Famous (32 page)

‘The woman has absolutely no shame,’ comforted Lizzie.

‘None whatsoever.’

‘She’s a publicity-hungry slapper,’ added Mands. ‘Just creaming it while she can.’

‘Don’t worry,’ consoled Lizzie. ‘They’ll soon get sick of her.’

I turned to the article, which was spread over several pages. And there, with their arms wrapped tightly round the neck of their immaculate, pregnant and wounded doe-eyed mother, were Alistair’s two small children. The boys who were now living without their father.

‘Don’t do it,’ pleaded Mands. But it was too late.

A tear had already left my eye and was heading down my cheek towards my wine glass.

‘Oh sweets,’ soothed Lizzie, standing up and wrapping her arms around me. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘No dad-dy,’ I sobbed. ‘Tis my fa-ult.’

‘No it’s not,’ repeated Lizzie. ‘It’s his fault and no one else’s.’

‘And his wife’s for making such a big bloody deal out of it,’ added Mands.

‘No dad-dy,’ I repeated.

‘We’re putting it away now,’ said Lizzie, taking the magazine from my grasp. ‘It’s not good for you.’

‘There there,’ said Mands, rubbing my back as the tears began to subside. ‘Have another wine.’

I did as I was told.

Snap out of it, I told myself. You’re bigger than this. Pull yourself together for godsake!

The truth was, newspaper and magazine articles aside, I was actually feeling incredibly happy. Happy to finally see the girls at last. I’d really missed them. There was no denying that the past two weeks had been the longest two of my entire life.

That night my deep, several-empty-bottles-of-wine-induced slumber, was interrupted by something shaking my arm, gently at first, and then annoyingly frantically.

‘Wha-at?’ I moaned.

‘I need to go toilet,’ hissed a little voice.

It was Lizzie.

‘So grab the torch,’ I hissed back. ‘It’s on the dresser.’

‘But I want you to come,’ she whimpered. ‘I’m scared.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I sighed, sliding back the covers. ‘Okay then, c’mon.’

I had trained myself to go to the toilet just prior to climbing in bed, meaning I could generally hold out until the morning and avoid any middle-of-the-night cross-country excursions.

‘Where are you going?’ hissed another little voice as we walked out the bedroom door.

It was Mands.

‘To the loo,’ I replied.

‘Hang on,’ she instructed. ‘I’m coming too. Bloody busting.’

So, with me and the torch at the helm, the three of us traipsed across the grass clearing in the freezing cold, in our pyjamas, with Mands and Lizzie squealing like a couple of thirteen-year-old Girl Guides.

‘Wait for me!’ called Mands, tripping over the trainers she had hurriedly slid her feet into.

‘What’s that?’ hissed Lizzie, grabbing my arm as a Morepork let out its nightly hoot.

‘Just a bird,’ I replied. ‘Relax.’

‘I can’t relax,’ said Lizzie. ‘Don’t you remember
Blair Witch
?’

‘Yes. And it was just a movie,’ I replied. ‘Now get in there,’ I instructed, pushing open the old door. ‘And hurry, it’s freezing.’

‘Come in with me,’ pleaded Lizzie. ‘Please.’

‘Just hurry up,’ I replied, standing half-inside the door and shining the torch. ‘Or I’ll leave you here.’

‘Bloody noisy insects,’ said Mands, clinging to my elbow. ‘I thought the country was supposed to be peaceful.’

‘It is,’ I replied. ‘It’s just that there’s no traffic to drown them out.’

‘Give me traffic any day,’ she muttered. ‘At least you can see it coming and it doesn’t land in your mouth.’

Several squeals and one traipse back across the long grass later, the three of us were safely tucked up in bed once again.

I woke up the next morning to find Lizzie spooning me. This wasn’t unusual. On the few times we’d shared a bed since her divorce she invariably latched onto me like a human limpet. Apparently she thought I was Bryce, and that she was still married. I invariably woke up thinking I’d been blessed with a one-night stand, and was understandably disappointed to look down and see a pair of pink silk pajamas hugging me.

When her hand began to rub the top of my thigh I decided it was time to get up. I put Louie outside for his morning pee and started to make some breakfast. I put the coffee on the stove and set about carefully poaching some eggs.

‘Morning,’ said Mands, stumbling into the kitchen a short while later. ‘What going on?’ she asked, taking in my apron and the frying pan.

‘I’m making us some breakfast,’ I replied.

‘But you can’t cook,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

‘I can poach eggs,’ I replied.

‘Since when?’ It was evident she wasn’t giving up.

‘Since two weeks ago.’

‘Who taught you?’

‘No one,’ I replied, proudly. ‘I taught myself.’

‘What’s going on?’ asked Lizzie, as she too walked into the kitchen.

‘Sam. Is. Making. Us. Breakfast,’ hissed Mands, turning to face her.

‘No!’ said Lizzie.

‘Yes, I confirmed. ‘I am just poaching some bloody eggs for godsake.’

‘Hells bells! She is too,’ said Lizzie, staring at the frying pan.

‘Look, let’s get one thing straight,’ I said, holding up my wooden spoon for emphasis. ‘Yes, I can now poach eggs. But that doesn’t make me Martha Stewart, okay? I have had to learn to cook if I want to eat anything while I’m stuck here at the arse-end of the earth. It’s as simple as that.’

‘Gotcha,’ said Lizzie, ever the pragmatist. ‘And I think its great sweets, really I do.’

‘Is that your apron?’ asked Mands, as she searched for some coffee cups.

‘Yes. I bought it.’

‘You
bought
it?’ she asked, clearly in shock.

‘Well I don’t want to get my clothes dirty, do I?’

‘No, that’s right sweets, you don’t,’ said Lizzie, forcefully elbowing Mands out of the kitchen, with a shut-the-hell-up look on her face.

‘So,’ said Lizzie, as we sat down to breakfast. ‘What shall we do today?’

‘Do?’ I replied. I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.

‘Yes. Do. You know, like activities?’

Obviously Lizzie had failed to hear me when I’d reiterated for the umpteenth time that there was absolutely nothing to do in this place. Nothing.

‘Well, there’s a fabulous restaurant in town that does a delicious degustation lunch, with a wine list to die for. So perhaps we could go there? And then I thought maybe we could go and see a film, before we pop back into one of the bars for a few drinks tonight?’

‘Really?’ said Lizzie. ‘Sounds great!’

‘I think she’s kidding, dolls,’ said Mands.

‘Oh…so there isn’t a restaurant?’

‘No.’

‘Or a wine list to die for?’

‘No.’

‘Well, what can we do? There must be something?’

‘We can go for a walk, and we can go to the pub, and that is about it,’ I replied.

‘I’m on for a walk,’ said Mands. ‘As long as it doesn’t involve cow dung.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ I cautioned.

‘Same here then,’ said Lizzie. ‘And why don’t we go into the pub tonight?’

I looked at her sideways. She had absolutely no idea what she was lining herself up for. ‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Let’s.’

‘Roger that,’ agreed Mands. ‘Never know, might be some talent.’

This night was going to be fun, I thought to myself. A lot of fun.

After breakfast we set straight out on our walk.

‘Are you wearing those?’ I asked Mands, staring at her shoes.

‘They’re trainers,’ she said. ‘What am I supposed to wear?’

‘Yes, but they’re Prada trainers.’

‘Well I don’t have any other ones, do I? And yours are too bloody big. I’ll just walk carefully.’

We set off down the dirt driveway, dragging an unenthusiastic Louie behind us, and headed along the grass strip at the edge of the roadside, past green paddock upon green paddock. We returned one hour later, Mands’ white designer trainers completely covered in cow dung.

‘I can’t fucking believe it!’ she cried. ‘Six-hundred-dollar shoes plastered in shit!’

We spent the afternoon tucked safely inside the cabin, reading magazines and nail-painting. Mands was very reluctant to set foot outside again. For want of anything else to do, we decided to head to the pub at seven o’clock. I watched in amusement as Mands and Lizzie fussed over what to wear.

‘Diamantes yes? Or diamantes no?’ said Lizzie, holding up two identical black silk shirts, save for the diamante detailing on one.

‘Yes,’ answered Mands.

‘No,’ I replied, knowing full well that we were already going to attract undue attention, without adding diamantes to the mix.

‘I think yes too,’ said Lizzie, putting on the shirt with her D&G jeans and black kitten-heel boots.

‘I am warning you for the last time,’ I said to both of them. ‘Everyone else will be in shorts and jandals and tracksuits.’

‘Oh come on!’ said Mands. ‘No one wears a tracksuit to the pub. Not even here.’

‘Whatever you say,’ I replied, pulling on my jeans and trainers.

It’s not that I wasn’t desperately pining to get dolled up. It’s just that I knew there was absolutely no point in going to the effort. Not in this town.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Lizzie. ‘Off for a run?’

‘What I am doing,’ I replied. ‘Is trying my best to blend into this town in which I unfortunately find myself now living.’

‘I think your standards are slipping,’ said Mands, looking very concerned. ‘Jesus, you’ve only been here two weeks. Get out of the trainers!’

In order to shut them both up I compromised and wore my hot-pink suede loafers, with a fitted white T-shirt and the jeans. Lizzie clearly wasn’t happy with the T-shirt. Mands was also wearing black knee-high boots, with her designer jeans, and a jade Chinese-style shirt. They looked like they were off to Ponsonby Road for the night, not some country tavern in the middle of Hicksville. I opened us a bottle of champers and watched the two of them fuss about putting on their make-up.

‘Sten really needs to get some better lighting in here,’ complained Mands, as she and Lizzie elbowed each other for the tiny, cracked bathroom mirror. ‘It’s terrible.’

‘Oi!’ snapped Lizzie. ‘Watchit!’

‘Which earrings?’ she asked, holding up two identical glittery pairs of long silver earrings.

‘Definitely the leaves,’ replied Mands.

‘Neither,’ I said. But she wasn’t listening to me.

‘Your turn,’ said Lizzie, twenty minutes later, once they had finished tousling and were both immaculately powdered, mascara’d, eyelined, eyeshadowed, lipsticked and glossed. With hair perfectly positioned and gleaming. I hopped in front of the mirror, quickly rubbed some moisturiser onto my face, put on a tiny bit of mascara and lip gloss, and tied my red hair back in a ponytail.

‘Done,’ I said, throwing the lip-gloss into my handbag.

‘You what?’ asked Mands. ‘No you’re not.’

‘Yes I am.’

‘Are you sure sweets?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Done.’

‘All right then,’ said Mands, ‘but don’t complain to me if you don’t pull tonight.’

The fact she thought there was going to be anything remotely pullable at the pub made me laugh out loud.

‘What’s so funny?’ they both asked.

‘Nothing,’ I replied, smiling back. ‘Nothing at all.’

As we left, I turned to the dog. ‘Right Louie,’ I instructed, ‘you’re in charge.’

He stared back at me, not even bothering to lift his head. There was no doubt a goldfish would have made a better guard dog. He’d be lucky to raise his eyebrows at a burglar, let alone bark.

‘How’re we going to get home?’ asked Lizzie, as we hopped into my car. But not before Mands had a SC (shoe catastrophe) and ran back inside to swap her black high-heeled boots for her chocolate-brown high-heeled boots.

‘We can’t wear the same bloody shoes!’ she declared, having just noticed Lizzie’s black boots.

‘One of us will have to stay sober enough to drive,’ I replied to Lizzie.

‘Can’t we just get a taxi?’ she asked.

I looked at her. She really had no idea where she was.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘There are no taxis here, Lizzie.’

‘Oh.’

While driving I briefed the girls on my Floodgate pseudonym, lest we bump into anyone I knew at the pub, although it’s fair to say the chances were slim to none.

‘Jane?’ said Mands. ‘Couldn’t you have come up with something a bit more fabulous, like Scarlett?’

‘Jane’s my middle name,’ I reminded her.

We pulled into the pub car park, which was brimming with Ford Falcons, old four-wheel drives and farm utes. We parked next to a farm ute, complete with farm dog chained to the back.

‘Eeeek!’ screamed Mands, climbing out of the car and coming nose to nose with the excited dog.

We walked through the front doors of the pub and were immediately glared at by all inside. It was a sea of shorts, tracksuits, ripped jeans and jandals. A heartbreaking sight to behold.

‘Don’t they know it’s a Saturday night?’ whispered Mands, walking straight up to the bar and ordering a bottle of bubbles.

‘Yeah?’ said the young man behind the bar.

‘Bubbles please,’ said Mands. ‘A bottle.’

I tried kicking her in the back of the calf as I hissed ‘vodka’ but she was completely ignored me.