Date 4: Friday night supper at The Victoria Room in Potts Point. Target: Alexander Pollitt, advertising executive and golf enthusiast. Expectations: Low; regarded Alexander as cocky.
Alexander was frowning at the menu when Annabel arrived.
‘You’re here,’ he said without getting up. ‘Sit. One moment.’ His Blackberry rattled. It was sitting on the table face-up. He looked at the monitor, then flipped it over without answering. Annabel waited silently for it to stop jiggling.
Alexander had serious lips and a completely bald head. He reminded Annabel of a Greek statue, an illusion that was heightened by the stony colour of his grey suit. He was strikingly handsome. He ordered the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu without consulting Annabel, then recommended the fondue. It arrived with sticks of toasted bread, vegetables and witlof.
‘It’s really good with the potatoes,’ he said. ‘Ladies love it. Although it is a bit fatty.’ His phone hummed again.
He talked at Annabel about his work until the fondue was gone. His agency had been getting heat in the press for signing on to do some work with a plastics company that had been linked to a series of toxic chemical leaks.
‘My ex-wife says I’m a corporate whore, but aren’t we all in some way?’ he said, throwing back the last of the champagne.
Annabel nearly bit her tongue as she snapped a piece of witlof between her teeth.
The waiter brought the receipt and two after-dinner mints. Annabel loved after-dinner mints, particularly when they were given as a treat by the restaurant. She thought they were a clever little trick, as the customer left with a sweet taste in their mouth, feeling like they got something a little extra.
She was just about to voice this when Alexander put his hand on the silver tray and swiped up both of the mints. He ripped the corner off the foil packet of one and put it in his mouth.
‘I am guessing you don’t want any more saturated fats,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you used to be a model?’
Annabel opened her mouth to answer, but his phone started to vibrate again. She wondered why he hadn’t kept it in his pocket if he was going to ignore it.
‘Jesus!’ he groaned and rolled his eyes. ‘Leave me alone. For Chrissake!’ he shouted at the ringing phone. It fell silent, as if out of fear.
‘Well, thank you for dinner,’ Annabel said, standing.
‘You’re not interested in a night cap?’ He had an amused look on his face.
‘I have an early start,’ she said coolly.
‘Suit yourself,’ he smiled insincerely, then winked at a lady at the bar.
Annabel thought a romance starring Alexander Pollitt would be called
The Indifferent Love
. It would go something like this: boy meets girl, boy yells at girl until she agrees to marry him, girl is miserable.
Verdict: Guilty of gross rudeness. Alexander seemed like the type of man who would steal your skin if he thought he could get a good price for it.
Outside, Annabel drew her coat around herself. Alexander reminded her of Hunter, and the effect had given her chills. Her husband-hunting prospects were not looking good.
Annabel woke suddenly. Her breath was short. Her skin was hot and slick with sweat. She snapped on her bedside lamp. She was alone. Hunter was five suburbs north. She had dreamt he was standing in the corner of the room, watching her angrily in the darkness. But it had just been a dream.
She wanted water, but couldn’t quite find the courage to leave the safety of her Sheridan bed. Instead she rolled over and pulled the heavy sheets up to her chin. But she left the lamp on.
Sunday morning’s sky was a crisp blue. Dew shone on blades of grass. It was the type of day that made you want to put on a vintage pea coat and accessorise it with a straw basket bursting with celery, tomatoes and a baguette. Annabel decided to walk to the Leona deli, a place that sold exotic foods imported from all over the world. She loved to look at the unusual packaging and leaf through the expensive cook books. Preserved meats hung over the counter in string hammocks. Everything was home-spun and pungent.
She bought some cheeses — a smoky Gouda and a piece of Stilton — relishing their smells and the way they were imperfectly hacked from a larger wheel. She also picked up some salmon ravioli and resolved to try harder to learn how to cook. Annabel loved to eat, but the chemistry of cooking eluded her.
Passing a fruit shop, she picked up a bag of dates and some Granny Smiths to go with her cheese. She lingered by the herbs, putting her nose close to the leaves. She wanted to buy some but didn’t have the first idea how to use fresh herbs. It occurred to her that a herbs and spices guidebook could be the perfect product for Farouk Spices to develop. She paid for the fruit and headed home to write down the idea.
She was walking past the Poirot cinema when she caught the smell of popcorn. The Poirot was a beautiful old Art Deco building the same colour as the apples Annabel had just bought. It still had all of its original light fittings in jewel-shaped glass casings. She wandered inside to browse the posters. Generally, the Poirot ran art house or classic films.
At the snack bar she spotted a familiar face.
‘Hello there,’ Patrick Bodenheimer waved. Even though it was a Sunday he was dressed in a vest and tie.
‘Hello!’
‘Jason would run a mile if he saw us standing here like this,’ he said, lifting his extra-large cup of Coke.
Annabel laughed. ‘If only you’d been drinking that at the party. Was he very mad?’
‘I couldn’t say. I don’t really know him,’ Patrick shrugged.
‘He had an affair with my friend,’ Annabel blurted. ‘She didn’t know he was married. That’s why I did it.’
‘The cad! He deserved a dunking, then,’ said Patrick.
‘I don’t know why I told you that,’ Annabel said. ‘It’s just, she’s got such a tender heart, and he stomped on it.’
‘Did you tell her about your confrontation?’ His was a slow, meditative way of speaking, as if he considered each word very carefully.
Annabel shifted on her feet. At first, she had wanted to go to Clementine immediately and report the blow she had struck against the enemy. But the thing that sparked the rage had been Jason’s wink.
Patrick was waiting for an answer.
‘No. Not yet.’
He nodded.
‘Actually I wasn’t sure whether I should tell her. What do you think?’
‘Do you think it will make a difference if she knows?’
Annabel felt Clementine needed to know about it. But she also feared it would hurt her. There was something else that stopped her. Strangers at parties, if they saw Annabel talking to their husband, would wind their arms around their partners and guide them away. She didn’t want Clementine to think of her like that. It had been only a short time since they had reunited at the wedding, but already Annabel was coming to cherish her old friends again. Daniela with her bawdy bravado and Clementine with her focused intelligence. Clementine had vowed not to see Jason again, so what difference did it make?
‘She’s trying to move on.’ Annabel changed the subject. ‘You’re not wearing a flower today.’
Over a second martini at the Jensen party, Patrick had told her that he almost always wore a bud in his button hole.
‘I knew I was going to be in the dark all day,’ he gestured towards the entrance to the main cinema. ‘I didn’t think it would be fair on the flower.’
‘Which film are you seeing?’
‘
Kind Hearts and Coronets
. Do you know the Ealing Studios? The Poirot here is running a retrospective for the next few months. This is where you’ll be able to find me every Sunday afternoon until July.’
‘I’ve never heard of them.’
‘Oh they’re marvellous. Would you like to join me?’
He had a large popcorn, a bag of Maltesers and a choc-top ice-cream. Annabel looked around the lobby for his companion.
‘I wouldn’t want to intrude,’ she said.
‘It’s no intrusion; I would be delighted to have some company.’
She hesitated. There was a pile of food magazines at home she wanted to mine for ideas and annotate.
‘
Kind Hearts and Coronets
is a classic. An absolute comic triumph.’
She looked at Patrick. Behind his Coke-bottle glasses he had glacial blue eyes. They were striking against his skin, which was a shade deeper than a summer tan, as if he had close ancestors in Malta or Egypt.
‘I’ll share my popcorn,’ he said, titling the box towards Annabel. The smell of butter convinced her. In the dark she laughed at Alec Guinness, and crammed puffed kernels into her mouth. Afterwards Patrick walked her home.
‘Next week is
Passport to Pimlico
,’ he said. ‘It’s about a district of London that is discovered to be legally part of Burgundy. It was inspired an event that occurred during the Second World War. Wonderful little story. The Crown Princess of the Netherlands, Princess Juliana, was in Ottawa seeking refuge. She became pregnant and was due to give birth, but there was no possibility of returning to the Netherlands. The problem was that if her child had been born in Canada it would not have legally been able to succeed to the throne. So the Canadian government declared that the hospital room the Princess was due to give birth in was not officially part of Canada, so the child would have full Dutch citizenship.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ Annabel said. ‘Only … I’m not sure I’ll be free.’
‘No bother,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll be there either way.’
All evening Annabel was smiling. Patrick’s glow had rubbed off on her in the same way your cheek stays warm after sitting near a heater. His story about the Princess made her laugh. And she liked the way he told it. He didn’t dumb it down, or gloss over the details the way other men sometimes did when they were speaking to her. She decided she would definitely like to see
Passport to Pimlico
.
That night she slept peacefully.
Thwack! Thump-thump. Thwack!
‘Watch it,’ Melanie Sissowitz was holding Dani’s punching bag.
Thump.
‘Did I clip you?’
Thump-thump.
‘No, but I think you broke the punching bag’s jaw.’
Thwack!
‘That’s what it’s for.’ Daniela stopped to wipe the sweat from her brow. ‘If we didn’t kick the crap out of it, it would be disappointed. This punching bag loves me right now.’
Thwack-thwack-thwack.
‘Maybe you should marry the punching bag.’
Thump.
‘It may come to that.’
Thwack.
‘Seriously, is everything okay?’
Dani unclenched her fists and reached down to tie her shoelace. She didn’t want Melanie seeing her face. She was close to tears.
‘It’s just work stuff.’
When she had arrived on site that morning, Briggs had been gruff and told her he wanted to see her in his office at 9am.
‘Your office? But we never go into your office.’
‘We’re going in there today,’ he barked.
Mannaggia.
The desk was bare and the chair still sealed inside a plastic wrapper. Usually Briggs hollered his instructions while patrolling the site. Dani had seen him write reports while squatting on a stack of timber. He only ever resorted to his office for very serious matters.
‘Dayton is not happy about plans to shift exhaust vents. It’s going to cost more and will change the shape of some of the flats,’ he frowned, his hands on his hips.
‘We have to,’ Daniela said. ‘There are new guidelines around ventilation. Our hands are absolutely tied. With steel cables.’
She didn’t want to do it either. It meant cutting into the living space and creating an odd jigsaw-shaped room where the shaft had previously been in the seventh apartment on every level. If there was any way around it, she would have taken it.
‘Shit. Why didn’t we know about this before?’
‘They only just changed the code.’
Briggs threw his mobile phone into the ground.
‘Bloody regulators. You’re going to have to explain this to them.’ He pointed a rolled-up Dayton brochure at Daniela.
She wanted to protest but there was no point. Her shoulders slumped. She hated giving presentations. ‘When?’
‘Today.’
‘Today? I can’t present to Dayton in this,’ she pulled at her flannelette work shirt.
‘The big guys are in town and they’re livid. Go. Explain it. Take copies of the code. Use big words. Promise the homes will still be beautiful. This is your department. You’re supposed to be the one with the knack for making little city apartments liveable.’
‘When?’
‘Now. Be at the Grand Hyatt by 10.’
‘Briggs—’
‘Go!’
Daniela ran to her car. When she arrived at the Hyatt it was 9.53 and she was damp with sweat. Around her women in tall shoes were clack-clacking on the marble floor. Her boots made a soft thud. She rode the lift, then travelled down a long hallway carpeted scarlet like a Hollywood runway until she reached the gilded boardroom. She felt like a vagabond. When she knocked on the door there was no answer, so she pushed it open and walked in.
There were three of them waiting for her. Their papers were couched in leather portfolios. Fountain pens, sleek like cars, waited by their hands. They were corporate heavies, recognisable by their silver quiffs and ample bellies encased in double-breasted grey wool. Their starched collars were so sharp they looked like they would cut themselves if they weren’t careful. Signet rings hugged their fingers. Daniela touched the crushed flannel she was wearing. They didn’t acknowledge her as she entered. She took a deep breath and started talking.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she began. ‘The company has sent me here to explain changes to the Building Regulation Act, and why we absolutely have no choice but to—’
‘And you are?’ one of the men interrupted, without looking up from the document in front of him. The others had their arms folded, their faces were impassive.
‘I’m the head engineer, Daniela DeLuca. If we don’t change the design we could be fined up to—’
‘Where is Mr Briggs?’
Dani bristled at the second interruption. She just wanted this to be over.
‘He’s not coming, sir. I have come to explain—’
The one in the middle wrinkled his mouth into an expression of perturbed impatience. Another chuckled.
‘Good God, Ms DeLuca, I thought you were here to take our coffee orders.’
Daniela was agog. Was that a joke? None of them seemed in the mood for joking. One was clicking through his Blackberry. The pit of her stomach was filling with hot Mediterranean rage. This was not the time to lose her temper, she told herself. If she didn’t get their approval, Briggs would skin her alive.
She clenched her fists and continued on.
‘Changes to the building code mean—’
‘What are your qualifications?’ She was interrupted yet again.
‘Excuse me?’
The man in the centre leaned back in his expensive leather chair. ‘We just can’t understand, Miss DeLuca, why this is only being brought to our attention now.’
He leaned down on the word ‘Miss’, as if she was a recalcitrant school student.
‘Well, you see there was this accident. They shouldn’t have all been living there, but four students were crammed into a city studio, and it wasn’t properly ventilated. The gas connection was faulty. To the stove top, I mean.’ She was fumbling. The Dayton bosses weren’t paying attention.
Why hadn’t they seen it? It had been a big news story. Four young Indian kids all gassed in their beds because of a tiny leak. The coroner had found that if the place had been better ventilated, the small amount of carbon monoxide would have been wicked away and the worst the kids would have suffered would have been a headache. He had ordered an immediate change to the building code. Although the change wasn’t retrospective, because the flats hadn’t been built when the directions were handed down, Daniela’s company had to incorporate the new guidelines. But the Dayton bosses weren’t interested. They were packing up their expensive stationary and signalling they wanted to finish the meeting.
‘Tell Mr Briggs next time we want to see him in person,’ one said.
‘Or at least one of the other senior men we usually deal with,’ said another.
‘But—’ Daniela wanted to leap across the desk, grab them by their flawless white shirts and shake them until they saw sense.
Mortacci tua! Vai all’inferno!
They dismissed her with a flash of gold wristwatches.
‘But—’
‘Miss Delonica,’ the man in the middle had lost his patience, ‘goodbye.’
She collected her papers and left.
‘Those sexist warthogs,’ said Melanie after Daniela told her the story.
They headed for the showers. Dani undressed quickly and started lathering her hair. The pelt of the water on her shoulders usually calmed her down. But she couldn’t relax. She still had a date to get to. He was the last of the three men she had met with the husband-hunters. If he was anything like the last two, it would cap off an atrocious Friday.
Dani had been optimistic about the first one, Nicky Mangione. His parents were from Calabria, the region located at the toe on the boot-shaped map of Italy, which is where Gia was born. She imagined how thrilled Gia would be that Dani had found not only a nice Italian man, but one from her home region.
It only took ten minutes for that fantasy to fall apart. Nicky told long, circuitous stories that began with an anecdote about buying a dog and ended with him explaining his method for sterilising jars. Dani tried to pay attention, but her mind kept wandering. She watched his face and imagined sitting opposite it, in just this way, for the next forty years; hearing an uninterrupted account of how he had dropped a bag of coins when paying for the newspaper followed by the precise location that each piece of currency landed.
Date number two was no better. It started out well, but Dani’s hopeful smile dropped when he revealed he was a devout Mormon.
She turned off the shower and starting drying herself.
‘So I take it from the way you were flirting with the punching bag that the husband-hunt isn’t going well?’ Melanie asked.
‘The man drought continues.’
‘Why don’t you let me introduce you to someone?’
‘All the men you know are pretty-boy actors. I wouldn’t have anything in common with them. Besides, men like that aren’t interested in me.’
‘Dani, darling, that’s my job. People come to me looking for talent, and I find a man to fit their … vacancy.’
‘For a price. I’d be scared if things went well you’d show up on our doorstep five years later demanding ten per cent of our children.’
Melanie laughed. ‘You know when I’m having trouble finding someone to fit an important role I approach it from a new angle.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All the talent on my books fits into certain categories. I have comics, dramatic actors, musicians. Last month a US production company started shooting a Holocaust miniseries here with Robert De Niro. Big, big budget. I sent them every dramatic actor I had. I got the guys voice coaching and made them starve themselves so they’d look the part. But the casting director rejected them all. The next week one of my comic guys came in to see me about a dog food commercial. He saw the De Niro script on my desk and picked it up. So I sent him to the casting director and they loved him. Maybe there’s already someone in your life you could re-cast in a more serious role?’
‘Maybe,’ Daniela said, and wished Melanie would have this conversation with James.
The date was at a cramped and overpriced restaurant on Glebe Point Road. Daniela wasn’t attracted to him, nor did he seem interested in her. He didn’t ask her a single question. Instead, he spent the meal listing ways in which he hoped to make more money and the things he would buy when he had. Dani then witnessed first-hand that one of his wealth-accumulation strategies was to not bring his wallet when going out to dinner.
‘Oops,’ he shrugged as she signed the credit-card receipt, begrudging him his imported beer. ‘But you’re a feminist, right? This is probably how you like it, right?’
As she waited for her jacket, she dwelled on what she had known all week: none of them were going to excite her because none of them were James.
The waiter returned from the coatroom and held up two options.
‘Is one of these yours?’ he asked. One a man’s leather bomber jacket. The other was a dowdy fur coat that was acting as a pin-cushion for a collection of political badges. Each would qualify as the anti-jacket to Dani’s black blazer.
‘They’re the only two left in the cloak room.’
After a brief fight she left her phone number, and a vague threat about contacting the police, all the while picturing the smug uni student who was congratulating herself on her masterful plan to acquire a suitable job-interview jacket.
Mannaggia
.
Dani was furious.
Porca vacca
.
Without her jacket, the walk home was freezing. Winter had settled in. Feeling sorry for herself, she started imagining how the night would have gone if she’d had dinner with James. The conversation would have been lively and interesting. He would have thrown his arm over her shoulder as he walked her home. She had been trying not to think of him. But now, freezing and irritable, she wallowed in the fantasy. She imagined him tearing off her shirt and wrapping her in his arms. Pushing the image from her mind, she tried to think of something more powerful to stop the imaginings creeping back in — like the Dayton meeting. Briggs was going to ask her what had happened. She would have to tell him a man would have got it done. The back of Dani’s throat ached as tears fought to escape her eyes. Briggs would be so disappointed in her, and she dreaded telling him about the clients’ reaction. But lust beat dread, and soon she was imagining James was bursting into her office and passionately pushing her up against the wall. She shook her head, trying to erase the picture like an etch-a-sketch drawing.
She decided to call her ma. Gia sounded surprised to hear from her.
‘Can’t I call my own mother?’
Dani smiled, knowing she had caught Gia off-guard and that she wouldn’t have a list of complaints ready to fire at her. Instead, Gia talked about the progress of her gardening project. She had always used home-grown herbs in her cooking. In summer it had dawned on her that she should grow all her vegetables, too. And so, under Gia’s watchful eye, Silv, Joey and Daniela had ripped out the brick paving in the backyard, transplanted the clothes line from the centre to the back corner, and created a vegetable garden. Silv bought a trellis for some tomato vines, and Daniela had laid some aggie pipes to water the roots.
‘The winter vegetables are just starting to come through,’ Gia said excitedly. ‘We had fresh asparagus for breakfast this morning. Your papa planted a little patch of onions so we can make schiacciata. Come tomorrow for melanzane.’
‘Why? Who’s coming?’
‘Nobody’s coming.’
‘I can’t. I have plans.’
‘What plans?
Good question. She just didn’t feel like it. Daniela sighed.
‘Ma, I’m tired of being set up.’
She expected Gia to start shrieking about wanting grandchildren.
‘Why do you resist it? There was a girl at my school, so beautiful, with the big wavy hair and pink lips and blue eyes. All the boys wanted her. She would go out with one of them for a week or two, then she would get bored. “Next!” she would say. She was always looking for something better. She had three fiancés. But she never settled down. Now she’s sixty-two like me, except she lives alone.’ Gia delivered her fable with the finality of a scientist who had just presented infallible evidence. This is how it will be for you, she seemed to be saying.
‘Ma!’