Spinning Around Read Free Page A

complain, I know. After all, both my kids are healthy. And the trip wasn’t a complete disaster. It’s a nice feeling, when you’re sitting in the golden afternoon light, watching your gorgeous husband play with your chortling son, while your beaming daughter runs towards you with a blue-tipped feather in her hand. You learn to enjoy these heavenly Hollywood moments while you can, knowing full well that any moment your daughter’s going to trip and fall, your son’s going to cry for his mum, and your husband’s going to get hit in the face by someone’s Frisbee.
    Oh dear, there I go again. Moan, moan, moan—it’s a psychological tic. And what am I moaning about? The fact that I have a full, rich family life? Other people don’t even have that. I feel so embarrassed sometimes, when I listen to some of the single mums at playgroup; it makes me realise how lucky I’ve been. (How lucky I am, please God.) I’ve got to be more positive— more glass-half-fullish. It’s that North Shore perfectionist coming out in me again. I’ve got to squash the tendency, it’s like a weed. And of course it’s made worse by the fact that I’m not even consistent. Because when I realised, this evening, that Miriam wanted to talk about Men, part of me (the bad part) was relieved at the possibility that she’d stuffed up yet again, while another part was appalled at the prospect of having to Give Counsel. Giving Counsel was always my role in these situations, but I don’t have the energy any more. How can you display a boundless interest in every inflection of a man’s voice, every enigmatic phone call he makes and statement he utters, when you know that with each tick of the clock you might be losing a heaven-sent opportunity to give the kitchen floor a quick mop before Jonah finishes his Vegemite sandwich and has to be coaxed into the bath?
    If Matt had been available, I could have sympathised at my leisure. But Matt was on his evening shift. What’s more, the dinner–bath–bedtime routine was looming. I could see that if Giles proved to have a bloke on the side, or was living under a false name, or had ordered Miriam to shave off all her pubic hair, the kids wouldn’t be getting to bed until after eight.
    As it happened, however, I needn’t have worried. Miriam was short, sharp and to the point.
    â€˜I’m sorry about this,’ she declared, settling down in my grease-spattered kitchen with a frown on her face. There was a pause as she drummed her fingers on the tabletop. She seemed uncharacteristically tense. Almost jittery, in fact.
    â€˜I’m really sorry,’ she continued, ‘but after a lot of thought I’ve decided to tell you something that you’re not going to like. Something that you’re not going to thank me for. I was wondering what I should do, because it’s difficult, but I’ve decided to bite the bullet. It’s the best thing, I think, for both of us.’
    I stared at her in astonishment, my mind racing and my cheeks reddening. I couldn’t imagine what it was that she proposed to tell me. Did I have BO? Some kind of annoying mannerism? Was she going to take me to task about my negative attitude, or the weight I’d put on?
    â€˜It’s about Matt,’ she said, and her fingers stopped moving. ‘Maybe I’m out of order here—maybe there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation—but I saw him in a restaurant at lunchtime, today, cuddling a girl who can’t have been more than twenty-two.’
    I just gaped at her.
    â€˜She was snuggling into his neck, and he was kissing her hair. This was on Oxford Street, by the way—the Indigo café, you know? I’d been at the courts.’ Miriam sighed. ‘I saw them there once before, about three weeks ago, and he was holding her hand, but I thought—I mean, it could have been a secretary with AIDS, or