Odd Socks (27 page)

‘Ouch,' says Richard, taking a sip of his wine.

‘Pardon?' asks Joanne, frowning at him. ‘Don't you like the wine? I'm afraid it's only cask but then the library's so mean, we're used to it. Would you rather a coffee?'

‘No, no. Wine's fine.'

I stop massaging my temples for a minute to glance across at him and he sends a fleeting grin towards the vicinity of my eyebrows. My insides warm and I grin back with pleasure. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

‘Hey, you lot!' Margo, the tiny dark-haired liaison librarian, leans around the corner and looks at us all accusingly. ‘You're hogging Barb from her own party! Come on, up you get and mingle!'

With remarkable strength, she levers Joanne off her perch on Richard's armrest and then grabs Barbara's elbow, hoisting her considerable bulk upright. Finally she turns to me and I narrow my eyes threateningly.

‘I can get up myself, thanks.'

‘Interesting,' says Richard mildly.

‘Then do so immediately, Terry!' Margo grabs Barbara's hand so she can't escape. ‘And over you come, Barb. You can tell the mob from the mobile library how you met Chuck.'

‘Come on, Richard.' Joanne takes his wine to encourage him out of the chair. ‘She's right, we should be mingling a bit. I'll introduce you around.'

‘Sure.' Richard unfolds himself upright and then turns back to me. ‘Nice to meet you. Again. Thanks for the company.'

‘My pleasure,' I reply politely as I also stand up and realise once more just how short he makes me feel. ‘Any time.'

‘Ah.' Richard looks down at me impassively.

Then Joanne tugs impatiently on his arm and he turns away to be led over to the nearest huddle of librarians, who appear to be having a very loud and enthusiastic conversation
about the suspected marital indiscretions of the Adult Literacy Coordinator.

I lean lazily against the nearest bookshelf and just observe the crowded room for a few minutes. Most of the people here are good friends of mine and usually I'd be in the thick of it – socialising, gossiping and helpfully pointing out the numerous failings of the executives. But this evening I'm simply not in the mood.

Margo has dragged Barbara over to the audiovisual display where Alan is holding court and explaining to a very bored-looking group the positive ramifications of a reorganisation of the Dewey decimal classification system. Over by the trestle table, the elderly audiovisual aide from our Boronia branch is trying to pour wine into her plastic cup and, judging by the difficulty she is having, has already had more than her limit. Waiting their turn behind her are the Head of Acquisitions and Cataloguing, and the Organisational Development Executive Office Manager, who are both silently passing the time by staring balefully in Alan's direction. Obviously they're not in favour of a reorganisation of the Dewey decimal classification system. Beside them is a more cheerful group who have begun a party game that appears to involve balancing plastic tumblers in a pyramid and then throwing potato chips at them. Looks like fun.

I take a sip of my wine and continue gazing around the room. Now and then somebody catches my eye and either waves or grins. I'm not altogether surprised Cam doesn't appear to have made it to the function because, with her increased involvement at university, she has begun a gradual move away from the library that probably isn't even conscious.

Eventually I work my gaze around to the group that Joanne and Richard have joined. And as I look over in that direction, I can't help but focus on Richard, because he's so tall. And
then I can't help but notice he's looking straight back at me. My heart hiccups as, for once, our eyes lock and for a few long seconds we simply stare at each other. And then I do the stupidest thing I've done so far this week – and that's saying something. Without even thinking about it, I wink.

Richard looks back at me with amazement and I return the favour. In fact, it's difficult to know who is the
more
amazed, the winker or the winkee. I'm not normally known for spontaneity and, if this is an example of what it leads to, I don't want to be known for it. I feel my face go a beetroot colour, which is sure to clash with my jumper, so I blink several times and then realise doing
that
probably makes it appear as if I'm still trying to wink, just more spasmodically. So I widen my eyes and forbid them to close at all for the near future. Richard tilts his head slightly to one side and continues to look at me curiously. So I do what I should have done five minutes ago.

I leave.

‘So you like him – what's the big deal?'

‘What do you mean – what's the big deal?' I turn and look at Cam indignantly. ‘Of
course
it's a big deal!'

‘I didn't see you getting this hot under the collar when you met Fergus, that's all.'

‘Well, that was different.' I lean forwards, pick up my champagne and take a sip.

‘Different how?' Cam tucks her legs underneath her and regards me curiously.

I reach out to put my glass down on the coffee table and
then lean back on the couch, ignoring the hairclip that imbeds itself in the back of my head while I think it over. The thing is I'm not quite sure how it's different – I just know that it is. But I don't seem to be convincing Cam of this. I filled her in on our conversation at the library and tried to be descriptive, but the actual
connection
I felt, and that I
think
he felt, didn't translate well at all. So I decided not to share the wink with her – that didn't even seem sane when I did it. In fact, every time I cast my mind back to the bloody wink, I get this unpleasant porridgey feeling and I need to have a drink.

Accordingly I have another sip of champagne and then, instead of answering Cam's astute question (which I've now actually forgotten), I let my gaze wander over her lounge-room. Which is in its usual state of disarray. An empty biscuit packet is balanced on top of some discarded clothing by the coffee table, with a sprinkling of hundreds and thousands around it. Cushions are piled with a blanket next to the television, as if one of the kids had nested there earlier in the day, and a wobbly looking stack of books by the armchair indicates somebody's attempt to study at one point. But the positively worst thing in the lounge-room would have to be Cam's bottle-green velour beanbag with the mustard pinstripes. It looks a lot like one of those huge lumps of molten seaweed you often find washed up on the beach. And immediately take a wide detour around.

I avert my gaze from the beanbag and instead lock eyes with the blue-tongue lizard on the sideboard. He flicks his tongue out suggestively and then tilts his head to regard me quizzically, as if he's also waiting for my answer to whatever the question was.

‘Well?' Cam smiles at me pleasantly. ‘I can wait all evening, you know. I have children; therefore, I have patience.'

‘What was the question?'

‘As if you don't know. I
asked
you why this guy is different from Fergus.'

‘I don't know,' I mumble, reaching forwards and picking up a water cracker from the platter Cam has placed on the coffee table. ‘So let's change the subject, shall we?'

‘Fine.' Cam shrugs philosophically. ‘You brought it up.'

‘I know.' I finish off the cracker and brush the crumbs from my chest. ‘Never mind. And anyway, what happened to
you
this evening? You know, your no-show at Barbara's function?'

‘God! I was so stuffed after the zoo that I wasn't going
anywhere
!' Cam looks at me and grimaces. ‘That place is enormous! And they had to see every single animal, bird and damn insect. Then, you wouldn't believe it, just as we finish – we realise that one of the kids is missing.'

‘CJ?' I ask hopefully.

‘No, her friend's little sister. Anyway, we retrace our steps and yell and yell and yell. By this time Caron, the mother, is almost in tears, so we find the office and get them to call out over the loudspeaker. You'll never guess where she was?'

‘Where?' I ask, because obviously it's expected of me.

‘There's a cave in one of those underground tunnels near the wombats – she'd crawled in there and gone to sleep. Unbelievable. The only good thing that came out of it was CJ ended up so exhausted, we didn't have one argument all afternoon and she went out like a light after tea.'

‘Well, at least that's something!'

‘Yeah – but it was a high price to pay.' Cam takes a deep sip of her champagne. ‘So tell me, how was the internet sex kitten?'

‘Yech.' I make a face as an image of Barbara, dressed in pink fluff and reclining on a couch with a come-hither smile, flashes across my cerebral screen. ‘And double yech.'

‘Hmm,' Cam grimaces, obviously struck by a similar image. ‘But I'll have to ring her tomorrow to wish her luck.'

‘After your meeting with your mother, of course.'

‘Of course.' Cam looks at me strangely. ‘I can see that all roads are going to lead back to Richard tonight, aren't they?'

‘Bugger!' I sigh and then shrug philosophically. ‘It's just that I don't understand it. I
never
have this sort of reaction to guys. Never!'

‘True,' Cam says thoughtfully, ‘and I must admit I don't quite understand it myself. It's not like you at all.'

‘No, it's not.'

‘I mean, it's not like he's Prince Charming, is it? Can't string two words together, can't look you in the eye, and that body! He'd make a model look plump. And he's not exactly what you'd call good-looking either.'

‘Hang on!' I look at her huffily. ‘That's not quite true.'

‘Yes it is,' she continues. ‘Although maybe he wouldn't be too bad with a makeover. Something that would drag him into the twenty-first century.'

‘Do you know –' I can feel myself getting defensive on Richard's behalf ‘– I never realised you were so superficial. Sure, he's got a problem with his fashion sense, but once you take the time to get to know him, he's
very
pleasant to talk to – a really nice guy. So maybe he's a tad shy, but since when has that been a crime? And he's
not
that bad looking either. I mean, just his eyes for a start – they're really . . . really –'

‘Really?' Cam grins and raises her eyebrows. ‘You
are
quite hooked, aren't you?'

‘Yes!' I wail, flinging myself back against the couch. ‘So what do I
do
about it?'

‘Nothing.'

‘
Nothing
?'

‘That's right – nothing.' Cam takes a sip of her champagne. ‘Because you never do.'

‘What do you mean by that?' I ask her with amazement.

‘Well – look, you're not going to get all offended, are you?'

‘No, why would I?'

‘Because usually when I bring this sort of stuff up you either change the subject or get all huffy. And I don't want to ruin the evening, but if you're going to go on and on about Richard, and ask my advice, then I'm just going to tell you, that's all. So – promise you won't get offended and I'll say my piece and get it over with.'

‘Well . . .' I chew my lip thoughtfully, torn between a desire to hear what she has to say and a sneaky suspicion I already
know
what she has to say – and that I don't want to hear it. ‘What the hell? Go on. I'll stop you if I start getting offended.'

‘Okay. Well, it's like this – you've been coming over here now for months every Friday night and going on about how you feel and –' Cam holds out her hand as I open my mouth. ‘Don't get me wrong – I
love
our Friday therapy sessions and wouldn't change them for the world. All I mean is that I've been listening to you saying the same stuff week after week.

‘And now, with this thing about Richard, I can't see it'll be any different. Because the bottom line is that you will never –
never
– risk changing your life. Not even to have that boob job you keep carrying on about. That's why you always talk about going overseas, but never do it. And why you go on about wanting more education but never do it. And also why you carry on about how miserable you are at the library, but you'll never quit. And that's probably also why you pick the sort of guys you pick. Like Fergus. I mean, I love Fergus – he's fun, and charming, and great company. But he's not your type and anybody with two eyes in their head can see that. You're like odd socks together. But I bet that's why you picked him,
subconsciously, and that's why you picked that last guy of yours, and the one before that as well. None of them are your type and so none of them are a threat and so none of them are ever going to mean that you have to commit or change anything in your life.'

‘Hell,' I say softly, staring at her stupefied.

‘And you want to know why you only choose options that are safe?' Cam continues without waiting for an answer, obviously warming to her theme. ‘You only choose options that are safe because you were hurt once – and badly – and you'll never risk that again. See, commitment equals hurt. So if you don't change anything in your life, and you only pick guys who aren't going to touch you on a deeper emotional level, then you'll never run the risk of repeating that hurt and the whole emotional, physical, psychological upheaval that it caused.'

‘
Flaming
hell.'

‘And that's it.' Cam looks at me questioningly. ‘So are you still talking to me?'

‘Well, well, well . . .' I take a deep gulp of my champagne and lean back. ‘So that's where taking psychology at university gets you?'

‘It's true. In fact –' Cam pauses and looks over at the pile of discarded clothing next to her ‘– do you know what you remind me of?'