Читать книгу Love Is the Answer - Tracy Madden - Страница 6

Briskly stirring the satiny smooth latte on the table in front of me, regardless of my mood, I couldn’t help but revel in its pervasive aroma. I took a tentative sip, testing the temperature, and relaxed visibly. Making an effort to remove the world-has-come-to-an-end look from my face, I sat further back in the chair.

The New Farm Deli owner placed a cannoli, a favourite Italian sweet, on the table in front of me. ‘How are you Bella?’

I wondered if he too like the rest of the world, knew about my failed marriage, or was simply being polite. I attempted a smile and shrugged. ‘Fine thanks Vince.’ And then as an afterthought added, ‘Maria good?’ It was as much conversation as I could attempt.

Within our West End community, personal and professional, my humiliation had been great. There were days when I did not want to leave the house. Sometimes I had come over to New Farm to shop, grateful for the anonymity.

I flicked my long blow-styled locks behind one ear and absentmindedly fiddled with one of my earrings. The numbness I had felt since leaving was beginning to scare me. Shouldn’t I be crying, weeping and wailing? Yet I didn’t feel like hysterics. I felt devoid of everything

Swallowing hard, I attempted to distract myself. I smoothed my skirt, crossed my legs, and examined my impossibly high, black toe-peepers, bought all that time ago on the trip with Steve to Paris in a quaint little shop in rue St Honore. I had always loved the fact that as I walked the green sole could be seen from behind. Today, I was almost mesmerised by them, flexing my calf first one way and then the other.

The day I had bought them, I had been playing a game with myself. Again, if I found the right pair of shoes, everything in the world would be alright. I told myself later, they were definitely the right pair of shoes. Funny, I had chosen to wear them today.

*

Davis’s proposal, when it came, was always going to be our special little story, the one that we would bring out and tell our grandchildren. Steve and I had spent four days in London and were on day three in Paris for his conference. Tired after a day shopping, I casually lingered in the restaurant downstairs in the Hotel Meurice. The tea was wonderful, a refreshing blend of green tea and Moroccan mint, scented with bergamot. I must admit, it wasn’t just the shopping that had made me tired, my heart was heavy as well, and it took energy to put on a brave face each day, after I had spent the night crying into my pillow.

Steve called earlier to say that he would return to the hotel later than expected. Tonight we were free from the conference and I was looking forward to some fun, anything to take my mind off Davis. Even though I had said I was determined that if he didn’t want our relationship to move forward, it was over for us, in my heart I knew I would be devastated.

On our arrival at the hotel there had been a dozen red roses waiting in my room from him. But I didn’t call. What could I say? Thank you for the roses and it’s okay that after all of this time you’re not sure about me. The day before, a silver cake stand with delicate scented rose macaroons awaited me. Yes, from Davis. They almost had me at first bite, and although I faltered, I still didn’t call.

After I had drained the last of the tea from the silver teapot, with heavy feet and equally as heavy heart, I wearily crossed the grand foyer and made my way to my room. Immediately upon opening the door, my spirits lifted as my shopping, entailing different carrier bags with designer names emblazoned on the sides, had been placed by the concierge upon the pink brocade chair, in front of the ivory silk draped window overlooking the rue de Rivoli.

Kicking off my hot pink patent Pradas, I undid the gold buttons on my cream coloured Burberry trench coat and hung it in the wardrobe. As I closed the mirrored door, something on the bronze silk bedcover caught my eye. Another carrier bag! I swung around. It was not just any carrier bag, but a legendary Loius Vuitton carrier bag. I stopped in my tracks, narrowing my eyes. Surely it must be a mistake. Perhaps the concierge had delivered it to the wrong room.

Stealthily, I crept over to it, as if it might bite. I surveyed it for a few moments and then lifted the edge of the bag, peering inside. There sat the bag of my dreams… the gold mirror bag. I had been raving about this bag for months. Only this morning, I had visited the flagship store on the Champs Elysee, hoping that it was still available, only to be told that the last one had been sold earlier. This had to be it! Oh bother…

Seconds later, I picked the phone up, and dialled the concierge. ‘Bonjour, it is Peach Avanel speaking. I believe there has been an error. There is a shopping bag in my room that does not belong to me. I think it must have been delivered by mistake… Oh! … Is that right? … Are you sure? … Really? Merci boucoup.’

I hung the phone up. I couldn’t believe it. The concierge said that he had delivered it personally. The next moment the phone rang startling me. It was the concierge again. He told me that there had been an error, and asked if I could bring the bag downstairs.

I took the Louis Vuitton carrier bag, my room key and my mobile phone, in case Steve should ring, and lethargically retraced my steps from only minutes before, thinking that really if there was an error, the concierge should rectify it, not me.

Crossing the grand foyer, once again I admired the luxuriousness and beauty of the colour scheme, a harmony of beige marble, accented superbly by tones of red and black.

‘Oui Mademoiselle Avanel, have you opened the bag yet?’ the concierge asked, his voice heavily accented.

‘Well no, as it’s not mine. I did look inside but that’s all. I assure you…’

Firmly, he held his hand up. ‘Perhaps we should look together to make sure all is well.’

‘But I assure you, I haven’t touched it.’

‘Oui Mademoiselle.’ Removing the gold handbag from its wrappings, and placing it on the desk between us, he admired it. ‘It is tres magnifique.’

‘Oui, it is very beautiful,’ I agreed.

‘Would you like to try holding it for a moment?’

I opened my eyes wide at him. ‘I don’t think so…’ my tone carried an air of humour.

He smiled and narrowed his eyes at me. ‘Really Mademoiselle, you should, just to see how it looks.’ He pushed the bag towards me.

I glanced around, uncertain of his strange behaviour. I took the bag and placed it over my arm briefly. ‘Very nice!’ I returned it to the desk top.

‘Ah Mademoiselle, you must have a better look. It suits you. Take it to over to the bar and look in the mirror there. The lighting will be better. You should see how tres beau you look.’

‘No really…’

‘You must! You must! Come along, I will come with you.’ Before I had time to say more, I was handed the bag once again, and escorted across the marble foyer into the spectacular Bar 228. It was impossible not to admire the work of the world renowned designer Phillipe Starck.

Lavish tobacco toned leather chairs, highlighted by the sparkle of rare crystal decanters, all to a backdrop of warm timber detailing, made me feel as if I had been transported into the finest gentlemen’s club. This was the perfect place for drinks with Steve later that night.

The barman came towards us, a single glass of champagne on his tray. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he offered.

Bewildered, certain there must be some mistake, I put my hands out and began to laugh. ‘Look I’m not sure what’s going on here, but this isn’t my bag, and I didn’t order any champagne.’

‘But you must,’ the concierge said, pulling out a chair and pressing me into it. ‘You must sit here while I sort it out.’

Before I had time to protest, with a level of importance, he strode off. I glanced at both the bag, still on my arm, and the glass of champagne on the table in front of me. Completely baffled, I glanced around. What was going on? The poor man was definitely rather odd. I placed the bag on the table and studied it. Someone was lucky. My phone rang and I jumped in fright.

‘Do you like it?’ was all he said.

The moment I heard his voice, I felt the tears well in my eyes. ‘Davis? Did you do this? Is this from you?’ However my heart felt heavy. It wasn’t gifts I wanted.

‘Open it.’

‘Davis please… you’re making this harder.’ My chin quivered. ‘It’s not flowers or macaroons or handbags I want. Please don’t do this…’

‘Open it.’

I exhaled heavily.

‘I said to open it,’ he insisted.

For a moment I sat doing nothing and then with the phone tucked up to my ear, I reached out, took the bag onto my lap and unzipped it. Inside was a small black velvet bag. As if bitten, I rapidly pulled my hand away and placed it to my mouth. ‘What is it?’ I murmured.

‘Have a look.’

I slid the drawstring open. Inside sat a ring box. My hands began to shake and emotion overtook me. ‘Davis…’

‘Stop crying and open it.’

I nearly dropped the phone, and once again tucked it tightly under my ear. ‘No, I can’t.’

‘Frenchy… open it.’

With trembling hands I opened the black box and there sat a stunning princess cut sparkling engagement ring.

‘Davis…’ I sobbed, too overcome to say more.

‘Peach Avanel, will you marry me?’

‘Yes, yes I will…’

‘Stop crying, you’ve got mascara running down your face. You need a tissue.’

‘What…?’ Shaking my head, I jumped up from the seat and spun around. Davis was standing in the doorway. I gave a cry that sounded as if it had been torn from my heart and threw myself into his arms. They closed around me hard and strong.

I guess I wasn’t surprised that this was happening, although I was surprised at the way Davis had planned it. Any woman being presented with a beautiful diamond ring, as a girl you squeal with delight, you say you can’t believe it, but of course you can, it is exactly what you had hoped for.

Davis told me he knew he needed me the moment I flew out of Brisbane. He stayed with me two nights, and then was gone again.

We married eighteen months after that. I wanted a September wedding, but Davis said the following March was better. After all what was six months? I wanted something small and intimate. Davis wanted half the suburb there. He said it was good for business to have as many clients as possible.

However, my wedding day surpassed all that any girl could dream of: the romantic Vera Wang dress, the champagne toasts, the promise of time alone with Davis cruising the Maldives on our luxurious honeymoon. Although Davis was terribly handsome in his Hugo Boss tuxedo, I felt like the day didn’t belong to us alone.

I wanted children straight away but Davis said he wanted me to himself for a while longer. Three years after we were married, I finally put my foot down. I told him it was now or never. He agreed.

I wish my body had agreed. Somewhere along the line it forgot what it was meant to do.

*

Shaking my head, I was instantly jolted out of my reverie by the sound of a tiny voice. ‘But Mummy I want a baby chino.’ As if waking from a sleep, I blinked and glanced around the surrounding tables. Tables spilled out from the inside eating area under an awning onto the pavement, where customers, just like me, perched to watch the passing trade.

‘Emma sit up here and wait for Daddy to come,’ the blonde, blue eyed mother gently coaxed.

‘But Mummy…’ the little voice rose higher.

‘Emma,’ the mother’s voice was firm. ‘Daddy won’t be long. You can eat your sultanas while you wait.’ Snapping open the hot pink Tupperware container, she handed it to the little girl who was dark haired and appeared to be of Chinese decent. I wondered about the father.

Holding the coffee cup to my lips with both hands, I sipped slowly, watching.

A tall fair haired man, dressed smartly in business attire, crept up behind the tiny girl and then hoisted her into the air up onto his shoulders, among squeals of delight.

‘Come on Miss Em,’ he said. ‘Come inside and help me order coffee and treaties.’

I noticed the mother’s face as she watched her husband and child go into the deli, a child who I gathered was adopted. I wondered about it, the mother’s look was one of satisfaction. To have denied her the right to be a mother would have been criminal. And not for the first time, I pondered whether motherhood was a right or a gift. Suddenly I was reminded of my looming childlessness. Whenever it came upon me, like it did at that moment, it hit me in the pit of my stomach and I literally felt ill. I knew I was still in mourning. Not only mourning the person who I had thought was the love of my life, but also mourning the loss of my perfect dream, the expectation of becoming a mother soon, something I had been planning and dreaming of for years.

With some effort, I attempted to change my thoughts, knowing that thinking about my desire for children did me no good whatsoever. Emerald Green and I were still to work on that one. I had told her I was not ready. She had said soon. Soon was looming.

No amount of effort to re-direct my thoughts helped and I was reminded of those early days of finding out about Davis’s affair and the huge realisation that I was not headed towards motherhood. There were many nights where I lay in bed feeling pain that was bigger than my body. A huge circle of pain encompassing not just me but vibrating through the air around me as well. My crying scared me. It was instantaneous and loud. I could not contain the sound. I would get out of bed and roam around, trying new places to sleep, another bedroom, one of the lounges. And then I would sleep a little again, only to repeat the performance a short time later.

*

Two women parked their loaded trolleys in front of my table before they entered the delicatessen. Earlier, I had chosen a table right at the end, pushed up against the window. Although out of the way, it seemed perfect to people watch. The two trolleys appeared to be filled with display paraphernalia, creating a wall that couldn’t have hemmed me in any further if it was made from besser blocks.

I was miffed the two women had given me so little regard. Coughing, I attempted to attract their attention. However, as they were already inside joining the take away coffee queue, it did me no good whatsoever. Noisily, I slid my chair back, hoping the sound would show my plight. They did not even turn around.

To make it worse, while they waited for the coffees, the two women leant against the trolleys, and in voices that resembled fingernails on a chalkboard, loudly discussed the issues they had with a work colleague.

‘… and so I told her, if she didn’t friggin’ get real…’ came from the teased redheaded, her eyes rimmed in purple liner, lipstick in the corners of her mouth.

Not for the first time I had the feeling of being invisible. It hadn’t seemed all that long ago that I was a well-known business identity around town. And now…

I glanced around to see if anyone else thought my predicament odd. However, the problem was I could barely see anyone else. My desolation returned and hung off me like a heavy cloak.

For an instant, I wondered if I could be the type of person who would down an entire bottle of sleeping pills. However, as I was on my third cup of coffee that day, I realised there was a good possibility that I would struggle to close my eyes. Blast!

Resting my chin on my hand, I exhaled heavily and stared down at the bottom of my now empty cup, thoughts playing out in my mind, replaying scenes from the past.

*

The moment I heard her voice, I knew it was her. I had forgotten how charming Felicity Best could be.

The tall striking blonde sailed towards me. ‘Helloooo darling! How are you?’ she sang as she air-kissed my cheek. Four of the first five minutes of meeting after nearly fifteen years, we conducted that catch up dance in which you move from subject to subject, leaping great chasms of time, while still in shock over the unexpected meeting.

Her hair was swept up in a platinum blonde Marilyn Monroe do, and her smile was pure Hollywood. A cloud of expensive perfume wafted around her. Even at that hour of the morning, she was wearing a blazing sapphire blue silk dress that rippled as she moved. I could tell that she was aware she had attracted nearly every pair of male eyes within cooee distance.

Images flashed into my mind of Felicity Best at school; on the netball court with her long tanned legs; sitting in the middle of a group of gobsmacked girls while she handed out snippets of her glamorous weekends. She was the queen. God, we all loved her. God, we were envious.

And even after all this time, and my own success, I felt that same feeling of inadequacy come upon me again, as I stood there in my leggings and singlet top, waiting in line for a vegetable juice at some ungodly hour of the morning. Davis was away speaking at a conference, and rather than wash that bloody juicer yet again, I had stopped off after a session with my personal trainer to buy one.

Who was I kidding? The morning hadn’t begun well and I was going straight for an iced chocolate mocha – a mixture of eighty percent pure chocolate, vanilla ice cream, espresso coffee and chocolate shavings. The mood I was in, if I could have taken it intravenously, I would have.

Twenty minutes earlier, my period had reared its ugly head once again. Another month had passed with no luck. I could not explain my complete disappointment and frustration. I held myself together at the trainers, and waited until I got in the car. Down the road, I pulled over, rested my head on the steering wheel and cried. I was feeling less of a woman every month and I cursed myself that we had waited so long.

The emotional journey was absolutely exhausting.

By the time I arrived at the juice bar in the James Street markets, I knew I wasn’t a pretty sight. Actually, I didn’t care how I looked, I wanted that iced chocolate badly.

Of all days, there was Felicity Best, looking like sunshine after the rain, still as gorgeous as the last time I had seen her. When you have legs that long, you always look gorgeous.

Afterwards, I called into my mother’s.

‘I ran into Felicity Best earlier. Do you remember her from school?’

I watched Bea as she sat in front of her old fashioned dressing table, wildly piling her blonde hair on top of her head and expertly wrapping a signature colourful silk scarf around it. Next to the mirrored jewellery tray, a cut crystal rose bowl held the hugest bunch of overblown white roses, their fragrance filling the room.

‘Which one was she?’ Bea asked, absentmindedly riffling through her lipstick drawer, finally finding the perfect shade of red. She turned to me. ‘Darling, you should try this colour, it would give you a lift.’ She began to fill in her lips and then turned to me, eyes narrowed. ‘You mean the girl whose father was a barrister?’

‘No, Felicity Best, her father was an author.’

‘Oh of course,’ said Bea. ‘Jack Best’s daughter.’ Watching herself in the mirror, she paused while a small smile played about her lips. She played with her hair. Then she remembered something else. ‘The tall girl with the bleached blonde hair and the long legs? The one you all wanted to be?’

There was a moment’s silence while I registered this uncharacteristic insightfulness. I shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’ But I did know what she meant. It’s not often you want someone else’s life. Back at school, I’d have given anything to be Felicity Best. She was our free one, our wild one, the one that got away.

From the dressing table, I picked up a bottle of Youth Dew, Bea’s signature fragrance. Removing the lid, I inhaled it directly from the bottle. Didn’t matter where in the world I was, the moment I smelt it, I thought of her. I spritzed my wrists.

‘Still the only one in the world is she?’ Bea asked, mascara wand mid-air, not taking her eyes from my face in the mirror.

‘What do you mean?’ There was silence.

‘Oh darling… I do know you all thought she was the coolest girl at school. The one all the boys liked, and she knew it.’ She paused for effect and then turned to look directly at me. ‘If I remember correctly, she was mean to you. Flavour of the month one minute until someone better came along. Always wanting what everyone else had. I do remember the tears.’ She turned back towards the mirror.

Nonchalantly, I waved my hand at her. ‘I hardly remember that stuff. It was too long ago. But it was good to see her. She’s been living in London for the last ten years as a business development manager for a publishing group. Sounds like she has been rather successful.’

‘What’s she doing back here then?’

I shrugged. ‘It seems her love life has been rather turbulent.’

Bea raised her brows, which I wasn’t sure if it was in response to what I’d said, or if it helped her pencil them in.

I sat on her bed, and without looking at her, explained, ‘She’s terribly qualified. I’m thinking of offering her a job.’

Bea spun around again. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

‘Look Bea, I’m never going to fall pregnant the rate I’m going. I need to take some pressure off. I want to take six months away from the business.’

‘And what has Davis said about that?’ she asked, looking down as she slid a huge aquamarine cocktail ring on the middle finger of her left hand.

I shrugged. ‘He’s been a bit funny, but I promised him I’d find someone to fill my shoes, and I have a strong feeling Felicity could be the one.’

‘Go steady darling.’ And then with a spritz of her perfume she was done. ‘And look, do take this lipstick, it could be just the thing you need.’

She glided across the room, our deep and meaningful over. My mother’s vanity and her meticulous attention to the details of her own appearance had always struck me as incongruous in a woman who lived such an alternative lifestyle and bordered on being a hippy. However, she rarely left the house without lipstick, mascara and perfume, often stating, ‘Just because you’re different doesn’t mean you can’t look pretty.’

Later that day, Felicity phoned me. The old Felicity never phoned me. Years ago, I had always been the one who rang her, and then I’d walk over to her home to find someone else there. I remember feeling in the way and very much on the outer. But that was then.

Now, I set up a time for an interview. I had a feeling she could be the one.

She was.