Stan (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Stan

Now they had to
be yanking my chain?

But as my laughter
fell away and I saw the stone-cold look of ‘I’m not joking’ across my parents’
faces, it became very clear they were serious.

“What, here?”

“Yes, it’s not
fitting for a young girl to be on her own in a caravan.”

“You’ve seen that
van. It probably has bullet-proof glass and blue light laser alarms,” I said,
my voice sounding a bit too high-pitched.

“I honestly don’t
see what the big deal is,” my dad added. “You’re not planning on having any
wild parties while we’re gone, are you?”

Shit.

To avoid total damnation
I replied in a semi-innocent way.

“Who am I going to
party with? No one lives in Onslow anymore.”

“Yeah, well, Bel
won’t be cramping your style now, will she?”

I scoffed. Not
only had she completely sabotaged my weekend, she couldn’t cramp my style any
more if she tried. What was worse, even though I had resigned myself to the
fact I was stuck here for the weekend, the gatekeeper to the park, I didn’t
have the energy to be pissed. All I worried about now was the weirdness of
having to be here with her, alone.

I had gotten quite
accustomed to the idea of being home alone, aside from said wild party that was
supposedly happening tonight. Hopefully wild, as in Ringer and Ellie bringing
chips and dip; hopefully that was as wild as it would get. Listen to some
music, watch a movie. No stained carpets, no crooked picture frames or broken
vases. Everyone safe and happy – no police intervention. It was all anyone
could hope for.

“You can stay in
our room if you like? I made it up for you,” Mum said, thinking I could have it
as a semi man cave with access to the en-suite.

“Nah, it’s okay, I’ll
just crash in my old room.” I grabbed my bag and headed down the hall, past the
bathroom for the last door on the left. I knew it wouldn’t have to be made up
as it served as a guest room and was always ready for me anytime I needed. I
think Mum always hoped that one day I would get sick of living as a bachelor in
the cabin and just come back home to live, but I had my limits. In some way, I
needed my independence and by moving out to the cabin a few years ago, cutting
that umbilical cord had never felt so good.

Dumping my bag
inside the door, I blew out a long breath, taking in my old bed that had been
made with military-style precision, the dresser and side tables with not so
much as a speck of dust settled on the glossy wood service. I sat on the edge
of my childhood bed burying my head in my hands, thinking about the weekend
that loomed and the massive task that lay in front of me: toilet blocks, shower
blocks, pool maintenance, clean the onsite cabins, clean the park barbecues,
mow lawns, paint shed, service the boat.

“Knock-knock.”

My mum stood in
the doorway with a basket of washing cocked on her hip, offering a weak smile.

“You okay, hon?”

I straightened,
rubbing my hands on my jeans. “Yeah, sure.”

Mum sat the basket
of clean clothes on the bed, leaving a spot for herself next to me as she
playfully sat on the bed, hip and shouldering me.

“I restocked the
marshmallow jar.”

“Somehow I don’t
think there will be any time for marshmallows,” I said nonchalantly as I
studied the lines of my hands.

“Stanley
Remington. Are you sulking?”

“Nope, it is what
it is.”

Mum scoffed. “You
always say that.”

I looked at my
mum, half a shrug lifting my shoulder. “What choice do we have but to cope?”

Mum rolled her
eyes. “Don’t make me feel bad about this, Stan. It’s one weekend. It’s not the
end of the world. Your dad and I have already said the shed and the lawns can
wait. We don’t expect you to do them, just the main things.”

Great, now two
things had been wiped from my to-do list. How freeing.

My mum’s eyes
looked sad, and far be it from me to make her feel guilty. My parents didn’t
get away much, and I know they didn’t know about my plans. It was just a
natural assumption I had no life and that I would always be available to them.
They asked, I did—simple.

Mum kissed me on
the head. “You are a saint.”

“Yeah, I know.
Saint Stanley.”

And as my mum
stood, making her way toward my bedroom door, I suddenly felt like anything but
a saint as a devilish idea caused my heart to skip a beat. A crooked grin
formed in the corner of my mouth as my far-away thoughts allowed me to daydream
about the possibility.

Mum paused in the
doorway. “What’s so funny?” She laughed.

I glanced up,
almost forgetting I had company. I frowned in deep thought. “I will do the shed
and the lawns,” I said, crossing my arms.

Mum’s brow lifted.
“Really?”

“Yeah, I forgot
that Bel had offered to help me during the day, so I’ll still be able to do it,”
I lied.

Mum stepped back
into my room, a frown pinching her brow. “Belinda Evans said she would help?”

“Yeah, I know,
right?” I said as if I barely believed it myself.

“Help, as in?” My
mum’s words came out so uncertainly, as if the doctor’s insipid daughter, who
spent most of her holidays reading
Cleo
magazines and sprawling in her
deck chair, could possibly volunteer for hard labour.

“Oh, you know, man
the desk, clean the barbecues, the girls’ showers and toilets … stuff like
that.”

Mum seemed
impressed. “Well, that would be lovely of her to help. I mean, we would pay
her, of course.”

“NO!” I said a bit
too loudly. “Ah, I mean, no, she wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Oh, okay. So do
you want me to make a list for her with those things?”

I smiled broadly. “Yeah,
definitely, and then I’ll just show her the ropes.”

A sense of relief
washed over Mum. “I have to say, it does make me feel more at ease knowing that
Bel is here to lend a hand.”

“Yeah.” I smiled. “Me,
too”

Chapter Nine

Bel

I tried not to
think about how much effort I put into getting ready.

With every step
that crunched underfoot along the dirt track leading me closer to the main
house, I tried not to think about how I had tried on several kinds of
ensembles, put on foundation, wiped it off. Skirt? Jeans? Hairdryer or oh
natural? I had wasted an entire afternoon agonising on what I should take and
what I was going to look like. Then, in a brief moment of coming to my senses
and realising how ridiculously I was behaving, I decided to maybe just dry the
hair—no foundation, just a slathering of mascara, lip balm, and casual, fitted
jean shorts and tied plaid midriff. It was kind of a way to rock smoking tomboy
look, if you could possibly make that sexy? It certainly wouldn’t be the next
designer label, but it was me, and I was comfortable. Then I reminded myself
again—why do I even care? And what would happen if I didn’t rock up? Would Stan
come and drag me to his place, throw me in my room, and have me under house
arrest? Would he unbolt the door and slide in a tray of food with a broomstick?
I seriously doubted it. He would probably be relieved; I would probably be
doing him a favour.

It seemed like a
pretty bloody good idea to not actually show up, of course, until I noticed the
thought had only occurred to me the moment I stood right before Stan’s front
door, illuminated only by the bug-infused front light that had been left on.

Wonder if he
had left it on for me?

I stood there for
a long moment, my thumbs hooked into my backpack straps, contemplating whether
or not my running footsteps would be heard from inside if I chose to leg it
now?

Shit, did that
curtain just move?

Great, so running
was not an option, he knew I was definitely here. I inhaled a deep, steadying
breath before squaring my shoulders against the weight of the backpack; I
really only needed an overnighter and yet I seemed to have an inability to
manage anything less than packing for a week. I went for a loud, confident
series of knocks on the door’s wooden panel. I resisted the urge to readjust my
hair or clothing in case there was an eyeball peeking through somewhere.

I waited. And
waited.

Pfft,
smartarse.

He was no doubt
enjoying making me squirm. I was about to knock for a second and final time, my
fist hovering in mid-air, as the door whipped open.

“About ti…me.”

Holy shit.

My fist hovered
before a set of boobs. Boobs attached to a blonde. A smiling, attractive
blonde.

Was this Stan’s
girlfriend?

“Hi, you must be
Bel?” The blonde held out her hand. I adjusted my suspended in-air fist and
awkwardly took her hand as she shook it with much enthusiasm. “I’m Ellie, come
on in.”

I cautiously
followed her into the foyer, past the office that was empty, and into the
living area, expecting to see Stan at any turn of the corner, but he was
nowhere to be seen. Was Ellie my replacement babysitter?

“Stan’s just in
the shower, did you want to dump your gear in your room?”

Shower, oh.
This was awkward.

I felt like I had
stumbled into someone’s love nest, and that my punishment would be to be the
third wheel for the weekend while Stan and Ellie made out on the couch.

“Oh, um, yeah, I
will, thanks.”

“Do you know where
it is?”

“Yeah. No. Thanks,
I um, I know,” I stumbled. God I was a dork.

I quickly made my
way to the hall door, making sure to close it behind, leaving the beautiful,
glowing Ellie in the lounge where she comfortably plonked herself on the couch
with a sense of unmistakable familiarity, extending her long legs to rest onto
the coffee table as she channel flicked.

Ellie Parker. I
had seen her around before. In the park and at school, she seemed to be rather
popular with the opposite sex from memory, and then I remembered the last time
we were here I saw her and Stan at the summer show, in a rather familiar way. I
cringed as I thought back to it, and how incredibly uncomfortable I was about
staying here now, and how incredibly frustrated I was now that I still couldn’t
find the bloody light switch. Seriously, where the hell were they? I blindly
skimmed my way along the wall with my hands thinking it was pretty foolproof
considering it was a long narrow hall, with no obstacles from memory, until of
course I banged into one.

“Shit!”

Hands flailing,
dried flowers? On a hallstand? Right, best keep to the middle. With one hand
out in front of me to avoid face planting, all I had to do was remember the
last room on the …

I stopped, my palm
reaching the end of the hall.

Okay, good. Now I
just had to go to the last room on the …

Crap! Was it
the left or the right?

For the life of me
I couldn’t remember. All that was on my mind was the stinging sensation in my
kneecap from the stupid hallstand, and the pretty blonde who was waiting for
her boyfriend in the lounge.

I searched my
memory; I think it was the left. I repeated it over in my head, imagining Paula
Remington telling me, and yes, the left sounded right, it sounded familiar. I
nodded to myself. Left it was.

I felt my way to
clasp the handle, managing to find it with much greater success than the light
switch. I twisted the knob and pushed open the door, automatically searching
again for the non-existent light switch.

What the hell? Was
their electrician an arsehole, or what? Seriously.

I dumped my bag to
the ground and groaned at the delight of ridding the weight from my back, and
then rubbed my neck and stretched in the dark. Maybe this wasn’t so bad; I
would just hang out here in the dark, like a cave or a hole. I could just hang
out like a mushroom for the weekend. Sounded good to me. I slowly stepped
forward, reaching out to what I suspected the silhouette near the window was;
yep, a bed! A big, beautiful bed. I tested the firmness with my fingertips
before throwing myself on top of it with a big bounce.

Bed, glorious bed.
I rolled onto my back, closed my eyes, and sighed.

“I’ll just stay
here for a million years.”

“Really?”

My eyes snapped
open just as the room was flooded with blinding light. The unexpectedness of
the voice and the blinding strobes caused me to sit up so fast, I nearly gave
myself whiplash. Gasping in fright and shock that extended to the fact Stan
stood in front of me, in nothing more than a towel and mischievous smirk, his
brow curved as he eyed me sitting on the bed.

“It is a pretty
good bed.” He smiled. His hair was all wet and in disarray, which I forced
myself to look at. My eyes had already strayed of their own free will to the
rest of his half-naked body, to the narrowness of his hips where his navy towel
hung. His skin was still damp and the room smelt like the ocean—clean, crisp
and fresh—but then I thought for a moment. It had smelt like that before Stan;
my eyes trailed to where my bag sat, directly next to a duffle bag that had
contents spilling out of it. My horror continued to the chair in the corner that
had clothes strung over it—boy clothes. Stan clothes.

I was in Stan’s
room.

I leapt to my feet
as if the very mattress had electrocuted me, jumping into motion too quickly as
I lost my footing and inelegantly stumbled as I grabbed for my backpack.

“Shit, sorry. I,
um, just thought it, um, the, oh God, I thought this was the room I was staying
in.”

Last room on
the right, last room on the right, you idiot!

I could sense Stan
watching on with not-so-guarded amusement as I struggled to get my backpack straps
over my shoulders, not entirely sure why I was putting it back on. Maybe it was
in an effort to keep my eyes averted from the holy wet hotness that was Stan
standing in front of me. An image that had been burned into my retinas. Under
any other circumstance, and perhaps later when my humiliation was less
pressing, I would enjoy the recalled feast. But not now. Now I needed out of
there and fast.
Shit
.

“Slow down, you’re
going to dislocate a shoulder.” Stan laughed.

As if things
couldn’t get any worse my shirt button got hooked and stuck in the strap,
making it impossible to hook or unhook the bag. It was permanently affixed to
me, and my shirt was askew halfway up my ribcage as I flailed and struggled to
set myself free. I felt like a shark flailing around at dinnertime. Not a good
look.

“Whoa, whoa, wait
a second.” Stan’s hands grabbed my shoulders. “Just. Wait.” He breathed near my
earlobe.

Oh, God. I was in
trouble, and I wasn’t talking about my backpack.