Other People’s Diaries (10 page)

I crossed a line last week. And I'm not sure if I can go back
.

We didn't have anyone to look after our three year old son, and Jeremy and I couldn't agree on who would stay home. I had a really important day lined up with someone I was trying to recruit. So I snuck out before Jeremy woke
.

Are you shocked? I think I am
.

To make things even worse (if that's possible) Jeremy won't even talk about it. Just fixes me with this look of cold fury whenever I try to raise the subject
.

I ended up having to grovel to our last nanny to have her come back to look after Sam. She now knows that she has me over a barrel and does even less than before
.

Oh yes, and the person I was trying to recruit called me the next day to say he'd decided he was happy where he was
.

I agreed to join this group for Claire, but was thinking I'd probably find a way to get out of it. My life needs major surgery, not gentle tinkering. But what the hell, I'll give it a go
.

R
ebecca slid onto her office chair, depositing her styrofoam coffee cup on the corner of the desk. The velcro of her laptop bag protested as she ripped it open. She plugged the computer in and logged in quickly.

The emails dropped onto the screen and she sat there for a moment wondering how there could be so many more since she'd last checked them at midnight. About to pick up her coffee, she spotted an email from Alice Day.

Her hand hovered above the mouse.

What on earth was she doing? She had an in-tray that was overflowing, a sixteen year old daughter who wouldn't talk to her, a nanny with a major attitude and a husband who might never smile at her again. The last thing she needed was some freak show of a self-improvement group telling her that it was the little things that mattered most.

She had to admit, though, there had been something interesting about the other night. The people there weren't the losers she'd expected. Somehow she'd imagined sad, downtrodden individuals who just wanted to talk about themselves. But they were all surprisingly normal and not old either. There had even been a bloke who was seriously good-looking.

Still, by anyone's definition, the speech that Alice woman had made was weird. The whole time she was speaking, Rebecca kept thinking of a time-share sales pitch she'd been conned into once. She'd practically had to knee the salesman in the groin to escape.

She had started planning her excuses while Alice was still talking. She was too busy; she already volunteered on several boards. Hell, if she had to, she'd say it was just too weird.

Then Alice had just gone. Leaving them with six bottles of champagne already paid for (Rebecca had checked with the waiter).

Suddenly, the five of them were left all alone with nothing in common except a very strange experience and some champagne. It was all a bit disconcerting.

Typically, the only guy there had taken charge and asked the waiter for another bottle. Rebecca would have left, but the likelihood of another run-in with Bianca wasn't very appealing either.

With nothing else to do, the five of them had flicked through the fancy red folders, laughing nervously about the strange idea.
Blessedly, a jazz duet had started up near them, removing the ability to talk at anything less than a shout.

The older lady had been the first to leave, going around the table shaking each person's hand as if they'd just left a business meeting.

Rebecca had been next. She'd driven and was probably already pushing her luck with two glasses on an empty stomach. Claire pushed the folder under Rebecca's arm as she left.

‘Come on, Rebecca, let's do it,' she'd yelled over the band. ‘What have we got to lose?'

Just as she'd expected, Claire had called her the next day. ‘Well, it's definite now, I need someone to fix my life.'

‘Really? Why?'

Rebecca had only been half listening while she seasoned a piece of beef she was cooking for lunch.

‘Well … I managed to miss my own dinner party.'

Rebecca laughed despite herself. ‘But it was only eight-fifteen when I left. What happened?'

‘Well, the champagne tasted good and I don't get out much any more …' Her voice trailed off and Rebecca stayed silent.

‘Actually that's not really true. It was like I just couldn't do it any more. Couldn't smile while I put the perfectly presented food on the table … Couldn't pretend that everything was good between Peter and I, when we barely talk. It was a stupid way to deal with it, I know. But I think maybe I was exhausted from being sensible and doing what I was supposed to do.'

Rebecca was silent for a moment. They'd only seen each other twice since school, but Claire had slipped back into the friendship as if the past seventeen years hadn't happened.

‘What time did you get home?' Rebecca asked.

Claire groaned. ‘I'm not sure and I can hardly ask Peter – he hasn't spoken to me all day.'

‘He wasn't too pleased?'

‘Not so much, no … But it's okay, because it's only the whole bunch of people Peter had targeted as our Brisbane friends that I offended.'

‘Mmmm …'

‘Rebecca. I can't do this by myself. I really need you to do it too.'

‘Oh, come on. What the hell will it achieve? Let's just go buy that
Chicken Soup for the Soul
or whatever it is and be done with it.'

Claire was silent for a moment. ‘Something has to change. I cannot go on like this.'

Her words were low and flat.

‘Claire, there are other things to do. A counsellor maybe – or even a job?'

Rebecca regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth, but Claire didn't seem offended.

‘I know. I should have gone back to work years ago. But there was always another possibility just around the corner. Another shot at IVF maybe, or a different fertility drug that might change everything. And all the doctors said that the less stressed I was the more likely it was that I'd conceive. I feel as though I've lost years in this endless longing for the next month. But it's time finally to stop and do something positive. This feels right. It really does. Please do it with me. Please … ?'

‘I'm sorry, I just can't. I have more than enough in my life to worry about at the moment. I really don't need another thing.'

‘But that's just the point, don't you see? It isn't another “thing”, it's you.'

Rebecca rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, I heard what she said too. I just don't buy it. Let's face it. This Alice Day person is just a failed writer trying desperately to make some more money. That's fine, but I don't need to be part of the process.'

‘Rebecca …' Claire's voice was openly pleading now. ‘I can't have a baby. My marriage is on the rocks and I know no one in Brisbane any more. I really, really need your help.'

Rebecca was silent. It was as dangerous to maintain her friendship with Claire as it had been all those years ago. But the despair in Claire's voice made it impossible for her to refuse.

Mentally she added the group to her to-do list.

‘Okay,' she sighed. ‘Count me in.'

Even so, Rebecca had put off filling out the questionnaire.

Until last Thursday.

When she'd arrived home after her early morning departure, Jeremy had simply picked up his keys and walked out, not even meeting her eyes. He hadn't been home by the time Sam was asleep and Rebecca had sat at the kitchen bench, jumping every time she thought she heard a car. Finally she'd picked up the red folder and a pen and scrawled out some words in an attempt to take her mind off the inevitable confrontation.

And now she'd received her first email. Well it wasn't like Alice Day could make things any worse …

She clicked on the email entitled simply
From Alice
.

Rebecca
,

My guess is that you're reading this at your computer with a foam coffee cup at your elbow. Here is today's task. Throw the coffee in the bin, go back downstairs, order a proper cup at the nearest cafe and sit there and drink it. Oh, and don't take those files you're thinking about. No pen or paper, no newspaper. Just sit there and look around
.

Rebecca deleted the email and picked up her cup. It was seven-thirty already and she had a million things to do before her first appointment.

She paused, the plastic lid resting on her lip.

‘Okay Alice,' she muttered reluctantly. ‘I'll try it today. But you're going to have to do better than this next time.'

A
lice turned into the long hallway, almost tripping over the sneakers strewn across the floor. She shifted the roll of dirty washing to her left hand and picked the shoes up with her right. The washing went into the machine, the shoes were dropped next to the back door. The pile of hand-washing sat on the laundry shelf, untouched since she had put it there a month earlier.

Alex's feet sped across the floor upstairs. Alice heard John thump after him and tensed. It was all so predictable. If she belted upstairs as fast as she could, she'd probably be just in time to head off the confrontation. But suddenly she couldn't be bothered.

Several seconds elapsed before she heard Alex's screech followed by a silence. His ability to suck in his breath mid-scream still surprised Alice. Often she'd think Alex had stopped, just as he let out his breath again in a burst of outrage.

John pounded down the stairs in a futile effort to disassociate himself from the carnage.

‘It wasn't my fault, Mum. Really.'

He had yet to learn about protesting too much.

Alice ignored him and walked into the kitchen. She leaned her back against the sink. The bench was covered with the remains of breakfast and the lunches she'd made for everyone this morning. It was three months since she had started work at the bookshop,
but she was still physically incapable of getting them all out the door on time and leaving a clean kitchen behind as well.

At least Alex had stopped crying. That meant that John's infraction hadn't been too bad. Or else he had fallen into a coma …

Maybe Andrew was right. They should renovate this place. Open up the kitchen to the living room and put some more bench space in here. Perhaps that would stop it constantly looking so like a pigsty. Or perhaps it would just make for a larger pigsty.

Alice looked at the clock. Three forty-five. Late afternoon was the low point of her day. The last traces of the morning's caffeine lost the battle with the tiredness that always lurked behind her eyes. John came home from school exhausted but still hyped from staking his place amongst his peers. Alex, desperate for his time, received only offhand attention from his brother. Or else John tried to continue his playground games, which usually ended in tears. Ellen just retreated to her bedroom, refusing to associate with either of her brothers.

In the first years Ellen and John were at school, afternoon tea had been a ritual. Alice had baked cakes or biscuits, feeling delightfully domesticated as they'd all sat around the kitchen table drinking Milo and talking about their days. But at some point that had stopped. The appeal of iPods and PlayStations outweighed Alice's company and the children now helped themselves to food when they felt like it.

Even the prospect of a glass of wine once the children were in bed was too remote to help.

As it often did these days, the lyrics to Marianne Faithfull's ‘Ballad of Lucy Jordan' skimmed through her mind.

It was Dr Hook's less elegant version that had jammed in her memory, but still, the words were no less poignant.

Without even thinking about it she hummed the tune under her breath. She'd grown up hearing the song, but had never understood the lyrics until one day several years ago.

Alex was still a baby and she had been forcing John's squirming foot into a small sandshoe while yelling the school library books' last known location to Ellen.

Trying to ignore Alex's hungry wail, she'd suddenly understood the desperation of the woman in the song. The woman whose children were at school and husband at work, who had suddenly realised that her youth and her dreams had disappeared. An image of a woman much like herself abandoning it all and wandering naked through the suburban streets had burned behind Alice's eyes. Suddenly it hadn't seemed so ridiculous. In fact it had seemed like a bloody good idea.

Alice's handbag was where she had dumped it on the kitchen floor, the day's mail spilling out the top. She had seen the heavy cream envelope as soon as she'd opened the post-office box, but had thrown it into her bag with the rest of the mail. It had sat there temptingly while she picked up the children.

Abruptly Alice decided she could simply not be bothered traipsing upstairs to check on Alex. Instead she filled the kettle and plugged it in. Mind drifting, she warmed the heavy teapot and measured in a spoonful of leaves.

Alice rubbed her bare ring finger, not used to the absence of her wedding ring. When she'd gone to put it back on after the night in the bar, she'd realised how tight it had become. It had always been a little small, but with the weight she'd put on recently her finger bulged uncomfortably either side of the gold band. She'd left it with a jeweller to be resized.

Tea made, Alice tucked the mail under her arm and carried the teapot and her favourite cup to the soft bench seat running along the windows. It was a habit she'd acquired during the heyday of her book. Each mail would bring lovely notes and letters from readers and she'd sit down with a pot of tea and read them. It had amazed her that hundreds of thousands of people had read the words she'd typed on her computer.

Slowly, the flow of letters had ebbed and then stopped entirely. Now the mail comprised glossy brochures, bills and the occasional party invitation for one of the children. But still Alice would open each day's mail religiously, cup of tea at her elbow.

The inside of the envelope was lightly patterned with flowers. Alice knew it was from Lillian even before she read the questionnaire.

Quickly she skimmed the pages, her eyes abruptly catching on the final paragraph, which looked like it was added almost as an afterthought. Lillian didn't have a computer and had also included a diary entry to be posted on the website. Alice read through it, her heart sinking.

With an effort, Alice forced her eyes back to the rest of the questionnaire. Lillian had been widowed several years ago and lost her mother last year – she had a son living in New York and a daughter living in Paris. Scanning further down the page, Alice read that Lillian never felt she got her clothes right and suspected that maybe she'd missed the great adventure of her life.

Alice stared out over the railing. What on earth did she think she was doing? She was acting like an irresponsible charlatan dabbling in things she knew nothing about. These were people's lives she was playing around with.

She looked back at the last paragraph.

And their deaths …

Lillian had some kind of terrible illness. That wasn't something she was going to fix with some pithy words of wisdom.

Alice took another sip of her tea. The liquid warmed her throat, the scent of the blend of spices calming. This was an illicit pleasure – a brand of herbal tea produced by one of Andrew's competitors. He'd be horrified if he knew she bought it and kept it stashed at the back of the pantry.

The walkman containing her grandmother's tape was sitting at the other end of the bench seat. Pulling it toward her, she slipped the headphones over her ears and pressed play.

‘I would have liked a fancier wedding but we couldn't afford it. We'd planned it to be wonderful – we were going to have everyone talking about it. I was going to have nylons and a dress made by a professional dressmaker
.

‘Your grandfather had sent his war wage home to his mother – four years' worth he sent. We talked about it a lot in our letters. That money was going to set us up. Pay for our wedding and then buy us a little house
.

‘Except that by the time he got home, there was no money. Your grandfather's brother had convinced their mother to give it all to him. He told her he was going to invest it.'

There was a pause.

‘Except that he spent it instead. The whole lot.'

The silence crackled on the tape again for so long, it seemed as though she had finished the story. Finally she spoke again.

‘I'd like to say I was graceful about it but I wasn't – I behaved dreadfully
.

‘I cried because we couldn't afford a reception at the Gresham Hotel in the city like my sister. I told your grandfather I hated that my mother had to make my dress. I even told him I was thinking of calling the whole thing off
.

‘He never said a word
.

‘Until finally I asked him why he wasn't angry. Didn't he care what kind of wedding we had?

‘He took a long pull on his cigarette and said, “I want a wedding that makes you my wife.”

‘I never complained about money again. Not once.'

Alice picked up Lillian's form again. There was nothing she could do about her illness. But that wasn't what this was about. Small things, she reminded herself.