‘Enjoy the rest of the day,’ I said, walking off as I waved at him with a smile. I should have focused on what was in front of me. My foot slipped on the melted ice cream and I toppled forwards, reaching out for the fence to break my fall. But too late I realised that attached to the fence was the broken plastic candy cane whose sharp, splintered protrusions scraped the side of my upper thigh as I fell alongside it, ripping the fabric of my skirt and yes—my frilly bloomers.
‘Jesus!’ I exclaimed, wincing at the sharp pain and warmth spreading over my thigh and butt cheek as I lay prone on the ground. Grandma rushed over to me but could not help me up, and Mrs Claus followed.
‘Are you okay, dear?’ The woman held out her hand, and before I grabbed it I craned my neck to appraise the damage. Oh hell. The rip in my skirt was huge, and a red mound of bottom flesh was exposed through the hole in my undies.
‘Hey look, that lady has elf underpants!’ a nearby child called out, pointing and laughing. Other children laughed too, then chorused ‘elf underpants, elf underpants! Ha-ha-ha!’ Someone snapped a photo, and another child said, ‘I can see her bum!’
I shook my head and longed to be sucked into the ground I lay on, while all eyes were on my … tush.
* * *
I sat on a towel that a kind lady had given me at the fair while I waited for treatment at the local medical centre. I kept checking to make sure I wasn’t releasing a deluge of blood on the floor. This baby would most likely need stitches.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, lovey,’ said Grandma. ‘All this trouble you’re going to for me, and now this! Is the pain manageable?’
I mumbled ‘it’s okay’, conscious of avoiding a bonus psychiatric evaluation if I was seen talking to the empty chair next to me. But the truth was, it hurt like hell to sit down, and I’d probably have to write the rest of my book standing up to avoid sitting on the wound.
A doctor came into the waiting room. Please let me be next, please! My urgency was not only from the pain and embarrassment, but also from the fact that the doctor was incredibly gorgeous. Had I walked onto a Grey’s Anatomy set?
‘Mrs Gillings?’ he called, and a woman with a cough walked towards him.
Damn it. I’d probably be seeing one of the other doctors at the centre. Then again, maybe it was for the best that Dr McHotty wouldn’t see my bleeding, bruised, bloomer-burdened bum.
‘Miss Solomon?’ a voice called out, and I raised my head. A thin man of very short stature (he should have been the elf!) held a chart and gestured to his consulting room. The bushy, speckled grey eyebrows overshadowing his eyes appeared to have their own ecosystem, and his wrinkly skin told of many years of experience and varying emotions. A wounded butt? He’d probably seen much worse.
I got the required number of stitches and he instructed me on how to keep the area clean and re-dress the wound, as well as when to return for a follow-up appointment to remove the stitches. I returned to the B&B for a change of clothes and made my way to the supermarket to buy some long-awaited normal undies.
I sighed in relief at the checkout, glad the embarrassing bottom incident was over and done with, and armed with enough underwear for the rest of December, a jumbo box of potato chips, and a few other essentials. As I placed everything on the conveyer belt, I turned behind me and looked into the eyes of the man waiting in the queue. It was Dr McHotty. I smiled, hoping he hadn’t seen me at the medical centre grasping the bloodied towel against my backside, and hoping his doctor instincts couldn’t magically see it underneath my black jersey maxi dress. He smiled back, and like Grandma with Dave, I was gone. Look away, Abby, look away! I forced myself to divert my eyes at the appropriate time so as to not appear like I was seeing a man for the first time, and put the jumbo chips at the back of the conveyer belt to hide all the undies.
A repeated beep sounded at the checkout, followed by the sales assistant’s ‘damn’. She scanned a packet of underwear a few times but it wouldn’t register, so she scanned another pair. Same problem. ‘Do you remember the price of these?’
‘Um, no, sorry. I just grabbed them.’ Like my life depended on them. ‘But I can go take a—’
‘No need.’ She picked up an intercom and her voice boomed through the building. ‘Price check please for Bonds boyleg ladies briefs, size twelve. That’s size twelve Bonds boyleg ladies briefs, price check please.’
Oh no. Cow! Heat rushed across my face and McHotty had a small smile dimpling his cheeks. And size twelve! It would have been size ten, but I needed to allow room for the padded bandage on my butt cheek.
I stood as still as possible, hoping I would suddenly develop a superpower to turn invisible, while everything around me seemed to stop; everyone in the supermarket waiting in suspense for the price check before they could move on with their shopping and their lives.
‘You know, I wouldn’t have thought you were a size twelve,’ said a woman in the next checkout queue.
My face burned and I glared at her in disbelief. ‘I’m not, it’s just, I’m just … I have a …’ I patted the side of my bottom. ‘I need some extra room.’
‘Oh,’ she said, tipping her head back in apparent understanding. ‘Pregnant?’
‘No, I’m not pregnant!’ I said, probably in a little too frustrated a way than I should have. What was with this town? Was it normal small town behaviour to discuss underwear sizes with another woman in the supermarket while a dreamy doctor listened and watched in amusement?
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, returning to her task of unloading groceries.
I tucked my hair behind my ears in nervous humiliation, desperate to keep my hands busy while some unknown person went on a mission to seek the price of my underwear. What was taking them so long? I turned to the doctor. ‘Sorry for the wait.’ I offered a resigned smile.
‘It’s fine. I’ve been non-stop all day, so it’s good to stand still for a while.’ He appeared calm and in control, though I wondered what secrets lay beneath the surface. If he were a character in my books, what challenges would he be facing? Was there something in his past that spurred him on to becoming a doctor? Was he married, divorced, single, widowed? My character profile questionnaire opened like a word document in my mind and I tried to fill in the blanks.
‘Four dollars and ninety-five cents!’ yelled a boy about fifteen from aisle seven. The sales assistant gave him a thumbs up signal and entered the price into the computer, adding the multitude of underwear packets to my shopping bag.
Thank goodness that ordeal was over. From now on I would be steering clear of ‘ladies’ boutiques, Santa photo shoots, hyperactive kids, and giant candy canes. Though I wouldn’t be opposed to eating a small one right now. I grabbed a candy cane from the confectionary impulse-buy rack next to the checkout and paid for my purchases. I couldn’t wait to get back to the B&B and escape into my fictional world where the only embarrassing things that happened were to my characters, and I was safely on the other side of the screen. In control.
For the fourth Dave of Christmas, my grandma gave to me
A Dave dressed as a Christmas tree …
Chapter 8
Thankfully, the weekend was free of embarrassing moments, or as Grandma Charlotte liked to call them: Character Building Experiences. How getting my undies and skin ripped open by a broken candy cane thanks to a little brat overtired child was character building, though, I had no idea. If anything, all it taught me was to look where I was going and avoid unsuitable underwear in case of accidents. But I guess it was kinda nice to feast my eyes on Dr McHotty, and that wouldn’t have happened had I not tripped and fallen over. Huh. Looks like I am getting into this ‘silver lining’ and ‘positive side to everything’ stuff.
Speaking of which, due to my accident I’d forgotten to write down a positive attribute from Dave The Christmas Tree until yesterday, Sunday, after we visited Dave number five in the next town. (More on him in a minute. Patience, please.) ‘Enthusiastic’ was his chosen trait. Enthusiastic about life, peop
le, Christmas, and of course his seventieth birthday holiday fund.
Dave number five’s positive attribute was ‘stylish’. Seriously, his weekend get-up was catwalk-worthy, colour-coordinated designer attire, and not a crease or crinkle in sight. Shame he hadn’t shared the previous Dave’s enthusiasm, though. He’d answered the door as if in slow motion, his voice slow and lazy, leaning against the doorframe as though his get up and go had got up and gone. And as you’ve probably guessed, he wasn’t the Dave we were looking for, because … (cue our Christmas theme song):
For the fifth Dave of Christmas, my grandma gave to me
A Dave the wrong nationality …
Yep. Korean, apparently, while Grandma’s beloved Dave was an Australian born of Irish and English descent. As for the sixth Dave of Christmas, we were about to find out …
‘Have another look through the binoculars, Abby,’ Grandma urged, while I passed the time on the Facebook app on my iPhone.
‘It’s not yet after ten, he won’t be home, and I can see perfectly well without the binoculars.’ I returned to my phone and commented on some Facebook statuses, mostly from my writing friends about how they hadn’t done any Christmas shopping yet and how their book edits were causing headaches. I considered posting how well my work-in-progress was progressing since beginning my little road trip, but didn’t want to jinx myself.
‘But it’s dark, what if he’s walking home instead of driving and he goes in the back door or something?’ She peered down the stretch of road, the light from one street lamp casting a subdued and eerie glow a few houses down from where we sat parked in the car under a tree.
‘Okay then, I’ll double-check.’ I held the binoculars (which Grandma made me buy from a service station on the way down the coast) up to my eyes, and spied on the house where another Dave Smith lived. We’d tried visiting earlier but his neighbour, a young woman who shared a house with five other twenty-somethings, told me he didn’t usually come home till after ten pm on Mondays. I considered prying for further details about him, such as age, appearance, marital status and family history, but didn’t want to overstep the mark. Besides, it was more fun finding out ourselves. Grandma was right. I was certainly meeting interesting people to help with character inspiration.
‘Anything?’
‘Oh look.’ I pointed.
‘What?!’
‘A cat, a black one. Its eyes shone right at me and then it scurried off.’
‘Oh.’ Grandma’s shoulders softened.
I turned to her. ‘Patience, Grandma. After ten, remember? And maybe he’s the one. Mondays could be bingo night at the club or something.’
Her lips arched into a small smile. ‘Maybe. But I’m sure he has more interesting things to do than play bingo, even at his late stage in life. My Dave would likely be watching the latest hit at the pictures, or visiting people for dinner and discussing life in all its glory.’ She nodded.
I was about to reply when someone tapped on my window. ‘Holy crap!’ I screamed, and the binoculars flew from my hands, through Grandma’s translucent body, and against the passenger side window. Luckily, the glass didn’t break. My eyes met with the scolding glare of a woman who looked like she hadn’t seen moisturiser in a couple of decades, no offence. Leaning slightly away from her, I wound the window down an inch, not enough for her to reach in and grab me in case she was a serial killer or something.
‘Yes?’ I asked feebly.
‘What are you doing out here this late at night? And with binoculars too! I’ve been watching you from my house. What are you up to, young lady?’
So my surveillance itself was being … surveilled? (Mental note: google surveilled to see if it’s actually a word.) ‘I’m just um …’ Think, Abby, think! ‘Looking at … trying to … well, you see …’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake.’ Grandma Charlotte shook her head and spoke with frustration, at me or the woman I wasn’t sure. ‘Get back to your knitting, Granny, and in the name of all that’s holy, find yourself some sorbolene cream.’
I burst out laughing. Grandma joined in, and the woman looked at me with confusion. ‘Sorry, sorry, um, what was I saying?’
‘You were telling me what on earth you’re doing here.’ She placed her (dry and scaly) hands on her hips. ‘I’ve got a good mind to call the police and report you for stalking, or something.’
I gulped and straightened my posture, adjusting the soft cushion that supported my injured butt. ‘Oh, I really am sorry. I’m not stalking anybody, I assure you. I’m just …’ I racked my brain, ‘… the thing is, I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about a … um, a character who is looking for …’ I circled my hand in the air, summoning an idea. ‘She’s looking for her biological father, and has been given an address that could be his, and she’s waiting for him to come home so she can confront him and see if it’s really him. So I’m just getting into character to help me write the scene.’ I gave a confident nod.
The woman’s expression changed from irritation to surprised delight, her eyebrows rising so high I thought her forehead might crack. ‘You’re an author?’ She said the word in such a way that it was like she was asking me if I was Meryl Streep, or a renowned healer, or the leader of the country.
I smiled and nodded.
‘Well, what is your name? Have I read your books? Ooh, maybe I’ve got some inside you can autograph!’ She became animated and rosy-cheeked and fidgety.
‘Abby Solomon.’ I handed her one of my business cards.
She held a hand over her eyes for a moment. ‘I’m terribly sorry that I can’t recall your books, perhaps you can enlighten me?’
I told her some of the titles, but none jogged her memory. Being an author was like that. Some readers had no idea who you were, and others knew just about everything about you. Every book, every release date, every character, what your pet cat’s name was, and what you ate for breakfast last Tuesday (courtesy of Twitter and Facebook).
‘I will borrow them first thing tomorrow from the library.’ She grinned. ‘And ooh, oh yes! When the one about the girl looking for her father is released, I can say that I met you while doing your research for one of the scenes. How wonderful!’
I was seriously worried about her lack of skin hydration now, with all her smiling and eyebrow raising. I was also worried that she’d never get to read that book because I wasn’t actually writing it. Damn, I’d have to put it in my ideas file to consider for a future story. I needed an idea for my next book by early January but a girl looking for her father wasn’t enough of a unique ‘high-concept’. There had to be more to it.
‘I hope you enjoy the books.’ I smiled, and even though I was always happy to meet a potential loyal reader, I also hoped she would kindly leave me in peace to continue what I was here to do. Stalking someone.
I picked up the binoculars from the floor as a hint, and she clasped her hands together (surprisingly, they didn’t crumble). ‘I’ll leave you to it! You have important work to do. Don’t mind me, I’ll get out of your hair now! Oh how exciting, having met an actual author. I’ve never met one before, you know. Oh, before I go, would you kindly sign your business card?’
‘Sure.’ I scribbled Abby S with my trademark love heart around it, and handed the card back. ‘Actually, you know what?’ I opened the glove box, and faintly heard Grandma whisper, ‘Abby!’ though why she was whispering when no one else could hear her I didn’t know. ‘I happen to have one of my books with me. I’d be happy to give it to you.’ I signed it also and handed it over to her eager hands and grateful smile.
‘Abby!’ Grandma raised her voice. Couldn’t she wait till the woman had gone?
The woman thanked me and scurried off, and I turned to Grandma Charlotte. ‘What, Miss Impatient?’
‘Look!’ She bounced up and down in her seat and pointed to Dave’s house. A sedan pulled into the driveway and stopped underneath the carport.
‘Oh! Don’t worry, I’m on it!’ I held up the binoculars. A figur
e fiddled with something in the car. Then they got out, and once they stepped on the porch an automatic light came on. ‘Damn.’ It was a woman.
‘Rats!’ Grandma clicked her fingers. ‘But maybe you should still go up and talk to her, ask about Dave? Yes, go on, skit!’ She flicked her hands at me like I was an insect.
‘Alright, alright!’
I quickly opened the door and locked the car, and Grandma followed me over to the woman, who was dressed in a beautiful midnight-blue shimmery gown and high heels. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, and revealed a hint of sparkly earrings that dangled beneath her curls. I made a point of stepping loudly on the driveway so she wouldn’t be alarmed, and as I got closer I said, ‘Hello, excuse me.’
She turned around, and eyed me up and down. For a moment I thought she’d be like Grandma and ridicule my dress sense; bland and boy-like with my faded, ripped-on-purpose jeans, tiny white top exposing my midriff, and a chunky grey, purple, and blue crochet scarf that trailed down to my feet.
‘Sorry to intrude, but I was looking for Dave Smith?’
‘You’ve found him.’
Huh? I raised my eyebrows.
She smiled, and I squinted a little as I noticed something about her. She was feminine, and beautiful, but there was something … different, and her voice was … different.
‘On Monday nights I’m Davina, singer of old-school blues and cabaret, but otherwise I’m Dave. Dave Smith.’ She/he held out her/his hand and I paused a moment then shook it.
‘Good Lord!’ Grandma exclaimed. ‘I’ve never met a transvestite before!’
I decided against informing her that technically, she still hadn’t met one, considering her current lack of a physical body and ability to be seen by anyone but me.
‘Oh, hi. Nice to meet you. A singer you say?’
‘I am indeed,’ she sang, drawing out the last syllable. She was quite good. ‘I perform at Moonlight Mondays, an initiative for diverse and unique performers at the Ridgewood RSL Club.’ She gave a bow with a flourish of her hand, and her nail polish sparkled in the moonlight.
12 Daves of Christmas Page 5