How to be perfect, p.27
How to Be Perfect, page 27
It also hurts my heart to have to tell my side of this grubby story, especially since the lawyers have put so many of the real details out of bounds.
So here’s what I can tell you.
A mentally unwell young woman with a grudge against me found her way onto our retreat here at Gurva. The fact she breached the trust barrier that is so necessary when you are hosting people in your own home is one of the most concerning things about this for myself, BB and Baby Alma, as you can imagine.
It seems this young woman (a new mother, can you believe it?) wanted only to invade our sacred space and discredit the business—no, the calling—I have spent more than a year building up with love.
What makes this even worse is that I—seeing that this young woman was troubled—took her into my home. She met my children. She met my partner. She even met my beloved stepdaughter, the one she is now making up such spurious claims about. How she can do that to a 16-year-old girl, I have no idea.
All I can tell you, my Goddesses, is that some people out there have no soul. They look at their own ugliness and want to blame others for it. They look at the mess of their lives and point the finger everywhere but inwards.
This woman is one of those people. If you stumble across these words, these disgusting rumours about our home, please direct the negativity where it belongs—back at the dark heart who spread these lies.
The good news is that BB and I will not let this get us down, we will not let it damage this most precious of festive seasons. This is our baby’s first Christmas and the time of our commitment ceremony.
If there are people in your life who are trying to bring you to your knees as there are in mine, just remember, where there is beauty and success, there will always be jealousy and hate.
Happy Christmas to you, Goddesses, and may your day be full of love and nourishment.
E x
PS: Oh, one more piece of good news. Just in time for the new year, I am launching a brand-new product—the inimitable 5x5 Elle-ness Program. Lose 5kg and 5 years in 55 days.
I know that because of this little world right here, many of you are ending your year in better shape than you started it, and well done you. Remember, keep yourself nice over Christmas, Goddesses—don’t use it as an excuse to let yourself go. Actually, if there was ever a euphemism that needs to disappear, it’s that one, am I right? There’s nothing freeing about not caring about your health and appearance. Let’s make our New Year’s resolution to never, ever ‘let ourselves go’.
Elle hit Post and turned to Ben, who was standing behind her, reading every word.
‘Good enough for you?’ she asked.
‘It’s a start,’ he said.
CHAPTER 36
FRANCES
Christmas Day on the ward was fun, if you could silence the part of yourself that wished you were home with your family, watching your baby disappear under a pile of colourful wrapping.
Still, since Troy had been fired, the extra money that came from working on Christmas was not something they could refuse.
The ward was quiet—any patients who could go home had gone home, and only the most chronic cases remained. Frances had done her rounds wearing her tissue-paper crown and her best smile, and she knew that soon all the staff on today would be roped into a round of carolling. She didn’t mind. She was happy to be useful.
When she’d got back from Gurva, Frances had told Troy everything. Everything.
She’d told him about Dr Darling’s hands on her body, his words in her head.
She told him about how she couldn’t love Denny more, but how she couldn’t shake the idea that it was all her fault she didn’t have a ‘normal’ baby.
She told him that sometimes she wished for more than a life of work, washing and video games.
She told him about the feeling she couldn’t quite identify that was gnawing away at her that she was failing—falling and failing—every day.
And she told him about how she’d been spending money, hand over fist, to try to patch all this shit up: not with booze or drugs, but with miracle cures and gold dust and extreme diets that were only making her more anxious by the moment.
And then she told him that she was done with it all.
And then she told him that Ben Bont had offered them fifteen thousand in cash to pay off their debts, and she had said no.
‘So, that’s quite a lot to take in, Frank,’ Troy had said, staring at her like she’d just landed from somewhere strange and far away—which in a way, she had, since she was straight off the plane from Byron Bay. ‘I mean, some of this I knew, of course, but …’
And Frances had taken him by the hand to her private cupboard, where she'd opened up her stash and had pulled out, one by one, all the unopened packets from her WholeHealth deliveries: the spirulina and the maca powder and the green superfoods dust. The one that was going to boost her skin elasticity; the one that was going to heal her gut. The one that was going to supercharge her libido, and the one that was going to sharpen her brain. The Moringa leaf and the crushed baobab, the lucuma and the matcha and the whey.
‘There’s hundreds of dollars of this shit here,’ she said. ‘I thought every one of them might be the answer to making me feel more in control. I’m an idiot.’
Troy looked like he might cry. He ran the flat of his hand across his head. ‘Frankie, you’re not a fucking idiot. You’ve just always been a lot. And you never think you’re enough. Seriously, babe, you’re enough. You’re more than enough for me and Denny.’
And they’d hugged and kissed, and they’d joked about how they could sell all this stuff on Gumtree, and even Denny seemed to be gurgling happily on the floor. And for a moment Frances thought the light had shone in and that this strange, anxious chapter of her life would have a happy conclusion.
But then Troy’s phone had rung.
It was Ben Bont himself.
He told Troy that he was fired, that he had betrayed Ben, the Bounce group and everyone who had worked so hard to build something beautiful up at Gurva. He told Troy that his wife was mentally unstable, and that she would be hearing from the Bounce lawyers, and that this ‘mistake’ of hers was going to cost them both, enormously.
Frances listened as Troy tried to defend her:
‘Ben, that’s not how it was …’
‘Frances has never wanted to hurt anyone in her life …’
‘She says you had a dodgy guy selling pills on the farm …’
‘My wife doesn’t tell lies, Ben.’
It moved Frances so much to hear him say those things, even as her stomach was flipping and a sense of doom was closing over her head. She’d gathered Denny up to hold him and smell him, but she held him too hard and he squealed, and Troy pulled an irritated face and put a finger in his ear to better hear the character assassination Ben Bont was flinging down the phone.
Troy was trying so hard to be decent about it, because—as Frances could see with sudden blinding clarity—that was who he was.
He hung up and looked at Frances, devastated. ‘Happy Christmas, Frank. I’m out of a job and we’re getting sued.’
Frances had cried, and Denny had cried, and they’d all sat on the floor of their little apartment while Frances tried to explain why she’d done what she did.
‘Troy, you need to understand how vulnerable I was, how vulnerable so many women are, to hearing all this stuff about how we can be better.’ She was probably crying too hard, she knew, to make any real sense. ‘And how if we just ate that or tried this or did this exercise or drank this smoothie, we’d be fixed. And,’ big snotty sob, ‘it’s not even truuuuuue. It’s not even true for her, for Elle. Even she doesn’t live like that. What hope have any of the rest of us got, without the beauty and the staff and the rich husband and the discipline … if it’s not even true WITH all that? I just … I just couldn’t shut up about what really happened that night.’
‘It might be noble, Frank,’ Troy said, ‘and I’m proud of you. But man, this was a shitty time for you to discover your principles.’
And Frances laughed at that. Because he was right. ‘But I am telling the truth, Troy. All that did happen. A teenager could have died. Elle’s duty of care was nowhere. She’s lying about her boys. Her fiancé’s an abusive arsehole. And her whole company is built on a lie.’
‘It might be true, Frank, but people like that don’t get done,’ Troy said. ‘People like us get done.’
• • •
As Frances moved around the ward, watching visitors file in with presents, fetching vases for flowers, passing out mince pies (‘No pastry for the heart patients!’) she realised that she should be feeling much worse than she did.
Considering that they were—she and Troy—in a world of trouble, she felt better than she had in months. She’d spoken to Abi Black, who wanted to thank her for looking after Arden but also to beg her not to identify her daughter in any of the stories that might follow her post. And Abi had said something that stuck with her. ‘Elle lies like other people breathe, but if you really know the truth, she can’t touch you. The weakness she has is that other people know way too much about her life now, her lies. And if you can back up even half of what you claim, she won’t come after you. Even Ben Bont’s money can’t shut down the rumours that will cause them damage they can’t undo.’
Abi was right, of course.
She received a letter from Ben Bont’s lawyers on the same day that the interview aired on Fifty Minutes.
The closest Frances came to having her own lawyer was a visit to her second cousin’s husband. He was a solicitor in Camden and had given her a free assessment for the price of some of her mum’s cannoli. She’d sat in his living room as her little third cousins played around them and recorded him as he told her this letter was a missive designed to scare her, but there was no real risk there. ‘You posted in a Facebook group, it came down, and now real reporters are sniffing around. He’s just trying to stop you from cooperating on any of their stories.’
And they were calling her: they were calling her all the time. Frances was letting the calls go. She was too scared to go any further, but her gut told her she’d been right to go as far as she did.
I feel good, she realised, as she went into the treatment room to restack the meds for the night-shift staff who’d be starting soon.
As soon as she walked in there, she realised she wasn’t alone.
‘Merry Christmas, Graham.’ It was Dr Darling. He stepped to the door and closed it. They were alone in a space barely big enough for one.
This time, Frances found her voice and used it. ‘Help!’
‘Don’t be so dramatic, Graham,’ said Darling, although a flash of annoyance crossed his face. ‘You don’t need to be afraid of me.’
I don’t?
‘I only popped in to see you since you’ve been so studiously avoiding my requests for updates on my patients. I wanted to check you didn’t have any … plans to make things difficult.’
Frances suddenly realised that he was scared. She’d been ignoring him, and he thought it was because she was going to make a complaint?
He took a small step—that was all the room there was—towards her and looked her up and down. ‘You look different, now you’re not breeding,’ he said. His voice made her skin prickle all over.
He probably couldn’t see her hands. She reached into the pocket of her uniform.
‘Do I, Doctor?’ She spoke loudly, clearly, face up. ‘I’m very busy. How can I help you?’ Suddenly she didn’t feel so afraid.
‘I just want to make sure there’s no misunderstanding between us,’ he said, his face so close to hers she could smell his breath, warm and a little boozy, as if he’d just enjoyed a Christmas lunch.
‘What kind of misunderstanding? You mean about how you groped me and said awful, sexual things to me?’ As Frances’s voice got stronger, a sense of relief swept over her—she was managing to talk.
‘That’s your interpretation,’ he said. ‘I would say you were flirting with me, and I responded in kind. I always knew you liked me.’
Frances surprised herself. She took a step towards him, forcing him to back away so he was against the door. ‘I was eight months’ pregnant. You called me a sow, commented on my breasts and weight, and sexually assaulted me in the room we’re in right now.’
‘And you loved it, Graham,’ Darling said, a sneer spreading across his face. ‘You loved every minute. Just like you’re loving this.’
Frances reached towards Darling as if to touch him—but really she was reaching under his arm to the doorhandle. She strongly yanked the door towards her, knocking him into her for a second before she squeezed past and out into the corridor.
Frances half-ran to where the other nurses were gathered, sharing some mince pies that had been brought in by a grateful patient’s mum.
Before she reached them, she pulled her phone from her pocket. Yes. Exactly what she’d hoped. With three strategic taps, she’d recorded the whole encounter.
She turned around to watch Darling, crumpled and glaring, emerge from the storeroom. And she waved.
First thing in the New Year, she was filing that complaint.
Come at me, Ben Bont, she thought.
Maybe this whole Elle-ness thing had helped her find her voice after all.
CHAPTER 37
THE WEDDINGS
‘This is like one of those bad American mini-movies,’ Arden said. She was standing behind her mum, pulling her curls up and under an arrangement of white lotus flowers.
‘What are you talking about?’ Abi asked. She was on her phone, poking wildly.
‘When everybody’s getting ready for the wedding but we don’t know if it’s going to happen—like, “will they, won’t they”.’
‘Well, I’m glad it’s giving you so much entertainment, Arden. It’s giving me a fucking heart attack.’
No one knew where Grace was. That morning, the house had woken up full of guests and soon to be awash with people setting up chairs and a buffet and a marquee in case it rained. And one of the brides was missing.
Even Sol and Otto had no idea where Grace was. The old station wagon she drove sometimes was gone, but all of her stuff was still here. The wedding dress was still hanging in the wardrobe, next to Abi’s.
‘Mum, OF COURSE Grace will be here,’ Arden said, as she pulled out a comb and started trying to smooth over Abi’s frizz. ‘And look, if she isn’t, you could always go all Philadelphia Story and remarry Dad at the last minute!’
‘That is the most depressing sentence I’ve ever heard.’ Abi sighed. ‘Fucking hell, Gracey.’
‘I’m not worried, Mum. You and Grace have a love story for the ages. You are meant to be together.’ And Arden spun Abi around to look into the tarnished dressing-table mirror. ‘See?’
‘Darling, you have done so much more than put lipstick on a pig here,’ Abi said, squeezing Arden’s hand. ‘But there’s no such thing as a love story for the ages. That’s the sixteen-year-old in you, right there.’
‘There is, too,’ said Arden. ‘River and I have one, and so do you and Grace.’
With that, Arden pulled out her new vlogging camera and began talking to it, as though it was a friend she was super-excited to see. ‘Mum number one’s make-up DONE, guys. Now it’s time for me and River to morph into woodland faeries for our places in the bridal party. For our how-tos, keep watching!’ And she snapped the camera shut.
‘Woodland faeries?’ Abi asked. ‘Do I know about that?’
‘Sure you do.’ Arden kissed her mum on top of her newly styled head. ‘And stop worrying. In those will-they-won’t-they movies, they nearly always do.’
‘Great,’ Abi said. ‘Then I’ll just sit here looking pretty until my princess comes.’
Abi waited for Arden to leave the room and then she pulled out her phone, dialled Grace again. ‘Grace, talk to me, please?’
• • •
Elle Campbell was on a commercial flight in her wedding dress.
She knew this was a touch dramatic, but she literally had not had time to change in between making the decision to go, and going. There were, after all, a lot of buttons on this thing.
She’d grabbed a jacket. And Alma. And the nappy bag. So really, she reasoned, fellow passengers on her Gold Coast to Melbourne flight might imagine that she was simply an overdressed new mum who’d lost her tiny mind.
Not that Elle ever gave a shit about what anyone else thought. But today, her mind was swirling at a rate where she couldn’t tell which thoughts were hers and which weren’t.
Although after last night, there was one thought that wasn’t shifting: I can’t live like this. Not for any prize. Not for any man.
As Alma whimpered against her chest, Elle buried her nose in her baby’s wispy hair. She also kept thinking, I didn’t leave you behind.
And the other thing she thought was, Here we go again.
But this time, she wasn’t alone. Baby Alma was snuggly secured in her lap, and in the seat next to her was her sister, Zoe.
As turbulence gave the plane a firm nudge, Zoe grabbed Elle’s hand. And they stayed sitting like that.
• • •
Ben Bont knew he shouldn’t fly in this mood. No, he really shouldn’t. But he had a houseful of people at Gurva. Business associates from Sydney and Melbourne, exes and employees, old friends from Krox. A fucking movie star, for god’s sake. His mother, even after all her threats. His sister. He had to get away.
Wherever Elle had gone, that’s where he was going to go. Because you don’t humiliate Ben Bont like that. You just don’t.
He should have known. He should have known this past week, but he should also have known since the very beginning that he and Elle were going to end up here. Enough people had warned him.
He was angry at himself for that. But what he was most angry about was who he had turned into along the way.
Since Christmas, and since the decision had been made to stop pushing for Elle’s divorce, to make the wedding a commitment ceremony, he had thought things had really mellowed. She seemed to relax, to stop looking at him as if she was peering from a great height. To stop jumping when he walked into a room. She was a bit more her old self. Confident. Cocky. Sexy.
