Spinning Around (2 page)

Just listen to me, will you? I sound like such a whiny bitch. What does it matter that my shoes no longer match my handbags? I mean, how trivial is that for a goal in life? I have a beautiful family. I have a well-paid job that's an absolute breeze. I shouldn't be jealous of Miriam; she might be wearing ‘warm hand wash only' garments these days, but her job's beginning to get her down, I can tell. She never used to complain about brainless senior management, or inadequate security measures. She never used to get irritable at the mere mention of her boss. I'm beginning to wonder if she's hit a glass ceiling—or if she's going to bail out, and try something different. I raised the subject, recently, and she flashed me a humourless smile. It wasn't so much the job, she said, it was the bankers. And where else would someone with her credentials find a job, except among bankers? It was an odd thing for her to say, I thought. It didn't sound like her, because she's never had a problem with bankers in the past. It made me realise how far we've drifted apart lately.

It's sad, when you consider how well we used to get on. We were on the same wavelength, once. She was from the south coast and I was from the North Shore—she had a mother and not much else, whereas I was well endowed with family, extended family, tertiary qualifications and a network of undemanding friends—but we shared a similar outlook nonetheless. For one thing, we were united against the other girl in our house, who was an airhead named Briony Crago. Miriam and I both saw eye to eye on things like wiping down the stove, paying the rent, and not distributing spare keys as freely and generously as promotional literature. Briony, on the other hand, was a great one for hauling strangers home from the pub, or leaving containers of taramasalata out for the cockroaches. It was hard not to regard her vision of the world as slightly skewed, because she would fuss over potpourri sachets for her underwear drawer while there was a sewage leak out near the clothesline. Miriam and I would laugh and grouse about this in equal measure. We would alert each other about sales at Grace Bros, and admire each other's taste in doona covers, foreign films and gourmet icecream. We were a team, in many ways. Comfortably equal. We went out together sometimes, and watched videos together sometimes. I suppose, at that point, she was my best friend. (I don't seem to have one, these days.) Certainly I knew her long before I knew Matthew. She was present on the occasion of my first meeting with Matt. She was also present at my hen's night, my wedding, and my only housewarming party.

Trust her to be on hand for the latest milestone event in my life.

She came this evening, at half past five. She always comes over here, because of the formidable logistics involved in my trying to get out of this place with two kids in tow. Having a good old heart-to-heart in a coffee shop, with Jonah squirming to get under the table and Emily spilling milkshake into your lap, is not really an option. Neither is her townhouse, which is full of so many steep little flights of stairs and challenging balconies that you might just as well drop Jonah on his head and be done with it. At least here we've got
Sesame Street
videos and teddy bear biscuits. At least here I can plonk the kids on a rug in front of the TV, with individual portions of chocolate mousse and the bribe that Miriam has brought with her. She's such a wise, well-organised woman that she always brings a few bribes. Usually it's stuff from a two-dollar shop, like a plastic dinosaur and a set of fake fingernails, or a toy car and a miniature gardening set— something like that. The kids love Miriam. They love it when Miriam visits, though she makes very little attempt to communicate with them. Not that I blame her, mind. She usually sees them when they're covered in mashed potato, and getting cranky after a long day. No-one's at their best in such circumstances.

‘Look at this,' I said, as I gloomily surveyed my offspring stuffing themselves with sugar in front of the tube. ‘Do you know there's a mother from Jonah's playgroup who has three kids and
no television
? No television. I don't see how it's possible.'

‘Oh, stop it,' said Miriam.

‘Not only that, but she's a wholefood mother. Bulk lentils from the co-op. It's so depressing.'

‘I bet she smells funny,' was Miriam's reply.

‘No.'

‘Then the kids are monsters.'

‘Not at all. Really caring and sharing. Really nice.'

‘They don't wear shoes, then.'

‘Yes, they do. Sandals, anyway. Mind you, her husband's a creep.'

‘Ah.'

‘I mean, you wonder if the wholefood thing is entirely voluntary. On her part, that is. He's got all these theories about the way she should be washing the dishes—that sort of thing.' I had to smile as I remembered. ‘We only went over there once,' I went on, ‘and he sat talking about passive solar designs and composting toilets while she rushed around feeding everyone. God, he was awful. Hairy. Ginger hair.'

I should add that I hadn't gone to Mandy's house with Matt, but with a bunch of playgroup mothers. Because it was the middle of the day, we had all been very surprised to find Ginger at home—a bit freaked out, in fact. Especially since Ginger had hijacked the conversation, asking each of us with a patronising, toothy smile about our domestic arrangements, and preventing us from settling down to a good moan about our kids and our husbands (one of the unexpected benefits of playgroup). We had been forced to do things like praise the bowel-cleansing powers of pumpkins, and condemn the appalling effects of television, while at the same time admitting—weakly—that we didn't have the strength to cut up whole Queensland blues
or
ban television from our homes. God, it was annoying. Especially since Mandy's kitchen was plastered with examples of her kids' astonishing artistic prowess, and heaped with produce from her vegetable garden.

Yes that's right. On top of everything else, she
grows her own
vegetables
. I mentioned this to Miriam, who seemed unimpressed.

‘Mmm,' she mumbled. I glanced at her, then, and realised that this wasn't just going to be a catch-up session. She had something specific to say—something about men. Whenever Miriam needs advice, whenever she loses control a little, it's invariably because of a man. In that respect, I was always slightly ahead of her. Sure, I've made some mistakes, but they were never as bad as Miriam's. I never went out with anyone who stole cheques from the back of my chequebook, or whose entire collection of literature had been lifted from public libraries, or who was busy stalking a past girlfriend while he was courting me. Miriam seems to be a magnet for people like that, whose failings aren't always immediately apparent. Oh, she's not stupid; she susses them out pretty fast. But she concedes that there must be some flaw in her genetic make-up which drives her to fall for them in the first place—a kind of ‘bad boy' gene. She's a bit like me, I suppose. We're both good girls who find bad boys attractive, though my bad boys were never as bad as hers, thank God, perhaps because I could afford to pick and choose a bit. Miriam couldn't, as a rule. There were never many men interested in Miriam, I don't know why. Because she wasn't one to flaunt her bellybutton, or giggle a lot? Because she could often come across as rather formidable? The unhappy fact is, bad boys are usually lazy, despite their glamour—far too lazy to tackle a challenge like Miriam.

Mind you, things have changed recently. She's been with Giles for eighteen months now, and so far it's been all seaside resorts and bagels for breakfast. That's one reason why I haven't seen much of her over the last year. It's the old story of the New Man not having much time for the Old Friend (especially the Old Friend who can't do brunch anywhere except at McDonald's). Besides, I don't like Giles. I've tried, God knows, because Miriam obviously thinks he's
wonderful
, she can't stop talking about how brilliant and stylish he is, and she's right— he is. He's one of those top-notch money market guys, smart as a whip, slicked-back hair, marble jacuzzi, that sort of thing. With a goatee, just to show everyone that he's not your typical corporate animal. Obviously, Miriam feels that she's met her match at last. But I can't help wondering.

The first time I met him, at a family beach picnic, he spent most of his time talking to other people on his mobile, while the rest of us polished our fillings on chicken sandwiches full of wind-blown sand. I suppose it wasn't
his
fault that, after this first disastrous effort at socialising, he had me labelled as a complete bonehead. (It's hard to make coherent conversation when you're trying to keep an eye on two kids—neither of whom can swim—in a beachfront setting.) But the second effort wasn't much better. After practically taking out a second mortgage on the house, Matt and I had hired a babysitter for three hours and joined Giles and Miriam for dinner in the city. A Big Deal for us—our first night out in something like fourteen months. Anyway, although it was a pretty flash restaurant, with pretty fancy food, Giles had found fault with everything from the poor mobile reception to the pedestrian wine list. Not that he wasn't an
amusing
whinger—you couldn't help laughing when he compared his antipasto selection to something cleaned out of a badly maintained aquarium. But the way he talked, you found yourself wondering what he'd be saying about
you,
the minute you turned your back.

He gave you the impression of a person who, though easily bored, was not easily impressed. Perhaps that's why Miriam behaved in a slightly uncharacteristic way when he was around; she's always been dry, but with him she was positively brittle. The two of them kept indulging in these witty, sophisticated exchanges about plastic surgery and tax havens and architect-designed beach houses. It made Matt and me feel like a pair of clodhopping preschoolers.

In other words, quite frankly, I think Giles is a bit of an arsehole.

Or maybe I'm just jealous, now that I'm not even ahead in the relationship stakes. I mean, I used to be the one who pulled the halfway decent men. It's petty, I know. It's unforgivable. It's a measure of the depths to which you can sink, when you're sleep-deprived. But I get so depressed when she starts talking about a peaceful stroll through the art gallery, followed by afternoon tea at Watson's Bay. The last time
we
were at Watson's Bay, Jonah dropped his chocolate ice-cream down the front of my white blouse, Emily trod dog poo all over the picnic rug, and Matt caught his hand in the stroller's fold-out mechanism. Par for the course, I'm afraid—though I shouldn't complain, I know. After all, both my kids are healthy. And the trip wasn't a
complete
disaster. It's a nice feeling, when you're sitting in the golden afternoon light, watching your gorgeous husband play with your chortling son, while your beaming daughter runs towards you with a blue-tipped feather in her hand. You learn to enjoy these heavenly Hollywood moments while you can, knowing full well that any moment your daughter's going to trip and fall, your son's going to cry for his mum, and your husband's going to get hit in the face by someone's Frisbee.

Oh dear, there I go again. Moan, moan, moan—it's a psychological tic. And what am I moaning about? The fact that I have a full, rich family life? Other people don't even have that. I feel so embarrassed sometimes, when I listen to some of the single mums at playgroup; it makes me realise how lucky I've been. (How lucky I
am,
please God.) I've got to be more positive— more glass-half-fullish. It's that North Shore perfectionist coming out in me again. I've got to squash the tendency, it's like a weed. And of course it's made worse by the fact that I'm not even consistent. Because when I realised, this evening, that Miriam wanted to talk about Men, part of me (the bad part) was relieved at the possibility that she'd stuffed up yet again, while another part was appalled at the prospect of having to Give Counsel. Giving Counsel was always my role in these situations, but I don't have the energy any more. How can you display a boundless interest in every inflection of a man's voice, every enigmatic phone call he makes and statement he utters, when you know that with each tick of the clock you might be losing a heaven-sent opportunity to give the kitchen floor a quick mop before Jonah finishes his Vegemite sandwich and has to be coaxed into the bath?

If Matt had been available, I could have sympathised at my leisure. But Matt was on his evening shift. What's more, the dinner–bath–bedtime routine was looming. I could see that if Giles proved to have a bloke on the side, or was living under a false name, or had ordered Miriam to shave off all her pubic hair, the kids wouldn't be getting to bed until after eight.

As it happened, however, I needn't have worried. Miriam was short, sharp and to the point.

‘I'm sorry about this,' she declared, settling down in my grease-spattered kitchen with a frown on her face. There was a pause as she drummed her fingers on the tabletop. She seemed uncharacteristically tense. Almost jittery, in fact.

‘I'm really sorry,' she continued, ‘but after a lot of thought I've decided to tell you something that you're not going to like. Something that you're not going to thank me for. I was wondering what I should do, because it's difficult, but I've decided to bite the bullet. It's the best thing, I think, for both of us.'

I stared at her in astonishment, my mind racing and my cheeks reddening. I couldn't imagine what it was that she proposed to tell me. Did I have BO? Some kind of annoying mannerism? Was she going to take me to task about my negative attitude, or the weight I'd put on?

‘It's about Matt,' she said, and her fingers stopped moving. ‘Maybe I'm out of order here—maybe there's a perfectly reasonable explanation—but I saw him in a restaurant at lunchtime, today, cuddling a girl who can't have been more than twenty-two.'