Being Shirley

Being Shirley

By

Michelle Vernal

Copyright © 2014 by Michelle Vernal

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Being Shirley
is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious with the exception of the artist Yanni and the movie Shirley Valentine of which the author acknowledges their copyrighted and trademarked status.

Paul, one day we will be able to use the travel as a business expense I promise! Thanks as always to you my lovely hubby and our boys for believing in me.

BEING SHIRLEY

By: Michelle Vernal

To: Kassia Bikakis

From: Annie Rivers

Subject: Hello!

Hi Kas:

Sorry I have been so slack in replying to your last email. I know you always worry when you don’t hear from me since the earthquakes but there have been no big aftershocks for a while—touch wood. I don’t have any decent excuses for not writing sooner either, only that it is coming up to that time of the year again and well, you know what I get like. It’s hard to believe it’s been twenty years. Twenty whole years! Gone just like that. It feels like yesterday sometimes and then other times it seems like a lifetime ago. You know, when I look around me these days, I realise that Roz wouldn’t even recognise Christchurch anymore. I think it’s true that saying, time really doesn’t stand still for anyone.

Speaking of which, I can’t believe you are going to be a big proper grown-up of thirty-nine on Saturday either. I hope you get thoroughly spoiled by your lovely boys. Thanks by the way for letting me know your parcel arrived okay—hope you like it.

Carl and I will do our usual to mark the day. The plan is to meet up at the Botanic Gardens like always and then we’ll head back to his place to open the bottle(s) of bubbles and watch the concert. It goes without saying that we’ll raise a happy birthday glass to you too.

Mum says to tell you hi. She always asks what you’re all up to and likes to be kept in the know. To be honest with you, Kas, she has been driving me nuts since she joined Weight Watchers last month. Do you know the phrase born-again Christian? I suppose not what with you all being Greek Orthodox but it means that someone is really zealous—sorry, I forget English is your second language. Um, how about enthusiastic or in Mum’s case fanatical—about something? Does that make sense? She’s not only a reformed smoker she is now a born-again dieter too.

Last Saturday, I popped round with a couple of chocolate éclairs, Dad’s favourites. I picked them up from the local bakery and they had fresh whipped cream oozing out the sides. Just yummy but then Mum totally spoiled the moment by telling us how many calories were in each one. She waited until I had a big gob full of choux pastry, chocolate icing, and cream to pass comment too! I’m putting money on it that this wannabe slim Jim phase of hers won’t last, though, because they’ve been looking at cruise brochures again but this time I think they’ll actually pack their bags and go. Come August they could be sailing around the Pacific Islands for a week.

Dad’s sold a couple of houses in the last month with insurances being paid out finally and people resettling after the earthquakes, so they are in the money. There’s no way anyone, not even my mother, could diet on a cruise. It would be an impossibility with all that food laid out just ready and waiting for you to eat all day every day. I heard the average weight gain on a seven-day jaunt round the Pacific is 3.5kg, so there is hope I will get my cuddly, caramel slice loving mummy back. Fingers crossed, Kas! I’m pleased they are going to get away for a bit, though. It will do them both good to feel a bit of sunshine on their faces and to forget about insurance wrangling for a while. It feels like they have been going head to head over their payout forever. I mean, if the land under your house was dodgy, would you want to stay?

Oh, now here’s a complete change of subject but while I think of it, I saw my dream dress on the way into work yesterday. It was on display in the window of Modern Bride—which should actually be called Take out a Mortgage Bride—but oh Kas, it is so utterly and completely fabulous. Um…so how can I describe it? Well, it’s ivory. Remember I had my colours done and was told with my red hair and green eyes I was a Warm Spring and as such should never go for white, always ivory? The style is fitted because I’d look like a well-risen Pavlova in a full skirt so there’s another box ticked. The neckline is a sweetheart shape and its very low cut but hey if you’ve got it, flaunt it! Sadly, though, big boobs I may have—big bank account I don’t.

I really want to try it on, which I know seems stupid considering Tony and I have progressed no further with setting an actual date for the wedding than we had this time last year but hey maybe the time has come for me to take the proverbial bull by the horns or boy by the balls so to speak and move things along.

You know, though, I sometimes think that the more people go on at us about tying the knot, the more we both dig our heels in and shy away from actually doing anything about it. So anyway I’m thinking that seeing the dress was a bit of an omen and that it’s time for us to progress things because we are in kind of a rut. He has his indoor cricket, rugby, and boy’s nights and I have my book club, Pilates, and girl’s lunches—oh and I’ve got Carl of course, too. The thing is Tony and I don’t seem to do much together other than blob out in front of the tele these days. Me thinks the time has come in our relationship where we need to find a hobby we can both share—one that doesn’t involve bats of any kind. Did I ever tell you that story about the time we entered the doubles table-tennis comp at our local pub? I must have but if not, the crux of that story is that Tony’s so bloody competitive I nearly thwacked him over the head with my bat. Anyway, enough about that.

Not much has changed on the work front either. I still think it was completely selfish of Mel to go and have a baby, clock ticking or no clock ticking. How could she leave me with Attila the Hun? I know Mama almost drives you demented sometimes but I am telling you your mother-in-law can’t hold a candle to what I have to deal with on a daily basis. Think pit bull with PMT and your halfway there. Still it’s up to me to get off my backside and do something about it, I suppose. The problem is I’d need a bit of oomph for that and I don’t seem to be able to conjure much of that up where work is concerned at the moment.

Enough about me and life in Christchurch— what about you? How is life in gorgeous Crete? Has your perm settled down? Crazy, isn’t it? You spending all that money getting your hair curled and here’s me with a headful of the things I’d love to get rid of! Swap you. It sounds like you are run off your feet managing Eleni’s, which is a good thing, I guess. Yes, you are in for an interesting time when Alexandros gets home but don’t you go letting that brother-in-law of yours get away with too much. The guesthouse is his livelihood, too, and now that you have it humming along nicely, he needs to pull his weight this time round and not treat it like his personal dating agency. You tell him from me that I said he is to leave the English girls alone! Maybe you should suggest Mama finds him a nice Greek girl and that way she will be too busy matchmaking to continue spoiling Mateo and Nikolos rotten. To be fair, though, Kas, I do think it is every Yaya’s prerogative to spoil their grandchildren.

I hope your lovely Spiros is knocking that bestseller out and that Nikolos’s tooth comes through soon so you can all get some sleep. Don’t go worrying about Mateo, either: he is only three and from what my friends who have boys say, it is perfectly normal for him to be fascinated with his winky. It doesn’t mean he will grow up to be a flasher.

Be sure to give my love to Mama, and Kas, please tell her she has to stop sending me the baklava. It’s not just because I definitely don’t need fattening up—Customs keeps intercepting it. Tell her she is singlehandedly keeping those sniffer dogs in full-time work.

Right my friend, it’s nearly eleven p.m. and I have to get to bed now or I will never cope with Attila at work tomorrow. It is time for me to love you and leave you and to say night-night. Hear from you soon and have the best ever birthday!

Lots of love and kisses to you and all the Bikakis family.

Annie

xox

Kassia Bikakis was replying to reservation requests on the computer in the office that also served as a reception room at Elenis’s Hotel when the message from her New Zealand friend bounced in. She stopped what she was doing, scrolled through and read it eagerly. She leaned back in her chair after she had finished. She frowned as one particularly confusing phrase in the many her friend peppered her emails with jumped out at her.
What on earth did a well-risen Pavlova look like?
she wondered as she clicked on Reply.

“You know, Roz wasn’t just a druggie—she was my sister, too, and a pretty darn good one before she got into all that crap.” Annie Rivers pursed her lips indignantly as she tucked the red curls making a bid for freedom from her topknot behind her ears. “I really hate the way that when anybody mentions her name, the word
drugs
is always whispered in the same sentence.” She kicked at the autumn leaves that swirled around her feet with the toe of her boots, and admired the shininess of the new red leather. It had been a magnetic force on a par with the Bermuda Triangle called Nicole who had dragged her into the shop after she’d spied them in its window at the mall last night.

So much for just popping out to do the groceries. It was all Nic’s fault, she decided deftly as she shifted the blame for her purchase onto her friend. She had been minding her own business, nose pressed to the window of the shoe shop, when Nicole had happened upon her. All the girls in their circle knew she was a bad influence when it came to spending, drinking, and well, pretty much everything, which was also why she was loads of fun. True to form, it hadn’t taken her long to prise Annie’s nose off the window, herd her inside the shop, and persuade her to try the boots on.

She should have been on a sales commission, her talents were wasted as a receptionist, Annie decided as she thought back to how she had held the correct size out to her like it was Cinderella’s glass slipper before she helped her slide her tootsies inside them. So it was, that after a quick trot round the shop, she had been convinced that she would never survive the approaching winter without this pair of magic boots to see her through it. Just like that and without further ado, she had been parted from her credit card. She linked arms with Nicole and swung the carry bag joyously as she left the shop; she had gone on to shout her friend a couple of drinks at the bar across the road. It had been gone eight p.m. before she finally got round to doing what she had come to the mall to do in the first place. There was nothing like a wine or two under one’s belt to make for a quick grocery shop and she had come home having not picked up half of what had been on her list and a new pair of boots to…uh, boot.

Tony complained at how long she had been and had rifled through the bags in search of his deodorant. He wanted a quick spray before he headed out the door to indoor cricket and had gone mad when he had instead fished out the incriminating Visa receipt. He couldn’t see the allure of the boots’ lovely leather redness and he didn’t believe in magic. Okay, yes, Annie conceded now with a wiggle of her toes, they had cost a bomb but they were so worth it—Roz would have loved them, too. A frown settled on her forehead at the thought of Roz and she turned towards the eternally youthful yet soon to be officially middle-aged man seated next to her. “You and I both know that there was so much more to her than just her addiction but nobody ever remembers any of the good stuff. It’s like when a prostitute is murdered and the media latches on to her occupation. That’s what people wind up remembering her as—a prostitute who got murdered. Not a person who was someone’s sister or daughter or mother, but for what they did. I really hate that.”

Carl nodded his agreement as he ran his fingers through artfully dishevelled locks. Annie looked on enviously. What she wouldn’t give for hair like that, so fine, so silky, so sandy-coloured instead of her own mad, red curls that absolutely refused to do what she told them to do. Across the river, the remaining leaves on the trees that overhung the icy, shallow waters had turned the same burnt rust as her hair. A dressing gown, slipper-clad patient from the hospital behind her sat there and puffed furiously on a ciggy. She had an entourage of what Annie’s Nana would have called ne’er-do-wells gathered round the park bench she sat on. Behind the group was the Riverside entry of Christchurch Public Hospital.

Annie looked up at the cloudless blue sky. A glorious day like today must be therapeutic, even if the cigarettes weren’t. Who was she to judge, though? There were far worse addictions to have, as she had found out thanks to Roz. For all she knew, smoking might be the only pleasure left in the poor woman’s life. She pulled her eyes away and focused on Carl instead. She didn’t want to dwell on other peoples’ tragedies, not today. “I used to idolise her, you know? All I wanted to be when I grew up was her. I wanted my freckles to bugger off and I wanted a straight nose instead of an upturned pug nose and a perfect rosebud mouth like hers. But most of all I wanted her hair.” Annie sighed. “Remember her glorious, straight, strawberry blonde hair that flicked over her shoulders and just stayed there?” She gave her own hair a disparaging pat. “Instead, I got Great-Grandmother Maggie’s ginger mop.” She raised her eyes heavenward as though the long since passed Maggie could hear her. “Thanks a lot, Mags.”

“Annie Rivers, you do not have a pug nose! Your nose is cute. Women shell out good money for perky noses like yours. Haven’t you ever seen
Bewitched
? As for your hair, well, it’s high time you changed the tune, sweetheart.” He gave one of her escaped curls a tug. “Those gorgeous red curls are what make you, you. They set you apart from the maddening crowd.”

Annie pulled a face.

“Okay, I get that being called the Ginger Minger might have had a detrimental effect on your self-esteem but put it into perspective because you haven’t been at school for quite some time now. Time to move on, sweetheart.”

“Roz punched a boy who was teasing me once. She took him by surprise and he landed flat on his backside in front of all his mates who thought it was hilarious. It was great having an older sister.” Annie smiled at the long-ago memory. “He never did it again. In fact, he’d turn and walk in the opposite direction when he saw me coming.”

“I remember.” Carl placed his hand gently on Annie’s arm. “She used to stand up for me, too. The skinny, awkward boy with the plummy English accent who didn’t fit in no matter how hard he tried. She might have been your big sister but she was my best friend.” His blue eyes misted over. “I had my first slow dance with her, you know.”

Annie did know but she let him continue uninterrupted because their meeting at Roz’s favourite hangout, the Botanic Gardens, and the conversations that played out each year, were all part of this, their annual ritual on Roz’s birthday.

“It was our 1984 high school disco. We’re talking way before your time, sweetie.” He waved his hand to emphasise his point. “‘Careless Whisper’ by George Michael was playing. Had Georgie Boy come out by then?”

Annie shrugged.

Carl frowned, or at least he would have if the Botox in his forehead had allowed him to do so. “No, I don’t think he had because from what I remember, Roz still really fancied him. Anyway, I’m getting off track but that song still brings a tear to my eye, especially when it gets to the bit with the sax.”

Annie smiled at his heartfelt sigh as he hummed a few bars of the song. Then he remembered she sat next to him and waited to hear the rest of a story she knew inside and out anyway, so he carried on in plummy tones long since muted by his years in the land of fush and chups.

“She looked so gorgeous in her off-the-shoulder T-shirt and stonewashed jeans that came all the way up to here.” He made a cutting motion just under his chest to demonstrate how high in the waist her jeans had been.

Annie grimaced. The Eighties had a lot to answer for. And he wasn’t finished yet.

“Her fluorescent orange socks were illuminated in the dark and she had a matching side bow in her hair.” He kissed his fingers. “Roz was perfection, pure perfection, and we cleared the gym floor with our smooth moves under the strobe lights.” His smile was wistful. “Annie, my darling, that’s when I knew it was love.”

It was a story she had heard time and time again but she still managed a rueful smile as she elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Love, you reckon? Who with, Carl? Roz or George Michael?”

He flashed an impish grin, which caused his cheeks to dimple and made him look so much younger than his nearly forty years. “George, of course. It was always going to be George, and Roz got that even when I didn’t.” He shrugged. “She understood me when it wasn’t cool to be gay, not like it is now. The term fag hag might have been fashionable when
Will and Grace
was a hit TV show but it’s bordering on retro these days and it hadn’t even been invented when Roz and I hung out together.” His hand fluttered to his chest. “I mean, homosexuality was still officially illegal until 1986 in this country, for God’s sake! But you know, when I was with her who I fancied was irrelevant. She made sure I fitted in and I basked in her popularity. I’ll always love her for that.”

Annie shook her head and the curls she had just tucked behind her ears sprang free once more. “It seems so unreal now when you can switch on the TV and see gay couples kissing and that it’s legal for same sex couples to marry here but less than thirty years ago it was against the law to be homosexual.”

“I know it’s a crazy world we live in, Annie, my sweet.”

“Have you and David patched things up yet?” A mental picture of the butch and buff but rather temperamental David sprang to mind and Annie once more lamented the fact he was gay. It was such a tragic waste for womankind.

Carl flapped his hand dismissively. “Nope. I’ve changed the locks. I don’t want him back. Honestly, the man is so self-absorbed. It’s all me, me, me with him. He spends all his time down at the gym gazing in the mirror and pumping iron or whatever it is he does down there. All the while, totally oblivious of my needs and the fact that I am on a fast track to a midlife crisis. I mean, forty, Annie! My God, I am going to be forty in two months. That’s ten years off half a century and look at me. Look at my life—what have I done with it?” He hung his head, a forlorn study of the latest fall
GQ
men’s fashion trends.

Carl was prone to histrionics and his life—from the outside looking in, at any rate—Annie thought, wasn’t too bad. He had gotten off scot-free in the quakes by being out of town on a fashion shoot when the big one of February 22
nd
back in 2011 had hit. When he arrived home, he might have found his city gone and its people grieving but his townhouse with all the latest mod-cons in the posh suburb of Fendalton was largely unscathed, as was David. There had been no port-a-loos set up on the street for him to share with his neighbours.

His career as a freelance photographer was a lucrative one and the name Carl Everton could more often than not be spotted in the by-line of the likes of
Fashion Quarterly
. He was forever tripping off to the Islands for photo shoots or when he wasn’t working, to Melbourne and Sydney for four-star, long, lazy, foodie weekends. Until recently, he’d had his rather gorgeous de facto boyfriend accompanying him too. Annie reached over and rested her hand on his arm and as she did so, her diamond solitaire caught the sun. Its prisms of blue light didn’t fill her with the same sense of joie de vivre today that it had two years earlier when she had picked it out with Tony. She took a deep breath and tried to muster up the enthusiasm for the pep talk she knew was now required of her.

“Listen, Mr Everton,” she prodded him in the chest, “you have a great life. As for you and David, you’ll patch things up. You always do, and what’s that saying? You’re only as old as who you are feeling?”

Carl nodded.

“Well, David’s only thirty-five, so there you go—you are nowhere near middle age.”

“Humph, that’s easy for you to say. You’re still a babe in the woods and besides, I’m not sure I see myself with David for the long haul anyway. Not unless he starts putting me first for a change.”

“Thirty-one does not make me a baby and I’ve heard that before too.”

“It does when you’re an old man like me who is getting far too long in the tooth to play the kind of emotional on-again, off-again relationship games David seems to enjoy. Living with him is like being on a perpetual roller coaster.”

“At least…”

“Don’t say it.” Carl held a hand up to silence her and looked abashed. “I know you’re right and I do count my blessings every day, so just don’t say it, okay?”

Annie nodded and left the words “at least you get a chance at being forty” hang on the crisp afternoon air like the halo of cigarette smoke that hovered over the little group gathered across the river.

They sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts, until Carl broke it when he decided it was time for a change of subject. “So, how is my main man Testosterone Tones doing these days?” He patted his pocket to reassure himself his trusty appendage, the latest, fresh-off-the-shelf iPhone was still there. “I saw on Facebook he had a ruggers win last weekend.” His upper lip curled in distaste. “I must say, I was impressed by the pic he posted of his teammate—Jason, was it? Did you know he can balance a jug of beer on his belly? I thought to myself, look out
New Zealand’s Got Talent
, here he comes.”

Annie cringed at the thought of the latest round of boozy shots Tony had uploaded on the social networking site.
Beer, beer, and more beer!
was the after-match motto, win or no win. He was a bit of a living, breathing Southern Man cliché at times and lately he seemed to be getting worse. Or maybe she was just getting less tolerant because it was that side of him that had first attracted her to him.