desire to stop.

It had initially been a shock for a woman who lived such a sheltered and privileged existence to see how tough life could be for those who were forced to make the streets of the city their home. And as one who outsourced all the less-desirable aspects of her life to others, suddenly
choosing
to mop, change beds and peel vegetables was a huge turnaround.

In her first months as a volunteer, Liz teetered about on her ridiculously impractical heels, and although she’d tried to dress down, she soon found that ‘work clothes’ were something her wardrobe was just not equipped with. She’d had to go shopping for her first pair of jeans and basic tops, and eventually found her work uniform quite liberating. After six months at the mission she stopped wearing jewellery on her volunteer days, and by the end of the first year she’d even stopped worrying about her hair.

What surprised Liz most was that the job she had taken on out of guilt and despair had actually become enjoyable once she got the hang of it. She initially shied away from the dirtiest tasks, but it wasn’t long before she forgot about keeping clean, about protecting her French manicure and the fear that she might catch something.

In her second year she began exchanging smiles and small talk with some of the shelter’s regular clients and soon found herself making great friends with the staff, including Tracy March, the young and enthusiastic counsellor who
headed up the mission. At first she had been intimidated by the rough veneer of the kids, but she soon came to see how much of that was bravado and a kill-or-be-killed instinct that these world-weary youths used to survive on the streets.

After her days at the shelter her body ached with tiredness and she would sometimes carry the sadness of the kids she had met, yet she always felt happiest at these times, driving back home through St Kilda’s colourful streets and alleys, and feeling for the first time that she was truly a part of life, someone who made a small but meaningful difference.

She told no one about her secret days volunteering in St Kilda. No one needed to know; she did this for herself, and for Mikaylah, and that was all that mattered.

As she became more accustomed to working at the mission, Liz found that she wanted to do more to help the endless stream of damaged young people who flowed through its doors looking for comfort, food and warmth. At times she felt ashamed of her own luxurious life and longed to contribute more to these troubled kids.

Already she donated money to the mission each month and was the first to reach for her purse whenever the oven needed fixing or the fax machine died. But she wanted to do something more tangible; something lasting that might help one of these kids change the direction of their life.

She thought about it for weeks, lying awake in bed at night and considering the best approach. Then she met with Tracy and the mission committee members to put forward a plan. She wanted to create a trust fund to finance education scholarships for the kids. Any of them could apply for the scholarship as long as they had a willingness to learn and a determination to kick their drug habit.

The committee seized upon the idea (particularly the promise of financial support), on the stipulation that it be
coordinated by trained youth workers. Liz spent months working with Tracy to get the program up and running, and finally, six months after she first came up with the plan, the scholarship was launched.

At first it drew little interest from the kids who drifted in and out of the mission, until one day a seventeen year-old who’d only just hit the streets recognised it as his ticket out of a downward spiral. Nathan Cooper had no serious drug issues and a few scattered years of high school, and was deemed a prime candidate. He’d always had an interest in woodwork and chose a carpentry apprenticeship. Liz’s scholarship supplied him with books, public transport, a clothing allowance and any other education-related costs. The mission youth workers helped him find accommodation, took him to Centrelink and counselled him through his studies.

Liz cried with joy when she heard of young Nathan’s first tentative steps towards healing.

After a shaky start, Nathan began to shine. After his first year he returned to the centre to volunteer on his days off from TAFE. With his positive example and the time he spent encouraging other kids, it wasn’t long before another three decided to give the scholarship a go, and after that the programme bloomed. So, a new guideline was introduced. Scholarship winners had to promise to return to the mission to talk to the kids about how their life was going and how they were managing to stay clean and off the streets.

The talks became so popular they were shifted to an old hall out the back of the church every Friday night. Although many were enticed by the free cups of soup and bread rolls, Tracy was still delighted at how many street kids came along.

‘It’s like they’ve found something, some kind of interest,
some teeny glimmer of will!’ Tracy said to Liz in amazement.

Local comedians and performers heard about the talks and offered their time as ‘support’ acts, which created even more interest. The talk-and-show would only last an hour but it gave counsellors an opportunity to make contact with the troubled youth and offer assistance.

Liz continued working with the mission; organising fancy fundraising events to raise scholarship money and also regularly dipping into her own trust fund. There was no cap. Every single child who showed a determination to stay clean could win this chance of a new start. Thanks to her personal family trust, Liz was a wealthy woman in her own right, and Sebastian had no idea how much money she was secretly donating.

Liz’s happiness grew and she began to feel at peace with herself. But no matter how much of her time and money she gave, there was one hole inside that just couldn’t be filled – the one left by Mikaylah.