Three Wishes, Page 4

  Sex with husband. Check.

  I absolutely did not think that, she thought.

  She shouldn't have let Michael call Cat a bitch. She wasn't, for one thing, but more important, Cat never let anyone say a bad word about her sisters. Oh, she could say plenty of bad words about them but nobody else--not even Dan, Lyn would bet, in the privacy of their own bedroom. Cat's loyalty was fierce and staunch.

  In their school days, Cat was their own personal hit man, their hired thug. When they were seven, for example, Josh Desouza spread a vicious rumor about Gemma. The rumor was that she'd shown him her underpants. (The rumor was true. He tricked her by accusing her of not wearing any. "But I am!" cried Gemma, devastated. "Prove it," he said.) When Cat heard about it, her face went bright red. She walked straight up to Josh in the middle of the playground and head-butted him. Head-butting hurt a lot, she confided to them afterward, but she didn't cry, well, only a little bit, when she got home and saw the red mark on her forehead.

  Now they were in their thirties, Cat was still ready to spring to their defense, often unnecessarily. Just the other day she and Lyn went out to lunch. "Didn't you ask for a salad?" Cat said to Lyn. "Excuse me! My sister hasn't got her salad!"

  "I am actually capable of asking myself," said Lyn.

  "My sister." Cat said it with such unconscious pride. Even after she'd just been telling you what a complete loser you were for ordering a bocconcini salad, when everyone knew bocconcini was a conspiracy to make you eat rubber.

  "I've got something to tell you," she said to them in the pub, as if they didn't already know that the moment they saw her face from the other side of the room.

  Lyn fell suddenly, very deeply asleep.

  The voice was teeth-jarringly sweet. "Lyn! Georgina! How are you?" Lyn's stomach muscles tightened in anticipation. She tucked the portable phone under her ear. "Hello, Georgina. How are you?"

  She was in the middle of trying to undress Maddie for an unscheduled bath. Maddie had just spent five pleasurable minutes smearing herself with sticky black Vegemite and didn't want her handiwork removed.

  There was only one person capable of leaving an open Vegemite jar sitting in the middle of the living room floor: Georgina's daughter Kara.

  "To be honest, Lyn, I'm rather annoyed."

  Maddie sensed her mother's attention slip and squirmed free. She escaped from the bathroom, chortling with wicked glee.

  "What's wrong?"

  Lyn turned off the bath taps and followed Maddie out into the hallway. Her sisters told her that she had well and truly paid her penance for breaking up Georgina's marriage by practically bringing up her daughter, leaving her free to lead a life of leisure. They also reminded her that not only had Georgina blissfully remarried some guy who looked like Brad Pitt and seemed bizarrely quite nice, but that she was a vindictive bitch from hell who deserved to have her husband stolen from under her nose.

  But still, Lyn was always conscious of Georgina being the wronged party. And so she played her part in these terribly civilized, grown-up-about-it conversations and didn't even attempt to apply one of the four key techniques for dealing effectively with passive-aggressive behavior.

  "Kara is very upset," said Georgina. "I'm surprised Michael allowed it, I really am. With respect, Lyn, I'm rather surprised at you!"

  "I have no idea what you're talking about." Lyn watched Maddie pick up Kara's favorite T-shirt from the floor and hug it adoringly to her Vegemited body. There was really nothing she could do to stop her.

  "I'm talking about the article in She," said Georgina. "Kara says you didn't even ask her permission to use her name! She's a sensitive child, Lyn. We all need to be a little careful with her feelings."

  "I haven't seen the article." Lyn took a deep stress-management breath through her nostrils. She tried not to think of Kara's ten-year-old face crumpling each time Georgina called to cancel a day out. A little careful of her feelings, indeed.

  "I understand of course. Your public profile is important to you," said Georgina. "Just be careful in future, won't you? How's that little ruffian of yours by the way? Kara seems to spend a lot of time looking after her for you. That must be a real help! Wish I had some help when Kara was little. Well, must fly!"

  Lyn momentarily considered throwing the portable phone against the wall.

  "Bitch," she said.

  "Bitch," repeated Maddie, who had an unerring ear for inappropriate new words to add her to vocabulary. She applauded with chubby joyful hands. "Bitch, bitch, bitch!"

  LOVE. KIDS. CAREER. WOMEN WHO STRIKE THE "TRIPLE" JACKPOT!!!

  While most of us find it incredibly difficult to juggle career and family, some women seem to have hit up upon that elusive magical formula.

  At just thirty-three years of age, Lyn Kettle is the founder and managing director of the hugely successful business Gourmet Brekkie Bus.

  Brekkie Bus specializes in mouthwatering Sunday morning breakfasts delivered straight to your door. As every Gourmet Brekkie Bus fan knows (this reporter is one of them!), these breakfasts are to die for. Flaky croissants, eggs Benedict, freshly squeezed juice--and of course, those incredible pastries!

  Lyn, a pencil-thin blonde (obviously she doesn't indulge too often in her own Brekkie Bus breakfasts!) first conceived the idea just three years ago, when she was managing a successful cafe. Since then, the business has gone from strength to strength with franchises across the country and interest from overseas buyers. Last August Lyn scooped the prestigious Businesswoman of the Year Award.

  But running Gourmet Brekkie Bus doesn't stop Lyn from spending quality time with her husband, computer whiz Michael Dimitropolous, her eighteen-month-old daughter, Maddie, and her fifteen-year-old stepdaughter, Kara. Lyn works from home and her mother takes care of Maddie two to three days each week.

  "My family is incredibly important to me," said Lyn from her exquisite harbor-side home. For the interview, she wore a beautifully cut suit, her blond hair elegantly styled, her makeup flawless.

  A huge vase of roses adorned the dining room table. I asked if it was her birthday.

  "No," said Lyn, blushing a little. "I'm very lucky. Michael often buys flowers for no particular reason."

  But that's not all! She also finds time to teach aerobics two nights a week. "I love it," said Lyn, crossing her shapely legs. "It's my time-out. I couldn't live without it."

  Lyn also loves skiing (Aspen this year!), reading (personal development books are always a fave!), and mountain biking (yes, really!)

  And here's an interesting tidbit! Lyn is a triplet! Her sister Catriona, a marketing executive at Hollingdale Chocolates, is identical to Lyn. Gemma, who isn't identical (although she does bear a striking resemblance to her sisters!) is a primary-school teacher. The triplets are all very close.

  "My sisters are my best friends," confided Lyn.

  Their mother, Maxine Kettle, is president of the Australian Mothers of Multiples Association, a regular speaker at events for mothers of twins and triplets, and author of the book Mothering Multiples: The Heaven, the Hell, which has sold in countries around the world. Their father, Frank Kettle, is a well-known Sydney property developer. Their parents divorced when the girls were six.

  "We had great childhoods," said Lyn. "We split our time between Mum and Dad and we were perfectly happy."

  What next for Lyn?

  Another baby might be in the cards, and she is considering expanding the Brekkie business to include Gourmet dinners and lunches.

  Whatever she does next, you can be sure it will be a success for this remarkable young woman! What an inspiration!

  To order your Gourmet Brekkie delivered straight to your door, call Gourmet Brekkie Bus now at 1-300-BREKKIE.

  Lyn shuddered as she handed back the magazine to her mother. "Thank God she included the plug for the business. I don't know what Kara's problem is, I'm the one who looks like an idiot."

  "I do," said Maxine. "It's the photo. Kara looks quite dreadful."

&n
bsp; Lyn took back the magazine and looked more closely at the photo. The photographer had caught Kara mid-grimace, her mouth pulled down sourly, one eyelid drooping unattractively. It wasn't the photographer's fault; Kara had scowled and sulked and sighed throughout the entire session. She was only there at her father's insistence.

  "You're right," said Lyn.

  "I know I am." Maxine looked at Maddie, who was chattering with animated delight to her own reflection in the china cabinet. "Lyn, what is on that child's face? She's filthy!"

  "Vegemite. When Gemma and Cat read this, I'll never hear the end of it."

  "Well, I don't see why." Maxine got down on her knees and held Maddie's chin firmly while she rubbed at the Vegemite with a handkerchief. Maddie kept her eyes fixed on the little girl in the china cabinet and smiled secretively. "You said they were your best friends."

  "Exactly! And I never said any such thing."

  She picked up her keys from the coffee table and looked at Maddie, who was now busily shredding pages from She magazine.

  "Kiss for Mummy?" she asked, with little hope.

  "No!" Maddie looked up, affronted. Lyn leaned down toward her and Maddie shook an admonishing finger. "No!"

  "Oh well."

  Lyn picked up her briefcase. "I'll be back around six. I've got to pick Kara up from her friend's place after the meeting at the bakery."

  "You look absolutely dreadful, Lyn," announced Maxine.

  "Thank you, Mum."

  "You do. You're a skeleton, all pale and drab and miserable-looking. That color doesn't do you any favors of course. I've told you girls not to wear black, you refuse to listen. The point is, you do far too much. Why isn't Kara's mother picking her up? I mean really, why won't Michael put his foot down?"

  "Mum, please."

  Lyn could feel a scratchy tickle at the back of her throat. She put down her briefcase and sneezed three times.

  "Hay fever," said Maxine with satisfaction. "It's that time of year for you three. I'll get you an antihistamine."

  "I don't have time."

  "It will only take a minute. Sit."

  She disappeared down the hallway, heels tapping a brisk rhythm across the tiles, Maddie running along behind her. Suddenly exhausted, Lyn sat back down on her mother's puffy cream sofa.

  She looked at the familiar photos that lined the walls. The traditional Kettle Triplet pose: Gemma in the middle, Lyn and Cat on either side. It pleased their mother's sense of balance to have the redhead separating the blondes. Identical dresses, identical hair ribbons, identical poses. Three little girls with crinkled eyes, laughing at the camera. They were laughing at their father of course. When they were children they thought he was the funniest man to walk the Earth.

  She could hear her mother talking to Maddie in the kitchen. "No, you may not have one. These are not lollies. There is no point in looking at me like that, young lady. No point at all."

  Some of Lyn's friends complained about their children being spoiled by doting grandparents. She didn't need to worry about Maddie missing out on her discipline quota with Maxine. It was like sending her to boot camp.

  On the coffee table was a typed document Maxine was obviously in the middle of proofreading. Lyn picked it up. It was a speech for a parenting workshop her mother was running called "Triple the Heartache, Triple the Fun!"

  "She's made a career out of being our mother," Cat always complained.

  "So what?" Lyn would say.

  "It's exploitation."

  "Oh, please."

  Lyn flicked idly through the speech. Most of it she recognized from previous speeches, articles, and her mother's book:

  Sometimes you may feel like a traveling freak show. Eventually, you'll get used to the stares and the approaches by strangers. I remember once I counted the number of times I was stopped by well-meaning people wanting to look at my daughters as I walked through Chatswood Shopping Center. It was--

  Fifteen, thought Lyn. Yes, we know, fifteen times!

  It has been calculated that it takes twenty-eight hours a day to look after triplets. That's tricky, considering we only have twenty-four at our disposal! (Wait for laugh)

  I'm not so sure you'll get one, Mum. That's not actually very funny.

  Monozygotic twins--meaning one egg--share 100 percent of their genes. Dizygotic twins--meaning two eggs--share only 25 percent of their genes, like any normal sibling.

  Gemma would be offended to hear herself described as a "normal" sibling. When they were in second class, Sister Joyce Mary chalked a picture of the three-leafed shamrock on the blackboard to illustrate how "the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost were three persons but one God." Gemma's hand shot into the air. "Like triplets! Like us!" The nun winced. "I'm afraid the Kettle girls are not like the Holy Trinity!" "Yes, but I think we are, Sister," said Gemma kindly.

  When Gemma told the story to their mother, Maxine explained that her analogy might have been reasonable if they'd all come from the one egg. However, as only Cat and Lyn were identical and Gemma was a "single egg" they probably couldn't be compared to the Holy Trinity, which was a lot of nonsense anyway. "I don't want to be a single egg!" wailed Gemma. "What if we were Siamese triplets?" asked Cat. "With our heads all glued together?" But their mother had turned up the car radio to drown out Gemma.

  Sibling rivalry is obviously a complex issue, which I will be discussing at length. On other hand, you may feel envious of mothers of "singletons" and worry that your babies are actually closer to each other than to you. This is perfectly normal.

  That was a new one. Surely their profoundly practical mother had never worried about anything like that?

  "Why did you tell that journalist Gemma was a teacher?" Maxine came back into the room and handed over a glass of water and a tablet.

  "I think she might still do some casual teaching every now and then," said Lyn, putting the speech aside. "How was I meant to describe her?"

  "Yes, well, that's certainly a point," said Maxine. "Odds-body! Jack of all trades! I called her the other day and she casually mentioned she was off to do stilt walking for some promotion at Fox Studios. Gemma, I said, are you actually capable of walking on stilts?"

  "She wasn't," said Lyn. "She told me she kept toppling over. But apparently the kids in the audience all thought it was hilarious."

  "Hilarious indeed. Gemma is a drifter. I read in the paper today about that murderer in Melbourne. They called him a drifter. I thought to myself, that's how people would describe Gemma! My own daughter! A drifter!"

  "She doesn't drift far. At least she only drifts around Sydney."

  "I'll grant you that." Maxine, who was sitting on the sofa in front of Lyn, suddenly took a deep breath and pressed her hands to her knees in a strangely awkward gesture. "Yes, well, I've been meaning to talk to you about something. A little issue."

  "Have you really?" Her mother wasn't in the habit of meaning to say things; she generally just said them. "What is it?"

  At that moment, Lyn's mobile began to ring and vibrate on the coffee table. She glanced at the name on the screen. "Speak of the drifter. I'll let her go to voicemail."

  "No, answer it. I'll talk to you about it another time. You're in a rush anyway." Maxine stood up briskly and removed the glass of water from Lyn's hand.

  "Tell Gemma to water that poor man's flowers," she ordered cryptically, and went tapping off again down the hallway, calling out, "Just what are you up to now, Maddie?"

  "Cat Crisis!" announced Gemma happily. "Guess where she is!"

  "I give up, where?"

  "Well, all right then, I'll tell you. She's sitting in her car outside the woman's place!"

  "What woman?"

  "What woman, she says. The woman! The woman dastardly Dan had sex with! Cat is stalking her. I think Cat is perfectly capable of boiling a rabbit, don't you? Or a puppy. Even a kitten."

  "Can you please be serious for once in your life?" said Lyn. "What's she doing there?"

  "Wait till you hear how she found her!
She was like an undercover detective."

  "Gemma."

  "I am being serious. Deadly serious. We have to stop her! She says she just wants to see what the woman looks like, but that sounds a bit passive for Cat, don't you think? She's probably planning to throw acid at her, something to horribly disfigure her. Can we drive there together? My air conditioning isn't working."

  "I've got a meeting," Lyn looked at her watch, "in half an hour."

  "I'll see you soon. I'll wait out front."

  "Gemma!"

  "Can't talk, going to sneeze!" Gemma hung up mid-sneeze.

  Lyn put down the phone and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, while she tried to remember where Gemma was living at the moment.

  She thought of her meeting at the bakery. The rich fragrance that would envelop her, the respect that would greet her, the pleasure of dealing with efficient, professional, calm, normal people.

  She called out to Maxine, "You'd better give me two more of those antihistamines."

  She'd forgotten all about her mother's "little issue."

  CHAPTER 3

  "You stood me up."

  "Did I?"

  "Was it because somebody died?"

  "Oh, I hope not."

  Waking up was Gemma's least favorite thing. She resisted it daily. Even when she was woken up by a phone call, like now, she continued to fight consciousness by keeping her eyes squeezed shut, her breathing deep, and not concentrating too hard.

  If she was lucky, the conversation would be short and she could slip straight back into lovely sleep.

  "I was actually sort of hoping somebody did die. Somebody not that important. It would help my shattered ego." The voice was rather appealingly masculine but she had no idea who he was, or what he was talking about, and sleep was still a possibility.

  "Yes, I see," she slurred politely.

  "Did you get a better offer?"

  "Umm." She breathed deeper and burrowed farther under her quilt.

  "Are you still in bed? Big night last night?"

  "Shh," said Gemma. "Stop talking. Sleep time. It's Saturday."

  But there was something twitching urgently and irritatingly at the very outer corner of her consciousness.

  "Exactly. It's Saturday. Last night was Friday night. I waited. And waited. Everyone in the restaurant felt sorry for me. I got free garlic bread."