Australian Secrets. Fiona McCallum
to the adoption’, and then with her hand shaking even more, inserted her signature and the date.
She’d got out her cheque book, pausing with her pen hovered above the printed form to acknowledge the further irony of such a plain, uncomplicated number (fifty dollars) for something that was anything but.
She’d torn the cheque from its stub, placed it in the middle of the two A4 sheets of paper and folded them into three. She’d dragged an envelope from her desk drawer and slid the wad inside. Nicola had then returned her baby photo to its normal position and sat staring at the envelope.
She’d done it; taken the first step. But could she take the next one and actually send it?
Nicola picked up the silver frame containing the picture of Paul and Ruth. ‘You’d approve, wouldn’t you – say I’m doing the right thing?’ she whispered. She’d planted a kiss on the glass between their smiling faces and held it to her chest. Then she’d filled out the address on the envelope and posted it.
Three months on and she was still waiting for information to arrive.
The tightly packed room of round tables draped in white linen reminded Nicola of mushrooms grown in boxes. Kept in the dark and fed on shit, she mused.
Another boring dinner with an information session about the stock market was the last thing she felt like tonight. In fact, she’d been on her way home, picturing a steaming bath full of bubbles and a glass of wine, when Scott had phoned to ask her to get him a clean shirt and tie; he didn’t have time after all. Nicola had managed to hide the fact that she’d completely forgotten about his industry function; had thought it was next week. ‘Yes, fine, I’ll meet you at your office at six,’ she’d said and hung up.
Nicola had finished her drive home in a huff and four hours later, having showered and dressed in a black pantsuit, wasn’t feeling any more congenial. ‘Oh well, fair’s fair,’ she muttered to herself, as she stood just inside the doorway looking for Scott.
They’d left his office in separate cars, and she’d had trouble finding a park; he should already be here somewhere, she thought, scanning the mingling crowd.
God she hated turning up to these things alone. She didn’t mind introducing herself to strangers, just the initial awkwardness of standing alone surveying the room for someone familiar.
Men stood around in grey-suited clusters – plain and pinstripes – their ties the only splashes of colour. The uniformity went further than their dress-sense; the younger ones were trim and muscular, probably gym junkies like her Scott. But once they hit their mid-to-late-forties it seemed there was a collective giving up on trying to keep pot bellies at bay. And there must be some kind of weird agreement over hair as well; in all the younger men, not a speck of grey in sight, but plenty of grey and even white amongst the older set. Regardless of age, they all seemed to have the same style, short back and sides, slightly longer on top with a neat but sweeping fringe parted on the side. The younger lot had their fringes up and spiky, the elders low and soft.
Nicola grabbed the last glass – a tumbler of water – from the tray being whisked past by a twenty-something waiter in white shirt and black trousers. She sipped at her drink in an effort to have her people-watching seem less conspicuous.
As usual, segregation had occurred and the women stood in their own small groups. Their preferred uniform was the pantsuit – in any colour as long as it was dark; grey, black, navy, occasionally burgundy or even teal. One of the few things Nicola liked about these events was not having to agonise over what to wear.
Nicola politely smiled and shook her head as tray after tray of canapés were offered to her. She was always careful to avoid the greasy morsels at these functions. Dessert was usually worth saving space for and the last thing she needed was to be the butt, so to speak, of any wide-screen jokes making their way around the office.
Where the bloody hell was Scott? She couldn’t stand here on her own for much longer. Ah, over there by the far wall. He saw her at the same time she saw him, and raised his glass in acknowledgement. She returned the gesture, with the addition of a forced smile.
He was clearly occupied; she’d have to fend for herself.
‘You must make more effort to join in, dear,’ was something Ruth would have said, and had many times, bless her.
It was only when she was older that Nicola realised how worried Ruth had been about her being an only child, and the impact it would have on her social skills.
They really had been great parents; they’d got along better than any of her high school classmates, who could barely stand being in the same room as their parents. Nicola would nod in agreement when they rolled their eyes at how clueless their parents were. What she’d wanted to say was ‘actually, my parents are really nice’.
And they were; she’d loved hearing about Ruth’s job at the library, but Paul’s work as a structural engineer she found fascinating. She would have gone down the engineering path herself if only she’d inherited his maths brain. But of course the thought was ridiculous; she had none of his DNA. They got on well, but they were very different.
Nicola had realised that very early on, and had been plagued with a thousand questions along the way; like, did her biological mother prefer to be alone too? As she’d gone into puberty the questions had tended towards the more personal; did they have the same hair or eye colour? What about body shape?
But she shoved every question back down as quickly as she could. Ruth was the only mother she had or needed; it didn’t matter that they were different. To think otherwise was hurtful.
Nicola forced her thoughts back to the present and the masses of people mingling around her. The room had filled considerably and she could now hear the conversation of a nearby group of men:
‘So, Toby. Win, lose, or even outcome today?’ asked a man with dark grey hair circling a bald head.
‘Up today, thank Christ; shocker yesterday,’ said Toby, mid-forties in charcoal pinstripes.
‘Futures or CFDs?’ asked a younger chap with a hideous green paisley tie.
What the hell were CFDs? She’d ask Scott. On second thoughts, she didn’t care enough to bother.
Finally, Nicola recognised someone she knew, a woman with sharp square spectacles and spiky dark hair. She’d met Yvonne several times before and instantly liked her. She was a fellow career woman and – unlike most of the women she seemed to meet at these things – hadn’t spent their first evening boring her about what her kid had done that day in childcare. Actually, Nicola didn’t know if Yvonne and her husband, a senior manager at a rival firm to Scott’s, even had kids.
‘Yvonne, hi,’ she called from just outside the group. The etiquette was to wait until invited by someone stepping aside to give you space to physically join.
‘Nicola, great to see you,’ Yvonne said, placing her glass on a passing tray and pulling Nicola into a hug. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ she whispered near Nicola’s ear before releasing her. She turned back to the group who had resumed their chatter, smiled at them and said, ‘I’m really sorry, girls, but there’s something that I just have to discuss with Nicola.’
Before Nicola knew what was happening she’d been gripped by the elbow and dragged over to the nearest table.
As she went, she noticed two of the other women in the group had confused looks on their faces; as if they were trying to figure out why she was familiar. She got that a lot. What the hell was Yvonne up to?
‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ Yvonne said, flopping into the nearest chair. ‘I swear, the next time someone asks me if I went to the opening of that new boutique today I’ll scream. As if I have time to shop during the week!
‘Hey, fantastic news about your Walkleys.