Tales From A Broad (34 page)

There are some aunts and uncles and sisters and cousins chatting, laughing, breaking peanut shells. I'd like to be part of the real celebration. I'd like to share life stories. But Pearl wants to show us the red carpet. We're scuttled off to the kitchen where the other clients are already seated. They include Anastasia's mom, Anna, who is Russian with perfect, lustrous skin (no one has ever seen her husband but there is one), and a dissipated vampire family from Poland – the Something-skis – who chain smoke and sit miles away from the table, legs splayed, absently looking at the food with the same interest they behold the floor, their cuticles and their son, who has a heat rash and a gold chain around his neck that is making his skin turn green. Bert seems to be the only one, besides Pearl herself, allowed into the kitchen with us. She ignores her crowded living room full of loyal family and devoted friends, and hops from Frank to me, serving food onto plates before we've even had a chance to settle in. I feel so terrible. I can't let her know that I hired a maid just as she's dolloping out some dish she won't even let her family have because the abalone is for clients only. Bert puts down cans of cold Carlsberg for the men. I give Frank a naggy look so he'll remember we have a big party tonight. Irish Kell! Shangri-la! Dancing after! He thanks Bert.

When all of our plates are loaded and her pots are empty, Pearl drags a stool over to the far door and sits down, smiling a broad grin that doesn't belie the anxiousness in her eyes. She nods for us to go on, enjoy.

The Polish couple light cigarettes for each other and spank and swat at their spotty child. I have a party to go to. At the Shangri-la! Dancing after! There are dozens of different dishes – beef rendang, ribs, fish cakes, spring rolls, vegetables, all of them warm, fragrant and filling. I can't eat this. I'll be stuffed and beached. The Polish couple, cigarettes still smouldering in one hand, taste the smallest morsel of rendang. Man-ski, exaggeratedly chewing, says to Woman-ski, ‘I expect there is a dog or two missing from the neighbourhood.' He puts his butt out in a carrot.

I say to Pearl, ‘You have no idea how fantastic this smells. I'm starved.'

Frank, Anna and I clean our plates. The kids have been sitting on Bert's knee and he hands them all red packets. We give ours to Pearl, kiss her and thank her. She smiles but it quickly falls off her face, bowing her head and bowing her head, she says her goodbyes and thanks for comings hurriedly, shifting from foot to foot, patting our backs and showing us the way to the main road. I can practically hear her falling into her spot on the sofa between her husband and daughter, surrounded by her friends. But tomorrow? What will become of her?

When we get home, there are just a few hours before we have to be at the Shangri-la! For Irish Kell's farewell dinner! Dancing after! She's invited over 50 people for a buffet. They are known for their buffets over at the Shangri-la.

I don't want to go. After eating at Pearl's, I think I'd rather just lie flat on the cool kitchen floor and wait until the noises in my stomach stop, but that might take years. I should make myself vomit, but that would remind Frank of his first girlfriend. What can I wear under these bloatsome circumstances that will be festive and fun, sexy and sharp but won't push down on Pearl's gift to my system? A nightshirt. I don't want to go out. I want some quality sofa time. I want to cuddle my family. Come to me, children.

‘What's the dress for tonight?' Frank asks. ‘Why are you on the floor?'

‘Because it feels good. I don't know, wear what still fits after this afternoon.'

‘Madame. Madame.' I hear Susie's voice and am pulled from a strange sleep, the type you have on a floor at dusk on Chinese New Year.

‘Hi, oh, sorry, am I in the way here?' I slide over closer to the pantry so she can get her soufflé out of the oven. I close my eyes again. I want to get back to my recurring dream. The one where I'm in a home, my home, but usually not the real place I live, and I've just discovered, or rediscovered, that there is a whole other wing of rooms. At first, I'm like, ‘Oh, this is fantastic, so much room, such a big house!' And then I start to worry about furnishing it and how to make good use of it and reminding myself not to forget to have everyone spend lots of time in these rooms. I want to finally get to the part where I am flinging doors open and saying, ‘This is the pinochle room and this is where we keep things that are pink.' More likely, the sequel is that we now live in this wing and I forget all about the old one until one day … and it never ends in this crazy cycle of wonder and worry and burdensome gifts.

I turn on Jethro Tull. I think ‘Locomotive Breath' has lyrics to get you dressed, feeling like a tiger again. I'll have to hear the song a few times before I can meow. Frank is trying to get the kids in the bath but they're not interested.

‘Forget it,' I tell him. ‘We have to get dressed, anyway.'

‘Do we have to go?' he asks. ‘I'm not sure I feel good.'

‘Get over it. Yes, we have to go. It will be fun if you just put some effort into it. It's the fucking Shangri-la. God!'

‘I feel sick too, Mommy.'

‘Great. Where, sweetie?'

She points to her shoulder.

‘Ah, boy, we better stay home. Sadie has strep shoulder.' I get into the tub and turn on the shower. Frank flushes the toilet and I hear muttering.

‘Frank,' I cajole, ‘we just had a long day, that's all. Come on. I'm sorry. We don't want to miss the look on Collin's face when he pays for all of this.'

Frank gets into the shower with me. Sadie and Huxley follow. Good as this sounds, I mean, who really wants to get nudged out of their shower? Why should I wait for my turn at the hot water just because everyone liked my idea? Get out! I'll see you on the other side!

‘Susie,' I ask as we're leaving, ‘did the kids like the soufflé?'

‘Madame?'

‘Their dinner. Did they like it?'

‘What dinner, Madame?'

‘That.' I point to the soufflé.

‘My crêpe? It is for moi and Francis.'

I nuke up some leftovers and we leave.

‘So, how do I look, Frank?'

‘Fine.'

‘What did you say?'

‘I said you look fine.'

‘Oh, okay, it's just that, you know, you so rarely dust off superlatives like that unless I'm asking you if I made out the cheque correctly or put your computer away properly or if the coffee is too hot. Then you sometimes bring yourself to those scary adjectival heights and pluck from the clouds the word “fine”.'

‘Oh jeez, Fran. What you're wearing is
nice
.'

‘Like, we'll make it through the evening without much snickering? Like, I should have you turn the car around so I can change? Or like, at least my outfit isn't mean?'

‘God, will you stop this?' He yanks the car to the side of the road and stops. ‘What is your problem?'

‘I'm
fine
, Frank. Just drive. We're late.'

‘You know what?' he snaps.

‘No. What?'

‘You look stupid in that.'

‘Who the fuck asked you, anyway? I do not.'

We arrive at the imposing Shangri-la only 20 minutes late. The lobby is one of my ideas of heaven. Several cosy bars, light piano show-tune music and a singer of so little distinction you forget about her, ceilings high enough to fortress a tower, people dressed well, sipping happily, men in formal service wear bowing before you with cocktail napkins. I do have other ideas of the beyond. I love nature, the mountains, creeks, wild flowers and dewy grass, redneck bars with trivia games, cold beers sitting out on tables, playing pool. But opulence, wealth, ease, enjoyment,
regality
, well, they're up there too. Unfortunately, there's no time this evening to sit back and be dead and gone to heaven. I squeeze Frank's hand, hoping we're pals again. He lets me. I have a way to go, I guess. I adjust my scarf and look around; there is no whispering from the balconies here. I put my arm around Frank's waist. He lets me. His arms hang at his sides. It doesn't matter. It's small stuff. This minute, the next minute and all the rest of our lives, we need to remember we're lucky. Look where we are, think of where we could be. I stop and turn, expecting a kiss …

‘What, Fran?'

And get that instead … so what else can I do but …

‘Frank, your hair looks flat.'

I walk ahead, downstairs to the restaurant. Fairy lights surround the pool, all the terrace doors are open on the restaurant. I see the long, long table where our friends are seated. I go around gripping shoulders, planting kisses, waving to people far down the line. Everyone's commenting on my outfit, wondering where I got it, telling me it's amazing. Ha ha, flathead!

I hold Irish Kell's face and we hug for a while, cheek to cheek. It's not as if we've known each other all our lives. It's that we're like passengers on a plane together. We've been able to reveal so very much. And, all the while, knowing it's perfectly safe because we'll be getting off and going to separate destinations. The reason for the sadness, the deep loss, I feel is that there is never an end to what I want to divulge to someone like Kell, someone who laughs in the face of your gaffes and pounds them down to a wee little size under the weight of her much mightier mistakes. One day, we were hanging around the playground and I said, ‘I am the worst mother.'

‘Aye, it's hard, isn't it?'

‘I threw Sadie on the bed.'

‘I kicked the chair out from under Bymthe [Eileen], Frahn.'

‘I watched Huxley gag on vegetables and still made him finish.'

‘Can you imagine what poor Ryot [Kim] suffered when she didn't take to the potato, Frahn?'

I swore I wouldn't tell.

Vibba points at me from across the room. She mouths, ‘You're wearing it.' And gives the thumbs up. See, Frank was wrong. Everyone has their eyes on me. It was good luck that I went hunting through my closet for something swishy. I found the perfect thing.

I had totally forgotten about my
shalwar
. I bought it on Serangoon Road in Little India with Vibba. It's made of a floaty sort of fabric that changes hues as you move. Though the material is light, it weighs thousands of pounds because of all the intricate beading. I look like I should be singing ‘Viva Bombaygas' except for the scarf-bedspread that is part of every Indian dress. It's green or red, depending on the angle, and has a plunging V-neck. The pants are flared below the calf and every inch or so, on both the top and the pants, are clusters of pearls, sequins, rhinestones and other flashy baubles. I meant to get my
shalwar
tailored but haven't yet so I'm full of hidden pins and duct tape. All the
sarees
, all the
lenhas
, all the
shalwars
, come in just one size and that size is
plenty
. You might not know this but ghee is tremendously fattening. Makes butter look like Diet Coke. So next time you think you're eating smart with that vegetable jalfrezi (cauliflower, chickpeas, stringbeans … that's two Weight Watcher points, we can get dessert!) or with that saag paneer (I'll just have the spinach, Ravi), remember that the folds of skin so proudly displayed by the Indian women in their little tube tops and swaddling clothes are not the result of a malfunctioning thyroid. I don't know what the
National Geographic
wastrels are dining on, but that's not the point. The point is that I'll have to give up half the outfit when I get it taken in. That aside, now that I really let myself absorb before I react, I've come to absolutely adore all things Indian. They're the Italians of Asia – passionate, sensual, loud, lively. I've taken a great interest in all things Indian. I'm getting to
be
a little bit Indian. I have some CDs from movie soundtracks that I dance to; I hennaed my hands; Sadie and I wear
bindis
. And, now, I look Indian, especially over the phone: ‘Vhad are you dolking aboud? I am nod from New Yorg.'

I met Vibba and Lindsey a few months ago in the playground. She's a beautiful, glamorous Indian woman. I think her name –
Vibba
– suits her incandescence. She's a major league banker in Singapore, extremely kind and lavishing, never without a compliment. Lindsey, a brilliant, oft-quoted macroeconomist from Australia, is six- or eight-feet tall and practises being geeky in front of a mirror. I would like for all of you to see him rollerblade. You'll never love someone so much. He wears a big white helmet from outer space, hand pads, elbow pads, knee pads, shoulder pads and he goes through the parking lot, sailing over the speed bumps, lurching forward, ready to come crashing down with hands outstretched. But his cover's blown with me. I've caught him looking off, in thought, face relaxed or breaking into a smile, and I think he could wear any style he chose.

Frank and I take a seat. It appears that every couple gets a bottle of champagne. That should last about a minute between the Rittmans, except, I have to admit, this night, I'm feeling odd. Which is exactly why I should drink and get better. I go up to the buffet, which is 1.5 miles long. I come back with two rolls. Frank comes back with one. ‘Oh, you got one already,' I say. ‘I got this one for you.' I hand him his favourite German bread – hard and black. I feel badly that he didn't think of me. I am missing his friendship in this loud, chaotic room with its fourth of July chandeliers cascading down upon gargantuan flowers.

I pour out more champagne for us. The waitress comes over and places new bottles up and down the table.

‘Compliments of Mr O'Maley,' she says. We cheer and clap and clink our glasses.

‘This is going to cost Collin a fortune,' I say to Frank. He nods. I try to count that as coming into my corner.

‘This is going to cost Collin a fortune!' I say to Lisa.

‘Collin lost a fortune!' Lisa says to Roy.