Thin Girls Don't Eat Cake (16 page)

Happy hour on a Friday night at the pub was not typically a rip-roaring affair. Usually, a few of the local business owners pulled a couple of tables together in front of the open fire and drank for an hour or so before going home to a night in front of the telly. Some would sit at the bar and chat to the barman until they’d eaten the free bar snacks and analysed the weekend’s upcoming football games. And Beth always had her ‘girls’ table, as she liked to call it. The group consisted of Beth, Shannon-down-from-Perth, Maggie and Jane. Sometimes I sat with them too but mostly I enjoyed mingling with whoever was available. By six o’clock the drinks crowd usually thinned out and families from around the town began to trickle in for a counter meal in the dining area. But there was always plenty of room. You could swing a tiger safely in the space. As long as you didn’t let it loose.

Tonight however, the pub was a different place. It was packed to the gills. There were faces crowding the bar I hadn’t been in contact with for a good three years. Footy jumpers stretched across bellies that were decidedly bigger than the last time I’d seen them. Even old Bangers, who I was positive had died in 2011 was there, plain as day, ordering a schooner of beer. The dining room was full too, the excitement level higher than a rock concert. It was like the town had won the lottery and nobody had told me.

Either that, or Mum had informed them I was on a blind date and they’d come to spy. Probably the more likely scenario.

I jostled my way to the bar and stopped to order a glass of wine. I swapped a cheery ‘hello’ with Jane and Maggie and turned to survey the crowd, looking for my date. It was pretty hard to see when every tall man in Merrifield was suddenly standing in the way but I cocked my head this way that, in vain hope I’d spot Gerry without the spectacle of everyone making a fuss.

Which was totally likely. The folk of Merrifield loved to be involved. In fact, they’d probably want to come on the date with us if they could.

“You look nice tonight, lovey. That top’s very flattering,” Maggie said, surveying me as I took some change from my purse to pay for my drink. “I can see how thin you’re getting. It was a pity to hide yourself away under those baggy outfits. You’re so pretty.”

“Thanks Maggie. It’s a bit of a struggle at times but I’m happy with my progress.”

“How long has it been now?”

“Two months and twelve kilos.”

“Twelve kilos! Lord. You never needed to lose that much did you?”

“Apparently.”

“You look amazing.”

“Hopefully I’ll look even more amazing when I reach my goal.”

“That’s the spirit. Think positive.”

“On a blind date, are you?” Jane enquired.

There were no secrets in this town.

“Only a drink. Have you been talking to Mum?”

“Jim told me.”

I threw a glare towards Jim, who was by the pool table playing eight ball with Beth. He gave me what I supposed was meant to be an innocent head nod in return and went on with his shot. Old bugger.

“How did he know?” I asked. Honestly, the speed with which my mother could spread gossip was second only to Mrs Tanner.

“From the gym, I think.”

I shook my head and taking my drink from the bar continued around the corner towards the tables.

“I reckon that’s him over there, mate. In the yellow,” Jim called after me. “He looks bloody nervous, poor bloke.”

And who wouldn’t, with their entire personal life on show for the town?

As I reached the other side of the bar I passed Fern, the yoga instructor. She was demonstrating seated yoga poses on a barstool. A group of lads from the Merrifield Bulldogs had gathered and were egging her on as she contorted her body into more and more complex positions.

“Oi, Jim!” one of the lads yelled, pointing to Fern, “Is this how you did your back in a while back?”

“Have you got a pair of these yoga pants like Fern’s, Jim?” asked another. “Red is so your colour.”

“Don’t you get smart with me, young Jonesey,” Jim retorted. “A bit of stretching wouldn’t hurt your footy game any. You looked worse in that last game than my ex does when she’s out for a jog. And everyone knows she can’t run to save herself.”

As the bar erupted in laughter, I spotted a man sitting alone at a table in the corner. Though how I hadn’t seen him through the crowd was beyond me given he was wearing a bright mustard shirt and a thin red tie that coordinated perfectly with the colour exploding over his cheeks. He also wore a rather thick pair of black plastic spectacles that he clearly needed to have checked by an optometrist because even though the menu was centimetres from his nose he was peering at it as if he were unable to read. Then there was his hair — a full crop of rather tight tangerine curls.

He looked like a male version of the lead in the musical, Annie.

Gerry. It had to be him.

A sudden urge to kill my mother flooded through me. She’d mentioned nothing about Gerry being quite so challenged in the looks department. Probably because she’d known that no one on this earth would be attracted to a man who dressed like an oversized hot dog. And physical attraction of some sort was a prerequisite in a relationship. I couldn’t kiss a man who looked like I should be putting him in a pot of boiling water before dousing him with mustard.

I considered leaving but decided instead to slip back to the bar for a second drink. If Gerry had made an effort on my behalf the least I could do was smile and have a drink with him. Who knew? He might be charming beneath the… mustard. If there was one thing I’d learnt as an adult it was that you never judged a book by its cover. Taking up my second drink and a deep breath, I headed in his direction, plastering my friendliest smile on my face.

“Gerry?”

The man looked up. Bright green eyes twinkled in a friendly looking face. He smiled nervously, his perfect teeth giving him a strangely handsome air. Mum hadn’t exaggerated about the pecs, either. From the way that shirt was moulding to his body, Gerry had the physique of a Greek god underneath.

Well, this was a turn up. He was a bit cute when you saw him front on. In a geeky ‘I’ve-escaped-from-the-set-of-a-high-school-movie’ kind of way.

“Olivia?” Gerry stood and pulled out the chair opposite him, gesturing for me to sit.

Very gentlemanly. And not the norm for Merrifield where chivalry was an art form dying faster than an un-watered pot plant.

Surreptitiously, he slipped a travel bottle of hand sanitiser from his pocket and squirted a blob between his palms. He looked at me. “I was beginning to think I’d been stood up.”

I glanced at my watch. “It’s five past six. I’m not exactly late.”

“Is it? Feels like I’ve been here for hours.”

“When did you arrive?” Poor guy. He seemed overwhelmed by the whole situation.

“About two minutes before six. I like to be punctual.” He withdrew a particularly white handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe down the space along the edge of the table.

Right.

“Oh well, I’m here now. And it’s lovely to meet you. Have you ordered a drink? Would you like me to get you one?”

Gerry coughed into the hanky. “I don’t drink. Issues with alcohol.”

And Mum had suggested we meet in a bar? Talk about awkward. Though she most likely didn’t know.

“Would you rather go somewhere else? The bistro across the road has great coffee. We could have a chat there. It’s dreadfully noisy in here tonight.”

“It’s fine, Olivia. Part of my disease is learning to cope with other people’s use of alcohol. I can’t expect people to change their behaviour to accommodate me. I’m the one with the problem. Besides, I’m quite comfortable being here. With you. We could go to the bistro later.” He gave me a second enormous grin that was rather disconcerting and also slightly creepy.

I shifted in my seat. I was beginning to think my first impression of Gerry had been correct.

“You’re mother tells me you’re a failed weather girl? That you gave up your journalism degree to run a dog grooming shop?” Gerry said.

“I own the shop. But yes, I was a weather girl and a journalist. It wasn’t for me.” Neither was being called a whoring home wrecker on morning television and I knew all about that. I turned my attention back to Gerry. I knew he was only making conversation, but I didn’t like his tone. And I didn’t like talking about my past with people I didn’t know.

“No ambitions to return? I hate to see an education go to waste.”

“It’s nicer being away from the pressures of city life. And journalism jobs in the country don’t exactly fall from trees. But what about you, Gerry? You’re an accountant? That must be an interesting job.”

Personally, I’d rather have watched ice melt than sit behind a desk adding up numbers for a living. It sounded hideously boring. But each to their own. And accountants got paid quite well and were good with budgeting and taxes. If worst came to worst, I might at least acquire a new person to look over my books once a year. Gerry looked like he’d be adept in that area.

“It is. The thrill of balancing large sets of numbers is quite exhilarating. I know other people hate it but tax time is one of my favourite times of year. The crunching of numbers revs me up.”

Okay, so that was a little left of centre. The average person would describe Christmas or a certain season or birthday as their favourite.

“I went to UWA, graduated with honours and worked for a big firm for a few years building up a good client base,” Gerry continued, “Then I began my own practise in Perth. Two other partners are running it at the moment. We deal with big corporate companies. Mergers, acquisitions, financial advice and, of course, taxes.”

I wondered if it would be rude to yawn. What on earth had possessed my mother to ever think Gerry and I would be compatible? We were as likely to become a couple as a footballer would be to take up ballet.

“And how do you come to be here in Merrifield?” I asked.

“Lifestyle change.”

Thank God he hadn’t said ‘tree change.’ I abhorred those people who moved from the city thinking they were going to keep their city ways in the country. They wanted double decaf long macs at all hours of the day and were forever moaning about the lack of shops and bars and the constant smell of sheep poo and horses. Which was sort of the point when one moved to the country.

“I guess you’d say it’s a tree change.” Gerry gave a cross between a snort and a chuckle. “I have a lot of trees on my property.”

I smiled politely. “And where’s that?”

“Out Donnelly way. The old Truman place. Do you know it?”

“I do. It’s very picturesque. Lovely rambling old farmhouse. Do you have any animals yet?”

“I’m allergic to sheep and cows.”

“Oh.” Couldn’t say I’d heard of that before.

“But I’m thinking about getting a horse or two. My therapist thinks it’d be good for me. And being in a new environment with new interests will keep me away from temptation. After the whole rehab disaster and my wife leaving and the bogus fraud and gambling charges, Merrifield seemed like a great idea. Of course, I was hesitant at first about having to leave my social connections but now I’ve met you, I can see I’ve made the correct decision.”

“Horse riding can be a lot of fun. There’s a good club in town. You could join.”

“Are you a member?”

“No. I don’t have room for a horse at my place.”

“I’ve been having lessons. I’m feeling fairly confident about tackling a trail ride. Would you like to come with me? We could rent you a horse.”

I hadn’t ridden a horse since I was twelve and Alice and I were going through our pony club phase. I loved animals but I’d never had the inclination to own a horse. Way too much work and expense. I couldn’t be unkind though. He was only trying to be nice.

“That’d be lovely. I’m not very good though. I haven’t ridden for a long time. I’d probably slow you down or fall off or something.”

“My life coach could come with us to help you out. She’s the one teaching me to ride. She’s also my AA sponsor.”

“She sounds like a talented lady.”

Maybe Gerry should go out with her?

“She is. She’s been encouraging me to set new goals for myself. One of them was going on a date, beginning a new relationship. You’re so pretty Olivia. So vibrant. I feel we could make a go of this.” His cheeks became tinged with pink as he said it.

“Er, ah, thanks Gerry.”

The only thing I wanted to make a go of was getting out the door and fast. I didn’t mean to be unkind, really I didn’t, but Gerry was either a roo short in the top paddock or extremely desperate. Why else would you say that to someone you’d only known five minutes? It was good to have goals, I had some myself but surely his life coach hadn’t rehearsed this with him?

I picked up my wine and took a large gulp. If only I’d had the sense to order a third glass. This whole thing would be so much easier if I were a little tipsy. At least I’d have an excuse for laughing at the things he was saying.

“Shall we swap numbers?” Gerry enquired.

Oh God.

“Sure. Why not.”