Spinning Around

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Authors: Catherine Jinks
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nothing you’d need medication for. We didn’t go out together (he didn’t turn me on, if truth be told), but we were always good friends, even though he was brilliant and I wasn’t. Well—brilliant in his chosen field, that is. He’s a big-time corporate lawyer now, making stacks of money, but you’d never guess it. Though his sandy hair is thinning on top, and he wears polo shirts and yachting shoes and a big, chunky Rolex, he doesn’t behave like your average bigshot. He’s one of those people who’s always delighted to see you, who thinks that your jokes are funnier than his own, who has a big, toothy grin and a joyous laugh, who tells a terrific story (but rarely at someone else’s expense), and who specialises in taking the piss out of himself. You know the sort of thing. The way Paul talks, you’d think that he bluffed his way into his job, and now spends his time screwing up PowerPoint presentations and doing pratfalls at board meetings. But he doesn’t, of course. He’s just modest. Modest and eager to entertain.
    You might be thinking: what’s your problem then, Helen? If Paul’s so terrific, if his house is so terrific, if his kids are so terrific, then why the long face? Why are you off on one of your rants again, you miserable, long-faced party pooper?
    The answer is: Kerry. Kerry and my own flawed nature. Kerry and I don’t hit it off, because she’s one of those eastern suburbs girls who always struck me as being incredibly blinkered and dense. She’s tall and blonde and willowy, with a long face and porcelain skin; she hardly ever speaks, and her face is inscrutable; she has a high, pretty voice, an impeccable wardrobe and expensive tastes. And that, as far as I can see, is all there is to her. It seems extraordinary, when Paul is so funny and smart and (let’s face it) rich, but I honestly can’t see what else she has to offer. Because if she’s not stupid, she’s doing a bloody good imitation. What I mean is—she’s a trained florist, right? With some kind of florist’s certificate? So I ask her things like: ‘Are native flowers selling better than they were ten years ago?’ or ‘Do you have to ask a bride if she’s allergic to anything, before you make up her bouquet?’, and she looks at me as if I’m mad. Honestly. That’s the precise expression on her face: a sort of blank-eyed alarm. As if I’d told her that I was planning to donate my womb to the Smith Family.
    She behaves, in other words, as if I’m eccentric, as if my kids are underprivileged, and as if we were all living in a fibro housing commission place out in Mount Druitt, or somewhere else equally lacking in cachet. Dulwich Hill just isn’t part of her vocabulary. To her, it’s ‘out west’. What’s more, if we ever finish our renovations and invite her over, it won’t change her opinion. She’ll cast her vacant gaze over the leadlight windows, the tessellated tiles and the ornate ceilings, and she’ll fail to be impressed, because the house is on a quarter-acre block half an hour from the nearest headland, French provincial antique dealer or merchant banker.
    That’s one reason why I end up feeling very prickly and competitive, when I visit the Irwins. I become grudging and petty-minded; I think to myself, That pool’s not so big, but it fills up the whole backyard, or, Imagine how dismal it must be in here on a grey, blustery afternoon, with all this slate floor and minimalist furniture. Kerry’s taste is very formal, and much more modern than mine. She likes unusual colour combinations and spiky flower arrangements and vast tracts of polished blond wood. I’m different. I like old things. That’s why we bought the house in Dulwich Hill, which is a double-brick Federation place with a slate roof and wooden floors, a lemon tree in the backyard and a

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