Silver

Chapter 23 - then

Thursday. Pale green. I took the train into town in the morning to meet my mum. I probably could've grabbed a lift in with her two hours earlier, but she didn't offer and I didn't ask.

Her office was in the 'Paris end' of Collins Street, however I got off at Flinders Street station because I love the view of Melbourne as I descend the steps from the station. On one side of the street is the gothic spire of St Paul's Cathedral and on the other is Federation Square and straight ahead is my favourite building, built by Japanese architects Fujuro. It looks like a Transformer, like the building is going to come alive at any moment and go on a rampage through the city.

I crossed the street towards St Paul's Cathedral with hundreds of workers. I was fascinated by the hustle and bustle of being in the city, the women walking with purpose in tailored skirts and white runners, the way crossing the street could be performed whilst checking their zaplets, sending and receiving crucial messages like time was constantly of the essence, that city life was the busiest life, especially at 9am in the morning.

I walked up Swanston Street. It was pristine. The footpath had been relined with rubber plants and the shop fronts had been renovated so that they all had matching street frontage. Dad said there used to be trams on Swanston Street in the olden days, but they posed too much of a risk to pedestrians, so the tracks were removed. Now, there's no traffic at all going down the street, even bike riders have to park their bicycles outside the city centre.

I turned right into Collins Street. Mum works in what they call the Paris end of Collins Street. I don't know how Paris it is, as I've never been to Paris. I'd always thought that if I did go overseas I'd want to go somewhere gritty – a bit of spice, a bit of colour. Maybe India and the Taj Mahal.

I waited outside mum's office until her new assistant finished talking to her. I hadn't seen this assistant before, but she looked the same as all the others. She had cropped hair, was neatly dressed, and wore an intense expression on her face. She would have set herself a personal target of being promoted within the year, or she'd move on.

After the assistant walked out of mum's office, I walked in.

'I wish you didn't wear these ridiculous outfits,' mum said straight away. 'What do you think you are? A child from the 1800s?'

I was wearing a new outfit; a cream, ruffled blouse, under a three-tiered red and white gingham dress. I had a white petticoat peeping out from under the bottom of my dress. I wore knee-high socks and red Mary Jane shoes. Up until a moment ago I'd felt really great in my crisp, new outfit.

My mother is meticulous in her appearance. Everything she wears is carefully selected from little boutiques in Little Collins Street. She spends her hour's lunchbreak walking around the Tan in a lycra jumpsuit to maintain her trim figure. She drinks four cups of black coffee a day and grazes on dried wasabi peas and almonds. There is not a spot of fluff or a dog hair on her below-knee black skirt or tailored jacket.

'Have you thought about the types of things you're going to say?' mum asked. 'It's good to be prepared for any interview.'

I shrugged my shoulders. I may have dressed up for the occasion, but I wasn't excited about it. In fact, I'd been trying not to think about it.

'Try and talk a little less gruffly. More feminine,' she reminded me.

I have a strong voice. I look like a mouse, but I sound like a lion. My voice takes people by surprise. I once overheard a friend of my father's joke that I sounded like a middle-aged prostitute who'd smoked and boozed all her life.

Mum is always reminding me to tone it down some.

Although I hadn't said a word yet.

Mum grabbed her high-end handbag and marched out the door expecting me to follow.