A Hand in the Bush. Jane Clifton
Читать онлайн книгу.
first to arrive and the first to leave-he in vintage Country Road, she in Laura Ashley-having their regular night out, on relationship-counsellor's advice, but brandishing their mobile phones in case of emergency calls from the twins' babysitter. They'd exchange nervous chit-chat over an Evian or two with Sheldon, pillar of the fourth estate.
Bow-tie askew and pissed to the eyeballs on arrival, Sheldon would be trashing the nibblies while Yolande ('Yo!'), his partner of seven years, would plonk herself next to the water feature and furiously suck coffin nails through pleated lips, wishing the hell she was back in Florida. 'Everything good in A-mer-i-ca...la-la-la-la-la-la lah lah lah!' By evening's end the diners would be treated to the usual down-home version of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf from this brace of redheads.
Who else?
Possibly the most boring thirty-two-year-old in the world: Judith. Blonde and anaemic, with hair so fine that her ears poked through like abalone shells. Bony, very bony, but not fashionably bony: premature-curvature-of-the-spine bony-high-waisted and no arse. Judith favoured pastel arran sweaters tucked into ski pants, tucked into boots. One hand nursing a glass of riesling to her chest, the other arm lodged in the armpit of her vertically challenged husband, Lyle.
A power pack of unresolved sexual tension, Lyle would fuck a beanbag if it gave him a nudge. In conversation with women his eyes locked in at fourth rib, while with men he assumed an unctuous complicity in the pursuit of pussy. Who said all real estate agents were the same?
But it wouldn't be a dinner at Dax and Flavia's without Allen-is he gay? he's gotta be-and big fat Trisha, the bubbly one-Miss Life-of-the-party-let's-play-Twister! Always just back from somewhere, in clothes that everyone was wearing 'over there', Allen and Trisha are the glue that sticks the party together. They make us feel so cosmopolitan and k-ray-zee!
Sangria at six? Boyd could hardly wait.
CHAPTER FOUR
'She was a teenager, they said on 3AW.' Decca stared at Candy, then slumped into her office chair.
'Drove all the way from Hoppers Crossing.'
'What about the baby?' said Decca.
'What baby?'
'There was a Baby on Board sign hanging in the back window.'
'Shit. Didn't mention a baby. They said that she drove to the top of the bridge and stopped so suddenly that the car behind had to swerve to keep from piling into the back of her. Then that car hit another on its right and they both careered into the barriers in the middle of the bridge.'
'It must have happened before I got there. I didn't hear a smash. Was anyone hurt?'
'No. Everyone was so lucky-well, except for the girl, obviously.'
'Did anyone see her jump?'
'Not really. According to AW, drivers were concentrating on hitting the brakes. It must have happened real fast. Someone said they saw a girl get out of the car and walk to the railing.'
'So, how do they know how old she was? Or even that it was a her?'
'Well, beat this, the mother wasn't far behind her in the traffic. In another car.'
The yellow Hyundai, Decca assumed. 'That's terrible.'
'Yeah. Life sucks. I'll get you some coffee. You're free till eleven, you know.'
'How come?'
'Mr Kransky booked a double session, remember?'
'Of course.'
'So, chill. Okay?'
As Candy padded out of the room Decca wondered what, exactly, her receptionist had come as this morning.
The shoulder-length hair, dyed fire-engine red this week, was rolled, Star Wars-style, into two buns encircling her ears, from which hung two gigantic gold-hooped earrings. Candy's voluptuous body was swathed in layer upon layer of grey, charcoal and khaki: knitted tunic over leggings, shawls crossed and re-crossed over woollen vest, thigh-high socks, leg-warmers and tasselled ug boots. Yesterday it was Cowgirl Candy with plaits and gingham; on Monday, Kashmiri Candy in sari and bangles. Every day a different persona to pin onto what would always be the same basic paper doll.
Twenty-nine-year-old Candy MacIntosh from Sunshine West, single mother of two teenage sons, was baggage from the nine years Decca had spent as resident psychologist at a social welfare unit in St Albans. A job that had inspired her at first, then worn her down to the point where, even before her marriage had collapsed, Decca knew it was time for the physician to heal herself.
During an extended post-divorce sojourn in that land of the lotus eaters, Byron Bay, Decca had toyed with a complete career makeover: taking up permanent residence there, setting herself up as a Feldenkrais practitioner or something. She realised, in the nick of time, over one bowl of tofu too many, that all the balmy air and lukewarm seawater had turned her brain to peanut sauce. Then dragged herself out of the slough of self-pity and flew home to Melbourne.
This was her second year in private practice and she was enjoying the change of pace.
'Listen,' said Candy, popping her head round the door, 'I'm just going to duck out to that aquarium place for some more fish food, okay? The comets are wasting away to shadows.'
'I think I'll ditch the fish,' said Decca. 'I don't think it's a good idea for people with claustrophobia or obsessive-compulsive disorders to be looking at living creatures with short attention spans swimming around all day in a confined space.'
'I find them soothing,' said Candy.
'Yes, but you don't have psychological problems.'
'I do so!'
'It's not a competition, Candy. And, besides, I don't want to know.'
'Typical. I like the fish. They're my little buddies.'
'You are a worry,' said Decca, laughing.
'Aren't I just?' said Candy with a giggle.
'And, you were leaving?' said Decca.
'Certainly am, and I won't be long.' Candy closed the door behind her, but was back a second later, cigarette in hand, ready to light up the minute she hit the pavement. 'Before I forget, your driver's licence is due for renewal. The courtesy letter's in the pile. I didn't know you rode a motorcycle, you wild and crazy doctor, you. I need to see pictures!' She smirked. 'Of you on your fat boy.'
'Don't hurry back,' said Decca, reaching for the stack of mail and riffling through it. She fished out the renewal form and frowned.
LICENCE TYPE
CAR BIKE
A tiny wave of...What? Anxiety? Fear? Nausea? An unsettling sensation snaked up her spine.
She reached for the phone and pressed 3 on the speed-dial.
'Z.M.G. This is Lola.'
'Oh, hi Lola. It's Decca. Is Zan there?'
'Putting you through-hoo!'
A burst of wallpaper music, then Zan's nicotine-infused tones crackled down the line. 'Hi, babe!'
'Hi!' said Decca, releasing the breath that had lodged in her chest. 'Hey, Zannie, you're not going to like this.' She paused. 'I forgot.'
'What? The weekend? Oh, you are such a featherhead, girl!'
'I know. I am so sorry.'
'Oh, shut up. We can still go, for Chrissake. It's not a problem. It's not like you have a life.'
'Thanks!'
'My pleasure.'
'Thing is...I was going to...'
'What? Sock drawer getting a little outta line? Front lawn needs repainting? What, what, what?'
'Oh, fuck off. You are so mean to me! I have too got a life!'
'Yeah.