Other People’s Diaries (13 page)

Claire turned to Rebecca. ‘I wonder if Bianca might like a small glass as well? It's just such a treat to see her again.'

Rebecca forced a smile. She had no problems with Bianca drinking alcohol. However, she did have a problem with Bianca pouring the champagne onto the floor in protest at middle-class excess and, knowing her daughter, that was a distinct possibility.

‘Well, maybe a small glass …' She fixed the back of Bianca's head with a stare, willing her to behave.

‘Excellent.' Claire set the glasses on the table. Peter opened a bottle of champagne and started to pour. Claire handed out the glasses, taking one over to Bianca, who in a rare moment of good humour actually managed a half-smile.

Claire returned to the others and raised her glass. ‘So here's cheers. To old friends.'

They each raised their glasses. ‘To old friends,' they replied, Rebecca forcing a cheerful smile.

Claire turned back to Rebecca. ‘It only seems like ten minutes ago that we heard you were pregnant with Bianca.'

Rebecca nodded stiffly. She didn't like the way the conversation was going. As far as she was concerned that was all a very long time ago and she had no need to revisit it.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rebecca saw Bianca stand up a little straighter. It occurred to Rebecca that she hadn't told Bianca how she knew Peter and Claire.

Rebecca was relieved when Jeremy spoke.

‘How long has it been since you saw each other?'

‘Before we had lunch a few weeks ago, the last time I saw Rebecca was the year after school. Bianca was only tiny.'

‘So you knew my father.'

They were the first words Bianca had spoken. That, though, wasn't the reason they were shocking. It was the aggression behind them. It wasn't a question, just a furious statement of fact.

Claire flicked a nervous look at Rebecca. Her voice was hesitant. ‘Yeeees …'

‘So you know how I could find him?'

‘Um … no. I …' Claire was clearly completely unprepared for this.

Rebecca tried to rescue the situation. ‘Bianca, this isn't the time or the place for this. We'll talk about it later.'

Bianca turned on her. ‘Every time I try to talk to you about my father I get the same crap. He was an exchange student at your high school. You found out you were pregnant after he left Australia and never told him about me. You said we'd talk about trying to find him when I turned fifteen – and sixteen … Fuck later. I want to know now.'

A
lice could remember clearly when she'd realised she was getting old.

She'd known that she didn't look like those nubile babes on the beach with their stomachs as flat as their surfboards. But that was okay. She could still run a brush through her hair, pencil on a smudge of eyeliner and feel okay about how she looked.

She'd had a rather average haircut, nothing too awful, just a bit short, with too many layers that made her think of an ageing eighties rock chick. Each time she glanced in a mirror she was slightly taken aback by how average she looked. It wasn't that she looked terrible, just ordinary. The type of person you'd walk past on the street without noticing. But she figured it would be better once the haircut settled down.

A week passed and she still looked ordinary, even on a couple of evenings when she'd gone to a bit of effort. Not even her favourite deep red T-shirt helped. The colour just accentuated the veins in her eyes and the blotches on her cheeks.

She started looking closer at the mirror and noticed the lines, not just at the corners of her eyes, but under them too. Her chin wasn't as firm as she remembered, and there were a couple of those flat moles at her hairline. A sign of age, a GP had depressingly told her when she had had them checked out. And her eyes
looked flat. She looked at the children just to check she hadn't imagined things. No, their eyes definitely sparkled – where the hell had her sparkle gone?

Andrew looked older too, but damn it, age looked good on a man. There were lines under his eyes and his hair was thinning. But somehow he was looking more like Sean Connery to her Barbara Cartland.

Alice pulled five plates from the dishwasher, carelessly clattering them onto the kitchen table. Her days of reading until the early hours were long gone. Still, though, the seduction of another world pulled her in at the end of a day of mundane chores and it had been way too late last night by the time she'd forced herself to close her book.

Andrew had pulled her toward him then, curling his body around hers. Alice had tensed, the tantalising lure of sleep pulled away. She'd forced herself to relax.

His hand moved over her stomach and she wondered whether he immediately compared it to the way it had been when they met. Before three children and too many full-fat coffees. She had forced herself not to think about it and concentrated on the sensations his hand was creating. They fell into their long-established pattern, giving each other pleasure in the way they had so many times before.

Lying curled in Andrew's arms afterward Alice had felt closer to him than she had in months. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, she didn't know what. But Andrew had muttered ‘Night,' and rolled over onto his side.

Alice had lain sleepless for an hour afterwards, listening to Andrew's deep breathing. Then, soon after she had fallen asleep, she was wrenched back to consciousness by a persistent, ‘Mummy, Mummy … Mummy?'

Looking up she had seen Alex, knowing immediately that he'd wet the bed again. She had pulled a nightgown over her head and followed him down the dark hall, changing sheets and pyjamas in a semi-trance. An hour later John had woken crying, terrified again of the nightmares she blamed squarely on the latest Harry Potter film.

Alice had no idea what time she'd closed her eyes again but it had seemed only moments before the alarm shrieked beside her.

The table set for breakfast, she moved on to the school lunches. Six slices of bread sat neatly on the breadboard awaiting a fabulous filling. Alice didn't feel up to fabulous this morning, though – Vegemite and cheese was as good as it was going to get.

Knife in the Vegemite jar, she paused, glancing at the chrome clock on the wall. Its black hands showed that she was ahead of schedule. Suddenly the lure of a world outside her morning's domesticity appealed. Her computer was in a spare bedroom off the kitchen and she switched it on, the screen glowing in the early morning light. She settled into the chair, and checked her emails. The usual raft of penis enlargement and share trading spam mail sat there in black type. She deleted them one at a time, marvelling at the fact that someone must actually answer them. About to delete the last one, she saw her name in the preview box on the right of the screen.

She clicked on the email.

Dear Alice

Just wanted to drop you a line and tell you your first email was inspired. I had a great chat to an old mate on Thursday. Turns out he will be up in Brisbane in a couple of months – he's going to crash with me for a couple of days.

The email had come from Kerry.

Alice had the feeling Kerry was lonely, despite the front he put on. Not lonely for someone to go out for a beer with, he clearly had lots of those sorts of friends. It was more as though he needed someone he had a history with. He'd been with his ex-wife since they were both twenty. When a marriage like that broke up, she figured there was a lot of history lost with it.

So Alice's first instruction to Kerry had been to call a friend he hadn't spoken to in at least five years. She was outrageously delighted it had gone well. Conscious she was no longer ahead of
her morning schedule but falling further behind every moment, she quickly scrolled down the page.

You may also be pleased to know I haven't made a bid on eBay for coming up to thirty-six hours. Maybe I should come up with a twelve-step plan for eBay junkies?

Alice laughed out loud. Under areas he'd like to change, Kerry had admitted to spending hours online adding to his collection of 1960s
Rolling Stone
magazines.

Better go – I can feel eBay's tentacles reaching out …

Talk soon,

Kerry

Alice hit the reply button.

Delighted to hear of your successes!!! There is life after eBay. I became compulsive about finding the perfect Polly Pocket set for my daughter a few years ago and spent hours searching online for it. I think I was cured when I found it at Target at half the price.

I don't want to sound like a school ma'am but you need to write on the site or this thing won't work.

Alice

She quickly pressed send and logged onto her website. Excellent. There were more diary entries.

Hearing loud thumps from upstairs, she quickly closed the site down. She'd look at the diaries after the kids were at school.

Her computer pinged signalling a new message. She clicked on her inbox.

A school ma'am … Hmmm. I like the sound of that.

Alice stared at the screen.

Was he flirting with her?

She hesitated for a moment, then typed a reply.

Shouldn't you be getting ready for work or something?

The reply came back quickly.

Or something. Got the day off. Any suggestions for me today, oh oracle?

Alice smiled.

Nope, today you are on your own. Just enjoy it.

‘Alice, are you here?'

Andrew's voice echoed in the room. Guiltily Alice pressed the send button and hurried back to the kitchen.

Well, I went. It actually wasn't as bad as I thought, drinking cocktails by myself. Rather depressing outcome though. I sat there for an hour and the only skill I could think of was shopping for clothes. How incredibly shallow and useless to be unable to come up with anything better than that.

T
he house was perfectly tidy and dinner ready to cook. Claire hated looking idle when Peter came home and always tried to be in the middle of some activity.

She knew he thought she should be looking for a job. Peter's new practice was bringing in far less than they'd been banking on when they'd bought the house. Just making the minimum payments on the mortgage each month was becoming increasingly stressful.

It had become so bad, she'd started hiding her purchases from Peter, lying if he asked if something she was wearing was new.

He was right about a job, she knew that. It was just that after all this time, she had no idea where to start and even less of an idea what she was capable of doing.

Claire sat down at the computer to check her emails. She wasn't looking for another email from Alice. The last one had been a total waste of time anyway. This group was obviously
yet another of her short-lived enthusiasms with no long-lasting outcomes.

Just like the florist course. Or the meditation retreat. Thank God she hadn't told Peter about it when she was in the full flush of her enthusiasm.

Still, when she saw the email from Alice Day she couldn't help clicking on it anyway.

Dear Claire

I did promise little and there is no arguing that's what this one is.

Tonight, cook a meal for you and Peter but a little different to your normal standard. In your questionnaire, you said you felt one of the pressures in your day came from coming up with new menu ideas each night.

So tonight I have for you a challenge. What would happen if you made a meal that took you less than five minutes? Your parameters are that it must cost less than $5.00 in total and involve at least one can. Personally I recommend baked beans on toast but you can choose.

Don't go to the shop – just use whatever you have. Remember, it doesn't have to be glamorous. In fact, it doesn't even have to be good.

Claire looked over to where the rib eye fillet was sitting on the counter. It had cost a fortune, but she'd bought it on impulse, sick of worrying how much everything cost.

She was planning on serving it with the jus she'd made and frozen into small portions several weeks ago – the flavour of it was amazing. Mash and broccolini as side dishes would complete the meal.

Where did Alice get these ideas from? What good would it possibly achieve to have a lousy meal tonight? She almost laughed as she thought of Peter's reaction to baked beans on toast.

She was still staring at the email when the front door opened. Closing the computer down, she walked toward the doorway.

‘Hi,' she said as Peter walked in the door.

‘Hi,' he replied, dropping his shoulder bag beside the couch.

‘Good day?' she asked.

‘Yeah, not too bad. I've been with the Demons this afternoon.'

‘How are they looking for the season?'

Claire couldn't care less whether Peter's cricket team won or lost. She figured, though, that she should at least make an effort to get past the fight over the house plans.

‘So, so,' Peter replied. ‘They're a rough bunch and this is their first season together. You never know, though.'

‘Do you feel like a glass of wine?' Claire asked hopefully.

Years ago a drink together when Peter came home from work had been a lovely part of the day for both of them.

‘No thanks,' Peter replied casually. ‘Think I might have a shower. Do I have time before dinner?'

‘Sure,' Claire replied, trying hard not to show the hurt his words had caused.

It was as though they had both just run out of love. Maybe it was because they'd married too early. They'd had their tenth anniversary before most of their friends had even married and they had missed those exciting twenty-something adventures in different relationships.

Or perhaps it was their inability to have a baby.

Maybe the years of timed and highly organised sex and the endless failures had killed the spark they'd once had.

Peter said that he had accepted they wouldn't have a child, but Claire never had. She had no idea how to make the endless ache for a baby go away. It was with her every day. Every mother and child she saw on the street, every happy family on television, sent a stab of pain into her chest. She'd been hard to live with at times – she knew that. It was like a part of her was missing, though, like she couldn't function properly without having the chance to become a mother.

Perhaps she should have pushed Peter harder years ago about the idea of adopting a child from overseas. He'd never been enthusiastic and Claire had let the idea slide, always hoping that she would fall pregnant. Now, though, they couldn't even agree over what to watch on television, let alone something like adoption.

Claire had kept trying to breathe some life back into what had once been very good. She tried to be bright and cheerful, the lovely social wife. But now suddenly she was tired.

Peter disappeared into the bathroom and Claire walked back into the kitchen. She pulled a saucepan out from under the bench, filled it with water and set it on the stove. Reaching for the peeler, she picked up one of the potatoes neatly positioned next to the cutting board.

She pushed too hard on the peeler and it skidded off the potato, cutting into the side of her thumb. Tears leapt to her eyes and she fought hard to stop the sob that filled her throat.

Claire looked down at the cutting board for a moment, then picked up the potatoes and put them away. The steak and the jus went back into the fridge.

She opened the pantry and looked at the cans neatly set out there. As she'd thought, there wasn't a tin of baked beans to be seen. There were several of artichoke hearts and chickpeas, but nothing she could see that would make an easy meal. Pushing aside a tin of salmon, she spotted a lone can of spaghetti right at the back.

She pulled it out, ripped open the pull-top lid and tipped the contents into a small pan.

By the time Peter wandered into the kitchen dressed in shorts and an old T-shirt, she was finished.

Claire handed him the large white plate, half smiling. Alice hadn't said anything about presenting it well so she'd served the spaghetti on toasted sourdough and garnished it with cherry tomatoes, chives and grated Parmigiano.

It didn't look too bad really, considering.

Peter didn't notice the smile, or if he did, he didn't acknowledge it.

‘Thanks,' he murmured, barely glancing at the plate. ‘Looks good.'

And then, as he did every evening, he walked over and sat down in front of the huge plasma screen and flicked on the seven o'clock news.