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Author
Biography A born a
wanderer lived, qualified, and toiled in two countries. A surfer, calling any
place the hat is laid a home, and a Godot of many trades and a master of none;
waiter, scribe, miner, journo, teacher, subeditor, barmaid, publicity officer
and general nobody. A leaf,
resting here and hovering there, living life. A roommate to
hundreds in fifty dwellings: from
Mullewa in “Was never much good at anything except in dreaming...which I now put into words.” Chapter
One (part sample) ‘Home
sweet home ...’ hummed Rebecca, striding through the cobbled footpath that
meandered through a well-manicured garden. Her suede shoes tapped along a flight
of sandstone steps, which ended at French doors marking the entrance to her
private residence. Extracting
a bronze key from her pouch-bag, Rebecca let herself into her classically
designed townhouse in secluded suburbia of ‘Ahhhhh
...’ A blissful sigh eloquently expressed her joy at being in the one place
that could bring her such instant, sweet relief: her personal haven where she
could shut the door on the outside world. Far away from the maddening crowd and
frenetic office environment filled with deadlines and nerve-racking conferences.
Where temperamental creative directors issued briefings each time they were
attacked by a brain wave. Silken dark eyelashes swept
over a pair of midnight blue eyes, as she mentally reviewed the mad rush she had
escaped from only five hours ago. In all of the two weeks she had been on the
promotional tour in The
client was none other than ‘REV’, the energising sports drink and the
biggest thing to hit the sporting industry since good old sneakers. Preliminary
research had shown that it was already a hit with high-profile sport stars
proving its might in a highly competitive market. A field where products came
and went in the blink of an eye, not having made the slightest impact on a
single bystander let alone its target audience. Invariably a product of such
magnitude meant not national but international campaigns, not millions but
billions of dollars splashed on advertising, and marketing tools that would also
carry the name of its publicity firm – Zenith – to international heights. A
factor that had left them with no choice but to fight tooth and nail to regain
the client’s trust or risk losing credibility. Two days prior to the meeting
with the exalted client, premature celebrations had been underway in Zenith’s
strategically located office in St Kilda. With champagne bottles uncorked in a
relay to toast what they had assumed at the time to be the most lucrative and
sure-shot account for years to come. Nothing but the best had been used to
secure this account: the finest stationery with letterheads embossed in gold,
the most sensational ideas, and only the senior, the most experienced executives
had dealt with the clients to guarantee quality service. Which is why Rebecca had
nearly collapsed when she was summoned to the tenth floor by the Creative
Director who then announced in an officious manner that her tireless efforts,
late hours and somewhat novel ideas hadn’t gone entirely unnoticed by the
senior members of the company. And as such, they would like to have her join the
promotional team for their new client. Barely restraining her impulse
to jump for joy and shout ‘yippee!’ she’d nodded her head repeatedly in
complete agreement with everything the portly man had said. Recovering her voice
she had said ‘yes’ it would be an honour indeed to be part of the REV team
and ‘of course’ she could be packed and ready to take off to Tasmania at
short notice. In three hours’ time to be precise. Then with a emphatic shake
of the head she had dismissed the next suggestion that being away from home for
two weeks might pose a problem with her partner as she knew David would
understand her reasons for taking off in a hurry for work purposes. Back in Oh, the endless noise in that
small conference room had been maddening, reflected a weary Rebecca massaging
her nape. And if the constantly beeping mobiles and non-stop chattering hadn’t
been bad enough there had been an ever-growing mess to contend with. Halfway
through the campaign, the carpet had nearly disappeared underneath a thick layer
of crumpled up draft paper. What had happened to cleanliness in workplaces? she
had wondered at the time, struggling hard not to let it get to her. Perhaps that
was a thing of the past, she’d surmised, another fading workplace trend just
like invective-free speech and seeking permission before borrowing another
person’s stationery. Caught amidst a whirlwind of
people buzzing like bees and scurrying like ants, the only thought that had held
in her seat had been the recent promotion she had received: from lowly Publicity
Assistant to Promotional Manager. A position she had been coveting for aeons. A
step in the right direction. A sure sign of progress proving to her critics that
she was no stick-in-the-mud bumpkin from the country, but a person with potential
who was going to prove her might in an industry where upward mobility was
limited only to words. Therefore, having come this
far she was not about to let something as trivial as a messy office deter her
from proving, particularly to the elitist
lot (which included her mother-in-law, Laura Spencer, who found the subtlest
ways of reminding her of humbler origins), that she was indeed worthy of David.
Their golden-headed son, popular for his sunny disposition and even temperament.
The most eligible of the Spencer heirs and Laura’s most favoured progeny who
could do no wrong in her eyes. And it was also only a matter
of time before she would prove to those waiting for her to trip that not only
was she capable of climbing the corporate ladder but was equally adept at
running a smooth household without external assistance. That she was able to see
to weekend laundry and weekly shopping, whip up protein-based meals at short
notice and keep a lid on the general maintenance of the place. In other words
she was quite easily able to juggle both the role of a working gal and that of a
housewife, effectively contradicting her mother-in-law’s view that being a
Spencer wife was a full-time job needing great time and effort. One that did
require an admirable deportment at all times with an eye for meticulous dressing
up. But one that did not require the encumbrance of an outside job. Laura hadn’t voiced her
expectations quite so directly to Rebecca but it had been implied through
various hints dropped in her presence, leaving her with no doubt as to what was
expected of her. Of course at the time she had
nodded her head in mute acknowledgment. Not in agreement, mind you, but in
acknowledgement out of courtesy for the older woman. She had also been reluctant
to appear disagreeable in front of her father-in-law, Andrew, who’d ambled
onto the veranda in search of refreshments at the end of a round of golf. Not
that he would have interfered in any case. Unlike Laura her husband didn’t
interfere with his sons’ lives. He offered guidance and support when required
but that was the extent of it. Mentally, however, Rebecca had
dismissed Laura’s comments as hogwash. She hadn’t gone to university for
four gruelling years and earned a first class degree in Public Relations to stay
at home dressed to the nines, strolling among fuchsia bushes. And host
extravagant dinners in the name of charity which only fattened the already
bulging contours of the wealthy. Nope, she wasn’t about to
fall for that trap. She was driven by stronger urges that could only be
fulfilled within the sphere of a professional career – one which contained
head-on challenges and knife-edge competition. She had clearly outlined
professional goals she aimed to achieve before a set time, ones that couldn’t
be fulfilled by performing dainty housewifely chores twenty-four-seven. To be
confined to four walls day in day out, leading a life that was unchallenged,
would be a fate worse than death for Rebecca. She’d grown up witnessing it
take its toll on her mother who’d remained a housewife her entire life. A
woman who’d lived in the same house in the same shire for forty years, never
setting foot abroad or accomplishing anything else. And that was one path
Rebecca was determined to avoid. At all costs. The word ‘housewife’
brought her up short, reminding her of the surprise she was going to spring on
her husband. The only good thing to come out of the nightmarish trip to Rebecca hadn’t been aware of
the restructuring taking place in David’s company till he’d admitted to not
being his normal, chirpy self due to the pressure of his role. David held a
demanding position as the managing director of the mechanical firm formed by his
paternal grandfather. Under David’s aegis the company that had been teetering
on bankruptcy had sprung back to life regaining its former status as a reputable
motor agency. He had revealed that five
years of careful management and hard work was finally paying off, enabling him
to implement plans of expansion. She had listened attentively offering words of
encouragement in response to his future plans. Although she was not in a
position to advise on technical matters she could certainly provide him with
moral support and that’s what she’d done, delighted to experience the
familiar connection between them. Reminiscent of the first two years of their
marriage when they still lived in the ‘blissful bubble’ without any
interference from outside forces. In keeping with the old times
they’d decided to go kayaking on the A fresh start in the morning,
however, meant they’d have to opt for an early night, which wasn’t possible
if Rebecca’s plans were to come into fruition. A mischievous twinkle
momentarily shone in her eyes at the thought of the stimulating night she had in
store for both of them. Usually it was David who was
in the habit of springing delightful surprises on her, showering her with Gucci
gifts, jewellery or spontaneous trips abroad. Rebecca was aware that her
surprise was not in the same league as David’s with regard to its monetary
value. Even with her promotion it would be a while before she could afford to
purchase first class tickets to With a sudden rush of heady
excitement at the turn of her thoughts Rebecca inhaled a long breath. ‘
... ugghh!’ she spluttered, nearly choking on the foul air she breathed
in. What was that horrible stink? She screwed up her face then lifted her nose,
intent on identifying the source of the smell. She took in a measured breath a
second time. The most nose-twitching, repugnant odour appeared to be wafting
from the direction of the corridor that led to the dining room. Deciding it was
more a mouldy cheese smell than gas leak, Rebecca put a hold on her fast-rising
alarm bells. Crossing the Belgian carpet in
the lounge room she strode to the dining hall only to find it in the impeccable
state that she’d left in; the long table gleamed, the fruit bowl sat precisely
in the centre, its fruits ripe but not sour. She wrinkled her forehead. Then a
sudden flash of clarity had her changing direction and heading towards the far
end of the corridor that disappeared into the kitchen. Her favourite corner of the
house, where the terracotta tiles gleamed against the apple-green walls giving
it a rustic look rather than a sterile glow. She loved it best on Saturday
mornings when she’d trudge in half asleep to catch the early morning sun
having sneaked through the blinds make silvery formations on the coir mats on
the floor. She’d watch it with fascination for a quiet minute before plugging
in the kettle. Rebecca had only taken a few
steps into the room when her feet skidded to an abrupt halt. Her mouth dropped
and her eyes flew wide at the sight that greeted her: beer cans, pizza boxes and
Chinese takeaway bags left a messy trail on the floor starting from the sink and
continuing all the way to the rubbish bin in a long, uneven line. Some boxes
were stacked against the wall with greasy pasta still decomposing inside. Other
containers, not having completed their journey to the bin, sat precariously on
and around the lid. Pieces of leftover seafood crept through the gaps while
decorating the floor in various pepper-green and tomato-red designs. Stunned,
Rebecca could only stare at the state of her once-spotless kitchen. Telling its own story was the
chicken casserole she had whipped up briskly in case he got tired of takeaway.
It sat forlornly in the overloaded sink along with several other dirty dishes
and plates. With a sinking heart she recognised the ‘D’ shaped garnish on
the top crust, still intact. A silly tendency of hers to write either his or
both their initials on anything requiring some sort of shape or form. The
casserole had been chucked away. Untouched. Uneaten. And making a mockery of her
efforts was the ‘D’ shaped spinach as it stared back at her in broad
daylight. ‘How could you, David?’
she whimpered. ‘How could you do this to my carefully prepared food?’ Her hand went to her mouth as
she stood deeply distressed by his careless action. Fighting tears of dismay she
wondered why he’d raved about her chicken casserole if he regarded it as mere
rubbish. Because that’s what his action told her: that her efforts were
considered to be nothing more than rubbish. She closed her eyes.
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