by Ilsa Evans
Flaming hell.
FRIDAY
1242 hrs
‘Hey, listen to this, Dennis.’ I start reading from the gilt-edged menu before me: ‘A pastille of salmon pate peeks coquettishly between a fan of sensitively cooked slivers of lobster and fibres of crystallised seaweed.’
‘Sounds delicious,’ replies Dennis as he tucks the bunny-rug a little closer around Sherry and readjusts her on his lap.
‘I bet the lobster didn’t think it was all that sensitive.’
‘Still sounds delicious.’
‘Have you always been such a pretentious prat?’
‘Yep – you just never noticed,’ replies Dennis equably as he tops up each of our glasses with white wine. He is dressed in his usual conservative fashion: a light-grey suit with a deep-blue shirt and matching tie. It’s a style that flatters his large frame and almost conceals the few extra kilos that he’s carrying nowadays. But, all things considered, he’s ageing quite gracefully. A few years older than me, he isn’t particularly jowly or wrinkly and still has a full head of sandy hair that’s showing no intention of receding in the near future.
‘Why’d we have to come here, anyway?’ Bronte looks around the restaurant disparagingly. ‘Like, I left a message for you to bring pizza and some wine over to our place.’
‘But when I heard your mother didn’t want to cook, I thought I’d take you out for a treat. And this is a great place!’
‘You didn’t take us out,’ Bronte mutters, playing with a corner of the discarded menu. ‘I had to drive here myself!’
‘Well, I could have driven,’ I comment righteously. ‘I did offer.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Bronte rolls her eyes.
Dennis winks at Bronte, probably in an attempt to cheer her up, but it has little effect. ‘Besides – pizza and wine! You must get that from your mother’s side. Tell me, love, exactly what wine would you choose to go with pizza?’
‘When you haven’t been able to drink for nine months,’ replies Bronte smartly, ‘any wine’ll do.’
‘Definitely from your side,’ Dennis says to me as he lifts his glass and holds it up to the light before taking a sip. ‘Mmm, delicious.’
‘And no more for me, Dad, because I’m breastfeeding.’
‘Fine, love.’ Dennis grins at Bronte before tickling Sherry under the folds of her chin. ‘And I’ll just have to take it upon myself to train you to appreciate the finer things in life, won’t I, precious?’
Precious doesn’t answer, choosing instead to yawn wetly and then squint her slate-coloured eyes at her grandfather. Her head flops to one side as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. I don’t much blame her.
‘Dad,’ says Bronte, reaching over to straighten her daughter out, ‘watch her head, she needs support.’
‘Sorry, love.’
A ridiculously cheerful young waitress bounces over to our table to deliver the meals. She gets the order right first time and departs with a smile that shows more teeth than seems humanly possible. But the food smells delicious. Angel-hair pasta draped with a chicken sauce for me, chicken schnitzel for Bronte, and medallions of something brown and glutinous with a pasta salad for him. No sensitive lobster or coquettish pate to be seen.
‘Great teeth,’ comments Dennis, watching the waitress leave. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘Are we still talking about the teeth?’ I ask sweetly.
‘Of course. And how about some of my pasta, you adorable little thing, you?’ Dennis tucks Sherry in a little more securely so that he can eat around her. ‘Do you like pasta?’
‘Dennis, don’t feed her pasta.’
‘What about peas then, my little sweet-pea? Do you like peas?’
‘Dennis, don’t feed her peas.’
‘How about Grandma’s pasta then – angel-hair pasta for an angel-haired girl.’
‘Dennis, don’t feed her angel-hair pasta, don’t call me Grandma, and look, she doesn’t have any hair.’
‘Okay, what can I feed her then?’
‘Nothing! She’s a baby, you dork!’
‘Now that’s what I call a bummer,’ Dennis coos down into Sherry’s face, and she responds by blowing several saliva bubbles in his general direction. In deference to the occasion, Bronte has changed her into an orange and white polka-dotted pair of cotton rompers and a matching skivvy. Unfortunately, Bronte did not extend the same courtesy to herself and is still clad in the jeans and windcheater she had on earlier. I, on the other hand, have dressed to kill, with my waterfall hairstyle set off by gold-hoop earrings, a low-cut peasant blouse and snug black jeans. I’ve even disguised the smell of Dencorub with a liberal amount of perfume. Because, although the last thing I want is a rekindling of intimate relations between us, that certainly doesn’t mean I don’t want him to want a rekindling of intimate relations between us. I think that’s a rule of thumb when any female is meeting with an ex. Especially when the ex in question spent the latter half of the relationship propositioning anything wearing a skirt. Or not.
Like most females, Sherry has quickly fallen for Dennis’s rather superficial charms. He’s got a way about him that makes whoever he’s with at the time feel very, very special and, if there’s one thing women of all ages love, it’s being made to feel very, very special.
‘So, Bronte –’ Dennis turns to his daughter ‘– how’s it feel being a mother?’
‘Cool, actually.’ Bronte brightens for the first time since we got here.
‘No regrets?’
‘None at all,’ says Bronte emphatically, no doubt remembering the grilling she went through when we found out about the pregnancy. ‘Like, no–none at all.’
‘Well, that’s good anyway.’ Dennis looks at his daughter impassively for a minute or two before turning to me. ‘And how are things these days for you, Terry? You’re looking well, I must say.’
‘Why, thank you.’ I pause as I swallow my pasta and replenish my fork. ‘How kind of you to notice.’
‘It’s hard not to,’ replies Dennis as he leers at my peasant-shirted cleavage. ‘You have obvious assets.’
‘Gross, Dad!’ says Bronte, putting her cutlery down in disgust.
‘Don’t be a pig, Dennis.’ I unload the fork into my mouth and savour the taste of the creamy pasta sauce. ‘It’s terribly old-fashioned.’
‘Okay,’ he laughs good-naturedly as he tickles Sherry again. ‘So, still got that Fergus hanging around?’
‘Of course I have,’ I reply defensively. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Let’s see – holidays are over and he’s back in school?’
‘It’s holidays now, you pillock.’ I note with disappointment that I’ve almost finished the entire contents of my plate. And I’m still very hungry.
‘Oh! So he is on school holidays then?’
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’
‘Well, kick up your heels – enjoy. You go, girl.’
‘Fergus is okay,’ says Bronte with a frown at her father. ‘Better than some.’
Dennis laughs and I glare at him across the table but he busies himself with trying to keep Sherry still while he butters a roll one-handed. I take a sip of wine and wish, not for the first time, that I’d never introduced Fergus to Dennis. Ever since, I’ve had to put up with smart cracks about his age, his height, his accent, and especially his taste in clothes. I wonder what Dennis would have to say if I turned up with someone like Richard on my arm? Anyway, it’s just so damn hypocritical.
‘You’ve got such double standards, Dennis. You spend most of your waking hours drooling over blondes half your age and making a total idiot of yourself – but when I do it, well, that’s totally different, isn’t it?’
‘Actually, yes, it is.’ Dennis looks at Bronte quickly before smiling at me like the cat that’s got the proverbial cream. ‘It’s a man’s world, my love. And a successful older guy with a good-looking young woman on his arm isn’t going to raise eyebrows like a good-looking older woman wit
h a pink-clad little handyman just out of grade school. It might be double standards but it’s also life – face it.’
‘Oh, shut up, Dennis.’
We sit there in non-companionable silence while Bronte picks at her food, Dennis finishes off his roll and I occupy myself by imagining how he would cope if someone did a Lorena Bobbit on him. It doesn’t help that I know Dennis has a point. I mop up the remainder of my pasta sauce with half a bread roll and then glance over at Dennis’s pasta salad and indistinguishable lumps of meat. I wonder if he is going to eat it before it goes cold.
‘I wonder if you’re going to eat that before it goes cold?’
‘Well, I would if I could manage. As you’re finished, why don’t you take bubs here and I’ll have something to eat.’ So saying, he gently hoists Sherry up and passes her around the table to me. ‘Ah, that’s better. I suppose she’s too little for a highchair but why didn’t you bring the pram? We could have propped her in there while we ate.’
‘I didn’t think of it,’ replies Bronte as she pushes the vast majority of her vegetables off to the side. ‘Because, like, I didn’t realise we were going out till the last minute, you know.’
‘Well then, what about the capsule? You must have it in the car.’
‘Of course I do. But it’s bad for her back.’ Bronte turns away from her father to look at me. ‘Do you want me to take her, Mum?’
‘No, wait till you’ve finished eating.’ I readjust Sherry and tuck her into the crook of one arm. Then I concentrate on mopping up the remains of my chicken sauce with the remains of my bread roll. I’ve got to say, for a place specialising in pasta dishes, they’re a tad skimpy with the actual pasta. Instead it looks like they have spent this month’s food budget on dental work for the waitresses – every single one of them is walking around beaming as if she has had surgical implants. Perhaps Dennis was here.
Sherry distracts me by becoming restless so I pick up the menu and wave it gently in front of her face. Then, after she relaxes, I rest the menu on top of her bunny-rug so that I can help myself to another bread roll. Dennis also reaches for one at the same time and grins at me when our hands touch. I snatch my hand away as if it’s been burnt and, reaching across, he drops his bread roll on my plate before grabbing another one and returning to his meal. I stroke Sherry’s head absentmindedly, sending her ESP messages regarding chauvinist pigs and double standards.
‘Tell you what, after we get through Bronte’s naming day, let’s double date.’ I give Dennis an evil look as I break my roll awkwardly.
‘Are you kidding?’ Dennis puts his fork down and stares at me.
‘No, I’m not. It’ll be fun,’ I smile reassuringly. Because it will be fun – and it’ll show up the obvious differences between my ditsy blonde and his ditsy blonde – and my ditsy blonde is witty and very entertaining. And he certainly won’t need help reading the menu.
‘Well, don’t include me,’ says Bronte, looking horrified. ‘We’re busy that night.’
‘Okay, if you want.’ Dennis grins at me and shrugs philosophically. ‘Weird, but what the hell.’
‘Excellent! Ring me in a week or so and we’ll set it up.’
‘Sometimes you flabbergast me, love,’ Dennis comments as he takes a mouthful of the gelatinous brown lumps on his plate. ‘Mmm! These are damn delicious!’
‘Well, they certainly don’t look it.’
‘Hey, guess who I saw last week?’ Dennis glances up from his plate at me.
‘Do I have to – or could you just tell me?’
‘Maggie Brown! I haven’t seen her in years. Do you know her? She’s your friend Camilla’s ex-husband’s sister.’
‘I know who Maggie Brown is,’ I say impatiently, ‘so what’s the problem? Can’t get it for free anymore? Did you get a discount?’
‘What are you talking about, woman?’ Dennis looks at me in total confusion as Bronte puts her hand over her mouth and splutters helplessly.
‘It’s a joke, Dennis. You know, about Maggie and what she does for a living.’
‘What does she do for a living then?’ Dennis takes another mouthful of medallion and proceeds to talk around the food. ‘I thought she was a schoolteacher or something.’
‘Dad, you must know.’ Bronte wipes her mouth with her serviette. ‘Everybody does!’
‘Obviously everybody except me.’
‘You’re kidding?’ I look at Dennis in some surprise, as usually he knows more intimate secrets about people than they do about themselves. It must be the gas he uses in the surgery.
‘Look, all I know is that she was in yesterday for an extraction. Impacted molar. Nasty little bugger, too.’ Dennis puts down his cutlery and starts picking at the remainder of his salad with his fingers. ‘But the woman’s made of stone. No injections and didn’t even flinch when I ripped it out.’
‘Too much information.’
‘So, tell me what you’re both on about then.’
‘Okay. Well, she used to be a high school teacher, but she had one of those midlife career changes years ago and went into business with a friend of hers. They own a brothel in Ferntree Gully.’
‘Maggie owns a brothel?’ Dennis’s mouth has dropped open in disbelief. Luckily for us he has no food in it.
‘Yep.’
‘You mean, she . . . that is, she –’
‘No, if you mean is she one of the workers, then no. She’s the owner.’ I laugh at the expression on his face but I can understand his reaction because it’s very similar to mine when I first discovered what Maggie did for a living. She’s one of the nicest, most loyal friends a person could possibly ask for – but she isn’t exactly the sort you could imagine decked out in high heels and suspenders, or whatever it is that ladies of the night normally wear. In fact, she most closely resembles a beach ball with arms and legs.
‘I was going to say . . . But, bloody hell! Unbelievable.’
‘Yep.’
‘It sure takes all kinds.’ Dennis shakes his head slowly. ‘But, no, I took cash for the molar extraction yesterday.’
‘Pity. Missed a good opportunity there. And that’s not like you.’
‘The day I have to pay for it is the day I give it up.’
‘Yadda, yadda, yadda,’ I say rudely. ‘You’ll never give it up.’
‘Gross, Mum!’
Dennis pushes his half-empty plate away and has a sip of his wine. ‘Terry, do you want to pass that baby back over again?’
‘I’ll take her, Dad.’ Bronte puts down her cutlery and reaches out her arms. ‘Here, Mum, pass her over.’
‘Oh, love, could I take her for a bit?’ asks Dennis. ‘After all, I’ve got some catching up to do.’
‘Okay,’ replies Bronte grudgingly as I stand up and carefully deliver the now dozing baby into Dennis’s lap. ‘But, like, watch her head.’
‘Fine.’
‘And, Dad, that porta-cot you bought me was faulty. Do you still have the receipt?’
‘Somewhere, I’ll search for it tonight.’ Dennis looks annoyed. ‘God, they make some serious crap nowadays. Sorry, love.’
‘Well, it’s not your fault if it was broken,’ I comment generously as I pick at the remains of his salad. ‘And it was nice of you to buy it for her.’
‘Yeah, I’m a nice guy. Spread it around.’
‘I think you already have.’
‘I do my best.’ Dennis leans back with Sherry in his arms and smiles at us both. ‘Now, what do you two say to some pavlova?’
‘Yum,’ exclaims Bronte enthusiastically, pushing her plate away.
‘Do you mean sensitively whipped egg whites?’ I ask in a husky voice. ‘Topped with a coquettish pastille of fresh cream beaten so severely that it begged for mercy?’
‘That’s the one,’ says Dennis, laughing.
‘I say bring it on.’ I take a sip of wine and then make some space in front of me for pavlova. An even more cheerful-looking waitress quickly materialises next to Dennis, methodically takes ou
r order and then clears the table.
In an impressively short time Bronte and I are each tucking into an enormous slice of pavlova dripping with whipped cream, strawberries and kiwifruit. The slice in front of Dennis remains untouched as he waits for one of us to finish and take the baby, who is becoming restless again. I smile at him and roll my eyes to indicate the dessert’s delectability.
‘I must say, it’s good to see a woman with a healthy appetite.’
‘Yep,’ I reply around a mouthful of pavlova, ‘that’s one thing I’ve never had a problem with. Unlike your appetites.’
‘Do you know, Terry, you really should put the past behind you.’
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘I wish you two would stop it,’ says Bronte crossly. ‘Like, just for once.’
I continue eating my pavlova in silence while Dennis plays with Sherry’s fingers and then tries my trick of waving the menu gently across her face. Every time we meet I swear to myself that, this time, I won’t bring up the past. And every time I end up doing it just the same. Which is odd because I’m really not bitter nowadays and, what’s more, I can’t imagine anything worse than still being married to the man. In fact, we seem to have reached a stage in our lives where all the animosity that tinged the last two years of our marriage, and at least the first five years of our separation, has evolved into a healthy acceptance of each other as friends. Friends with a lot of baggage, but friends nevertheless.
‘If you’ve quite finished devouring that pav,’ Dennis says, looking at me with exaggerated patience, ‘could you take our mutual grandchild so that I can eat mine?’
‘Sure,’ I answer obligingly around my last mouthful. I push my plate away and stand up to fetch Sherry, who should be starting to feel like an unwanted postal parcel by now. As I lift her up, the menu gets stuck within the folds of her bunny-rug and is dragged across the table, creating a creamy trench through Dennis’s plate of pavlova. Bronte gasps and Dennis smiles at me ruefully.
