The Golden Child Page 10

  ‘I think we’re all in the same boat, really. I’ve kept working, but in a way I’ve been on cruise control for years. I could get a job in a big firm, I guess, do something interesting, move up the ladder. I can really only do the most basic stuff from home – it’s pretty boring. But there are all these women in their early thirties without kids, so ambitious, so competitive. Argh. I don’t think I can play that game anymore.’ Her shudder is only slightly exaggerated. ‘Although I’m sure I was no different when I was that age. I’m embarrassed to think of all the middle-aged mumsy has-beens I sneered at back then.’

  Beth laughs. ‘Oh, God, me too. And now look at me . . .’

  Andi takes her iPad to bed that night, and reads the DizzyLizzy blogposts, going back into the archives, scrolling through months of posts, and then years – and then it is suddenly it’s past one in the morning and Gus has woken for a feed, and she feels a little grimy, like some sort of online stalker. But despite her initial qualms, she quite likes Beth’s online alter ego. Lizzy isn’t didactic or authoritative, disingenuous or self-congratulatory. She isn’t a humble-bragger or a pain-in-the-arse know-it-all. Beth’s online persona meshes with the actual flesh-and-blood woman Andi has met – smart, insightful, wryly humorous. Her virtual life seems just as chaotic and uncertain as Andi’s own. And, appealingly, just as real.

  SOPHIE

  IT BEGINS INNOCENTLY ENOUGH. THE TWO OF THEM barricaded into Sophie’s bedroom, late in the afternoon, bored, all other possibilities for entertainment, real and virtual, exhausted. There’s nothing left to do but take selfies of themselves making stupid faces. They move on from faces to close-ups of eyes, from eyes to noses, from noses to lips. Their photo session culminates in a mass of weirdly angled close-range shots of various body parts: arms, hands, fingers, toes, soles of feet, kneecaps, crooks of elbows. They post the wildest, least recognisable shots on Charlotte’s Instagram account, without any accompanying descriptions, then laugh themselves silly as the likes come thick and fast, along with bewildered, off-the-wall comments from her followers: What sort of flower is this? It’s so pretty! someone says about an artistic shot of the creases on Charlotte’s elbow. A girl in year ten asks about the hill and valley shot of Sophie’s knocked-together knees: Is this in Japan?

  ‘Okay, so what about our butts, then? Or our boobs?’ Naturally, it’s Charlotte’s idea.

  ‘No way.’ Sophie shakes her head violently, but can’t help giggling at the thought.

  ‘We could make them look totally bizarre. Nobody would ever know. Come on, it’ll be cool.’

  ‘No way,’ Sophie says again. ‘If anyone found out we’d be . . .’

  ‘But that’s the thing. Nobody will ever find out. Nobody’s got a clue what these photos actually are. Come on, Sophie!’ Charlotte is impatient, excited. Irresistible. ‘If you don’t want to, I’ll go first. You take a shot of my boobs. I’ll push them up like this.’ Charlotte pulls her school uniform off without hesitation, then whips off her little lacy bra and pushes her tiny breasts together. Sophie gazes at her friend’s tanned, angular body enviously, then looks away quickly, embarrassed, but Charlotte is entirely unselfconscious. She thrusts her iPad at Sophie. ‘Here. Take some photos from different angles. We’ll post the funniest ones.’ Her discomfort quickly overtaken by her desire to keep the game going, keep Charlotte happy, Sophie takes a dozen shots, from close in and far away, none of them even vaguely recognisable as any body part. The girls squeal over the pictures, select one that, after some clever Photoshopping, looks like a teacup and saucer with a crazed patina, and post it. Charlotte pulls her clothes back on then turns the iPad on Sophie.

  ‘Okay. Let’s do your butt.’

  ‘My butt? No way. That’s gross.’ Sophie feels slightly sick. ‘No one wants to see that.’

  Charlotte’s eyes narrow. ‘Come on, Sophie. You just took shots of my tits. Now it’s your turn.’ Her voice is cold.

  Sophie doesn’t want to, but there’s no way out. She can’t upset Charlotte, not now, not when they’re getting on so well. She turns away from her friend, unbuttons her uniform, shrugs it slowly over her shoulders and wriggles it over her hips, her legs, taking her time. She looks down at her body, despairs at her shapeless breasts in their dingy overstretched bra, the pasty corrugations of flesh from her chest to her pudgy thighs. She finds it almost impossible not to wrap her arms around herself, to offer her exposed body some sort of protection.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Sophie’s voice is breathy and high. Charlotte is leaning back on the bed, the iPad held out in front of her, focused, intent.

  ‘Just pull your undies over a bit and show me some skin, girl.’ She looks up from the iPad, gives a brief, mischievous grin.

  ‘Really? Can’t you take something else?’

  ‘No way, José. If you don’t give me some butt, I’ll put up a video of you like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘In your underwear.’

  ‘What? Like this? Have you been recording me? No way! Charlotte.’ Sophie panics, lunges for the iPad, but Charlotte scrambles off the bed, laughing, the iPad still held firmly in front of her.

  ‘Come on, Sophie. Fair’s fair.’

  It’s not fair, but Sophie pulls back her shameful undies (too small, faded and threadbare, the elastic gone limp) and reveals a square of porcelain skin, marred by a constellation of tiny red pimples. Charlotte comes close up, takes a series of shots.

  By the time they edit the shot and post it, Sophie’s uniform and good cheer have been restored, and she LOLs as genuinely as Charlotte at the comments.

  Hey that’s amazing @CharlotteMah. My doona is exactly that material. I love the red polka dots!!!

  And when Lucy knocks on the door to let them know that she and Beth have arrived to pick up Charlotte, Sophie doesn’t even mind that Charlotte shows her older sister the original shots as well as the Photoshopped versions. After all, it’s been so much fun. Charlotte’s her friend. And Lucy, too.

  DizzyLizzy.com

  Mummy-fied

  I test the idea on the girls first. It’s one that’s been floating around in my head for a while, long before we arrived back in the land of Oz.

  I put it to them gently – very gently – as we’re driving home from hockey training. ‘I’ve been thinking, now that you girls are both in high school, I should probably think about getting a job.’ My voice is pleasantly neutral; my eyes are on the road.

  ‘But you always say that being a full-time mum is work.’

  ‘And who’d drive us to hockey?’

  Later, over dinner, I make the suggestion, just as casually, a mere suggestion, to D.

  ‘Get a job? But you’ve got one.’

  ‘I mean a real job.’

  ‘But you’re always saying that mothering is a real job.’

  ‘Well, it is, but—’

  ‘And anyway, you’ve got to finish the painting.’

  I sound out the girls again, as we’re heading to the beach on Friday afternoon.

  ‘You know how I mentioned getting a job the other day?’ This time I make eye contact. ‘Well, I think it’d be really good for everyone – it’ll give Dad the opportunity to help out a bit, do more stuff with you girls.’

  ‘Would Dad have to cook dinner?’

  ‘I guess so. Sometimes.’

  ‘Then no way. All he can make is frozen pies. In the microwave. We’ll end up really fat.’

  ‘Or starved.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  They hold on hard to my hands, clearly afraid.

  I talk to D again. It’s ten o’clock at night, and I’m standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, trying on potential work outfits. D’s sitting up in bed with a cup of black tea, doing something important on his laptop. I put on one of my favourites, a tight-fitting cream dress – a Hervé Léger knockoff I bought for a wedding a couple of years back. It may not be the real thing, but it was still expensive. And it looks good. I pair it with a plum
silk jacket to give it an appropriately office-y feel.

  I put on lipstick. Heels. Pile my hair into a fashionably messy bun.

  I strike a pose – hand on hip, head on the side – do my best not to teeter in my barely worn Jimmy Choos.

  ‘So. What do you think?’ D looks up and I give him my best office-seductress look.

  He blinks, looks confused. ‘What the hell are you doing? It’s bedtime.’

  ‘You know, I really miss having to get dressed for work.’ I make my voice wistful, raise my eyebrows meaningfully. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I do get dressed for work. Every single morning. I can’t say it does anything for me.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I thought you—’

  ‘It’s a bit too late for sex games, honey – I’ve got a meeting in the morning. And anyway,’ he adds, ‘I hate that dress.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s the fabric. You look like you’ve been wrapped in bandages.’ He snorts.

  ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘Yeah, well you sort of remind me of a mummy.’ He yawns, closes his laptop.

  I give it one last go. I’m with the girls in the local shopping mall. We’ve spent two hours here, and according to them the shopping expedition has been lame. Meaning: I’ve bought nothing but the things they need, and nothing that they actually want.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ says C. ‘This skirt.’ She crushes the completely unsuitable and hideously expensive suede miniskirt to her chest. ‘I just love it.’ She turns begging eyes on me. ‘Please. I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Sorry, sweetie. Money doesn’t grow on trees.’ C rolls her eyes, sighs. Shares a bitter look with her older sister.

  ‘But, you know, if I had a job, it’d be a bit different.’ Suddenly I have their undivided attention. ‘It wouldn’t be a money tree, exactly. But certainly a . . . seedling.’

  ‘If you got a job could I get a new iPhone?’

  ‘And could I go on that China trip in year nine?’

  ‘Oh my God, Mum,’ says C, ‘what sort of example are you setting? Who wants to be a stay at home mum? You should totally get a job.’

  51

  EXPATTERINGS:

  @OzMumInTokyo says:

  Oh, it’s so exciting, Lizzy! So did you find anything?? XOX

  @DizzyLizzy replied:

  Not yet – there isn’t really that much around for forty-somethings who’ve been out of the workforce for fifteen years. Might’ve left my run too late L

  @OzMumInTokyo replied:

  No way! You’ll be snapped up in no time. Xxx

  @HausFrau says:

  Who are you kidding? You can tell yourself whatever you like, but age IS a huge barrier to employment. Who wants a middle-aged woman with family responsibilities when they can get a fresh-faced twenty-something who’s willing to work a ninety-hour week, sleep with the boss and clamber up that greasy pole? Good luck with that!

  @BlueSue replied:

  I hate to agree with such a snarky comment, but @HausFrau has a point. When I went back into the workforce after years as a SAHM, I had to accept a nursing position that was so far below my former experience (and income bracket) that it was a joke. My self-esteem took such a massive dive that I don’t think it was worth it. Take it from me, it’s a tough old world out there, Lizzy.

  @GirlFromIpanema replied:

  I’m not so sure you hate to agree, @BlueSue. But whatever rocks your boat. Total rubbish, btw, Lizzy. You go girl!!!!

  @AnchoreDownInAlaska says:

  Mummy-fied!!! LOL. Love it!

  @TrailingWife says:

  Hi Lizzy! Great to hear you’ve made it home safe and sound and pretty much sane ☺ TrailingWife.com are planning a blog round-up over the next couple of months, asking home-comers like yourself to list the ten things they most miss about their expat homes. We’d love to have your contribution. Contact linda@TrailingWife.com for details.

  BETH

  BACK IN NEW JERSEY, BETH HAD FELT AS IF SHE WAS ON TOP of everything. The house, the cooking, the bills, all the complex details of the girls’ lives, emotional and physical – it had taken considerable effort, but she had it finely tuned, perfectly calibrated. But here, everything feels slightly out of control. They’ve been in the house for more than four months and are somehow still living out of boxes, the place is a mess, all their paperwork is out of sync. For the first time in her married life she’s been late paying the bills – their mobiles have been disconnected twice, and she’s had threatening letters from the gas company.

  Worse, for the first time since their births, Beth feels excluded from her daughters’ lives. There have been parties, play-dates, parent–teacher meetings, and she’s even made a point of going to Monday assembly whenever she can, but something has changed now both girls are in high school, something fundamental. Even though they are into their second term, she still has no clue about the classroom dynamics, how they spend their lunchtimes, their day-to-day experiences. She has barely had any conversations with other parents in the girls’ classes – while she meets Lucy and Charlotte just inside the school gates, the other high schoolers seem to walk or catch buses – so that until her recent, providential meeting with the lovely Andi, there have been none of the deceptively casual afternoon conversations with other mothers that Beth has always depended on for information and gossip. She knows that it is probably a normal development – an inevitable part of the girls growing up, growing away, becoming women – but the truth is she misses her babies. Misses them needing her.

  And Beth’s own life feels strangely uncertain, too. She is entirely without local friends, and doesn’t quite know how to find them. There’s Andi, of course, and she’s hopeful about her, but that relationship is still in its early stages – casual, easy; the confidences general, not particular. Increasingly, the blog is her principal social outlet: there she can continue to be that smart, gently funny, connected self that she’s constructed over the last few years. Beth likes to think that her virtual persona is just as authentic as her ‘real life’ self. Or almost: Lizzy is perhaps just a touch more laid-back than Beth, she seems to be able to brush aside, laugh about, all the petty, and not so petty, annoyances of her life in a way that Beth never can.

  At least the girls are okay. Or they seem to be – although if she thinks too hard about them she’s likely to break out in a cold sweat. They may not have become the nightmare adolescents she has dreaded – neither of them is particularly rebellious, or not yet; neither seems to be suffering from depression or anxiety; there are no signs of eating disorders, self-mutilation, self-loathing; they haven’t suddenly become hyper-sexualised or boy-crazy. Neither of them has announced that they’re gay or bi or transgender. Still, both girls seem to be moving further and further from her: they keep their thoughts to themselves and, increasingly, their actual physical selves – both of them spending more time in their bedrooms and with their various devices than with each other or their parents. And maybe it is early days, but she still doesn’t have a solid sense of their friends – what they’re like, who their parents are. She has to rely, as she supposes so many other busy middle-class parents do, on the school being an effective filter. It is a school established for the children of families like theirs, after all – well-off, respectable, ambitious for their children – otherwise they wouldn’t be there.

  So Beth has begun doing exactly what her mother suggested: thinking about herself. She’s started wondering whether it might be time for her to get serious about working again. Whatever she said to her mother, or told herself, the decision to not work wasn’t a natural one for Beth. Sometimes it seems as if a rotten joke has been played on her, as on so many women she knows: all those years spent struggling to achieve career success, material gain – time at university, the two years working on her masters, the willingness to start right at the bottom of the ladder as a receptionist at a women’s magazine, to work through all the departments (ma
rketing, sales, PR) before finally ending up in a place she wanted to be. All that dressing-for-success, going to the right parties, making the right connections, schmoozing with her superiors – licking arse, basically. There were a few years of doing precisely what she wanted, and doing it well, and then, bang! – she met Dan at the wedding of mutual friends (they were both in the bridal party; such a cliché!), they fell in love and married, and in the blink of an eye she was pregnant and agreeing to a twelvemonth stay in Canada. For his work. ‘I’ll have the baby to occupy me, Dan,’ she had reassured him. ‘It won’t matter that I’m not working – and anyway, there’ll be things I can do if I want. I can work online; I can freelance.’ She doesn’t regret it, not really – what she said to her mother is true: she loves her life, loves the fact that she’s been able to be there for the girls. And she knows the girls have benefited from it – they are both happy, bright, well-adjusted. Normal.

  It was okay when they were in the US, where she couldn’t work anyway, but now she is back in Australia, she feels differently. She feels somehow lessened, wasted, judged. She knows that she made the right decision, the only decision, but she has begun to wonder whether she’ll ever get to be that other person again, whether there’ll even be a career to go back to. The current of technology has kept rushing forward without her, and her once cosy little anchorage is almost unrecognisable, has practically been washed away. So this possibility of working with Drew Carmichael that her mother told her about: there’s no ignoring it. It is an opportunity, and if her quick recce of the local employment market is any indication, right now it’s the only one Beth has.

  What she doesn’t expect is that Dan’s reaction will be so reflexively negative. When she mentions, over breakfast one morning, her mother’s suggestion that she get in touch with Drew, that there’s the possibility of a job, Dan makes his opposition clear. ‘You’re not really thinking about starting work now, are you?’ he asks. ‘There’s no point – you can’t make any sort of commitment, not yet.’ He sounds annoyed. ‘We really need you around to get the girls settled. Sort out all the house stuff.’ It’s true – there are so many other things she needs to do – but Beth has a sudden, unexpected burst of resentment at this too-easy dismissal, which she knows is probably motivated by Dan’s instant realisation that if Beth is working, more will be expected of him.