Gucci Mamas (4 page)

‘Yes, of course, sorry.’ Mim left the room, determined not to make as many early-learning faux pas tomorrow.

Back in the car she laid her head on the steering wheel for a few minutes while her mind cleared. What a morning! Thank God for Ellie and the promise of caffeine. She fired up the Mercedes and headed to Lorenzo’s for a well-earned slice of ‘me’ time.

Mim tried to massage away her headache as she stepped into the café, almost colliding with her dear friend Liz, who looked unusually casual in jeans and T-shirt.

‘Mim, darling, how are you?’

Mim immediately dropped her hand from her forehead and smiled brightly at Liz, who was one of her Mothers’ Group mums.

‘I’m just fiiiine,’ she said, stretching the word out for extra emphasis. ‘How are you? Time for a latte?’

‘Can’t, pet, got something on. Are you sure you’re okay? You look a tad strained.’ Liz insisted.

‘Oh? No, I’m just great, couldn’t be better.’ Mim widened her smile and wondered if she could forcibly make her eyes sparkle.

‘Okay, gorgeous, must head off. Call me! Ciao!’

Mim glanced back at Liz briskly striding towards her Volvo.

On the surface Liz appeared to be someone who – financially – had it all; a wealthy lifestyle, Portsea house and
an international party schedule. Her domestic duties were outsourced to an army of staff who kept her mansion and gardens immaculate, a nanny kept her children clean and well-fed, and a personal assistant managed her busy diary of travel and social engagements.

It was easy to assume that little depth lay beneath Liz’s rich socialite demeanour. Yet it was rare for her friends or neighbours to bump into her in the shopping precincts of Toorak, Malvern or South Yarra, and the way in which Liz chose to spend her days would have raised many a well-shaped eyebrow if it got out.

Most mornings, after her mandatory five-kilometre power walk through the leafy streets of Toorak, Liz swapped her designer clothes and diamonds for flat shoes, jeans and a simple white T-shirt.

Liz volunteered regularly at a homeless mission in Grey Street that catered largely for drug-addicted young people. She chopped veggies, served up soup and support, and listened when the kids wanted to talk. She’d been helping out for years and sometimes wondered if it was worth it. No matter how many hours or thousands of dollars she spent, there was a seemingly endless stream of troubled and confused kids every day.

But she couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop going; stop helping, stop looking. She just knew that one day she’d find what she was looking for.

Mim moved into the chattering café throng. Sidestepping tables full of business meetings and gossiping women she felt triumphant. Yes, I am fine, she thought. It’s going to be a lovely day and I feel just great.

She popped into the ladies and locked herself into a cubicle, sitting on a closed toilet lid. It wasn’t her bladder that needed attention, she just wanted a few minutes’
solitude. She took a deep cleansing breath in, but suddenly it turned into a ragged, gasping sob, and before she knew it she was engulfed in a surge of despair. The ugly walls of the cubicle blurred through her tears as she clenched her teeth and rocked back and forth on the toilet. She folded her arms across her body and dug her nails into her arms in a desperate bid to pull herself together.

‘God, oh God, it’s just all too much,’ she whispered desperately. James’s angry face flashed into her mind and she remembered his words: ‘Fuck you too, princess.’

This morning’s phone call had done little to erase the image.

No, I’m not a princess, she thought bitterly. Just because I want standards for our family; want the best for our family. Doesn’t he understand that?

Hiccoughing back a sob, she clutched herself tighter and fought for control.

Suddenly her mobile beeped with a message. It was just the jolt she needed. With sheer will she swallowed down her panic and quietened her sobs. This will all work out, she told herself. She exited the cubicle, washed her hands at the basin and restored her foundation. We’ve had bad fights before.

Not as big as this, though, her mind whispered.

It’s so much harder than I’d imagined, she thought to herself as she remembered her wedding day. It’s fascinating how much money, time and effort goes into that one day of splendour, yet nothing is invested in preparing those two young people for a lifetime together. If I’d spent as much time researching the male psyche as I did at dress fittings I wouldn’t have been stumbling along blind for these last ten years, surprised and sometimes horrified at every male quirk that comes out of him.

Back then I actually cared about what china was going on the registry, what style of silverware. Did I think I was
embarking on a life of endless glamorous dinner parties? Now my mission in dinnerware is to find the perfect plastic tumbler that is narrow enough for little hands yet not tippy.

And the amount of money and angst spent on feeding those two hundred people that night at the reception, half of whom we haven’t seen since. I can’t believe I cared so much about whether to serve quail or not. If I’d known the reality of entering a lifetime of preparing three to five meals a day for the fussiest individuals on the planet I may have cared less about the wedding banquet.

But we were so much in love. The world was all about finery, silk gowns, white Rolls Royces and an endless honeymoon that was hour after hour of surf, sand and sex.

It’s very easy to be in love when there are absolutely no worries in your world, she reflected. The most controversial issue in her life at the time was whether to wear ivory or white.

James had not had a care in the world. He laughed at absolutely anything, he was relaxed and he had the most magnetic personality. Everybody enjoyed his company, but she most of all. She remembered with a smile the long lazy lunches down at the Portsea pub with their mates.

Now when he walks in he just represents more work for me. No, that’s crazy, she corrected herself. He’s still fun. We’ve just been so busy we’ve both forgotten who we are, or who we were. It’s all so hard, nothing comes easily, nothing is exciting any more, it’s just all about trying to keep my head above water – financially, emotionally, as a mother and as a wife. I didn’t know it would be this hard.

She took a deep yoga breath and cleared her mind. A liberal spray of Bulgari momentarily cheered her. Distracting herself with a quick lippy fix and a few strokes of mascara, she then headed back to the welcome distraction of the bustling café.

Her coffee, complete with fleur-de-lys swirled foam, enticed her as she checked the message on her mobile.

The message was from her mother, Julia, via her preferred method of communication. A brief SMS was about as deep as Julia ever got. She was, after all, a very busy woman. Mim replied and a quick conversation ensued.

How’s things?

Gr8. U?

Fab. Kids good?

As always, Dad?

At squash. Dinner?

Love to. Will call.

Must dash, meeting.

No point worrying her mum about the tiff with James. Personal issues only made Julia feel uncomfortable, but Mim knew she could count on her if there was a real crisis.

Julia Jones was a tough businesswoman who dealt better with facts than emotions – a lesson Mim had learned early in her childhood. Julia had efficiently produced the pidgeon pair: Mim’s brother Raymond and then, four years later, Mim. The junior school years had been a mild inconvenience until they were both tidily dispatched to boarding school.

Mim constantly felt that she fell short of her mother’s expectations. Julia had been dux at school, whereas Mim, although she’d always worked very hard, had fallen just short of that honour. She remembered the first time she’d felt that she’d let her mother down. Mim had been very young, perhaps three or four, and had decided to surprise her mother by dressing herself. Her mother’s reaction had been extreme: ‘What AAAARE you wearing? For God’s sake, you look like a bag lady!’ and Julia had stripped her daughter off and laid coordinating pieces on the bed for Mim to right herself.

Mim had been very careful to ask what exactly went with what from then on to avoid making such a dreadful mistake again.

The instances continued. Julia never appeared thrilled or excited no matter how great Mim’s achievement. Once, when Mim excitedly brought home first prize in an art contest, Julia’s response was brief:

‘First? In the state?’ she’d enquired, looking up from her desk.

‘No,’ Mim had replied, ‘the district.’

‘Oh, the district.’ And Julia had turned back to the newspaper.

Lost in her thoughts, Mim sipped her lukewarm latte, flicked through an
Architectural Digest
and glanced discreetly at her Omega as she waited at length for Ellie.

Finally, Ellie breezed in, flicking her pashmina over her perennially tanned shoulders. Her mission in life was to find a pair of jeans small enough for her tiny size-six body, but long enough for her six-foot-one frame. It was, as she had sighed to Mim many times, ‘a hell I have to bear’.

Ellie leaned over to envelop Mim in a cloud of air kisses and Chanel No. 5. A slave to fashion, she always looked as if she had just stepped out of
Vogue
. Today she was immaculate in flared-leg, faded denim Guess jeans, a white lycra capped-sleeve, Tommy Hilfiger tee over which she’d carelessly (well, painstakingly, actually) thrown a pink pashmina. Pastel pink strappy stilettos and frameless pink-tinted sunglasses completed the look.

Ellie was never on time for anything, and considered tardiness her personal trademark. She thought it made her appear unpredictable and mysterious. But today after trying to look cool and content with her own company for twenty-five minutes, Mim was distinctly peeved.

But, as usual, her best friend immediately unleashed an
entertaining and highly caffeinated torrent of gossip and chatter that quickly washed away Mim’s annoyance.

‘I am soooo sorry, darling, I got caught up with that dreadful Jennifer Gowrie-Smith from tennis. I had to listen to her go on and on about their Noosa trip. Such a poser. I’m sure she had an affair with her masseuse. She kept going on and on about this woman’s “magic fingers” – I mean really! Ever since she saw Madonna and Britney pash she’s been dying to try out the lesbian thing. And she lost two kilos with gastro in the first week. Lucky bitch, I never get sick. But never mind, I’ve heard there’s a flu going around. I purposely didn’t get the injection.’

‘Did she mention Sophie’s party tonight?’ Mim asked.

‘No, thank goodness. God forbid her brat’s going. If I have to listen to her sing “Happy Birthday” in Japanese one more time I’ll scream . . ’ She paused for a breath. ‘Have you sorted costumes for the children? At least the Carnivale theme leaves plenty of room for imaginative costumes. Paris has decided she wants to go as a horseback dancer. I’ve had the most divine little costume made for her – it’s v. Kylie – from her Showgirl phase. I’d love to take Dumpling with us, though I suppose that would be a bit OTT! I think it’s so important to accessorise a fancy dress outfit, don’t you?’

Ellie stopped to sip her chicory soy latte, and Mim took a deep breath to prepare for the next onslaught.

‘Annnnyyhooo,’ Ellie continued, stylishly wiping latte foam from her newly Restylaned lips. ‘Rupert wants to be the ringmaster – well of course – he is such a natural leader, isn’t he? Like his father! So Mr Nguyen ran him up a stunning three-piece suit and custom-made top hat, and I had my hair stylist make him an authentic hair moustache from the trimmings at his last cut – what a hoot! Mr Nguyen is such a treasure, what those Chinese can’t do with a needle!
Such a clever people, don’t you think? So, darling, what will your spawn be wearing?’

‘I thought maybe I could put together some pirate costumes for the boys with bits and pieces from the dress-up cupboard, and Chloe can just wear her old fairy dress.’

‘Oh,’ Ellie looked aghast. ‘Isn’t that a bit, you know, Martha Stewart of you darling? I mean, who just “puts things together”? No, look I’ll give you the number of this divine costumery on Malvern Road, you still have time to pop in there before the party tonight.’

‘Bit exxy?’

‘Oh darling, don’t even consider the price; it’s all about having the right look,’ Ellie advised.

Mim chewed the inside of her lip and tapped at her latte glass; this was shaping up to be an expensive outing. She’d already bought one elaborate gift online from F. A. O. Schwarz in the States, but had received an email yesterday to say it wouldn’t arrive until next week.

‘I can’t believe I wasted all that time and money on a gift for Sophie that won’t even be here today.’

‘What was it again?’

‘I designed a one-of-a-kind, custom-made Barbie dressed in Sophie’s favourite Gap cowgirl dress. You can do it on the web.’

‘Couldn’t you save it for another party?’

‘No, they stamp the child’s name on Barbie’s instep. She’s the world’s 1225th Sophie Barbie, so she’s unique.’

‘Darling, you’re over-thinking it all. Just dump the bloody Barbie at goodwill somewhere, grab another pressie and be done with it.’

Mim sighed. The invitation to Sophie’s party had come as a beautifully wrapped gift-box delivered by courier to Mim’s front door. Although it was addressed to Miss Chloe Woolcott, Mim knew its main purpose was to impress the
invitees’ parents. She’d torn open the satin ribbons and the box exploded in a cloud of confetti and streamers. A helium balloon burst from the centre of the decorations, trumpeting an invite to Miss Sophie Mason-Jackson’s sixth birthday party, a Carnivale to be held in the extensive grounds of her parents’ Malvern mansion.

‘Damn it,’ Mim had said in dismay as she’d surveyed the festive fallout on her hall carpet.

There was no getting all that back in the box – she’d have to come clean with Chloe.

A gift registry card had been thoughtfully included with the invitation. It appeared Miss Sophie was registered at David Jones and several small, exclusive toy boutiques.

Ellie broke into her reverie.

‘How are Chloe’s prep interviews going?’

‘Oh God, it’s hellish,’ Mim sighed. ‘The competition is so intense for five-year-old places at all the good schools. We’re committed to a single-sex environment, although we’re not adverse to parallel learning and we might consider a Steiner approach. She’s thriving under Reggio Emilia at ELC, but we’re not sure if it’s too unstructured for her needs into the future.’