Other People’s Diaries (9 page)

There was another silence and then she added more softly, ‘
Good thing to do with men, you know. Make 'em feel good – even if you have to make it up. They don't usually know the difference.'

Her voice resumed its storyteller's tone as she continued.

‘He'd just come into town and had been hustling pool all day – made a bit, so he said. But he'd got a few beers in him and got overconfident. First I knew about it was when someone tried to break a cue over his head. He bolted out the back door, grabbed my bike and took off.'

There was a slight chuckle.

‘He brought it back that night as I was closing up. Asked me to take a walk with him.'

With tears in her eyes, Alice stopped the tape.

Who'd have thought a little walk would lead to a lifetime of love and nine kids?

It wouldn't work now. From what she read, dates were big business these days. Anything less than a dozen roses and a fancy restaurant, and a guy looks cheap. The funny thing was that the people were still the same whether the first date was a stroll through a quiet city or an extravaganza.

Alice looked back at the flickering cursor on her computer screen.

‘All right,' she murmured finally. ‘Let's get this started.'

K
erry peered out the front window. A package was sticking out of the postbox. He pulled on a pair of faded work shorts, zipping up the fly as he walked out the door.

The lid to the postbox squeaked as he lifted it, and a large flake of white paint drifted onto the grass verge which was badly in need of cutting. But Kerry's attention was on the parcel.

It occurred to him that to a casual observer it could easily look like he had a porn addiction.

Every couple of weeks he received magazine-shaped parcels in suspiciously innocent-looking brown paper wrapping. He glanced at the return address and almost laughed. Hell, this one was even from Canberra, the porn capital of Australia.

He headed back inside and glanced at the fridge. It was almost three o'clock. Well and truly time for a beer.

He twisted off the top and took a large satisfying mouthful before pulling the package toward him. Picking up a pair of scissors, he cut through the wrapping and pulled out its contents.

A much younger Mick Jagger sneered out at him from under the now famous
Rolling Stone
banner. The seller had been right. This was a pristine copy.

Kerry had first gone onto eBay a year earlier, searching for fairy-themed mosquito nets for Annie. He'd stumbled onto someone selling a
Rolling Stone
magazine from 1968. Out of
curiosity, he'd made a bid and been surprised when he'd won it for less than five bucks.

It had arrived, much more battered than had been described but still a solid reminder of a past he'd been too young to know. He'd stayed up late, devouring the news from what seemed like a far simpler time. Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix. They were all there looking young and immortal, with no sign of the tragedy to come.

By the time Kerry had finished the magazine, he'd decided to try to collect every edition sold in the sixties – the decade he was sure contained the most musical talent.

Now he had more than a hundred. And his collection had spread to early editions of other music magazines like
Hit Parader
and
Downbeat
. As addictions went, he figured his was pretty harmless.

Kerry put the magazine beside the computer. He'd made a bid on a copy that had come out shortly after Woodstock. He'd just check how it was going.

No movement – he was still the highest bidder. The icon for new email flashed and he moved his mouse to look at it.

Alice Day. He grabbed another beer from the fridge and downed half of it, considering what to do.

In the cold light of day, this Red Folder Project was kind of ridiculous. As if cute little email instructions were going to change his life, or anyone else's.

Mentally Kerry listed his problems. Failed marriage – check; job he hated – check; eBay obsession – double check.

It was simple to get out of this group thing. An email to Alice Day would do it. Just something short, saying that he didn't think it was for him.

He knew he wouldn't.

He drank too much. Each day, he promised himself he'd give up or at least cut down, but each day he came up with another reason to justify the first beer. After that the pull of the second one was harder to resist and before he knew it, half a carton was gone.

He was still living in the house he'd shared with his ex-wife
because he was still in love with her and couldn't bear to break the final link. He knew that too.

Something had to change and he had no idea where to start.

At least small things couldn't make things worse.

Besides, Alice Day was kind of sexy in her own way. Who knew? Maybe she might be the one to break his drought.

Smiling a little at that thought, Kerry double-clicked on the message.

C
laire stared at the red blood, vivid against the white silk of her underwear.

It was right on time as always, just like clockwork. Which made it ridiculous to feel so disappointed.

Slowly Claire pulled clean underwear out of her handbag. There were two women waiting for the toilet, but she couldn't seem to go any faster.

It was almost fifteen years since that day a naked Claire had declared herself a mother-in-waiting. Nevertheless, she still nursed a sliver of hope each month. It was tucked at the back of her mind, but grew a little each day. Not even a conscious thought, it was just something that was always there. Occasionally she'd allow herself to take the hope out and turn it over, picturing herself with a round belly or with a baby. Then, precisely twenty-eight days after the last time, that hope would shatter. All she'd have to think about then was another month of temperature taking. That and trying to convince Peter that she genuinely wanted to have sex. That it was a mere coincidence that her desire coincided with ovulation.

As usual she felt no urge to cry. She figured she'd used up her allocation of tears many years ago – long before the fourth failed IVF attempt.

Claire had known this was a bad idea and she hadn't even ordered a drink yet.

Another bad idea, just like the one to move back to Brisbane.

After high school, the university in Hobart had been the only place where Peter had been accepted to study physiotherapy. To the horror of both sets of parents, Claire had moved to Hobart with him and they'd married three years later. After graduation, Peter had joined a small practice and he'd worked there until they had moved back to Brisbane four months ago.

Peter was finding it difficult working in a much bigger city where he had no local contacts and Claire often caught him staring into space with a worried frown.

Someone knocked on the toilet door. Claire straightened her skirt and stepped out of the cubicle, ignoring the baleful stares of the women waiting.

She could walk out of the bar and forget all about this task Alice had set for her. It would be simple to email Alice tomorrow and make up some story about what she had done. Or better still, tell her she'd reconsidered and didn't want to be involved with this crazy experiment. But Claire knew she wouldn't. Peter wouldn't be home until later and the thought of another evening by herself was even less appealing than being here.

She tousled her hair and ran a lipstick over her already vivid red lips. Then, with a deep breath, she pushed open the swing door and re-entered the wine bar.

Maybe she'd picked the wrong kind of place for this experiment.

Waiting for the first of Alice's emails to come, Claire had tried to imagine what it might say. Despite Alice insisting that she had no magic formulas, Claire had been convinced the project would help her.

Once she'd calculated that Alice would have received her questionnaire, Claire had checked her emails hourly. But when the message had finally arrived that morning, she stared at it in bemusement.

Go to a bar alone and sit at a bar stool. Order any kind of drink you like as long as it has a maraschino cherry in it. Stay there until
you have written down at least three things that you know you are good at
.

Claire knew the dumb task was her own fault. It was all because she'd been drunk when she'd filled in the questionnaire.

Claire had chosen the same bar as the week before. She had only been to one or two since they'd moved back to Brisbane. Anyway, it seemed kind of fitting.

This was her second attempt. She'd walked into the bar ten minutes ago, acutely aware of the fact that everyone else was in couples or groups. Alice's instructions had been precise and Claire had walked toward the stools next to the bar. But she had caught sight of the toilet doors further on and, with a sudden loss of nerve, had kept walking.

Claire looked longingly toward where they'd sat last week. She could tuck herself into one of the corner tables and not be at all conspicuous. But the email had been quite specific. After only a slight hesitation she slid onto a spare stool in front of the bar.

The bartender flipped a drink coaster in front of her. ‘Evening,' he smiled briefly. ‘What can I get for you? The wine list? Or would you rather wait for your friend?'

‘Ah, there's no friend. I mean I have friends, but not tonight …'

The bartender was regarding her silently. Claire cursed her tendency to ramble when she was nervous. What was it about her that forced her to fill any available silence with words?

‘I'm alone,' she finished abruptly. ‘And I want a cocktail. Please,' she added as an afterthought.

‘Yes m'am,' he smiled, and she relaxed a little.

The bartender opened a leather-covered list and turned it toward the back. ‘These are our cocktails. I'll give you a second.'

‘Ummm, one question?' she called after him as he headed to serve a sleek-haired girl at the other end of the bar.

He turned back toward her.

‘Do any of these have cherries?' she asked.

‘Cherries,' he repeated flatly.

‘Mmmm, you know the red sweet ones.'

‘You know, I don't think we do cherries.'

‘Okay,' she conceded. Presumably the garnish wasn't critical to the whole process.

Suddenly she changed her mind. If she was going to do this, she'd do it properly.

‘Ah, do you think maybe you could check? It's kind of important.'

He looked at her for a moment. ‘No problem. Just give me a sec.'

He served the girl a glass of wine and then walked back into the kitchen.

‘On my cherry mission,' he murmured as he passed her.

Looking for something to do, Claire flicked through the menu. The thought of a glass of white wine appealed greatly. She didn't even like cocktails.

The man reappeared, bearing a saucer with several red spheres in the centre.

‘You're in luck.' He brandished the plate proudly.

‘Now, what kind of cocktail do you want with your cherry?'

‘Um, any will be fine. Can you just choose for me?'

He started to say something and then stopped. ‘No problem.'

Claire watched a succession of bottles upended over the cocktail shaker. This was a bad move – she had planned to drive home after her one drink. Peter had said he'd be back by about nine. She hadn't made a conscious decision to keep Alice's group a secret, but that night had become a topic they both steered around and she knew he'd think it was ridiculous to be involved. So somehow she just hadn't mentioned it.

A huge frothy glass was deposited on the coaster in front of her. Claire regarded the orange- and yellow-layered concoction topped with not one but three cherries and laughed.

‘That is fantastic. Just what I needed. Thank you.'

The bartender gave a small bow and left her with her drink.

Claire pulled a small notebook and pen out of her handbag. The bag was awkward on her lap and so she dropped it onto the floor.

Right. Drink – notebook – bar stool. She perched awkwardly on the stool, back straight, feeling incredibly conspicuous.

How the hell were you supposed to sit at a bar anyway? If she sat with her back to the room, she could see absolutely nothing. But if she turned the other way, she'd look like some kind of loser, waiting desperately for someone to talk to her.

As a compromise, she turned slightly to her right, drink at her left elbow and notebook balanced in her lap. She crossed her boot-clad legs. This pencil skirt and high boots always made her feel good, but she didn't normally sit balanced on bar stools. Right now, the gap between skirt and boots felt metres long. She longed suddenly for a pair of trousers.

The bar was busy and the air was full of that certain murmur of conversation produced by alcohol. An occasional laugh spiked the noise levels. Gradually Claire felt less of an object of interest. New people arrived, some left and no one much seemed to be paying attention to her.

A blue and yellow straw poked out the top of her drink and Claire sipped on it tentatively. Her experience of cocktails was that they didn't taste as though they had any alcohol in them. This one tasted like lemon-flavoured rocket fuel. That's what you got when you asked a bartender to choose for you. She didn't want to think about what it would cost.

Three things she was good at. Surely that couldn't be so hard. She'd do this, have a few more sips and then go. She certainly wasn't going to finish the lethal concoction in front of her.

The pen was heavy in her hand, a Mont Blanc she'd bought for Peter last Christmas. He had never used it, claiming it had been too expensive and that he was scared of losing it. She rolled it in her palm, watching the reflection of the lights above the bar in its silver surface.

Three things she was good at …

Once she'd been a good dental nurse. But that was too long ago to count. She could produce successful dinner parties without spending too much money – but simply following recipes couldn't be a skill.

Claire took another long sip, this time enjoying the feel of the alcohol seeping through her body.

So, she wasn't pregnant. Again …

In a way it was easier now that her friends' children were at school. The years when they were nursing babies and trundling toddlers on trikes had been the hardest. At first she'd spent time with them, feeling like she was learning. But over time, the possibility that Claire would never have a baby had grown. She had felt angry at friends who complained about sleepless nights or crying children. Sometimes she just couldn't keep smiling over the pain in her chest when she looked at a friend's baby. So she'd started to keep her distance.

It was around the same time that she'd discovered the satisfaction that renovating could bring. First the little workers' cottage outside Hobart, and then the one on Battery Point overlooking Salamanca. Both had been in an awful condition when they bought them. Claire had worked with architects and builders to turn them into appealing properties which sold within days of being on the market. Claiming any great skill was dishonest though. She was just the middleman who provided the cash to the architect and the builder.

The cocktail suddenly wasn't looking so undrinkable any more. It was half gone and Claire drew on the straw again. The toothpick-speared cherries bobbed in the remainder of the drink. Picking one up, she slid the cherry off with her teeth.

Claire looked around the bar, drink in hand. Her eyes rested on a woman sitting at a nearby table. She had on a black round-necked shirt. Automatically Claire registered how much better the woman would look in something open necked in a lighter colour. She could pick what would suit either herself or a friend within five seconds in a shop. Hardly a skill though.

She ran her pen around the spiral wire at the top of the page. This was not going well. Desperate, she drew on the straw again, jumping as an embarrassing slurp signalled the end of the drink.

If she had another one of those, she wouldn't be able to find the car, let alone drive home. This was ridiculous. Claire scribbled one word on the page and signalled for the bill.