Husband Hunters (17 page)

‘Are you sure?’ Annabel asked. Clementine nodded.

‘In that case I have one more little gift that might make you feel a little better,’ said Daniela. ‘James asked me if he could have your phone number to pass onto a friend.’

‘What? Who?’

Dani and Annabel shared a proud look.

‘Apparently you made quite an impression on a man named Tim Oldfield at the Jensen party. He said he kept on going back to the kitchen to get pies from the pie-warmer just to talk to you. He had thought you were with Damon, but he saw Damon on the weekend with another woman and so called James immediately, begging for your number.’

Clementine remembered the man with the pies. He had been cute. But this was all too much information. This morning she had been preparing to begin life with Jason, now she was seriously considering never seeing him again. And Damon with another woman — why did that bother her?

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can.’

‘He’s lovely,’ insisted Daniela. ‘Oh God, I sound just like Ma. But he is.’

‘Perfect husband material,’ Annabel chimed in. ‘He’s a photographer. Very successful. He used to shoot all the celebs.’

Clementine frowned. She and Jason were never going to happen. She was convinced of that. Sadly, she thought: why not? With the enthusiasm of a death-row inmate choosing their method of execution, she gave permission for Daniela to pass on her number. By the end of the day she had a text from Tim asking if she would like to have dinner on Wednesday night.

Yes, I’ll meet you at Spice I Am at 7.30
, she wrote. After the little envelope disappeared into the ether, she was left with a feeling of futility. She considered cancelling, but that was not in the spirit of the husband-hunting enterprise.

When she got home she kicked off her shoes. Her plunging green dress was hanging on the door, freshly washed and protected by a thin covering of dry cleaner’s plastic ready for the date that would never happen. Jason had made an 8pm booking for Quay — a harbour side restaurant that had been awarded a galaxy of stars by food critics. Clementine had taken the choice as a good sign things were going to change. Now, she was about to call and cancel when she realised there was no food in the house. A copy of
Love in a Cold Climate
was sitting on her hall table. She had started it in April, but hadn’t had a chance to devote the necessary hours to it. She slipped it into her handbag, changed into a simple black cocktail dress, put on her nanna’s pearl earrings, and walked towards the harbour.

When she got home three hours later, her mood had lifted. It had been luxurious to sit and read and have beautiful dishes bought to her.

This isn’t so bad, she had thought, climbing the stairs. On her doorstep was a small box of flowers and a card. It simply said:
You deserve better. X
.

Clem smiled. Jason. She thought about calling him, but steadied herself. He was about to go through a divorce. They were messy and unpredictable and heart-breaking, and he was doing it for her. She could be patient. She picked up the box of tulips and went inside smiling.

By Wednesday she felt much better. Buoyant, even. Yes, she was thirty-five, but she had a thriving practice and a man who loved her. Other men wanted to take her out to dinner. Women reached their sexual peak in their thirties, about fifteen years later than men. She was in the prime of life.

She was meeting Tim for Thai at 7pm. After receiving the flowers from Jason, she realised she absolutely could not let Tim come on the date thinking she was interested. But she never got around to calling, and soon it was Wednesday afternoon and it really was too late. Clementine decided she would politely explain her change in situation, they would have a friendly meal, and split the bill. She bought an expensive bottle of wine as a gesture of good faith.

When she walked into the restaurant, she recognised the friendly-looking man with droopy curls.

‘How are you?’ he greeted her with a warm handshake and a kiss on the cheek.

It turned out they had quite a few friends in common, and it wasn’t long before they were comparing notes. Tim was a photographer at
House and Garden
magazine, which was how he knew James’s sister-in-law Sarah Jensen. They had been celebrity photographers at the
Telegraph
together.

‘That was a long time ago. I still do a little freelance celeb work. Mostly red carpets. Sydney doesn’t have the star power to sustain many full-time paparazzi.’

‘Were you one of those people who chased celebrities down the street?’

Tim winced. ‘Kind of. When I was younger there was a lot of appeal to it. A veneer of glamour. Big money. But, as I say, there isn’t really any work unless you want to shoot
Home and Away
stars buying coffee. Speaking of C-grade celebrities, I saw you speaking to Amanda Ceravic at the party. Is she a friend of yours?’

‘Not exactly. You?’

‘I know her husband. We go kite-surfing together. There’s a whole group of us who go to Ramsgate Beach every Sunday. It’s tremendous fun. A great workout.’

‘I never knew Jason did that,’ Clementine said. ‘But then I don’t really know him that well.’ As she spoke the words, it dawned on her how true they were. She pictured Amanda and Jason as Tim knew them: a happy, perfect couple who took their Labrador for a walk along the beach in matching loafers. Doubt crept into her mind. Tim was still talking. Clementine had to fight the urge to reach into her bag to see if Jason had called.

‘He’s a real kite-surfing die-hard.’

She imagined Jason, absurdly handsome, sailing over the crest of waves strapped into a harness with a colourful kite carrying him into the air.

‘Of course, we probably won’t see as much of him now that his wife is pregnant.’

There was a clang as Clementine dropped her fork.

‘What?’

‘He’ll make a great father,’ Tim went on. That caving-in feeling returned to Clem’s chest. In the distance she could hear Tim saying what a good teacher Jason had been when he had first taken up the hobby. ‘It’s a lot harder than it looks. Jason’s a really top bloke.’

She nodded, and wiped her shaking hands on a napkin.

‘Excuse me,’ she stammered, standing.

She practically ran to the bathroom, where she stumbled into a stall. She could taste vomit in the back of her throat. Amanda. Pregnant. How long had Jason known? She fanned herself with her fingers. Perspiration was making her shirt stick to her skin. It was twelve degrees outside, but she was burning up. She ran the tap into her cupped hands and gulped water. She felt as though she had spent half the year lurching towards ladies’ rooms so nobody would see her have a meltdown over her relationship.

Somehow she got through the rest of the meal. Tim talked about photography while she stared at her Thai salad, which was starting to wilt. She knew how it felt. Outside on the street she fished her phone from her bag, hoping there would be an explanatory text message from Jason. She shook the phone, as though the message could be lodged somewhere in the back where she couldn’t see it. The streets were bare. She twisted her ring, aflame with fury and embarrassment and remorse. She was so angry she could hardly walk. But it was dark. And it was late. She put one foot in front of the other and began the slow walk home.

Clementine spent the next day kneading her eyes with her knuckles and tossing back handfuls of pills. Vitamin A for her immune system, D, B
₆
and some thiamine for mental acuity. The Highetts arrived at 3pm. A fresh crisis had arisen upon the discovery that they needed to buy a new car. Clem took a vitamin B pill.

When the day ended, she wandered into the city and aimlessly browsed racks of clothes in the quiet company of other late-night shoppers. She idly touched the mid-winter mark-downs and wondered what Jason was doing. Perhaps her was tucked on a couch behind Amanda, with one hand sitting protectively on her tight belly.

Clementine picked out items she would never wear, and pretended she was someone else. She chose a yellow bikini and a fiery orange caftan, a turquoise skirt with horrid copper coins dangling from the hem, and a belted dress printed with parrots.

‘You’re off on a holiday, then?’ said the changing-room attendant brightly as she handed her a plastic card.

‘Yes,’ Clem said absently. ‘The Maldives.’

‘The Maldives?’ She heard a squawk in her ear. Mirabella Burbage-Jones-McRae, freshly baked from her honeymoon, was standing behind her, holding a fistful of spangly dresses and shopping bags — including one from Baby Bunting.

‘Mirabella,’ Clem tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘How are you?’

‘Clementine,’ Mirabella leaned in to apply her glossy lips to each of Clem’s cheeks. ‘I’m fabulous, positively radiant. The honeymoon was divine.
We
went to the Maldives.’

Mirabella was wearing a sculpted leather jacket and a high-collared silk blouse that made her look like a frill-necked lizard. She had the sharp, flinty eyes of a reptile.

‘I heard a rumour that you’re having a tryst with a friend of mine.’

Clem felt as though she had been hit with a frying pan.

‘No, I …’ she stammered. ‘I don’t know where you got that from.’

Mirabella arched her eyebrow. Clementine put a hand to her throat. Her oesophagus felt as though it was being crushed.

‘My maid of honour told me,’ Mirabella said coolly. ‘For heaven’s sake, Clementine, I don’t see what all the fuss is about: Damon Dresner is a catch. Especially for you.’

Clementine breathed out. She was too relieved to be insulted. The blood returned to her extremities as her heart began to beat again.

‘Oh, no, I mean — we did. That is, we were, um, seeing each other,’ she looked away.

‘If I were you, I’d lock him down.’ Mirabella pointed a painted talon at Clementine. ‘How old are you now? Thirty-six?’

Clem straightened her back. ‘I just turned thirty-five.’

‘Still,’ said Mirabella. ‘I remember turning thirty-four and thinking “thank heavens I have my Humpty”. Did I tell you I’m re-doing the house for the summer?’ She pulled a large blue box from one of her shopping bags. ‘The theme will be St Tropez chic.
House and Garden
magazine are doing a summer series of Sydney homes, and I want ours to be featured. I was speaking to the editor at a cocktail party the other night and she said—’

To change the subject Clem nodded at her other bags.

‘Baby Bunting: you’re not …?’

Mirabella lifted the bag. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Oh, God no.’ She opened the bag and produced a small knitted jumpsuit in dove grey. It had wooden buttons and little white feet.

‘Isn’t it darling?’ she cooed, as if the suit held a real baby. ‘Touch it, it’s cashmere.’

Clem slowly reached her hand toward it.

‘This is for a friend of mine. You know her: Amanda Ceravic,’ Mirabella said. Clementine whipped her hand away as though the suit was woven arsenic.

‘She’s the one who told me about you and Damon. She’s married to Damon’s best friend, Jason. You do know Jason, don’t you, Clementine?’

Mirabella fixed Clementine with that particular stare of hers, like she was a boa constrictor and Clementine was the small mouse she was about to eat.

‘I think we met briefly at the wedding,’ Clem said faintly.

Mirabella flicked a shiny curl behind her shoulder and took a step towards Clementine. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Jason has a reputation. I was so thrilled when Mandy told me she was pregnant. He loves her, but women lose all their senses when they’re around him.’

Clementine looked into Mirabella’s eyes, trying to understand why she was telling her this.

‘Of course,’ Mirabella said. ‘Amanda is one of the most beautiful women in Sydney. I’m sure she has nothing to worry about. Although’ — Mirabella took another step forward, her face lit with mischief — ‘I did hear at my wedding—’ Clem caught her breath again — ‘that Jason was seen sneaking into the garden with someone …’

Clem scanned Mirabella’s face.

‘I’m sure it was nothing,’ she spoke quickly. ‘Just idle gossip.’

‘Maybe.’ Mirabella didn’t sound convinced.

‘Why would he do that, right there in front of her?’

‘He’d have to be mad,’ Mirabella agreed. ‘Amanda’s a celebrity. She’s just signed on to do a summer TV special called
Yummy Mummies
. If he ever cheated on her, it would be quite the scandal.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Clementine choked.

‘Well, I must run,’ Mirabella said, as she leaned forward and, once again, stamped Clementine with her sticky cherry lips. She sauntered towards the elevator, leaving Clem feeling like she had just been narrowly missed by a falling piano.

Mirabella was right. If the seal of secrecy around the affair was somehow breached, it wouldn’t just be Clem’s friends and clients who would hear about it, it would be everybody in Sydney. Clementine grasped her ring, breathless at how close she had come to catastrophe. Bold font headlines appeared before her eyes.
Marriage counsellor steals Sydney socialite’s husband. Preggo journo loses hubby to slutty shrink.

She would never work again.

Outside, the air was mean. Clementine passed a toy store with a kite display in the window. Their colourful tails were pinned up as if floating on a breeze. She put her hand on the glass, thinking that right now what she needed was some wholesomeness in her life; green grass and fresh air and afternoons without booze and men and text messages about ending marriages. But the shop was closed.

She slumped home. She was sifting through her bag looking for her keys when a car horn ripped through the air. Clem jumped and dropped her satchel. The source of the noise, a blue car, was parked two houses down. It was a familiar Saab. The car door opened. A large flock of roses emerged, followed by Jason’s arm. She turned back to her building’s security door and tried to get the key into the lock.

‘Clementine!’ he shouted.

‘Go away,’ she flapped her arm at him.