over Hilary, and equalling Lolly. Her beads shone out, rainbow colours against the black of her dress, dark red hair swept up above a sleek neck. Queen Bee or Office Lush, Hilary couldn’t quite work out the archetype.
Outside the living room, on the other side of the French doors, the balcony was getting crammed – smoking was making a comeback. Mortgage stress. Rental stress. Sydney was one of the most expensive cities in the world now. Siena, cigarette in hand, had spotted Hilary through the glass and was waving at her to come over. The doors were closed against the cold, and to prevent their smoke coming back into the precious house, no doubt. But it split the party, Hilary thought, as if displaying the smokers for viewing condemnation.
She was making her way to Siena when she ran straight into Kate Ryan. ‘Kate!’ Hilary cried, a tremendous false cry of joyful encounter. Her mother-in-law gave a cool smile. She was holding her younger grandchild’s hand. Sophie was in Princess pyjamas and a fluorescent pink tiara gripped her thin fair hair. She had, it appeared, been crying. ‘Too much for her, I’m afraid,’ said Kate. ‘I’m taking her to bed.’
‘Hello Sophie darling’ Hilary leaned in ‘how are you?’
Sophie stood closer to her grandmother, as if she had never seen Aunty Hilary before. As if Hilary represented stranger danger. As if they had never chortled happily over babyccinos at The Planet. Well, fuck you, Sophie.
‘Want to come with us?’ Kate offered Hilary.
‘No, that’s all right.’ And Hilary moved away before tears could rise, not in Sophie’s eyes but in Aunty Hils.
Ridiculous. It was to do with parties, her insecurities around lawyers, professional people – and Vianney not coming with her. How come Kate had been almost friendly? Maybe even she knew that Vianney and Hilary were on shaky ground. That Vianney was actually seeing a counsellor after all these years. Hopefully to talk about her, the bitch goddess mother.
‘Fuck, its getting cold out here!’ she exclaimed as she slid through the French doors and the night air hit her. People were gathering close to stand underneath the gas heating pillar. At least they had the view of the night bay – the view that added a million dollars to a home.
‘Yes that’s why we are cuddling up!’ An unknown but very agreeable man offered her the shelter of his arms. ‘No thanks,’ she said, but laughing so as not to hurt his feelings. Later, she would be sitting on his lap, protected by his coat, and sharing cigarettes and profundities.
‘No sign of Xavier?’ she asked Siena.
‘He’s too clever a fish to be caught by Lolly and Claudia.’ Siena said, grinning.
‘Well, I’m staying out of Claudia’s way too. She was rude at the door.’ Hilary pouted a little.
‘It’s just her anxiety,’ Siena leaned in and clinked her glass against Hilary’s. ‘Poor old Claudia’s made this party bigger than Ben Hur. But, my darling, you look wonderful tonight.’ She tipped her glass in the direction of Hilary’s cleavage. Siena always thought Hilary looked very sexy, voluptuous, slightly transgressive against the current anorexic code, although she knew, or at least suspected, that Vianney disapproved of Hilary's increasing padding. But if he had wanted elegance and cool, like Claudia, it was not Hilary he should have chosen.
Siena had her own isshoos to share with Hilary. Her PhD supervisor, Quentin Moran, had announced that funding for the Davitt in Australasia Symposium was now tighter than expected. Ireland’s financial woes were having an impact. There would probably be no co-sponsorship from an Irish university after all. And, as Quentin said, the Australian universities were not and never had been radical organisations. They either saw the Irish Land War as irrelevant history (as all history was) or as disturbing evidence of the power of the dispossessed. What if there was a rent or mortgage strike in Sydney? Civilisation as we know it – red in tooth and claw – would be over.
Hilary commiserated as best she could as she downed her vodka. She found university politics confusing, couldn’t always keep up with the cast of characters inhabiting Siena’s world/head. Sometimes she was even grateful for Vianney’s taciturn nature around his work. She knew the names of only a few of his colleagues – Chongmin, Adrian, Sawekchai – that was all.
Either way, Siena was saying, or was it Quentin Moran had said, no one was lining up to fund this radical symposium. Either way, the pressure was on Siena to do more with less, and find more unpaid PhD ‘volunteers’. Siena was of course in stress city. She puffed on her ciggie, she’d busted again on them. Hilary went and found another bottle of vodka.
Still later on, through the foggy glass, Hilary saw snatches of Vianney inside. He had come after all. White shirted, black hair damp from the shower, he moved in his dancer’s way, embracing and retreating, turning to be hugged, shaking hands, looking for all the world as if he were alive and fully present. He might very well be. His new counsellor David Somebody had suggested reducing alcohol and drug intake for a while. Vianney being his excessive self had of course gone completely on the wagon.
He had on his new pair of glasses, trendy. He was one of the few men, Hilary believed, who looked sexy in glasses. Clever and sexy. Though she preferred always to see his eyes. Those astonishing eyes. ‘God, he’s so attractive,’ she groaned.
‘From a distance.’ his sister said, and laughed. Everyone knew Hilary had been completely unreasonable about Vianney from the very beginning, smitten by his singing ‘in the enchanted garden by the sea’, as Xavier and Siena had liked to teasingly chant. And god bless her, he was still her sun, moon and stars. Poor deluded thing.
Siena put her arm around Hilary as if in consolation.
Hilary shrugged Siena’s arm off in irritation. The kindnesses of the Ryan family were growing intolerable.
***
‘I’m dying.’ Hilary moaned into her crumpled pillow. Her head pounded.
‘A swim will see you right’. Vianney sat on their bed putting on his brand new running shoes. The new counsellor had suggested exercise as well. So he was running every morning. Even after a huge party.
She winced at the thought of the cold winter sea – and longed for it. ‘Carry me there.’
‘Make your own way,’ he quoted the Sportsgirl slogan at her.
That was impossible. ‘At least make me a cup of tea, you cold hearted bastard’.
‘Now, now,’ he slapped her legs through the tangled sheets and left the room. She dimly recalled some struggle in the night. She had wanted to make love but he had said she was too drunk, and that her breath was disgusting with the cigarettes. She’d only had two. And she’d said it was a bit hard living with St John Vianney. So of course that was that. Once in one of his insulted and offended moods, he would never have sex with her.
She faded out a little again, but then he was there, with a mug of hot tea.
‘Oh thank you’ she said, but couldn’t quite raise her head to lift and drink it. Never again. She was getting too old for parties.
‘Hils,’ Vianney began, his tone suddenly serious.
‘Yes, what?’ Hilary was helplessly gazing at the steam rising from the mug of tea. So near yet so far away.
‘I’m
