Odd Socks (4 page)

I dismiss the irritation of overendowment momentarily as I go back to staring at the ceiling and smiling happily. How can one person have so many blessings? Some people might say I'm tempting fate by counting my blessings, but what's the point of being blessed if you can't feel smug about it? Besides, it's all a matter of control. If you have your life under control, the chances of things going wrong are reduced dramatically.

After I've finished in here I'll have another coffee while I make a few phone calls. First, the library to ask for a few days off – perhaps even the whole week: I deserve it. Second, the carpet cleaners. Third, fourth, fifth and maybe sixth, a few select people to let them know the good news. I flick my foot into the air, sending a cascade of froth floating to the ceiling before submerging myself again to rinse the last of the suds out of my hair. Then I pull the plug, step out and grab one of the enormous white bath sheets to dry myself off vigorously.

These generous towels are capable of wrapping themselves around my body at least twice so, thus clad, I open the door and pad downstairs towards the kitchen to put the kettle on. I left the heat on when I went up to bed earlier, so the unit is
toasty warm from head to foot – and so am I. While the kettle is boiling, I run a cloth over the bench-tops and then lean against them, looking out of the kitchen window at the grey dawn and cloudy sky. It looks like another chilly winter day typical of July in Melbourne.

I live in Ferntree Gully, a leafy and charming outer eastern suburb of Melbourne. Ferntree Gully covers a rather large area and ranges from the truly picturesque, brimming with tree ferns, dales and wildlife, to the basically suburban, which is, well, basically suburban. I live in one of the latter areas but an absence of overabundant greenery is more than made up for by the additional absence of trespassing wildlife, such as possums, which would use my roof as a trampoline and relieve themselves in my driveway. I know this for a fact because I grew up in the picturesque, leafy dale part, and not only was I rudely awakened on many occasions by noisy nocturnal wanderings overhead, but it was also my job to clean the possum crap off the car, driveway and porch. No bloody thanks. My mother still lives in the same house, and so do the critters.

So a non-leafy area was a definite priority when I bought my unit (which was actually advertised as a town house but as it's not in town and it's not a house,
I
call it a unit) virtually off the drawing board just over a decade ago when I became single again. It's a two-storey clinker brick dwelling that was terribly luxurious when it was built, and is holding up pretty well – if I say so myself. It has air-conditioning, ducted vacuum and heating, spiral staircase, spa, fireplace, enclosed garden complete with mosaic fountain and cobblestoned barbecue, and every other little mod con you can think of – as well as a few you probably can't. I own it outright and have done so since the moment I moved in. And I'm fully aware that I was very, very fortunate as far as cheated-on wives go. The thing
is that
my
ex was a well-established dentist. And he was a well-established dentist so riddled with remorse that at the time he would have done almost anything to alleviate his guilt – anything, that is, except keep his fly zipped during working hours.

The unit is decorated very nicely too. That's the thing about being mortgage-less – you can spend your money on the fun things, like nice furniture and regular re-decorating splurges. My place is currently done in muted pastels throughout. The laundry, kitchen and adjoining family-cum-meals area are a sunny pale lemon, with white cupboards and trim, and the rest of the ground floor, consisting of a lounge-room, powder-room and an enormous entry foyer (lorded over by the spiral staircase), are painted a light dusky-rose colour that contrasts well with my predominantly white furniture and (formerly) pristine, pale moss-coloured carpet. Upstairs is a landing that leads to the three bedrooms – my room (cream), Bronte's old room (sky-blue) and one (sage-green) that I've turned into a book-lined study, complete with a seldom-used computer.

The unit is always immaculate – with everything in its place and a place for everything. Because I'm positively
allergic
to clutter – if my place gets messy or disorganised, it's like my life is messy and disorganised.

I switch off the kettle and pour hot water over the coffee in the plunger. The heady aroma quickly permeates the air and I take a deep breath, hoisting my towel back up and readjusting it as I let my breath out. Then I take a cup back upstairs to my bedroom, where I plump myself on my bed and grin happily at the mirror. It grins happily back.

I lean over to put my coffee down on the bedside chest and promptly lose my towel again. Instead of readjusting it this time, I stand up and frowningly examine myself in the mirror. I turn first one way and then the other. The trouble is that in
my daughter I've got a constant reminder of how I used to look twenty years ago – and sometimes I'd prefer to forget.

However, even if I say so myself, I'm not
too
bad for forty-one. Shoulderblade-length blonde hair, largish blue eyes, pale skin, not a bad figure, long legs, nice butt . . . nice butt? It suddenly occurs to me that, even though I'm standing front on, I can see some of my butt. And I'm pretty sure I haven't always been able to do that. I twist around a tad to check my butt is still where it's supposed to be, then bend over and peer between my legs. Sure enough, I can see the bottom end of my bottom end. I straighten up and check out the front view once more before deciding to ignore this visible sign of gravity at work. Perhaps I can get something done about the butt bit when I fix the boob bit. I narrow my eyes threateningly at each appendage before turning away.

Naked, I wander into the walk-in wardrobe and look thoughtfully at the neat row of clothing suspended before me. What I need is appropriate winter wear that reflects the festive nature of this particular day. Eventually I choose a pair of khaki cargo pants, a snug white rollneck jumper, and sneakers. The festive touch is achieved by the addition of a pair of dangly gold earrings. Fully dressed, I walk back over to the mirror and check out the effect. Not bad – casual yet compelling. And, now that it is firmly held in place, I can barely see my rear end at all. I head into the ensuite to brush my teeth, blow-dry my hair and throw on a little foundation.

While I'm in there, I rinse down the remains of this morning's bubbles in the spa bath, fish out the soap and straighten up the shampoos lined along the edge. Then I strip my bed and remake it with clean sheets. This accomplished, I grab the dirty sheets and use them to wipe the coffee ring under my cup before taking them, and my coffee, downstairs, where I deposit the sheets in the washing machine and the coffee in the microwave.
While it's heating up, I grab a pen, write a list of plans for the day and then fasten the completed list on the fridge behind a magnet of a bejewelled Tutankhamen. I stand back to examine it.

MONDAY

Looks perfect. I've had
Gone with the Wind
sitting by my bed since Christmas and still haven't got around to reading it. As for the tax return, that's been on top of my ‘to do' pile for the past month. So now is my chance for both maybe – and plenty more. Yes, it should be a nice, relaxing day but there's nothing like careful organisation. This is something that I learnt (read: was drummed into me) during the three years I spent in the armed services before marrying Dennis. The six p's: prior preparation prevents piss-poor performance. And if there's one thing we heroes can't tolerate, it's piss-poor performance.

This is going to be just great.

Flaming hell! Why does nothing ever go the way I bloody well want it to? I slam the gearstick back into third and scream around the corner onto Burwood Highway. Some bloke in a Falcon ute honks at me impatiently but I ignore him because I refuse to indulge in road rage. Normal rage is more than enough for me at the best of times – and today is one of those times. From a great start, my morning thus far has turned out to be a severe trial. The carpet cleaners can't come until tomorrow morning, by which time my carpet should be permanently set in tie-dye pink moss. My ex-husband is on a cruise with one of his string of blonde girlfriends and so can't be contacted. My best friend, Camilla, had already left by the time I got through to her number and then, when I rang my mother, somehow I found myself agreeing to pick her up this morning and take her with me to the hospital to visit. Which means, knowing my mother, that I'll probably end up having her with me for the whole day.

Then, by the time I finished with all these calls and finally rang Diane, not only had she already heard the happy news but she'd passed it on to the rest of the family and was on her way to the hospital as we spoke. Literally – as I rang her on her mobile. Diane is Camilla's eldest sister as well as the mother of Bronte's fiancé, Nicholas, so therefore the new baby is a direct descendant of hers as well as mine. I suppose we're all almost related now. Diane has four boys, of whom Nick is the eldest, and twin baby girls, which probably means she won't be putting her hand up much for babysitting duties. I grimace as this thought hits me because I doubt I'd be much chop at
babysitting either, but for very different reasons. Diane is a born mother whereas I . . . well, I'm not.

In fact, I don't even particularly like babies. When other women, and quite a lot of men too, start gurgling over bunny-rug occupants, I just feel a tad bewildered. Sure, they're cute and rather appealing – in a shrink-proof wrapping kind of way – but, let's face it, what can you say about a developmental stage wherein your appearance is actually enhanced by a state of total baldness? And don't even get me started on babies at restaurants, and the way they get all the good parking spots at the shopping centres. Then look at what they do to your figure, your stress levels and your bank balance. No, I don't get it.

In fact, if it weren't for a rather literal misinterpretation of exactly what the rhythm method entailed, Bronte herself wouldn't ever have made her appearance twenty-odd years ago. And it wasn't like I had an awful lot of time to decide whether I wanted kids now, later, or ever, as I'd only been married twelve and a half minutes when she was conceived.

I'm not exaggerating – I went into the reception bathroom to freshen up before the wedding photographs and my new husband, obliging soul that he was, came in to give me a hand – or whatever. So, with the background encouragement of Carole King, one thing led to another, the earth moved and we got into a rhythm that was made all the easier by my hoop-style wedding dress, which flipped up neatly over my head. When, eventually, I readjusted the hoops and went out for photographs, all the while, unbeknownst to me, Dennis's little tadpoles were displaying a total lack of appropriate wedding etiquette and swimming frantically upstream. Nine months later – voila! Baby girl.

Not that I don't love Bronte, I do – very much. But it was never the bells clanging, whistles blowing, life-altering,
instantaneous, maternally
magical
experience that I'd read about. Rather, it was a slow process that started with more of a sense of bemusement at her birth, and culminated about four months later when once, during a night-feed, I looked down at her nestled against my breast and suddenly realised oh-my-god, I love her. And that I'd just die if anything happened to her. But that love didn't make me think twice about buying a book which detailed what the rhythm method
really
entailed, and then going on the pill as well just to make doubly sure. And not having any more children certainly didn't count as one of my regrets when the marriage shuddered miserably to a halt about nine years later.

Also, that love has certainly been put to the test this morning. Even apart from the matter of giving birth on my carpet and then telling everybody about it before I could, there was also the fact, as I discovered when I finally managed to get out the door, that Bronte had parked her pink Volkswagen right behind my car when she arrived in the middle of the night. And, as she left with Bill and Sven, of course the pink Volkswagen was still there. I had to execute a seventy-eight point turn and run over my new rosebush in order to extricate my Barina and head off to collect my mother.

I put my blinker on and coast into the left-hand lane in preparation for turning into Forest Road. Several vehicles already
in
the left-hand lane honk furiously so I take one hand off the steering wheel momentarily to send them an appropriate gesture. Then I try to crank the car back into third – but it won't go, so I look down quickly and realise the car is already
in
third. No wonder it was making all those complaining noises coming down the highway. I look back up just in time to brake before colliding with a bus that, very rudely, has pulled out right in front of me, so I honk to let him know his actions haven't gone unnoticed. A couple of teenagers in the
rear of the bus copy my earlier gesture but I ignore them blithely and turn up Forest Road towards Ferntree Gully Central.