The Taming of the Bastard (2 page)

Secondly, in
the space of three short weeks, Sam had transformed
The
Lederhosen
into a cesspit of lust and desire. So much so, I
began to check the paper every morning to see if he’d taken out an
ad. Women from all over the city descended upon us simply to have
him pour a beer and grin. The cleavage I saw every shift was enough
to fill a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Yet, I appeared to be the
only one who realised this. How could this be?

The revelation
was no help at all.

Simultaneously
attracted and revolted by Sam’s smugness, I became more of a ditz.
I spent so much time trying not to think about him that I could
think of nothing else. I delivered T-bone steaks to people who
ordered Bratwurst, I poured pilsners to overflowing and, horror of
horrors, I almost agreed to go out with Jason, the kitchen hand.
(Jason was a sad loser with greasy hair and pimples. He picked his
nose when he thought people weren’t looking and wiped it under the
kitchen bench. Sometimes, when a bench wasn’t handy, he ate his
snot.) No girl who regarded herself as sane would
ever
agree
to go out with Jason. But I nearly had, and all the while, Sam
continued to saunter in and out of the dining room for no reason I
could fathom other than to amuse some small voice inside his head
that told him it was time to give his adoring fans another fix.

I hated Sam.
His walk messed with my head. His smile made my knees wobble. I was
so annoyed with myself. Where was the strong independent
Millie?

*****

“What do you
know about Sam?” I asked Dianne, during a quiet part of the
Thursday evening shift. We were standing behind the bar stacking
pint glasses, a duty I was now allowed to perform only under
supervision since I’d dropped a tray of them while looking at Sam’s
bum.

Dianne didn’t
bother to look away from her shelving. “Um, he’s single, from over
East and is always talking on his mobile to someone called Gracie.
He calls her ‘sweet cakes’.” She twitched inadvertently at the
memory. “Oh, and he’s working his way around Australia. Why?”

“Just
wondering...” I handed her another tower of glasses. How could he
be working his way around Australia? I was positive prancing around
like a model for GQ magazine didn’t count as work.

“Do you like
him?” Her over-tinted eyebrow raised a tad.

“Don’t be
ridiculous. He’s not my type. He’s an idiot.”

“A rather sexy
idiot.”

I groaned. I
was not going to validate that statement by agreeing.

“He’s trying to
break the all time ‘Shag around Australia’ record,” added
Chantelle, plonking a tray of empties for the washer onto the
bar.

‘The what?” I
froze, glass in hand.

“It’s some sort
of game. To be declared the winner he has to have enough female
numbers on his mobile to clog up the sim card.”

“Oh my God.” I
was traumatised. That did not sound like a game I wanted to be
involved in, even if I had admitted to thinking his stubble was
cute on a previous occasion. “How did you find that out?”

Chantelle
raised her eyebrows at me and lowered her chin, waiting until
Dianne bent under the counter. It was common knowledge Dianne had
her sights set on Sam and as manager believed she had seniority.
“My name’s on the list,” she mouthed.

I hoped that
didn’t mean what I thought it did but, from the way she was
smirking, I guessed it did. Satisfied I had all the ammunition I
needed, I went back to polishing glasses. I had no interest in a
man who played games like that. He was clearly not worth
considering.

*****

For weeks it
went on.

And on.

And on.

No one was
immune from the charm of Sam. The barmaids were smitten.
Desensitised from years of ridiculous come-ons by patrons, they
were a hard bunch to crack but every time Sam chastised them for
wasting company profits, all they could do was giggle, agree and
promise to do better. Dianne was the worst of all. She was
pathetic. She undid the top button of her blouse and gushed like a
giddy schoolgirl, leaving one of the regulars to ask, “Is that
woman on something? She’s acting bloody weird lately.”

“Menopause,” I
said. “She’s having the hot flushes.”

He didn’t seem
to think it odd. Even though Dianne’s only about thirty.

“We can’t throw
the baby out with the bathwater, you know,” Alex said, one night
over a shared bowl of chips and gravy. We’d been discussing the
fact that Sam had been spotted helping old Lydia—our longest
serving customer—down the back stairs and into her car. “I mean,
what criminal was ever convicted on hearsay?”

“Lindy
Chamberlain?”

“I don’t think
a dingo eating your baby has a lot to do with this, do you? And
that was thirty years ago, give or take.”

I supposed she
had a point.

I sucked the
gravy from the end of my chip. Sam’s act could not have had any
ulterior motive unless he wanted to be written into her will. He
was simply being kind. Maybe there was another side to him we’d
missed? Maybe he was actually an angel in disguise?

“Well, I still
don’t like him.”

I sighed and
got up to take our bowl to the sink. No one else gave two hoots
about what Sam was really like, as long as he wore those tight
fitting t-shirts. Besides, Sam had no interest in me. It was widely
acknowledged that he’d only said two words to me and neither of
them constituted a sentence.

It was
fortunate that working at
The Lederhosen
wasn’t my only form
of employment or I would have gone crazy in those first heady weeks
of Sam. I had my main job and I was returned to normality every
morning when I stepped out of my bedroom and into the hall of the
Richards-Shaw household. Well, as normal as their upwardly mobile,
brand conscious lifestyle allowed me to be. Living with the
Richards-Shaws was like being on a reality game show but without
the singing and cooking. Most of the time I had no idea what they
were on about, which only added fuel to the assumption that I was a
ditz. They were utterly bonkers and I loved them to bits.

“We’re off out
now, Millie darling,” Adele said, as she glided into the kitchen
early one evening—how anyone could glide in heels that high was
beyond me. Adele Richards-Shaw was a quirky soul, given to flights
of fancy that were dependent on what Posh Beckham and Kim
Kardashian were doing. She never left the house without an
oversized Gucci tote on her arm, in which she kept her most
essential items—five bottles of herbal concoctions, a mobile phone,
a pair of vintage Chanel sunglasses and her Palm Pilot. Without
consultation to this at least three times a day, she declared
herself ‘utterly stranded’.

I looked up
from my spot at the table where I was supervising the ingestion of
organic vegetables and free-range chicken with the twins. “Another
business dinner?”

“Do make sure
Michael does ten chews before each swallow, dear,” she answered,
ignoring my question. “He simply has to learn to eat nicely; his
manners are so bovine, so much like his father.”

I nodded and
flicked my foot at the glob of potato Michael had spit onto the
travertine tiles, hiding it under the table to be picked up later.
This was no time to upset the Adele apple cart.

“Who’s like
me?” Brian entered the room and, heading straight for the wine
fridge, returned with bottle of Pinot Gris. “We’ve got time for a
quick drink before the car arrives, don’t we? Do you want a glass
of juice or water Millie?”

“No thanks,
Brian; the twins would only knock it over. I’ll grab something
after they’re in bed. Where’re you off to?”

“We’re popping
into
The
Duxton
to catch up with my best mate from
the old rugby days, Kent. He’s in town for a day or two on
business. I haven’t seen him in ages. We used to be a couple of
ratbags back in the day.”

Adele picked an
invisible piece of something from the counter and put it into the
rubbish bin under the sink. “Kent’s boy is our godson. He lives in
Subiaco. It’s a wonder you haven’t met him. He’s magnificently
handsome. Looks so much like his father did at his age, it’s
uncanny.”

Like I had the
time and disposable income to be running about the clubs and bars
of the posh part of Perth.

“I don’t get
out that much anymore, Adele, I’m trying to save. Drinking and
healthy bank balances don’t actually go hand in hand.”

Adele gave me a
queer sort of look. The only fiscal decision she made was whether
to have the Chanel tote or the Dior. Because a good handbag was a
lifetime investment.

“Ah, yes, the
beach cottage,” she said. “How’s that going? Is your target any
closer?”

She wasn’t
being inquisitive out of niceness. She wanted to know when she had
to start hunting for new help.

“I only need a
couple of thousand or so more, I think. I’ve been doing a bit of
research on the net. There’s some nice houses in my price
range.”

Adele sucked in
a silent gasp. “Well, then, I shall have to cut your pay. We’ll
never cope if you leave us. The twins would be distraught and Paige
would miss you terribly. You know how much we adore you,
Millie.”

“Who’ll watch
me do my ballet practise? And turn the pages for my cello?” Paige
piped up. “It will totally suck if you go.”

“Paige!”
Adele’s botoxed brow gathered as best it could. “Honestly. Where do
you learn such filth?”

“Jennifer
Brayshaw-Jones.”

Adele huffed,
flinging her arms skyward in my direction. “Heavens, Millie. Is it
absolutely necessary that we have that Brayshaw child here for any
more play dates? She’s a mini Paris Hilton.” Then, noting Paige’s
pricked ears, she leant over, whispering, “I think we’ve repaid
that mother’s invitation tenfold by now, don’t you? The child’s so
common. Can’t we schedule her out of Paige’s day book?”

“What’s
‘common’ Mummy? Is it like ‘skanky? Jennifer says Miley Cyrus is
skanky but I still like her. That
Wrecking Ball
video was
cracking.”

I smothered a
giggle and pulled Paige back into her seat, giving her a fork and
changing the subject. “Do you see your godson often, Adele?”

“We used to see
him on a regular basis when he was growing up. Since he moved here,
we see him more than ever. He’s the sweetest boy; I can’t believe
you’ve not met him. He was here the other night. You’d love him,
wouldn’t she Brian?”

“For sure. He’s
built like a brick shit house. Must introduce you next time he’s
over.”

I guessed that
was a compliment coming from Brian, though if he described his
godson as a brick shithouse I hated to think what he said about
me.

*****

Having stacked
the dinner plates in the dishwasher, listened to Paige read us a
bedtime story from
The Magic Faraway Tree
—despite her
seeming maturity she was a sucker for Moonface and Silky—and kissed
the twins goodnight, I settled down for a night in front of the
computer. My mission was to find the perfect home and make contact
with the agent and my first virtual stop was Bali. I typed in the
address of my favourite site, put in my ideal details and waited
for the list to load. There were so many houses, some I’d seen
before and some that were new. I scrolled the list, searching,
until….

There it was.
Its pagoda shaped roof and infinity pool screamed to me and I
answered, opening the image files with jittery, excited fingers to
reveal four glorious bedrooms, three bathrooms and a state of the
art kitchen. Four-poster beds swathed in gauzy fabric, huge windows
that turned into doors and opened onto large decked living spaces.
Lush Balinese gardens. Not to mention the views. Yes. Views.

God, what were
the exchange rates? It wasn’t exactly beachfront but could I afford
a villa on the hill in Seminyak with a pool and views?

I gazed
longingly at the screen; I pulled up another tab with a currency
converter and typed in the amount. Surely, a home like that, fully
furnished and two minutes from town, couldn’t be so cheap. But it
was. And with the money I’d saved already added to what Grandma Mac
had left me in her will, I almost had enough. It was absolutely
within my reach.

I pushed the
chair away from the desk, pulling my fingers across my mouth. I bit
the corner of my nails, something I never did. I stared at the
screen some more. My heart began to pound. I could feel the
clamminess in my fingers and the smile growing wider and wider on
my face. Anyone who happened to step into the room at that time
would have thought I’d lost the plot. But this was my dream. There,
on the screen, in all its Balinese glory. All I had to do was make
it happen.

Oh, and resign.
There was no way Adele was going to take that lying down.

Anticipation
bubbling through my chest and down into my fingers, I scribbled
agent’s email address onto a notepad and opened my mailbox. That
was my house and I had to have it.

The days raced
on in cheerful monotony and while I waited for a reply to my email
I amused myself by taking the twins to the park in their double
stroller and window-shopping at the Pandora shop in Rokeby Road on
the way home. It was either that or give in to the disgusting
thoughts I’d begun to have about Sam and his bum of steel. Every
night he invaded my dreams, his face that of an angel. He helped
little old ladies across roads and kittens out of trees and he
never uttered a word. The dream always ended as he walked towards
me with arms outstretched. Then, as I was about to fall into them
he’d laugh mischievously and run away. I’d wake up tired, confused
and unsatisfied. Which only meant one thing: destruction on a large
scale.