Friends Like These Page 8

  Then, when Jo thought about it some more, she realised it wouldn’t be altogether surprising if he did become a member of the clergy. He was twenty, about the same age as Patrick had been when he became a novice in the Jesuits at Canisius College in Pymble. James was also older than her father had been when he began his religious studies. He had always been very close to them both. Was it something Jo wanted for her son?

  He took after her more than he did his father. He’d always been a quiet child. Bookish and self-contained. Nothing like his boisterous older sister. And as much as Jo had longed to be in his confidence, since James had become a teenager his thoughts and motivations were an ever-deepening mystery to her. She had often thought that his modest demeanour was fertile ground for the discovery of a ‘cause’, and that if he did find one, he would blossom in a way that would surprise them all. Was it religion that would sow the seed? He had regularly attended church services at St Matthias’ around the corner from their home in Centennial Park, but she had never heard him talk before about ‘serving Christ’.

  But those few words, I know you’d want me to follow my heart, made her want to weep with gratitude. She’d always told him exactly that and now she knew he’d heard her. She willed herself not to cry. It was pathetic the way middle-aged mothers grasped at any sign of understanding and approval from their grown children! But the tears came anyway in big, fat drops that fell on the keyboard and then had her worrying she might short-circuit the computer or electrify herself.

  Jo transferred money into his account and wrote back. Her fingers hovered over a suitable sign-off. Godspeed? Bless you? Instead she wrote Take care.

  Sometimes she imagined herself as a fish, hooked from the sea at the end of her days. Faced with the prospect of blessed eternity or damned oblivion, she would flip-flop on the pier unable to decide which way to jump. Presumably it would be into the sizzling frying pan.

  Chapter Ten

  Our Lady of Perpetual Cashflow. The framed print of a serene Madonna draped in blue robes and cradling a bulging scarlet purse (instead of a bleeding heart) adorned the wall of the draughty and dim workroom at Geraniums Red, florists of Kingsford.

  The print had been given to Suze as a birthday present—a funny dig about her winning Oz Lotto—and everyone had laughed at the joke, but Suze often stared at the image and wished she held that fat purse in her plump fingers. A Magic Pudding purse that, no matter how much you took from it, was perpetually bountiful. She lit a candle and placed it alongside the pink rosebud offering on the bench below.

  Suze supposed that any true charitable Christian would be appalled to see her makeshift shrine dedicated to a cartoon image. She should be praying in a proper church, in front of a real plaster statue of Jesus. She should be asking for peace on earth and succour for the needy. But that was a laugh—as if there was anyone on the planet more in need than Suzanne Gail Reynolds!

  Anyway, more than a billion Chinese prayed endlessly for prosperity. They felt no shame in begging for riches as they burned fake banknotes at the graves of their ancestors. And the Hindus weren’t shy either about hitting up the Elephant God Ganesha, Lord of Obstacles, for extra cash. Suze had infinite obstacles in her life and any god who heard her plea could easily overcome any one of them. What she was asking for was simple. She just needed more money. She lit a stick of sandalwood incense and offered it to Lord Ganesha.

  Suze then turned her attention to the seemingly insurmountable pile of bills on the bench. One envelope she’d opened last night contained a letter from Darling Point Ladies’ College asking for one and a half thousand dollars for the twins’ week-long ‘Social Solutions’ camp in the Southern Highlands. She retrieved the crumpled letter from the bin, smoothed the paper and read it again.

  Was there no end to the demands from the palace of privilege on Darling Point? They were incessant. She was still staggering from the cost of books and uniforms for the twins at the beginning of the year. Four hundred dollars for a school blazer for Jess. Eighty bucks for Bobby’s hat—and a shit hat at that. A nasty cream straw thing made in China with a brim that would buckle in the Sydney summer sun and ribands that would come unglued and flap in the breeze. By second term the girls’ summer hats would resemble toasted focaccia. Then there would be the cost of new winter hats to replace old ones, now abandoned at the bottom of wardrobes like flattened, musty roadkill.

  She inspected her fingers, swollen and pricked by rose thorns, the skin abraded by serrated edges of coarse leaves. Taking up her secateurs, she hacked at thick stems of scarlet waratah. Suze would endure anything for her daughters. Bend every stem, wrestle every leaf and arrange a million petals, if that’s what it took. Maybe go to prison? That too. She’d already done more than most mothers would. Or any mother should.

  The bell from the shop door sounded and Suze dropped her secateurs, clattering into the sink. Anything that might distract her from going over and over in her head what was done—and couldn’t be undone—was welcome. And if it was a

  customer with real money to spend? Even better. Pausing at the mirror just inside the door that led into the shop, Suze pinched at her round cheeks and dabbed pink gloss on her most pleasing pout.

  Her happy shop-owner greeting was on her lips as she stepped towards the counter. ‘Morning. Lovely day! How may I...Sarita!’ Suze threw her arms wide and greeted the tiny Indian lady from the Taj Turban takeaway up the road. They’d found fellowship over steaming tubs of butter chicken and saag aloo. Two working mothers too far from their home kitchens on the main drag in a drab inner-city suburb on a weeknight. Sarita ladled curries into plastic containers with unending good humour. Suze sagged with gratitude as she carted the plastic bags away and deposited them in the passenger seat of her mini-van.

  ‘I just cannot believe it, Suzanne,’ sang Sarita, her smiling face just visible through the tall stems of potted purple orchids. ‘Can you guess? It is making me very happy.’

  ‘Then it must be...a wedding!’ Suze squealed.

  ‘Yes, my Deepa is to marry Neerav at last,’ Sarita said, beaming with pleasure. ‘He’s from a quality family, has good prospects and we are very pleased! Even all the grandparents are happy and that is a blessing.’

  Suze was instantly out from behind the counter to bestow congratulatory hugs and kisses. After an hour of excited chatter over masala chai, the plans for the flowers were made. Suze would be taught how to thread the garlands—two hundred strings of red and white carnations, ferns and marigolds—and she would supervise the decoration of the wedding pavilion (the mandapam) with anything fragrant, cheap and in season from the flower market.

  The marriage was indeed a blessing. There would be four hundred guests seated at forty tables, each requiring a floral arrangement, and Sarita had also asked Suze to supply a carpet of rose petals and corsages and boutonnières for the extended families and a multitude of friends. Even as she sipped her spiced tea, in her head Suze was composing a handsome invoice that would see her girls off to camp.

  ‘You are a good woman, Miss Suzanne.’ Sarita caught Suze’s hand and inspected the chapped skin and ragged nails. ‘I see how you work so hard to save and send your daughters to the best schools and give them a future. This is what the women do when...’

  The men take everything from you? When they swipe the bread from the mouths of your children? Suze’s silent accusations filled the hesitant space.

  ‘Well, let us just say,’ continued Sarita, ‘that sometimes when I look at my lazy husband and want to hit him with a spoon, I think of you and everything you do for your family. Perhaps one day I will have my own shop full of beautiful flowers and I will never chop a smelly onion again. As long as I breathe. “One plum gets its colour from another,” is it said, and you are my inspiration.’

  When Sarita left the shop, her kingfisher-blue sari flapping in the wind that always seemed to be harassing the front door of Geraniums Red, Suze turned the sign in the window and announced to the shoppers of Kingsford that
the florist’s was Closed. Bad for business first thing on a Saturday morning, but she had no choice. Her mobile phone rang and she saw Jo’s number displayed on the screen. Suze let it ring. She leaned against the front door and her tears fell like cascades of pale-violet wisteria.

  Chapter Eleven

  Suze’s number wasn’t answering. Jo assumed it was because she was busy in the shop but thought she might just drop in to see her anyway. Jo had woken with a headache and dry mouth, but her morning walk had done her good and now her head was clear. She was so keen to rehash yesterday’s meeting with Simon and Kim she hadn’t bothered to change out of her running gear and was about to head out, locking windows and doors, when her mobile on the kitchen bench bleated. It would be Suze returning her call.

  ‘Mrs Blanchard?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘I found your mobile number on your website. It’s Gemma. Gemma Brigden.’

  The mention of the name ‘Brigden’ was enough for Jo’s throat to tighten. Gemma was Didi’s daughter.

  ‘You might remember me from art classes at Darling Point.’

  Jo did remember her. She’d been quite a talented little artist. Shy, compliant but extremely intelligent. A real star in art theory.

  ‘Of course I do, Gemma. Hello!’

  ‘Well, I see that you’re now a marriage celebrant and it’s brilliant because my fiancé Yoshi and I would love it if you would marry us. He’s from the Shinto faith so you can understand how getting married at St Anne’s with boring old Rev Pottharst would be a problem. Can we come and see you?’

  Jo’s first thought was ‘never’. Not ever. The idea was utterly ridiculous. ‘You’re engaged? Congratulations,’ said Jo.

  ‘We haven’t told Mum yet, though, so you have to keep it a secret. I’d like to have everything organised for the wedding first so that Mum can’t...Well, you know my mother,’ said Gemma.

  Jo almost dropped the phone. Did Gemma have any idea of what she was asking? There were more than ten thousand celebrants in Australia—surely she could have chosen someone else?

  ‘I think about you every day,’ Gemma continued. ‘I’m working in an art gallery in Paddington now and every time I look at a painting I think of stuff you taught me. I’d love it if you could do my wedding.’

  Jo paced the kitchen. Three steps forward, turn, then back again. Getting between Didi Brigden and her only daughter would be suicidal. A nightmare. For that reason, and the equally horrifying fact that she was Carol Holt’s partner in crime, Jo stepped away from the window as if they might be somehow watching her.

  She would have to say no. Obviously. But then...She’d always had a soft spot for Gemma and thought she had the potential to bloom magnificently if she could escape her mother’s shadow.

  ‘How kind of you to think of me,’ said Jo. Another vague reply.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask anyone else! It will be an Anglican-Shinto wedding, and I know you’d do it perfectly. Yoshi and I thought we might have it at the Japanese garden in Campbelltown. What do you think?’

  Campbelltown? In the Western Suburbs? Jo stifled a laugh. Didi would never take that hour’s drive up the M5. She would never give up the opportunity to stage her daughter’s wedding in the college chapel. The chance to bestow the honour on a privileged few to view the bride wafting along the cobblestone path of the upper quadrangle, past the rose garden and memorial pond, to the rough-hewn sandstone of St Anne’s? For Didi, the front steps of St Anne’s were a stairway to heaven.

  However, Jo was intrigued. An Anglican-Shinto wedding? It was a challenge and she would relish that.

  No. She couldn’t even entertain the idea. It was insanity. Jo imagined Didi’s tiny frame bristling with rage and indignation. The demented thirteenth fairy not invited to the celebrations, wreaking havoc throughout the kingdom with her wicked curses.

  ‘Well of course I’d love to meet you and your fiancé,’ Jo said, and in the same instant felt like banging her head against the wall. She was a doormat. No truer word had ever been spoken. She couldn’t say no to anyone.

  ‘Thank you so, so, so much!’ Gemma gushed.

  Plans were made to meet and when Jo finally hung up she had to lean against the bench for a moment to regain her senses. Two wedding requests now—one same-sex and one half-Japanese! What had she just agreed to? Never mind, she consoled herself; whatever the circumstances she was sure she could bring a sense of occasion and professionalism to The Big Day. After all, she was a sensible woman—intelligent, patient, well organised and good with people. Honouring the rites of human passage—the rejoicing and the mourning—gave lives dignity and meaning.

  Or maybe everything she had signed up for was meaningless. Every death was disastrous; every birth chaotic; every wedding tumultuous. Ever since those ancient mythical times when Hades had kidnapped Persephone and carried her off to the underworld to be his bride.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘I reckon you should just do one of those giant Moonie weddings and marry every misfit in the entire Asia-Pacific region,’ Suze announced, her face obscured by massive bundles of gaudy pink gladioli. The whole of Geraniums Red was stuffed with flowers and the fragrance almost knocked Jo flat.

  ‘What? What are you saying?’ asked Jo. ‘Come on, be serious.’ Her lycra-clad backside was perched on a stool and her running shoes were firmly planted on the wooden floor.

  ‘Oooh.’ Suze emerged from behind the counter and wiped her wet hands on her apron. ‘Who’s a bit tetchy this morning? How much did you drink last night anyway?’

  ‘I hardly drank anything,’ Jo retorted. In fact, the champagne, white, red and dessert wine she’d consumed over ten hours the day before was more than she’d had in a long time. ‘Come on, Suze. I really need your advice,’ she pleaded.

  Suze got the message and came to the front of the counter and leaned on it, secateurs in hand. She shook her head in wonder. ‘Jeez, Jo, what are the odds? You work at Darling Point for all those years. You know hundreds of perfectly normal families and your first clients are two blokes and Botox & Blow-Dry Brigden’s only daughter. This was supposed to be a nice professional “sea change”, not a kamikaze ditch into the ocean!’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Suze shrugged, ‘who cares? If they believe in the whole stupid fantasy, marry ’em.’

  Then Suze was back behind the counter trimming rusty-red banksia. Jo became more irritated with every snip. It wasn’t that simple. On the drive over she’d been trying to think of inspirational texts that celebrated same-sex marriage and had come up with nothing. As for something to celebrate a Anglican-

  Shinto union? Not to mention the vexing question of whether she dared to defy Didi Brigden? It was beyond annoying that Suze didn’t seem to be listening. ‘Suze!’ she finally erupted, ‘Help me here.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Suze dropped the banksia stems into a plastic bucket and pocketed her secateurs. She swiped a polka-dot scarf from the counter and tied back her hair. ‘It’s just that I can’t think about it right now,’ she said with one eye on the shop door. And then, Suze calculated, if she just dropped a hint to see what Jo made of it...‘Rob will be here in a minute and I have to give him some money.’

  ‘Money? For Rob?’ Jo was puzzled. ‘What are you giving him money for? I thought he gave you money. What’s

  going on?’

  Suze saw the concern in Jo’s eyes. The sympathetic steady gaze that had for years said to Suze, I believe in you, when she hadn’t believed in herself. The look that made her want to confess everything. Only she hadn’t. The not-so-deadly sins of lust, gluttony and sloth had been endlessly indulged and entertained between them. But the nastier ones—wrath, envy, greed and pride—still went unnamed and lurked in the shadows.

  Suze squeezed her hips through a narrow gap between two tall glass vases and closed the front door. She turned and Jo was alarmed to see tears in her eyes. Suze leaned heavily against the counter as she talked to the floor. ‘There’s so
mething I should have told you ages ago.’

  Jo was jolted by the tone of her voice and immediately scrolled through the possibilities. What had Suze been keeping from her? Something about Rob and money. Was he ill? Was Suze ill? Did they need money for an operation? Some trouble with the twins? It sounded serious. Maybe Jo didn’t want to know. ‘Look, if you don’t want to tell me...’ she began.

  ‘I do, I do. I...’ Suze hesitated, thinking of how best to phrase the disaster that was her life. Then she blurted: ‘Rob’s a compulsive gambler. He’s a poker machine addict.’

  There was a long pause as Jo grappled with a punchline she hadn’t anticipated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We came this close to losing the house.’

  Jo slid from her stool. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s been a total nightmare.’

  ‘Oh, Suze! No! You should have told me!’

  ‘I know, I know. I just couldn’t find the right time. You’ve had enough to deal with.’

  ‘But almost losing the house? How? When?’ Jo didn’t know where to begin her interrogation.

  Suze scraped at her eyes with her apron as she told the tale. ‘He’s always enjoyed a bet. You know that. But a few years ago he started that job with the landscaping outfit and it was the tradition for the boys to play the pokies at the pub at lunchtime. Only Rob started to go back after work and then sneak off on weekends...I thought he was having an affair, remember?’

  Jo did remember. Rob was nice enough. A rough diamond.

  A bloke who liked his beer and footy. He wasn’t the sort of man who’d ever shown any interest in other women as far as Jo had ever seen. She’d told Suze so at the time.

  ‘An affair? What a joke!’ Suze threw her hands in the air.

  ‘I mean, you know Rob. Who’d bloody well have him?’ Jo had enough sense not to say a word. ‘I dunno. Something got hold of him and he started to take money out of our account. It was just a bit here and there at first and he had all the excuses—the car needed fixing, his mum needed a new hot-water heater—and then the next time I looked, ten grand had just vanished.’