Running in Heels (41 page)

“Oh god!” I gasp. “You wouldn't. Stuff like this takes ages to sort out, Babs. Ages. And he
is
young. It's so hard, so tough, but give it a chance. He wasn't, he hasn't been…ah?”

Babs shakes her head. “He says not. I believe him. No, you're right. I was only trying to make him not take me for granted and it sort of worked. It's stressful, though, trying to mend a fraying relationship, because you don't know when or how it's going to end. Whether all this grief will be worth it.”

“It will be, Babs. You have to have endless patience, that's all. You have to keep making the effort, even if you do want to bash his head in with a saucepan.”

“Don't give me ideas.” She frowns and says, “I keep thinking, I'm just married! I should be swinging from the Chinese lantern! I should be wearing his dick out! I should be flying home to bubbling pots of chili con carne, cooked by his loving hand! Not sitting tense and huddled on one arm of the sofa, him on the other
arm, the pair of us stiff and apart like bookends, him hard-faced, me on the edge of hysteria, with my fists clenched to stop myself screaming and slamming out the house. You know, we didn't even do it on our wedding night. Si was too drunk.”

“Babs,” I say, “ ‘should' is like ‘nagging wife.' It's a term of oppression. You don't know what other people's relationships are like. Yes, of course, all newlyweds present smiley faces to the outside world. It's what the outside world expects. They bow to the pressure. They're hardly going to say, ‘Actually, we didn't have sex on our wedding night, we were too tired,' because to those who don't know any better, that looks like failure. When it's probably normal. Common. There
is
no normal. Most ‘shoulds' are media hype. There to sell newspapers and magazines. And I should know, I'm a publicist, sweetie.”

Babs reaches across and squeezes my hand. “You're a good friend,” she says, “is what you are.”

TIME SLOWS OR HURRIES ACCORDING TO VENUE.
In church, synagogue, or mosque, it dawdles, stretching minutes into months. In the kitchen with friends, great chunks of the stuff go missing.

“It's two thirty-five,” gasps Babs. “We've been gassing for three hours! Do you mind? Do you want to get back to work?”

I shake my head, to free up some of the guilt. Coffee breaks are essential; I wouldn't want to overdo it, and get chronic fatigue syndrome. (Chronic fatigue is a terror of mine—I'm sure I have it at least twice a week.) “No, no,” I cry. “It's brilliant to see you, stay for as long as you want. Are you hungry?”

“Ish. Do you want another coffee?”

“Yeah, okay. There's stuff in the fridge, Babs, have a look.”
Brrt brrt!
“Oh, let me get that.”

I hurry to the phone while Babs hangs off the fridge door like a teenager.

“Hiya!”

“You sound cheerful,” says my mother accusingly.

“I know. I can barely believe it myself. Babs is here. We're having a chat.”

“That's nice, dear,” she replies in a monotone. “I hope she's not distracting you from work. You've got to be prudent now you're not properly employed. How is she? Taking care of herself? I do worry about Barbara, of course I don't say anything to Jackie, but it's not really a job for a woman. I'm not being old-fashioned, Natalie, it's a matter of brute strength—”

“Mum,” I say, as kindly as I can—while booting the kitchen door shut with my foot—“Babs might not be as strong as the men, but she's strong enough. She's had to pass exactly the same tests. If anything she's
better
than the men, she's had more to prove.”

My mother—who'd insist the sky was green if she was in the mood—makes a noise not a million miles from a grunt.

“Are you okay? Is something the matter?”

“Nothing
you
need bother yourself about,” she retorts. “I asked your father if he wanted to come to Australia”—a gesture requiring her to swallow about a liter of pride. He must have turned her down—“and the wretch of a man said yes!”

“But, Mum—that's great—well, that's not
awful
news. It'll be nice to, er, know someone. It won't be too bad.”

“I've told him he'll have to stay in a separate hotel. Otherwise Lord knows what poor Kimberli Ann will think.”

As my mother has never, in eight years, betrayed the smallest concern for what Kimberli Ann might think (indeed, has questioned whether Kimberli Ann thinks), I suspect this rush of anxiety on Kimberli Ann's behalf masks a desire to punish my father for his presence.

“I did ask Kelly if she thought it would be too much, to have him along too, and you won't believe what she said.”

“What did she say?”

“ ‘No worries!' I didn't think Australians actually said that! I didn't think
Neighbours
was true to life! I'm the one who made contact, and now he's muscling in! And Kelly told me to pack my ‘swimmers,' my ‘sunnies,' and my ‘thongs'—I was speechless! I didn't know what she was talking about, but I do know what thongs are, and I most certainly will not be packing any. I didn't know what to say, so I said, ‘I see,' and left it at that—”

“Mum,” I say quickly, “I think a thong in Australia means flip-flop. I don't think she was asking you to pack your G-strings.”

“Oh. Oh.
Oh
. I see. Well, I don't own flip-flops either. And now I've read up on Australia, good heavens, it's a minefield! I'm surprised it's inhabited. It's teeming with poisonous creatures, I'll be lucky to survive the trip. If I'm not eaten by sharks, or bitten by a redback spider, I'll be stung to death by a box jellyfish. If you're stung by a box jellyfish you're dead in seconds. It sounds so uncivilized! And Susan said friends of theirs went and they saw a snake and the heat was
choking
.”

“Mum, it'll be fine. They probably saw a snake on television. And I doubt there are box jellyfish in the Hyatt Regency. And it will be lovely to see sun, you haven't had a holiday in—in sixteen years. You've been so looking forward to this, don't let Dad spoil things. He'll be fine. Look, why don't we talk later?”

“And I can't reach Tony,” whines my mother, who is on a roll, “I don't know
where
he's disappeared to, he could be dead for all I know.”

“There are no box jellyfish in Camden. He's probably in meetings, Mum.”

“Natalie, I can't talk to you when you're like this. Just go back to Barbara. We'll speak when you can spare me a minute without being juvenile.”

Pank!

I return to the kitchen, teeth clenched. They unclench only slightly when I see that Babs has transferred all the food in the fridge to the table and is waiting patiently for me to say “start.”

“Start.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Brown bread, tomatoes, lettuce, and cottage cheese. So, Nat, tell me, what does cottage cheese bring to the party?”

“It's very good for you.”

Babs sighs in the direction of the tub. “It's gotta be. What's up? I'm joking. Cottage cheese rocks!”

I smile grimly and hand her the Pringles I've stashed in the top cupboard. (She mimes fainting with joy.) Then I tell her about Australia.

Babs nods all the way through, then claps her hands, creating a sonic boom. “I've just had a brilliant idea.
You
should go!”

“Me?” I cough on a crisp.

“Yes, you!”

“I can't!”

“Why not?”

“Well, I've got work to do.”

“Yes, well. The deli. That's
so
urgent.”

“Oh! That's back on? No, the other stuff. The PR stuff. And the Pilates! That's urgent!”

“Says who?”

“But I've started. I've paid for the first six months.”

“So? You're getting private tuition, aren't you?”

“Yes but…”

“So if you take time off you won't fall behind the class.”

“No, but Robin—”

“You could take three months out and pick up where you left off.”

“Three months?”—I laugh—“Where did you get that from? Mum's only going for three weeks!”

“So? You could stay on, travel, see Australia. It's a big place, love.”

“What? By
myself
?”

“Why not?”

“But it would be highly dangerous!”

“Oh, get off! Not unless you're stupid. You'll make loads of friends—all the other backpackers.”

I stifle an involuntary shudder. Backpackers! And me, one of them!

“Don't you want to meet your niece?” adds Babs slyly.

“Yes.”

“And see your dad?”

“Might do.”

“So?”

I sigh. “It seems so…so…”

“Exciting? Adventurous? Spontaneous?”

“Yes, but—”

“Frivolous? Unnecessary? Reckless?”

“Exactly.” I'm nodding, grateful she understands, and then I look at her, and realize she doesn't.

“Nat,” she says. “I urge you to think about it. You didn't take a year off, you missed out, girl. All the time I've known you, you've never cut yourself some slack. This would be such a treat for you. You'd love it. You'd have the time of your life. Ah, Nat, imagine it. You deserve a break. That's what life's for. It's not about working yourself to the bone, always being careful, sticking to every boring pointless rule in the boring pointless rulebook.”

“I'm not working myself to the bone,” I say sulkily. “I've put on four pounds. And what about the cost?”

“Fuck the cost!” shouts Babs. “Get an overdraft or a fourth credit card like everyone else!”

“But—”

“Nat,” says Babs, sighing, “I'm sorry, but I parked next to you, and yours is the
only
car in the street with the glove compartment left open and empty, like the police advise, to deter thieves from breaking in to nick your stereo. You can't watch
The Breakfast
Club
because you start fretting about everyone's careers. Now I'm afraid that's not normal. You need to chill out.”

“Well, I—”

“Tara and Kelly live in Sydney, right?”

“Yes.”

“Which part?”

“Um,” I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember what my mother told me. “Paddington?”

“Padd-ing-ton!” Babs smirks.

“What? What's wrong with it?”

“Nothing. Couldn't be better! Paddington is cool. Nice cafés and great clothes shopping. It's in the middle of everything
and
it's just down the road from Bondi. It'll be interesting to see what your mother makes of Paddington.”

“Why?” I say, suspiciously.

“It's a place where anything goes,” says Babs, head bent in concentration over the crumbs on her plate. “It's got the San Francisco vibe. It's very trendy, very arty, and it's a big gay area. It's got The Albury, the best-known gay pub in the city—it has drag shows every night. It's fantastic. It's a pity you didn't go earlier, you would have caught the Mardi Gras, your mum would have loved that, it's a real family event, all the families watching the gay couples on their floats in tight pants—”

“You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?”

“Doing what?” shrills Babs, wide-eyed.

“Trying to make it impossible for me
not
to go.”

“Not at all,” she says primly. “I'm merely acting as tourist information.”

“Blackmailing me into feeling obliged to escort my mother.”

“What?”

“To stop her unleashing her Hendon personality on the Paddington Aussies.”

“How can you
say
that?”

“It's a big thing. I'll have to think about it.”

Babs returns to scrutinizing her plate, but to no avail as her grin is so wide it reaches her ears.

When Babs finally leaves, it's 4:30, and she only goes because Simon calls to ask if she wants to see a film tonight.

“See. He
is
trying,” I say, and she smiles.

“He probably means on Channel Five.”

After she's gone, I wash up—the protest coffee cups included (“in the sink with you, you've had your fifteen minutes”)—taking ages over each cup. I find washing up therapeutic in small doses, though I know it's treason to admit it. Babs and I discussed everything except Andy, who I suppose is now taboo. Beyond her initial comment, Babs didn't mention him, so neither did I. The old fears pound heavy in my chest. He could vanish from my life. Even if they
are
interested, men are lazy. The ones you'd sell your mother for (well, my mother) are hopeless at keeping in touch. What hope is there if you shun their interest to death?

I champ my teeth hard together. Australia. Why shouldn't I go? An adventure. I've never had one of those (apart from when someone sold my Visa card number to a gang who went on a spree with it in Hong Kong). I've always needed to know what I'm doing before I do it. I like routine—it makes me feel safe. But I suppose there
is
no safe. I once thought if you got married, you were safe. I'm as bad as my mother.

My mother.

It would be easier for everyone if I was there to smooth the way. But I won't go because Babs thinks I should. Or for my mother. If I do go I'll go for me. I won't go to get away from Andy. I refuse to be a love refugee—I haven't got the right clothes, and Frannie would be cock-a-hoop—apologies, but that word is perfect for her—if she knew. Andy will not affect my decision. He made his choice (and I helped him make it) and that's the end of it. I wouldn't want a man who wears slippers anyway. And didn't he use the word
wiener
once? What a wiener.

My heart thuds like an old plastic football hitting concrete.
Nothing to do with him. Australia. I could do it. I bet Robin would condone it as spiritually beneficial or whatever. And I could avoid Alex without seeming unfriendly. I know that's weak. But I'm just not big enough to feel warm toward her yet—although I'm small enough to fake it—and I'd prefer to dodge the dilemma, until I am. (By which time I'll have made it to Toys “R” Us and Ken will double for a pincushion.) Maybe I should backpack around Oz like a human turtle for three months. I arrive at the thought that nothing is stopping me, when I realize this isn't true.

Tony.

Tony will kill me. He'll scoop out my innards and roast them in a pot. He will hate me if I go to Australia. He doesn't want us to add Tara and Kelly to the family. It'll be bad enough when he finds out Mum is going. Worse when he finds out Dad's going. Dad, meeting his daughter! When Dad left, Tony punished him. He ensured that Dad got no pleasure out of being his dad by declining to have anything to do with him. (Although, if you know Tony, whether this
is
punishment is questionable.) But Tara is a loophole. Luckily for Dad, Tony's refusal to speak to him precludes Tony telling him what he thinks of this move. But he'll tell
me
.

I fiddle with my hair. Now that there's a large Tony-shaped hurdle between me and Australia, I definitely want to go. I'd love to go. Attack is the best form of defense. I should ring Tony. I've never attacked in my life. The most I've attacked is a Caesar salad—and then only to be defeated by the creamy dressing. What if he rang Mum back and already knows? I'd better check. And I should ask her if she wants me to come too before I book. My mother will always be a stickler for etiquette.

“But, Natalie, are you sure you can spare the time?” is her immediate response.

“Probably,” I mumble, deflating. (I would have preferred, “Jubilation, I never thought you'd ask!” but sadly, it wasn't to be.)