Odd Socks (17 page)

‘According to his receptionist, Dennis is off cruising at the moment.'

‘Cruising?' Diane looks at me, confused.

‘Cruising as in
on
a cruise,' I reply. ‘Not as in trying to pick someone up. Although . . .'

‘Yes,' says Diane sympathetically, ‘hmm.'

‘Anyway, he's supposed to be back by the weekend so she's going to pass on the message about Bronte. And then, when he rings, I'll let him know about Sunday.'

‘Good,' says Diane, tucking her purse securely into her handbag. ‘And I'll handle all the rest. Just let me know what you want me to bring.'

‘Hey, Diane?' I ask as something occurs to me. ‘Did Cam tell you about your mother yesterday? At lunch?'

‘Yes!' Diane hangs her bag on her shoulder and looks at me, nodding. ‘She did! That is
so
weird. I can't wait to find out what it's all about.'

‘Then you don't know?' I ask, disappointed. ‘No ideas?'

‘Not a one,' she replies. ‘I mean, it sounds like she knows him – otherwise why have a reaction like that? But as far as
I'm aware, she's never even
been
to Tasmania so I've got no idea. But I'm going to find out.'

‘When you do, can you tell me? I'm just curious.'

‘No problem.' Diane looks at her watch as one of her twins starts to yawn, stretching herself out and bopping her sister neatly on the side of the head. ‘Hey, Regan! That's not very nice, sweetheart!'

The bopped twin immediately starts to scream blue murder while Sweetheart looks on imperturbably. Diane hurriedly unclips the restraint and picks up her injured offspring, nursing her against one shoulder and murmuring appeasements. As the baby's sobs turn to hiccups and she starts to calm down, I watch Regan with considerable interest. She is now paying absolutely no attention to her sister and has instead started to examine her fingernails carefully. Then, as if she senses me looking at her, she turns, cocks her head on one side, and stares evenly back. And it suddenly hits me that this must have been exactly what Cam's daughter CJ was like six years ago. Oh, the power of genetics!

Poor Diane.

With some difficulty, I fill out all the blanks through to the end of Section Three of Part B, and then follow the instructions directing me to Section Four of Part D. However, when I read through the first two paragraphs of this section, I discover they seem to be in direct contradiction to the circumstances outlined in Section Two of Part A. Accordingly, I flick back to Section Two of Part A, and examine the tiny print at the
bottom of the page, which now tells me to go straight to Question Six of Section One of Part E. And I'm quite sure it didn't say that before.

But my particular tax return form doesn't seem to
have
a Question Six of Section One of Part E. In fact, try as I might, I can't even find Part E. I flick the pages backwards and forwards, naively assuming that Part E would be sandwiched between Parts D and F. But it's not. So I flick back to Section Two of Part A and re-read the tiny print. And now it says to skip Questions One to Eleven of Parts C, D and E and instead read Question Twelve of Part F to see if it applies. I briefly consider attempting to flick forwards to Part F, and decide instead to flick the lot. So I do. Right over to the other side of the room. Then I flick the pen for good measure.

Pushing my ponytail over my shoulder, I stare balefully at the bundle of papers now scattered over the floor by the television set and decide that perhaps investing in a tax agent mightn't be a bad idea. Instead of wasting my time on such stressful matters, I'll start reading
Gone with the Wind
. I'm pretty sure Scarlett never had to bother her head with Parts A to F of annual tax returns. Fiddle dee dee to that.

So I stretch out on the couch and open the book to immerse myself in the days of buggies and courtship and whalebone corsets. But it's a tad difficult because I can see the scattered papers out of the corner of my left eye and their haphazardness offends my sense of order. I re-read the first paragraph three times and then give up. Hauling myself off the couch, I head towards the offensive paperwork just as the doorbell rings, so I change direction to answer it.

‘Teresa!' Stephen bounces through the door dressed in jeans and what looks like a velvet smoking jacket with padded shoulders and enormous braided pockets. ‘Or should I say
Grandma
?'

‘No,' I reply emphatically as I close the door behind him. ‘You shouldn't.'

‘Got time for a coffee?'

‘Sure.' I lead the way through the lounge-room towards the kitchen. ‘And I've been meaning to drop in and say thanks, so you've saved me the trip.'

‘Thanks?' asks Stephen, following in my wake. ‘Thanks for what?'

‘For Monday morning, of course. Helping out with Bronte.'

‘Oh, pffft.' Stephen waves his hand airily. ‘Lord – what are all these?'

‘My bloody tax return.' I stop at the entrance to the kitchen and watch Stephen bend down and retrieve the crumpled papers from the floor. ‘I
hate
it.'

‘Odd filing system you have, schnooks,' he replies as he joins me with the tax return paraphernalia in one hand. ‘What happens when the whole floor's covered?'

‘Hardy ha ha.' I put the kettle on and spoon some coffee into the plunger while Stephen sits at the table and tucks my group certificate and other loose pages in the tax return booklet. ‘I swear those things are designed by the same people who invented the Rubik's cube.'

‘Oh, I
love
the Rubik's cube!' says Stephen. ‘What fun!'

‘Yeah.' I roll my eyes at him as I get out a couple of coasters and pop them on the table. ‘A real barrel of laughs.'

‘Do you want me to do it for you?' Stephen opens up the booklet, has a look at what I've written and starts to laugh.

‘What's so funny?' I ask, rather offended.

‘Here, this.' Stephen starts to chortle again. ‘What you've written for Question Two of Section Three of Part B. Ha ha ha!'

‘I'm going to ignore you.' I add some milk to the two cups
and carry them over to the table with a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. ‘Because anybody who finds tax returns amusing has to be sick.'

‘Don't sneer at people just because they're different,' replies Stephen evenly, still reading the tax return. ‘Now, do you want me to do it or not? I'm pretty cheap.'

‘Do you actually
do
tax returns?' I sit down in the chair opposite and wrap my hands around my hot mug. ‘I thought you were an actor.'

‘Haven't you
seen
my acting?' says Stephen, looking at me with amusement. ‘Do you
seriously
think I'd make a living from that?'

‘Um, well . . .' I reply carefully, because I
have
seen his acting and I
have
always wondered how he managed to put food on the table.

‘Quite right. No, acting's just a hobby – sometimes it pays, sometimes it don't.' Stephen takes a sip of coffee. ‘But my paying job is accountancy.'

‘You're an accountant?' I ask in disbelief. ‘An
accountant
?'

‘Actually, it's a great lurk,' says Stephen, a trifle defensively. ‘I just do the books for a few small businesses and then, at this time of the year, make a bit on the side with tax returns. So, yes or no? I'll do yours at a cut rate because of the entertainment value.'

‘Yes, yes,
yes
!' I say, nodding eagerly. ‘And thank you! Just give me the bill when you're done.'

‘No problem.' Stephen folds the papers in half and puts them in one of his ample pockets. ‘And don't forget to give me your receipts before I go.'

‘Receipts? What receipts?'

‘Ah, I see.'

‘Good, then we'll change the subject – did you get lucky Monday morning or not?'

‘No, not
then
exactly. But –' Stephen looks across at me with a self-satisfied smirk ‘– I hope to on Saturday night.'

‘Don't tell me you got a date with him?' I ask as I take a bite of biscuit.

‘I most certainly did, and isn't he
just
the cutest thing you've ever seen with a stretcher? Almost as cute as that little Irishman of yours, hey?'

‘Almost,' I mumble around my biscuit, ‘but, yes, he
was
cute. Not my type – but well done, anyway.'

‘Well, I should
think
he's not your type!' Stephen laughs. ‘Otherwise, lordy, have I got my wires crossed!'

‘Oh, no problem there,' I reply, with a knowledgable nod. ‘
That
was pretty obvious. And I hope it all works out well for you.'

‘Schnooks, so do I. So do I.'

‘And really – thanks for Monday morning.'

‘Oh no.' Stephen puts his hand to his heart and looks at me earnestly. ‘It's me that has to thank
you
!'

‘What on earth for?'

‘Well, I've always wondered what it would be like –' Stephen reaches over and grabs a biscuit, which he waves at me to emphasise his words ‘– you know, with a
woman
. Just out of curiosity, you see, because
so
many people seem to think it's the dog's dinner! But after I saw what I saw on Monday morning, oh my
lord
! I will
never
wonder again!'

‘But, Stephen, she was giving
birth
!'

‘No matter – it was scary.' Stephen shudders. ‘
Really
scary.'

‘Oh, come on!'

‘Yes, scary!' He shakes his head and points the biscuit at me. ‘
Yech!
I don't know
how
you people cope! Then again, I suppose you don't spend a lot of time down there – so I should say, I don't know how your
men
cope! Oh! And let me tell you about the nightmare it gave me that night!
Absolutely terrifying! There I was, just bouncing on a trampoline and –'

‘Bouncing on a
trampoline
?'

‘Yep. And I was having a perfectly lovely time, looking at the blue, blue sky and getting higher and higher. Up and down, up and down. Then, when I was at the highest point I possibly could be, I looked down and you'll never guess! It wasn't a trampoline anymore!' Stephen pauses for effect and looks at me, shaking his head. ‘No, it was this absolutely
huge
, monstrous –'

‘I don't want to know!'

‘Exactly! And while I was realising this, it was like slow motion and I was poised up in the air. But I knew that any minute the spell would break and I was going to have to go down and, when I did, I was going to plunge right into the middle of it!'

‘I'm not listening!' I cup my hands over my ears to stress my point. ‘And I
don't
want to know!'

‘Okay, okay.' Stephen leans over the table and removes one of my hands. ‘I won't tell you the rest.'

‘Thank god, otherwise
I'll
be getting nightmares!'

‘You sure would! But –' he shudders theatrically and then wags the biscuit at me again ‘– I tell you, schnooks, I had
such
a job climbing out! And I've
certainly
been reassured that I'm on the right path.'

‘Glad to be of service.'

Stephen takes a sip of coffee and pops his biscuit in his mouth, lost in thought. And if he is thinking what I
think
he's thinking, I hope that he doesn't decide to share that with me either. However, all this talk about whatever it was we were talking about has reminded me I'm overdue for my two-yearly pap smear. I make a mental note to arrange an appointment while I've got the week off.

‘
Teresa!
'

‘What!' I exclaim, startled. ‘What is it?'

‘That
plant
.' Stephen is staring at the kitchen counter where the cactus squats in all its glory, bulbous flowers at the ready. ‘It's gorgeous! Where
did
you get it?'

‘Why, Stephen,' I exclaim, struck with brilliance, ‘it's for you! A present to say thanks for your help.'

‘Oh my lord!' He gets up and walks slowly over to the counter. ‘For
me
? You
shouldn't
have!'

‘Of course I should,' I reply, smiling graciously, ‘even if you did faint at the end. I don't know what I would have done without you.'

‘I'm speechless!' Stephen reaches out and, completely without fear, strokes one of the fleshy-looking stems. ‘Absolutely speechless!'

‘No,' I say teasingly, ‘never!'

Instead of answering, Stephen picks up the plant and carries it over to the table, where he deposits it gently next to his coffee. Then he comes around the table and, before I can even respond, envelops me in a huge hug and delivers a kiss to my cheek.

‘Thanks, schnooks,' he says, visibly touched. ‘I'll treasure it.'

‘No problem,' I reply, feeling a little guilty now. ‘My pleasure.'

‘But where
did
you get it?' Stephen turns the pot around to examine the cactus from each of its ugly angles. ‘It's
absolutely
spectacular!'

‘Oh, it was the last one left and they're not getting any more,' I say airily, in case he wants to rush out and buy the lot. ‘Hey, another cup of coffee?'

‘No thanks – but I
will
have the last one of these biscuits, if you don't mind?'

‘Help yourself.'

‘Ta.' Stephen drains his coffee and pulls the biscuit plate towards himself. ‘By the way, I dropped in to see Bronte yesterday. She
is
looking well. Considering.'

‘Yes, she is. And that reminds me – are you doing anything on Sunday?'

‘All depends on the success of Saturday night,' Stephen replies with a leer. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Bronte's having a naming day for the baby here in the afternoon. Just family and close friends. Can you make it?'