We Only Want What's Best, page 1
Carolyn Swindell is a writer, producer and comedian from Sydney. Following a career that’s spanned two decades in corporate, politics and professional sport, she turned her attention to writing after the birth of her second child. Her short story ‘Brief Encounter’ was published in Lonely Planet’s The Kindness of Strangers and has been turned into an award-winning short film, ‘Tango Underpants’, which is currently being turned into a feature film. Her narrative journalism has appeared in most major publications in Australia and internationally. Carolyn’s first solo stand-up show, Why DIY?, was shortlisted for Best Comedy at the 2019 Sydney Fringe Festival, and her second solo show, Nice Lady MP, completed a sold-out season at the Enmore Theatre as part of the 2022 Sydney Comedy Festival.
We Only Want What’s Best is her debut novel.
First published by Affirm Press in 2023
Boon Wurrung Country
28 Thistlethwaite Street
South Melbourne VIC 3205
affirmpress.com.au
Text copyright © Carolyn Swindell, 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without prior written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 9781922848499 (paperback)
Cover design by Andy Warren © Affirm Press
Author photograph by Monica Pronk
Typeset in Garamond Premier Pro by Affirm Press
For Pete. Of course.
BRIDGET
17 minutes to destination
Wanna hear a rich person’s joke? What’s the sexiest word in the English language? Upgrade.
Hilarious, right? Especially since they can just bloody pay for it anyway. But rich people love free stuff, love getting treated like VIPs. Well, they can keep their stupid upgrades.
Trust me on this: no matter what anyone says, you do not want that upgrade.
A blonde I don’t recognise surprises me by picking up my glass. Fourteen hours in and they’re still trotting out hosties I haven’t seen? Maybe it’s not just the passengers who can’t breach that business-class curtain. I force a smile and ask for another diluted lemonade. ‘For my daughter,’ I add.
Becky is keeping her head turned towards the window. She’s going to feel sick for hours.
‘I’m sorry,’ says the hostie, ‘we’ve already started our descent. I could get you another bottle of water?’
I nod my thanks and get my shaking hands busy tucking the blanket around Becky’s feet, so relieved that we will at least be finishing this flight together – and we’ll be able to get out of here soon. What the hell was I thinking? She’s only twelve.
Well, clearly I wasn’t thinking – just distracted by those bloody upgrades and all that Business Class and Premium Economy bullshit. Should of stayed in Economy like we always planned.
Well, at least that part’s over now. My daughter’s back next to me, where she belongs. I squeeze her foot – maybe too hard because she pulls it away.
She points out the window, and I follow her eyes down to where the Pacific Ocean, glowing orange, meets the coast. The City of Angels is sprawled below us, waking to a new day. And for us, the start of our holiday.
The Roberts girls are in America. La La Land. And not just to visit, but to perform at Disneyland. A genuine once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me and Bex and the other girls: two of our own dance numbers, plus the chance to work with the Disney team to learn the steps for the parade down Main Street, USA. Then three days to see the Sunset Strip, Hollywood, Venice Beach, Santa Monica Pier – everything.
I clench my fist hard enough for my nails to dig into my palm, willing away the tears that threaten as I think about how long we’ve worked for this trip.
Our plane tilts in the sky – ‘banking’ is what Michael told me it’s called – and Becky looks sharply at me. A feeling of falling threatens, so I smile at her until she looks away, then turn my gaze back into the cabin and focus on steadying my breathing.
Nearly there.
The empty row of four premium economy seats where I let my Bex sit unsupervised with those older girls is still littered with their junk from the long flight. Headphones. The plastic bags that once contained the headphones. Blankets. The plastic bags that once contained the blankets. Everything wrapped in plastic to separate you from the person who used it before you. An empty water bottle wedged into a seat pocket beside the laminated instructions telling us we should remove high heels in the unlikely event of an emergency.
Across the cabin, the only passenger left with us in Premium Economy is sitting with her eyes closed. A shrink. I don’t remember her name, although I do remember her telling me. Like me, she didn’t start this journey in Premium Economy. She came from down the back, where Becky and I should have sat. I’ve come from the front.
Downgraded.
In so many ways.
I do remember hearing her tell someone that this was her first upgrade, that sure, she’d be happy to sit here for the rest of the flight. She doesn’t seem like she’s watching me, but that’s her job – how she’s paying for her upgrade. I wonder what she’d do if I tried to go through that curtain into Business Class.
As if.
You know, anywhere else, those curtains would be rude, but up here, we’re just supposed to accept it. Just accept that the people who have paid more – the rich people of Business Class (even though Michael says most of them are just there on the company dollar anyway) – don’t want to be looked at by the not-rich people.
At 35,000 feet, we say okay to that. We say, sure, it’s okay for there to be more leg room – and with it, a greater chance of avoiding the deep vein thrombosis that could actually kill us all – and better wine and better food and better service for the people who can pay, and that we shouldn’t even be allowed to see them. It’s not a secret, it’s just called being discreet.
The hostie – sorry, flight attendant – has returned with a bottle of water. ‘How’s your daughter feeling?’
‘She’s fine,’ I say quickly.
‘Good. And how are you doing? You okay?’
I nod and smile and thank her for asking. Polite. So polite.
In an effort to look presentable, and so I don’t have to look at her, I look down and focus on tying a knot in the side of the crumpled aeroplane pyjama top they’ve found for me. These things were designed for fat off-duty businessmen. Not at all how I imagined I’d look wheeling my suitcase through LAX.
Glen and Simone are sitting up there in Business Class, sipping chardonnay and laughing because they’ve gotten away with it. What I want to do is to scream at the hostie, shake her shoulders and ask her how the hell she thinks I’m feeling?
But I don’t do that – of course I don’t.
They don’t care. Not about me. No, they’ve managed to convince everyone that I’m some sort of psycho. Hell, Simone nearly bloody convinced me I was imagining it.
And everyone believed them. Rich people get better seats – and they get believed.
So, for now, I’m pretending I don’t know anything.
I smile again, not giving any of them reason to change their minds about me. No reason to do anything. Me and Bex will just get off this plane. We’ll file through Customs and Immigration in an orderly fashion and get to our hotel. I just need to get my kid well away from these people.
Then maybe I can worry about other people’s children.
It was a stupid birthday wish. I just had to be in LA with my daughter for my big birthday – had to fly us out a day earlier than the others – didn’t I? It’s kind of weird timing: with crossing the International Date Line, the very last day of my twenties will turn out to be something like forty-one hours long. I thought that’d be great. Now I wish it had
been the shortest day of my life.
Moving my jaw sideways helps a bit; one of my ears pops. Then imbalance. Again.
The seatbelt sign’s on. I don’t know when that happened, but it’s another sign we are close.
Announcements. The second officer welcoming us to Los Angeles. Weather report. Local time 6.35am. We’ve made up some time. Been a pleasure having us on board.
Liar.
I try to focus on happier thoughts.
Disneyland’s guest talent producers have chosen us. Of course they have: Expressions is the best. And JPeG (that’s what we call our Junior Performance Group – cute, hey?) is absolutely the best. That’s why Becky and I moved across the country to take up her place there. They’re so professional. We’re the newest ones there, me and Bex, so I’m still finding out all the amazing things about it, but the choreography all gets sent home on branded USBs. They even have a wardrobe mistress: me. That’s officially why I’m going a day earlier than the rest of them – to make sure the costumes all get properly sorted and ready.
Expressions really knows what they’re doing.
And my Becky’ll be a star. And, unlike some, she’ll get there on talent and work, work, work.
If only I’d let Becky stay behind and fly with all the others a day later. Then again, I don’t think I would have done that even if it hadn’t been my birthday. I’ve never been a drop-and-run kind of mum. I’m always there. I know what’s going on with my daughter. I’m part of her
I should never have left her alone on this plane with those girls and without me right beside her.
The seatbelt sign goes off with a loud PING, and the noise of activity increases around the cabin.
I exhale for what feels like the first time in fourteen hours.
It’s over.
SIMONE
17 hours 32 minutes to destination
Glen’s watching me. He’s been watching me for nearly a week, waiting for a reaction that he can use as proof.
He won’t get one.
I used to get up this early every day and be back from a run in the half-light before Glen, Zahra and the boys had even opened their eyes. Now that Glen’s boys are at uni, there’s more chance of seeing them ending yesterday at this hour than getting a jump on today. But back then, I’d get home and sit on this deck with my coffee until one of them came out.
We’re elevated here, up among the grey-green leaves of the eucalypts, where the kookaburras compete for attention with the rainbow lorikeets – which we still call lollikeets, the way Zahra used to when she was little.
When we have visitors from overseas – Glen loves to bring Japanese and American clients here – they exclaim at the view. The blue of the ocean (close, but still not as close as Glen would like), the lushness of our bush garden, the gleaming glass that showcases it all. We are a brochure for wealthy Sydney life. And Toby mocked me for wanting it.
When I got the news, I felt more angry than sad. It was Glen who told me. He’d heard it on the radio – David didn’t even call. ‘Single automobile accident’ is what it’s called.
Glen was gentle and sympathetic, the way you are when your spouse’s friend has died. He hugged me and rubbed my back while he held me for a long minute and we both waited for my tears.
Not-crying would have been a reaction too, so I made a show of wiping away a tear – a quiet tear that Glen couldn’t definitively say was or wasn’t there.
Then I asked the questions. I didn’t care about the answers and I still don’t – the details are irrelevant – but I needed to be seen to be interested in knowing everything.
The funeral is today. It’s not in a church because apparently they’re still in some demand on Sundays. But Toby’s wishes – because of course Toby had wishes about such things – involved being buried on a Sunday. So it’s graveside (very dramatic) and then a restaurant (very pragmatic). Today at 1pm. By then we’ll be somewhere over the South Pacific, I’m guessing.
I know it’s impossible; Toby didn’t plan this. But he knew we were flying out today. He knew I would have to have negotiated a change in our travel plans with Glen if I wanted to be at the funeral. Knew that Glen wanted to see the eclipse in LA. Knew that I wanted to fly a day earlier than Jayson and the rest of the Expressions families.
He also knew that I didn’t actually want to fly at all – not this week of all weeks, with just ten days left until Jacinta’s politely requested lunch for a quick ‘check-in’ on the manuscript I was supposed to give to her five months ago.
And he knew that, of all things, I especially didn’t want to be flying for bloody dancing.
Toby knew it all. He spent close to a year gently prising me open again. And now it feels like somehow, even from beyond the grave, he’s fucking with my life.
But Glen, Glen waited for me to bring it up – even without knowing about the tentative détente Toby and I had been cultivating under the guise of professional engagement between an artist and a freelance arts writer. Toby has been part of my life since we were basically children – children who thought we were adults – so Glen was on alert.
I played the mother card – told Glen that I was sad to be missing the funeral, but that Zahra needed us to be together this week. That we needed to show we were a united family. That it would be good for us all to get away from Sydney for a bit, let the last bits of public interest in Toby’s death run out.
Once Glen was sure I wouldn’t accept, he did the right thing and offered to change our plans.
I shook my head and thanked him.
~
It’s time to go. Glen is waving at me through the window, telling me that the car has arrived. I whisper a farewell to Toby and turn, placing my weight carefully on my cane before heading into the house.
BRIDGET
17 hours 32 minutes to destination
I seriously reckon she waited until the moment I finished pouring the milk down the sink (it’ll just go off while we’re away) before she grabbed the Weet-Bix out of the pantry and slammed a bowl on the bench so hard I thought it might break.
‘There’s no milk,’ she says.
‘Yeah sorry, I just poured it out.’
If my daughter did happiness at all, this would have made her happy. Well, satisfied anyway, at a chance to add to the long list of stuff she’s angry with me about.
But not today. Today, even though we’re about to leave for the airport instead of school, Becky’s pissed.
That’s what the make-up is about.
She’s a dancer; she’s used to wearing make-up on stage. But not otherwise. She’s never even been interested in lip gloss, and she knows Michael and I don’t want her wearing it. Especially Michael. I mean, I do wear a bit of make-up most days. Even though I’m a lot younger than the other mums and could probably get away without any make-up and still look better than most of them, I do still make the effort – you gotta look after yourself, make yourself look nice for your husband, right?
Not like what Becky’s done, though. You wouldn’t call what I do an effort compared to what she’s laid on today.
I pretend not to notice, just wiping the crumbs from the breakfast she doesn’t want off the bench into my hand before chucking them into the kitchen sink. The reflection in the oven door tells me she’s still standing there, glaring at me. In theory, it’s over the milk, but really she wants me to notice her make-up and tell her to take it off.
I rearrange the notes on the fridge. Shuffle the photos and school notices under their magnets and move them away from the newspaper clipping that we put pride of place in the middle last week. Becky is smiling at the camera, her perfect dancer’s bun adding height and making her lean body look taller – that made her happy – as she poses on the stairs with Mr F, the other smiling dancers forming an arc behind them.
We’ve got six copies, having raided the letterboxes of the other flats in our block. It’s just the local rag, they won’t mind, and our story about the Expressions trip to Disneyland is definitely more important than anything else our neighbours may have wanted to read.
It’s a shame they won’t get to see Becky in the paper, though.
Zahra and Keely couldn’t make it, so it was just Becky posing for the photographer. The other girls were there, too, but Bex was the only lead role. She looks amazing.
I hope she’ll notice that I’m looking at the article and it will make her happy.
No such luck.
She’s filthy because we’re flying a day early. She wants to be with all the other girls, not by ourselves. She knows I have to go early, but thought we could just go on different flights. No chance.
Why not, Mum? We’re a TEAM, I should fly with my team.
There are plenty of girls going without any parent at all.
You’ll see me the NEXT DAY anyway.
You don’t want me to have any friends, do you?
We haven’t spoken properly in days – a long time for us. I’d usually pass the blame on to Michael, but that won’t work now.
‘We’ll get you something to eat at the airport, honey. It’s just about time to go anyway. Just going to the loo, then I’ll order the Uber.’
Her make-up looks awful. It’s perfect stage make-up, designed to be seen from the back of an auditorium. Designed to ensure other people’s grandparents will take their gaze from their own Maddie or Chelsea or Georgia – designed to draw their eye like an emergency flare.
But I just keep my mouth shut. Michael would’ve hit the roof, told her to go and take it off, that she’s way too young. But he doesn’t really understand. She’s nearly thirteen – shouting at her just isn’t the answer anymore.
I close the bathroom door gently, as though the noise might set her off, then open the vanity cabinet to see what I have to work with. Most of my make-up – and hers – is packed, ready to get to work in LA, but there’s still enough here. Enough that Becky has to pretend not to notice when I walk out, enough for me to feel ridiculous at being so dolled up so early in the day.
