by James Roy
‘Not display,’ Jenni said. ‘This one not display. Bye now.’ And she closed the door.
‘That was awesome!’ I said. Then we did a bit of a ring-a-rosie around our entryway, laughing like crazy kids about Jenni’s high priestess story. ‘Where did you get the idea for that?’
Jenni gave me this big shrug. ‘I don’t know. My head just collects stupid stuff, I guess.’
‘It was really clever,’ I said. ‘Especially the bit about the Adams family.’
‘I know, right?’
The rest of the day we kept doing the voice, and talking about the high priestess in the crypt. I don’t know if it sounds all that funny to you, hearing about it like this, but we thought it was, and a couple of times Jenni started laughing so hard that I thought she was going to stop breathing.
When Jenni’s mum came to pick her up later that afternoon, she and my mum had to have a cup of tea (of course), but me and Jenni didn’t really mind, because we weren’t even sure when we’d get to see one another again, especially since we still hadn’t managed to think of a place for me to do the volunteer thing to tell Mr Hilder about.
After half an hour or more, my mum and Jenni’s mum had finally had enough tea and done enough laughing and talking about people I didn’t know, and we all went out the front to say goodbye. As Jenni and her mum pipped their horn and drove off, a taxi stopped out the front of Miss Huntley’s house. Then, when it drove away, there was Miss Huntley, standing beside her letter box. I guess she must have forgotten that it was Saturday, and that the mail doesn’t get delivered on the weekend.
‘Afternoon, Ivy,’ Mum called out, and Miss Huntley turned slowly, looking around to see who was calling her name.
‘Oh, hello there, Denise,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit chilly, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s definitely getting cooler,’ Mum replied. ‘Did you have a good day?’
‘Oh, you know how it is. Quite busy, I suppose.’
‘You’re doing good work,’ Mum said.
‘Thank you, dear. I do wonder if I’m getting a little old for it, though. All those boxes to sort through, trays of cutlery to lift, that kind of thing. We closed at three today, and I’m only just getting home now. Sometimes I think that I should give it away, so I can take the time to get this garden right. There’s still so much to do around here.’
I glanced at Mum. Really? So much to do? Her garden looked amazing!
‘You should do it, then,’ Mum said. ‘Leave, I mean.’
Miss Huntley gave this big sigh. ‘If I left, they’d be so short-staffed down there, and who’d do it all?’
‘Well, you take it easy,’ Mum said. ‘Don’t overdo it, Ivy.’
The second we were inside, I asked Mum where Miss Huntley worked.
‘She works at the charity shop,’ Mum said. ‘You know, the one next to the office supply place.’
‘Helping Hands?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Do they pay her?’
‘Oh, no, they’re all volunteers down there, I think. That’s how it works – people donate clothes or books or shoes or whatever, and the Helping Hands shop sells the clothes and things, and then gives the money to a charity. But the people who work there don’t get paid at all.’
‘Interesting,’ I said, as I began to have an idea.
I bet you already know what it was.
*
You know how sometimes when you’re waking up and you’re still half-asleep, maybe even a bit more than half, and you have a really good idea for a story you want to write or a picture you want to draw or a party you want to organise? And it’s such an awesome idea, and in your half-asleepness you get really excited about it, because it’s the best idea for a story or a picture or a party that anyone’s ever had? But then, after you’ve completely woken up, you think about it some more and you realise that it might be the stupidest idea for a story or a picture or a party that anyone in the history of those three things has ever had?
Well, that’s kind of how it was for me, except instead of being half-asleep, I’d been outside listening to Mum talk to Miss Huntley about the Helping Hands shop and having the idea that you’ve already guessed, and instead of being completely awake it was the next morning, and I’d decided that it was a dumb idea and I couldn’t do it. It would be too scary, and not at all exciting, or if it was a bit exciting, it wouldn’t be exciting enough to make up for it being scary. Plus it would take up too much of my spare time.
Besides, Dad hadn’t even called Mr Hilder yet, so all that worrying about whether the idea was a good one or a stupid one was probably going to end up being for nothing anyway. So it was easier to just call it a dumb idea and get on with thinking of something else.
I didn’t get much chance to think about it that Sunday anyway, because our whole family went on an adventure.
I knew it was going to be an adventure when I heard the voice Dad was using to call out to Mum. I was lying in bed reading a book. (I like to sleep in on Sundays and read a book in bed until Mum comes and says she’ll make me breakfast if I’ll just get up and stop being a slob. It works almost every time.)
‘Denise!’ I heard Dad shout from his study. He sounded pretty excited. ‘Denise! What are we doing today?’
‘What?’ Mum called up the stairs.
‘Do we have plans?’
‘For when?’
‘Today.’
‘What about today?’
‘Do we have plans? Do. We. Have. Plans?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like anything!’
I heard Mum’s footsteps coming up the stairs. ‘What are you bellowing about, Marty?’ she asked.
‘Did we have plans for today? Because look at this email. Read it.’
This was annoying. It’s really hard to listen in on someone’s exciting conversation when part of it involves someone reading an email in the next room.
‘Totally,’ Mum said. ‘Yeah, for sure.’
‘I know! I’ve wanted to eat there for so long! Gary says he’s too sick to go, so he’s asked if I’ll take his booking. Are the kids awake?’
‘Richie is – he’s been up since six, as usual. But I think Lizzie’s still in bed.’
‘Do you think Carol and Tony would take Richie for the day? I know it’s short notice, but we can’t miss this.’
‘We could take Richie with us.’
‘Sure, if we needed to, but it’s not really that kind of place, is it?’
That was it, I decided. It was time to throw back my covers (which woke Muppet) and head down the hall to Dad’s study to find out what all the excitement was about.
Mum was standing beside Dad, reading something on his computer.
‘Ah, Betty,’ Dad said when he saw me come in. ‘You are up.’
‘I am. Where are we going?’
‘How do you fancy going to the best seafood restaurant in Sydney?’
‘Do they have just plain fish? Because you know I don’t like oysters and stuff.’
‘Actually . . .’ Mum said. ‘You know, I’m just thinking that maybe . . .’
‘Denise, it’s fine.’
‘But the menu there is so –’
‘Denise, the magazine will pay for it.’
‘But for all of us?’
‘Well, for two. But it’s such a special place, and such a rare opportunity.’
‘Marty, we can’t really . . . Why don’t we go another night, when we can arrange to get Lauren or someone –’
‘No!’ Dad suddenly said. ‘No, it has to be lunch, and it has to be today, because I have to get the review in by tomorrow afternoon. Try. Please, Denise? For me?’ Then he did something that I thought only girls do – he put his head on one side and made his eyes go flutter-flutter.
Mum gave him a tired kind of smile. ‘Fine, I’ll give Carol a call, but it is Sunday, and it’s incredibly short notice.’
‘Yay,’ said Dad, grinning and clapping his hands.
&
nbsp; ‘So, where is this place?’ I asked after Mum had gone to call Aunty Carol.
‘Look,’ Dad said, pointing at his computer. ‘Beloni’s. One of the three best seafood places in the country, was in the world top ten last year, and my friend Gary was supposed to be going there for lunch.’
‘But now he’s sick,’ I said.
‘Yes, he is. And while I feel sad that my friend is ill, I’m kind of glad as well, if you know what I mean. Here, read the menu.’
I started reading it. To be honest, I didn’t know what a lot of the words meant. Still, Dad was excited about going to this place, and he eats for a living, so it had to be pretty good.
‘What are scallops?’ I asked.
‘Like oysters.’
‘Yuck. And what about a whelk?’
‘That’s a kind of sea snail.’
‘Ew,’ I said. ‘Really, Dad? Didn’t you just say that this was the best?’
‘Look here,’ he said, pointing at the screen. ‘You can have the whiting fillets – I think they’d be delicious . . . Oh, really?’ he said, looking over my shoulder towards the door.
I turned around. Mum was shaking her head sadly. ‘They’re going to a wedding,’ she said. ‘So it looks like it’s either you and Lizzie at Beloni’s, or no one.’
‘I could babysit Richie!’ I suggested, but they both shook their heads.
‘Thank you, Lizzie, but . . . but no,’ Dad said. ‘Not yet.’
Mum looked so disappointed. ‘Then I guess it’s you two.’
‘No!’ Dad slapped his hand down on the desk, which made me jump. ‘No, we’re all going.’
‘Marty, we can’t –’
‘I don’t care what we can and can’t afford, Denise. And I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’m not missing an opportunity to eat at Beloni’s. So get your glad-rags on, girls, because we’re hitting the town. We have to leave in thirty minutes.’
CHAPTER 13
It took a bit less than an hour to drive to the restaurant. I was wearing a really nice top and some awesome red jeans, and I even managed to sneak a bit of lipstick on when no one was looking. I hadn’t been this dressed-up for a long time, maybe since Grandpa’s funeral. Richie was looking pretty good too, in the little denim dungarees that Uncle Tony and Aunty Carol had given him for Christmas. He did look kind of cute, I decided. Cuter than usual.
‘Now, listen up,’ Dad said. ‘Don’t be surprised when we get to there and you hear me tell them that I’m Jim Roberts. That’s just the fake name we’re using, so they don’t know that they’re being reviewed. Do you understand, Betty?’
‘Of course. I’m not stupid,’ I said, because I’m not.
It took us ages to find somewhere to park. It was a really lovely, sparkly kind of Sunday by the harbour, so lots of people had driven out there to walk by the water, and to have lunch at one of the restaurants, or to have a picnic in the park, or maybe just a gelato (which is just a fancy word for ice-cream). But that meant that there were no parking spots, which is why we drove around for what felt like another hour. But finally Dad spotted a family getting ready to leave, so we stopped in the middle of the road and waited for them to load their kids and all their stuff into the back of their car, and to steer carefully out of their space.
Dad was almost hopping on the spot with excitement as he waited for Mum to strap my brother into his stroller. The problem was, she’d had to wake Richie up once we got there, so he was all ratty. And that was making Mum ratty, because we were about to go into one of the three best seafood restaurants in the country. (Dad had said it another fifteen million times on the drive.)
‘I really hope Richie’s not going to whinge like that in the . . .’ Dad began to say, but then he caught Mum’s glare in his direction. ‘He’s tired. He’ll be fine. Won’t he?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Mum replied. ‘Come on.’
I don’t think I’d ever seen Dad this excited. He took a deep breath and muttered something to himself before he opened the restaurant door. He also forgot to hold it open for me and Mum and Richie in the stroller, but he does sometimes forget things like that when his mind is on other things.
The man at the little desk thing next to the door smiled at us. His gold name tag said that he was called Bradley. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said to Dad, even though he was looking at Richie.
‘Looks busy today,’ Dad said, peering past Bradley into the restaurant. The tables were all covered with white tablecloths, and the wine glasses and the knives and forks and bottles and plates were glittering in the bright light pouring through the tall windows.
‘Yes, it is busy,’ Bradley said. ‘It’s Sunday. Do you have a reservation, Mr . . .?’
‘Ah . . . Jim,’ Dad said.
‘Jim?’ Bradley said. ‘Mister Jim . . .?’
‘Um . . .’
‘Jim Roberts,’ Mum said, before throwing Dad a look that I think might have meant, ‘How do you manage to do this for a job if you can’t even remember a simple fake name?’
‘Jim Roberts,’ Bradley murmured as he checked in his book. ‘Ah, yes, that was a . . . Oh.’
‘Oh?’ Dad asked. ‘Why “oh”?’
‘You booked a table for two, Mr Roberts. But . . .’ He glanced at me, and Mum, and Richie. He especially glanced at Richie, who was still a bit grizzly.
‘I’m sorry, but our plans changed at the last moment,’ Dad said. ‘I know I should have phoned ahead, but . . .’
‘We’re unable to accommodate a party of four at present,’ Bradley told us, ‘but if you’d be happy to wait, it shouldn’t be too long.’
Dad and Mum looked at each other. Mum didn’t seem very happy, while Dad looked embarrassed. ‘I can see a vacant table for four just over there,’ he said.
Bradley turned to see where Dad was pointing. ‘Oh, that’s reserved, sir. I’m sorry.’
‘Okay, fine,’ Dad said with a sigh. ‘How long do you think –’
‘Hard to say,’ Bradley replied, and then he gestured to us to move to one side so he could talk to the people who had just come in behind us.
We waited for ages – I wasn’t sure how long. But my tummy was starting to grumble pretty loudly, especially because I could smell the food that kept coming out of the kitchen on the huge shiny plates, carried by waiters in little black caps and long black aprons.
‘This had better be worth it,’ Mum said to Dad.
‘It will be,’ he answered. ‘Trust me, it’ll be amazing.’
‘Even the sea snails?’ I asked.
‘Especially the sea snails.’
‘Ew.’
But that was when something happened that changed everything. The front door opened, and four more people came in – two men, and two ladies. They were a bit too dressed up for a Sunday lunchtime, I thought. The ladies were even wearing high heels.
‘Marty,’ I heard Mum say, almost in a whisper. ‘Is that –?’
‘Yes,’ he muttered, all grumpy. ‘Yes, that’s Matthew Fletcher.’
‘Who’s Matthew Fletcher?’ I asked, but it seemed that no one was allowed to know that he was even there, because Mum and Dad both glared at me with these big frowns.
‘Maffew!’ Richie repeated, and the taller of the two men turned and looked at him, and chuckled.
‘Mr Fletcher, it’s very good to see you here,’ said Bradley. He almost bowed. He didn’t actually bow, but trust me, he almost did.
The tall man smiled. ‘Thank you. Look, we don’t have a booking, but since it was such a wonderful day down by the water, we thought we’d try our luck.’
Bradley gave this horrible little half-smile and kind of rubbed his hands together. ‘Party of four, was it, Mr Fletcher?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Very good. Please, come this way.’ And he led them off into the dining room of the restaurant.
I looked at my parents. Mum was rubbing Dad’s arm, and Dad looked as though his head was about to pop like an angry water balloon.
/> ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation,’ Mum was saying.
‘Oh, of course there is,’ Dad snarled back at her. ‘It’s pretty simple, really. He’s Matthew Fletcher, and I’m . . . Jim Roberts!’
‘Honey, don’t let it ruin your day,’ Mum said.
‘It’s a bit late for that,’ Dad snapped. He stepped forward as Bradley came back to his little table. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘What was that?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You just seated those people. A party of four.’
‘Sir –’
‘Without a booking.’
‘They had a reservation,’ Bradley said.
‘No, they didn’t! I heard them say that they didn’t! You asked them, and they said no!’
‘Please, sir, if you could keep your voice down, let me explain. That was Matthew Fletcher.’
‘I don’t care if it was the Queen of Sheba and her favourite dog Butch – those people didn’t have a booking, and we did.’
Bradley cleared his throat and tipped his chin up, just a little. ‘Sir, Mr Fletcher is a very important person in the restaurant scene,’ he said. ‘And as such, I have seated him and his party in the VIP area.’
‘VIP area? They’re right there!’ Dad said, and he pointed at them, sitting in the middle of the front window.
‘That’s right, sir, at a VIP table.’
Mum had stepped forward as well now, but she wasn’t arguing with Bradley. No, she was trying to get Dad to calm down. ‘Marty,’ she said, and she took his arm, but he pulled it away.
‘Matthew Fletcher is important, is he?’ Dad asked Bradley. (His voice had gone all funny, and I wondered for a second if he was going to cry.) ‘Well, I’m not really Jim Roberts, you know.’
Bradley didn’t say anything. He just tilted his head slightly to one side.
‘No, because I’m Marty Adams,’ Dad said.
‘So why did you tell me you were Jim Roberts?’
Dad took a deep breath. ‘Because I was here to review you. To review your restaurant!’
Bradley frowned. ‘To review us?’
‘Yes. That’s what I do. I was sent here to eat at your place, and to try your lunch menu, and then to write a glowing review. Which I was prepared to do, by the way, if the food and service were as good as I was led to believe. But you can forget all that now.’
