Spin Cycle (15 page)

I was right, he
is
nice. How many men would hang around with a virtual, and rather boring, stranger while their girlfriend discusses a piscine colour range with her
extremely
trying mother? A rather depressing thought occurs to me – the royal couple must be quite close for this level of acceptance.

I know that I should really be paying more attention to Harold – after all, he
is
about to become
my new stepfather (unless he acts quickly) – but the Harolds of the world have and always will fade into the background next to the Phillips. It's not shallow or anything, just life. I do note that he is not much taller than Mum, with a generous girth which suggests a love of food, and short white tonsured hair atop a round, pleasant face. He looks like a very obliging man, and he'll need to be. He also has a rather endearing habit of ending most of his sentences with a questioning ‘Is that right?' I'm pretty sure he means it in a rhetorical sense, but it's probably what attracted my mother to him in the first place. She would simply be unable to resist a person who seemingly checks her opinion every time he opens his mouth. Just as I am beginning to get cramp, Bloody Elizabeth and my mother emerge from the store depths. I can't quite see them but can tell from a certain subtle change in the air temperature that they are approaching.

‘Well, that was very informative.' My mother joins the men, tucking her colour samples neatly back into her handbag. ‘They have
exactly
the shade that we wanted, Harold, and the price is fairly reasonable as well. Very interesting, indeed – I have their card.'

‘Then we really don't have to look at anymore, is that right?'

‘Oh, certainly we
do
, Harold! We need to compare.'

‘But you said –'

‘I said it was informative, but that's just the beginning. This is a
process
, dear. It can't be rushed. Although I must admit I
was
impressed.'

‘And
that's
easier said than done.'

‘Well, Elizabeth, decisions made in haste are regretted at leisure, you know.'

‘Then there's no fear of that with you, Mum.' Elizabeth links her arm through Phillip's and they move off in the direction of the escalator and the smaller florists which are next on their hit list.

‘And there's nothing to regret either.' My mother links
her
arm through Harold's and suddenly leans over to kiss him on the cheek. His rather worried face immediately breaks out in a beaming smile and he pats her hand.

‘Certainly
none
here. Is that right?'

This display of mind-boggling affection (my mother is normally not what I would describe as tactile at
all
) is followed by a mutual gaze of adoration and sealed by yet another kiss before they set off at a stroll to follow the younger couple. I think I'm going to be violently ill all over the smart, casual resort wear – which I'm guessing would probably attract attention. I shake my head with bewilderment but pull myself together in time to follow intrepidly behind.

As our procession heads towards the downward escalator, I realise that, rather than feeling nauseous, I am actually smiling rather foolishly. My mother is in love! Quite obviously smitten, head-over-heels in love! All these years when I have wished fervently for her to be smitten with
something
(thunder, lightning, or even a sudden urge to move overseas), who would have thought that it would take a Harold to do the trick? She looks really, really happy. And although I do still feel more than a little hurt, I am also really,
really happy for her – and for me. After all, happiness does strange things to people – like, keeps them busy, softens their personalities, and sometimes even makes them fun to be around.

I have barely started considering the implications of the scene I have just witnessed by the time we reach the escalator. I suddenly realise that, while my mind was mentally meandering, I have moved a bit closer to the happy couple than I feel comfortable with, so I hang back while they begin their downward journey. However, I don't want to lose sight of them either, so I get on just before they reach the halfway mark and immediately realise that I have made a potential mistake. All it would take is for my mother to suddenly decide to turn around and she couldn't help but see me looming above her.

Feeling
very
dangerously visible, I look around quickly and on the next step down to my left spot a large, formally attired gentleman who has a newspaper spread in front of his face. I scuttle over into his shadow. Belatedly I realise that the newspaper he has spread in front of his face is yesterday's edition of the
Herald-Sun
(if he can afford formal attire, why can't he spring for a current edition of the damn paper?), and my face is leering back at me. I scuttle back over to the other side. My crab-like manoeuvres cause the gentleman to glance at me and his eyes suddenly open wide in recognition as he looks from me to the front of the paper and back again.

‘It's you!'

I try looking the other way and ignoring him.
After all, it was such a bad picture, how could anyone possibly recognise me from it?

‘It
is
you, isn't it? Here, in the paper!'

Said paper has been shoved in front of my face in an effort to attract my attention. I quickly peer around it, and just as quickly peer back when I realise that everyone further down on the escalator is staring up to see what the commotion is about.

‘I'm right, aren't I? It
is
you!'

‘What do you want, a fucking autograph?' I hiss venomously.

That does the trick. He recoils quickly, no doubt remembering
why
I was in the paper in the first place, and assessing my criminal capabilities. I bare my teeth and he takes cover behind his paper once again, only peering out furtively to see if the madwoman is still snarling at him. With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I look down expecting the game to be up. Surely they will have spotted me with all this commotion. However, just at that moment, the escalator disappears into the ground and everyone at my level steps off neatly … except for the large, formally attired gentleman – and me. Because we were both otherwise engaged, me in baring my teeth and him in hiding, we simultaneously miss the cue to exit and instead go sprawling over the floor – much to the surprise of a multitude of consumers milling around the adjacent upwards escalator.

With my skirt riding high, I struggle awkwardly to my knees and try to wrest my handbag out from underneath my unfortunate companion's prone torso. He is partially obscured by a sign advertising
full-figured lingerie but I can see that his formal wear does not look quite so formal now. Ignoring the arms of well-wishers reaching out to help me up, I look around wildly but luckily (thank you, thank you, thank you, god) it seems that Mother & Co had already moved off before I made my ungainly exit. I decide to leave the large gentleman to the assistance of several well-meaning bystanders, one of whom seems hellbent on giving him mouth-to-mouth. I know when enough is enough, and when to call it quits. I'm going home.

‘OH MY GOD, HE'S NOT BREATHING!'

Still on my knees, I whirl around in the direction of the panic-stricken voice. The full-figured lingerie sign has been pushed to one side and there is a thin, elderly lady kneeling by the side of the large gentleman with her fingers firmly clamped around his nose. Christ, I've killed him. She opens her mouth, no doubt to repeat herself even more hysterically, and the crowd springs into action.

‘Someone ring an ambulance!'

‘Here, use my mobile!'

‘What can
I
do?'

‘Lady, let go of his damn nose!'

‘Move over, I used to be a boy scout!'

‘Is there a doctor in the … anywhere?'

‘A DOCTOR, WE NEED A DOCTOR!'

As I kneel there frozen in horror, people start relaying the message back through the store. I look up at the faces all around me and obscurely realise that people really
do
wring their hands in moments of stress. Suddenly the crowd parts as a tallish man
elbows his way through and squats down beside the patient. He firmly disengages the nose-clamping female and reaches quickly for the patient's wrist to take his pulse.

‘For god's sake, Phillip, you're not a doctor – you're a vet!'

‘Elizabeth! Leave the man alone, he's doing a fine job!'

I must have died and gone to hell. It's the only explanation. What have I ever done to deserve this sort of unrelenting punishment? It will only be a matter of seconds before one of them gets tired of watching the miracle man (a vet no less!), who has now started alternating between chest-thumps and mouth-to-mouth, and spots me squatting virtually at his feet. Resigned to my fate, I start counting backwards: 10, 9, 8, 7 –

‘What on earth are
you
doing here?!'

Almost right on cue. I look up and my mother's disapproving face looms rapidly into focus.

‘Well, I was helping … this poor guy, he fell down so I was –'

‘Are you all right, dear?' The nose-clamper, having been forcibly disengaged from her first victim, is obviously searching for a second. ‘I saw you take that nasty fall, can I be of any help?'

‘No, thank you.' Remember your manners, remember your manners. I look across to see if my mother is impressed with my disaster etiquette but no, I don't think so. Her mouth is set in a grim line and her eyes have that flinty glow that has sent better persons than me scuttling for cover. I can see
Harold peering over her shoulder, trying to work out what's going on, and Bloody Elizabeth, who is hugging herself with unabashed glee.

Time hovers and then stands still.

‘The paramedics are here!'

‘Here we go, mate, we'll take over now.' Sure enough, the ambulance guys have arrived, complete with a stretcher and a large bag which one immediately opens to reveal an impressive array of medical paraphernalia. I wonder if I could grab something to put me out of my misery. As the paramedics begin to work, the crowd's epicentre shifts and I find myself on the outskirts, still kneeling, surrounded only by my family and the elderly nose-clamper.

‘Are you
sure
you're all right, dear? You look pale. I should get one of the paramedics to have a look at you, really.'

‘That won't be at all necessary, thank you all the same,' my mother says firmly. The glint in the nose-clamper's eyes dims noticeably as she looks at my mother and recognises a higher authority. She moves reluctantly away to join the larger crowd and I am left with just my mother, Elizabeth, Harold and, oh yes, of course, Phillip, who has now joined them and is looking at me with a puzzled frown of recognition. However, without even moving, my mother manages to take central stage.

‘Just to satisfy my idle curiosity, could you please tell me whether this is some sort of natural progression from merely assaulting members of the police force? Or perhaps I'm missing something?'

‘Oh, for goodness sake! I just fell, it can happen
to anyone.' I attempt to struggle to my feet and both Harold and Phillip immediately step forward and help me, both immediately earning my lifelong gratitude (god, even his touch tingles – why couldn't
I
have needed mouth-to-mouth?). I pick up my bag from where it is lying at Bloody Elizabeth's feet and attempt to sound less dishevelled than I look. And take control.

‘Thank you. And lovely to see you, Mum, and of course you, Elizabeth. Now, if you'll all excuse me –'

‘Now that you're here anyway, perhaps I should take this moment to introduce you –'

‘Perhaps not. Another time.' With that I execute a perfect about-turn and walk off towards what I hope is the nearest shopping-centre exit with my shoulders held high and radiating dignity. Or at least, one shoulder is held high and radiating dignity. The other keeps slumping because,
naturally
, one of my heels has managed to lose itself during the preceding debacle.

I am a past master at mental compartmentalisation – I'm sure it's the only way I have been able to survive thus far. Therefore, with a certain degree of lopsided poise, I was perfectly capable of stopping at the pet
shop and even managed to sound reasonably interested as the salesman showed me first a selection of young budgies, and then the ugliest goldfish they had in stock. I was momentarily tempted by an adorable cocker spaniel/Maltese cross (does that make it a cock-tese?) that stared at me soulfully through the glass of the front window. If I brought home a puppy for Ben, I would not only be forgiven for the death of his fish, but I would earn enough brownie points to cover the remainder of this year, and probably the next as well. Ben has been after a dog for as long as I can remember. Luckily I came to my senses when the puppy, still maintaining eye contact, squatted in a corner of the cage and relieved itself in an extremely messy fashion. I wrinkled my nose and moved away because no brownie points are worth that.

I drove my more sensible selection home and carefully emptied them into the birdcage and the fish-tank respectively, draping each with a cloth for a celebratory unveiling later that afternoon. Then, after flinging my traitorous shoes into the recesses of my wardrobe and putting on a pair of black flats, I was even able to use the telephone intelligently to track down the whereabouts, and health status, of the large, formally attired gentleman. According to the rather garrulous and extremely excitable ward clerk I eventually spoke to, it was
the
most shocking thing. Apparently he had suffered a heart attack as he had
fallen off
an escalator (some witnesses thought he might
even
have been pushed –
and
several had seen a rather odd female praying at his feet). He had
actually
stopped breathing – really
died
– for, oh …
ages
,
but had been
miraculously
saved by a veterinarian who fortunately had just happened to be nearby. He was now out of
intensive
care and recovering quite nicely … considering. I decided that sending flowers wouldn't be appropriate.