Tales From A Broad (42 page)

‘They don't make phone calls.'

‘I mean, it could be
about
them.'

Frank dials in for the message. He sits down heavily on the bed as he listens. He hangs up slowly.

‘Fran, I'm sorry. I don't think we can make it to the Blue Mountains. Ken's here. He wants to see me tomorrow. He's invited us to dinner after.'

‘Ken? Your boss? From New York?'

‘Yeah. It's a big meeting. I told you there might be a chance he'd show up.'

‘No, see, because if you
did
, I would have brought a dinner-with-Ken outfit and I didn't.' I jump up and swing open the closet door to display my all-blacks. ‘And why can't we still go away?' I huff back into bed and make no headway on dislodging the sheet, scratching and pawing at it.

‘Fran, my boss doesn't come around the world so that we can piss off on a vacation we're only taking because he was on the other side of the world.'

‘Ahhhh. See, you
never
said that.' I find a way to slither in. ‘Okay, don't worry. I mean, now that we know how easy it is to get here, we'll do it another time. We'll bring the kids. And then when you get a job here … just kidding … good night. I love you. I'll find something to wear, don't worry.'

And I fall asleep.

Had we asked someone, we might have learned that St Leonards is to Sydney as Brooklyn is to Manhattan. We could have done it in a taxi ride. But we didn't ask. So, instead, because Frank's meeting is in St Leonards, we move into a dank, drippy little motor lodge in the heart of a suburb.

‘What am I going to do here?' I complain.

‘Didn't you bring your laptop?'

‘Actually, no.' And it occurs to me that I didn't even bring a manuscript or a contract. I have completely forgotten about work.

‘I gotta go. Just take a bath and get your nails done. Go shopping. I'll be back soon.'

The minute he leaves, the walls start coming toward me. I'm making them do that because I'm bored. I could lie on the bed and pretend I'm a junkie. I'm going crazy. Why? What do other people do when they are on vacation? Relax, read … but the walls … it's for real this time … ahhh!!! I cave. Much as I wish I could deviate from my routine, it seems I can't. There simply is one thing to do. I put on some shorts and tie up my shoes and go out for a run.

In front of the motor lodge I spot a guy, about 60, tying up his shoes, a fellow jogger.

‘Hey,' I call out, ‘you know a good route around here?'

He says, ‘Yeah, come with me.'

I don't really want to. I mean, I'm training for an Ironman for God's sake and this man is, well,
not
. But I can't be rude, that'd be so American, so I run with him. And, actually, he keeps up fine. Our conversation is crackling. He's a doctor and a writer and a very interesting man. He takes me on a wonderful path through Aboriginal caves and cliffs and bushland and into exclusive neighbourhoods. He asks about my kids and I ask about his. One is an actress.

‘Oh, that's tough,' I say.

‘Yeah, she lives in the US but she comes to visit.'

‘Is she getting work?' I ask as we round a cliff wall.

‘Oh, she and Tom do pretty well.'

Nicole Kidman's dad and I had a great run together. Next time, I'll get the vacation that includes tea with Elle's mum.

I get a book and take a walk, come back in time for a shower, and lay out all my clothes. Frank returns. ‘Frank! You'll never believe who I ran with today.'

‘Fran, Ken and Jill are waiting downstairs. I told you six.'

‘Frank, there's no downstairs here. It's a motor lodge. I'll be ready in a second.'

While I'm putting on my make-up, I call out to Frank, ‘We have to play this carefully, you know.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Well, someone's going to ask, “How are you, Fran?” and I don't want to seem too happy or else Ken'll be, like, “Hmmm, they have it too good”, but then we have to get him to know we'd love to be here four years, five years, forever … Okay, how do I look? Like I can wrap him around my pinky?'

Frank doesn't take in the gauzy shirt and black jeans, he looks at my face. ‘Fran, you've had a long run.'

‘I usually have good colour after a long run.'

Frank pulls me close for a moment, tightly. ‘That's not what I mean. Listen, let's go. The boss is waiting.'

I kiss Jill and now probably have more make-up on one side of my face. She tends to apply a little extra, maybe in case you forgot to wear your own. Same thing with the perfume, because, who knows, the whole town might smell bad. She wears a lot of jewellery; they don't like to be separated. She and I have matching hair.

I like her and I like Ken. Sure, they're the boss and his wife and a generation older and rich, rich, rich – from what he's accomplished and by virtue of her birth – but she makes me feel like a girlfriend and Ken always laughs at my jokes. It doesn't matter if she never calls me the next day to keep on being my girlfriend or if Ken was only laughing at my jokes because I am. It's a form of kindness, no? Ken's a
guy
, a guy's guy. If he married a different girl, he might've been racing cars, or fixing them wearing a jumpsuit and a name patch, ‘Ken'. He's a man of action and decision. He makes people quake and he makes things happen.

We pile into the limo waiting at our motel and, ten minutes later, arrive at the ANA where Jill has made dinner reservations. I say hello to the concierge who recognises me from last night and wave to the bellhop who helped us with our bags and nod to the reservations assistant and oh, there's the housekeeper – ‘Nice chocolates!' I say. ‘I used to live here,' I explain to Jill and Ken.

We go up to the 20th-somethingth floor for dinner. It's one of those 360-degree-view restaurants where murmurs and jazz seem to be the only appropriate noises. I excuse myself to go to the ladies room while Frank orders cocktails. I fix myself up and practise what I'll say when Ken asks me, ‘How do you like Singapore so far?'

It's tricky. I want to sound like a good soldier, like he's not doing us any favours: ‘We don't think about our own happiness, Sir! We go where we are needed most, Sir!' I can't say, for example, ‘I want to live abroad and be an expat forever. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!' and bend down and kiss his ring. That wouldn't be good. First, he'd hear the ‘I want' and get all suspicious.

Suddenly, the door opens and Jill comes in. Girlfriend or not, I can't rehearse this with her. I'll have to hope the words come out just fine back at the table. Jill spritzes and points the bottle at me. ‘Sure, thanks,' I say and close my eyes for the spray.

‘Fran, you look terrific. I love your hair.'

‘Thanks. I love that top necklace.' She fingers it like a pet.

‘How's it been, living in Singapore?' she asks.

What? Not
now
. We don't have this conversation
now
, in the ladies room, where Ken, the boss, isn't. I pretend to be distracted by the instructions on the automatic hand dryer. I open the door for her and tell her I love the fifth bracelet on her right hand.

Frank and Ken are heavily engaged in a discussion and haven't touched their drinks. Frank is nodding and Ken is gesticulating. I plunk down noisily so they know to wind down on the shop talk.

‘Oh, I'm sorry, Jill. Did you ask me something back there?' I say, settling in.

‘I don't recall. Let me think.' She opens her menu. ‘Oh, this is a big menu. Ken, isn't this a big menu?'

Ken is tapping around the table looking for his big menu.

‘That's right, you asked me something about Singapore … Ah, yes, you asked me how it's been, living in Singapore,' I say.

‘We did have an early lunch. Ken, do you think you'll get a starter?'

‘Sure. Sure. Where's my menu at?' Ken looks puzzled.

‘I'm going to get a starter,' I say. ‘I always do in Singapore.'

Ken finds his big menu and starts talking to Frank again. I hear ‘any day now' and ‘light up the sky …'

Frank nods and finishes half his beer. Jill turns to me. ‘What sort of starter are you getting, Fran? I hear the yabbies are wonderful.'

‘Probably something Asian for me. I love Asian food. I think I'm a little Asian on my mother's side.' No sounds except for the mellow notes from the fusion jazz band.

I take a sip of water. Brainwave! ‘Ken! Jill! All this talk and I haven't even asked. How are
you
?' I practically scream.

‘Fine, fine,' Ken says. He picks up a roll and hands Jill the basket. ‘You?'

I'll take it … okay … okay … what to say … what to say? Hurry before Jill starts talking about fucking dessert.

‘It's been wonderful so far.' I smile hugely. ‘Though, of course, it's very difficult sometimes.' I frown morosely.

‘Sure. Sure.' He opens the big menu.

‘I mean, being so far from family,' I say meaningfully to the menu.

‘Sure. Sure. Far from family, not good, not good.' He puts his glasses on and picks the menu up again.

Oh, shit, I'm losing him. Gave him the wrong message. ‘Yeah, but now that they're all dying, it's a lot easier!'

I start and finish my drink in one strong gulp and motion the waiter over for a double. Frank's face is red and he's straightening the silverware. Ken turns a page of the big menu. Jill says, ‘Oh, look, Ken, I don't have that sheet. What's that?' He yanks it off and hands it to her.

‘Today's specials? Now I have to start all over again.'

After completing the task of ordering, Jill turns into a delightful flibbertigibbet, pouring out all her news about kids, grandkids, boats, vacation homes. Ken chimes in, animated, proudly embroidering missing details, like the exact size of the boats. The table is happy. I find myself travelling to their inner circle. They even ask if Frank and I would like to come over for Easter dinner.

Ken orders champagne. He raises his glass. I drain my double. Raise my glass and smile at Frank with pride and adoration. At long last, Frank's hard work will be exalted. He deserves this; we deserve this. A toast, some recognition.

‘To
Hitforhits.com
!' Ken declares.

Oh, man, would it be so hard to say thanks to Frank? A simple ‘Good job, Frank!' It's like cheering the jockey and never the horse.

‘What's Hitforhits? Some
dot.com
pirates? Did you bust them, Frank?' I'm going to see him get some acknowledgement.

Frank turns to Ken. ‘Ah, Ken, I haven't seen Fran all day. She doesn't know any of this.'

And, forgetting to be pissed off for a minute, I chirrup, ‘Oh, yeah, omigod. You'll never believe who I ran with.' I look wide-eyed at everyone. ‘Nicole Kidman's dad!'

Jill and I squeal and clink glasses.

‘Wow … her dad …' she says.

‘Oh, yeah, and he was charming …'

Ken interrupts, ‘Of course, of course, no one knew but tomorrow it's official, in all the trade papers.' I look at Frank. This is getting good again. Frank's hands are beside his plate. His head is slightly bowed and he is looking at the stem of his champagne flute. He's so understated, it's sexy. He's a modest man and avoids the spotlight. How like him to keep this to himself. I can see the headline, my maven-on-the-move:

Frank Rittman named President of Overseas Operations. After agreeing to his big bonus, company penthouse … travel all over the world … ‘We'll need him to do a lot in Australia,' said the only other person more important than Mr Rittman …

‘So? More?' I ask.

Ken says, ‘Sure, sure. New company I started,
Hitforhits.com
. Need Frank to run the International. Have to move fast on these things. Big investors. Gonna make millions! Millions! Need you back in New York, home by Easter. Have it at our house. It's good, family, friends. Frank, you get someone else to wind down the Singapore office soon as possible. This is gonna make millions.' He raises his glass.

I look from Ken to Jill. No, no, no, no, no. I heard this wrong. I have to make him turn it around the right way. Home? New York? They're not serious. This can't be happening. I stand up. I need to get some air. They think I'm standing to toast them back. Ken directs his glass to me.

‘Nooooo!' I shout, slamming my drink down. ‘Frank can do anything from Singapore! I do everything from there! International can be from
there!
He can use the computer. He can do it all on the computer! On your
internet!
We can't go now. You said three years. We're not finished. We're not finished!' And, heaving great sobs, I run to the ladies room.

After the cigarette and cold water, I don't know how I can come back. I've behaved like a teenager, embarrassed my husband and of course myself, and didn't for a moment think about Ken's great joy for his new million-dollar concept. All I know is that it's fucking winter, dead and grey, in New York City and I'm not going. I'm not going back. I can't go back. So help me God, all at once, the clock struck midnight and everything turned to pumpkins and mice and uncomfortable clothing, to working my fingers to the bone: ‘Do the contracts!', ‘Do the laundry!', ‘Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.' Going around in circles, and still they holler, keep a-busy, that's what's there for me. Singapore was never real, a chimera, all of it – the friends, the fun, the tennis, the tan, the strappy clothes and sensuous evenings, the Ironman training. A wave of the wand, gone, nothing. What will become of me?