Odd Socks (41 page)

‘Of course I want to!' I yell at him in frustration. ‘But I can't! I just can't!'

‘Come on – how about just a few days, then?' he asks pleadingly. ‘Be adventurous!'

‘You don't understand!' I feel a well of panic swelling within and swallow to keep it down. ‘I've got work! And the baby! She's not even a week old, you know. And there's Bronte – she's staying with me. And I've promised to go to the gym next Tuesday, and I've got tennis on Wednesday. And my brother's just got here from America. And my niece – I don't even
know
her. And then there's the house, and . . . '

‘But they can wait! All of them!' Richard looks at me pleadingly. ‘You don't understand, this
never
happens to me!
Never!
'

‘Me neither!'

‘So, come on! Give it a shot, give
me
a shot!'

‘I can't!' I wail as the taxi driver honks again and then holds his watch up towards the window, pointing at the dial. ‘I've got
priorities
, don't you see?'

‘Ah. Yes . . . I think I do.'

‘Sorry.'

‘So it's a no?' asks Richard quietly, looking at me without expression.

‘It's a no,' I reply, shaking my head as I look down at the concrete. ‘Sorry.'

‘And not just to Tasmania, either,' he says slowly. ‘It's a no full-stop, isn't it?'

‘Um . . . '

‘Ah,' he sighs again, and then suddenly he takes one hand off the column and touches my face softly. At the same time, I feel a feather-light kiss on the top of my head that lingers for a few endlessly short moments. Then it's gone, and his hand is gone – and there is an empty, cold feeling where they both had been. He takes a step backwards and I can tell he's giving me a long and searching stare, but I can't look up. I mustn't look up. I won't look up.

I see the brown overnight bag being lifted up off the porch, and I see his shoes moving away, and then I see them walking down the driveway towards the taxi. Then they pass out of my peripheral vision and, to see any more, I'd need to move my head. But I don't. Instead I start listening. And I hear the taxi door opening, and I hear him get in, and I hear the taxi driver asking, ‘Where to, mate?' Then I hear the engine being gunned, and I hear the taxi move away from the kerb and down the street until gradually the sound of its engine ceases to be a separate entity as it merges with the rest of the traffic out on the main road.

And while I'm hearing all of this, with my head down staring at the concrete floor of the porch, I'm also hearing a little voice that's screaming so loud I can't believe Richard didn't hear it too. And why he didn't answer it because it's talking to him, after all – saying, screaming, yelling, over and over again:
stay, don't leave, stay, don't leave, stay
. . .

I lift my head up and realise, with surprise, that I'm crying.
So I brush the tears away angrily and then walk quickly down the driveway to stand at the kerb and peer up the street. But he's long gone. Nevertheless, I stand there for some time, staring up at the junction and waiting, just in case a yellow taxi turns back into my street and coasts to a stop in front of me. It starts to rain, slowly at first, with big fat droplets that splash when they hit the road, and then faster and faster until my hair is plastered to my scalp and water drips from my nose. I lick my lips and the rain tastes of salty despair. I wrap my coat around me and suddenly realise that I still have it, and it's Richard's, so I burrow my head into the lapel and start crying again.

After about ten minutes or so, when the crying has turned into sodden hiccups and it is obvious no yellow taxi is returning, I walk slowly back up the driveway and sit down on the porch step under the eaves. The rain increases in intensity until it's cascading in silvery sheets before me, and I can't even see the road anymore. I wipe my face roughly with one sleeve and then bang myself on the forehead several times. Stupid, stupid,
stupid
.

Because this was my chance. My chance to break free, be adventurous, be spontaneous. And my chance to explore a nugget of promise that had been offered to me on a silver platter. Totally unexpected and shining with possibilities, with no strings attached and nothing to lose. All I had to do was reach out and take it, and then spend some time holding it, and peeling it, shedding the layers one by one until, perhaps, the core was revealed. But instead I panicked and threw it away. I wipe my face roughly and then fold my arms across my chest.

And I decide then and there that I've had enough. Because if feeling like
this
is what happens when you play it safe, I've learnt my lesson and learnt it the hard way. But I'm going to take it on board and I
am
going to change. And if I've got to
take chances to make changes, then I'm going to take chances. And if I've got to take risks to gain rewards, then I'm going to take risks. Hell, I
deserve
to be happy.

I brush the wet hair off my forehead, then wrap myself more tightly in his coat and look up towards the road. My face is set with determination because this is the end – no more playing it safe. And perhaps I haven't burnt all my bridges after all. Surely he'll be visiting all these newfound relatives again at some stage and even if he doesn't, there's always the postal service, or the internet, or the telephone – maybe even some sort of organised tour of Apple Isle dairies for middle-aged idiots. And Cam's right, I've avoided anything impulsive or daring or adventurous for an awfully long time. No wonder my life has been so . . . continual. No wonder I'm doing the same things I was doing a decade ago, in the same place and with the same people. But no more. Because bit by bit, layer by layer, measure by measure, I'm going to transform myself, my life, my world – and I'm going to do it quickly. In fact, tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of my life and I know just how to begin.

First thing in the morning, I'm making a list.

ALSO BY ILSA EVANS FROM PAN MACMILLAN

Spin Cycle
It's Monday morning and this twice-divorced mother of three has locked herself in the laundry to lament the monotony of her life. It just goes to show that you should always be careful what you wish for. Within hours her life is spinning out of control in a flurry of family revelations, friendship crises, work debacles and the inexplicable deaths of her children's pets.

All in the same week that she sacks her therapist. After all, why pay someone to make her feel miserable when her friends and family can do it for free?

Drip Dry
The twice-divorced mother of three is back. New, improved and stronger than ever – but still struggling to keep her head above water, even in the bath.

And what a week it is in the Riley/Brown/McNeill household. There's one wedding, two babies, three engagements and four birthdays. Then ex-ex-husband Alex's long-awaited return from overseas heralds unexpected results, which in turn heralds the arrival of a most unwanted guest.

Meanwhile, Sam wants to join the armed forces, Ben is setting up embarrassing money-making schemes and CJ's wreaking havoc with sharp fairy wands.

Along the way there's an infectious disease outbreak, a mysterious death in the family, a broken nose, a bruised rump and several bruised egos. Can life get more frenetic than this?