Joanna: I was in the garden, dead-heading some roses, when my husband of some 25 years came out and declared that he had fallen in love and was going to live with his secretary. We’re not supposed to call them secretaries now, are we? But that is all that I could see that she was – apart from the obvious. A common little thing, Kylie something-or-other. Pretty enough if you like that sort of thing – too much eye make-up and too short skirts – but men do, don’t they? As my mother once said, “Love looks not with the eye but the cock.” Mother could be vulgar at times, it was a rather endearing trait in a character which could otherwise be a bit forbidding.

In moments of crisis I tend to revert to the practical. “Where will you live?” I asked. He looked a bit crestfallen. I think he expected rather more of a reaction. “She has a flat.” I didn’t need to ask, I could imagine the pokey little bed-sit in some ghastly suburb. So that’s where you’ve been when you ”couldn’t get home because of Covid”, I thought. “Well you’d best pack – pardon me if I don’t help – there are clean shirts in your middle drawer.”

I went on dead-heading the roses, perhaps with a little more vigour, and then progressed to pulling out the forget-me-nots – they were past their best. It took some time for him to actually leave. I don’t think the poor dear had ever packed for himself in his life; he’d gone from the over tender-loving care of his mother to my only somewhat less sympathetic regime. So I got quite a lot done; I even made a start on the kitchen garden. 

When he had finally gone, I rang Julia. “Do come over darling, and bring a bottle. The little tart has finally got her hooks into him.”

Kevin: I couldn’t believe she took it so well. Joanna, I mean. I mean it must have been a shock but she just kept on gardening and told me where things were … which was nice of her. I got away without a scene. I was shit-scared of a scene – Jo can always beat me in a fight. I waved to her as I drove off, but she was pulling something out and she didn’t look up. So I was away … and free. Free to go to Kylie.

It comes over you really, doesn’t it? Love, I mean. I mean there you are going OK and then this thing happens and everything is arse-up. 

Jo and me, we’d been alright for years. Christ, we’d been married 25, despite her bloody mother, and we’d brought up the boy … actually I think that’s when it started, when the son and heir left home.  She’d been working in the business – not really my secretary, sort of office manager and all sorts, and then she suddenly says she’s off. “We need to employ an assistant for you, Kevin.”

Well, I couldn’t argue – it was her bloody mother who put up the dough, so if the daughter wants to jump ship I can’t argue, can I? So we need to do some interviews. Plenty of applicants. There were some good competent middle-aged ladies that I would have been happy with and one gay guy – he was good too – and then there was Kylie. Jo’s never going to let me hire her, I thought, but she said, “This young woman is exactly the breath of fresh air this business needs to go forward and to keep you energised, Kevin.” 

And so, after a few twists and turns, blips and bumps – aided by lock-down – here I am heading into town with the top down on the car. Heading in to a new, free life. With some really good hard rock blasting on the car stereo. 

Energised! I’ve never felt so good in my life … I think.

Kylie: I had put some colour in, washed my hair and I was blow-drying – there’s something lux about blow-drying isn’t there? I was really enjoying a bachelor girl’s night in, pampering myself and then the phone rings. Kevin has left his wife and he’s coming here, but it’s going to be OK because he has a supply of clean shirts, so I don’t need to worry! Jesus Christ! Jesus Fucking Christ! Sorry, Jesus. (I’m, sort of, still a good Catholic girl.)

It’s insane – he wants to fucking live with me! I mean fuck! I just wanted, well I wanted – Jesus what did I want? I suppose I wanted to prove that I was as good as his snooty wife, and I did like him, but live with him? Christ, he’s nearly fifty! He snores and farts and takes up too much of the bed. How the fuck do I get out of this?

It was funny, back then – when I did the interview – there she was all tarted up in a silk blouse and pencil skirt – his wife – I thought I had no chance, I’m not that style. But she “loved” me, and insisted that he hire me “for the good of the business”. I was flattered. And Kevin and I worked well for quite a while, but then came Covid and some nights we had to lock-down and stay in the office – public transport was down. And he is nice, so we did it, and it was nice so we made excuses to do it at my place and so it went on for a few months. But I never tried to make him think that I wanted to marry him and take on his poxy business. Christ, it’d be the last thing I’d want.

But he’s on his way here and he thinks he’s going to live with me. What the fuck am I going to tell him? I suppose I could say I’m pregnant – but he’ll get all clucky and want to look after me. I suppose I could tell him I have to go away for a family crisis – that might work and I could give him a sympathy shag. Whatever, I’m out of here tomorrow. Gone.

Julia: Joanna called and said to come over and bring a bottle – Kevin had buggered off and we were to have a drink. Coals to Newcastle I thought. You couldn’t call her an alcoholic, but the imperturbable Joanna usually has a half-way decent white open by 11. But it never disturbs the immaculate surface – there is never a hair out of place in the perfect “posh bob” and pearls are worn even when gardening – which is often.

Since she left the family business, Joanna has spent most of her time down here, and somehow, we’ve grown close. An unlikely friendship, but we have coffee often and I really enjoy her company. She, despite her apparent “up-tightedness”, seems to accept my sexuality, and I like that. We get along well and, at times she seems to try to be more intimate with me – talk about more personal things. She talks about Kevin’s secretary often. I can’t work out whether she resents her or wants her to succeed – it’s confusing. 

When she called I had just put down the brushes on what I think may be one of my best portraits – a leftist hero (heroine? I’ve been involved with the movement for 20 years and I still am unsure of whether I can say that – which annoys me). Where was I?  I was really pleased with it – the portrait (no names, no pack-drill) and annoyed that Joanna had rung, but it is difficult to ignore the immaculate Jo and so I prepared to go round with the obligatory bottle. I had to wash the brushes – you have no idea of the cost of sable these days – and I didn’t know whether this was a wake or a celebration, so I didn’t know whether to take champers or whiskey. I compromised with a good pinot noir. 

So I walked in with the bottle of pinot, but Joanna didn’t need it. She was already three sheets to the wind at least. She had a half-empty bottle of champagne in her hand and the posh bob was, for once, slightly dishevelled. “Darling, you’re here,” she said. 

And then she kissed me.

Read more of the Van Diemen Decameron here, or submit a story to editor@fortysouth.com.au.

James Parker is a Tasmanian historian (but with deep connections to Sydney), who writes and talks on mainly colonial subjects – especially convicts, women and the Tasmanian Aboriginal people.