Odd Socks (30 page)

‘Can't
I
bring the guinea pig, Mum? Please?'

‘No, CJ, you can't.' Cam looks at me narrowly. ‘I suppose you think you're funny?'

‘Yep,' I reply, taking a mouthful of toast. ‘Yep, actually I do.'

‘But I'll look after it! I will!'

‘Enough!' Cam waves the butter knife in the air. ‘CJ,
nobody
is bringing animals tomorrow. It's a party for
people
– to celebrate Bronte's baby.'

‘Then how come
you
get to bring the guinea pig?' asks CJ sulkily.

‘
Aaaah!
' responds her mother, looking briefly towards the heavens for guidance. ‘Terry was only joking! Here's your toast.' Cam slides another two slices of toast onto CJ's plate. ‘And that's enough for now, so eat up.'

‘Good!' CJ picks up a slice and waves it at her mother. ‘Coz I asked for these
before
Terry got hers!'

‘Don't be rude.'

‘About tomorrow,' I say, ‘don't bother bringing anything. There's only family coming.'

‘Really? The way Diane was talking, I thought it was going to be biggish!'

‘I think she might be exaggerating just a tad.' I take a bite of my toast and continue talking around it. ‘Bronte promised me there'd only be a few.'

‘Okay.' Cam looks at me doubtfully and then shrugs. ‘Whatever.'

‘A few what?' CJ asks her mother distrustfully.

‘A few
people
, CJ.'

‘But I suppose I'd better talk to her about it at some stage today.' I chew my toast thoughtfully. ‘I mean, I don't even know what time the shindig is on!'

‘Three o'clock,' replies Cam promptly, ‘it says so on the invitation.'

‘Invitation?
What
invitation?'

‘Just an email one. I think Di sent them.'

‘Really?' I'm still looking at her in surprise. ‘Wow, she
is
organised.'

‘She sure is.' Cam puts a fresh cup of coffee in front of me. ‘Now, you'll have to excuse me for a second: I'm going to go and check those damn messages.'

I concentrate on devouring the remainder of my toast and then get up to deposit my empty plate in the sink. CJ, who has only taken one bite out of the middle of each slice of her toast, abandons her plate on the table and wanders off in the direction of the lounge-room. Shortly afterwards I can hear the manic sounds of a cartoon on the television. I can also hear a medley of voices issuing forth from the answering machine by the front door and it certainly appears Alex was right: there
were
an awful lot of messages there. I've just sat back down at the table and picked up my fresh cup of coffee when Cam comes back into the kitchen and looks at me with a frown.

‘It just occurred to me that maybe we're on the wrong track about the meeting being about Mum and Richard.'

‘Why?' I ask, looking at her with interest. ‘What's happened now?'

‘Well, there were two messages on my answering machine from her telling me not to forget about Saturday morning and to keep lunchtime free as well, one message from Diane telling me that Mum's rung her three times to remind her and what's the go about lunch, one message from Bloody Elizabeth asking me if I know what it's all about, and even a message from Harold telling me to be especially nice to my mother because she's a bit fragile at the moment.' Cam grabs her coffee and slides into the seat opposite me. ‘So, what if she's sick or something? What if
that's
what it's all about?'

‘What would her being sick have to do with Richard?'

‘Nothing, you twit!' Cam looks at me with exasperation. ‘That's what I'm saying! Get your mind away from that damn Richard for a minute or two, will you?'

‘Hey, no need to get snappy!'

‘Sorry.' Cam holds up a hand in apology. ‘I'm sorry. It's just that I've got myself a bit worried now. I mean, what if she's sick? What if she's
really
sick?'

‘I don't know,' I say slowly, thinking through this theory. ‘I can't imagine your mother sick, can you?'

‘No, but that doesn't mean she can't be. And I suppose she
is
getting on now, after all.'

We lapse into an uncomfortable silence while we drink our coffees. I can't really think of what to say because, now that I mull it over, there's a very good chance Cam may be right. Certainly an elderly mother calling an urgent meeting with her three children, minus their significant others, does not bode terribly well. Especially when the said elderly mother's husband makes a point of ringing to say his wife is ‘a bit fragile' at the moment. Bugger.

‘When did all those messages get left?'

‘Must have been yesterday while I was at the zoo. Because, despite what Alex says, I
do
check my messages most days,' Cam says defensively, ‘it's just I hardly ever use the hall phone, and that's where the answering machine is.'

‘So, move it,' I reply pragmatically, knowing full well she'll never get round to it. ‘Anyway, it doesn't matter now. And don't tie yourself up in knots about it, you'll soon find out what's going on.' I glance over at the clock on the microwave. ‘Look! It's twenty to ten now!'

‘Hell's bells!' Cam bounds out of her seat, gathers up the dirty plates and cups, and dumps them in the kitchen sink. Then she starts filling the sink while wiping down the benches haphazardly.

‘Do you want a hand?' I get up and put my own half-empty cup in the sink. ‘Or do you want me just to get out from under your feet?'

‘Do you mind?' She turns to face me, looking apologetic. ‘Go have a shower and I'll make a fresh batch of coffee.'

‘No, don't bother.' I pick up some bits of toast off the floor and put them in a pile on the bench. ‘I'll just have that shower and get dressed. Then I'll be out of here.'

‘Coward,' says Cam with a half-smile.

‘Guilty as charged.'

Cam's shower is one of those old-fashioned ones that hang over the bath – but what it loses in terms of actual space, it makes up for with the size of the showerhead itself. Obviously invented back when saving water seemed as ridiculous as
recycling rubbish, it gushes forth a heavy spray that encircles my body as
well
as all of its more extreme appendages. The water is hot, soothing and positively orgasmic. I sigh and tip my head, wiping my hair back with one hand. I could stay here forever.

But that's not a viable option. So, after a thorough wash, I reluctantly turn the shower off and step out of the bath, grabbing the small thin towel hanging on the rail. Now that the drumming of the shower has ceased, I realise I can hear voices outside the bathroom. And not just the voices of Cam and CJ, either. Which means that, unfortunately, the other participants in the mystery meeting have begun to arrive.

Well, there's no point hurrying if they are already here, so I start to dry myself off slowly with the mini towel and decide that some of my large, luxurious bath sheets would make an excellent Christmas present for Cam this year. I must remember to tell Santa next time I see him.

I dress myself in yesterday's jeans and red angora jumper before finding a blow-dryer in the depths of a cupboard and drying off my hair. While I'm doing this, I look around and reflect that perhaps a new bathroom would be a better option for Santa. This one is disgusting. The walls are covered with dark brown-flecked mosaic tiles that clash dreadfully with the chestnut vanity and pastel-pink bath. The only decent things are the imitation slate floor-tiles, which Cam had laid earlier in the year.

I finish with my hair and then continue my search, this time for moisturiser and a bit of foundation. I want to make myself look half decent as I've decided to visit my mother on the way home. Because if she sees that I'm concerned about Cam's mother perhaps being seriously ill, then surely she will feel compelled either to fill me in or tell me what the meeting's
really
about to ease my troubled mind. It's a win-win manoeuvre.

Eventually I find some rather sticky-looking bottles at the back of the cupboard with a yellowing neck brace, a stack of assorted shampoo samples and a singular cardboard-stiff grey sock. I locate what I need among the bottles and apply them to my face in the correct order. Finally, a brief examination in the mirror reminds me what I already know – it's all psychological.

I clean up the bathroom by mopping up water with the towel before wrapping it with my discarded pyjamas and opening the bathroom door. The first thing I see is CJ, who is leaning against the passage wall and staring at me steadily.

‘You're not allowed down there.' She inclines her head towards the kitchen. ‘Not anymore. No one is.'

‘Why not?'

‘Dunno. Just not.'

I don't bother continuing the conversation. Instead I walk down the passage towards the kitchen and turn the corner with a smile ready. Which is more than I can say for the four women sitting around the table in the meals area. Facing me, in the seat I occupied earlier, is Cam, who is busily pouring tea from a porcelain teapot and passing the cups around. In the short time I was in the bathroom, she has transformed the table into something out of
Home Beautiful
. Draped with an ecru lace tablecloth, it bears matching linen napkins, a crystal platter of shortbread biscuits, and an enormous vase of what look like fern fronds. Obviously she decided that the royal treatment was in order. In the chair next to her and half hidden by the greenery is Diane, who is playing with a napkin ring and looking like she would rather be anywhere else. Opposite her and with her back towards the kitchen is the youngest sister, Elizabeth, and next to her is Rose Riley herself. Everybody either looks up or turns around and stares at me in surprise as I enter.

‘Terry!' Cam pauses with the teapot poised over a rapidly filling cup.

‘Cam!' I reply brightly.

‘Camilla!' says her mother. ‘Look at what you're doing, for goodness' sake!'

‘Damn!' Cam straightens the teapot and puts it down on the table before mopping up the spillage with some of the napkins. ‘Sorry.'

‘Hello, everybody.' I smile at them all. ‘I'll just dump these in the washing machine and then I'll be off.'

‘Terry stayed here last night,' adds Cam, by way of an explanation. ‘In Sam's room.'

‘Hi, Terry,' says Diane, peering around the fern fronds as she fastidiously transfers the tea-soaked napkins onto a spare saucer and pushes it over to a corner of the table. ‘I'm coming over to your place this afternoon, did Bronte tell you?'

‘And you're not going to offer her a cup of tea?' queries Rose of her middle daughter, with her eyebrows raised. ‘That's not very polite, darling.'

‘It's all right, Mrs Riley,' I say quickly, ‘I've already had coffee.'

‘Nonsense.'

‘Would you like a cup of tea?' asks Cam politely. ‘Here, have my seat – I'll get one from the lounge-room.'

‘Sit,' says Rose Riley with what she obviously thinks is a welcoming smile, ‘and tell us all about that adorable great-grand-daughter of mine.'

‘Um, okay.' I offload my armful of dirty washing onto the machine in the laundry and then return to the table to do as I'm told, casting Cam an apologetic grimace as I take her seat. ‘Let me see . . . Um . . . '

‘Now you're beginning to sound like Bronte.' Rose frowns at me. ‘I don't understand why you youngsters hum and hah instead of speaking clearly and concisely.'

‘Perhaps it's your imposing presence, Mum.' Diane sends me a sympathetic smile. ‘You scare them into silence.'

‘Absolute rubbish.'

‘She's got a point, Mum,' adds Elizabeth, who I can't see at all behind the copious greenery. ‘You probably don't realise it.'

‘Hurrumph.' With that Rose dismisses this theory abruptly and, leaning over, assumes control of the teapot. ‘Take that full cup away, Camilla, and fetch Terry a clean one, will you.'

‘Fine.' Cam, who has just come back from the dining-room carrying a chair, deposits it next to the table and gingerly takes the brimming cup over to the sink. She empties it out, rinses it off, and brings it back over.

‘I
did
say a clean one,' sniffs her mother, taking the cup and examining it closely. ‘But never mind, this one will have to do.'

‘Fine,' repeats Cam, sitting down at the end of the table on the chair she has just brought in. ‘And I see you're doing the honours?'

‘Well, I'm less likely to spill it,' replies her mother as she pours me a cup and passes it over. ‘Now, is that everybody?'

Her daughters each nod while I add some milk and a spoonful of sugar to my cup. I feel rather awkward sitting here with them, almost like I've pushed my way into a secret society. Much as I want to know what's going on, I don't really want to be here. I decide to drink quickly and make my escape.

‘Well, here we all are.' Rose looks around at Elizabeth, then Cam, then me, and frowns at the fern fronds obscuring her view of her eldest daughter. ‘For goodness' sake, Camilla! Will you please move that ridiculous vase? I can't see Diane at all!'

‘That's okay,' says Diane, ‘I don't mind.'

‘Well, I do! Camilla?'

‘Yes, Mum. Just a minute, Mum.' Camilla reaches across and, with Diane's help, pushes the vase over to the end of the table under the window. ‘Is that better?'

‘Much, thank you,' nods Rose approvingly, ‘and now I suppose I'd better get started and tell you all why I've asked you here today.'

‘No!' I splutter, holding out my hand to stop her. ‘Wait till I go, Mrs Riley!'

‘Nonsense.'

‘But I shouldn't be here!'

‘What difference does it make, dear?' She looks at me quizzically. ‘After all, I'm sure Camilla would be on the phone to fill you in as soon as I leave. You might as well hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak.'