by Murray, Lee
‘Hey. What say we take a stroll out to the terrace and get our photo taken with the cute bloke from Evermore?’
‘Nah. Thanks, but I’ll stay put for now. I think I saw Cushla taking a tour of the garden with the mayor.’
Leaving Charlie, I plough my way toward the terrace, but I’m stalled by a squeeze of guests at the buffet. In the corner, Marcus is sequestered with his accountant and an executive type in pinstripe. I catch a riff of their conversation.
‘Marcus here is Vice President in Charge of Operations of a Doggie Chow company. Big-Chief-Doggie-Chow. Isn’t that right, Marcus?’ the accountant gushes.
‘That’s right, Neville, although, I wouldn’t use the term Doggie Chow. We supply gourmet pet formulas to New York’s exclusive inner city pet delicatessens.’
‘Inner city pet delicatessens!’ the Pinstripe Type splutters. ‘Whatever next?’
‘I’ll tell you what next,’ the accountant says, leaning in to the Pinstripe Type as if he had some gossip to impart. ‘They diversified into breed-specific formulas! Ever heard of the Labra-doodle Dinner? The King Charles Cavalier Banquet? What about the Superior Schnauzer Supper? That’s them, too.’
‘Really?’ Pinstripe Type seems impressed.
‘Believe me, it’s a lucrative business,’ Neville says. ‘After all, the company is built on a great concept. Guilt! Because everyone knows the city is no place to raise a lively, healthy pet. Is that a great idea or what? Feeling the need to make amends for the lack of trees for their pooches to pee on, those rich city types rush out and buy little Spikey the most expensive formula available? Isn’t that right, Marcus?’
I couldn’t have summed it up better myself. I slip past a coven of Cushla’s floral arrangement friends and have just made it to the terrace doors when Marcus taps his champagne glass with his cake fork. Oh God. Here it comes. The formal speech. I could probably write it myself. Let me tell you how it will go. It’ll start out along the lines of ‘We’re here to celebrate the success of Daddy’s Little Girl, Cherry.’ Then there’ll be words like ‘monumentally proud’ and namby-pamby stuff about Cherry overcoming the loss of her mother followed by more words like ‘wonderful’ and ‘exquisite’ and ‘ongoing success.’ I take a few steps to the left so I’m beside the French doors and nearer to the drinks table. Picking up a champagne flute, I take a gulp. At least, I’ll be able to pretend I’m drinking heartily to the success of my step-sister. Rather than just drinking heartily.
‘Friends,’ Marcus says as the buzz dies down. ‘I’d like to thank you for helping us celebrate the opening of the best new beauty franchise around: Cherry Fizz.’ There’s a round of polite applause. ‘Firstly, I have to say how proud we are of Cherry.’
So far I’m right on the button. My glass is empty. I’ll need a new glass if I’m to toast the success of Cherry’s new business venture. It’s lucky I’m standing by the drinks table. A few metres from me, behind a group of chiffony matrons, Jack is leaning against the door frame. I see him look over and raise an eyebrow at me. I ignore him. It’s only my second glass and I’m not driving. It’s late afternoon now and I’m feeling a little draughty here by the terrace. I edge in closer to the drinks table. Marcus is still rambling on.
‘Many of you will be aware I lost my first wife, Desirée, to cancer. It was a tragic time for the children, and especially Cherry who was only five. However, we were especially blessed to have my beautiful wife Cushla come into our lives.’ Cushla tilts her head to one side and smiles at her husband. Marcus raises both hands in a mock gesture of protest. ‘Yes, yes, I know, dear. You always say one can never replace a mother, but I know our guests will agree you’ve done wonderfully well, raising Cherry to be the elegant, accomplished young woman she is today.’
Elegant and accomplished. Well, I was close. Now it’s Cherry’s turn to tilt her head to one side and smile. Cherry, coy? Hrmph! Any minute now Marcus will propose the toast so I turn back to the table and swap my empty glass for a fresh one. Behind me Marcus blathers on about how Cherry topped her class at beauty school, how it took flair to recognise the right franchise…
He stops talking. That’s odd. It’s not like Marcus to be lost for words. I swivel about, my glass in my hand, wondering what the delay could be. Marcus is staring right at me, his mouth open.
What?
I look around. Everyone is looking at me.
‘Melanie! For goodness sake!’ Cherry is livid. Her face has gone a funny pink colour. What are they staring at? I’ve only had a couple of drinks.
I am not drunk.
Behind the crowd, from his vantage point on the hall stairs, Charlie is giggling.
What!?
Maybe I sloshed some drink on my clothes? Or on the carpet? I look down. My eyes skim over my lovely silk pants. The rich brown material flows nicely to the floor where it’s puddling around my sandals. That’s not right. It shouldn’t be pooling near my feet. And instantly, I’m in one of those slow-motion catastrophes as it occurs to me the silky ties of my pants are covering my shoes and trailing on the floor between my legs. Which can mean only one thing.
My pants have come undone.
Oh hell! Quick! I have to pick up those ties. But my hands are full.
Damn! I scrabble to put my down my glass, somewhere, anywhere. Pivoting, I plonk it on the drinks table and quickly stoop to retrieve the ties.
Mistake.
Bad mistake!
‘MELANIE!’ Behind me there’s a collective roar from Cushla, Marcus and Cherry.
Ohmigod! I can’t believe I’m so stupid. Turned and bent over, my thonged bottom is exposed to the entire guest list! Including Omokoroa’s mayor and the cute brother from Evermore. I feel myself go hot. My face is burning. Scrummaging around on the floor, I try to collect up the ties of my pants. Stupid, ridiculous, blasted pants! Why couldn’t I have tied a doubly-double granny knot? Tears blur my eyes, making it even harder to get a purchase on the slippery fabric.
I’m hot all over with embarrassment.
Except for my bottom.
Which is still draughty!
At last, I have a tie in each of my hands. I take a sharp intake of breath. Force myself to concentrate. Ignore the cackles of laughter. Marcus bellowing. Cherry screeching. Right, so now I loop both the ties beneath my crotch and carry them up, behind and outside of my legs. Now, bring them around to tie at the front. I can’t do it. My hands are shaking too much. I’m trembling with humiliation, my ears full of the screams of my family and the raucous laughter of Cherry’s guests.
My bottom, my soul is bared. I’m mortified.
Suddenly, Jack is there behind me, his large body creating an eclipse between my naked bottom and the rest of the room. Gently, he takes the ties from my hands, reaches forward, his arms about me, and ties them firmly at my waist. Finally, they’re secure. I sob with relief.
‘Mel, come on love. It’s time for us to go now.’ I nod numbly, grateful he’s taking charge. He takes my hand in his and we make our escape over the terrace and across the yard.
Thank you, thank you, Jack.
9
It’s not the first time Jack has come to my rescue. That would’ve been two years ago in the Cook Islands. I’m there for a reunion with my Dad, Colin, whom I’d last seen four years prior over a shared chicken biryani between flights at Wellington’s domestic terminal. Colin is booked to do an exhibition car rally around Rarotonga’s palm-fringed main island, and when he isn’t tied up doing promotional work we plan to spend an entire father-daughter week together. I’m as bubbly as butter in a fry pan. But as soon as I arrive I suspect Colin has been misled. The road is too narrow for an exhibition race and since speed is not a particular trait in the islands, I can’t see there’d be much interest in one either. By dinnertime Colin still hasn’t turned up. Eventually, he rings to say the sponsorship had fallen through due to concern about humidity on his performance transmission. He’s totally furious with his agent for the dodgy booking, for not suffic
iently checking the details, and for ruining his baby girl’s holiday. That’s why he pays the morons, so these kinds of stuff-ups don’t happen. Instead, they’ve got him and his cosmetic empire heiress girlfriend, Candy, jetting off to Jamaica for a big circuit event. Poor Colin. I can tell he’s gutted.
So I’m stranded in Rarotonga because the next flight in and out of the island isn’t until the following week. But rather than wallowing in my lonesomeness, I resolve to make the most of it. I have a good book and my hotel, while basic, is right on the beachfront, has a pool and operates a bar service. I pass a couple of blissful days poolside and prone on a plastic lounger, lightly basting, sipping the cocktail of the day, and watching whales dive bomb off the reef into the Pacific.
After a while though I get bored, so I hire one of the hotel’s battered plastic kayaks and putter about in the water in front of the hotel, delighting in the darting shoals of small fish, more colourful than a quick pass by a Holden dealership. All around me other guests are out paddle-boating and snorkeling and, a few metres off-shore, a plucky girl in a stripey tankini is attacking her third disastrous day of windsurfing lessons.
I fritter away an hour or so following this or that intriguing little fish and when I at last I look up I see I’ve part-drifted, part-paddled quite a way from the hotel and the beach. So much so, that the hapless windsurfer girl looks like a lone facecloth flapping on a neighbour’s washing line. I’m on my way back to shore when I realise I’m taking on water. Ohmigod! The ocean water is so warm I hadn’t noticed. My outstretched legs are puddling half-submerged in the bottom of the kayak. I discover a thin seeping crack at the stern...port…stern…..at the bloody front.
Oh cripes! This must be how Apollo 13’s commander Jim Lovell felt, marooned out there in space in an exploded service module with terra firma far off in the distance.
I need to stop this water. I cup my hands together and scoop swiftly. After a few minutes I’m exhausted. It isn’t much use because the water is entering as fast as I can bail it out. I keep bailing, though, because I can’t think of anything else to do. A wave of self-pity engulfs me. I’ve a good mind to start blubbering at the unfairness of it all. I mean, first I get stuck on a father-daughter holiday without a father and now I’m stuck in the middle of the ocean in a leaky boat.
Out to my left I catch a dark flash. Instantly, my mind screams, “Shark! Get the hell out of here, Melanie!” I scramble for the oar. Quick! I catch another flash of the ominous shape moving toward me, and, oh hell, there’s no time to outrun it. I’ll have to confront it. I raise the oar above my head, ready to whack that baby on the snout because I read somewhere a shark’s nose is its most sensitive bit. I’m about to swing when I make out a head of plastered flat wet hair, a muscled shoulder, and a forearm striking out toward me.
A kayak pirate!?
I grip the oar in readiness. A head comes into view, water rivulets streaming back to the sea.
‘Hey, you okay?’ I’m surprised he doesn’t say Arrgh!
‘What do you think you’re doing sneaking up on people out here?’ I squawk.
‘You looked like you might be in trouble.’ Get a grip, Melanie. Clearly, I’m still rattled by my near-encounter with a ravenous shark. I lower the oar and reinstate my scoop-bailing technique.
‘You seem to be taking on water.’ The stranger puts his hand on the side of the kayak which lurches perilously and causes another slop of seawater to penetrate the craft. ‘Yep. I’d say you’re definitely taking on water.’
I frown. ‘What am I going to do? I can’t bail and paddle at the same time.’
‘Why not ditch the kayak and swim for the beach. It’s not that far.’
‘Um.’ I purse my lips together.
‘You can’t swim?’ My pirate has stunning ocean blue eyes. I’m taken aback.
‘Yes, of course I can swim!’ I just don’t want to tell this rather delicious pirate person the real reason I don’t want to get in the water.
‘So then swim.’ The thing is, I’m afraid of the creepy sea-worms, those tracts of grey eviscerated intestine slumbering on the bottom. Yeek! They make my fingers and toes go numb. I’d rather take my chances with this kayak than get in the water, although I’m not going to tell that to Jack Sparrow here. Besides, there could actually be a shark lurking about.
‘It’s the deposit! I don’t want to lose my deposit,’ I improvise.
‘Really? Is it a lot?’
‘Well, no, only $5…but it’s the principle, isn’t it? And I don’t want to leave nasty plastic kayak litter in this beautiful unspoiled water. That’d be irresponsible. Very un-green. Anyway, I appreciate you stopping by.’ I grip the sides of the kayak and attempt to stabilise it with my core strength. ‘Come to think of it, why are you way out here?’ I go back to bailing and it doesn’t take long before my neck and back are burning again.
‘Oh, just swimming.’ I stop ladling for a second and look him squarely in the face. Wow. He is gorgeous.
‘Out to sea?’ My pirate has hooked his arm over the lip of the kayak, swamping even it more. I resume my scooping.
‘Um yes.’
‘Why? Were you trying to commit suicide or something?’ He throws me a sheepish grin.
‘I wanted to get away from a kid at school.’
‘Aren’t you a bit old to be avoiding the school bully?’ I say absently, succumbing to a daytime fantasy about swashbuckling pirates boarding doomed ships and making captives of fiery female passengers with ripped bodices…
‘I’m a teacher. One of my students is staying at the resort. She and her mother were on the beach and I wanted to avoid them, so I swam straight out where they couldn’t reach me … It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ He grins.
‘Right. I don’t suppose you’ve any good ideas about how to get this kayak back to shore? You don’t have a bicycle repair kit on you? Or maybe some gum?’
‘Sorry. I was swimming. I didn’t think to bring a tool kit.’
‘Very funny. What am I going to do?’
‘Look, why don’t you lay the oar down in the kayak, stuff your t-shirt in the crack, and hold your foot up hard against it. Try to stop too much water from seeping in and keep bailing as much as you can. I’ll get behind the kayak and kick you in.’
And so twenty minutes later I’m rescued. Dripping and exhausted, the two of us stagger up onto the beach hauling in the useless kayak. I’m about to give it a revenge kick when an extremely curvy woman in a scanty Moontide bikini jogs toward us, calling and waving vigorously. In her wake is a chubby kid maybe two years younger than Caro.
‘Jack! Jaaack!’
‘This the parent?’ I ask under my breath.
‘Uhuh.’
‘Single mother?’ He nods.
I scooch closer to him, wrap my arms around his neck, rub my body cat-like against his toned torso, which I’ll admit isn’t any hardship on my part. In my best Dita von Teese burlesque I purr loudly, ‘Darling, that was wonderful! And I’ve worked up such an appetite. Shall we lunch now or go straight back to our room?’
Horrified, the parent deviates away, dragging her kid off to where the egg and spoon races are beginning. And that’s how I met Jack.
10
At eight o’clock the Lone Star is packed. The restaurant’s American-style booths are full of kids hemmed in by their parents, wall-to-wall brothers and sisters squabbling over crayons in complimentary buckets. Jack and I are seated toward the back, not far from the fireplace. I’ve calmed down since my humiliation at Cherry’s party, probably due to the superlative mollifying capacity of two vodkas and orange on ice. I’m still wearing the offending silk pants, but I’m confident there’s no chance of them sliding off. Thirty overlapping granny knots will do that. I hope I don’t have to go to the toilet any time soon.
We’re waiting on Janeen. She’s had to drop Caro off at her parents’ place at the Mount first, because she’s bringing her new man to meet us. Janeen’s rule is never to let her da
ughter meet a boyfriend unless it’s serious. So far, none of them have been serious.
Jack sees them and waves them over. Janeen makes the introductions. The new man’s name is Nandor. He looks like an improvement on the last, a born-again computer hacker turned IT security specialist named Ants. With blue, blue eyes, and a scruffy salt and pepper pony tail, Nandor could audition for the part of Jesus Christ were it not for his devilish smile. As first impressions go, he seems okay, if a bit older than Janeen’s previous boyfriends.
The waitress comes and we order our meals, a steak and baked potato for Jack, pasta for Janeen and vegetable fajitas for Nandor. I order a big bowl of garlicky mussels in broth with a side salad and crunchy bread.
‘How’s Caro then?’ Jack asks Janeen. I love that Jack takes such an interest in my goddaughter.
‘She’s buzzing about school. They added a ramp so she can get her wheelchair into the computer suite. Now she can have regular classes with the other kids,’ Janeen says.
‘That’s great, Janeen.’
‘Yeah, she’s really loving it. You should see the incredible stuff they’re doing. Last week she made a folded holiday brochure advertising Mount Maunganui. She filled it with digital photos, fancy fonts and everything, and then in the blurb she wrote that one of the activities people like to do at the Mount is jumping off the dwarf!’
We all laugh. ‘She meant jump off the wharf?’
Janeen nods, smiling. ‘I didn’t have the heart to giggle because she’d worked so hard. I don’t know how her teacher is going to keep a straight face when Caro presents it to the class.’
‘Oh, believe me,’ Jack says, ‘with all the politics in schools, it’s nice to have something to grin about. The latest big issue at our school is stemming child obesity. Our Board of Trustees has made it a strategic objective. Right now they’re trying to achieve silver accreditation for bought school lunches, so there’ll be no more Friday pies and pizzas for lunch.’
