The Aftermath Of You

Chapter Seven

A few minutes later she was happily ensconced on her sofa with the green Zorro-like mask velcroed firmly behind her head. She pawed through the telephone book on her lap searching for a dance class. A toxic-looking energy drink hung from one hand. She'd bought them for Jayden's fifth birthday where the party boy himself had told her in no uncertain terms that 'those drinks' weren't for children. Well, they mightn't be for children, but they worked wonders for women wanting to increase the size of their butt, while remaining chatty and upbeat about life in general ...

Toni smoothed down her sexy white silk nightie (which clung to her body in a most distracting fashion) and searched for any newly acquired curve.

Still nothing.

Then her hand began to move.

***

Lulu, you always asked me how I fell in love with Jack, like he was some two-headed monster that just crawled out from under a bridge and started thumping his chest a la King Kong. Well, if you'd like me to I will labour to clarify it all for you. So that you can understand how the daughter that you don't really like very much could be with a man that you detested. Gosh, anyone would have thought that you would think we were a match made in heaven.

It was the middle of a dreary, overcast week when Sophie and I were starting our own business. We'd decided to make a whole line of umbrellas and wet weather gear with a chic edge. Sophie had already designed the first umbrella, made out of cow hide - white with black patches. Personally, I thought that was a little bit over the top but who was I to judge what people would or wouldn't buy. We'd told everyone we met the good news, and by the time we actually approached the bank for a loan we'd already spent the money (figuratively speaking) and were quickly getting house mortgages and buying new cars (also figuratively speaking).

So when we came to be sitting in a tiny little room with some bloke (rather cute actually) scribbling wildly across a page, the reality which had been avoiding us crashed home so dramatically that we were lost for words. It didn't help that he wasn't talking in layman's terms. There was absolutely no logic to what he was writing, and as he had (quite happily, actually) told us that we could keep this piece of paper when the meeting was done I was duly very concerned. How on earth would I be able to read sense out of that? His handwriting brought new meaning to the saying 'chicken scrawl' I'm sure it could have passed off for Aramaic text.

Sophie was feeling nervous too which was showing in all of the bizarre things she was saying. Like, "I'm very good at sewing cotton, not silk though." And genuine concern would furrow his brow before he shrugged and carried on scribbling. Then he would ask questions out of the blue which would make us more on edge than ever. Things like, "Do you have qualifications?" To which we would glumly admit 'no' and Sophie mentioned hopefully, "But my husband does ..."

I tried to concentrate on what he was saying but all his long words began to lose me. Instead, I'd started to notice what sparkling blue eyes he had and how artfully his short brown hair was ruffled up. In the ensuing hour I found out that if I sniffed deeply enough (and this was hard to do without getting concerned looks) I could smell his cologne.

I gazed in awe at his fabulously clad body and spent a moment wondering which item – given half the chance – I would drag off first. He saw the lustful way I was eyeing his tie and shot me a fearful look, which I assumed was because he was afraid that I was thinking of strangling him into a better deal. I was dressed in such conservative garb I'm sure I would have been the kind of girl a bank analyst would be interested in; thanks to Sophie I had put aside my usual uniform of denim mini skirt and ultra-tight singlet in a wide variety of colours (colour wasn't important, what it revealed was) and wore something 'professional' instead. Aunt Maggie had offered me a long denim skirt, some white socks and a pair of leather shoes. My grandfather had given me a shirt that he'd worn "When I first met your grandmother" and a suit jacket that he'd worn when he'd won in his first wood chopping competition. I felt that my attire was ultra 'professional' and marvelled at the fact that it was the first time I'd covered my knee caps in twenty odd years (the only other time had been when my mother had wedged me into a sickly pink stretch-and-grow). Under Sophie's encouragement, my long black hair was pulled back in a sombre head scarf. The outfit worked magic on hiding my generous curves. Although I was slightly worried when I'd seen my reflection – I looked like I'd joined a religious cult.

As I gazed at him in longing I was checking off my eligibility check list ... Sense of Humor: Yes. Brilliant (he seemed to make Sophie do her donkey laugh left, right and centre). Dress sense: wears a suit – need I say more? Eligibility ... I spent the next few moments staring at his left hand as it fluttered across the page until I'd studied every nook and cranny. No ring! Halleluiah!

Finally, he ripped the sheet off and handed it to Sophie. He placed a small neat business card in our hands and smiled at me as his fingers brushed against mine. "Call me." With a small smile, he added, "If you have any more questions." And we were abruptly guided out on to the street.

Sophie stood chewing her bottom lip. "Where are we going to find $80,000?" she asked. I felt confused. Noticing my ignorance she explained to me, "If you don't have property as a guarantee then you have to pay a fifteen percent deposit." When on earth had Sophie become Thesaurus Rex?

"Maybe we could do a sausage sizzle - that could save us heaps of money."

Sophie was doubtful. "There aren't enough people in Arrowtown. Maybe we could ask your parents to be our guarantors?"

"Over my dead body." I shuddered. "My mother is still reminding me that I owe her for five litres of breast milk."

"Ew, gross." Soph wrinkled her nose.

"We'll never find eighty thousand dollars," I said sadly, and offered her a ride home if she'd make me a cup of tea.

"Sod that!" she said squarely, "Let's check that tequila bottle above my oven is still alive and kicking!"

Three hours later we were two nips from the bottom when I gasped and jumped to my feet. "Soph, what if I call him?"

Sophie, in the middle of giving me a huge lecture on where George Bush went wrong after the Nine Eleven attacks, jumped to her feet as well and shouted, "That's a brilliant idea!" Sophie had large chunk of hazel in her right eye. It had an eccentric effect when she boggled her eyes, as she was now.

As I whipped the cute bank manager's card from my wallet she asked, slightly intoxicated, "Toni, why do you have George Bush's business card?"

"Not George Bush, silly!" I said, while rolling slightly from one heel to the other. "The bank guy." Focusing on the card I read, "Jack Patterson."

I dialled the number. When the message bank clicked I hung up and promptly forgot about it.

So there you are, Loopy Lulu. That's where it all began. Jack and me.