Marianne Robins
Last Thursday, Mandy tried dining alone in a restaurant. Hovering just inside the entrance, she allowed her hair to fall over her face. A waiter strode towards her through the maze of tables, his eyebrows raised.
‘Just one?’ he boomed.
‘Just one,’ she echoed.
He led her to a table laid for two near the window. The view opened onto a busy street. Feeling on display, Mandy sat down while he removed the extra setting. She had neglected to bring a book and the menu was too small to hide behind. The wine lists looked a little taller, but no one had offered her one of those. Anxiety surged up her throat. Hushed conversations and the subdued clinking of cutlery seemed to amplify her wildly beating heart. Filled with panic, she fled before the waiter returned.
Tonight, having bought her meagre supplies in Coles, she makes her way to a food hall, where she feels safe. This evening she chooses McDonalds, nameless, her face closed, she knows no one will notice her there. As predicted, the teenager doesn’t look up when he passes her order across the counter. She sits at one of the plastic tables between two filled with boisterous families. The children, bouncing off the tables and chairs, keep their parents too busy to notice the lone diner.
Mandy eats rapidly. Sharp bites cut into the bun with precision. Moist cardboard texture swirls around her mouth. It is hard to swallow. Anger fills her stomach and throat; there is no room for nourishment. She slurps a mouthful of fizzy fluid to help swallow the pulp.
One of the children tumbles into her. Mandy’s drink spills out onto her burger. Soggy bun becomes mush. Taking another bite, she almost enjoys the feeling of revulsion. It’s a welcome relief from the anger and self-loathing that has burned within her for the last six months.
The families leave. Without camouflage, she feels exposed. Leaving no trace of her meal, Mandy clears the table and carries two small shopping bags out to her car. Still, she cannot shake the feeling that people are staring at her, wondering what is wrong.
The answer is everything; everything since that day at the back of the church. The memory is still frozen in her present. Back then she was a glowing bride; laughing with her bridesmaids, she floated into the church. Urgent whispering barely penetrated her happy haze, but what did catch her attention was the silent organ. Instead, the shuffling of 180 bottoms, their owners turning towards her in unison, echoed around the walls. They looked at her because there was nothing to see at the front of the church. It was empty. David hadn’t come.
One of her first thoughts, when she realised there would be no wedding and no reception, was what to do with the cake? The cake: it had taken so much of her thoughts and time. All of her creative energy had gone into the design; its whiter than white icing, three tiers and a cascade of green sugar leaves. It had cost so much and now it was all to be thrown away.
For days she couldn’t eat anything. Ironically, it had been the same when they first got engaged; back then she was sated with love, but after that day at the church, it was pain and fury that filled her. Consumed by it, she had become anger.
Although David had removed all trace of himself from their home, she found it unbearable to live there. Changing jobs hadn’t helped either. She found it difficult to see friends, rarely returning phone calls or emails. They wanted to talk about her soap-opera life; their concerned enquiries barely veiled their thrill at a juicy scandal. Facebook featured several versions of her story.
Even now, she feels the rejection every moment of every day. When she tries to sleep, her mind is filled with images of pitying eyes.
Mandy keeps her apartment immaculate. Everything is ordered, nothing is out of place. It is almost as if no one lives there. As soon as she arrives, she unpacks her groceries; a potato, with a little green already showing in its skin, several instant meals in boxes, a loaf of sliced white bread, a box of cereal and a couple of tired apples. Her purchases are tasteless mouthfuls to eat in front of TV, as she watches men and women desperate for the world to look at them. Mandy has had her fifteen minutes of fame, and their clawing for attention just reinforces her isolation.
The next day at work she sips instant coffee. A ham-and-cheese-filled croissant, now cold, stares up at her from its ripped paper bag. She likes this office; as long as she keeps the invoices paid on time, she need only communicate with people on paper or via a computer screen. Few people notice her and fewer acknowledge her. She has barely allowed herself to remember that today is her birthday.
She takes a bite of the croissant; its greasy filling slips from the pastry, landing on her skirt. Mandy scoops up the offending yellow and pink goo. The oily stain leaves a dark smudge across her grey skirt. Fighting back tears, she hurries to the ladies’ to try to repair the damage. A tsunami of self-pity threatens to engulf her. She pulls her anger back to the surface. A tear-stained face will arouse too much interest among her colleagues.
Taking a deep breath she returns to her desk. There on top of a pile of invoices is a plate of lovingly baked and decorated cupcakes. Delicate butterflies perch on each iced surface, their wings so lifelike they appear poised to fly. A card nestles between two cakes.
Happy birthday,
Hope the year ahead is filled with joyful surprises.
Warmest wishes,
Jodie
Mandy begins to sit down, but memories of childhood slumber parties, making cupcakes with friends for their giggle-filled midnight feasts, cause a bubble of joy to rise in her chest. Lifting the plate, Mandy heads for Jodie’s desk.