The Sparkle Pages Read online

  And to add insult to injury, they are quite scarily intelligent. She’s a scientist at the Menzies Research Centre – something world-changey, probably. He’s a fertility specialist. I’m pleased to report that I didn’t carry on about my surprisingly fertile gonads. (There are advantages to remaining sober.)

  Josh and Isobel have a lot of money. Their children, Thomas and Ava, have perfect manners and say things like ‘No, thank you. I don’t like fizzy drinks.’ Ava plays footy in the state under-twelves and Thomas is in his school’s gifted program. I’m hoping some of their focus will rub off on Raffy, whose favourite pastime is being upside down on the couch. I’m also hoping the smiles I gave them didn’t look as sucked-lemon as they felt.

  Even perpetually grumpy Valda seemed quite taken with the Hadleys. She was irritated with Eloise for being late to fetch her over but, when she spotted our glamorous guests, she gave them a beauteous smile, a pot of her homemade marmalade and the words, ‘I want to thank you for what you’ve done with your landscaping. It’s raised the neighbourhood’s garden bar back to where it belongs.’ This was followed by a pointed look at me. I suppressed a twitch in my middle finger as our unpruned apple tree waved at me through the window. (It’s worth noting that Valda didn’t show the slightest interest when Princess Mary was residing a street away for the holidays and frequented the chemist on the corner, so the Hadley spellbind must be potent.)

  Thank goodness for Henry, who never notices glamour (or a lack thereof) and who hasn’t changed a bit since I met him in my orchestra days. He arrived late, greeted everyone with equal warmth and a handshake, then went and played sardines with the children. He’s a joy, is Henry, in his expensive shoes, his well-made jumpers with leather patches on the elbows and a hankie in the sleeve. He is seven years younger than me, but twenty years more grown-up. I was proud to introduce him to the Hadleys. (He is very handsome but blushes if you tell him so. Ria had a fleeting crush on him until we noticed that his hankie was white linen with a lace corner and he called it a ‘handkersniff’.)

  It turns out that Henry hasn’t left the orchestra for his bookshop after all. Not completely. He is still on as a casual cellist. Of course he is; they would be mad to let him go completely, and he could never give up his music. I had a vague fantasy that he might declare himself ‘spent!’ and join me in a tiny exclusive club of professional musicians who have downed their instruments for good. We could have little support meetings once a month in his shop. But of course he must never stop. That divine sound, he carries it in his face; I can hear it when I look at him.

  His shop opens in a few weeks! It’s in Battery Point, it’s called Lettercello and I just know he’ll make a success of it. People are drawn to Henry in the same way they are to leather-bound books.

  Mum was very drawn to Josh Hadley, though. She had a lovely time with him, God help us. Thankfully he appears to have a sense of humour. She put her hand over his at the table, leaned in and said, ‘I read a very interesting article about how baboons’ bottoms inflate and turn bright red when they’re ovulating.’ She glanced at Alison and raised her voice a touch. ‘And the male baboons have lilac scrotums – imagine that! Sort of like mating beacons.’

  At that point there was a sudden wail from Mary-Lou and a shout from Jimmy. The usual bickering. Dad glanced from them to Hugh and said, ‘Shame Susannah didn’t have an inflatable bottom. A warning beacon might have saved you some trouble.’ Alison looked cross (she’s over Mum and Dad’s attempts to shock) and Laurence turned redder than a baboon’s bottom.

  Luckily the subject was changed by Hugh bringing in his seafood platter. Yes, Hugh, our hunting and gathering hero, had of course brought home the bacon in the form of two crayfish and a pile of abalone. I should be grateful for his efforts but no one ever makes a fuss about women who do the groceries with four unwieldy offspring and a wobbly trolley. (‘Oh, Hugh, you’ve out-done yourself,’ etc.)

  Then it was time to turn our attentions to the children, because Jimmy decided to stage a talent show. This sounds like a lovely, wholesome way to bring children together, but ‘Jimmy’s show-offs’ (as Raffy calls them) are produced as a means to display his latest feat of coordination. He is supremely, infuriatingly nimble. Trampoline acrobatics, magic shows, miming, juggling, balancing, he can do it all, with style. His New Year’s Eve performance featured a mashup of undeniably cool dance moves he’s picked up from some hideous computer game. With his dark curls bouncing and his smile giving away his dimples (my dimples too, but they look perfect on him – mine just look goofy), he was quite a fetching spectacle. Aside from Eloise (who could teach the Mona Lisa a thing or two about indifference), everyone was impressed. The other children instantly wanted to try the moves themselves and soon it was as though they’d all submitted to some terrible spasmodic limb contagion. It was funny to watch, but Mary-Lou, who dreams fiercely of being as smooth as Jimmy, didn’t take the hilarity well. She sent out one of her best wails, along with some very fat tears.

  ‘Oh, Mary-Lou,’ said Mum, ‘we’re laughing with joy because you did it so well. Shall we see how Granny Frannie goes? I can throw some awesome shapes, you know.’

  ‘Frannie, remember your knees,’ Dad warned. But Mum was already centre-stage with her best groovy expression and possibly the most startling array of manoeuvres ever attempted by a 68-year-old woman. Mary-Lou had to laugh. Goodness, even grinchy old Alison laughed. Hearing Alison laugh is a bit like seeing a cat swim. Rare and unsettling.

  Henry and I joined Mum on the stage, where Jimmy’s flawless rhythm sped up amid the indignity of the mature-age people and their shapes. Even Valda threw a feeble arm or two in the air, as if adding her pump to the Mary-Lou tyres. It was brilliant.

  Later the show was ruined nudged back on the talent track by Thomas, who can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute, and by Ava, who sang ‘Listen’ by Beyoncé and took everyone’s breath away. Valda had that taken face on again and said, ‘Pitch wasn’t perfect but very good technique. Very good. And that’s what matters.’ I felt a nasty sneer of jealousy in the back of my throat. It shamed me into overzealous applause.

  ‘Mum, how about you play your viola?’ asked Jimmy, whose competitive spirit knows no bounds.

  ‘No, darling, it’s time for sparklers,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, Zannah,’ said Hugh. ‘While we’re talking talent.’

  I sent him a daggery stare and said, ‘No.’

  ‘Can I play it, then?’ Raffy asked with a strange sort of beseeching expression on his face that looked a bit like enthusiasm (more cats swimming).

  I responded with, ‘I’ll show you talent,’ and took to the stage to belt out my best, but the world’s worst, rendition of ‘Hit Me with Your Best Shot’, which didn’t go for long because I couldn’t remember the words of the second verse. Dad came to the rescue by shouting, ‘Talent shmalent,’ turning off all the lights, putting pen torches up his nostrils and switching them on. His nose is substantial. In full glowing glory it stole the show. Dear Dad, he knows when I’m flailing.

  To finish things off, Mum rewarded every performer with a kiss and a hedgehog sticker.

  Now that I’m sitting in the wardrobe alone with my champagne flute (empty), I realise that Hugh spent most of the evening chatting with Josh and Isobel, or his parents. Everyone else (the people with the hedgehogs, as it turns out) sort of larked about. Hugh was clearly much more at home with the normal people. And at the end of the night, once we’d finished the washing-up (who washes up on New Year’s Eve?) he said, ‘That was a pretty brave performance, Susannah. Next time you might be brave enough for the viola?’

  ‘Heck no,’ I said. ‘Talent shows are so last year.’ We laughed, and he kissed me briefly but I didn’t notice any sparkles, just the sensation that a vaguely distant threat was actually much closer and much more terrible than I thought … What’s the opposite of sparkle? Darkle?

  That wasn’t actual bravery I showed, it was bravado. I’ve always been full
of it when there’s a stage. Real-world courage eludes me. Much like the admiring eyes of my husband, which were there once, weren’t they?

  Valda and Henry got along well, which is something. ‘What a delight to meet Valda,’ Henry said in his best Classic FM voice. ‘She has an uncommon knowledge of the Baroque operas.’

  I must ask her about that.

  No, but I won’t. I will focus. It’s resolution time. Resolve, resolve.

  I’ve removed my hedgehog sticker. And perhaps tomorrow I’ll start this diary again, in a better temper, with a brand-new happy new year to wield against negative attitudes. And a quiver of ideas to throw at the Hugh problem. All my best shots.

  Goodness, it’s after two. Must sleep.

  TOMORROW I WILL MAP OUT MY RESOLUTION AND RESCUE MY MARRIAGE.

  TUESDAY 3rd JANUARY

  The Sparkle Project. That’s what I’ve named this resolution. And this diary is the Sparkle Pages. There will be sparkles. I am determined. And I’m back in the wardrobe with my next update.

  We’ve had a nice family day at the beach. Well, mostly nice. Mary-Lou had a tantrum about ice cream, Raffy lost his towel and Hugh did quite a lot of looking at a beautiful woman in a microscopic bikini.

  He had the grace to look sheepish when I caught him. He said, ‘Ahem, isn’t she on the telly or something?’ And then, ‘She’s nothing on you,’ but in a half-hearted way that made me aware of my thighs. She’s not a celebrity. We don’t have those in Tasmania. They all leave. Unless you count newsreaders, pollies and that nice bloke from Play School.

  Then we had to take Peter Possum to his wildlife carer and she looked just like Helena Christensen. Oh, come on, Hobart, I thought. Now is not the time to be wheeling out your beautiful people. She was wearing a gypsy dress and bare feet and had the sort of wafty presence that excuses itself from the hubbub of the mainstream.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ she said in a soothing voice, smiling at the children. ‘Well done, rescuers. Ringtails are delicate little souls.’

  Hugh was looking at her as though he’d like to stop in and have his delicate little soul rescued too. Can’t blame him, really. I’d only just finished huffing about the lost towel. (How does anyone lose a towel, for goodness sake? Perhaps I should be feeding Rafferty more oily fish. He’s so infuriatingly vague. Kind, though, which is more important.)

  We all said goodbye to Peter. It was quite sad. As his primary carer I felt so essential. Perhaps I should sign up for wildlife rescue. Wait, no, that would be asking for trouble, and Barky has been very put out with Peter around. But I will miss that little warm weight next to my heart.

  Anyway, it was a good day. Hugh’s going to try to stay on holidays until Monday. I am sceptical but hopeful. It’s nice to have him around. And good for him to see how annoying all the children can be even when we don’t have to do spelling tests and rush to sports games. He can experience just how much time it takes to cut up watermelons and apply everyone’s sunscreen.

  Having Hugh home also highlights a few of our weak spots. For instance, this morning I couldn’t help but get prickly about him NEVER putting things in the dishwasher. If he can put his cup on top of the dishwasher, then surely he can put it in. And he got unreasonably irritated when I suggested he check his pockets before putting his trousers in the wash pile. (An important business card went through the wash.) Small things, but they can build up until there’s very little light in our voices, or any light at all … Here comes the throat lump again …

  I shouldn’t get prickly. I forgot to clean my toenail clippings from the bath so we’re probably even.

  So, weak spots. We have them. Clearly I need to stop delaying and dive into this resolution before Hugh gets swallowed up into another work matter.

  I realise I should probably begin from the beginning … Hello! I’m Susannah – wife, mother, cleaner of surfaces, runner of household. My husband, Hugh, and I have four children: Eloise, who is thirteen; Raffy, who is nine; Jimmy, eight; and Mary-Lou, six.

  We didn’t quite set out to have so many children, but certain things happened and before long it seemed as though motherhood was the only thing I could manage. Only I wasn’t very good at it. Did I keep having babies to try to get it right? The way people keep trying to bake sponge cakes? Anyway, four it is, and of course now the thought of not having them all gives me a horrible pain.

  We live in a medium-sized, creaky but good-natured blue house on a hill in West Hobart with a tangly garden, a lovely view of Hobart and an overweight dog called Barky. My best friend, Ria, who is mostly in London being a very famous pianist and composer, says that our house has a really contented look on its Federation face, and that she sleeps much better here than she does anywhere else. I know very well what she means. At least, I used to. Lately there are times when I look at our house and it seems to look back at me with a weary expression. Only last week I was doing one of my regular nude runs to the laundry in search of underwear and Eloise said, ‘God, Mum, even the house is embarrassed.’ Perhaps she’s right. Not that long ago Eloise was laughing at my jokes and charging around the house in the nude as well. Soon she’ll be giving me mortgage advice.

  By the way, I got a text from Ria last night. It said:

  On a scale of 1 to 10, my New Year’s hangover is a solid 9. Hoping yours is nothing less than a 7 and that your night was super. Happy New Year. Let’s kick this one in the balls. Love always, R xx PS Hope NY resolution is off to a sizzling start. PPS You know you could always pick up a certain stringed instrument; I hear a good serenade is quite the thing.

  But I digress …

  Hugh is a forensic structural engineer, which means he is called on to investigate structural failures that lead to litigation. For instance, someone might lose money, limbs, life or other vital things because something went structurally wrong. He has worked very hard to build up his business and career. Very, very hard. Study and more study and seminars, etc. And now he employs three other engineers with various specialties and his consultancy is called upon to investigate all kinds of things. Sometimes I hear him on the radio talking about buckled iron or something. He is an expert, we are very proud of him and I don’t know why these words are sounding insincere and uncomfortable.

  I do not resent my husband’s success. I am grateful for all his hard work. I just wish he could be more present (perhaps with more presents, which sounds materialistic but I haven’t had a birthday gift in five years. He writes a good card, though, so …). It’s just that we have four children and years and years of drudgery challenging parenting ahead and no amount of Hugh saying he will take on less work in the future leaves me believing this will happen. He is mental passionate about his work; he adores it. It saves lives, etc. He needs me to support that, and I’m happy to be the reinforced girders. I just wish he found me at least half as interesting as his work. Or a quarter, let’s not be greedy.

  This interest factor seems to be a recurring resolution theme … I mean, he adores his work and I don’t necessarily have time for that level of extreme adoration. Just something a bit sparklier than simple fondness would be perfect. I suppose that something would be love, wouldn’t it? Does he properly love me?

  Once he went to Antarctica for five months. He left his comfortable home, three and a half children and loving wife to go and sleep in cramped quarters and work as a labourer on a continent made of ice. And he really, properly loved it. He still gazes at the photos, watches the videos.

  There’s a video of him and his fellow expeditioners daring one another to jump into freezing water. I hate that video because it was taken the same day I recorded my own video of Eloise reciting a poem in assembly. She’d practised and practised; I’d arrived early with small Raff and smaller Jimmy to get good seats and poise the camera. Eloise was about three lines in when Jimmy toppled off his chair, split his head open, screamed blue murder and vomited on the carpet. I watched Hugh’s video for the first time in the GP’s treatment room, where Jimmy was being glued up a
nd observed for concussion. There they were – Hugh and his friends being brave and admirable in their white, once-in-a-lifetime world – while Jimmy writhed and Raffy took the lids off about thirty sterile specimen jars. Meanwhile Eloise sat stoic and still, mutely refusing to admit disappointment, embarrassment or other emotions associated with having things dashed. I wanted to pluck Hugh out of his video, hold him up to my eyes and say, ‘How very dare you.’

  There’s probably definitely been a splinter of ice in me ever since Hugh’s Antarctic expedition, though I’ve tried to melt it. Must try harder. And I mustn’t let my icy heart (or spleen) interfere with my resolve. Nor should I get too emotional (swallow throat lump). I shall remain businesslike and, as Ria suggested, just work at it. I will move systematically through all the Things That Might Make Hugh Properly Love Me Again.

  Actually, I should probably get forensic and investigate our history too, for passion-reinvention strategies. And origins of decay. We certainly had passion once. Sometimes I catch a fleeting flash of it again, but for the most part, passion just seems to have fallen by the wayside, along with regular waxing and seeing films. (There are a lot of good things by the wayside, if only I could find where it is – somewhere near the too-hard basket, probably.)

  Must cook dinner. I’ll do some thinking while I work … Could we have cheese on toast if I give everyone a multivitamin?

  THURSDAY 5th JANUARY

  Hugh still hasn’t been to work, which is hard to believe a positive. But I do get the feeling he is searching for things to do that don’t involve family (me). He has fixed all the wear and tear in the plaster and painted over the mends. And then agreed to re-paint Eloise’s bedroom. It’s been clear for a long time that pale yellow with a birdy frieze is much too childish for a beanstalky secondary school girl with breast buds, God help us. (Senior school! How can this be?) She finally appealed to Hugh for deliverance from the nursery and he has obliged. I feel sad for the birds, but they probably don’t want to share a room with an increasingly sullen prepubescent who has been ignoring them in favour of supernatural fiction for the better part of a decade. Not to mention her collection of sneakers and the incessant hauntings of Lana Del Rey. They’ve been through enough sorrow, those birdies …