Other People’s Diaries (21 page)

Jeremy and I decided that confronting Bianca about what she'd done before we knew how to deal with it would only end badly. So we decided to find someone to talk to – an expert. Someone who deals with these things all the time. Then we would make a plan so that we could fix it in a way that it would never, ever happen again. Which all made a lot of sense at the time. But now I am sitting here at three in the morning wondering how, in four hours' time, I am going to pretend to my daughter that I haven't seen what she's done to herself
.

I keep trying to figure out why
.

Is there something I don't know about – bullying at school maybe, or some kind of abuse?

Or is it because of me? Because Bianca was my whole life until Jeremy, then Sam arrived on the scene. Maybe, though, it's simpler than that. Even before the others arrived I'd never been like other mothers. Can not being there to take your daughter home from school to feast on oven-warm chocolate-chip cookies make her hate you and herself enough to do this?

R
ebecca's BlackBerry beeped. She pulled her eyes back from the window where she'd been staring without seeing the magnificent view down the river.

3 pm Coffee w Claire
, the built-in diary warned her.

Rebecca had fully expected Claire to call her daily about the whole group thing, agonising with her over the tasks set for her or what Claire should put in her diary entries. She hadn't, though.

One morning last week, Rebecca had pulled up the website. She'd read a few lines of her entry about the breakfast with Bianca and then, cringing, been unable to read more. The next entry down had been one from Claire. Sadness had permeated Claire's words and Rebecca had impulsively picked up the phone and called her. She'd reached her voicemail and had left a message suggesting a coffee. Two answering machine messages later, they had arranged to meet today.

That was before Rebecca had discovered Bianca had been cutting herself. In the early hours of the morning she'd given up all attempts to sleep and turned on her computer. She'd written about what had happened, posting the entry on the site before she could change her mind.

Rebecca rubbed her eyes. Elbow propped on the desk, she rested her head on her closed fist. Perhaps Claire hadn't looked at the website this morning and hadn't read Rebecca's entry. What the hell was she doing anyway? What kind of desperate loony wrote private details in an online diary she knew a friend would be reading? It was different for all the others, they didn't know anyone else in the group, and no one outside the group could access the website.

In the dark hours of the early morning, writing in the diary had seemed soothing and constructive. In the burning heat of early afternoon it looked like madness.

The reminder only gave her fifteen minutes. Claire would be in the city by now; Rebecca could cancel but it would be incredibly rude. Not that that would necessarily stop her. She'd spent years cancelling social occasions or just being extraordinarily late. Suddenly, though, she didn't have the energy to make up an excuse.

Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she walked out of the glass-fronted office.

‘I'm heading out for an appointment, Angela. Back in an hour or so.'

Her assistant smiled back. ‘Okay – see you later.'

Hartman Consultants were on the tenth floor of one of the glass towers fringing the Brisbane River. They'd undergone a facelift by a team of interior designers two years previously. Chrome, caramel and dark brown had replaced a medley of blues. A sheet of sparkling glass was all that separated the corridor from the offices on both sides. Rebecca cast a look at the tiny internal offices in which she'd spent years. Each was now filled with a twenty-something year old intent on being the best and brightest in recruitment. Just watching their enthusiasm made her feel tired.

Eyes averted from her boss's corner office, she reached the bank of lifts and pressed the down button. The lift was blissfully empty and Rebecca stared at herself in the mirrored walls. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail; only now did she realise how drawn it made her face look. She pulled mascara from her bag and brushed another coat onto her lashes. A quick swipe of her favourite lipstick and she looked passable. Or like a drag queen … sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

Rebecca's sunglasses misted as she stepped out of the airconditioned building. The air was still and soup-like, the sun ferocious. She slowed her pace deliberately, but still felt the sweat spreading across her skin.

She stepped gratefully into the airconditioned cafe. Claire was there, sitting at a small table in the corner. As always, she looked as though she'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her dress looked fresh and summery, the navy offset by a long string of red beads and matching shoes. Rebecca felt crumpled, tired and outdated, her suit one she'd been wearing for years. A dart of resentment that Claire had time to pull together outfits like that shot through her.

‘Hey,' she stood next to the table.

Claire looked up and smiled. ‘Rebecca – hello.'

‘How are you?' Rebecca asked as she sat down.

‘Fine, fine,' Claire answered.

As Rebecca looked closely at her, she saw the dark circles under Claire's eyes, the fine lines pinching the corners of her mouth. She felt a pang of shame that she of all people could have felt envious of Claire's spare time.

‘Are you okay?' Claire asked.

Rebecca didn't meet Claire's eyes. ‘Me? Sure.'

‘Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. Peter's mother always does that to me – asking if I feel all right, implying that I look awful.' Claire hesitated. ‘You don't – look awful, I mean …' She smiled nervously. ‘It's just that I read your diary entry this morning.'

Rebecca nodded slowly, fiddling with a small red cardboard box which held tubes of sugar.

A young man with a black apron and a harried air arrived at their table. They placed their orders, silence settling again as he left.

‘Look,' Claire said finally. ‘We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I just wanted you to know that I read what you wrote.'

Rebecca looked up at Claire. For a second the last seventeen years disappeared and they were friends who told each other everything.

‘Not saying anything to Bianca this morning was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.'

Rebecca paused and Claire stayed silent.

‘Jeremy and I decided we had to pretend everything was fine. From the second that Bianca walked into the kitchen I started acting like some demented housewife. I asked everyone about their plans for the day, even poked my head out the window to assess the weather at one stage.' She laughed bitterly.

‘Jeremy kept looking at me like he expected me to lose it at any second. But I didn't. I didn't stop chatting until I dropped Bianca at school. Then I managed to drive around the corner and park before I fell apart. By the time I got to work Jeremy had lined up an appointment with a counsellor. About the only efficient thing I did all morning was to reschedule my 11 am appointment so that we could see him.'

Rebecca became aware that her fists were clenched, fingernails digging into her palm. She forced herself to relax.

Their coffees arrived, but they both ignored them.

‘It's called self-harm and apparently is frighteningly prevalent in teenage girls. The counsellor didn't have any answers. He just said that what Bianca is doing is both a way of saying something is wrong and that she doesn't want or need help. Try and make some sense of that if you can.'

Claire kept her eyes locked on Rebecca's, not saying a word. Rebecca cupped her hands around her water glass, feeling the condensation cooling her palms.

‘He thinks that the very thing Bianca keeps pushing away – us and the whole family thing – is what she needs. He thinks we need to try and pull her back. That even though she'll kick and scream, deep down she really wants to be part of the family and be loved.'

‘Does he think she'll do it again?' Claire spoke quietly.

Rebecca took a shuddering breath. ‘He thinks she almost certainly will. And he said it is up to us whether we confront her and tell her we know.'

‘Really? Surely you have to talk to her about it?'

Rebecca shook her head. ‘He gave us a whole bunch of articles to read – apparently forcing her to stop could make it worse. He called it “removing the coping mechanism”. The fact that she is cutting her stomach indicates that she doesn't want anyone to know – if it had been her arms, that could be a cry for help, but this …

‘So,' she laughed shakily, ‘I get to keep doing my Stepford Wives act for the foreseeable future while trying to get her hooked up with someone she can talk to. The counsellor suggested talking to her school and seeing if there is a teacher there who could help. In the meantime we have to force her to eat with us and plan some fun family outings.'

‘Is Jeremy helping?' Claire asked, sympathy written all over her face.

‘Actually, that's the only good thing that's come out of this whole thing. My husband is talking to me again.' Rebecca paused. ‘You know about what I did, I suppose?'

Claire nodded briefly.

‘So on a positive note, at least I'm not feeling guilty about that for the moment.'

Rebecca pulled her coffee toward her and dropped a large spoonful of sugar onto the top, watching it sink slowly into the foam.

‘Do you think maybe that not knowing her father has anything to do with it?' Claire asked tentatively. ‘She seemed pretty upset about it the night you came around to our place.'

With Claire's words, the reality of the situation slammed back down on top of Rebecca. What on earth had she been thinking, unburdening herself to Claire of all people?

Rebecca picked up her handbag and stood up. ‘I'm sorry Claire, but I have to go.'

The look of hurt which crossed Claire's face sent a stab of guilt through Rebecca.

‘I'll call you,' she lied, and unsteadily wound her way between the tables and out of the cafe door.

I know this diary is supposed to be about me but I just had to correct something in Claire's last entry
.

She said the clothes consultant stall at the school fete went ‘quite well'
.

Bollocks. It went brilliantly
.

She failed to mention that not only did she sell almost half of the clothes (if you'd seen the clothes you would appreciate what a miracle that was in itself). She also gave everyone who came in a personal style guide to take home with them. Colour suggestions, styles – the works. She cut pictures out of magazines to give them an idea of what they were looking for
.

This woman has talent
.

As for me, I actually did your last task. I baked a cake. Not just any old cake either. A beetroot and chocolate cake, thank you very much
.

One of the teachers at school has started a veggie garden. Apparently the only thing he can grow is beetroot. So that's what he's growing. Half a backyard of it the way he tells it. Consequently no one is allowed to leave the staffroom unless they have taken their quota of beetroot
.

When I saw the cake recipe in
The Courier Mail
I knew it was meant to be. Doesn't taste too bad really – considering it is a cake with a vegetable in it. Half a tonne of icing probably helps
.

And baking is as good a way to kill another long, hideous Sunday as any other
.

A
s soon as she hit enter, Megan realised she'd probably given away the fact that she hadn't really done any reading at the old folks' home. She'd also admitted how much she had come to hate the weekends – clearly designated family days. She couldn't even concentrate on the computer game she'd been developing over the last few months.

Megan took another bite of the cake.

There was no way she was the only one faking it. Ignoring a slight twinge of guilt, she'd emailed Greg the password to the site several days ago. His theory was no one was actually doing anything – they were all just pretending. Megan had warned him about the entry in which she said it was one of Alice's tasks that had stopped Megan breaking up with him. He'd found it amusing, though, and Megan had wondered, not for the first time, how serious he was about her.

She'd bet Rebecca had skipped a few tasks. She hadn't struck Megan as a joiner – in fact, she'd seemed completely the opposite. And she was busy. Surely she hadn't done everything she claimed to have?

Oh well, what were they going to do? Smack her?

She eyed the enormous cake in front of her.

It was all right for Alice to tell her to ‘bake a cake from scratch', but she'd be willing to bet Alice's kitchen was rather better equipped than Megan's. Instead of the spring-form cake tin the recipe required, Megan had only been able to come up with a small banged-up heart-shaped tin.

The tin had only taken a small part of the enormous amount of chocolate and beetroot cake batter. Megan had tipped the remainder into a largish saucepan whose handle had come off. Much to her surprise, both cakes had risen beautifully.

She now had a lifetime supply of beetroot and chocolate cake.

Megan's mobile rang.

‘Hello.'

‘Megan. It's Claire. I'm returning your call.'

Claire didn't sound especially friendly. Megan wondered if she had already read the diary entry she'd posted. Perhaps she was annoyed at Megan for butting in on her diary entries. She decided to ignore Claire's marked lack of enthusiasm.

‘Hi,' Megan answered. ‘Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to check something.'

There was no response.

‘I … the principal is sending out a newsletter – a sort of postmortem of the fete. She wanted to check that it's okay if she puts your mobile number in it. Apparently people have been calling up the school asking for your website and the receptionist is getting dirty about it.'

‘I don't have a website.'

Megan rolled her eyes. ‘I know you don't yet. But that won't take long. You could tell people it is under construction and you'll call them back with the details. These are great leads for a start-up business like yours.'

‘I don't have a business. I was just helping you out.'

‘But the mothers loved it. And trust me, they are a tough audience. You can't pass this up.' It's not exactly like you've got anything else to do, Megan added silently.

There was another pause. ‘It was a school fete – and it was free. It's not much of a business if no one gives you any money. Besides, I don't know anything about running a business.'

‘Me either. But I know this is how a lot of successful businesses start.'

Claire seemed determined to prove she couldn't do it. ‘I have no idea how to set up a website.'

Megan suddenly lost her patience. ‘Oh for God's sake, Claire. Who the hell made you Captain Negative?' The silence stretched. ‘Okay then, well let's not worry about it. I'll see you around.'

Megan went to hang up.

‘You really think this is something that could work?' Claire's voice was soft.

‘Yeah, I do. And I can set up a website for you. Easy.' As the
words came out of Megan's mouth she wondered what the hell she was doing. She was a bystander in this group thing. Helping Claire out was absolutely stupid.

‘Don't worry. You've got better things to do. Maybe if I just talk to the people.'

Megan sighed silently. ‘No way. That's not how it works these days. Look, it's no big deal. You need to register a domain which costs less than a hundred bucks. I can put up a template website to get you started. It won't be fancy and you'll need to get someone else to put some stuff on it later, but at least people will know how to contact you. Consider it payback for digging me out of a hole at the fete.'

There was yet another silence on the other end of the line. Then a faint, ‘Okay.'

Megan was tempted to hang up the phone. What was wrong with this woman? She was obviously standing behind the door when personality was handed out.

‘Okay what?' she asked, feeling as though she was speaking to one of her students.

‘Okay, I'm in.'

This was like pulling teeth. ‘Okaaay. Any ideas on a name?'

‘What do you think of “The Real You”?'

Megan didn't even hesitate. ‘Nope – sounds like a Dolly Parton song.' She thought for a moment. ‘What about “Va Va Voom”?'

‘No.' It was Claire's turn to be definite. ‘Too trashy. Sounds even more like Dolly Parton. What about “Style File”? '

‘Not bad,' Megan said. ‘Hang on a second and let me check if the domain name is taken.' She typed for a few seconds.

‘No go, someone already has it,' she said. ‘It's pretty hard to find a good domain that hasn't been registered these days. Unless you're happy to just get an Australian domain name, that'll be a lot easier.'

Claire laughed. The sound was a marked contrast to her flat tones of earlier.

‘Is that a real question? I want dot com of course. For when we open our offices in the States.'

They threw around a few alternatives, all of which were taken.

‘How about Fix Your Wardrobe.com?' Claire suggested. ‘It's not exactly beautiful, but it's what it's about.'

Megan typed it into the domain search engine.

‘Yes! It's free. Right, let's grab it.'

‘How do you know all this stuff?' Claire asked while Megan logged into the purchasing page for the domain name website.

‘I went out with a computer nerd called Ben for most of uni,' Megan answered. ‘Last time I spoke to him he was moving to the States. I haven't heard from him in years, but my guess is he's either a wonder boy at Microsoft or some kind of super computer hacker wanted by the FBI.' She smiled, remembering Ben's total incomprehension that other people could understand so little about computers. It was he who had given Megan her love for computers, but what she knew was just a fraction of the information rattling around in Ben's brilliant mind. All that information hadn't left much room for her, though.

Megan changed the subject. ‘So how's this business going to work? Do you have to go shopping with everyone? That'll get old pretty quickly.'

Claire sounded thoughtful. ‘Maybe not. People seem to think looking good is done with smoke and mirrors but I don't think it is. It's not even having lots of money – although that does help. If someone sent me honest photos of themselves and answered a few questions, I could give them a pretty good idea of what to look for when they're shopping. Maybe even tell them the best places to go. Do you think anyone would pay money for that?'

‘If your popularity at my school is anything to go by I'd say definitely. By the way, what is your full name?'

‘Claire Menzies. Why?'

Megan didn't answer, but typed for a few moments.

‘All right, I need your credit card number for the domain name and the template website.'

Claire hesitated. ‘Okay,' she said finally. ‘Give me a second.'

Claire read out the number, hoping there was still enough credit on it, and Megan entered the details.

‘Right,' Megan said after a moment. ‘You are the new owner of the domain name www.fixyourwardrobe.com. Give me a couple of hours with the template and you will be open for business.'