Sharp Turn - Marianne Delacourt [4]
Mum and Dad are comfortably off, semi-retired Euccy Grove gentry. While Mum worships at the sacred altar of snobbery, Dad is her quiet backstop, preferring Foxtel to the Euccy Grove social scene. I sometimes wonder how they ever got together, then I witness their perfectly complementary rhythm: Joanna says it and Bob does it. Unless, of course, he gets really ticked off about something. Then watch out!
Unfortunately for them, they gave birth to a slightly offbeat, flaky daughter who showed an aptitude for contact sport quite early and got into frequent fights with the boys at primary school (usually, I might add, to protect my best friend, Martin Longbok). Joanna tried in vain to nurture a more ladylike and refined streak in me, but I just kept coming up with impulsive and boisterous. On top of that, I kept on growing – until I was bigger than either of them and most of the guys I knew. It was about then she gave up the battle and let me be. Well, sort of.
My phone rang. ‘Sharp.’
‘Tara?’
Every molecule in my body melted into one gooey mass. Nick Tozzi: hunky, filthy rich and married. Why did I keep thinking about him and wondering if he would work things out with his wife, socialite and cokehead Antonia Falk? I hadn’t spoken to him in quite a few weeks. Not since he’d brought me flowers in hospital to thank me for saving him from financial ruin and other things.
‘Yo, Tozzi.’
‘How are you?’ he enquired politely.
Words poured out of my mouth like tap water. ‘I just ran into a policeman I know in a massage parlour in Leederville. Now he’s going to tell the entire force I’m a “working” girl. It’ll get back to my mother and she’ll disown me and throw me out of home. Apart from that . . . everything’s shiny.’
‘And you were in a brothel for what reason?’ I could hear the edge of laughter in his voice.
‘Business,’ I said stiffly. ‘Now what can I do for you?’
‘I’m ringing on business as well.’ His voice sounded a bit strangled still, like he might let a guffaw slip at any moment.
‘Oh?’
‘It’s an unusual job. So I thought of you straightaway.’
‘I’m listening.’ It had to be better than Madame Vine’s offer, didn’t it?
‘I’m working from home today – what say I drop past and take you for a coffee? We can talk about it in person.’
I sat up. This sounded good and bad. Seeing Tozzi was good. Not knowing what to wear was bad. ‘How do you know I’m even free?’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ he said and hung up.
TEN MINUTES! I needed longer than that to work a miracle on my appearance, especially when I didn’t have either of my two fashion advisors on hand. My best friends Martin Longbok and Jane Smith-Evans – aka Bok and Smitty – were busy being upright citizens. Smitty was at home being a three-sprog mother, and Bok was at his office being a hot-shot magazine editor.
I checked the time. Noon. Smitty might have a window of opportunity. I called her.
‘Ya-a-s-s?’ Smitty always sounded her most la-di-dah when she was stressed.
‘It’s me.’
‘T,’ she cried. ‘Thank fucking buggery. I thought you were going to be one of the kindergarten mums.’
‘Nope. Definitely not. Problem?’
‘Yes. But I won’t bore you with it.’
‘Bore me,’ I said in my saintliest BFF manner. Eight minutes left.
‘Joe punched one of the other kindy kids and gave him a bloody snout. The mother’s been ringing me threatening legal action.’
‘Legal action!’ I shrieked. ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’
Smitty groaned. ‘Thank God you said that. I thought I was losing it. I have to meet with the mother on Thursday.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
I was offering out of guilt not saintliness. I was the one who’d taught Joe how to punch.
I babysat Smitty’s kids when she went to Pilates, and occasionally when she and her doctor husband, Henry, had a dirty overnighter at one of the