Authors: Cate Kendall
Sam's neighbour Jenny looked after his girls every now
and then, and the three were happily reading
The Little
Mermaid
by the time he was ready to go at eight o'clock
that evening. He'd half expected them to beg him to stay
home, and was a bit disappointed at not having a reason to
cancel.
He got into his Saab and negotiated his way through
the back streets until he got to the main drag of Paddington.
He couldn't believe how nervous he was. What was a
daggy thirty-seven-year-old father-of-two doing thinking
he could cut it with a bikini model? Who did he think he
was, Hugh Hefner?
He got to the Darlo Bar early to give himself time to sit
quietly – well, as quietly as possible on a boisterous Friday
night – and drink a Stella to take the edge off his nerves.
The Darlo was a remarkably soothing space to be,
despite the noise. His architect's eye enjoyed the retro-kitsch
mix of 50s and 60s styles. It was exactly like being in
someone's home with its low-maintenance, low-glamour
style. The crowd was a collection of hip dudes in skinny-leg
jeans playing pool; inner-city types with metallic accessories;
a pair of Armani-suited businessmen with loosened
ties trying their luck with some leggy blondes; and a Goth
waitress chatting with a group of old booze hounds who'd
been drinking here for decades.
Then his date, Phoebe, sauntered in. The women in the
bar looked up: the attractive ones in envy, the unattractive
ones in awe. One of the guys playing pool nudged his mate
and pointed with his chin. His buddy was already drooling.
The bar staff stared openly. Two trannies perched daintily
on bar stools gave her the once over. 'She's fucking hot.
I'd do her,' said one in a deep voice.
'You bitch!' the other shrieked, slapping her friend on
her bulging bicep.
Sam had no idea how he would be able to muster the
strength to stand and greet this goddess. He was thankful
for every inch of his six-foot-three frame as he took in
her Amazonian height enhanced by stiletto boots. Her tiny
chocolate-and-lime crocheted dress sat daintily over her
tanned skin.
'Phoebe, lovely to see you,' Sam said, smiling nervously,
and he pecked her on the cheek.
'Omigod!' she squawked. 'I didn't realise how much
you look like Mick Jagger!'
'Oh, really?' Sam said.
'Yeah, so much. But not now he's old, not like you're
old or something, but you know, like from when he was
younger, you know, like your age.'
The magic died. The patrons went back to their business.
The trannies bickered over their Mai Tais, the pool
player potted the white off the black, the other punters
returned to their chatter and Sam found himself talking to
a sort-of-pretty girl.
'Can I get you a drink, Phoebe?' he asked.
'Omigod, yeah, what am I, a camel?'
'Ahh, no . . . I don't think you're a camel . . . um . . .
what would you like?'
'What a charmer!' she said, through peals of laughter.
'Beer for me thanks, hon.'
Sam headed for the bar. Did she just call him 'hon'?
He hated that or any form of endearment from people he
didn't know well. Grace had hated it too. He smiled as he
thought of her. Oh jeez, what kind of a pathetic loser was
he? Here he was on his first date with a beautiful woman,
reminiscing about his dead wife. Tragic. But Christ he
missed her. He'd have given everything he had to go home
now and hold her just for one more night.
He got the drinks and returned to his date.
'. . . So anyway, I said to the photographer, no fucking
way am I shaving it all off, leave me a bit of muff for God's
sake. I mean what's a Brazilian without fucking Brazil, I
ask you? Well, it was on! I'm not working with him again
EVER!'
Sam was quite thrown by this. Had she been talking to
him the whole time he was over at the bar? Or was she just
a mid-conversation starter?
'Really?' he asked as politely as he could.
'Yeah, totally!'
She sat back and waited. It was obviously his turn.
'So what's it like being a model?' He could have slapped
himself. What a lame question, he sounded like a dickhead.
'Omigod!?' She squealed as if he'd just asked her the
meaning of life. 'It's like sooo amazing. Honestly, I am so
glad you asked.' And she went on. And on. And on. He
thought at one point she was going to stop. But it was just
an intake of breath. Then she went on again.
Eventually she had to stop because she wanted a refill of
her beer. When he returned she said. 'Listen to me going
on, why doncha? Tell me about you. You've got, like, kids
or something?'
Sam smiled proudly at the mention of his favourite
subject. 'Yes, I do. I have two girls, their names are –'
She interrupted, 'I love kids, it's so hard to believe, but
I was a kid once you know.'
'Well, yes,' Sam said, 'we all were.'
'Omigod,' she gasped, 'that's, like, so insightful,
you're like a philosopher or something. I'm so old, you
know, don't you think? Do I look old? How old do I
look?'
'Oh, gosh, I wouldn't like to say,' Sam muttered.
'Go on,' she leaned forward and gave him a playful
shove. 'Say how old you think I am. I won't get cross,
promise.'
'Okay, I dunno, twenty-seven?'
'What!? How can you say that to me, you big meanie?'
She crossed her arms and slumped back into the couch.
'Well, tell me, how old are you?'
'I'm twenty-seven, but that's not the point.'
'Okaaay then,' he said slowly and excused himself to go
to the men's room.
*
They ordered pizzas and finished their beers. Luckily the
music got louder and Sam didn't have to listen anymore,
he just nodded a lot and tried to look vaguely awake.
Finally it was time to walk her out to find a taxi. She'd
started having vodka shots with every beer and was now
considerably unsteady on her very pointy heels.
'Absolutely, taxi to my house,' she slurred. 'You are so
hot, wanna come?'
'No, I'd better get back to the girls.'
'Oh, that's right, the old guy with the kids,' she muttered,
falling into the cab. 'You're lovely,' she called as the
cab pulled away from the kerb. 'Call me.'
'Good-night,' he called.
'You are lovely,' came a deep voice and Sam turned to
see one of the trannies leaning against the wall smoking a
cigarette and giving him a slow, long-lashed wink.
*
When he got home, Sam leaned heavily against his front
door. That was utterly exhausting. What was wrong with
him? He had a beautiful woman practically throwing herself
at him and he just couldn't get into her at all. It had been
two years since Grace died, but maybe he just wasn't ready.
Maybe Grace was his one true love and he shouldn't try to
replicate that. Maybe he was meant to be alone.
He walked into the kitchen for a glass of juice, catching
his reflection in the window. He hadn't changed that much
since his mid-twenties. He was still wiry, still had his thick
black hair – probably dressed a bit old-fashioned nowadays.
But he was the same guy. He thought back to his single
days, before Grace. He'd been attractive to women, but
dating seemed easier in those days.
His mobile beeped. He checked the in-box to see a new
text. It was from Phoebe.
I <3d 2nite
4u A3
@teotd ur2gtbt
TMB
P
What in the hell did that mean?
He saw the 2nite obviously referred to that evening, but
the rest might as well have been Latin. He painstakingly
sent back a message, hoping for the best.
Thank you for a lovely evening.
Sam.
The return message came almost the nano-second after he
hit send.
AYSOS
He'd have to get Mallory to decipher that, he decided,
turning off his phone with a sigh.
He lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. He remembered
what it was he loved about finding a partner. It was chemistry.
He was addicted to chemistry. It might have taken
months of celibacy but when he would find the woman
whose lips made him ignite, whose walk made him weak
and whose voice made him sigh, then he knew it was
going to be a remarkable relationship. Those special occasions
hadn't happened often but when they did it was like
having a catherine wheel in your guts. It had happened
with Grace. It certainly hadn't happened with Phoebe.
*
When Sam awoke the next morning, gritty-eyed and furry-tongued,
the memory of last night splintered into his mind.
Oh, jeez, that bloody woman! As his consciousness crawled
further into the new day he became aware of a small foot
pushed against the side of his head. He tried to stretch his
legs but a weight was pinning him down. He looked down
and saw his two girls starfished across the doona.
Sleep-tousled hair awry, their bodies leaden, there was
little point trying to move them and it was almost time to
get up anyway. He grabbed Ol' Blue, his favourite weather-worn pale-blue hoodie, dragged it on and, gently closing
the bedroom door, headed into the kitchen. As he put
the kettle on he noticed a tear in the cuff seam. Damn, he
loved this jumper. He tugged at the hole, wondering how
to fix it.
He had bought it with Grace on a camping trip to the
Hawkesbury River just after they'd met. He remembered
it clearly; the startling blue skies, and Grace's excitement at
her first camping trip. He'd teased that she was a princess
who had never had to rough it, but he'd been so keen to
impress her that he'd spent a fortune in Aussie Disposals
buying every camping gadget he could find.
He'd remembered everything except his own bag, and
by the time night fell on the first day he was shivering in
his boardies and T-shirt. Grace had warmed him through
the night, and as he lay in her sleeping arms, listening to a
tawny frog-mouth seducing the nearby frogs, he thanked
the sweep of stars above for sending him this amazing
woman.
The next morning, with Sam looking ridiculous in
Grace's small pink tracksuit top, they'd driven into town
and giggled at the meagre wares at the General Store. He'd
settled for the blue hoodie that proudly boasted the name
of the town.
As the kettle boiled, he looked down and read the
words on his jumper again. Pitt Town. Pitt Town; how he
ached to go back.
Joan knew there was no one home next door, but just to
be sure she tapped on the back door before entering using
the emergency key Sera kept for Jacqueline. Joan stared
at the immaculate kitchen, which looked as if it had been
prepared for a
Vogue Living
shoot.
She glanced into the museum-like living room and
tutted. Personally she'd prefer to live with Sera's relaxed
housekeeping than in this cold, perfect world. Each objet
d'art was painstakingly positioned and even the cast-iron
fire tools were spotless – Joan could have rubbed them on
the peach silk couch and not made a mark. Magazines were
fanned at precise angles on the antique coffee table.
Joan's gaze lingered on the drawer of the antique lady's
writing desk, noticing the highly polished inlaid mother-of-pearl
handle.
*
For goodness' sake, thought Jacqueline as she steered her
classic Mercedes Benz towards home. How would she cater
for twenty sweaty soccer players tomorrow night? Daniel
shouldn't have invited the whole team back at such short
notice.
Oh well, she thought, brightening, she could make it a
Hawaiian theme and ask Thomas to do a barbecue. That
should cheer up this dreary wintery week. She'd make a
smorgasbord of pineapple-based side-dishes. As she pulled
into the garage she wondered if the boys would like to
wear floral leis to set it all off.
*
Joan wandered back to the kitchen and studied the timber
drawers with their crystal knobs. She slid one open.
The drawer was full to overflowing. The poor woman,
Joan sighed. She sorted through novelty clothes pegs, long-handled
parfait spoons and dozens of other items, until she
found what she was looking for.
At the sound of the Jacqueline's car, Joan slid her Charles
and Diana teaspoon into her cardigan pocket, slipped out
the back door and hurried down the path.
*
Jacqueline lugged her shopping bags out of the boot.
The last shivers of excitement from her shopping trip ran
through her as she pushed the key into the front door lock.
Inside, she dumped her shopping onto the kitchen table
and looked around at her sparkling kitchen with pleasure.
Then she noticed that her drawer, her special drawer, was
open. Her stomach lurched.
Although winter's rains were lashing down, the renovations
had begun. With a determined charge, the bobcat knocked
down another wall and Harry screamed in delight. 'Whoah,
Mum,' he yelled, 'you shoulda seed that one!' He jumped
up and down on the kitchen chair as he watched the backyard
devastation.
Sera bustled in with school bags hanging from the
crook of her elbow, a hairbrush in one hand and a
kinder notice in the other. She smiled at Harry. 'Exciting
isn't it?'
'Yeah, Mum, look, they're wrecking it, they're smashing
it!' Harry had watched the machine's progress with glee
since it had lumbered noisily into the backyard at eight that
morning.
Sera couldn't believe her hard-fought battle for the
kitchen renovation had finally been won. She'd soothed
Tony's concerns about increasing the mortgage, and dealt
with Joan's unexpected and vehement opposition to the
destruction of the daggy little patio.
The woman had only given in because she could never
say no to Tony, but Sera had thought she'd heard her
crying in her room this morning and worried that her
mother-in-law might be showing signs of Alzheimer's.
But finally, the project was under way. Tony was in the
backyard briefing the driver before he had to rush off to his
new Potts Point job and Sera was planning to spend part of
the day researching tiles and benchtops.
At the end of the week the builders would start. The
first step was pulling off the entire back wall, then gutting
the kitchen before building started. It would all take about
six months.
Sera knew Tony was worried about the cost of the
project, but she was sure it would all be fine. They'd get
everything at trade prices because of his job and to save on
labour, the two of them would work on the house during
the weekends. She loved this idea; envisaging herself in a
pair of worker's overalls, her hair up in an Aunt-Jemima-style
kerchief and an endearing smudge of plaster dust on
her nose.
She didn't need a flashy expensive house, just some
space to spread out.
Of course they would need new furniture – they couldn't
watch TV on the floor, could they? And obviously a new
TV, a lovely big plasma screen. The kids would be thrilled.
She'd tried to tell all this to Tony: that she could do
it on a budget and that Laminex would be fine. He'd
patiently explained to her that given its location the
property couldn't be under-capitalised. It was Paddington.
Future buyers would expect a certain standard. They
couldn't just slap up a pre-fab extension. It needed to blend
with the house, it had to have a matching high ceiling, the
exterior had to be seamless, the windows needed to be of
a high quality.
Sera was frustrated by this logic. She was trying to save
money while he was insisting they spend up big. They had
eventually agreed on a budget and she was determined to
stick to it, so they could both get what they wanted.
She looked at the microwave clock. Cripes, time to get
in the car. She popped in on Joan on her way out, and
found her sitting on her bed, staring miserably out of the
window. What an old stick in the mud, Sera thought. It
was such an exciting day. Joan should be happy they were
improving the house.
'You right there, Joan?' she asked.
Joan turned her red and swollen eyes toward her.
'Do you care?' She sniffed sadly.
'Of course I care, Joan. What's wrong?'
Joan sighed. 'This is my family home – the home I
came to as a bride – and I can't bear the thought of it being
hacked into like this.'
'Oh, Joan,' Sera said, 'I'm so sorry you feel that way.
But it's for the best. There are five of us who live here now,
and we want it to be comfortable.'
'There's a lot of history here, Sera, a lot you don't know
about.'
'What history, why don't you tell me?' Sera enquired
gently.
Joan looked long and hard at her and Sera felt like she
was being assessed, as if Joan was deciding if she could be
trusted.
'You don't understand and you never will,' Joan finally
said and turned back to the window.
Sera gave up, gratefully closing the door on Joan and
her misery.