Other People’s Diaries (28 page)

I
t wasn't exactly the Sydney Cricket Ground, but the Demons' home ground was humming.

This was a big match. The opposition had been the champions last season. The Demons were clear underdogs, but they'd played some good matches and were in with a chance.

A couple of dozen fourteen year old boys in white shirts and trousers milled around. Their parents were there too, fathers talking about the weather conditions, mothers setting up drinks and food.

The umpire walked out onto the pitch, signalling for the two team captains to follow him. The match was starting early in an effort to avoid some of the burning heat. It had been hot and dry all week and the tossed coin fell on a pitch which already had cracks in it.

Peter's team won the toss and elected to bat.

The Demons' opening batsmen had their backs slapped and received last-minute advice from their fathers. The rest of them sat down on the bench, both dreading and anticipating their turn to bat.

The woman beside Claire leaned over and said quietly, ‘My God, you'd think it was India playing Australia, wouldn't you?'

Claire had been trying hard not to look as out of place as she felt. She'd been amazed when Peter had asked her to come and
watch the match this morning, something he'd never even suggested before. The match was at a local high school and, having learned her lesson at the school fete, Claire had dressed casually in a long flowing skirt and tank top.

She looked gratefully at the woman beside her. ‘I know,' she whispered back. ‘I had no idea it was all so serious.'

She watched Peter talking to the batsmen. All eyes were glued to him as if he alone held the secret to victory.

Standing in the middle of the pitch, he looked as though he'd never had a moment's doubt about anything in his life. But Claire knew that Peter was as aware as she that they'd reached a crossroads. She'd been awake a lot during the night and, if Peter's tossing and turning was anything to go by, so had he.

On Thursday night they'd been closer than in a long time. Their discussion had broken down the barriers and when they'd gone to bed they'd made love. Without regard to timing or temperatures, just because they'd wanted to. But Friday morning had brought them back to reality. They were still the same people in the same lives with the same issues. Did they have enough to keep them together, or was it time to go their separate ways? Claire didn't know and she didn't think Peter did either.

The woman beside her offered her coffee from a thermos. Clearly used to cricket matches that could go for hours without much happening, she started to make conversation.

Eventually they got around to the question Claire always loathed. ‘So what do you do?'

About to make her standard excuses as to why she didn't work, she suddenly changed her mind.

‘I run my own small business, actually,' she said.

After all, this woman didn't need to know her small business so far had an annual turnover of fifty dollars.

‘Really?'

Claire had never had anyone respond so enthusiastically when she'd told them she was a housewife.

‘Yes, it's an online fashion consultancy.' God, but it felt good to be able to say that.

‘Really?'

A woman standing in front of them turned around. Claire hadn't even known she was listening. ‘What kind of stuff do you do?'

‘Well, my original idea was that a lot of women want to look better but don't know where to start. I thought I could be a personal shopper – you know, helping people choose what suited them. But my first clients weren't that enthusiastic.'

Claire paused, half expecting someone would snigger at her use of the word ‘client'.

They didn't.

‘I'm not sure why – maybe it's because they thought they'd be pressured to spend money.'

‘Or maybe because they didn't like the idea of someone seeing them in their underwear,' a woman on Claire's other side suggested.

Claire laughed. ‘So what I'm doing now is getting clients,' this time she didn't hesitate over the word, ‘to send me a photo and tell me about themselves – whether they have a job, stay home with kids, that kind of stuff. Then I email them some ideas on what kind of things they should be looking for, what they should be avoiding, and some shops they should look in.'

Claire hesitated. She'd said enough, they'd think she was big-noting herself.

But the women were still looking at her with interest, so slowly she continued.

‘I've got other plans too. There aren't that many body types. If I could come up with some general stuff for maybe five different body shapes, I could put together a site people subscribe to. I'd have other things in there too – like fashion trends to ignore, or those that will last for a few seasons.'

‘Maybe ideas about accessories?' one of the women suggested. ‘I still can't figure out if your shoes are supposed to match your belt these days.'

Claire smiled. ‘That's a good idea.'

There was a roar from the crowd. One of the Demons' players was out, caught on the boundary by a boy who was lying stretched out on the grass.

Claire looked for Peter. He'd be devastated – he'd been hoping the opening batsmen would make a big total.

She saw him twenty metres away. Strangely, though, he was looking not at the field but at her. Looking, she realised, at the small group of women who'd been listening to her.

Claire grimaced, pointing to the batsman, who was trundling back to the sideline, bat under his arm.

Peter shrugged lightly, smiled and turned back to his team.

‘Claire?'

A dark-haired woman stood beside her.

Sharon and her husband were one of the couples Peter had invited to dinner at their house all those weeks ago – the dinner that Claire hadn't made it to. Sharon seemed fine about it, but Claire still felt a squirm of embarrassment whenever she saw her.

‘Hi Sharon. How are you?'

‘I'm okay, thanks.' Sharon hesitated. ‘Ah, have you read the paper today?'

Claire shook her head. ‘We've been here since the crack of dawn.'

‘I think maybe you should have a look at this then,' Sharon said.

Claire looked down at the Sunday paper's colour magazine which Sharon was holding open. She jolted at the sight of the photo of Alice.

She looked at Sharon and saw sympathy in the other woman's eyes.

Claire took the magazine and began to read.

L
illian should have known something was wrong when Ross braked gently, pulling up almost silently beside her.

She'd arrived home two days earlier, but had been heavily jetlagged, sleeping fifteen hours the night before last and missing yesterday's morning walk. So she hadn't seen Ross since her return.

‘Morning, Ross,' she said cheerily.

‘Hi Lillian,' he replied quietly.

She waited for him to ask her about her trip, but he stayed silent.

‘I can't believe the colours in Australia. The blue of the sky, the green trees … It's all so vivid – so different from in France.' It was what had struck her on her return. She paused, giving him a chance to speak.

Instead, he pulled on the handbrake and stepped out of the car. ‘Lillian,' he said without preamble, ‘have you seen today's paper?'

‘No,' she smiled, slightly confused. Ross knew that she always took her copy of the newspaper from him.

‘There's an article there that …' He broke off. ‘Look, let me show you.'

He dived in the window of the van and pulled out the colour magazine. Thumbing through a few pages, he folded it over and handed it to her.

Lillian took it, bemused.

She saw the photo of Alice, then read on. Skimming down the pages she saw her own name. Everything was there – her illness, everything. She flicked back to the start of the article.
Written by Caitlan Murphy
.

The name meant nothing to her, but the next paragraph did.
This paper has obtained exclusive access to the website used by Alice Day's group to record their part in this social experiment
.

Lillian hadn't used the website. But she'd known that Alice was putting her letters on there.

Ross interrupted her thoughts. ‘So it is you?'

Lillian looked at him, nodding slightly.

‘I thought so. Bit of bad luck that sickness thing.' Ross's words were light, but his eyes were dark and serious.

‘Yes,' Lillian answered. ‘It is a bit of bad luck, isn't it.'

She pushed her hand into the pocket of her tracksuit pants, feeling the tickets. They were to a friendly football match between Australia and Uraguay the following week. The match had sold out in minutes several weeks ago, but Max, one of her son's friends, was high up in the Queensland soccer world.

Years ago, Lillian had pulled Max together after a very drunken night, feeding him and washing his clothes before sending him home. Much to Max's amusement Lillian had called in the favour on her return from Paris and two tickets had been hand delivered the same day.

Lillian crumpled the tickets in her fingers. What on earth had she been thinking?

‘I've got to go, Ross.'

Lillian turned, retracing her steps toward home.

K
erry shifted the empty packet of chips from under his face and propped himself up on one elbow. As a bizarre kind of consequence of his marriage break-up, he now spent more nights on the couch. After an evening at the pub, his planned five minute flick through the television channels would inevitably finish at dawn, with the bad-tempered squawk of crows and an ache in his back.

This morning, the phone beat the crows.

He squinted at the window as he fumbled with the handset. It couldn't be later than seven, which meant it was his father calling.

‘Dad.' Kerry's voice sounded husky and he tried to quietly clear his throat. He couldn't remember what time he'd got home but it didn't feel as though it was too long ago.

‘Son – how are you this morning?'

‘Great thanks,' Kerry replied.

‘You're a liar,' his father replied gruffly. ‘And you're also fired.'

Kerry pushed himself into a sitting position and tipped his head to one side, stretching the muscles in his neck.

‘Sorry?' he replied vaguely.

‘You – are – fired,' his father repeated.

Kerry ran a hand through his hair.

‘Dad,' he said, ‘I have a hangover that would kill a bull and I
got about ten minutes sleep last night. I'm really not in the mood for jokes.'

There'd been a method to his drinking last night. It was only after about five large ones that he could forget his guilt about Alice. She didn't wear a wedding ring and he'd assumed she was divorced. But obviously not – he'd been flirting with a very nice married lady. A lady who was obviously not as sorted as she appeared, given that it took her over a month to tell him to get lost.

His father didn't hesitate. ‘That's good because I'm not joking. You can sell things, but you haven't so much as a green thumbnail. I've never known anyone to be worse with plants than you. They wilt if you even look at them.'

‘Dad, you're going to have to start again. I don't know what you're talking about.'

The old man's voice was softer now. ‘Kerry, your mother and I had no idea you didn't like working at the markets.'

Kerry was suddenly wide awake. He scanned his memory for a drunken confession from last night which could have reached his father's ears. There was nothing.

‘I don't hate it, Dad. You know that.'

‘I thought I did, son. Until I picked up this morning's paper.'

Kerry wondered if his father was deliberately trying to confuse him. ‘What the hell has the paper got to do with anything?'

For the first time, his father hesitated. ‘You haven't read the paper?'

Kerry squinted at his watch. ‘Dad, it's only just past six-thirty. Only bloody bakers and plant people are awake at this hour on a Sunday morning.'

His father sighed. ‘Okay, have a shower and go buy the paper. Read the colour magazine and then call me. But you're still fired.'