The Golden Child Page 11

  ‘What about your mother? Surely she could help out with the girls. They could go to her place a couple of afternoons a week, couldn’t they? Isn’t that part of the reason we moved here – so we’d have some support?’ They’d discussed it before they moved back – how great it would be to have his mother close by – and Dan had assured her that Margie was over the moon, that she couldn’t wait to see more of the girls. It was supposed to be an enticement – a reason to be happy about the move to Newcastle. But since they’ve been back it’s been a different story; Dan is reluctant to ask his mother to do anything.

  ‘You think Mum should run the girls around after she’s finished her own work day? Do you really think that’s fair? She’s already done her share of parenting. Look, I know she’ll be more than happy to babysit when we really need her to, and I know she’s enjoying having the girls, having all of us, in her life, but you can’t really expect that she’s going to want to mind them, or ferry them around to all their after-school activities. And anyway, you know how much they do, and you can barely manage it yourself. You can’t ask Mum to do it.’ You can’t ask Mum to do it. It’s becoming a familiar refrain.

  ‘I wasn’t going to ask her to do everything, Dan, or even anything much. I just thought it might be worthwhile giving Drew a ring, to see what . . . possibilities there might be. I’d really like to get back into the workforce, now we’re home. Do something other than the girls and the house. Something useful.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to sound like a dictator, but wouldn’t it be better if you left it for a while longer? Wait till things are settled?’ Dan slurps down his coffee in a way that really annoys her, too fast, noisily, then wipes his hand across his mouth. ‘And Drew Carmichael? Okay, I know he’s an old family friend and all that, but I think it’d be a bit much to ask Mum to give up her time for that tosser. I honestly wouldn’t think about asking for her help if you get a job with him. It’d be like asking her to look after the kids while you work for Satan.’ He laughs, but uneasily, as if sensing Beth’s anger.

  She is furious that his mother’s opinion of Drew matters so much to him. There have been too many instances since they’ve been home, times when his loyalty to his mother, his fear of somehow offending her, has come close to being a betrayal of Beth, of them. She notices how he always makes a point of chipping the girls (Charlotte usually) over their perceived device addiction (Why not read a book, go outside and play?) when Margie is around; how enthusiastic he is about his mother’s cooking (World’s best mashed potatoes, Ma!), her superior housekeeping skills, her knowledge of politics, history, literature, religion; how he asks (and defers to) her opinion about virtually everything. He’s completely oblivious to his mother’s subtle exclusionary tactics, her apparently playful habit of making Beth’s background, her lack of working-class credentials, conspicuous and somehow inferior, inauthentic (Dinner? Oh, you mean tea, love). She could make something of it now, she’s just about reached that point, but decides to leave it. It’s all so petty, really.

  She takes a deep breath and changes tack. ‘Okay – I guess you’re right. I’ll wait. And I’m sure Drew’s too busy to play catch-ups at the moment, anyhow.’ She gives him a breezy smile.

  He looks relieved. ‘I don’t want to burst your bubble, Bethie, but I just can’t see how you could make it work – not right now. You’ve just told me that Charlotte wants to try out for rep hockey. That’s going to take a big chunk of your time, isn’t it? All those early mornings and then the trips away. It’d be a logistical nightmare.’

  Dan’s attitude to her working seems paradoxical: he doesn’t want his wife to work for a conservative politician because it might offend his mother’s finely wrought class sensibilities, yet it’s okay for Beth to spend her days driving their appallingly privileged daughters hither and thither, ensuring they’re given every possible opportunity – sporting, academic, creative. It is too absurd. And that her own desire to work, to contribute something to the world beyond her immediate domestic sphere, should be seen as some sort of an indulgence is outrageous, surely.

  So Beth makes the phone call surreptitiously and doesn’t tell Dan that she’s arranged to meet Drew for lunch. She doesn’t hide things from him often; in fact she can’t remember the last time she told him an untruth. But she doesn’t want to have to make excuses, to lie about her intentions. It’s better to keep Dan completely in the dark for now. If anything eventuates she will offer it up as a fait accompli, deal with the fallout then.

  The secret nature of their meeting adds a pleasant zing. She dresses well, business-y, but with just a little extra appeal: short skirt, tights, heels, a shirt that hints at her cleavage. She straightens her curls, applies make-up that’s cleverly au naturel. Perfumes her pressure points.

  And for once she likes what she sees in the mirror: she looks striking. And professional. It has been a long time since Beth has seen this particular woman, a long time since she’s been her – so long she’s almost forgotten she exists.

  She arrives early at the small and surprisingly hip cafe in a lakeside suburb that is itself far more hip than Beth expected. She recognises Drew immediately, though she isn’t sure she would have had she not looked him up online beforehand. As a young man he wore his curly hair long, and dressed, as they all did, in regulation student wear – jeans and T-shirts, joggers. He’d never been edgy, or out there, or in any way bohemian, but now, in his dress pants, his sockless boat shoes, his obviously expensive shirt, casually open at the collar, he looks terrifyingly establishment: middle class, middle aged, successful. His hairline has receded a little, but his hair is still plentiful: his once dark blond curls have somehow transformed into that dense silver that only Hollywood actors and politicians seem to possess. There is no evidence of jowls; in fact his jaw seems to be even squarer than Beth remembers. His eyes are still the scalding blue of memory, but are set now in a nest of highly attractive wrinkles. He exudes confidence, charm. Money.

  Drew is obviously well known at the cafe: several waitresses vie for his attention, flirt, offer him his usual table, which he declines when he notices Beth seated in the corner, waiting. She stands up as he approaches, and he strides towards her, his face breaking into a wide (and impressively white) smile that is surprisingly familiar. Her own response is familiar too – she’d experienced that same slightly quickened heartbeat when he was her best friend’s unattainable older brother, and then later during their short-lived romance.

  ‘Elizabeth. How are you?’ She is expecting a polite air kiss, but he wraps his arms around her in a hug. He holds her away from him, his hands firm on her shoulders, looks into her eyes and beams. ‘You’re still the same gorgeous Beth I remember. Actually, you barely look any different to when you were six and running around playing aloha with my little sister.’

  She laughs at the memory, slightly embarrassed, as he surely intends: that particular game having been played wearing nothing but raffia skirts and painted-on bras. It was the sort of game that no self-respecting six-year-old would ever think of playing now – and she imagines any parents who allowed it would be in all sorts of trouble.

  She draws back, gently pulling herself free. ‘I think I may have changed just a little, Drew. That was forty years ago.’

  He grins. ‘I guess there’ve been certain improvements. You’re quite a lot . . . taller.’

  She laughs. ‘Well, you’re still the same, Drew.’

  He joins in her laughter, looking slightly sheepish. ‘What can I say? But seriously, you are looking good. Very good. And that’s going to help us both, I reckon.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s lovely to catch up, of course, but I assume we’re here for the same reason. I’m looking for staff and you’re looking for work.’

  ‘Well, yes and no. I’m not entirely sure yet.’

  ‘I thought Francine told my mother that you were?’

  ‘Well, you know how it is. Maybe.’ It’s Beth’s turn to look sh
eepish. ‘But I would have rung anyway, just to catch up.’

  He grins. ‘Of course you would. But when you found out I was getting ready for the election, that I might be needing a press secretary . . .’

  ‘I suppose it might have been an added inducement.’ She is slightly startled by the slickness of her own response, but it is obviously the right thing to say. Drew nods appreciatively, pulling his chair close to hers.

  ‘Look. I know you’ve worked for newspapers and magazines, and I’m pretty sure this is the kind of job you’d be good at. You might have been out of the workforce for a while, but I have a feeling you’re exactly what I’m after. You’re presentable – more than presentable – and you’re smart. I’ve had a read through that bloggy thing you write. What is it? Busylizzy?’

  ‘Dizzylizzy.’ This surprises her. ‘How did you . . .? It’s meant to be anonymous.’

  ‘You must have told Julie about it. I rang her up to see what she knew about your life, what you’ve been doing for the last ten years or so.’

  ‘I guess I must have.’ She can’t remember telling Julie, who lives in Singapore now, and who she’s only in occasional contact with, but imagines that her mother – despite her uncertainty about the respectability of the enterprise and patently disregarding Beth’s desire to keep it low-key – has spread the word.

  ‘So, yeah. I had a read through your blog, and it told me a few interesting things about you. You’re quick, you communicate well, you have an engaging voice. More style; less opinion. In that sense you’re a bit different to a lot of the mummy-bloggers out there. And believe me, I’m an expert. You know Angela’s site of course.’ The smile he gives is wry, but she can hear the little note of pride.

  ‘Oh, of course. She’s done so well; it’s amazing. But I don’t really aspire to that sort of—’

  ‘No, Motherkind’s in a different league altogether. It’s big business now. But still, yours gives a pretty good indication of your talent for fabrication.’

  ‘What do you mean, fabrication?’

  ‘Well, I’m assuming that the picture of your life that you paint on the blog isn’t your real life. Don’t get me wrong, it resembles real life, it’s an excellent little window into a domestic world and all that, but there’s something slightly unreal about it. It’s like one of those Potemkin villages or whatever they were called – you know it’s too good to be true.’

  ‘Oh?’ She isn’t sure whether this is praise or insult.

  ‘I dunno. It’s hard to pinpoint. I mean, you’re obviously not one of those ridiculous Stepford women with their perfect lives, and it’s not all slow-cooker recipes and bloody crochet patterns, but it’s still a bit too tidy, a little too contrived. Maybe it’s too . . . positive or something. Even when you’re being ironic.’ He grins again, obviously enjoying her discomfort.

  ‘It’s not always upbeat, though. Perhaps you haven’t read . . . There are a few darker posts. I did one on domestic violence just a few months ago.’ Beth can feel herself bristling.

  ‘No. It’s not that. I’ve read those. Maybe it’s just that even the darker bits are . . . well, they’re so careful. You’re always covering yourself. Your true self, I mean. It’s like they’ve been spun.’

  ‘Spun?’ She still doesn’t quite get what he’s saying, and isn’t sure whether she should be flattered by his attentive reading or appalled by the analysis.

  ‘You know: like sugar into fairy floss; straw into gold. And in my business I reckon that’s a good thing, it’s a good talent to have. It can be difficult to find people who understand that. Almost impossible to find people like you who do it almost instinctively.’

  ‘You’re saying that you can tell from my blog that I’m good at spin?’

  ‘Yep. And, more importantly, that you’re comfortable with it. You have to be if you’re going to work with me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I’m a politician. Or I’m going to be.’

  ‘Are you saying I’d have to lie?’

  ‘Nothing that straightforward. It’s more that I can’t always tell the whole truth. It has to be shaped for public consumption. Come on, you worked in PR for years. You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Anyway, as it happens there is a job – and if you want it, it’s yours. It’s probably way lower down the ladder than you’re used to,’ he adds. ‘You’d just be doing our social media to begin with. I know you’re good at that. When you’ve built up a few useful connections, we’ll find you more to do. And obviously when the election actually gets into full swing, the whole thing’ll ramp up. I’m thinking if it works out you can have the official media officer job. What do you reckon? Are you up for it?’

  Later she will wonder why his perception that she is good at lying doesn’t worry her more, but at this moment, all caution thrown to the wind, Beth gives Drew her most affirming smile and tells him without any sort of uncertainty that she’s in.

  ANDI

  IT ISN’T THAT SHE DREADS THESE OCCASIONS, BUT SHE CAN’T say she really enjoys them. As always before one of Sophie’s performances, Andi feels slightly unwell. The sensation begins that morning as a slight fluttering, and by the evening it morphs into a dull weight – like a cloud of butterflies has turned to lead and settled in her gut. It isn’t as if she has absorbed her daughter’s emotions. When it comes to the piano, Sophie never displays any sign of nerves. She is calmly cheerful about the prospect of playing to an audience, however large, however important. She remains assured, unflappable, cool. Even Andi’s very obvious anxiety doesn’t seem to rattle her.

  Andi is especially nervous about this particular performance. The Hunter Annual Arts Showcase is one of the most important events on the school calendar, held in the concert hall at the Conservatorium, and open to all the local schools, public and private. The college board makes a point of attending, as does the mayor, along with numerous other local big-wigs. It is traditional for a report of the occasion – with accompanying photos – to be published in the Advocate’s social pages. While Sophie’s scholarship isn’t dependent on these sorts of events, there is still subtle pressure for her to do well, to show that the investment has been worthwhile; this in addition to displaying the school’s superiority to anything the public system has to offer. In her earlier life, Andi would have scorned such blatant displays of privilege, but the brute reality of Sophie’s talent has forced her to modify her (admittedly rather fuzzy) socialist principles. It seems there’s no end to the compromises wrought by marriage and motherhood.

  This night Andi has additional worries. Steve is staying home with Gus, who is naturally proving difficult to settle. Although desperate to make her escape, Andi has to feed him just moments before they are due to leave to get him to sleep. She had planned to pick up Beth and the girls on the way but has had to cancel, promising instead to meet them there. To make things worse, Gus dribbles milk all down her dress, and she is forced to quickly find an alternative – not an easy task in her current pneumatic state.

  ‘Oh, fuck. This is ridiculous.’ She throws a pretty but currently unzip-up-able skirt hard at the wall. ‘Why don’t you go instead, Steve? I don’t know why I ever bothered thinking I’d be able to do this.’ Rage is better than tears, she thinks, but only just.

  Steve is lying on the bed with his hands linked behind his head. He surveys the scene calmly, as if amused by the spectacle. Sophie, who has also remained serene throughout the drama, looks diligently through her mother’s wardrobe and pulls out a black elastic-waisted skirt. ‘Why don’t you wear this one, Mum,’ she says, ‘and you can wear it with the blue shirt? You always look really good in this.’

  It’s true this particular combination looked okay – when she was nine months pregnant. Andi frowns, ready to snap, but a surreptitious gesture from Steve stops her. He doesn’t need to say anything; she knows: this is Sophie’s night, not hers. She pauses, takes a deep breath, holds out her hand: ‘That’s perfect, da
rling. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.’

  The evening improves once they arrive at the Conservatorium. Andi locates Beth and her two girls almost immediately, while Sophie makes her way backstage. Despite having to greet various school worthies, she is able to relax slightly under the combined effects of a glass of champagne and Beth’s easy conversation, and by the time they take their seats in the grand hall she is almost enjoying herself, the butterflies still present, but less intrusive. And when Sophie finally begins the evening’s entertainment – her two solo performances bookend the program – the relief is immediate. Sophie’s performance is phenomenal, transfixing, transporting. As ever, when her daughter plays, Andi can hear muted sighs of delight and surprise echoing through the audience. And, as ever, though she’s never stopped wondering about the random nature of Sophie’s talent, she allows herself a quiet moment of self-congratulation. It may be Sophie’s night, but there certainly are some rewards for being the mother of the star act.

  Afterwards, while Beth and the two girls wait with Andi in the post-show throng, Beth is barely able to contain her enthusiasm. ‘Oh my God! Andi. She’s just amazing! You must be so proud.’

  ‘I am.’ Andi’s smile is a little tremulous. ‘I get so nervous, though. Every single time,’ she confides. ‘Though I shouldn’t. She never hits a wrong note.’

  ‘No,’ Beth agrees. ‘You shouldn’t. She’s totally professional. I’ve never heard anything like it. I’ve heard her play at school once or twice, but tonight was remarkable. So, tell me, where did she get her talent? Are you some sort of musical genius, too?’