Odd Socks (32 page)

‘There's absolutely no need to get snippy,' Cam's mother looks at her disapprovingly. ‘I'm only trying to be honest, that's all.'

‘About time,' mutters Cam.

‘Don't mumble, Camilla. If you have something to say, just say it.' Rose stares challengingly at her daughter for a few moments and then, when no response is forthcoming, turns away and continues: ‘
As
I was saying, it was a rather odd thing. It's true that they met at an airport lounge. In Singapore, I believe. He was on his way back from London and had a four-hour stopover and it seems Joanne heard his Australian accent and introduced herself. Apparently, she had been at some type of retreat where they weren't allowed to speak and so she was making up for lost time. Funny, she's never very chatty when I see her. Never mind. Well, by the time the plane was ready she had been telling him all about her life to date and had happened to mention you, Camilla – something about working with you at the library. Anyway, he recognised the name so he swapped his business class seat for the seat next to her. She was in economy.'

‘Oh,' comments Elizabeth, ‘
that
was silly.'

‘Yes, well, on the way to Melbourne he asked her about us and then explained why.' Rose takes another sip of tea and pulls a face at its coolness before pushing her cup away. ‘So she came up with the idea of him staying a few days and meeting
us all. Although I believe he was not going to tell us who he was. But I recognised him . . . he looks just like his father, you see.'

‘God!' says Diane. ‘That must have been a shock, Mum!'

‘Yes,' replies Rose slowly, ‘it was.'

‘You mean his
father
looked like that?' says Cam incredulously. ‘Tall and beanpoley?'

‘Yes,' replies Rose, ‘he certainly did.'

‘And you
fell
for him?'

‘But hang on – why didn't he want us to know?' Elizabeth finds her voice again. ‘I mean, what's wrong with us?'

‘And how did he recognise Cam's name?' Diane looks at her mother with a frown. ‘How did he know who
she
was?'

‘Good question!' Cam looks towards their mother for illumination.

‘Well, that's easy. Apparently his daughter – he has a teenage daughter named Eve – was interested in family history a few years ago so he helped her look it all up and make a genealogy chart. So he was well aware of who we all were and even where we all were.'

‘But he wasn't ever going to look us
up
?'

‘I believe not.' Rose looks at her spot on the wall again. ‘You see, he feels he had a good childhood – a
great
one, he said – and didn't really feel the need to, well, complicate his life. He said there were no
gaps
that he felt needed filling. And that probably would have been the way it stayed if he hadn't run into Joanne. He said she piqued his interest and suddenly he got curious.'

‘So is he upset that we know now?'

‘I don't think so. He didn't say anything like that and he was surprisingly honest about how he felt.' Rose smiles with obvious pride. ‘A very
together
young man. Lovely manners too. And I do believe he's looking forward to this lunch with the three of you.'

‘But I'd still like to know how come almost everybody has met him except me,' complains Elizabeth, taking a shortbread biscuit and waving it at Cam. ‘That means you all get a head start with him.'

‘I think I'm in shock.' Diane starts collecting the teacups together and stacking them at the end of the table. ‘I don't know what to say.'

‘C'n I come in now?' CJ's blonde head pokes around the corner of the kitchen doorway. ‘Are you all finished with talking?'

I don't know about the rest of them, but I certainly am. In fact, I've been incapable of speech for quite some time now. Because there are too many ramifications here for me to get my head around, and the atmosphere in Cam's meals area at the moment is not conducive to anything resembling clear thinking. Rose looks like a balloon that has been suddenly deflated, all pinched and drained and sapped of strength. Nevertheless, while not exactly defensive, she is obviously still on her guard and unwilling to relinquish control of the situation. Diane, on the other hand, has given up on the conversation entirely, electing instead to collect the crockery and wash it. Elizabeth is sulkily shredding fern fronds and Cam is just looking bitter.

While CJ, taking the lack of response as an affirmative, runs across to the table and clambers up onto her grandmother's lap, I begin to plan my escape. I don't want to be here anymore. In fact, I seem to remember that I didn't want to be here in the beginning. I run my fingers through my hair, flop it back and tuck it behind my ears. So Richard is Rose Riley's son. So Richard is my best friend's brother. So Richard is forty-six years old. So Richard is meeting them all for lunch today.

And so Richard and Joanne probably aren't an item.

I let myself into my house slowly, expecting to hear either the television at full volume, the stereo blaring, or the baby exercising her lungs. Instead there's just the sort of eerie silence I was quite fond of until my daughter and her offspring moved in two days ago. As I shut the door behind me, I allow myself a small frisson of hope that said daughter and offspring might not be currently in residence. I love them both fiercely, but at the moment I'd love some peace and quiet even more. I put my keys down on the foyer table, wander into the lounge-room and immediately rethink the fierce love bit as, my eyes widening, I survey the damage.

And damage there is aplenty. In fact, if this were a gung-ho crime show, I would be able to say the lounge-room betrays definite evidence of a struggle. A struggle between chaos and order, that is – with chaos the obvious victor. All the couch cushions have been piled in a heap in front of the television set with my new rug draped over the lot of them. The coffee table is heaped with empty pizza boxes, dirty glasses and scrunched-up chip packets, there is a bunny-rug spread across the carpet in the corner with enough toys and rattles to stock a small toy-shop, and an open Billabong backpack on the armchair dangles entrails of jumpers and jeans over the armrest and onto the floor. There is even a lone toothbrush sitting on top of the stereo. And there's a god-awful stain on the carpet.

I take all of this in slowly as I gaze from one side of the room to the other in amazement. Then I wander, slightly stunned, into the kitchen area. And immediately realise this is obviously where the largest battle was fought – and chaos, once again, reigned supreme. The sink is full and what couldn't
fit in there has been piled haphazardly onto the bench-tops. There's a plastic bag holding what I suspect might be a dirty nappy sitting on top of the island bench, along with an opened box of cereal, an opened tub of fried rice, an opened jar of Vegemite and a singular sock. An assortment of discarded baby clothing is scattered across the floor by the table, while on the table itself are several neatly lined-up empty Coke bottles and one half-full baby bottle – almost as if someone was planning an impromptu game of skittles. There's also a note.

 

 

I put the kettle on automatically, and then decide I don't want a hot drink after all. I had enough coffee and tea at Cam's place to last me for quite some time. As soon as I think of Cam's place, by automatic association my mind works its way across to the scene with her mother – so I shut it down. I'm not ready to go there.

What I
really
feel like is a drink but it's a tad early for that, so I turn my back on the kitchen and walk carefully through the lounge-room with my eyes closed, only opening them when I feel the bottom step of the spiral staircase with my left foot. I go upstairs expecting a similar chaos vs order sort of thing to be happening up here – but it's surprisingly neat. Bronte's bed is even made and the only thing remotely resembling a mess is the stack of CD computer games that
have been left next to the computer in the study. I put these away before sitting down at the computer and staring at the screen.

For now at least, I'll pile the state of my lounge-room and kitchen with the other things I don't want to think about just yet. Instead I'll concentrate on extricating the email Diane sent a few days ago so I've got an idea of the number of guests tomorrow. Then I'll do a shopping list and work out what I need in terms of fodder. And, of course, it's vitally important that whatever I get takes only a few minutes to prepare – but looks like it's taken hours.

I lean forwards, pick up a stray computer game disc that has slid half under the monitor, and place it neatly on the side of the desk. Then I pause, staring at the disc as it suddenly hits me that Bronte has been playing games on this computer quite happily ever since she arrived home. Ergo she
must
know the password.

I dial her mobile phone number on the study phone and listen to it ring.

‘Hello! Hello!'

‘Bronte, it's Mum.'

‘Hey, Mum! Like, where are you?'

‘At home.'

‘Oh, um . . .' Bronte puts her hand over the phone and whispers quite audibly to someone else: ‘She's home! Shit – I
told
you we should have cleaned up first!'

‘Bronte?'

‘Mum, hang on, will you?' Bronte forgets to put her hand over the phone again so I hear Nick quite clearly as he advises her to pretend the signal's breaking up. They proceed to have a heated, and perfectly distinct, discussion concerning the advisability of this slight fabrication.

‘
Bronte!
'

‘I'm here! And look, sorry about the mess – we'll clean it up as soon as we get home, I promise. It's just that Sherry was so dreadful last night that Nick said we needed a break – so we're at the Healesville Sanctuary! Like, it's
so
cool – I haven't been here for years!'

‘Great,' I reply, ‘glad you're enjoying yourselves.'

‘Oh, we
are
!'

‘Well, we'll talk when you get home, okay? What I really want is the password for the computer – do you know it?'

‘Of course!'

‘Well?'

‘It's “Diamond” – you know, like our surname.'

‘I
know
our surname, Bronte,' I snap irritably, ‘but that's the
username
, not the password.'

‘No, no – it's the password as well! Truly! Hey, you're breaking up, Mum! Lots of static – zzzz, zzzz. Can't hear you – ring you later. Bye!'

I hang up the phone and go back to staring at the computer. Surely it couldn't be? With not much to lose either way, I switch the computer on and wait till the screen flashes its mocking little message at me:

Username?
Diamond                
Password?
                                

Leaning forwards, I type in the word ‘Diamond' and wait pessimistically for the reject message. But it doesn't come. Instead, the screen flashes a rainbow of colours, plays some corny music, and then covers itself with an array of neat, square icons. I'm in! Feeling a bit like a successful computer hacker, I click on the inbox icon and scroll through the unread emails, watching their little envelope icons flip open – all thirty-three of them, one after another – plink, plink, plink.

There are chatty emails from my brother, Thomas; infantile emails from my niece, Bonnie; chain-mail emails from friends who obviously dislike me; semi-pornographic emails from friends who obviously do; joke emails passed on from acquaintances; and annoying spam from people I don't even know. I scroll down through the electronic debris until I find the email sent from Diane the day before yesterday. The subject line reads: ‘Proposed guest list for Sunday shindig.' I double-click to open it and then read:

 

 

Thanks, Diane

I tap my fingers absentmindedly on the mouse while I look at this email. What does she mean about ‘a few more than expected'? Family is family – and it hasn't grown overnight, for god's sake. Except, of course, for Richard. But I'm not going there.

With more than a sliver of apprehension, I double-click on the attachment and wait till the Word document flashes up on the screen. But it's blank. Well,
that
certainly suits me – no guests at all. Perfect.

Unfortunately, it's also unlikely. So I tap my fingers on the
mouse again for a few minutes while I try to work out what's happened to the list. Then, on a hunch, I close down the attachment, the email, and the inbox before opening Microsoft Word and voila! There's a document titled ‘Guest List'. I don't know how it got here, and I don't much care. I decided long ago that the workings of computers will always be beyond me. I double-click on the document and, a few seconds later, my screen fills with the guest list for the Sunday shindig. And I let my breath out with a whoosh of relief after I quickly count the names and only get to twenty-six. Well, that's not too bad – I
expected
almost that many. So I read through the list a bit more slowly and suddenly realise there are some key players missing – like my mother, Cam, two of Nick's brothers, and . . . me.