Dinner at Rose's (6 page)

‘Here you go, mate,’ I said, unwrapping the rest of the round and tossing it to him. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Trying to poison an old woman,’ said Rose, shaking her head. ‘In my day the younger generation had a little more respect for their elders. I’m not at all sure you should have given that to Percy, either – he’ll probably turn up his toes.’

‘Never,’ I said. ‘He’s made of sterner stuff. But Mum and Dad can’t sell that at the farmers’ market. They’ll be run out of town.’

‘They must have done it on purpose. What did you do to make your parents hate you so much?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. I try to be a good daughter, honestly.’

A long and sleepy silence fell, while we drank our wine and lazily batted away the wasps.

‘Blasted wasps,’ Aunty Rose muttered. ‘They’re in the plum tree. I should pick them, but it’s just too hard.’

I frowned at that. Rose is an absolutely fanatical harvester of nature’s bounty – she would no sooner waste a crop than have a wild affair with a teenage Hispanic backup dancer. ‘Are you feeling alright?’ I asked.

‘Just tired.’

‘But it’s not like you to feel tired.’

She sighed. ‘True. I
have
been thinking of going to see Dr Milne one of these days. Maybe I’m low in iron or something.’ She smiled. ‘Or maybe I just need more wine – be an angel and pour me another glass, would you?’

ON A STICKY
afternoon, more like February than April, Amber handed me a file with a red dot inside.

Hypochondriac or creep? I wondered, ushering in my three o’clock appointment. ‘Hi, I’m Jo Donnelly. What can I do for you today?’

‘Neville,’ said my new patient, extending a warm damp hand and clasping mine for rather longer than strictly necessary. ‘Well, well. Little Josie Donnelly. Haven’t you blossomed?’

There is no appropriate response to a comment like that, so I didn’t try. ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.

‘I did something to my leg last week at squash, and it’s getting worse not better.’

‘Is it worse in the morning, or after you’ve been up and about on it?’

‘Sore in the morning, and then gets worse.’ He looked at me mournfully.

‘That's no good,’ I said. ‘Now, have you been in before? I’ll just bring your history up on the screen.’

‘Wharfe,’ he told me. ‘Neville Wharfe, Taylor’s Block Road.’ I turned briefly to look him up on the computer, and turned back to see him shedding his trousers to reveal thin little legs with knobbly knees. ‘It’s actually more in the groin, my dear. Just here. Just feel how tight it is.’

He left twenty minutes later a disappointed man – I had given him a selection of exercises and declined to massage his inner thigh. I opened the windows to dispel the lingering scent of his cologne (evidently a more-is-better man) and went out to talk to Amber.

‘Bob McIntosh is coming in,’ she informed me with gloomy relish.

‘Oh, crap,’ I said. Bob was a painfully shy man in his late forties with swimmy eyes, breath that could fell an ox and enormous pores. He made what must have been a precarious living by driving around the countryside peddling dodgy cowshed detergents and stock drenches – Dad used to hide behind a hedge every time his little truck came up the drive. Unfortunately he’d taken one look at me and decided I was a likely-looking lass, possibly wife material. And despite his natural bashfulness, having made this weighty decision he was not to be deterred from his courtship. ‘Couldn’t you have told him we’re booked up?’

‘I did that last time,’ she pointed out.

‘Well then, that I’ve got leprosy or bubonic plague or something, and I can’t see any clients?’

She giggled and shook her head.

I HAD JUST
got rid of Bob (shooting pains in his back and tickets to a jazz concert in Hamilton he knew I’d be interested in – how about making a night of it and having dinner at the Cossie Club first?) when Kim ambled in.

‘Hey, Amber,’ she said. ‘Hey, Jo. Got any biscuits? I’m starving.’

Within seconds she’d found a packet of chocolate afghans in the tiny kitchen. She threw herself into the single battered armchair and smiled at me happily. I made the three of us a cup of tea and took Amber’s out to the front desk, where instead of catching up with filing she was giving herself a painstaking French manicure with correction fluid.

‘Do you need a lift home?’ I asked Kim as I handed her a cup. The bus would have left half an hour ago, I knew.

‘Nah,’ she said. ‘Matt’s in town – he said he’d come and get me when he’s finished his errands.’

‘What a nice brother,’ I said.

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Kim, taking another biscuit and examining it suspiciously from every angle. ‘He decided to give me a lecture about safe sex the other day.’

I nearly choked on my biscuit, momentarily overcome by the vision of Matt in this stern older-brotherly role. Taking a hasty sip of tea, I tried to assume a suitably mirth-free expression.

‘I’m not having sex with anyone, anyway,’ she continued. Then, looking at me through her eyelashes, she added provocatively, ‘Yet.’

‘Are you considering it?’ I enquired. Cripes, she was only a baby.

‘Don’t know,’ said Kim. ‘Yeah, maybe. I’m not in love with Aaron or anything, but it’d be good practice. And yes, I know all about contraception.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said mildly. ‘But in my experience – which probably isn’t worth much – having sex with someone you’re not particularly attracted to is a pretty big let-down. It’s just sort of messy and embarrassing, and you end up feeling a bit depressed about the whole thing.’

‘Oh,’ said Kim thoughtfully.

‘Not that you should listen to me, with my brilliant history of relationships,’ I added, smiling at her. ‘At this point it looks like I’m going to have to choose between Bob McIntosh or becoming an eccentric spinster with fourteen cats.’

‘Spinster,’ she said. ‘Definitely spinster.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought.’

‘Or –’ she raised her voice as we heard the creak of the outside door, and then her brother’s slow voice in counterpoint to Amber’s nasal tones – ‘you could just settle for Matt.’

‘There’s just one insurmountable problem with that,’ I told her.

‘Cilla’s not insurmountable,’ Kim protested audibly as her brother appeared in the kitchen doorway. She smiled at him with great charm. ‘Hey, bro. Biscuit?’

‘No, thanks.’ He glared at her. ‘Are you ready to go? Hi, Jose.’

‘I haven’t finished my cup of tea,’ said Kim. ‘So, Josie, what’s wrong with Matt? Apart from being a complete pain in the arse, of course.’

‘It’s his name,’ I said gravely.

‘Fair enough. Matthew
is
a bit gay, I suppose.’

‘Matthew I could live with, but just imagine being called Jo King.’

Matt’s lips twitched. ‘You could always keep your own name after we got married,’ he offered. ‘I’m not unreasonable.’

‘Certainly not,’ I said haughtily. ‘I’m very traditional. So you see it’s impossible. And anyway, as you know, I’m only interested in doctors.’

‘Which one are you gunning for?’ he asked, looking at his sister with even more malevolence. ‘Milne or Oliver?’

Waimanu had two male doctors, one pushing sixty and the other a strong contender for the title of Sweatiest Man Alive.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I’m not fussy. Right, Kim, get up. I’ve got someone to see at four.’

Chapter 6

‘I
DON’T SUPPOSE
,’ said somebody in a voice of immense softness and sweetness – the kind of voice associated with the presenters of educational TV shows for preschoolers – ‘that Josie would be available?’

‘Jo!’ called Amber flatly. Relations between the two us had become somewhat tense today, after I’d suggested that more time doing work and less time bidding on clothes on Trade Me would be desirable.

I put down the catalogue I had been perusing and went out the front. ‘Hello, Mrs King.’

Matt and Kim's mother shuddered delicately. ‘Oh, please don’t call me Mrs King, Josie dear. It makes me feel so stern and old. Hazel, please.’ She held out both hands and clasped mine tenderly. ‘How
are
you, my dear?’ Hazel was utterly unlike her sister; she was small and slight and indecisive, with a soft voice that tended to trail off at the end of every sentence as if she lacked the strength to complete it.

‘Very well, thank you. How are you?’

‘Getting by,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I’ve been meaning to pop in – my baby never stops talking about you.’

‘How alarming,’ I said.

‘Nothing but the highest praise,’ Hazel assured me. ‘You’re obviously a wonderful influence. But make sure you send that little monkey away if she annoys you, won’t you?’

‘She doesn’t. She’s good fun.’

Kim’s mother looked somewhat doubtful. ‘You’re very sweet,’ she said. ‘Now, Josie, when can you come and have dinner with us?’

‘Whenever you like. My social life is not terribly exciting just at the moment.’

‘Well, after what you’ve been through you need a little time to lick your wounds,’ she said.

I must have looked a little disconcerted at this, because she added, ‘Rose told me about your . . . partner. That’s the right word, isn’t it?’

Personally I would have chosen another word, but wonderful influences probably shouldn’t use that sort of language.

‘How about Friday?’ she said.

ACCORDINGLY, ON FRIDAY
night at half past six I left Andy lying on the couch eating chips to fortify his inner man before taking his girlfriend out for tea (with all the kitchen and sitting-room lights on, since Sara had gone away for the weekend), and drove up the valley.

The King house was an unattractive place built of white concrete bricks, with tinted windows and nasty aluminium joinery, surrounded by hot little garden beds. These were currently filled with alternate red and purple petunias and had carefully clipped yellow conifers at the corners.

Rose pulled up just behind me in her elderly Ford Falcon. ‘Hideous, isn’t it?’ she murmured, looking at the garden before passing me a bottle of port and heaving herself out of the car.

‘Yep,’ I agreed. ‘Whose ute is that?’

Rose looked at the great silver double-cab beast in front of the garage. ‘Cilla’s, I believe.’