by Ilsa Evans
Cheers, Nick
I put the kettle on automatically, and then decide I don’t want a hot drink after all. I had enough coffee and tea at Cam’s place to last me for quite some time. As soon as I think of Cam’s place, by automatic association my mind works its way across to the scene with her mother – so I shut it down. I’m not ready to go there.
What I really feel like is a drink but it’s a tad early for that, so I turn my back on the kitchen and walk carefully through the lounge-room with my eyes closed, only opening them when I feel the bottom step of the spiral staircase with my left foot. I go upstairs expecting a similar chaos vs order sort of thing to be happening up here – but it’s surprisingly neat. Bronte’s bed is even made and the only thing remotely resembling a mess is the stack of CD computer games that have been left next to the computer in the study. I put these away before sitting down at the computer and staring at the screen.
For now at least, I’ll pile the state of my lounge-room and kitchen with the other things I don’t want to think about just yet. Instead I’ll concentrate on extricating the email Diane sent a few days ago so I’ve got an idea of the number of guests tomorrow. Then I’ll do a shopping list and work out what I need in terms of fodder. And, of course, it’s vitally important that whatever I get takes only a few minutes to prepare – but looks like it’s taken hours.
I lean forwards, pick up a stray computer game disc that has slid half under the monitor, and place it neatly on the side of the desk. Then I pause, staring at the disc as it suddenly hits me that Bronte has been playing games on this computer quite happily ever since she arrived home. Ergo she must know the password.
I dial her mobile phone number on the study phone and listen to it ring.
‘Hello! Hello!’
‘Bronte, it’s Mum.’
‘Hey, Mum! Like, where are you?’
‘At home.’
‘Oh, um . . .’ Bronte puts her hand over the phone and whispers quite audibly to someone else: ‘She’s home! Shit – I told you we should have cleaned up first!’
‘Bronte?’
‘Mum, hang on, will you?’ Bronte forgets to put her hand over the phone again so I hear Nick quite clearly as he advises her to pretend the signal’s breaking up. They proceed to have a heated, and perfectly distinct, discussion concerning the advisability of this slight fabrication.
‘Bronte!’
‘I’m here! And look, sorry about the mess – we’ll clean it up as soon as we get home, I promise. It’s just that Sherry was so dreadful last night that Nick said we needed a break – so we’re at the Healesville Sanctuary! Like, it’s so cool – I haven’t been here for years!’
‘Great,’ I reply, ‘glad you’re enjoying yourselves.’
‘Oh, we are!’
‘Well, we’ll talk when you get home, okay? What I really want is the password for the computer – do you know it?’
‘Of course!’
‘Well?’
‘It’s “Diamond” – you know, like our surname.’
‘I know our surname, Bronte,’ I snap irritably, ‘but that’s the username, not the password.’
‘No, no – it’s the password as well! Truly! Hey, you’re breaking up, Mum! Lots of static – zzzz, zzzz. Can’t hear you – ring you later. Bye!’
I hang up the phone and go back to staring at the computer. Surely it couldn’t be? With not much to lose either way, I switch the computer on and wait till the screen flashes its mocking little message at me:
Username? Diamond
Password?
Leaning forwards, I type in the word ‘Diamond’ and wait pessimistically for the reject message. But it doesn’t come. Instead, the screen flashes a rainbow of colours, plays some corny music, and then covers itself with an array of neat, square icons. I’m in! Feeling a bit like a successful computer hacker, I click on the inbox icon and scroll through the unread emails, watching their little envelope icons flip open – all thirty-three of them, one after another – plink, plink, plink.
There are chatty emails from my brother, Thomas; infantile emails from my niece, Bonnie; chain-mail emails from friends who obviously dislike me; semi-pornographic emails from friends who obviously do; joke emails passed on from acquaintances; and annoying spam from people I don’t even know. I scroll down through the electronic debris until I find the email sent from Diane the day before yesterday. The subject line reads: ‘Proposed guest list for Sunday shindig.’ I double-click to open it and then read:
Hi Terry,
Have attached a word. doc with the proposed guest list for Nick & Bronte’s naming thing on Sunday. I am going to start emailing invitations and/or ringing around tomorrow so pls get back to me quickly with any changes or additions. If I don’t hear from you I shall assume that everything is fine–although we did end up with a few more than I expected. So let me know quickly.
Thanks, Diane
I tap my fingers absentmindedly on the mouse while I look at this email. What does she mean about ‘a few more than expected’? Family is family – and it hasn’t grown overnight, for god’s sake. Except, of course, for Richard. But I’m not going there.
With more than a sliver of apprehension, I double-click on the attachment and wait till the Word document flashes up on the screen. But it’s blank. Well, that certainly suits me – no guests at all. Perfect.
Unfortunately, it’s also unlikely. So I tap my fingers on the mouse again for a few minutes while I try to work out what’s happened to the list. Then, on a hunch, I close down the attachment, the email, and the inbox before opening Microsoft Word and voila! There’s a document titled ‘Guest List’. I don’t know how it got here, and I don’t much care. I decided long ago that the workings of computers will always be beyond me. I double-click on the document and, a few seconds later, my screen fills with the guest list for the Sunday shindig. And I let my breath out with a whoosh of relief after I quickly count the names and only get to twenty-six. Well, that’s not too bad – I expected almost that many. So I read through the list a bit more slowly and suddenly realise there are some key players missing – like my mother, Cam, two of Nick’s brothers, and . . . me.
I cup my hand over the mouse and scroll down, hoping to see at least my name creep onto the screen. But it doesn’t. Instead, another ten names adhere themselves to the bottom of the list and show no signs of moving. So I continue scrolling. And scrolling. While name after name after name makes the quantum leap from obscurity to invitee. And my mouth goes through the gamut of slightly ajar, to falling fully open, to unattractively agape.
But still the list shows no sign of ending so, with a sinking feeling, I glance towards the little dubrick at the side of the screen that indicates how far down a document you are. And my sinking feeling gets the bends when I realise it’s only sitting at about the two-third mark.
There must be over one hundred names here. Over one hundred people crammed into my unit. My pristine, beautiful unit. With people jam-packed in my kitchen, people cheek to jowl in my lounge-room, people squished in my courtyard, people popping out of the windows. Because there simply isn’t the room for that number of people here. Well, at least I no longer care whether my name is there or not. In fact, I rather hope it isn’t.
SATURDAY
1535 hrs
There is a loud knocking on the door just as I finish vacuuming the carpet in the lounge-room. Then again, because I had been vacuuming the carpet in the lounge-room, there’s probably been a loud knocking for quite some time. I place my new rug carefully over the offending stain once more and then jog over to the front door to fling it open. Diane, holding what appears to be the leaning tower of Tupperware, beams up at me.
‘I come bearing gifts!’ she declares merrily.
‘You’d need to,’ I reply, less than merrily, ‘with the number of people you’ve organised to come here tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I said.’ I wave her through the doorway and
take the top three levels of the tower before it topples. ‘I mean, Diane, how on earth am I going to fit all those people in here?’
‘But why didn’t you email me back if you weren’t happy?’
‘Because I couldn’t, that’s why,’ I reply shortly, shutting the door behind her.
‘And besides, who on that list could I not invite?’ Diane follows me into the kitchen. ‘They’re mostly family, after all.’
‘That’s a bloody big family you’ve got.’
‘Not really.’ Diane puts her load down on the table and frowns at me. ‘No bigger than most, anyway.’
‘Well, my question still remains – where am I going to put them all?’
‘Terry . . .’ Diane pauses as she looks at me thoughtfully. ‘How many were on the list you read?’
‘You ought to know.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘Well, I gave up at around the one hundred mark, put it that way.’
‘One hundred!’ Diane falls backwards onto a chair and looks at me aghast. ‘One hundred! Did you say one hundred?’
‘At least.’
‘Oh my lord!’
‘Hang on.’ I sit down opposite her. ‘Why’re you so surprised? You sent the list!’
‘No, no, no. I sent a list of exactly forty-three that Bronte and I worked out in the hospital. I mean, I was a bit stunned we got to forty-three but there wasn’t really anyone we couldn’t invite. So I sent it off to you and told Bronte the other day to go over it and add anyone she thought of later on . . .’ Diane trails off as we both stare at each other and are simultaneously enlightened.
‘Bronte!’
‘How could she!’
‘I’m going to kill her.’
‘See, I told her I’d invite the ones we had agreed on and it was up to her to follow up on any you or she added,’ Diane continues, ‘so she’s obviously just used the Word document I sent. And followed up. Oh, my lord! One hundred people!’
‘I have a feeling that whatever those Tupperware containers are holding isn’t going to be enough.’
‘I have a feeling you’re right.’
We sit there in silence, both staring at the Tupperware tower as if waiting for it to re-enact the miracle of the loaves and fishes. I desperately want to ask her how their lunch went today, but I also desperately don’t want to go there. With over one hundred people turning up on my doorstep tomorrow, I’ve got more than enough on my plate. Thinking of plates reminds me of the problem of feeding all these guests. And feeding all these guests reminds me of eating, which reminds me of lunch on Tuesday. Which reminds me of Richard. I sigh, chew my lip thoughtfully and decide to go there anyway.
‘How was your lunch?’
‘Lunch?’ Diane is still looking at her Tupperware with a frown. ‘Oh, lunch! Of course! Well, it was interesting, to say the least.’
‘In what way?’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘Well, my mother for starters. It was really sort of sad watching her watching him. She was all proud and beaming, but she’s really done nothing to be proud of, has she?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply slowly. ‘Perhaps seeing he has turned out so well helps her feel vindicated. Like she made the right decision after all.’
‘Oh.’ Diane looks at me with a frown. ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’
‘But did you like him?’
‘Yes, actually I did.’ Diane sounds taken aback. ‘I really did. But he’s shy, isn’t he? And thin, really thin.’
‘A bit,’ I say stiffly. ‘And what about everyone else? Did they like him?’
‘They certainly seemed to. I know David did, and so did Michael – the other boys were all out. But you know David – he’ll get anyone to relax.’
‘What about Cam?’
‘I think she liked him too, but she was a bit quiet about it all so it was hard to tell. And I haven’t had a chance to talk to her since, what with all this –’ Diane waves towards the Tupperware ‘– but I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again anyway, so it probably doesn’t matter.’
‘Why not?’ I squeak, my heart skipping a beat.
‘Well, because it wasn’t mentioned. In fact, it was like he was avoiding it.’ Diane frowns at me. ‘Hey, are you all right?’
‘Oh yes.’ I try to sound airy. ‘Just a tad worried about tomorrow, that’s all.’
‘Don’t blame you.’ She looks back at her Tupperware and sighs. ‘Over one hundred people. Wow.’
‘Yes. Wow.’
We sit in silence once more while I decide how to broach the Richard subject again. There’s probably not all that much else I’ll discover about the lunch, but I just like hearing his name. I’m still working out a good approach when I register the fumbling sounds of a key in the front door. Diane and I look at each other with narrowed eyes and speak in unison.
‘Bronte!’
‘Someone say my name?’ Bronte bounces into the kitchen and smiles at us happily. ‘And, Mum, I see you’ve cleaned up– thanks so much. You didn’t have to, you know.’
‘Bronte?’ Diane looks at her future daughter-in-law with carefully controlled annoyance. ‘Exactly how many names did you add to my list?’
‘Oh . . .’ Bronte’s smile dies a quick death and she chews her lip nervously. ‘The list.’
‘That was my fault, Mum.’ Nick comes in with the baby capsule dangling from one hand. ‘Bronte was starting to get worried about the number of people so I went, “What the hell, you only have a baby once, don’t you?”’
‘That’s not strictly true, Nick,’ I comment pedantically. ‘Look at your mother.’
‘Like, no way!’ says Bronte with feeling. ‘One’s enough.’
‘Anyway, you know what I mean.’ Nick grins at me disarmingly. ‘So, what’s the problem? It’s only a few extra. You guys don’t mind, do you?’
‘Don’t mind?’ I manage to squeak. ‘Don’t mind?’
‘What Terry’s trying to say,’ chimes in Diane, in a considerably softer tone than she used with my daughter, ‘is that perhaps one hundred-odd people might be a bit of a squeeze here.’
‘Very odd people,’ I mutter crossly, ‘judging by some of the names.’
‘Are numbers all you’re worried about?’ Nick laughs cheerfully. ‘Because if that’s the problem, don’t stress. Most of our friends’ll be hanging around outside, anyway.’
‘And what are you going to feed all these people?’ continues his mother. ‘Because one hundred people eat an awful lot of food, you know.’
‘Again – no problemo.’ Nick passes the capsule to a rather silent Bronte and wags his finger at us. ‘Stay right there! Wait till you see what we’ve bought!’
We watch him exit the room and then hear the front door being opened again. Bronte puts the capsule down carefully beside my chair and I’m rewarded by a glimpse of Sherry, sleeping like the angel she is. Diane leans over and musters a smile as she looks at the baby too.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ mutters Bronte, looking at me. ‘The truth is that, like, we just got a bit carried away.’
‘I noticed.’
‘But Nick’s right – wait till you see what we’ve bought!’
‘Okay.’ I bend over the capsule and touch the top of Sherry’s little bald head. I can see the fontanelle beating rhythmically against the top of her scalp. How vulnerable. How precious.
‘Here we go!’ Nick bounds back into the room carrying three bags of groceries, which he dumps on the ground next to Bronte. They both squat and start to pull out the contents.
‘Look!’ Bronte waves a double packet of potato chips in the air. ‘See?’
‘And crackers!’ Nick flourishes a packet of them at us and then dives into the bag for some more. ‘And party pies! And pizza!’
‘Oh my god,’ says his mother, leaning over and pulling the third bag open. ‘One packet of pretzels! One packet of Cheezels! Chewing gum! I don’t believe this!’
‘Told you so.’ Nick gives us a sm
ug, even supercilious look. ‘Nothing to worry about! It’s all taken care of.’
SATURDAY
1635 hrs
‘Hey, Mum, it’s me! No, Terry. Yes. Look, you know your big white china set – the one with all the place settings and the matching teapots and serving plates and all? Could you please get it down and Nick’ll be there later to pick it up. And also your embroidered white tablecloths. And some of those big crystal vases. We need to borrow them for tomorrow. What else could you bring? Well, let me see – how about some of those homemade sausage rolls you make, and a platter of those chilli mini-shashliks, and what about some of those little potato pancakes? Are you writing all this down?’
SATURDAY
1648 hrs
‘Hi, this is your loving wife. Well, I will be – if you do the following things for me. First I want you to get those white chairs from the shed. You know, the ones we bought for Evan’s eighteenth. Yes, all of them. And the two white folding tables. And the super-big Esky. I want you to load them all in the car and bring them over here. No! Don’t bring the girls! Get Chris or Evan to look after them. Now, on the way I want you to stop at that big grog shop on Maroondah Highway. Yes, I thought you’d know the one. And I want you to hire two boxes of multi-purpose glasses. Then I want you to stop at the shops and get me some balloons, and streamers, and serviettes. I don’t care if you can’t fit it all in! Do two trips, for goodness’ sake!’
SATURDAY
1659 hrs
‘Hello, Dennis. Sorry, was I interrupting something? Oh, it sounded like it. Anyway, I’ll only keep you a minute. I just had this awful feeling I forgot to tell you that you were providing the drinks for this do of Bronte’s tomorrow. I did forget? Bugger – so sorry. Well, some beer should do it – make sure you get light and regular, and we’ll need some champagne, and perhaps a few bottles of chardonnay, or riesling. Oh, and don’t forget the soft drink! At least five dozen. Yes, I know it’s a tad late in the day but you could have offered anyway, you know. And then I would have remembered to tell you. How many people? Oh, just a little over a hundred . . .’
