Other People’s Diaries (4 page)

‘I started carrying on about getting things done and he kept just looking at me, with no understanding of what I was trying to say.'

With relief, Alice noticed a slight softening of the expressions in front of her.

‘I've been thinking about this a lot lately. It sounds strange, but do you know anyone who is really happy? Not someone who's just got a good marriage, or nice kids, or a well-paid job. Someone who is exactly where they want to be, who gets up every morning looking forward to what the day will bring.

‘When my children were small, I used to think I'd be happy when they were older. I remember thinking, if only they were toilet trained … If only they could clean their own teeth … And then I used to think it would all come together when they were in school. Well my youngest started school this year and still I find myself thinking – if only …

‘People seemed to love my book because it was about the simple stuff that was the essence of my grandmother's life. And the question readers asked time after time was how she managed nine children. I could never really answer that. To her it wasn't a matter of managing the children or my grandfather, they just were her life. She wasn't trying to do a million other things or wanting to be somewhere else. I know that's not the answer for any of us. But maybe there's something we can take away from it all.'

Alice took a gulp of champagne. Finally the alcohol was doing its job. She could almost feel it seeping into her bloodstream and relaxing her muscles. She took another sip for good luck.

‘I have a theory,' she proclaimed, her smile taking the seriousness out of her words. ‘I think we need to try to make things a little simpler, find some more time for things like a long lunch. Maybe even to cook it ourselves … I think the balance in our lives is wrong. We're the slaves of what we're doing – we need to change that so we do things that make us happy.'

Rebecca was looking cynical and Alice's brief feeling of success faded.

‘I'm not talking about dramatic changes. You have jobs, commitments … But maybe, by doing a few small things, you can make life more worthwhile or happier. Perhaps even figure out some parts of it that you could do without.'

Enough said, she decided. Either she was totally off course or they got what she was talking about.

‘I'd love to see if what I'm thinking has any value and write about it. I'd like to see if there are some values my grandmother held that could help make us happier in today's world. I don't know anything about any of you. Maybe I've got it totally wrong and everything is perfect in your lives. If so, that's great. But maybe things aren't as good as they could be. If they're not, then maybe what I'm saying makes a bit of sense. So – here's my idea …'

This was it, she thought. Make-or-break time.

‘What I'd like is for you to join me in a kind of experiment. What I want to do is to see if, by reclaiming some simple things in our daily lives, we can find more happiness, more fulfilment.

‘I thought about doing this myself and writing about it. But while I'm great at picking what's wrong with other people's lives, I'm not so good with my own. So I spoke to my boss at the bookshop where I work. She liked the idea and we put the entry forms in all the books we sold over a couple of weeks.'

Alice paused, searching the faces in front of her for a clue as to how this was all being received. Claire looked captivated, Rebecca seriously unamused, the rest fell somewhere in between.

‘What I want to do is see what happens to a group of people who actually try to change things … All of you – if you're willing. If you could each tell me a bit about your lives, I'll send you an email every week or so. The email will ask you to do something differently. Nothing dramatic, nothing weird. Just little things that you can't see for yourself when you're so stuck in the middle of everything. Some of the tasks may be related specifically to your life, some may not be.'

Alice was speaking freely now, moving away from her carefully prepared words.

‘And so I know what's going on, you post a diary entry on my website. The entry can be one sentence or five pages, just write what you feel like. Even a diary entry before you receive your first task would be great – maybe talking about what you thought this whole invitation was about. There's a password, so no one other than the people here can look at the site. It would also be good, I think, to get together each month or so for a drink, just to talk face to face.'

She was getting a couple of suspicious looks.

‘Look, to be honest, I'm not really sure how this will work. I don't have any complicated analysis or tests to apply to outcomes. I just want to read your stories and see if my ideas make a difference. You might decide it's a waste of time. If you don't like it just stop. But if it does work I'd like to write about it. It goes without saying that I would change your names in any book and make sure you weren't identifiable at all – I give you my word on that.'

Alice took a deep breath. She was into the home straight.

She pulled out a pile of folders bound in soft red leather from the large paper carry bag and placed them on the table. They'd been expensive, but as soon as she'd seen them, she'd known they were right.

‘That's it. If it doesn't work for you, that's fine. But if it does, then have a look in these folders, fill out the questionnaire and send it back to me. We can go from there. I thought,' she added hesitantly, ‘that perhaps we could call it the Red Folder Project.'

Picking up her glass she drained the remainder of the champagne.

‘I'm going to leave you to it. There's plenty of champagne for you all – on me. Thank you for coming and I hope to hear from some of you soon.'

Alice walked away as confidently as she could. About to sweep out the door, she felt a hand on her elbow.

‘Alice?'

‘Look, this is weird I know, but would you mind signing this for my mum? It's her birthday on the weekend and she's a huge fan of yours.'

Alice looked at the copy of
Her Life, My Life
in Megan's hands. At least that explained why Megan was here – and why she'd sent so many entry forms.

‘What's your mum's name?' Alice asked.

‘Ah – it's Patricia, she's turning seventy,' answered Megan, holding out a pen.

Alice wrote on the title page with a flourish, slipping easily back into the habit of years ago.

‘Thanks,' Megan said. ‘You've saved my life.'

‘Well that was easy,' Alice laughed.

And with that she left.

K
erry threw his keys onto the table. They skidded along the wooden surface, halting against a pile of dirty washing. He swore quietly, out of habit. But remembering that Annie wasn't there he swore again – loudly this time. Just for the hell of it.

Feeling marginally better, he looked back at the wrinkled heap of clothing. A single person's washing was depressing. His mother had drilled into him that clothes had to be sorted and each colour group washed separately. Putting a pair of jeans in with his father's white shirts had been a serious crime in their household, second only to running the machine without a full load.

It hadn't taken him long to get over that once Sandra left. Black trousers were washed with white T-shirts and fluffy bath towels. But he couldn't put on one of his mottled loads without thinking about the tiny growsuits and lacy bras that used to tangle with his jeans.

That was the trouble with divorce – the little things like the washing.

There were the obvious issues – like feeling you'd lost the person you were meant to spend the rest of your life with. But those you could deal with and keep locked away in separate compartments. It was the little things that were the bastards.

Just when you were sailing along, having a nice day like normal people, something small would jump out and smack you between the eyes.

Take yesterday, for example. He had been in the supermarket, deliberating between penne and fettuccine, when he'd remembered a
Play School
episode featuring pasta necklaces, which he and Annie had watched together the week before. He'd reached for the large packet of penne, but the words
Family Pack
had jumped out at him. With a sudden surge of anger, he'd thrown two small packets into the trolley instead.

Sandra had worked at a hairdressing salon down the road from the garage where Kerry had done his apprenticeship. Each day he and some mates would walk to the corner shop for a burger or a sandwich. Kerry wasn't the first to comment on the pretty brunette hairdresser who always had a smile for them. After work one day, he parked his motorbike in front of the salon and went inside. Half an hour later he had the shortest haircut of his life and a date.

His hair hadn't had a chance to grow much longer during the time they were together. After Sandra had left, Kerry let it grow, in what he knew was a childish form of rebellion. Now the curls fell loosely around his face, much like Annie's. It was the resemblance to Annie that made him keep it long. Somehow seeing strangers smile at the two of them together made him feel more closely bound to her.

Kerry dropped the red folder onto the table beside the keys.

The second he'd spotted the group of women circled around a bottle of champagne, he'd known he'd made a terrible mistake. He had been about to turn around and leave when the woman at the head of the table had looked straight at him. She certainly wasn't beautiful, but there was something real about her. And she had been nervous. From where he was standing, Kerry had seen her foot jiggling under the table, as if that was the only bit of her she couldn't quite keep under control.

Brian's words had rung in his ears. ‘It ain't healthy, mate.' Somehow he'd found himself at the table, registering the surprise in her eyes when he introduced himself.

It was such a chick thing – all that feel-good stuff about happiness and small moments.

He wasn't the only person who'd felt out of place. The tall redhead had looked at her watch about five times and left before the last bottle of champagne was even opened. Her friend, though, had looked completely star struck.

Of course the woman who had looked at Kerry as he'd been about to walk back out of the bar was Alice Day. She wasn't what he'd expected – not that he'd given it much thought. If he had, he would have pictured her as an ageing hippie, maybe in a caftan, most definitely not wearing a bra.

But she wasn't like that at all. He'd have guessed that she was pushing forty. She had on a fancy dress and high heels – and no wedding ring, he noticed later. She wasn't the type of woman he would normally be attracted to, but there was something about her, a warmth, that he really liked.

Kerry picked up a glass from the sink and filled it from the tap. He leaned his back on the counter and took a mouthful of water. The house looked much as it had when Sandra had lived there. They'd been talking about moving somewhere bigger when Annie was born, but when things had started going bad the idea had been forgotten.

Previous owners had knocked out the hallway of the small workers' cottage. Now two bedrooms opened straight off the kitchen/living area. The bedroom at the back of the house was still Annie's, although a bed covered with a pink gingham doona cover had replaced the cot a couple of years earlier. As a second-birthday surprise, he'd spent a whole weekend painting fluffy clouds on one wall, and on her third had added pink fairies and birds everywhere. It was by no means a work of beauty, but Annie loved it.

Kerry had thought about selling after Sandra had moved out. Annie always seemed so happy there though, he could never quite bring himself to do it. He didn't really want to live anywhere else anyway.

Besides, if he moved, he'd have to deal with ten years of accumulated crap in the storeroom downstairs.

Kerry clicked the television on and flicked through the channels, knowing it was a waste of time. Even SBS, usually good for some naked euro flesh at this time of night, had let him down. It seemed to be some dark foreign thing about two women but there was far too much talking for his liking.

He turned it off again, restless, and picked up the red folder which he'd only glanced at in the bar. It was pretty fancy – red leather with cream stitching around the outside. Annie would like it, he thought idly.

There were two sheets of cream paper inside with four or five typed headings on each page and a blank space underneath. At the top of the first one was written:

The only time I ever remember my grandmother getting angry was when I was about ten and I told her I was bored
.

‘Alice,' she said, ‘if you can't figure out a way to entertain yourself with all the things you have here, then you don't deserve to be happy.'

I've thought about what she said a lot lately and have decided that advice doesn't just apply to a little girl. I think we can all be a lot happier than we are, but that maybe we have to work a little to make that happen
.

Humour me here. To start with, go and put on a song you like. Then find yourself a drink you enjoy, sit down and have a look at this
.

Kerry almost looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching. This was like something out of a reality TV show. Pretty soon Brian would walk in with a six-pack laughing about what an idiot Kerry was.

Hell, if Brian even knew he was reading this stuff, he wouldn't be worrying about Kerry's drought. He'd be thinking that he batted for the other side.

But the champagne was still creating a warm fuzz in his blood. He walked over to the CD player and flicked through the discs splayed across the top.

A Janis Joplin CD caught his eye and he slipped that into the
machine. He waited for her throaty voice to begin and adjusted the volume at the dial.

A drink … Normally a beer would be his beverage of choice, but after champagne, somehow that didn't seem appropriate. Instead, he pulled a bottle of port down from on top of the kitchen cabinet. A quick search of the cupboard found no port glasses. He poured a good measure into a mug instead.

Back at the table, Kerry pulled the red folder back toward him. Instead of the expected questions about marital status, job, hobbies, etc, the first heading was
What are some of the things that make you feel good (alcohol and drugs excluded – sorry)?

Kerry smiled. At least she had a sense of humour. He picked up a pen.