by Ilsa Evans
‘Hi, Terry!’ calls Samantha, leaning around her father. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ I reply shortly as I put my foot on the bottom stair and poise myself for flight. ‘See you soon – gotta go.’
‘Hey, Terry!’ calls Alex, who is hugging a huge glass punch-bowl. ‘Have you seen Cam?’
‘Yes and she’ll be down in a minute.’ I run up a couple of steps. ‘So just go in and make yourselves comfortable.’
‘Hello, is that my Terry I see?’
I turn back and spot Fergus, looking rather dapper in a pinstripe suit, strolling in behind Cam’s son, Ben. My stomach does an uncomfortable open-pike, double-tuck dive that turns into a bellyflop as it lands on whatever it is that hangs around underneath. While I’m trying to straighten out my internal organs, Fergus walks over to the bottom of the staircase, smiles up in greeting and blows me a kiss.
‘Hi! Hi!’ I splutter stupidly. ‘Gotta go! Back in a minute!’
‘Oh. Okay.’
I turn away from the sight of his face falling and run the rest of the way up the stairs. When I get to my bedroom, Cam is still sitting in exactly the same position as she was when I left her. Same dejected slouch, same woebegone expression, same red-raw skin. I unscrew the cap and pass the tube over to her.
‘Lather it on,’ I instruct, ‘and let it all soak in. Then lather some more.’
‘Okay,’ she agrees miserably.
‘Trust me–it’s magic stuff. And I’ll be just a minute.’ I back up towards the door. ‘By the way, Alex and the kids are here.’
‘Hell’s bells! Don’t let him see me like this!’ Cam says, horrified. ‘Oh, and what are they wearing? Do they look decent?’
‘I’ll check.’ I make my escape and run back down the stairs, taking them two at a time till I arrive in the foyer with a jump and some fervent thanks for the invention of sports bras.
‘Are you auditioning for the circus or something?’
‘Pardon?’ I look over in surprise and see Maggie, Alex’s sister, grinning at me from the doorway. ‘Maggie!’
‘In the flesh.’
‘Just the person I need.’ I lean forwards, grab her by the hand and pull her into the house. ‘What are you like with make-up?’
‘Hah! I am wearing make-up,’ she replies crossly, ‘so I’m afraid this is as good as it gets.’
‘No, no – what are you like at putting make-up on?’
‘Ah! Well, I’m all right at it, I suppose.’ She looks at our clasped hands with a frown. ‘What’s this about?’
‘You’ll see, come with me!’
I rush her up the staircase with some difficulty, mainly because Maggie is not built like someone who frequents aerobic establishments. In fact, she couldn’t be much rounder if she tried, and is dressed today in navy slacks and shirt, over which is a loose red vest that only accentuates her circularity. Eventually we arrive back in my bedroom and I wave an arm towards Cam.
‘Ta da!’
‘Oh dear! Cam – what have you done now?’ Maggie lets go of my hand and moves quickly over to the bed, where Cam is now looking not just red-raw, but shiny red-raw.
‘A slight miscalculation with some depilating cream,’ I explain as I move over to my ensuite. ‘But she’s put some good stuff on now, and this is where you come in.’
‘Hmm, how?’ asks Maggie, still grimacing at Cam’s face.
‘Hang on.’ I duck into the ensuite and emerge again with a small wicker basket full of cosmetics. ‘See? I need you to make her up.’
‘Will it work?’ asks Cam hopefully.
‘Don’t see why not,’ I reply, with a tad more optimism than I feel. ‘I mean, you’ll still look a little pink but at least you’ll be presentable.’
‘Thank god,’ breathes Cam.
‘And the cream should’ve worked by now. Does it still hurt?’
‘Actually –’ Cam hesitates and feels her chin gingerly ‘– no! It doesn’t!’
‘Excellent.’ I start backing towards the door again. ‘So I’ll leave you with it. Is that okay, Maggie?’
‘Hmm, no problem,’ replies Maggie, who is already starting to go through the make-up basket. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
I close the door so that nobody can inadvertently stumble across them while Maggie tries to perform a miracle or two. Then I take the stairs two at a time again and land in the foyer with a jump. After all, I’m supposed to be helping down here – not helping up there. A couple of dour-looking people I don’t know are crowding through the doorway and they look up at me with astonishment as I land. So I bow flamboyantly. But they move away, looking less than amused.
‘Well, I was impressed,’ says my Uncle Laurie, coming in behind them with his hand in that of his wife. ‘Good to see you, Terry love.’
‘Uncle Laurie! Aunt June!’ I smile, genuinely pleased to see my father’s brother and his wife. ‘You are both looking well!’
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ says Uncle Laurie with a grin. ‘And where’s your charming mother?’
‘I’ll take you.’ I lead the way through the lounge-room, which has filled considerably since I was last here. I spot Cam’s Aunt Annie leaning in a corner chatting with Harold and a rather plump man who I vaguely recognise as the best man from Rose and Harold’s wedding last February. Next to them on the couch are seated the dour-looking couple who preceded us, and a very elderly wizened-looking woman is perched on the armchair surveying the rapidly gathering company with disdain. Some of the food has been laid out on the cloth-draped folding tables and there is a group of young people there sampling what is on offer. I continue to the kitchen area and that’s where I find Diane and her mother arguing over the best temperature to heat up homemade sausage rolls. My mother, who is standing behind them, spots us as we come in and her face lights up when she sees who I’ve brought with me.
‘Laurie! June! How wonderful – come, sit down here and tell me what you’ve been up to.’ She rushes them over to the table, sits them down and starts filling them in on all the facets of her life. I turn to Diane.
‘Need any help?’
‘Where have you been?’
‘Don’t ask.’ I incline my head imperceptibly towards her mother, who is readjusting the stove.
‘Oh.’
‘Teresa.’ Rose straightens up and glances over at me. ‘That’s a very short top you have on, dear. I noticed that before. Aren’t you afraid of catching cold?’
‘No,’ I reply, because that’s the last thing I’m afraid of.
‘I see.’ She raises her eyebrows.
Diane starts to tell me what’s been happening in my absence. ‘Dennis brought the alcohol, and most of the platters have arrived. Oh, and Alex brought Cam’s punchbowl and made up a very nice-looking punch. I’ve put it out in the lounge-room.’
‘Non-alcoholic, of course,’ adds Rose.
‘Of course,’ says Diane, rolling her eyes at me. ‘So, Terry– I think we may just have pulled it off!’
‘Good on us!’
‘And I’ve been meaning to ask you, Teresa, what on earth happened to your carpet?’ Rose gestures towards the next room. ‘There’s a terribly unsightly stain!’
‘Oh, Mum did that,’ says Bronte, passing through with Nick in tow, ‘with some red wine.’
‘On your brand-new carpet!’ says Mum. ‘What a shame!’
‘Tsk.’ Rose closes her eyes briefly, as if in physical pain. ‘Perhaps you should confine your drinking to the wet areas in future. If you must drink at all, that is.’
‘I must,’ I reply truthfully.
‘Well, as they say, to each his or her own. Oh, and listen, Teresa –’ Rose dismisses my drinking habits as she wipes her hands on a tea-towel ‘– I’m sure you don’t mind but I took it upon myself to invite two more people.’
‘What’s two more when you’ve got over a hundred?’ I ask rhetorically, glancing at Diane who smiles in sympathy.
‘Yes, so I asked my son and his friend.’
<
br /> ‘Your son?’ I repeat stupidly, my head whipping around to face her as I try to take this in. ‘Your son?’
‘Yes, it has a ring to it, doesn’t it?’ Rose takes a deep breath and smiles happily. ‘My son.’
‘Your son? You mean – Richard?’
‘You seem to be having difficulty taking this in, Teresa.’ Rose frowns at me. ‘Are you on any medication?’
‘I wish,’ I mutter as I glance around for a saviour. Unexpectedly it arrives in the form of Elizabeth, dressed in ultra-skin-tight black leather pants and a loose white v-neck jumper. She sashays slowly over to where we are standing and leans against the island bench, smiling a general greeting.
‘Why are you walking strangely?’ asks her mother, looking with thin lips at the leather pants. ‘Well, Elizabeth?’
‘I’d say it’s the pants,’ comments Diane helpfully as Elizabeth seems incapable of speech. ‘I’m stunned she can move at all.’
‘She looks like she’s had an accident,’ says Rose dismissively.
‘Thanks, Diane!’ Elizabeth finds her voice. ‘Thanks a bloody lot!’
‘Hey, what did I do?’
Phillip arrives in the kitchen area with his arms full of dessert platters and gazes with resignation at the scene unfolding before him. I send him a sympathetic smile and make my escape by tugging open the French doors and disappearing into the grotto.
And it’s like entering another world. A slightly cooler world, but one that’s beautiful nevertheless. It looked great last night, but the extra hour David spent here this morning has sealed the deal. Lush greenery surrounds my white wrought-iron outdoor setting and Stephen’s green one. Ivy and long-stemmed roses have been twined around the columns supporting the roof, and copious branches of something dripping with clusters of tiny white buds have been secured to the beams so that it looks like the ceiling is positively cloudy with blossoms. The fountain has been switched on and water bubbles up and then spills into the bowl, which has been filled with white petals. It all looks amazing.
The only things that seem out of place in the little wonderland are the small fan heater that has been placed on top of the barbecue, the super-large Esky squatting in front of it – and the three men lounging comfortably at the green wrought-iron table.
‘What do you think?’ asks David proudly, waving his hand around his magical paradise. ‘Pretty damn good, eh?’
‘Fantastic,’ I reply admiringly, ‘absolutely fantastic!’
‘Who would have thought the old bloke had it in him?’ asks Alex with a grin.
‘Yeah, he should be in interior decorating,’ Dennis says before taking a sip of beer.
‘Well, you all look like you’ve made yourselves at home anyway.’ I glance at the open beers, the platter of savouries, and the fully loaded Esky. ‘Settled in for the duration, have we?’
‘Indubitably,’ says David, putting his feet up on the Esky and leaning back. ‘Mind you, we had to fight for possession.’
‘Nick and Bronte,’ explains Dennis. ‘Just because they were here first!’
‘What a cheek!’ adds Alex.
I look at them enviously. ‘Save a chair for me, okay? I’ll be back out as soon as I can.’
‘Sure – but it’ll cost you.’ Dennis leers suggestively at my exposed midriff.
‘You can sit near me.’ Alex pats the chair next to him. ‘Then you’ll be safe.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’ I smile at him and quickly memorise what he is wearing – gunmetal grey suit and black open-necked shirt – so I can assure Cam that at least one of her lot is dressed decently. Then I duck back through the French doors and close them securely behind me to keep the heat inside. Rose is still queen of the kitchen and Harold has now joined her, so everything there is well under control. Elizabeth and Diane have moved away and are deep in conversation. I catch the word ‘brother’ and ‘Richard’ and keep walking. The lounge-room is even more crowded than it was earlier so I decide to go upstairs and check on Cam’s progress. Halfway up are Ben and Michael, who are sitting on either side of a stair with a Gameboy each and a cable linking the two. I leap nimbly over the cable and take note that Ben is also reasonably dressed in neat black jeans and a patterned shirt.
When I get to the landing, I realise there is noise coming from each of the rooms up here. I open Bronte’s room first to see what’s going on. There is a crowd of young females and a few young males in various positions on her bed. Some sitting, some lying – but all fully dressed. I spot Sam, Cam’s eldest, on the periphery and take a mental note of her flared denim hipsters and black roll-neck before my attention switches to centre-stage and my daughter, who appears to be thoroughly enjoying her moment in the sun. She is reclining on a pile of pillows in the middle of the bed with Sherry draped across her lap while she entertains the crowd with details of her recent labour. They seem to be lapping it up.
‘Carry on,’ I say needlessly as I shut the door again and open the study door instead.
‘Hey, Terry,’ says Evan, swivelling around on the chair, ‘is this okay?’
‘Bronte said we could use the computer,’ adds Chris.
‘It’s fine. Do you know the password?’
‘Oh, you don’t need a password,’ says Evan, turning around to the keyboard again. ‘All you need to do is press this, and then this – and you’re in.’
‘Everyone knows that,’ adds Chris dismissively.
‘Of course,’ I agree airily, shutting the door and then opening my own.
‘Where have you been?’ Maggie looks at me with relief. ‘We’ve got a problem.’
‘What?’ I ask, moving over to the bed and sitting down beside Cam who, although looking decidedly less red, is still looking miserable. ‘What’s up?’
‘She can’t talk.’ Maggie throws a tube of foundation into the wicker basket. ‘The bottom half of her face’s gone numb.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘Nope.’
‘Wow! I knew it was good stuff but – wow!’
‘Hmm.’ Maggie looks at Cam. ‘So what now?’
‘Well, it should wear off soon, so I suppose the best bet is for Cam to just stay here until it does. What do you think?’
‘I suppose,’ Maggie replies slowly while Cam narrows her eyes at me. She looks surprisingly like her mother when she does that, but I don’t think I’ll share this pearl with her right now.
‘Okay, all settled!’ I say with a smile. ‘Now, would you like a book, Cam? I’ve got Gone with the Wind right here – barely touched.’
‘No – I’ll stay with her.’ Maggie picks up the wicker basket and moves it over to a bedside table. ‘You go see to your guests and I’ll keep Cam company.’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely.’ Maggie smiles at Cam, who is going rather cross-eyed while prodding at her chin. ‘After all, I love a captive audience. And I’m sure she’s read Gone with the Wind, anyway. Who hasn’t?’
‘Hullahumph,’ says Cam, without moving her lips, as she gestures towards her clothing. ‘Hureaf?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen them and they’re all well-dressed, so I’ll leave you guys to it and bring you back some drinks.’
‘Hease!’ Cam says enthusiastically.
I get up off the bed and, after giving them both a sympathetic grin, exit the room again. I head down the stairs, over the Gameboy cable, and come face to face with CJ in the foyer. She is hand-in-hand with a little dark-haired girl of about the same age and both are wearing party dresses, one sky-blue and the other rose-pink, with black stockings and patent leather shoes. Which is a relief, seeing as I just blithely informed her mother that she was looking decent.
‘Terry!’ CJ greets me with considerably more enthusiasm than usual. ‘Hab you got any games for us to play?’
‘It’s not that sort of party, CJ.’
‘No, not party games – you know, like proper games?’
‘Oh I see.’ I point up to the landing at the top of the stairs.
‘If you go up there, you’ll find a big cupboard and there’s some old games of Bronte’s in there. Help yourself. And watch out for that cable there!’
The two little girls dance up the stairs and perform a neat synchronised skip over the cable joining the two boys. They continue up in the direction of the landing, and I continue down in the direction of my guests. As I reach the foyer, there’s a knock on the door so I open it and a coven of girls, aged twenty-something and dressed entirely in black, crowd in and pass me several gifts. I point up the stairs.
‘She’s in her room.’
‘Cool,’ says the coven leader as they troop past me. After watching them ascend the stairs like an upwardly mobile mudslide, I adjust my armful of presents and shut the door. Someone on the other side immediately knocks so I open it again.
‘Pat! Trevor! Bob!’ I say with surprise as I see my Saturday tennis team.
‘Well, don’t sound so shocked!’ says Pat loudly, putting a silver-wrapped gift on top of the pile in my arms. ‘We did get an invite, you know!’
‘Of course, of course,’ I say quickly to cover my confusion. But I had forgotten for a moment that Bronte played in my team for about three seasons until she fell pregnant.
‘So where’s this baby?’ asks Pat, looking around. ‘I want to see the reason we don’t have a star player anymore.’
‘Upstairs – in Bronte’s room.’ I shut the door and watch them head upstairs. Pat is being a trifle generous when she calls Bronte our star player because Bronte, although she plays a beautiful textbook game of tennis, has all the killer instinct of a dodo bird. If her doubles partners don’t take matters into their own hands, they can just about take a nap at the net waiting for her to finish a rally.
Carrying the presents, I walk into the lounge-room and the wizened elderly lady in the armchair hits me hard in the shin with her cane. Right on the bruise I got on Tuesday from the Rollerblade. I whip around and look at her angrily but she just looks implacably back. So, rubbing my shin, I decide she’s probably either senile or doesn’t realise she just caused me serious injury. I limp over to the card table in the corner and deposit the pile of gifts on top of the rapidly growing heap. Then I turn to Diane, who is replenishing the food tables with an array of delicacies.
