‘Great, neither would I. It’s weird how people get so obsessed with how another person looks, isn’t it? Like, get a hobby, weirdos.’
‘Yeah . . .’
Cleo took the billboard-sized hint and went for her pee and pretzels.
A more put-together woman than Grandma Sue does not exist. Everything about her is as it should be – her waist and feet are tiny, her voice smooth, and her clothes have never once contemplated even the idea of being creased. Her nails and lips are always glossy red, and her silver bob curves under her chin as though moulded that way.
‘It dries like that naturally,’ she once said when I asked her how she managed it. ‘She uses hot rollers every day,’ Mum had whispered out the side of her mouth, taking on the petulant role that I inhabit in our mother–daughter dynamic.
Grandma stands in the doorway with her leather carry-all, waiting to be invited in.
‘Gran!’ Olivia exclaims, rushing forward to envelop her in a gentle embrace, Maeve hanging from her hip.
‘You’re a model, look at that hair.’
Grandma cannot get enough of Olivia’s hair. Olivia cannot get enough of Grandma’s complimentary attention. It is a dance, and they both know the steps. Luke hangs back, waiting in the wings for his turn. Maeve squeals when her cheek is pinched, and Olivia retreats to manage the fallout of that, holding her daughter close. When Grandma gets to Luke, she takes his face between her hands and kisses him once on each cheek.
‘So handsome,’ she exclaims.
Dad takes Grandma’s bag and makes himself scarce.
‘You’re early,’ Mum says with a stiff smile, getting up from the couch strewn in wrapping, kissing her mother on her cheek.
‘I thought I could come and give you a hand with your salads. I know how difficult you find hosting,’ Gran says.
Her eyes scan Mum, up and down, up and down. I feel as though we are all holding our breath.
‘It’s a good thing you’ve put on a bit of weight, it helps your face have a bit more volume,’ Gran says, pushing her own cheeks up to signify what she means.
I am impressed and terrified that she managed to fit two insults within the one compliment. She does not look my way or say a single word to me. Though uncomfortable in its pointedness, I am content with how this has played out, knowing it could have been much worse. I included her on my ‘surprise, I’m autistic’ text message that I sent to everyone I thought deserved an explanation after my official diagnosis. In hindsight, it was a little too much too soon; I should have given myself more time to process, I should have at least waited until I was home. She replied with an ‘X’. We have not communicated since, and I do not believe today is the day we shall rectify that. I back away slowly and leave the production behind. Out on the balcony, the table is already set and I dare not touch a thing. I lean on the railing to look and breathe.
My body was not a conversation I was willing to entertain having with Cleo on the way to the wedding, nor something I liked to think about at all. I avoided scales, and mirrors, and clothes that no longer fitted. It could not be what Cleo thought, because I did not care how I looked – I was not obsessed, or focused, or even interested in that. Maybe there were more foods I disliked than liked, but I had always been that way. Fussy, sensitive, stubborn, Elsie would say. Born to prove the parenting books wrong when they pronounced: ‘If your child is hungry, they will eat.’ There was no secret disdain for the bodies of those who could care for themselves properly, nor pride in their contrast to mine. I had not been home for nearly a year at that point, but I knew that when I saw Elsie she would shower my shrinking body in only praise. Somewhere along the line it becomes acceptable for girls to become picky eaters, to restrict and restrict and restrict, as long as the results are visible. Healthy is code for thin, no matter how we get there.
The weather in Melbourne was frigid, and the heating in the car did not seem to want to do its job fast enough. Traffic was slow and we had to take an alternative route because there were roadworks on the highway further ahead.
‘Who gets married at twenty-one anyway? I bet Amanda’s pregnant,’ I scoffed, as Cleo freaked out over the map on her phone readjusting. The mobile reception was patchy on this particular stretch.
‘I think they wanted to have it this year because Amanda’s grandmother is sick,’ she replied.
It took an hour longer than it should have to get there, but when we pulled up out the front of our sandstone cottage, I could not hide my begrudging approval. Hedges lined the pathway like Lego locked into place, and vines overburdened with pink flowers hung from trellises that framed the door.
‘This is really nice,’ I said quietly, admitting something against my will.
‘You like it?’ Cleo seemed genuinely thrilled by the prospect.
‘Let’s never leave,’ I replied.
We took the room with two queen beds, because Amanda’s workmate would be sharing the cottage with us, and she was coming alone. I envied her the big room with the king bed and ensuite, and the privacy.
The wedding started at 2 p.m., so we had a little time to waste, but Cleo got straight into the shower. She was a ‘get the hard stuff out of the way first so you can relax’ kind of person, which balanced well with my ‘leave everything to the last minute and use the adrenaline spike of time-pressure anxiety to get things done’ approach. I lay on my bed until she was done.
‘You’re right to jump in now,’ she said, appearing in her towel at the doorway.
‘I’ll get in soon, it doesn’t take me long to get ready,’ I replied. ‘How about I make us some drinks?’
Cleo made a noise of light agreeance, and I jumped at my chance to pour us some gin and tonics in the kitchen. The cottage had heavy crystal glasses and premade ice, reaffirming this was the right choice. Having never drunk gin as a teenager, it held the allure of something more sophisticated than it actually was. Cleo had created a ritual of making us G&Ts to drink at sunset, and it was my favourite, when we would sit somewhere comfortable and tell each other about our unexciting days.
‘Ooh, it’s a bit strong, can I have some more tonic?’ she asked, taking her first sip at the vanity mirror where she was applying bright pink eyeshadow in a magnificent way. She watched a lot of makeup tutorials, and actually retained the information she learned from them.
