by Foster, Zoe
I heard the door slam just as I walked out of the bathroom, towelling my hair.
‘Honey, I’m hooo-ome,’ Col yelled down the hallway.
‘Soooooo,’ I asked, smiling through my words, ‘how’d it go?’
She came into the hallway, still holding her keys, and leaned against the wall. Her face was a goo-free zone. Not good. I really, really wanted her to like Frank. She hadn’t even torn through a rebound guy yet – surely that was due by now? Even though Frank was far too nice and funny to be miscast as the rebound guy.
She sighed.
‘Meh. He took me to some silly Lebanese place where we smoked hookah and there were fat belly dancers jiggling their guts in my face as I was trying to eat my lamb. Zero chemistry.’
‘Really? Col … are you maybe cutting him off a little prematurely?’
She stopped jangling her keys and considered my question for a few seconds.
‘Yeah, probably. But d’you know what? I couldn’t be fucked wasting energy on a relationship that isn’t going anywhere. Don’t look at me like that; I know what I need a little better than you and your fancy exposed nipples.’
I looked down and pulled my towel back up, smiling sheepishly.
She sighed. ‘Okay. Case in point: he went in for the kiss and I gave him my cheek. So fucking awkward. I just can’t picture myself being with him. Like, having sex with him would be kind of … kind of gross.’
I shook my head, smiling. ‘You’re a tough crowd, Coliflower.’
She walked to the kitchen and got herself a glass of water.
‘Urgh, that hookah was foul. I feel like I’ve smoked a kilo of apple-flavoured ciggies.’
‘As opposed to your usual Marlboro-flavoured ones, you mean?’
‘I told you, I’ve quit.’
‘Mm-hmmm …’
‘Whatever. What’d you and Dave do tonight?’
‘Nothing. Walk, then boring dinner. I was going to do some work, but I saw that you’d spread your tax shit all over the desk – which was the perfect excuse to watch CSI.’ I grinned, walking towards my bedroom door. ‘See you in the morning. ’ I closed the door softly behind me.
If Col didn’t want a relationship, then please at least let Frank be interested in a friendship with her, I quickly prayed to the fate fairies. That way I could see Josh again, even if I couldn’t touch him.
The next morning, as I was getting ready to head to the shop, Mum called, wanting to know whether she’d need to bring sheets for her visit this weekend. She asked every time she came down, just in case we had been the victims of a vicious linen burglary since the last time she stayed.
Mum still lived on the Gold Coast with her second husband, my stepfather, Godfrey. They met at the 1999 Animals First Christmas party: Godfrey pointed out that she had some cat hair on her cropped cream bolero, and the rest is history. Now they were the Posh and Becks of the Queensland pet industry.
Mum’s passion in life was exotic Persian cats. She bred kittens for weirdo cat-lovers and showed her queen – BillyJeanSkyBelle – all around the country. BillyJeanSkyBelle was a Best in Show super-cat, who, because of her perfect jaw line, correctly spaced facial arrangement, plum-sized eyes and dense black hair, lived a life of privilege. She slept on Mum’s pillow at night and ate only fresh organic chicken, tuna or beef. She had her own seat in Mum’s fire-engine-red Camry and a series of velour jumpers with ‘BJSB’ embroidered on the back. All of this was incredibly amusing to Col and me, but Mum failed to see the joke.
‘She’s earned me more than you two,’ she’d say.
‘Don’t see you winning any competitions,’ she’d say.
‘Do you have your own website?’ she’d say.
To me, cats were nothing more than attitude dressed in fur coats, but they were Mum’s world. The obsession began with Wilbur, a two-toned Persian who’d made her lonely nights less so. When Dad had left, leaving Mum and us and his role as the local butcher for Mum’s tacky hairdresser cousin, Suzy, a friend of Mum’s had given her Wilbur.
We knew from Uncle Darren that Suzy and Dad had skipped town and were now living on an opal-mining farm in the arse-end of Australia. I had tried to contact him a few times when I was younger, but he had never made any attempt to get in touch with me, and the one time I actually spoke with him, he was awkward, impatient and got off the phone after a few minutes, citing a chook that had broken free from the pen. Years of birthdays spent hoping he’d call, and vivid, powerful dreams of him returning home (usually with a pony called Bucky as an apology gift) without fruition had led to a brand of deep-seated hatred and bitterness.
Godfrey, while more like a daggy uncle, filled the void nicely. He was the kind of guy who had worn a moustache since 1976, combed over his hair, and was still pulling out five-cent pieces from behind my ear and slipping a twenty-dollar note into birthday cards involving illustrations of purple tennis rackets. Col and I payed him out constantly, of course. But Godfrey didn’t care. He knew his place in life, and it absolutely thrilled him.
I loved Mum and Godfrey’s number-one-fan brand of love. Godfrey made Mum’s cup of tea for her every single morning, and they went for a walk together after dinner every single evening. They had ‘date night’ the last Friday of every month, and sang karaoke at home for fun. Just the two of them. Sober. Their love and support for, and adoration of, each other gave me hope while simultaneously raising my relationship bar somewhere up near the ozone layer.
‘So you’ll be home when I arrive? To let me in?’ Mum spoke fast, and while I wouldn’t call her voice screechy, it was definitely in the higher octaves and had a distinct nasal quality.
‘Yes, but only if you come armed with several sets of sheets.’
‘Stop being smart, Jean. I’m just trying to lessen my burden on you.’
‘Mum, you’re never a burden. And stop with the “when I arrive” stuff: you know I’m going to pick you up from the airport.’
‘Now Jean, that’s not necces—’
‘Shoosh. I’ll be there at 5.15, ’kay? Will you have your mobile?’
‘Of course I will. Jean, you are silly sometimes. Besides, I’ve just put the new kittens online and I’ve been getting calls from all over Australia. Even had a man from Melbourne call and offer to fly the little tortoiseshell down! Can you imagine?’
I laughed. ‘Mum, I gotta go. See you tomorrow. Love to Godfrey.’
‘What about towels? Do I need to bring a towel? I’m sure the last thing you girls need is baskets full of washi—’
‘Mum, no towels, sheets, mattresses or floorboards are required. See you tomorrow.’
I walked out to the kitchen looking for my shoes, catching the tail end of Col’s phone conversation as I did so.
‘Okay, I promise. Yes. I realise that. Okay! Jesus! I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Bye.’ She hung up and rolled her eyes.
‘What was all that about?’ I asked with a smile.
She sighed. ‘Frank invited us to watch Josh play tomorrow night’ (my heart skipped a beat at his name) ‘over at Ewan Stadium. Which would be a brilliant idea, save for one tiny flaw: it’s stupid.’
I spoke immediately, forgetting to play it cool.
‘Well, you know, I’ve never been to a game, and I’m pretty sure Mum hasn’t either. Maybe it could be fun?’ I stopped and thought for a second. ‘Hang on, is this a date we’re intruding on?’
Col picked up her bowl of muesli and spooned in a mouthful.
‘Ha. I’d hardly call the football a date. Especially with you there. And Mum.’
‘Riiiight,’ I said, filling a glass with water and taking a gulp.
‘Can you imagine Mum at the football?’ Col laughed, scraping the sides of her bowl with her spoon.
‘Oooh … what do you think her Sporting Event outfit will be?’ I said with a glint in my eye. ‘Something casual, probably – like her gold jumper and those knee-high purple boots.’
Col winced, shaking her head. Mum loved anything that s
parkled, replicated a large predatory cat or showed off her boobs. She was violently out of style. It was like she’d got to 1987 and decided that the fashion at that minute was just so her that she’d stay right there, thank you very much, and the rest of us could go on ahead without her. Col and I, with our combined love of fashion, had tried for years to drag her wardrobe into something resembling that of a twenty-first-century woman in her fifties, but she was intractable. Finally we had accepted her for who she was – while doing up a button here, or blending out her blush there.
‘No way. Reckon she’ll go full WAG-style and wear tight jeans, those stripper shoes she’s had since the nineties, and some wack cleavage-cruncher. You watch!’
‘Oh shit, you’re so right.’ I suddenly panicked at the idea of Mum and her lace/frilled/crocheted-covered mams meeting Josh’s mum, who was sure to be the kind of stunning, stylish woman who single-handedly kept Ralph Lauren in business. After all, she was a regular at the shop – Frank had said so.
‘Whatever she wears, we’ll just tell them she had a fancy-dress party to go to afterwards,’ Col said conclusively. She paused. ‘With a Bangles theme.’
We both burst into laughter.
I picked up my bag and keys. ‘I gotta go.’ I paused. ‘Tell Frank we’ll come. It’ll be fun.’
‘I’ll think about it. Hey, wonder if we’ll get to meet Josh’s girlfriend,’ she said, her back to me while she rinsed out her bowl.
‘Mmm,’ I said, praying she had some insight into her/them.
‘Frank said she’s a punish, actually. Says Josh’s completely whipped.’
‘Really?’ I said, unable to disguise the interest in my voice.
She opened the dishwasher, then spun around and squinted at me. ‘Jay, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had a thing for little Josh.’
I thought about telling her he was Adonis from that night at Balcony. That he had completely consumed me ever since. That I dreamt of kissing him and that I wished Tess and her father would be transferred to Zimbabwe. But I didn’t have the energy to endure her teasing, or risk Frank getting wind of it and telling Josh, so I kept my response to a dismissive ‘Pfft’ as I walked though the living room to the door.
ROUND 7
Denim vs Tracksuits
I got to work, nursing an enormous blueberry muffin and two skinny lattes, just as two women walked in. One veered over to the new-arrivals rack. The second, a pretty redhead with enormous blue eyes, came over to the counter, smiling, and asking whether she might finish paying off her lay-by, please. Ingrid smiled at me briefly and snapped into work mode; I placed the coffees behind the counter’s mammoth floral arrangement – Ingrid insisted on fresh flowers every Monday – and strode over to her friend, telling her to let me know if she needed any help with sizes.
As I waited for her to try on a tight mini-dress that was completely starved of sexual subtlety, I wondered if I would see Josh after the football match. Nah, he’d go off with Tess to some uberluxury penthouse and make love on a bearskin rug while sipping on Dom Pérignon, obviously. I cursed inwardly at the bittersweet taste of his proximity versus his unavailability.
A text buzzed in my pocket. I always kept my phone on me, even though Ingrid repeatedly told me not to.
wr on 4 game
I had a feeling Col had done that thing where she could sense I liked Josh and was now actively creating a situation where she could get more clues. She was not so much nosey as nasally fixated. I texted back.
What you gonna wear?
I’d decided that I’d take my cue from her, as I had no idea.
dunno who cares well b surrounded by yobs im not wasting good outfit on thm
Her total disregard for punctuation killed me. The more I nagged her about it, the lazier she was. She loved to annoy me, especially since I was so pedantic about text messages being like every other form of writing and, as such, deserving of capital letters, complete words and commas.
True. Better get out our best tracksuits.
frank mentioned after match party all laid on w family partners etc so maybe wear ur uggboots w the diamantes
I took in a sharp breath of air. I would be seeing Josh tomorrow night. My body performed a giddy little jump without my brain instructing it to do so. How adorable that my body and my brain felt the same way.
‘Jean, are you even listening?’ Ingrid stared at me.
‘What? Sorry.’ I quickly hid my phone.
‘Did you definitely send that invoice to Romance? That Jamie woman went ballistic on the phone yesterday, saying it was overdue, and that her accounts were going to be all out of joint because of us, but I’m pretty sure we sent it last week with the Bluebird invoice?’
‘Bloody Jamie …’ I exhaled. ‘I definitely sent it, I know I did.’ Ingrid shook her head and opened up our email inbox, searching for the email. Spotting a dress on the ground – another of Ingrid’s pet hates – I bent down and picked it up. It was a white dress with an enormous neckline that always slipped off the hanger. Just as I placed it back on, I heard a deep voice behind me.
‘Mmmmladies, how are we?’
I turned to see Cameron standing at the door of the shop, one arm above his head, which was turned to one side with an eyebrow raised, the other hand on his hip. He sported a shaved head, three-day growth, a lurid green T-shirt, black jeans, and black-and-white chequered Vans. His brown, almond-shaped eyes flashed mischievously and his cheeky smile lit up his tanned face.
Cameron worked at Vinyl, the street-wear store next door. Since I’d started in the shop, he’d kept me sane on slow days with his stupid sense of humour and anecdotes from his second job as DJ Pink at local nightclub the Nursery. Ingrid, a woman who suffered fools in the same way a Venus flytrap suffers insects, oscillated between adoring him and wanting to sweep him out of the store with a large broom. They fought endlessly, in that back-and-forth TV sitcom way, each trying to outdo the other with insults. He was the only person who could get away with taunting and teasing her. I kept waiting for her to lose her shit at him but, amazingly, she never did. The most he got was scathing insults and door-slamming. I think it frustrated him.
I had grown to adore Cam in an I-never-had-a-brother-and-you’ll-do-nicely-thank-you way. He reminded me of growing up at home, messing around, being a brat; having fun. He was easy to be around. He kept things light when I overanalysed or fretted over one of Ingrid’s moods or toneless, scary texts.
‘Wow, Cameron. Just think how sexy that pose would be if you actually had some muscles in your arms,’ I said.
He snorted. ‘Muscles are for losers. A real man relies on charm and knowing how to use Al Green appropriately.’ He straightened up and hip-hop pimp-limped towards the counter, peeking into the brown bag housing what was left of my muffin.
‘Didn’t ask if I wanted one. Thanks, girls. I’ll remember that next time you’re hungry and you want a musk.’ Cameron had an unhealthy – literally and figuratively – obsession with musk sticks. He was rarely without a small bag of baby-pink stems. Hence his DJ name. He leaned on the counter and gazed at Ingrid.
‘So, how’s the boyfriend, Ingrid?’
‘How’re the genital herpes, Cameron?’
‘I see you’re in your customary sunny mood.’
‘I see you’re going to be unsavoury, as usual.’
‘But if I’m unsavoury … wouldn’t that imply that I’m sweet?’
Cameron spun to look at me for backup. I lifted my shoulders and eyebrows, pursing my lips.
‘Can’t help you, sorry.’
‘Bor-ing. Come on Ingrid, spill – tell me all about him. Is he a good kisser? Do you go all a-flutter when his name comes up on your screen? Does he let you ride in the front of his milk-delivery truck?’
‘Cameron, while you would of course be the first person I would reveal all of my romantic dealings to, I’m afraid I have nothing. Now piss off, I’ve got work to do. Don’t you have cheap neon T-shirts to be selling or someth
ing?’
‘Rather be selling them than piece after piece of overpriced lycra.’ He turned to face me, holding up the muffin bag.
‘You done with this?’
I nodded. ‘You need the fat more than I do.’
He walked out of the store with his catch of the day, saluting us as he went. ‘As always, girls, the pleasure is all yours.’
Ingrid shook her head. ‘Honestly, if he wasn’t so cute to look at …’
ROUND 8
Diamantés vs Linen
Mum was terribly flustered at the idea of going to the football. She was cranky at Colette for not telling her yesterday so that she could have brought the right outfit, and at me for not letting her wear her new ‘Italian Design’ floral diamanté-encrusted jeans. She kept running her hands through her short blonde-streaked hair and then cursing because she’d had it ‘done’ this morning and now it was all ‘mucky’.
‘We nearly ready, guys?’ Col walked in, looking so cool, so pretty – all, of course, without having spent a second on her outfit. She wore tight black jeans, a white T-shirt with a bow tie printed on it, her leather jacket and black ankle boots. She had applied some mascara, black kohl, cheek crème and lip balm, jammed her hair in a messy topknot, and was effortlessly gorgeous. Despite my ability to dress others, and my desire to design, my outfits never came together like hers. In fact, I wouldn’t even call what I wore an outfit; it was just clothes. And compared with hers, they always felt a bit mismatched or boring. That said, I felt good in my new black top, a rash of bracelets and bands that I’d made, tight dark jeans and heels. I’d taken a good two inches off the length of my hair before blow-drying it, but no one even noticed. As usual.
