Girl Next Door - Alyssa Brugman [38]
Of course Will knows the French word for nipples. It's probably the only French word he knows. Mamelons et fesses. He is a schoolboy after all.
I stare into the middle distance, hoping that if I don't look at Bryce Cole and Willem, they won't be able to see me.
This would be a perfect handbag-rummaging moment. Even better would be an expandable handbag. Then you could just hop inside it in situations like these and wait for it to be over.
We climb onto a trio of bar stools around a high table in the corner. Outside the window, tourists and workers stalk past. I'm waiting for Bryce Cole or Will to pay me out, but they don't. Yet.
I'm racking my brain because sooner or later – probably sooner and later – someone is going to ask me why I said that. I can't tell them about Penelope Sullivan because they're going to wonder how I know that about her, and I can't see them buying the bathroom story, even though it's true. It's the same dilemma in a new location. I just know I'm going to be haunted by those hairy nipples for the rest of my life.
The only possibility I can see is that someone else taught me to say it, and I thought it meant something else.
Jenna-Belle enjoys melons.
Jenna-Belle favours mammals.
'What did you do before this?' Will asks Bryce Cole.
Bryce Cole puts down his beer. 'I used to restore antique farm equipment.'
Will and I wait for him to tell us more.
'I had a truck and drove out to country towns. I'd go to demolishers, and to the real estate agents. I'd find out who had old farm equipment that they were getting rid of. Then I would bring it home and restore it, and sell it on to interior decorators or landscape supply places. Bed and breakfasts in the Southern Highlands pay a packet for that kind of stuff. I had a nice little gig for sale and a guy who trained trotting horses came to look at it. He didn't buy it, but we got talking, and Bill – that was his name – asked me to help him load and unload his trotters a few times at the track, and while I was there I watched a race or two and put a few dollars on. Turned out I had an eye.'
'What about before that? Were you ever married?' Will asks.
'No.'
'Girlfriend?'
'A few.' He shrugs.
'How come you speak French?' I ask.
He takes another sip of beer. He has froth on his lip. 'I was a dancer in a burlesque show in Marseilles.'
'You were not!'
Bryce Cole drains the rest of his beer. He stands up and brushes down his lemon-coloured shirt. Then he holds his arms out to the side, shimmying his way across the pub floor to a chair. He's humming a stripper tune. He flicks his leg up a few times and lowers himself onto the chair. He runs his fingers through his hair and bats his eyelashes.
'Oh my God!' I say. 'You have to stop that right this minute, because it's obnoxious and gross!'
Bryce Cole is dancing with the chair. He's shaking his booty. Will thinks it's hysterical. I cover my eyes.
'No, really,' I plead. 'You have to stop! I'm pretty sure this is child abuse. It will take years of therapy for me to get over this incident.'
Then I look over and see the barman frowning at us not being French or over eighteen, and so we leave.
So we're at dinner when it comes up. Bryce Cole is telling Mum how he could hardly keep a straight face when her daughter says in French . . . He's laughing too much to finish. Will is laughing too. They're sharing a moment. Guffawing. Other diners are staring.
We're not at some sleazy burger joint. This is all silver service, a pianist in the corner, and a view over the Opera House. The waiters almost bow as they serve our meals. Mum's wearing a satin pyjama top over her slacks, because that's pretty much all I packed for her, but she has her pineapple on her head, so we're all pretending it's a blouse.
I'm watching Will and Bryce Cole, trying to keep an innocent expression on my face.
'What?' asks Mum, smiling.
'She