Roadside Sisters Read online

  ‘Nina was always the motherly type.’ Meredith patted the sleeve of Nina’s lilac knitted cotton cardigan and turned to Annie. ‘She was always nagging us to have breakfast before we got on the mini-bus.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed,’ Nina grimaced. ‘But I’d swap nagging six grown women for three teenage boys and a husband any day. They never listen to anything I say. I feel like the invisible woman. But then I look in the mirror and wonder how they could possibly miss me. I think I’ve put on a kilo for every year since the choir broke up.’

  ‘Come on, you still look fine.’ Meredith waved away her concerns. She was reminded that Nina had always moaned about her weight, even when she had been a curvy size twelve. ‘I remember back then you were on the Israeli Army Diet.’

  ‘Oh, my God! I was too,’ squealed Nina. ‘Two days apples, two days cheese, two days chicken and two days salad!’ She counted on her fingers. ‘I got as far as cheese and then went on to biscuits.’

  Annie reached for her glass again. ‘Christ, imagine naming a diet after the Israeli army these days! About as politically correct as the Palestinian Refugee Camp Diet.’

  ‘What’s that? I might give it a try.’ Nina found her spoon and scraped up the last of her tiramisu. Annie was reminded that her musings always went over Nina’s head.

  ‘What I mostly remember,’ said Meredith, ‘is battling Corinne for time in front of the mirror. And Briony with her disgusting bircher muesli—containers of curdled yoghurt and grated apple stashed in her vile canvas backpack.’

  Annie spluttered into her glass. ‘That’s right! I had to share a motel room with Jaslyn and her stinking patchouli incense sticks! I’d never seen a woman with dreadlocks before. All I could think of were the dags on a sheep’s bum!’

  And then it was Nina’s turn: ‘Do you ever think of poor Genevieve, with her Indonesian clove cigarettes and God-knows-what-else she was on?’

  There was a pause as they all remembered Genevieve, dead now for twelve years, but still alive in their minds, swaying with her hands on her heart singing ‘Asleep in Jesus’.

  Asleep in Jesus! Blessed sleep,

  From which none ever wakes to weep;

  A calm and undisturbed repose,

  Unbroken by the last of foes.

  Asleep in Jesus! Oh, how sweet,

  To be for such a slumber meet,

  With holy confidence to sing

  That death has lost his venomed sting!

  Five of them had sung that song at Genevieve’s funeral. They could only hope that she had indeed found peace at last.

  ‘So, Annie,’ Nina paused to lick her spoon—and her fingers—‘how’s the real estate business going?’ Nina thought things must be going rather well, judging by the size of the diamond dress-ring Annie was wearing and the price of the wine she’d ordered ($60!).

  ‘It’s all good. Got a cute little place by the beach in Port Melbourne. One bedroom. Nothing like Meredith’s palatial ranch out east, of course.’

  ‘Yee-hah!’ Meredith swung her napkin over her head like a cowgirl riding a $10,000 Miele range oven and five-burner cooktop. ‘I’ve just finished another round of renovations. The “ranch” is looking fabulous. You must come and see. And come into the store if you’re looking for something special for the home. In fact, I’ve got my latest full-colour catalogue right here. I’ll give you a discount.’

  ‘So you’re still in the house-porn business,’ said Annie as the catalogue was waved in front of her. Meredith dropped it back into her bag. She’d forgotten how sharp Annie’s comments could be. Cutting. Right to the bone. Always delivered with that winning, country-girl ‘whaddya reckon?’ grin.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Annie,’ Meredith leaned across the table and whispered, ‘I just got a shipment in from Sweden and I am in possession of some serious objects of desire.’

  Annie remembered that Meredith had always been clever, quick-witted. How old was she now? Fifty? And still rail-thin and utterly intimidating. She was all cream suede and pearls this evening. The eighties feminist firebrand in overalls who had scaled billboards in the dark to deface sexist advertising had been spray-painted over. In her place was a tasteful mantelpiece portrait of carefully understated eastern suburbs affluence.

  ‘Ooooh, Swedish appliances!’ Annie teased and pouted glossy red lips. ‘Anything with studs and rubber? Maybe I will stop by.’

  Nina had been reading the menu in search of one last treat and had missed most of this exchange. ‘I love your hair. It really suits you,’ she said, admiring Meredith’s slim face framed by sleek silvery layers. ‘When’d you stop colouring it?’

  Meredith ducked Nina’s outstretched hand. ‘Six months ago. Not long after Donald left. I needed a change. How much of a cliché is that? “Husband walks out, wife runs to hairdresser.” Let’s order coffee.’ Meredith turned away and looked for the waiter.

  Nina, as the convener of the occasion and self-appointed cheerleader, was torn. Meredith and Donald had been married for . . . it must be close on thirty years. She needed more information. Then again—Nina checked her watch—it was almost 10 pm. She would just bet that Jordy was still on the bloody computer in his bedroom, that the twins hadn’t done their homework and Brad was flaked out on the couch in front of the television. She should probably call home in a few minutes.

  ‘How old are Sigrid and Jarvis now?’ Annie asked Meredith.

  ‘Well, that’s the big news. Sigrid’s getting married in Byron Bay in three weeks. Jarvis is coming back from London for the wedding. He’s been working at Sotheby’s in Asian art.’ The name ‘Sotheby’s’ was offered with some pride. Annie was suitably impressed, although she wasn’t sure Nina caught the reference.

  ‘Siggie’s getting married? No!’ exclaimed Nina. ‘I can remember her coming to rehearsals in fairy wings.’

  There was a brief silence in which they found themselves in a bare Scouts hall, warm breath visible on a freezing July afternoon. Seven grown women shrieked with alarm to see tiny blonde-headed Sigrid tear off her sparkly wings, and her clothes, and dance across the icy floorboards as her little brother, Jarvis, sitting in his stroller, chortled with delight. The moment came to them as a black-and-white scene from an old movie, cast with people they hardly recognised.

  ‘So she’d be . . . what? Twenty-four now?’ Annie was groping her way down the long corridor of the past, trying to make sense of it all.

  Nina’s congratulations were heartfelt. ‘Well, that’s wonderful! You must be so proud, Mother of the Bride. Who’s she marrying?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. All I know is that his name’s Charlie. Coffee! Where’s that damned waiter?’

  Annie and Nina exchanged a second’s glance that said it all. They’d better order more supplies and settle in for the duration.

  ‘I’d like a nightcap as well. Something sticky and hideously expensive,’ chirped Annie as she swivelled her diamond ring to catch a sparkle in the low light.

  ‘And chocolate-dipped apricots. It says on the menu they make them in-house.’ Nina clasped her hands and gave thanks for the imminent blessing of sugar.

  ‘Did you know Oprah Winfrey and her best friend Gayle have known each other for thirty years?’ Nina leaned across the table. ‘And they still call each other four times a day?’ She picked at crumbs of chocolate with pink-frosted fingernails. Nina wanted a friendship like that. Half the women in the English-speaking world did. Oprah had declared her unconditional love for her friend so often that her sentiments had mutated into a global epidemic of female inadequacy.

  ‘How hard could it be to get someone on the phone when you’re worth more than a billion dollars?’ Meredith scoffed.

  ‘They’re probably gay,’ Annie muttered under her breath as she sipped at her dessert wine.

  ‘And Oprah says,’ Nina continued, pausing to insert a nail into her mouth and suck, ‘that she feels like their friendship has been designed by some higher power.’

  Nina caught the flicker
of disbelief telegraphed between her companions. ‘Have you ever had a friend like that?’ she persisted.

  ‘No, and I wouldn’t want to,’ Meredith stated. ‘I’ve got enough going on in my life. Who’s got the time for all that? It doesn’t sound like a friendship to me. It sounds more like some “co-dependent relationship”. Doesn’t Oprah bang on about that sort of stuff?’

  Nina wasn’t to be so easily dismissed. ‘What about you, Annie? Do you spend much time with your girlfriends?’

  Annie tipped her glass in Meredith’s direction. ‘Same as you. Actually, most of my friends are men. I can’t stand the way women judge each other all the time. You meet another woman and she runs her eyes up your whole body—from your toes to the top of your head—like she’s doing this inventory. Sizing up a piece of furniture or . . . an overripe avocado.’

  Nina guiltily ducked her head. She’d done it. Surveyed Annie’s trim figure, checked the size of her diamonds, taken note of the fabric and cut of her sleek black jacket, and her red lipstick, matching finger- and toenails. What had she deduced? That Annie must be looking at her and thinking she’d let herself go to hell. Nina caught her reflection in the mirror and saw that her hair looked like grated cheese piled on top of a baked potato.

  ‘And men don’t have this hideous insecurity about their looks and their lives,’ Annie went on. ‘Or if they do they’re better at keeping it to themselves. I couldn’t stand having someone constantly ringing and whining for reassurance. It’d be exhausting. Bore the shit out of me.’

  Nina chose to ignore Annie’s detour sign and ploughed on: ‘I was thinking, while I was going through my scrapbooks, that you are the two friends I’ve known for longest.’ She chased flakes of chocolate around her plate with a plump thumb. The rest of the sentence was left unsaid, a silent accusation: And you never ring me, ask me how I’m going, take any interest in my life.

  Annie thought of her pack of cigarettes in her satin purse. She silently cursed the ‘no smoking’ signs and raised her hand for a Flaming Sambucca.

  Meredith sneaked a look at her watch and peered into her half-full coffee cup. She took a deep breath. ‘So, Nina, how is everything with you?’

  Some time around midnight—over the sound of waiters stacking chairs and clearing glasses from nearby tables—there was an incident. It had begun tidily enough as a polite conversation between acquaintances but had quickly slipped into a maudlin, syrupy morass of shared tears and secrets no-one had quite anticipated or was in any way prepared for. The result was—and everyone was hazy on the details of who said what, when, exactly—that they agreed they needed more than a few hours together to celebrate their loving friendship of the past twenty years. The unlikely plan Nina hit upon was to drive all of them in her father-in-law’s motorhome from Melbourne to Byron Bay. It was a two-thousand-kilometre journey and she estimated it would take ten days. And if her father-in-law picked up the van in Byron, they could fly back after the wedding and be home in less than two weeks.

  When she was later accused of setting up an ambush, Nina was prepared to accept liability . . . up to a point. It was true that she had first brought up the idea because she was the one with the vehicle in her driveway, but it was, in fact, Meredith who had cried. That had been a shock to everyone around the table, no-one more so than Meredith. If there hadn’t been tears, they could have made their excuses and moved on. It would also have helped if Annie hadn’t taken Meredith in her arms and given that heart-wrenching speech about ‘mothers and daughters’ and ‘once-in-a-lifetime opportunities’ and ‘eternal regrets’, and then brought up her own latest depressing tarot card reading for good measure.

  In the end, they were all culpable—including the waiter who had brought the complimentary round of 70 per cent proof grappa and said it was a wonderful ‘digestivo’.

  When they said their goodbyes that night on the footpath, they had hugged and kissed and squealed with excitement at their forthcoming adventure. No-one dared to voice her misgivings and bear the bad karma of ruining the Oprah Ah-hah! So it wasn’t until each of them was driving home (after joking that the alcohol in the tiramisu had probably put them over the limit, and deciding to chance it anyway) that all three began to panic and individually consider driving their cars straight off the Punt Road bridge into the Yarra River at the prospect of spending almost two weeks on the road together and talking to each other forty times a day.

  Wrestling steering wheels back from the road’s edge and checking rear-vision mirrors for flashing blue lights, each began to trawl their memories for the details on how their fellowship had survived the past two decades. Did they even qualify as friends, they wondered? If the length of time they had known each other counted for anything, then they were. But how much did they know about each other’s lives, really? The three of them were as unlikely companions as you could find, but they were part of a matched set, like 1950s kitchen canisters of Flour, Sugar and Tea.

  Despite their doubts about the pact they had made, they found themselves humming ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’. They had crossed the Yarra River—muddy and wide—and were being carried home in their various chariots: Meredith in her Audi Quattro with the pristine chocolate leather upholstery; Nina in the Honda Odyssey, which had twenty filthy football jumpers and thirty-five socks in the back seat; and Annie in her Mini Cooper, its ashtray overflowing, three empty vodka mixer bottles on the floor and now a good three months out of rego.

  Three

  Annie’s phone call came as Nina was standing at her kitchen bench the next morning rereading a particularly inspirational article in O magazine: ‘Women’s friendships are special. Women friends help us define who we are and who we want to be. They are a touchstone in our lives through family, marriage and childbirth. Female friends offer wise counsel and a trusting and deep constancy.’

  ‘I was pissed last night. I can’t come.’

  ‘OH NO! Annie, why not?’ The disappointment came like a head-butt to Nina’s midsection. She dumped the magazine on the bench and paced the kitchen with the cordless. All morning she’d been on a high at the prospect of getting away. In her mind she was already lying on a banana lounge by a pool at Byron Bay with a banana daiquiri and the latest Jodi Picoult novel.

  ‘I’ve got so much on here at work,’ Annie sighed. ‘I’ve got three inspections just this afternoon. It’s all about time. Who’s got the time for this?’

  ‘I know that,’ Nina countered. ‘None of us has the time, but you’re the one who was talking last night about “lifelong regrets”. We were all remembering the great times with Sanctified Soul when we were on the road. How come we stop doing stuff, having adventures, having fun, just ’cause we’re middle-aged?’

  The thought of being ‘middle-aged’ gave Annie a moment’s pause. ‘But you could go away with Meredith. You don’t really need me.’

  ‘Well maybe we don’t need you, but you need us. You’re paying total strangers to read your fortune. How crazy is that? What you need is “wise counsel” from female friends. We’ll tell you all about your life for free.’

  ‘Yeah, well maybe that’s exactly what I don’t need. And I just had one card reading, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  This line of argument wasn’t getting Nina any closer to backing out of her driveway. She changed gear. ‘Look, if you won’t do it for yourself, at least do it for Meredith. The whole situation in Byron is going to be really hard for her. She could do with some support and validation.’

  ‘Nina . . .’ Annie rolled her eyes at the banal self-help jargon Nina had obviously picked up from daytime TV. ‘We’ll just be hangers-on. We don’t really know any of the family. I wouldn’t recognise Sigrid now if I fell over her, and Jarvis was three when I last saw him.’

  ‘Forget about the wedding then. That’s just one part of it anyway.’ Another smooth gear change. ‘Have you ever been to Byron Bay?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Neither have I, but I’ve always wanted to
go, haven’t you? It sounds amazing. All lush and tropical. Beautiful beaches and the water will still be warm. We can walk to the lighthouse. And I hear there’s great shopping.’

  Nina wasn’t sure about the shopping bit, but threw it in for Annie’s benefit. She wasn’t above telling the odd lie. One of her most celebrated efforts had been activating the car’s windscreen washer and telling her three small boys that it was raining when they whined to be taken to the local adventure playground. The boys had been mightily aggrieved when they found out the truth years later, but the story was now part of family legend and Nina went on fibbing when it suited her.

  Annie hesitated. It was a silence Nina could almost have driven a five-berth motorhome through. She put the foot down. ‘And you never know, Miss Bailey, you might meet some gorgeous men there. There’re tons of restaurants and bars right on the beach.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I tell you what, why don’t you come over on Saturday, say midday, and at least have a look at the van. I know you’ll love it. You can make a final decision then. Deal?’ Nina held her breath. She didn’t have anything more to offer right now. She could hardly say to Annie: If you don’t come I might be tempted to drive myself off a cliff, and it will be your fault.

  ‘OK, deal,’ said Annie. ‘But don’t get your hopes up, that’s all.’

  Nina replaced the phone and bent for the laundry basket. Two dozen Under-14s football jumpers and shorts to be washed, dried and folded. And there was another fetid pile of Under-16s sports gear in the back seat of the Honda Odyssey. Nina reflected that it was an ironic name for her car.

  ‘Od.ys.sey n: A long series of travels and adventures.’ Jordy had Googled it the day they brought the seven-seater home. The only long travels she’d taken in that vehicle had been from the house to school, from school to the supermarket, from the supermarket to the house, from the house to the football oval and back to the house. A daily round-trip of tedium.