Sisterly Love is a serialized novel. To savor the full narrative experience, start at the beginning and work through the chapters in order. You can find chapters on the Home page or in the Archive.
CHAPTER 24
Summer scanned the briefing note, running her finger along each line in search of ambiguities, factual errors, statements that could open up the P.M. to ridicule or attack during Parliamentary Question Time—that posturing and sledging televised to the nation daily in the name of public accountability. When she was finished, she slipped the document into a purple folder then checked her watch. There was time for a cup of tea before she headed over to the House of Representatives, where the P.M. was preparing to face the scrutiny of her colleagues. She stood and patted her pockets for her security pass.
“Summer?” A voice said from behind.
Summer swung around to face the woman standing in her doorway. She wore a clean starched apron tied at the waist and a blue and white knotted cravat.
“Hello Frankie.”
Silence stumbled back and forth between them.
Though Summer had anticipated this moment, she had not considered how she might feel when seeing Frankie again, and she was surprised at the heat rising in her checks. Frankie was carrying a small white porcelain plate decorated with bite-sized cakes, each topped with a different colored frosting.
“Welcome,” she said, passing the plate to Summer.
“Thanks,” said Summer.
Frankie seemed pale, languorous—but Summer could see the fire still burning behind her eyes, which were darker than she remembered.
“They’re Belgian chocolate mud cake,” Frankie said, “with your favorite toppings.”
Summer set the plate aside and returned to Frankie.
“Thank you for the head’s-up,” Frankie said.
“I didn’t want any unpleasant surprises,” said Summer, clarifying her intent. “I’ve had enough of those.”
Frankie nodded. “A memo came around about your appointment,” she said. “I did think about contacting you, but I didn't know how to find you.”
“Why didn’t you ask the Secret Service to help?” Summer said, half seriously.
Frankie smiled, grateful for the humor.
“I was going to call The Daily Tribune but then your note arrived... opened by the Secret Service,” Frankie added, in an effort to maintain the lightness “and I...”
“You just left, Frankie,” Summer cut in, “without a word!”
“You’re right to be angry with me,” said Frankie, who had also prepared for this conversation. “I’ve come to regret that decision. Everything happened so quickly. I was offered the job as Private Chef to the P.M., and I had forty-eight hours to get to Canberra. And I found myself in a conundrum about us because when we had dinner after your road trip, you confided what your sister said about me; and you admitted that you had given credence to her—”
Summer began to protest.
“Just hear me out. Please?”
Summer nodded. Frankie stepped toward her and Summer folded her arms.
“I got spooked,” Frankie said. “You’re so close with your sister. I think you don’t realize how influential she is in your life. But it weighed on me. I’ve made so many compromises in relationships. I’ve learned the hard way that deep-seated attitudes are impossible to overcome, especially in families... and I interpreted your honesty as a talisman, saving me from more misery.”
“But you didn’t even give me a right of reply.”
Frankie lowered her head. A lock of hair fell over her eye and she swept it back, running her fingers through the tapers and revealing an androgynous undercut. Summer saw how the style accentuated Frankie’s heart-shaped face.
“Rose and I are close, yes,” Summer said, “but she doesn’t make my decisions. I’m my own person, and even if I did waver, it didn’t change my... my opinion of you.”
Summer detached herself from Frankie’s unblinking stare and looked away. She had been about to pursue Frankie on the selfishness of her decision; to ask her if she had any idea of the suffering she had caused. But that approach felt somehow redundant now. This reunion was not at all like the scene she had played out in her head, over and over, since the late-night call she had received from The Annes confirming that Frankie was, as rumored, living and working in Canberra.
“She’s the Prime Minister’s personal chef,” Anne One had said, not trying to hide her sarcasm. “And the word is that the P.M. absolutely adores her.”
Summer had shared the news with April who, though relieved at the opportunity for Summer to find closure, expressed concern for Summer’s wellbeing.
“You might want to consider the wisdom in showing up at Frankie’s workplace unannounced,” April said.
“Yes... of course,” Summer replied. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
And there and then, Summer dashed off a note to Frankie, taking care to establish that the purpose of her correspondence was to inform, not alarm. She had chosen a neutral tone and a pithy structure that left no room for expectations.
“You don’t want to say something human like, I hope you’re well?” April asked, reviewing the note Summer had scrawled on lined paper then carelessly torn from her reporters’ notepad.
“I’ve moved on. And the truth is, I feel nothing,” Summer said in a robotic tone. “Besides, her life is in the kitchen. I don’t anticipate much day-to-day crossover. Do you?”
That was two weeks ago. But now, as Frankie stood before her, humble and vulnerable, Summer felt uneasy; something was stirring within her, threatening to overwhelm her. She studied Frankie. Her long fingers loosely laced together in front of her—it was Frankie’s mother’s pose. Frankie wore Converse slip-ons and bourbon-colored chinos. The edgy, laid-back style seemed to contradict the practical cook Summer had first encountered at Club 99 more than a decade ago. When Frankie swept back her hair, her T-shirt had ridden up and now Summer had an urge to tug at the hem. But she resisted—such an intimate gesture could be perilous. She brought her eyes to Frankie’s.
“I made a stupid decision,” Frankie said. “I hope you will be able to find it in your heart to forgive me, because I’ve never stopped thinking about you... I regret walking away from you.”
Summer unfolded her arms and sighed. “I forgive you,” she said, with a clear note of surrender.
But Summer’s heart, while aching with longing, was closed to more loss. Enough is enough, a voice reminded her and she agreed. She wondered when she had acquired the maxim—after the experience with Jess, she thought. But then, it was Vern who appeared in her dreams, and it was their conversations she would catch herself reviving. Of one thing she was certain: she did not want her life to become a series of sad goodbyes. She stepped toward Frankie.
“Let’s put it all behind us,” she said, suddenly feeling exhausted, “I could use an ally in this place.”
+
When Summer arrived at the House of Representatives, the parliamentary bells were calling members to the start of the sitting day. She intercepted the Chief Whip, passed him the purple folder, and loitered on the top step until he had delivered her dossier to the P.M.
As she waited, the bells suddenly stopped ringing and the ushers began to open the main doors, revealing the daily spectacle: The Serjeant-at-Arms, resplendent in his silver-buckled shoes, butterfly collars, and white kid gloves, waiting to acquit his daily housekeeping duties. The members stood, the chatter stopped, and the Serjeant-at-Arms led the Speaker into the chamber. Summer watched the cortège descend the stairs and move toward the Table where the P.M., on one side, faced the leader of the opposition. Between them, the Dispatch Box marked the boundary that separated the Government and the Opposition. The Serjeant-at-Arms lifted the Mace, the ancient symbol of authority, from his shoulder and laid it across the Table's end. The Speaker declared the House in session. And with that, the ceremonial activity concluded, and a modern working organization burst forth.
Summer retraced her steps bypassing the entrance to the north wing, where her office was located, and taking the elevator to the P.M.’s suite. She continued beyond the waiting area, which was empty, and along the corridor to a small lobby where she entered the P.M.’s private kitchen through one of the three unmarked doors. Inside she found Frankie bent over the cooktop peering into a skillet. A large rectangular stainless-steel workbench stood in the center of the room. Its surface was empty, except for a fishbowl at one end that was filled to the brim with jellybeans.
“Help yourself,” Frankie called over her shoulder. “They’re popular with the P.M.’s staff.”
“So, you get visitors then?” Summer inquired.
“The kitchen gets visitors,” Frankie said, pointing to a row of refrigerators. “I have to lock them at night to stop the lamingtons and ham and cheese sandwiches from walking!”
Summer smiled. “Do you work with the other chefs in Parliament House, or are you the exclusive property of the Prime Minister and Cabinet?”
“The latter,” said Frankie, bringing the skillet to the bench. “I occasionally liaise with the Executive Chef, who oversees the other seven kitchens. We discuss things that the P.M. is attending, like the upcoming winter ball. But beyond that, I’m on my own.”
“Must be lonely?”
“On the contrary, it’s crazy,” said Frankie. “Take last night, for example. The P.M.’s husband was scheduled to have dinner with her in her office. But the sexual misconduct scandal broke—”
Summer frowned.
“The leaked report on the Australian Defense Forces,” Frankie clarified, “and I had to rustle up dinner for the eight members of the Executive Crisis Response Committee, which the P.M. chairs.”
“What did you give them?” asked Summer, “baked beans on toast?”
“Roast chicken.”
“You rustled that up?”
Frankie pointed at the freezer. “Precooked and vacuum sealed,” she said proudly.
Summer looked around, as she had done on her first day at work. She saw that Frankie had made the space hers. Though devoid of windows, the room seemed bright, everything belonged, and there was a feeling of harmony. Frankie really hadn’t changed at all.
“Do you have any help?” she asked.
“Just Mr. Dishwasher,” Frankie grinned, “He’s great! Unlike everyone else in here, he does as he’s told!”
All of a sudden, pitched voices burst from a television screen on the wall behind.
“Here it is,” said Frankie, seizing the remote control, “Question Time, as promised.”
On the screen, the Leader of the Opposition was wiping spittle from his bearded chin with the back of his hand. He adjusted his blue tie, then leaned menacingly over the Dispatch Box. The Prime Minister folded her arms and met his stare without expression. Frankie turned up the volume.
“Mr. Speaker,” the Leader of the Opposition said, “I say to you that if the Australian public could not trust the Prime Minister to deliver on her promise of a fair budget, then how can they ever trust her on the referendum?”
The House erupted.
“Shame on you, shame on you!” yelled the Government side.
“Shame on me?” the Leader of the Opposition replied, feigning surprise. “I say again, if the Prime Minister cannot make an honest woman of herself, then she must do what's fair by the Australian people and resign.”
There was more shouting. The speaker’s gavel banged loudly.
“The House will come to order,” he intoned over the din.
The P.M. approached the microphone.
“I thank the Leader of the Opposition for raising the referendum,” she said.
The camera zoomed in, and the P.M.’s face filled the screen. Her auburn hair, which had been blown into a bob, framed a pale symmetrical face; her lips had been painted to give body and with just enough color to indicate life but not to embrace its female pleasures. The bags beneath her eyes had been expertly made over. She raised a hand and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and Summer caught a glimpse of a woman who would otherwise be considered beautiful. The P.M. glanced briefly into the purple folder, which lay open on the Table, then continued.
“However, Mr. Speaker, it is the Leader of the Opposition who cannot be trusted. And so, I ask him again why he buried research that places responsibility for the high rates of motor vehicle injury to women at the feet of the automotive industry.”
Again the House erupted.
“Shut her up! Shut her up!” chorused the opposition.
And again the Speaker called for order.
The Leader of the Opposition spoke.
“The truth, Mr. Speaker, is simple,” he said, rolling his eyes. “The standard, able-bodied male crash-test dummy was designed in the image of the majority driver for good reason: because women don’t drive!”
The Government side of the House flew out of their seats.
“The facts,” said Summer, lowering the volume, “are that women drivers are significantly more likely than male drivers to sustain severe injuries because we don’t fit the profile of a mid-sized white male, which is the benchmark for seatbelt design.”
Summer pulled out a barstool from beneath the workbench.
“Why can’t the public see that these so-called leaders are protecting car manufacturers who refuse to take responsibility for... how did he put it?”
“A handful of women who might get hurt,” Frankie said, quoting the Leader of the Opposition.
On the television screen, both sides were hurling insults back and forth.
“Order! Order!” The Speaker called, “The Honorable member's time has expired... Order, I say!”
“When did Question Time become so brutal?” Summer asked.
“You mean, where did civility go?” Frankie corrected.
“There were always rules,” Summer said. “They weren’t written down but everyone went by them. There was a bit of fun, and then both sides got on with the business of government: the negotiations, the compromises, the dealmaking. There were tensions but the House never lost sight of the greater good.”
“Those rules don’t seem to apply to her.” said Frankie. “She’s constantly watching her back, letting the sorts of things slide that, were she a man, would never have occurred in the first place.”
“True. But it’s not like she suddenly found herself in the spotlight.” said Summer thoughtfully. “She knew what she was in for when she ran for office. Politics is a dirty business.”
“With her it goes beyond political shenanigans,” said Frankie. “It’s personal. She’s isolated in a way the other P.M.s haven’t been. People who have been here for thirty years come into my kitchen aghast, and admitting they’ve never seen anything like it.”
Summer cocked her head, “What are they seeing?”
“The same things I’m seeing.” said Frankie. “For example, when I enter the conference room to freshen up the coffee or replenish the snacks, I see a little woman surrounded by dark suits; they’re like crows waiting to pick at her flesh and seething with resentment, barely able to contain their discomfort. Sometimes I find myself worrying about her safety... imagine if the nation was exposed to that vision of her!”
“She’d be accused of concealing health issues and be declared unfit for office,” Summer laughed. “But if she were a man, the sympathy vote would guarantee her the next election.”
“The media has a lot to answer for,” said Frankie, unsmiling. “I think their antics are having a knock-on effect.”
“How do you mean?” Summer asked.
“Last week during Caucus the Member for Diss unraveled, I mean really came apart at the seams,” Frankie said. “He shouted at her across the table and when she stood her ground, he accused her of being hysterical. He actually said: ‘There’s no need to get hysterical, girly!’”
Summer grinned.
“It should have been funny but nobody laughed,” said Frankie.
Summer saw that Frankie was upset.
“I had the awful feeling that the others agreed with him,” Frankie said. “And Caucus is supposed to be on her side.”
“What did she say to get him so upset?”
“‘No’. She said no to him.”
Frankie pinched the bridge of her nose, as though trying to decide where to go next. She lowered her voice.
“It’s hard to know how she’s really coping. Sometimes she seems so vulnerable, and I feel powerless... so I do the only thing I can do. I keep her nourished.”
Frankie pulled out a stool and sat down. She lent on her elbows and looked directly at Summer.
“That evening of the Caucus meeting, the P.M. appeared in here and asked if I minded if she ate her dinner with me. She stood right where you are now, wolfing it down, and she dismissed the whole thing: ‘You can’t let them get to you, Frankie,’ she said. ‘You have to rise above it and keep your eye on the big picture.’ But I pushed her on the sexism. I think I even called it misogyny, and she said to me: ‘The gender thing is a trap, they use it to try to drag you into the trenches.’”
Frankie smiled then.
“What?” Summer demanded.
“She hasn’t lost her humor,” Frankie said, grinning. “As she was leaving, she turned back and said to me, ‘Don’t worry. Those boys are so bogged down in their own patriarchal dogma that they overlook the most important thing: that I’m the one making the decisions, not them!’”
Summer clapped.
“She’ll be right, Frankie. She wouldn’t have got into this business if she didn’t have the mettle to survive...”
Frankie nodded. But Summer could see she was unconvinced.
“What does trouble me,” Summer admitted, “is that the picture of her out there in the real world is increasingly of a crazy woman destroying the joint; trampling over tradition and dismantling the work of the founding fathers. And it’s taking hold in a way that feels dangerous.”