Those Pleasant Girls

by Lia Weston

  About Those Pleasant Girls

  Evie Pleasant, née Bouvier, is back in town.

  In a figure-hugging skirt, high heels and a pin-up hairdo, she’s unrecognisable from the wild child who waged war on Sweet Meadow in her youth.

  She’s made a promise to herself:

  ‘No swearing. No drinking. No stealing. No fires.’

  Trailing a reluctant 16-year-old daughter and armed with her cake-making equipment, Evie’s divorce and impending poverty has made her desperate enough to return to Sweet Meadow to seduce her former partner-in-crime and start again.

  But the townsfolk have long memories and her renegade childhood sweetheart is now the highly respected pastor.

  Evie’s cakes have a job to do.

  Contents

  Cover

  About Those Pleasant Girls

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Acknowledgements

  About Lia Weston

  Copyright page

  For Naomi, who always knew which fork to use.

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was no reason for anyone to be up this early, particularly on New Year’s Day. A thick layer of silence blanketed the town of Sweet Meadow, muffling the birds that nodded in the boughs of the apple trees and stilling the bells of the Church of Saint Sebastian the Meek. Even Mrs Zucker’s ancient shih ztu, locked outside by accident yet again, was quiet. As the sun began its yawning ascent, its golden fingers slid over the curves of the hills, the vales, the vineyards, the sleepy houses tucked amongst them, and one small white car cresting the road which plunged down into the heart of the valley.

  Inside the car were two people – the driver gripping the leather steering wheel more tightly than necessary, the passenger sucking on a Kool Mint and ignoring the scenery in favour of The Hound of the Baskervilles.

  On Cherry Orchard Way – est. 1865, winner of the Tidiest Street Award for nine years running (except for one April when an escapee bull named Henry trucked his way through several front gardens on judgement morning; the incident was never referred to in public) – residents hid their hangovers behind primrose-yellow drapes, unaware of their neighbourhood’s impending arrival. In fact, nobody would have noticed the small white car at all if the driver had been paying attention to the road instead of the street’s enchanting parade of jacarandas. Consequently, the picturesque stillness of January 1st was abruptly broken by the crunch of metal hitting century-old stone.

  Primrose-yellow curtains twitched all the way down the street, only to discover a Mini embedded in the heritage-listed fence of number 12.

  ‘I told you not to drive in high heels,’ said the passenger, before returning to Conan Doyle.

  Evie surveyed her car in dismay. It looked as if it had had a stroke. One headlight was drooping. The bonnet was crumpled in a grimace. Due to the tightness of her pencil skirt, she couldn’t bend and properly survey the damage. The trailer, loaded with furniture, was still stuck well out into the road.

  So much for the low-key entrance back into the family home.

  Heads were beginning to pop over veranda rails and fences.

  Evie’s hand went straight to her hair, and then to her cherry-red belt.

  Her embarrassment intensified when her daughter Mary, taking one look at the gathering crowd, refused to get out of the car. Mary’s head, blue-black with fresh dye, buried further into her book and did not respond to Evie’s tap on the window, nor the second tap.

  Within a few moments a handful of male neighbours had surrounded the crumpled bonnet to make knowledgeable sounds. Others set about detaching the trailer. Evie trotted behind as her belongings were ferried up the brick path to the house, privately relieved that she wouldn’t have to wrestle the fridge up the stairs in kitten heels.

  Sensible shoes: yet another thing she had neglected to pack. Three tattoo removal sessions, a complete wardrobe overhaul, and a close personal acquaintance with the phrase ‘division of the assets of the marriage’ she could account for, but flat shoes she couldn’t.

  Her key stuck in the front door lock.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Evie, wiggling it furiously.

  ‘Quite all right,’ said the man sweating under the weight of a cedar bookcase and sporting a T-shirt that said Country Shooting Association.

  After wiggling to no avail, Evie resorted to an indelicate hip strike. The door gave, and a steady stream of men and household goods followed her inside. There was a lively moment when an octogenarian carrying a box marked Quiche tins (loose base): 2 of 6 nearly garrotted himself with an extension cord.

  ‘You’ve got three cake mixers,’ said another man, staggering into the kitchen with two of the appliances. ‘Three! My wife will never believe me.’

  ‘Macaron?’ said Evie, peeling back the lid on a container of raspberry kisses.

  ‘I’d marry you if I wasn’t already married,’ said the extension-cord man, taking two.

  Mary poked her nose above the spine of her book. The grandpa swarm had disappeared. Untangling her legs from the dashboard, she crammed the rest of the Kool Mints into her bag and lunged for her suitcase on the back seat.

  It was not even eight o’clock and already hot. She pulled her black T-shirt away from where it was sticking to her ribs.

  Her grandmother’s house was two storeys high. A huge window up the top, a laneway down the side, and a lifeless garden out the front. Even the roses were dead. It was hard to kill a rose. Mary was grudgingly impressed.

  When she turned to check out the rest of the street, several sets of curtains twitched back into place.

  Mary stood regarding them for a few moments before turning up the path.

  Whatever.

  The hallway smelled of paint, probably covering up the smell of the old tenants. She dragged her luggage along the polished floorboards. The kitchen at the end of the corridor was full of old men in pyjamas, a sea of saggy flannel bottoms.

  ‘I never would’ve recognised you, Miss Bouvier,’ Mary heard someone say. ‘I remember when you glued my neighbour’s letterbox shut.’

  ‘Weren’t you the little girl who shaved my dog?’ said another man.

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ said Evie, ‘I’m all grown up now.’ And for some reason they all laughed.

  From the foot of the staircase Mary could see her mother facing the mob. Evie was patting her hair back into place and smiling, her lipstick like a bloodstain. Until recently, Mary had never seen Evie wearing lipstick. It was weird. As was her new laugh and her new wiggly walk. Mary, who had been reading a lot of Edgar Allan Poe lately, was not entirely convinced that her mother hadn’t been possessed by a demonic force.

  ‘So what brings you back to Sweet Meadow?’ said the first man.

  Mary paused on the step, the strap of her bag held tightly across her chest.

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ said Evie. ‘We wanted a fresh start.’

  We.

  Mary stamped up the rest o
f the stairs.

  It looked exactly the same. Exactly. Well, the scarlet letters had faded into murky pink and two of the bolts were missing, but other than that it looked exactly the same. Evie could have skipped a few steps, could have run forward to the sign and kissed it, but restrained herself.

  ‘Church of Saint Sebastian the Meek,’ read Mary. ‘Who names a saint Someone the Meek? It’s like “James the Nerdy” or “Dave the Wanker”.’

  ‘We need to make a good impression today,’ said Evie, steering her daughter through the wrought-iron gate to crunch up the gravel path, ‘and we’ll start by not mentioning wankers. We’ve already had this conversation. Anyway, doesn’t God name the saints?’

  Mary’s eyes rolled in her direction. ‘You tell me. No wonder we’re going to church.’

  The sickness was building in Evie’s stomach. She smoothed down her blouse and focused on the surroundings instead. There was the tree she used to climb, out of reach of her father. There was the section of wall with a loose brick which acted as a hiding place for notes. There was the church hall window which was surprisingly easy to break into.

  This was not, however, the time to reminisce about burglary. She had to stick to the plan. Her auspicious debut – new and improved. Genteel, womanly, and a thousand light years away from her old self. Church would be the best way to begin. Church people would be kinder and more ready to forgive past wrongs.

  At least, she really hoped so or this whole thing was doomed from the start.

  Several parishioners in the courtyard stared as they approached, clearly trying to place them.

  ‘Remind me again why we’re here?’ hissed Mary.

  Evie kept her smile in place. ‘It’s tradition.’

  ‘It’s not our tradition. It’s not even Christmas.’

  ‘It’s a nice way to meet people. Now shush, please.’

  They took a spot outside against a honey gold wall, the warmth of the stone pressing into their backs. Ignoring the curious glances, Evie clasped her handbag and ran her finger back and forth along the zipper. Mary crossed her arms, kicked her foot out and looked up at the church roof, sooty eyelashes slitted against the sun.

  Evie saw no one who looked familiar. It wasn’t really a surprise; it had been over twenty-five years. And now that she wasn’t covered in dirt or mud or blood or chicken feathers, hopefully she’d be harder to recognise.

  The bells finally rang, one still a half-tone out. Evie waited for a gap in the stream of tweed then pushed Mary’s unwilling spine into Saint Sebastian’s mouth.

  Where to sit? Too far forward would look presumptuous. Too far back would look indifferent. In the end, Mary forced Evie’s hand by plonking down in the nearest pew and refusing to move, like an old donkey.

  The red prayerbook was leather-bound, soft and worn with age. The embossing on its cover had suffered over time. Evie tilted her head back to look up at the cavernous ceiling, searching for the gold stars hiding in the shadows.

  The congregation was smaller than she’d expected. A woman in the front wore a jacket with enormous epaulets, as if she’d mugged a member of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Across the aisle someone was sporting a hat made of playing cards. The air was filling with the mingling scents of musky perfumes and a liberal dose of Brut 33. Mary sneezed.

  As if in sympathy, the organ bellows gave an asthmatic wheeze. The congregation lumbered to its feet for the first hymn; for almost a full minute nothing could be heard but the creaking of joints and cracking of bone cartilage.

  Evie sang along, trying to remember the tune, not that it seemed to matter much. Mary kept her mouth obstinately shut. After the closing crash of chords, the congregation’s choir of bones and joints struck up again as everyone began the laborious task of sitting back down.

  ‘God, church takes forever,’ said Mary.

  Evie, glancing around to make sure no one had heard, shushed her again and tried not to agree.

  No sign of Father Reid yet. Father Reid had a soft voice which made his sermons sometimes unintelligible, but he was so sweet no one seemed to mind. Dear Father Reid. She should take him a batch of her special chewy toffees.

  No sign of Father Reid’s son, Nathan, either. Nathan had been Evie’s best friend. Under Evie’s careful tuition, kind-natured, good-tempered Nathan had learned how to catch snakes, short-sheet beds, and make explosives. When Evie and Nathan were in trouble, which was most of the time, Father Reid was the person they ran to. He hadn’t yelled when they cut off the town’s water supply while digging for treasure. Or when they dropped flour bombs on cars from the church tower. Or when they mixed glue in Mrs Reid’s blender. Evie grinned before she could stop herself. Those were the days.

  But not any more. She was different now. She was good. She had rules.

  No swearing.

  No drinking.

  No stealing.

  No fires.

  Several parishioners were kneeling in prayer. In turn, Evie thanked the Lord for social media’s ability to pry into other people’s lives: judicious Googling had confirmed that Nathan was still living in Sweet Meadow. He was apparently single. He had also, in a somewhat unexpected development, followed his father into the priesthood. Evie did not panic, however. Anglican priests could marry, said Google. Sometimes Evie wanted to marry Google.

  Through a haze of childhood nostalgia, she saw a gentleman approaching the pulpit. The dappled stained-glass spotlight slid across his face, turning it blue, then red, then gold. His round cheeks had morphed into sharply planed cheekbones and his hair had turned from straw to dark honey, but there could be no mistaking who it was. Facebook had not done Nathan justice.

  Evie heard a soft honking noise, and realised she had made it.

  ‘What?’ said Mary, craning her neck to see the source of her mother’s disturbance.

  ‘Nothing.’ Evie cleared her throat. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘You’re going all pink.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Shush.’

  According to the photographs on the bulletin board, Saint Sebastian’s hadn’t really changed in one hundred and eighty years, besides accumulating one hundred and eighty years’ worth of pigeon crap. Mary slid her phone out of her pocket. No messages. Nothing from her father. Nothing from her so-called best friend, who had sworn she would text until her fingers bled. Not that Mary had believed her.

  The church hall was not airconditioned. Mary wiped away the sweat beading under her eyes and ignored the clump of boys checking her out. The girls with them were stealthier; led by a tall blonde, they had their backs turned, but Mary knew they had already clocked her with accuracy. Evie had been swallowed up by the crowd, probably telling people the whole ‘fresh start’ story. It sounded better than the truth, Mary guessed.

  She returned to the photos. Were those flame trees? ‘Brachychiton acerfolius,’ she muttered. ‘Huh.’

  ‘Correct,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Nice to find someone who actually knows the proper names. How’s the fence?’

  Mary turned and found herself facing the Ace of Spades.

  The card tipped back to reveal a button-bright hazel eye. ‘Heard you had some car trouble.’

  It was hard to look anywhere but at the hat. ‘That’s . . . I . . . wow,’ said Mary.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the elderly woman underneath, repositioning it at a more rakish angle. She had the solid barrel build of an old blue heeler. ‘Thought it was appropriate for Nathan’s debut. April Beadles.’ They shook hands. ‘Phillip can sort your car out. He’s here somewhere. Oh, there’s Nathan. No good with his hands, but you should probably meet him anyway. Nathan!’

  The priest loped towards them. ‘Hello, hello. How did I do?’ With his tan and streaky hair, he looked more like a surfer. Mary could imagine him in an ad for one of those breakfast-in-a-drink things.

  ‘Bravo. Liked the bit about the whatchamacallit,’ said Mrs Beadles. ‘Prodigal.’

  Nathan displayed very white teeth. ‘I got a
paper cut during the reading, believe it or not. Thought I was going to bleed all over the pulpit.’

  ‘Like Jesus,’ said Mary, thinking she should offer something to the conversation.

  ‘Well, I guess so,’ said Nathan politely.

  Mrs Beadles hiked an eyebrow up. ‘Don’t do church often, do you?’

  Mary flushed. ‘We just arrived. Moved back, I mean. Well Mum did, anyway. Evie. She’s . . . um . . .’ Mary craned her head. ‘There.’

  The other two turned just as the crowd was parting. In the middle of a ring of male admirers was a brunette with an hourglass figure. When she placed her cup back on its saucer, several hands shot out to assist with a refill. Evie laughed and touched the side of her face, crimson nail polish winking. Mary half-expected her to break into ‘Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend’.

  Nathan had an odd expression. ‘You’re Evie Bouvier’s daughter?’

  Mrs Beadles squinted at Evie from under the Jack of Clubs. ‘Changed a bit, hasn’t she?’

  Whoever was in charge of morning tea should be shot. The coffee tasted like burnt metal filtered through a possum.

  ‘How have you been settling back in, Mrs –?’ said the man, glancing not very casually at Evie’s bare ring finger.

  ‘Beautifully, thank you,’ she replied, ‘and it’s Ms, but, please, call me Evie.’

  ‘Where’s Adam?’ chortled the man, and Evie smiled benignly as if she hadn’t heard that joke many, many times.

  She’d drunk so much caffeine that if someone stuck a pin into her, they’d have to dam up the hall. Scones, fetched by admirers, towered on her plate like a flour-dusted game of Jenga. A red-faced man was about to add another offering to the tower when he was shouldered aside, quite literally, by an epaulet. The epaulet was attached to a hot-pink jacket covered in diamantes and, above that, a hairdo styled by NASA.

  ‘Welcome, welcome, I don’t believe we’ve met yet, you poor thing, you must be quite overwhelmed. My goodness, look at all those scones you’ve got, what do they think you are, a football player? Ah ah ah!’ It was less of a laugh than a series of yelps. ‘Joy Piece, Piece Real Estate, I’ve been looking after your mother’s house, my sincere condolences on Mrs Bouvier’s passing, by the way, such a lovely woman, always good with a cryptic crossword. I do hope the tenants didn’t make too much of a mess, by the way, how was the repainting?’