Three’s a Crowd

by Dianne Blacklock

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh God, I better hurry!’

  ‘Where you going, Mummy?’ Riley called after her as she dashed for the stairs.

  ‘Mummy’s abandoning us to go out with the girls,’ Scott told him.

  Lexie frowned, taking a step back. ‘Don’t say it like that,’ she admonished him. ‘Riley, sweetheart, you’re having a special night with Daddy, and Mummy’s having a grown-up night with the girls.’

  ‘Borringg!’ Riley declared, clutching his stomach as though he was in pain.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Lexie. ‘Now I have to get ready, and I don’t even know what I’m going to wear!’ she trilled, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Twenty minutes and as many outfits, or at least variations, later, Lexie came downstairs in a simple flowered shift and strappy sandals. The more times she’d changed clothes, the hotter and more flustered she’d become, and in the end she settled for the lightest, coolest thing in her wardrobe. She only hoped she didn’t look like she was going to the beach.

  ‘How do I look?’ she said, walking over to the kitchen where Scott was arranging vegetable crudités on a plate.

  ‘Great,’ he said, without raising his head.

  ‘Scott Anthony Dingle! You didn’t even look at me then!’

  He glanced across at her, poker-faced. ‘I don’t need to, because you always look beautiful.’

  She raised an eyebrow as she sidled over to him, snatching a carrot stick.

  ‘Why do you care anyway?’ asked Scott. ‘You’re only going out with the girls. Or is that just a cover and you’re really going out to pick up?’

  ‘Yep, that’s it, you sprung me,’ she quipped, crunching into the carrot.

  ‘Just try it,’ he said, stooping to plant a kiss on her neck. ‘You smell good.’ He straightened again, considering her. ‘And you look good enough to eat, really.’ Scott’s biggest compliment.

  ‘Not too casual?’ Lexie persisted. ‘I don’t want to look like I’m going to the beach.’

  He frowned. ‘What does it matter? It’s just the girls, loosen up.’

  Lexie shrugged, avoiding his eyes.

  Scott shook his head. ‘It’s Catherine the Great, isn’t it? I don’t know why you girls put up with her.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ said Lexie. ‘I know she can be a little . . . prickly, but she means well . . . and she has a good heart.’

  ‘Why do people always say that about someone who’s a real –’

  ‘She’s had a hard life,’ Lexie interrupted him. ‘You know she started with nothing.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, teenage mum, did it all on her own, I’ve heard it before,’ said Scott. ‘Doesn’t give her the right to be a bitch.’

  ‘Honey,’ she chided in a low voice, glancing across at the children, but they were absorbed in something on the TV. Scott just didn’t like Catherine and nothing Lexie could say was going to change his mind. So she decided to change the subject instead. ‘I put the fans on up in the kids’ room. It was so hot up there. I don’t know how we’re going to get by without aircon this summer if it’s this hot already.’

  He looked at her sideways. ‘We’ll get by just the same as we always have, Lex.’

  ‘I’m only thinking of the kids.’

  ‘We got by when we were kids, even you, Miss Richie Rich,’ he added. ‘No one had airconditioning in their houses back then, and everyone wasn’t dying of heat exhaustion.’

  ‘I know,’ she agreed begrudgingly.

  ‘We either believe in global warming or we don’t, Lexie. And if we do, then we have to take personal responsibility, even when it’s inconvenient or uncomfortable.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she surrendered, holding up her hands. ‘You can stop the lecture.’

  They couldn’t afford airconditioning anyway. Lexie adored their pretty little house, tucked away in a pretty little street in Clovelly. She’d had so much fun decorating it when they first got married. They didn’t have much money then either, but Scott’s dad and a couple of his brothers had all the trades covered, so they were able to do a cheap but effective makeover of the kitchen and bathroom. The rest was achieved with lots of spak filler and paint and elbow grease. Her parents had kept wanting to pay for this or that, but Lexie refused. Scott would never have accepted it anyway. Instead she pored over her mother’s interior design magazines and scoured the wholesale outlets and created a home that was chic and comfortable for a fraction of what it could have cost.

  When Riley came along the house worked beautifully, at least while he was only crawling. But with the addition of Mia things were getting, well, cramped. The children had to share a smallish bedroom; there was no longer space for the charming rocking chair Lexie had found at a garage sale, or the display unit housing all their baby mementoes and special books. The room had become very utilitarian: Riley’s bed, Mia’s cot, storage for their clothes. They had even had to resort to one of those padded mats on top of the chest of drawers as a change table. Worse was the impact downstairs; Lexie finally had to surrender the dining space she had created off the kitchen, where sliding doors opened up onto a courtyard draped with fairy lights. The setting of so many fun dinner parties became instead a playroom, and the dining table was moved into the living area, making everything just that bit tighter, and entirely ruining the illusion of space Lexie had worked so hard to achieve.

  It didn’t matter, not really, only that Lexie had a little secret. She’d only ever told Annie, because as usual Annie was the only person she knew would understand, but she desperately wanted more children, at least one, maybe two. She didn’t think Scott would be against the idea in theory – he loved kids and he’d come from a big family himself – but there was no way they could fit another child into this house, nor could they afford a bigger house, not if they wanted to stay in the eastern suburbs. And they really didn’t have a choice about that, with Scott’s café smack bang in the centre of Coogee. Scott was already sensitive about being able to provide for his family. Lexie remembered the first time he came to her house to meet her parents. He had been gobsmacked, to put it mildly. ‘Look at this place! I knew your dad was a doctor, but Jesus, Lexie, you guys are seriously rich.’

  She’d denied it at the time; she knew people who were ‘seriously rich’ and they weren’t in that league. She watched him desperately trying to impress her parents, telling them the café was just the first step on the way to owning his own restaurant. ‘You never told me that,’ Lexie said later. He merely shrugged. ‘Every chef dreams of having his own restaurant.’

  As nothing had ever come of it, Lexie assumed he’d only said it to impress her parents. It didn’t bother her, Scott could stay in the café forever, if that’s what he wanted. But she wondered if they would ever be able to afford a bigger house, nothing fancy, just something big enough to fit a couple more kids . . .

  She leaned against the bench now, watching him. Lexie knew she couldn’t broach the subject with him yet. Not until she figured out a way to make it work. ‘So, you’re right for the kids’ dinner?’ she asked, sneaking another carrot stick. ‘There’s some of that pasta leftover that Mia loves.’

  ‘I think I can look after the food part, hun,’ he said. ‘And aren’t you supposed to be going out for yours?’

  Lexie roused herself, turning to check the clock. ‘Oh my God, look at the time!’

  It was exactly one minute to seven as Catherine stepped through the door of the restaurant.

  ‘There should be a booking under Halliday,’ she said crisply to the waitress who came forwards to greet her. She hoped Rachel had remembered, Catherine always felt better when she made the arrangements herself.

  The waitress glanced at the reservations list and nodded. ‘This way, please.’

  Catherine followed her through the still half-empty restaurant to a table set for four with a view out across Bondi Beach to the ocean. As she took her seat, she glanced at her watch. Seven o’clock on the dot. Her punctuality was a great
source of pride to Catherine. The same could not be said of her friends, unfortunately.

  ‘Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?’ the waitress asked her.

  She probably had a minimum of ten minutes before they turned up, that’s if they were anywhere in the vicinity of their definition of ‘on time’.

  ‘Do you have a Margaret River sauvignon by the glass?’

  The waitress looked thrown. ‘Let me bring you the wine list.’

  That would take too long. ‘Yes, bring the wine list, along with a glass of sauvignon – a Margaret River preferably, or else something from that region. Ask your sommelier.’

  The girl gave her a troubled look before scuttling away. They probably didn’t have a sommelier here, she probably didn’t know what a sommelier was. It was an acceptable restaurant, the food was tolerable, the service adequate, but as usual around here you were mostly paying for the view and the location. It wouldn’t have been Catherine’s choice, which was no matter tonight, tonight was for Annie. Catherine had accepted over the years that in a group of friends you had to compromise, which basically meant she had to lower her standards whenever they went out. It would be nice if that was acknowledged occasionally. They worked around Annie and Lexie – mid-price, sometimes a pleasant surprise, but mostly mediocre. Every so often Rachel complained about not being able to afford a night out at all, so Catherine invariably just covered her, because if they had to stoop to Rachel’s budget they’d be eating at one of those roadside kebab stands.

  She took out her phone and speed-dialled home, and was eventually answered with a garbled greeting.

  ‘Alice, don’t speak with your mouth full.’

  ‘Then how am I supposed to answer the phone?’ she said, still munching.

  ‘Swallow before you pick up.’

  ‘What if my mouth’s too full and I’d choke if I tried to swallow before the phone rang out?’

  ‘Then you’d have clearly bitten off more than you could chew,’ Catherine returned evenly. ‘Honestly, Alice, why does everything have to turn into a debate? Try to avoid speaking with your mouth full. It’s impolite. Are you having dinner?’

  ‘Nuh, Martin’s not home yet.’

  Catherine pressed her lips together. He promised he’d be home no later than seven. At times she honestly believed there was no one else in the world who cared about being on time. The waitress placed the wine list and a glass on the table in front of her, and Catherine nodded in acknowledgement before picking it up and taking a generous sip.

  ‘Has he called?’ she asked Alice.

  ‘Uhuh. He was just leaving work.’

  ‘Then do your homework, no MSN or MySpace or Facebook or YouTube. And no more eating, Martin will cook dinner when he gets home.’

  ‘I don’t want whatever Martin’s cooking,’ she whined.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because it’ll be totally crap.’

  ‘Don’t say “crap”, Alice.’

  ‘Okay, it’ll be totally disgusting. And besides, it won’t be ready till, like, nine o’clock or something, and I’m hungry now.’

  ‘Then eat a healthy snack to take the edge off your hunger. A carrot, for example.’

  ‘I’m gunna make some instant noodles.’

  ‘Going to make noodles, Alice,’ Catherine corrected her. ‘But I wish you wouldn’t. They are simply the worst thing, they have no nutritional value and far too much fat and salt. This is the time you have to start watching your weight –’

  ‘Mu-umm,’ Alice groaned.

  Catherine could never be accused of being insensitive, she knew not to send her daughter negative messages. ‘I’m just saying, if you don’t keep an eye on it now, it will be harder to get rid of later on.’

  ‘Can I go now?’ Alice said flatly.

  Catherine sighed. ‘Yes. I’m not sure what time I’ll be home, so I’ll say goodnight.’

  ‘Night.’ Alice hung up, and with still no sign of the others, Catherine scrolled through the messages on her BlackBerry as she sipped her wine. She didn’t understand why Alice was so persistently obstinate. Catherine knew adolescence was a notoriously difficult time for mother-daughter relationships. She had certainly struggled to relate to her own mother at the same age; but her mother had aspired to nothing greater than her role of housewife, and her most pressing commitments any given week were to get to the bottom of the ironing basket and to make sure her father’s dinner was on the table when he walked in the door at night. Alice had never seen her mother in such a subservient role, and she never would. Catherine was a successful professional woman, she kept herself trim, attractive and stylish. She was a ‘MILF’. Catherine had been quite chuffed when she’d first learned of the acronym, as she didn’t doubt for a moment that she merited that particular label. In the best way of course; she could never be accused of being mutton done up as lamb. She was even technologically savvy, for heaven’s sake. Honestly, she was an excellent role model for anyone’s daughter, or son for that matter. Catherine would have loved to have had someone like her as a mother. Alice didn’t know how lucky she was.

  Nor did she seem to understand that Catherine was only looking after her best interests, because if she didn’t watch her weight now it could so easily balloon out of control, and then she would struggle with it for the rest of her life. It was in their genes; her mother had been a dumpy little ball of dough for all of Catherine’s living memory. It was only sustained discipline on Catherine’s part that had kept her figure trim. She must speak to Martin about serving some simple dishes, healthy and low-fat, but more compatible with an adolescent’s tastebuds. Perhaps he could even include Alice in the process. It was a bit of a waste having a man who liked to cook if her daughter didn’t care for what he dished up. He already complained that it was barely worth cooking for Catherine, the way she picked at her food; even resorting to veiled hints that she was bordering on an eating disorder, but that was patently ludicrous. She had explained often enough the number of breakfasts, lunches, cocktail parties and what have you that she was required to attend, so she simply had to keep a sensible eye on her intake the rest of the time. It was called self-control. Draining her glass, she had to wonder why Alice hadn’t taken after her in that regard. It was all very well to be strong-willed and determined, Catherine would not have made it to where she was if she hadn’t been, but you also had to have direction, set goals, practise self-discipline. Alice couldn’t stick at anything, and none of her school subjects seemed to inspire or even vaguely interest her. Catherine could handle the fact that she wasn’t particularly academically inclined, if only she displayed some flair for art, or music. Something. Catherine had even tried to get her interested in joining the rowing team, which had a certain level of prestige, but Alice had looked at her as though she were mad.

  What worried her more than anything was that she couldn’t picture her daughter ever making anything of her life. She’d end up like Rachel, who’d had so much potential but had frittered it all away because she couldn’t buckle down to anything. Catherine couldn’t imagine not having that passion, that drive to excel, to achieve, to make a difference. She wanted Alice to experience that, to have a fulfilling life, to be happy. She had one more year to turn it around before she finished school, turned eighteen and, Catherine had the sinking feeling, was beyond her influence forever.

  Annie had always dismissed her concerns, assuring her it was normal teenager behaviour. All very well for her to say. Sophie and Hannah were both high-achievers; they diligently completed homework and kept up piano practice without being nagged or threatened; Sophie had been on the rowing and debating teams throughout high school, and Hannah was class captain in her final year at primary school – all with apparently no pressure whatsoever from Annie, or Tom. They were the kind of parents who liked to give the impression they didn’t push their kids like everyone else, that their achievements didn’t matter to them, that they only wanted them to be happy. Catherine didn’t believe
it for a second. Achievement was what led to happiness, that’s all she wanted for her daughter.

  Finally, at twenty-two minutes past seven, Rachel and Lexie spilled into the restaurant, looking like a pair of fugitives. They indicated to the waitress that they’d spotted their table, and proceeded to make their way towards Catherine.

  ‘Sorry we’re late,’ Lexie blurted as they drew close. ‘It was my fault, though really it was Scott’s fault. Though really, you can’t blame him for being a little late when he was short-staffed. He did his best. Really.’

  Catherine was not even going to bother crediting that with a response. She was a partner at one of the largest legal firms in Sydney, Lexie was a housewife and Scott was a cook in a café. Heaven forbid either of them had to cope with anything genuinely demanding.

  ‘I ordered a bottle after fifteen minutes,’ she said instead. There was no need to mention the glass she’d had first. ‘I hope that’s okay with you.’

  ‘As long as I can have a drink right now,’ said Rachel, picking up the bottle.

  Catherine held up her glass for a refill. ‘Have you been in those clothes all day?’ she said, looking Rachel up and down.

  ‘No,’ she retorted. She’d been in these clothes all day yesterday, but that’s not what Catherine had asked, exactly.

  Lexie hesitated, her hand on the back of a chair, as she frowned at the place settings on the table. ‘Is someone else coming?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Catherine, glancing at Rachel.

  ‘Well, then, what’s that . . . it’s not . . . I don’t . . .’ Lexie stammered.

  ‘I booked a table for four,’ Rachel said.

  Lexie snatched her hand away from the chair. ‘Why would you do that? Is one of these supposed to be her place?’ she cried. ‘Where am I supposed to sit?’

  ‘She’s not a ghost, Lexie,’ Catherine sighed.

  ‘And if she were, she’d be a friendly ghost,’ said Rachel, gently moving Lexie aside. ‘Why don’t you sit over next to Catherine and I’ll sit here opposite you.’ That way Lexie would effectively be hemmed in, and she wouldn’t have to worry about bumping up against any ghosts, friendly or otherwise.