The Right Time (12 page)

The next day when the walls began to crowd in on her again, Evie changed into a pair of comfortable three-quarter length pants and put on socks and sneakers. It was a vast improvement on the day before, but the sneakers had thin soles, so her already tender feet were burning again before long. As were her nose and cheeks under the blazing late summer sun. So she went out shopping that afternoon and bought herself some proper runners – not expensive ones, they were only from Kmart – and a pair of stretchy gym pants. When she tried them on at home they looked hideous, she could almost see the cellulite on her thighs and backside through the fabric. But she could cover up most of that with a long T-shirt, and anyway, she didn't care how she looked, she just wanted to be comfortable.

Craig never mentioned that his porn sites had been deleted, however, that was the least of Evie's problems. He had taken to showing her articles, even testimonials, about these so-called swingers' clubs that were supposedly frequented by normal couples.

Evie was beginning to wonder if she was naive, perhaps even frigid. But she didn't really believe that; she was no more frigid than any of her girlfriends. When they got into bed at night they desired nothing more than an unbroken night's sleep. Most admitted that once they got going, it wasn't too bad, and Evie felt the same. It was just the getting going. She was sure she wasn't frigid, in fact she knew women who simply refused to give oral sex, no matter how much their husbands begged for it. Craig should realise how lucky he was.

But clearly he didn't think he was lucky at all. Clearly Evie was not enough.

The only thing that helped was to walk. She couldn't eat; food didn't comfort her any more. Anything she ate just sat in her stomach, setting like a lump of concrete. But walking felt good. And the longer she walked, the better she felt. Sometimes she
wished she could just keep walking and walking, like Forrest Gump, till she was far away, out of reach.

But Evie could never leave her children. This was her life, like it or not. But why did it have to be this? She was a good wife, a compliant wife, a willing wife. If Craig wanted to try sailing, she would have overcome her fear of deep water; if he'd wanted to start playing tennis, she would have taken lessons. She didn't know how on earth she was supposed to prepare herself for this, and her time was running out.

‘Do we need to know this, miss?'

Ellen sighed inwardly.

Education, in fact knowledge itself, apparently only had value these days if it was going to be in an exam. It drove Ellen nuts.

‘What do you mean, do you
need
to know it?' she said, launching into her usual homily. ‘Why does anyone need to know anything?'

She saw a few eyes roll. They'd heard it before.

‘If people only bothered to find out about anything because they were going to have an exam on it, where do you think we'd be today as a society?'

It occurred to her that this would make an excellent assignment: choose a great discovery and imagine what the world would be like without it. But she couldn't set something like that, because it wasn't in the syllabus, or the exam. She was hamstrung by the very establishment she was trying to defend.

The bell sounded, signalling the end of the period. Ellen was relieved she had a free next. And it was a proper free period, because the Year 12s had Maths now so she wasn't going to be bothered by any earnest, or anxious, or otherwise needy students.

The staffroom was empty. Ellen logged onto her computer and checked her emails.

From: Emma Beckett
To: Cara, Ellen, Evie, Liz
Subject: Crunch Time!

Well ladies, it's down to the cinnamon or the pewter. I adore them both, and I don't need to tell you that the final choice is going to affect everything – the flowers, the decorations, the entire theme, really. So I have to get it right. I wish I could have two weddings, I just can't choose!

The only way is to line everyone up and compare the colours against all the skin types. So I'm calling a meeting for a week from Thursday, in the evening, of course. That should give you all plenty of notice, so you really have to let me know straight away if you can't make it so that I can reschedule. But I would like to get this settled before Easter.

Looking forward to it!

xx Emma

Ellen groaned, picking up the phone and dialling Liz's office on the off-chance she might catch her between patients. She was in luck, her receptionist put her through.

‘Did you get the latest email?' she asked Liz.

‘Of course,' Liz said down the phone line. ‘It's almost fun seeing what's going to come next.'

‘You think?'

‘I said “almost”.'

The last few months could have been made into a reality series entitled ‘Crazy Emma, the Bride from Hell', the kind of reality show that Ellen would never watch. In reality, Ellen didn't watch reality shows. Ever. And yet she was being dragged into this one, whether she liked it or not. And she definitely did not. They were constantly being notified, updated, or ‘consulted' (ha!) on every minute detail. And it was going to keep up this way right until the big day – Emma had already sent out a schedule of dress fittings and cake tastings and floral viewings, hair and makeup practice sessions and an alarming number of what she called ‘progress meetings'. She had just lately decided that she was accumulating so much information she needed to set up her own blog, so that everyone involved could simply subscribe and keep up to date. Fabric swatches had been dispatched physically – by courier, no
less – because Emma could not ensure the colours would be reproduced faithfully on the computer screen. But apart from that, she had been so thrilled with the blog concept that she had decided to link a blog to the wedding invitations when the time came – a one-stop spot where her guests could find helpful gift suggestions, maps and directions to the venue, a tantalising glimpse of the menu, and even ‘what to wear' guidelines.

‘It's the
exhaustive
detail,' groaned Ellen. ‘Don't you find it . . . well,
exhausting
?'

‘What did you expect?' said Liz. ‘Emma's been planning this since she was, what? Six?'

‘Yeah, I know. I just don't understand why we all have to be involved in every little detail. I'd be happy just to show up on the day.'

‘That's okay for you to say,' said Liz, ‘you're not a bridesmaid.'

That had been Emma's first major announcement. She loved
all
her sisters, wished she could have them
all
in the bridal party, but that was just not going to work. Blake didn't have any brothers, so of course his best friend, Gordie, would be the best man. Liz was the perfect partner for him: complementary height, colouring, age. Of course she had to include Blake's family, and they were both closer to his younger sister, Cara. Eddie was the obvious choice for her partner; again, they were physically a good match. Blake had no other significant male friends to pair with her remaining sisters, so Emma instead suggested a ‘representative' from each of their families. Kate was to be the representative for Ellen's family, as she would make the perfect partner for Blake's eldest sister's son. Emma would never have chosen Melinda herself; she was older and, frankly, she had let herself go since the divorce, Emma had confided. But she was sure her son, Chris, would clean up quite nicely with a decent haircut and shave, and a well-cut suit. Lastly she had to include Evie's family, so Tayla was to be paired with Blake's second cousin . . . or his second cousin's son . . . Ellen was not sure of the genealogy. Tayla was beside herself, and Evie was so thrilled for her daughter it never occurred to her why she had not been considered.

The brutal truth was that Emma had applied the same styling principles to her bridal party as she would to a magazine spread.
Ellen was simply too plain and mumsy for Emma's line-up. Kate was slim, honey blonde, and would be barely nineteen by the wedding. Kate could wear anything. Plump little Evie, on the other hand, could not. She would spoil the entire effect.

So Emma would have her picture-perfect wedding. And Ellen found herself resenting the whole thing. She didn't care how much time, energy and money Emma was prepared to waste, but she couldn't expect the same commitment from everyone else. With each fresh email or blog post, the costs ratcheted up another notch, while Emma kept insisting this was a massive bargain, or that was an unbelievably generous discount. She really did live on another planet. Sure, she had a contact who was going to be able to get their shoes half-price, but they were shoes that retailed for eight hundred dollars. Ellen had never spent anything like four hundred dollars on a pair of shoes for herself, let alone her teenage daughter.

‘I told Tim if it kept on like this he was going to have to help out,' she said to Liz. ‘He said he had enough expenses without having to pander to Emma's extravagance, and that I should just talk to her and tell her how it is. Like it was that easy! Easy for Tim, he can sit back and be the nice guy, and never have to confront anyone, just like he did right throughout our marriage –'

‘Sorry Ellen,' Liz broke in. ‘I'm going to have to go, I have a client in a few minutes.'

‘No, I'm sorry for carrying on,' she said. ‘It just gets to me, you know, every single thing is a negotiation. It's exhausting. Like the other day Sam brought home a note about the Year 11 camp, which costs a bomb, and so naturally I approached Tim about it. He said, “Doesn't that come out of child support?” Well, I said that child support or no child support, as a sole parent I simply can't afford extras like this, which means Sam would have to miss out. Then Tim tried to argue that I'm not a sole parent if I'm getting child support, but I think he's missing the point, don't you?'

‘Um, yeah, maybe . . . Look, I can't really get into this now, Len,' Liz apologised. ‘I do have a client.'

‘Sorry, sorry, talk to you later, bye,' she said quickly, hanging up.

Ellen cringed when she heard that tone – the awkward, ‘I really don't want to listen to this' tone. She didn't mean to
put Tim down, she was only getting stuff off her chest. But she couldn't help feeling that no one wanted to hear about her woes; that, as this was her choice, she should just get on with it and stop complaining. But it was hard sometimes, and she did have valid grounds for complaint. Keeping the separation amicable was for the kids' sake; didn't she have a right to have a whinge occasionally to the people closest to her?

Sometimes Ellen felt terribly alone.

Liz put down the receiver, feeling a twinge of guilt for cutting off her sister like that. Ellen may complain about Emma, but she was just as hard work at the moment. Liz wished she could hear herself sometimes, the way she sounded when she started ranting about Tim . . . Liz understood, she really did – Tim could definitely be a thickhead at times – but Ellen didn't do herself any favours harping about it. Liz wondered if she should say something to her . . .

Oh, sure, like she could ever do that. Liz loved her dearly, but Ellen was not accustomed to being told, something to do with being the eldest probably.

She brought up her appointment schedule on the computer screen, then clicked on the patient file. Her heart sank.

New referral, female, thirty-nine years of age. Condition undisclosed. Requests dermatological assessment and consultation
.

In other words, most likely confronting a midlife crisis and here to find out about Botox and other age-defying options.

Liz was feeling increasingly frustrated with her profession of late – Emma was right, she had turned into little more than a ‘glorified beautician' – and she was getting tired of it. She'd never had a burning desire to specialise in dermatology, she doubted anyone did. It was emergency and surgery that appealed to Liz more than anything – the adrenalin, the life and death nature of the work, the fact that you were actually doing something, on the spot, often to save a life. But she was also a pragmatist; she knew there was no way she could be a surgeon or a trauma specialist if she was going to have a family one day. So she'd chosen dermatology for its regular hours and relative lack of stress.

But she had also needed to get right away from surgery, back then. It was around the time – or one of the times – that she and Andrew had attempted to call it quits. He was being eaten up by guilt, and as for Liz's part, she had hardly planned on being the ‘other woman'. But she knew she couldn't be around him and not be with him, so she moved specialities, and hospitals, and far out of his reach. It worked for about six months but something always drew them back together. Occasionally it was some work-related event, more often than not Andrew would contact her during a tough time with Danny.

So here she was, a fully-fledged dermatologist with her own private practice. A thousand diseases, two creams, or so the standing joke went. It was a little more complicated than that; there were genuine and serious skin diseases that she was trained to diagnose and treat. But more and more of her time was being taken up by women who wanted their fears about ageing to be taken with equal gravity, and to be treated scientifically. They had moved on from the beautician and were prepared to pay for a specialist and wait weeks for an appointment to demonstrate the serious medical nature of their condition.

Liz would try to tell them that ageing was an inevitable process, and that Australians were particularly susceptible, being a largely Caucasian race living in a country suited to people with much higher melanin levels in their skin.

But
she
had good skin, they would invariably remark; what did
she
use on her skin? Ever since Liz had gone into dermatology and learned just what was in the goop in those overpriced jars, she'd given up using anything at all on her face. But people didn't want to hear that, they wanted a magical potion. So she simply told them ‘sunscreen'.