'Thanks, honey, but I think you'd best remember you're the one who's pregnant, not me. Honestly, I swear I could be hiding triplets in here! And I've dropped a good eight kilos since I started at the network!'
'It can't be that bad,' Lou giggled.
'It is, believe me,' Rosie countered. 'Next!'
'Okay, this may be a little out-there for you but I saw a picture of J. Lo wearing a similar colour so it has to be fashionable.'
Rosie gritted her teeth to stop herself pointing out to her well-meaning friend that she was not a Latina with golden skin and sculpted abs but rather a misshapen Irish descendant with frizzy strawberry hair and freckled skin so pale it was almost blue.
'Just try it. I think you'll like it.' This time, Lou handed Rosie a garment that could only be described as puke bile yellow.
'Lou, I'll look like I have hepatitis! What are you doing to me? I have to have sex sometime this century and you're dressing me like I'm bloody Big Bird. I'll be the colour of Bart Simpson!'
Rosie heard Lou's unmistakable giggle and then some muffled chatter with the sales attendant.
'No, wait, we've got it. Ignore the yellow. This is it. Come on, just try it for me . . . pleeeeeease.'
Lou's arm appeared through the curtain once again, this time with a cacophony of multicoloured swirling silk chiffon.
Not wanting to hurt her friend's feelings, Rosie decided she would try on just one more dress and then make an excuse to put off shopping for another time and grab a drink before picking up Leon.
'You need a degree to put this bloody thing on,' Rosie yelled through the curtain, grappling with the gown's lace-up bodice. 'You sure it's not a straitjacket? This isn't an intervention, is it?'
'Hurry up, I can't wait!' Lou yelled back. 'You're going to look beautiful, I know it.'
Rosie wrestled herself into the layered swathes of material then looked in the mirror and had to laugh. She looked so utterly ridiculous, this time she had to share. 'Okay, here I come . . . are you ready?'
'Come on!' Lou said impatiently. 'Get your arse out here and show me!'
Rosie sucked in her breath, struck a theatrical pose, pulled the curtains aside with a flourish and yelled, 'Voilà!'
Unfortunately, what had been an empty dressing-room area when she'd entered the cubicle was now full, with every eye resting on her dramatic unveiling.
Lou took one look at her friend and doubled over in hysterics. 'You look like a test pattern,' she said, between unladylike snorts of laughter.
'I look like a bloody lava lamp,' Rosie replied, and completely lost it herself.
'Is this where you turn it on?' Lou roared, pointing to Rosie's exposed left nipple, which had managed to wriggle out of its bodiced surrounds as if to say hi.
'Eeeeek!' Rosie cried, crossing her legs in case she wet herself from laughter.
'I actually think you look quite beautiful, Rosie,' a man's voice interjected through their cackling.
Rosie looked up to see it was none other than Snag Dad Daniel from Little Darlings Daycare. And he looked good enough to eat.
Lou could only see Rosie's face mottled with a mixture of shock and horror and turned to see who or what could have caused such a violent reaction in her friend.
'Well, hello there,' she said upon sighting Daniel, composing herself enough to reach a hand out to the attractive stranger. 'I'm Lou. You obviously know Rosie, my friend the kaleidoscope.'
'Not as much as I'd like to, but yes, we're acquainted,' he replied.
Lou turned to face Rosie, giving her a look that Rosie knew meant 'Who the hell is this gorgeous man and why don't I know about him?' Rosie was so embarrassed she could barely squeak. Lou, sensing her friend's mortification, stepped in on her behalf. 'Um, we're shopping for dresses,' she said, sounding a little nervous herself.
D'uh! Rosie thought. What else would we be doing? Fly-fishing?
'I can see that,' he replied, beaming a cheeky smile. 'My name is Daniel Jones. My kid Elroy is friends with Leon.'
'Oh, Leon is my godchild,' Lou replied proudly. 'Genius child, of course. Did you know he's going to be a rock star? That or prime minister. I'm pushing more towards rock god.'
Lou, shut up. You're gibbering.
'He's a great kid, that's for sure. Elroy is currently having guitar lessons. Maybe he can be in the band?'
Lou turned to Rosie again, this time to give her a 'this guy is yummy' look. Rosie was too occupied covering her breasts to do more than blush.
'Rosie, you might want to change,' Lou said to her mute friend. 'I'll be outside, chatting to . . . what was your name again?'
'Daniel.'
'Yes, that's right. I'll be getting to know Daniel. So, tell me, Daniel, are you here with your wife?'
Without saying a word, Rosie slunk back behind the curtain, where she could have happily remained forever more. After putting on her daggy runners and jeans again, she sat on the gilt-legged dressing-room stool and tried to compose herself. She couldn't understand why she was so rattled – aside from the slipped nipple, of course. Maybe she really liked Snag Dad after all?
You just haven't had sex for a long time, that's all, she counselled herself. Although he does look very cute, and he did say he wanted to know me better. Get yourself together, woman! You're thirty-five, not fifteen!
After several deep yoga breaths and an application of lip gloss, Rosie re-emerged, hoping – no, make that praying – that Snag Dad had moved on. At first it looked as though that was the case, because all she could see was Lou's back as she faced a rack of clothes. Then she saw her friend's skinny torso shake with laughter and noticed a pair of scuffed RM Williams boots peeking from under the rack.
He's still here!
Snag Dad must have indicated to Lou that Rosie was behind her, as she suddenly turned and practically skipped over to her friend. 'Rosie, honey, Daniel is absolutely wonderful. He's funny, and clever, and best of all – single! I've invited him for dinner tonight. At your place! That way he can bring his boy to play with Leon. Oh, and I think I'll ask Stephen because those two will get on like a house on fire. Honestly, Rosie, Daniel is heaven. He's perfect! And I think he really likes you!'
'Will you calm down, Lou! You've only known him five minutes,' Rosie griped under her breath. 'And holy hell, honey, dinner at my place? Are you trying to give me a stroke? I have nothing to eat, the place is a disgrace . . .'
Rosie's scolding session was cut short when Snag Dad moved closer, his green-grey eyes twinkling knowingly. 'Oh, Rosie, you've changed. I thought you looked quite fetching in that last outfit,' he said with a smile. 'Your friend Lou has kindly asked me to dinner, but I just had a thought . . .'
Please cancel . . . Please!
'I went to the fish markets this morning and bought way too much for my boy and myself, so why don't we go to my place instead? It'll be a casual barbecue and I promise it won't be a late one.'
As Rosie searched frantically for a quick excuse, Lou chimed in. 'What a great idea! We'll be there, Daniel, and thanks so much, that's very generous of you. Isn't it, Rosie?'
Rosie wasn't sure what she said in answer to Lou. All she knew was that there was nothing she could do or say now to get out of tonight. She was having dinner with Snag Dad Daniel Jones.
CHAPTER 17
Rosie was overcome with nervous excitement as she drove to Jeff's to pick up Leon. The giddiness of a first date was something she hadn't experienced in years – if that was in fact what tonight actually was. But here were all those conflicting feelings again, making her feel like a prepubescent teen.
Clutching the steering wheel, Rosie looked at the pine tree deodoriser swinging from her rear-view mirror and pictured herself similarly pendulum-like, swinging from desire to dread, fantasy to fear, yearning to yawning.
Pull yourself together, woman! You are officially Jatz crackers.
To try to stop the negative voices, Rosie turned the radio up to capacity and began to sing along to the Killers at the top
of her voice, as appallingly tuneless yet fervent as ever. Somehow it worked and by the time she reached the small worker's terrace Jeff had moved into when they split, she was in a good mood until several telltale signs attracted her attention. The first being that the garden had been worked on – a lot – since Rosie last visited a month or so ago. There were herbs planted along the fence line to catch the most sun – basil, rosemary, parsley (continental and curly), coriander and oregano. The old mosaic tiles on the porch had also been repaired and the groaning pile of newspapers that used to sit beside the recycling bin was gone, replaced by a rough wooden bench adorned with mismatched Mexican pots featuring an impressive collection of cacti.
A woman has been here, Rosie realised. Heather must already have moved in.
For the umpteenth time that day, Rosie cursed her mufti outfit, wishing she was wearing something vintage and carefree, something casual and chic that Heather would be jealous of. It seemed the two women shared the same taste in decorating and plants, so it was likely they would also have similar preferences in clothing.
Rosie pulled out her compact to check her make-up but, as usual, she couldn't see her own reflection for the caked-on foundation and greasy fingerprints she had not found time to remove from its mirror. She dabbed at the make-up with its grimy sponge then ran it across her face in giant sweeps, hoping like hell the strokes blended in but doubting that was the case. She then grabbed a tube of gloss, attempted to wipe away the loose tobacco that had adhered to the lid, and applied it to her lips, mashing them together to distribute the sticky pink goop. As she contemplated running back to the car to get an elastic to put her hair up, the flywire door swung open and her nemesis, Leather Heather, stepped out.
'Rose, you're here!' Heather said, obviously taken aback.
'Yes, Heather, isn't it?' Rosie replied. Gee, like you don't know the name of the woman who broke up your marriage!
'I guess you're after Leon,' Heather continued nervously. 'He's in the kitchen. We've been making muffins. Chocolate chip.'
'Chocolate chip,' Rosie muttered sarcastically under her breath, hating herself at the same time for being so mean spirited. 'Oh, that's nice,' she said more loudly, resenting this woman who had the time to bake treats with her boy while she was in TV hell on a Saturday.
The two stood silent, neither knowing the appropriate protocol for the situation.
'Um, would you like to come in?' Heather finally asked. Rosie knew Heather desperately wanted her to say no, so she didn't hesitate to answer heartily, 'I'd love to, thanks.'
Heather looked even more uncomfortable than before as she led Rosie through the stained-glass panelled front door and into the hallway. Rosie took the opportunity to study her husband's new fiancée from behind and had to admit she was far more attractive than she'd originally given her credit for. Wearing a pair of old cargo pants rolled up casually to reveal slim ankles and bare feet with bright pink toenail polish, a little chipped and tired, she looked effortlessly gorgeous. Her navy singlet looked like it was a favourite that had seen better days and her hair was caught up in a rough bun that had probably taken a second to fasten but could not have been more casually glamorous if she had spent hours on it.
Rosie also had to admit that Heather was not, in fact, as leathery as she first thought when she and Lou had spied on her and Jeff at the beach one day. Instead, she was one of those naturally golden-toned women who bronze up into a warm caramel with the slightest touch of sun. In fact, if she hadn't been about to marry her ex-husband, Rosie realised Heather was the type of woman she would have liked on sight: someone who didn't take herself too seriously and was in no way a try-hard. She reminded her a lot of Lou, Rosie's favourite person on the planet. And she hated her for it.
The terrace had changed so much since Rosie had last ventured inside that she took her time walking so she could rubberneck as much as possible. The hallway, once dark and dank, was now a sunny lemon colour, like an enveloping yellow brick road leading into the house. As they approached the lounge room, which Rosie remembered as a jumble of unopened boxes, containing the thousands of books Jeff refused to cull, she saw immediately that the place had been transformed from a lonely bachelor pad into a comfortable home.
The first thing to attract her attention was a charming art deco cabinet, exactly the type of piece Rosie hoped to stumble upon during her many trips down the south end of King Street's treasure trove of secondhand stores. Look, it's even got bakelite handles!
'You like that piece?' Heather asked.
'Yeah, it's adorable,' Rosie answered, too in love with the item even to attempt faking her answer.
'I found it at the secondhand auction house, you know, Gardner's Court?'
Rosie did indeed know Gardner's Court. It was one of her favourite places to visit on a Saturday and leave a bid on a curio of some sort in the hope no one else would see its beauty and it could be hers for a steal.
'I'm just mad about its cute bakelite handles,' Heather continued proudly. 'Silly, I know,' she added, no doubt concerned that she sounded shallow.
As Heather moved on, Rosie took one last look at the lounge room. An old embroidered Spanish shawl was draped across the overstuffed couch Rosie had allowed Jeff to take with him, and it was strewn with pillows which picked up the shawl's elaborate colours. A huge art deco sunray mirror was mounted above, reflecting the fireplace and its mantelpiece laden with silver-framed photos and half-burnt candles in beaten holders. Rosie's heart sunk with admiration. It was the sort of room she aspired to create: a warm, inviting and unpretentious space where you could kick your shoes off and cuddle into the furniture like a familiar lover. Turning, she saw Heather waiting for her at the leadlight doors leading to the kitchen.
'I see you've noticed I'm a hoarder,' Heather confessed. 'I just can't help myself. I'm always buying junk.'
'No apologies required with me,' Rosie replied. 'I've been known to collect myself. Why, I would have to have a dozen shoe lasts and milliner's dummies—'
'Oh my god,' Heather interrupted. 'Look behind you.'
There, on an old wooden ladder, was a collection of lasts and hatstands that even outdid Rosie's, along with that darling green glassware from the thirties she had always planned to collect, all tastefully displayed. The two women looked at each other knowingly, realising they shared deeper similarities than their taste in men. Rosie prickled with discontent. Heather was making it hard to dislike her. Must look harder for faults.
The dining room didn't give Rosie a lot of ammunition either. A large wooden table rich with the patina of enjoyed meals past dominated the room. Above it hung an impressive collection of chandeliers, all old and all mismatched. An equally impressive collection of kitsch vintage souvenir plates was mounted on the walls and a large window looking out onto a drab brick side passage was draped in quaint linen that looked like it belonged in a 50s caravan. Rosie loved the room more than she could say.
'You see, more junk,' Heather laughed. 'Jeff calls it Tempe Tip chic, as that's where I found most of this stuff.'
A momentary chill hung between the women at the mention of Jeff's name, but this time Rosie piped up to break the silence.
'You'll have to watch him, you realise,' she warned, taking the opportunity to exploit the fact she'd known him – and his annoying faults – longer. 'He doesn't see the beauty in things like we do and is prone to chucking out anything that can take space away from his beloved books.'
'Tell me about it!' Heather replied, enjoying the exchange, much to Rosie's chagrin. 'Those bloody books of his. I mean, what is this, a library? Surely he can't need all of them?'
Rosie was trying her best not to smile at Heather's remark as they walked into the kitchen and caught Leon's eye. 'Mummy,' he yelled as he sprinted towards her and grabbed her in a sticky embrace, his oversized apron covered in cocoa.
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