Page 38 of Lessons in Love at the Seaside Salon
There’s a noise from the stage and a scraggly looking man is testing the microphone.
‘Looks like we’re almost on here,’ Fran say, taking another sip of Coke. Then she kisses Evie’s cheek. ‘You know I love you, doll. I just want you to be with someone who makes the effort because you’reworth that.’
As the support band takes the stage Evie contemplates what Fran has said and can’t help feeling despondent. She wants Sam. She’s impatient for him, in fact. If she has to wait for him … how long will that take? Hasn’t she waited long enough?
There’s no way she’s going to broach the subject with Fran again, though, so she concentrates on the music, and catches Simon’s eye a couple of times, smiling, but not in a way that would encourage him. He’s not Sam. He never will be.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The radio is on softly enough to not wake the kids as Anna sits in her workroom with the pile of sewing she has to do. It’s more mending, really. Hems to take up, buttons to sew back on. Some of it is alterations and she likes those – modifying a garment for its wearer, making it unique for her. It’s usually a her. Men don’t seem to worry about alterations unless it’s for length or girth – usually taking up one and letting out another. She always has to explain that most pairs of men’s pants don’t have enough fabric to be let out but they always want her to try – ‘They’re my favourite pair, can’t you do something?’ She wants to tell them thattheycould do something, like buying a new pair, although that would mean losing business, so maybe she should just stick to the way things are.
She usually listens to the local radio station while she works; at night they have talkback and people call in with their woes. Currently there’s a woman on saying ‘my de facto’ has gone to prison for three to five years and she’s wondering what to tell the kids. Anna often wonders about the term ‘de facto’. It evensoundstemporary, as if it’s waiting to be turned into something else, which she supposes it is. Her mother drilled into her that she was not to move in with a man unless they were at least engaged, because the man has to offer something of value in exchange for everything she would bring to his life. Clearly the caller to the local station didn’t have the same sort of mother, because she’s now complaining about having to work full time because the de facto left her with nothing and the dole isn’t goingto cover all the expenses. The radio host has no sympathy, telling her she shouldn’t have got herself involved with a crim. The caller is, somewhat understandably, upset at this.
‘Shit,’ Anna says as she accidentally sticks a needle into her thumb. She forgot to put on her rubber thumb guard. After hustling the kids in from after-school sport, getting them through baths and dinner and homework, then sitting down with a cup of tea and the radio and the sewing, she forgot to do something so habitual she really shouldn’t forget it.
She’s got her period, that’s what it is. Every month she feels vague for a couple of days, as if she’s not really here, in this place, in this time. When Gary was around more he’d notice she was off and ask if she was okay. Sometimes he’d rub her lower back, which aches at such times. She misses that Gary. That Gary was subsumed into long-hours-working Gary and hasn’t been seen for a while.
She sticks her thumb in her mouth so she doesn’t get blood on the shirt she’s mending and searches for her thumb guard in the tin of miscellany she keeps on her workbench.
‘Mummy?’ She looks up to see a sleepy Renee standing in the doorway, holding her beloved one-eyed teddy bear.
‘What are you doing up, sweetie?’ She put the kids to bed an hour ago.
‘I can’t sleep.’ Renee yawns and ambles over, then puts her head on Anna’s shoulder. It’s one of the most precious things, Anna believes, when your child shows how much they trust you by putting their head on your shoulder. It’s surrender on their part, and love and cosiness and sweetness. She will miss it when they’re older and they think she’s the un-coolest person alive. The switch that is flicked between child-sweetness and teenage-disdain has no due date but she wished it did so she would know when to have her last cuddle and snuggle and nuzzle with her babies.
‘That’s no good,’ Anna says, kissing the top of Renee’s head, knowing if she lets her stay there for a few minutes she’ll fall asleep. It’s a routine that’s developed since Gary moved out. She starts humming a lullaby, ‘Hush Little Baby’, which Renee loves even though at seven years old she’s past lullaby age.
A minute or so goes by and she hears Renee’s breath slowing.Success!
But then a knock at the door makes them both jump and she could curse whoever it is – probably Gary. He called her around this time a couple of nights ago and she told him off for waking up the children.
‘But I don’t know what time they go to sleep,’ he protested.
‘Exactly,’ she said then hung up on him.
They haven’t spoken since, so it has to be him, come round to have the conversation he didn’t get the other night.
‘Stay there, darling,’ she whispers to Renee, then gently lies her down.
A glance through the stained-glass panels on the door – the original owner’s idea of a fancy embellishment, she has long thought – tells her she was right: it’s Gary. He’s seen her so she can’t pretend she’s not home.
‘What did I tell you about this time of night?’ she says as she opens the door.
‘But …’ He frowns then looks at his watch. ‘I’ve just finished work.’
‘Gary, your children are asleep.’ Not entirely true, but he doesn’t need to know that. ‘Wereasleep.’ She presses her lips together and glares at him despite being mildly pleased that he looks chastised.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ And he does sound it.
Pulling her long cardigan around her to guard against the night air, she puts the snib on, steps outside and pulls the door to. Renee needs to go back to bed and, besides, if she sees herfather she may think he’ll be staying the night. Both kids have started asking about Gary lately; his absence seems to have made their hearts grow fonder.
‘What do you want?’ Her arms are folded, just so he really gets the message that she doesn’t want him here.
It’s only after she says it that she notices the bunch of roses in his hand. Soft pink and blooming, they are. Unlike his face, which is pale and creased. She feels bad for having a go at him but, honestly, why would he surprise her at this time of night? Although it’s technically still his house, so she should be grateful he didn’t just walk in and really give her a shock.
‘I, ah …’ He holds out the flowers. ‘These are for you.’
She takes them – she doesn’t want to be churlish – and their scent wafts up, so she sniffs it in and can’t help a smile. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘But what are they for?’
