Odd Socks (21 page)

‘How's it going?'

‘No problem,' she replies, grinning at me. ‘In fact, I really like this!'

‘Good.'

‘Hey, are you going to Barbara's farewell tomorrow afternoon?'

‘Yes, what about you? Do you want me to pick you up?'

‘No! Um, I mean no thanks – because I'm not sure I can make it. Uni stuff. But I
am
going to try.' Cam starts experimenting with the different settings on her control pad. ‘I'd really like to say goodbye to her before she goes.'

‘Fancy moving overseas to live with a guy you met over the internet.'

‘I know. I hope it works out for her.'

‘Hmm.' I rotate my shoulders as I walk, loosening them up. ‘I've got
no
chance of an internet romance – I can't even remember my password!'

‘Twit.'

‘No, I'm serious.' I spot Adonis leaning casually in the doorway, watching me walk. I flash him one of my super-wattage grins but he just gives me a wry half-smile and turns away.

‘What did you tell that guy?' I ask Cam distrustfully.

‘Ha! Just that you were entering a monastery next week!'

‘Dork! Only
guys
join monasteries!'

‘Exactly,' she smirks at me. ‘He was shattered.'

‘You realise I'll have my revenge, don't you?'

‘I was doing you a favour. You've got too much on your plate already.'

‘Hmm,' I reply thoughtfully. ‘About Barbara's thing, do you think Joanne'll be there?'

‘I'd be surprised if she isn't.'

‘Your mum wanted you to get her phone number.'

‘Okay – remind me.'

‘Do you think she'll bring him?'

‘Nah,' says Cam, without having to ask who I mean. ‘He'd be gone by now.'

‘
What!
' I turn to face Cam in disbelief, and come dangerously close to shooting off the end of my own treadmill. ‘What do you mean – gone?'

Cam looks at me curiously. ‘Joanne
did
say he was only here for a few days. And that was on Tuesday, so I'm guessing he'd be gone by now. Certainly by tomorrow, anyway.'

‘Bugger.' I concentrate on getting back in rhythm as my stomach does its free-fall act again. ‘I'd forgotten about that.'

‘And why, may I ask, has it upset you so?' Cam inquires pleasantly, her eyebrows raised. ‘After all, he only
looks
like your father, remember?'

‘Of course I remember!' I snap back. ‘It's only the whole mystery thing with your mother. I'm curious about it, that's all!'

‘Sure you are,' says Cam smugly as she plays around with her control pad again. ‘Hey, this thing's really cool!'

I ignore her while I adjust my own controls, turning up the walk pace until I'm forced to start jogging to keep up, my feet pounding the conveyer belt underneath with a loud thump, thump, thump. For some reason I had forgotten about Richard only being here for a few days. Of course I knew he lived in Tasmania and would be going back eventually; I just thought that it wouldn't be for a while. Not until after we'd had a few meetings at least, got to know each other a tad, perhaps even had a conversation or two where I
didn't
act like a complete pillock.

I decide that the best course of action at the moment is to stay on my treadmill, running until I'm totally exhausted and incapable of thought. Then Cam can carry me home and pour me a glass of something mind-numbing. I lean forwards, increase my time setting and keep on jogging while I concentrate on blocking all external stimuli. Which is why I don't actually register Cam's increasingly panicked shouts for a good few minutes. As soon as I do, I turn to see what's up – and almost flip myself over my handlebars in surprise.

Somehow, Cam has managed to set her machine onto such a steep incline that it is pointed roughly towards the ceiling, yet still running at a very fast pace. Which she's having considerable trouble keeping up with but can't escape from, because her shoelace has caught in the front edge of the conveyer belt. So there she is, yelling at me while staggering frantically uphill with one hand flailing helplessly towards the emergency stop bar on the console.

I turn my machine off and coast to a stop. Then I lean against the console and watch her curiously. Her hand keeps hitting at the front of the stop bar but, because of the severe angle, doesn't quite reach it.

‘Having fun?'

‘No! No! Turn it
off
!'

‘What was that?' I inquire solicitously. ‘Did you say turn it up?'

‘No!' She tries to rip her shoelace loose and ends up hopping at a run. ‘I'm going to kill you!'

‘We can't have that!' I say, throwing my hands up in mock horror. ‘Don't forget I'm taking my vows next week.'

‘Turn the damn thing off!
Please!
'

‘Ah, the magic word.' I reach across, turn the machine off and it slows to a halt as it lowers itself back to the ground and levels out. As it is coasting down, Cam flops down on the belt and, still panting heavily, tries to get her shoelace loose. But it's stuck tight. She leans back and puts her hand to her chest as she tries to get her breathing under control.

‘I'm going. To kill. You.'

‘I could always turn this thing on again, you know,' I comment as my hand hovers over the console pad. ‘So be nice, you hear?'

Cam makes a grunting sound that is halfway between a laugh and a pant.

‘Okay.' I bend down and take hold of her shoelace. ‘Let's have a look.'

But despite my best efforts, and then our joint best efforts, we can't get the shoelace out. It's stuck tight. So Cam removes her shoe and leaves it sitting on the treadmill as she backs away and sits on the floor, still recovering from her ordeal. I look around curiously to see if there were any witnesses to this little debacle but even Adonis isn't in sight.

‘I'll go and get someone to help in a minute,' I say to Cam as I sit on the floor next to her and start to laugh. ‘Your face! I wish I had a camera!'

‘Bitch,' says Cam as she begins laughing too.

The elderly guy from the exercise bikes comes into the room, wiping his face on a towel, and stops short when he sees us sitting on the floor laughing. He looks from Cam to me to the shoe in the middle of the treadmill. Then, obviously changing his mind, he leaves again.

‘When I get this shoe loose,' says Cam, holding her side and groaning, ‘I'm going to beat you to death with it.'

‘Should I start running now?' I ask with interest. ‘Or would a slow walk suffice?'

‘I thought you said you were getting picked up at four,' I say petulantly as Bronte answers her mobile phone. ‘It's nearly six!'

‘I know, sorry, Mum.' Bronte's voice cuts in and out of a fair amount of static. ‘Nick was running late and they couldn't find my paperwork, then Sherry was an absolute pain. Like, it's just been one of those days.'

‘So where are you now?'

‘Um –' she hesitates for a minute ‘– in your driveway.'

‘
What
?' I run over to the lounge-room bay window, pull back the curtain and peer out the side into the driveway. Sure enough, there they are, standing next to Bronte's pink Volkswagen in the near dark, unloading mountains of gear onto a now flattened flowerbed.

Bronte looks up, the mobile against her ear, and waves enthusiastically. ‘Hi, Mum!' she says into the phone.

‘How long have you been there?'

‘Oh, about five minutes.'

‘Then why on
earth
are you talking to me on the mobile?'

‘Because you rang, of course!'

‘Bronte. Hang up.' I take a deep breath and put the phone back in its cradle before I head for the driveway. The cold hits me as soon as I leave the house and I breathe puffs of vapour out into the evening dusk. Bronte, still with the mobile at her ear, glances up at me, frowns at her phone and disconnects. Then she pops it into the side pocket of her jeans, which are altogether too loose for someone who's just given birth. Ah, the rejuvenation of youth!

‘Hey, Mil!' Nick pokes his head up from the boot and grins at me. ‘Like your outfit!'

‘Thanks,' I reply, pulling my jacket together.

‘Yeah, but your hair looks really weird,' adds Bronte, giving my spiky bun a disparaging glance as she tugs a bright-blue crate out of the car boot.

‘So, you got room for all this?' asks Nick.

‘Actually – I'm not sure.' I cast a dubious glance over the mound of baby-related paraphernalia, through which a desperate rhododendron is gasping for air. ‘Is it all really necessary?'

‘Oh,
yes
, Mum!' Bronte stops what she is doing and turns to me with an earnest expression. ‘I asked Nick to pack everything, just in case.'

‘Great,' I reply dryly as I walk around the growing pile and open the back door of the car. And there she is – the light of my life – sleeping peacefully in her brand-new capsule. I push the flotilla of pink balloons to one side so I can get a better look. Bronte has fastened a ridiculous hair-band around her bald little head and dressed her in a frilled and laced concoction that would look more appropriate on a fairy floss stick. Apart from that, though, she is all pink, soft, rounded flesh – simply irresistible. She gurgles and spits in her sleep. I gurgle
back but hold the spit. Then, with the formalities out of the way, I unhook the capsule and lift it out carefully.

‘Hello there, Sherry Rose. Are you going to spend some time at my house?' Even as I speak, I know I sound just like one of those dingbats who turn into saccharine as soon as they see anybody under the age of one.

‘Hey, Mil, tear yourself away for a second. Where do you want all this stuff?'

‘We'll start taking it inside,' Bronte answers for me as she begins the second stage of the removal process. ‘Quick, it's freezing out here.'

‘Put it all in the lounge, thanks.' I follow her with the capsule in my arms and go back into the house where I deposit Sherry gently on the floor by the couch.

‘We'll have to work out how to use some of this stuff,' says Bronte as she dumps a colourful rocker/walker thing next to me. ‘Like, it's pretty tricky.'

‘You sit down, Bron,' says Nick solicitously as he comes in with his arms full of bags and boxes and dumps it all right on top of my new rug in front of the couch. ‘You shouldn't be doing this.'

‘No, you shouldn't!' I agree, suddenly remembering her condition. Although, as she is standing right next to the evidence, I don't know how I could forget.

‘Whatever,' says Bronte, flopping back on the couch and tucking her legs under herself. ‘I'm stuffed!'

‘Do you two want something to eat?'

‘No thanks, Mum. Not hungry.' Bronte leans back and sighs. ‘But it's good to be home.'

‘That's the last of it!' Nick appears in the doorway with a couple of bags and a bunch of balloons, which he immediately releases so that they float up to the ceiling. ‘And I'd better get going.'

‘How?' I ask curiously. ‘Are you taking Bronte's car?'

‘Nah, one of my brothers is picking me up,' Nick replies as, right on cue, a honk sounds from the driveway.

‘See you.' Bronte leans forwards and Nick kisses her cheek perfunctorily. ‘Are you coming around tomorrow?'

‘Sure am.' Nick grabs her hand and squeezes it. ‘I'll give you a ring, okay?'

‘Okay.'

‘Bye, Scotch – be good for Mummy and Granny.' Nick leans over the capsule and kisses the top of his daughter's bald head. ‘See you, Mil–and thanks for this.'

‘No problem,' I reply to his retreating rear before I turn back to Bronte. ‘Scotch? What's that in aid of?'

‘Oh, he's decided he prefers Scotch to Sherry.'

‘Hmm, I see.' I nod thoughtfully because I sympathise with his preference. ‘But what's the rush? Doesn't he want to spend some time with you and the baby?'

‘He starts work in half an hour,' says Bronte, yawning over the sound of a car reversing noisily out of the driveway. I walk to the front door, which Nick has considerately left wide open, and watch as a blue ute screeches around so that it's parallel to the kerb before it takes off up the darkened street, leaving skid marks behind as a farewell.

‘Which brother was that?' I ask as I close the front door securely and walk back into the lounge-room, turning up the heat as I pass the thermostat.

‘Dunno,' replies Bronte, getting up off the couch and manoeuvring her way through the pile of paraphernalia. ‘Look, Mum, would you mind if I just had a little nap? Sherry'll be fine where she is, she's not due for a feed for a couple of hours and, like, I'm so tired I can't think straight. Do you mind?'

‘No, that's fine,' I reply agreeably and, before I can even blink, Bronte is off and up the stairs towards her old bedroom.
I'm left with a capsule full of newborn baby, a ceiling spread with balloons, and a mound of baby goods that stretches all the way from the couch to the doorway.

There's a porta-cot, porta-highchair, porta-playpen and even, unbelievably, a porta-potty. There's a largish suitcase, a smallish suitcase, a pile of bunny-rugs, a jam-packed nappy bag and three plastic bags full of soft toys. Each of the plastic bags has ‘DO NOT GIVE BAG TO BABY' written on it in shaky black texta. Just in case I was tempted, I suppose. There's the rather weird-looking red, blue and yellow contraption that Bronte brought in, which resembles a baby-walker without wheels but with more bells, whistles and knobs on it than I've ever seen gathered together in one place. Then there are three colourful plastic crates – the red one holding cloth nappies, the blue one full of disposable nappies, and the yellow one housing a sterilising unit, assorted bottles and a tin of formula. And last, but not least, are the parts of a pram. Or, at least, I
think
it's a pram; it could just as easily be some type of automated lunar exploration vehicle.