Other People’s Diaries (15 page)

T
he handwriting was small and precise – it reminded Alice of the little sentences of encouragement her children's teachers sometimes wrote in the margins of the children's homework books.

Dear Alice

I understand why you sent me that last instruction. But you also have to understand why it's not possible.

We come from different points of view, you and I. I grew up reading the Brontës and admiring the Impressionists. But I never had any expectation that I'd see the English moors or look at anything other than calendar prints of Monet's garden. I was to have a husband and a family – which I did.

You, like my children, learn of something in one moment and wonder in the next when you can see it for yourself. To be honest, I'm not sure which way is better. You have more opportunities, yes. But do more opportunities always deliver more happiness? I'm not so sure.

For you, doing something alone means that you are independent and unbound by another's desires. For me doing something alone means that everyone is looking at me and wondering why I have no husband or friend. So what to you is an adventure on the other side of the world is to me an expedition fraught with intimidating experiences and challenges.

Am I doing a good job of explaining this? I don't know. I'm figuring it out as I write. But my solution, if there is such a thing, lies closer to home. I'm sure about that.

Yours sincerely

Lillian

Alice looked down at the crumbs on her plate in disgust.

‘That was awful. Why on earth did I eat it?'

‘It looked good,' Lillian supplied, trying to be helpful.

‘Yes – they always do. I seem to have this ridiculous compulsion to buy muffins. They always sound fabulous – raspberry and coconut, apple and cinnamon – but inevitably they are incredibly ordinary – no matter what they claim to have in them.'

She paused for a moment.

‘Think about it, have you ever eaten a good muffin?'

Lillian's brow creased. ‘Not that I can remember. They always seemed to be about twice the size any one person could possibly eat and leave an aftertaste like mothballs.'

Alice drained her last mouthful of coffee and set the glass down firmly on the table. The cafe was almost half full even though it was a weekday morning.

‘All right, that is officially my last muffin ever. This is definitely the new me. Unless I see a double chocolate one – I'd have to make an exception for that.'

Her casual words were a cover. When she'd received Lillian's last letter she'd been incredibly disappointed. Without stopping to think, she'd posted a reply asking Lillian to call her so they could arrange to meet for a coffee. Lillian had sounded reluctant, but too polite to refuse.

Alice was dressed in a pair of wide-legged linen trousers and a pink cotton shirt she'd had for years and always made her feel good. Without a hairdresser's straightening iron, her hair decided where it kinked and where it sat flat. So today she'd abandoned the fight, pushing it back into a wide hair band.

The hairdresser, who had also done her make-up the other night, had waved a couple of brushes over her face, somehow putting the features back into the right proportions. Alice knew
better than to attempt it herself, though, and this morning had merely applied a touch of mascara. She felt a little like Batman after the Joker had stripped off his mask. But this was real life and there was no point in pretending to be something she wasn't.

If Lillian had noticed the marked slide in Alice's personal grooming she didn't show it.

‘Do you actually enjoy writing?' Lillian asked.

‘I loved writing
Her Life, My Life
,' Alice answered slowly. ‘My second book was written for all the wrong reasons and for everyone else. It was a struggle to write every word and it showed.'

She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her fists. ‘But my first book was different. The best thing was actually not the writing but the noticing. When I'm writing, or even just thinking about writing, the whole world looks more vivid. I look at people differently and see things I wouldn't normally notice. Nothing terribly revolutionary, just little glimpses or edges of things that make me think. Sometimes it's depressing, but sometimes I see some marvellous things that I might not normally notice.'

‘Like what?' Lillian asked.

‘Like that man,' Alice nodded at an elderly man off to one side of the cafe. ‘He was here before us and was just finishing his coffee when we came in. He's been looking around and whenever anyone looks at him he just smiles a bit.'

Lillian smiled politely, obviously thinking both Alice and the man were distinctly strange.

‘He's not creepy,' Alice said quickly. ‘You can tell. He moved that table when a woman with a stroller was trying to get out. He's just happy to be around people and being a part of everything that's going on here.'

‘He sounds a little sad,' Lillian replied.

‘Maybe,' Alice conceded, ‘but he doesn't look sad. Those people look sad.' She gestured discreetly at a couple waiting for their coffees at a table nearby. They both stared into middle distance, matching vacant looks on their faces.

‘They're not even bored, at least that would be an emotion.
They've got nothing to say to each other, but they don't even notice because they're so used to it.'

Lillian turned back from the couple, about to say they looked pretty normal to her, but something in Alice's face stopped her. She twisted the teaspoon in her cup, absently stirring the caramel-coloured froth into the milk, and then looked up.

‘It doesn't make me any better at making my own life work, but I've got twenty-twenty vision for everyone else's.' Alice paused. ‘I'm sorry if I offended you, suggesting you go overseas.'

Lillian shook her head. ‘I'm not offended. A little uncomfortable to have had to explain why I don't want to do it. But not offended.'

Alice nodded. ‘I'm having serious second thoughts about starting this whole thing and your letter made me panic – I'll understand if you'd like to stop now.' After a slight pause, she continued. ‘I'll instruct my staff to see you get a full refund,' she smiled. ‘No questions asked.'

Lillian didn't return the smile. ‘I think that is probably the best plan,' she nodded. ‘I'm not sure I'm really a group person.'

Alice felt as if someone had poured cold water over her; she hadn't really expected Lillian to take her up on the offer. She'd only made it because she'd felt she should. Lillian was supposed to brush it aside as if it wasn't an option.

But she hadn't and Alice could tell this was the beginning of the end. She could feel her little group unravelling.

Megan was clearly not taking the group seriously. Her last entry about not breaking up with her married lover had seemed almost like a taunt. Alice had no idea why Megan had joined the group. She had thought about suggesting that Megan drop out, but decided against it. She had to take what this group brought up, regardless of whether or not she liked it.

Now Lillian didn't want to be involved. Alice's book was never going to be written. Never even get off the ground.

She cleared her throat. ‘Okay then.'

Lillian looked uncomfortable.

‘Well … thanks for the coffee.'

‘No problem. It was probably not a great idea anyway.'

Lillian put her hand gently over Alice's where it rested on the table. ‘Just because I'm not the right person for it doesn't mean your idea won't work. I think in a lot of ways you are right and that it is the little things that hold it all together. But I sometimes think all I have ever done my whole life is little things. Tea and scones, flowers always on the hall table …'

She opened her mouth to continue but Alice interrupted, words tumbling over themselves without thought. ‘But don't you see – that's why we need you in the group. It's not about flowers or tea – that was just an example. It's about making changes that make you happy. It's about people who should be happy, being miserable. People whose husbands are strangers. People who used to be interesting but now are the ones who listen to everyone else's stories …

‘People like me,' she finished weakly.

She paused and sat back in her chair, tipping her head back for a moment.

Lillian said nothing and Alice spoke again.

‘I didn't suggest that you go overseas so that you could visit the Louvre or see the Statue of Liberty. I just thought maybe now was your time to spread your wings and see what you're capable of. And that's much harder to do when you're at home doing the same things you have for the last forty years.

‘You might find Parisians rude or New York filthy and wish you were home. But maybe being somewhere different, with nothing to do but wander the streets and see fabulous things, might just help you find your adventure.'

Alice stopped herself and laughed self-consciously. She could tell by the look on Lillian's face the older woman hadn't changed her mind.

She held out her hand. ‘It has been a pleasure meeting you and I wish you well.'

Lillian grasped it. ‘The same to you, Alice,' she said quietly.

Why don't you see if you can make a new tradition? Something small, but something that both you and Annie enjoy.

L
ast night's beers were taking turns with the vodkas, which had seemed like such a good idea at the time, to pound the back of Kerry's eyeballs. He took the opportunity of a red traffic light to allow his eyelids to droop closed, only opening them reluctantly at the sound of the horn behind.

Under other conditions he could imagine himself having been inspired by Alice's email. One of the things he'd confessed to Alice on his questionnaire was his sense of loss for the rituals he had enjoyed when they were a family.

Sunday morning walks with Annie to the bakery to buy sticky pastries for breakfast weren't the same when there was no one to bring them home to. And sneaking out together for an early morning walk was rendered pointless when there was no one left at home for a sleep-in.

But today, all he could think about was survival. He had planned to take Annie to a kids' session at the art gallery. Right now, though, that seemed the idea of a madman. Just the prospect of negotiating the carpark crammed with overzealous parents filled him with horror. Hours watching Annie make rubbings
or other artistically worthy objects made torture seem a viable alternative.

Normally he enjoyed receiving Alice's emails. She was so different from Sandra. Older obviously and not as good-looking as Sandra. But there was something about her that made him want to make her laugh and to like him. And so he'd found himself flirting a little in emails. She hadn't objected and so he'd continued.

But right now writing a witty response to Alice seemed on a similar level of difficulty to developing a cure for cancer.

The only reason he'd seen the email was that he'd logged onto the internet to see whether the Wallabies had won their match in Scotland overnight. He'd had a sneaking feeling of déjà vu when he saw the scoreline, more likely caused by alcohol amnesia than some sixth sense. The possibility that he'd been out late enough to see the final score and drunk too much to remember something so critical made him feel immediately sicker.

He and Brian had just been going out for a quiet beer. But they'd run into an old mate of Kerry's who had been at lunch all afternoon. A drink together had turned into about a hundred and the last thing Kerry remembered was a nasty nightclub somewhere in the Valley. Vague recollections kept flashing through his mind like a hazily recollected movie.

‘What you cannot remember did not happen.' Kerry repeated Brian's mantra under his breath, determined not to push his day even deeper into a ditch with an avalanche of embarrassing memories from the night before.

There, at least, was an advantage of not having Sandra around.

She'd drunk with the best of them in their early days together. But motherhood had drained her party-girl fire. She'd start well with a few quick drinks, but by eleven o'clock was generally sober as a judge and ready for bed. It wasn't what she said the next morning, as much as what she didn't say. When he surfaced at what he felt was a hellishly early hour she'd give him a long, amused look, followed by a ‘So how do you feel this morning?'

In a throwback to teenage hangovers in his parents' house, he'd be forced to pretend to feel like a million dollars, on one
memorable occasion even pushing Annie's stroller up and down Paddington's merciless hills in searing summer heat.

At least his appearance in front of Sandra today was a mere cameo. Nothing that a baseball hat and a pair of sunglasses shouldn't get him through.

He pulled up outside the shopfront, the old feeling of resentment coursing through him. This was what it had all been about.

For a while he'd found himself wishing there'd been another man. At least he'd have had something tangible to hate. Perhaps a couple of toe-to-toe confrontations, curses spat and punches thrown might have cauterised this feeling inside him. Having lost his wife and family to a beautician's parlour seemed like some kind of bad joke.

He'd thought Sandra was joking at first. Annie was a baby. His business selling plants at farmers' markets was growing, but slowly. The last thing that they needed was the risk of a second small business. That had seemed blatantly obvious to him.

But he'd been dismissive, apparently, patronising and failing to respect her needs and skills.

‘You've got to grow up sometime, Kerry,' Sandra had said once. ‘It's not enough to sit around complaining that things aren't how you want them. If you don't like the plant job then find a new one. If you'd rather live somewhere else, we can figure that out too. But drinking too much and covering everything up with jokes is not going to change anything.'

She'd paused and then looked straight at him. ‘I'm not going to just sit around watching you be miserable.'

There'd been long talks, and then silence. They didn't even fight, reduced to sarcastic comments and blistering looks.

Sandra hated his drinking and Kerry had made a few half-hearted attempts at giving up over the years, but it had never stuck.

Kerry's vintage Aston Martin was another bone of contention. Kerry had spent many hours and an incalculable sum of money restoring the sports car. It rarely moved from under the house, using too much petrol to drive further than the corner
shop. Sandra had never understood the pleasure Kerry found in working on the car and had always wanted him to sell it.

Kerry had thought that Sandra had come to terms with the fact that her business would have to wait. He'd even thought things were improving between them. Then one Tuesday night, right after walking in from a day potting more bromeliads than he'd hoped ever to see in a lifetime, she'd handed him a set of keys.

Maybe they could have worked it out if it hadn't been for the key tag. It was a cheap plastic one – the type you buy from a hardware store for fifty cents. The type that you can't prise open and write on without a sharp knife and a great deal of patience. In handwriting neater than Kerry had ever seen her produce, Sandra had written the words
Sandra's Salon
.

He'd stared at the tag. Those carefully curled letters excluded him more than any tirade of bitterness could have. They meant she had gone ahead and done it without him, without even talking to him. For the whole time they'd been together decisions had been made jointly. They were a partnership. But Sandra had chosen her own way. The partnership was finished.

Kerry had held the keys out, plastic tag curled tightly in his hand. Perhaps if he crushed it this would all go away, he had thought for a wild moment. But when Sandra held out her hand he'd dropped the keys softly into her palm.

And then he'd turned around and walked out.

Try as he might, Kerry couldn't help feeling he was a living cliché of a divorced dad. The only things missing were an American accent and a four-wheel drive. Every time Kerry picked Annie up, he vowed he'd relax and act normal. And every time he didn't. Somehow their days together always felt as though they had to be planned, in a way that had never been the case when he and Sandra were together. There was always a defined start and a finish which somehow left the in-between time as something which had to be filled rather than just lived. Usually by the end of the weekend they'd find the old grooves and slip into them gratefully. But then it would be another few days or a week until the next visit and, like landing on the biggest snake on the Snakes
and Ladders board Annie had got for Christmas, they'd slide right back to the beginning again.

He'd find himself standing in places like an art gallery, places that should be listed in some kind of Rough Guide to Divorced Fathering, trying to identify the single dads. Packed lunches were a giveaway. The guys who were sitting out on the gallery steps while the children munched Vegemite sandwiches were definitely just giving the wife some down time. But put Kerry in the gallery's cafe and he was in more like-minded company. If a guy said no to the huge slab of cake poised temptingly under the glass counter, he was definitely not a single dad; but when the cake was whisked out by the cafe staff accompanied by an ‘Of course, darling, whatever you want, this is a special day!', Kerry knew he wasn't alone.

His personal giveaway was hot chips. Sandra had always been health conscious and while they were married Kerry and Sandra had presented a united front to Annie. Porridge or Weet-Bix were the choices for breakfast while Kerry thought longingly about the Coco Pops he'd craved every day of his childhood and eaten every day of his adulthood despite widespread derision. They'd both agreed when Annie became old enough to figure out that Daddy was eating something different that it was probably time for him to grow up anyway.

Hot chips had obviously been on the unacceptable list. Even Kerry knew how bad they were for you. One day after he and Sandra had been divorced about three months, Kerry took Annie to the beachside at Manly. They walked past a cafe on the corner and the mouth-watering smell of chips freshly drowned in litres of old animal fat wafted out of the doors. About to walk past, Kerry stopped.

‘Do you know what I really feel like, sweetheart?' he asked Annie. She shook her head, presumably not even recognising the smell.

‘A big plate of hot chips with loads of tomato sauce!'

Annie's look just about broke his heart. A two year old looking at him like it was Christmas. He cursed the years of the sensible diet he and Sandra had laid on her. Who cared if a few transfats
ran around her bloodstream? One of the immutable characteristics of children was that they loved bad food. And if that was a way to make his little girl happy, when he only saw her for fourteen waking hours per week, well so be it.

So Coco Pops were back on the menu at Kerry's house.

Kerry pulled the cap down a little lower and pushed the sunglasses up a little higher. With a deep breath he opened the car door and pulled himself upright using the door frame. Conscious of the fact that Sandra could be watching from inside, he didn't collapse over the car as every muscle urged him to. Instead he closed the door softly and walked toward the door, willing himself not to vomit in the gutter.

Sandra and Annie lived in a small house attached to Sandra's Salon. It was perfect as she'd tried to explain to Kerry on various occasions. A one-off opportunity she couldn't let slip away by indecision.

The entrance was off to one side of the salon and Kerry knocked on the door, closing his eyes briefly behind the glasses.

‘Mummy, Daddy's here!' Kerry could hear Annie screech from outside, and smiled to himself.

Seconds later Sandra's steps echoed on the polished floorboards and she opened the door. ‘Hello Kerry,' she smiled.

Please couldn't this get a little easier soon? Kerry sent up a prayer to any entity who would deign to intervene in his screwed-up existence.

His wife – correction, ex-wife – stood in front of him as gorgeous as the day he'd met her. At least if they couldn't get back together again, she could get really fat, couldn't she? He sent that wish up after the first one.

‘Hi Sandra. You're looking good.'

He wasn't sure if the contraction of facial muscles he managed constituted a smile, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

They were saved the ongoing humiliation of small talk by a slight figure in a pink leotard and tutu. Annie ran past Sandra and into Kerry's arms. ‘Daddy!' she yelled in glee.

‘Hello sweetheart.' He hugged her tight for a moment and then held her at arm's length. ‘Now how did you know that you needed to wear a tutu today?'

Kerry could feel Sandra glower at them. That was the other part of divorced dad syndrome. Nothing he could do was right with Sandra. If he didn't do interesting things with Annie he wasn't giving her priority in his life. But if he did, he was spoiling her and trying to make Sandra look bad given all the humdrum things she had to do with Annie.

‘Is it a fairy party, Daddy?'

‘Nooo, not as such,' Kerry answered, shuddering at the mere thought. ‘We're …' Rule one of parenting was not to tell a child what you were planning until the last available moment. Just in case you needed to change your plans. Rule two of parenting was to pay particular attention to Rule one if you happened to be desperately hungover. ‘… going to the kids' section at the art gallery.'

He listened to his words and felt any possibility of lying on the sofa while Annie played with her Barbies shrivel and die.

Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

‘And I read in the paper last week that there's an exhibition by Degas in the gallery at the moment. Which you obviously knew,' he tousled her hair. ‘Because Degas's claim to fame is painting ballerinas. So grab your bag and we'll get going.'

Annie laughed in delight and bounced down the hall.

‘Have you started going to exhibitions?' Sandra asked with what sounded even to Kerry's suspicious ears to be genuine interest.