brow, and where-did-I-go-wrong thing across the room.
The phone rang again. I snatched it open. ‘Listen here, who the hell –’ ‘Ms Sharp?’
I recognised the cool, arrogant voice and choked off my tirade.
‘This is Peter Delgado.’
‘Yes,’ I squeaked. ‘When and where?’ I listened to the address he gave me. ‘I’ll be there.’
I snapped the phone shut and the room was suddenly very quiet.
‘I’m waiting, Tara.’ Joanna stopped short of toe-tapping but I could see it was on her mind.
‘It’s nothing, mother, just a blatant example of sensationalist journalism,’ I said, before launching into an amended version of events, leaving out the part about taking my pants off.
‘I can’t believe you let Brains out of her cage at night. Poor darling, I’d better go and see if she’s alright,’ she humphed, and pattered off.
I sighed and slumped back on my couch. What a start to the day.
‘Ahem.’
I glanced up at the door and realised that the other half of the JoBob entity was still there.
‘Dad? Come in.’
My father, Robert – known to everyone as Bob – was the gentlest of gentlemen with a quiet sense of humour that he kept well hidden from Mum. As a kid I’d thought him invincible and heroic. Now I realised he was just a nice man married to a very dominating woman. I think I loved him more for that. He was so real.
He shuffled forward in his dressing gown and tartan slippers. My father wouldn’t be seen dead in a pair of thongs.
‘Tara, you know I don’t like to interfere. You’re a grown woman with a life of your own. But I’m worried about this new line of work you’ve taken up. If you need money . . .’ he started, his face turning pink with embarrassment.
I felt guilty and I wasn’t sure why. ‘You know what I’m doing? I’ve been deliberately vague.’
‘I haven’t said anything to your mother, of course, but I was in here unblocking the sink and your phone rang.’
‘You answered my phone?’
‘I thought it might be important. Tara, what are these group sessions?’
For the second time that morning I was speechless. When the shock of what my father was inferring wore off, I began to giggle. The giggle turned into a laugh and the laugh into a guffaw until I was hee-hawing in a most unladylike fashion.
Dad stood silent, nonplussed.
When I could catch my breath I explained what the classes were about.
Relief lifted thirty years from his face.
I got up and came around the desk to give him a hug. Then I told him about my paralanguage business. ‘I was keeping it quiet from you until I earned some money. I thought you’d think I was being flaky and irresponsible.’
He sighed and gave me a quick squeeze. ‘I would have lent you the money.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t want you to.’
There was a pause and the moment passed. He stepped away awkwardly. ‘Just as long as you’re alright then.’
I smiled. ‘I’m right. I gotta go, Dad. Work, y’know.’
Chapter 12
P ETER D ELGADO HAD GIVEN me the address of a party in Claremont, the next suburb to Euccy Grove. Claremont was wall-to-wall millionaires without the welfare housing contingent to keep its nose up in the air about.
I’d been told to be there by 9 pm sharp. In high heels.
My gut feeling about the high-heels emphasis wasn’t good, but, with only twenty cents to my name, the lure of a retainer and the possibility of a thousand-dollar bonus meant I could ignore a few little client foibles.
As I slid and wriggled into my newest LBD (two years old, on sale at Rucci’s), I called Mr Hara and left a message. ‘Hi Mr H, it’s Tara. The client is in the bag and I start work tonight at the usual rate. Will let you know how it goes, but nothing to worry about. Hope Mrs H is ripping up the ski slopes.’
As I eased Mona out onto the highway and took a right at Bayview Terrace, I tried to imagine Mrs Hara skiing. For some reason I conjured a picture of her with her head and body
The phone rang again. I snatched it open. ‘Listen here, who the hell –’ ‘Ms Sharp?’
I recognised the cool, arrogant voice and choked off my tirade.
‘This is Peter Delgado.’
‘Yes,’ I squeaked. ‘When and where?’ I listened to the address he gave me. ‘I’ll be there.’
I snapped the phone shut and the room was suddenly very quiet.
‘I’m waiting, Tara.’ Joanna stopped short of toe-tapping but I could see it was on her mind.
‘It’s nothing, mother, just a blatant example of sensationalist journalism,’ I said, before launching into an amended version of events, leaving out the part about taking my pants off.
‘I can’t believe you let Brains out of her cage at night. Poor darling, I’d better go and see if she’s alright,’ she humphed, and pattered off.
I sighed and slumped back on my couch. What a start to the day.
‘Ahem.’
I glanced up at the door and realised that the other half of the JoBob entity was still there.
‘Dad? Come in.’
My father, Robert – known to everyone as Bob – was the gentlest of gentlemen with a quiet sense of humour that he kept well hidden from Mum. As a kid I’d thought him invincible and heroic. Now I realised he was just a nice man married to a very dominating woman. I think I loved him more for that. He was so real.
He shuffled forward in his dressing gown and tartan slippers. My father wouldn’t be seen dead in a pair of thongs.
‘Tara, you know I don’t like to interfere. You’re a grown woman with a life of your own. But I’m worried about this new line of work you’ve taken up. If you need money . . .’ he started, his face turning pink with embarrassment.
I felt guilty and I wasn’t sure why. ‘You know what I’m doing? I’ve been deliberately vague.’
‘I haven’t said anything to your mother, of course, but I was in here unblocking the sink and your phone rang.’
‘You answered my phone?’
‘I thought it might be important. Tara, what are these group sessions?’
For the second time that morning I was speechless. When the shock of what my father was inferring wore off, I began to giggle. The giggle turned into a laugh and the laugh into a guffaw until I was hee-hawing in a most unladylike fashion.
Dad stood silent, nonplussed.
When I could catch my breath I explained what the classes were about.
Relief lifted thirty years from his face.
I got up and came around the desk to give him a hug. Then I told him about my paralanguage business. ‘I was keeping it quiet from you until I earned some money. I thought you’d think I was being flaky and irresponsible.’
He sighed and gave me a quick squeeze. ‘I would have lent you the money.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t want you to.’
There was a pause and the moment passed. He stepped away awkwardly. ‘Just as long as you’re alright then.’
I smiled. ‘I’m right. I gotta go, Dad. Work, y’know.’
Chapter 12
P ETER D ELGADO HAD GIVEN me the address of a party in Claremont, the next suburb to Euccy Grove. Claremont was wall-to-wall millionaires without the welfare housing contingent to keep its nose up in the air about.
I’d been told to be there by 9 pm sharp. In high heels.
My gut feeling about the high-heels emphasis wasn’t good, but, with only twenty cents to my name, the lure of a retainer and the possibility of a thousand-dollar bonus meant I could ignore a few little client foibles.
As I slid and wriggled into my newest LBD (two years old, on sale at Rucci’s), I called Mr Hara and left a message. ‘Hi Mr H, it’s Tara. The client is in the bag and I start work tonight at the usual rate. Will let you know how it goes, but nothing to worry about. Hope Mrs H is ripping up the ski slopes.’
As I eased Mona out onto the highway and took a right at Bayview Terrace, I tried to imagine Mrs Hara skiing. For some reason I conjured a picture of her with her head and body
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