Sylvia was an elfin, quicksilver creature, with an impudent little nose and a mouth too wide for beauty. She –
I closed the book and tossed it across the kitchen onto the window seat. They all had mouths too wide for beauty – apart from those whose noses departed from the classical by tilting up at the tip, or whose cheeks were lightly dusted with golden freckles. It seemed to be romance novel law that every heroine must have a flaw, so as not to be sickeningly perfect, but never one that might actually diminish her good looks. I had yet to encounter a heroine with a receding chin.
In the fortnight since Hugh’s psychological thriller I had divided my reading time between The Patetonga Rural Women’s Institute Cookbook (which included several recipes for roasted wood pigeon but advised that kaka was better stewed) and a selection of Great-Aunty Sheila’s elderly cloth-bound novels, free from serial killers but bristling with dainty heroines and square-jawed, strong-and-silent older men with mysterious pasts. What is the appeal of the strong and silent older man? My father’s one, so I’ve had ample opportunity to observe the type, and personally I’d prefer a bloke who wanted to talk to me from time to time. Resolving to visit the library before the day was out, I slid off my stool and went down the hall to get dressed.
It was Monday morning (we closed the café on Mondays, apart from in summer, when we barely closed to sleep), and Anna, our mothers and I were going bridesmaid’s dress shopping. I got to Mum’s on the dot of eight and had her out the door a mere twenty-three minutes later, which was a promising start. Pausing only to collect the bride, we reached Newmarket by ten, met Anna’s mother, Deidre, at a café, agreed smugly that their coffee wasn’t a patch on ours and went forth to shop.
Over the next two hours I tried on about thirty dresses, and each was rejected with loathing by at least one of my panel of stylists. I learnt that I must never wear a halter-neck, a V-neck, anything teal, pink, grey or burgundy, a skirt that finished on the knee or a top with spaghetti straps, and by dress number thirty any positive feelings I might once have had about my appearance had vanished entirely.
‘We could try Silverdale,’ Deidre suggested.
‘No more,’ I said, sagging. ‘Please. Or I’ll cry.’
‘Why don’t we just choose some nice fabric and have something made?’ said Mum.
I sagged further. I have no faith in dressmakers, an attitude that dates from my Year 12 school ball. The family friend who made my dress decided against the pattern I had chosen, producing instead a replica of her daughter’s frock from 1987. I looked like an extra out of Dallas.
‘Or what about my green organza?’ Mum continued. ‘It wouldn’t take much to alter it to fit you, and it’s such a pretty thing. You’d look like a wood sprite.’
‘I’m not sure that’s quite the look we’re after for a wedding,’ said Deidre.
‘It is a garden wedding,’ Mum said.
‘Yes, well, that’s certainly an option.’
Mum, who had spent most of the winter transplanting perennials to ensure a riotous display of colour come March, stiffened.
‘I thought it was all settled,’ she said.
‘Ian and I are more than happy to pay for a venue.’
‘Mum . . .’ Anna said unhappily.
‘It’s not every day our little girl gets married, after all.’
Anna and I looked at each other in alarm. ‘Meet back here in an hour?’ she said.
‘Okay.’
And taking a mother apiece by the elbow we went rapidly in opposite directions.
‘Who does that woman think she is?’ Mum hissed.
‘Don’t worry about it. She’s just asserting her authority as mother of the bride.’
‘Well, she can jolly well un-assert it. I’d like to see the place she’d choose as a wedding venue. Probably a conference room at the airport motel. Come on, let’s look in here.’ Veering suddenly, she pulled me through a shop doorway.
A tall, very thin woman with bright red lipstick and a platinum blonde chignon looked up from behind the counter. ‘Can I help you ladies with anything, or are you happy just looking?’ she asked.
‘We’re looking for a dress for my daughter,’ said Mum. ‘A bridesmaid’s dress. For’ – grimly – ‘a garden wedding.’
The woman approached and examined me critically. Having inspected me from all angles she turned away, flicked through a rack of dresses, took one out, looked at me again, replaced it and selected the one beside it instead. ‘This one,’ she said.
Much impressed by this cool authority, I followed her to a cubicle at the back of the shop and climbed out of my clothes for the thirty-first time that day. The dress was made of dusky blue chiffon and lined with satin, and it whispered seductively as I slipped it over my head.
I looked in the changing room mirror, and a vision of loveliness looked back. The dress fitted close around the bust and skimmed over my hips, making a pleasing contrast to the shoulder-sagging, thigh-clinging horrors of the morning. Against its slate-blue fabric my hair was dark blonde with coppery highlights, not light brown with a red tinge, and my skin was pale gold rather than merely pale. It probably costs seven thousand dollars and your first-born child, I thought, staring at my reflection. It’s probably worth it.
‘Are you decent, love?’ Mum called.
I pulled back the curtain.
‘Oh, Lia. It’s beautiful.’
The platinum lady allowed herself a small, prim smile, without teeth.
‘What does it cost?’ I asked.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mum recklessly.
‘Two hundred and fifty-four ninety.’
‘We’ll take it.’
‘I’d better just call Anna to come and see it,’ I said, searching the changing room floor for my cell phone.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Anna said when she got there. ‘I’m not sure I should allow it; you’ll look better than I will.’
‘I hardly think so, darling,’ said Deidre.
This was true, Anna’s looks being of the fairy princess variety, but it did nothing to placate my mother.
* * *
I was in the kitchen later that evening, looking at half a dozen overripe bananas and wondering whether to make them into banana ripple cake or just add them to the overripe banana collection in the freezer (I’d never yet retrieved a frozen banana, but storing them rather than throwing them away made me feel pleasantly frugal), when a ute with R Leslie, Landscaping on the side came up the driveway and stopped on the other side of the hibiscus hedge.
Rob ran up the steps, kicked off his boots and came in. His shorts and shirt were white with clay and his hair stood up on end, stiff with dust and sweat.
‘Big day?’ I asked.
‘Mm. Shifting rocks – and you can’t get a digger to the corner of the site, so we had to use crowbars. Got anything to eat?’
‘Banana? You can have as many as you like.’
‘Yeah, but nah,’ said Rob.
I opened the big fridge. ‘Potato salad? Silk cake?’
‘Cake, please.’
I put the plate down on the butcher’s block. ‘I guess you’ll have heard that that guy you held up at gunpoint is working for Monty?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ he said serenely, fishing in a drawer for a spoon.
‘Has anyone said anything to you about it?’
‘Nope.’ He pulled a stool up to sit at the butcher’s block.
I considered trying to talk to him about twin telepathy, and decided there was no point. ‘You can have as much of that cake as you like; it’ll be soggy on the bottom by tomorrow.’
‘Thanks. How was the shopping trip?’
‘Excellent. Want to see my amazing bridesmaid’s dress?’
‘Why not?’ he said, with the placid good humour of a man with half a silk cake in front of him.
I had put it on and was hunting in the bottom of my wardrobe for the high heels I’d bought on sale and never yet found the opportunity to wear when the phone rang.
‘Don’t answer it!’ I called.
‘Who is it?’
‘Isaac.’ Finding the shoes, I carried them back down the hall to the kitchen.
The answering machine clicked on, and Anna’s voice said brightly, ‘Hi, you’ve reached Pretty Delicious. We’re open Tuesday to Sunday, from eight thirty to five. Leave us a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.’
‘Hi, Lia. Just wondering how you’re doing. I’m – I’m kind of struggling. It’d be good to talk, if you’ve got a minute.’ There was a sorrowful pause. ‘Oh well, might catch you later. Take care.’ The machine beeped.
‘Drip,’ said Rob through a mouthful of cake.
‘I hate being guilted.’
‘Just ignore him.’
‘I wish he’d stop this. I told him not to ring me any more.’
‘Good. You can ignore him with a clear conscience, then.’
I sighed.
‘Don’t let it get to you,’ said Rob, who had never let anything get to him in his life. ‘Nice dress.’
‘I’ll just put the shoes on, so you get the full effect.’ I did, and twirled shakily.
‘Very sexy,’ he said. ‘But you’d better practise walking in those shoes or you’ll do yourself an injury.’
‘Brothers aren’t supposed to think their sisters are sexy.’
‘It’s fine to think your sister looks sexy. It’s wanting to have sex with her that’s less cool.’
‘Ugh,’ I said. ‘Like in Flowers in the Attic. That book blighted my teenage years.’
‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know I’m not even faintly attracted to you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Any time.’
‘Things were a bit tense between Mum and Deidre today,’ I said. ‘They seem to be having some sort of mother of the bride versus mother of the groom power struggle.’
‘Oh, Deidre’s harmless,’ said Rob. ‘You just nod and smile, and ignore pretty much everything she says.’
I laughed. ‘You ignore pretty much everything everyone says.’
‘Yeah, it works well. Keeps things simple. You should try it.’ He smiled at me and shovelled the last of the silk cake into his mouth. ‘Right, I’m off. Thanks for the cake.’