Spin Cycle (13 page)

‘That's me. A real gem,' I mumble to myself as I head back to my bedroom to finish getting dressed in my pyjamas. ‘An uncut diamond, no less.'

‘Hey, Mum!'

‘What
now
?' I reply testily, pausing in the doorway and glancing up the passage to where Samantha is leaning in the kitchen doorway with a look of mild distaste on her face.

‘Could you, like, put something on first?'

‘That's what I'm
trying
to do!'

Heaven forbid I should offend Samantha's sense of moral decency with my almost forty-year-old body! Shaking my head, I walk back into my room, unclip my bra and fling it across the bed before pulling the pyjama top on and buttoning it up. Then I stand back and survey the room critically once more. And I realise that the bed does block out a fair bit of the window, the bright piece of carpet does look real stupid, the dressing table looks pretty squashed in, the orange extension cord is quite visible snaking its way around the bed, and all my pictures on the wall are now in the wrong positions. Samantha and CJ are right.

It sucks big-time.

FP Adams

(1881–1960)

I am lying in bed, staring morosely at the ceiling as the alarm goes off. Reaching out, I hit the snooze button before it can wake up CJ, who is nestled in her usual spot on the electric blanket. Then I go back to my solitary ceiling contemplation, because at least then I don't have to look at the rest of the room. I try to tell myself that I'll get used to it. That I'll have to, because I don't have the time or inclination to move all the furniture back to where it was.

Instead, I think about what I need to do today. I have already resolved that at some point, to alleviate my guilt, I shall visit a pet shop and buy a few goldfish, the uglier the better, and a new budgerigar as well. That is, after I have been to the bank to extract some cash over the counter, filled out the
forms to replace my cards, purchased a new, less orange extension cord, priced replacement glass for the lounge-room windows, bought myself a new pair of shoes, oh … and gone to work.

And that's another problem I am not looking forward to at all.

At least my children avoid newspapers like the plague and so are blissfully unaware of their mother's new criminal reputation. What do I say to everyone? What if I lose my job? What do I do if I even
see
that maniac Joanne? To be quite honest, I'm not only furious with her, I'm also more than a little bit scared. That woman is like a female version of Norman Bates. I know I certainly wouldn't have a shower if she were around.

The alarm goes off so I hit the snooze button again. Di's right, there's no use worrying until I can do something about it. Besides, from today onwards,
I
am taking control. And one of the first rules I'm implementing is: no more negativity. Diane really gave me one hell of a jolt when she virtually called me a whiner yesterday. Because I've
never
thought of myself as a whiner and I categorically refuse to become one – or continue being one. Whatever. So, from now on, it's no more being negative about stuff. Look for the silver lining. Who knows, I might even ring my mother and pretend a bit of interest in her forthcoming nuptials. Yes, my destiny is but mine to command. I file this away for future reference and then roll over to give CJ a wake-up cuddle.

‘Up you get, sweetheart, today's Thursday – it's Daddy day.' My second ex-husband not only has his
daughter every second weekend, but every Thursday as well. This arrangement actually works out rather well because Thursday is a non-kindergarten day and otherwise I would have had to put her into crèche. Instead, her father picks her up at 8.30 am (more or less) and drops her back home at around 4 pm (usually more rather than less). I have to give the man credit (which is more than he ever gives me – monetary or otherwise), he is absolutely devoted to his daughter and she thoroughly enjoys their days together.

‘CJ, come on, it's Daddy day!'

The alarm goes off yet again. This time I switch it off for good and reluctantly force myself to get out of bed, giving CJ a firm nudge before heading to the shower. I am always torn between hoping that Samantha is already up, which means that the heater is on and the kitchen toasty warm but the bathroom a disaster zone, and that she is still in bed, which means that the house is freezing but the bathroom is pristine and the towels are dry. This morning I opt for hoping that I am first up and first to the shower.

No such luck. As I wander down the hallway, Samantha is emerging with her head wrapped in one towel, her body wrapped in another and a magazine under her arm. She stops when she sees me and starts to laugh.

‘Hey, Mommie dearest, did you know …' She pauses until she can stop giggling and then lowers her voice melodramatically, ‘… the shoe slowly sinks but, deep down under the water no-one can hear you scream.'

Unfortunately, Benjamin exits from the lounge-room just in time to hear this rendition and gives me a filthy look before stalking off to the kitchen. I give Samantha a filthy look in turn but she is already heading back to her room, giggling all the way.

I decide to cut my losses and have my shower. I make a deliberate effort to remember all the rules and follow them precisely, thus avoiding any damages or unsettling thoughts. It is only when I step out of the shower, dripping wet, that I realise there is not a towel in sight.

‘Samantha! Sam, bring me a towel!' I stick my head around the bathroom door but all I can hear is some weird, ritualistic music coming from Samantha's room. Thump, thump, thump.

Ben comes out of the kitchen with a muffin in his hand and looks at my head sticking out of the bathroom. I open my mouth but change my mind as I don't think there will be any help coming from that direction. I close the door and contemplate my reflection in the toothpaste-smeared mirror. Ah! Ms Average is back! Thank god, I was beginning to miss her. However, my pimple now resembles nothing less than Mount Vesuvius immediately prior to eruption. Perhaps I should contact the
Guinness
Book of Record
s
– surely they don't get any bigger than this. I briefly debate whether to let nature take its course or take matters into my own hands, so to speak, but end up deciding to leave things be. There's always a chance that it will even buy me some sympathy votes from the powers that be at the library: ‘God! We can't fire her. Look at the size of
that pimple! The woman's obviously got enough on her plate.'

And now I'm beginning to freeze.

‘Samantha! You've got all the towels!' My voice is beginning to sound hysterical. When I stick my head back out the door and look up the passage I can see Ben leaning against the kitchen counter, eating muffins and watching me expressionlessly.

‘Benjamin, I don't suppose … Samantha! Sam-an-tha!' Okay, I give up. I put my pyjama top back on and it immediately clings damply to my back, stomach and breasts. I just wrap the pants around my waist, open the door and saunter with as much poise as I can muster down the hall to the linen closet. There are no towels.

Now I know how Old Mother Hubbard felt. Except that she wasn't soaking wet, partially dressed in damp pyjamas, or being watched every step of the way by a thirteen-year-old with a grudge. I give Benjamin a disdainful look and stalk to my bedroom where I do a double-take because I had momentarily forgotten about the new furniture arrangement.

After drying myself with my pyjamas, I pick out one of my better work outfits. A black skirt, cream angora jumper and black pumps. I really need to make a good impression today. I wouldn't wear the imitation Doc Martens even if I had a complete pair. In fact – I glance quickly in the direction of the standard mirror – I may even go all out and plaster some make-up on my face.

While I am getting dressed, an enormous thump on the roof signals the return of one of the possums
from its nocturnal meandering. It races noisily across the roof and flings itself suicidally into a tree outside my window. This racket manages to accomplish what the alarm clock and my gentle admonitions have so far failed to do. CJ sits bolt upright in the bed, stares around wildly and then focuses on me as I attempt to peel a pair of pantihose up over my damp legs. Her eyes narrow accusingly.

‘Mummy! It's
Daddy day
! Why didn't you tell me?'

I
can't
believe it. I was ready by 8.30 am, fully dressed and desperate to be the first arrival at the library but Keith had to pick today, of all possible days, to try my patience. Not that this is unusual. In fact, I'm quite sure that his timings are all part of the little strategy games he likes to play. No wonder he was so good at chess.

I would have asked Samantha to wait with CJ but she had already left. I wouldn't think of asking Ben, even if he had been talking to me, because I avoid at all costs any chance of him having to come face to face with Keith, who makes very little effort to hide his dislike for the boy. By the time he finally turned up it was almost nine o'clock and I was pacing the
driveway with a whiny CJ in tow. Both of us getting colder and more nervous by the minute.

No apology, no explanation. He just came screeching around the corner and all the way into the driveway, spitting gravel and parking me in. Then he sat there, waiting till
we
approached before he leapt out, picked CJ up and lifted her high into the air. Of course she just squealed delightedly, the fact that he had kept her waiting totally forgotten. Then they proceeded to bond while I was immobilised in my car. And how the hell am I supposed to take back control when I'm trapped in a driveway?

The only heartening aspect of this forced inaction was that I had plenty of time to surreptitiously observe him and note how haggard he is looking. And that's a rather rewarding silver lining. Because although Keith is my senior by seven years, he has always worn his age well, so maybe it, along with his sins, is catching up with him. His dark hair is definitely greying, his cheeks are looking rather jowly, and his eyes are underscored by bags almost as big as the one I lost on Tuesday. Perhaps he's got a new girlfriend. I was also able to notice that, despite these signs of wear and tear, his body looks just as well muscled as always. Although not a tall man, he is perfectly in proportion and fitness-mad. And it shows. I was given ample opportunity to reconfirm this when he spent about ten minutes bending over CJ in the back seat, chatting to her. But staring at his buttocks, well rounded or not, did nothing for my equilibrium, and by the time he deigned to reverse out of the driveway, I was fuming.

I must have broken every speed record getting here but now I'm sitting in the car, trying to gather up a little bit of courage. And the car park is absolutely packed. Even the late arrivals have already gone in. I'm certainly never one of the early ones at work, but I'm also never usually this late. Oh well, I might as well get it over with. After all, as Diane said, what's the worst that can happen?

I'm temporarily suspended.

At least it's with full pay, and at least I do get to tell my side of things, eventually. To continue looking on the bright side, at least I don't have to worry about asking for tomorrow off – it's already done!

Apparently Alan and the higher echelons of the library service have launched a full enquiry into Tuesday's events. In the meantime, however, they have suspended two members temporarily, pending the enquiry findings, because they feel that these two in particular pushed the envelope just a trifle too far. I share this dubious honour with, not Joanne as I might have expected, but the elderly audiovisual aide from our Boronia branch. It seems that, after I saw her fall during the rush, she managed to gain admittance to Parliament House. Therein she impersonated
a parliamentary staff member and eluded security for the better half of the afternoon, causing general mayhem – as well as much hilarity for a visiting group of VCE students. I suppose I should feel honoured to be in such exalted company.

However, the worst part of the experience was not being paraded before an
extremely
unimpressed Alan and given my formal letter of suspension, but seeing a smirking Joanne leaning against the Loans Desk. And the worst part of
that
was not so much her smirk, but the fact that I swear the top she was wearing was the very same gorgeous, irresistible jumper that I had picked up at extravagant cost in the Bourke Street Mall. Or one
very
much like it. And I have to say it would have looked a lot better on me as it clashes rather violently with her red hair and freckles. Serves her right.

But back on the bright side were the slaps on the back I received as I left the library, and all the congratulatory comments and supportive cheers. And how they wiped that smirk off Joanne's face. And now I don't have to worry about working with that particular nut for a while. And also my handbag that had been handed in by some Good Samaritan and which Barbara had been minding for me. Pity she couldn't have let me know before I cancelled every single credit card.

So now I am a lady of leisure. A fully paid lady of leisure. Perhaps I could ask Maggie for a bit of part-time employment to keep me busy?

Perhaps not.

I have decided to spend the first day of my newfound freedom doing some shopping and catching up on some running around. First cab off the rank was thirty minutes spent at the local shire offices trying to pay an overdue rates instalment. Unfortunately, everybody else in the entire municipality seemed to have chosen today to pay their overdue rates instalment as well. Doesn't anybody work?

I spent the waiting time trying to figure out our shire motto, which was printed on a large stained-glass window to my right and rather mysteriously proclaimed: ‘I move and prosper'. What the hell does
that
mean? It's not exactly encouraging people to hang around the area, is it? ‘Sorry, no prospering around here – if you want to indulge in such selfish, aberrant behaviour, you'll just have to move to another municipality.'

On one side of the multicoloured motto was a picture of a man brandishing a rifle, on the other a man leaning on a shovel. Now, I found these quite thought-provoking as well. Is the man on the shovel meant to represent a council worker? Or is he merely there to bury whatever the gun-toting guy manages to bag? And where are the females? After all, odds are that they'll be cleaning up the mess. I was called to the counter just as I was about to share my
conclusions with the woman behind me in the queue. Luckily for her.

At last I was graciously granted the pleasure of paying for the pleasure of living in this anti-prospering municipality, and was able to move on. Which is why I am now at one of those enormous, undercover, totally air-conditioned, shopping mega-mart places. The ones that are now dotted around the countryside and imaginatively named after differing points of the compass – Northland, Southland, Eastland, North-by-North-Eastland. I actually prefer strip-shopping (by which I mean outdoor shopping, not seductively shedding pieces of clothing as I saunter along), because I don't enjoy crowds and the feeling of being confined. However, the powers that be are forcing the average consumer, i.e. me, into attending these mega-marts because even government services like Medicare are now ‘conveniently' being relocated under their capacious roofs. So here I am.