Drip Dry (12 page)

My last semi-rational thought is that this is definitely
not
a good idea – but, boy, am I glad that I shaved my legs.

James Branch Cabell 1879–1958

6.10 am

I am abruptly woken by the sound of the garbage truck reversing noisily around the corner of my street. It makes a similar sound as to how I imagine a rocket would sound while being launched from Cape Canaveral. The noise reverberates through my head and beats discordant cymbals against my eardrums. Hell's bells, do I ever feel sick! How
much
did I have to drink last night? Hazily, I remember the riesling at my place after CJ's party, then the champagne at Alex's place later – and then I remember moving back to the riesling again, and then . . .

Oh no. Oh my god. No. I sit straight up in bed in absolute gut-wrenching horror as certain parts of last night suddenly begin to infiltrate my consciousness. Other parts hover tantalisingly at the periphery of my recall, but enough slips through to make me
sink my head into my hands and groan. Oh. My. God. What have I done? This
isn't
happening.

Then an even more horrible thought hits me and I whip around to see if there is another occupant of the bed. But no, thankfully I'm all alone and – I peer cautiously around the room to make sure – yes, I am even back in my own bedroom.
Now
I remember clambering clumsily over the side fence while returning home. Thank god I did.

I lie down and stare at the ceiling. Now I also remember
when
I suddenly had the urge to come back home. It was during that awkward period, which I imagine often happens shortly after a bout of unexpected sex, when the afterglow has receded, your breathing has regulated, and the muzzy feeling has dissipated. And you look at each other and try to think of something to say to the person with whom you have just been
extremely
intimate – and can't come up with anything that seems to fit the occasion. Because even
I
know that ‘was it good for you?' is pretty old hat nowadays. I suppose that's where smoking must come in very handy. The post-coital cigarette not only takes the edge off the situation, but it also gives you something to do with your hands that doesn't qualify as more foreplay. Well, because I am not a smoker any more, I simply excused myself and came home. After I got dressed, that is.

I roll over and put my head under the pillow. Is it possible to smother oneself? Should I try? How could I have been so
stupid
? My stomach turns in sympathy and my head increases its incessant
throbbing as the garbage truck changes gears noisily and heads back out of the street. It's not even as if I waited a week or so to let a bit of tension build up – we had sex the
very first night
that he was back! How desperate does that make me look? Oh. My. God.

But I'm not going to think about this any more.

And I'm also going to stay in bed all day today – and probably for the rest of the week as well. Then I'll have to contact a real estate agent, put the house on the market and find a nice spot to move to. Somewhere extremely far away. Actually, I've been told that the north end of Australia is a pleasant place to live if you don't mind the crocodiles. And I'd welcome a couple of woman-eating reptiles right at the moment. The truth is that they'd be doing me a favour. No, I just don't believe that I've done this.

8.30 am

‘Mum? Mum? Are you awake?'

‘C'mon, Sam, let's just go already.'

‘No, it's okay.' I raise myself up on one elbow and blearily squint at Samantha and Benjamin, who are standing in my bedroom doorway. ‘I'm awake. What's the time?'

‘It's, like, eight-thirty! You've slept in!'

‘Oh. Are you two all ready for school?'

‘Yep. We just wanted to say goodbye.' Sam peers over at me. ‘Mum! You look
sooo
bad!'

‘I feel
sooo
bad too.' My elbow gives way and I flop backwards. Even that makes my head thump.

‘I bet, like, you had too much with Dad last night!'

‘I bet, like, you're right.'
Boy
, is she right! I close my eyes and put my hand on my forehead. It's very hot. And my lips feel bruised.

‘Isn't it
great
having him so close?'

‘Oh yeah. Just great.'

‘We can see him
all
the time!'

‘Fantastic.' I wish she'd shut up and go to school. But even in my befuddled state I notice that Ben is not contributing to the conversation. Not that Ben is famous for contributing to conversations at the best of times, but something tells me that his father might have a bit of work to do regarding the father-son bonding thing. Or maybe the boy is just exhausted from the effort of getting ready for school on time for once.

‘Well, we'd better get going.' Sam tiptoes over to the bed and drops a kiss on my cheek. ‘See you this afternoon.'

‘S'ya, Mum,' Benjamin mumbles from the doorway and then both kids exit and shortly afterwards I hear the front door slam. Thank god, I'm alone. Now's my chance to commit suicide.

I lie in bed for another thirty minutes or so, staring at the ceiling. But, unfortunately, that doesn't change anything. I sigh heavily, move slowly, and get out of bed. Wrapping my dressing-gown around me,
I head at a snail's pace up the passage to the kitchen. The unearthly silence seems to reverberate through the house, and it makes my headache worse. First stop – two headache tablets. Second stop – a glass of Eno. Third stop – put the kettle on and tip some coffee in the plunger. At least, at some stage during the night, the promised cool change must have arrived and the house has ceased trying to impersonate a sauna.

Only after the headache tablets have kicked in, the Eno has settled my stomach, and I have actually got the cup of coffee between both hands, do I feel human enough to look around me. Oh my god. Well, if I wanted something to distract me from my nefarious exploits of last night, I certainly have it in abundance. The counter has dirty dishes as far as the eye can see and the sink is still full with abandoned washing-up. And the kitchen table is piled with bits of wrapping paper and sticky-tape, empty wine-glasses, cake crumbs, and chocolate crackle wrappers. As I walk slowly towards the lounge-room, I step on several Cheezels that are scattered all over the floor almost as if a more modern Hansel and Gretel had been trying to find their way out at some stage. And I don't blame them.

The lounge-room is no better – there is a party-pie mashed into the carpet, and another mashed against a window. Several sheets of newspaper which escaped my divided attention last night litter the armchairs, balloons float dejectedly around the floor, up-ended cups lie abandoned on the coffee table, and paper plates laden with half-eaten food are
scattered over nearly every available surface. To top it all off, there is a house made of video cassettes under the window. I stare at these for a few minutes while I slowly remember the pornographic scenes I unwittingly starred in last night. That is, the ones I starred in
earlier
last night.

I sigh heavily and wander down to CJ's room. The nightmare continues. Her party guests must have examined every toy she owned, opened every puzzle they found, and dismantled everything they could possibly dismantle. Plus, almost everything in her wardrobe has been pulled out – no doubt when she was attempting to hide Caitlin within.

I can't face this without another cup of coffee. On my way back to the kitchen, I pass the answering machine in the hall. The little red light is blinking spasmodically at me. Once, twice, three times . . . I don't know when those messages arrived because I can't remember checking the machine at all yesterday. Hell's bells! Mum – messages . . . I totally forgot. I pull out the telephone stool, sit down and press the play button.

‘Did you know that on this day in 1587, Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded? Apparently it took three tries. It's from a book we've got in about what things happened on what day. I am
so
bored! I'm glad you're doing what you want but I really miss your scintillating company here. How's the plans for the big wedding going? Is Diane close to having the twins? Has your ex arrived yet? These questions and more must be answered by a return phone call. But not tonight, I'm going –'

Her rambling is cut off by the answering
machine but at least it's put a smile on my face. Then again, Terry usually has that effect. She has been my best friend for over ten years now and still works at the library that used to employ me. I make a mental note to call her back. The second message kicks in.

‘Hello, Camilla darling. I
was
hoping that you'd be at home . . . anyway I'll speak to you later, but please don't forget that you were going to collect the girls' shoes from Boronia. Ring me if you can't spare the time – I'm sure I can squeeze it in . . . somewhere.'

Damn. Damn. Damn. So that's it. I had forgotten all about those damn shoes. Probably because they are so incredibly ugly – white-buttoned things with a salmon ribbon to match the bridesmaid dresses. Gross. I make another mental note, this time to fit the collection of said shoes into my busy schedule. The third message kicks in.

‘This is Fergus O'Connor, the handyman, returning a call from Camilla Riley. And wouldn't I be delighted to look at your floor tomorrow? If I don't hear from you, I shall drop by at ten o'clock. Thank you.'

With horror I look at the clock in the hall. Oh my god! That gives me about an hour to get this house into some semblance of order! An hour to wash the dishes, clean the windows, tidy the tables, pick up the Cheezels, demolish the video house, vacuum the carpets, wash the floors and close CJ's door. And try to do something about myself as well! I automatically glance at the hall mirror. Hmm, I think I'll stick to cleaning the house. This definitely isn't a day for miracles.

10.00 am

Well, I'll say one thing for him – he's certainly prompt! I shove the vacuum cleaner roughly into the broom cupboard on my way past, straighten my tracksuit, and cautiously open the front door.

‘Ms Riley? I am “The Handyman”. At your disposal.'

‘Uh – great!' All I can do is stare. Because ‘The Handyman' is
the
strangest repairman that I have ever had come to my door. And
that's
saying something. My eyes start at his blond-streaked hair because I don't have to look up very far, then move down to his rather ordinary looking early thirty-something face. He has a largish gypsy-hooped earring in his left ear. My eyes continue down to his candy-pink overalls and I read the logo:
‘Who can?
The Handyman
can . . .'
which is emblazoned in silver studs across the front bib. Underneath the amazing overalls (and isn't this just like a guy?), is a daggy old sleeveless checked-flannelette shirt. Slowly, my stunned gaze travels on downwards until it finishes at his shoes, which look for all the world like genuine wooden clogs. This apparition is doing
nothing
for my fragile state. In fact, my eyes hurt. I close my mouth and drag my eyes quickly back up to his face. He is grinning hugely at me.

‘You may call me Fergus, if you wish. And what, may I ask, can I be doing for you?'

‘Um . . . my floor,' I answer lamely. His slight Irish lilt gives his voice a musical quality. It was definitely him on the answering machine recording singing that ditty.

‘Ah, then lead me to the offending surface, madam.'

It's the word ‘madam' that gets me going. I remember that this is one of Maggie's regular clients and I don't particularly want him to go back to her laughing hysterically about how conservative I am or something. I lead the way to the bathroom and he clogs along noisily behind me. Clop, clop, clop. I'm going to need more headache tablets soon at this rate. When we get to the bathroom, I stand in the doorway, gesturing vaguely inside and giving him plenty of room to get past me.

‘In the corner. Can you see?'

‘To be sure. Has it been like this for some time?'

‘No. Well, I don't think so. I only noticed it on Monday and when I sort of touched it, the tiles just seemed to cave in.'

‘Yes indeedy. Ah.' He kneels down on one leg, puts his hand inside the hole and pulls up a large section of the floor. ‘It's a problem you're having, for sure.'

‘Really?' I stare at the large bit of my bathroom floor that is hanging out of his hand and try to sound sarcastic. I mean,
before
it was a dilemma I was having, now it's a problem.

‘Yes, I'm afraid so.' He lays the section that he just pulled up back down, pats it into place and turns to face me. ‘Indeed I am. Hasn't water been getting in
under the tiles and the floor's rotted. Now I think the lot'll probably be needing replacing – I'll have to go under the house and have a look. Give me ten minutes and I'll be getting a quote together for you.'

‘Would you like a coffee, or a tea?' Or anything else that might have a positive effect on what price you'll be charging?

‘A tea would be quite the thing, thank you. And where's your access?'

‘My access?' I repeat stupidly.

‘Yes, access. To under the house.'

‘Oh! It's on the side of the house – out the front.'

‘Great. I'll be with you in ten.'

‘How would you like your tea?'

‘Ah, black, strong and sweet – like my women.' He turns to flash that enormous smile at me again, as if it is the first time that
that
joke has ever been used. Or perhaps he is subtly letting me know that my white, weak and slightly bitter body – and access – does nothing for him.

‘On the way.' I leave him to his quoting and head towards the kitchen. I have just reached the doorway when the phone rings, so I reverse thrust and walk back down the passage to the hall phone because it has a seat next to it. But as I reach out to pick up the phone I pause, my hand balanced mid-air conjurer-like as I decide it might be more prudent to screen my calls for the foreseeable future. The phone rings three more times and then Sam and CJ's rather mechanical voices mingle through the recorded message, followed by the beep, a pause – and then Alex's voice.

‘Cam? Are you there? It's Alex. Pick up if you're there. I really want to talk to you . . . about last night. There's something I haven't told you. Look, we really need to talk. Are you there? . . . Okay, I'll be out for most of today but we'll catch up tonight. We really need to talk.'

I've got news for him. I have no intention of speaking to him today, or perhaps ever. At the moment the ostrich is my favourite animal . . . or bird, or whatever the hell it is. As I walk slowly back up the passage I involuntarily glance into the bathroom and meet the interested eyes of The Handyman. He gives me another huge grin and then heads past me in the direction of the front door. Great. He'll probably tell Maggie and she'll be onto this so fast I won't even have time to sell up, let alone move.

I put the kettle on and stare out of the window morosely. The backyard is beginning to look like it has not quite survived a nuclear bomb blast, and it's all courtesy of that damn dog. He has eaten all of the tree ferns, dug up most of the grass, and even managed to tear an enormous hole in the trampoline. And at the moment he is doing a series of moronic circles around the washing-line trying to catch his own tail. When I move, I'm definitely leaving him behind.

The front door opens and I hear The Handyman clomp back up the passage and into the bathroom. The kettle boils stridently and I proceed to make some black, strong, sweet tea for him and some white, semi-sweet, insipid-looking tea for me (if there really
is
a correlation between how one has one's tea and what attracts one in the opposite sex, then what does
my tea say about me?). As I turn to take his down to him, he comes up the passage waving a large piece of paper in his hand.

‘Here you go. There's two quotes there, one with the tiling and one without. In case you'll be wanting to do that bit yourself. Don't have to give me an answer now. Ah, thanks – perfecto.' He takes the tea from my outstretched hand and deposits the quote in there instead. I skip the details and go straight to the cost.

‘That seems
very
reasonable!' I say in surprise, ably demonstrating the fact that I have not even grasped the rudiments of dealing with repairmen. Incidentally, I'm also the pits at any sort of haggling.

‘Well, our Maggie
is
a friend of mine.' At this he gives me a huge wink and another of his super-wattage smiles. And actually they do wonders for his face – run of the mill weird becomes impish in the blink of an eye.

‘Oh. Okay then, when can you start?' I have no morals when it comes to paying for labour. If I am getting this cheaper because he thinks my ex sister-in-law provides excellent service for whatever it is that he needs done, then so be it.

‘Well, was it me you wanted doing the tiling or yourself?'

‘Ha, ha,' I laugh merrily. ‘How droll. No, you can do it, thanks.'

‘Okey dokey. Well, I can either do the whole job next Thursday, or I can do half now and the other half on Friday. Either way that'll be giving you a few days to pick out your tiles – I've put the
measurements down at the bottom of the quote.' He points to a jumble of figures written illegibly across the bottom of the piece of paper in my hand.

‘Um . . . I'll go with the half/half option, if that's okay.' I give up trying to decipher the scribble and decide to leave that up to the tile salesperson.

‘Not a problem.' He takes a sip of tea and looks with unabashed curiosity around my kitchen. I am fascinated by the way he drinks his tea – he actually crooks his little finger out at such an angle that he would be a positive menace to anybody who happened to be walking past.

‘Well then, madam, it's onto it I am as we speak.' He swallows the rest of the tea, curls his pinkie back, and hands the cup over to me before vanishing in the direction of the bathroom.

One thing is for sure, if this is what Maggie calls a bit odd, I'd hate to see anything she classes as
really
off the beaten track.