Odd Socks (13 page)

‘It's not like we never have dessert, CJ.' Cam laughs self-consciously and looks around the table. ‘We
do
have dessert, you know. A lot.'

‘Here.' Richard pushes a plate across the table to CJ's place as she sits down and looks at him gratefully. ‘Enjoy!'

‘Thank you!'

I finish off my cheesecake and eye the other three pieces thoughtfully before regretfully deciding that taking another one
would
be thought of as a bit piggy. Then I realise that now I
do
need to go to the bathroom. ‘Excuse me.' I stand up and push my chair away. ‘Back in a minute.'

After I've used the bathroom, I find some paper and a pen by the hall phone and head down to Cam's bedroom. Then, after chewing on the pen for a few minutes while giving the matter some thought, I write:

 

Rudolph slept here

 

I smile at my handiwork and position the paper neatly on her pillow where she will be sure to find it when she goes to bed tonight. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and stare into the standard mirror in the corner. Hell, I feel miserable. I sit like that for a while trying to recover some of my usual bonhomie and general good bloody will towards all. Just as I force my attention away from my reflection and start examining the way Cam's curtain hem has come down and is trailing on the floor, there is a strident knocking at the front door. As I'm the nearest, I drag myself up quickly and go to do the honours.

‘Teresa, dear! What a surprise!' Cam's mother stands on the threshold, beaming up at me from her five-foot-nothing
height. She is dressed to the nines in a floral frock (people like Cam's mother don't wear dresses – only frocks) and a black, fur-lined coat with a large hat balanced precariously on top of her head. An array of fake multicoloured flowers drips from the hat's brim and obscures her gaze so that she has to peer sideways to see me clearly.

‘Why, dear, you're looking a trifle peaky. Is everything all right?'

‘Oh, fine thanks, Mrs Riley,' I reply as I groan inwardly. ‘It's just a bit hot in here, that's all.'

‘Well, you should tell Camilla to turn the heat down then.' She steps into the house, sheds her coat and carefully removes the impressive hat from her head. ‘It's positively wasteful, isn't it, Harold?'

‘Yes, dear. Is that right?' Harold steps in behind her with an armful of picture frames and awkwardly holds out a hand for me to shake. He is wearing a neat brown suit and his usual anxious expression.

‘Have you seen the dear little baby today, Teresa?'

‘No. I'm going in tonight.'

‘Little darling,' says Cam's mother, obviously referring to the baby, not me. ‘Now, is my daughter here? I've been ringing the doorbell for at least ten minutes.'

‘It's not working, Mrs Riley,' I state with prior, painfully gained knowledge, ‘so she wouldn't have heard it. Come on, they're in the dining-room.'

‘Lead the way, dear.'

Obediently I lead the way. At least by being in the front I don't have to watch Mrs Riley ostentatiously avoiding each of the objects strewn across the floor. We walk into the dining-room just in time to hear CJ ask her mother in a very loud voice whether she could have one of the last pieces of cheesecake before Terry comes back and eats them all.

‘Mum!' says Cam with poorly disguised horror as she spots us walking in. ‘Mum, you're
here
!'

‘Grandma! Grandma!' With considerably more enthusiasm, CJ launches herself out of her chair and races to wrap herself around her grandmother. ‘Did you bring me a present?'

‘CJ! Don't be rude,' Cam admonishes her daughter half-heartedly as she stares at her mother. ‘So, Mum, what brings you over?'

‘What? Do I need an official invitation now to visit my daughter?' Cam's mother says in an affronted tone as she bends down to return CJ's hug. ‘Is that what things have come to? I've only brought the photos from the wedding I had framed to show you but I can always leave again if you'd rather. I'd hate to put you out, you know.'

‘No, I didn't mean that. I just meant – oh, it doesn't matter. Hi, Harold.'

‘Hello, Camilla. You're looking well, is that right?'

‘Actually, no, Harold. It's
not
right.' Cam's mother straightens up and puts her head on one side to examine her daughter thoughtfully. ‘She has obviously coloured her hair and it makes her look – well, cheap.'

‘Thanks, Mum. You really know how to build me up, don't you?'

‘Well, would you rather I told a barefaced lie? CJ, you're squishing Grandma's middle. Camilla? Is that what you'd prefer?'

‘Whatever.' Cam sighs and stands up from the table. ‘CJ, leave Grandma alone and finish your cheesecake. Oh, Mum – flowers! Did you bring me flowers? How nice!'

‘They are not flowers, Camilla. They are my hat.'

‘Oh. Well, anyway, I was just about to make coffee. Would you two like to join us?'

‘Only if you can spare the time, Camilla. I wouldn't want to put you out.'

‘Too late – I mean,' she adds quickly, ‘I mean, it's too late because I was already going to make coffee so an extra two is no big deal. Grab a seat.'

‘I think I would prefer to take a seat, Camilla, rather than ‘grab' one. I must say your table is looking very . . . festive. Very festive indeed.' Rose sweeps the table with a glance and then sniffs perceptively. ‘Did you burn something? You didn't burn
lunch
, did you? And that reminds me, perhaps you could turn the heat down – Teresa is feeling a little flushed.'

‘Sure.' Cam turns and gives me an evil look. ‘But you'll still be hot, won't you?'

‘Do you believe in Santa Claus, CJ?' I ask the child with interest. ‘You know, the jolly red guy with the reindeers who shows up around Christmas?'

‘Of
course
I do,' answers CJ, looking confused. ‘Why?'

‘Yes, why?' Cam's mother turns to me curiously. ‘Why would you ask something like that? In
July
, of all times?'

‘My sentiments exactly,' I reply enthusiastically, ‘and I was just saying to Cam before how tacky I thought it was that –'

‘Okay, okay!' Cam interrupts rudely. ‘If you're staying for coffee, Mum, then I'd better make introductions. Everybody – this is my mother, Rose Riley, and her husband, Harold. And Mum, Harold – do you remember Joanne? I think you met her at a barbecue I had last year. We used to work together at the library.'

‘Pleased to meet you, dear.' Harold smiles pleasantly at Joanne. ‘Don't quite remember, but never mind. Is that right?'

‘
I
remember.' Cam's mother fixes Joanne with her gimlet gaze. ‘You're the young lady who dresses in different colours to suit your mood. Do you still do that?'

‘Actually, yes, I still do, Mrs Riley,' answers Joanne with some trepidation. ‘And how are you?'

‘Fine. So you're wearing green today – what does that mean?'

‘Um, well – it's to signify trees . . . life,' stammers Joanne. ‘You know, um, renewal. Yes, renewal – friendships, that's it.'

‘Hmm. Interesting. And who is your friend here?'

‘Oh, Mum, sorry, this is Richard.' Cam waves airily in Richard's general direction. ‘Richard – meet my mother, Rose Riley, and her husband, Harold.'

Harold immediately walks around the table with his hand outstretched and Richard begins his unfolding trick until he stands at his full, rather impressive height in front of him. They shake hands and smile politely at each other. Then Richard turns to Cam's mother and, with his hand still out, smiles at her. But she doesn't shake hands. And she doesn't smile back. In fact, I suddenly notice, her face has turned a peculiar shade of mottled greenish-white and she has grasped the back of a spare chair for support. She also appears to be at a loss for words and it is probably this, more than her pallor, which causes everybody's attention to focus on her with varying degrees of bafflement.

‘Mum, are you okay?'

‘Mrs Riley – would you like my seat?'

‘Rose, Rose –' Harold goes pale himself as he studies his wife. ‘Rose, are you not feeling well? Is that right?'

All through this medley of solicitous concern, the subject has not batted an eyelid or moved a muscle. Rose Riley is still standing rigidly behind the chair she has grasped, her knuckles showing white through the skin with the force of her grip. But they look positively rosy compared with her face, the colour of which makes her eyes look sunken and staring. Actually, staring they most certainly are. They have not wavered in their intense focus across the room, so I follow their gaze and suddenly I, too, am staring – at Richard.

I look back at Rose to make sure that it
is
Richard she's staring at, and then I look back at Richard to see how he's
taking all this. And I get another little shock when I register that, out of all of us, he seems the least surprised by what is going on. In fact, he is staring straight back at Cam's mother and the only difference between the two of them is that Richard is actually smiling.

I open the door for Fergus and, for the first time in our relationship, immediately notice how much shorter he is than me. Until now, I've never really thought of Fergus as short: his larger-than-life personality seemed to fill the room regardless of his lack of actual inches. If there was anything about Fergus that bugged me, it's probably the fact that he's also cuter than me. A
lot
cuter. Because Fergus has one of the most elfin-looking faces I've ever seen on a man. He also has shaggy blonde-streaked hair, a gold earring in his left ear, and wacky taste in clothes. Today he has on his lemon overalls with an emerald-green t-shirt underneath. Green is Fergus's favourite colour – he claims it reminds him of the hills of Ireland, even though I suspect he has never physically been there. Apparently, it's all in the genes.

‘I'm having to take a raincheck –' Fergus shuts the door behind him and rubs his hands together to warm them ‘– and be off over to Maggie Brown's instead.'

‘How come?' I ask curiously. Maggie is a friend, Alex's sister, and Cam's former sister-in-law. ‘What's she done now?'

‘Well, hasn't one of her best clients gone and pulled off the doorhandle a half-hour ago? The flaming great eejit.'

‘That doesn't sound like much of an emergency,' I say doubtfully.

‘' Tis when he and the lass are stuck on the other side,' replies Fergus pragmatically.

‘Really?' I can't help grinning at the thought. ‘But then hadn't you better get straight over there?'

‘No. Didn't Maggie tell me to take my time? It's all profit, she says. So I've time for a drink, my love.'

‘Great.' I lead the way through the lounge-room with my still-stained carpet, and into the kitchen. Fergus sits at the table, runs his hand wearily through his already dishevelled mop and yawns. He looks really tired. I get the bottle of scotch down from where it lives on top of a cupboard and pour a generous splash into two glass tumblers. Then I top Fergus's up with ice, and mine with Diet Coke
and
ice. Lastly I grab a bag of corn chips from another cupboard, fill a glass bowl with them and get two coasters out of a drawer.

With all these preparations done, I look across at Fergus and realise with amazement that he's fallen asleep at the table with his head on one arm. I try to decide whether to leave him be or to wake him up for the drink and, while I'm thinking, an unbidden image suddenly flits into my mind of an impossibly tall, ridiculously thin and badly dressed man with the most gorgeous eyes I've ever seen. I flush with a mixture of guilt and annoyance and, to compensate, dash over to the table and give Fergus a hearty kiss on the mouth. He immediately puts a hand at the nape of my neck and kisses me back, which goes to show he wasn't all
that
deeply asleep. He tastes of peppermint and cigarettes.

‘Why thank
you
, lovely lady,' he says as he releases me, ‘and isn't that more like old times!'

‘What do you mean, “old times”?' I reply tersely. ‘These
are
old times!'

‘Whatever you say, to be sure. And what would you be saying to skipping the drink and –' Fergus pauses, wiggles his
eyebrows about and gives me what he obviously sees as a seductive look ‘– taking this little discussion upstairs?'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

Fergus doesn't reply, just looks at me expressionlessly for a moment before getting up and transferring the drinks from the counter to the table. I stand there awkwardly, holding the coasters and wishing I'd phrased that rejection a trifle more subtly, but am momentarily unable to think of a damn thing to make it better.

‘All righty then. Shall we be drinking to the little lass?'

‘Certainly,' I say heartily as I raise my glass. ‘To Sherry!'

‘To Sherry,' repeats Fergus. ‘May she live long and prosper!'

We both take a drink and I pass him his coaster before he puts his glass down. Then I fetch the corn chips and settle myself in the chair opposite him. We sit in silence for a few moments while I run my finger around the rim of my tumbler and try to think of something to say. Has it been this hard for a while and I just haven't noticed?

In the first few months of our relationship it seemed we couldn't find time for all the things we
wanted
to say. And the laughter! Fergus has the most amazingly wacky sense of humour. He was just such good company. We'd have afternoon sessions on the weekend where we just lay around in bed for hours, talking and laughing at everything in between bouts of really fun sex. Yet here we sit, in total silence. How did this happen? How can we get it back on track?