Page 22 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

Cocktail Hour

I return to my cab at a gallop and shove the new address under my driver’s sparsely moustachioed nose.

‘Here. I need to go here.’

He shakes his head, feigning concern. ‘I’m afraid I cannot take you to this place. It is full.’

Not again. Does this child not realise I am a veteran of this game? I pull my shoulders back and once again summon my new assertive alter ego. I feel like Bruce Banner transforming into the Hulk. Or Diana Prince tornado-ing into Wonder Woman. With a little less Lycra involved.

‘I am meeting someone there. I don’t care if the place is fully booked. I don’t care if it is the staging post for a violent political protest. I need to go there even if it is a charred ruin.’

The driver shrugs, disappointed, but he doesn’t push the point. He does, however, renew his efforts to discover every pothole en route to our destination.

Doug and Debbie’s hotel is as grand as my lodgings are humble.

It is situated at the end of a long, palm tree–lined drive, an oasis of green in the centre of so much dust, steel and concrete.

A distinguished-looking gentleman wearing a red turban stands sentry at the front doors, and he opens them for me with a small bow.

I step inside, savouring the touch of the air conditioning against my slick skin.

The entrance foyer is even more imposing than the building’s facade, with shiny marble floors and colonnades, Persian rugs and elaborate chandeliers.

If The Great Gatsby were set in India, this is where the very young and the very rich would gather.

I try not to gape too much as I walk up to the immaculately groomed receptionist and pass her a photo of my parents.

‘Hello. I’m hoping you can tell me if these people are staying at your hotel.

’ I smile and try to look confident. An establishment of this size would have an enormous number of employees and I don’t expect every member of staff to remember my parents from the hundreds of people who walk in and out the doors every day.

But if I hang about the foyer long enough, I’ll hit the jackpot eventually.

‘That’s Madam Debbie!’ the woman exclaims.

‘You know my mother?’ I’m surprised that I’m surprised. My mother makes an impression everywhere she goes, especially somewhere as stately and dignified as this.

‘Everyone knows Madam Debbie. She is …’ The receptionist searches for the appropriate descriptor. ‘She is … something else.’

‘She is certainly that.’ I’m not sure if my mother has just been insulted or not. From the woman’s exultant expression, it seems being ‘something else’ is well regarded in upper-class India.

‘Would you mind ringing their room and telling them their daughter is here to see them?’

‘Oh, no, madam. They checked out two days ago. Debbie said the fun police would try to find her. I don’t know what she has done, but she is a good woman. She is not a criminal. You won’t hand her over to the authorities, will you?’

‘No. I promise you I am doing my very best to keep my mother out of jail.’

‘That is good. Then you should talk to Suresh behind the bar. He knew your mother very well.’

No surprises there.

I thank the receptionist and make my way down to the posh-looking bar area. It isn’t yet midday, so I am the only customer. I park myself on a heavy rosewood stool.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ a man I presume is Suresh asks.

‘Just a mineral water, please.’ I push the photograph of my parents across the bar. ‘I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for these two people.’

Suresh eyes me up and down suspiciously. I must look a lot like the fun police, which is a fair call. ‘Why are you looking for them?’

‘I am their daughter.’

‘And you ordered mineral water! You cannot possibly be Madam Debbie’s daughter!’

I shrug my shoulders. ‘I take after my father’s side.’

‘Ah. So, you are patient and kind.’

‘Not really.’ I don’t consider myself especially impatient or unkind, but I do not come close to my father’s level of sainthood. Not for the first time, I wonder if I am adopted.

Suresh starts making a drink that in no way resembles what I have ordered. Not only does it not involve mineral water, the amount of rum he is adding to the glass is truly terrifying.

He pushes the glass toward me and thrusts his index finger at the top item on the drinks menu. ‘Madam Debbie asked me to give you this. She says it has everything you need.’

DEBBIE’S GET REDDY TO ROLL DELHI DAIQUIRI

Rum, lime juice, sugar syrup, cardamom bitters, cardamom pods and another splash of rum for good measure.

Best imbibed before getting in a New Delhi taxi.

‘But it’s only just midday. I don’t want to drink a cocktail. And certainly not one with this much rum in it.’

‘Madam Debbie said you would probably refuse her kind offer.’ The drink sits on the bar between us like kryptonite. ‘She also said you had to drink it or I could not give you this.’ Suresh dangles an envelope in front of me.

I recognise my mother’s large looping handwriting and reach for it, but Suresh snatches it away, tucking it into his waistband.

‘First, you drink.’

I give him my grouchiest look and slam the drink down in a single slug.

My chest is on fire. My brain feels like it has been immersed in boiling water. But I’ve made my point. Whatever it is.

‘Now I know you are indeed Madam Debbie’s daughter.’

I give my head a solid shake, trying to restack my thoughts into some kind of coherent order. ‘Good Lord …’

Suresh gives me a satisfied grin as he hands over the envelope.

Dearest Bunny,

You made it to India! I am so proud of you. You really do need to get out of your comfort zone now and again. Although let’s be honest, you’re not so much idling in your comfort zone these days as parked in a dreary dead end.

I hope you enjoy the drink I created to celebrate the start of your adventure.

You might find Delhi a little easier to negotiate if you’re more relaxed.

I can imagine you’re as stressed as a rabbit at a greyhound convention.

Have you fallen for any of the scams yet?

We have. It’s cost us a few rupees. But isn’t it fun!

You just never know what will happen next.

Your dad and I have decided to channel our inner Julia Roberts and spend some time in an ashram. A little yoga and navel gazing sounds fabulous after that awful tour. I’m thinking of calling our travels ‘Drink. Pray. Love’. What do you think? Catchy, yes?

In the movie, Julia stayed at an ashram in Kerala. That’s way too far to go on this trip, but there’s another Sivananda Ashram just up the road in Rishikesh. And here’s a fun fact. Rishikesh is also where the Beatles studied transcendental meditation in the sixties. How fab (four) is that?

Anyway, that’s where we’re headed. I’m a little worried about the ashram’s celibacy clause. But your dad will just have to control himself.

Oh, don’t pull that face, Bunny. You know I’m joking.

Or not.

Maybe you should join us for a downward dog. You really do need to loosen up.

Love Mum

PS I know this is India but do try to limit the amount of rice you consume. Carbohydrates are not your friend. Your thighs will thank you!

I fold the letter and tuck it into a side pocket of my bag. I am feeling immensely pleased with my detective work. Although it might just be the residual buzz from Debbie’s Get Reddy to Roll Delhi Daiquiri.

I wobble to my feet. Next stop, the Sivananda Ashram in Rishikesh.

Suresh points me to the hotel tourist agency. It actually appears to be a legitimate travel service, which is a nice change. The desk is staffed by two well-scrubbed and well-mannered young men with excellent teeth who help me book a train ticket.

Tomorrow, I will be in Rishikesh. All I have to do is pick up my bag from the hotel, convince my delinquent driver to take me to the correct destination and jump on a train. It all seems supremely simple.

I have a destination.

I have a means to reach that destination.

And my mother has invited me to join her.

What could possibly go wrong?

From life experience, I know the answer to that one.

Absolutely bloody everything.

From the journals and miscellaneous paperwork of Eva Reddy (Age 43)

November 14th, 2015

My baby has finished school and I’m finally in a position to do something about rebooting my career.

Running a television research department is so far removed from my original career plan, I’ve skipped my last two school reunions due to embarrassment.

The fifteen-year celebration just about broke me.

I know I’m not a failure by most standards. I’m not addicted to opioids or sitting in jail or living with my parents. But if the measure of success is personal expectations versus reality, then I’ve underachieved on a massive scale.

I do sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t fallen pregnant so young.

I like to think I would have hunted down a job at another television station.

Men ran the industry in those days. They still do.

But there were other newsrooms with more enlightened men at the helm.

Mike Ripley wasn’t the exception, but he wasn’t the rule either.

If I hadn’t trusted the rhythm method and my fiancé, I’d probably be a reporter right now, living my schoolgirl dream.

Of course, I wouldn’t wish away Emily for all the world.

She’s determined to be an actor, so maybe I will still get to the Logies as Emily’s plus one.

She’s more likely to stand up on that stage clutching a statuette than I ever was.

She really is a lot more like my mother than me.

I’m hoping that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

I wish sometimes that we’d had another child.

I’m not sure why we didn’t. It never seemed to be the right time.

Emily was still in nappies. Jonathan’s career was at a critical point and a newborn would be too disruptive.

(Tell me about it!) We had to consolidate our mortgage.

We deserved a holiday. No matter what was happening in our lives, there was always something more urgent than expanding our family.

Now I’m forty-three. We’re financially comfortable. We could maybe try for a baby, though it’s a long shot at my age. But I don’t feel like I have the energy for it. Plus, you need to have sex to make babies. And that’s unlikely to happen. Jonathan is always so busy and so very tired.

So now that the work of raising a family is behind me, I’ve been trying to come up with ways to revive my career—what’s left of it. I’ve applied for dozens of jobs. Mostly I get no response. Occasionally, I get a form letter of rejection.

I showed Katie my resume and she explained that I shouldn’t let a potential employer know I’m over forty.

That means deleting my date of birth and all my (excellent) academic results.

I’ve also dumbed my resume down a bit, shaving off several years of experience.

Katie also said I should not under any circumstances mention that I am a mother.

That’s ridiculous—mothers are the best time managers in the world. And it makes no sense to me that I am a more attractive employee if I have less experience. But it’s worth a try, I guess.

There’s a job going in Canberra. I’m crazily overqualified. Still, I’ve got to (re)start somewhere.

Cross fingers.

From: Channel 3 News Executive Assistant

To: Me

Dear Eva,

Our news director has considered your job application and resume. He is very impressed with how much you have achieved in such a short time.

Please contact me via the Channel 3 switchboard to arrange an interview.

Yours sincerely,

Melissa Stone

From: Dr Zoe Sullivan

To: Debbie Reddy

CC: Eva Moore

Dear Mrs Reddy,

To summarise our phone conversation on March 2, Mr Reddy is a pleasant and accommodating 72-year-old man who sustained a fall at home.

I was concerned with his functional status when he came to see me.

Upon further investigation and work up by myself and a neurological specialist, Mr Reddy has a new diagnosis of stage 3 (mild decline) vascular dementia, specifically subcortical presentation.

He would benefit from physiotherapy to increase his functional mobility. I also strongly recommend regular appointments with a geriatrician to monitor his wellbeing as the disease progresses.

I understand he lives at home with his wife who is the same age and presently in good physical and mental health.

Their daughter lives in a nearby suburb.

Given his current circumstances and level of family support, I am confident that Mr Reddy can continue living at home and that his present standard of care is appropriate to his needs.

Please do not hesitate to contact me should there be any questions or concerns.

I have attached my evaluation of Mr Reddy’s condition.

Yours,

Dr Zoe Sullivan

From the journals and miscellaneous paperwork of Eva Reddy (Age 43)

March 4th, 2016

A lifetime ago, motherhood derailed my career.

Now, just when I thought I might get a second chance, I’m sidelined again. Dad needs me.

The only upside is that I didn’t get the chance to tell Jonathan that I was interviewing for a job in Canberra. I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation. Small mercies, I guess.

I really am the pin-up girl for the sandwich generation. My life has been buttered so thin, there is nothing left of me. I am a mother and I am a daughter. There is no room for anything else.

Of course, Emily is a blessing. And my dad doesn’t deserve the future that is coming for him.

The joy and the despair of these things are absolute. But I also want to scream.

I can’t help wanting more. Just once, I want to do something for myself. Something wild. Something that is wonderful and totally selfish.

I hate to admit it, but I do wish I was a little bit more like my mother sometimes.