The following morning, Orla was putting the final touches to the article when her phone rang. She was so far away in another time and place that she jumped. It was her agent.
‘You have to come back,’ the agent said in an excited tone of voice. ‘I’ve got a great audition for you. Not quite a lead part, but definitely pages of dialogue.’
Pages, plural, Orla thought, and her own excitement obediently rose in response. But a split second later she was thinking, yeah, maybe only two pages, double-spaced, with lots of unnecessary description. Her excitement vaporised.
‘Orla?’ her agent said.
‘I’m still here.’
‘What’s the matter? You don’t sound very pleased.’
‘I am pleased,’ Orla assured her, but she knew her tone of voice lacked conviction.
‘I’m sure you’ll get it. This is what we’ve been waiting for.’
‘Right,’ Orla replied, uncertainly. Then she added with more enthusiasm, ‘I’ll wrap everything up here and come back.’
‘Don’t take too long. I’m organising you a time slot for next week.’
‘Next week?’ Orla repeated, but her agent had vanished.
The agent’s words ‘this is what we’ve been waiting for’ rang in Orla’s ears. The agent had been waiting too? Really? When she had some very big fish to fry? Frankly, Orla doubted it. And had she, Orla, really been waiting for whatever this was — waiting even while she toured Hickory Bay and the lighthouse, even while she watched Connie photograph the penguins in the waves of Magnet Bay?
So, it was all over then: she would be leaving. She should tell someone. Telling someone would make it real.
Orla went down to the barn. She and Michael had become amicable again — or more correctly, she had forced herself to stop ruminating on whether he thought her stupid or not. She knew she wasn’t stupid, and that was all that mattered. Besides, he was the closet and easiest to talk to.
The barn door was wide open, but she’d given up knocking on it anyway. She went up the stairs and found Michael hard at work mopping the barn floor.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, amazed. He always kept the place clean, but it was quite out of character for him to be caught doing it. He was always to be found relaxing, impeccably at ease and appropriately attired for the events of the day.
‘Getting the place cleaned up for the move,’ he said.
‘I’m leaving,’ Orla blurted out. It wasn’t how she’d planned to say it, but seeing him so assiduously cleaning made her worry that he’d soon be stealing her thunder.
He stopped mopping. ‘Leaving for where?’
‘Home,’ she clarified. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Why? What for?’
‘A part, actually. A part I’ve been waiting for,’ she added, and as she repeated those magic words she suddenly wondered when she’d stopped waiting. Because she had stopped. Had gradually stopped visualising some fantastic future just out of reach — always just out of reach.
Michael was frowning. ‘I thought you liked your new job.’
‘I do.’
He let the mop go with a clatter and said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on and we can have a coffee.’
Orla sat down on the leather couch. Of course she liked her new ‘job’. And although Connie had grown bored with it, Orla saw all sorts of opportunities for expansion. Everywhere she went there were abandoned old cottages or farm buildings, and all of them had once had owners, and the owners’ lives told a fascinating story. No matter how dull she initially anticipated the story to be, it always turned out to be full of unexpected twists and turns. Yes, it was all fascinating — but no-one could seriously call it a proper job.
Michael came back with two steaming mugs. He’d long ago learned how she took her coffee, and no longer bothered with his little jug of milk and cute bowl of sugar cubes. You’re already changing, Orla thought, as he handed her the mug. Already getting less finicky and more relaxed. Already not caring so much. Orla thought this was a good sign, not a bad one. Maybe if she’d been able to stay, he’d eventually have agreed to an evening meal of sourdough with local cheese.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked as she sat and stared into her coffee cup.
‘Oh — how things might have turned out. If I’d been able to stay.’
He harrumphed and said rather curtly, ‘You can stay if you want to. You’re an adult, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but my agent said this part is the one. The part I’ve wanted all my life.’
‘Your agent is telling you what you’ve always wanted?’ he asked with raised eyebrows. He blew on his coffee and added, ‘I don’t let other people tell me what I want.’
‘Well,’ Orla said, floundering a little, ‘writing those articles won’t make me enough money, I shouldn’t think.’
‘There’s plenty of other work around here.’
Although this seemed unlikely, it was true. There were any number of demanding enterprises, from vineyards to cheese-makers to olive groves, that required ongoing labour; and if none of them wanted her, there was always the city, endlessly swallowing up workers like quicksand.
‘I don’t want to be a rebuild labourer,’ Orla responded, ‘I want a career.’ But right at the moment, even standing at a roadworks with a stop/go sign seemed preferable to leaving. She had an overwhelming sense of regret: that something here hadn’t been properly finished, seen through to the end.
‘Cheer up, then. You don’t look very happy about it. Only one thing worse than not getting what you want, and that’s getting it, huh?’
Orla smiled. ‘Exactly. Who said that?’
‘I thought I did.’
When Orla made a face, Michael grinned and said, ‘Oscar Wilde.’
Orla took a large gulp of her coffee and wondered how to explain her inner tangle. No, her acting career hadn’t reached the heights she’d hoped for, but it was still better than what any number of other aspiring actors had achieved. On the other hand, at this point in her life, could she take on another career that might plateau out in the same way?
‘You could always come and work at Kukupa House,’ Michael suggested. He was blowing on his coffee again — surely it was cool enough by now — and not looking at her.
Orla stared at him and tried to work out what he was offering. Just a job — or a way to keep her there? She still hoped — yes, she did — that it was the latter.
‘So I’d be the cleaner?’ she asked.
‘Frankly, I don’t think you could be the gardener.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Or the chef,’ he added cheekily.
‘Hey, I can make sourdough.’
‘You’d be the … executive housekeeper.’
Orla frowned.
‘You’d take bookings and talk to the guests and organise the rest of the staff and the running of the household. It’s an important job. And you’d still have lots of time to write your little stories —’
‘Little stories?’ Orla could hear the coldness in her tone.
‘Articles of great importance,’ he amended, while not removing his eyes from his mug.
Orla wondered why she felt piqued. Was he insulting her? Were ‘little stories’ the new version of ‘liking Eddie’? Or was she being overly sensitive?
‘Where would I live?’ she asked, pushing her feelings down. ‘And don’t forget, my car’s a rental.’
‘In the shepherd’s cottage.’
An image of the gorgeous shepherd’s cottage on the property floated into her mind and she almost gasped. That darling place would be hers? Really?
‘And I’m sure we’ll have an SUV for the business. With the business name plastered all over the sides like every other respectable enterprise. That can be your vehicle.’
Surely this was all too good to be true? What was the catch? Apart from her ‘dream part’ going up in smoke, of course. But even in her mind she put scare quotes around the words, as if making fun of the very notion. Would she give up all that was on offer here for something that even she was now making fun of?
She sighed.
‘Oh come on,’ Michael chided her with a hint of exasperation. ‘Make up your own mind. Do what you want. And don’t be afraid to change tack in life. The wind blows from many different directions.’
‘Advice from Michael the sailor,’ Orla retorted.
‘I can sail,’ he said, and added wryly: ‘A bit. I hope to get better.’
Why was it so hard to give up her image of herself? Most people just didn’t get it. They thought if the going got tough and the rewards poor, naturally you’d throw in the towel. As if what you did were just a means to pay the mortgage and, if you were lucky, garner a modicum of respect or a smidgen of self-esteem. But actually being part of what you’d dreamed of as a child — no matter how much the reality didn’t match the vision — that was something far harder to let go of.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Michael challenged her. ‘That you’d have to give up acting completely. But why? Couldn’t you go for parts here?’
‘Oh, realistically,’ he repeated, cutting her off. ‘I know what that means. But I didn’t know the definition of realistic was giving up before you’ve even tried.’
Orla didn’t know what to say.
‘When I was a boy,’ he carried on, ‘I wanted to be the richest man in the world. Kids’ goals are always over-inflated and ludicrous. They don’t understand the obstacles. But does that mean I’m not a success? I am a success. I have property, thriving businesses and an excellent income. I have an exciting life, mainly doing the things I want to do. I am a success even if I’m not … Henry Millard.’
Orla, who’d thought he was going to say Warren Buffett or Bill Gates, couldn’t help but laugh. Still, she didn’t want to delude herself. Businesses thrived in all sorts of economic niches; mostly the arts didn’t.
‘I’ll tell you something else,’ Michael said, sitting forward and looking at her earnestly. ‘If you give up acting, no-one will care. You might think that’s how people see you, that it’s a permanent and unchangeable part of your identity. But the most they will say is, oh, whatever happened to Orla, she was such a good actress, wasn’t she? Then it will go clean out of their minds and they’ll go back to their own preoccupations and obsessions.’
‘I will care,’ Orla contradicted him. And mentally added: Or I might not.
‘Well, let me know when you’ve decided,’ he said, standing up abruptly.
Orla was taken aback. She felt like she could wring her hands over the ifs and buts for another hour at least — or even another whole day. Clearly he wasn’t interested in the causes of her indecision, or the conflict between her dreams and her current reality. She handed him her mug and stood up, too. She felt dismissed. The job interview was over.
Orla went back up to the cottage feeling an obscure sense of bewilderment. Did he want her to stay or did he simply need an employee? And why did she even care? Why did she have the ridiculous thought that she’d stay if he wanted her to, but not if he just wanted a housekeeper?
But she did care. Caring had crept up on her, aided and abetted by so many qualities she could have resentfully overlooked: the way he’d always helped her, talked her problems out with her, wanted to share his happiness with her. Good grief, even his mastery of the champagne bottle, his immaculate and ever-present sunglasses cloth, and the fact that he preferred spicy toppings on his pizza — all of these little things had become unexpectedly and bewilderingly attractive.
Orla went up to the bedroom, pulled her bags down from the top of Rosa’s antique wardrobe and threw them onto the bed. She stood there looking at them. In her mind’s eye she could see a different, thoroughly excited Orla, stuffing her clothes into her bags as fast as possible, and scarcely able to contain herself while she rushed out the door. But this new Orla was of two minds — well, ten really, but that wasn’t the expression, was it?
She sat down on the bed. How big was the part of her that didn’t want to leave? And when had she become so ridiculously indecisive? Was it something in the air here?
No, Orla, she answered herself, it’s something in the barn.
Yes, that was the truth, wasn’t it. It wasn’t even a question — it was a statement. She’d chosen Eddie over Henry, and then Eddie’s idiosyncratic charms had worn out. While all of this had been going on, she’d been accompanying Michael all over the place, and gradually, almost imperceptibly, he’d changed from Mr Sunglasses to a man who —
Might still be involved with that Sophie. Yes, she said to herself, veering onto a different, far more unpleasant line of thought, that’s the ugly truth here. Do you want to be as stupid as he already thinks you are by falling for a man who’s involved with someone else? Didn’t you already just step back from that particular brink? If you were as smart as you think you are, you’d pack as fast as humanly possible and escape into the sunset.
Orla spent a few minutes playing with the idea that, somehow, she’d escape into the sunset with Michael. Of course she was just playing, just trying the idea on for size. She’d have already snagged him — and here she even managed to squeeze in a grimace at such an appalling verb — and was now about to have her ‘dream part’ as well.
But somehow the idea didn’t seem as fantastic as she might have thought. Back home, Michael would just be her hanger-on. Oh yes, he had money and would no doubt cast around for a business he could buy and involve himself in, but still, he’d have none of his own friends and really he’d only be there for her. How long would it be before Kukupa House kept him away for ever-increasing periods of time when he came over on his business trips? How long would it be before he started sitting around in bars and talking to single young women about the relationship between thunder and lightning?
Her phone rang, jolting her out of her thoughts.
‘Hello, dear,’ said her mother brightly.
‘Hello,’ Orla responded cautiously. Frugal Mamabear didn’t make international toll calls. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘I’ve got a big surprise for you,’ she declared.
‘Yes?’ Orla felt uneasy. She hoped there wasn’t a cheque in the mail. ‘Remittance girl’ was fast becoming her least favourite role.
‘I’m coming over for a visit,’ Mamabear announced, a thrilled tinge to her tone of voice.
‘What?’ Orla was aghast. ‘But I’m coming back!’
‘Coming back?’ Mamabear echoed incredulously. ‘What on earth for?’
‘I’ve been offered another audition.’
‘Oh, Orla, I thought you were over chasing parts —’
‘I don’t chase them,’ Orla interrupted. ‘I have an agent.’
‘Well, dear, even if the agent chases them for you, it’s all the same in the end, isn’t it?’
Orla felt irritated, but also guilty and also … she realised she was a welter of feelings.
‘I suppose I’ll have to see if I can get my money back,’ her mother said in a crestfallen voice.
‘You won’t be able to,’ Orla replied, sighing. If she knew Mamabear at all, and of course she did, she’d have bought the cheapest ticket and a refund would be out of the question.
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Her mother wasn’t poor, but she wasn’t wealthy either, and she hated wasting money.
‘I was so looking forward to seeing you,’ she said in a voice that made Orla’s sense of guilt triple in a flash.
‘You’ll see me when I get home,’ Orla answered. This was completely logical — although she knew that logic was seldom of real comfort.
‘And your Aunt Martha,’ Mamabear added. ‘I haven’t seen her for such a long time. She’s sick, you know.’
Orla didn’t know.
‘Actually,’ Mamabear confided, ‘besides seeing you and Martha, you’ve made the place sound so wonderful that I felt I had to see it for myself. I haven’t had a proper holiday for years.’
That was true. Mamabear was always economising, and saving for … what? The rainy day that was never quite rainy enough? Why shouldn’t she have a holiday after all these years of scrimping? And what kind of a holiday would it be if she were here alone and sitting all day with sick Aunt Martha? Orla could hardly ask Michael to drive her around.
So, there was no argument, was there? How could she even think of leaving if her mother had to cancel the holiday she was so looking forward to?
When Orla’s mother came through the doors into the arrivals lounge, Orla was amazed to see that instead of her tatty old coat or twenty-year-old jumper, Mamabear had on a smart, long-sleeved navy-blue dress that looked brand-new. Surely not? Orla rushed forward to hug her.
When they let each other go, Orla had another surprise: although her mother’s hair was still grey, it was now … hairdresser grey! She’d had a colour put through her hair that gave it both warmth and subtle highlights. And while she’d been doing it, the hairdresser had also — with or without permission — added new shape to the style, so that Mamabear’s formerly severe and habitual bun now had some loose tendrils that attractively framed her face.
‘You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me,’ Orla told her as they went to collect the suitcases.
‘I didn’t, dear,’ Mamabear replied.
Orla was about to argue, but she didn’t want to start the holiday on a sour note, so she said, ‘That’s a lovely dress. Did you find it at your usual shop or —’
‘No. A friend and I went to a boutique. In Paddington.’
Orla was stunned. Right at that moment a feather could have knocked her over. Paddington? Sydney? What had her mother been doing in Paddington? Didn’t she think ‘Paddington’ was a type of teddy bear?
‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ her mother said crisply when Orla voiced her own joke. ‘I’ve lived in Australia for decades. I know all about Paddington.’
‘Yes, but why did you go there?’ Orla persisted.
‘To buy a dress, of course.’
Before Orla could say anything else, her mother’s luggage came sailing along the carousel. Not that Orla recognised it. She was about to let the fancy suitcase go past when Mamabear pointed it out. Where was the battered old thing her mother had bought for her honeymoon and used ever since, always curtly informing her daughter that a good suitcase should last a lifetime, and that she saw no reason to change the one she had just because it was scratched and had a few dings in it?
‘Now, where’s the car?’ Mamabear asked as Orla hefted the suitcase off the carousel.
‘Cripes, what have you got in this thing? Bricks?’ Orla asked, using the only swear word her mother would tolerate. Mamabear laughed but didn’t reply.
Outside the terminal Mamabear remarked, ‘Goodness, the sun’s bright, isn’t it?’ And she stopped to put on what must have been her first pair of sunglasses ever.
Even though she lived in Australia where excess sun could cause all sorts of health problems, Mamabear believed sunglasses were only for surfies, and maybe their half-naked girlfriends. Very Paddington they were too — and Orla wasn’t talking about the bear. As they walked to the car, Orla wondered if her mother had won the lottery — or perhaps she’d had a personality transplant.
Soon they were flying across the plains towards the Peninsula. Orla loved the moment when the long, straight roads lined with small businesses and new housing turned into the twists and turns at the base of the first hills; and the city greyness — somehow it seemed grey no matter what the weather — gave way to the rich straw colour of the fields.
‘It looks very dry,’ Mamabear commented.
‘Yes, it has been a dry summer,’ Orla agreed. ‘But apparently it’s normal for it to look like this in the autumn.’
‘So the world isn’t coming to an end,’ Mamabear responded with a chuckle.
Just as well Orla was driving especially carefully, otherwise she might have driven off the road. Mamabear had always been the one who thought the world was about to end — and now she was joking about it. Maybe not the lottery or a transplant — Orla was now worried her mother had a brain tumour.
Just as they were about to leave the last of the shops behind, Mamabear spied a bakery and said she wanted to stop and buy some fresh bread. Orla knew why this was: Mamabear was expecting that she’d have to eat stale crusts for lunch.
‘It’s all right,’ Orla said. ‘I make sourdough now.’
‘What? You actually cook?’
‘I do,’ Orla laughed. ‘Out here it’s easier than going shopping. But don’t worry, sourdough is —’
‘Yes, Orla, I’ve had sourdough,’ Mamabear interrupted.
Orla was flabbergasted. Is that what Mamabear had been doing while she was away? Sitting in Paddington cafés wearing fashionable new clothing and sampling frankenfoods?
Very soon they’d climbed the hills and were turning off along the Summit Road. Orla’s mother oohed and aahed over the view of the harbour, which had decided to look particularly beautiful for Mamabear’s first encounter.
Orla turned off down Millard’s Road.
Mamabear gasped and grabbed the door handle in fright.
‘Relax,’ Orla said. ‘I’m very used to this road.’
Clearly enthralled by the view of the bay, her mother gripped the door handle all the way down the hill, and only let go of it when they came to a stop at the end of the Lilyfields driveway.
While Orla carried her mother’s suitcase along the path, Mamabear was positively rapturous over the garden. She’d always wanted a bigger garden, one that received more rain and had ‘English’ flowers.
Here there were English flowers aplenty, equally balanced with pretty natives, and Mamabear didn’t stop raving about the combination until she was sitting with a pot of tea at the outdoor table. Even then, she kept asking the names of the many plants she’d never seen before. Not that Orla knew.
Orla was just about to clear away the afternoon tea when she saw Michael coming up the path from the barn.
‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Nolan,’ he announced, striding the last few yards with his hand out.
Mamabear dimpled and offered her paw. ‘Call me Anne,’ she said.
‘And how was the flight, Anne?’ Michael carried on, appearing determined to win Mamabear over.
It wasn’t going to be much trouble. Mamabear dimpled again and began gushing about the excellent food and wine, the roominess of her seat, and the attentiveness of the attendants.
‘Good grief, Mother — you make it sound like you came business class.’
‘Actually, dear, I did.’
Before Orla could recover from her stupefaction, Michael said approvingly, ‘And a jolly good idea it was, too.’
Orla finally found her tongue. ‘But the price!’
‘Well, dear, we only live once.’
‘We certainly do,’ Michael laughed. ‘And we have to make the most of it, don’t we?’
Mamabear beamed at him.
Orla waited to see what would happen next. The way things were going, Michael would soon be inviting ‘Anne’ to join him for dinner.
‘It’s what I’m always telling Orla,’ Michael carried on. ‘Don’t live for the future. Don’t wait until everything’s all worked out before you enjoy your life.’
‘Is that what you’re always telling me?’ Orla interjected.
‘Oh yes,’ Mamabear agreed. ‘She’s far too much of a perfectionist.’
Orla groaned inwardly. Now that Michael and her mother had established a rapport, she’d soon start spilling the beans about everything.
‘A perfectionist, eh?’ Michael responded, and waited for Mamabear to continue.
Mamabear nodded emphatically, obviously encouraged by the attention Michael was paying her. ‘And being a perfectionist … well, everybody knows where that leads, don’t they? It leads to desperation.’
‘Mother,’ Orla cried, ‘I’m not desperate!’
‘She’s telling you the truth, Anne,’ Michael confided. ‘She’s had the attention of a bewildering number of gentlemen here on the Peninsula. Nearly all with the surname “Millard” as it happens, but —’
Orla glared at him to shut him up.
He winked.
‘Really, dear? Oh, I do hope you’ve met someone nice.’
‘She has indeed,’ Michael responded with a grin. ‘Handsome, well-off, and the perfect age.’
‘Someone like you?’ Mamabear asked brazenly.
‘Exactly like me,’ Michael laughed.
Orla decided enough was enough. ‘Mother, what would you like to do this afternoon?’ she asked brusquely.
Mamabear raised her eyebrows. ‘Aren’t you going to offer Michael a cup of tea? Really, Orla, where are your manners?’
‘It’s fine,’ Michael said quickly. ‘In fact, I only came up to meet you. And to ask Orla a favour.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she’d love to —’ Mamabear began.
‘What is it?’ Orla asked, cutting her mother off.
‘Help unpack the kitchen equipment when I move. I’ve ordered so much crockery and cutlery that —’
‘Fine,’ Orla said shortly. She just wanted the little threesome to end. She was anxious about what her mother would come out with next. Weird tales of her teenage boyfriends maybe, or, even worse, descriptions of the long droughts between boyfriends, brought on by her ‘pickiness’.
‘Great,’ Michael replied. ‘Okay, I’d better get on with things. So much to do.’ He said his goodbyes and set off for his SUV.
‘What a lovely young man,’ Mamabear said.
Orla’s heart instantly leapt to agree — but, thinking of the incorrigible Eddie, all she said was, ‘Not that young.’
‘Not too young,’ Mamabear murmured.
Orla made a firm commitment to end the conversation that she sensed was about to ensue.
‘How about a walk at the bay?’ she suggested. ‘And then there’s a sweet little French restaurant we can have dinner at. Okay with you?’
‘Perfect,’ Mamabear replied happily.
‘So when do you want to visit Aunt Martha?’ Orla asked, after lunch the following day. ‘I’d be very happy to drive you.’ Especially if she lives in a fabulous, original, old farmhouse.
‘Oh, I’m not,’ Mamabear replied, and added disingenuously: ‘I told you, didn’t I? Martha passed away.’
‘No, you didn’t tell me. You mean she passed away since you booked your ticket?’
Mamabear actually blushed, and Orla suddenly realised she was lying. But Mamabear never lied! She abhorred it.
‘She died before you booked your ticket?’ Orla demanded.
Mamabear dropped her eyes to the ground.
‘Mother,’ Orla said sternly, ‘you told me one of the reasons you had to come here was to see Martha.’
‘I know.’
‘You do realise that I took that into my decision not to return to Melbourne?’
‘Yes, dear,’ Mamabear said in a low voice.
Orla sighed. She felt like ticking her off, but really, that wouldn’t have been honest. There had been several far more compelling reasons for staying. Besides, she didn’t want meek, anxious, frugal old Mamabear back — she was very much enjoying this new, happy, surprising one.
‘Well, my condolences,’ Orla offered, rather belatedly.
‘Oh, I’m not upset,’ Mamabear said brightly, and it was perfectly obvious that she was telling the truth. ‘Martha and I never got on. She came over to visit when you children were very young and flirted outrageously with your father. Can you believe it? Right in front of me.’
‘Dad would’ve put her in her place, surely,’ Orla replied.
‘Oh yes, but that didn’t stop her. Nothing stopped her. She was a … a lawnmower in knickers!’
Orla burst out laughing. She hadn’t heard that old insult for years. And she’d never heard it come out of Mamabear’s mouth before.
‘Besides, she was mutton dressed as lamb,’ Mamabear added darkly. ‘She was at least ten years older than me.’
Realising that seeing Martha had been merely a ruse, Orla said as gently as she could, ‘You didn’t have to go to such lengths just for me.’
‘I didn’t, dear.’
Wondering why her mother was contradicting the perfectly obvious, Orla asked, ‘So where do you want me to take you? One of the sandy beaches for a nice walk? There are some wonderful shells. And we might even see a penguin or two.’
‘Oh, no,’ Mamabear said quickly. ‘I’d like to go to the waterfront in Akaroa.’
‘What on earth for?’ Orla was astonished. Mamabear go to the tourist shops? To look at paua pendants and frenchified gewgaws?
‘Not the shops,’ Mamabear corrected her, as if she could read Orla’s mind. ‘There’s a place on Beach Road I want to visit.’
‘A place?’ Orla repeated. ‘What kind of place?’
‘You’ll see,’ Mamabear replied with a mysterious smile.
Orla didn’t press her. Instead, she went upstairs to change while her mother had a wash. Orla had given up the proper bed and was sleeping on the fold-down, and she now saw that the clothes her mother proposed to wear on the mysterious outing were already laid out on the bedspread. Another brand-new dress: stylish, wine-coloured, and still sporting its shop label. Orla looked at the price and gasped.
Half an hour later they were driving down to Akaroa, Mamabear wearing makeup and perfume, and looking attractively svelte in the new acquisition.
‘Stop!’ Mamabear cried.
Orla, who’d been driving along Beach Road at a crawl while Mamabear scanned the houses, pulled up outside ‘the place’. Looking around, she wasn’t even sure which one it was. There were several expensive-looking houses with big old trees and spectacular sea views. Then she saw that one of them was a secluded B&B.
‘That’s where I’m going,’ Mamabear declared as she opened the car door.
‘To inspect it?’ Orla was now thoroughly bewildered. Perhaps her mother was treating herself to a night in a fancy place as part of her new-found desire to spend her money? Orla began to get out of the car.
‘What are you doing?’ Mamabear asked, poking her head in the window. ‘You’re not coming.’
‘Aren’t I?’ Orla asked, flabbergasted.
‘Of course not, dear.’
‘Why not?’ Really, it was a bit much to be left sitting in the hot car like a chauffeur. That was a bit rude, wasn’t it?
‘Oh, Orla,’ Mamabear said, rolling her eyes, ‘anyone but you would have guessed by now.’
‘Guessed what?’
‘I’m spending the night with my beau, dear.’