Odd Socks (25 page)

Sherry distracts me by becoming restless so I pick up the menu and wave it gently in front of her face. Then, after she relaxes, I rest the menu on top of her bunny-rug so that I can help myself to another bread roll. Dennis also reaches for one at the same time and grins at me when our hands touch. I snatch my hand away as if it's been burnt and, reaching across, he drops his bread roll on my plate before grabbing another one and returning to his meal. I stroke Sherry's head absentmindedly, sending her ESP messages regarding chauvinist pigs and double standards.

‘Tell you what, after we get through Bronte's naming day, let's double date.' I give Dennis an evil look as I break my roll awkwardly.

‘Are you
kidding
?' Dennis puts his fork down and stares at me.

‘No, I'm not. It'll be fun,' I smile reassuringly. Because it
will
be fun – and it'll show up the obvious differences between
my
ditsy blonde and
his
ditsy blonde – and
my
ditsy blonde is witty and very entertaining. And he certainly won't need help reading the menu.

‘Well, don't include me,' says Bronte, looking horrified. ‘We're busy that night.'

‘Okay, if you want.' Dennis grins at me and shrugs philosophically. ‘Weird, but what the hell.'

‘Excellent! Ring me in a week or so and we'll set it up.'

‘Sometimes you flabbergast me, love,' Dennis comments as he takes a mouthful of the gelatinous brown lumps on his plate. ‘Mmm! These are damn delicious!'

‘Well, they certainly don't look it.'

‘Hey, guess who I saw last week?' Dennis glances up from his plate at me.

‘Do I have to – or could you just tell me?'

‘Maggie Brown! I haven't seen her in years. Do you know her? She's your friend Camilla's ex-husband's sister.'

‘I know who Maggie Brown is,' I say impatiently, ‘so what's the problem? Can't get it for free anymore? Did you get a discount?'

‘What are you talking about, woman?' Dennis looks at me in total confusion as Bronte puts her hand over her mouth and splutters helplessly.

‘It's a joke, Dennis. You know, about Maggie and what she does for a living.'

‘What does she do for a living then?' Dennis takes another mouthful of medallion and proceeds to talk around the food. ‘I thought she was a schoolteacher or something.'

‘Dad, you
must
know.' Bronte wipes her mouth with her serviette. ‘
Everybody
does!'

‘Obviously everybody except me.'

‘You're kidding?' I look at Dennis in some surprise, as usually he knows more intimate secrets about people than they do about themselves. It must be the gas he uses in the surgery.

‘Look, all I know is that she was in yesterday for an extraction. Impacted molar. Nasty little bugger, too.' Dennis puts down his cutlery and starts picking at the remainder of his salad with his fingers. ‘But the woman's made of stone. No injections and didn't even flinch when I ripped it out.'

‘Too much information.'

‘So, tell me what you're both on about then.'

‘Okay. Well, she
used
to be a high school teacher, but she had one of those midlife career changes years ago and went into business with a friend of hers. They own a brothel in Ferntree Gully.'

‘
Maggie
owns a brothel?' Dennis's mouth has dropped open in disbelief. Luckily for us he has no food in it.

‘Yep.'

‘You mean, she . . . that is,
she
–'

‘No, if you mean is she one of the workers, then no. She's the owner.' I laugh at the expression on his face but I can understand his reaction because it's very similar to mine when I first discovered what Maggie did for a living. She's one of the nicest, most loyal friends a person could possibly ask for – but she isn't exactly the sort you could imagine decked out in high heels and suspenders, or whatever it is that ladies of the night normally wear. In fact, she most closely resembles a beach ball with arms and legs.

‘I was going to say . . . But, bloody hell! Unbelievable.'

‘Yep.'

‘It sure takes all kinds.' Dennis shakes his head slowly. ‘But, no, I took cash for the molar extraction yesterday.'

‘Pity. Missed a good opportunity there. And that's not like you.'

‘The day I have to pay for it is the day I give it up.'

‘Yadda, yadda, yadda,' I say rudely. ‘You'll never give it up.'

‘
Gross
, Mum!'

Dennis pushes his half-empty plate away and has a sip of his wine. ‘Terry, do you want to pass that baby back over again?'

‘I'll take her, Dad.' Bronte puts down her cutlery and reaches out her arms. ‘Here, Mum, pass her over.'

‘Oh, love, could I take her for a bit?' asks Dennis. ‘After all, I've got some catching up to do.'

‘Okay,' replies Bronte grudgingly as I stand up and carefully deliver the now dozing baby into Dennis's lap. ‘But, like, watch her head.'

‘Fine.'

‘And, Dad, that porta-cot you bought me was faulty. Do you still have the receipt?'

‘Somewhere, I'll search for it tonight.' Dennis looks annoyed. ‘God, they make some serious crap nowadays. Sorry, love.'

‘Well, it's not your fault if it was broken,' I comment generously as I pick at the remains of his salad. ‘And it was nice of you to buy it for her.'

‘Yeah, I'm a nice guy. Spread it around.'

‘I think you already have.'

‘I do my best.' Dennis leans back with Sherry in his arms and smiles at us both. ‘Now, what do you two say to some pavlova?'

‘Yum,' exclaims Bronte enthusiastically, pushing her plate away.

‘Do you mean sensitively whipped egg whites?' I ask in a husky voice. ‘Topped with a coquettish pastille of fresh cream beaten so severely that it begged for mercy?'

‘That's the one,' says Dennis, laughing.

‘I say bring it on.' I take a sip of wine and then make some space in front of me for pavlova. An even more cheerful-looking
waitress quickly materialises next to Dennis, methodically takes our order and then clears the table.

In an impressively short time Bronte and I are each tucking into an enormous slice of pavlova dripping with whipped cream, strawberries and kiwifruit. The slice in front of Dennis remains untouched as he waits for one of us to finish and take the baby, who is becoming restless again. I smile at him and roll my eyes to indicate the dessert's delectability.

‘I must say, it's good to see a woman with a healthy appetite.'

‘Yep,' I reply around a mouthful of pavlova, ‘that's one thing I've never had a problem with. Unlike your appetites.'

‘Do you know, Terry, you really should put the past behind you.'

‘Easy for you to say.'

‘I wish you two would stop it,' says Bronte crossly. ‘Like, just for once.'

I continue eating my pavlova in silence while Dennis plays with Sherry's fingers and then tries my trick of waving the menu gently across her face. Every time we meet I swear to myself that, this time, I won't bring up the past. And every time I end up doing it just the same. Which is odd because I'm really
not
bitter nowadays and, what's more, I can't imagine anything worse than still being married to the man. In fact, we seem to have reached a stage in our lives where all the animosity that tinged the last two years of our marriage, and at least the first five years of our separation, has evolved into a healthy acceptance of each other as friends. Friends with a lot of baggage, but friends nevertheless.

‘If you've quite finished devouring that pav,' Dennis says, looking at me with exaggerated patience, ‘could you take our mutual grandchild so that I can eat mine?'

‘Sure,' I answer obligingly around my last mouthful. I push
my plate away and stand up to fetch Sherry, who should be starting to feel like an unwanted postal parcel by now. As I lift her up, the menu gets stuck within the folds of her bunny-rug and is dragged across the table, creating a creamy trench through Dennis's plate of pavlova. Bronte gasps and Dennis smiles at me ruefully.

‘Lord, I'd forgotten all this.'

‘Me too.' I lift Sherry a tad higher, away from Dennis's dessert, and then carefully lower myself into my chair. Unfortunately the menu comes too, leaving a trail of cream down my low-cut peasant blouse and across the lap of my jeans. Holding Sherry securely in my lap, I pluck a strawberry off my right breast and pop it into my mouth.

‘Be still my heart!' Dennis gives an exaggerated groan and then looks around for a waitress.

‘Oh, Mum!' Bronte pushes away her dessert plate. ‘Here, I'll take Sherry.'

I lean back so that Bronte can get both arms underneath the baby, who she then lifts up and takes with her back to her seat. One of the cheerful waitresses appears with a damp cloth in her hand. She begins to mop me up.

‘Hey, thanks – but I'll do that.' I snatch the cloth from her.

Meanwhile, Sherry has progressed from being merely restless to downright agitated. While her mother tries in vain to pacify her, she begins a low undulating wail that causes every head in the restaurant to swivel in our direction. I take a gulp of wine and stand to finish my clean-up, brushing off the flakes of meringue shell and mopping up the cream. I now look like I'm auditioning for a wet t-shirt competition but at least it means that half the heads turned in our direction are no longer staring balefully at the baby.

Bronte removes Sherry from her bunny-rug and lifts her up, placing her against a shoulder. Then, supporting her head
and back with one hand, she uses the other to pat the baby's padded bottom. At the very first pat, an extremely offensive smell issues forth and, when I turn automatically to look at its source, I notice that Sherry's nappy hasn't been entirely successful in retaining its contents.

‘Oh, dis
gust
ing!' Dennis grimaces and waves one hand in front of his nose.

‘No,' wails Bronte plaintively, ‘not again!'

‘Give her to your father,' I suggest, sitting down and passing the sticky cloth to the hovering waitress. ‘He's just been saying that he has to make up for lost time.'

‘Good idea,' agrees Bronte readily, ‘here you go, Dad.'

‘Sorry.' Dennis glances at his watch and stands up. ‘Love to help out but I have to be back at the surgery by two thirty. I've got a root canal.'

‘That'd be right,' says Bronte darkly as she stands up with Sherry still on her shoulder. ‘Here, Mum, like, can you take her while I get the nappy bag from the car?'

‘Okay,' I reply, less than enthusiastically, as the wailing baby is lowered back onto my lap. I grab the bunny-rug and try to arrange it around Sherry's lower half while Bronte fishes her car keys out of her pocket and leaves the restaurant at a trot. After watching her exit, I pop the semi-wrapped Sherry up onto my shoulder and immediately the combined odour of strawberries, cream and a shitty nappy nearly knocks me out.

‘Dennis – give us a hand,' I say threateningly, ‘or I'll give
you
a root canal.'

‘Promises, promises. And I would if I could, but –'he shakes his head ruefully as he pulls his wallet out from his back pocket ‘– I'm afraid duty calls.'

‘Dennis, don't you
dare
leave,' I grind out through clenched teeth.

‘Do you know, that's
really
bad for your bite. Which reminds
me, you're late for your check-up. Give me a ring and I'll slot you in. Here –' he fishes a few notes out of his wallet and passes them over to the waitress ‘– this should cover the bill. Keep the change.'

‘Dennis!'

‘No – I insist on paying, it's the least I can do. And I tell you what, Terry –'

‘
Dennis!
'

‘Just because I like to cater to
your
appetites –'

‘DENNIS!'

‘You can finish off my pavlova.'

‘. . . and so we'd all like to farewell Barbara as she moves on to bigger and better things in the States. We wish her all the best with her new husband and fully expect to hear soon that the American library system has been completely overhauled by our indefatigable colleague here! So, here's to Barbara! Good luck and best wishes!'

Alan, the big boss, beams as loud applause echoes throughout the library. One of the teenage shelvers pushes a madly blushing Barbara forwards and Alan leans over to shake her hand. Then he turns behind him and picks up a small but brightly wrapped gift, which he passes over to Barbara with a flourish.

‘Just a token of our gratitude,' he says, looking straight over Barbara's head towards the crowd of library employees, ‘to take along as you enter this new, and no doubt challenging, phase of your life. And seriously, folks, I for one would
like to tell Barbara how much I've enjoyed working with her all these years, and that I'll miss her friendly face every morning . . .'

I quickly slip around the corner of the new releases display, and walk over to the row of fiction books behind a planter at the far end of the library. Then I choose one at random, and settle myself on a seat beside a large overhanging palm where I can't be seen. Because, as much as I like Barbara, I can't
stand
Alan and his interminable speeches. Any chance that man gets he will drone on and on, delighting in the sound of his own voice. Missing Barbara in the mornings, hell! He probably didn't even know who she was until she put in her resignation. What a hypocrite.

I push myself back into the chair and smooth down my jeans. My
clean
jeans, as I took the time to get changed before I came over to the library to farewell Barbara. Besides them, I'm now wearing my black boots and a red angora square-cut jumper, without a bit of pavlova to be seen. Just as I make myself comfortable, there is a loud tapping on the glass to my right so I look over towards the rain-splashed window. To my astonishment, I see a dripping wet, middle-aged, rather rotund female dressed in a see-through rain poncho standing outside the library. With the rain running in rivulets off her hair and down her face, she's drumming her fingers on the glass, waving a hardback at me, and mouthing what look like obscenities. Using hand gestures, I indicate that the library is closed and for her to return the book via the after-hours chute. She immediately uses a few hand gestures back and continues mouthing what I now realise definitely
are
obscenities. And impressively inventive ones at that.