by Cassie Hamer
‘Will you set up the barbecue on the Pezzullos’ lawn?’ The house at the end of the cul-de-sac had been vacant for months, thanks to George’s job transfer to Singapore.
‘Sure, whatever you think,’ he said, still ferreting through boxes.
‘I think it’s the best spot, out of the way.’
‘Hmmm …’ Max murmured.
‘Are you listening? I said—’
‘Here they are!’ Max held up the tongs with a self-satisfied grimace, like a dog holding up a bone. ‘Now, we’re set.’
‘Who wants to try a chicken wing?’ Cara Pope stopped at the doorway to the living room as two heads swivelled around to face her.
‘Meeeeeeeeeee!’ Her daughter, Poppy, leapt up from the piano stool and ran towards the kitchen.
‘Hey, little girl, you come back here and finish your scales.’ Cara’s mother spoke with a rapid-fire delivery.
‘Ma, please. It’s been nearly an hour.’ Cara entwined her fingers behind her back. ‘She needs a break, and the party’s about to begin.’
Joy bent down to collect her handbag and a pile of sheet music from under the piano. ‘You are too soft with that girl,’ she grumbled in Korean, which was what she always did when she didn’t want Poppy to understand. ‘Practice makes perfect.’
Cara bit her lip. ‘Come and eat something.’
In the kitchen she found Poppy smacking her lips and wiping sticky soy sauce off her lips. ‘Can I have another one?’
Cara smiled and picked up a tissue. ‘Just one, or there won’t be enough for the party.’
‘Little girl, you should wait for your elders.’ Her mother tapped Poppy on the shoulder before prodding at a wing.
‘Try one, Ma,’ Cara encouraged.
Joy picked up a wing and sniffed it before taking a small bite. ‘Good,’ she said, chewing. ‘They need more gochujang.’ Her mother went to reach for the fermented chilli paste.
‘Wait, Ma. These are for the neighbours. The annual street party. Remember I told you? Poppy’s going to wear the hanbok you had made.’
Poppy nodded. ‘It’s very pretty, Halmi. Thank you.’
Her mother let go of the chilli paste. ‘Then it is okay.’
Cara exhaled. ‘Would you like to stay, Ma? You’re very welcome.’
‘Will the lawyer be there?’
‘Alex? Yes, and you know Beth, the one who’s married to the real estate agent.’
Her mother cocked her head. ‘She is the one who asks for my kimchi recipe?’
‘That’s her. She loves your kimchi.’
‘She has a very clean house.’ Her mother grunted with approval, her eyes flicking to the dishes piled high in Cara’s sink. ‘I will not stay for this party. Your father will die of hunger if I am not home to feed him. So hopeless.’ She shrugged and sighed. ‘What can you do.’
Cara suppressed a smile. Her father had been the one who suggested she stay for the party. She is too much in this new house, he’d complained on the phone. Joy always made him ring to let Cara know she was on her way for Poppy’s piano lesson, as if she expected the little girl to be ready and waiting with hands poised on the keys for her arrival. Your mother needs to get out more. She loves this place like a baby, almost like she loves that church. So much praying. I think she will be the first Australian-Korean saint.
‘Oh, okay, Ma. That’s a shame you can’t stay.’ She paused and contemplated how to phrase what she was about to say. ‘They’ll be closing the street soon, and I would not want you to be delayed …’
Her mother’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Closing the street? Woh, these people and their parties. So strange. Why would you want to eat in a street when you all have nice houses.’ Her gaze went to the peeling wallpaper above the oven. ‘Some are nice.’ Clutching her bag more tightly, she patted Poppy on the shoulder and headed for the hallway. ‘Goodbye, little girl. Practise your scales twice every day.’
At the front door, she went to remove her slippers and put her shoes back on.
‘Need some help?’ Cara bent down to pick up the shoes.
‘Who do you think I am? An old lady?’
Ignoring Cara’s outstretched hand, her mother instead reached for the wall to steady herself, putting her hand right near the wedding photo of Cara and Pete. Joy’s gaze went to it, and she shivered, blessing herself, as she always did.
‘Such bad luck.’ She shook her head and gave Cara a look that asked her for the thousandth time why she chose to stay in the broken-down old cottage that was saddled with no dishwasher, and the curse of a death of a man in his prime.
Cara kept silent.
Shoes on, Joy was out the door in a hurry. No goodbye. No I love you. Not even a See you next week. Just gone.
‘Bye, Ma. Thanks for the lesson,’ Cara called, and her mother waved without turning around. Further down the street, she could see Beth and Max, setting up the barbecue on the Pezzullos’ front lawn, and Alex’s twins playing in the driveway with their new guinea pig.
Waiting for the little lawnmower engine of her mother’s ageing Daihatsu sedan to come to life (Joy believed in good appliances over good cars), Cara allowed herself to shift focus from the street and back to the photo of her and Pete. She stepped closer, rubbing a speck of dust off his grey-green eyes, then flinched as the car emitted a tinny beep of farewell. Her mother’s way of saying goodbye.
CHAPTER TWO
‘More bubbles, ladies?’ Beth started to pour, not bothering to wait for answers from her two neighbours, because she already knew exactly what they would say.
Alex would say yes because she always said yes to alcohol, and given the excitable nature of those twins, Beth didn’t blame her. Cara, on the other hand, would say no because she was self-conscious of the flush that rose in her cheeks when she drank even one glass of champagne, something about Koreans not having a certain type of enzyme? Beth wasn’t certain of the biological reason but always assured Cara it was virtually unnoticeable.
She passed a full glass to Alex.
‘You could at least pretend I might have said no,’ she protested, then took a sip. ‘God that’s good.’
Beth held out a small glass to Cara. ‘Are you sure you won’t have just a little more?’
Cara pressed her fingers to her cheeks. ‘I look like one of those scary porcelain dolls, don’t I? Like I let Poppy put blush on me or something.’
‘Not at all,’ Beth patted her arm. ‘It’s like you’ve just had a brisk walk.’
‘Or, you know, a shag.’ Alex took another gulp.
‘Alex!’ said Cara and Beth in unison.
‘What? It’s true. And it’s less offensive than saying you look like a doll,’ she snorted.
‘But there are children around.’ Beth’s eyes zoomed to Poppy, Noah and Jasper, flying up and down the close on their scooters.
‘… Yes, hanging off our every word, aren’t they,’ said Alex drily. ‘Personally, I think we could all do with a little more shagging in our lives. At least Cara looks like she’s getting some. These days, the closest James and I get to sexy-time is watching Nigella cook a chocolate cake. The way she licks her fingers …’
‘A bit unhygienic, really when you think about it …’ Beth trailed off, trying to remember the last time she and Max had had ‘sexy-time’, as Alex put it.
‘Oh, no.’ Cara shook her head. ‘I love Nigella.’ She sat forward in the chair, her eyes bright. ‘My mum doesn’t like cooking at all but she used to watch when her English wasn’t so good. You don’t need to know the words to follow what’s happening.’ Cara drew her knees together and clasped her hands. ‘But I just think she’s amazing. So sensual. So …’ She looked skywards. ‘So … free, and loose with a dash of this and a pinch of that. No recipes and exact measurements, just pure instinct. I would never have gone into food styling if it wasn’t for Nigella … and Pete, of course …’
Beth gazed at the younger woman beside her, still looking towards the heavens, caught in her memory. She
lightly touched her hand. ‘Speaking of your mother. Where is she? I thought I saw her car earlier.’
‘Oh, she had to go home.’
‘Probably just as well.’ Alex rested the flute on the arm of the chair. ‘No offence, but she doesn’t seem a street party kind of person.’
‘Oh, that’s true,’ said Cara.
‘I suppose she’s had more important things to worry about in her life. Such a strong woman.’ Beth returned the champagne bottle to the ice-bucket at her feet.
‘Very strong,’ Alex nodded. ‘I’m not sure she approves of me.’
‘Oh, no, you’re a lawyer. She loves all lawyers.’
‘I don’t know why. Most people think we’re money-grabbing bastards.’
Cara gave a small smile. ‘You’re supporting your family. She likes that.’
‘Then she must really disapprove of me! I don’t support my family at all.’ Beth tried to keep her voice light.
‘Oh, no, you give your life to your family. That’s important too, as much as money.’ Cara paused. ‘And you make kimchi. That’s most important of all.’
The three women laughed. Food, again. Somehow, their conversations always came back to it.
‘Oh, I always love this party,’ Cara remarked, settling back again in her chair.
The three of them fell silent and tuned in to the sounds of chat, laughter and music coming from the sixty or so people dotted in groups about the close. The young couple at number six had brought out their portable speaker and made a special playlist of laid-back summer beats that were electronic enough to appeal to the kids, but not too heavy to turn off the adults. Someone had produced bats and a ball for a game of backyard cricket at the southern end of the close and shouts of howzat and got ’im punctuated the music. Each one of the twenty-five houses in the street had strung either lanterns or fairy lights along their front fences and they were starting to twinkle with the sun now nearly set behind them. Beth had even put them along the Pezzullos’ empty home, just to maintain consistency in the bulb of the cul-de-sac. A light breeze tickled at the fig trees, making them sway and murmur, but the night was otherwise balmy. Like stepping into a warm bath. No one was quite sure who’d begun the tradition of Cuthbert Close’s End-of-Summer Street Party. Beth thought it might have been the old couple at number three, who’d moved out in the early 2000s when the wife died and the husband developed dementia. Such a lovely family; their children, now fully grown adults with families of their own, still turned up each year to the party – the last Saturday in February – to reconnect with the neighbours they remembered as kids. That was the thing about Cuthbert Close, once you’d lived there, you never really left.
‘It’s calm now, but I hope the butterfly hasn’t flapped its wings.’ Alex gestured to the white wall of cloud building far away in the south, the setting sun appearing to line it with gold thread.
‘What do you mean?’ said Cara, curious.
‘You know, the butterfly effect. Chaos theory. A butterfly flapping its wings in the Amazon causes a tornado in Texas. Last thing we need tonight is a storm.’
‘Just ignore it and look the other way.’ Beth inclined her champagne glass towards the sky directly above them, which was completely clear and resembled a pastel colour-wheel of pinks and purples. The clouds didn’t worry her. She’d checked the forecast. The southerly wasn’t predicted for hours yet, by which time the party would well and truly be over, and while some people made a habit of never relying on weather forecasts, Beth tended to have more faith. She trusted people, even meteorologists.
‘That sky looks good enough to eat,’ said Cara, following Beth’s gaze.
‘Like sherbet,’ said Beth.
‘Or a grapefruit martini,’ said Alex.
‘A berry-swirled Eton mess,’ said Cara.
‘Is that the one with crushed-up meringue and cream?’ asked Beth.
Cara nodded. ‘I do a version with raspberries, blueberries and blackberries folded into the cream. And a little dash of Cointreau.’
‘Fat, sugar, and booze? All food groups covered. You win.’ Alex tapped her champagne glass in applause.
‘You should put it on your website thingy,’ said Beth, reaching beneath her chair to produce a tray of cheese and crackers.
‘It’s called Instagram, Beth, and Cara’s got a gazillion followers last time I checked,’ said Alex. ‘Ask your kids. I’m sure they’re on it. Every teen is, maybe not for the gastroporn though.’
Beth made a face. ‘I know they’re on Instagram, but they tell me it’s all about Snapchat now. I can’t keep up.’ She offered the tray to Alex. ‘Truffle cheese?’
‘Thank god the twins are too little for it all.’ Alex cut herself a wedge. ‘That said, a couple of their school friends already have their own iPads. Five and six years old. Ridiculous.’ She passed the tray to Cara. ‘Poppy doesn’t have one, does she?’
Cara shook her head. ‘Oh, no. But she helps me a little with the Insta posts. Holds the lights and things when I’m styling new dishes in the shed.’ She pulled out her mobile phone and started tapping away. ‘I need to text myself a reminder about that Eton mess. I don’t think I’ve done it yet.’
‘But don’t call it Eton mess,’ said Alex. ‘Call it something different.’ She gulped her champagne. ‘Like Summer Sunset.’
‘Sounds more like a cocktail than a dessert,’ said Beth, looking towards the sky for inspiration. ‘Summer Fling.’
‘That sounds more like a cocktail than Summer Sunset. And very adulterous.’
The women fell into a thoughtful silence.
‘Oh, yes, maybe I have it.’ Cara clicked her fingers. ‘Summer Street Party.’
‘Summer Street Party,’ said Alex slowly. ‘Berries, cream and meringue. A party in your mouth. I like it.’
‘Maybe we could do it for your anniversary, Beth?’ said Cara.
Beth’s stomach flipped a little at the mention of the party. Six weeks to go until she and Max would celebrate twenty years of marital bliss in front of eighty family and friends. Cara had agreed to help with the catering but Beth had started to wonder if she was biting off more than she could chew, or cook.
‘Twenty years, Beth …’ Cara trailed off in admiration.
‘That’s more than you get for murder,’ remarked Alex.
The women laughed and settled in to chatting companionably about their all-time favourite desserts. After five minutes of discussing chocolate fondants, artisan gelatos and trifles, Alex’s stomach let out a large growl.
‘Is it time to eat yet?’ She patted her belly. ‘It may not look empty but I can assure you it feels it.’
Beth checked her watch. ‘How about I rustle everyone up and ask them to put their platters out? Let’s hope we don’t have twenty trays of party pies, or spinach triangles.’
‘What’s wrong with spinach triangles?’ said Alex stiffly. ‘Your note said to bring a plate. You didn’t say anything about not bringing spinach triangles.’
‘Spinach triangles are absolutely fine.’ Beth patted her shoulder. ‘Did you make them?’
‘Of course not. James was supposed to make his world-famous meatballs, but he forgot, so I raced out this afternoon to the supermarket on an emergency spinach-triangle mission.’
Beth couldn’t hold back a tiny sigh of relief. Even by her own admission, Alex was a terrible cook and Beth had almost considered issuing her with a version of the invitation that omitted the request to bring a plate. The poor woman already had enough on hers. ‘Excellent, excellent. And Cara’s done her chicken wings, so we’ll definitely have some variety.’
‘Perfect. I’ll get the serviettes and the paper plates,’ said Cara.
But as the women went to rise collectively from their deckchairs, a thunderous, mechanical rumbling came from the end of the street.
‘Goodness, what is that?’ said Beth, craning to see.
It was a removal truck, turning with a dinosaur-swing into Cuthbert Close.
‘If that guy thinks he’s coming down here, he can think again.’ Alex put her hands on her hips and surveyed the oversized vehicle, looming at the entrance to the close, the top of it scraping against the lower hanging branches of the figs as it paused at the corner. ‘Must have taken a wrong turn. I’ll set him straight.’ Alex started striding down the street.
‘I’ll send Max up. He’s got the closure permit,’ called Beth. Apart from co-ordinating the food, she’d volunteered her husband to organise the council permit allowing them to officially block the street to traffic for the night, not that there was strictly any need. After all, a dead end meant no through-traffic, and all the neighbours would be in attendance at the party with no need to drive anywhere. Still, better to be safe than sorry.
Beth hurried through the crowd to locate her husband, eventually spotting him deep in conversation with Alex’s husband, James, both of them oblivious to the commotion at the end of the street.
‘Max, we need you,’ said Beth, a little breathlessly. ‘Sorry to interrupt, James.’
Her husband pulled a face. ‘Can it wait five minutes? James was about to tell me what brand of sneaker I should get for the marathon.’
‘No, it can’t wait,’ said Beth with as much patience as she could muster. ‘Didn’t you hear the truck? It’s trying to get in, and Alex has gone down to stop him but she might need the permit.’ She pointed up the street to where Alex was gesticulating animatedly at the truck driver.
‘My wife will sort him out, quick smart, don’t you worry about that,’ said James in an admiring tone. ‘She is a force to be reckoned with.’
‘Yes, of course, but still I’d like to have the permit handy, just in case. Max?’ asked Beth. ‘Where is it?’
‘Well, I, um …’ Max dropped the tongs to his side and his expression went from one of irritation to one of embarrassment. ‘Ah, well, you see …’
‘Max, where is the permit?’ Nervously, Beth put her fingers to her lips. ‘Please tell me you got it.’
