Versace Sisters (18 page)

Jacqueline was worn out. She'd been extra, extra good this
afternoon. She'd volunteered for school tuckshop duty,
and washed, polished and vacuumed not just her car, but
Thomas's car as well. She'd straightened up the garage,
purchased every requirement for the boys' summer school
uniform, booked dental appointments for all three of her
boys and cooked and served dinner – boeuf bourguignon,
their favourite. After dinner, when her husband had retired
to his study and the boys were upstairs doing their homework,
she'd whipped up a lemon-poppyseed cake and
dropped it around to Thomas's father at the nursing home.

It was after ten when she finally dropped the keys on the
hall table and entered her kitchen. Her jaw dropped. Sitting
opposite, eating a mandarin, was Joan.

'Hello, Jacqueline,' Joan said.

'Joan, what are you doing here?' Jacqueline asked.

'I thought we needed to have a little talk,' the older
woman said calmly.

Jacqueline feigned innocence. 'Goodness, Joan, what on
earth could be so important we have to discuss it in the
middle of the night? Shall we talk another time, perhaps
when –'

'Don't bother, Jacqueline,' Joan replied quietly and the
other woman wilted in defeat. 'Pop the kettle on, will you,
love?' she added.

Jacqueline gratefully slipped into hostess mode, preparing
tea and offering Joan a cup with shaking hands.

'Sit down, dear.' Joan nodded at the seat opposite and,
anxiously, Jacqueline sat. 'It's tough, isn't it, love?' Joan
started.

'What do you mean?' Jacqueline said, suspiciously.

'Life, kids, husband, home – it's all very difficult.'

'I cope, thank you very much,' Jacqueline said defensively,
glancing behind her to ensure the kitchen door was
closed.

'I know you
cope
, Jacqueline, I think you do an amazing
job. You're truly the ultimate home-maker.'

Jacqueline's fragile ego revelled in the compliment and
she relaxed a little.

'And how someone can be so busy, yet still be able to
whip up the most amazing fruit flan I've ever tasted, is truly
a miracle.'

That had her. Jacqueline beamed: she was putty in
Joan's hands.

'And look at this place. It's a museum piece, it must be
difficult to keep it so immaculate all the time.'

'Well,' Jacqueline confessed, 'it isn't easy. But Thomas
insists it's perfect when he gets home each day, so I have no
choice really – he works so hard. There's a lot of pressure
on an orthodontist, you know.'

'What about you, though? You work extremely hard
too, there's a lot of pressure on you as well, you know.
You've got a far more important job; you're raising two
young men to go out into the world and be productive
members of society. All Thomas does is make pretty smiles
prettier, and charge like a wounded bull for the privilege.'

Jacqueline laughed and then her face dropped. 'I know,
Joan, it is a great deal of pressure. I lie in bed at night
worried sick about the boys – do I over-mother them or
under-mother them? Do I do the right thing by Thomas
and keep the house to his standard? I just need to get it
right. When it's all okay, Thomas is happy, then I'm happy
and then the family is happy. You see? It all starts with
Thomas.'

'You know,' said Joan, 'you remind me of how I used
to be with my late husband, Barry. He was such a severe
man. So strict. Of course, in my day it was expected that
women stayed at home. Those who worked were frowned
upon for neglecting their families.'

'Exactly right,' Jacqueline said primly. 'I couldn't agree
more.'

'But at what cost, Jacqueline?' Joan asked. 'At what cost
to us as women? I did what you do now: I did everything
for my family. We sacrifice sleep, our appearance, our
friendships, our youth. And all for what? So our children
and husbands can go out into the world and achieve? What
about us?'

'But Joan, that's what I chose, to help these men be
great.'

'Have you ever considered that a great woman can be
greater than even a man?' Joan asked.

'Of course she can,' said Jacqueline, folding her arms.
'But not me. I couldn't have a career, I'm not that
clever.'

'Oh Jacqueline, you're very hard on yourself, and this
kind of pressure can manifest itself in dangerous ways, my
dear,' Joan said gently.

'What do you mean, exactly?' Jacqueline's voice was
steely.

'I think you know what I mean. I'm not blaming you,
I understand. You feel stifled and invisible. It happened to
me too, dear. I did things that jeopardised my marriage and
threatened my reputation. I hate seeing it happen to you.'

I don't know what you mean,' Jaqueline insisted,
refusing to meet Joan's eye.

'Jacqueline,' said Joan, looking pointedly at her neighbour's
special drawer on the other side of the kitchen. 'I
know it's just a form of escape for you, but it's dangerous,
this little habit of yours.'

'Please don't tell anyone, I'm begging you,' Jacqueline
implored, grabbing Joan's hands. 'It's such a thrill, at the
time, but later I feel so sick and I just hate myself.'

'I know, love, I know. It's a dreadful feeling, guilt,
isn't it?'

'But then I do it again, the very next week,' Jacqueline
continued. 'And again, and again. And every time I get
away with it, I'm so relieved and so overwhelmed with
guilt that I vow I'll never do it again. But then I do! I don't
understand,' she cried.

'It gives you a feeling of control and nobody's caught
you – yet – so it's your little secret. The sense of freedom
it gives you must be exhilarating.'

'Yes, that's it! It's the freedom!' Jacqueline looked up at
Joan with red-rimmed eyes. 'I just want to break the rules
completely, be wild and bad for a few minutes and to have
a tiny corner of something just for me.'

'Why don't you consider getting a job?' Joan asked.

Jacqueline stared at the table top, scratching an invisible
mark. She eventually looked up.

'Oh, Joan, I couldn't. I just couldn't. I wouldn't be able
to, I'd be hopeless.'

Joan tsked. 'That's a shame, love, because I think you
can do anything you want to.'

The room was black. As Bella's eyes adjusted to the darkness
she tried to remember which city she was in. Location
dislocation was a common side-effect of her job.

Before she actually worked out her geography, she
identified a sick, heavy feeling inside. She felt terrible.
Why?

Then everything came flooding back. She had taken
herself on a mini break to Palazzo Versace in Surfers
Paradise in the hope of distracting herself from today's big
event: Curtis's wedding.

Memories of her own wedding day rushed in and were
as vivid as if her walk down the aisle had been last week.
But by the time the tears of self-pity had travelled down
the side of her face and pooled in her ears, Bella had pulled
herself together.

She sat upright and grabbed a Kleenex. Right, she had
an intensive schedule of self-indulgence to throw herself
into and no quickie wedding ceremony in the Maldives
was going to distract her.

She pushed the bedside button on the electric curtains
and they slid open to shine warm Queensland sun on the
room's opulent creams and golds. Bella focused on the relax -
ing surroundings while trying to calm her breathing.

*

At the day-spa Bella wrapped the fluffy bathrobe tighter
around herself again, touched her hair, checked her nails,
looked down at her pedicure; then did it again, and again.
It was only when the other patrons started giving her odd
looks that she realised what she was doing. She picked up a
waiting room magazine and forced herself to focus on it.

Later, under the beautician's gentle hands, rather than
letting her mind dwell on Curtis and his wedding day, she
thought back to her morning. She must have checked her
reflection at least ten times to make sure there was nothing
in her teeth, no stray lashes, no lipstick bleed. Then she
thought she'd found a spot on her bag, and that took another
fifteen minutes of wiping, re-wiping and buffing before she
was satisfied that it had simply been her imagination.

The beauty therapist left her to meditate while her face
mask set and Bella felt the familiar tentacles of panic begin
to entwine her. Her mind flashed up images of Curtis
marrying a younger, prettier girl and she suddenly realised
that with thoughts of him came physical reactions. As he
came into her mind she had unconsciously sucked her
stomach in and checked her nails.

The link was clear; she could see that now. Her obsessive
tendencies were triggered by the emotions she felt
about Curtis. But she didn't want to count floor tiles and
spend her life in front of mirrors aiming for some idealised
version of perfection. She was so sick of feeling inadequate.
Maybe today was an opportunity to put an end to her compulsions.
Just understanding the trigger had been a big step,
and now she felt ready for more progress.

Bella held up her left hand and flicked at her index finger's
acrylic nail until the plain stubby nail underneath was
exposed. She looked at her ruined manicure and distress
surged through her, but she took a deep breath and looked
again.

This time it didn't look so bad. Maybe she could find
out who she was under all the desperate striving for perfection.
She laughed to herself nervously.

Mallory wanted the drugs back. Drugs to cancel out the
pain, but mostly to stamp out the ache in her heart. She
could cope with the agony of her broken ribs and crushed
hip, but the emotional pain was too much to bear. Each
time a nurse released more opiate into her system she sank
blissfully away from the wrenching sting of betrayal that
haunted her conscious moments.

But today they'd taken down the drip, said she would
manage without it. Mallory knew they were wrong: she
didn't know how she would ever manage again.

It's funny how they talk about heartache, Mallory
thought, staring out at the heavy grey rain clouds threatening
the CBD. The pain really is in my chest; like a serrated
knife plunging straight into my heart. The doctor said that
pain was from her broken ribs. But she knew better.

Showering today, for the first time since the accident, had
been excruciating. But she'd welcomed the physical agony,
spitting out the weak painkillers the nurse had given her. If
she couldn't have drugged oblivion, she figured, it might
help to lose herself in the searing pain of her battered body.

The woman she'd seen in the full-length bathroom
mirror had aged fifteen years. She hadn't recognised
the sad, downturned mouth and the hooded eyes. Her
hair hung flat against her face in lifeless sheets. Her lips
and cheeks, usually rosy with exuberance, were grey. A
greenish-yellow bruise on her cheek and under her eye was
the only colour in her face. Her collarbone jutted from the
top of the white hospital gown that swamped her skeletal
frame.

Now, as she lay back in her bed, she watched the clouds
release their burden onto the skyscrapers and her eyes followed
suit. She'd given up trying to control her tears in
the days since the accident. It seemed like all she had done
was cry.

When her lovely friends had heard what had preceded
the accident, they had ministered to her broken ego as
gently as the nurses had tended her broken bones. Sera had
held her hand, listened patiently and dried her tears. Sam
had offered to beat Vince up and then spent an hour gently
brushing and plaiting Mallory's unkempt hair into her
familiar plaits, as he did with his own daughters. His gentle
touch had made her cry even harder.

When Chantrea heard, she'd ranted and raved and
kicked the metal-legged visitors' chair and come up with
plots to slash Vince's tyres, graffiti the walls of his dealership
and hide dead fish in the boot of his car.

Jacqueline had tsked in disgust and for once had no suggestion
for how Mallory could have been a better wife; it
seemed even she knew an arsehole when she saw one.

Mallory turned her head at the sound of the door
opening and stared numbly at her husband as he entered
her private room, his arms filled with long-stemmed roses.

'Hi, how are you doing?' he asked, placing the flowers
gently across the foot of her bed.

'Fine,' she said flatly.

'You had us worried. Thank God you came out of the
coma.'

'Mmmm,' Mallory said, wishing she was back in that
lovely dark place.

'Darling, I am so sorry,' Vince said, with a quiver in his
voice. 'You have no idea how sorry I am.' He picked up
her hand and squeezed it tightly. She looked at him, desperately
wanting to believe him.

'I love you, my little Pookie, you know I love you more
than anything.'

'What about Sharee?' Mallory asked. 'Do you love her?'

Vince scoffed. 'Of course not. It was a stupid, stupid
mistake. A one-off. I'd had too much to drink. I wasn't
thinking straight. I'd been working so hard I wasn't using
my head at all. You must believe me, Pookie, you must.'

'Vince, I wish I could, I really do.' Mallory's eyes started
to fill again.

Vince rubbed his own eyes with the heel of his palm and
sniffed. 'Please, Mallory, you and Tilly mean so much to
me. I don't know what I'd do if you left me.'

'I'm sure Sharee would take you in,' Mallory said
bitterly.

'There's nothing between us, honestly. It's all over; she's
just a filthy little scrag. She hit on me that night and I fell
for it. I'm a weak, useless man and I let my dick rule my
head for one stupid moment. What can I do to get you
back, my beautiful wife?'

'Well,' Mallory said looking at him doubtfully, hoping
she was doing the right thing, 'we'll have to have marriage
counselling.'

'Absolutely,' he said with a grin, knowing he'd won.
'Anything else?'

'You'll have to sack Sharee,' she said.

'Sacked! Gone! Outta there! I'll do it today.'

'Oh, Vince.' She melted. The nightmare was over;
they'd get through this together.

He wrapped his arms around her broken little body as
she sobbed into his shoulder. 'It's all right, darling. It's all
right, little Pookie, Vincie's here. I'm going to protect you,
I'll never let you get hurt ever again.'

'Oh Vince, I love you so much. I thought I'd lost you,'
she said between sobs.

'No, don't be silly, you'll never lose me, ever. I'll always
be here for you, I promise, my beautiful little girl. I promise
I will never ever let you down again.'