Free Gucci Mamas by Cate Kendall Page A

a faint guttural noise came up.
    Blood rushed hot and fast through her head, white spots of rage danced before her eyes, and she silently counted to ten in French, German and finally Mandarin.
    Still feeling homicidal, she began reciting her emergencymantra over and over in her head: ‘It’s not happening, it’s not happening, it’s not happening,’ and moved away from a still-dripping Charley and into the party. Jack and Chloe immediately joined the cacophony of sound and activity, but Charley stayed close behind, now guilty and bereft with his head down and thumb firmly in his mouth.
    In the centre of the hall a massive table dazzled with shining wrapping paper, metres of curling ribbon and dozens of gifts. Mim laid her gift on a wedge of free space and looked up to see the mother of the birthday girl, Tiffany, teetering towards her in a leopard-skin lycra top and leopard faux-fur stiletto pumps. ‘Darling!’ She bestowed two generous kisses in the air above Mim’s cheeks.
    Their friendly greeting was suddenly ambushed by Tiffany’s poisonous mother-in-law. Dressed head-to-toe in Louis Feraud with impeccably polished nails, pumps, diamonds and freshly sharpened dentures, she moved stealthily towards Mim.
    ‘Mim, you know Cliff’s mum, Beatrice,’ Tiffany asked with an apologetic look, moving reluctantly away to greet other arrivals.
    ‘Of course,’ Mim said, hiding a grimace.
    ‘We thought you must have had a better offer,’ Beatrice rasped in her crow-like voice, looking ever-so-subtly at her Cartier.
    Mim could have slapped her. ‘Oh no, you know us, so much to do, so little time to fit everyone in,’ she replied cattily.
    ‘Anyway, you look just fabulous as always, Mim. I don’t know how you manage to make all your little eclectic pieces work. I feel so much safer just sticking to the designer’s vision.’ Beatrice smoothed the lapel of her puce silk suit.
    ‘It’s not happening, it’s not happening,’ Mim’s mind recited.
    ‘Well, you look great too, Beatrice,’ she said, tired of the bitchy undercurrent.
    ‘Thanks. And this is …? Which one again?’
    Charley glared at the woman from behind his fist.
    ‘Charley.’
    ‘Aaahh, of course, your eldest is called James after his father, isn’t he?’
    ‘Yes, we call him Jack for short.’
    ‘Darling, I hate to intrude but aren’t you concerned about the …’ Beatrice lowered her voice and mouthed in a loud whisper: ‘psychological ramifications of the … well … thumb issue?’ She gestured meaningfully at Charley. ‘Not to mention the hideous dental implications you’ll be facing. What a shame for you, darling. Of course, my son’s an orthodontic surgeon when the time comes.’ Without waiting for a response she continued, ‘He’s a bit S. H. Y., is he, poor love. He might have felt more comfortable in a costume like all the other children, rather than those,’ she paused for effect, ‘soiled clothes.’
    ‘Oh no, no, I had it all planned …’ Mim began.
    ‘Of course you did,’ Tiffany interrupted as she re-joined them. ‘It’s okay, Charley, I provided extra costumes for just this reason. They’re hanging on a rack in the hall. Now, there’s a circus in the garden, Star Wars in the home theatre, food in the dining room and a quiet reflection space in the morning room if you feel the need for downtime.’
    Beatrice sauntered off to find a little man to refill her brandy and water, and Mim breathed a sigh of relief, feeling rather battered from the social onslaught. She looked over at Tiffany, who was settling Charley by showing him a first-edition copy of Tintin. It was easy to believe that she swanned around town as a typical Toorak housewife, enjoying a life of bridge mornings, manicures and cocktail parties. But Mim sensed some sadness lay beneath Tiffany’s bubbly over-privileged exterior; she knew her friend’s life wasn’t all diamonds and roses.
    Mim wandered into the domed function room where a nervous