Friends Like These Read online

  She recalled the first time she’d set eyes on Parklea. It was 1999 and the day of her tenth wedding anniversary.

  JJ had booked lunch at Doyle’s beach restaurant in Watsons Bay that sunny November afternoon. She’d been perusing the menu, wondering if she dared order a whole lobster, when her husband strode through the maze of tables and signalled for a bottle of vintage French champagne.

  Every female eye had watched his progress. He’d celebrated his fortieth only weeks before and wore his birthday-cake candles like a crown. If he’d swept in to the sound of trumpets jubilant he couldn’t have been a more arresting sight. He radiated a deep pleasure in who he was. Where he was. What he’d done and was about to do next. His adamantine self-confidence and the tanned, fit, blue-eyed prism through which it shone was dazzling.

  When he took his seat opposite, Jo supposed every woman was thinking: ‘Why is he with her?’ Jo had ducked her head and smiled with satisfaction. She knew why. For the same reason Sky Masterson and Sarah Brown had struck up their partnership. Her sexual compatibility with her husband was a rare and wonderful thing. For a decade—through pregnancy and childbirth, house renovations, parenting and the demands of his work—the sex had endured and been a source of deep pleasure for both of them.

  ‘Happy anniversary, Joey!’ he’d said as he raised a glass to her, loosened his tie and shrugged off his suit jacket. Jo experienced a tingle of pleasure in her inner thighs at the sight of the buttons of his business shirt straining to accommodate his broad chest. ‘I’ve just come from the auction and we are now the proud owners of a property in Lang Road, Centennial Park.’

  Jo had known the address, of course. Many of her students had homes there. It was one of the most coveted in the Eastern Suburbs. ‘Prestigious. Exclusive. A wealthy and tightly held enclave.’ These were the enticements from silver-tongued real estate agents and irresistible to a man on his way up in the world.

  In the next breath JJ told her he was also the proud proprietor of commercial premises in Paddington and would soon have more than ten million dollars’ worth of luxury European vehicles on offer. Jo had better be ready. They were on the move!

  ‘Every cashed-up bastard in Sydney wants a Porsche for Christmas.’ He paused to dunk the tail of a Moreton Bay bug into a bowl of seafood sauce. ‘Just so he can tool around on New Year’s Day in the new millennium with a sexy little blonde next to him and thank Christ he’s made it. And I’m the bloke who can sell him the dream. So here’s to you, Mrs Blanchard. The luckiest woman married to the luckiest bloke in the luckiest country on earth!’

  Jo had been blindsided by her husband’s financial brilliance. But then, what had she imagined he had been doing in those years when she only had eyes for the children? JJ had taken care of all the family finances and Jo had been content with that arrangement. She knew they were ‘well off’. The car yards in Kogarah and Parramatta had been profitable. They had taken trips overseas, business class, stayed in good hotels. But when, after lunch, they pulled up outside a massive mansion overlooking Centennial Park, she had been astonished.

  The place, she knew in an instant, was not for her. She, with her practised eye for elegance and simplicity, thought it a pompous mish-mash of architectural styles. The white-brick crenellations, turrets, faux pediments and dinky stone urns all clashed and argued for their say. It was a brash statement compared to the whispered welcome Jo heard every time they entered the Federation bungalow in Rose Bay where they’d lived and loved for the past five years.

  The place must have cost...‘Six-point-five million bucks!’ JJ boasted. Jo listened as he eagerly pointed out the new neighbours—the media mogul, banker, advertising executive, boatbuilder and packaging tycoon—and crowed that he was the youngest of them all.

  JJ had led her over the threshold, through the vast, echoing reception rooms. Toasting each other with more champagne that he’d placed on the floor in a silver ice bucket, she had to agree that he’d made good on his promise of the summer of 1988. The house was as grand as any they’d looked at as they trawled the baking streets hand in hand that January.

  Then he’d stripped off, stood naked on the diving board over the large swimming pool and declared, ‘We’re here! We bloody made it!’ then launched himself into the royal-blue-tiled depths. Jo attempted to shake off her doubts, along with the shower of water that drenched her to the skin.

  They’d made love on the bare floorboards and lay there together, drinking champagne and talking until dusk. So, she and JJ had arrived. Because she couldn’t find any of the light switches, it was difficult to see where that was, exactly.

  There was one thing she could now see clearly enough. Moving into that draughty mausoleum in Centennial Park had been a mistake. It had jinxed them. Jo often thought there was something malevolent lurking in that tower. Despite the echoing opulence of their new home, JJ had already moved on. Since that day his nose had rarely been out of the real estate pages. He began to style himself as a ‘part-time property developer’ and Jo endured endless hours of dinner-party conversation on ‘booms’ and ‘bubbles’ and ‘busts’. That particular Sydney obsession about ‘who-paid-how-much-for-what-and-where’. Over the years she’d lost track of JJ’s business dealings, his partnerships, his acquisitions and disposals, demolitions and developments. Now they were estranged, surely there was a small fortune just waiting to be divided. Clearly, JJ was not about to make the first move, so Jo would have to gird herself for the confrontation.

  In her small unit the smell of fresh paint on plasterboard lingered. Jo estimated the whole place to be about the same size as the kitchen and sunroom overlooking the pool at Parklea. Not much bigger than her old ‘granny corner’. Maybe it wasn’t fair that JJ lived there and she lived here. Maybe she would like a bigger place, with spacious bedrooms where both James and Tory could come and stay. A garden and a shady terrace with a harbour view where she could set up her paints and easel.

  First thing on Monday she would ring JJ and get their settlement underway. And maybe there would be enough money for her to have that view and some left over for shares in some ethical investments, a trip to Spain to visit her favourite paintings in the Museo del Prado. And...she might even buy herself a string of obscenely fat South Sea pearls.

  Jo was stopped mid-fantasy by the sound of the doorbell. She’d had more visitors to her unit in the past two weeks than she’d had in the last two years at the house in Centennial Park. Then again, this was Bondi Junction, and there were hundreds of flats and units in the adjoining streets. It was most likely a lost pizza-delivery boy. Opening the door a cautious crack, she was puzzled to see a vaguely familiar silhouette.

  ‘Simon!’ Jo exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’ And then, recovering her manners, ‘Come in, come in. Lovely to see you.’

  Simon took a step forward and wailed: ‘The photographer!

  I loathe the photographer! He’s hideous! I have to find someone else in the next few days, and I don’t know where to start. It’s an utter disaster!’

  Jo couldn’t help but be amused. Since she’d first met Simon only days ago, she had received almost an email an hour from him on the wedding arrangements. He was the one who had chosen the spot in the Botanic Gardens and since then he’d quizzed Jo about every detail of the ceremony.

  He had obsessed about the weather, the angle of the morning sun and the wind factor. Which flowers would be blooming and the probable dampness of the grass. For the text of the ceremony he had suggested lyrics from songs, dialogue from movies, passages from his favourite books and excerpts from the works of famous gay writers from Marcel Proust to W.H. Auden. He had worried about the order of arrival, the rings, the outfits, the music, the cars, the photographer, the sound system...on and on. It had taken up hours of Jo’s time to answer him. Simon wanted to be reassured. It was as simple as that. Without interfering mothers, sisters or a professional wedding planner, Jo could see that everything had fallen to him.

  ‘Come on now. C
ome inside and sit down,’ she said. Tory poked her head around the corner, inquisitive as ever. ‘This is my daughter, Tory.’

  Jo led Simon to the sofa and shot a sideways look at Tory, who pulled a theatrical face, quickly rustled up another vodka, lime and ice, and handed it to him. When he was finally sitting back against the needlepoint daffodil cushions, he felt up to continuing. Tory took up a position behind the kitchen counter to watch proceedings with eyes as big as bread-and-butter plates.

  ‘I booked him in a total panic. He’s a friend of Kim’s.

  I don’t know what possessed me! I’ve looked at his album on the net...Ugh! It’s all set-up shots on piers and bridges with cars in the background and frosty champagne glasses. It’s like crap stuff from the eighties!’ Simon shivered with the horror of it all.

  ‘I’ll do it!’ Tory’s hand shot up.

  Jo’s head swivelled in surprise. Tory had been working as a photographer’s assistant for the past six months, but all Jo had ever seen of her amateur photography were arty, grainy abstract images of dumped supermarket trolleys, windswept car parks and deserted airport concourses. It was all about ‘urban alienation’, apparently. Surely she wouldn’t be interested, wasn’t able to take on a wedding? Tory leaped from behind the counter to press her case.

  ‘I hate those posed wedding photos too,’ she exclaimed passionately. ‘I’m a photographer and I’d love to do a wedding in a different way. Like a paparazzi. Lots of candid black-and-whites of the ceremony and the guests, the caterer. Maybe even people walking through the gardens who stop to check out what’s going on.’ Tory was striding back and forth across the room, bending, turning and making clicking noises on her imaginary camera. Jo glanced at Simon. Surely he wasn’t buying this nutty performance?

  ‘Maybe a few colour group shots of the whole wedding party, but casual, you know? Not the whole dumb football-team end-of-year pose. Then we’d move on to the reception and I could set up a photo booth in a corner as well as capture the party in the style of the social pages. It’d be cool!’ Tory turned to her mother for approval. Simon looked to her as well.

  ‘Um, I...’ Jo hesitated.

  ‘Oh, pleeease! I’ve got heaps of photos I could show you, Simon. Stuff Mum hasn’t seen yet.’

  Tory darted to the mountain of baggage by the front door and returned with her arms full of bulging albums and folders. Simon retrieved his glasses from his satchel and studied each print.

  ‘Actually, these are good. Really, really good!’ he enthused. ‘Have a look at this one, Jo...The way she’s caught the light shining through these wet umbrellas. They look like leaves in a rainforest. And this one of the Harbour Bridge with the fog rolling underneath...I love it.’ Simon’s eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm.

  He was right. The photographs were the work of an artist. They were surprising, thoughtful and skilfully executed. Tory definitely had an eye for light and composition. It had always been Jo’s dream that one of her children would inherit her love of art, and now, appraising one photo after another, she could see, for the first time, that Tory understood. They were beautiful photos. If Tory and Simon hadn’t been watching her so intently, Jo would have cried.

  The deal was done. Simon accepted an invitation to stay for dinner and he and Tory discussed the finer details for another hour across the table. Jo watched as they caught each other’s ideas, clapping and laughing with excitement. They hugged and kissed, instantly bonded, and that had to be a good thing.

  It was only later, when she was in bed, with Tory installed in the spare room next door, that Jo realised that not one of Tory’s photographs had an actual human being in it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Next morning Jo took a cup of tea to the spare room where Tory had slept. She had a booking at the photographic studio and should be on her way by now. Instead she was in her bra and knickers hunched over Jo’s computer.

  ‘Hey, Mum, there’s an email here from James in London.’

  She was reading Jo’s private emails without asking. It was infuriating.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Tory fell back in her chair. ‘That’s all this family needs—another full-on bloody Christian! Aren’t Nan and Pop bad enough? Jeez!’

  ‘Don’t speak about your grandparents like that!’ Jo’s irritation was instant. ‘You should be more tolerant. You know your grandparents have always supported both you and James in whatever you wanted to do, and so have I.’ This wasn’t entirely true. Jo had despaired of Tory a million times over. Every new hair colour, earring, tattoo, short skirt and ugly, clumpy pair of shoes had been a stake through her heart.

  ‘“Serving Christ”?’ Christ! Wait till Dad finds out he’s dumped his economics degree. And how much will this sacred world tour cost? Forget “disappointed”, Dad’ll be homicidal. Hilarious! I’m going to write back and tell him he’s a weirdo.’

  Jo gritted her teeth. ‘Go and have a shower. You’ll be late for work.’

  Tory harrumphed and slouched off to the bathroom.

  Jo cleared Tory’s bags and books from her desk. She had spent years moving mountains for her children, and, just when she thought she had come to a place in her life when the heavy lifting was at an end...there was another load to be carried.

  Checking the rest of her emails, Jo was thrilled to see two more requests for her services. She was surprised that they’d both come from her Darling Point connections. There was a baby-naming request from one of her former students and another for a renewal of marriage vows from Doug McIntyre, the college bursar. She was fond of Doug and had often spent time chatting with him in his office while he took a welcome break from wrangling the school’s finances.

  In the kitchen Tory was ready for work, apparently. Her hair was a wet, dark-brown mop and she was wearing the same clothes as last night. Her jacket still stank.

  ‘A wedding! My first wedding!’ She was slurping her coffee and marching around the kitchen, spilled sugar crunching under her boots. ‘I never thought about it before, Mum, but we could be a partnership! “Jo Blanchard and Daughter—Sacred Celebrations”. I could do the photos and you could do the...you know, words and stuff.’

  Words and stuff. Hmm...That would be the readings and vows for Simon and Kim’s wedding she was painstakingly crafting. She had already spent hours on the task, drawing on her collection of inspirational writing and poetry. ‘We’ll see, honey. We’ll see,’ was the best she could come up with.

  ‘By the way,’ Tory said through a mouthful of burnt toast, ‘you never did tell me what Gemma Brigden was doing here yesterday.’

  ‘I’m going to officiate at her wedding to her fiancé, Yoshi.’

  ‘You’re what?!’ Tory swallowed and almost choked. ‘What about St Anne’s? Old man Pottharst? Surely Didi booked that joint the day Gemma was born!’

  Jo grabbed the dishcloth and started wiping toast crumbs from the benches. ‘Yoshi is of the Shinto faith so they want to have a san-san-kudo—a sake ceremony in a Japanese garden.’

  Tory’s eyes bulged alarmingly and then she laughed so hard orange juice spurted out of her nose.

  ‘They haven’t told anyone yet!’ Jo yelled over the racket of Tory gasping for air and staggering across the room. ‘Not Didi, not anyone! So if you open your big mouth to Carol Holt...’

  ‘I won’t. I won’t, I promise. AARGH!’ Tory wheezed and slammed the front door so hard one of Jo’s watercolours fell off the wall.

  Jo fished out the frame from the floor behind the oak table and appraised her little portrait of St Anne’s and its tumbling roses. Such a pretty and innocent scene. How many people knew that Augusta Walpole herself had ordered the planting of the roses in honour of various female Catholic saints who

  had met grisly ends. The strong, thorny canes yielded pale-pink buds that burst to spill soft white petals—symbolic of the mother’s milk that dripped from the swollen nipples of martyrs. All good mothers were martyrs, Jo decided. Every one.

  Her thoughts turned to
Suze. Jo had been unable to catch her for a heart-to-heart. Sexually Transmitted Debt—that’s what she’d heard it called. It was easy to say that Suze should cut Rob off without a cent, but it wasn’t that simple. He was the girls’ father and Jo had witnessed first-hand the heartache when fathers went missing.

  There had been so many men at the college who thought that a cheque could compensate for their absence, but Rob Reynolds wasn’t like that. He had stood at the in-goal or the finish line each and every sports day. You couldn’t but help notice his weathered face, faded T-shirt, board shorts and rubber thongs in a scrum of pastel-hued Lacoste polo shirts, pressed chinos and deck shoes. Jo smiled to remember that Suze had once lovingly described her husband as ‘a chewy caramel in a tray of peanut brittles and soft fruit centres’. And that was about the most charitable of Suze’s observations on the men of Darling Point.

  Maybe Suze would even consider having her as a business partner? She was surely overqualified to be standing behind a shop counter selling flowers, no matter how much she loved arranging bouquets. What she and Suze should do (this was a brilliant idea) was combine their interests and make a foray into the lucrative bridal trade! Just last week Jo had read it was now a $3.7-billion industry in Australia. After all, Suze was a genius with money and with Jo’s own organisational skills they’d be sure to succeed. Perhaps they could open some kind of wedding chapel? A place with a garden and a view?

  When her money from JJ came through, she would help out financially. There was no way Suze would lose her business or her home or be forced to pull her girls out of Darling Point while Jo had money.

  Jo washed the breakfast dishes, made Tory’s bed and then wondered how she might occupy herself. The whole of Tuesday waited to be partitioned by meaningless appointments, like a school timetable. A radio program, a walk to the shops, a movie on TV, lunch, a cupboard clean-out, thawing something for dinner, feeding the cat, watering the pot plants. How many people living alone in the units and houses either side and above her were contemplating the same? They would carve up their day and swallow their loneliness in bite-sized chunks.