by C. J. Duggan
“Ha! Now we’re here you won’t get rid of us.” She laughed.
Our exchange was interrupted by a deep sigh coming from Bel who flicked her magazine out as if to unfold an invisible crease.
I ignored her, instead turning toward Alex.
“Are you driving yet?”
“Pfft, no.” Alex laughed, as if what I had said was ludicrous; his eyes shifted to his mum.
I folded my arms across my chest, puzzled. “So you haven’t enrolled in uni yet?”
“NO!” Alex laughed.
“Really?”
“I’m only eight,” he exclaimed.
My brows lifted in fake surprise. “I see; wow, I thought you were way older.”
Alex shook his head, grinning a gappy-toothed grin.
“Well, hopefully that won’t literally be the case next time we come back,” Lisa added.
I could imagine the eye roll Bel was giving me behind her shades and I fought not to smile.
I cleared my throat. “So, are Grant and Ben around?”
Lisa went to speak but was cut off.
“Grant is in Bali with his new girrrrlfriend, and Ben didn’t want to come because he said Onslow was lame, and that he would rather shove sharp sticks in his eyes than go through another family holiday in a shitty caravan park,” Alex blurted out a million miles an hour.
I nodded. “Fair enough.”
Lisa smiled weakly as if she wished her son had an off button. “Alex, slip on your shoes. We have to go pick Dad up from the RSL.”
My lips twitching, I fought not to smile as I looked down at my feet.
Some things never changed.
“But I want to stay here,” Alex whined.
“One.”
“Mum.”
“Two.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“Two and a half.”
I didn’t know what happened at three, but by the time two and three quarters came along, Alex was quickly, if not reluctantly, shoving his feet into his shoes and hightailing it toward the car, not daring to look back from fear of his tears being visible.
Lisa sighed in exhaustion. “Seeya, Stan. Bel, did you want anything while we’re gone?”
Bel looked up from her magazine, smiling sweetly. “A muzzle for Alex?”
Lisa was clearly not in the mood. “Anything else?” she deadpanned.
“No, just the muzzle.” Bel’s attention turned back toward her page.
I wanted to throw in a joke and tell her to try Roy’s Hardware but thought better of it. Sometimes you just had to learn when to shut up, and as was always in my case, I never quite managed it. I waved as Lisa and Alex drove away, readying myself to head back to the office where the evenings always seemed to get busy.
But as my eyes shifted back toward Belinda my brows narrowed. Yeah, it had been a good three years since I saw her last, but I couldn’t help stare at her. My expression a twist of uncertainty as my eyes ticked over her. It was safe to say that she had … developed somewhat.
Gone was all her smugness and lazy, rude exterior as she peeled her shades off and straightened in her chair.
“W-what?”
I stepped forward slightly, my expression unwavering as I stared down at her.
“You cut your hair?”
Chapter Three
Bel
Well, that’s just great.
I had thought, like some urban legend, that the opposite sex didn’t notice these things, that when a girl gets her hair done it was something never acknowledged. But, of course, because I wanted to dig a hole and bury my head in it, he noticed.
I fought to not instinctively comb my fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck; I wanted to mask the insecurity of my hair, especially if he was being a smartarse about it.
Before I could think about some excuse as to why I would possibly cut my long black hair off, aside from my lapse of insanity in thinking I could look like Wynona Ryder, he saved me from having to.
“Looks good.” He nodded in approval.
My eyes snapped up to meet his, checking to see if he was being sarcastic, but there was nothing, no glimmer of humour that I could see.
I scoffed. “Yeah, right.”
“No, really, I like it. Very Audrey Hepburn-esque.”
My eyes widened. “Really?”
Shit, I didn’t mean to say that.
Stan plunged his hands into his pockets. “Sure, and if you’re wondering, that’s a good thing.”
Hell, yeah, it was a good thing. I was slightly obsessed by Audrey Hepburn; she was the epitome of grace and elegance. And as I looked over my denim shorts and white singlet top attire, with Yankees baseball cap, I suddenly felt anything but elegant. I felt like a slob. I looked back up at Stan, searching for any crack in his facade. Being raised with three brothers I had a pretty accurate bullshit detector.
Nope, nothing. He was telling the truth.
And, yeah, he did smile, but it wasn’t an ‘I’m taking the piss’ smile. It was friendly and warm and against my better judgment, it had me smiling, too.
Damn the man. He is not allowed to charm me. Hot or not.
“Well, see you around, Bel-INDA,” he said, infuriatingly accentuating my name in a way that was like running nails down a blackboard.
My smile fell away. “Don’t count on it, Stan-LEY.”
Stan chuckled before turning and making his way back up the track, his white tee stretched over his square shoulders, the sun illuminating his physique as he walked with his hands still in his pockets. He didn’t get far before he was stopped by a passing couple who were asking him a question that had him nodding his head, and then pointing in the opposite direction. Everyone knew Stan. He was the go-to guy, that man with the answers and the knowledge, but as far as I was concerned, as I pulled my cap off and ruffled my short-cropped hair, if I needed anything, he would be the last person I would go to.
Pfft, Audrey Hepburn.
***
As the hot summer sun dipped in the sky, I could finally wash off the 30+ strength sunscreen from my delicately fair skin, and work on the less offensive slathering of frangipani-scented body lotion. I leant toward the vanity studying my skin, my complexion slightly pinkish more so by the hot shower rather than the sun, which I had avoided rather successfully throughout the day. But now I was more focused on styling my hair in a way that resembled less punk rocker and more silver screen chic seeing as that was the look I was originally trying for. I combed the black mop, parting it on its side and sweeping the longer length of my fringe across my forehead, followed by a generous slathering of Mum’s hard-core hair spray. I stood back, taking in the long flowing boho blue dress with spaghetti straps, and tilted my head from side to side, and for the first time in a long, long time, I didn’t hate my hair. Holy shit, had Stan’s compliment done this? Had I seriously taken fashion advice from a bloke? That was a bit scary, and what was worse was the more I looked at my hair, the more I loved it, which only cemented the fact that for the rest of the summer I had to stay away from Stan Remington. Away from Stan-LEY.
I smiled to myself every time I thought back to the way he tried to contain his annoyance when I said his full name.
“What are you doing?” came an all-too-familiar voice.
I sighed as I marvelled at how the hair spray kept my hair in place. “Another question, what a surprise,” I said, tearing my eyes away from the mirror and looking at my little brother in the doorway.
“Mum! Bel’s hogging the mirror,” Alex yelled.
“Why do you care? You need a stool to see yourself.”
“Muuuum! Bel’s calling me short.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Mum’s voice closed in. “What have I told you two about … oh.”
She paused, looking me over. “You look lovely, what have you done to your hair?” She smiled.
“Oh I just—”
“Brushed it,” Alex added, sticking his tongue out.
I clamped down the urge to grab him into
a headlock, and simply ignored him.
“Well, that’s easy then, you’re ready to go, now I just have to get your father organised,” said Mum.
“Organised for what?”
“We’re going out for dinner,” chimed in Alex excitedly.
“We are?” My heart sank; I really couldn’t be bothered going to the RSL club for the roast of the day. I kind of just wanted to be anywhere but in town, especially knowing the spaghetti-strap dress wasn’t exactly fitting with the dress code.
“Yes, Glen Remington was kind enough to invite us up to the house for dinner tonight.”
Whaaaaat?
“Remington, as in Remington, Remington?” Somehow by saying the name more than once it was a way of definitely determining the answer.
Mum’s brows furrowed. “Is there any other Remington?”
In this case, unfortunately not. All of a sudden the roast of the day sounded pretty bloody good.
***
“Oh, honey, what did you do to your hair? It looked so lovely.” My mum’s shoulders sagged in disappointment.
Echoing my brother’s earlier mocking words, I said, “I brushed it.”
And it felt like shit, literally. I had thought of ways to get out of this dinner party that would no doubt be filled with painful small talk. I only hoped I wasn’t sat at the kids’ table with Alex.
Dad slung his arm around my shoulders as we casually strolled up the walking track.
“Relax, it’s never as bad as you think,” he mused in good humour, before giving my shoulders a reassuring squeeze.
I had no real idea what he was talking about. Dad often imparted his wisdom that, at a guess, was just a way to snap me out of my Debbie Downer moods, and they were often as my brothers lived to torture me.
I pulled the sleeves of my green cardi over my hands, scrunching the excess material in my fists.
“Oh, Bel, don’t do that, honey, you’ll stretch the material,” Mum said, not missing a trick.
I let the material go loose and opted for folding my arms as if to ward off a wayward chill. I inwardly grimaced at the thought of being openly chastised at the Remington’s house.
Bel sit up straight, elbows off the table, eat all your vegies. Even though I was legally considered an adult, some things did die hard with my mum, or as Dad would often remind me, “My house, my rules.” How I couldn’t wait for the New Year to come, when I could move out and find my own way. By all rights, this would be my very last summer forced to holiday with my family, then I too could be living my life, just as my older brothers lived theirs. An evil smile lifted the corner of my mouth. In fact, was that a spring in my step I felt? My demeanour had lifted just at the very thought of there being a light at the end of my tunnel, but when that light in my subconscious turned into the very real light of the Remington’s front porch, my cheery mood quickly evaporated.
“Welcome!” called Glen Remington, toasting us with a stubby of VB from the porch of his sprawling cedar cabin home. He made his way down the steps dodging one of the hanging plants his wife had dotted everywhere.
“Bloody nice night for a BBQ,” he said, taking my dad’s hand in a firm, manly shake. “Wanna cold one, Doc?”
“Thanks, mate.”
My head snapped around to my dad.
Mate?
Mum’s bemused smirk wasn’t lost on me. My dad, the pale-blue-shirt-and-slack-wearing Doctor Evans was hanging with the boys now, with Glen leading the way to fetch my dad a beer.
The Remington homestead was the mission control of the caravan park. The home, with its green Colorbond roof and wraparound verandah, snugly nestled amongst a thicket of ferns and woodchip garden beds, felt like a rainforest retreat. The warm glow of the house lights flooded through the windows and doors, beaming with a radius and warmth that reflected well the personalities of Glen and Paula Remington, the consummate hosts. We made our way into the large lounge room, my eyes instinctively moving upwards to admire the cathedral ceilings, the shadows of the large ceiling fans flickering shadows across the cedar beams. The walls were aligned with stained timber dados and quirky little framed country signs with ‘Bless this House’ embroidered on them; rugs crisscrossed over the polished floors. Even though it was a place of business, it was definitely a family home: a warm and welcoming one.
Alex and I stood stood together in the lounge room, unnaturally quiet and awkward, until his eyes landed on a glass jar of marshmallows on the kitchen counter. Paula Remington missed nothing even as she busied herself filling a glass of wine for Mum.
“I see you have found my stash of marshmallows, Alex,” she said with a wink. I elbowed Alex to break him from his trance. “Paula is talking to you,” I said lowly.
He nodded quickly, his eyes flicking back to the pink and white pillows of sugary heaven that lay tauntingly before him.
“I tell you what, after dinner we’ll get Glen to light the fire and you can toast some marshmallows. What do you reckon?”
Alex’s eyes widened with delight, and he nodded quickly.
Paula laughed. “Excellent! I always have a stock of marshmallows. Stan is forever toasting them on the fire.” Paula clinked Mum’s wine glass, thinking nothing more of her throwaway sentence as she went about her way organising food in the kitchen.
The short-lived comfort the ambience had given me was soon swept away as my gaze discreetly swept around the open-plan home.
No Stan in sight.
Alex soon abandoned me to join ‘the men’ on the deck where Glen meticulously attended to the ready-to-order steaks. So I quietly propped myself at the island bench adorned with enough food to feed a village. Paula must have been accustomed to Glen inviting guests back at short notice as she nonchalantly claimed she “just whipped up a pav” for dessert.
Mmm, pav: my not-so secret obsession.
My attention was broken when a glass of wine clinked down in front of me. I blinked.
Oh.
“It’s a Sav Blanc. Is that okay?” Paula questioned.
My gaze went to my mum, who shrugged in good humour.
“Ah, yeah. Fine, thanks.”
In my constant daily ritual of being treated like I was no older than Alex, I actually forgot I was indeed of age to partake in adult activities. Even though Mum and Dad never encouraged such reality, there was something so instantly gratifying about being treated like one, something that caused my spine to straighten as I took the elegant, crystal-stemmed wine glass in hand and took a big, grown-up, elegant sip of my wi—
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, it tasted like metho.
It took all my effort not to wince in horror as the vile flavour assaulted my taste buds. It was bloody awful. But seeing as I was finally being treated like the adult I had so long craved to be, I psyched myself up for another go, thinking maybe it was just the shock. Nope, it was truly vile.
Still, for one night, I could pretend, and I had little say as Paula, the ever-gracious host, persisted in ensuring everyone’s drinks were firmly topped up; even Alex’s glass of lemon squash never ran empty. Oh, how I longed for a glass of soft drink. Gee, I was so grown up.
I saw my parents relax in a way I seldom witnessed; my dad actually melted casually into his chair, something he rarely did unless he was drifting off from exhaustion. Even Mum, after a few red wines, was laughing and flushed with joy. And get this? Even Alex was behaving. Usually we’re all just waiting for him to pass out from fatigue before we enjoy any social gathering. The little bugger was an angel, maybe because neither of us had been sat at a kids’ table for dinner. We were very much included in the conversation, a conversation I was actually enjoying. After a few glasses of wine, I felt my own inhibitions melt away, and the reluctance to be at the Remington’s disappeared as I settled in. As the hours and wine flowed there was something that became more and more apparent.
Stan was nowhere to be seen.
Good.
I excused myself to use the bathroom, hoping no one noticed the need for me
to steady myself as I stood; the fuzzy edges of my mind didn’t seem to compute with my legs.
“Oops.” I giggled as I swayed my way to the doorway leading into the long, darkened hall. I half expected to hear a muffled sound, or a TV from a bedroom somewhere along the way, thinking Stan might have chosen to barricade himself in for the night; that’s what I would have done given the chance. But the rest of the large house was unlit and very silent. Mercifully, I could see the bathroom halfway down the hall as its door was open and a faint light illuminated from within. I used the hall to steady myself and move toward the direction thinking maybe the darkness was making me feel dizzy and less likely the several wines I’d downed. I laughed, clasping onto the sink, looking at my reflection, thinking myself an idiot for changing my hair, and thinking myself so paranoid to care. I dampened my fingers and worked on setting it back to the way it had been. Who cares anyway? I like it, that’s all that matters. Stan was probably out with his girlfriend. That would make more sense than dining with his parents as they entertained guests—lord knows it was the one thing I hated when Mum and Dad had their wine nights at home.
I studied my reflection with good humour, in place but not perfect, as I turned to switch off the light and opened the door into the unlit hall. Maybe it was tainted senses, or my distracted one last glance in the mirror checking myself out that had me slamming full force into a wall. A living, breathing wall, that was nonetheless rock hard and really, really painful as I latched onto my nose, wincing in pain, my eyes watering.
“What the frig?” I moaned.
The hall was suddenly flooded with light and the stars in my vision cleared, to see before me that the wall was a chest, a bloody rock-hard chest, belonging to … Stan.
“Nice hair.”
Oh, hell, no.
Chapter Four
Stan
If looks could kill, I would be a dead man.
I swallowed down the urge to laugh. “Are you okay?”
“I thurnk I broke my nurse,” came the muffled reply.
Dramatic, as expected.
