Grinning, Claire swung up the drive, displaying six inches of thigh that was only slightly cellulity, and into Mum’s embrace.
“I’ve never seen you looking so well,” Mum declared. “Where did you get that T-shirt? Listen, would you have a word with Margaret; she’s your younger sister and she looks older than me, she’s bad for my image.”
“The state of you,” Helen said scornfully. “Dressed like trailer trash—at forty!”
“And you know what they say about forty?” Claire put her hand on Helen’s shoulder.
“Your arse hits the floor?”
“Life begins!” Claire yelled right in to her face. “Life BEGINS at forty. And forty is the new thirty. And age is only a number. And you’re only as young as the person you’re feeling. Now fuck off!”
She pivoted on her narrow heel and, with a dazzling smile, gathered me into arms. “Anna, how are you feeling, love?”
Worn-out, actually. Claire had only been home a matter of seconds and already the shouting, the insults, and the abrupt changes of mood had plunged me right back into my childhood.
“You look loads better,” she said, then began surveying the hall, looking for Rachel. “Where is she?”
“Hiding.”
“I’m not FUCKING hiding. I’m FUCKING meditating.” Rachel’s voice came from somewhere above us. We all looked up. She was lying on her belly on the landing, her nose poking through the banister. “You could have saved yourself the journey because I’m definitely marrying him and how do you reconcile your feminist principles with a skirt that short?”
“I’m not dressing for men, I’m dressing for me.”
“Yeah.” Mum sneered.
Eventually Rachel snapped out of the childish state we all seemed to have reverted to (especially Mum) and became all wise and serene again and agreed to give Claire her ear. Me, Helen, and Mum asked if we could be in on it, but Rachel said she’d prefer if we weren’t and Helen lowered her eyes and said, “Obviously, we respect that.” Then the minute the pair of them closeted themselves in a bedroom, the three of us raced up the stairs (well, they raced and I hobbled) and listened at the door, but apart from the occasional raised voice, “Chattels!,” “Objects!,” and Rachel doing her superirritating, “I understand” murmur, it quickly got boring.
Claire, having failed in her attempt to talk Rachel out of getting married, departed in high dudgeon on Sunday evening. (After first clearing out my makeup bag of the last few remaining lipsticks. As she said, she had not only her own needs to consider but those of her eleven- and five-year-old daughters, who needed to impress their peers.)
That night, Dad came to talk to me—as best he could. “Ready for the oul’ journey tomorrow?”
“Ready, Dad.”
“Well, um…good luck when you get back and keep up the oul’ walking,” he said stoutly. “It helps the oul’ knee.”
The number of times he said “oul” was an indication of how mortified he was: the “oul” index was at an all-time high. Dad would lie down and die for me and all his family, but he would not, could not, talk about emotions.
“Maybe when you get back, take up an oul’ hobby,” he suggested. “Keeps the oul’ mind off things. Golf maybe. And that’d be good for the oul’ knee, too, of course.”
“Thanks, Dad, I’ll think about it.”
“Mind you, it needn’t be golf,” he amended. “It could be any oul’ thing. Lady things. And we might be over at some stage to help with Rachel’s oul’ wedding to that hairy molly.”
At the airport Mum studied the departure board, looked from me to Rachel, then exclaimed, “Isn’t it a bloody shame that both of you live in New York.” She put her hands on her hips and thrust her bosom at us. She’d persuaded Claire to give her her “My Boyfriend Is Out of Town” T-shirt and kept trying to draw attention to it. “Would one of you ever move somewhere else so we’d have a free place to stay. I’ve always liked the sound of Sydney.”
“Or Miami,” Dad said, then he and Mum bumped hips and sang, “Welcome to Miami!”
“Say your good-byes,” Rachel said coldly.
“Ah right, of course.” They looked a little red-faced, then took a deep breath and launched into a flurry of kindness and concern. “Anna, you’ll be okay, pet.” “You’ll get over it.” “Just give it time.” “Come home anytime you want.” “Rachel, make sure you look after her.”
Even Helen said, “I wish you weren’t going. Try not to go too mental.”
“Write to me,” I said. “Keep me posted with your screenplay and send me funny e-mails about your job.”
“Okay.”
But the really peculiar thing was that despite all their well-wishing and hand squeezing and encouragement, no one so much as mentioned Aidan.
15
After Jacqui had decreed that Aidan would be a hard dog to keep on the porch, she told him, “You pass. We like you. You can come out with us whenever you like.”
“Er, thank you.”
“In fact, tomorrow night it’s Nell’s strange friend’s birthday. The Outhouse on Mulberry Street. Come along.”
“Um, okay.” He looked at me. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
The love-in between Jacqui and Aidan continued the following night, when, in the heaving bar, Jacqui indicated an Adonis leaning against a wall. “Look, your man’s gorgeous. On his own. Think he’s waiting for someone?”
“Ask him,” Aidan suggested.
“I can’t just go over and ask him.”
“Want me to go?”
Her eyes nearly fell out of her head. She clutched him. “Would you?”
“Sure.” We watched Aidan shoulder through the crowd, say something to the Adonis, saw the Adonis say something back, then twist his head to have a look at the little knot of us. Further chat ensued, then Aidan turned to come back…followed by Adonis.
“Sweet Jesus,” Jacqui hissed. “He’s coming over.”
Sadly, Adonis turned out to be called Burt and up close he had a peculiar immobile kind of face and no interest in Jacqui, but as a result, Jacqui thought Aidan was the cat’s pajamas.