Spin Cycle (14 page)

Being a Thursday, the centre is quite crowded but for once I have all the time in the world so I stroll along ignoring the overloaded trolleys, weaving prams and screaming toddlers. There is even a group of people with matching T-shirts who are power-walking around the centre guided by an extremely fit-looking female. Have these people never heard of fresh air, views and the great outdoors? I wonder curiously whether they are actually
paying
centre management for the pleasure of walking around their complex? Maybe I am missing something here.

I window-shop all the way to the bank, where I spend another twenty minutes in a queue awaiting
my turn. To my surprise I realise that the express line has been replaced by a ‘Corporate Banking Only' line, staffed by a rather bored-looking teller staring blankly at her computer screen, and serving no customers at all. On the plebeian side of the bank, we are lined up in a curving snake almost to the entrance and shuffle forward slowly but steadily. There isn't even an engaging motto to occupy the time. Illuminated numbers and arrows just blink on and off, herding those in the front either right or left to their designated teller. A few people converse in muted tones, but generally the queue moves silently and patiently. What a brave new world it is.

When my turn finally comes I shuffle obediently to teller number 3 (on the right) and try to explain that I need my cancellation cancelled. Unfortunately it has already gone through. Fair enough. The elderly man next to me at teller number 4 keeps slapping his hand on his chequebook and muttering plaintively, ‘But it's
my
money!' He obviously needs to take control too. I am given some forms to fill out and directed over to the benches. Apparently when I am finished I can jump the queue and come straight back to teller number 3.

Five minutes later I give up on this idea as the occupants of the slow-moving queue make little attempt to mask their feelings regarding anyone who might be seen to be queue-jumping. I take my position at the rear and join the forward-moving procession again. This time I get teller number 5 (on the right) and have to explain what I'm doing all over again. The elderly gentleman is
still
at teller
number 4 and
still
trying to convince the girl of his prior fiscal ownership. I hand over my papers and am told that it will take some time for a new card and new PIN to come through, so I take out enough cash to last, well … at least for a while.

With that over I head to the post office to pay some bills and post some letters. At least the scenery is different standing in the queue there. Medicare is next – another queue – and then I decide to have some lunch and a coffee while I write down my shopping list, and what else I want to get done today.

After strolling around the food-court gazing at the vast array of food, I select a satay chicken with fried rice and join the crowd of people with trays in search of a table. Music blares through the loudspeakers strategically placed around the court, which means that all the diners have to speak quite loudly to make themselves heard. I would have liked a glass of water but categorically refuse to pay for it, so I've settled for a cappuccino (I'm not even sure what latte means, so I'll stick with what I know).

I spot a small empty table behind an array of incredibly green ferns and step up my pace, making it just before a family group hampered by their trays overflowing with McDonald's. As I settle in I realise that the table is extremely sticky so I leave my food on the tray and get out a pen and paper. While eating, I write my list, pausing every now and again to observe the sea of humanity around me. I wonder how many of these people have had a day like mine? Come to think of it, I wonder how many have had a
week
like mine?

The table next to me is occupied by two businessmen who seem to have spent their entire meal together conversing on their mobile phones to other people. On the other side, eight teenagers in school uniform have pulled a few tables together and are having a lovely time. I listen in as they come to a unanimous decision not to return to school but to go over to Daniel's house for the afternoon – his parents both work. My satay chicken is simply delicious. I finish it fairly quickly and am leaning back, sipping on my cappuccino and feeling some of the tension drain away when suddenly a voice penetrates the nearby wall of ferns.

‘I'm sorry, but I'm sure I don't understand. In my day, people had more of a sense of, well … style. Don't you agree, Harold?'

‘Yes, dear … but don't you think –'

‘No, I don't.'

Well, at least that much is correct. And I would recognise those dulcet tones anywhere. It's my mother and, by the sounds of it, she is with her soon-to-be fourth husband. I'm really not ready to meet this gentleman yet, although I do admire his bravery, and I am
never
ready to meet my mother so, like a coward, I decide to stay on my side of the ferns and just eavesdrop. I tune out the bubbly teenagers and the mobile-phone conversationalists, and tune in on Mum.

‘It's all so
loud
. And that music is just abhorrent. Don't you agree, Harold?'

‘Well yes, dear, but it does –'

‘And the tables are so close together that we
might as well be eating in an army mess tent. Don't you agree, Harold?'

‘Well, actually army mess tents are much more –'

‘I don't know
why
you would pick this place, Elizabeth.'

Elizabeth
? I don't believe it. Mum has brought her boyfriend to meet Bloody Elizabeth before the rest of us. Wait till I tell Diane. As I shake my head with annoyance, I suddenly realise that I am feeling quite hurt. Not just that Elizabeth has gotten to meet the mystery man before the rest of us, but also that I didn't even know there
was
a mystery man until three days ago. My mother has been going out with some guy for god knows how long and I had absolutely no idea. What does that say about our relationship? Well, if she doesn't have the good grace to include me in her life, then fine, I'll stay well out of it. And now I'm definitely staying put. In fact, I'll have to stay here until they leave or else I risk being spotted when I stand up. I stop sipping my coffee to make it last and dissuade the circling patrons from asking me if I'm about to leave my table.

‘Actually, Mrs Riley, it was my idea to meet here for lunch.' These words are spoken in a rather melodious male voice that I don't recognise. ‘My practice is just around the corner so when Beth invited me – and said that you wanted to look at flowers – I thought that this would be fairly central.'

‘Oh, Phillip, my dear, you must forgive me. Of course it
is
central, you are quite right and I'll stop complaining. It's been very nice to meet you, too. I'm just feeling a little harassed, what with the
wedding and all. I'm not usually like this.'

I realise that my mouth has dropped open and close it quickly before it attracts attention. Not usually like this! Oh, my god no, usually she's a lot worse and she
never
gives up a diatribe like that! I am dying to know who the mystery voice belongs to, and what supernatural powers he possesses to make
my
mother change tack, apologise and actually become, well, pleasant.

‘Yes, you are so, Mum! But I'm quite sure Phil doesn't mind. You're used to it from me, aren't you, darling?'

Now that's a voice I recognise – slightly high-pitched with a dash of acidity and a hint of whine. It's Bloody Elizabeth, who else? Which means that the owner of the melodious voice must be
with
her. I didn't even know she was seeing anybody either – but then why would I? We rarely see each other, except at family occasions. Besides, if I had no idea that my mother was seeing anyone, let alone seriously enough to get engaged, why would I have any idea about Elizabeth's love life? Perhaps everyone just thinks of me as a mushroom who needs to be left in the dark and all that. But this little mushroom also has an insatiable curiosity at times. And I'm dying to see what both of these males look like. However, my unfortunate experience at the rally yesterday has taught me an important lesson regarding my abilities to see and not be seen simultaneously. But if Elizabeth's guy is drop-dead gorgeous as well as sounding fantastic, having impeccable manners,
and
possessing unique powers – well, I shall have no choice but to beat
myself to death with one of these ferns.

‘I don't think I'll answer that, on the grounds it might incriminate me! Let's just say it's been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Riley. I've heard so much about you from Beth.'

‘Well, I must say then that it has been a pleasure which is entirely mutual, isn't that right, Harold?'

‘Most certainly, most certainly, most enjoyable, I –'

‘Yes, dear, quite right. Now, on to matters at hand. Perhaps we could start with that large flower shop, I think it's called “Flower Power”, up near Myers anyway, and then we'll need to go down to the lower level, where there are several very pleasant smaller florists. And there's also a boutique where I'd like to show you a dress, Elizabeth. It's a
beautiful
floral salmon.'

I bet
that's
a salmon John West would reject. Floral, indeed. She certainly knows the centre layout rather well for someone who was complaining bitterly about the place a few minutes ago. I smile to myself as I contemplate the torture that Bloody Elizabeth has in front of her. Serves her right for abandoning me on Monday.

‘Don't forget Phil and I have only got an hour, Mum.'

‘In that case, we'd better step on it. Harold could you remove these –'

‘Here, I'll take those, Mrs Riley.'

Suddenly, like Poseidon rising from the waves (except without the beard … and the trident … and with considerably more clothing) a masculine vision appears over the top of the ferns armed with
a tray full of empty lunch plates and associated rubbish. Caught by surprise, I am staring so intently that he has no choice but to notice me, and for a brief moment our gazes lock, and linger. No, he isn't drop-dead gorgeous, but now I wish that he was. Because I have never fancied drop-dead gorgeous men but I do fancy him, without any hesitation. He's just my type (or one of them, anyway) – a few inches over six foot, dark-haired and with a pair of liquid brown eyes which could melt your soul at thirty paces. And he even has a moustache (I have always had a weakness for moustaches). But even worse, he looks nice: nice face, nice body, nice clothes, and nice expression. I can tell with one glance that this is a genuinely nice man, what my mother would call a ‘very good catch'. And he's with Bloody Elizabeth.

He smiles slightly, probably embarrassed by my concentrated stare, and turns away. At the same time, I register a general scraping of chairs from beyond the ferns and belatedly realise that the rest of the party is rising to their feet. I hurriedly stare down into my cappuccino and hope, pray that they won't recognise the top of my head. It would be even worse if they realised I was here
now
. I would look like a complete idiot, especially to him. But I need not have worried. Both my mother and Bloody Elizabeth are so self-absorbed that it is difficult to get their attention at the best of times, and Harold, even if he was aware of my existence (
surely
my mother has mentioned me?), wouldn't have a clue what I look like. They noisily collect their assorted bags and parcels and follow Phillip over to where he is depositing the tray. There, after a brief
discussion accompanied by much gesturing and waving of hands, they do exactly what my mother had already decided and head off towards Myers.

For a few crucial seconds I mentally wrestle with myself, and then I follow.

In a week that has so far been littered with rather dodgy decisions, this one probably takes the cake. What do I hope to achieve? I have no idea, but somehow this course of action does
feel
like I am taking back control, whereas remaining seated seems almost like taking the easy way out. Besides, I have the strongest urge to surreptitiously observe how they all interact with each other – my mother and Harold, my mother and Elizabeth, Harold and Elizabeth and, last but by no means least, Phillip and Elizabeth. What the hell does he see in her? I must admit she is looking decidedly pretty, dressed in jeans and a white angora jumper with her chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail. But surely he sees beyond the packaging? What about when the packaging consists of her being sheathed in a floral salmon-pink ensemble? But then again, knowing my luck, he's probably got a fish fetish.

It is not until I am following at a safe distance and they are passing in front of Myers that I realise the significance of those two names – Phillip and Elizabeth, for god's sake! They couldn't possibly be a couple, it'd be ridiculous. I'd have to buy them a corgi as a wedding present. With an effort, I pull myself together. The
y
aren't the ones getting married, that's the other two. This is a mistake that is also made by the counter assistant in ‘Flower Power'
much to my mother's evident disgust and Elizabeth's just as evident delight. Whilst they sort this misunderstanding out, I position myself craftily amongst the racks of the clothing shop next door, and pretend to minutely examine a rack of ‘smart, casual resort wear' (who on earth walks into a shop and demands to be shown smart, casual resort wear?). From this cunning position, I have a bird's-eye view of the florist but, because of the copious amount of foliage spilling out, there is very little chance of me being seen. And, even if worst comes to worst and I am spotted, I can innocently claim to be selecting a smart, casual resort outfit for the next time I visit a smart, casual resort.

After my mother has corrected the assistant's mistake, lecturing her at length in the process, she magically produces several colour samples from the depths of her handbag and proceeds to explain her salmon colour theme in detail. Finally, a level of understanding is reached which satisfies my mother, and the assistant leads the way into the dim, dark nether regions of the shop. Sensibly, Phillip and Harold remain outside and embark on a rather nonchalant, getting-to-know-you chat.