Gucci Mamas (10 page)

A snowstorm of steaming milk sprayed over James, spotting his starched black apron and the pristine black trestle-table with white droplets. An angry hiss of steam sent more milk flying as he wrestled desperately with the controls of the espresso machine.

‘James! What
are
you doing!’ Mim squealed, shielding her face from the spray of milk with her hand. ‘Christ, you’re lucky there are no customers yet, they’d all be drenched.’

‘Oh, cripes, sorry, honey. How do you work this bloody thing?’

‘Give it here,’ Mim said patiently, ‘I’ll show you. It’s a disgrace that we’ve had this machine for two months and you’ve never even used it.’ She gently elbowed her husband aside and showed him how to effectively froth the milk with their new appliance.

It had been her idea to pool the espresso-machine resources of several families as their contribution to the Langholme Grammar Fete. The other mums clamoured to be on her stall, where the smallest amount of effort would
no doubt bring the highest kudos – who wanted to be popping corn or stirring fairy floss all day when they could be kicking back with a double decaf macchiato? Besides, the coffee stall was bound to be the most popular, given the caffeine dependency levels of most of the Langholme parents.

Jennifer Gowrie-Smith was in charge of the cake stall and had decided she’d do something different than simply gathering home-cooked goodies made by the nannies and housekeepers of Langholme families. She certainly didn’t want to have to cook anything herself; her state-of-the-art kitchen was more aesthetic than functional and she shuddered to think of dirtying her Gaggenau appliances. And what with trying to balance the dietary needs of the lactose-intolerant, wheat-intolerant, gluten-intolerant, diabetic, preservative-intolerant, fat-free, fibre-enhanced, vegan and nut-allergic pupils, home-baking was just too hard. The last thing Jennifer wanted to do was to kill some wretched child, for God’s sake. She wasn’t even sure her public-liability insurance would cover accidental poisoning, so it was best to stay on the safe side and outsource the whole thing. Through her connections on the tennis circuit Jennifer organised for a delivery from Patersons Cakes, reputed to be Melbourne’s best cake shop. Which meant all she had to do was mark up the price tags and take the money – or at least her housekeeper could.

There was little of the traditional or home-made at Langholme’s fete: the quilts-and-craft stall merchandise had been flown in from Pottery Barn in the States, and there was nary a jar of chutney or jam in sight, save the raffle hamper donated by Tangelo, of Malvern Road, Toorak, the only place in town to get home-made.

The Devonshire tea stall was outsourced to Lorenzos. The freshly squeezed juice stall was also a well-known franchise whose owners were school parents. The crêpes Suzette stall, decorated in red and white gingham, dispensed
delicate, air-light concoctions sprinkled with a lacework of icing sugar; produced by a St Kilda Esplanade Market regular roped in by a friend. The barbecue stall (the Butcher Boys of Camberwell) did a great trade in Steak Diane but found it hard to push the preservative-free, gluten-free, free-range chicken and semi-dried tomato sausage in bread line. The traditional second-hand book-stall was superseded by two mothers signing copies of their latest bestsellers and selling them at full retail. Even the garage-sale stall was more treasure than trash, selling largely antique and vintage pieces from a well-known High Street retailer.

The Langholme parents were not the types to parade broken toys and discarded clothes in front of society. Toys were thrown away the minute interest in them waned; or their batteries wore down; or they created too much clutter in minimalist interiors, or their various noises gave the adults of the house a migraine. Wardrobes were savagely cleared out every season to ensure no child would be caught wearing a Fred Bare or Oililly past its prime.

Most families simply bundled these items up for throwing on the tip, but Mim and her friends were solicitous about ensuring the cast-offs went to charity. In fact, Ellie liked to justify her over-consumption of all things material as really only a clever way to help out the less fortunate.

On the morning of the fete all Mim’s Mothers’ Group girls were rostered onto the coffee stall. By the time Mim and James arrived, Liz and Sebastian were, of course, organised and already serving the few early-birds, Monique and Malcolm were struggling across the carpark with their machine, and Ellie had, naturally, yet to turn up, and would probably send Ursula in her place.

Much to Bindi Munt’s annoyance, her navel-piercing-stall idea had been turned down, due to occupational health and safety regulations, so she was forced to be a last-minute
entrant into the coffee stall. As Bindi scanned the thin early-morning crowd for likely punters (husbands, not customers), Mim took in her incredibly inappropriate ensemble of black stretch calf-hugging jeans teamed with silver court shoes and plunging black singlet filled to brimming with her latest cosmetic enhancements. Mim was certain Bindi had dragged herself straight to the fete after a big night out, and could see that she was already tucking into her own contribution to the stall – whiskey shots to liven up the cappuccinos and long blacks.

With ten minutes to go until the fete officially opened, Mim patiently went through the coffee-making procedure with James again to ensure that he knew what he was doing.

‘Take the ground coffee, pack it into here – but not too tight mind – then it slots under the machine and a sharp pull to the right fits it fast.’

James followed Mim’s instructions to the letter and acted as interested and focused as any student could be. But he had managed to trap Mim in between his body and the machine. His right hand went through the motions as directed by Mim, but his body and his lips followed a very different agenda.

‘Now, James,’ said Mim, grinning and ducking away from the impromptu nape-nuzzling.

‘Are you watching? The coffee drips into the cups, only about one-third full. Keep your eye on the
crema
, it should be thick and rich. It’s a slow stream and should take about thirty seconds,’ she continued.

James, thoroughly enjoying the proximity to his wife’s body, whispered into her ear, ‘Thirty seconds – what on earth will we do for thirty seconds?’ and he leaned in even closer to indicate his suggestion.

‘James!’ Mim giggled, and wiggled her hips, enjoying the sizzle his hot whispering ignited on her skin.

‘MUM!’

Mim jumped a mile.

‘Yes, yes, what is it?’ she said, quickly stepping away from James.

‘C’n I’ve some money?’ demanded Jack, hand outstretched.

‘Please may I …’ Mim corrected, hands on hips.

‘Please?’

‘Oh, all right,’ Mim caved, handing him fifty dollars. ‘That has to last all day, you know,’ she called to his back as he scarpered towards the fairy floss machine.

‘Dad, Dad, Dad,’ yelled Charley and Chloe, running to the stall where they jumped up and down on the spot, ‘please, please, please, please, pleeeeeeasssse do mini golf with us!’ Chloe added some more pleases for extra emphasis.

‘Hey guys, what’s going on?’ James leaned over the front counter to smile at his two youngest children.

Bindi scowled at the family group and slammed down her Jackie O sunglasses as if bringing children to the fete was just sheer bad taste.

‘You HAVE to!’ insisted Chloe. ‘It’s got a clown face and a windmill and even a scary skeleton one.’

‘Yeah, come on, Dad, you’ll love it, seriously!’ said Charley.

‘But guys,’ stage-whispered James, ‘I can’t. I’m trapped here like a slave, working. You know your mum is so meeeeann!’

‘No she’s not,’ Chloe retorted with her trademark cackle at such a ridiculous notion. ‘She’s not mean!’

‘Mum,’ said Charley, using his serious negotiation face and his very best manners. ‘Can Dad please come and play mini-golf with us?’

‘Hmmmm,’ said Mim, resting her lips on her fingers and affecting to take the request seriously. ‘We’re going to be pretty busy …’

The children clasped their hands in a begging motion.

‘… and we’re short-staffed as it is …’

The children’s eyes switched to puppy mode.

‘But your dad did spray the milk everywhere and make a great big mess, and I don’t think he’s much good at making coffees, so …’ Mim trailed off as the kids bounced up and down in anticipation of her answer. ‘… I guess it’s okay.’

‘YAYYYYY!!!!’ shouted Charley, Chloe and James (the latter almost more excited than the kids, Mim noted). James whipped off his apron and leapt over the front counter and weaved through the colourful bunting, melodious rides and gaily-draped stalls, hand-in-hand with his children.

Jack, finishing up his fairy floss, caught sight of them running off and, whooping in delight, ran to catch up.

Mim smiled at the four of them, tears welling in her eyes. There was her whole life in that little group. Suddenly a cold wind bellied out the canvas wall at the back of the stall and chilled Mim’s neck. She pulled up the collar of her sleeveless pink quilted vest-jacket and zipped it up to her chin. The few clouds scudded across to momentarily cover the sun and turn the once sunshine-filled morning dull.

As if on cue, LJ Mahoney came stalking across the playground with Langholme mums Carleen Osborne and Melody Waite in tow. Carleen and Melody were new to LJ’s entourage and hoping desperately to claw their way to some social status through the new association, after each had committed the sin of rising from family nanny to stepmother. LJ would let anyone into her inner sanctum if they sucked up enough, laughed at her nasty comments and fetched and carried like well-trained poodles.

LJ’s accent of choice today was sea-green – a hoody track-top that she wore over black wide-leg track pants and tight black tee. Her Adidas runners had complementary green markings.

Mim, dealing with an increasing line of customers, watched the group stop, smile and chat with the principal and his five-year-old daughter.

LJ’s friendly countenance and bright chatter indicated thorough enjoyment at the interaction, although Mim knew it was as fake as her acrylics. She even went as far as squatting down to the child’s level and asking her a few questions about her outfit, to the principal’s obvious pleasure.

The principal moved on but the little girl ran back, obviously taken with LJ, and tugged at her sleeve. The transformation was striking, Mim thought in shock. LJ stared down her nose in disgust and pulled her arm from the child. The little girl, in confusion, forgot what she wanted to say and ran back, face crumpling, to her father.

Mim closed her eyes and prayed for strength as she noted her stall was in fact the trio’s target. She plastered a smile onto her face as they approached. ‘Morning, LJ,’ she said as brightly as she could, over the heads of the customers.

LJ had been bitter since failing in her bid to wrest the coffee stall from Mim, so had instead decided on a chai-tea latte stall as direct competition. Of course she’d hired a lackey to run it, but Mim had noticed earlier that the teenage girl was more interested in flirting with the older Langholme boys than selling LJ’s wares.

‘One skinny double decaf latte with NutraSweet, please, Mim,’ said LJ, pushing her way importantly to the front of the queue, much to the irritation of the other parents.

‘Coming right up,’ said Mim. She moved proficiently at the machine and quickly presented LJ with a perfect coffee, complete with ironic love-heart pattern in the foam.

LJ’s top lip curled up and she peered at the coffee as if it was infested with leeches.

She tentatively sipped it and looked up with her verdict. ‘Bit weak, Mim. Shame you couldn’t have outsourced like
the other gourmet stalls, it would have been so much more professional to have a barista making the coffees.’

‘Oh, well,’ smiled Mim, determined not to let LJ wreck her good mood. ‘I felt it was more personal for the mums to be supplying the coffees. How’s the chai-tea latte stall going? Good business?’

‘Hmmm, yes, great,’ murmured LJ. ‘We’re just on our way to check on the stall now. Ladies, shall we?’ and she stormed off before Carleen and Melody had a chance to get themselves coffees.

As the three walked off together LJ hissed, ‘I hate her. She thinks she’s so good, but an espresso machine, how pedestrian! Chai-tea latte is the latest hot drink, doesn’t she know that?’ She continued to mutter about Mim, declaring her outfit ‘naff’ and her hair ‘dull’ as she rounded a corner to see her chai-tea stall unattended. She peered around the back of the tent to find her young stall-keeper with her tongue down the water-polo captain’s throat.

‘Adriana!’

The hapless teen jumped. ‘Oh, sorry, Mrs Mahoney, it’s just that there were no customers and I was having a five-minute break.’

‘You’re fired.’ LJ pointed a red finger away from the stall.

‘Cool,’ said Adriana, and the two teens grinned and ran hand-in-hand towards the hedge bordering the football oval.

LJ turned to Carleen and Melody. ‘You’re hired, get your aprons on.’

The two women knew better than to argue. Anyway, it would be a relief to work the fete rather than trail after LJ all day, so they willingly donned their aprons and started cleaning up the mess Adriana had left.

LJ had had the chai-tea mix made by a Chinese tea emporium in Little Collins Street, but the mix was too
heavy on the cinnamon, and the overwhelming scent of the heated spice was repelling customers. She was fuming. She was determined to beat Mim no matter what it took. She’d hiked the price of her oriental beverage up to a lofty six dollars a cup, hoping that would make it appear more exclusive.

But with no customers keen on chai tea and a steady swell of caffeine junkies lined up for Mim’s stall, LJ knew it was time for desperate measures. If she was going down, Mim was going with her. Leaving Carleen and Melody waiting for customers, she slipped across the oval toward the school building with just one thought on her mind: sabotage.

The school’s gleaming commercial kitchen was empty; with the fete largely outsourced it was only needed for storage. Many of the stalls’ supplies were piled up in boxes along the stainless-steel benches.