Stan (2 page)

Chapter Two

Stan

The Evanses
were back?

It wasn’t as if I
had doubted the old man’s handwriting in the book, but it had been a while;
well, two years to be exact since they had been here. People come and go. One
caravan had been housed here for fifteen years and no one had so much as
unzipped its annex. Still, pay your rates and come and go as you please, that
was our motto. I ran the fluro yellow tip of my highlighter over the Evans’
name, even gave them a little tick. It was a welcome return; the Evanses were
good people and Dad liked his fishing endeavours with Doc from time to time. I
could probably even stop by and see if Grant wanted to grab a cold one later
on.

I slammed the
reservations book closed. Weary from a day only half done, I grabbed my sunnies
and keys that hung up by the door, flipping the ‘Be right back’ sign, before I shut
and locked the door. Business was booming; the park was at full capacity. You
had to be careful not to trip over any dozing bodies in sleeping bags if you
cut through the camping ground, as I found myself doing. Walking briskly,
swinging the keys around my finger, whistling a low, cheerful tune of
innocence, my shades gave me the luxury of determining which way best to avoid
someone, anyone. You could never quite tell what people wanted, and they always
wanted something. So many questions, I felt like a tourist information guide
recommending local eateries, water sport activities, shopping, walking treks,
best local wine and anti-inflammatory creams for heat rash; I was actually
really surprised by the amount of bullshit I kept in my head. All of it based
on something to do with Onslow. Try as I might, unlike most of my mates, I
could never escape Onslow. Well, okay, not that I had really tried, but on some
days I really just wanted to get away, even just for a weekend. Away from
questions about pool towels and broken vending machines. I just wanted to
disappear. And that was exactly the plan for this weekend. I was going to see
what Ringer was up to, jump in the boat, and just head out to the bigger lake
systems, no tourists in sight. If I knew someone that was as passionate as me
about getting away from overweight, sunburnt westerners it was Ringer.

Skimming my way
through the thicket of bushes was a shortcut toward the walking trek on the
other side. I wound my way toward the low-lying ground of the park, in the
clearing where vans were nestled closer near Lake Onslow’s shore. It was prime
real estate for holiday seekers and it was where the Evanses had rented a site
for the past seven years; even after all this time their van stood out like no
other. A bright white, 30ft spaceship with a navy annex attached. They were
back all right. From the peak of the dirt trek I looked upon the village of
caravans, peppered with people busying themselves for the lunch time BBQs. Doc’s
wife, Lisa Evans, was fussing over pegging up swimwear, little Alex (who wasn’t
so little anymore) sat on a large esky swinging his feet with a thud every
other second as he struggled to control his genuine excitement with life. Doc
himself was nowhere to be seen but knowing him he had popped down to the local
RSL to catch up with a few locals. My attention snapped to the rolled up
magazine that thwacked across Alex’s legs followed by a pained whine that
echoed over the caravan park.

“Muuuuuum, Bel hit
me!”

“Tell him to stop
banging his feet on the esky!” Belinda yelled equally as loud.

Belinda Evans.

An involuntary
curve lifted the corner of my mouth as I watched on. The slow inhale as Lisa
Evans’ shoulders shifted in a way where she was praying to God to give her
strength as she pegged clothes on the line more violently.

“I swear, if you
two don’t stop your bickering.” She swung around with a look that could melt
glaciers.

The threat fell on
deaf ears as neither Bel or Alex flinched.

Don’t laugh, I
told myself, as I slowly made my way down the dirt track to close in on the
action and say g’day.

I was almost home
free until I heard the familiar sound that made my own shoulders shift in
defeat.

“Excuse me, young
Stan.”

I turned, masking
my contempt, as I spotted Mr and Mrs McClean, my resolve thawing as I saw their
beaming smiles and suddenly felt bad for being put out by them.

“Sorry to bother
you,” said a pouting Mrs McClean.

I smiled brightly
as I doubled back toward them. “No bother at all.”

***

“Hello, Bel-INDA.”

My shadow fell
over her as I stood before her, blocking out the sun. Most people would be
annoyed by me blocking out their sun tanning op, but not her. As always, she
was avoiding it. So I would have thought she might have thanked me instead of
looking up at me with no amusement whatsoever. Even after she peeled off her
sunglasses and looked up at me with a deadpan stare.

“Hello, Stan-LEY.”
Her reply was laced with sarcasm.

My brows pinched
at the old familiarity from the doctor’s insipid daughter. I wasn’t sure what
had led us to always refer to each other rather sarcastically by our full
names, but it was no doubt in an effort to try and piss each other off. And
judging by our mirrored expressions, even after all this time it still worked.

I hated when
she called me that.

I ignored her, my
focus shifting toward Lisa Evans who, unlike her daughter, offered a genuine
warm smile.

“Hello, Stan, it’s
so good to see you.”

“Yeah, it’s been a
while.”

“I was only saying
to John it’s been too long since we spent Christmas in Onslow.”

“You’re staying on
for the New Year, I hope?”

“Ha! Now we’re
here you won’t get rid of us.” She laughed.

Our exchange was
interrupted by a deep sigh coming from Bel who flicked her magazine out as if
to unfold an invisible crease.

I ignored her,
instead turning toward Alex.

“Are you driving
yet?”

“Pfft, no.” Alex
laughed, as if what I had said was ludicrous; his eyes shifted to his mum.

I folded my arms
across my chest, puzzled. “So you haven’t enrolled in uni yet?”

“NO!” Alex
laughed.

“Really?”

“I’m only eight,”
he exclaimed.

My brows lifted in
fake surprise. “I see; wow, I thought you were way older.”

Alex shook his
head, grinning a gappy-toothed grin.

“Well, hopefully
that won’t literally be the case next time we come back,” Lisa added.

I could imagine
the eye roll Bel was giving me behind her shades and I fought not to smile.

I cleared my
throat. “So, are Grant and Ben around?”

Lisa went to speak
but was cut off.

“Grant is in Bali
with his new girrrrlfriend, and Ben didn’t want to come because he said Onslow
was lame, and that he would rather shove sharp sticks in his eyes than go
through another family holiday in a shitty caravan park,” Alex blurted out a
million miles an hour.

I nodded. “Fair
enough.”

Lisa smiled weakly
as if she wished her son had an off button. “Alex, slip on your shoes. We have
to go pick Dad up from the RSL.”

My lips twitching,
I fought not to smile as I looked down at my feet.

Some things
never changed.

“But I want to
stay here,” Alex whined.

“One.”

“Mum.”

“Two.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Two and a half.”

I didn’t know what
happened at three, but by the time two and three quarters came along, Alex was
quickly, if not reluctantly, shoving his feet into his shoes and hightailing it
toward the car, not daring to look back from fear of his tears being visible.

Lisa sighed in
exhaustion. “Seeya, Stan. Bel, did you want anything while we’re gone?”

Bel looked up from
her magazine, smiling sweetly. “A muzzle for Alex?”

Lisa was clearly
not in the mood. “Anything else?” she deadpanned.

“No, just the
muzzle.” Bel’s attention turned back toward her page.

I wanted to throw
in a joke and tell her to try Roy’s Hardware but thought better of it.
Sometimes you just had to learn when to shut up, and as was always in my case,
I never quite managed it. I waved as Lisa and Alex drove away, readying myself
to head back to the office where the evenings always seemed to get busy.

But as my eyes
shifted back toward Belinda my brows narrowed. Yeah, it had been a good three
years since I saw her last, but I couldn’t help stare at her. My expression a
twist of uncertainty as my eyes ticked over her. It was safe to say that she
had …
developed
somewhat.

Gone was all her
smugness and lazy, rude exterior as she peeled her shades off and straightened
in her chair.

“W-what?”

I stepped forward
slightly, my expression unwavering as I stared down at her.

“You cut your
hair?”

Chapter Three

Bel

Well, that’s
just great.

I had thought,
like some urban legend, that the opposite sex didn’t notice these things, that
when a girl gets her hair done it was something never acknowledged. But, of
course, because I wanted to dig a hole and bury my head in it,
he
noticed.

I fought to not
instinctively comb my fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck; I wanted
to mask the insecurity of my hair, especially if he was being a smartarse about
it.

Before I could
think about some excuse as to why I would possibly cut my long black hair off,
aside from my lapse of insanity in thinking I could look like Wynona Ryder, he
saved me from having to.

“Looks good.” He
nodded in approval.

My eyes snapped up
to meet his, checking to see if he was being sarcastic, but there was nothing,
no glimmer of humour that I could see.

I scoffed. “Yeah,
right.”

“No, really, I
like it. Very Audrey Hepburn-esque.”

My eyes widened. “Really?”

Shit, I didn’t
mean to say that.

Stan plunged his
hands into his pockets. “Sure, and if you’re wondering, that’s a good thing.”

Hell, yeah, it was
a good thing. I was slightly obsessed by Audrey Hepburn; she was the epitome of
grace and elegance. And as I looked over my denim shorts and white singlet top
attire, with Yankees baseball cap, I suddenly felt anything but elegant. I felt
like a slob. I looked back up at Stan, searching for any crack in his facade.
Being raised with three brothers I had a pretty accurate bullshit detector.

Nope, nothing.
He was telling the truth.

And, yeah, he did
smile, but it wasn’t an ‘I’m taking the piss’ smile. It was friendly and warm
and against my better judgment, it had me smiling, too.

Damn the man.
He is not allowed to charm me. Hot or not.

“Well, see you
around, Bel-INDA,” he said, infuriatingly accentuating my name in a way that
was like running nails down a blackboard.

My smile fell
away. “Don’t count on it, Stan-LEY.”

Stan chuckled
before turning and making his way back up the track, his white tee stretched
over his square shoulders, the sun illuminating his physique as he walked with
his hands still in his pockets. He didn’t get far before he was stopped by a
passing couple who were asking him a question that had him nodding his head,
and then pointing in the opposite direction. Everyone knew Stan. He was the
go-to guy,
that
man with the answers and the knowledge, but as far as I
was concerned, as I pulled my cap off and ruffled my short-cropped hair, if I
needed anything, he would be the last person I would go to.

Pfft, Audrey
Hepburn.

***

As the hot summer
sun dipped in the sky, I could finally wash off the 30+ strength sunscreen from
my delicately fair skin, and work on the less offensive slathering of
frangipani-scented body lotion. I leant toward the vanity studying my skin, my
complexion slightly pinkish more so by the hot shower rather than the sun,
which I had avoided rather successfully throughout the day. But now I was more
focused on styling my hair in a way that resembled less punk rocker and more
silver screen chic seeing as that was the look I was originally trying for. I
combed the black mop, parting it on its side and sweeping the longer length of
my fringe across my forehead, followed by a generous slathering of Mum’s
hard-core hair spray. I stood back, taking in the long flowing boho blue dress
with spaghetti straps, and tilted my head from side to side, and for the first
time in a long, long time, I didn’t hate my hair. Holy shit, had Stan’s
compliment done this? Had I seriously taken fashion advice from a bloke? That
was a bit scary, and what was worse was the more I looked at my hair, the more
I loved it, which only cemented the fact that for the rest of the summer I had
to stay away from Stan Remington. Away from Stan-LEY.

I smiled to myself
every time I thought back to the way he tried to contain his annoyance when I
said his full name.

“What are you
doing?” came an all-too-familiar voice.

I sighed as I
marvelled at how the hair spray kept my hair in place. “Another question, what
a surprise,” I said, tearing my eyes away from the mirror and looking at my
little brother in the doorway.

“Mum! Bel’s
hogging the mirror,” Alex yelled.

“Why do you care?
You need a stool to see yourself.”

“Muuuum! Bel’s
calling me short.”

“Oh, for God’s
sake!” Mum’s voice closed in. “What have I told you two about … oh.”

She paused,
looking me over. “You look lovely, what have you done to your hair?” She
smiled.

“Oh I just—”

“Brushed it,” Alex
added, sticking his tongue out.

I clamped down the
urge to grab him into a headlock, and simply ignored him.

“Well, that’s easy
then, you’re ready to go, now I just have to get your father organised,” said
Mum.

“Organised for
what?”

“We’re going out
for dinner,” chimed in Alex excitedly.

“We are?” My heart
sank; I really couldn’t be bothered going to the RSL club for the roast of the
day. I kind of just wanted to be anywhere but in town, especially knowing the
spaghetti-strap dress wasn’t exactly fitting with the dress code.

“Yes, Glen
Remington was kind enough to invite us up to the house for dinner tonight.”

Whaaaaat?

“Remington, as in
Remington, Remington?” Somehow by saying the name more than once it was a way
of definitely determining the answer.

Mum’s brows
furrowed. “Is there any other Remington?”

In this case,
unfortunately not. All of a sudden the roast of the day sounded pretty bloody
good.

***

“Oh, honey, what
did you do to your hair? It looked so lovely.” My mum’s shoulders sagged in
disappointment.

Echoing my brother’s
earlier mocking words, I said, “I brushed it.”

And it felt like
shit, literally. I had thought of ways to get out of this dinner party that
would no doubt be filled with painful small talk. I only hoped I wasn’t sat at
the kids’ table with Alex.

Dad slung his arm
around my shoulders as we casually strolled up the walking track.

“Relax, it’s never
as bad as you think,” he mused in good humour, before giving my shoulders a
reassuring squeeze.

I had no real idea
what he was talking about. Dad often imparted his wisdom that, at a guess, was
just a way to snap me out of my Debbie Downer moods, and they were often as my
brothers lived to torture me.

I pulled the
sleeves of my green cardi over my hands, scrunching the excess material in my
fists.

“Oh, Bel, don’t do
that, honey, you’ll stretch the material,” Mum said, not missing a trick.

I let the material
go loose and opted for folding my arms as if to ward off a wayward chill. I
inwardly grimaced at the thought of being openly chastised at the Remington’s
house.

Bel sit up
straight, elbows off the table, eat all your vegies.
Even though I was legally considered an
adult, some things did die hard with my mum, or as Dad would often remind me, “My
house, my rules.” How I couldn’t wait for the New Year to come, when I could
move out and find my own way. By all rights, this would be my very last summer
forced to holiday with my family, then I too could be living my life, just as
my older brothers lived theirs. An evil smile lifted the corner of my mouth. In
fact, was that a spring in my step I felt? My demeanour had lifted just at the
very thought of there being a light at the end of my tunnel, but when that
light in my subconscious turned into the very real light of the Remington’s
front porch, my cheery mood quickly evaporated.

“Welcome!” called
Glen Remington, toasting us with a stubby of VB from the porch of his sprawling
cedar cabin home. He made his way down the steps dodging one of the hanging
plants his wife had dotted everywhere.

“Bloody nice night
for a BBQ,” he said, taking my dad’s hand in a firm, manly shake. “Wanna cold
one, Doc?”

“Thanks, mate.”

My head snapped
around to my dad.

Mate?

Mum’s bemused
smirk wasn’t lost on me. My dad, the pale-blue-shirt-and-slack-wearing Doctor
Evans was hanging with the boys now, with Glen leading the way to fetch my dad
a beer.

The Remington
homestead was the mission control of the caravan park. The home, with its green
Colorbond roof and wraparound verandah, snugly nestled amongst a thicket of
ferns and woodchip garden beds, felt like a rainforest retreat. The warm glow
of the house lights flooded through the windows and doors, beaming with a
radius and warmth that reflected well the personalities of Glen and Paula
Remington, the consummate hosts. We made our way into the large lounge room, my
eyes instinctively moving upwards to admire the cathedral ceilings, the shadows
of the large ceiling fans flickering shadows across the cedar beams. The walls
were aligned with stained timber dados and quirky little framed country signs
with ‘Bless this House’ embroidered on them; rugs crisscrossed over the
polished floors. Even though it was a place of business, it was definitely a
family home: a warm and welcoming one.

Alex and I stood
stood together in the lounge room, unnaturally quiet and awkward, until his
eyes landed on a glass jar of marshmallows on the kitchen counter. Paula
Remington missed nothing even as she busied herself filling a glass of wine for
Mum.

“I see you have
found my stash of marshmallows, Alex,” she said with a wink. I elbowed Alex to break
him from his trance. “Paula is talking to you,” I said lowly.

He nodded quickly,
his eyes flicking back to the pink and white pillows of sugary heaven that lay
tauntingly before him.

“I tell you what,
after dinner we’ll get Glen to light the fire and you can toast some
marshmallows. What do you reckon?”

Alex’s eyes
widened with delight, and he nodded quickly.

Paula laughed. “Excellent!
I always have a stock of marshmallows. Stan is forever toasting them on the
fire.” Paula clinked Mum’s wine glass, thinking nothing more of her throwaway
sentence as she went about her way organising food in the kitchen.

The short-lived
comfort the ambience had given me was soon swept away as my gaze discreetly
swept around the open-plan home.

No Stan in
sight.

Alex soon
abandoned me to join ‘the men’ on the deck where Glen meticulously attended to
the ready-to-order steaks. So I quietly propped myself at the island bench
adorned with enough food to feed a village. Paula must have been accustomed to
Glen inviting guests back at short notice as she nonchalantly claimed she “just
whipped up a pav” for dessert.

Mmm, pav: my
not-so secret obsession.

My attention was
broken when a glass of wine clinked down in front of me. I blinked.

Oh.

“It’s a Sav Blanc.
Is that okay?” Paula questioned.

My gaze went to my
mum, who shrugged in good humour.

“Ah, yeah. Fine,
thanks.”

In my constant
daily ritual of being treated like I was no older than Alex, I actually forgot
I was indeed of age to partake in adult activities. Even though Mum and Dad
never encouraged such reality, there was something so instantly gratifying
about being treated like one, something that caused my spine to straighten as I
took the elegant, crystal-stemmed wine glass in hand and took a big, grown-up,
elegant sip of my wi—

Oh, sweet baby
Jesus, it tasted like metho.

It took all my
effort not to wince in horror as the vile flavour assaulted my taste buds. It
was bloody awful. But seeing as I was finally being treated like the adult I
had so long craved to be, I psyched myself up for another go, thinking maybe it
was just the shock. Nope, it was truly vile.

Still, for one
night, I could pretend, and I had little say as Paula, the ever-gracious host,
persisted in ensuring everyone’s drinks were firmly topped up; even Alex’s
glass of lemon squash never ran empty. Oh, how I longed for a glass of soft
drink. Gee, I was so grown up.

I saw my parents
relax in a way I seldom witnessed; my dad actually melted casually into his
chair, something he rarely did unless he was drifting off from exhaustion. Even
Mum, after a few red wines, was laughing and flushed with joy. And get this?
Even Alex was behaving. Usually we’re all just waiting for him to pass out from
fatigue before we enjoy any social gathering. The little bugger was an angel,
maybe because neither of us had been sat at a kids’ table for dinner. We were
very much included in the conversation, a conversation I was actually enjoying.
After a few glasses of wine, I felt my own inhibitions melt away, and the
reluctance to be at the Remington’s disappeared as I settled in. As the hours
and wine flowed there was something that became more and more apparent.