Neil accepted the praise. After sipping his beer, he added, ‘Like a mountain view, they’re lovely at a distance, but bloody hard to conquer.’ The mention of conquest inspired a segue. ‘Have you recovered from your Voss ordeal?’
Bernard laughed. ‘The shame will never wash away.’
‘You know he died in the end. The Aboriginals beheaded him, tore him to pieces.’
‘Good for them.’
‘Gary was quite moved by it.’
‘The lawn mower with a heart of gold.’
‘Laura became a schoolteacher and ended up raising the child.’
‘She and Voss had sex?’
‘Christ, no, the servant, Rose Portion’s child.’ Noting Bernard’s feigned attempt at recall, Neil added, ‘The one with the harelip.’
Bernard emitted a groan of recognition. ‘Of course, the disfigured servant.’
‘She died in childbirth, or might have been suicide, I can’t remember.’
‘Hence Laura raising the bastard orphan, how very benevolent of her.’ Bernard gave Neil a knowing look. ‘By benevolent I mean dull.’
‘Yep.’ Neil polished off the last of his beer. ‘Give me a man-eating whore any day.’
His wife called out to him from across the room, throwing her hands up in exasperation. The baby’s tiny fist was pulling on her hair, yanking her head toward it. The girls were running in circles, trying to grab hold of each other’s tutus. Bernard saw the moustache wilt. He patted Neil on the back as his saviour trudged off to accept his fate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
‘Izzy’s sleeping the sleep of the wicked,’ Angela commented. The two women were pressed together at the dinette, shoulder to shoulder, so as to converse without waking the child. She thrust an elbow into her friend’s side. ‘Stop eating yourself.’
Ruby had been gnawing at her fingertips for the last half-hour. ‘Sorry,’ She took her thumb from her mouth and proceeded to pick at it instead. ‘Carol is going to flay me alive.’
‘It was a stupid thing to do, leaving it to Izzy to ask.’
‘You don’t have to keep reminding me.’
‘Terribly naughty—to lie that like. Who would have thought a little girl—’
‘It’s perfectly normal for children to tell fibs.’ Ruby used her teeth to pry a sliver of skin from her forefinger. ‘And what would you know, it’s not like you ever had any.’
‘Oh, we’re going to make this personal, are we? I hardly think your experience in the field gives you the right to feel superior. And let’s not forget that I made a painstaking decision based on my personal situation. You got knocked up.’
Ruby sucked the blood from her finger, the cuticle stinging, an old wound reopened. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’
‘What will Izzy’s father make of all this?’
‘How is that a change of subject?’
‘Do you know much about him?’
‘Simon was an artist.’
‘An artist?’
‘You make it sound like I said astronaut.’
Angela shrugged. ‘Well, Carol is hardly a muse—unless he wanted to be a tortured artist.’
‘He wasn’t very good,’ Ruby conceded. ‘He was an abstract painter—I never did figure out what that mess was all about. He never sold anything. This was back in Sydney. Simon had a wealthy family—Double Bay, I think. They probably supported him. Carol used to say he only kept her around because she was a nice addition to the bohemian artist image he was trying to cultivate—a carefree mum and her pixie daughter.’
‘And was this Simon the father?’
‘I don’t think so. But he was there right from the start.’
‘You never asked?’
‘Carol’s very sensitive …’
‘You’re her mother!’
‘All the more reason not to tread on her toes.’
Angela slapped Ruby’s hand away from her mouth. ‘No wonder you’re in this mess.’
Ruby ignored the jibe. ‘I presume Simon got fed up. Carol’s always had a very laissez-faire attitude toward life. She’s never held down a job. She doesn’t care where her money comes from so long as she didn’t have to work for it. I won’t hear from her for a year, and then the phone rings and she’s leaning on me for a loan—which is really a donation.’
‘That’s not laissez-faire, that freeloafing. What about Izzy?’
‘Freeloading. And that’s the dilemma, isn’t it?’
‘I wish you weren’t always correcting me.’ Angela began shuffling sideways. ‘You’re not so perfect yourself.’
Ruby watched her friend stagger over to the television. She picked up the remote and held it to her face, examining the little black buttons, before aiming the remote at the screen and firing. The appliance snapped to life.
‘No!’ Ruby scream-whispered from the dinette. ‘You’ll wake her!’
Angela scrabbled to press the mute button. Fuzzy waves began rolling vertically down the screen. Angela pressed each of the buttons in turn. By way of response, the television offered a variety of interference, from blaring snow to quivering wavelengths. Occasionally a teasing picture appeared, only to distort into pixelated squares and from there into coloured bricks.
‘What did you press?’ Ruby called sotto voce from the dinette. ‘You should never have turned it on.’
Angela looked over her shoulder. Ruby’s neck was held aloft like a tortoise. Angela felt her body stiffen. She needed the television to work. She was craving distraction. She continued randomly pressing buttons until the screen switched to a dazzling blue. A cryptic line of numbers and letters assumed the left-hand corner. With every button Angela pressed, only the configuration of numbers and letters changed.
‘I want to watch a movie,’ she grumbled. ‘Something romantic to take my mind of things.’
‘Give it here,’ Ruby murmured. After a moment’s contemplative study of the remote, she managed to have the television working again with three decisive presses.
‘Ms McPherson?’ a woman said. ‘I just wanted to ask you some questions.’
On screen, Carol stood in a doorway. Her eyes squinted with suspicion, possibly trying to determine which denomination the doorknocker was from. ‘Why?’
‘I wanted to ask about your relationships with your daughter and your mother.’
‘What the heck!’ Angela gasped. ‘It’s Carol.’
‘I can see that.’ Ruby spoke calmly through her rising panic.
The reporter insisted, ‘Can you think of any reason why your mother would have taken her?’
Carol appeared uncomprehending. ‘No.’
Angela turned to gape at Ruby.
The image cut away to the tight-lipped reporter: big-eyed and pretty and oh so sure of herself. A charming bully, like many of the girls Carol had gone to school with. Upstanding bitches. Model citizens in all but kindness to the meek, to whom they were callous tyrants. Ruby felt for her daughter.
‘Surely, Ms McPherson, there must be an explanation. Grandparents don’t kidnap their grandchildren every day. I mean, you called the police …’
‘Kidnapped,’ Angela complained, ‘why do they have to keep saying that?’
On screen, Carol looked pained. She glanced at the lens as if seeking salvation from the camera operator. ‘It it filming?’ she asked.
Ruby experienced a queer similitude to a children’s panto. She felt the urge to call out, ‘Yes, it’s filming!’ Or better yet, ‘We can see you!’ to Carol’s childlike obliviousness.
‘It’s been four days now,’ the reporter reiterated. ‘Aren’t you at all worried?’
‘Of course I’m worried.’
Carol’s face was replaced by the cool reporter’s pout. Ruby wanted to gouge a handful of flesh from that rouged cheek. It was an unfair fight.
‘Carol doesn’t look well,’ Angela remarked. ‘I’d say she’s suffering a guilty conscience.’
Ruby vehemently shushed her.
‘I wan
t you to go now,’ Carol said. She tried closing the door but the reporter held it open.
‘Just a couple more questions if you don’t mind, Ms McPherson. To help the police in their investigation.’
There was a flash of movement in the room behind Carol. The camera swung in the direction of the action. A man was on his hands and knees crawling around the bed. The camera focused in on the man as he tried to escape without being seen—baggy shorts falling below his hips, revealing the pale mass of his buttocks rising from the waistband of his Looney Tunes boxer shorts.
Angela sucked in a breath. ‘It’s Fatso from the caravan park.’
Trent was having trouble moving on all fours, impeded by an object he was clutching in one hand.
‘What’s he holding?’
Ruby didn’t respond, staring dumbstruck at the screen. Trent had half-risen to his feet and was creeping away Neanderthal-style. The camera drew in on the object in his hand—it looked like a funny sort of vase, one of those glazed 1970s ones, where the browns run into each other. A hand came up to cover the lens.
‘Hey,’ the cameraman grunted and veered the camera out of range, giving the audience a moment of vertigo.
‘Ms McPherson,’ the reporter scolded, ‘that’s expensive equipment.’
‘Go away,’ Carol pleaded.
The reporter, sensing her interview was in jeopardy, pressed her shoulder to the door. ‘We’re only trying to help.’
Carol pushed on the door’s other side. The reporter had to grapple to keep it ajar, trying to maintain her dignity in the face of the scuffle.
‘Let go,’ Carol urged.
‘Can you tell me who that man was? Can we speak to him?’
Ruby saw something click within Carol. She withered, or rather, deflated. She slid an arm behind her back, her abashed expression like a lovesick schoolboy hiding a bouquet.
‘Ms McPherson, this does seem a strange way for the mother of a missing girl to be behaving.’
‘Let go,’ Carol implored. She applied both hands to the door to try and slam it shut. The camera swooped to take in the Jim Beam bottle she had dropped in the process.
Ruby recalled the remote she was holding and switched the television off.
‘What happened?’ Angela shrieked.
‘I switched it off.’
‘Turn it back on!’
‘Grandma?’
The women spun around. Izzy sat propped up on one arm, staring down at them from her bed like a spectator in the box seats.
‘Why is Angela shouting?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Bernard had been elliptical in describing the gathering they were popping in to as he and Terri walked to Mia’s apartment. He was torn between scaring her off and leaving her completely unprepared.
‘So you’re a dancer?’ Mia said, upon being introduced.
‘A dance teacher,’ Terri corrected.
‘But you do dance?’
‘I teach kids how to dance.’
‘I’m confused.’ Mia looked to Bernard for clarification—Why the hell did you bring her along? ‘If I were to play some music now would you dance to it?’
‘Poorly, but yes.’
‘So you can’t be much of a teacher.’
‘I’m a better teacher than I am a dancer.’ Bernard intervened. ‘Terri runs a dance school.’
‘Oh. You’re an administrator.’
Terri frowned at Bernard. ‘Should I be offended?’
‘I wouldn’t bother.’
Mia beamed and clutched at her guest. ‘I’m having you on, it’s wonderful you came.’
‘And I’m having you on, I was state champion in ballroom dancing a million years ago.’
‘I see.’ Mia arched a dark brow. ‘Out of the frying pan, Bernard.’ She turned to address the room. ‘Everyone, Bernard might be late, but he’s brought Ginger Rogers along to compensate.’ She led Terri across the floor as though stepping out to perform a waltz.
Mia was in her element. She relished having a fresh set of listeners to regale with her observational wit. Aside from Terri, there was her previously anonymous accountant and his wife—perhaps Mia was hoping he’d go the extra mile with her tax return. With three newcomers to dazzle, she could ignore her usual corps altogether. Bernard joined his fellow outcasts at the dining table. Mark and Stewart wriggled along the bench to make room. Lucas, sitting opposite, gave an overly personal wink. Carl dozed. Jim stood and flounced into the kitchen.
‘It would have been nice for someone to tell me you were bringing an escort. I didn’t realise I was feeding the starving millions.’
Lucas brushed one forefinger over the other—a puerile shame, shame gesture.
‘Come on, all you conformists,’ Mia sang from the couch. ‘We’re going casual tonight. It’s a candlelight carpet picnic.’
Jim banged his platters down on the coffee table.
‘You’ll set the place alight,’ Geoffrey the accountant scolded as his wife rushed to rescue an overturned tea light.
After thrusting side plates into everyone’s hands and clattering cutlery onto the floor, Jim dropped an ice-cold bottle and a corkscrew into Bernard’s lap. ‘Make yourself a useful inconvenience, why don’t you?’
It was during dessert that the drama transpired. Coffee had been brewed and poured, the tiramisu excavated, and the company sat sampling a plate of Mark and Stewart’s biscuits, attempting to identify their perplexing ingredients.
Bernard sniffed at a cookie. ‘Cumin?’
‘I think fennel seed,’ Terri murmured, ‘possibly caraway.’
Bernard launched into an involuntary fit of coughing. An errant crumb had attempted to enter his windpipe. ‘I’m out of my depth.’
‘I’m guessing this one’s saffron. Hey, Mark,’ Lucas called along the coffee table, ‘the orange ones—saffron, right?’
Mark socked the air with his fist. ‘Bingo!’
Lucas crumbled the biscuit back onto the plate. ‘Great with chicken—not so good with coffee.’ He wiped his palms along the length of his jeans. At the same time, his mobile launched into the theme from Star Wars, interrupting an account Stewart was giving about a herd of goats they’d recently acquired. Lucas moved off in search of quieter quarters.
When he returned, Stewart had finished speaking and Jim was chronicling a goat experience of his own, involving a swarthy shepherd on a trip to Turkey. Lucas bowed to Mia and mumbled into her ear.
She pursed her lips. ‘I don’t see why I should move, I’m comfy where I am.’
‘Do you mind?’ Jim scolded. ‘I’m coming up to the sex bit.’
‘Please, Mia,’ Lucas urged.
Mia shushed her lover as though she hadn’t heard the ending to Jim’s story a hundred times before. He stood patiently at her side until Jim was through giggling about the runaway goats, which predictably made a break for it while he and the goatherd were amusing themselves under a fig tree. The rest of the table laughed, not at Jim’s tale, but at the way the accountant’s wife snorted uncontrollably at the hearing of it.
Lucas murmured to Mia, ‘She’s really upset.’
Mia pushed her spoon through her dessert, deflating its foamy texture. ‘I already told you you could go.’
‘I want you to come with me.’
‘And I really don’t want to … Honestly, Lucas, wasn’t this morning enough for you?’
‘Mia, be reasonable.’
‘Like telling Genghis Khan to go easy.’ Geoffrey chuckled. All eyes briefly swept to him.
‘It’s just a birthday,’ Lucas implored. Their pupils swooped back again.
‘It’s her thirtieth birthday.’ Mia met their feasting gazes. ‘His cousin is turning thirty and I don’t want to look ridiculous.’
Terri and the accountant’s wife rushed to reassure her. ‘No, no, you wouldn’t, of course you wouldn’t …’
Lucas foolishly attempted to employ the females’ solidarity. ‘See, they agree with me—you’re being ridicu
lous.’
‘Oh, dear lord.’ Bernard tugged an earlobe.
Lucas was oblivious to his prompt. ‘Unless you put this whole age thing behind us, this relationship is never going to work.’
Mia appraised him through limpid eyes. ‘That’s just it,’ she purred, ‘I don’t think it is working.’
Lucas looked shattered. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
The rest of the party held their breath.
‘It means you’re on the rocks,’ Jim interjected, unable to contain himself. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s none of your business.’
‘Fair call,’ Jim concurred. ‘Continue.’
‘Can we please discuss this privately? You at least owe me that.’
‘I don’t owe you anything. I’m not going to abandon my guests for some emotional tête-à-tête.’
‘You’re a real bitch sometimes, you know that?’
Terri and Stewart gasped in shock. Mia calmly tapped her spoon on the coffee table, leaving little wet marks on the smoky glass.
‘What did he just say?’ Carl shouted from the dining table, where he’d imperially dined, refusing to sit hunched over his knees at the coffee table. The rest of the company had forgotten his presence. ‘I missed the last bit.’
‘She’s a bitch,’ Jim informed him.
‘Course she is, that’s what makes her interesting.’
Lucas pounced. ‘You think it’s so wonderful, you try dating her.’
‘I would in a heartbeat,’ Carl told him.
‘There you are, Mia, the age thing shouldn’t be a problem; nothing to offend your precious ego there.’
‘That’s enough,’ she murmured. ‘It’s time you left.’
‘Fine.’ Lucas raised a palm to the room. ‘It’s okay, everyone, the arsehole is leaving.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Jim barked.
The other guests chorused a medley of goodbyes.
Bernard lumbered to his feet. ‘Wait.’
Lucas turned to him in expectation.
‘You can’t drive, you’re well over the limit.’
‘That’s hypocritical, coming from you,’ Lucas sneered.
The others watched on uncertainly.
The Grand Tour Page 23
