The Playing Fields

Chapter 13

"C'mon Ti, we don't want to be the last ones there." Daryl was anxiously watching, the outdoor lights blink on around Grace's house.

"Oh, sock it Daryl, it's only three doors down for god's sake." She made some adjustments to the belt holding her Cobalt blue crossover dress closed, and stepped gingerly into a pair of sling pumps that matched the rust coloured belt. "There, all set- my god Daryl! You look like an usher at a children's carnival. That tie just screams for mercy with that outfit."

"What do you mean?" He hurried to a wall mirror, plucking at the knot worriedly.

"I'm not leaving this house with you in that tie. Change it. Never mind, I'll choose one. I hope you have something that goes with that awful shirt. For someone who sells designer fashions, you have distressingly poor taste."

"This is a designer shirt- and so is the tie!" He complained bitterly.

"Yes, one designed by Emmet Kelley, and the other by Salvador Dali. Here, put this on, and hurry, we don't want to be the last to arrive." Tiffany grabbed her handbag and teetered to the front door.

*****

"Now I've left her story books on her bed, and she gets two of these cookies and a small glass of juice." Shelia stood in the kitchen instructing Arlene Richardson on Candy's care. "Bedtime is no later than seven-thirty and it's lights out no later than eight o'clock. Okay?" Arlene drew in a long breath and answered politely. "Now we'll just be down the street a your parent's house, so if you need anything, I've left the number right here." Shelia squared the notepad on the counter, tapping it with firm confidence.

"Hon, I'm sure Arlene knows her own phone number, c'mon, Candy will be fine." He traded a long-suffering roll of eyes with the young babysitter.

"Okay then I guess we're off. Don't forget to turn on the monitor when you come downstairs now, will you."

"I won't forget, Mrs. Croft. Have a nice time." She bit her lip, watching Mr. Croft making funny faces behind his wife.

"Let's go, Shelia." He took her arm, dragging her from the room.

"All right, I'm coming- there's some pop and cold meat in the fridge if you want make–"

"Shelia!"

Arlene wiped her brow exaggeratedly, and went to the window, making certain they were indeed on their way, then took out her cell-phone and dialed. "Carlos? They're gone."

*****

Denise levered herself out of the cramped Porsche and stood in the driveway fixing her hair. Satisfied their gravel spewing, hell-driver arrival, hadn't disturbed her carefully arranged do, she slipped the compact back in her bag and picked her way across the drive to the brick sidewalk that ran down beside the lawn.

"Is it really necessary to arrive here like the space shuttle?"

"Cars like this baby are meant to be driven, you don't rubberneck along in a Spider." Donald shook his head disparagingly and hopped around the car to take her arm.

"Maybe not, but you need a rubber neck to ride in one."

"Hah, hah. Watch you're your step there," he helped her down the curb onto the brick road, "still some puddles from the rain."

Denise stopped dead. "I can't walk here if it's wet. These shoes are suede."

He looked down at the skimpy strands of leather comprising the tops of her high heels. "Your feet would get wet before those strings would."

The sodium-vapour glow from the ornamental streetlights glittered fiercely in her eyes, and he quickly lost the smirk, scooping her up like a new bride, and hurrying down the street.