Spin Cycle (16 page)

Not until I was sitting down having a calming cup of coffee did I allow myself to think back to my disastrous attempt at sleuthing. Strangely enough, it was not the fact that I had made an absolute fool of myself that bothered me most, but the idea that Elizabeth, Bloody Elizabeth of all people, could have found, and was evidently keeping, a guy like Phillip. He was just
too
nice for her. And a vet! An impromptu life-saver! A damn
hero
, no less! Up till now all Elizabeth's men have been absolute dodos. I distinctly recall one who turned up to a family dinner wearing, to my absolute delight, a floral kaftan, matching hair-tie and those ghastly toe-sandals which made a brief appearance in the seventies. Another of her prize catches had insisted that he possessed a direct link with John Lennon through his dreams, and had spent a lot of his spare time, and money, trying to acquaint Yoko Ono with his thrilling news. As I remember, her latest fling was a Star Wars buff who had prefaced
every
greeting, and
every
farewell, with ‘May the force be with you … and also with you.' So where did Phillip fit in to this menagerie? Maybe she hired him. Maybe I could too. And
that
was the problem: basically, I don't think I'd mind having him for me.

It's not that I'm being totally selfish either. Bringing a vet home would absolutely thrill
Benjamin and do wonders for our rocky relationship. And a vet would be so
useful
to have around the home,
especially
this home – a hell of a lot more useful than either an engineer like Alex or a computer analyst like Keith.

I finished my coffee in a fairly foul mood and then decided I needed something to take my mind off sibling spousal-snatching and my life in general. And get my hands on the steering wheel – take control. Which is why I am now parked across from the corner of Pleasant Avenue and Mountview Road, looking thoughtfully at a rather modest establishment which doesn't look at all like my idea of a brothel. It also doesn't look much like Maggie's house used to, but it's in the right spot so it has to be it.

After a while I get out of the car and walk carefully across the road (apart from anything else, I can't afford to damage any more shoes), and up a demure little brick path. The house itself, of rendered brick, has been painted in heritage colours and decorated with a copious quantity of gables and other architectural curlicues. It also looks a lot larger than I remember.

As I get closer I notice an unpretentious little sign tacked next to the buzzer. It reads ‘Welcome to Pleasant Mount, please press buzzer and wait'. Underneath another sign outlines the hours of opening, but I already know those off by heart. There is a small stone seat next to the front door, presumably for those longer than usual delays in service. I press the buzzer but forgo the comforts of the seating
arrangements – after all, it isn't even opening hours. After a few minutes, a small window slides noisily open in the top-centre of the door and a rather fractious and decidedly adenoidal voice issues out.

‘Is that Optus again? Don't you people
ever
give up?'

‘No, it's not Optus.' I try to inject a friendly, non-salesperson-like tone into my voice. ‘I'm here for Maggie. I mean, I'd like to talk to Maggie.'

‘Just a minute.' The little door slams closed, only to open again within seconds.

‘Who are you? Does she know you?'

‘Yes.'

‘How?'

‘Well, I used to be her sister-in-law.'

Now I can see one eye peering curiously through the aperture, trying to see what I look like. I give an encouraging smile and the little door immediately slams closed again. I can hear footsteps receding into the house. Five minutes later I have resorted to the use of the stone seat when the front door is flung open. It's Maggie, rounder than ever and dressed in a pair of army drill pants and a black windcheater with ‘Maxime Fabulosum' emblazoned across the front of her ample chest.

‘Oh my god! It
is
you!
What
a surprise. Come in, come in. Let me take your coat.' She stands back for me to pass through before peering outside again, almost as if she is checking to make sure I haven't been followed. Then she slams the door closed and ushers me down a long passageway, down a couple of steps and into a sunny, yellow kitchen. There are two
other very ordinary-looking women drinking coffee at a table but, in response to a gesture from Maggie, they both immediately rise, nod at me politely, and depart for regions unknown. Maggie pulls out a chair for me and then plucks a boiling kettle from the stove and waves it vigorously in the air near me. I duck quickly.

‘Coffee? Tea?'

‘Coffee would be lovely, thanks. White, no sugar.'

‘Shocked?'

At first I think she is offering me some type of repast, and then I realise that she is actually alluding to the situation at hand. I admire her forthrightness.

‘Well, actually yes. That is, not now, because I guessed, but the other day when I finally worked it out. Yes, I was absolutely shocked.' I decide to treat honesty with honesty. Besides, we could spend all day beating around the bush and not getting anywhere.

‘Huh! I'd never expose the kids to anything, you know. If that's why you're here. When I had them over, they were at my unit, not here.'

‘You live in a unit? I thought you lived here?'

‘No, not for years. We renovated this place for the business and got a unit just around the corner. Doesn't pay to mix business with home and all that, you know.'

‘No, I don't suppose it does. It looks great though.' I gaze around the kitchen in silence for a few minutes while she prepares the coffee. It's not at all what I expected – just a cosy, comfortable, ordinar
y
kitchen, even down to the matching set of sunflower
canisters on the bench. No evidence of debauchery anywhere. In fact, even the dishes are done.

‘Well, I think Sam's guessed, and I'm telling you I wouldn't lie, but by the same token, I'd never shove their noses in anything.'

‘Um – good, that's good.'

‘Coffee's up.' Maggie bangs two mugs down on the table and then lowers herself onto the chair opposite me. I wrap my hands around my coffee mug and take a sip. When I look up, Maggie is smiling at me so I smile awkwardly back and then we sit in silence for a few minutes.

‘You're looking well.'

‘So are you.' And I actually mean it. She looks much younger than she really is, younger even than I can remember, and it must be years since I last saw her. The funny thing about Maggie is that she's never looked particularly overweight – just terribly round. And it suits her. The long dark hair that I remembered has now been trimmed to a neat bob and dyed an attractive brownish-bronze colour. Even without make-up she looks like a glowing advertisement for drastic life-changes. Although she still doesn't look like a, like a …

‘Maggie, can I ask you how long you've been … well, doing this?'

‘God! Forever, it seems! No really, let me see, about ten years or so. Hmm, quite lucrative, you know.'

‘Really?' What on earth am I supposed to say to that?

‘Yeah, you should try it. Huh, only joking!'
Maggie gives a guffaw (there's no other way of describing her unique version of a laugh) before continuing quickly, ‘No, you can't. The kids, you know.'

As if I need reminding! Did I look tempted there for a minute or something? I fiddle with the handle of my coffee cup and try to think of what to say next.

‘What made you get into it?'

‘Oh, boredom mostly. Got sick of teaching so Ruby and I started looking around for business opportunities.' Maggie takes a sip of her coffee. ‘She wanted to open a florist.'

‘A florist! What happened?'

‘Hate flowers. Damn things shed. No, I met this girl in my chess club who was on the game and we talked about opening a joint like this. So I put it to Ruby.'

‘And she agreed? Just like that?' I'm still having trouble with this whole concept and seeing Maggie in the flesh, so to speak, hasn't helped make the whole thing any more believable.

‘Well, it took some doing,' Maggie chuckles heartily, ‘but now she's right into it. Can't even tear her away.'

‘But doesn't she, I mean, don't you, well … ?' I falter as I try desperately to think of a polite way to phrase myself. ‘I mean, the guys and all that. You know.'

‘What?' Maggie looks rather perplexed and then suddenly her eyes widen and she lets out a huge guffaw. ‘You think
I'm
a worker!'

‘Well, I just thought that –'

‘A worker! Me!' Maggie doubles over with laughter as she clutches her stomach. ‘Me! Can you just imagine that! Oh, god! Wait till I tell Ruby! Me, a worker!' Maggie continues bellowing and guffawing between words. ‘Me!'

‘Well, I wasn't to know. But I'm glad I've amused you,' I say rather huffily as I take a sip of coffee. I'm quite sure that I've gone the colour of an overly ripe tomato by now. I just wish she'd stop laughing. Enough is enough.

‘Huh! Don't get all offended. You have to admit it's pretty bloody funny.'

‘I suppose so.' I start to go red again as I realise what I've just said. ‘Not that I mean that you're, well –'

‘It's okay. I know what you mean.' Maggie finally stops clutching her sides and leans back in her chair with a big sigh. ‘And, no, I'm not a worker.'

‘Then what
is
it you do here?'

‘We, that is Ruby and I, are the owners. We run the place.'

‘So you're like, well, a madam then?'

‘A madam? Yeah, I suppose you could say that.' Maggie gives one last, short guffaw. ‘But I see us more as entrepreneurs. Business owner-operators. Except the girls are really close, like family. And it's a lot of work, you know. Masses of paperwork non-bloody-stop, and the GST is a pain in the arse.'

‘Really?' I rack my brains wildly to think of a change of subject because I have no great desire to embarrass myself anymore. My gaze falls on Maggie's ample chest and I point to the front of her
windcheater and the motto emblazoned across it. ‘What does that mean?'

‘Huh! It's Latin for “absolutely fabulous” – got it in Oxford.'

‘Oxford?'

‘Yep, Oxford. Oxford in England, that is. Went there last year.' She pauses to take a sip of her coffee. ‘Stopped there on my way back from seeing Alex.'

‘Oh. Alex.'

‘Yep. Alex.'

‘Talking about Alex, I hear that he's coming back.' I attempt to sound rather nonchalant but am immediately fixed with a gimlet-eyed gaze. That's right, this is the woman with the rather odd theories about one-woman men, and vice-versa. Rather hypocritical, now that I come to think of it.

‘I just wanted to clarify what the kids said. I don't want them to get things wrong and then be disappointed,' I finish rather lamely and try to meet her gaze.

‘Hmm. Yes, well they won't be, will they? Disappointed, that is. And it's about time. I hope you won't mind my mentioning this, but that boy needs his father, and his father needs him too. Needed a kick in his butt, my brother did. Hmm, yes indeed.' On this rather obscure note she stops suddenly and waits for my next question.

‘Okay, well that's great. For the kids, I mean. But, Maggie, Sam said that he was moving right next door! That can't be true, can it?'

‘Huh! Yes, it sure is! And won't
that
be a surprise!'

‘Yeah, great surprise,' I reply dryly, ‘but now I know.'

‘Yes, but
he
doesn't.' There's that guffaw again, this time another whole series. I wait for her to calm down, and the echoes to cease, and then pounce.

‘Maggie, how can he not know, he bought the damn house!'

‘No,
I
did! It was me! He asked me to look around and, if something came up in the area, to buy it. So when I saw that one for sale, well, it was fate, wasn't it? Hmm, it had to be.' She leans back in her chair with a beatific smile on her face, almost as if waiting for congratulations. If that's the case, it'll be a
very
long wait.

‘So, you mean he doesn't
know
that he'll be right next door to me?'

‘Nup. Not a clue.'

‘Oh. My. God.'

‘Oh, don't fret. It'll all come out in the wash. Another coffee?'

‘But, Maggie – yes, okay.' I hand her my half-empty cup and she bustles over to the stove and puts the kettle back on. I think I'm in shock. Even my fingertips have gone numb and strangely tingly.

‘Hmm, loved your picture in the paper. You haven't changed.'

I have absolutely no idea what she has based that observation on. I don't remember bashing policemen over the head with nonsensical placards in the past. I wiggle my fingertips to get some feeling back. They really
are
numb. Maybe I've been secretly drugged and am about to be forced into a life of absolute
depravity. It'll have to be quick, then, because I have to be home by three-thirty at the latest – kids and all that.

‘Thanks, I think.'

‘Actually, I saw you a few months ago. In Porter Street. Coming out of some doctor's place.'

‘Oh.' My mouth opens to automatically utter some sort of half-truth (or downright lie), when I remember my original resolution of honesty. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Actually, that was probably my therapist. I've been going for some time. Nothing horrid. Just things getting a bit on top of me, you know.'

‘I know. I mean, I know it was a therapist, not I know you've had … things or whatever.' Maggie pauses as she removes the kettle and pours hot water into a small coffee-plunger. ‘After you'd left, I went over and checked out the sign.'

I don't know what to say to that. From what I remember of Maggie, I
think
that surge of curiosity was probably bred out of concern, not spite, and I'm secretly rather touched. The ensuing silence continues for longer than necessary and I begin to realise that she is not sure what to say now either. I decide to breach the gap and put her out of her misery.