Chapter 9
Dinner is another Gatsby affair, with piano music and drinks on the terrace. I stop at the top of the stairs, partly out of surprise and partly because it’s time to text the kids again.
Joe has answered my text with a string of hearts, my soppy little boy.
Cassie never answers me, but it’s okay. At this age, she needs time to process her emotions. I can understand, in a way. Even if it hurts. So I text Joe again, just to make sure everything’s okay with her as well.
How is Cassie?
The usual ray of sunshine, LOL. I’ll get her to text you back. Right now she’s texting her friends. xxx
Ok, love, thank you. Big kisses from Mum.
Give everyone a hug from me.
I put my phone in my clutch and look around me.
There are beautiful dresses flashing past me, and the clink of champagne glasses makes it all the more posh.
I have never done anything posh in my life.
The only time I dressed up was at my wedding.
I breathe deeply, taking in the din. It’s a nice, carefree din that I don’t have to do anything about.
The tables are covered in crystalware and there are fairy lights above us in intricate patterns.
It all looks so glamorous. Mother must have paid a fortune for me to be here.
Who am I kidding? Aldo paid for it. I’m surprised he’d agreed to pay for my spot as well.
He must be very generous. Or an absolute pushover, which, knowing my father, is more likely.
The waiters pass me by with trays full of swordfish with aubergines, mint and capers, surrounded by a wide variety of grilled vegetables.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think that this was some sort of healthy eating retreat.
But ah, take a look at the dessert tables and you’ll change your mind.
It is one long line of tiramisù, cannoli, cream puffs, strawberry mousse, apple pies, apple strudels, chocolate and pear cakes, chocolate mousse and anything your heart may desire.
Mother waves at me from a table with her usual gaggle of girls, comprising her two besties, Maria and Lucia. Tonight they are decked out to the nines and I have to say that they look utterly fantastic. I wish I had the courage to paint my lips that colour!
‘Come, come, Olivia!’ she calls. ‘Come and listen to this trollop boasting about her gardener!’
‘Well, he was handsome,’ the woman says as I wander over. ‘And I hadn’t had some good sex in a long time, so…’
‘Ooh, you wicked lady!’ Mother shrieks in delight, giving her a light push on the shoulder. ‘Good for you! And did you see him often, after that, or was it a one-off?’
‘Oh, not much. Only every Wednesday afternoon while Eugenio was on the tennis courts, of course!’
At that, my mother and Lucia howl in sheer glee, hugging each other and then Maria. I couldn’t help but smile. Trollops or not, they took from life what they lacked. Old Eugenio was probably bonking someone on the tennis courts anyway, no doubt.
‘You know, Livvie, Italians are much more liberal with their affairs,’ my mother says.
‘I guess being Catholic helps with the guilt,’ I quip, and the three of them explode in hysterics. I grin back at them, unable to resist.
‘Exactly!’ Maria says. ‘Eugenio’s entire family is in the church! It’s a good thing he escaped, or I’d have never been able to marry into what is only the richest family in Milan!’ More raucous laughter.
So I sit with them and listen to their stories of sexual adventures draped in humour, of housemaids that have become their confidantes in lieu of a proper friend, and luxury, all-expenses paid cruises that are thrown their way by busy husbands.
Not that I’m judging them. Heaven knows what’s keeping me from falling off the loyalty wagon.
But I do understand what may cause them to take on lovers. And then it hits me.
How unhappy must my mother have been with my father?
To me, he was the best father in the world, but what about the relationship between them?
What kind of a husband was he, in the privacy of their own time together?
As far as I could see, he was patient and kind, but what if…
what if she suddenly woke up one morning and decided that she didn’t love him anymore?
That had happened to me. Was I my mother’s daughter in that, too?
When I finally go to bed, full and not quite tipsy but almost, I go because I have to.
Meaning I’m absolutely, completely, one hundred percent knackered, depleted, can’t-give-any-more-unless-somebody’s-life-is-in-danger exhausted.
And even then I’d still have to make sure it was someone I really, really like.
I’m looking forward to my pre-sleep ritual, i.e.
, tying my hair out of my face, using one of the complimentary face masks in the bathroom, perhaps sipping some warm milk and honey while reading a chapter or two of Caroline James’ book, Atticus Arnott’s Great Adventure, to relax before going to bed.
Which makes me think that, just like Atticus, I should have gone off on a campervan adventure.
So when I say I’m looking forward to my bedtime ritual, it certainly doesn’t mean having to listen to my mother (who decided she was exhausted at the exact same moment as me) humming and gargling (often at the same time) while she is taking off her make-up in the bathroom mirror.
When I was young I failed to cope with her absence, and now that she’ll be my roomie for two months I’m flailing.
Every single thing that was wrong with me as a kid is coming out with a vengeance now.
Everything that she was and I wasn’t, like gorgeous, confident and happy with her new love, is still true.
As I watch her cleanse her face, I am transported back to my younger self, studying her as she was getting ready to go out.
She still has the most beautiful turquoise eyes I’ve ever seen, and that cheeky spark in her smile is still there.
And I can’t help but ask myself, how did she manage to push the guilt aside and be happy all these years without us?
Aldo must have been one hell of a trade-off.
Well, good for her. I’m on year fifteen of my own marriage sentence and still going for how much longer, no one knows.
Any day now, I assume, judging by Simon’s warmth over the phone.
Because I haven’t got the guts to end it.
Because I’m afraid to break Joe and Cassie’s hearts.
And meanwhile, here she is, my mother, happily chatting away to herself in the mirror. Or at least I thought she was, but it turns out she’s talking to me and is now waiting for an answer.
‘Livvie?’ she prompts, and I jump. ‘Livvie, are you listening to me, darling?’
‘Yes,’ I lie, hiding my book as she sashays out of the ensuite bathroom.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘About Maria?’ I ask. At least that’s the last thing I remember hearing before she called my name. ‘Very nice lady, yes.’
She stops and leans on the dresser to stare at me. Uh-oh, I’ve done it now.
‘Livvie, we were talking about that at least fifteen minutes ago. Have you not heard a word I’ve said?’
Busted. It’s no use denying it. ‘Sorry, Mother…’
She comes to sit next to me on the bed. ‘Are you all right, love? Are you sleeping? Eating properly? How’s your sex life?’
‘Mother!’ I wail.
She pfffts me. ‘Don’t be so uptight all the time, Livvie. We’re women. You’ve heard Maria and Lucia. My girlfriends talk about sex all the time. Even the ones who aren’t getting any anymore, poor lasses!’
Ugh, the thought of my mother having sex is something I just know is going to give me nightmares.
‘I mean, Aldo and I have always been verrrry compatible in bed if you know what I mean, but my friend Carla, the one with all the make-up and the dark curls? Oh my days, she and Fabrizio are practically swinging from the chandeliers, despite the menopause!’
Simon’s face flashes past me, and I stiffen. Compatible in bed? Swinging from the chandeliers? Is she effing kidding me? I hadn’t enjoyed sex since I was with Mitchell, my high school dropout boyfriend. Mitchell, the bad boy whom no one really saw through except for me.
I can still see him, coming to my rescue in the schoolyard…
‘Hey, Foster!’ someone had shouted. One of the knobs in Year 12. ‘You going to be in the talent show this year “All By Yourself”? Why don’t you sing a little for us now? What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?’
‘Stop it, Travis,’ Mitchell had said. He was all the rage among the most popular girls for his Bad Boy looks.
He had just moved from the United States and was already an icon, despite not being on any of the sports teams and the fact that he spent most of his time smoking round the back of the maths block when he should have been in class.
He took me by my elbow. ‘Come on,’ he said, leaving my bully flummoxed. ‘Don’t mix with that scum.’
‘Th-thank you,’ I managed when we were out of earshot.
‘Don’t mention it.’
We walked a bit in silence as I tried to think of something to say that would make me look interesting in his eyes, but couldn’t think of anything.
‘So I heard your mom left your dad,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘Yeah…’
‘Bummer. How’re you coping?’
‘Not so well, to be honest,’ I admitted. He was the first person, besides the teachers, who’d actually asked me that.
‘Yeah, I know it’s tough. My dad left my mom for an English chick and now we’re living here in a tiny shithole with her and her two sons while searching for a bigger home. Not exactly a picnic.’
‘I imagine not…’
‘You have any brothers or sisters?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, at least you’re not living with The Three Stooges. Consider yourself lucky.’
‘I guess…’
‘This place really sucks,’ he said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and offering me one, which I declined. ‘You wanna go for a ride on my motorbike?’
‘And skip school?’ I whispered.
‘Yeah, no biggie,’ he said, pulling out a lighter next.
‘It is for me. I’ve never skipped school.’
He stopped to look up from lighting his cigarette, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Tell me you’re joking.’
I shook my head. ‘You look like you’re used to it.’
‘Oh, yeah. Big time. So you wanna come or not?’
‘W-where?’
He shrugs. ‘Anywhere we wanna go.’
‘Anywhere our fancy takes us?’ I liked the idea.
‘Well, I don’t know about your fancy, but I could really use a Mickey D’s. That stuff you call school dinners? Barf time.’
I laughed. ‘I like them. Well, used to. Not so much anymore.’
‘My guess is it’s the company that’s got you down more than the shitty food. Come on, Foster. Let’s go.’
‘It’s Olivia, actually…’
‘Olivia. What a typical English name. But then again, you are a sweet, typical English girl, aren’t you?’
‘I dunno…’ I could feel myself blushing.
He studied me for a moment and grinned, caressing my cheek. I can’t explain the sensation. It was as if my entire life I’d only been noticed for the wrong reasons and suddenly this older, bigger-than-life guy, noticed me for the right ones. Me.
‘Yeah, you are sweet. Come on then, Livvie. Let’s go.’
‘Easy there, pardner,’ I said in a very bad American accent. ‘I barely know you.’
‘But I’m offering you the opportunity to get to know me,’ he reasoned.
I pictured my next few years in school, toeing the line and killing myself studying.
And I groaned. Why did I have to always be a good girl and do all my chores and my homework and be thoughtful and considerate when the one person who was supposed to be teaching me all that had gone rogue and thrown the rulebook away?
If she could go off the rails, so could I.
Besides, it would be fun to walk on the wild side for once.
‘Okay,’ I said, feeling a sense of foreboding, yet freedom at the same time. ‘I’m in.’
So go we did. We went everywhere that afternoon, all afternoon. And that was the beginning of my downfall, I knew it. Let this be on her conscience, if she even had one. Because I knew that I probably wouldn’t have even given Bad Boy Mitchell the time of day if my mother hadn’t left us.
The same mother who was still waffling on about her rich friends as I’d zoned out. But I gather I hadn’t missed much because she was still boasting about their sex lives.
‘And Margherita, the lady with the big hair? She’s got a toyboy half her age, Marco, who is an absolute god, and she told me that he likes to—’
‘Mother!’ I beg, covering my ears and face with the coverlet.
At that, she stops. From under the covers, I can only assume she’s studying me.
‘Darling?’ she says. ‘Are you and Simon not having sex? What’s happening in your marriage?’
‘Nothing,’ I snap, throwing the coverlet to the floor and running for cover to the bathroom where I lock myself in, fuming at my reflection. How dare she stick her nose into my private business as if we were the best of friends? How very dare she?
‘Darling? Darling, are you all right? The door’s locked. Are you ill? Have you got an upset stomach? You did look a little pale at dinner. Have you been? Come out and I’ll give you a laxative. They’re herbal and very effective. Take one now and tomorrow morning—’
Arrrrgh! I silent scream into my hands. I’ve tried everything.
To be honest, I was up all last night thinking of various ways to get out of this.
But even my demonic mind couldn’t come up with anything that wouldn’t make it too obvious.
Because, despite my resentment for my mother, the last thing I want is to see her cry.
I really don’t want to deal with that right now.
She cried when she was sad, when she was happy, and even when she was proud (that was actually quite nice, though). So the less she engages in emotional overspill, the better. But I can’t avoid feeling like a heel. She really is trying. I have to give her that. ‘I just need a few minutes, Mother…’
Seven weeks to go. I might as well make the best of it by filling my schedule with spa appointments, massages and manicures. At least when I go home I’ll look refreshed, even if I feel like I’ve been through an emotional mangle.