The Mothers' Group Read online

  Suzie couldn’t recall the medical name for Wayan’s condition, but Made had recently seen a specialist about it. Apparently he’d told her that surgery would be inevitable by the time Wayan was three years old. The swelling on his lip had grown with each passing month; Suzie couldn’t help but look at it. She’d given Made her naturopath’s card, too, but Made had never followed up, as far as she knew. If only people would give alternative medicine a chance, Suzie mused, they might actually learn something.

  Her bag vibrated under the table. She reached down and retrieved her phone, its message alert flashing.

  I’m back from Tokyo. Are we still on for that massage tonight?

  She smirked.

  ‘Bill?’ asked Cara.

  She nodded. ‘He’s just back from overseas.’

  ‘So it’s working out for you two, then?’

  Suzie tried to contain her smile. ‘Well, it’s early days.’

  Her first date with Bill had proven that he was everything Nils had never been—attentive, generous, strong. She’d struggled for the first months of Freya’s life, alone. It was something that no one else in the mothers’ group could really understand. But now Bill had appeared in her life, like a white knight charging out of the grey fog, reminding her of life’s goodness. She couldn’t wait to see him again tonight.

  She’d bumped into him, literally, at the laundromat-cum-café she stopped at every morning while walking Freya. She’d arrived thirty minutes earlier than usual, just after six thirty. Pausing around the corner from the café, she stooped to pull a stuffed bear from the compartment beneath the stroller. As she passed it to Freya, she smoothed her hair and surreptitiously pinched her cheeks, hoping to inject some colour into their pallor. For weeks, she’d been trying to extend her conversations with the barista behind the coffee machine. He was mostly aloof. But once, in late winter, he’d actually asked about Freya. Ever since, she’d been hoping he might ask again.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, pushing the stroller up to the counter.

  ‘The usual?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  He began to froth the milk for her skinny cappuccino. ‘How far do you walk each day?’ he asked.

  She smiled, delighted by his interest.

  ‘It’s an eight-kilometre round trip from my place. Gets me out of the house, starts my day off well.’ She looked at him, pouring the milk into the cardboard cup. Any moment now, their interaction would be over. ‘All up, it takes me about an hour.’

  ‘Three dollars fifty, thanks.’ He pushed the coffee towards her.

  She fished the coins from her purse and passed him the exact change. ‘Thanks.’ She tried to think of something else to say.

  She took a step backwards and bumped into a tall, dark-haired man in a pinstriped suit. Hot coffee slopped out of the small hole in the cup’s lid across her right hand.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She hadn’t realised anyone was behind her. But, then, her attention had been focused solely on the handsome barista.

  ‘Are you alright?’ asked the man.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘What would you like this morning, sir?’ asked the barista, ignoring her. It wasn’t a casual use of the term; the man commanded respect. Apart from his expensive-looking suit, he held himself with an air of authority.

  ‘A short macchiato,’ he said. ‘It’s that type of morning.’ He fingered his BlackBerry, scrolling through messages.

  Suzie took several serviettes from the bench top and began to dab at her hand.

  The man looked up from his BlackBerry. ‘Let me buy you another one, you’ve lost half of that.’

  She looked at him, surprised. ‘That’s very nice of you.’

  ‘What are you having?’

  On a whim, she replied, ‘I’ll have what you’re having. I’ve never had a . . . what is it, a short something-or-other?’

  His face relaxed into a smile. His teeth were white and straight, like a dentist’s in a toothpaste commercial.

  ‘A short macchiato,’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes, please. I like trying new things.’ She flicked her blonde curls over her shoulder.

  The barista set to work.

  The man slid his BlackBerry into his pocket and turned to look at her. ‘Eight kilometres a day is a long way. That’s forty kilometres a week, not including weekends. You’re walking a marathon every week. How do you do it?’

  Suzie flushed. He’d heard her conversation with the barista. What’s more, he’d actually remembered what she’d said.

  ‘Walking an hour a day is easy compared to . . .’ She glanced at Freya, who was banging her teddy bear against the side of the stroller. ‘Compared to full-time mothering.’ She looked down. ‘I don’t have a partner, you see.’

  Even now, eight months after her separation from Nils, she felt embarrassed by this confession. Almost as soon as Nils had left, she’d come to understand the stigma of being a single mother. The disapproving silences, the thoughtless assumptions, the pointed comments made by people she hardly knew. She prepared herself for his censure, in one form or another.

  ‘I can only imagine how hard that must be.’

  She looked up, surprised.

  ‘My sister has two boys under three,’ he continued. ‘She has a husband and I still don’t know how she does it.’

  Suzie beamed at him.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the barista, pushing two miniature latte glasses in their direction.

  ‘Oh,’ said Suzie. ‘It’s not takeaway?’

  ‘No.’ The man smiled. ‘Short macchiatos are designed to be drunk the way the Italians do it. Standing at the bar, while enjoying scintillating conversation.’

  He raised his glass to hers.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, then downed the liquid in a single mouthful. He didn’t take his eyes off her. ‘Now that’s what they call a heart-starter.’

  Suzie giggled as she raised the glass to her lips. The way the Italians do it. There’d been something in the way he’d said those words that hinted at an invitation.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘Drink it all at once.’

  She threw back her head and swallowed the coffee, wincing as she did. She was used to milky varieties.

  ‘There you are,’ she said, placing the glass on the counter. ‘I’ve done something new today.’

  The man smiled. ‘Come back tomorrow and we’ll try a doppio. Now that’s for coffee connoisseurs.’

  She looked at him, incredulous. That was an invitation.

  Freya whimpered and threw her teddy bear to the ground.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said, scooping up the toy. ‘Thank you for the coffee.’

  ‘The pleasure was all mine.’

  The next morning, she woke Freya early to ensure she left the house at six, just as she had the day before. She tried to quell her anxiety as she followed her usual route to the café. Would the handsome stranger actually return?

  She paused around the corner from the café and checked her watch: six thirty exactly. She refrained from looking around to see where he might be. Inside the café, in a parked car, or approaching on foot? Or not there at all, chimed a voice in her head. She was used to disappointment.

  She bent down and rummaged beneath the stroller for the brand-new Fisher Price crocodile with rotating claws and extendable tail. She’d bought it the previous afternoon, knowing that its novelty value would keep Freya occupied for at least fifteen minutes, possibly longer. She desperately wanted to meet the stranger again. And not to be disturbed, if she did.

  She approached the counter with an air of studied nonchalance.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, nodding at the barista.

  ‘I thought you mightn’t be coming this morning.’

  There he was, perched on a stool next to a washing machine, reading the business section of The Australian.

  ‘I thought I might have frightened you off,’ he added.

  She smiled at him. ‘I came back for my d
oppio.’

  ‘Good decision,’ he said. ‘Best coffee on the northern beaches.’ He signalled to the barista. ‘Two doppios, please.’

  ‘Coming up, boss,’ the barista replied.

  Yes, she thought, he is the boss. He looked the quintessential high-flyer this morning. A silver and navy-striped tie set off an immaculately ironed white shirt.

  He gestured to a stool next to him. ‘Don’t think for a moment you can take away a doppio. Do you have ten minutes?’ He didn’t wait for her answer. ‘Let’s bring your daughter in here.’ He stepped out onto the street and began to manoeuvre the stroller into the laundromat section, behind the coffee machine.

  ‘You’ve done that before,’ she remarked, as he parked the stroller and flicked on the brake with the tip of his shoe.

  ‘My nephews.’

  ‘Do you spend a lot of time with them?’

  ‘Not as much as I’d like. I travel a lot for my work.’

  He pulled the stool out for her. ‘Allow me,’ he said. His tone was confident, persuasive. He’s probably in marketing, she thought.

  ‘I’m Bill.’ He extended his hand towards her. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

  ‘Suzie,’ she replied, suddenly awkward.

  His face was symmetrical, chiselled like a Renaissance sculpture. He was older than her, by ten years or so. His black hair was peppered with streaks of silver, his only visible flaw. Other than that, all she could see was divine perfection. Soft brown eyes, full lips, smooth skin. Put him in a toga and he’d look like a Roman god, she thought. He stood up to take his BlackBerry out of his pocket and she caught a whiff of his aftershave. Nils had never worn aftershave; it gave him hives. Bill placed the BlackBerry on his knee.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said, nodding at the telephone. ‘Theoretically I’m on call at all hours. It’s the malaise of the modern world, I’m afraid. A culture of instant communication.’

  She smiled. He used sophisticated language. She doubted she would be clever enough for him.

  As if reading her mind, he looked up at her. ‘What did you do, Suzie, before you had a baby?’

  Mercifully, the barista delivered their coffees.

  ‘Enjoy,’ he said, returning to the counter.

  ‘It’s tiny,’ she said, squinting at the miniature glass before her.

  ‘But short can be beautiful,’ he replied, holding her gaze.

  She reddened, daring to hope that he might be referring to her. Her stature had always bothered her; she’d been five foot three inches since she was fourteen. Throughout her teenage years, she’d kept waiting for a growth spurt that never came. People had often described her as ‘curvy’, which, as far as she was concerned, was a euphemism for plump. Even now, at twenty-eight, she still envied tall willowy types like Miranda, who looked elegant in anything.

  ‘In answer to your question,’ she said, eyeing the clothes rotating in a washing machine, ‘I was a massage therapist before Freya came along.’

  ‘Now there’s a talent not to be sniffed at.’

  She glanced up at him. ‘I was studying naturopathy part-time by distance education. But after Freya, I had to defer. I still want to finish the course. I’ve always been interested in natural medicine. But the course is pretty expensive. And it’s a full-time job looking after Freya at the moment.’

  ‘Naturally.’ He sat back on the stool, his arms folded, studying her. She felt as if his eyes might bore through her.

  ‘I had a massage business at home,’ she continued. ‘But a few months after Freya was born, I had to move to a smaller place in Dee Why and . . . things got a bit difficult. Freya started waking up mid-session. In the end, I decided it was all too hard.’

  ‘And you can’t get any help at home?’ he asked. ‘To restart your business?’

  She shook her head. ‘My parents live in Brisbane. I’m from Queensland originally.’ She smiled, thinking of her mother and father and their two-bedroom weatherboard home in Sunnybank. She missed them, and her younger sister Tanya too. When Nils had left, her parents had invited her to move back home, and to bring Freya with her. But Suzie knew what an imposition that would be. Tanya still lived in the bedroom that she and Suzie had shared growing up. Despite her mother’s assurances that they’d manage, Suzie couldn’t quite see how. So she’d decided to stay in Sydney, until she’d figured out her next step.

  ‘I do have my mother-in-law nearby . . .’ Suzie continued. ‘Well, the mother of my ex-boyfriend. But it’s complicated with her.’ She stopped, conscious that she had been doing all the talking.

  ‘What about you, Bill? What do you do for work?’

  ‘I’m the executive general manager in the private client services division of Federation Bank.’

  She nodded, impressed.

  ‘It’s all terribly mundane, I assure you. Massage therapy would be far more fun.’ He winked at her. ‘Perhaps I could become a client of yours. I don’t mind if your daughter cries, I’m used to it with my nephews. I’ve got a lot of tension in my shoulders and neck at the moment. And if you’re good, I might be able to put a few referrals your way.’

  She wasn’t sure if he was serious, or if she wanted him to be.

  ‘Would you consider it?’ He studied her face. ‘It’d have to be after hours, though. Which might alleviate the crying baby problem. I’m just up the road from you, in Collaroy.’

  ‘I . . .’ She didn’t know this man at all. But then again, when she’d first started her massage business, she’d placed a small advertisement in the classified pages of the Manly Daily and taken unknown clients. At least with Bill, she’d met him before.

  ‘Can I take you to dinner first, to prove I’m not a psychopath?’

  She laughed. ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, standing up at the table. ‘Give me your number and I’ll call you to organise it. How about next week, when I’m back from Melbourne? We’ll go somewhere nice.’ He picked up his BlackBerry and began pressing the buttons. ‘Suzie Someone . . . what’s your surname?’

  ‘Raymond,’ she replied.

  ‘And your number?’

  She recited it.

  ‘Good.’ He fished some coins and a set of keys out of his pocket. She noticed the shiny Lexus key ring. He placed eight dollars on the counter.

  ‘What’s your surname?’ she asked.

  ‘White,’ he said. ‘Common as mud. Did you like the doppio?’

  ‘Not as much as the short macchiato.’

  ‘Well, you’re a fast learner. I’ll call you. Bye-bye, little one,’ he said, pinching Freya on the cheek.

  ‘Freya,’ she reminded him. ‘Her name’s Freya.’

  ‘The Scandinavian goddess of love,’ he said. ‘My goodness, you’re interesting.’

  She sat, dumbfounded, as he strode out of the café.

  Having dinner with Bill at the exclusive Saltfish restaurant was the stuff of Suzie’s dreams. He reserved the premier table, with a waterfront view. They shared a seafood platter and expensive wine, while he recounted entertaining stories of the cities he frequented for work: Beijing, Shanghai, London, Mumbai. Suzie had never been overseas in her life. She sat riveted, hardly daring to interrupt. They held hands over dessert and Bill spooned chocolate mousse into her mouth, lingering playfully at her lips.

  He dropped her back to her apartment in Dee Why and walked her to the door.

  ‘Lovely Suzie,’ he said, before leaning in and gently pressing his lips against hers.

  The kiss left her wanting more.

  ‘Can I book you for a massage in a couple of weeks, when I’m back from Tokyo?’

  She didn’t want to wait that long.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d love to.’

  It pained her to do it, but when the time came, she called on Monika. As she dialled the number, she consciously attempted to relax. Breathe in, breathe out.

  ‘Hello?’

  Even the sound of Monika’s voice, the slightly caustic tone, made Suzie recoil. In be
tter times, she and Nils had always laughed about Monika. How it had been a great cosmic joke that Monika—who was as uptight as a spring-loaded coil—had given birth to a son like Nils, so laidback and uninhibited.

  ‘Hello, Monika, it’s Suzie.’

  The silence spoke volumes.

  ‘How are you?’ Suzie asked, adopting a bright tone.

  ‘How’s Freya?’ asked Monika, ignoring the question.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Great. That’s why I’m calling, actually. I was hoping . . .’

  ‘It’s been so long,’ interjected Monika. ‘Weeks.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I’m sorry,’ Suzie said. ‘I’ve been busy.’

  Suzie resisted the urge to point out that Monika could have picked up the telephone and called her. It had always been like this, even before Freya came along. The onus had always been on Nils and Suzie to get in touch with Monika, never the other way around. And if they left it too long, Monika invariably let them know how slighted she felt.

  ‘Monika, I wondered if you might be able to help me.’ She grimaced as she said the words. ‘I want to start up my massage business again. It’s hard surviving on government benefits.’

  She wasn’t lying. The paltry sum offered to single parents hardly covered her living expenses. With Nils now conveniently embracing agrarian socialism at the commune, he claimed he had no money to contribute for Freya’s upkeep. Desperate, she’d sought some advice from the local legal aid centre. The supposedly mandatory child support payments didn’t apply in his case, and couldn’t be enforced.

  ‘Anyway . . .’ She interpreted Monika’s silence as licence to proceed. ‘I was hoping to start practising two nights a week, not too much. Now that Freya’s sleeping through. I wondered if you might have her overnight on Tuesdays and Thursdays?’

  Monika made a snorting noise. An expression of surprise or outrage, Suzie couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Of course,’ said Monika.

  Suzie blinked, awaiting the caveat. Monika said nothing.

  ‘Well, thanks, Monika. I don’t suppose we could start next Tuesday?’