Other People’s Diaries (3 page)

The last time I wrote a diary, I was in sixth grade. My teacher, Mr Bradley, made us keep a journal of our Easter holidays. My father had been out of work at the time and, with four boys to feed, things were pretty tight. He'd built us a hutch out of old packing cases, though, and on Easter Sunday we came out to find not chocolate eggs but a real live white rabbit waiting for us
.

To this day, it is the best present I have ever received
.

I remember the diary though, because I spelt rabbit with only one b the whole way through. Mr Bradley (who in hindsight may well have been more than a bit crazy even for a boys' school that prided itself on old school values) counted all the mistakes and made me come out to the front of the class. Ten cuts I got that day
.

Haven't kept a diary since
.

K
erry had been warned by friends that post-divorce dating was a special kind of hell.

Conjuring up Old Testament images, they told stories of desperate women with talon-like fingernails who would be determined to make Kerry commit to eternal love from the first date. He'd refused to believe it, liking the idea of meeting women
who'd already been around the block a time or two and were happy just to have a good time.

The stories had been half right. Some of the women were horrendous; over made-up, over blow-dried, they drank their wine with one eye on the rest of the bar. The others, though, were normal. In a way the normal ones were the worst. As far as he could make out most of them were lonely and genuinely looking for someone to share their lives.

Although he and Sandra had been divorced for almost two years, it still felt as though he was cheating whenever he was out with someone else. Pretty soon he had started avoiding the whole scene, preferring a few beers in front of the footy with a mate.

Kerry had found the entry form for the evening with Alice Day in a copy of
The Da Vinci Code
. He had never been much of a reader before Sandra left. But now he found thrillers and mysteries helped fill the empty evenings. Figuring there must be something to a book read by just about everyone in the western world, he'd bought
The Da Vinci Code
from
Words
, his local bookshop. The entry form had dropped onto his chest that night and had made an excellent bookmark for a few days. Catching sight of it as he threw the doona cover over the wrinkled bed one morning, he'd impulsively tossed it onto a pile of mail. Without thinking too hard, he'd scrawled his name and number across it and dropped it in the box with the rest of the letters.

Kerry hadn't given it another thought until the invitation had arrived in the mail. Nursing a beer in the Paddo Tavern that evening, he'd mentioned it to his mate.

‘Yeah I remember that
Her Life, My Life
book,' Brian said. ‘My mother, my sister and my girlfriend all bawled for hours after they read it. I started it, but couldn't see the point. No plot – no action. Some of it was set in the war, but not enough to count. As far as I could make out it was just chick stuff.'

They moved on to another topic and Kerry assumed the conversation was over, but Brian came back to it later.

‘You know, mate, I've been thinking. That book thing might be worth checking out. I'd bet my last dollar there'll be a bunch
of women there and not too many men – it could be a good place to meet someone.'

Assuming Brian was just giving him a hard time, Kerry shrugged. Brian ignored the gesture and pressed on.

‘It's not natural, mate,' he said. ‘How long since you've done the deed? A year? More?'

‘What's it got to do with you?'

Brian held up his hands. ‘All I'm saying, mate, is that you're in a drought and it ain't healthy.'

Kerry had tried hard to forget the conversation, but Brian's words had haunted him all week.

The idea of ‘Champagne and Conversation' had depressed him. But by Friday evening another night at home watching reruns of
Law and Order
seemed unbearable.

Kerry rummaged under the bed and found a red checked shirt that Sandra had once bought in an attempt to smarten him up. She'd always liked it when he'd worn it.

As he set up the rickety ironing board, he wondered if they'd have beer.

A
lice felt as though she had been painted into place. Like one of those stylised cafe scenes, she was seated on a high stool next to a round table, back ramrod straight. Unfortunately her posture was a matter of necessity, not choice.

The stool was fixed to the floor, way too far from the table. She could either put her elbows on the table and lean forward, cyclist style, or sit bolt upright. Neither option was working for her.

She wouldn't have felt quite so self-conscious if she hadn't been overdressed. The same magazines that had recommended the wrap dress had counselled that it was far better to be over- than under-dressed. The authors had obviously not visited a bar recently.

The top part of the bar was a narrow rectangle, a long bench stretching along one wall. On warm nights such as this one, the bank of ceiling-high windows was pushed back, opening the bench to the footpath. From Alice's position in the far corner, there was a line of denim-clad legs stretching along its length. Not a skirt or dress in sight.

Off to Alice's right was a sunken area containing more seating. She'd clearly given too much detail to the manager while in the first flush of enthusiasm for her idea. There was an embarrassingly large sign on one of the tables, which bore her name in red letters.

Although it was past seven-thirty, the table was empty. She almost hoped no one would show up. Alice knew she should sit down at the table, but couldn't bring herself to do it.

Sitting here for much longer wasn't an option though. She tried crossing her legs at the calves, to see if that felt any less awkward. It didn't and the heel of one foot slipped out of her shoe. The shoe see-sawed on her big toe before plunging to the floor.

Suddenly all her enthusiasm vanished, leaving her feeling merely tired. Tired and rather silly. She had tried so hard to do this well, but it hadn't come off. What on earth had she been thinking? She was a mother of three children pretending to be something she wasn't. The days when she'd had queues of people lining up for her autograph felt not only as though they'd been in another lifetime, but like they'd happened to another person.

Slipping off the stool she bent down to retrieve her shoe, making no attempt to do so gracefully. Jamming it savagely onto her foot, she stood up.

‘Alice? I thought it was you. You look just like your pictures.'

The petite woman at her shoulder was beaming at her in a way Alice remembered from the old days. Alice's first thought was that the other woman embodied the kind of effortless style which had always eluded her. She wore a simple black dress with a long string of expensive-looking beads looped around her neck. Her hair fell thick and straight over her shoulders, her eyes just a slightly darker shade of brown. The ballet slippers on her feet had a discreet bow at the toes and her handbag probably cost more than all of Alice's outfit put together.

‘I am so thrilled to meet you – I loved your book. My name is Claire Menzies.'

A large group moved into the bar, pushing the two women together. Alice forced a smile, feeling trapped and hoping it wasn't apparent. This was all a huge mistake and she didn't want to be here any more.

‘Hello. I'm so pleased you could make it.'

Unbelievably the woman's name was gone from her mind. How on earth could she have forgotten it in the space of two seconds? She had promised herself she would repeat everyone's
name as soon as she heard it, in an attempt to make it stick in her brain. She mentally ran through the names of people who had replied. Claire, that was it.

‘I just arrived myself,' she added.

The lie tripped easily and unnecessarily off her tongue and she felt the heat rush to her face. Alice had a sudden fear that Claire would see the half-drunk glass of wine on the table behind her. But Claire was turning to a tall red-haired woman standing beside her.

‘This is my friend Rebecca Jackson.'

Rebecca was much taller than Claire and dressed for the office in a tailored trouser suit. Resisting the temptation to look, Alice would have put money on the fact that Rebecca was wearing the three-inch heels that her magazines had named the ‘perfect marriage of power and princess' for businesswomen this season. The insecure part of Alice was quite pleased to note some mascara had smudged onto the other woman's eyelid.

‘Nice to meet you, Rebecca.'

She'd remembered to repeat the name. What had seemed like a good tactic last night made her sound in real life like a used-car salesman.

Rebecca Jackson was one of the names on the list, but how did these two women know each other? Part of Alice's concept was that everyone involved would be strangers.

‘You two know each other?' Her words came out more aggressively than intended and she flushed again.

Rebecca either didn't notice or didn't care.

‘Claire and I went to school together,' she said, almost as if having to explain herself bored her. ‘We hadn't seen each other for years, but were having lunch together at a bookshop cafe and Claire bought some cookbooks that had your entry forms inside. She entered for both of us.'

Alice flicked a glance at Claire. Rebecca was clearly here under sufferance, but Claire seemed oblivious.

Alice ducked her head, stomach clenching. What in God's name did she think she was doing, bringing these glamorous women here to talk about fixing their lives?

She concentrated on the mascara smudge on Rebecca's eyelid and took a breath. But before she could say anything, Rebecca gestured at the sign on the table behind them.

‘I assume that's for us?'

‘Yes … good idea. Ah – why don't you follow me?' Alice stammered.

She led the way down two steps and toward the table. There was a long padded bench on one side and chairs around the rest of it. Alice took the seat at the head of the table, having thought about this while she was waiting. The other two women looked at her questioningly.

‘There's no seating plan. Sit wherever you like.'

Alice waved vaguely at the table and Claire slid into the middle of the bench. Rebecca chose a chair. One of the closest to the door, Alice noticed.

Claire and Rebecca waited expectantly. Alice looked back blankly, unable to think what was planned next.

Drinks – that was it.

‘Would you like a glass of champagne?' she asked.

‘Absolutely,' Claire answered and there was an answering nod from Rebecca.

Alice caught the eye of a waiter.

‘Would you mind opening the champagne?' She gestured at the ice bucket in the centre of the table, in which a bottle of Moët was angled.

The waiter removed the foil and wire and eased the cork silently from the bottle.

Alice smoothed her dress over her lap, pushing down hard on her thighs with the heel of her hand.

There was another long silence as the waiter filled their glasses. Alice suddenly remembered the script she'd prepared so diligently. If nothing else, she'd planned this part meticulously. Stomach still churning, she pictured the words she'd laboured over. She'd printed them on her archaic printer and practised in front of the mirror.

This was it.

It was time to start. Even if there were only two people here,
who would both decide she was a loser within seconds. It was unfortunate she'd booked such a big space – the empty chairs gave away her high expectations. But there was nothing she could do about that now.

As rehearsed, she looked at her watch, despite knowing full well it was seven-forty.

‘Let me begin by saying thank you for coming and please – enjoy your champagne. It's a little strange I know. An invitation to drinks with someone who wrote a book over a decade ago. But if you'll bear with me, I'd like to tell you a little about myself and then we'll get to the reason I invited you here.'

Her words sounded unnatural, as if she was still addressing the mirror. She tried to slow down and relax.

‘It seems like a lifetime ago that I wrote
Her Life, My Life
. Since it was published I have had three children and my world has been taken over by the practical things that keep a family going.'

As she spoke, two more women walked toward the table.

Alice stood up.

‘Hello. I'm Alice Day,' she smiled, holding out her hand to the older of the two women.

‘I'm Lillian Grant,' the woman introduced herself. Lillian's grey hair was short and feathered softly around her face. She held her handbag against her hip, the strap stretched tight. Her lipstick had obviously just been applied, the muted pink precisely covering her lips, the lines at the corners of her mouth accentuated rather than disguised by a dusting of face powder.

‘And I'm Megan Jones.'

Megan was younger than everyone else – somewhere in her late twenties, Alice guessed. A tiny jewel glittered from a piercing on her nose. She wore tight jeans and sneakers with what looked like an old-fashioned cowboy shirt.

Alice's eyes were drawn to someone standing behind Megan, near the door. It was a man of about forty, with curly hair reaching his shoulders and a goatee. Definitely not one of her invitees, but he was still looking their way. Alice smiled automatically and was surprised to see him walk toward the table.

He held his hand out to Alice. ‘Ah, I'm Kerry Jenkins,' he
ventured. ‘I feel like I've got something mixed up here. Is there a blokes' table over the back?' He peered over at the clearly empty tables further along.

Despite her tension, Alice laughed. ‘No, just us. Have a seat.' She gestured to a chair next to Rebecca.

So much for an all-women group – she'd automatically assumed someone named Kerry was a woman. Not much she could do about it now, though. It was blindingly obvious this was going to be a disaster. If only she hadn't come up with this bloody stupid idea in the first place. She wanted to be at home sorting the washing so much that it almost hurt.

Miraculously the waiter reappeared. Alice nodded in response to his silent request and he filled the extra glasses. She made a mental note to leave him a big tip.

Alice had received thirty entry forms. That was too many, even allowing for the ten forms which Megan had sent. In the end she'd chosen the ten people with Paddington addresses, figuring it would make any gatherings easier. She'd had no idea how many would come.

Everyone was looking at her expectantly.

Follow your script, she reminded herself.

She'd just say her bit, they'd all think she was odd and then she would disappear as soon as possible. She'd pay the bill, feel like an idiot, but pretend it had never happened. It wasn't a big deal.

At least she hadn't told Andrew. That was one less humiliation she'd have to face.

Figuring if she started again it would be clear she was following a script, she decided to just keep going.

‘As I was saying … I don't think I am the first woman to discover that domestic life and writing aren't always wonderful bedfellows. My second book was what's known in the trade as a stinker and I figured that maybe one good book was all I had in me.'

She'd thought long and hard about whether or not to mention the second book and decided it would be dishonest not to.

‘But recently I had an idea that follows on from
Her Life, My Life
and try as I might I can't make it go away.'

She smiled. This was the bit when they were all supposed to smile back sympathetically.

They didn't.

She wished she could somehow make them all drink faster. This would sound much better if they weren't sober. For want of any better options, she took a large sip herself.

This wasn't working. Mentally she drew a thick red line through the next few paragraphs and skipped right to the end of her speech.

She looked at the ring of faces, their expressions ranging from interest through to clear suspicion.

‘Before I wrote
Her Life, My Life
I was studying at university. In one of my subjects the lecturer told us that the biggest challenge facing society would be how to use all of the spare time that modern technology was going to deliver. Big chunks of time were going to open up to the whole population. He said we'd be living in the Age of Leisure.'

She paused for a moment.

‘I often recall that lecture, because he was absolutely and totally wrong. For all the promises of efficient technology, we somehow have less time than ever. Everybody I know is juggling a thousand things, running from one thing to another without enough sleep.'

Alice caught herself. That hadn't been part of the script.

‘I travelled overseas to promote
Her Life, My Life
. The thing I still remember about my trip to France is that everyone stops for lunch. It doesn't matter how busy their day is, lunch is non-negotiable. They have a cooked meal, cheese and at least one glass of wine.

‘I tried to explain to a Frenchman that in Australia we usually just have sandwiches and often eat at our desks. He just looked at me and said, “But why?”