rain, still as gorgeous as the last time I had seen her. When you have legs that long, you always look gorgeous.
Afterwards, I called into my mother’s.
‘I ran into Felicity Best earlier. Do you remember her from school?’
I watched Bea as she sat in front of her old fashioned dressing table, wildly piling her blonde hair on top of her head and expertly wrapping a signature colourful silk scarf around it. Next to the mirrored jewellery tray, a cut crystal rose bowl held the hugest bunch of overblown white roses, their fragrance filling the room.
‘Which one was she?’ Bea asked, absentmindedly riffling through her lipstick drawer, finally finding the perfect shade of red. She turned to me. ‘Darling, you should try this colour, it would give you a lift.’ She began to fill in her lips and then turned to me, eyes narrowed. ‘You mean the girl whose father was a barrister?’
‘No, Felicity Best, her father was an author.’
‘Oh of course,’ said Bea. ‘Jack Best’s daughter.’ Watching herself in the mirror, she paused while a small smile played about her lips. She played with her hair. Then she remembered something else. ‘The tall girl with the bleached blonde hair and the long legs? The one you all wanted to be?’
There was a moment’s silence while I registered this uncharacteristic insightfulness. I shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’ But I did know what she meant. It’s not often you want someone else’s life. Back at school, I’d have given anything to be Felicity Best. She was our free one, our wild one, the one that got away.
From the dressing table, I picked up a bottle of Youth Dew, Bea’s signature fragrance. Removing the lid, I inhaled it directly from the bottle. Didn’t matter where in the world I was, the moment I smelt it, I thought of her. I spritzed my wrists.
‘Still the only one in the world is she?’ Bea asked, mascara wand mid-air, not taking her eyes from my face in the mirror.
‘What do you mean?’ There was silence.
‘Oh darling… I do know you all thought she was the coolest girl at school. The one all the boys liked, and she knew it.’ She paused for effect and then turned to look directly at me. ‘If I remember correctly, she was mean to you. Flavour of the month one minute until someone better came along. Always wanting what everyone else had. I do remember the tears.’ She turned back towards the mirror.
Nonchalantly, I waved my hand at her. ‘I hardly remember that stuff. It was too long ago. But it was good to see her. She’s been living in London for the last ten years as a business development manager for a publishing group. Sounds like she has been rather successful.’
‘What’s she doing back here then?’
I shrugged. ‘It seems her love life has been rather turbulent.’
Bea raised her brows, which I wasn’t sure if it was in response to what I’d said, or if it helped her pencil them in.
I sat on her bed, and without looking at her, explained, ‘She’s terribly qualified. I’m thinking of offering her a job.’
Bea spun around again. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’
‘Look Bea, I’m never going to fall pregnant the rate I’m going. I need to take some pressure off. I want to take six months away from the business.’
‘And what has Davis said about that?’ she asked, looking down as she slid a huge aquamarine cocktail ring on the middle finger of her left hand.
I shrugged. ‘He’s been a bit funny, but I promised him I’d find someone to fill my shoes, and I have a strong feeling Felicity could be the one.’
‘Go steady darling.’ And then with a spritz of her perfume she was done. ‘And look, do take this lipstick, it could be just the thing you need.’
She glided across the room, our deep and meaningful over. My mother’s vanity and her meticulous attention to the details of her own appearance had always struck me as incongruous in a woman who lived such an alternative lifestyle and bordered on being a hippy. However, she rarely left the house without lipstick, mascara and perfume, often stating, ‘Just because you’re different doesn’t mean you can’t look pretty.’
Later that day, Felicity phoned me. The old Felicity never phoned me. Years ago, I had always been the one who rang her, and then I’d walk over to her home to find someone else there. I remember feeling in the way and very much on the outer. But that was then.
Now, I set up a time for an interview. I had a feeling she could be the one.
She was.
My entire life I had craved conventionality. Up until now that was how I had lived, because I wanted a different life to what I’d had as a child.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had a good childhood, as far as childhoods went, it was great. However it wasn’t conventional, and all every kid wants is to be normal. They want to fit the mould.
It was a common occurrence for my parents to return home from one of Dad’s clubs as the garbage men began their morning shifts. Still in the clothes from the evening before, propped at the kitchen table, mug of tea in front of him, Dad would pull both of us up onto his knees and kiss the top of our heads. After breakfast, he’d drop us off at kindergarten or school, and then they would both sleep until it was time to pick us up again. Following dinner that night, they would flee back out into the club scene.
We were never neglected. We always had Aunt Honey with us. Although she wasn’t a real aunty, we loved her like she was. These days they’re called nannies. But to us, Aunt Honey was more of a grandmotherly figure. She smelt of Lux soap and freshly baked cakes. She was always cooking, and when Lou and I came home from school there was the smell of fresh bread in the air, and there were tins full of Victorian sponges and butterfly cakes. Those big bosoms of hers were perfect for snuggling into and she had a constant soothing word or a cuddle for us.
She was the only one my mother would listen too. Many a time, Aunt Honey would scold her for some thing or another and chase her from the kitchen with a tea towel. However, my mother would laugh and later kiss Aunt Honey on the cheek.
I once overheard my mother telling my dad, Johnny, that the poor darling relied on us as much as we relied on her. Apparently, she was a widow, and her children weren’t much chop. At the time I remembered wondering what much chop was.
However the part of my childhood I most clung to was Lou and I spending small pockets of time with Nan and Pop on the farm at Dover in South Tasmania. Our mother never came with us. She said she didn’t do the cold!
Although Pop was retired and my uncles ran the orchard, Pop still spent his days tending the garden. Despite the harsh conditions he was determined to have his spring garden every year. I was never far from his side, unless I was with Nan at her old Singer sewing machine, or cooking in her kitchen. Hours went by, while I watched Nan sew my Barbie doll’s new wardrobe, or with her pottering around the kitchen, stewing the apples and peaches that fell from the trees, and brewing jams and marmalades, which at morning tea time, Pop would generously spoon on homemade scones. In hindsight, I realised that I relished watching the way Nan did things in the kitchen, and Pop in the garden. If it’s true that one’s passions are handed down through those that are passionate, then I know where my love of life, and stewed peaches and jam, was first nurtured.
And then as we got slightly older, many holidays were spent picking and packing apples at the farm. I cannot tell you how much I looked forward to this. Lou and I thought we were very important standing alongside the packers at they placed the apples into bags and then into larger crates, which were then taken to the packing shed by tractor, with us running gleefully behind. Once sorted by size, the apples were packed into boxes and stored in the cold room until the trucks took them to the ships in Hobart. I still remember the wooden boxes my uncles used to make for the apples. And