Almost Perfect (5 page)

‘I'll let you get back to your work,' he said as she approached.

‘Sure,' she nodded, walking around behind the counter.

‘What do I owe you for the coffee?'

Georgie shook her head. ‘It's on the house.'

He went to protest but she held up her hand. ‘It's a cup of coffee, Liam, it's hardly going to send us broke.'

Adam crossed the room holding up a small hardcover book. ‘Here it is, Mr Petrovsky.'

‘I discovered you can order Russian language editions of a lot of books,' Georgie explained to Liam. ‘It gives Mr Petrovsky such a thrill to read Dostoyevsky and Solzhenitsyn in his native language.'

Liam listened thoughtfully. ‘Do you treat all your regular customers so well?'

‘Come again and you'll find out.'

There it was again, the man-blush. Was he shy, or was she being too forward? Buggered if she knew.

Georgie looked past him to where Mr Petrovsky was poring over his book. ‘How is it, Mr Petrovsky?' she shouted.

His face was beaming as he held one hand to his heart.

‘Georgie,' Liam said in a low voice, crooking his
finger and leaning forward across the counter. She felt her heart beating hard as she leaned in close to him, so close she could smell his aftershave. Very intoxicating, probably expensive. But she didn't think that was what was turning her stomach to jelly.

‘You know,' he said, ‘people from non-English speaking backgrounds can hear just fine. It doesn't help to shout at them.'

Georgie smiled slowly. ‘It helps Mr Petrovsky.'

‘Oh?'

‘His English is excellent. He is, however, partially deaf.'

Now Liam looked outright embarrassed. Oh bugger, she'd done it again. He straightened, turning to leave. Little wonder.

‘Well, thanks for the coffee.'

‘Don't mention it.'

Georgie watched him walk out the door, then began loading the espresso machine to make Mr Petrovsky's coffee. She put his muffin on a plate and took it over to him.

‘Who was the young man?' he asked. ‘Not a new boyfriend?'

‘I doubt it, Mr Petrovsky,' she sighed. ‘I doubt it very much.'

Anna accepted that she was perhaps not in the best state of mind to deal with clients, but Magda was the last person she felt like seeing today. Then again, she was the last person Anna would be seeing today, so at least there was an upside.

‘
Duck Egg Blue
has spoken to me like nothing else ever has before,' Magda confided, leaning forward in her chair. ‘You just have to read it, it will change your life.'

Anna sighed inwardly. She had feared this was exactly what would happen when Magda had announced she was joining a book club. They had been through this before when she was still obsessed with films. She found great meaning and relevance in anything she saw on the big screen, or the small screen for that matter, and consequently had little time to find great meaning or relevance in the real world, which Anna had constantly to remind her she was a living, breathing part of.
American Beauty
had changed her life.
Life is Beautiful
had changed her life.
Moulin Rouge
had changed her life. At that point Anna had started to become a little concerned. But when she claimed that
Miss Congeniality
had changed her life, Anna had to insist they didn't discuss movies any more. Then Magda had begun to obsess about a very complicated and at times rather far-fetched relationship between two people called Ross and Rachel, and it had taken Anna ages to work out that
Ross and Rachel were apparently characters in an American sitcom.

Now, clearly, it was going to be books.

‘The yoghurt metaphor was what really got me,' Magda continued. ‘I mean, this is one clever writer, this woman. How did she come up with the idea that life is like a fridge full of tubs of yoghurt?'

The mind boggled.

‘You see, we think we have choices, but it's all so bland, so much the same, just like the fridge full of yoghurt. And yoghurt itself, well, it's a little sour, or tart or whatever, especially plain yoghurt. It's good for us, but not very tasty really, eh? We usually add something to it, or buy the flavoured kind. But of course in the book, it's all
plain
yoghurt. Different brands though, which is a statement about the market-driven society.' Magda threw her arms out. ‘Brilliant!'

Anna took a deep breath and cleared her throat. ‘It's wonderful to find something that speaks to you in such a profound way, and we should be open and alert to all the signs life sends us,' she said on automatic pilot. ‘So how do you think this relates to your own life at present?'

‘And what was her response?' Doug asked, clearly amused by another instalment of the whimsical Magda chronicles.

‘Oh that just sent her off into a lengthy spiel about the pervading themes in the book. I'm sure she was repeating verbatim what was said at her
book club – a few of the ideas were way beyond her intellect.'

‘Have you read
Duck Egg Blue
?'

Anna shook her head, taking a sip of her coffee.

‘I wouldn't bother,' Doug advised. ‘It's a piece of pretentious twaddle. All the reviewers are breathlessly trying to outdo each other heaping praise on it, but I tend to think it's a case of the emperor's new book jacket.' He shifted in his chair, clearly signalling a shift in the conversation as well. Anna had learned to read Doug's body language over the years. He was the reason she had never considered leaving the practice, and the reason she had decided to join it when they came to Sydney in the first place. He and Carl had started the clinic, but Carl had always divided his time between clients and teaching. Doug was the soul of the place, and Anna aspired to his particular style of quiet but insightful compassion.

‘So, how are you?' he asked eventually. People said those three words all the time, often many times a day, and mostly they couldn't care less about the response, they were probably not even listening. When Doug said them, he was listening, and he cared, and he expected nothing less than a meaningful answer in return.

‘Okay.' Why did she even bother?

‘Let's try that again,' he persisted gently.

Anna sighed. ‘Not so good.'

‘Do you want to talk about what happened yesterday?'

She put her cup on the coffee table between them and brought her feet up underneath her.
Supervision provided the opportunity to debrief with a more senior practitioner. Therapy was monitored, approaches discussed and treatment assessed. But it was also in itself a kind of counselling session.

‘Well, I'm sure you've worked out that I failed again.'

‘Are you saying it was another failed cycle?'

Anna looked up at the ceiling. ‘Okay, I know what you're getting at. It's not my failure.'

‘You don't believe that though, do you?'

She met his gaze directly. ‘Of course not.'

Doug sat back in his chair, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘And anything Mac says, or the doctors say, or even that I could say, is not going to convince you otherwise, is it?'

She shook her head. ‘The evidence is stacked against me, Doug. Despite a husband with an impressive sperm count, a truckload of drugs, I can't remember how many laparoscopies, six intra-uterine inseminations, seven drug cycles, nine frozen ones, and a partridge in a pear tree, I'm still not pregnant. Clearly, I'm not meant to have a baby.'

Doug paused. ‘So what are you going to do?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I'm wondering what your next step will be, now you've come to the conclusion that you're not meant to have a baby. I assume you'll be ceasing treatment?'

Anna frowned. ‘I haven't decided that for sure.'

‘Then you're not sure you're not meant to have a baby?'

‘Oh, I'm sure about that.'

‘So why continue with the treatment?'

She sighed loudly. ‘Doug, don't.'

‘Don't what?'

‘Double-talk me like that!' Anna said, exasperated. ‘I'm not one of your clients.'

Doug just sat there regarding her in that calm way of his. He didn't say anything, so Anna had to.

‘Okay, no decision has been made about anything.'

‘Including the decision you're not meant to have a baby?'

‘Including that.'

He allowed that idea to settle.

‘How is Mac feeling about everything at the moment?' he resumed after a while.

Anna bit her lip. ‘I don't know,' she answered quietly.

Again, Doug didn't say anything.

‘I don't think he wants to keep going with the treatment,' she blurted suddenly. Hearing it out loud was excruciating.

‘Did he tell you that?'

She shook her head. ‘He didn't have to. There's just some things you know, Doug. Intuition has its place. I know him. I've known him for over fifteen years. I can see it in his eyes. He's had enough.'

‘And how does that make you feel?'

She focussed on a spot on the coffee table between them, breathing in and breathing out. When she went to speak, she found she didn't quite have a voice. She cleared her throat. ‘Terrified.'

‘Of what?' Doug persisted gently.

Anna sighed. ‘I don't know how to describe it. The emptiness, I guess, the finality. The complete absence of hope.'

‘So, while you continue with the treatment, you at least have hope?'

‘That's right, exactly.'

‘And that keeps the terror at bay?'

She shrugged.

‘How long do you expect that to work?'

‘Pardon?'

‘I can't imagine you could continue with the treatment indefinitely. There must be a point where you need to decide.'

‘I guess I'm not at that point yet.'

‘But Mac is, is that what you're saying?'

She nodded.

‘So you want to hold onto the hope, so you don't have to face the emptiness?'

Anna stared into her cup. ‘Yes,' she said in a small voice.

‘Do you feel your life is empty now, Anna?'

‘No, no, of course I don't.'

‘And yet you don't have a baby now.'

‘There's still hope I may.'

‘And that makes life bearable in the present?'

She shook her head. ‘No . . . I don't know, I don't think my life would be unbearable. I love my work, I love Mac. It's just, for seven years, longer, there's been the idea of a baby, a family. I don't know what it would feel like without that . . .' Anna stared across the room. ‘You know what worries me lately? We used to look at our own baby photos and
imagine how our baby would look. Blonde, blue-eyed. It sounds clichéd but it's in the genes. Anyway, lately, I can't do it. I don't have a picture of my baby in my head any more. And I don't know what happened to it.'

‘Daddy, is this enough sprinkles yet?'

Nick turned around to see his daughter upturning the whole packet onto the cake. ‘That ought to just about do it, Molly,' he sighed, retrieving the near empty packet from her. ‘Why don't you go see what Gracie's doing?'

‘She's in the sandpit,' said Molly plainly. ‘See, she's just right there.'

Gracie was indeed playing quietly, as Gracie was wont to do, in the sandpit clearly visible through the kitchen window. Her older sister was not so quiet, nor easy to occupy.

‘Okay, well, why don't you go and practise singing “Happy Birthday” with her, for when Aunty Georgie gets here?'

‘But I already know “Happy Birthday”.'

‘Gracie doesn't. You could teach her.'

Nick watched Molly thinking that one over. A chance to order her little sister around at anything was too good an opportunity to pass up. She put her
arms out to her father and he scooped her off the bench, setting her down on the floor.

‘Are we going to shout “Surprise!” as well?' she asked hopefully.

‘I wasn't planning to.'

‘Why not?'

‘Well, it's not a surprise.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because Aunty Georgie knows we're having dinner for her birthday.'

‘How come?'

‘Because we always have dinner together on birthdays, don't we?'

Molly nodded, thinking. ‘Can I shout “Surprise!” anyway?'

‘If you want to.'

‘Will Georgie get a surprise?'

‘Probably.'

‘Why?'

‘Because she won't be expecting you to shout “Surprise!”, will she?'

Molly seemed satisfied with that and skipped off out of the kitchen and through the back door.

Nick turned his attention to the mound of hundreds and thousands piled on top of the cake. He picked up the plate and started to tilt it as though he was panning for gold, in the hope of distributing the sprinkles more evenly. As he glanced out the window to check on his daughters he caught sight of his reflection in the glass, and he smiled at himself.

Nicholas Malcolm Alexander Reading had once upon a time been meant for greater things. As a
young boy he had displayed a talent for drawing, so it was a foregone conclusion that he would become an architect, fulfilling his ambitious but loving father's dearest wish to have his only son follow in his footsteps. Even his mother, who would never have tolerated a child of hers being tethered to something he didn't want to do, nonetheless encouraged the idea. Nick didn't mind. Nick never minded anything. Everyone who knew him pronounced him the most easygoing person they'd ever met. He had ended up with his father's patience but not his drive, and his mother's love of life without her manic tendencies.

Which was probably how he came to be house-husband while his wife was out building empires. Louise tried to tell him that a suburban bookshop was not exactly an empire, but Nick wouldn't have it. She was a star as far as he was concerned, and he was happy to be the man behind the successful woman. Nick pottered around on various projects, made furniture, surfboards sometimes, worked the odd casual job. The ambition gene had bypassed him and gone straight to Zan. And that was just fine. Nick was content. No, more than content, he was pretty bloody happy. He had a smart, attractive wife whose company he actually enjoyed; he had two beautiful daughters, and he and his sisters appeared to have survived their harsh initiation into adulthood.

Nick was twenty-two and three years into his degree when his parents were killed in the accident. So he was well and truly old enough to assume the care of Zan and Georgie, especially considering Zan
was no longer a minor. She had of course made dux, and while she could have chosen to do anything, she had been drawn inexorably towards architecture, despite herself. Zan hadn't wanted to follow in her father's footsteps, but she was more like him than she cared to admit. She quickly assumed their mother's maiden name, however, when the lecturers began to twig she was the daughter of the renowned Malcolm Reading.

Nick deferred his own studies for a year. He wanted to make sure Zan got off to a good start at uni and that Georgie finished school without further disruption. He stepped into the role of surrogate father with ease and had never really stepped out again, nor had he returned to uni. He was probably not built for it, he claimed some years later, shrugging it off. He didn't have the discipline; he was more artisan than architect, craftsman than draftsman.

Besides, as executor of the estate and guardian of his sisters he had more important things to attend to. They had not been left wanting, but obviously their parents had planned to be around for a long time. There was substantial equity in the family home, but a substantial mortgage along with it, and now no income to service it. It would not have made good financial sense to sink the life insurance pay-out into the house. Fortunately their Uncle Jon was an invaluable help to him at the time. Although he lived in Singapore, he travelled back and forth six times in that first year or so. He'd wanted to take them all back with him at first, as their father's brother and closest next of kin. They had never known their
mother's family. Gillian had run away from home at fifteen and refused to have any contact, despite her husband's gentle urging. They didn't even know if she was alive, he'd pointed out. They wouldn't care either way, Gillian had steadfastly maintained.

Nick politely but firmly declined his uncle's offer – he felt that the family should be spared any further upheaval, and Jon reluctantly agreed. It was also decided they remain in the house for the meantime, again, for the sake of stability. They needed space to grieve and time to heal. Jon helped Nick invest the money to defray their expenses, and when a year had passed they put the family home on the market.

Nick wanted the girls to invest their share of the proceeds back into real estate and Zan needed no encouragement. She promptly bought a dingy apartment in a rundown block in the most decrepit quarter of Woolloomooloo, much to Nick's alarm. All the more when she insisted on moving in straight away. He had hoped to keep the family together for a little longer, but Zan was going on twenty and while she loved her brother and sister, she was also doggedly independent.

Georgie had needed a little more encouragement and guidance to spend her money wisely. Nick finally persuaded her to buy a drab but solid investment flat in Dee Why while she lived with him in the fixer-upper he had found a couple of suburbs away in Harbord. Louise was virtually living there too and when she and Nick decided to marry, Georgie gave notice to her tenants and took up residence in her
own flat. Nick had felt torn at the time. Of course he and Louise needed their own space, but he hated that Georgie was on her own. He worried about her, worried that he'd miss something, that he wouldn't notice the signs. But she worked with Louise all day and spent a lot of time with them besides, so he had to trust that would be enough. He just wanted to see her settled with someone, but she hadn't had much luck in that department. He didn't know why, but what often started off hopefully seemed to go nowhere pretty fast. Nick was well aware there were some dickheads around, but sometimes he had a disquieting feeling that Georgie was hard to please, that she was waiting for someone she was never going to find.

Nick heard a car in the driveway and replaced the cake plate on the kitchen bench. When he turned around Georgie was standing in the doorway, with her feral hair and her ragamuffin clothes. She didn't look much different to when she was eleven or twelve, though she didn't have purple streaks then, as he recalled.

‘Hey there, Georgie girl!' he greeted her.

‘Don't you ever get sick of saying that?' she said as she sauntered over to him, tossing her bag on the couch as she passed.

‘You'd think so, wouldn't you?' He gave her a hug. ‘Happy Birthday, though I refuse to accept that my baby sister is thirty-three years old.'

‘So does she,' said Louise, coming through the doorway.

‘What's that?'

‘I've decided not to be thirty-three this year,' Georgie said plainly.

Nick went to say something but Louise interrupted. ‘Don't ask, you don't want to wade into that one,' she assured him. ‘Where are the girls?'

‘In the sandpit.'

She sighed. ‘Not having their baths?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because they're in the sandpit.'

She sighed again, more loudly this time.

‘Ah,' said Nick, coming towards her. ‘The sigh of disdain, followed by the groan of contempt.' He pulled her into his arms but she didn't protest. ‘Yes, the girls are still in the sandpit, but dinner is in the oven, the birthday cake is baked, three loads of washing have been hung out, brought in and put away, and our two small daughters, as yet unbathed in water, have however been bathed in the light of paternal devotion all day. I didn't even catch
The Bold and the Beautiful
.' He dipped Louise back, holding her steady. ‘So now, don't I deserve the kiss of unconditional love and affection?'

She smiled as he bent to kiss her. Georgie watched them enviously. Well, not really enviously, Nick was her brother after all, and Louise her lifelong friend. Growing up, Louise had spent more time at their house than she had at her own. She came over even when Georgie was out. Georgie was apparently the last one to realise that Louise and Nick's fondness for one another was much more than platonic. Meantime Zan met Jules and finally
understood why she'd never enjoyed dating men. She and Jules had been together ever since and were deeply committed to each other. So Zan clung to Jules, Nick clung to Louise, and Georgie clung to them all.

Not that Georgie didn't want someone for herself. She did, at times with a longing so powerful it would engulf her in a depression that had been known to last for days. She had a series of disappointing relationships behind her, though Louise often pointed out that two weeks did not a relationship make. And so Georgie found herself, at thirty-three years of age, single, living with a spoiled, unemployed goodtime girl who in addition to treating the place like it was a drop-in centre for her friends, had contributed the grand total of $237 towards rent and expenses in the seven months since she'd moved in.

Needless to say Georgie was not living the life she had thought she would be by her age. She should have had a couple of kids and a reasonable-looking, affable husband who could make her laugh and sit beside her on the lounge at night watching telly, maybe rub her feet when she'd had a long day. It didn't seem too much to ask. But as each year ticked by Georgie knew it was getting further and further out of her reach. She'd heard the line about a woman her age having more chance of getting hit by a space shuttle than getting married, or something like that, but worse, she'd read the stats. Georgie was part of an emerging generation destined to remain single and childless. She didn't know how she'd ended up in this
particular demographic, and it was becoming increasingly obvious there was no way out.

Molly appeared in the doorway and gasped with shock, opening her eyes wide and holding both hands to her face. She deservedly held the title of drama queen of the family. ‘Daddy, you didn't say Georgie got here! What about the surprise?' she added in a loud whisper.

‘What surprise?' asked Louise.

‘Never mind,' Nick assured Molly. ‘It's not too late, quick, go and get your sister.'

Molly disappeared again.

‘What's going on?' Louise asked him.

‘Not much, just humour them.'

Suddenly Molly and Grace ran through the doorway, shouting ‘Surprise! Happy Birthday!' slightly out of sync. Molly boomed the words out loudly and Grace, unable to keep up, echoed them a few seconds behind, in her soft, sweet little voice. It said a lot about their relationship. Physically, they were chalk and cheese as well. Although both blonde like their mother, Molly was tall for her age with angular features, just like Nick. Grace was all Louise: round, cherubic and cuddly, which was fine for a little girl, Louise bemoaned, not so much a thirtysomething woman.

‘Were you surprised, Georgie?' Molly asked.

‘Absolutely!' she declared, crouching down to hug her nieces.

‘Why?'

‘Because I didn't know you were going to do that.'

‘Champagne?' Nick interrupted from the kitchen, popping a cork.

‘Is the Pope Polish?' said Zan loudly from the front door, Jules trailing along behind her.

They were all a little intimidated by Zan. She was the high achiever of the family, no one else even came close. After graduating with first-class honours and a job offer from one of the most prestigious architectural firms in Sydney, if not Australia, she had sold the one-time dumpy flat for a tidy profit, bought a warehouse in Surry Hills and now operated Zan Underwood Designs from the premises, employing six other staff. She and Jules had lived there until a year ago when they moved to Tamarama after completing major renovations to a five-bedroom bungalow with ocean views. The house had already been featured in
Belle
and
Domain
. Zan was on the A-list, but what made her really cool was that she could not have cared less.

‘Happy Birthday, George,' said Zan, kissing her sister on the cheek as she handed her a large, exquisitely wrapped box. Georgie just knew it would be some fabulous objet d'art or designer widget she would absolutely adore but that would stick out like a sore thumb in the cacophonous interior of her flat. Zan's beautiful, tasteful gifts just made the rest of her place look like an op shop.

‘So how was your day, George?' Zan asked, accepting a glass of champagne and a kiss on the cheek from her brother. ‘Did you do anything special?'

‘She had a visit from her boyfriend,' Louise blurted before Georgie could reply.