The Happiness Show (2 page)

 

When Lizzie arrived home, Scarlet was in her bathers watching
Playschool
and Jim was putting the finishing touches on a pink pig cake for Scarlet's birthday party. The blinds were down and the windows were closed, as if in preparation for some kind of meteorological holocaust.

‘Those two weeks' work experience as a pastry chef have certainly come in handy,' said Lizzie, chomping into a musk stick dipped in icing.

‘You know my first choice for work experience was to be a bra fitter at Myer?'

Lizzie laughed. ‘There's a club for that. It's called every fifteen-year-old boy in the world.'

‘Well, I think that's pretty much it. All we need now is ice for the beer and bread for the snags and we're done. How many people are invited?'

‘About six mums and twenty kids.'

‘Don't tell me I'm going to be the only dad again,' Jim moaned unconvincingly. The second of five boys, Jim loved hanging out with the chicks. He cooked, he cleaned, he looked after the kids, he did yoga and once he even went down on a girl who had her period, to prove that he really was a feminist. But not enough of a feminist to do it again.

Lizzie walked towards him and rubbed her knuckle into his neck. ‘Don't forget, not every dad is a teacher with ten weeks' holidays a year.'

‘Hey, I've only been teaching for two years, and before that I was still the only bloke eating fairy bread and listening to the latest birth story.'

Jim had trained as a teacher straight out of school, back in the days after Gough Whitlam made university free. In the seventies, university had been all kaftans, commies and panel vans. By the eighties, when free tertiary education was on its last legs, it was pointy shoes, the Chocolate Appreciation Society and Mazda Capellas. Jim had finished his teaching degree and then spent ten years or so building theatre sets, painting people's spare rooms, tiling their bathrooms and enduring the odd stint as a labourer between occasional sculpture exhibitions. He was an extraordinarily talented craftsman who was happy as long as he was doing something with his hands. The constant stream of cash jobs had paid the rent and freed up enough of his time to hang out in his shed, drinking beer and cajoling wire, wood and plaster into something sublime. He knew he was good enough to cut it in the big time and that's why Jim Cake couldn't be stuffed. He was happy with his bar fridge, his paint-splattered radio and his old green corduroy couch, preferably with a mate sitting on it.

Jim had never expected to teach. Jim never expected anything. He just cruised along – Mr Breezy. But suddenly the patchwork of jobs that had always kept him warm at night had dried up and Jim had two kids and Lizzie. Security won out over sticking it to the man and he took the road most travelled. That degree he had to fall back on? He fell back on it. The truth was, he liked teaching. The teachers, the students, the parents. But then, the truth was, Jim liked just about everything.

‘Seeing as I'm not wanted at the meeting of the Moreland Man-eaters up at the pool, I'm going to Kmart to buy another fan. They've amended the weather forecast. It's going to be 39 degrees. I'll pick Reuben up if you pick up some ice.'

‘Deal,' said Lizzie as she threw her togs into a bag along with a packet of Tim Tams, a banana and a joint she'd rolled the night before.

‘Oi, and your mate Trev from the ABC called,' Jim yelled as he headed out the door. ‘He wants you to call him back.'

‘Tomorrow,' said Lizzie as she swung Scarlet onto her back. Oh yeah, she thought. Like you're on the top of my list, Trev. You say you'll call me back in an hour and you call me back six weeks later. If you weren't my producer, I would so punch you in the cock.

 

When Lizzie and Scarlet arrived at the pool it was half lap swimmers, half mums with toddlers. Lizzie was both. She spotted Jules immediately: she was sitting under a tree in a ridiculous hat made from fabric printed with the labels of beer cans. The hat really made a statement. The statement was, ‘I am wearing a ridiculous hat made from fabric printed with the labels of beer cans.' Lizzie and Jules were best friends, but they were both too cool ever to say so.

‘So?' said Jules as she unbuckled Scarlet from the stroller. ‘You got wood?'

‘Absolutely. How else do you think I'm going to get through a two-year-old's birthday party in 39, I repeat 39-degree heat? Not without some pharmaceutical assistance.' Lizzie pulled the big fat joint from her bag.

‘You little ripper, Rita.'

They left Scarlet in the pool by herself, wandered a safe distance away and blew off the glorious joint. They took it in turns like naughty school girls, one having a toke behind the old brick change rooms while the other stood guard. As the earthy smell drifted across the lawn, the other mums, perched nervously on the side of the pool, looked over disapprovingly. Not because of the joint but because Scarlet was paddling unsupervised. And because women love nothing more than disapproving of other women for breaking rules they'd be too timid to break themselves, even if they wanted to.

Lizzie and Jules passed the roach back and forth, feeling the dope melt through their limbs and the tobacco go to their heads.

‘How could anyone think Scarlet was in danger? She's wearing floaties and a blow-up ring in thirty centimetres of water with her mother and godmother ten metres away. It's a scathing indictment of what the world has become,' thought Lizzie. Well, she thought she'd thought it. She'd said it.

‘You are so full of shit, Lizzie. Good shit,' said Jules as she flicked the butt over the fence into the churchyard next door. Then they sauntered back towards the pool to join Scarlet.

‘What would we know, Jules? Neither of us has had a joint since before I got pregnant with Reuben.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because you have no life and you tell me everything.'

‘I forgot about that bit. So where did you get it?'

‘Stefan the psycho next door gave it to me. It's all part of my research.'

‘Ah, yes, the definitive one-woman comedy show about the pursuit of happiness. God, you're committed.'

‘That's right, as opposed to your life's work: representing multinationals who refuse to pay workers' entitlements.'

‘Hey, no need to get so heavy, girlfriend. It's a living. I hate to tell you, Lizzie, but your happiness show finished up eight months ago.'

‘Sure, but it's to help with the bibliography.'

Jules laughed. ‘And just out of curiosity, what is the name of the institution to which you are submitting this body of research?'

‘The University of Bullshit, mate.'

‘That'd be right, you tightarse, you'd only go to uni if it was free.'

‘Did I tell you the ABC passed on the happiness pilot?'

‘Cunts. I hope their kids get cancer. Got any Tim Tams?'

‘What do you reckon?'

Lizzie and Jules dangled their legs over the side of the pool and polished off the whole box. With a little help from Scarlet, who hotfooted over as soon as she heard the packet rustling. ‘Bickie, Mum? Bickie, Mum? Aunty Dools?'

‘What the hell, Scarlet, it's your birthday. Jules, what food groups are in Tim Tams?'

Jules thought for a moment. ‘Well, seeing as they're made from tofu, chickpeas, parsley and organic yoghurt, pretty much all of them.'

They sat in comfortable silence, watching as Scarlet took a bite, dropped the biscuit in the chlorinated water, picked it up and took another bite. The sun was getting hotter by the minute but the concrete was still cool. Lizzie wanted to ask if Julia was pregnant. It had been four years now of ovulation detectors, false alarms, invasive tests, hormone injections, alternative therapies and desperate sadness. Occasionally her repressed emotions would get the better of her and Jules would spend an entire week in bed, watching daytime television and eating lamingtons. But they had a deal: Lizzie wouldn't ask and Jules would let her be the first to know.

Lizzie swam her laps while Julia watched Scarlet. It was intoxicating. The cool, glittering water, the brilliant sun and the dope made her realise why she loved swimming so much. It made her feel as if she could fly. She lost track of her laps after twelve. Usually she tried to remember how many she was up to by linking the number of the lap with a title.
The Power of One. The Odd Couple. My Three Sons. Born on the Fourth of July
. But somewhere after
12 Angry Men
she lost count and just swam until her arms felt tired.

When the sun was at its highest, they headed off home so that Scarlet could have a sleep before her party.

 

It was thirteen years earlier and Jules finished her beer, took a drag from her cigarette and paused for effect just before spitting out the words ‘Russell Crowe.'

‘The guy from
Romper Stomper
? Fuck off, Jules, he's a total bogan. He has a mullet, for Christ's sake.'

‘I'm sorry, Lizzie,' said Jules. ‘But one, it is actually pronounced
moo-lay
, and two, I happen to have a bit of a soft spot for bogans, which goes quite a way to explaining my relationship with you. And don't forget where you're from, girl. Sunshine is the spiritual home of the
moo-lay
.'

‘It's also the home of crabs, school sores and the Giant Dim Sim. And feel free to hang shit on it as much as you like, but you know and I know that you would kill for a working-class pedigree like mine. Beer for everyone? Oh, and gin and tonic for Julia Elaine Fleming, head girl of Carey Grammar 1990. Tally ho! What! Anyone for a spot of hockey? Where's my faithful hound and my good pipe, it's time for a hunt.' Lizzie began to make horsey noises while K1 and K2 laughed.

Jules shifted uneasily in her chair. Lizzie was right. Jules would love to be able to claim some working-class cred. To tell the truth, she'd be happy just to be a lapsed Catholic, but her Anglophile parents were chutney-making, doily-draping Presbyterians called Ted and Eunice.

‘Stop talking shit and go on, Liz.'

‘Alright. I'm not proud of it, but I have a bit of a thing for … Hugh Grant.'

Kate Wan and Kate Frigo (or K1 and K2, as they were known) almost fell off their chairs with laughter. Jules spat her beer across the table, hitting the framed picture of the 1975 Melbourne Cup winner, Think Big.

‘Hugh Grant? Hugh Grant? That mincing, wet-lipped, floppy-haired, mouth-breathing wanker with the stutter? Oh, for fuck's sake. You think you know someone. Hugh Grant makes the Two Ronnies look sexy. Look, I'll pay for you to buy a better fantasy root.'

‘Hey, I said I wasn't proud of it,' shrugged Lizzie, putting her drink down on its coaster. ‘K1?'

K1 thought for a minute. ‘Mmmmmm … George Clooney.'

The girls murmured approval.

‘Okay, fair enough,' said Jules. ‘K2?'

‘Just one?'

‘Yes.'

‘Alright. Kevin Costner,' said K2 as she put her jacket on.

‘Jesus, K2, who was the other one? Danny DeVito?' said Jules

‘No,' said K2. ‘Arnold Schwarzenegger.'

The girls roared with laughter.

‘Last drinks, ladies,' Eamon the barman informed them.

‘Well, at least now I don't seem so weird,' said Lizzie as she slung her bag over her shoulder and checked her reflection in the Melbourne Cup picture.

‘Oh, yes you do, Lizzie,' said Jules ‘You are a total freak. Trust me.'

The girls reapplied their maroon Poppy lipsticks and wrapped themselves in their jackets and scarves. As they left the warmth of the pub, the cold outside smacked them in the faces.

‘Anyone going to St Kilda?' asked Lizzie.

‘Have you got a gig?'

‘Yep, I'm doing a tight twenty minutes at the Espy. I'm the last in the second bracket.'

‘Shouldn't you be there by now?' asked a slightly hysterical K2. Nothing new. K2 made an art of inciting panic.

‘No, Anthony Morgan's emceeing. I once saw him do two hours between the first two tryouts.'

‘Since when are you doing the Espy? I thought you had a blue with Frank.'

‘It wasn't a blue, it was a discussion, and I just said that I wasn't doing any more unpaid tryouts for him. And anyway, I've got some new material.'

‘I'll give you a lift, Lizzie. I'm staying at Nick's,' said K1. ‘Where's your car?'

‘At the Espy. Left it there on Monday. Too pissed to drive.'

‘You stand-up comedians have the best life. Turn up to work half cut, bang on for twenty minutes, have people adore you and then sleep in all day if you want,' called Jules as Lizzie hopped into K1's car.

‘Yes, because the material writes itself. Actually, the joke fairy leaves a shit-hot page of one-liners under my pillow every night. It's so unfair, Jules, because I'm actually independently wealthy as well. And as you all know, I was recently voted
Penthouse
Pet of the Year.'

‘Yeah, except we're talking pet as in ferret.'

As the car started, Lizzie yelled to Jules, ‘Hey, nobody held a gun to your head to become a corporate maggot, mate.'

‘Well, at least I'll have some superannuation!'

K1 tooted the horn and the car took off into the night. Jules and K2 wandered home feeling like warriors, not just facing the cold but immersing themselves in it.

‘She's doing well, our Lizzie,' said K2.

‘With the comedy?'

‘No, with the whole Charlie thing.'

‘Yeah, well she spent a good hour and a half sobbing on the phone to me this morning.'

‘You too?'

‘What can we do? Now I think about it, I reckon he was back-dooring her since Paula's twenty-first.'

‘That long ago? What a shit. Maybe we should pay him a visit. He lives just around the corner, doesn't he?'

‘Yes, and if I'm right and it's Thursday, he's playing at the Punter's Club tonight. And look, what do you know? That looks like his Kingswood up there, the one with the RRR sticker on the back.'

‘You little beauty,' said K2 as Jules pulled two large black markers out of her bag.

‘Don't leave home without them. How do you spell “premature ejaculator”?'

 

‘K1, do you mind if I turn it off 101.5 CRAP FM?' asked Lizzie as she adjusted the heater.

‘Hey, it's called Platinum FM, and I just happen to like the—'

‘Crap from the sixties, seventies, eighties and today.'

‘They're golden oldies!'

‘They are steaming turds, my friend. “Hotel California,” “Mull of Kintyre” and “Rhiannon”? Please, I am begging you, change it over to something decent or I will swerve us into a pole and put us both out of our misery.'

‘You don't want to miss out on this weekend's non-stop Leo Sayer marathon.'

‘I think I'd rather plunge my head into a vat of boiling vomit.'

As they turned onto Lygon Street and passed Tiamo, K1 said, ‘You don't fancy a coffee, do you?'

‘Is this a thinly veiled attempt to watch me sob about Charlie while you hold my hand, tilt your head and say things like “It's all for the best” and “When one door closes …”?'

‘No.' K1 kept her eyes firmly on the road.

‘K1,' teased Lizzie, ‘I know when you are lying because your nipples go hard.' K1 covered both nipples with one arm.

‘Sprung bad,' said Lizzie.

‘Yes, alright, if my crime is wanting to give you an opportunity to have a good cry or get stuck into that cad, well, shoot me.'

‘Cad! My goodness, and when did you turn into Judi Dench? Look, I'm cool,' said Lizzie, in a tone that made even her believe it. ‘I'm totally cool. I've spent the last four years with a fuckwit and I'm glad I found out now that he's been shagging Similar Features Longer Hair, before it was too late.'

‘You sound completely sorted.'

‘Well, I am. One per cent of the time. You just got lucky. Pull over so I can buy a packet of fags, will you?'

K1 pulled up outside the 7-Eleven. As she waited for Lizzie, she did her pelvic floor exercises. That was the thing about Lizzie – her joy was infectious. Even when it was fake.

As Lizzie climbed back into the car through the open window,
Dukes of Hazzard
style, she threw a strawberry Freddo Frog onto K1's lap. ‘Don't say I don't know how to show a girl a good time.'

They drove on and Lizzie fished a screwed-up piece of paper out of her bag. ‘Mind if I run through my bits?'

‘No, sure, Lizzie. Go for gold.'

‘And by the way, K1, when you ring the others when you get to Nick's place, because I know you will, let them know that I've decided to go to Japan for a year, and I'm leaving in two weeks.'

And then Lizzie burst into tears.