Gucci Mamas (9 page)

September 1998

Liz paled. Her manicured hand, the one with the five perfect nails, fluttered to her pearl choker. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, then opened it, but could only manage a sharp intake of air.

Mikaylah stood trembling, frightened she might black out at any moment. She’d rehearsed this moment many times on the long hitchhike from Moe, but the reality of it was much more intense than she could have imagined.

Liz’s mind was blank, empty, groping for information, for a way to process this scenario.

Then it was full, buzzing and spinning wildly.

Oh God, it was true. Well of course it was true. It’s just that, well, she’d buried it so deep, almost convinced herself that it had never happened, but it must have, because the proof apparently now stood on her doorstep.

She’d worked so hard to seal over the damage from her hideous mistake fifteen years ago and moved on – fast. Her
life had been full and busy – and, well, perfect, really. How dare this dirty child turn up and spoil everything she’d worked so hard for.

Liz felt her world slipping out of her grasp: her marriage, child, lifestyle, the reputation she’d fought so hard to maintain. No way was she going back, she would not go back to that awful time when everything was so ugly and hard.

Girls from the exclusive Catholic school, St Bernadette’s, just didn’t go and get themselves knocked up. It was not the done thing. Most of the junior-school girls still believed in the Immaculate Conception, for goodness’ sake. And the senior school girls, although they knew better, would hardly have dreamed of squandering their virginity before marriage. An intact hymen was a valuable bargaining chip into the best families.

In particular, one should not be deflowered by the gardener – no matter how green his thumb.

But to fifteen-year-old Elizabeth, succumbing to the masculine charms of Thomas was irresistible. An only child whose parents were often on extended overseas work commitments, the impressionable teen was attention-starved and ripe for the picking that summer. Her lonely hours led her to the garden, where she soon struck up conversation with Thomas, only two years her senior. At first she had hung around watching him work, but eventually she was compelled to kneel beside him in the dirt as he tenderly bedded seedlings and whipped unruly weeds into submission.

He ignited a passion for literature within her, recommending the books that would always remind her of that summer;
Hamlet
,
Catcher in the Rye
and
Moby Dick
. Her intrigue with his large dark forearms and torn denims, his clear laughing green eyes and shock of unruly hair, was only
heightened by his obvious love for and knowledge of books.

The day of her sixteenth birthday simmered with languid heat, which had her glowing with sweat before she even stepped from her bed. She showered and put on a bikini top and denim cut-offs and went to find him.

Possibility buzzed in the air, and now, officially a year older, Elizabeth felt emboldened, as if she might just do anything today. She slapped away a mosquito that was droning lazily around her long, tan legs and searched for Thomas in her mother’s rose garden, where the David Austins were already swollen and drunk with heat.

He worked quietly and efficiently, snipping the best blooms for the house. Choosing huge cabbage-like heads in pinks and mauves musky with perfume. His calloused fingers held each bloom tenderly as his secateurs snapped the woody stems of the roses. She watched as he carried a fragrant armful into a shaded gazebo to keep the blooms cool.

Elizabeth followed him. And soon the heady perfume of roses and summer-sounds of clicking sprinklers, strumming crickets and children shrieking in a neighbour’s pool formed a gentle backdrop to their love-making.

She went to him eight weeks later. His hands were grimy with fertiliser, his face masked when she told him her news.

‘Our love can survive this,’ she smiled at him, caught up in the tragedy and romance of the moment. She clutched her battered copy of
Romeo and Juliet
to her heart and swore, with teenage naivety, to run away with him, to leave this ‘shallow world’ and be with him forever.

His eyes above the mask were still and shuttered. But he smiled his slow grin, kissed her cheek and told her that he loved her.

Her parents were annoyed when they discovered that
their gardener had walked off the job without a word, but they quickly found a new boy and life returned to normal.

But something ended for Elizabeth; there in the garden, something died amongst the weeds and the compost.

Too stunned to even think clearly for several weeks, and still holding to some faint hope that he had simply gone ahead to set up their new life and would contact her soon, Elizabeth was too far gone by the time she confessed the truth to her family. She spoke from somewhere far away from her body, somewhere a long distance from her father’s shouts and her mother’s slap. They couldn’t touch her – neither they, nor the child blithely growing inside her, ignorant of how unwanted it was.

Elizabeth was sent away until her ‘little problem’ resolved itself. Her parents publicly announced a six-month stint in a European ‘finishing school’, anxious of the need to keep up appearances.

They’d called her Liz at the unwed mothers’ hostel and the name had stuck. When she came back she insisted everyone adopt the more casual address. Elizabeth was gone. That name had been extinguished with the hopes of the innocent girl who’d believed the romance of the classics was possible; who’d believed true love was possible. She’d been pregnant, given birth and given the baby away in a tidy, sanitised manner and now it was time to knuckle down to her studies and let those vulnerable parts of her heal over forever, lest she be hurt again.

She would never again forget that there was no stronger force in the world than the expectations of society.

‘Look, I just don’t have time for this,’ was all Liz could splutter.

Mikaylah’s pale face turned even whiter and then quickly went red as she was suffused with anger, disappointment and
confusion. It wasn’t like she’d expected this strange woman to wrap her into her arms or anything, but to be dismissed like some kind of annoying bug was too much. She wanted to scream at the woman, to lash out at her, to just crawl up and die with humiliation on the spot.

She did none of these things. Instead she turned around and ran down the sweeping driveway.

A tiny, buried seed of compassion uncurled itself from Liz’s core and rushed up into her consciousness.

‘Wait!’ she called out, and ran down the front steps after the child. She rushed into the street and wildly turned left and then right, but the black-clad figure had disappeared.

She stood there by the kerb in stunned silence, staring at nothing, numb of mind.

The sound of next-door’s garage door opening stirred her.

‘Oh goodness, what will the neighbours think?’ she murmured, and she turned on her heel and slunk back into the house.

Present Day

Mim was busting. The gurgling of waterfalls and rushing of rivers on the rainforest CD was playing havoc with her bladder. She gripped the edges of the therapy bed and willed herself to be calm; to ignore the demands of her body and to just bloody well relax, for God’s sake. James would be home tonight in time for the school fete and she wanted to be buffed and shiny – and hopefully reasonably serene – for his return.

It had been two weeks since her last visit to
Moi
, her favourite St Kilda day spa, and knowing how stressed she’d be after a week of single parenting she’d planned this visit well in advance. Not to mention how bristly certain parts of her had become in the past fortnight.

Her regular
Moi
visits were usually sublime. Hardly an indulgence, she reassured herself, but a necessity for maintaining her wellbeing and body-hair-free status.

As she headed toward her forties she appreciated more
and more the benefits of a good ear-candling or lymphatic drainage to manage stress and sagging skin tone. But today nothing seemed to be working. Lying tense and naked under a towel, she wished she’d listened to Ellie and Tiffany and got a nanny in to help out while James was away. She’d had too many freelance projects on deadlines, too much going on with Sophie’s party, the fete and the production to manage the children and the house alone.

Not that James was home much when he was in the country, but she had to admit he was a great dad and would play and romp with the children while she got dinner underway or take over the bedtime routine so she could hide out in the office.

After a week of juggling alone she was a frazzled mess incapable of relaxation.

‘Now, Mrs Woolcott,’ crooned the sleek beauty therapist with tattooed eyebrows as she swept into the room, ‘we’re grinding our teeth again.’

Are
we
? Mim thought. I know I am, but you seem just fine, pet.

The therapist dipped an applicator into the hot wax and began spreading it on Mim’s legs. Giving up on the fight for calm, Mim tried to distract herself as layers of wax, hair and skin were shredded from her body.

No pain, no gain, she reminded herself as the therapist moved on to Mim’s more delicate regions. Suffering for beauty was a small compromise at her age, she figured, fighting the urge to shriek as a particularly sensitive area was stripped.

With the wax treatment over, she tried again to relax as the therapist began rubbing granules of desert-salt and oil into every inch of Mim’s body to stimulate circulation, drain toxins from her lymphatic system and leave her skin exfoliated and glowing. A day at
Moi
could be like stepping back to the
womb. From the tranquil sari-clad girls at the front desk to the comfortable day beds and herbal teas in the waiting rooms; the entire experience was usually very special. But not today. Mim had salt in her mouth and oil dripping in her eyes. She spat delicately, hoping the therapist wouldn’t notice.

She tried to clear her mind, but instead found herself thinking, God, my pores are huge. What happened there? she wondered, staring at the mirror above her. Where did the peaches-and-cream look go? Now I’m more ‘pizza-with-the-lot’.

The young therapist interrupted her thoughts as if reading her mind, ‘You have lovely skin … for your age,’ she smiled.

Exactly, thought Mim, for my age.

When did I stop being twenty-two?

When did the last fifteen years happen?

What is going on with my pores?

Oh God, what am I doing?

Is this that ‘transference worry’, like I read in Sahara Sheldon’s
Me-time and a Half?

Am I wasting my time worrying about petty, meaningless issues and avoiding the real problems in my life?

Or am I really worried about my pores?

Ohmigod. I’ve turned into someone who worries about their pores.

‘Just relax,’ cooed the therapist as she attempted to wrestle Mim’s arms back onto the bed.

I’m not shallow, I care about lots of serious things, I only ever worry about my pores in my own time … really.

She began to compile a mental list of really important worrying issues. The children; James; their financial situation. Then she really gave herself a good dose of reality and decided to worry about the Middle East situation and world hunger.

‘Seriously, if you would just relax, your lymphatic system will purge the toxins with greater intensity,’ urged the therapist with concern.

It’s not happening, it’s not happening, Mim started to meditate. The therapist started the oil drip on her forehead to realign her chakras and Mim’s worries finally began to recede.

The insistent chirruping of birds snapped her back to reality. ‘Sorry,’ she apologised to the girl, rummaging in her Louis Vuitton for the mobile. ‘Kids … can’t turn it off … just in case … you know.’

As Mim pushed the receive call button she caught a look from the carefree, single therapist that said, no, she didn’t know.

Driving to the GP, Mim’s initial worry over Charley’s mysterious rash began to dissipate. Stupid school. That’s a whole day session at
Moi
wasted. And they hadn’t even started to work on her pores.

‘Mrs Woolcott,’ the school nurse had boomed into the phone, ‘Charley appears to be displaying the early symptoms of a nasty little infection.’

Clasping the towel around her, Mim had held the phone away from her ear and wondered why the woman hadn’t simply shouted to her from the gate of the school – with that massive voice she’d certainly have heard her.

‘He has a peculiar rash on the backs of his hands and we urge immediate medical attention from your chosen physician.’

Mim sighed. This was the fourth time this year she’d been called to school for a ‘medical’ issue. Langholme Grammar was paranoid about its legal position should any child infect another with anything worse than a computer virus. Last year the Tonkon-Websters had won an undisclosed settlement for
breach of care when their young son, Gordy, had missed his cello exam due to a savage dose of chickenpox picked up in the Early Learning Centre.

Mim took one look at Charley when she arrived at sick bay and, apart from the angry red rash on his hands, she felt that it wasn’t serious. Best to have it checked out, though.

Luckily, Dr Winterbottom was able to squeeze them in; there was some benefit in paying an extra sixty per cent per consultation.

The doctor took one glance at Charley’s hands and asked the crucial question: ‘So where have your hands been, Charley?’

‘Well, we were in Art class and Lochie Williamson painted them with PVA glue.’

‘And why did he do that, Charley?’

‘Cos my gloves kept falling off.’

‘Why don’t your gloves fit you, Charley?’ interrupted Mim.

‘Cos they’re Dad’s.’

Oh, Jesus, thought Mim. The new leather, fur-lined driving gloves James had bought on his last trip to New York were obviously goners.

‘He’s fine, Mrs Woolcott,’ Dr Winterbottom assured her. ‘It’s just a reaction to the glue. This Aloe Vera gel will have his skin back to normal in no time.’

The doctor applied the gel. Mim paid the hefty bill.

‘Sensational,’ said Charley, ‘what a ripper way to get off school. And it’s not a wasted day cos I’m not too sick to enjoy it!’

‘Think again, champ!’ replied Mim. She frog-marched him back into his class and went to discuss the incident with the art teacher – one of her least-favourite people.

In fact, Mim had decided she had serious issues with Mr Maurice. Whippet-thin and waxed to within an inch of his
life, Mr Maurice had all the charm of a rattlesnake and about as much artistic ability as far as Mim was concerned. If there was one thing in life Mim was sure of, it was that she knew art, and appreciated it in all its forms, from the works of the masters hanging at the Louvre to a preschooler’s interpretation of Van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
. She was passionate about nurturing and encouraging a love of art in children and allowing them to express themselves freely.

Which made having Mr Maurice as her boys’ artistic adviser hard to swallow.

Mr Maurice was teaching art only temporarily while he waited for his painting career to take off. It had been thirty years so far and as each year passed, with his talents as yet unrecognised by the art community, Mr Maurice became increasingly bitter.

He was critical of those students who couldn’t create and jealous of those who could. There was no joy to be had in his art class and there was certainly no room for creativity. He ran a tight ship of controlled art activities with clear parameters that went well beyond colouring within the lines.

‘Mr Maurice, Charley’s back after his brush with PVA,’ Mim said, walking into the art room and quietly congratulating herself on her clever opening line.

‘Oh, Mrs Woolcott,’ Mr Maurice simpered, ‘I do hope that disfiguring rash is not contagious, I really can’t be compromising the other children’s safety.’ He pressed a paisley hanky to his mouth as if to protect himself from dangerous germs.

‘Don’t panic,’ Mim said smoothly. ‘It was a simple reaction to the glue one of your boys painted all over Charley’s hands. Now, I’m not adverse to body art, but may I suggest something a little less toxic next time?’ she added sarcastically.

‘Honestly, Mrs Woolcott, it’s all I can do to keep the Grade One boys quiet, let alone have them produce the required pieces. I turn my back for one minute and they get up to all sorts of shenanigans. Those boys are well aware that we have a very strict glueing policy in this room. The rules and regulations are to be adhered to. If it was up to me I wouldn’t have Lower Primary in art class at all. They’re just too silly, they have no concentration span and their minds are too unformed to appreciate any of the nuances of the syllabus anyway.’

Mim was outraged. She took a deep breath, folded her hands in front of her and smiled sweetly at Mr Maurice: she was going to enjoy this.

‘Mr Maurice, might I suggest if your art classes were a little more stimulating, offering a more age-appropriate program, you wouldn’t find these “shenanigans” occurring so frequently. If the boys weren’t so damn bored by your inane, dull, so-called artistic offerings then they might have a bit of fun and surprise you with their abilities. You completely underestimate children’s imaginations and as an art teacher you are a disgrace.’

Mr Maurice recoiled in horror and small balls of spittle sputtered from his thin lips.

‘And,’ Mim continued, ‘in future please ascertain the cause of any “distasteful” rash before you send my child to isolation.’

With that, Mim turned and stormed out.

As she sat in the carpark clasping the steering wheel with her chipped nail-polish (another casualty of the aborted
Moi
day), she felt drained and fractious as her adrenalin rush petered out.

But, honestly, that self-important little man was personally responsible for destroying all those young people’s potential for art appreciation! Someone had to set him straight.

She drove quietly home. She felt like having a Bex and a good lie down, as her nanny used to say. If the best school in inner-city Melbourne wasn’t good enough for her boys, where else could they go?