Authors: Cate Kendall
The weeks had flown by, and much to Jacqueline's joy
tonight it was her turn to host Stitch 'n' Bitch.
'Ooh, how delicious, I really must have those for
tonight's "Sweets for the Sweet" theme,' Jacqueline whispered
as she stroked the pastel 1950s-esque ceramic dessert
tumblers in Bed, Bath and Table. In scrumptious tones of
baby blue and pink, mint and lemon, they were just the
thing to serve her trademark parfait in tonight.
She sighed happily and hummed to herself as she continued
her plotting and planning. The organisation of the
event had filled her mind for days and provided a lovely
break from her usual routine of meal preparation, household
maintenance and school duties.
She had already analysed and discarded a range of recipe
options, carefully scrutinised her platters for chips or blemishes
and polished all her cutlery. The other Stitch 'n' Bitch
members might scoff at her, and she knew they did, but
that didn't stop them gobbling all her delicious offerings
with gusto, did it?
Jacqueline Bouvier's scones were the pride of the Mothers'
Committee cake stall, her teacake declared by the principal
as 'sterling', her home-made ice-cream had legendary status
in the street and no one had ever had meringue melt in
their mouth quite like hers. She had a culinary reputation to
maintain, so the others could scoff all they wanted.
Of course she was extremely well-qualified for the job
of hostess; far more qualified than any of the others, who
just simply tossed any old thing on the table with little care
or thought, for Jacqueline was a proud graduate of Institut
Villa Pierrefeu, Switzerland's finest finishing school.
She'd excelled in
Mobilier
and could spot a fake Louis
XIV at fifty paces; Etiquette and Deportment were a
shoo-in thanks to her natural grace and posture;
Ménage
had
been hard work, but she knew she'd need the invaluable
skills of toilet cleaning and razor-sharp hospital corners in
her planned future career as a wife.
It was thanks to the school that she'd met her husband,
Thomas. He'd been in Switzerland completing his orthodontic
training at a highly respected medical institution
and was invited to one of the many soirées the college
hosted for the young ladies to practise their burgeoning
skills.
As the only other Australian in the room, she'd
been instantly attracted to him and the two had relished
the opportunity to natter quietly away in English (out
of principal Madame Neri's earshot of course – there
would be hell to pay if Jacqueline were caught speaking
'colonial').
The two kept in contact by mail after Thomas returned
home and when Jacqueline graduated (with an A in everything
except floral art) she flew into Australia and into
his arms. He'd delighted in his Swiss Finished fiancée and
never missed an opportunity to show off her prowess to
colleagues during their many dinner parties.
She took another look at the parfait dishes, decided
they were just too sweet to leave behind and took them to
the counter to pay. She quickly decorated the table in her
mind. Everything would be in pastel and floral. Perhaps
Sera wouldn't mind whipping up some cupcakes. And
maybe Bella had time to make a praline mille-feuille –
such a pretty dessert. She selected napkins in a range of soft
colours to complement her new dishes.
Making polite small talk with the salesgirl while her
purchase was wrapped, Jacqueline was suddenly distracted
by a pretty display on the counter. Delicate, slender parfait
spoons in silky resin, each one in a slightly different hue,
were arranged attractively before her. A gentle white swirl
through the pinks, greens and lemons made the spoons
appear to be concocted of icing. She picked up the sample
batch, tied together with a silk ribbon. A familiar gurgle of
excitement started to bubble inside her. She looked up at
the shopgirl. Her back was turned as she wrapped the tumblers
in tissue. Jacqueline simply had to have the spoons.
*
Sera was at home feeling guilty. She'd only worked a half
day but had left the children at crèche for the full day
because there was an important personal task she needed
to do.
But first, Sera thought, food for tonight's Stitch 'n'
Bitch. She pulled out a packet of frozen party pies from
the freezer. Jacqueline would shoot her, she thought, as she
looked down at the icy sheen covering the box. But with
only an hour before Joan got back, and picking up the kids
and starting dinner, it was the best she could do. She briefly
toyed with the idea of whipping up a cake, but experience
told her that desserts were not her strong suit.
Decision made, she tossed the box on the draining board
to thaw and went upstairs to the bathroom with the parcel
she'd just collected from the post office.
She sighed as she entered her haven. It was so rare to
have it to herself. There was no space or budget stretched
for an ensuite after building Joan's bathroom downstairs,
but at least the family bathroom was large and luxurious.
She'd even got her stand-alone egg-shaped bath, thanks to
Tony's trade connections.
The latte-coloured bath sheets and huge cream rectangular
floor tiles were set off by tiny sandstone mosaics on
the walls. Tony and Sera had spent a happy rainy afternoon,
with newborn Maddy in her capsule, scouring the dusty
treasure trove of Italian tiling importers Wyse and Son,
next door to Parterre in Woollahra, to find thirty individually
painted ochre-on-sandstone tiles for the feature wall.
The mirrors were all waist high as per Sera's strict orders,
and tinted ever so slightly, just enough to give one's complexion
a flattering muted appearance.
She ripped open the package in her hand and tipped
out the little box. Gently she opened it and removed the
instructions. The little round glass tub certainly looked as
if it could contain the promised land. She was so hopeful.
The website had guaranteed drastic reduction in the
appearance of scarring. She was dubious at first – she'd tried
so many – but the more testimonials she read, the more
she believed that this was the one; this was going to be the
magic ointment she'd searched for all her life. Of course she
had thought that last month when she'd bought that cream
at work, but one had to remain optimistic.
She opened the lid . . . nothing. She'd been expecting
a glow of radiance or the Hallelujah chorus at least. She
smiled at her ridiculousness, and tried not to notice that
the seventy-five millilitres of cream looked much like the
cream in every other tub and jar in her cupboard.
A regular apothecary shop lurked behind her bathroom
vanity door. She had spent thousands of dollars searching
for the elusive cure, all in vain. Until now, maybe? Even
though this one looked the same, it was different, she
argued to herself. This one was made from sea kelp and
whale blubber – and everyone knew what great skin whales
had. Except for the barnacles, of course. She did feel quite
guilty about purchasing such an illicit product online (what
would Mallory the animal lover say?), but if it minimised
the scar it was worth it.
She read the instructions three times, mouthing them
silently to herself; determined to get the application process
just right. And then, dipping her finger reverently into the
cream, she smeared it gently from her thigh to her ankle
in a smooth downwards motion. She set the timer on her
bathroom radio for five minutes.
The scar began to tingle from her outer thigh to halfway
down her calf. Its puckered edges were becoming hot and
painful. The tingly feeling intensified. It started to burn.
She gripped the side of the sink and clenched her teeth.
This was great, anything that hurt this much was sure to be
working. She looked at the clock, willing the five minutes
to be over so she could rinse it off.
Only thirty more seconds to go. Tears of pain were
rolling down her face. She jammed a flannel in her mouth
in case Joan or Tony came home and heard her yelps.
Five, four – she turned on the shower – three, two, one.
She plunged her leg into the cool relief of the water
with a gasp of relief. Oh, thank goodness. She looked
at the welt that ran down the length of her leg. Instead
of being puckered and purple it was now swollen and a
bright angry red. Hmmm, she thought, not yet prepared
to admit defeat. Maybe it would take a few hours to settle
down.
She sat on the edge of the bath, staring at the red scar.
Tears pricked in the back of her eyes. She wasn't stupid.
She knew the image she presented to the world. She knew
she must come off as a complete dollybird. The eye-lashes,
the fake nails, the hairpieces; but it was all a distraction
device, a way of drawing the eye upward and away from
the hideous scar.
Tony tried to tell her he didn't see it, but how could he
miss it? It ran down her entire leg. It wrinkled and puckered.
It didn't tan but blotched, and even fake tan only
minimised it slightly.
She remembered the day the accident happened. She
wasn't allowed to climb. She knew the golliwog had been
taken away from her as a punishment for being naughty but
she'd climbed up anyway.
It hadn't hurt much at first. When she clipped the handle
of the saucepan she'd fallen to the ground with the boiling
water and her bum was what really hurt straightaway.
But then the white pain of boiling flesh took over. She'd
screamed. Bella had rushed over and poured iced water from
the fridge onto the leg, but that had only made it worse. She
remembered pushing Bella away, screeching at her to stop.
The ambulance had been a blur. Bella couldn't come
because Mum and Dad were still out and she'd had to stay
with the boys. But later that night they'd all come in to see
her in hospital and she remembered clinging to Bella, not
letting her go. Her mum didn't bother coming in again
after that. Only Bella came.
She'd returned home after four weeks. The scar didn't
really bother her much during her childhood, and when
she became a teenager and the neighbourhood boys
avoided her because of her burned leg she was relieved. As
the local wallflower she never had to deal with facing her
deformity through others' eyes.
But then she turned fourteen and everything changed.
Bella had been gone for over a year and she got sick of
being teased for being the only virgin in her school year.
When the new boy, Jeremy Waterton, fancied her it had
seemed like the perfect opportunity.
It had been an embarrassing fumble in the back shed on
the farm. He'd tried to pull her jeans off, while she kept
them up as high as she could. He didn't understand why.
Didn't she want to do it? Cos they didn't have to if she
had changed her mind, he reassured her. No, she definitely
wanted to do it. But with her jeans on. They found a position
that worked. He was thrilled with the arrangement and
they met in the shed several times over the next few weeks.
She was floating. She really felt loved by Jeremy, she felt
romanced and excited by her foray into the world of sex.
Until it all came tumbling down around her. 'You're a
dirty pig, Sera,' her brother Keith spat at her one afternoon
in the kitchen after school.
'Why, what do you mean?' she said and looked up from
her homework.
'It's written all over the boys' toilet walls – "Sera Walker
does it doggy style".'
The shame. A dark burn crept up her legs and itched her
scar until her entire body was ablaze.
'Just quit it will ya, Sera, you're embarrassing!' Keith
said as he grabbed an apple and left the room.
She
was
embarrassing, he was right. The memory of that
day reminded her now of how worthless her scar made
her feel. She rarely let any guy get close to her after that.
It was only when she met Tony and he had made her feel
so special, so beautiful – for a while at least – that she had
managed to let her guard down.
She looked down at her ugly leg. God, she hated it!
Hated her stupidity for being sucked in by another stupid
cream. She needed more than cream to fix how broken
she was.
After drying herself off, she pulled on a pair of jeans and
boots. Jacqueline would be home in ten minutes. She had
time to blow-dry her hair, re-apply her make-up, then nick
next door to see if her neighbour needed anything done
for tonight.
'Jacqueline?' Sera called out as she tapped on the glass
kitchen door. 'Hello? Anyone home?'
Jacqueline entered the kitchen from the hall and walked
over to unlock the back door. 'Hi, Sera,' Jacqueline said,
'I've just walked in. How are you?'
'Fine thanks,' Sera lied, ignoring the almighty burning
on her right leg. 'Been shopping?' she asked, looking at the
bags in Jacqueline's arms.
'Yes, getting ready for tonight,' Jacqueline replied seriously.
'After much deliberation, I've decided on parfait.'
Sera tried to rustle up an appropriately enthusiastic
response. 'Parfait? Why . . . yum!'
'Yes, it was a tricky decision. I toyed with peach Melba,
then flirted with lemon meringue pie, but of course I did
meringue last time at your house so that was out of the
question straight away. I even considered Bombe Alaska,
can you imagine!'
Sera looked at her neighbour in wonder. Was there seriously
nothing else in the woman's head? 'No,' she replied.
'I can honestly say I can't imagine.'
'Well, the revelation came to me thanks to these delightful
parfait tumblers I got at Bed, Bath and Table today. Are
they not the sweetest things?'
'So beautiful!' Sera agreed 'They're gorgeous!'
'I know, and look – matching napkins,' Jacqueline said,
reaching back into the carry bag.
'What a pretty colour combo,' Sera sighed, laying it all
out on the kitchen table in front of her.
'And you won't believe this.' This time Jacqueline
reached into the pocket of her camel trench coat.
'MATCHING PARFAIT SPOONS!' she cried, thrusting
the bounty towards Sera as if it was burning her.