On Women Friends

This afternoon I went with my sister to visit one of Mother's friends. We took along food and garden offerings, little tokens of the companionship she and Mother shared- and despite my earlier misgivings it was a wonderful afternoon.

Before she died my Mother had asked me to make this visit, telling me which plants she wanted me to take. She knew how this small request was a Big Thing for a very private person to do.

I always thought there was a knack to friendship amongst women - some mysterious code of conduct I had never been inducted into. Friendship with men and mixed company seemed so much easier. No such friend ever sought to intrude into my innermost thoughts, we just got out and did stuff-easy.

Today I saw there is no secret woman code. When there is a match of interest and temperament, and lashings of good will,  the level of acceptance generates rapport. It must be this rapport that meshes women together, stitching us in concentric circles of relatedness. 

Most of my Mother's friends are strong, independent women leading busy lives. The one I met today was no exception, yet she made the visit so easy we stayed for ages- sharing ideas, family happenings and time together- stitching a new segment into the cloth of interlinking friendships. Thank you Claudia. 

Drawing from Life continues:
That week, and for some time afterwards Rhona found concentrating on any task was an effort. There was such a potent sense of loss clouding her mind that the usual routine activities seemed trivial. On Thursday she was late dressing and nearly missed the bus to work. Once there she began packing orders with an assumed composure. Nevertheless she caught Paul eyeing her several times with concern.

While dinner was cooking that night Rhona finally brought her sketchbooks and pencils out of hiding. All day at work she had been thinking of Eric and what he had told her when they had discussed personal power. It was only a general, theoretical conversation but the emphatic way he gave his recipe for success had embedded itself in her mind:
 “The key is to be gentle on yourself, but relentless. Be ruthless in clearing away any behaviour or attitude that inhibits your goals.” 
Her own goal was to return to a creative life, he had known that without being told, as he had known most things. Being without him now she craved such work- anything to shift her focus from the past to the future.

Gracie had a lot of homework that evening but appetite got the better of her, as it often did. She came out of her room to find Rhona working at one end of the dining table.

She picked up the spiral bound notebook her mother had on the table and flicked over the pages. “I didn’t know you could do this. Cute, hey that’s Charlie’s cat isn’t it?”

Rhona put her pencil down and leaned over the book as Gracie held it.

“I did that one today. She just came and sat down on the packing bench right where I was working. It was so lovely and just what I needed, you know, to have her there just being comfortable beside me.”

“Awesome. This is cool, the one here with the faces in the bus window.” Gracie looked up at her “I’ve never seen you drawing before.”

“Well most of the time I have that little book in my bag. I have to practice if I’m going to get back into it.”

Gracie put the book back on the table and sat down, asking what she meant.

It was a shy sort of smile Rhona gave her, as she explained her new ambition to work as an artist.

Gracie approved. “Wow. Hey Auntie Grace would be pleased. She always says it’s a crime not to use your talents.”

Rhona hunched her shoulders and put the pencil down, moving it exactly parallel to the spine of the book. “Maybe, but I’m not brave enough to tell anyone just yet.”

Later that evening Rhona rang Valerie, and invited her over. She put the phone down afterwards smiling and shaking her head. Val had just given her what she called “a right tune up” for failing to keep in touch. Her cardinal sin was forgetting to clear her answer phone. Rhona couldn’t start to explain about Eric Bates. Val was right- she had disappeared off the radar for a while, but she was wrong in attributing that silence to depression. It was true the answer phone hadn’t been cleared though. She had forgotten to check when she got home.

Rhona played the tape, becoming very still when she heard Philip’s voice. It was a fine, low pitched voice that matched the man. He spoke in an unhurried way but it was clear the business was urgent. He would like her to work for him on the remaining weekdays, except Thursdays, from now until Christmas. She knew that if he had asked a month ago she would have agonised over the decision for hours, worrying if she was informed enough or capable enough- or any of a dozen other concerns. Now she had no hesitation over her own abilities. She did, however, wonder if it was wise to agree. He was Bill Egan’s best friend.

When she returned the call Philip was completely business-like. He apologised for making arrangements at such short notice. He really did need help to keep the gallery open while he was so busy with other work. There was both surprise and pleasure in his voice when he accepted her offer to come in the next day.

While she was in this administrative frame of mind Rhona checked her email. She was deleting the advertising ones and idly watching the list flick over when one caught her eye. “Le Domino Noir” was the subject. It reminded her of an opera. It was an opera she was sure, but the sender Justin Clarke was not known to her. She clicked on it anyway, out of curiosity.

He was based in Nagasaki, of all places, and coming to New Zealand for three weeks around Easter time, part holiday and part work. He had known Charlie years ago when they were both training in London and flatted together. All very nice she thought, but nothing to do with me unless he wants to come and stay. That seemed unlikely.
Reading on she discovered he was in the fashion business, with a predominantly mature Japanese and American clientele. This would be possibly his last collection, which he planned to launch on his website for the Northern Hemisphere winter. Would she be interested in collaborating with him?

Rhona read the mail through twice more. This was an ambitious call. Could she manage photography at this professional level? There was a link to his website and a series of contact details in the mail. Her forefinger flicked back and forth across her leg as she waited for his site to load. It did so quickly and the layout impressed her with its understated and elegant presentation. She found his profile further in.

There was a photo of him- a grey haired man in his sixties, immaculately suited and clean shaven with impossibly even teeth. Justin Clarke seemed to specialise in sculpted minimalist lines, using tailoring and drape of superlative textiles, rather than the artifice of frills flowers and applied ornament. It dawned on her that no mention of price was to be found anywhere on the website. The text was speckled with words such as “bespoke” and “individual” which told her all she needed to know about his target market.

Rhona glanced from the screen to the board above the computer where she had pasted some of her recent photos. Fashion photography was a whole other art form and not one that had engaged her interest, beyond an appreciation of clothes. Surely Charlie had oversold her talents this time. What could he possibly want from her? She decided to ask about it before she replied.

 The rest of her mail took only minutes to clear, it was mostly school newsletters and sports notices for Gracie. Nothing from her older children she noted wryly. She had been amazed at their rancour over the separation. She raised an eyebrow at the screen “what would they say if they knew I was wealthy now?” she asked herself in an innocent tone. She had made no effort to inform her older children of her new financial status. It was impossible to do so without drawing attention to John’s deceit.

There was nothing from their father either. Since the solicitor became involved John’s constant mail and unannounced visits had stopped.  So, despite Susan’s earlier pleas for reconciliation, she could only assume that he was as comfortable with their new arrangements as she was. Either that or Marcus had given him good incentive to stay away.

She called out to Gracie. “I’m just going to ring Charlie and find out what he’s been up to. Some fashion designer is emailing me about Easter.”

Gracie put her head around the door. “What fashion designer Mum?”

Rhona rolled her eyes. “Justin somebody – it’s probably a mistake but I’ll find out.”

“Charlie doesn’t make mistakes. It’ll be another one of his glamorous friends I’ll bet- like that textile artist he brought here last year. Come in the lounge then, I want to listen in.”

When Charlie answered Rhona let him know they would have to swap to weekend walks until after Christmas because she would be working for Philip. After letting him distract her with minor matters she came to the point of her call. “I have just had an email from Japan. Start at the beginning and tell me what you’ve been organizing.”

There was a deep throated chuckle at his end. He clearly thought he had excelled himself this time. He gave her the background, stressing that Justin was looking for all sorts of people at the New Zealand end. “models, major domo, camp mother, all sorts” was how Charlie described the requirements.

Rhona suggested it would be simpler to use an agency. Charlie clearly thought she had no conception of how things worked, telling her  “He is using an agency darling, but there is such a thing as the network too you know.”

She was curled up on the sofa, grinning at Gracie who, from her vantage on the floor, was hanging on every word.  She sniffed dismissively, teasing him, and added “Anyway there can’t be any shortage of good photographers in his part of the world either.”

“He wasn’t after a photographer.”

“Well what’s he writing to me for then?”

“Because he wants a model.”

Rhona frowned. “But I don’t know any models. I’m a housewife.”

She rolled her eyes when he told her sharply to use the past tense in front of the H word.

Charlie left a theatrical pause before saying delightedly “He wants you to model.”

Rhona threw one foot in the air and made the very indelicate sound of a balloon being deflated. “Ha” She made an effort to pull herself together. “Don’t be wet Charlie. Send him a photo. I’m a dwarf on the wrong side of forty-five!” She broke in to more fits of hilarity. When a reasonable pause came Charlie said, still sounding pleased with himself, “He has a photo, several. That’s how he knew you were perfect.”

“What?” She sat up straight, suddenly serious. “What photos?”

She looked down at Gracie in horror when he told her he had sent away some photos Paul had taken of her. They had been fooling about with cameras one weekend, eons ago it seemed.

The girl was sitting with her chin on her bent knees, her eyes dilated with excitement.

Charlie sounded excited too. “It’s true. Didn’t he mention he designs for petite women, mature women.”

Rhona tried to speak calmly. “Yes but Charlie be realistic. Apart from genetic blessings good models are trained professionals. They start when they’re kids Gracie’s age. Besides there isn’t a lens effect soft enough to cover all my wrinkles. I just couldn’t.”

He insisted that was no objection in a digital world. “Besides, Justin wanted a real woman- with real personality- not a professional model. His whole creative idea for the shoot hinges on it.”

She jumped up from the sofa, narrowly missing Gracie, who dodged quickly out of the way. She began raking one hand though her hair and inspecting the ends with disgust. Charlie waited out the silence while she looked down at her daughter nodding and wriggling frantically. Finally she said “I’ll go if Gracie goes. Not even for Charlie Rivers will I go alone. I don’t suppose you’re going to be there to hold my hand. Anyway Paul would hate it.”

Charlie resisted the temptation. “No I hadn’t planned to go.”

“See. I thought not. Why do I love you Charlie? Remind me will you?” Gracie had her fist in her mouth and was making muffled choking noises. “You do realize how many of my panic buttons this is going to push.”

When she got off the phone Gracie leaped on her shrieking “Awesome” and “he’s amazing.” She tried Rhona’s patience parodying models and photographers in mime.

When she stopped prancing about she asked “Can I really come too?”

“What? Of course you’re coming. I’m scared to death. Besides you’ll love it. Right now I want to panic OK?”

“Cool. Can I tell Francie?”

Rhona just flapped a hand, pushing Gracie off her in a mock wrestle. As she went out on the porch for a cigarette she muttered to herself “damn- models probably don’t smoke either.”