Odd Socks (11 page)

‘Hey, are you all right, Terry?'

With a mammoth effort I pull myself together and close my mouth as I realise Cam is staring at me with concern. So is Joanne, and so is – no, I refuse to go there.

‘I'm fine,' I say as I try to get my breathing under control, ‘I'm fine.'

‘You look
very
pale,' says Cam anxiously. ‘Perhaps we'd better go inside – then you can sit down.'

‘Help you.'

A large male hand is placed firmly under my elbow and, before I can even draw breath to reject the offer, I'm hoisted upright away from the car. My stomach immediately plops back to the area it's accustomed to hanging around and there's a sudden rush of blood to my cranial region. This makes my head swim – and swim badly at that.

‘Are you sure you feel okay?' asks Cam with a frown.

‘I'm fine – really,' I reply, trying desperately to get rid of the hand. ‘
Really!
'

‘Well, let's get inside anyway.'

‘Yes, let's go!' Joanne says cheerfully. ‘Cam, lead the way – I'm starving!'

‘Damn! My quiche!' Cam shrieks suddenly as she turns and rushes back inside with CJ running behind, one hand
tugging insistently at her mother's cardigan. ‘God, god, bloody god!'

Joanne follows them and I'm left with the Good Samaritan, whose hand is
still
positioned under my elbow despite all my efforts to shake it off. To avoid eye contact, I stare at his feet, fully aware I'm acting like a brain-damaged adolescent. He's wearing brown sandals and cream socks with a dinky brown pinstripe running around the tops. I suppose that at least they match each other – and the outfit. Flaming hell.

‘Ah, sure I can't help?'

‘No, I'm all right,' I insist as firmly as I can under the circumstances. Although just
what
the circumstances are, I'm not quite sure.

‘Certain?'

‘Positive.' I take a step away from the car and am relieved to find my balance is almost restored. ‘Come on, I'll take you inside.'

He follows a step or two behind, no doubt preparing to catch me if and when I collapse in a girlish heap. For the first time ever I feel short and I find that, after a lifetime of wishing fervently to
be
short, it's not a feeling I particularly enjoy. Then again, at the moment the only feeling that I
would
enjoy would be the earth opening up and swallowing me whole. But it doesn't oblige, so we walk slowly inside and make our way past the assorted toys up to the kitchen. Where the quiche smell isn't quite as appealing as it had been and there's now a pall of greyish smoke hovering around the ceiling. Cam is bending over the oven and cursing.

‘I can't believe I've done this,' she mutters crossly, ‘it's totally ruined. Hell's frigging bells.'

‘Mummy said a rude word. Mummy said a rude word,' CJ sings melodiously as she leaves the room and heads down the passage.

I slide into a chair in the corner opposite Joanne and angle it so that I can see the kitchen as well. As soon as I sit down, my rubbery legs send a thank-you message as they collapse with relief. Then I try to take stock of what just happened but I can't. Because it doesn't make any sense.

‘Sit down, Richard.' Joanne gestures towards the seat next to her and then, as he settles himself down, gives him a bruising nudge with her elbow and a huge wink. ‘So, what d'you think?'

‘Ah . . .' Richard flushes and looks at Cam with embarrassment written all over his face.

‘Okay, okay! Forget I asked!' Joanne grins at him and then turns to me. ‘So, Terry, tell me everything. What's been going on around here?'

‘Nothing much,' I mumble as I reflect dourly that Joanne doesn't seem to have changed at all. Still just like a redheaded bull in a china shop.

‘Come
on
, something must have happened in the past year!'

‘Not really.'

‘Absolute rubbish!' Cam says as she turns on the ceiling fan and waves ineffectually at the smoke with a chequered tea-towel. ‘Tell her about your new grand-daughter!'

‘Bronte had a
baby
?'

‘Yes, a little girl. Yesterday.' I sneak a glance at Richard to see if he is paying attention but he is playing absent-mindedly with the corner of CJ's deserted toy catalogue while watching Cam curse in the kitchen. It suddenly occurs to me he must think this is standard behaviour for me. Weak-kneed and feeble-minded.

‘Congratulations! So you're a grandmother!' says Joanne excitedly.

‘I hate that word,' I reply grumpily as I pull my tea over and then fiddle with the handle of the ceramic mug. The cold tea
within has now started to form a film over the top so I pick the mug up and slop the contents sideways to break it. While I'm thus engaged, CJ reappears with an armful of soft toys that she dumps unceremoniously on the floor beside Richard's chair.

‘That's
my
Barbies on the table. They hab boobies just like Terry's. And this here–'she holds up a stuffed brown and gold giraffe ‘– is my giraffe called Lolly and she has a berry long neck.'

‘Very nice,' says Richard, who appears to have regained his poise. ‘Impressive.'

‘And this is my new hippo. I got him from my father. His name is Otto and he has an udder.'

‘Ah, your father – or the hippo?'

‘The hippo, silly,' says CJ, giggling. ‘Men don't hab udders!'

‘Something for which I shall be eternally grateful.'

I look at Richard in surprise because that was the longest sentence I've heard him string together so far. In fact, I'm guessing he's not quite as comfortable as he's pretending to be – probably one of those guys who, while not quite antisocial, don't shine in company. So why am I suddenly feeling the way I am? It certainly can't be his dress sense. The hideous shorts are topped with some sort of stretchy cream shirt with two brown buttons directly under the collar, and a loose, dark-brown cardigan. The whole ensemble looks like something the father in
Leave It to Beaver
would have worn – on a bad day.

I examine his face for clues instead. Maybe it's his eyes, because they are very nice eyes at that – deep-set and warm brown surrounded by thick dark lashes the same colour as his ever so slightly receding, ever so slightly greying, shortish hair. And I
love
brown eyes – they always remind me of hot chocolate in front of an open fire, old-fashioned teddy bears, and faithful cocker spaniels.

I tilt my head to the side and chew my lip thoughtfully while I decide that, in fact, Richard looks like an elongated version of Alan Alda with a slightly more prominent nose. I try to pinpoint his best feature – probably those eyes, although he does have rather nicely shaped lips. As if he senses my inspection, he glances across at me and immediately flushes. I turn quickly to stare at Joanne instead.

And her looks seem to have changed as little as her personality. Still the same flaming red hair, numerous freckles and plump body, encased today in a flowing green smock over a long brown skirt. She looks like a bonsai tree that's caught fire. Surely she and Richard can't be an item? They seem totally mismatched. She catches my eye and grins at me.

‘So you're a
grandmother
. Unbelievable. How does it feel?'

‘Fine.'

‘Oh. Well, how's Bronte, anyway?'

‘Fine too.' I sneak another glance at Richard but he is staring at Cam again, who is bending over the oven with her denim butt sticking up in the air. Bloody male.

‘Look, I'm really sorry everyone, but the quiche is ruined.' Cam straightens up and holds out a blackened pie-dish for our inspection. ‘Totally ruined.'

‘Now I
will
starb,' comments CJ as she tries to interest Richard in a pair of spotty leopards.

‘No matter,' he says helpfully as he pats the leopards. ‘I'll fetch something. Ah, in Joanne's car.'

‘No, let me see . . .' replies Cam slowly as she opens the fridge door and stares within for inspiration. ‘Here we go! I'll slice up this ham and we'll have it with the salad and bread. It's fresh from that deli in Bayswater where they cure all their own. How does that sound?'

‘Great,' Richard and Joanne say in unison and then turn to smile at each other.

‘Yuk,' replies CJ with considerable feeling.

‘Whatever,' I say morosely as I tip my mug over a trifle too far and some of the contents slop out and onto the table. ‘Bugger!'

‘Are you sure you're okay?' asks Cam as she gives me yet another puzzled frown.

‘Yep, sure.' I hoist myself out of my chair and fetch the dishcloth from the sink to clean up the mess. I notice that I've finally got Richard's attention, but I'm guessing it's for all the wrong reasons. I wipe the table, fling the dishcloth back over the bench towards the sink and watch it land with a thud. Then I flop ungracefully back down in my chair.

‘Do you want a hand with anything, Cam?' asks Joanne politely.

‘No, under control.' Cam stands in the middle of the kitchen and looks around as if she's lost something. ‘You lot just sit there and keep out of my way and I'll have it all ready in a jiffy.'

‘Ah, Camilla,' Richard says, making an effort to be sociable, ‘CJ your only child?'

‘No, I've got two others.' Cam bobs down, picks up some metal tongs from the floor and gives them a cursory wipe with the tea-towel. ‘But they're a fair bit older – Samantha's nineteen and Benjamin's fifteen.'

‘School?'

‘Yes. Well, Samantha's finishing this year. She's doing her VCE and wants to join the army next year – apparently.'

‘The army!' says Joanne. ‘You're kidding!'

‘They're not here,' CJ adds helpfully. ‘Sam's at Sara's and Ben's at work with Phillip. He's a bet.'

‘Good bet or bad bet?' Richard asks CJ with interest.

‘A
good
bet of course,' says CJ disparagingly as she starts to collect her toys back up. ‘He's going to marry my auntie.'

‘Ah –
Ben
is?'

‘No, of course not.' CJ now favours him with the look she reserves for complete morons. ‘
Phillip's
going to marry my auntie. He's the good bet.'

‘Well, he's a good bet till he marries her, anyway,' adds Cam with a wry grin.

‘Cocky, isn't she?' Joanne says cheerfully to Cam.

‘That's one way of putting it,' I mutter under my breath.

‘So, Richard . . .' Cam starts carving up the ham and laying the slices out on a large platter. ‘What about you? Married? Children?'

‘Widowed. One child. A girl.'

‘Oh, I
am
sorry to hear that!' says Cam, looking at him sympathetically.

‘Don't be, we get along all right.'

‘
What
?' Cam pauses in her slicing and stares at him with her mouth open.

‘He means his daughter,' I say, rolling my eyes at her.

‘Yes.' Richard flashes an appreciative glance in my general direction and then returns his gaze to somewhere around Cam's left shoulder. ‘Sorry.'

‘His wife's been dead for seven years,' adds Joanne informatively. ‘It was a car accident. She was–'

‘So Eve's with me now,' Richard interrupts smoothly. ‘Seventeen years old. Going on thirty.'

‘Oh! My nineteen year old is like that,' says Cam with feeling, obviously pleased to change the subject. ‘Can someone take this plate into the dining-room?'

Joanne jumps up and takes the platter from Cam. Which is a lucky break, because I had no intention of moving while the conversation regarding Richard's marital circumstances and residence of offspring was still on.

‘So how did you meet Joanne then?' Cam asks with interest
as she opens a bread-maker and the room immediately fills with the heady aroma of freshly baked bread. ‘Have you known her long?'

‘Funny story, that,' chimes in Joanne, who has just returned from the dining-room. ‘I'll tell you when we're all sitting down.'

‘Oh. Okay.' Cam looks across at me again and raises her eyebrows expressively. ‘Well, then, would someone take this bread in?'

Joanne takes the bread, Cam picks up the salad platter and they move towards the dining-room. I decide I'd better do something apart from sitting here and acting like an idiot so I stand up and make the first excuse I can think of.

‘I'm going to the bathroom,' I announce to nobody in particular, and then I make my escape. But when I get there, I just lean against the wall and take several nice, deep breaths. And try to pull myself together.

I can't believe the way I'm acting – usually I'm fairly calm, controlled and comfortable with most situations. And I
am
the sociable type. Maybe I'm having a cerebral haemorrhage or something equally mind-altering. Because I could
not
have just fallen in love like that. This isn't
Sleepless in Seattle
– more like
Flaky in Ferntree Gully
.

Besides, that sort of rubbish simply doesn't happen outside of soppy romance novels, and I'm
already
in love – with Fergus. This guy isn't even my type! The eyes might be nice but I don't
like
dark-haired guys, especially not when the dark hair tops a present-day Ichabod Crane who dresses like the father in a fifties sitcom. And who can barely string three words together! Besides, I'm too young to be interested in widowers.

If I thought I could get away with it, I'd jump into the car and head straight for the safety of home. Or perhaps I could
steal the 4WD and go bush. But I've never even watched one episode of
Bush Tucker Man
, so I'd have no idea how to sustain myself once the Fruit Tingles in my pocket ran out. And I also have no idea which direction the bush is from here – or from anywhere, for that matter.