Paper Alice by Charlotte Calder Page A

‘Bye.’
    Andy turned to go, gesturing me to go ahead of him. But then he turned back to the others.
    â€˜When’s the next session – for the scripts?’ he asked.
    â€˜Friday arvo, I think we said,’ came Chet’s voice. ‘Four-ish?’
    â€˜Bye Alice,’ sang May. ‘Nice to meet you.’
    I mumbled something like, ‘You too,’ already imagining her and the horrible Chet having a laugh about me as soon as the front door had closed. About little Miss Alice, standing there like a dork, blushing to the roots of her hair.
    Andy reached around me from behind to open the front door. ‘After you,’ he said with a small flourish, and we walked out into the evening chill.
    â€˜Is he for real?’ I blurted, as soon as he’d pulled the door shut. Then, of course, wished I hadn’t.
    â€˜Who?’ asked Andy, hand still on the doorknob. ‘Chet?’
    I shrugged and nodded. ‘It seems like he thinks he’s–’
    â€˜Christmas?’ He laughed, stepping off the verandah. ‘He can be a bit off-putting, especially when you first meet him. But he’s OK, underneath it all.’
    â€˜Mmm.’ I shrugged and then added, more for something to say than anything else, ‘Weird name.’
    We’d turned through the gate and up the street, both in the same direction. ‘His real name’s Barclay,’ said Andy with a small smile, looking straight ahead.
    I gave a little cry of laughter, turning to him. ‘His first name?’
    â€˜Yep. Second name – Browning. Barclay Browning ,’ he added. ‘Sounds like something from the music hall era!’ He shrugged. ‘I guess that helps to explain a bit about him.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ I said, giggling, ‘I guess . . .’
    Suddenly ole Chet didn’t seem quite so intimidating after all.
    We marched along, our footsteps more or less in time. We were drawing near the Mazda. I could see the back of Milly’s head resting against the passenger window; wondered if she’d nodded off. She’s quite a devotee of power naps, being such a night owl.
    I swallowed.
    â€˜Here’s my car – Mum’s car,’ I said, pointing. ‘D’ you . . . want a lift somewhere?’
    â€˜Oh,’ he said, slowing down, looking at me. ‘Where’re you headed?’
    â€˜Over the Bridge.’
    He smiled and shrugged. ‘Exact opposite direction to me. Thanks anyway.’
    I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. ‘You sure?’
    â€˜Well, maybe you could drop me somewhere near Central?’
    â€˜Fine.’
    â€˜No,’ he said, remembering, ‘that means you’ll get caught up in city traffic, in the rush hour.’
    â€˜I’m going that way anyway. Via Annandale . . .’
    â€˜Really?’
    When I nodded, he smiled.
    â€˜OK, thanks – that’d be great.’
    We’d reached the Mazda; I tapped gently on the outside of Milly’s window. Just as I expected, she gave a little shriek and jumped a mile. It’s true she’d been snoozing, but Milly never does anything by halves.
    She stared at us for a moment through the glass, eyes wide, hair falling over her face. Particularly, of course, at Andy. I watched as her look of surprise transformed itself into a smile.
    â€˜The famous Milly, I presume,’ murmured Andy, hands in his pockets.
    I laughed. ‘Yep.’
    Famous Milly couldn’t wind down the power window, so she opened the door instead. ‘Hey!’ she cried, twisting right around.
    â€˜Mission accomplished,’ I said solemnly, holding out the shoe.
    â€˜Oh, ta.’
    And she took it from me and tossed it over her shoulder into the back as though it were an old tennis ball, not the precious object which I’d practically died a thousand deaths to retrieve. Then she smiled again at Andy.
    â€˜Hi,’ she