Husband Hunters (27 page)

Hilary and Byron had given Annabel half an hour at 8am to win them over. The night before the meeting, Annabel drove to Black Jacques cafe in Rose Bay. Jacques — a Francophile whose real name was Graeme Gross — charged $6 for his takeaway coffee, and people came from miles to try it. He blended and roasted the beans on site. Black Blend was the top-selling mix, and came in a special cup decorated with images of an Ethiopian goat herder. Annabel bought herself a coffee and then asked the barista if she could buy another three, but could he only give her the cups.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘I just want the coffee cups; I don’t want the coffee.’

‘We don’t give our cups away.’

‘I realise that, which is why I am happy to pay for the coffee. But I don’t want the coffee; I only want the takeaway cups. And a carrier, please.’

The barista looked at her suspiciously. He called over the manager and they had a quick, hushed conversation. It seems they couldn’t argue with the economics of $18 for three paper cups and a carry tray. Annabel handed over $24 and took her purchases. The next stop was the supermarket. There she bought three different varieties of instant coffee, including the off-label supermarket brand. That night she spent a couple of hours experimenting with mixes and blends — one teaspoon of that two teaspoons of this — until she had something suitably original tasting. She wrote down the measurements, ironed a Ralph Lauren shirt and went to bed.

In the morning she brewed a large pot of instant coffee made from the previous night’s specifications, filled the Black Jacques takeaway cups and put them in the carry tray. She offered the hot cups to Hilary and Byron when she arrived at their office.

‘I’ve heard of Black Jacques coffee, but I’ve never tried it before,’ said Byron, accepting a cup. He took a sip.

‘What do you think?’ asked Hilary.

They drank small, thoughtful mouthfuls.

‘I bought them as an exercise in marketing,’ Annabel said.

‘Oh?’

‘First, let me tell you a story. There’s a Starbucks café in Seattle that has been nicknamed the stealth Starbucks. It has no Starbucks branding, no logos on the coffee cups, but it sells exactly the same product all of the other stores do: Starbucks coffee. Only it looks like an ordinary corner coffee shop. Locals are even encouraged to bring in their own music, to sticky-tape up their own flyers for live shows and causes. The company realised people are starting to reject corporate brands. In part that’s why Eve’s Garden has been so successful. It’s seen as anti-establishment. It is locally made by academics who have perfected a method of growing, harvesting and juicing fruit that minimises damage to the environment. Enjoying your coffee?’

‘Mmm,’ Byron slurped.

‘The question for Eve’s Garden is: how do you create a brand, a logo, a series of labels that sets your new cider range apart from everything else out there without it looking like something that looks like it’s part of Big Brewers Inc.? Boutique breweries are everywhere. The homemade, hokey labels have been done to death.’

She had their attention.

‘I propose something entirely different. Something that has never been done before. I’ve brought some prototypes.’

Annabel lifted one of the bottles out of the brown paper bag she had with her. The label was completely plain; pale green with not a letter of text.

‘I see what you’re trying to do, but isn’t it a bit pretentious?’ said Byron.

‘It’s the opposite,’ Annabel said. ‘Give it a scratch.’

‘A scratch?’

‘Scratch the label. With your fingernail. Give it a rub.’

Hilary picked up the bottle and rubbed it with her nail.

‘Now smell the label,’ Annabel said.

Hilary held the bottle to her nose.

‘Granny Smith apples!’ There was a look of wonderment on her face.

Annabel pulled out the other bottles. All bore bare labels in different colours. Byron and Hilary took one each. Byron cleared his throat.

‘How will people know what the flavours are? We know pink is strawberry and pear, but it could be anything. It could be raspberry or just plain strawberry.’

Hilary nodded. ‘It could be cherry,’ she said.

‘Scratch it,’ Annabel said. Hilary looked at Annabel sceptically while Byron scratched. They sniffed.

‘Strawberries and pear!’ Hilary said.

‘If you like the idea, we can work on the scent to get them as close to the flavour of the cider as possible.’

Byron and Hilary looked at each other. They didn’t seem to know what to say.

‘Are you enjoying the Black Jacques?’ Annabel asked.

‘I must say I can see what the fuss is about. It’s very different to the normal takeaway coffees you get around the place,’ said Hilary.

‘Mmm,’ Annabel said appreciatively as she sipped hers. ‘It’s actually instant coffee.’

‘What?’

‘Instant coffee? It doesn’t taste like any instant coffee I’ve ever had,’ Byron blustered.

‘Two parts International Roast. One part Nescafé Gold and some home brand. All freeze-dried and bottled up, available for purchase at your local supermarket.’ The couple was aghast. ‘The power of marketing,’ Annabel smiled. Without skipping a beat she continued. ‘The best part about the labelling concept I propose is that it forces people to interact with the product. They walk past a refrigerator full of drinks and they see Eve’s Garden. There’s no name, no branding. They’re curious. They pick it up and turn it over in their hands. Not a word. They’ll scratch it. They’ll have heard about the labels, as we’ll do a very low-key advertising campaign; subtle signs on the fridges, that sort of thing. Customers will be able to smell the cider without even opening the bottle. But, best of all, it will be in their hands.’

‘It’s different,’ said Byron.

Hilary beamed. ‘I like it.’

Annabel left the office grinning from ear to ear. She had nailed it.

She pulled out her phone to tell Patrick, then stopped herself. She had called him the morning after the Randwick race day, but he hadn’t picked up. Putting her mobile phone back into her Christian Lacroix satchel, she hailed a cab.

It was only 9am when she got to her desk, but after her morning’s work it felt as though it was the middle of the day. She was bright and full of energy. At lunchtime they had a cake for Kathy’s birthday. Kathy sniffled with pride while they sang and then presented her with a box of silver Tiffany’s earnings.

‘It’s too much,’ she said, reaching for the blue bag Ant was dangling in front of her.

‘This company would be nowhere without you,’ Annabel said. ‘I wish I could afford to pay you all better for all the hard work you do. But we’re still growing. Hopefully things will change soon.’

She had already calculated that the Eve’s Garden account would allow her to give the staff a small raise.

After they had all had two pieces of cream-stuffed sponge, Annabel went back to her desk and admired the tiny empire she had created.

Since moving to the larger premises she had taken on two new full-timers. There was Calvin, who at first had seemed out of place in his blue suits and financier’s haircut, but whose ambitious streak was attracting new clients weekly. And Ann, whose quiet, almost mousy demeanour hid a determination and attention to detail that was astounding. Annabel had come to value and trust each of them, and their pride in their work was gratifying.

Mid-afternoon she decided she would like to see Harry for dinner. She was feeling powerful and in command of her own destiny. He had called to apologise about leaving Randwick, and Annabel had accepted the apology. But when he had asked her out to dinner that night, she had told him she wasn’t available. It hadn’t been to punish him; she just hadn’t been in the mood. After the big day at Randwick, she had been tired, and she had also been surprised to discover she actually hadn’t minded not having him there. But with things in her business life clicking into place, she was keen to project-manage her personal life, too. She had in mind a nice dinner at Food Society. She would wear her new Manning Cartell dress with the blue hydrangeas on it. Harry would like that. They would continue on the path they had started.

She sent him a text message, asking if he was free.

When he hadn’t replied by six o’clock, Annabel picked up the phone and called. It went to voicemail. She figured he was at the library and left a message asking him to ring back when he was finished. Then she packed up. Still no call.

Annabel didn’t feel like eating dinner alone; she felt like talking and celebrating. Clementine’s phone rang out, and Daniela’s was switched off. The one person she really wanted to speak to was Patrick. She thought he would be particularly impressed by the scratch-and-sniff label concept. Annabel flicked through her phone until she found his contact details. Her finger was poised above the dial button, but she decided not to call. If he wanted to speak to her, he would have called her back. With that depressing thought on her mind she picked up some takeaway Lebanese and a DVD. She fell asleep on her couch in front of the film.

She was woken by her phone around 11pm.

She put it blindly to her ear. All she could hear was muffled whimpering on the line. She recognised the distinct tone.

‘Humpty?’

‘It’s Mirabella …’ More sniffling.

Annabel sat up straight. ‘What is it?’

She could sense what was coming.

‘It’s over. I found her in bed with someone.’

‘Oh, Humpty, no! Tell me what happened.’

There was the sound of blubbering followed by a muffled trumpet as he blew his nose.

‘I’ve been in Melbourne on business,’ Humpty sniffed. ‘I came home a day early to surprise her. She always says she hates it when I go away. And when I walked into our bedroom, there they were. Together. In our bed. Wrapped up in our sheets. The set my mother gave us for our wedding.’

‘Oh, Humpty, I’m so sorry,’ Annabel said. The fact that this didn’t come as a surprise did not diminish her anger or disappointment. ‘Do you have any idea who he is?’

There was a pause while Humpty composed himself.

‘He’s … he’s … her ex-husband.’

Annabel’s heart stopped. Of course. She listened to Humpty say that he had left her and that he was going to stay with his mother for a little while. She said she would buy him lunch the next day.

After Humpty hung up, she called Daniela. This time she answered.

‘Humpty found Mirabella and Harry in bed together,’ Annabel announced.

For a moment Daniela didn’t say anything. And then she said, in very small voice: ‘My ma died.’

Mannaggia.
The kink of hair just wouldn’t sit flat. Daniela had slept terribly and her mane had become mangled and mattered. She unleashed another dousing of hairspray, but the kink boinged back up, resilient. The human brain has an amazing capacity to compartmentalise. Gia had died on Monday night. Daniela’s life would never be the same. And now she was fixated on an errant hair kink.

Daniela replayed the final hours in her head again, watching Gia’s weakening breath leave her, bit by bit, until there was none left. She had felt helpless. Waiting. Knowing there was no stopping it. She had wanted to shake her mamma, to hold her and squeeze her so as to not let the life escape. But it was futile.

They hadn’t even known she was sick. On the previous Monday they had been eating dinner together, unaware that it would be the last time. Even then, the vessel in Gia’s brain would have been strained. The blood was pooling, putting pressure on the thin venous wall. Five nights later she had collapsed. Vincenzo hadn’t had time to call Dani as they rushed Gia to the hospital; he was in the back of the ambulance, holding her hand.

Surgeons had operated immediately to try to contain the damage. She lived almost forty-eight hours after the reservoir of blood that had slowly built up inside her head burst its banks.

‘I knew,’ Vincenzo had said to Daniela as they held a vigil by her bedside, the heart monitor silent. ‘I looked at her on the stretcher and something was different. I knew that she wasn’t going to come back.’ He didn’t wipe away the tears that rained down his cheeks. Dani took his hand and they watched over Gia, his cold, papery palm in hers.

Dani thought of all the things she would have said to her mother if she had known the aneurysm had been there the whole time. As she looked at Gia’s thin body, she thought: Is there a time bomb inside me? Then scolded herself for being selfish.

Afterwards they had stayed at the hospital. Daniela, Silv and his wife, Joey and their pa had all drifted around like spirits locked in limbo, unsure what to do with themselves. Directionless. Purposeless. When it was time to go, Dani returned to Leichhardt with Vincenzo, where they continued their ghostly pantomime. They cried. Dani cooked and tried to get her pa to eat. They gnawed on bread rolls and left the rest of their food untouched. Each forkful was a painful reminder of the millions of meals they had eaten with Gia. Every hour, they received relatives, who brought zuppa di cozza and comforting words. Vincenzo swallowed two forkfuls of risotto, then Dani took his plate into the kitchen, where Zia Loretta was preparing his favourite dish.

‘Oh, here Dani, let me take that,’ Zia Loretta said, coming to her with oven-mitts outstretched.

‘Va bene, Loretta. I’ll do it.’

Loretta’s mouth trembled. She put her hands on Dani’s shoulders and looked at her through watery eyes.

‘Yes. You’re so capable,’ she said. ‘She was so proud of you.’

Loretta was not Daniela’s zia — her aunt — at all, but an old school friend of Gia’s who was like an aunt. Better than an aunt, in fact. Dani had a stronger rapport with Loretta than with either of Gia’s sisters. But on this one Loretta was wrong. Gia had never got to see what she so wanted for her daughter. She never would. If Dani ever did get married, it would be less joyful than it would have been if she had been able to share it with her mamma. She sniffed and nodded and let Loretta believe she had comforted her. But all she could think of was how her ma would never be part of her own children’s lives.

And yet now, five days later with St Augusta’s filling up with black-clad mourners, she was able to stand there, in front of the mirror, and worry about and a wayward curl. She reached for a bobby pin, speared it into place, then gave her head a final spray.

‘Your brothers have gone to the church, but I said I’d drive your father.’ Cameron had come into the bedroom.

‘I should be there already, greeting people, I suppose.’

‘There’s no hurry.’ He put his hand on Dani’s shoulder. She moved away, letting it slide off.

‘Loretta is there,’ he said. Loretta had arranged the music and a slide-show of photos of Gia. ‘Clementine and Annabel are there, too, doing their best to be helpful.’

‘Thank you.’

Daniela felt detached.

Clementine and Annabel had performed miracles. Dani’s phone had been ringing non-stop, so Annabel had taken charge of it and was answering all questions about parking arrangements, directions and whether they needed more meatballs for the wake. Clementine had ordered flowers, made sure Pa and Dani ate, liaised with the funeral director, and kept the peace between Dani’s brothers who, in their grief, had regressed to the state of six-year-olds. They both helped with the catering. It would have been Gia’s job. She had always been the hostess of the family. Not Dani, of the store-bought cannoli.

When Daniela arrived at the church, a line of people clutching damp umbrellas snaked out the door, waiting to be seated. All greeted her with hugs and told her how generous her mamma had been. Daniela accepted their compliments with a vague nod. She was comforted by people she hadn’t seen in ten years. It all had a slightly bewildering effect. For the past few days, Dani had been locked in the house undertaking the tearful work of helping Vincenzo sort through Gia’s affairs, and was surprised to discover that news of their tragedy had reached the world outside their family, and who, along with the relatives, were arriving in fifteen-minute intervals with consignments of food.

The first notes of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ sounded, and the coffin came into view. A lump formed in Daniela’s throat.

Vincenzo spoke, then Daniela read two letters she had written to her mamma. One was from her childhood, and one she had written the night before. She took her place behind the lectern and looked out on the roomful of people.

‘
Dear Mamma
,’ her voice sounded tiny. She cleared her throat and pressed on.
‘
Dear Mamma, I hate camp. The food here is really bad. I want to come home and have proper food. They made us eat broccoli and they don’t know what cassata is. I hate Mr Jessop. Can we see the baboons at the zoo on Sunday? Love Daniela DeLuca.
’

The congregation tittered knowingly at the childish letter. Dani let them fall silent before continuing: ‘All my life I have been able to tell Ma everything. No matter how hard things got, I was always comforted by the fact that she was there for me, at our old home, keeping the fire burning in all of us, with love and advice, and meals that lasted late into the night. We didn’t always get along. But she had our best interests at heart. Now I will never be able to sit with her and talk again. So I have written her this one last letter to tell her all of the things I never said when I had the chance. The most important things that I should have told her every day.

Daniela read with a steady voice. The tears would come later, but for now Dani wanted everybody to hear how she felt. She wanted to erase from their memory every unkind word she had ever said about Gia, every complaint about Gia’s desperation to see Dani marry. At that moment she would have given anything to have Gia tug on her sleeve and say: ‘Black?! Why are you wearing black? It ages you. You don’t want to scare Cameron away, do you? He might be your last chance.’

The vaulted ceiling echoed with the sounds of grief. The service continued. Daniela starred numbly at the casket. It was hard to imagine that the terrifying, nurturing life force of her mother was contained inside the panels of shiny wood. Daniela already missed Gia so much, and yet her mamma’s earthly self was right there in front of her. She wanted to prise open the lid and look at her one last time.

As the priest said the final blessing and the sounds of ‘Con Te Partiro’ swelled, Dani’s cousins joined her brothers in carrying the coffin out of the church on their shoulders. Earlier in the week Daniela had insisted that she should be allowed to shoulder the casket in the funeral procession.

‘Ma would hate that,’ Silv had said, exasperated. ‘For once can’t you leave things to the men like she wanted you to?’

Dani had burst into tears.

‘That’s not true,’ their pa boomed.

Silv apologised and agreed that it was a nice idea.

‘She was proud of how strong-willed you were,’ he said. ‘Just like her.’

But in the end it had had to be the men of the family, because Daniela was too short. She followed them with a wreath in her hand. As she walked, she saw Clementine and Annabel with red-rimmed eyes. Next to them stood Cameron, stony-faced. He gave her a kind look. Behind them, friends of Gia dabbed their eyes. Dani concentrated on the floor, making sure she continued to put one foot in front of the other. She looked up and saw James.

‘Daniela,’ he mouthed, his eyes puffed from crying. She gasped. He stood alone. Her feet kept moving her forward, but all she could see was James’s face. One thought repeated itself: Ma will never get to meet James. A sob burst from her. Her legs went weak. She fell in slow motion. The wreath broke apart as it hit the carpet. Dani felt dizzy. The voices of the people who had seen her fall reached her ears. Then a man spoke.

‘Dani, are you okay?’

James was beside her. He put his arms around her and squeezed her shoulders. The soft cotton of his shirt soothed her hot face as he held her to his chest.

‘I miss her,’ Daniela sobbed.

His strong hands stroked the back of her head. She didn’t know how long they sat like that. ‘Con Te Partiro’ was still playing.

‘We have to get up,’ she said.

‘Shh. It’s okay.’ His voice was full of concern. He ran his hand over her hair again. She pushed him back and got uneasily to her feet. His tenderness made her sick with longing. She lurched outside, where the coffin was being passed into the hearse. Her pa covered his face and turned his back to the long, black car. Dani went to his side. She put her arms around him the way James had just done moments before, and tried to shut out the world.

At the wake Daniela tried to keep herself busy by serving food. About 2am that morning she had attempted to make some cannoli, thinking it would please Gia. But she hadn’t gotten the pastry right and the custard filling was turning the casings to mush. People took them anyway. Her tray was almost empty when Annabel and Clementine appeared at her side.

‘Is there anything we can do?’ Clem asked.

‘Find me a husband. It’s the one thing she wanted from me.’ Dani smiled weakly at the awful joke.

‘She just didn’t want you to be lonely.’

Dani shivered. Every time she thought of how desperate her ma had been to see her settled, the same thing occurred to her: it was like she knew she was going to leave her.

Dani looked at her two friends. ‘I’m not lonely,’ she said. ‘Since we have been seeing each other again I haven’t felt alone. Even now, the worst time in my life is easier because you are here.’

They put their arms around each other. Annabel wiped away a tear.

‘I’d better get back to serving,’ Daniela said. Annabel took the tray from her hands.

‘Let me take care of that. Sit down. Have a coffee. You must be worn out.’

‘Perhaps I’ll get some air,’ Dani nodded.

The lounge room was stuffed with flowers in crinkly cellophane wrapping. Daniela’s Zio Frank was taking charge of the barbeque in the backyard. James was handing around a plate of meat. He jutted his chin as Dani approached. Her spirits lifted.

‘You big baby.’ She gave him a punch in the arm.

‘You spoke beautifully,’ he said, offering her the pick of the charred pork chops. ‘I haven’t seen Mum or Dad in weeks; I think I’m going to call them tonight.’

‘You should,’ she said. ‘Thanks for coming.’

James touched her shoulder. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course I would be here—’ They were interrupted.

‘Dani, there you are.’ It was Cameron. Two of Gia’s friends, Signora Conti and Signora Fazzoloti, were with him.

‘We’re leaving, dear — it’s soup-van night. We just wanted to say goodbye.’

Gia had worked with Signoras Conti and Fazzoloti on the St Vincent de Paul soup van on Tuesday and Sunday nights since Dani was in primary school. They looked at James, looked at Cameron, and then looked at her.

‘This is James Jensen. We work together,’ Dani said.

‘At the construction company?’ said Signora Conti. ‘Your mother used to talk all the time about the homes you built.’

Signora Fazzoloti butted in. ‘Our soup van went down Cleveland Street. Every time we passed your high-rise flats, she pointed them out. Twice a week, every week, for four years. “My daughter built that,” she said.’

Daniela hadn’t known that. Unable to speak, she just nodded.

She kissed their cheeks and said goodbye. Mr Marino came towards her and announced he needed to leave, too.

‘I see you, and it is like your mother is still here,’ he said, pinching her cheek. Dani realised then that everyone was going to tell her how like her ma she was. She told James and Cameron she was going to go upstairs to fix her hair. Instead, she locked herself in her bedroom and didn’t come down until everybody had left.

Daniela had taken the week off to sort things out. On Monday morning she felt ready to face the worksite, but when she opened the door to her office it felt wrong. The world was altered and would never be the same again, and here she was carrying on as though it was a regular day. She put down her bag and the concertina folder filled with documents she had looked over on her week off. Then, working at a glacial pace, she slowly picked away at the work, achieving very little. But it was better than nothing.