by Foster, Zoe
‘Um, I don’t really have one yet …’
‘And you just taught yourself how to make this stuff?’
‘No, I’ve done courses, but, well, I suppose … I dunno, I guess it’s a bit like golf – once you know how to hit the ball correctly, you keep improving and improving each time you play.’ Did I really just use a golf metaphor? What was I, a fifty-year-old man trying to teach his son the ways of the world?
‘You play golf?’ His eyebrows shot up.
‘Um, sometimes, yeah. Badly. Godfrey – that’s my stepdad – he taught Mum, Col and me years back. It’s this daggy family thing we do. We even – and I can’t believe I’m admitting this – we even have matching vests.’
Josh dropped his head back and laughed a deep, hearty laugh. It was a glorious, infectious guffaw, the kind that made you congratulate yourself for saying something funny enough to be rewarded with its splendour.
‘Pink?’
‘Frosted lemon, thank you.’
He laughed again. I took a sip of my champagne with such carelessness that it splashed onto my chin. Whoa. How many glasses had I had already? Three? Four? Combined with heavy paracetamol for my period pain. Clever girl. No wonder I was being so ‘hilarious’. I put the glass down so that I could discretely wipe my chin, and noticed Josh watching me, smiling.
Realising he’d been caught, Josh cleared his throat and took a sip of his beer. (He could only handle one champagne, he’d revealed, and that was usually for appearances. Knew he was too perfect.)
‘So, um, Tess not able to come tonight?’ I ventured cheekily, fuelled by a heady mix of alcohol, painkillers and flirting bravado.
Between Frank’s, well, frank description of Tess and Josh’s current state and the fact that Josh had spent the last hour with me, laughing and smiling, even a pot plant could see that something was amiss. He sighed, scrunching his mouth to one side. And then to the other. And finally, back to the first. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked out at the sea of people, talking, drinking, mingling, congratulating.
‘It’s okay, you don’t need to say anything,’ I reassured him quickly. It really was none of my business, after all.
‘No, no, you’re right. I mean, I can’t, well, it wouldn’t be —’ He stopped and looked me straight in the eyes. ‘I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if things were right with Tess, put it that way.’
I felt as though someone had just placed a large woollen blanket around my heart.
A voice boomed over the PA, cutting through the music and my precious, important little moment like a knife. ‘Ladies and gentleman, if we could have your attention, please? If you could all gather around the centre of the room, the groom-to-be would like to propose a toast to his beautiful wife-to-be.’
Please no, don’t let this conversation end here, I beseeched the Universe, God, Buddha, Oprah. Anyone.
‘Hey, Jean,’ Josh said, standing up and looking at me shyly. ‘I realise how inappropriate this may seem, but could we maybe have a coffee sometime? Only if you want to – it’s fine if not, I’ll totally understand … ’
I swallowed, looking at his smiling face.
‘Yes. I’d love that.’
He offered his arm to help me down, and I took it, my insides melting and my spirits even higher than my blood alcohol level.
ROUND 11
The No-dials vs The Noodles
Sunday I awoke filled with hope and dreams of three-hour conversations and verbal foreplay, loosely centred around a twin-set of skim lattes.
No call from Josh.
I put it down to him not wanting to appear too keen.
As Monday skipped in, I was wary of too much build-up, but secretly convinced that today was The Day he’d call to set up that coffee. By the time Tuesday slunk over, despondent and dreary and dripping with a muted form of anger, I was almost certain Tess had wrangled her way back in, or that I was a chump.
To compound things, the weather had morphed from beautiful crisp autumn into miserable, wet winter. Which meant the shop was dead, because what woman wanted to buy herself a pretty frock when she couldn’t manage to get from her front door to her car without ruining her new suede boots and losing her perfectly ghd-straight hair to sixty drops of frizz-inducing curl?
I was re-dressing the windows for the third time when a duo of tanned, heeled, very attractive, very loud women walked in. There was something immediately familiar about them. Were they off a TV show? I knew I’d seen their faces somewhere before. The first – a tall, slim brunette with dark CD-sized sunglasses, a caramel skivvy and what appeared to be leggings mistakenly worn as Real Life pants tucked into chocolate knee-high boots – rifled angrily through our clothes as she spoke.
‘It’s a goddamn joke. Mark forgot to call the builders, or just doesn’t see it as a priority, but they won’t listen to me, so the kitchen looks like a bomb has hit it, and I’m trying to cook some dinner for the kids in the fuckin’ bathroom, and he has the hide – the fuckin’ gall – to tell me to calm down when I arc up over it.’
The second woman, a short-haired blonde the size of a young teenager, had every spare vicinity littered with jewellery, including an engagement ring that was big enough to act as a beacon for extraterrestrial life. She was unfolding T-shirts and singlets and placing them against her body before roughly putting them back on the table, as though it were their fault Mark was being such an arsehole.
‘It makes me sick the way they’re mollycoddled,’ she chimed in across the shop, apparently unconcerned that I couldn’t help but hear. ‘I mean, we’re the ones who have to support the boys when they lose, and cook for them, and clean up after them. I’m basically raising the girls alone because of football. Football is always first, and then they’re like, “Oh, by the way, we’re going away for a week,” with no notice whatsoever. I mean, just ’cos the coach wants to get away from his missus, why should we all suffer?’
ZING! I should have known where I’d seen them before. The oversized wedding candy was a dead giveaway; they were WAGs I’d seen after the Bulls match.
‘We’re the ones who deserve a week off,’ said leggings, yanking out a long white dress and holding it up against herself in the mirror. She sighed and jammed it back on the rack, pulling out her phone and checking it.
‘Kel, I’ve gotta go get Hunter from judo. You gonna stay or —’
‘I’d better go too. Hopefully, Audi have the car finished by now – Rosie and April will be doing Mum’s head in.’ She sighed dramatically.
‘I’ll have to try and find a dress next week, I suppose. Probably on the bloody day of the ball, like last year. Tell you what, it didn’t used to be like this; I used to have bloody weeks to tart myself up for a ball: the hair, the paraffin pedicures …’
They walked out, hissing and bitching like a couple of old men flirting with dementia, and the clothes and I issued a collective sigh of relief. Wow. Being a footballer’s wife sounded like a real fun time.
As they walked out, Col walked in. She’d been away in the Gold Coast hinterland since Sunday, visiting a girlfriend who’d just had a baby. Of course she would be away when: 1) Ingrid was out of town at some fashion buyers’ conference; 2) The shop was as lively as a log; and 3) I needed to know stuff about Josh, like whether he was still in possession of a pulse.
Col glanced at the duo as they walked off down the street and raised her eyebrows.
‘You got a nightclub out the back I don’t know about?’
‘I think,’ I whispered, ‘I recognise them from the after-match thingy the other night.’
‘WAGS! Paddock partners! Think you’re right. Geeeeez, who else would dress up for High Street?’
‘How was Brooke? What’d they call the baby? Is he cute?’
‘She’s good. Utterly sleep-deprived, but happy. They called him – wait for it – Jason. But spelled J–A–C–E–N.’
I covered my smiling mouth with my hand.
‘Oh well, as long as he’s h
ealthy and she’s healthy, that’s all that counts, right?’
She held up a T-shirt, looking at her reflection in the mirror on the wall.
‘Ohmygod!’ she suddenly exclaimed, turning to face me. ‘Did Josh call? Did you see him? I’ve been dying to know. Having no service was killing me!’
I shook my head. ‘Nothin. Nada. Nix.’
She squinted in confusion.
‘Well, that makes no sense. Frank said he didn’t shut up about you after the engagement party. Maybe I’ll call him and get the juice —’
‘No! No don’t, Col. So he didn’t call – no big deal.’
She put one hand on her hip and gave me her ‘Are you for real?’ face.
‘As if he won’t call. Pl-ease. He didn’t move more than a metre away from you at that party. Even though you were all fat and bitchy.’ She grinned. I rolled my eyes.
Her phone rang. She looked at its face, swore and answered it with her office voice.
‘Noodle box? Hokkien? Oyster sauce?’ Cameron stood at the doorway, a twenty-dollar note in his hand. ‘It’s my turn to pay, remember?’ He was wearing a white shirt with a dark blue vest, red tie and black jeans. Terrifyingly cool, as usual.
I was starving and hadn’t even thought about lunch yet. Perfect.
Cam spied Col on the far side of the shop.
‘Colette, you look ravishing! How lovely of you to grace us with your presence.’ It was my long-term consideration that Cameron was in love with Colette. (Then again, most men who met her were.) She and Ingrid both thought he was in love with me. It was an ongoing debate.
‘She’s on the phone. Can’t hear you. I might have rice noodles with chicken and cashew nuts, actually. Just make sure there’s no mushrooms, please.’
He put on A Voice.
‘To most folk, she looked like a regular human being, but few knew the shocking truth: that if she was to consume one mushroom, just one little mushroom – even a champignon – her skin would fall off and her brain would implode.’
I clapped slowly, deliberately.
‘What about her?’ he said, his thumb jacked in Colette’s direction.
‘Col …’ She looked at me. ‘Lunch?’ I mouthed. She shook her head irritably and covered her spare ear with her hand.
‘Nope, just us. Need cash?’
‘Please. I’m so moneyed, honey.’
I shook my head.
‘Can you please get me a chai latte as well? Soy.’
‘I’ve got a lazier suggestion: why don’t you drink a real latte instead?’
‘Pleeeeease?’
‘Nooooo,’ he whined. ‘That means I have to go all the way down the other end of Lloyd street and then back up.’
‘Pleeeeeease?’ I smiled and batted my eyelids.
‘Flirting again, huh? I’ve already told you: just because you want to take all my clothes off, right here on this shop floor, doesn’t mean I do. Takes two to tango. Especially the way I tango.’
Before I could protest, he’d disappeared.
Col was still on the phone. I needed her to hurry up so we could discuss Josh again before Cameron came back. I cleared my throat loudly. She looked over and I made the wind-it-up signal. She frowned, waving me away with her hand. I went back to my merchandising.
Twenty minutes later, when Cameron sauntered into the shop, balancing noodle boxes and a tray of drinks, Colette was just hanging up.
‘Did you get me anything?’ Col asked, sighing with exhaustion.
Cameron’s eyes widened. ‘But I thought you didn’t want anythi—’
‘I’m fucking with you, Cameron.’ She smiled devilishly.
‘You know, sometimes I forget how hilarious you are.’ He placed the food on the counter and unloaded my noodles. ‘Can we eat here? It’s not like you’ve got any customers.’
Well, Ingrid was away …
‘Just don’t make a mess, you little grommet.’
Col pulled her keys out of her bag and walked to the door.
‘Shit, almost forgot what I came for. Jay, I’ve got to put my car in to get the radiator fixed this arvo. Can you pick me up after work, please?’
I nodded.
‘Enjoy your MSG, you two.’
With that, she was gone. Cameron looked after her, unapologetically checking out her arse. I pulled both stools to the counter and impatiently split my chopsticks to dive in. I smiled, thinking about Col’s confidence that Josh would definitely be calling. And anyway, it had actually only been two and a half days.
‘What’s gotten into you?’ Cameron asked, shovelling a huge tangle of noodles into his mouth.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, grinning like a loon, opening my noodle box.
‘Shum umph, whaf iph ish?’ he said as he chewed.
‘Gross. Don’t speak with food in your mouth.’
He rolled his eyes and chewed deliberately until it was all gone.
‘There. Happy? Now. Who is he?’
I blushed. ‘What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Whatever. Come on, spit it out. It’s not that deadshit real-estate agent with the fivehead and the coke habit, is it?’
‘Dean? God no! It’s so not him.’ Col had introduced me to Dean, proving that, on occasions, she still didn’t know me at all. I sighed, delicately gathering a few strands of noodles and placing them neatly into my mouth. I hated eating in front of boys; it made me so self-conscious.
‘Come on, tell me. I told you about Emoly.’
Her name was Emily, but we had changed it to reflect her angst-ridden, theatrical, heavy-eyelined Emo tendencies.
‘Yeah, uh, because you had to. She was hanging ’round your shop every single day like a seagull hoping for chips.’
‘She’s not made of steel; I’m irresistible. Enough deflecting. Who is he?’
‘He’s no one.’
‘Wrong! You’ve just admitted “he” exists, so he, in fact, isn’t no one.’
‘Cameron, it’s nothing. We haven’t even been on a date.’
‘Oh, you’re way too easy. You’d make a terrible suspect. So, what does he do?’
‘Cameron, I don’t have to tell you about my private life, you know. It’s not a given.’
He pinched some of my noodles with his chopsticks.
‘Fireman? Magician? Garbage collector?’
I smiled, wiping my mouth of invisible sauce.
‘Multimillionaire? The guy who invented those vibrating condoms?’
‘Why, Cameron, you have such high expectations of me.’
‘Well, you kind of always date losers, so what do you expect?’
‘Oh, and Chantelle the bead-necklace maker with the greasy hair wasn’t? And let’s not forget – what was her name? Jodie? Jordan? The girl who auditioned for not one, not two, but three reality TV shows?’
‘Hey, she was good in the sack.’
I laughed. ‘Whatever. Pot. Kettle. Black.’
‘Just means I haven’t found the right one yet. But this isn’t about me, this is about you and your new boyfriend. Come on, I got you lunch.’
I shook my head. There was no way in hell I was telling him. He thought sportsmen – footballers, in particular – were lower than the magma surrounding the earth’s core. I couldn’t be bothered dealing with his jibes.
‘If I start to actually date him, then maybe I’ll tell. But I’m not gonna jinx it at this stage just ’cos you’re being insufferable.’
‘Oh come on. Who cares? What could he do that could possibly be worse than real estate? Oh, wait. Oh hohohoooo, this is too good. He’s a used-car salesman, isn’t he?’
I laughed.
‘Last time I run around for your stupid chai farte.’
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, closing my noodle box and sliding my chopsticks under the handle. ‘Work beckons. Guess you’ll just have to find out another time.’
I walked over to the door to lob my empty box into the bin outside. Just as I did, Col came careerin
g back in, walking straight to the T-shirt table.
‘Forgot my jacket.’
Cameron had a twinkle in his eye.
‘Hey, Col,’ he yelled, ‘what do you think of Jean’s new boyfriend?’
‘Oh look, I hate footballers as much as the nex—’
‘NO!’ I screamed. But it was too late. Cameron’s eyes flashed and his eyebrows shot up.
‘A footballer? He’s a footballer?’
‘Col!’
She looked startled. ‘What? What’d I do?’
‘Your little sister was trying to keep her dark secret from me. But now I know.’
‘Is that all?’ she said irritably. ‘Later, losers.’
I stood with my hands on my hips, waiting for his tirade.
‘So, which one?’
‘As if I’m telling you that.’
‘As if I won’t find out.’
I exhaled, looking to the side so I didn’t have to see his expression.
‘Josh Fox,’ I said in a voice more suited to secret-agent-headpiece murmuring.
‘Josh Fox? No, who really?’
‘Cam, it’s Josh.’
Cam looked baffled.
‘Dude, he’s got a girlfriend. Her hot little sister works as door bitch at the Nursery. She’s always on about Josh this, Josh that. Brings as many of his thug team-mates in as often as she can and the manager gives her a bonus. Should be the other way round – keep them away and then get a fuckin’ bonus. Do you know how many of them get busted with girls in the toilets? Do you? And do you know what they do in there with them? It ain’t yoga, but it sure does involve some interesting positions …’
I snorted. ‘Of course, of all the footballers in the world, you would have some random link to the one I like.’
‘Don’t worry, Jean,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I’m sure he’s different from the rest. Intelligent, caring … and not at all a total fuckwit with a different groupie hanging off him every week.’
‘Oh, piss off.’ I wasn’t interested in his flagrant, uninformed stereotyping.
‘I’m going. And hey, good luck with the beefcake. Can’t wait to hear how it all unfolds.’ Smirking, he took his rubbish and his Coke and sauntered past me, out the door.
