Gucci Mamas (15 page)

‘Well, you should never let the facts get in the way of a good story,’ Bindi cackled, snapping her gum.

Mim overtly glanced at her watch and was about to make her excuses when Shelby and Trixie scuttled over, tucking hundreds into their gaudy beaded purses.

‘Join us won’t you, Mim?’ Trixie smirked.

‘You’d make great bait – a bit of fresh meat and all that,’ simpered Shelby, who’d just left husband number four.

‘We’re going to The Anchorage for after-dinner drinks, or, in our case, instead-of-dinner-drinks.’ At this the three
shrews threw back their hair extensions to cackle with brittle laughter.

Mim was hot, flustered and food-stained. She was fed up and angry and would have killed for a quiet drink in adult company – but would never be desperate enough to be seen with these overdone tarts. And anyway, with the three kids still bickering noisily in the car, the Triple Ds’ invitation was only a spiteful swipe at her lifestyle.

‘Well, girls, as much as I’d love to, I’ve got my mummy hat on tonight and I’ve promised the children some more quality time together,’ Mim said, heading swiftly to the driver’s door and away from this ugly social moment.

‘Shame, Mim, maybe next time.’ Bindi flashed her laser-whitened teeth insincerely at Mim, displaying for an instant her savage incisors.

‘Goodbye then,’ Mim said tightly as she started up the engine.

‘See you later when your hair is straighter,’ the trio screeched back at her as they stalked down the street.

Mim didn’t match. Well, obviously, given that she had a different bag over each arm and a different shoe on each foot. She stood debating which worked best with her raspberry Alannah Hill chiffon-and-lace skirt and matching three-quarter-sleeve cardigan.

She sighed deeply. The challenge of accessorising was usually so much fun, but lately she seemed to lack the spirit for it.

She’d made an initial effort to find an outfit after the invitation to the Forsythes’ fifteen-year wedding anniversary arrived six weeks ago, when a delicious pastel candy-striped box had been hand-delivered by a liveried courier. Lifting the lid she had been greeted by the gorgeous fragrance of French Delbard Roses, the petals of which served as a luxurious bed for a small crystal vase. Mim lifted up the delicate object and it twinkled and shimmered in the sunlight. Engraved on the front was an invitation to the Forsythes’ anniversary – crystal, of course.

The thrill of the invitation was soon replaced by the
angst of the ensemble-decision. Normally she relished the thrill of the chase: the strategic planning that went into sourcing a winning outfit balancing the variables of weather, event theme, fashion competition and setting (stilettos would not do if the function was to be set in the Botanic Gardens, for instance). But this time Mim had uncharacteristically left it until the week of the function to begin her ensemble sourcing.

She was aware of the parameters of her task: the Forsythes had invited 250 of their closest and most intimate friends to a garden party to be held at their home in Grange Road, Toorak.

Mim had known Petrice Forsythe from their uni days. However, due to Petrice’s recent attachment to LJ Mahoney, their friendship of convenience had wilted considerably. Petrice had seemingly used her Arts Degree as a convenient fill-in until she snared herself an appropriately wealthy and socially well-positioned husband in her late twenties.

So what if it was politically incorrect, Petrice had told herself – wasn’t feminism all about having the right to choose?

Mim and James had been guests at Petrice and Montgomery’s opulent three-day wedding in the Bahamas, and still caught up with the Forsythes occasionally, usually at the yacht club over a Pinot Gris or at their famous marquee at the Spring Racing Carnival. Monty came from ancient money with tenuous links to a title. His family’s strong dealings in the futures market had freed Monty up for a life of golf-course networking, beach-side ‘business’ lunches and weekly schmoozes with Daddy over a game of squash.

Together, Petrice and Monty made a formidable partnership based on shallowness, consumerism and shameless social climbing. Mim and James often shared a giggle over
the Forsythes’ latest wild extravagance: the sea-cruising yacht upon which neither would set foot; the Geelong Grammar boarding school education for their eldest children – both sent away before their tenth birthdays.

And the naming of the children – each after the exotic location in which they were conceived. Poor Morocco, Roma and Tuscany would never live it down.

Sometimes Mim felt a twinge of jealousy at the ultra-privileged lifestyle of the Forsythes. When they had snapped up a chalet in Vail, for instance, she had been shocked to find herself feeling discontented with her own life and wishing for a bit of the Forsythe glamour.

A week before the big event she had tried summoning the energy for her traditional reconnaissance trip but despite visiting all her familiar Melbourne hunting grounds – the QV, GPO, and of course Chapel Street – she found no inspiration for her mission. She traipsed from boutique to boutique, waiting for the expected fashion excitement to build, but somehow she just didn’t feel the same thrill of anticipation or the familiar urgency to get the perfect outfit for the event.

In the end she’d settled on the Alannah Hill because it was there; it fitted; it was pretty and it would do. She’d hung it in her wardrobe without a thought for accessories.

Which is why she was standing there, an hour before the function began, with odd shoes and two bags.

She assessed her image in her floor-to-ceiling mirror one more time, and suddenly felt a smile tickling her lips. For goodness’ sake, she’d been standing here asymmetrically for more than twenty minutes trying to decide on handbags and shoes. What was her life coming to, she wondered, shaking her head

Such essential decisions once haunted her. Deciding well in advance what or ‘who’ she was wearing was imperative for her enjoyment of the event. Failing to make a firm
accessory decision at this stage was terribly out of character and Mim vaguely wondered if maybe she needed a vitamin supplement.

Focus
, she told herself, reassessing the situation.

The Miu-Miu bag with the Jimmy Choo stilettos? Or the more decorous Stepford Wives look of new clutch teamed with slingbacks?

She gave a little shiver, and finally made the correct accessory choice – she chose not to give a shit. She tossed one bag back on the shelf and grabbed a pair of shoes at random. And, as she’d suspected, the sky did not fall down.

Petrice’s tongue toyed nervously with her pinkie acrylic, her sharp incisors threatening to nibble the delicate coral. The weather was infuriating.

Petrice had refused to back down on her plan for an outdoor event despite the teeming rain; the forces of nature were no match for her steely resolve that this meticulously planned celebration of her life – oh, and Monty’s – would be a social success.

She had spent weeks directing landscape renovation and outdoor furniture purchase to create a sumptuous backdrop for her garden party and she refused to accept a crimp in her plans at this late stage.

Harry the Hirer had sent a crew and another marquee around as an emergency delivery first thing in the morning and the team had still been tramping muddy boots over the sandstone-paved path at 11 a.m. They’d finished just in time for the gardening team to power-spray the pavers.

The new marquee had no walls so as not to restrict the sweeping views of the Forsythes’ lavish gardens. The poles were awash with ribbons and flowers, the tables groaning under hand-carved ice-sculptures, floral art and lashings of platters boasting an array of dips, antipasto, slivers of chilled
wagyu beef and insalates presented as tiny artworks of texture and colour.

The immaculately groomed guests sipped champagne and swapped anecdotes under the canvas, soaking in the glamour of the event and thanking their lucky stars they’d been among the fortunate to score an invite.

As the bubbly flowed, the boasts grew louder and more elaborate and Mim found herself perspiring from the collected heat fuelled by enormous gas heaters under the marquee. She weaved through the throng of partygoers to the edge of the makeshift room and gazed over at the verdant expanse. Mim felt detached from the milling crowd at her back and a sense of unreality settled over her. It all seemed so pointless and inconsequential and she felt disconcertingly like an actor who’d forgotten her script.

She looked back at the party. Everyone else seemed to be in the right place, comfortable with their role; it was just she who felt as if life had struck a discordant note – who seemed to be grappling with a sense of discontent.

‘Mim, how are you?’

Mim turned and greeted the couple with cursory lipgrazes across their cheeks. It was awkward for a moment there because the Mortimers had just returned from three months in Europe and were currently doing the kiss-each-cheek thing, which made things a bit tricky. The recipient of the kiss would be leaning back just as the second kiss was coming in for a landing, so would have to make a last-minute direction change. It was all very annoying.

‘Clive, Isabelle, how lovely to see you both,’ Mim said with barely concealed boredom.

‘Mim, darling, how are you?’ yelped Isabelle. ‘We haven’t seen you guys since we got back! You look fabulous!’

‘Thanks, Isabelle, how was Italy?’

‘Ohmigod! Faaaabulous!’

‘Isabelle!’ said a bright voice from behind their little group.

‘Monique! Malcolm!’ said Isabelle in response.

‘Malcolm, Clive,’ Monique introduced the men.

‘Mim!’ said Clive, with a kiss and an arm squeeze.

‘Mim, darling,’ said Monique, when it was her turn at Mim’s cheek.

‘Hello Malcolm, Monique,’ said Mim, trying really hard to smile and defeat the urge to walk away from these forced niceties.

‘Where’s Tiffany?’ Monique asked, scanning the crowd behind Mim.

‘Oh, she’s in Portsea,’ Mim replied with a knowing smile.

‘Really, what’s she doing there?’ Monique asked, surprised that someone would be down on the Peninsula out of season.

‘Not sure. The Mortimers were just telling us about their trip,’ Mim offered weakly, hoping to distract Monique.

‘Yes,’ squeaked Isabelle, a wee mouse of a woman, who insisted on always wearing flat shoes, a habit that bugged Mim today more than usual. Why should normal-height people get a bad back from leaning over to talk to her when she should just follow fashion like a normal woman and gain a couple of inches and save the rest of them a dose of sciatica. She leaned slightly left past Clive’s rounded shoulders to try to send a help signal to James, but he was involved in an in-depth debate with Bernard Worthington over the virtues of Australian Rules versus Rugby League. That’ll only end in tears, she thought to herself.

‘How was your little jaunt o.s.?’ Monique continued.

‘Well,’ said Isabelle, glancing at each face to ensure everyone was enraptured enough for her to begin her well-rehearsed tale. ‘Paris in winter, you can only begin to guess what an enchanted fairytale city it is!’ she prattled.

Mim’s concentration dropped in and out as the group compared international five-star adventures.

‘… the trout was bone dry, honestly, it’s not like it was business class …’

‘… so I said, now listen here, my good man, in MY country …’

‘… not a word of English, would you credit it …’

‘… couldn’t get a good steak for love or money …’

‘… the five-series, who’d drive a five-series …’

‘… there are SOOO many Italians in Tuscany …’

She just couldn’t focus. Normally Mim prided herself on her keen conversational skills; smiling, nodding and genuinely listening to others. But today it was as if she could peer through the flimsiness of their topics and see each comment for what it really was – just a tragic and thinly veiled attempt by each speaker to grandstand and self-promote while subtly trumping their companions.

Mim just didn’t want to play any more.

She glanced at the marquee frame, swathed under a cloyingly fragrant garland of roses and gardenias. Mim noticed a trail of rainwater steadily travelling from the roof down the ribbon to the pole’s base where a small mud puddle had developed. It was a tiny bruise in the over-managed lawn, a fleck of reality in the intricately constructed vista.

Mim watched the mini-estuary fill the tiny dam. The mud was rich, dark and inviting. Her frustration dissipated as she admired the wet loamy dirt and imagined the cool earth beneath her hot, sticky feet.

Before she’d even consciously decided to move, Mim had slipped off her stiletto sandal and allowed her foot to hover over the puddle.

The promise of the cool, soft, earth was tantalising and Mim slid her foot quietly into the mud. The black, rich ooze squelched through her toes and she had a sudden flash
of butter and Vegemite worming through the holes of Salada; simple pleasures from simpler days.

The moist earth welcomed her tired foot, and her other foot ached in jealousy.

She wiggled her toes and the mud caressed them deliciously. Her foot buried deeper, fully encased now in its nurturing dirtiness.

Mim suddenly became aware of her immediate surroundings. She realised the chatter nearby had stopped. With one foot in the mud, like a child with her hand caught in the cookie jar, she looked guiltily up at the group.

All four were staring at her in stunned silence.

‘Mim, what
are
you doing?’ Isabelle asked in a voice usually reserved for the mentally unstable.

‘Just, well, just …’ Mim trailed off. How could she respond? It was a stupid question really, they were all standing there, they could see
what
she was doing. She guessed what Isabelle was really asking was why. And that was a question that Mim, quite frankly, couldn’t answer.

Mim turned her back on the group and stepped out into what was now a steady drizzle. She wiped her muddy foot onto the wet grass, which made quite an effective loofah. The spikiness of the buffalo grass stimulated the bottom of her foot and she giggled. The sound that burbled forth from her lips surprised her. She didn’t laugh enough these days.

The rigid blades against her sole also felt a little, well, erotic, if truth be known.

James suddenly appeared at the edge of the staring group.

‘Hey Mim,’ he called out, ‘do you want a towel?’ – as if he was completely accustomed to this type of behaviour, thought Isabelle disapprovingly, with a sidelong glance at the husband.

James was in fact quite accustomed to this kind of behaviour, because this was exactly the Mim-type of stuff that he’d fallen in love with. Spontaneous acts of fountain-dancing, random busker-karaoke and, of course, his all-time favourite, her penchant for skinny-dipping.

She smiled and shook her head, so he walked out into the rain to join his wife, whose immaculately straightened hair was now all dishevelled. He held her by the elbows and kissed her on the nose as she looked up at him and said, ‘I’m starving. Have you been up to the buffet yet?’