Gucci Mamas (20 page)

‘Here’s to another balls-up,’ said Ellie, raising her glass of bubbly in greeting to Mim. ‘Of course, it’s not technically a disaster yet, but this early in the evening it could still go either way,’ she laughed.

Ellie, revived from her secret country retreat, looked stunning in an impossibly snug, ankle-skimming, blue-velvet Donna Karan number. She was a picture of elegance and old money – which was perfect given the
Richly Royal
theme of this year’s Langholme Grammar Winter Soiree.

The Winter Soiree (held in autumn, before it got too cold for skin-baring eveningwear) was a must on the school social calendar. It was intended as a friendly mixer, but was actually an intensive networking opportunity for mothers jostling for position on the Langholme Grammar social scene, and for dads keen to schmooze business contacts. The right outfit, an amusing anecdote and the occasional shrewd observation could cement invitations to all the best children’s parties and mean the difference between being relegated to the fairy-floss machine or serving high
tea in pretty starched linen aprons at the school fete.

As soon as the Spring Racing Carnival ended the mums packed up their feathered millinery and began plotting the ultimate fashion statement for the Winter Soiree – well, at least the smart women did. Each year the Langholme Grammar social committee announced a new theme for the ball – heralding cries of complaint and joy from the school community. For the week following the announcement, cafés across the suburbs were abuzz as mums sipped their lattes and planned to extract the maximum glamour from any given theme.

Last year’s
Provincial Picnic
theme had made the wearing of diamonds, silk and furs difficult to justify – but several mothers had pulled it off with aplomb and reaped the social-status benefits for the past twelve months.

This year’s theme made everyone happy. With the recent ascent of ‘our Mary’ to European royalty, the school’s social team had conjured up the
Richly Royal
theme and sent mums into a frenzy of historical fashion research (reading old
Vogues
).

Somehow the Triple Ds had managed to work leather and multiple piercings into their regal ensembles, and the CPM came as J-Lo and Christine Aguilera (pop royalty), while the Mothers’ Superior were in their element as Anne Boleyns, Anna Kareninas, some Joan of Arcs and a smattering of Mary Queen of Scots. The bigger the martyr, the better.

The glittering event was always held at an exclusive inner-city South Yarra function centre. For weeks beforehand the social committee was in a tizz arranging decorations. This year the room resembled a rich fusion of Versace meets Versailles.

‘Christ, Mim, I can barely walk in this frock,’ moaned Ellie, struggling to inhale.

‘But it’s worth it, Ellie. You look unbelievable,’ said Mim.

‘True,’ agreed Ellie. ‘And if one must suffer in life, at least let it be for fashion!’ She glanced around. ‘So, James a no-show this evening?’ She asked while keeping one eye on the action over Mim’s shoulder.

‘At a work thing again. It was last minute, of course, always is,’ Mim sighed. ‘He promises he’ll drop in later, though,’ she added, not holding out much hope. ‘I don’t know, Ellie, I’m starting to think he’s intentionally avoiding us. Surely he could have ditched the meeting, he knows how important tonight is!’

‘Mim, darling, what’s happening?’ Ellie said in concern, her voice dropping to a whisper as she noticed Hortense Mathews at a nearby group distinctly put her head on one side trying to catch the gossip.

‘Oh, it’s James, sweetie, we’re just at loggerheads constantly at the moment. I’m beside myself with worry,’ said Mim. ‘But seriously, this is neither the time nor the place for such misery: we’re supposed to be having a ball!’

‘So the invitation said, darling, but I’m yet to see the evidence. Let’s talk tomorrow,’ Ellie suggested.

‘Thanks, sweet, that’d be great,’ and with a massive effort Mim plastered her very best social smile on her face and serenely looked out at the room. Standing atop the wide marble staircase on the top floor of the centre, they were in a perfect position to people-watch.

Mim was thrilled with this year’s theme: with her dark locks and slim build, a Mary Donaldson tribute had been easy to conjure. The silk bridesmaid’s dress from her sister’s wedding was perfectly royal and hadn’t been seen among this set – it was full-length, charcoal with a white bodice and white Chanel Camelia under the bust-line. And really she couldn’t be bothered to go to any more trouble than recycling a frock; the effort of pulling another fashion trick
out of her hat for every new social function was wearing her down. Most of the other Langholme mums seemed to have the stamina for it, but lately Mim had felt a growing sense of unease about the extravagance of new outfits and the showing off that went along with them.

As they made their way down the stairs, Mim could just catch the heavenly tones of the string quartet above the cacophony of shrieked welcomes and ‘hello dahlings’ as the night really got underway. All around them smartly uniformed waiters with laden drink trays attempted to navigate the ocean of frocks while being buffeted into silk eddies and swept along by sequined currents.

‘Where’s Tiff, are they here yet?’ Ellie asked.

Mim smiled to herself, thinking of Tiffany’s big surprise. ‘No, I haven’t seen her, she’s been in Portsea for the past six weeks, but she’s definitely coming. I don’t think we will miss her big entrance.’

‘What big entrance?’ Ellie asked, face aghast. ‘She’s not wearing that horrible salmon-taffeta puffy skirt again, is she? I realise she thinks it hides her chunky butt, but someone has to tell her. Eighties fashion may be retro and dead trendy right now, but there are definite rules: if you wore it then, you’re too old to wear it now!’

Throwing back the last of her champagne, Ellie spied a perfect example of tragic design sense just behind her. Indicating the fashion victim to Mim, she said, ‘Case in point at five o’clock. What was she thinking?’

Mim spied a look at Bunny Burroughs, who was resplendent in a diamond tiara, and a mauve silk evening gown that was way too much flounce and far too much lace. Her 1980s Farrah Fawcett ‘do’ topped off the look.

‘Don’t be such a bitch, Ellie, maybe she’s paying homage to Lady Di,’ said Mim, nudging Ellie, who was staring quite openly.

‘Darling, the only thing she’s paying
homage
to is the look she found in 1982 and hasn’t strayed from since. She hasn’t moved a fashion muscle in well over twenty years, poor love.’ Ellie was distracted by a new entrant. ‘Hmmm, look over there, that’s interesting,’ she said, pointing with her chin in the direction of the door and managing to deftly swipe two more bubblys from a waiter who floated by.

‘What? Oh, isn’t that Charmaine and Edward Heatherington? He’s a surgeon, isn’t he? Love her look, very Russian Royal family; very Romanovs –
such
a tragedy. So what’s the big deal?’

‘Well, yes, he is a surgeon, and it is a bit of a tragedy. Look at what he’s wearing.’

‘It’s just a suit, big deal! I don’t get it.’

‘
He
would much rather be playing the Russian princess, if you know what I mean.’

‘No way!’

‘Way, darling, way!’ Ellie smirked over the top of her glass.

‘I always thought he was a bit lecherous, the way he looked women up and down, but maybe he … oh … I see …’

‘That’s right, sweet, he’s coveting their frocks!’

‘Oh dear.’ In the past such a juicy snippet of gossip would have been readily shared with the nearest circle, but now Mim and Ellie swallowed their giggles and instead simply shared a knowing look.

Suddenly Ellie cried, ‘Darlings, over here!’ From her statuesque six foot vantage point, she was able to spot the other women arriving. Liz and Monique entered the room armin-arm with their husbands trailing obediently behind them.

Then it happened. The big moment; planned for just that precise second. Ellie saw it first. She grabbed Mim’s arm.

‘Ohmigod! Check it out!’

Tiffany, solo, stood grandly at the entrance, handing her wrap to an eager attendant. She smiled graciously around the room until her gaze caught her girlfriends. Ellie, Monique, Liz and Mim stared in amazement.

The Mothers Superior, in their pearls and stoles, stopped judging for a minute to stare. The CPM stopped smoking and looked in wonder. The Triple Ds took a break from eyeing up the dads as all eyes rested on the new arrival.

Tiffany looked unbelievable in a figure-hugging, full-length (size eight at least, Jennifer Gowrie-Smith thought crossly) Oscar de la Renta sequined silver gown. Her hair was coloured golden and cut in a shaggy, layered crop –
à la
Sharon Stone. Stepping into the room, her elfin face beaming with excitement, everyone noticed that she suddenly looked a good fifteen years younger. The crow’s feet were gone; the jowls were gone; her eyes were enormous and unhooded; a plane could land on her cheekbones. Her forehead was completely wrinkle-free and the weird little frown mark in the centre of her forehead had disappeared. Every ageing mark, line and sag in Tiffany’s face had been erased.

She stood in front of her friends and gave a languid catwalk-model turn. The paunch – gone! The bottom – gone! The tricep-bags; the eye-bags; the saddle-bags – gone, gone, gone.

Goodbye old Tiffany. Hello silicone-collagen-botox-enhanced Tiffany!

‘OH … MY … GOD!’ Ellie and Mim squealed in unison, grabbing Tiffany in a group hug – feeling for themselves just how firm her new butt was.

‘You look amazing! You shifty little operator, is this where you’ve been for the last six weeks?’ Ellie demanded.

‘Yep, I’ve just notched up a cool $100,000 worth of
bod-mods! And boy, did I deserve it. The sleazy bastard is so racked with guilt he won’t say a word when the bills hit him. When he leaves me I’ll happily take this little number for a spin,’ she said, launching her new body into a sexy shimmy.

‘Tiffany, you are the modern face of women’s lib,’ Ellie cried. ‘You should give talks in all the girls’ schools. You’re my hero. And where is the sleazy bastard, anyway?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t see him come in with you.’

Tiffany picked at imaginary fluff on her gown.

‘He’s probably in the dining room,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘I volunteered him for the decorating committee; hopefully he’s swinging off a chandelier as we speak. Oh, and by the way, I hired a private detective. I know who the other woman is.’

‘No way … Who?’

Mim and the girls held their breath and squeezed each other’s hands as they waited for the next bit of juicy gossip to be revealed. This was a great night.

‘You know Keith Crabtree, our accountant? Well …’ she paused for effect. ‘It’s his daughter, Clarissa.’

‘Holy shit.’

‘Holy fuck.’

It was better than the girls could have hoped for.

‘How old is she?’ Mim asked.

‘Twenty-seven,’ Liz replied coolly.

‘Holy shit.’

At that moment a set of large doors slid open to reveal a glittering dining room. Each place boasted five silver settings of cutlery: one for each course. Monogrammed china, gold presentation plates, five different wine glasses – again, one per course. Each table groaned under the weight of crystal and silver condiment sets, gravy boats, salt cellars, pepper grinders, every culinary whim of the guests was
pre-empted. White lilies reached for the ceiling, and violets crept across the crisp linen. Waiters stood at each table to seat the guests on chairs that were better dressed than any debutante – in flouncy white skirts with silver bows cinching in their little chair waists.

The decoration committee was putting the finishing touches on the stage. Cliff was heading towards the entry as his wife entered, flanked by her support team. His eyes narrowed as they fell on Tiffany as though he was trying to place a familiar face. Then they widened; then widened further.

‘Jesus, is that you, Tiff? What have you done to yourself? You look … well, you look friggin’ gorgeous! Christ, that Portsea air’s done you wonders. Have you just got back today? You look ten years younger.’

‘Really, isn’t it amazing what six weeks’ break will do for a girl,’ Tiffany said breezily as she sailed past. ‘Oh, and Cliff?’

Cliff nodded eagerly.

‘Your fly’s undone.’

The Mothers’ Group girls could barely control their chortles as they made their way to their table.

Mim flounced out her napkin and laid it on her lap. ‘Wow, this is an incredible development. You’re handling it very well,’ she said with concern to Tiffany. ‘Are you sure you’re okay about it?’

‘Well, of course I’m not okay,’ admitted Tiffany. ‘I was really floored when I found out. But the one redeeming thought I keep having is that I can’t wait to see what Keith Crabtree does when he discovers who’s been sleeping with his daughter.’

‘Slow down, Mim,’ puffed Tiffany as her little legs struggled to keep pace with Mim’s long strides. Albert Park Lake was a mirror and there were hundreds of other joggers, power-walkers and pram-pushers out enjoying the bright autumn day.

‘Sorry, sweet.’ Mim slowed her pace fractionally.

The hangovers from last night’s Winter Soiree were waning in the fresh air, and Mim was keen to pump Tiffany for information now that she had her to herself.

‘So,’ said Mim, ‘what’s the update?’

Tiffany’s new body looked svelte and sexy in her navy Adidas flared-leg tracksuit pants, and Guess red, white and blue windcheater. Since her emotional night with Mim she had fluctuated between feeling miserable and used, to feeling vengeful and powerful. She had been thorough in her research and, with the help of a private-eye, all evidence pointed to the fact that Cliff was indeed having an affair.

The detective had followed his paper trail down a sordid path. It led to restaurants (when Cliff had told Tiff he was at
business meetings), to hotels (instead of the office), and in one case a Gold Coast resort (not the bemoaned conference in Sydney).

The email trail was the most obvious, though. He was so stupid if he thought his password was going to stop her from accessing his laptop. It had taken one guess. Tiffany typed ‘BIGMAN’ and was in. Sure enough, as per Mim’s advice, there were the emails in the deleted folder; a long list of them dating back to October of last year. And all of them signed ‘Clary’.

Tiffany found it difficult reading the emails. Some were almost pornographic, as she’d expected, and quite intimate, so she was almost embarrassed to be reading this personal correspondence – until she shook herself and remembered that she was married to the recipient.

‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘I told you about this “Clary” woman, didn’t I?’

‘Yep, Keith Crabtree’s daughter?’ Mim said.

‘The very one. I read all their emails. It would seem they got together last October at the Awards function. Sophie had the flu that night and I had to cancel at the last minute. I remember Cliff was annoyed because he thought he’d look like a loser sitting at a table with an empty chair next to him.

‘Then the emails started. She seemed, initially, like a bit of a stalker, which surprised me because I thought Cliff would hate that kind of thing. But he got right into it and there are lots of references to meeting at romantic locations. The prick even took her to the same restaurant he took me to on our first date.’

‘Ohmigod, has he no shame?’

‘No, apparently not, but I think we knew that.’ Tiffany shot Mim a sidelong glance. She sighed deeply and continued, ‘Then there were the weekends away, once even at the
beach-house. I remember that weekend. God, I can’t believe I was so STUPID! I had picked the kids up from school on a Friday afternoon and decided on the spur of the moment to head off to Portsea for the weekend. I
thought
Cliff had a golf day on so I wouldn’t be seeing him at the beach-house till late that night.

‘We arrived at Portsea and there was Cliff’s car in the driveway. I wasn’t even the slightest bit suss! We went in and he came walking down the stairs with a huge smile on his big, ugly mug. When I asked what he was doing there he told me that the golf day had been at Moonah Links and he had popped in for a shower and change before heading out to meet the lads at the nineteenth hole. It all seemed so feasible at the time! He seemed happy to see us and said “great minds think alike”. Then we had the most wonderful family weekend away together. You know, on my way down, I probably drove past the little slut on the freeway.’

Then Tiffany filled Mim in on the rest. Another realisation that she had had, through her traumatic journey of discovery, was that Cliff was probably planning on leaving her. At least the momentous decision to break up the marriage had been taken off her shoulders, she reflected ruefully.

So now Tiffany had to decide on the best way to protect herself and her children. Obviously the assets would need to be liquidated and split up; the Mason-Jackson family home, the cliff-top beach-house in Portsea and the chalet at Falls Creek. But before a single thing was said or done she’d shouted herself a cosmetic fling on Cliff’s tab – it was the least the bastard could do.

Next on the list was a divorce attorney – she was going to screw every last cent out of him.

Stopping at the exercise station, both women pushed their way through fifty gruelling sit-ups and some leg-presses – Tiffany, somewhat gingerly, given her delicate state.

Mim threw one of her long pins up on the stretching bar and released the strain in her calves.

‘Oooooh, that’s better,’ she groaned.

They wandered down to a bench at the water’s edge and sat, watching the ducks flapping about in excitement as a child fed them popcorn.

Mim looked at Tiffany as she stared out over Albert Park Lake. The fine scars from the recent surgery glowed pink around her hair line. She wondered how long Tiff’s makeover would satisfy her; Mim knew her well enough to know that she always felt just one more beauty treatment away from happiness. That’s how I’ve been too, she thought regretfully, but God it’s exhausting, and I never want to go as far as Tiff has. I wish I was brave enough just to let it all go; all the facials, manicures and hair appointments. She turned her attention back to Tiff.

‘So?’ asked Mim. ‘What next?’

‘Well,’ Tiffany stared at a peacock preening its feathers on the other side of the lake. She ran a fingernail along her newly defined jaw. ‘Look out world!’

That night, post-cleansing, Mim stared in the mirror at her naked, nearly forty-year-old face and saw a time capsule. There were the laugh lines from screeching at Monique’s great sense of fun, the crow’s feet from years of smiling at the children playing at the beach, the freckles across her nose (aka facial age spots) from her sailing days. And the frown lines? They were the most valuable of all her age marks. Only a mother had frown lines like that.

She was pleased to see her history on her face, not erased by chemicals and misguided vanity.

She rubbed her hands over her eyes and face and looked once more in the mirror. This time she looked into her own eyes. Hello? Is anyone in there? Who are you? I don’t
recognise you. You’re no longer the idealistic uni student hoping to save the world, you’re not the adventurous spirit ready to fly off to the Galapagos Islands and be amazed by a giant tortoise, or the awestruck new mum, euphoric and dedicated.

Where did those women go and who’s left behind? She had no answers.