‘They have no right to call here.’
‘I’m sorry they’re bothering you.’ Christina tries to keep the tetchiness out of her voice but they’ve both been on edge, off and on.
‘That’s not what I mean!’ Her mother is uncharacteristically cross. Joni, the woman who can’t bring herself to say an ungodly word about her unfaithful husband. ‘You shouldn’t be pursued like this! You’re … you’re …’
‘A scarlet woman?’
Christina is joking. At her own expense. For the whole reason she has fled LA to hide here, in little harbourside Neutral Bay, is because the story that came out in the press was a result of the director bragging about his so-called conquest of her to his friends. And when his wife found out, he gave an interview toVarietymagazine saying that Christina was irresistible and he’s only human, so how could he not yield to her charms? That’s when the press started hunting her.
‘Anadult!’ her mother says. ‘You’re allowed to not talk to reporters if you don’t want to!’
Joni huffs in such a way that Christina can’t help smiling, then she takes a sip of water to hide it in case her mother thinks she’s laughing at her.
‘You know I didn’t have an affair with him,’ Christina says softly. ‘I wouldn’t …’ She swallows. ‘Do that.’
She dares to look at Joni and they stare into each other’s eyes for several seconds. Christina knows she will never tell her mother the truth of it, because that would be the end of her. Or of them, because if her mother judged her for what happened – if she, in any way, implied that Christina deserved it – Christina would be so upset she’d have to leave this house, this suburb, this city, this country, and she could never return, never see again the woman who raised her through thick and thin. And that would be the end of Christina for, through all the change in her life, all the travel and the different roles she’s played on screen and off, her mother has always been the one she loves.
‘You’re a good girl, Chrissie.’ Joni pushes the bowl of fruit salad toward her. ‘So of course I know.’
Christina is spooning fruit into a smaller bowl when the phone rings again.
‘I’m ignoring it,’ Joni says tersely.
‘What if it’s one of the girls?’
‘They’ll leave a message.’
No message is left, and Joni pours tea for them both from her favourite old pot that’s covered in a cosy her own mother crocheted many years ago.
‘I should probably make a new cosy,’ Joni says after a while.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the old one,’ Christina says, patting it. ‘It’s well loved, that’s all.’
Joni smiles sadly and nods. ‘May we all be,’ she says, then reaches across and squeezes Christina’s hand.
It’s one of many moments that makes Christina wonder if her mother has guessed at the truth of what happened to her. The reason why her world-famous actress daughter is now sleeping for longer than she’s awake, afraid to leave the house and letting herself become a shadow in this life.
THE
SLINKY LILAC DRESS
The dress was in the window of a boutique in Double Bay when its original owner walked past. She was heading for the Squire Shop, where she usually bought her jeans and jackets and shirts. She liked practical attire, but there was something about that dress …
As she returned to her car later and passed the dress again, she decided to at least try it on. It was the sort of thing she would usually think too frivolous, and until recently she would have had nowhere to wear it. But she was newly in love and her paramour had promised her dinners at nice restaurants and she wanted to dress up for him. It seemed like paying tribute to him to make herself glamorous. He liked her practical clothes – obviously, because that’s what he saw her in, and he made it clear he found her attractive – but dinners out required something else.
The dress was made of lilac silk and had spaghetti straps and an asymmetrical hem. She’d need to wear high heels with it, the lady in the shop said, and she didn’t own any. As it turned out there was just the right pair of heels in the boutique, and before she knew it she was leaving with the dress and the shoes and a little evening bag.
She and her paramour saw each other mainly during the week, and the occasional Friday night. On weekends he went to see his parents in Scone, up the New England Highway. She waited for aninvitation to join him. Surely, given that he said he loved her, he’d want her to meet his parents?
The invitation to Scone didn’t come, but the invitations to restaurants did. When he asked her to join him at Beppi’s in eastern Sydney on a warm spring evening, she knew it was time for the lilac dress.
His eyes widened with delight when he saw her, and she was glad her instincts about dressing up for him had been correct. He kissed her on the lips then took her inside, beaming as if he’d won first prize in a competition.
That was until they were in the middle of their entrée and a man walked up, his nose bulbous with what was no doubt red-wine consumption, and asked how ‘the missus’ was.
The paramour looked nervous and avoided her eyes. He hadn’t ever mentioned he’d been married. How odd.
The bulbous-nosed man said he’d seen ‘the missus’ the other day with the kids at a school sports day – where had he been, the paramour? Surely work wasn’t so important?