Armani Angels (3 page)

‘Thinking what?' Chantelle asked.

‘Thinking about what it all means. Wondering what the point is to it all. We live such a pampered, indulgent life. Yet all over the world people struggle just to feed their kids. I can't stop thinking about it lately, about the amount of money wasted on publicising an event so some company can sell people a whole lot of crap they don't need. It just all seems so fake and meaningless.' She took a big breath after her tirade.

‘Wow,' Chantelle sat back on the chaise, ‘but that's how you've got where you are, by being a part of that world. Might seem a bit hypocritical to question it all now, luv. And anyways, what can you do to change it?'

Gemma shook her head. ‘I just don't know,' she said.

She tried to fill her lungs, but her breath was strained and tight. She gulped in air and tried again. And then again, with one hand on her shuddering chest. It was no good. She tried to lie back against her lounge and relax.

‘Would you like to come through?' the therapist asked, and led Gemma and Chantelle into a treatment room that Mercedes was already muddily ensconced in.

Gemma lay on the bed and tried to tune into the rainforest music.

The therapist began to apply the face mask, a mixture of minerals from Lake Dumbleyung, a salt lake in Western Australia. The music was soft and soulful, the quiet murmur of her friends' voices next to her, reassuring. Everything was drifty and delightful.

But then an insidious kernel of a question started to nibble at her subconscious.
Do you deserve this?
it said.

Shhh
, Gemma's conscious mind retaliated and pushed the troubling thought away. But like watching a microscopic video of cells dividing, the thoughts increased in size and doubled in weight. What do you think you're doing? Why are you here? Shouldn't you be with your son? It's Saturday sports. What about the house? There's a thousand jobs that need doing at home. You could try spending some time with your husband for once and maybe your marriage wouldn't be so hollow. How much money did you send to the World Vision kids last month? Just the standard amount? Why not more? What's a hundred bucks to you anyway? Maybe the kid would appreciate a card? A communication? Something that acknowledges that they're flesh and blood and not merely a Western guilt-assuaging device.

The thoughts were whirling, dizzying her mind, and her breathing began to get shorter. Her throat constricted. She reached up to remove the thing that was choking her, but there was nothing there, the soft terry of the robe was loose at her bust. The therapist, unaware of Gemma's inner turmoil, placed a warm towel around her client's face to cleanse away the mud. The towel seemed to take on a life of its own, suffocating her like a great O2 pillow sucking the air from her lungs. The blockage in her throat slammed shut. She sat bolt upright, clawing at the face towel, desperate for oxygen and release from the claustrophobic threat. Her breathing was short, sharp and jagged. She had to get away, she needed to run; she was sure she was going to die from this feeling.

She leaped from the bed in agitation, her mind a terrifying spiral of panic.

Oh God, she thought, maybe I've lost my mind; I've gone mad.

She threw her arms out in terror, trying to steady the world that whirled around her, and swept a tray of tiny glass aromatherapy oils to the ground in a noisy crash.

‘What the hell?' Mercedes and Chantelle sat up, shocked.

‘Wow, good detox!' Mercedes exclaimed.

Gemma sat rigid in the vinyl waiting-room chair. She clasped her handbag tightly on her lap. She stared unseeingly at the posters for STD and H1N1 prevention, and others urging patients to have mammograms and Pap smears. Her head was still aching and her body felt bruised all over. The panic had subsided, but she still didn't quite know what had happened to her.

Chantelle had insisted on bringing her to the doctor after her bizarre behaviour at the spa. She sat next to Gemma absently stroking her arm whilst she devoured an old copy of
HELLO! Magazine
.

Gemma felt tears pricking her eyes. She felt so stupid, and so frightened. The sense of building pressure had happened a few times of late, but nothing as bad as today. Life had just been so full-on recently, with the increased responsibility at work and the unpleasantness at home. The more her marriage splintered at the edges, the more she thought back to her own parents' dysfunctional relationship with a sense of impending and inevitable doom.

They'd split when Gemma was fourteen and had never spoken a civil word to each other since, not even managing to be in the same space long enough to see their only daughter married or only grandchild christened. Their hatred and bitterness towards each other had barely waned in the decades since they had stormed and raged at each other as their daughter cried herself to sleep. Their split had only created more pain – at least there was less shouting when they were apart – but each parent had used Gemma as a pawn to score points against the other, constantly deriding the other to her, always in competition to buy her the most expensive gifts or designer clothes. Gemma's teen years were spent being ferried from one angry parent to the other, listening to each catalogue the faults of the other. It was exhausting.

She was determined that things would be different for Tyler; he would have stability and never be caught in the ugly place her parents had forced upon her.

She thought back to the incident of this morning and the look on the spa therapist's face when the panic finally ebbed away and Gemma was left breathless and shivering.

You're a mental case
, the look had said.

Gemma's doctor, Kerryn Davis, stepped into the waiting room and motioned her to follow her into her surgery.

Kerryn was a trim woman with a very quiet voice who immediately instilled confidence.

‘Thanks for fitting me in at such late notice,' Gemma said.

‘It was good timing, actually. I just had a cancellation. Now what's going on with you?' Kerryn enquired gently, sliding a box of tissues towards her patient.

Right on cue, Gemma grabbed a tissue and her will faltered. Heavy tears fell down her cheeks. ‘I know it's silly, but I just can't control my emotions at the moment. I cry over everything, and then today, I'm not sure what happened; I think I had a panic attack.'

She described how she'd felt at the spa, the terror and the fear that seemed to have come from nowhere.

Kerryn nodded sympathetically as she jotted down some notes on Gemma's file.

‘And work is so stressful. I'm acting CEO at the moment until they hire someone. Which means I have to go to the States for a conference but I can't leave my son – he's going through a hard time. And my marriage is in ta-a-a-a-attterrss,' she sobbed finally.

‘Is it?' Kerryn asked. ‘Tell me more about your marriage being in tatters.'

Gemma looked up. Had she said that? She wondered, again, if she was going a little bit loopy. She did a complete flip. ‘Oh, look, it's not; it's fine. We're fine. I'm quite mad to have even said that.' She was beaming through her tears, aware that this watery Cheshire cat impersonation was only making matters worse.

A few more sobs from Gemma and a few more gentle probing questions from Kerryn followed: about previous episodes (a few minor ones), her alcohol use (probably one glass too many each night) and her general diet (healthy if erratic).

‘Hmmm, okay, and do you drink much caffeine?' Kerryn asked.

‘Oh, I'm rather a caffeine junkie,' Gemma gave a small smile, ‘I'd had about four cups before reaching the day spa.'

‘Okay,' Kerryn murmured thoughtfully. ‘Well, there are some investigations we need to do then. I'd like to do a blood test to rule out an overactive thyroid, and I'd like you to come back and see me again next week. In the meantime I'd suggest you cut back on the coffee, and maybe consider some ways to manage stress better. Have you ever tried meditation or yoga? Deep-breathing techniques can also help.' She reached for some brochures in her desk drawer. ‘Here's some information on panic attacks and some hints for dealing with them.'

Gemma scanned the brochures quickly and sighed; she really didn't have time to cope with this at the moment.

‘It's important that we monitor your moods over the next week, so I think it would be useful to keep a note of how you feel each day, just a simple description in your work diary will do. Maybe try ranking your mood out of ten, with ten being the best feeling, and one being the worst.'

‘Okay.' Gemma nodded reluctantly.

‘That way we can get a clearer picture of your emotional state. I want to rule out depression.'

‘Thanks.' Gemma shook hands with her doctor and stood to leave.

‘You have a lot on your plate at the moment, Gemma. Try to cut back where you can.'

‘Thank you, Doctor, thank you so much.'

Chantelle stood up in concern as Gemma came back to the waiting room.

‘Thanks for waiting,' Gemma said and gave her friend a hug.

‘Of course,' Chantelle assured her. ‘Are you okay?'

‘I will be. I think I just need to go home now.'

‘Want me to drive you?' Chantelle offered.

‘Thanks, but I'd like to just be alone.' Gemma paid her bill and the two left the clinic.

‘Okay, well, you take your car and I'll grab a cab back to the spa to get mine.' Chantelle searched her huge bag for Gemma's keys. She passed the keys to Gemma then lay her hand on her friend's arm. ‘Are you sure?' Her eyes searched Gemma's.

Gemma smiled in reassurance. ‘Thanks so much for being here for me, but I really just want to go home and relax now. I promise not to go mental again.'

‘Well, thank God for that,' Chantelle said with a smile. ‘But seriously, you know where I am if you need me, and you did not go mental. Your poor head just let you know it needs a rest, so listen to it,' she waggled a manicured finger in Gemma's face and grinned again, ‘or else.'

Chantelle gave her a last squeeze and teetered off to flag down a passing cab.

How ridiculous, Gemma thought on the way home through the leafy Hawthorn streets. I'm not depressed. How could I be? I don't mope about the house all whiny, moaning about how unfair it all is. I'm a go-getter, a doer. Depression. Rubbish. But as Gemma got closer to where her house lay nestled among English greens and perennials, a rush of guilt rose within her again.

She pulled up in the driveway, her finger poised over the triple-car garage door button. What was she doing with her life? She stared at their French provincial mansion. A tennis court-sized front lawn sprawled before her. It was lush and perfect, thanks to their loyal weekly gardener.

She normally felt great pride in the beautiful house that she and Stephen had worked so hard to build and maintain. But tonight was different. She felt melancholy somehow. A little embarrassed and ashamed. She shook herself, pushed the button on the remote and drove the car to its resting place. She was being ridiculous.

But later that night as she lay in the bath, hoping to soak off the remnants of the day's mud wrap with the day's anxiety, she wondered if maybe her guilty feelings were justified. She stared, with despondence, at the bathroom countertop. For God's sake, she had a cut-crystal Tiffany box to store her cotton balls in. How spoilt was she?

It was all such a waste. She couldn't go on doing this anymore, throwing extravagant party after extravagant party, each more over the top than the last, for clients more spoilt than the last, for pointless, empty products. She had to do something. Something meaningful. Something more than attending a black-tie charity event, something more than buying a book of raffle tickets for the school's latest fundraiser. Gemma decided that she wanted to make a difference. But how?

‘What is taking you so long?' Dame Frances's rasp cut through the kitchen counter's plantation shutters. Julian squeezed enough orange juice into the glass to get an authentic-looking pulp then topped up the rest from the juice container in the refrigerator.

‘Sorry, Dame Frances.' He hurried in with a tray bearing the glass of juice.

He placed the drink in front of his boss then sat down, pulling his chair up to the ornate Louis Quatorze dining table that was their workspace. Beside them a window overlooked the Domain Parklands. The Dame held her charity meetings at the dining table, wrote her memoirs there and of course used it to host dinner parties with Melbourne's affluent philanthropists.

‘Where were we? Come on, Julian, focus. We've masses to get through before the meeting tomorrow.'

Julian picked up the pile of mail. He was well versed in the Dame's system and could predict the quality of a missive by just a glance at its envelope. He flipped past junk mail, bills and administrative letters to separate the large envelopes that had weight, handwritten addresses or boasted an interesting colour or texture.

Dame Frances received an inordinate amount of mail each day. She was hugely influential and, just as she regularly asked Melbourne's movers and shakers for help, handouts, sponsorships and contacts, many similar requests were directed to her. And thankfully there was, Dame Frances would often say, that last bastion of true communicators, those with a pen, a box of good stationery and the ability to string a sentence together, a place where words were spelled in full and punctuation was given the respect it deserved.

‘Right, first cab off the rank,' Julian said. He tore open the rose-coloured square envelope with the gemstone letter opener.

‘Ooh,' he squealed, ‘a wedding invitation.'

‘Really?' Dame Frances's voice dropped an octave. ‘I'm listening, whose is it?'

‘Elizabeth Margaret Penwood to Howard Lyall Stewart.'

‘Where?'

‘St James Church in South Yarra and then Patagonias.'

‘Patagonias? For a reception? And the ceremony at St James? There can't be many going. No. Politely decline, thank you, Julian. Besides, Liz's mum is just trying to butter me up because she's hosting a breast cancer lunch and she wants me for guest of honour. I hardly need to be a ribbon wearer.'

‘But Margaret and John Penwood have been loyal supporters for years. They're friends, aren't they?' Julian shook his head. The Dame could be frustrating about invitations. She was no longer able to discern the difference between work and personal commitments. It was all about UP-Kids, and if an event couldn't benefit the charity directly, she wouldn't go. He had to beg her to go to her own daughter's family Christmas last year. Dame Frances had protested, citing that no one interesting would be there. This comment had reminded Julian to frame the three photographs of the Dame's grandchildren and put them on the mantelpiece.

‘Well, I can't help it if Margaret and John's daughter decided to marry a tradesman, can I? Next.'

‘He's a Stewart,' Julian singsonged in a last-ditch attempt.

‘With a W, not a U,' Dame Frances mimicked Julian's singsong voice with her own baritone. ‘It's not like he's a Stuart or anything important.' She then snapped, ‘Next.'

‘It's an opening.'

‘To what?'

‘The new D'Angelo restaurant.'

‘Excellent,' Dame Frances said.

‘Okay, so that's a yes.' He put the black glossy card carefully on his left-hand side.

‘As long as Patricia
hasn't
been invited, it's a yes. But if she has been invited, be sure to tell them I'm on a cruise in the Mediterranean. However –' at this she held up one long, gnarled, manicured index finger, ‘if Patricia
has
been invited but, and this is important, if
Helena
has been invited too, then accept, but only at the last minute and only after the restaurant's PR team calls you.'

‘Okay then,' Julian said, scribbling down notes in his leather compendium. He knew by now not to ask questions. There could only be a long-winded, complicated story involving social slights or seating slurs from decades past. He reached for the next envelope. A slim, white envelope with a gold embossed seal on the back looked professional and important.

Dame Frances polished her small rectangular half-rim eyeglasses and perched them back upon her nose as Julian sliced.

‘Dear Dame Frances,' Julian began. ‘We here at AIDS Awareness are constantly moved by the depths of your generosity . . .' Julian sat upright and put some oomph into his reading. This charity was close to both of their hearts and he needed to make this letter sing. He continued to read. His heart sank. Unfortunately it wasn't written particularly well and the function they were attempting to promote was quite feeble by the Dame's standards. He was afraid he wouldn't get past the first paragraph. He was right.

‘Enough. No,' she said.

He sighed and put the letter in the reject pile.

‘But I will buy a thousand dollars' worth of raffle tickets. Next.'

‘Oh, really?' Julian said in delight, clapping his hands. ‘That is so generous of you. You are just too sweet.' He scribbled a note on the page and put it back in its pile.

Dame Frances could not abide compliments. They made her very uncomfortable, as Julian should have remembered. She glared at him over her glasses.

‘Yes, well, as you know from our history, Julian, I quite like the gays,' she said, ‘when they're not irritating the hell out of me. Next.'

Julian entered his flat at three pm, still smiling over the morning's correspondence and the unending eggshell diplomacy. It may be an emotionally draining job but at least he had every afternoon off when Dame Frances took her siesta. It more than made up for the number of nights out he had to work. Still they were no chore; being the Dame's function poodle was fun.

Oscar wouldn't be home until very late. His job at the law firm was increasingly demanding and Julian fretted for him, especially with his cholesterol level so high.

Binky sprang into his arms and purred, presumably grateful that someone was finally back to admire his gorgeousness.

Julian zapped a late lunch of Lean Cuisine Vegetable Cannelloni, picked up the remote and he and Binky curled up on the sofa to watch last night's TiVo of
Dancing with the Stars
.

Julian's life was good. He and Oscar were happy together, Binky was the only baby they'd ever need and his job, although sometimes a bit busy, was sheer bliss. How easy to be personal assistant to a rich old lady, helping her float around Melbourne's social scene. Oscar told him he was too much of a pushover, that he let Dame Frances walk all over him. But Julian didn't mind. Sometimes her requests were a bit much but he was proud to be entrusted with all the intricacies of the Dame's life.

According to Oscar, personal assistants in his law firm didn't even make coffee for their bosses nowadays; it was too beneath them. But Julian liked the Dame and let her digs and nastiness just slide off him. He had a job he loved, a man he loved and plenty of time left in each day for shopping – what more could he wish for?