For Once In My Life, page 3
Well, that seemed like stupid advice now.
‘Yeah,’ Chloe piped up, nodding encouragingly at her older sister. ‘When I had that meltdown about a class presentation I had to do in year seven, you made me go in and do it … Actually, you pretty much dragged me into school that day, when all I wanted to do was hide in bed.’
‘This isn’t the same thing … that was school and you had to do it,’ Jenny said, sensing a touch of malicious revenge in her daughters’ pep talk.
‘Think of this as something just as important. You can’t hide in bed every time something scary happens and you don’t want to face it,’ Savannah replied.
This time, Jenny was positive her children were enjoying the opportunity to fling their mother’s advice back in her face. No one told you what to do when your great and wise parental advice came back to bite you on the arse years later. She’d brought this on herself by being such a brilliant mother. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she muttered.
‘Mum, if you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for us. Be the role model you’ve always been and show us what a brave, independent woman looks like,’ Brittany said, using a motivational tone that Tony Robbins would have been proud of.
Fuck. There was no getting out of this—not unless she wanted to admit that everything she’d used in the past to try and mould these kids into responsible, well-adjusted humans could be ignored once you were an adult.
‘Fine,’ she said tightly. ‘But this is the one and only time. You take me off that stupid dating app and never do this again.’
‘So, about that …’ Brittany winced—actually winced, as though in great pain. ‘You’ve kind of got a few more dates for the rest of the weekend.’
Jenny stared at her eldest daughter. She thought she’d already been shocked as deeply as a person could possibly be shocked … but nope, now she was shocked into speechlessness.
‘There’s more men I’m supposed to be seeing?’ she finally managed. Who the hell did that, lined up multiple dates with different people all weekend?
‘Well, they all responded to your profile and we didn’t want to risk turning any of them away in case they were, you know, “the one”,’ Savannah told her, making little quotation marks in the air.
‘“The one” …’ Jenny shook her head, trying to dislodge the absolute insanity she was hearing. ‘This stops now. I’m not some piece of … meat you get to hold out as bait to catch a bunch of crocodiles with.’
‘Seriously, Mum,’ Savannah said, eyeing her pityingly. ‘This is why you needed a push. You have no idea how the world of dating works. You’ll thank us for stepping in and navigating all this for you so you didn’t stuff it up.’
A knock on the door cut short her scathing reply, which was partially a relief since she wasn’t sure she could keep to the ‘no swearing out loud’ rule, as panic quickly settled in.
‘It’ll be fine. His name’s Derrick and he’s an accountant,’ Beth said in a pacifying tone as she walked—or rather frogmarched—Jenny to the front door. ‘He lives in Hamwell. And smile,’ Beth ordered in a sugary sweet tone, as Brittany opened the door to a man who looked to be in his late fifties. He was dressed in a pair of impeccably ironed navy trousers and a crisp white shirt.
‘Jenny?’ he asked, as his gaze shifted between the five women smiling at him—well, four smiling and one frozen in a terrified, caught-in-the-headlights kind of expression.
‘This is Jenny,’ Beth said, thrusting her forward so that she almost staggered into the poor man’s chest.
His face did a quick change from surprise to delight before he stuck out his hand. ‘Derrick,’ he said, as Jenny automatically shook it. They stood there staring at each other awkwardly until Beth stepped in again.
‘Well, you two kids have a great time,’ she chirped, pointedly ignoring Jenny’s dangerous glare.
Three
As the door shut firmly behind them, Jenny forced her stiff limbs to move, feeling like a robot as she followed Derrick to a dark sedan in her driveway. The car looked exactly like something an accountant would drive: sensible, well kept and also a lot more expensive than her dependable old hatchback in the shed.
‘So, where are we going?’ she asked, forcing cheeriness into her tone.
Derrick looked up from clipping in his seatbelt, his expression a little odd. ‘I booked at the pub in town that you suggested when we spoke—well, chatted,’ he amended, ‘online.’
‘Oh. Right. Sounds great,’ she said with forced enthusiasm. Her head was spinning as she tried to piece together everything that had happened in the last half an hour or so.
Derrick, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease with the situation. And why wouldn’t he be? No one had surprised him with any of this.
Barkley was on the outskirts of the bigger regional town of Hamwell, around a forty-five-minute drive away. It had been Jenny’s idea to move to Barkley from Hamwell when the town grew from a charming large country town into a less charming mini city in the space of a few years. Jenny had grown up in a small town similar to Barkley, with its wide streets and rolling farmland, and she had wanted that same close-knit community upbringing for her children.
‘Do you come from here?’ Jenny asked. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Derrick around. He could easily have been one of the new blow-ins from the city. It felt like Covid had convinced everyone to move to the country, and what started as a trickle of newcomers had turned into a deluge. Now Barkley suddenly had something it had never had before—a growing population
‘Ah, no. Hamwell,’ he said, a slight frown on his face. ‘I’m pretty sure I mentioned it when we first started chatting.’
‘Oh, right. Sorry,’ she said, tapping her forehead. ‘It’s been a busy week.’
‘Tell me about it. We’re in the lead-up to tax time and things are only going to get busier,’ Derrick said, before explaining at length what his next few months were going to entail.
They drove through the wide, quiet streets, passing the federation-style brick houses and brick-fenced yards. It was getting cooler as autumn crept in, and the grass in front yards and along the footpaths was starting to fade from green to varying shades of browns and yellows. The beautiful Japanese maple, Chinese pistachio and liquidambar trees planted along the median strips and in front yards were on beautiful display, with their bright yellow, red and orange leaves creating a tapestry of colour to replace the fading hues of the landscape. Derrick pulled up outside their destination, the two-storey heritage-listed pub. The Coach House had undergone renovations over the last few months and the disruption to the main street during its facelift had been a constant source of complaint from some of Jenny’s older patients. She hadn’t been here since they’d reopened but had been hearing good things about the food.
Jenny looked around as she walked inside and found herself pleasantly surprised. The new management had completely rebranded the old pub into something almost yuppified. The architecture of the original hundred-and-twenty-year-old hotel was still intact but there was a vibrant, modern look to the furnishings, with beautiful teal lounge chairs scattered in front of an open fireplace and tall floor lamps strategically placed around the room adding a sophisticated touch that probably wouldn’t be expected in Barkley. Rustic timber frames hung on one side displaying Barkley in its early years, and a large mural, of the pub in its heyday, dominated the far wall.
‘It isn’t as bad as I was expecting,’ Derrick murmured beside her, and even though she wasn’t exactly a regular in here, something about his pompous tone made her a little defensive. ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.
Jenny opened her mouth to answer, but he’d already turned away. ‘Allow me to choose a wine. You pick a table and I’ll be right back,’ he told her, walking towards the bar.
Jenny bit back a flicker of irritation at the assumption that he knew what she’d like to drink, and looked around for a table, spotting one on the far side of the room. It would do fine—was hopefully inconspicuous enough so she wouldn’t be recognised by anyone who may come in and spot her.
Derrick returned, carrying two glasses of pale-looking wine.
‘Try this and tell me what you think?’ he instructed as he placed the glasses on the table and peered at her.
‘Oh,’ she said, realising he wanted her to try it right now. She gave him a weak smile before bracing herself. She knew she was going to hate it; she only drank moscato—lolly water, as Beth often referred to it. The moment the dry, crisp wine hit her taste buds, Jenny felt her body preparing to launch into a compulsive shudder but reined it in with remarkable effort.
‘It’s a sauvignon blanc,’ he informed her. ‘They don’t have the range here that my usual restaurant has, of course,’ he said, his chin tilting a little arrogantly. ‘But this is passable, I suppose.’
Jenny fought back a grimace as she forced herself to swallow the sip. She gave a noncommittal, ‘Hmm.’
‘All your children still live at home with you?’
Jenny nodded. ‘Yes. It gets pretty rowdy sometimes,’ she said smiling faintly as she recalled the usual chaos at breakfast and dinner. Before Brittany and Sophie had moved back in, she’d almost forgotten how full-on those times were with a toddler. ‘Do you have children?’ she asked. Maybe this was where they’d find something in common.
‘I have a son.’
‘Oh, lovely. Does he live at home with you?’
‘God, no,’ Derrick said, looking horrified by the thought. ‘He’s twenty-seven. Thankfully he’s out of my hair and doing his own thing now.’
Out of his hair? Jenny raised an eyebrow slightly.
‘I see … you’re one of those types,’ he said bluntly, catching her expression.
‘What type would that be?’ She was trying to be pleasant, she really was.
‘The ones who wrap their kids in cotton wool. Too many people aren’t being firm enough with their kids today. They need to fly the nest and learn how to take care of themselves the way we did. How are they supposed to appreciate the value of a dollar when they don’t have to live in the real world?’
‘It’s a little bit tougher out there nowadays than it was when we were that age.’ Besides, she didn’t wrap her kids in cotton wool—she would if she could, but hers were too independent. One had jumped feet first into a relationship and became a single mum and another was happiest flitting around the damn globe. God only knew what grey hairs Chloe was going to add in the coming years.
‘It’s all comparable. Everyone’s just gone too soft. It’s no tougher than it used to be.’
She was no statistician, but she was fairly sure that wasn’t entirely true. ‘I actually don’t mind having my children and grandchild living back home. I like the company.’ It was nice to have the empty rooms filled with the daily sounds of family life once more.
‘I downsized the house so that wouldn’t happen,’ Derrick said dismissively. ‘So, classical music?’ he continued, leaning back in his chair and eyeing her over the top of the wine glass as he swirled it idly.
‘Sorry?’ She was still processing his authoritarian parenting practices.
‘You mentioned in your profile that you enjoyed classical music.’
She had? Why on earth would her profile say that? Her kids knew for a fact she only listened to eighties music and a bit of nineties country. Obviously this was all part of Operation: Give Mum a Makeover. ‘That was a mistake. It was meant to be … well, to be honest, anything else.’
He frowned. ‘So you don’t like classical music?’
‘Not particularly, no.’
‘Oh,’ he said, sounding far more disappointed by the idea than she thought he should be. ‘There’s a concert coming up in the park. I was thinking that would have been a nice next date.’
‘You didn’t even know if this date was going to work out and you were planning the second one?’
‘Well, your profile had sounded promising,’ he said, clearing his throat.
‘Do you do this often? Meet people on the app?’
‘When there’s anyone interesting on there. It’s sometimes difficult to find women of a certain … standard.’ He sipped his wine.
‘Standard?’
‘Sadly, the majority of these apps are designed to find a quick hook-up.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘You will,’ he assured her blandly. ‘If you spend enough time on there, you’ll understand.’
‘Yes. Well. I don’t intend to be spending much time on there.’
‘That’s what I keep telling myself, too.’
‘Are you ready to order?’ a tall blonde asked, coming to a stop beside their table.
Jenny looked up and smiled, vaguely recognising the face but unable to put a name to it. The waitress appeared to be around the same age as her two eldest girls and she suspected that’s where she knew her from. Yes, she wanted to order—the faster they got through their meal the sooner she could get back home again. She picked up the menu, scanning the items quickly. She found herself quietly impressed. This was a huge step up from the rather bland pub food that had been on offer previously. ‘I’ll have the bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin, thanks.’
‘Is the barramundi fresh?’ Derrick asked, without lifting his gaze from the menu.
‘It is. We have it delivered daily.’
‘That’s what they all claim,’ he said curtly, and Jenny narrowed her eyes slightly at his tone. ‘I’ll have the cacciatore,’ he finally decided, but held on to the menu as the waitress reached out to take it. ‘Is it freshly cooked?’
‘Any fresher and the chicken would still be clucking,’ the blonde answered with a straight face.
‘That will be all,’ Derrick said dismissively without so much as cracking a smile.
Jenny chuckled and the waitress smiled as she collected the menus and sauntered away.
‘You’d be surprised how many so-called restaurants use frozen meals.’
‘Well, I heard they’d gone to a lot of trouble to employ the new chef, so I’m sure they cook everything on site.’
Derrick grunted, sipping from his glass.
‘So, tell me about your job,’ she asked and forced her wine down, concentrating on the warming sensation it created in the back of her throat as Derrick found the one topic he enjoyed talking about. His monologue lasted until the blonde returned carrying two plates.
Her meal looked like something out of a food magazine. For a moment Jenny could only stare at the artistic presentation. The investment into a proper chef certainly looked like it was paying off. There had always been considerable doubt as to whether Tony, the previous cook, had any actual qualifications—word was that he’d learned most of his cooking skills from a stint in prison during the eighties and nobody had ever been game to ask him.
‘Thank you,’ Jenny finally managed, glancing up at the waitress. ‘This looks amazing.’
‘Yes, well, even pubs have to lift their food standards nowadays if they want to stay relevant. We’ve had a number of top Sydney chefs relocate to Hamwell over the last year or so,’ Derrick informed her with a small sniff, then began a new line of conversation about the effects on bottom lines from Covid shut-downs in regional areas. This had the advantage of allowing Jenny to dig happily into her food, only having to give the occasional nod or grunt in agreement as she ate.
‘I’ll order more wine,’ Derrick announced, slipping it in partway through a particularly boring lecture about God-only-knew-what, almost causing Jenny to miss it.
‘No. I’ll get this round,’ she said, getting to her feet before he could argue. She was eager for a moment to herself. Something harder than white wine wouldn’t go astray, either.
Jenny weaved her way through the tables but stopped when she came to a group of four elderly people, who waved at her.
‘We thought that was you,’ one of the women said, smiling as she held out a hand.
Jenny took the hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Hello, Nola. I didn’t see you over here.’
‘Well, you were too busy with your … friend,’ Nola said, lifting her eyebrows slightly as she searched Jenny’s face eagerly.
Nola Jenkins was a regular at the hospital. Jenny had grown close to her a few years back when her husband had started having health problems that led to frequent stays.
Nola and Betty, who was also at the table, worked in the hospital cafe and were tireless volunteers of the Hospital Auxiliary, who raised valuable funds for the hospital and were as much a part of the hospital family as the doctors and nursing staff. As dearly as she loved these women, Jenny was under no illusions that whatever she said here would be spread around the hospital before she even had time to start her next shift.
‘Oh, that’s just an old family friend. He’s passing through town and wanted to catch up,’ Jenny said with a dismissive wave. Seeing the disappointed faces before her, she realised, to her surprise, that her bluffing skills must have been on point.
‘We were hoping it was a new man,’ Betty said in an overly loud whisper.
‘Sorry. No men—new or old—on the horizon,’ Jenny said, forcing a bright smile. Not if she could help it, at least.
‘A good catch like yourself?’ Errol, Nola’s husband, chimed in, shaking his head. ‘The blokes around here should be lining up.’
‘Tell you what,’ Ted, the other man at the table said, ‘if I was twenty years younger and not already married—’
Betty snorted loudly. ‘Twenty? More like forty,’ she scoffed.
‘Now, now, pet, you know I only have eyes for you,’ he said, sending her a wink.
‘You’re half-blind, you silly coot,’ she retorted, before rolling her eyes at him.
‘I’d better go order our drinks. It was lovely to see you.’ Jenny waved and made her getaway while they were all busy insulting Ted’s shortcomings.
At the bar, Jenny rested her arm along the countertop and surveyed the glass shelves before her, waiting for the bartender as he moseyed his way down from where he’d been talking to two men. She didn’t recognise him, not that she’d ever spent much time in the local pub. She found herself a little distracted by the slow, easy smile on his face as he came to a stop before her.
