20

As I put my phone away, I remembered, regrettably, the promise I’d made to Madison.

I suppose you could say that my biggest problem in life is the way I allow myself to take on too many of the troubles that strictly speaking belong to other people. The theory is easy, isn’t it? People can ask, and I can just say no. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. For various reasons, and no doubt it’ll turn out it’s all to do with my childhood—my mother’s fault, probably—the pattern is that I say yes.

At least this wasn’t a promise to help with a crimey kind of problem. It merely involved an urgent shopping expedition. The Target intimate apparel department.

‘Cass, they’re on special,’ Madison had laid the brochure out on my counter. ‘No way I’ll get a chance to go to Muddy Soak before it ends.’

‘Just order them online, Madison.’

‘Oh come on, you know how long it takes for anything to arrive here in the mail. It won’t take you a second, I promise.’ Her eyes were all big and begging. ‘Please? And you could get some for yourself. Take a look—I really think the leopard skin’s the way to go, don’t you agree? And the bulk pack is excellent value.’

I stared out my windscreen, pondering how to get out of this. Maybe I could tell Madison Target had run out of her size. But she’d know quick-smart I was lying. And Madison’s my most loyal customer.

I looked at my watch. Two-thirty. Well, if I made it quick, I’d still have time to call in on Ernie, drop off those Anzac biscuits. He might let me look up a few Natalie-related matters on his iPad.

Target is a place you could wander around in for days, unrecognised. Probably not a bad spot to do a drug deal. There’s no way you can shop there in a hurry, not with all the aisles full of stuff you think you might want but then you get it home and realise you’ll never use it.

After only a few minutes in there, I could no longer will myself to hurry. Maybe they pump some kind of gas into the air conditioning to slow down the customers. I cruised past the iPads, the kitchenware, the books—amazing how cheap the books were. For the price of a few coffees you could have a whole decent book. Hours more entertainment than a few cuppas and a lot less caffeine.

Finally, I found the women’s underwear and the real search began. I know there’s not a lot to a G-string, but who’d have thought they’d be so hard to find?

It crossed my mind that this was possibly another of Madison’s misguided attempts to encourage me to be more adventurous vis à vis my own undergarments. There are a few people in Rusty Bore who seem to think I’m in desperate need of sex.

‘Your underwear is key, Cass. It’s all about how you feel, especially for the older woman.’ Madison had hurried on before I had a chance to protest about the O word. ‘The mature woman needs a little extra to…get motivated, apparently. I read about it in Cleo. Anyway, I’m not old myself, obviously, but personally, I find a G-string makes a difference.’ She bent down to stroke Timmy.

I occasionally let Timmy into my shop after closing time. I shouldn’t, really. But the big plus of Tim is that he doesn’t try to savage anyone. He’s a ferret who’s just very comfortable with who he is, in Madison’s expert opinion.

‘Err, you don’t need to worry about my motivation,’ I said. I gave my spotless counter a quick wipe to release the nervous tension. I’m as prepared as the next person to share her thoughts on intimate matters with her potential future daughter-in-law, but, frankly, that doesn’t include the ins and outs of my date-related underwear.

After my fourth sweep through the Target underwear aisle, I finally found the G-strings. I picked up a packet. Excellent, Madison’s size. And leopard skin—check. Not that there was a lot of actual space for the spots. I peered at the print on the pack. Bonus his and hers musk oil. Well, that would probably please Madison. Or at least the ferrets.

I glanced at my watch: after three already. I’d better put the foot down. I sped towards the checkout and joined the queue of weary-looking people. Glanced around at the long line of slumpy shoulders. I don’t know what all these people in Muddy Soak had to feel so weary about. Maybe it was all the Spectaculars. I suppose nonstop festivals would have to get pretty tiring.

I saw a familiar figure, four people ahead in the queue. Skinny bloke wearing an Akubra, his face in profile as he smiled at an elderly woman standing next to him. Shit, it was that Bamfield bloke, the comfort-specialist joker. Exactly the person you don’t want to run into when you’re purchasing an intimate item. For a friend.

What in heck a gravel baron was even doing in Target beat me. Maybe he was helping that elderly woman with her shopping, spreading some more of his magnanimity around the place. He looked over my way. I ducked behind the plump woman in front of me. She was wearing a beanie with a giant purple pom-pom: not perfect cover, but in a tight spot you have to accept whatever camouflage presents itself.

I scrunched the packet in my hand. No need for everyone to see exactly what I was buying. An uneventful queue-shuffling moment passed.

Maybe I should just ditch the G-strings and leg it. Come on, Cass, I told myself. It’s a simple underwear-shopping expedition. Everybody wears underwear. And anyway, the bloke’d be well gone before me.

I wasn’t convinced. I smacked my forehead as if I’d just remembered something important, shuffled out of the queue, moving at a safe, yet brisk speed and headed for the back of the shop. I’d lurk around down near the bedding for a minute.

Just the act of putting a little distance in between me and the Bamfield-containing-queue made me feel a whole lot better. In an instant, I was breathing again.

‘Stop. That. Woman!’

I turned around.

The woman with the beanie was pointing at me, her pom-pom bobbing madly, her face almost as purple as the pom-pom. ‘She’s stolen my property!’

I don’t always cope that well in a panic type of situation. In fact, I panic. My mouth dropped open. I whirled around and ran. God knows where I thought I was running to. I ran blindly towards the back of the shop. I know running is the very last thing you should do in that kind of situation. Still, on I ran.

I sprinted down the aisle, dodging startled-looking shoppers. There were heavy footsteps behind me, getting closer. I made a rapid manoeuvre around the Easter display; reached out with my hand and whacked a huge box of Easter eggs onto the floor behind me. The eggs burst out and rolled across the floor. Maybe that’d slow down the security guard. Or at least, if they arrested me, it’d be down near the bedding, out of sight of Bamfield.

Like the wind I scampered. Past women’s clothing, past men’s, through the blur of colourful kiddies’ toys. A heavy hand clutched my shoulder. I kept going, hurtling around the corner past soft furnishings into kitchen items. I slipped and fell, whacking my arm on the floor.

I groaned and reached out on the floor with my hands, trying to get up. A pair of shiny black lace-up shoes near my face. Security guard-type shoes.

The security guard cleared his throat. I looked up. It wasn’t a security guard.