Odd Socks (33 page)

I cup my hand over the mouse and scroll down, hoping to see at least
my
name creep onto the screen. But it doesn't. Instead, another ten names adhere themselves to the bottom of the list and show no signs of moving. So I continue scrolling. And scrolling. While name after name after name makes the quantum leap from obscurity to invitee. And my mouth goes through the gamut of slightly ajar, to falling fully open, to unattractively agape.

But still the list shows no sign of ending so, with a sinking feeling, I glance towards the little dubrick at the side of the screen that indicates how far down a document you are. And my sinking feeling gets the bends when I realise it's only sitting at about the two-third mark.

There must be over one hundred names here. Over one hundred people crammed into my unit. My pristine, beautiful unit. With people jam-packed in my kitchen, people cheek to jowl in my lounge-room, people squished in my courtyard, people popping out of the windows. Because there simply isn't the room for that number of people here. Well, at least I no
longer care whether my name is there or not. In fact, I rather hope it isn't.

There is a loud knocking on the door just as I finish vacuuming the carpet in the lounge-room. Then again, because I
had
been vacuuming the carpet in the lounge-room, there's probably been a loud knocking for quite some time. I place my new rug carefully over the offending stain once more and then jog over to the front door to fling it open. Diane, holding what appears to be the leaning tower of Tupperware, beams up at me.

‘I come bearing gifts!' she declares merrily.

‘You'd need to,' I reply, less than merrily, ‘with the number of people you've organised to come here tomorrow.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Just what I said.' I wave her through the doorway and take the top three levels of the tower before it topples. ‘I mean, Diane, how on earth am I going to fit all those people in here?'

‘But why didn't you email me back if you weren't happy?'

‘Because I couldn't, that's why,' I reply shortly, shutting the door behind her.

‘And besides, who on that list could I
not
invite?' Diane follows me into the kitchen. ‘They're mostly family, after all.'

‘That's a bloody big family you've got.'

‘Not really.' Diane puts her load down on the table and frowns at me. ‘No bigger than most, anyway.'

‘Well, my question still remains – where am I going to put them all?'

‘Terry . . .' Diane pauses as she looks at me thoughtfully. ‘How many were on the list you read?'

‘You ought to know.'

‘Tell me anyway.'

‘Well, I gave up at around the one hundred mark, put it that way.'

‘One hundred!' Diane falls backwards onto a chair and looks at me aghast. ‘One
hundred
! Did you say one hundred?'

‘At least.'

‘Oh my lord!'

‘Hang on.' I sit down opposite her. ‘Why're you so surprised?
You
sent the list!'

‘No, no,
no
. I sent a list of exactly forty-three that Bronte and I worked out in the hospital. I mean, I was a bit stunned we got to forty-three but there wasn't really anyone we
couldn't
invite. So I sent it off to you and told Bronte the other day to go over it and add anyone she thought of later on . . .' Diane trails off as we both stare at each other and are simultaneously enlightened.

‘Bronte!'

‘How
could
she!'

‘I'm going to kill her.'

‘See, I told her I'd invite the ones we had agreed on and it was up to her to follow up on any you or she added,' Diane continues, ‘so she's obviously just used the Word document I sent. And followed up. Oh, my lord! One hundred people!'

‘I have a feeling that whatever those Tupperware containers are holding isn't going to be enough.'

‘I have a feeling you're right.'

We sit there in silence, both staring at the Tupperware tower as if waiting for it to re-enact the miracle of the loaves and fishes. I desperately want to ask her how their lunch went today, but I also desperately don't want to go there. With
over one hundred people turning up on my doorstep tomorrow, I've got more than enough on my plate. Thinking of plates reminds me of the problem of feeding all these guests. And feeding all these guests reminds me of eating, which reminds me of lunch on Tuesday. Which reminds me of Richard. I sigh, chew my lip thoughtfully and decide to go there anyway.

‘How was your lunch?'

‘Lunch?' Diane is still looking at her Tupperware with a frown. ‘Oh, lunch! Of course! Well, it was interesting, to say the least.'

‘In what way?' I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘Well, my mother for starters. It was really sort of
sad
watching her watching him. She was all proud and beaming, but she's really done nothing to be proud of, has she?'

‘I don't know,' I reply slowly. ‘Perhaps seeing he has turned out so well helps her feel vindicated. Like she made the right decision after all.'

‘Oh.' Diane looks at me with a frown. ‘I hadn't thought of it that way.'

‘But did you
like
him?'

‘Yes, actually I did.' Diane sounds taken aback. ‘I really did. But he's shy, isn't he? And thin,
really
thin.'

‘A bit,' I say stiffly. ‘And what about everyone else? Did they like him?'

‘They certainly seemed to. I know David did, and so did Michael – the other boys were all out. But you know David – he'll get anyone to relax.'

‘What about Cam?'

‘I
think
she liked him too, but she was a bit quiet about it all so it was hard to tell. And I haven't had a chance to talk to her since, what with all this –' Diane waves towards the Tupperware ‘– but I don't think we'll be seeing him again anyway, so
it probably doesn't matter.'

‘Why not?' I squeak, my heart skipping a beat.

‘Well, because it wasn't mentioned. In fact, it was like he was avoiding it.' Diane frowns at me. ‘Hey, are you all right?'

‘Oh yes.' I try to sound airy. ‘Just a tad worried about tomorrow, that's all.'

‘Don't blame you.' She looks back at her Tupperware and sighs. ‘Over one hundred people. Wow.'

‘Yes. Wow.'

We sit in silence once more while I decide how to broach the Richard subject again. There's probably not all that much else I'll discover about the lunch, but I just like hearing his name. I'm still working out a good approach when I register the fumbling sounds of a key in the front door. Diane and I look at each other with narrowed eyes and speak in unison.

‘Bronte!'

‘Someone say my name?' Bronte bounces into the kitchen and smiles at us happily. ‘And, Mum, I see you've cleaned up– thanks
so
much. You didn't have to, you know.'

‘Bronte?' Diane looks at her future daughter-in-law with carefully controlled annoyance. ‘Exactly how
many
names did you add to my list?'

‘Oh . . .' Bronte's smile dies a quick death and she chews her lip nervously. ‘The list.'

‘That was my fault, Mum.' Nick comes in with the baby capsule dangling from one hand. ‘Bronte was starting to get worried about the number of people so I went, “What the hell, you only have a baby once, don't you?”'

‘That's not strictly true, Nick,' I comment pedantically. ‘Look at your mother.'

‘Like, no
way
!' says Bronte with feeling. ‘One's enough.'

‘Anyway, you
know
what I mean.' Nick grins at me disarmingly.
‘So, what's the problem? It's only a few extra. You guys don't mind, do you?'

‘Don't mind?' I manage to squeak. ‘Don't
mind
?'

‘What Terry's trying to say,' chimes in Diane, in a considerably softer tone than she used with my daughter, ‘is that perhaps one hundred-odd people might be a bit of a squeeze here.'

‘
Very
odd people,' I mutter crossly, ‘judging by some of the names.'

‘Are numbers all you're worried about?' Nick laughs cheerfully. ‘Because if
that's
the problem, don't stress. Most of our friends'll be hanging around outside, anyway.'

‘And what are you going to feed all these people?' continues his mother. ‘Because one hundred people eat an awful lot of food, you know.'

‘Again – no problemo.' Nick passes the capsule to a rather silent Bronte and wags his finger at us. ‘Stay right there! Wait till you see what we've bought!'

We watch him exit the room and then hear the front door being opened again. Bronte puts the capsule down carefully beside my chair and I'm rewarded by a glimpse of Sherry, sleeping like the angel she is. Diane leans over and musters a smile as she looks at the baby too.

‘Sorry, Mum,' mutters Bronte, looking at me. ‘The truth is that, like, we just got a bit carried away.'

‘I noticed.'

‘But Nick's right – wait till you see what we've bought!'

‘Okay.' I bend over the capsule and touch the top of Sherry's little bald head. I can see the fontanelle beating rhythmically against the top of her scalp. How vulnerable. How precious.

‘Here we go!' Nick bounds back into the room carrying three bags of groceries, which he dumps on the ground next to Bronte. They both squat and start to pull out the
contents.

‘Look!' Bronte waves a double packet of potato chips in the air. ‘See?'

‘And crackers!' Nick flourishes a packet of them at us and then dives into the bag for some more. ‘And party pies! And pizza!'

‘Oh my god,' says his mother, leaning over and pulling the third bag open. ‘
One
packet of pretzels!
One
packet of Cheezels!
Chewing gum!
I don't believe this!'

‘Told you so.' Nick gives us a smug, even supercilious look. ‘Nothing to worry about! It's
all
taken care of.'

‘Hey, Mum, it's me! No, Terry. Yes. Look, you know your big white china set – the one with all the place settings and the matching teapots and serving plates and all? Could you please get it down and Nick'll be there later to pick it up. And also your embroidered white tablecloths. And some of those big crystal vases. We need to borrow them for tomorrow. What
else
could you bring? Well, let me see – how about some of those homemade sausage rolls you make, and a platter of those chilli mini-shashliks, and what about some of those little potato pancakes? Are you writing all this down?'

‘Hi, this is your loving wife. Well, I
will
be – if you do the following things for me. First I want you to get those white chairs from the shed. You know, the ones we bought for Evan's eighteenth. Yes, all of them. And the two white folding tables. And the super-big Esky. I want you to load them all in the car and bring them over here. No! Don't bring the girls! Get Chris or Evan to look after them. Now, on the way I want you to stop at that big grog shop on Maroondah Highway. Yes, I thought you'd know the one. And I want you to hire two boxes of multi-purpose glasses. Then I want you to stop at the shops and get me some balloons, and streamers, and serviettes.
I
don't care if you can't fit it all in! Do two trips, for goodness' sake!'

‘Hello, Dennis. Sorry, was I interrupting something? Oh, it sounded like it. Anyway, I'll only keep you a minute. I just had this awful feeling I forgot to tell you that you were providing the drinks for this do of Bronte's tomorrow. I
did
forget? Bugger – so sorry. Well, some beer should do it – make sure you get light
and
regular, and we'll need some champagne, and perhaps a few bottles of chardonnay, or riesling. Oh, and don't forget the soft drink! At least five dozen. Yes, I know it's a tad late in the day but you could have offered anyway, you know. And then I would have remembered to tell you. How many people? Oh, just a little over a hundred . . .'

‘Hi, Mum – it's Diane. No, stop!
That's
not why I'm ringing. Listen, you know those little vol-au-vent things you make? Do you think you could possibly whip some up for Nick's thing tomorrow? Yes, I know I didn't ring you back when you offered to bring something. Yes, I know that was dreadfully rude. Yes, I know. But could you still do some of them for us? And maybe some of those open sandwiches you do so well, and some of those puff pastry mustardy-cheese things, and you know that celery dip that Harold does? Perhaps some of that too. How many? Well, say one hundred of each – that should be enough.'

‘Hey, Cam! It's Terry – how are you? You don't want to talk about it? Great – because I don't want to talk about
that
either. Listen, you know how you asked me this morning if there's anything you could bring? Well, there is. Have you still got that enormous punchbowl? Great! Can you bring that along a tad earlier tomorrow? Terrific. And maybe a couple of platters with crackers and cheese because they go so well with punch. With some celery and carrots. And dip. And maybe some kabana as well. And don't forget to clean the punchbowl, only because it's probably dusty – and, oh, of course! Don't forget to bring something to go
in
it as well.'

‘Hi, Elizabeth, it's your favourite sister here. No, fool – it's Diane. Yes, I know about the lunch – I was there, remember? No, I'm not ringing to have a chat about that. But I'm guessing you've been trying to get hold of me to ask what you should bring tomorrow? Ah, I thought so – I
know
you wouldn't want to just turn up without anything, would you? Anyway, could you bring some finger-food dessert type stuff? Maybe some little éclairs, or profiteroles, or meringues, or a tray of baby pikelets with some bowls of jam and cream. Or, I tell you what – just bring all of them.'