The Taming of the Bastard

by Lindy Dale

  “I know, I’ve been practising all week.”

  After a few dances, the dinner gong sounded so we got into the queue for the buffet behind Sasha and Melanie.

  “Johnny all dry now?” Mel asked.

  “Sort of. But he was acting weird, talking about relationships and stuff.”

  We moved up a couple of places and Sasha turned to me. “Ignore him. He gets like that every time partners are required. He feels inadequate ‘cause he can’t get a girl.”

  I took a dinner plate and waited for the chef to plop a few slices of meat onto it. It had sounded a bit deeper than that to me but who was I to say? The girls knew him better. “I think it’s best to stay away from the northern end of the buffet,” Kirby told us. She tonged a blackened piece of pumpkin onto her plate. “I, like, totally saw Tripod pin That-Slut-Courtney down on it before. His tongue was so far down her throat he could have, like, totally taken out her tonsils. God only knows what little surprises he’s, like, left in the coleslaw.”

  “What’s that cow doing here?” Sasha slammed two white bread rolls onto her plate. The mere mention of That-Slut-Courtney was enough to make her break no carbs ban. “She’s got some nerve. She never has a date.”

  “Perhaps we could fix her up with Johnny, kill two birds with one stone? She’d fuck anything and he’s in need.” Removing Sasha’s rolls and putting them back on the sideboard, Mel inclined her head towards the bar where Johnny and Sam had lined up pints of lager with red wine chasers. “Look at him over-compensating with alcohol again.”

  “I wouldn’t wish her on Johnny; the poor bastard wouldn’t know what to do if she got her fangs into him.”

  “At least he’d die satisfied.”

  We got to the end of the line and stood waiting for the others. Kirby forked a few marinated prawns that didn’t look like they’d been squashed by anyone’s butt onto her plate and paused to study the salads. “Just wait till you see what she’s wearing. Like, so 1998.”

  “Not the Titanic frock, again?”

  “No, but it is green. Always with the green.”

  Sasha leant over to me, her voice low. “Somebody told Courtney once she should wear green because it flatters her Celtic colouring. Personally, I think they must have been delusional. Anyway, she always wears emerald now. It’s the joke of the club.”

  “I’d hardly call that shade of red hair, Celtic. More like fucking sad.” Mel snorted, picking up knives and forks and giving them to us. “She’s no Nicole Kidman. More a pasty, red haired leprechaun in a Riverdance outfit.”

  “Totally.”

  How was it that I’d never seen this girl before? She sounded hard to miss.

  “Hi girls.” An auburn haired vision silently materialised from behind the pillar next to the buffet and was standing beside us, balancing a plate with a wine glass on it. There could be no other. It had to be That-Slut-Courtney.

  Kirby looked her up and down. “Oh, like, hi Courtney. Nice dress.”

  “It’s flattering to know you haven’t found anyone else to bitch about.” Courtney sashayed closer and pushing between us, heaped a pile of cold chicken onto her plate. Lifting her pixie nose into the air, she sniffed and affected a perfect impersonation of Kirby. “Eww. Can you girls smell fish? It, like totally, reeks just here.” Slowly and deliberately her silver sandal trod on the hem of Kirby’s gown, pulling it tight enough to rip but not quite, as she fake coughed, “mole” in the shorter girl’s direction.

  “Slag,” Kirby retaliated, yanking at the edge of her gown and elbowing the other girl out of the way to whip the last oyster from under her nose. “The only fishy smell in here is the one, like, coming from between your legs.”

  “Must have been left over from your boyfriend.”

  “She’s such a bitch,” Sasha muttered.

  Spellbound by the scene playing out before me, I watched as Courtney swept back her long, gently curled hair and leaned across the table giving us full view of the luscious curves of her body. Surely, she must have had some redeeming features? The girl was a Goddess. She picked up a bread stick, nibbling and sucking on the end in a most unladylike manner. Then swallowing slowly, she spun towards me, casting a derisive glance down her nose. I wanted to run. I was petrified.

  “So you’re with Sam? What’s your name again? Minty? Mindy?” She snickered, as she fingered an invisible crumb near the edge of her mouth and ran her tongue over her top lip. Suddenly, I didn’t care about redeeming features. I just wanted to throttle her.

  “Millie.”

  “He’s a honey, isn’t he? Good in bed—or so I’ve heard.” She winked headed to her table.

  “Heinous cow,” said Kirby. “She’s had, like, more men than I’ve got shoes.”

  “I’ll second that. The bitch’s got a revolving door where her vagina should be.”

  “They don’t call her The Abyss for nothing. Of course, she’s been after Simmo for months. He keeps telling her he’s not interested but she won’t listen. I swear to God, she’ll listen if I catch her near him,” Sasha spat. “Heaven help poor Sam if she had a piece of him before you met, Millie. He could have caught anything.”

  Heaven help poor Simmo, I thought. If the rumours were true, Sasha would skin both of them alive.

  *****

  It was the hour of the pumpkin. All the Cinderellas had gone home in their taxis and Sam and I stood in the lift. I had survived my brush with That-Slut-Courtney and even managed to talk Sam into a slow dance to finish the night. it had been an eventful night but so much fun and something I’d be happy to repeat.

  Sam took hold of my hand and put it in his pocket with his own. “You’re cold,” he whispered.

  “Mmm. I didn’t notice how chilly it was until we got out of the ballroom.”

  He moved behind me, wrapping his suit jacket around both of our bodies. His chest was warm against my back and his breath heated the skin of my neck. “Did you have fun tonight?”

  “Heaps. It was good. Womble wants to marry me.” Resting my head back against his chest, I closed my eyes and sighed. I was so tired. The balls of my feet had moved from tingling to complete numbness.

  “When did he say that?”

  I sighed again and snuggled closer. His firmness was reassuring. “Somewhere between calling me ‘a lovely daffodil’ and dry humping my leg, I think.”

  Sam released a chuckle. “He must have been serious, then.”

  “Why?”

  “He never talks with the dry humping. He can’t multi-task.”

  I turned and looked into Sam’s eyes. They were twinkling in that mischievous way. “God, you’re a fool.”

  His smile was tender. “Hey, Womble wasn’t dry humping my leg.”

  The lift doors opened and we stepped out into the corridor. It was empty, being so late. The only sound was the soft fall of Sam’s shoes and the padding of my bare feet along the carpet.

  “It was a really nice thought to get a room, Sam, but I can’t stay. You know I have to be home when the children wake up. Tori and Michael have their first swimming lessons in the morning and you don’t have the money for such an extravagance. You’ve already given me too much.” I indicated the dress he’d bought, the shoes and the evening bag. I knew he’d been lying. His tax return couldn’t have been that big. He’d maxed out his credit card, for sure.

  Sam stopped in front of the hotel room door. Pulling the key card from his pants pocket, he slid it into the lock, twisting the handle on the green light. “It’s no stress, babe. I already tee’d up the overnight stay with Adele. That’s what we were chatting about earlier tonight when you came down. She said it’s fine.”

  “But these rooms cost a fortune.”

  His finger went to my lips. “Shhh. I said it’s organised.”

  “But—”

  Sam’s lips were on mine as he swept his arms under my body and lifted me to him. He hip and shouldered the door, carrying me into the room like her was carrying my over the threshold. He lowered my
feet gently to the carpet.

  The lamplight pooled on the carpet around us. The curtains were open, revealing the quiet night sky. A bottle of champagne was chilled on the bureau. He had organised it. Just for me. Tears pricked the back of my eyes. “Sam? Oh Sam, what have you done?”

  “Mmm?” He nuzzled at my neck, not really listening.

  “I…. I….”

  “Yeah?”

  How could I tell him I was leaving now? How could I tell him we had to split up after he’d gone to such effort to show me how much he cared. “I… I love you.”

  I was such a coward.

  *****

  It took almost an hour the following morning to get Tori and Michael into their matching Gucci Baby swimsuits. They wore miniature blue goggles affixed to the crown of their heads, beach towels slung around their necks and the new swim sandals Adele had bought them so they wouldn’t catch any of ‘those vile foot diseases’ from walking barefoot. They looked so cute I wanted to grab them and cuddle them to me. Instead, I took a quick few snaps with my digital camera before I buckled them in the car.

  As soon as we reached the humid air pocket that was the inside of Challenge Stadium, Paige ran off to her own class. Having approached the skill of swimming like everything else she did, she was already proficient in freestyle and breaststroke. She didn’t need me there to watch over her any more. In fact, she’d never needed me. From the moment she dived into the pool, she’d announced she wasn’t leaving until she was fast enough to qualify for the Olympics. She was so focussed; she forgot I was even there.

  At the other end of the pool, in the waist deep end, it was a different story. Having been told by the twins’ swim instructor it was more relaxing if the parent-slash-carer was in the pool with the child for the first few lessons, I had dutifully worn my bathers but that was as far as it was going. I was not putting my head under water for anyone. Not even the twins.

  “Right now, mummies and daddies.” The instructor looked around the assembled group like a smiling assassin. “First we’re going to blow some bubbles. Watch my technique and then do the same with your child. Or children.” She looked all of twelve as she giggled at me, her skinny stick arms and big straight teeth at odds with the rest of her body. She grabbed one of the students and demonstrated how she wanted it done.

  I watched her put her face in the water.

  Not that hard, I thought, feeling my blood pressure raise a notch. I could put my lips in the water. It wasn’t like it was my whole head.

  Around the pool, parents followed the instructor’s suit, showing their children what to do. Lavish words of praise were bandied about as children copied successfully. Suddenly, I was rooted to the spot. Tori and Michael were staring at me and I couldn’t move.

  “Is there a problem?” The instructor glided to where I stood in front of the step. Goosebumps had appeared on my skin but it wasn’t from the pool water. The twins blinked in bemusement as to why they were not blowing bubbles.

  “No, of course not.” I gave the instructor a tense smile. Of course there was a problem. I was petrified of putting my head under the water. Having had my head held under by the naughty, fat, family friend when I was eight—and being convinced I was going to drown—it was all I could do to ease myself to the edge of the local swimming pool. I’d been the only one in my class at school to fail the Bronze Medallion because I did an entire four-hundred metre swim with my head above water.

  “Off you go then,” she ordered, as she swam off to the next family.

  I looked at her. I looked at the twins. Their large blue eyes stared back, quizzically. Tori’s lips had begun to go blue with cold. With slow precision, I lowered my face towards the water, doing a quick dip and spurting out two pathetic bubbles. “Okay guys,” I said, trying to be chirpy. “It’s your turn now.”

  We carried on in this fashion for a few minutes until I realised we had a problem. Tori looked as if she was going to drown and Michael’s face was filled with terror. I was projecting my fear of water onto the twins. Unaware they were copying me to a tee, they were putting only the tips of their chins in the water and spluttering like little dolphins on their last legs. God, now what was I going to do? I’d never experienced this with Paige. She’d done the toddler classes before I arrived on the scene. This was a disaster.

  “Having a bit of difficulty are we, Mummy?” The swimming instructor reappeared from under the surface of the water and was eye to eye with me.

  “She’s not our Mummy, she’s Millie,” Tori’s little frame straightened, indignant at the instructor’s mistake.

  “I’m the nanny.” I don’t know why I sounded so apologetic.

  “Right. Well, Nanny. We have to put our face under and blow. You must show the children there is nothing to fear about water.”

  God, how wrong she was.

  “Come on now, it’s not going to mess up your makeup or anything.” She glared at me.

  As if I cared about make up and hair when I could be about to die. As if.

  I gazed at the water again and back to those who were waiting for me to perform the action. I didn’t want to put my head anywhere near it but I guessed it had to be done. The children would be scarred forever if I didn’t put on a brave face. I took a deep breath and gave them my most confident smile. “Right then, kids, this is what we do,” I said and shoved my face into the water.

  “You need to submerge further,” was the last thing I heard before everything went black.

  I came to with everyone gathered around like stickybeaks at a car crash. The low undertone of the other parents muttering filled my ears as I opened my eyes. The swimming instructor was peering at me with a worried expression and Paige was squeezing my hand.

  “Are you okay, Millie?” she asked.

  I frowned in confusion. “What happened?”

  “You fainted when you were under the water and we dragged you to the surface,” the instructor sighed.

  “Jennifer’s dad gave you mouth to mouth,” Paige added, indicating Mr Brayshaw-Jones who was standing on my other side, his shiny bald and puckered skin enough to give me nightmares.

  “Thank you,” I muttered to him.

  “It was my pleasure. Erica has called the ambulance.”

  I sat up. Oh God. Mrs Brayshaw-Jones. She was the head of the Parents and Friends Association and the biggest gossip of all the parents in Paige’s class. This would be all over Perth by Monday. “I’m fine really. I don’t need an ambulance. I just need to get over my fear of water.”

  Mr Brayshaw-Jones fished in his pocket and handed me a business card. “It’s better to be safe than sorry,” he said. “When you get home, give my shrink a call. He can fix that phobia. No worries.”

  I stared at the card. I didn’t know what to say. “Gee, thanks.”

  A nanny undergoing therapy… I could only imagine the look on Adele’s face.

   19 

  Somewhere in the midst of all the madness, Johnny decided it was time to buy a house. The real estate market had slumped and the first homebuyers grant had been extended, so never being one to dally once a decision had been reached, he’d arrived at the clubrooms and announced he’d had a great morning. He’d purchased a little terrace in West Perth at auction. The only problem was he hadn’t technically been bidding and the cottage could only be described as a renovators delight. It had no floors in the downstairs—they’d rotted to dust through neglect—and it was heritage listed. It did have exquisite turned banisters, however, which sealed the deal for him.

  At last, I thought, Johnny was finally growing up. No more sleaze for him. With a home to keep him occupied, he’d have no time for gawking at women’s boobs and playing tit cricket.

  Sam disagreed. “That house is a surrogate. Johnny hasn’t changed, he can’t get a root, so he’s gonna take out his frustration with a sledgehammer.”

  Oh God. Men.

  The settlement done and dusted, Johnny stacked his gear into storage and put plans in
place for the biggest event of the season, the demolition party. Sadly, I found I was looking forward to this more than the boys. But, then, I had been trapped in the house with three children under the age of seven for the last two weeks because of the Swine Flu epidemic. While others ignored the hype being spread by the bucket load, Adele had soaked it up like a sponge. She wasn’t eager for any sort of germs to invade her offspring and initiated her own form of voluntary quarantine. It was excessive, but it kept me out of the Pandora shop. It also gave me spare hours to ponder what to do about Sam and the whole Indonesia project. Even though I had my ticket booked to go for a little look-see, I was no closer to being able to break it to him. I mean, I wanted to tell him. I had to tell him. But somehow, well, the subject never came up.

  The party began innocently one Saturday afternoon. Johnny had been boring us for ages with details of how he was planning—with the help of his fifteen best mates—on turning the cottage into a slick professional pad. Somehow, I was finding it hard to believe because, though remodelling by a bunch of rugby men appeared to be a sound plan, Johnny had forgotten one crucial element. None of his fifteen best mates had ever lifted more than a finger or a pen in their lives. Yes, they were muscled and strong. Yes, they knew the ins and outs of the rugby game, could chop a man down with words at twenty paces and sink more schooners than a battleship. But home renovation? Those lads knew as much about power tools as I did about cricket and that was precious little. Nevertheless, with their lack of prowess buoyed by their overwhelming enthusiasm, the wheels had been set in motion and by the time I arrived at Johnny’s the demolition party was progressing at a rate of knots.

  The boys, dressed in workmen’s singlets with sledgehammers in hand, had reduced Johnny’s derelict outhouse to a pile of rubble in a matter of minutes. With the professionalism of a TV home reno’ team, they filled the skip bin with lumps of cement and fence palings. They pruned the garden bed by the side fence to the ground. By the time we’d turned on and heated up the barbecue, they’d started on the lean-to kitchen and were looking as if they might take the whole house if they weren’t given a new focus ASAP.