Something Fishy (12 page)

‘So you're both set for the night, then?' I said. ‘Chicks-wise.'

‘Guess so,' he said, not displeased with the idea.

‘You'll be up there in the woods, no adult supervision, free to have your wicked ways.'

He gave a scornful snort, but he knew he'd fallen into a trap. ‘Check it out,' he said suddenly, pointing to the view as we turned down the hill towards the long stretch of beach at Fairhaven. The waves were as advertised, a perfect beginner's break. Perfect, too, for an old guy who was long out of practice.

‘Jodie's mother,' I said. ‘What's she think about this overnight stay business?'

‘Her name's Barbara,' he said. ‘And I was wrong about her. She's not divorced.'

Fairhaven was a popular spot, a sandy bottom with even, regular sets. Vans and station wagons lined the tussocky dunes beside the road and it was hard to find a place to park.

‘Let me know if you spot an opening,' I said.

‘Actually, her husband's dead,' continued Red, eyeing me sideways. Checking my reaction, not getting one. ‘Car crash. It happened when Matt and Jodie were little. They were trapped in the wreckage, all four of them. Jodie's still got this scar.'

He began to raise his right arm, his left hand reaching across his chest to show me where. The hand got half-way, then he changed his mind, wary, before I asked how he'd come to be so familiar with young Jodie's anatomy.

‘Is that where her mother got that…?' I ran my finger from my earlobe to my collarbone.

‘You've been checking her out, haven't you, Dad?'

‘You should talk,' I said. ‘You're the one planning to get her daughter into your tent.'

He shook his head, exasperated. ‘Matt'll be there the whole time. They're hardly out of each other's sight.'

‘That's reassuring.' I pulled into a spot at the Moggs Creek end of the beach, body-board territory.

‘Yeah,' said Red, figuring maybe he'd found an angle he could use to his advantage. ‘Anyway, in case you're wondering, Jodie says she's not involved with anyone at the moment. Her mother, that is. She lived with a guy called Dennis for a few years, but they broke up. He's married to someone else now, got his own kids. Matt was pretty cut up about it, apparently. So, like I said, she's up for grabs. I reckon you should go for it.'

‘You're a sick puppy, you know,' I said. ‘Trying to line me up with your girlfriend's mother.'

‘This thing with Jodie,' he said. ‘I'm not a hundred per cent sure about it. She's nice, but she can get a bit clingy. Reckon I should play the field a bit before I commit. What do you think?'

‘I think I should have you spayed while it's still legal.'

‘No, really.' He went serious on me, man-to-man. ‘If you're interested in her mother, don't let me stand in your way.'

‘That's very considerate of you, son.' I mirrored his tone, meaning it.

‘That's okay,' he said. ‘You need it more than I do. Last chance before the retirement home.'

‘Get fucked,' I said. ‘Any other words of wisdom from the master of romance?'

‘Just one,' he said. ‘If you're fast enough, there's an empty parking spot next to that yellow station wagon up ahead.'

We hit the water and Red soon found his feet, the sharp-nosed thruster an easier plank to walk than my first board, a malibu. Or so it seemed, watching from the shore. When I finally managed to wangle a turn, it wasn't quite as manoeuvrable as it looked. We surfed up a hefty appetite, bought pies for lunch and drove back to Lorne through a squall that put coin spots on the Magna's dusty windscreen.

I spent the rest of the day lounging around the house. Intermittent showers, cricket on the radio, a book within reach, a nap. The lads were elsewhere, watching videos with better-resourced cronies, they claimed. Pressing their suits with the objects of their desire, I didn't wonder.

By seven-thirty, the cool front had passed, the streets were dry and the sky was clearing. Red and Tark were back, heads in the refrigerator, talking about having some friends over, kicking on. I dug out the address for Ken Sproule's place, changed into clean chinos and a polo shirt, forked over enough cash for a delivery of pizza, made a show of counting the beer, stuck a bottle of wine under my arm, then left the younger generation to its own devices and started for Aireys Inlet.

Sunset was still more than an hour away, but the ranges had already cast their long shadow across the Great Ocean Road. The beach at Fairhaven was murky and spray-shrouded, deserted by all but the most dedicated wax-heads. At the lifesaving club, I turned off the highway, climbed into the sunlight and followed the spine of the ridge that ran parallel to the coast.

Ten years back, a bushfire had descended from the hills and incinerated many of the houses along this section of road. New growth soon sprouted and new houses were built, but the inferno had left its mark. Charred trunks jutted from the greenery and many of the new dwellings had been constructed with an eye to the harsher realities.

Ken and Sandra's place was such a house. Low-slung and well clear of surrounding trees, it was recessed into a fold in the earth, the front cantilevered, the rear facing the road with a packed-gravel parking apron. Solar panels. External sprinklers. Slatted timber pergolas shading the north and west aspects. Slightly Spanish feel. Costa Monza.

The door was open. I gave it a passing rap and followed a short hallway into an open-plan space that was filled with convivial chatter and the smell of fresh paint. The furniture was sparse and modular. Ikea, I guessed. The feel was stylish but comfortable, tending to homey. Stray pieces of Lego littered the floor and cartoon noises leaked from behind a closed door. Pushing fifty, Ken was a come-again father.

About a dozen adults, none of whom I knew, were drinking wine and batting the breeze at a beechwood dining table. Past them, on a jutting deck, Ken was tending a Weber, aided by two blokes in fashionably lairish shirts, cans of beer in hand. He spotted me hovering uncertainly and beckoned with his barbecue tongs.

He introduced me to his friends, a Steve and a Boyd, ageing yuppies, then carved a wide circle in the air with his meat-grippers. ‘Not bad, eh?'

It certainly wasn't. Undulating, scrub-covered hills extended from the deck, capped in the distance by the jade of the ocean. A froth of tangerine clouds rose from the horizon. Here and there, houses dotted the landscape and solitary trees emerged from the undergrowth, twisted into picturesque shapes by the sea winds. The building and the view were all of a piece, made for each other.

I whistled appreciatively, meaning it.

‘We'll get built out eventually, of course,' said Ken. ‘Lose the view. But not the capital gain.'

Sandra appeared, thrust a flute of bubbly into my hand, steered me inside and introduced me to her other guests. Couples, mainly. A few years younger, mostly. Media types and film people.

In keeping with the unspoken code of the beachside holiday, jobs were not mentioned nor shop talked. The topic was plans for New Year's Eve. Having none, I sipped and listened.

Ken, Sandra and some of the others had managed to get a table at Gusto, no mean achievement, apparently. ‘We've got an in,' confided Sandra. ‘The architect who designed this place also did Gusto. She had a word with Jake Martyn, fixed it up for us to join her party. We've become quite matey with her. Matter of fact, she said she might drop around tonight, see how the place works with people in it.'

What are the chances? I wondered.

My answer arrived twenty minutes later, a raw cotton skirt swishing at her ankles as she came down the hall. She hesitated for a moment before entering the room, examining the set-up. Unnoticed, possibly, except by me. She was buffed and moisturised, post-beach. Her ash-blonde hair was cut in an Annie Lennox crop and she wore a green coral necklace that might have matched her eyes. Hard to tell at the distance.

Sandra saw her and darted forward, smoocheroonie. The two women conferred, then waltzed around the room for a series of effusive introductions. In due course, it was my turn.

‘Murray,' Sandra started. ‘You really must meet…'

‘Barbara Prentice,' I said. ‘Jodie's mother.'

The architect raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘My son is a friend of your daughter,' I explained. ‘Red Whelan. I'm Murray.'

‘Ah,' she exhaled, putting it together. ‘You're the polly, right?' Something in her tone conveyed the impression that my occupation wasn't the only thing she knew about me.

We held each other's gaze for slightly longer than was dictated by the requirements of common courtesy. Her eyes were grey.

‘Quick,' called Ken from the deck, a rare enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Showtime.'

A flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos had come flapping out of the hills, white plumage vivid against the darkening sky. There must have been a hundred of them, screeching and wheeling, then settling in the branches of a fire-blackened stringybark, the nearest tree to the house. We crowded the deck, all oohs and aahs, captivated by the wild splendour of the sight, children pressing to the front, television forgotten.

‘Are they on the payroll?' somebody quipped. ‘Ambience consultants?'

‘All part of the design,' Barbara laughed.

The cockatoos worked on the tree for a while, their beaks shredding the foliage. Then they rose again, a restless whirlwind, and flapped away to feed elsewhere, screeching and carping. I thought of my ex-wife, Wendy.

Candles were lit and Ken's burnt sacrifice transferred to the dining table. As the other guests found their seats, I lingered on the deck, watching night settle over the lavender hills, and sea merge with sky. After a while, Barbara Prentice was standing there too.

‘Nice house,' I said. ‘It has such an open, welcoming feel. Wonderfully site-specific, too.'

‘Sounds like you're out of practice,' she said.

‘Badly,' I admitted.

‘Your son, on the other hand, does not appear to be backward in coming forward.'

‘I heard it was the other way around.'

She gave a derisive snort. ‘Wishful thinking.'

‘Well, that's no crime,' I said. ‘Is it?'

Even in the waning light, the faint scar under her ear was clearly visible. A different haircut would have made it less evident, possibly hidden it completely. But she seemed to wear it almost as a badge of honour, the mark of a survivor. There was something a bit dangerous about the woman. Smart dangerous, not whacko dangerous. Something challenging and, well, sexy.

‘You comfortable about Jodie going to this Falls festival thing?' I said.

‘Something I should be worried about?'

‘Not Red,' I said. ‘If that's what you mean. Born gentlemen, the Whelan boys.'

She gave me a sideways look that suggested both doubt and a degree of disappointment.

We're flirting, I thought. We're definitely flirting.

She waggled a hand, signifying ambivalence. ‘The way I see it, Jodie will probably be a lot safer at the festival than hanging around in Lorne. It can get pretty ugly in town, all the boozing and brawling on the foreshore, yobbos coming from miles around. And her brother Matt will be there to keep an eye on her. He can be a bit of a tearaway at times, but he looks after his little sister.'

‘So I understand,' I said. ‘Not that…' I let the sentence fade away. Like she said, I was out of practice.

We leaned on the railing, saying nothing, watching the purple light seep away across the scrub.

‘Murray,' she said.

‘Yes,' I breathed.

‘Did you bring your Frisbee?'

I didn't want to jump this woman, not straight off. I wanted to stand close behind her, put my arm around her waist, feel the fit. Just stand like that, looking out over the world.

‘Get it while you can,' called Ken, summoning us to dinner.

Inside, Sandra was bustling with the seating arrangements, intent on placing us next to each other. But I wasn't about to have my match made. And neither, I could tell, was Barbara. We dithered, evading Sandra's attempts at shoehorning, and finished up at opposite ends of the table. Soon after dinner, Barbara made her goodbyes and left.

Later, as I was helping Ken and his mate Boyd with the washing-up, Sandra floated into the kitchen, pleasantly pickled, and sidled up to the sink. ‘Spoke to Barbara about New Year's Eve,' she slurred into my ear as I scrubbed a sauce-smeared plate. ‘Asked her if maybe we couldn't squeeze you onto our table at Gusto. You know what she said? Said you could always turn up and'—she glanced around conspiratorially—‘try your luck.'

‘Luck?' I said.

There'd been bugger all of that lately.

‘Mummy,' squeaked a voice near the floor. ‘Damon stuck a piece of bread in the video player.'

As soon as Sandra turned her back, I handed the dishmop to Ken, thanked him for a splendid housewarming, and slipped away.