Other People’s Diaries (20 page)

I knew I should have said no before I put the phone down. Megan isn't even a friend. I have no idea why she wants me. Desperation, I guess. But I find it hard to see how it's going to help her when this so-called fashion consultancy is a total and utter disaster
.

I called her straight back. She must have gone into class, though, and I just got her voicemail. When I eventually got hold of her hours later, she launched into all of the things she'd arranged that day. In my typical pathetic way, I didn't have enough courage to cancel on her
.

C
laire stood at the school gate, stomach clenching. The oval was a hive of activity. People strode around carrying ladders and hammers and unpacking styrofoam boxes of goodies onto trestle tables.

It was only eight in the morning but the sun burned out of the cloudless sky with an intensity that seemed to drill straight through her skin.

Cargo shorts, old T-shirts and Birkenstocks were clearly the order of the day. Claire felt like the party guest who hadn't been told the fancy dress theme was cancelled. Her white dress gathered under the bust and floated to just below knee level and she
had grave doubts of being able to navigate the potholed ground in her high brown wedges.

She felt like a fraud. Not because of what she was wearing, or even what she was about to do. This was not her world. The world of school fetes was one for parents.

Being a family was normal. Nothing special, just normal. And yet it was something that some type of supernatural being seemed to have whimsically decided to deny Claire.

She bit her lip and pressed her bag tightly against her side. Her Prada bag, which no parent supporting three children could ever dream of owning, bought in the good old days before money had become tight.

‘Claire!'

She followed the direction of the voice and saw Megan waving wildly at her from beside a canvas tent which looked like something Claire's parents had holidayed in years ago.

Claire picked her way across the grass, trying to ignore the interested glances.

‘See, you're already making an impression,' Megan commented as Claire reached her side. ‘First time anyone's worn heels that high to a school bonanza!'

‘Is it too much?' Claire asked uncertainly. ‘I figured if anyone was going to take me even slightly seriously I would have to look the part.'

‘Don't worry,' Megan commented dryly. ‘This mob get whiplash if someone wears anything not featured in the local paper's fashion pages. You should have seen the reaction when I tried to leave my nose ring in.' She stopped herself. ‘Sorry, that's another story. You look really fancy and I think it's perfect. Let's knock the socks off everyone. Right – now this is your tent.'

She gestured at the tent and Claire read the large letters printed on a banner across the doorway:
Free Fashion Consultancy Services
.

At least it was free, she thought; it was hard for people to complain when they weren't paying anything.

‘And these,' Claire followed Megan as she walked inside the tent, ‘are your clothes.'

She gestured with a flourish to a metal rack crowded with garments.

Claire walked over to the rack and flicked through the hangers. After a moment she looked up at Megan.

‘Are there any others?' she asked hopefully.

‘Ah, no,' Megan pursed her lips. ‘These are it. They've been supplied by a local boutique. Trust me, I had no role in choosing them.'

‘I believe that,' said Claire, looking at Megan's short tunic dress worn over black leggings. They're just very …' She paused.

‘Mumsy? Suburban?' Megan supplied helpfully.

‘Yeeesss,' Claire agreed. ‘Fashion is about beautiful things that make you feel good. These are just kind of ordinary.'

‘Well, you can't work miracles,' Megan assured her. ‘Don't forget you're at a primary school fete. You just need to adjust your thinking a bit. Don't forget, we're supposed to flog these things. They wanted to have a fashion parade but I convinced the principal to try this instead. People can leave orders with you and the shop staff will follow up with them next week. But I'm told no sales will make the shop owner very grumpy and will mean they don't help us out next year …' She trailed off. ‘Well anyway, I'll leave you to it – let you familiarise yourself with the stuff.'

Megan headed for the tent opening, but turned back. ‘And Claire? Thanks. This isn't exactly glamorous, but you're saving my life. I really appreciate it.'

Claire looked at her for a moment and then smiled.

‘The only other thing I'd be doing now is sitting not talking to my husband over the weekend papers. Don't worry.'

Megan looked at her silently for a moment.

‘Okay. Well my class is in charge of the sweet stall. Can you believe it? Talk about leaving the fox to guard the geese. Anyway, I'd better go and make sure some of the fudge actually goes on the table. If you want me, just yell.'

With that she was gone.

Claire looked over at the rack again. It would be hard to change anyone's life with those items. There was nothing actively wrong with them. They were just unremarkable and unexciting.
Copies of designer clothes that had somewhere along the line lost the edge that made them special.

Panic clutched at her stomach. What in God's name was she going to do with the people who came in to see her? Could she really tell them they should buy these things?

As she stared at the rack, a quiet voice came from the doorway.

‘Hello?'

Claire turned and saw a small woman dressed in jeans and an old T-shirt.

‘Sorry, you're probably not open yet. It's just … Well, I thought I might beat the rush. But why don't I come back later?'

The woman turned to go.

‘No,' Claire yelled, surprising both of them.

Her voice echoed around the canvas room.

‘Sorry,' she tried a smile. ‘What I meant was, why don't you come in? I'm just setting up, but we're expecting a lot of people so it's a good idea to have a look while it's quiet.'

Why had she said that?

The woman took a step or two forward and stood awkwardly, looking at Claire for guidance.

‘Why don't you have a look at the clothes and see if there's anything that takes your fancy,' Claire gestured toward them.

The woman stood with her back to Claire, the metronomic shriek of the clothes hangers against the metal rack the only sound.

Claire chewed her thumbnail nervously. What the hell did she do now? She detested hovering sales assistants, but she was supposed to be a consultant, which surely meant she should do something more than stand there like a store dummy.

She walked around to the opposite side of the rack and plastered a smile on her face.

‘Anything you like?' she asked.

The woman turned her head a little, not meeting Claire's eyes.

‘Ah, yes, they're lovely … but I've got to get back. Thanks very much.'

She was gone in a moment and Claire was left staring at the empty doorway.

Well at least now she knew what not to do.

She walked back to the rack and pulled the clothes out one by one. They weren't actually so bad if you looked as them as basics. Teemed with something interesting, they could be okay. Claire put together some combinations and then walked around the tent, hooking the hangers into the rope slung around the walls at ceiling height.

Next she pulled a foolscap block and some pens out of her bag. Not for any real purpose other than the fact that she figured stationery looked official. She put them on the folding card table which was set up in the corner.

She tried sitting at the rickety chair beside the table, but had a sudden vision of herself perched there in her white dress just like Little Miss Muffet.

There wasn't much more she could do with the clothes so she walked to the doorway and looked out.

The umbrellas were up over the tables. Across the other side of the oval Claire could see the mechanical rides juddering into use. Over to her right, an already tired-looking donkey had his first small rider of the day.

The unmistakable smell of sausages being barbecued floated in the air and Claire turned her head, spotting the source.

She ate very little meat and never sausages, but all of a sudden she was ravenously hungry. Breakfast had been a cup of tea drunk alone. Peter had left on an early morning bike ride, which had at least meant she'd had no need to explain where she was going. On an impulse, she walked toward the food tent.

‘Hello,' Claire greeted the woman behind the barbecue. The woman was wearing a loose white singlet and khaki cargo pants, her brownish hair pulled back from a face which was starting to show the first serious lines of age.

‘Hello,' the woman smiled in reply, looking Claire up and down. ‘You know, I'm not sure I can recommend one of our sausage rolls – the tomato sauce is just destined to end up on the front of that dress.'

‘You're probably right,' Claire agreed. ‘Not likely to inspire confidence in potential clients.'

The woman looked at Claire quizzically for a moment and then her eyes cleared. ‘Ah, you're the fashion lady. That makes sense, I didn't think you'd be doing the trash and treasure stall in that outfit.'

‘Yes, well, I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to be doing, to tell the truth. I'm doing this as a favour, but I have no idea how to go about it. I think it's actually going to be a complete disaster.'

Claire had no idea why she was saying this to a complete stranger.

The woman looked at her levelly. ‘Well, you look fantastic, so my guess is that you know what you're talking about. I don't think it'll be too hard to impress this crowd,' she gestured around her.

‘You know …' she broke off and then started again. ‘I've got my twenty year school reunion coming up next weekend. There were some absolute cows at that school who always made me feel bad about what I wore. I'd love to go along knowing that for once I look good, but whenever I try something a bit different on in the shops I look totally ridiculous. I don't suppose you'd be able to give me some ideas?'

Claire looked at her for a moment. She knew without looking that there was nothing in the tent that would work. But she had a stack of magazines in the car which might help show the woman what she should be looking for.

‘I'll give you a free sausage?' The woman held one up in a pair of tongs.

Claire laughed. ‘That I can't resist. You're on.'

I yell at someone every morning
.

Sometimes Sam, when he poos in his underpants just before it's time for me to leave. One of the many unspoken rules in the nanny–employer relationship is that one does not hand over a child with steaming pants. So I take off my jacket and sort it out, trying not to flick brown globs onto my shirt as I do so
.

Sometimes it's Jeremy when he asks me once again if I've seen his wallet and BlackBerry. ‘I need to glue them to your goddamn forehead!' I scream silently, usually managing a vaguely civil, ‘Have you checked on top of the microwave?' He has no idea that if I applied the same degree of organisation to the household that he does, we would all be lying starving on the floor with rats nibbling at our fetid clothing
.

More than sometimes it's Bianca. Mornings are a battle of wills. The more I show stress and try to move things along, the slower she goes. School shoes are lost, finding white socks an impossible quest. Black eyeliner goes on – and has to come off again. Each day I watch her slouch in the school gates with relief. At least it's six hours before I have to worry about her again. We haven't repeated our morning off together. It has become just another disastrous glitch in our relationship which we're both ignoring. Well at least I am. I don't know whether Bianca gives any thought to me at all
.

S
o this was why people wrote diaries. It felt good – the problems were still there afterwards, but somehow bashing the words onto her keyboard made her feel slightly better. Rebecca had to push out of her mind the idea that all the others were reading what she wrote. But hell, she read theirs. What did it matter?

The house had a glistening lounge area, designed around an amazing leather sofa chosen by the architect. But for some reason it wasn't where Rebecca ever felt like being. She'd stand beside the sofa, cup of coffee in hand, and then walk over to the kitchen bench. It was at the bench where she was sitting now, laptop perched on the stainless-steel counter, a tall glass of wine beside it.

She reopened last night's email from Alice.

You may well be an avid gardener. But somehow I don't think so. On your way home tomorrow stop in at City Gardener. It's on the corner of William and Mary Streets and they're open until six-thirty – I checked. Buy yourself a rosebush in your favourite colour – take it home and plant it in a very sunny spot. Preferably somewhere where you'll see it a lot. Oh, and make sure you can smell the roses. My grandmother believed that scentless roses were modern travesties that should be outlawed
.

Rebecca smiled. Despite herself, she was enjoying this. Alice was a bit out there, but at least she wasn't predictable. She looked over at the sink. The bush had deep green leaves and only one bud. The shop assistant had looked at her questioningly when she'd ignored the other bushes crowded with blooms and picked up this one. There was something about picking the runt of the litter she liked, but mainly it was the colour of the bud. A pink, which started at the lightest blush and finished at the shade which wove with yellow in a glorious sunset.

As instructed she'd checked the smell on the plants with open blooms. Rebecca had walked out of the shop, wallet decidedly lighter but with a smile on her face. Now all she had to do was plant it.

Sam's cry echoed down the stairs. Rebecca hesitated, waiting
to see if he'd settle himself. The crying settled into a continuous wail and she pushed back the stool.

By the time she reached Sam's room he'd found his bear and settled back into sleep. Rebecca walked over to the cot and ran her hand over the curve of his cheek.

‘Sleep well, darling,' she whispered.

Rebecca paused outside Bianca's closed door. No light showed from inside and she knocked softly then opened the door a crack. Bianca's bedroom had become a guarded fortress and Rebecca never went inside uninvited. And invitations were few and far between.

Two green lights pulsed from the desk near the window. As Rebecca's eyes became accustomed to the dark she saw the computer and mobile phone. She'd bought Bianca her own computer two years ago when everything was good. Now Rebecca bitterly regretted it, the internet having become Bianca's own private world from which her family was totally excluded.

Bianca was asleep, one arm thrown up above her head, sheet tangled at her feet. She wore a faded black T-shirt that had bunched up over her small breasts. A bar of light from a street lamp was angled across her body, catching the side of her face.

Asleep and without her perpetual scowl, Bianca's face had softened and she looked again like a vulnerable little girl, long eyelashes brushing her face.

Rebecca had always checked on her daughter before she herself went to bed, smoothing her hair, or tucking a sheet up over a bare shoulder. That had stopped abruptly about a year ago, when Bianca began shutting her door and making it clear that it was to stay that way.

Denied her late-night moments with her daughter, Rebecca had felt as though she'd lost something precious. One night when she was sure Bianca was asleep she'd cracked the door open and peered in. She'd stood in the doorway, drinking in the sight of her daughter as she had always been. Since then she'd done it every night. She never went inside the room, just looked at her daughter for a few minutes, closed the door softly and went away.

Each night she vowed it would be better the next day. And each day it wasn't.

Bianca stirred and Rebecca jumped, worried she'd wake and see her standing there. But Bianca turned onto her side and settled back into a deep sleep. Her body rested in the strip of light and Rebecca's eyes caught on some lines across her stomach.

Her first thought were that they were pen marks, but then she noticed the flecks of red along the lines. Some kind of injury then?

Her mind registered the precision of the cuts at the same time as she rejected the idea that they could be scratches from a cat. Rebecca crossed the barrier of the doorway without thinking, striding toward the bed. She looked at Bianca's soft white stomach, unable to believe what she was seeing. The lines she had seen were cuts, clearly made with a sharp object of some kind.

Rebecca stepped back, mind whirling with shock. Her beautiful daughter had cut herself, her stomach – with a knife – many times.

For a moment the scene morphed into a memory of Bianca as a seven year old lying back on the pillow smiling up at her, gaps showing through her front teeth. ‘Mummy, do you know the words to “I'm forever blowing bubbles”?' she'd asked.

The memory was snatched away abruptly and Rebecca was left staring down at the slices through Bianca's white skin.

She backed out of the room, not bothering to close the door. Blindly, she lurched to the toilet. She flicked the toilet seat up and leaned over the bowl, hair hanging down around her face, wracked with dry heaves.

Slowly she straightened. She walked back to Bianca's room and pulled the door shut silently. Robotically she went down the stairs and into the kitchen. Her wineglass still sat on the bench, condensation pooling at the base of its fine stem. Ignoring it, she leaned on the sink, staring out into the blackness of the night.

She heard Jeremy's car pull up into the drive. He was still doing his best to avoid spending time with her.

Suddenly she couldn't face his coldness and silent disdain. She picked up her car keys and met him at the door.

‘Oh hi,' he said in surprise.

‘I'm going out,' Rebecca announced. She pushed past Jeremy and strode toward her car.

‘Hang on.' Jeremy was beside her.

Rebecca dropped the keys and scrabbled for them on the driveway. She found them and stood up, hand reaching for the door handle.

‘Rebecca, slow down.'

She paused, head turned away. She needed to be alone somewhere so she could think about this.

‘I'm just going out for a while. You'd rather be alone anyway. Don't worry, I'll be back soon.'

It was his touch, the first nonessential contact in weeks, that stopped her.

Rebecca looked down at Jeremy's hand over hers. She threw her head back and stared up at the sky, gulping in air, trying to figure out when everything had gone so wrong.

‘What's wrong, Bec? You look terrible.'

Jeremy's words were soft and had a kind tone she'd almost forgotten.

Suddenly all her energy drained from her and she slid down the side of the car and sat on the concrete, legs drawn up to her chest.

Jeremy sat beside her and put his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.

Rebecca took a deep breath. ‘Bianca has been cutting herself. With something sharp. I just saw the marks. On her stomach …'

She started crying, softly at first and then in huge racking gulps.

‘Shhh Bec,' Jeremy said, pulling her closer. ‘Shhh, it'll be all right.'

The words hit her like a slap and she wrenched herself out of his arms and scrambled to her feet.

‘No. Don't you get it? No. It won't be all right. My baby is hurting herself on purpose. Nothing will ever be all right again.'