Gucci Mamas (27 page)

Finding her naked under her skirts, it was a simple matter for him to hoist her scrawny leg up around his waist for easy access.

He grabbed a handful of the flame-red hair and pulled back her head.

She came violently, twice, before swinging her leg down and leaving him with barely a backwards glance as he fumbled with his strides. She sauntered away, pulling her dress straight and tucking her breast back into its push-up bra.

She was hot and flushed with satisfaction as she strutted back toward the Members’, so self-absorbed with her own pleasure that she walked within a few steps of Philby, who
stood, grey-faced and swaying with shock, obscured by the dumpster.

‘Girls … you are simply NOT going to believe this.’

Vivienne Heatherington, a meringue of pink tulle and embroidered floral, rushed up as fast as her strappy pink sandals could carry her. Her baby-blue eyes peeped out from the dual assault of a frosted fringe and enormous rose-laden hat.

‘Why, Vivienne,’ said Tiffany, her glass arrested in its trip to her newly plumped-up lips, ‘whatever is it?’

‘Well, you know I’m not one to gossip.’

‘Of course not, darling,’ reassured Mim, her curiosity piqued, ‘but do tell, we won’t say a word!’

‘Well, I was just talking to Charisma, you know, the one who owns the boutique in Flinders Lane?’

‘Yes, yes,’ encouraged Tiffany, ‘go on.’

‘Well one of her customers is Dotty Silverberg who just bought an incredible Azzedine Alaïa piece.’

‘Really?’ enquired Monique. ‘Is it the ruched silk wrap? I saw it there last week, you should see it, Mim, you’d look great in it.’

‘Monique, shush! Go on, Viv,’ said Tiffany.

‘And she was over at the stables chatting to Sir Rupert, who says, by the way, that Vacuous Maiden is a sure thing in the next because she’s on a new diet.

‘Anyway, Sir Rupert had just been dining with his ad agency MD, David Bentleigh, who had just been in the men’s room cubicle. I think I know why, don’t you? Hmmmm, those advertising types, hmmpph.’ Vivienne turned her nose up with a superior say-no-to-drugs sniff.

‘Yes, Viv, then what happened?’ Mim gently prodded.

‘Apparently, David Bentleigh was standing at the sink when Philby Mahoney came in and lost his lunch. He told
David the whole thing. Philby had followed LJ because she’d been having mysterious disappearances lately and apparently he was getting a bit suspicious. He followed her into the
Public
Area.’

‘No way!’

‘Ohmigod!’

‘I can’t believe it!’

A chorus of women gasped in shock. Vivienne’s audience had increased considerably.

‘No, no,’ said Vivienne, ‘that’s not it, it gets worse!’

‘Worse? What could possibly be worse than being caught in the Public Area?’

‘Well,’ Vivienne was reaching the climax now, and revelling in the pleasure of it, ‘Philby caught her having sex!’

‘NO!!!’

‘Oh … my … God!’ breathed several stunned women.

Vivienne paused dramatically, then, when every eye was on her, she completed her coup:

‘With a bogan!’

A collective intake of breath silenced the immediate vicinity of the carpark as shockwaves rippled throughout The Rails.

LJ sauntered through the stables, waggling her fingers prettily as she passed Sir Rupert, deep in conversation with Dotty Silverberg. She slipped minx-like through the turnstiles back into the Birdcage. As she passed by she considered popping into Charisma Heidelberg’s marquee for a champers but quickly dismissed the idea. After all, shopkeepers were a bit below her.

She felt sexy and confident, able to bring to stud any handsome young buck she might spy. They were at her beck and call.

The hot pink beacon of the Forsythes’ carpark was easy
to find. She nipped in the back way and helped herself to a piccolo. She sat gingerly on a chair, grinding herself ever so slightly against its rough fabric. Christ, not a third one, she thought with smug, post-coital satisfaction.

She touched up with a dab of lippy and removed her sunnies. As she looked around to find someone to chat with she saw Mim, Tiffany and Monique. The beginning of a smile froze on her lips. Their body language was unmistakable. Her eyes skimmed past them and rested on that vacuous non-entity, Vivienne Heatherington, who was standing with another woman she recognised from tennis. They wore similar looks of shock.

The next group was the same, and the next group. She looked past the Forsythe carpark and, with increasing horror, realised that the surrounding carparks were full of people silently staring.

Her heart fell. Her confidence plummeted to be replaced by an impending sense of doom.

She didn’t know how, but they knew. They all knew.

Fuck.

Mim cradled her mug and blew on her tea as she stared out the window past the backyard and down the hill at her two boys whooping with delight as they played cowboys. She turned around, leaned against the sink and surveyed the daggy old kitchen. She was feeling sentimental about it now and, as old as it looked, it was still functional so she’d decided to delay the renovation for a few years.

She remembered with an inward laugh some of the kitchens in which she’d been a guest in the old days. Showcase kitchens. Tiffany’s in particular, with its honed marble benchtops and the latest technological gadgets, self-closing drawers and state-of-the-art sliding mechanisms, was particularly amusing as she’d never actually used it.

Tiffany had felt a working kitchen was an eyesore, with dirty pans and food out and about, yet she felt the open-plan element was so important to her architecture. In a dilemma she’d opted for the butler’s pantry off the kitchen: this small room housed her microwave, dishwasher and
sinks, and she had therefore ended up with an unusable tiny kitchen and an unused display kitchen.

Life was so much easier and freer now, Mim thought as she wandered through to their eating area. Not big enough to be classified as a dining room, it was more of a hallway with a table in it: a great big rough-hewn table with fifty years’ worth of nicks and marks and paint spatters. She’d found it in the old shed on their property just after they’d moved in last year. It was a brilliant discovery, she’d been so excited to sand it back and bring it into the house. It was huge, it seated ten, so family and friends could all be comfortable, and they’d already seen it fully occupied many times. And because it was so worn it didn’t matter at all if the children had their scissors, glue or train set on it. It doubled perfectly as a craft table, and spills didn’t seem to bother Mim so much any more.

She wandered out to the back veranda and from the top of the wide steps she called down to her daughter, who was in the yard. ‘Chloe, put your hat back on please, sweetie.’ Chloe had discovered the delights of worms and was methodically turning the soil in the garden beds looking for the slimy little creatures to deposit in her bug-catcher. ‘Sure, Mum,’ she called back and picking up her Hi-5 cap, she slapped it on her head without hesitation.

Unbelievable, thought Mim. A year ago I would have had an absolute battle on my hands. Back then the kids took every opportunity to argue with me. Now all of them are being so much more reasonable and helpful. Of course they weren’t perfect, what kids were? But Mim was sure the country air was doing them good.

Of course, she reasoned, it probably also had a lot to do with the fact the family now spent so much time together, and she and James were so much calmer and happier. They had plenty of time; time to wander down to the dam; time
to watch the horses eat their dinner, time to sit on the back step and brush Chloe’s hair and watch the sunset.

Mim no longer spent hours shopping for items that used to seem so crucial: the latest video games for the kids, fashion items, or the perfect gift. She no longer wasted time swapping her handbag to match each day’s outfit (her new Succulent Designs bag was perfect with everything). She didn’t waste time applying a full face of make-up and change of clothes just to do school pick-up. There was now ample time to meander at the farmer’s market and chat to Jan, the nice lady who worked the till, instead of flying through Safeway glancing at her watch, trying to squeeze so much into each day.

The children’s school was an absolute gem with its joyous approach to learning and life. It was so much better than they ever could have imagined. It had such an incredible sense of community. The teachers were actually interested in the students as children – small people with potential, not scores to be achieved or problems to be rectified.

It had taken Mim some time to get used to the more relaxed style of education, however – some habits were hard to part with – but now, a year later, she was thrilled to know that her children were learning life skills, not just grammar and fractions.

She smiled when she remembered her first efforts at being a ‘country mum’. She’d started with what she thought would be the ‘right’ look, buying herself a complete outfit of brand new R. M. Williams riding boots, moleskins and chambray shirt (she’d baulked at the Akubra, but only just), but when she’d turned up at school to deliver the children to their class rooms she’d felt a real twit. The other parents wore a variety of outfits, jeans mostly, but some of the working parents wore normal suits, shirts and skirts and anybody who actually worked their ‘land’ did so in old cords, slickers and work-boots. She laughed at herself when
she thought about it. That’ll be a funny dinner-table story one day, she thought. Not quite yet, but one day.

She was still learning to concentrate on the inside of herself rather than the outside, but she was getting there.

She wandered back inside the house, letting the flyscreen door slam casually behind her. A delicious ray of sunshine fell through the window onto the comfortable old armchair that she’d found at a local second-hand dealer.

Mim picked up the other cup of tea and walked through the cosy sitting room and into the wood-panelled study.

‘You star,’ said James, turning from his handyman attempts at one of the cupboard doors. ‘You’re a mind-reader.’

She leaned down with the tea and gave him a kiss. He was as excited as a child with his new tool set and was constantly looking for odd jobs to practise his new DIY skills.

James sipped the tea and told her excitedly about the latest clients who had responded to his recently launched website. James was selling the local art and craft online and the response had been phenomenal. The community artists were in full support of his project: ‘Sure beats Balnarring Market at six a.m. in the rain,’ one had said.

A New York boutique had recently placed a large order for the Eucalyptus and ti-tree scented candles and there was interest from a department store in Bristol for a big shipment of corrugated iron bird-houses.

Mim made her way back to the veranda to check on the children.

Jack and Charley had adapted their game from being cowboys to now being the cowboys’ horses and were leaping ‘fences’ made from bits of the bonfire planned for the following weekend.

Chloe’s worm farm had doubled in size since she discovered what happened when she chopped them in half.

Mim sat on the steps of the veranda and surveyed the scene, marvelling at what a lovely time her entire family was having. She stretched out her legs to enjoy the winter sun and noticed she still had on her beaten-up old Blundstone gardening boots.

She looked at them, stunned. They were truly ugly, chunky and in no way fashionable.

These were not the boots of a happy person.

Yet she was happy. Fancy that.

The authors would like to thank the many people who have helped to make
Gucci Mamas
a reality.

Thanks so much to the wonderful team at Random House for treating us so well every step of the way; particularly our incredibly insightful and clever publisher, Larissa Edwards, who saw the potential in the original manuscript and helped to steer it in the right direction. Thanks also to our editors, Jessica Dettmann and Sara Foster, and to publicity manager Briony Cameron.

We’d also like to express our gratitude to the wonderful Selwa Anthony, literary agent, without whom this book would not have flourished. Thanks for always being at the end of the phone with good advice, Selwa.

We must also thank our children:

Harley, 16

Ruby, 13

Darcy, 10

Connor, 9

Oliver, 8

Francesca, 6

Elliot, 4 and

Lucas 2

for letting us work sometimes! And also our wonderful husbands, Rob and Ian, for their unflagging support.

And we can’t end without sending a huge thank you to everyone at Penbank School. The staff, students and com
munity have been with us every step of the way, delighting in every new development and snippet of news. From working in the spare office to having impromptu meetings in the school kitchen, Penbank has been at the heart of this book – and bears absolutely no resemblance to Langholme Grammar!

Michelle would also like to thank: My beautiful friend Tracey for once again standing beside me every step of the way in life and work; my gorgeous sister Kelly, for sharing the past and the future; and Mum and Dad, who always knew I could.

Lisa would also like to thank: All those patient people in my life who indulged me by listening to the never-ending impromptu author readings as each new page hummed out of the bubble-jet; darling Ian of course (whose encouragement is limitless); the patient and kind Sam Westle; Melita; my sister Deb; Nean; Prudie; and of course my generous and loving parents, Bev and Doug Barlow.