The Mothers' Group (4 page)

Daniel stared at her.

‘Right, well, mother knows best.' He pushed his chair back from the table. ‘I'm going for a walk.'

As he reached the doorway, he turned to face her. ‘Not everything in life can be controlled, you know.
Babies
can't be. But go on, Gin, try to map it all out before Rose is two months old.'

The front door slammed behind him.

Ginie dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, her lips trembling.

It's all very well for
you
, she thought. Taking the moral high ground with no work to speak of, except a bloody novel. We can't
eat
words.

An electronic chime announced receipt of a new message. She reached across the table for her iPhone.

I hate this fucking thing, she thought.

When Ginie got home from the mothers' group, the painters were crouched near the front door, cigarettes dangling from their lips.

‘Smoko,' said one, stating the obvious.

She grunted an acknowledgement and steered the pram around them.

Typical bloody tradesmen, she thought. They'd only been there an hour and were already having a break. Where had Daniel found them, anyway?

As she manoeuvred Rose's pram along the hallway, she detected clattering sounds from the kitchen. She rounded the corner to find Nicole standing at the sink, pink rubber gloves stretched up to her elbows, scrubbing the bottom of a baking tray. The flesh on her upper arms jiggled with exertion. Her brown hair was pulled up into a dishevelled ponytail and her skin was the typical milky pallor of the Irish.

Ginie cleared her throat.

‘Oh, hello,' said Nicole, wheeling about. ‘I didn't hear you come in. I hope you don't mind me getting started?'

‘God no,' said Ginie. ‘That's great, thanks. Have you settled in?'

Nicole couldn't possibly object to the guest quarters on the top floor, complete with king-size bed and ensuite.

‘Honestly,' said Nicole, her eyes alight, ‘it's the most beautiful room I've ever seen. With ocean views, too! It's the Sydney I've seen in the movies. I can't wait to tell the folks back home.'

Ginie smiled at her girlish enthusiasm. Nicole was only twenty-three, and it showed.

‘Yes, Curly's a great spot,' she said. ‘We love it here.'

Daniel had moved in not long after their engagement, selling his one-bedroom apartment near Mona Vale, ten kilometres north of Curl Curl. The price differential was significant; the proceeds of the apartment's sale paid off only twenty per cent of Ginie's mortgage. After her break-up with Frederic, her former partner of four years, she'd borrowed heavily to purchase her dream home on the North Curl Curl headland. And while money couldn't buy happiness, the hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the Pacific Ocean had certainly helped.

‘Well, Rose has woken up and is due for a feed,' Ginie announced, lifting Rose out of the pram.

‘I can do that,' said Nicole, peeling off the rubber gloves. ‘I've seen where you keep the bottles.' She began spooning powdered formula into a bottle of cooled boiled water, before attaching a teat and shaking the mixture. ‘Is Rose still having six feeds a day?'

‘Five actually,' said Ginie. ‘I think she might have dropped the midnight feed. She's been sleeping through to dawn over the past few days.'

‘Oooh, lucky you,' said Nicole. ‘They don't all do that at six weeks, you know. What a good girl you are!' She took Rose from Ginie's arms and lay her in the bassinette, clicking her tongue and waving her fingers. Rose looked at her with interest, hands and feet pummelling the air.

‘Oh, you're excited are you?' Nicole laughed. ‘We're going to have some fun, you and me.'

Ginie smiled. Nicole was a natural.

Daniel would surely see that too.

She'd met Daniel on Curl Curl beach just after sunrise on a winter's morning. The beach was deserted, as it often was at that hour, with the exception of a few surfers bobbing about like teabags on the swell. Ginie jogged along the soft sand near the dunes, her head down, focusing on her feet. She'd sprained her ankle six months before and didn't want to injure it again. The physiotherapist had recommended a program of hydrotherapy to aid recovery, but floating around with a group of retirees depressed her. Unless she was puffing and sweating, it didn't feel like real exercise. As soon as her ankle felt stable, she'd taken up beach jogging again.

Her iPod blared in her ears and she sang aloud to The Verve, unselfconscious in her solitude. She turned to see her footprints in the sand, a transient protest against the corrosive wind. This was one of the wildest beaches on the peninsula, with notorious undertows and collapsing sandbars. She loved its volatility. Starting the day on Curl Curl beach was an antidote to the long hours at Coombes Taylor Watson.

He was almost on top of her when she saw him, running up the beach carrying his surfboard. Given the beach's emptiness, he was ludicrously close. She stopped jogging to let him pass.

‘Hi.' He smiled.

For a moment, she didn't know what to say. The ocean was upon him, tanned skin gleaming in the wet. A long sandy fringe flopped into bright blue eyes. His wetsuit was rolled down below the navel, a fine trail of blond hair disappearing beneath it.

She instantly wanted to touch him.

‘Hi,' he said again.

She removed her earphones.

‘Beautiful morning,' he said.

She sensed he might keep running.

‘How are the waves?' she asked, trying to stall him.

‘Awesome. The big green void puts everything in perspective.'

Who
was
this delicious creature?

‘I'm Ginie,' she said, suddenly courageous.

‘Glad you told me,' he said. ‘I've seen you jogging every day for the past month.'

This surprised her: she'd never seen him once. But then again, she'd never really looked in the surfers' direction. They were as much a part of the landscape as the flocks of seagulls at the water's edge.

‘I'm Daniel.' He stretched out his hand. She felt its cool, calloused palm against her own.

‘Might see you tomorrow then?' he asked.

She felt her cheeks flush. Then he hoisted his board under his arm and disappeared over the dune.

*

They exchanged pleasantries on the beach for two months. In the beginning, their conversations were brief and oriented around the weather. Then, slowly, they began to disclose minor details about their lives.

One morning, Daniel hailed her with particular enthusiasm.

‘Six-foot waves out there,' he said with a grin. ‘Now
that
gets the creative juices flowing. I'll be productive today.'

Ginie seized upon the inference.

‘You're an artist?'

‘A writer.'

She remembered his calloused hand. The idea of writing for work was alien to her.

‘What sorts of things do you write?'

‘Well, all sorts of marketing junk at the moment.' He laughed. ‘Keeps the wolves from the door. I run a communications company with a friend of mine.' He planted his board in the sand. ‘But when I'm not doing mindless corporate work, I write poetry, plays, fiction. The sorts of things that don't pay. It's hard to be a full-time renaissance man, but that's my dream. To write the stuff I'm passionate about, and be paid for it.'

Ginie digested his words. He'd released more information in two minutes than in the past eight weeks. But poetry, plays and fiction? Was
anyone
successful at that?

‘What about you?' he asked. ‘What do you do?'

The sorts of things that
do
pay, she thought.

‘I'm a commercial lawyer. In venture capital, mostly.'

She thought she saw his eyes widen a little. She was used to that sort of response. Most of the men she'd dated over the years had been intimidated by her intelligence, her success.

‘Well, you keep pretty fit for a fuck-off lawyer,' he said, his eyes dancing. ‘There can't be many like you.'

Her mouth dropped open. She didn't know whether to laugh or feel offended.

‘See you tomorrow,' he said, winking at her.

*

Later that morning, she buzzed herself into the office. She was usually one of the first to arrive, but she'd been slow in getting ready. She'd stood for half an hour under the shower, water coursing over her shoulders, thinking about Daniel. How he'd dropped the word
fuck
into their conversation. There was something coarse about it, and something intimate.

‘Nice skirt!' Arnold popped up from behind the reception desk. ‘Got a hot date tonight?'

Arnold, the firm's business manager, was the only element of office culture that ever surprised her. He'd worked at Coombes Taylor Watson for almost as long as she had; in fact, she'd been instrumental in giving him the chance. Amid all the pinstriped suits and plaid bow ties, he was a breath of fresh air. And if he hadn't been so good at his job, the firm's conservative partners would have jettisoned him long ago. He was loud, he was camp, but he was far superior to any other business manager they'd ever had.

‘Not in a good mood, hon?' He pouted theatrically. ‘This will cheer you up. I've got a
great
piece of spam for you this morning.' He pointed to his computer screen. ‘Subject line of email reads:
Your sex prong will grow like
on yeasts
.'

She suppressed a smile.

‘Body of text reads:
Lovers will hanker to observe your bulge and exhibit.
Press button now
.' He removed the lid from his grande-sized skinny-cino. ‘I tell you, I'm gonna press that button
big time
. I just love those spammers in the Ukraine. Now, can I get you a coffee, hon?'

She shook her head and started towards her office.

‘You ignoring me?'

Ginie pulled a face.

‘Well, what about this, then?
These
arrived for you.' Arnold lifted an enormous bunch of yellow roses from beneath his desk. ‘A super-cute courier delivered them five minutes ago. Could've opened a bottle with his buttocks. I
almost
got his number.'

Ginie frowned. ‘Who's trying to bribe me this time?'

‘Dah . . . da-da-da-da dah . . .' Arnold held a hand over his heart, humming a vaguely familiar tune.

‘Don't tell me you're too
young
for classic Elton John?' He grimaced in mock disgust. ‘Who's
Daniel
then? Tell Uncle Arnold.' He pointed to a card taped to the bottom of the arrangement and smiled cheekily. ‘There was no envelope, I'm afraid.'

Ginie stared at the words on the card:
Can we take things beyond the
beach? Daniel.

‘Oh.' Her stomach somersaulted. ‘It's just some guy I met jogging at Curl Curl. We've spoken for a total of, I don't know, two hours.' She read the card again. ‘I can't imagine how he found me.'

‘There aren't too many venture capital lawyers in Sydney, hon,' said Arnold. ‘Not
lady
ones, anyway. And
certainly
not of your calibre. He probably just googled you.'

‘Well, that's flattering, but he could be a stalker.'

‘Oh, spoilsport! You need a night out. Go for it.'

‘Maybe,' she replied. ‘But take these home for Phil.' She dropped the flowers back onto his desk.

‘Oooh, fabulous!' Arnold buried his nose in the bunch. ‘Phil just
loves
roses.'

The next morning Ginie rose at five o'clock, as usual, for her mandatory six laps of Curl Curl beach. But today, she showered first. She pulled on her lycra leggings and a black sports singlet, sniffed at her armpits and applied two coats of deodorant. She shook her head even as she did this; she was behaving like an adolescent. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror taunted her.
Older, ever older, than yesterday.
At thirty-nine, she worked hard to stay fit. She kept her weight low, her muscles taut, her limbs supple. But time had marched across her body, bringing with it an army of age spots across her décolletage, a slight sagginess around the hips, and crow'sfeet in the corners of her eyes. She leaned forward and strained to inspect the crown of her head, her face almost touching the mirror. No stray white hairs protruding, not today anyway. She brushed her blonde hair into a long plait before pushing it back through her sports visor. She rubbed her lips with cocoa balm and, for an instant, imagined Daniel's smooth mouth pressing against hers.

As she bolted along the sand at Curl Curl, her heart rate monitor sounded its alarm. The beach was uncharacteristically still, shrouded in a blanket of sea fog. The ferries would be cancelled on Sydney Harbour this morning, she thought, they couldn't run in a fog like this. Arnold would be late for work.

She was close to the northern end of the beach when she spotted Daniel, some twenty metres away. He held his board under his arm, turned in her direction and waved. She continued jogging towards him, increasing her pace. When she finally stopped in front of him, she leaned over, hands on her knees, and sucked in deep, ragged breaths.

‘That's some effort, sporty,' he said.

She smiled. ‘Thank you for the flowers. I'd like to . . . take it beyond the beach.'

She looked down at the sand. For a moment, she recalled the sober face of her ex-boyfriend, Frederic. His characteristically French self-assurance, his razor-sharp intellect and passion for the law, his unflinching conservatism. His desire to raise a family which, at the beginning, had seemed so endearing. They'd loved each other, no question. But while Ginie had continued to vacillate on the question of children, he'd been resolute. In the end, he'd delivered an ultimatum:
Marry me and start a family, or we go our
separate ways
.

Her mother had wept when she'd conveyed the news of their break-up. It had been a long eighteen months of celibacy since.