Never Jam Today

12

Never Jam Today

    To get from the Turpin place over to Dad’s ecolodge you sort of went diagonally over the lake, which meant that you more or less went straight past the McLintock house. More now that Libby was seeing so much of Aidan. Although the McLeod sisters usually crossed over quite early, they weren’t early every morning, and sometimes they went back and forth during the day, too, and so Jayne had had ample opportunity to see that awful cousin of Aidan’s lying sun-baking on the lawn very close to Andrew, sitting in a bikini about the size of Leanne’s one very close to Andrew on the McLintock landing stage, and swimming in the lake squealing and splashing with Andrew. She didn’t see them with her own eyes necking in Andrew’s 4WD but then she didn’t need to: Kristel Pohaka who ran Lake District Cleaning Services had been doing Livia’s housekeeping for a while over the holidays because one of her helpers was on holiday, and she came round to Taupo Shores Ecolodge with some big bags of plums for Jan and told all those who happened to be in the kitchen at the time—Jan, Janet, Jayne and Dad—all about it.

    Jayne said nothing, and mercifully, Dad and Jan didn’t even look at her, and Janet didn’t say anything, so she probably didn’t know that Andrew had brought her home after that party at Livia’s. And certainly no-one but Jayne knew that when they’d gone to see the big rainbow trout over at Rotorua and Libby and Aidan had got bored and wandered back to the car Andrew had taken her behind a bush and kissed her and pressed himself against her as if he was really keen—a bit like the boys at the Blue Light Discos she’d gone to as a teenager, actually. So—so what was wrong with her, and what did horrible Caroline Whatsername have that she didn’t have?

    The plums were for jam or bottling or chutney, whatever Jan liked, and nice Kristel wouldn’t take any money for them, they were just off their trees and none of them liked them, but if Jan insisted—with a jolly laugh—she’d accept a pot of whatever they turned into!

    There were plenty of them, so Jan decided to bottle some, they did need quite a lot of sugar but they’d make up into nice pies for winter. Jayne had never done bottling, so she helped her with interest, but all the same her mind didn’t manage to be completely on the process. Not many people liked plum jam, so Jan turned a lot into chutney. It wasn’t like the tomato chutney that Jayne could make, it was trickier, because of the stones and the skins. The skins gave it a good colour but they spoiled the final texture, so what Jan did was boil the plums up into a sort of mush and then skim off the skins and any stones that rose to the top and then drain it through a colander to catch the rest of the stones. Then she added all the onions and vinegar and sugar and spices and everything. As Jayne had made chutney before she trusted her to do a batch, only she wasn’t concentrating and she forgot the colander step and it ended up with loads of stones in every jar. Jan was very nice about it and said they spooned it out into dishes for serving anyway, so they could easily remove the stones, but Jayne felt like an idiot, the more so as Janet tutted like anything and wondered—aloud—what she had on her mind.

    Jayne didn’t mention to anyone what she had on her mind, so there was no-one to reinforce Libby’s earlier suggestion that possibly she hadn’t given Andrew enough direct encouragement or point out that, as he was a naturally modest man with the very recent experience of a rotten marriage in which he hadn’t been encouraged to believe he had what it took, he’d thought that when she let him kiss her she’d just been being kind and she wasn’t really interested. The more so as, the couple of times they’d bumped into each other after he and Aidan had returned to the lake, she’d just smiled nicely and made no attempt to engage him in conversation, or treat him any differently from anyone else.

    She certainly, Andrew had thought bitterly the day it dawned that Aidan was sleeping as well as catering with Libby, had given no indication that she fancied him. Liked him well enough—maybe. So when Caroline Walker threw herself at him, he gave in. She was probably doing it partly to spite Aidan, yes, but who cared? She was keen and she didn’t mind letting him know it, she had a lovely figure and, well, he hadn’t had it for ages and ages. In fact not since Bruce’s seventeenth birthday, when Katrina had had far too much Kahlua on top of a great deal of Sauvignon Blanc on top of several champagne cocktails and got so drunk she didn’t care what she did. Subsequently blaming him bitterly both for the fact that she had to take the morning-after pill—the visit to the doctor being one of the most humiliating experiences of her entire life, apparently—and for the fact that the duvet cover was “ruined”. He then compounded the felony by helpfully taking the cover off and shoving it in the washing-machine, at which point it really was ruined: it was hand-dyed silk and the colours ran and the material shrank horribly: as he hadn’t reset the machine it had done it at Katrina’s usual full cycle with hot wash, which the towels and bathmats all got after one using.

    As the warm January wore on Jayne got very quiet, but as she was normally a quiet person Libby, now almost completely absorbed in Aidan and his catering scheme, didn’t notice that something was wrong, and Tamsin, who was still spending most of her days on the lake with Neil and her nights either in the launch with Neil or at Neil’s father’s house with Neil, saw very little of her mother and didn’t notice either.

    Jan of course did notice, but she had no intention of saying anything. And Pete did some muttering in corners about ponces from the Big Smoke but, Heaven being merciful for once, said nothing to Jayne herself.

    Livia, however, did bring the subject up. She’d come over for afternoon tea, first checking that it was an afternoon on which most of the guests would be out doing one of Vern Reilly’s all-day tours and that Jan wouldn’t be too busy to chat. And promising, with a girlish giggle, not to bring Joan Hutchins this time!

    Jayne was doing the waitressing but as there were only two middle-aged couples from the ecolodge in for afternoon tea plus one middle-aged couple from the Southern Stars Motel, desperately seeking Devonshire teas but settling gratefully for Jan’s homemade scones with real butter and a choice of raspberry, loganberry or strawberry jam, also homemade, Livia had no difficulty in observing her.

    “My dear, what is the matter with darling Jayne?” she said in a low voice after Jayne had brought her and Jan a tray of tea and a plate of scones, refused with a wan smile Livia’s urgent invitation to join them, and gone out again.

    Jan looked grim. “Well, between you and me, Livia, bloody Andrew Whatsisface seems to have got off with that dame that’s been staying with them—Aidan’s cousin, isn’t she?”

    “Oh, Lor’! Does the poor little soul seriously fancy him, then?” she hissed.

    Jayne was nigh on a foot taller than Livia and at least two stone heavier but Jan didn’t blink at the “little”, just nodded grimly.

    “But— But good heavens, Jan, darling, what went wrong? Didn’t he drive her home after our dinner party?”

    “Mm. I got it out of Libby that he kissed her but that seems to have been it. Wouldn’t go in with her.” She shrugged.

    “Er—well, one can understand, I suppose. Jayne’s not a girl, and she was sharing the loft,” said Livia uncertainly. “And they had only just met, really… But didn’t they go on a lovely trip to Rotorua?”

    “Two,” said Jan drily. “Double dates. Don’t think he had much chance to do anything, Livia. But Jayne did seem very lit-up afterwards. Only then he went back to Auckland and since he came back she’s barely laid eyes on him: the cousin’s been making all the running. Ask Kristel Pohaka if you don’t believe me.”

    “Oh, good gracious! Kristel asked me who owned that maroon four-wheel-drive down our road, but— Oh, dear.”

    “Mm, well, since then she seems to have worked out who the occupants were.”

    “Yes, Aidan rang and asked if I knew of a cleaning lady so she went over there to arrange for someone to come in for them… Oh, dear.”

    “Mm, well, I suppose it’s better that she finds out he’s that sort now rather than later,” said Jan heavily.

    “But darling, he isn’t! You saw for yourself: the most self-effacing man! Terribly nice! Caroline must have flung herself at him,” decided Livia in distress.

    “Yeah, well, I only got a glimpse of her that time they arrived late for dinner, but I’d say she was that type. Pete reckoned it was a toss-up whether she’d end the evening in Aidan’s lap or Andrew’s: she was all over the pair of them, apparently. But even if she did fling herself at him, did he have to catch her?” replied Jan drily.

    Livia bit her lip. “My dear, living in the same house? Could he escape?”

    Jan sighed. “Did he want to, more like. Don’t let’s discuss it, talking pays no toll.”

    Livia made a face. “Wallace has invited them all to our barbecue.”

    “In that case I’ll just let Pete take the clients over in the Tallulah Tub and have a quiet evening at home with a trashy novel,” replied Jan firmly.

    “Nonsense, darling! We’ve arranged it especially so as you can have an evening’s fun!” she cried.

    Something like that, yeah. Jan and Janet were going to prepare mountains of potato salad for it, and Pete had volunteered his services as barbecue sous-chef, but yeah: a lake cruise for the ecolodge’s clients plus a barbecue dinner was the idea. Initially Jan had been very grateful for the offer: at least it meant one evening she wouldn’t have to slave in a hot kitchen. The unfortunates in the bunkhouse were going to miss out, since the Tallulah Tub wouldn’t hold all of them, but as a special favour they were being allowed to hold their own barbecue on the lawn, all equipment and fuel provided courtesy of the ecolodge and two dozen cans of lager courtesy of Pete (Softie) McLeod. Meantime the ecolodge itself would be under lock and key with the alarms on—quite.

    Jan sighed. “Well, don’t tell Jayne you’ve invited the pair of creeps and possibly she’ll agree to go.”

    Livia swallowed. “Pair?” she said in a small voice.

    That had just come out. Jan grimaced. “Livia, if Aidan Vine’s any more serious about Libby than he is about this catering nonsense, I’m the Queen of Sheba and Pete’s Solomon in all his glory!”

    Livia tried to smile and failed. “He’s working very hard at it,” she ventured.

    Playing very hard at it, she meant. Jan took a piece of scone, added loganberry jam, and firmly gagged herself with it as an indication she considered the topic—both topics—closed. Livia must have got the hint because she ate a piece of scone and then told her all about some film her and Wal had seen up in Auckland over Christmas. Jan didn’t listen, so it was quite soothing, really.

    There were flambeaux everywhere, giant ranks of raging barbecues on the lawn down near the lake, piñatas hanging from every available branch and most of the balconies, enormous Mexican open clay ovens with giant candles in them, and a mariachi band. No, well, a CD of a mariachi band, even Livia Briggs couldn’t magic up an actual bandful of frilly sleeves in the middle of EnZed in the middle of summer.

    Libby collapsed in sniggers.

    “Yeah, thought it’d be pretty bad!” agreed Pete cheerfully, helping Mrs Isaacson off the Taupo Shores Tallulah. “There ya go, Mrs Isaacson, love!”

    “Oh, thank you, Pete!” she gasped. “And please, call me Daphne!”

    “Okay, Daphne,” agreed Pete equably. Mrs Isaacson was a widow from Khandallah, Wellington, but unlike the dame that had got her hooks into poor old Bob that time, she was well into her sixties, weighed in at around twice Mohammed Ali’s fighting weight in ’is heyday, and was given to good works: as she’d already explained—twice—she should really be back with her old dears that she took the Meals on Wheels to, but just for once— And dear George had insisted! Dear George wasn’t the hubby, who’d long since popped his clogs, he was the oldest son, and Pete’s bet woulda been he wanted to get rid of the old dame for a bit so’s he, the wife and the four kids could enjoy the backyard pool her and the dear departed had had put in the year before he popped off, such a waste, because she wasn’t really a swimmer but the grandkids loved it, unquote. Back well within living memory, of course, mused Pete, handing Mrs Bainbridge out—the Bainbridges were thrilled they hadn’t missed the barbecue—and then Daphne’s mate, Mrs Patterson—right, Wendy—back well within living memory—“There ya go, Mrs Cooper!”—back then, over sixty would have qualified you for Meals on Wheels, not as a provider, but these days the recipients all seemed to be in their eighties. –Mrs Isaacson and Mrs Patterson from Wellington had replaced Mrs Avery and Mrs Gladstone from Auckland, but they were pretty much indistinguishable; though Mrs Patterson, surprisingly enough, was a divorcée, rather than a widow. Not a divorcée of the type likely to get her hooks into poor old Bob: no. At the moment she was wearing lowish-heeled but still wobbly pale blue sandals and a frilled frock of the type that Jan had privately assured him she could remember her mum wearing to casual evening does. Actually he could remember his mum wearing ’em, shit!

    Well, they might live longer these days but they sure didn’t change in essence, mused Pete, handing out the beaming Mrs Albright from Santa Fe—“Right: Shirley,”—and the equally beaming Mrs Cunninghame from Denver. “Marilyn. ’course; yeah, you are practically old-timers, now, eh?” If ya looked on the map, Santa Fe and Denver weren’t all that close, actually, but see, Shirley and Marilyn had met on a cruise. Had Pete ever seen The Love Boat? Uh, been on a few in ’is— Aw, right, TV programme, eh? Just like that! Beam, beam. He hadn’t asked what they’d been doing on something that called itself a love boat, they were in their early seventies with “respectable, comfortably off widow” written all over ’em. Both grandmas, in fact. Taupo Shores Ecolodge was just their cup of tea.

    Tony Gledhill, Barry Whittington and Mr Cooper had all hopped off by themselves, so that just left Mr and Mrs Johnstone and old Bainbridge. Aw, gee, Bainbridge was letting Libby help him off, fancy that. Not used to boats? She was steady as a rock, ruddy ole hypocrite! Pete fancied he saw a sort of gleam of acknowledgement of this fact in Johnstone’s eye as he nipped off and turned to help his wife, so he couldn’t be as completely stodgy and boring as what he looked, after all. Well, not quite. Nobody needed to help Erin Arvidson off, she’d leapt off the minute they nudged the landing-stage and secured the bow rope, unasked—meantime ruddy Keith was sitting at his ease in the cabin—so that was the lot. Tamsin and Neil had brought Jan, Jayne and the potato salad over in the MerriAndi. –Livia had kindly asked Janet but of course she’d refused, she had to get “the boys” their tea. Added to which going to a barbecue mighta meant ya risked enjoying yourself. Bloody Leanne was supposed to be coming but frankly Pete didn’t give a toss if she never turned up, in fact if he never set eyes on her again.

    A dozen ecolodge guests, plus Pete and Jan, Pete’s daughters and granddaughter and boyfriend, and the Arvidson pair from the loft didn’t constitute a party in Livia’s terms, of course, so there was already a crowd on the lawn in amongst the flaming torches and what-not.

    “Aren’t those things Hawaiian?” he muttered in Libby’s ear.

    “What, Dad?”

    There was plenty of choice, that was for sure. “Them torches ya get down the Garden Centre. Think I’ve seen ’em at Mitre 10, too.”

    “Torches? Oh! Those silly stick things! People have them at barbecues back home, too. Um, yes, I think they are: the word ‘luau’ certainly comes to mind!” said Libby gaily.

    “Ya got me there, lovey. Uh—no, hang on. Would pineapple be in there somewhere?”

    “Definitely!”

    “Uh—whole roast sucking pig?” said Pete cautiously.

    Libby blinked. “Help! She hasn’t got one of those, has she?”

    “Don’t think so. Not from round these here parts she wouldn’t of, not unless she knows a pig farmer. Uh, no: me and Jan were up in Auckland one Labour Weekend—closed the ecolodge for the long weekend, thought we’d give ourselves a treat—and Polly was having one of them luau things.—Think it was.—Jake did a sucking pig on the barbie.”

    “I see! That must’ve been exciting!”

    “Was until it came on to rain, yeah,” he allowed.

    She gulped.

    “They got this giant gas grill in the kitchen, so after Polly had backed off in terror me and Jake finished it on that.”

    “Gotcha!” said Libby with a laugh.

    “Yeah.” Pete took her arm firmly. “Now, most of this lot’ll be pretty bad, lovey—well, not as bad at that lot she had for the last do, she promised she wasn’t gonna ask the Murchisons this time—but pretty bad, so you stick with me, eh?”

    “I’ll be okay, Dad, I know quite a lot of people by this time, and Aidan said he was coming,” she replied cheerfully.

    Yeah. Right. Pete just grasped her arm a bit tighter.

    Jayne wasn’t quite sure why, but Livia’s friend Bettany Throgmorton seemed to have appointed herself in charge of her. Had Livia maybe asked her to look after her? Because she came up and told her gaily she wasn’t allowed to work, this was a night off for her, just when she’d been quite happy helping Tamsin put the potato salad into some of Livia’s beautiful ethnic pottery bowls and set it out on the long table on the stone verandah—it was quite a good pozzie for it, really, relatively cool, though of course the weather was nothing like as warm as Queensland could get and in our terms it was a very mild evening. Then she took her out to the lawn and made her husband, who was very nice but very, very English, it was hard to think of anything to say to him, give her a drink. Jayne didn’t have a clue what to ask a very up-market English retired general for at a very fancy barbecue that she was now realising she should maybe have worn a nicer frock to, so she just asked for what she’d have had back home, which was a Bundy and Coke. They didn’t know what it was, how dreadful! Only then a very nice brown-skinned man, she thought he must be a Maori, he had those typical rather heavy features, though his nose wasn’t flat and his eyes were grey, explained that she meant a rum and Coke and that Aussies always drank Bundaberg rum, and Hugh and Bettany Throgmorton both apologised, help!

    He and Hugh had been talking about Taupo Organic Produce and they went on talking about it and at first Jayne thought it would be interesting, because it was the loveliest place, really beautiful, more like a gorgeous botanic garden than a commercial horticultural enterprise, only it was all schedules and timelines and market forces! Bettany seemed to understand it all, that didn’t help. After a bit she must’ve noticed Jayne was flummoxed because she told them to stop talking shop—so maybe the nice Maori man—Jayne hadn’t caught his name—was in horticulture, too?—and asked him about his children, that was okay, Jayne could follow that, he had teenagers, so it was all nice and cosy, really.

    Andrew hadn’t particularly wanted to go to Livia’s idea of a casual barbecue but there hadn’t been any way to get out of it. Especially as she’d pointed out it was Don and Candy’s last night and she’d like to do something for them. They’d stayed a bit longer than they’d intended: the weather was lovely, the thermal area was fascinating and Don had got hold of some book that gave you the real story of the geology of the place. Added to which Aidan had pointed out to Candy that that dump of their father’s wouldn’t run away, that personally he’d be quite happy to send all its contents off to auction and not query what the auction place got for them, and that none of their siblings would want a thing from the house. In fact Rosemary had emailed him especially to tell him to tell Candy she didn’t want a thing and why not burn the lot?

    Candy was innocently thrilled to have Livia putting on a barbecue for them, Don didn’t mind so long as there’d be some decent steak, which Wal had already assured him there would, Caroline was very keen to go, possibly because she’d twigged how much Wal and Livia were worth and who their friends were, and Aidan just laughed and said it’d be putrid but they couldn’t not go. So they went.

    They came across the lawns to a perfect view of Jayne Dahlenburg laughing and talking with a group of pleasant-looking, well dressed people. Andrew’s heart beat absurdly fast and he tried to tell himself it was stupid: just because she was a pleasant, very pretty woman who’d been nice to him and gone on a couple of drives with him and his friend and her sister, it didn’t mean she was in the least bit interested in him—well, heck, she was smiling at the fat man in the bloody Versace shirt in the exact same way she’d smiled at him!

    “Versace,” said Aidan in his ear at this point. “That’d be Sir Jake Carrano, would it?” he added snidely.

    “No,” replied Andrew sourly. The group shifted slightly as another couple came and joined it and he said sourly: “That’s Sir Jake Carrano, the one that’s holding her arm like he owned her!”

    “Ah—who ‘her’, old man?” replied Aidan with a laugh in his voice.

    Caroline had forged eagerly ahead, looking at the guests with bright-eyed interest; now she dropped back and hissed: “Ooh, is Sir Jake here?”

    “He’s very happily married to a charming woman who’s a lot prettier than you are, and if you must have it, miles brighter as well, so don’t get your hopes up!” snapped Andrew, going very red. It had suddenly come all over him—whether it was the sight of Jayne in a simple white-spotted yellow cotton dress or not, he couldn’t have said—that Caroline Walker was a vulgar, over-made-up, over-dieted, over-dyed predatory hag with no charm whatsoever. And very few manners.

    “Well, really!” she snapped back, tossing her head and turning bright puce under the make-up. “If that’s your attitude, Andrew Barker, you can drop dead!”

    “Good riddance,” drawled Aidan as she hurried away from them—as much as it was possible to hurry on a well-watered lawn in a pair of excruciatingly high-heeled gold sandals. “With any luck that’ll put her right off and she’ll push off home. –Tomorrow.”

    “Well, don’t expect us to give her a lift,” said Don drily.

    “Really, Don!” gasped Candy. “She is our cousin!”

    “She’s out for what she can get, Candy, and always was,” said Aidan with a shrug. “Don’t you remember that damned birthday party of yours—uh, eleventh, I think. Mum was still insisting we had to have the cousins over for birthdays at that stage: it hadn’t dawned that Aunty Belle’s offspring all took after her and Uncle Fred didn’t particularly want any of his kids socialising with anything that Dad had sired. You’d asked the Anderson twins and Caroline grabbed the present they’d brought you because you’d already got one of whatever it was.”

    “Um, yes. It was a bride Barbie,” said Candy on a wistful note. “I could have pretended they were twins, too, and had a double wedding.”

    Don choked.

    “Never mind that, it’s ancient history!” she said quickly. “Of course we’ll give her a lift if she wants to go home tomorrow.”

    “No, darling, I feel strongly that preventing you having a double Barbie wedding has put the kybosh on us offering Caroline anything, now and forever, amen!” said Don with a sudden laugh, taking her arm. “Forget the bitch. Come on, let’s see what Wal’s got cooking, eh?”

    Candy said “Honestly!” but with a laugh, and let him lead her off in the direction of the clouds of smoke billowing up from the barbecues.

    “Perfect marriage,” drawled Aidan. “She’s full of token objections phrased in the usual clichés but lets him get away with anything.”

    “Lucky them,” retorted Andrew with a frown.

    “Come on, introduce to me to Sir Jake!” he panted. “Me social aspirations need pandering to!”

    “Yeah, hah, hah.”

    Aidan shrugged. He looked round the lawn but couldn’t see Libby—or, in fact, their hostess. “Wonder where Livia is?”

    “In the kitchen, having hysterics?” suggested Andrew, scowling at the sight of Sir Jake holding Jayne’s arm.

    “In that case I’d better go to the rescue!” said Aidan with a laugh, strolling away from him.

    Andrew looked after him with annoyance. This catering stuff was absolutely bound to go down the tubes—heck, it was like that summer him and Aidan had gone up the Hokianga when they were about twenty, and Aidan had found this old Maori bloke that knew where to get the best cockles—was it?—well, some sort of shellfish, maybe it was pipis—and hatched this full-blown scheme for gathering them on a limited but commercial basis and sending them down to the big hotels and better restaurants in Auckland, meanwhile he’d settle in a shack along from the old bloke’s shack and write The Grate New Zealand Novel… It had lasted until the end of the holidays and Wal’s postcard saying “Jacobsen won’t settle so it’s going to trial & if you 2 nits want jobs this year get back here pronto or I’ll let 2 girls Pam knows have them.” Words to that effect. The Jacobsen case and some friends of Pam Easterbrook’s had definitely been mentioned. It had pushed all the right buttons: ambition (the bloody Jacobsen case was worth several mill’ and the entire legal Establishment was pissed as Hell that Wal had taken it on), competitiveness, and Aidan’s conviction, which he might have fancied he’d hidden from his boss and co-workers, that women had no place in the law except as servile little secretaries.

    —And when it went down the tubes, who was gonna get hurt? Jayne’s sister, that was who, not ruddy Aidan, you could bet your boots! Andrew looked again at Jayne smiling and talking to his top boss, took a deep breath—he was only middle management, at his level you didn’t walk up to Sir Jake and accost him—and went over there.

    “Hullo, Jayne,” he said hoarsely. “You’re looking very well.”

    Jayne had long since spotted him so she’d had plenty of time to prepare herself. “How are you, Andrew?” she said with a smile.

    “Good, thanks,” he replied lamely, not recognising the phrase as the conventional Australian greeting, which did not require a literal answer. “Good evening, sir.”

    To his horror Sir Jake gave him a very hard look and replied: “Barker, isn’t it? This extended leave of yours made your mind up for you, yet?”

    “Nuh-nossir!” he stuttered, turning puce. “I—I’m just considering my options.”

    “Mm. Well, there’s quite a nice little job in the London office that we need one of our own boys in—keep an eye on the bloody Poms,” he explained baldly. “It’s at your level. No prospects, mind, but you’d probably do okay in it.”

    “Thank you, sir. I’ll—I’ll think about it seriously.”

    “Mind ya do,” he grunted.

    “So are you Andrew’s boss?” asked Jayne nicely, awarding him the smile.

    “Yeah, that’s right,” he said kindly, patting her hand. “Hugh and Bettany think they’re being tactful when they don’t mention me name, see?”

    “So what is it?” replied Jayne, smiling again.

    “Jake Carrano. It’s my company, geddit?”

    Andrew cleared his throat. “I’m only one of Sir Jake’s minions, Jayne.”

    “Middle management,” he said, giving him another hard look. “Good at what he does, mind. –You think about it. Think I’ll give old Wal a hand. Lovely to meet you, Jayne: I’ll see Polly has a word about that picnic idea, eh?”

    “Um, yes, of course,” said Jayne a trifle dazedly, as he beamed at her, patted her hand again and went off towards the smoking barbecues. “Goodness, so he owns the company, Andrew?” she said nicely.

    “He may not come on like a tycoon, but yes,” replied Andrew somewhat grimly. Sir Jake might be seventyish but he wasn’t immune, the whole Group knew that, and devoted to his wife or not, the bloody man had had a hard-on, he’d take his dying oath! Jayne did look quite a lot like Lady Carrano: a similar oval face, lovely figure and kind smile—but Jesus!

    “He seemed quite ordinary: we were talking about his kids.”

    “Yes. Well, I don’t move in his circles, but um, yeah, everyone knows he’s a real family man. Along with the rest,” he added sourly.

    Jayne was looking after Jake with a smile. “He must be the Jake that Dad knows. –Um, what rest?”

    “The man’s a ruddy billionaire, Jayne,” said Andrew heavily.

    “Then I’d say he must be nicer than the usual billionaire!” retorted Jayne with some spirit.

    “That’s the usual conclusion the ladies draw,” agreed Andrew sourly. She gave him a surprised look and he reddened. “Sorry. Well, he is a married man, and he did seem to be monopolising you…” His voice ran down.

    “We were talking about his kids,” she repeated. “Their little girl sounds as determined as Tamsin.”

    “Mm. Um, she here tonight?” he said with an effort.

    “Yes, she came with Neil Kenny, but I don’t know that the poor things are going to enjoy it; there don’t seem to be any other young people here, do there?” she said in a lowered voice.

    “Uh—no. Well, from all we’ve heard, Wal and Livia don’t go in for that sort of party.”

    “Um, no,” said Jayne uncertainly, wondering what was the matter with him. Well, perhaps him and that awful cousin of Aidan’s had had a tiff, it had certainly looked like it from where she was standing.

    “Fancy a drink?” said Andrew with an effort.

    “Um, I’ve already had one Bundy and Coke but I suppose another won’t hurt: thanks,” she said with that smile again. Was she even seeing him as a person?

    “What and Coke?” he said on a cross note.

    Jayne went very red. “Sorry! Bundy—Bundaberg rum; I thought a New Zealander’d know! Um, but it wasn’t, it was some other sort of rum, but I can’t remember what Hugh said!” she gasped.

    Jesus, which one was Hugh? How many of them had been fawning on her, offering her grog and picnics and God knew what? “Probably Bacardi and Coke, seems to be the usual mixture here, if you fancy your rum all mucked up with Coke. I’d’ve said it was more a drink of Jan’s and Livia’s generation, actually.”

    “Um, everyone drinks it back home,” said Jayne lamely.

    It was now Andrew’s turn to redden. “I’m sorry, Jayne,” he said hoarsely. “I’m just in a bad mood—forget it. Of course you must have whatever you like! But if you fancy rum, I’m almost sure Livia’s got some far more exotic mixture: she and Aidan were on the phone the other day for ages consulting about the drinks.”

    “I see,” said Jayne kindly. Possibly he was just a bit shy, and disconcerted at finding his top boss at a barbecue with his neighbours. After all, if Wal was well off he certainly didn’t own a whole company and he certainly wasn’t a Sir! “Well, shall we go and see?”

    Gratefully Andrew took her arm and led her off to the bar.

    Livia was discovered in the kitchen but she wasn’t in floods of tears. She was, however, just about to ruin some refried beans, so Aidan took over from her.

    “The recipe doesn’t say to add grated cheese, Aidan,” she said doubtfully.

    “You can’t stand the heat, so just shut up—or get out of the kitchen, Livia!” he replied with a laugh. “What in God’s name inspired you to start these, anyway? Wal’s got masses of food out there!”

    “It’s all meat, though, darling. I thought a vegetarian choice might be a good idea.”

    Er—yes. Well, people who came to a barbecue must presumably expect meat, but okay, nice thought. He finished the beans competently, tipped them into a terrifically ethnic bowl with small pre-Columbian figures perched on its rim, reminded Livia to remove the apron, getting the expected shriek in reply, and took it out. He set it on the table with the salads, and turned. His jaw dropped.

    “Livia, who the Hell is that woman talking to Libby?”

    “Mm? Oh, well, I don’t know her, really, darling, but of course Wal’s known her for years and years, and she doesn’t know anyone down here, so he said we’d better invite her, introduce her to some people. She’s taken the Fanshaws’ house for the summer: they’ve gone to Club Med Noumea this year. Pam Something, Wal said.”

    “Pam Easterbrook?” said Aidan in a shaken voice.

    “Yes, that’s it, darling. Do you know her? Wallace did say something about clerking for him, but there’ve been so many names over the years, and he always seems to think I remember them all as well as he does, bless him!”

    “Uh—yeah,” he said with an effort, staring. Jesus, you could have taken the two of them for twins: she was far, far more like Libby than her own sister was! “Yes, Andrew and Pam and I were all clerking for him… Come to think of it, he wouldn’t still have had that rabbit hutch of an office in that broken-down old building up the back of High Street by the time you met him.”

    “No, that’s right, Aidan, dear,” agreed Livia, looking from his stunned face to the two chatting women with tremendous interest. “It was something very smooth and shiny with horrid grey leather settees in the waiting-room! The old rooms sound like Rumpole of the Bailey, I must admit!”

    “Uh—nothing like ’em. Those were respectable chambers. This was a dump. Though the general atmosphere was bloody like Rumpole himself, come to think of it: scruffy, down-at-heel and impossibly—” Aidan broke off: he’d been about to say “plebeian”: shit!

    “Mm?”

    “Down-market, Livia,” he said lamely.

    “I see. And was Pam the lovely girl who used to make the bean soup for lunch in the winter for all the skinny, underfed boys?” she asked with interest.

    “Uh—not as far as I recall, no. Far more interested in the law than cookery.”

    “I see. Well, come along, Aidan, you must say Hullo!”

    Aidan let her drag him over there.

    “There you are,” said Libby with a smile.

    “Yes, been helping Livia with her frijoles refritos.”

    “Ooh, yum: did you do your trick of putting cheese in them?”

    “Uh-huh: suitable for side dish or dip,” said Aidan feebly. Jesus, it ruddy well was Pam! The spots and specs had gone. So had some of the weight: her figure was now very like Libby’s. Very. “How are you, Pam?” he offered feebly.

    “Hullo, Aidan: still into the cuisine thing?” replied Pam on a dry note.

    “Darling, even more so!” trilled Livia. “You must try the beans: delish!”

    “Oh, is that what they are?” said Pam even more drily.

    “Yes; sorry, Pam,” said Libby. “I didn’t know either until he explained it all to me the other day.”

    Pam gave Aidan a mocking look. “I’m sure he did. How’s old Gordy Sieff these days?”

    “In the pink, thanks, thoroughly enjoying his retirement and the great-grandchildren,” responded Aidan automatically. She was wearing a red scoop-necked cotton-knit top that was the exact same style as that navy one that Libby owned: short sleeves that veiled the top of the arms but let you see that the rest of ’em was quite plump, not to say squidgy—Aidan swallowed in spite of himself—and a flared black cotton skirt edged with red sequins that was very similar to that lovely blue one of Libby’s, if a cheaper version. The abundant thick, curly brown hair which she’d always worn up in an untidy bundle for the office was plaited for about six inches and then just rioting madly, and there was a big red rose tucked behind one ear and she looked fabulous. Really good tan: that helped, the complexion he remembered had always been rather sallow. As well as rather spotty.

    “Don’t the pair of you look lovely together!” trilled Livia. “Almost twins, one would say, Aidan, don’t you think?”

    “Uh—yes. Same type,” said Aidan feebly. Libby wasn’t in the blue outfit, thank God, that would have made it ten times more apparent they were the same type, but looking equally doable in a little sleeveless white broderie Anglaise blouse, well darted under the bust, congratulations to the blouse designers of the 21st century, nipped in at the waist and finishing in a tiny skirt effect which, as the bottom button wasn’t positioned quite right—or possibly was—allowed you to see a tiny piece of Libby above the waistband of the skirt. This was taxonomically of the same family as Pam’s, and probably about as cheap, he’d seen lots of girls getting round Sydney in them earlier this summer: very lightweight cotton, perhaps a cheesecloth, and cut in graduated gathered layers, ending with quite a full layer about four inches above the ankles. This one was in shades of yellow shading out to flame but he’d seen them in a great variety of colours, most of them not as attractive as this, by any means. “Love the skirt, Libby, darling.”

    “Thanks. Tamsin chose it. She and Jayne really like yellow.”

    “Darling, it suits you!” cried Livia. “And those lovely earrings are just right with it!”

    Libby tried to smile. “Thanks, Livia.” They were the huge brass hoops with the assortment of small orange beads hanging off them. “Tamsin said they’d be just right for a Mexican evening.”

    “Ditto my daughter and this lot,” said Pam drily.

    “Really?” replied Libby with a laugh. “Tamsin isn’t my daughter, actually, she’s my niece, but she bosses me around anyway!”

    Aidan sincerely doubted that anything under God’s good sky could boss Pam Easterbrook. He gave her a very dry look. “How old is she, Pam?”

    “Twenty. Time flies, eh?”

    Something like that, yeah. “At uni, is she?”

    “Varsity; you’re on the wrong side of the Tasman, Aidan.”

    To his annoyance not only Livia but also Libby collapsed in giggles at this crack.

    “Hah, hah,” said Aidan weakly. “Doing law?”

    “No, Aidan, we didn’t want to risk founding another legal dynasty: we felt that the country had enough of those, somehow, and we’d leave a bit of space for new blood.”

    “That’s very naughty, Pam,” said Livia severely. “Though one does admit you have a point: none of those stuffy downtown old-established firms would look at darling Wal when he was trying to get started!”

    “No, exactly, Livia,” agreed Pam, eyeing Aidan mockingly.

    “Though poor darling Aidan is not responsible for his frightful forebears, one must remember!” she carolled. “Darlings, do excuse me, I can see poor Polly being victimised by Jack Elphinstone: a rescue sortie is in order!” With this she tottered away on the immensely high-heeled wedgies.

    “That’d be Polly Carrano, one presumes,” noted Aidan drily. “Shunned by the legal establishment or not, you can’t say Wal hasn’t made good.”

    “Balls, Aidan: he’s known Jake Carrano all their lives, and you know it!” retorted Pam on a distinctly narked note.

    “Yeah, Dad was telling me they grew up in the same orphanage,” put in Libby.

    Aidan shrugged. “Forgive me for not recalling every skerrick of gossip from twenty-odd years back. So what is your daughter doing, Pam?”

    “Sociology and psychology, mainly. Wants to be a social worker. I have warned her she’ll end up in a soul-destroying government department toeing the official line while she removes fatherless kids from South Auckland from their teenage mothers’ care, but I’m just her old mum, I don’t know beans about it. –Not even refried beans,” she added pointedly.

    Libby collapsed in splutters.

    “Touché,” said Aidan on an annoyed noted. “Well, it does her credit, nevertheless, Pam. Wish my girls wanted to do anything half as worthwhile. Fenella’s twenty-two: married to a young unfortunate from the firm and settled down to the acquisition of domestic consumables after a mediocre B.A. in such varied subjects as TV Journalism and Environmental Studies.”

    “Wouldn’t Environmental Studies be a discipline, or at least a group of subjects?” replied Pam calmly.

    “Very possibly. This was Environmental Studies 101,” returned Aidan smoothly.

    “Ignore that, Pam, it’s one of his favourite lines!” said Libby with a smile. “Most of the kids do a real mishmash these days, Tamsin’s just as bad.”

    “Not as bad as my younger girl, though: she’s the same age as your daughter, Pam. Advanced fabric art,” said Aidan smoothly. “Now tell me you aren’t thanking God standing your kid’s chosen social work!”

    Pam gave in and smiled. “Not quite. But no-one in our family’s ever been artistic.”

    “Aprylle isn’t, either.”

    “Honestly, Aidan!” protested Libby. “She must be, to want to do it!”

    “Well, possibly the impulse is there, if not the talent,” he said with a sigh, taking her arm. “So have you just got the one, Pam?’

    “No; David’s twenty-six.”

    Aidan blinked. The boy must’ve been born in 1980, at that rate, and they’d both still been clerking for Wal in 1979, the year they and Andrew finished their degrees, and there hadn’t seemed to be any sign of a boyfriend on the horizon. Oh, well, there must have been: he hadn’t taken that much notice. Probably already taken up with Whatsisface Jones. Annoyingly, he couldn’t remember his real name: he couldn’t call him “Tom” in front of the bloody woman!

    “Right; so you and good old Jones got married the year after graduation, eh?” he said easily.

    “No, five years later. He’s David Easterbrook, not David Jones.”

    Shit. “I see,” he said easily. “So what’s he doing, Pam?”

    “Lecturing at the Tech. Food technology.” She shrugged slightly. “Don’t look at me: all his own idea. He started off doing a perfectly ordinary B.Sc., got all enthused about cooking when he took up with a girl whose parents ran a vegetarian restaurant in Devonport—downtown Devonport’s gone up-market since your day,” she added drily—“and decided to combine both interests for his Ph.D.”

    “I see,” said Aidan nicely. “That sounds interesting.”

    “Yes, doesn’t it?” said Libby eagerly. “Maybe you could do a course like that, Aidan! It’d teach you all about the more industrial side of catering: it’d be a good foundation for you!”

    Pam was looking stunned. Aidan cleared his throat. “Well, cooking for Livia’s mates is fun, Libby, but I dunno that I’d want to get that technological.”

    “Cooking for Livia’s mates?” echoed Pam faintly.

    Aidan smiled feebly. “Been doing a bit of it over the Christmas holidays, yeah. Just for fun, really. Well, had a gutsful of the law.”

    “He’s being modest! He’s doing really well: he’s got loads of clients!” said Libby eagerly.

    Pam swallowed. “Don’t tell me you’re Mona Livingstone’s wonderful Aidan, the chef from Sydney!”

    “The Aidan and the Sydney bits are correct, yeah,” he drawled.

    “Of course he is, Pam!” said Libby eagerly. “Were you at that dinner? We had two that night, and the other one was much bigger, so we just got everything ready for her, and rushed over to do the other one!”

    “I see,” she said feebly. “You always were into cuisine, of course. I still remember that wonderful meal you laid on for the whole office for Wal’s birthday one year.”

    “A very basic coq au vin, as I recall it,” said Aidan with a slight shrug.

    “Ooh, from your Greedy Cook book?” asked Libby.

    “Mm. Extremely easy. French cooking for the English.”

    “We thought it was the height of cuisine, back then,” admitted Pam, smiling at Libby. “He did avocados with shrimp in them for starters; I’d never even had avocado before. Our family was the meat and three veg sort.”

    “Yes, Mum’s like that, too!” said Libby with a laugh. “Only living in Queensland, it’s quite hard to ignore stuff like avocados!”

    “Yes, of course. You can’t avoid them here these days, either; the avocado industry really took off, um, when would it have been? Not so long after that dinner, I suppose: avocado orcharding was just about the most popular investment opportunity of the late Seventies and early Eighties, until there was such a glut on the market that people like my G.P. stopped using them as an investment and started using them as a tax loss! God, that man was an up-himself prick! –I had him for David,” she explained. “Smooth as silk in his thousand-dollar suits, waiting-room full of pregnant mums from the less affluent parts of Sandringham, Mt Roskill and so on, and used to spend half your appointment telling you about his ruddy investment decisions! Most of us didn’t even know what the expression ‘investment’ meant, let alone getting it when he blahed on about tax losses!”

    “Pam, you were never ‘most of us’ in your life,” drawled Aidan.

    “Balls. You weren’t, certainly, with that bloody sports car you used to drive! –He graciously gave me a lift home in it one day after work when it was raining cats and dogs, Libby,” she explained with a twinkle in her eye. “With the top up, of course! I’ve never been so terrified in my life, before or since: going down Dominion Road wedged in between huge buses and giant lorries in a thing only a foot off the ground!”

    Aidan couldn’t recall the occasion for the life of him. “Graphic,” he drawled. “Though as Libby won’t have a clue about the nuances the phrase ‘Dominion Road’ is supposed to conjure up, you could have spared yourself the trouble, Pam.”

    “It wasn’t supposed to conjure up anything: I was merely telling it like it was.”

    “Yes, I’ve always thought those sports car things must be terrifying,” agreed Libby. “He drives awfully fast, too: did he back then?”

    Pam shuddered. “Yeah. Does he still tell you you’re a wimp when you shut your eyes as he shoots past an enormous truck at ten K over the speed limit?”

    “Not a wimp, a fraidy-cat!” squeaked Libby, collapsing in helpless giggles.

    Pam looked at the foolish expression on Aidan’s face and smiled slowly. “I see: you’ve learnt to temper the expression but not the sentiment, then, Aidan.”

    She always had been bloody maddening, of course: that was something else he seemed to have forgotten in the intervening twenty-odd years. “Guilty, Your Honour.”

    If he’d expected this to have some sort of effect it failed signally. Pam looked completely neutral and Libby blew her nose and said: “Yes, she’s a judge, she was telling me! Isn’t it great to see a woman really making it in a profession like the law, at last?”

    Pam’s expression had now changed from neutral to distinctly sardonic so Aidan said very, very nicely: “Yes, it’s wonderful. Congratulations, Pam. –Somebody got you a drink, did they? Good show. Excuse us, won’t you, I’m parched, been slaving over those hot beans for Livia. –Come on, Libby, darling, show me where the drinks are.” And towed her very firmly away.

    “Darling, why Pam Bloody Easterbrook? She must be the dullest character here!” he said with a light laugh.

    “I thought she was very interesting; I really liked her,” replied Libby numbly.

    “Interesting? She’s done well for herself, I’ll say that for her,” said Aidan in a bored voice. “Come on, I feel that something extremely exotic with pineapple juice in it’s called for.”

    Limply Libby accompanied him. Pam seemed really nice, Aidan knew her from way back, and they had the law in common: she’d really thought he’d have wanted to stay and chat.

    Deserted on Livia’s lush lawn, Her Honour looked after the pair of them with a very odd expression on her face. After quite some time she shrugged and drained her glass. “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,” she concluded.

    As usual with barbecues on people’s lawns, there was a marked lack of seating, but Livia had done her best with chairs on the verandah as well as its own swing seat, and a few more seats dotted around on the grass as well as the patio furniture that presumably belonged out there, so after Wal and Jayne’s father had piled their plates with food that Andrew didn’t really want, he managed to lead her to a sort of wooden settle thing in the lee of a large tree fern. They had time for about two bites before two middle-aged couples came up and invited themselves to join them. Okay, the Bainbridges and the Johnstones who were staying at the ecolodge: big deal. Resignedly Andrew got up and let the two women squeeze onto the settle thing next to Jayne. Old Johnstone had a couple of folding chairs, so that took care of him and Bainbridge, who must be seventy, leaving him, Andrew, out in the cold. Glumly he sat down on the grass with his plate. Mrs Bainbridge, explaining that they’d been at the ecolodge longer than the Johnstones (who cared?), then told him at length how good Jayne was, helping with the waitressing and the cooking at the ecolodge and how she wasn’t getting enough fun.

    “I don’t mind helping!” said Jayne with a flustered laugh. “It is Dad’s business, after all!”

    “She’s too good,” Mrs Bainbridge informed them. “You’re supposed to be on holiday, Jayne, dear.”

    “It’s not like real work. Um, if I was at home I suppose I’d be cooking and serving meals, anyway,” said Jayne feebly.

    “Naughty girl! This is your holiday!” Mrs Bainbridge reproved her.

    “Exactly, dear,” agreed Mrs Johnstone. “What you ought to do is hire a car and see something of the thermal area, Jayne.”

    “I don’t really like driving. Anyway, we have, haven’t we, Andrew?” said Jayne feebly. “We had a lovely couple of trips.”

    Andrew was going to say yes, but they could go again, when Mrs Johnstone burst out with a full-blown scheme for taking Jayne with them when they went over to see the Blue and Green Lakes. They thought they’d take it easy and have a picnic: of course the minibus trip had been lovely, but just a bit rushed. Mrs Cunninghame and Mrs Albright were coming and there’d be just room for Jayne! Mr Johnstone explained that the car was a five-seater, plenty of room in the back seat.

    “It’s very kind of you, but I did promise Jan I’d be on deck for her while it’s their busy season,” said Jayne feebly.

    Mrs Johnstone immediately decided she’d speak to Jan: they had tentatively thought of Tuesday but they could go any day. Mr Johnstone then explained that that was the advantage of being retired, old Bainbridge weighed in on his side…

    Aidan had finally managed to get away from Libby’s bloody father and guide her over to the relative privacy of the landing stage, where they could sit down. He set his plate down and sighed.

    “Um, Dad’s given you mounds: don’t feel you have to eat it all, Aidan,” said Libby on a weak note, looking at his piled plate.

    “Yeah. I mean, I won’t. Why does Pete imagine I’m interested in fly fishing?”

    Libby didn’t think he did. She had begun to suspect, however, as Dad bored on and on and on, that he was deliberately trying to stop her from going off with Aidan. “Um, I dunno. Um, tying flies is one of his hobbies: Jan says he does it in winter when they’re not busy.”

    “I think I might have deduced that,” said Aidan heavily. He poked at the piles of protein on his plate. “Did I mention I hate barbies?”

    “Um, no, but you didn’t need to, really,” said Libby in a small voice. “Why did you come?”

    “Didn’t want to be rude to Livia,” said Aidan with a sigh. “Think she’d notice if we snuck off?”

    Libby swallowed. “Um, yes, I think she would, actually, ’cos she’s that sort of person.”

    “Yeah. –Did you manage to get a steak knife?”

    “Yes: here.”

    Aidan accepted her knife and cut up the giant T-bone steak Pete had forced on him. He looked without enthusiasm at the pieces of rock lobster on his plate. “Where did this crayfish come from, do you know?”

    “Dad said that their friend Jake was gonna bring some down from Auckland. He brought the shellfish, too.”

    Jake Carrano? In that case there might be some chance of the stuff not poisoning them. The inspired barbecue chef—whether it had been Wal or Pete, God knew, but either of them’d be capable of it—had just hacked the crayfish into chunks. Aidan had got the end of a tail and a piece of the middle that one normally wouldn’t serve guests. Deliberate on Pete’s part, he rather thought. With some difficulty he managed to hack the shell off these chunks.

    “Um, do you like it?” asked Libby as he tasted the piece of tail.

    “Mm? Mm. Very fresh. Go on, darling, try some!” He handed her back the knife.

    “I don’t really like seafood. Would you like this? And these funny little shellfish, I dunno what they are.”

    Aidan accepted her large piece of meaty crayfish tail and her helping of pipis, carefully chucking the ones that hadn’t opened into the drink. “Pipis. I’m bloody sure you still can’t buy them: Carrano must know someone who knows a pipi beach. Sure you won’t try one?”

    “No, I really don’t like any sort of seafood much, thanks.”

    Her bad luck. Aidan ate deliciously fresh grilled pipis and crayfish, tried the steak and found it was well aged, tender and not overcooked, and gave a deep sigh of which he was unconscious.

    “Better?” said Libby at last.

    “Ever so! I was hungry!” he admitted with a laugh. “This is very nice potato salad!”

    “Yes: Jan made it. I dunno what she puts into it: it’s the nicest potato salad I’ve ever had.”

    Aidan would have taken a very large bet that what she put into it was a mixture of Heinz Salad Cream and sour cream. Plus the tiny pieces of well-drained sweet gherkins, not too acid—God knew where she got them from, they couldn’t be an Australian brand, that was for sure—and a scattering of capers. Plus just enough freshly ground black pepper. “Yes, me, too!” he agreed happily.

    Their piles of protein were diminishing—given that few human beings could have got themselves round the sausages he’d tried to stop Pete giving them as well as the steak and seafood—and Aidan was about to suggest that after this they could just grab a little fruit salad and another drink, thank Livia very nicely, and ooze off, when a scrawny-looking woman with a kangaroo pouch slung across her thin middle over a pair of the most uninteresting khaki slacks he’d ever seen on a female form came up to them and said: “There you are, Libby. Have you seen Keith anywhere?”’

    “Um, I think he was helping Wal and Dad earlier, Erin.”

    “Yes, but he seems to have disappeared while I was putting out a few more chairs. –Mr and Mrs Briggs don’t seem to have realised that most of the ecolodge customers are middle-aged,” she explained briskly.

    Aidan looked at her limply. The creature was middle-aged herself!

    “That was nice of you, Erin. Why don’t you sit down with us?” said Libby kindly before he could strangle her.

    “Thanks,” she said, sitting down immediately. “I don’t think we’ve met, have we? I’m Erin Arvidson,” she said briskly to Aidan.

    “Aidan Vine,” he managed to croak.

    “Of course, yes: the caterer!” she said briskly.

    Aidan’s jaw dropped. Had his fame gone all round the district, then?

    Not noticing he was gob-smacked, Erin proceeded to tell him a lot about the choice gourmet B&Bs she and Keith had stayed at all over Australia in the course of their backpacking expeditions…

    Bloody Leanne had appeared from nowhere and kidnapped flaming Keith Arvidson while he was helping with the barbecues before Pete could think of how to stop her. Where they’d gone was anyone’s guess: they certainly weren’t in sight by the time the feeding frenzy was over and Wal opened the last chillybin and produced the last really decent piece of meat and the last cray and him and the two of them and Jake Carrano, who’d joined them to make sure they were doing it properly some time since, could serve themselves.

    “Did you see where that bloody Leanne pushed off to with ruddy Arvidson?” he said sourly to Wal.

    “Eh?”

    “Never mind.”

    “This a dame in a screaming tropical print and the smallest bikini bra that ever fell within the legal definition?” asked Jake.

    “Yeah.”

    “Went behind them bushes over on Wal’s northern boundary some time since. That is, if Arvidson is the type in the safari suit.”

    “Yes!”

    “Don’t think they were looking for dinner,” added Jake insouciantly.

    Pete gave New Zealand’s wealthiest businessman a filthy look.

    “What’s it to ya, anyway?” asked Jake cheerfully.

    “Nothing, except that as the cow’s Jan’s cousin’s daughter we’re more or less responsible for wishing her on Taupo, and the bloke’s married to quite a decent little dame that works like a slave for him and hasn’t got a clue what he gets up to, and they’re our flaming guests!”

    “Very clear, Pete; ta for that,” replied Jake drily.

    “Why’n’tcha shtop ’em, Pete?” asked Wal indistinctly through a mouthful of steak.

    “Because I couldn’t ruddy well figure out how to!” he snarled.

    “Coulda said ‘Hang on, Whatsyername, give us a hand with this here barbie.’”

    “Oh, shut up!”

    Shrugging, Wal shut up and ate steak.

    “This cray’sh nobbad,” noted Jake after a period had passed in eating.

    “Yeah,” agreed Wal. “If you’re worried about Libby, Pete—”

    “I’m not!” he snarled.

    “She’s down on the landing-stage with Aidan.” He paused. “They were talking to Pam Easterbrook, a bit back.”

    Pete shrugged.

    “And?” said Jake.

    “Well, couldn’t tell whether Aidan remembered her or not, but Livia’ll know, she was with him at first. But from what I could see he was as about as impressed as he was back then.”

    Jake ate a pipi. “Ya could take that two ways, Wal.”

    “Eh? Yeah. Well, not impressed, was the conclusion most of the office came to.”

    Jake ate another pipi and tossed the shell on the coals. “And?”

    “Um, well, nothing, really,” he said with an assumption of ease.

    “Balls. Spit it out.”

    “Uh—well, I didn’t track their goings-on that closely, but I do know that when their final results came out Aidan and Andrew had a huge student party at their flat, all their year invited, obligatory to get pissed out of ya brain. And coincidentally, or so reasonably reliable report had it—”

    “Ya not in court now, just spit it out,” he said heavily.

    “Yeah, or shut up,” put in Pete glumly.

    “Go down the landing stage, Pete,” said Wal clearly. “Take a bottle if ya need an excuse.”

    “All right, I will!” He grabbed a bottle and pushed off.

    “Well?” said Jake.

    “I wish you’d stop throwing those pipi shells on the barbecue: I was gonna let the flames die down!” he said irritably.

    “I’m not stopping ya.” Jake ate another pipi and threw the shell on the coals. “Go on.”

    “Uh—yeah.” He eyed him sideways. “This is actionable,” he warned.

    “I’ll bear that in mind while I tell the story all over the fucking golf club, Wal.”

    “Yeah. Sorry. This party just happened to occur a couple of days after the judge’s daughter Aidan had been doing for the past six months or so dumped him for a junior partner in one of the downtown firms with a sports car that was just as nice as his. Anyway, next day, Sunday, Pam’s brother rang me in a flap wanting to know where she was because their dad had just had a stroke and there was no answer at her flat. I assumed she’d passed out at the party and rang there, but the phone was off the hook. So I went round there. Uh—well, you weren’t a varsity student, so ya might not know, but it’s pretty much open house at these does. Literally, I mean: the beer starts flowing and ya leave the front door open for ya mates that arrive late and drunk with more beer, geddit?”

    “What about gate-crashers?”

    “No such thing. So as the door was open, I went in.” He winced in spite of himself.

    “Bodies all over the show, were there?”

    “Something like that. Couple of blokes passed out on the sitting-room floor, a girl passed out on the couch, another girl passed out in the bath—on some coats, she wasn’t in danger of drowning—Andrew and one of our secretaries passed out in his room and Pam and Aidan passed out in his. In the bed. Together,” he clarified.

    “Right.”

    “I couldn’t manage to wake him up properly: judging by the artefacts on the bedside table he’d been smoking pot on top of the grog; but Pam wasn’t so bad, and after we’d hauled the girl out of the bath she had a shower and I drove her to the hospital. The dad wasn’t too bad, thank God.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    Wal sighed. “She and Aidan topped their year jointly, so she could pretty much take her pick of the downtown firms, and after that I kind of lost track. But to cut a long story short, this was twenty-seven years ago last month and she’s got a son who had his twenty-sixth birthday four months back.”

    Jake had been expecting something like this: nevertheless he swallowed.

    “Aidan turned up for work on the Monday, but apparently didn’t remember a thing about it. And since I didn’t have second sight and Pam was treating him with the usual ignore, I just let sleeping dogs lie.”

    Jake cut to the chase. “Have you met the kid?”

    “Mm. Livia and I had dinner at The Royal the very night Pam was shouting him a birthday dinner there.”

    “Why?” he asked blandly.

    “Because not all of us are bloody gourmets used to eating at Maxim’s, or, contrariwise, used to eating pipis off the shell: will ya stop throwing them shells on the coals!” he shouted.

    “It’s me ethnic roots coming out. But if you insist. Dead ringer for Vine, is ’e?”

    Wal shuddered. “Yeah. Not smooth, mind you—very nice lad, actually, she can be proud of him.”

    “Mm. Well, dunno if that was just an unburdening of yer conscience or if ya want my advice,” he said drily, “but in case ya do, it’d be to go on letting sleeping dogs lie.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Have a pipi,” he said kindly.

    Sighing, Wal took a pipi, ate the flesh and threw the shell on the coals.

    Aidan got back to the McLintock house at a relatively early hour to find Andrew slumped on the couch in front of the TV. “What are you doing home? Thought you’d managed to get off with Jayne?”

    “No,” he said sourly. “She let us get absorbed into a group of bloody retirees and before I could winkle her out of it another one came up and said her bloody father was taking off with the launch, and they all pushed off in a bunch.”

    Aidan threw himself into a large armchair. “Right.”

    “So what’s your story?” said Andrew sourly. “Thought you’d be with Libby.”

    “Her bloody father came and foisted himself on us, and after he’d waved to about six thousand bloody retirees and they’d joined us, he suggested she might like to take them on the lake in the launch, so as she seemed keen I left her to it.”

    “Right. So where’ve you been since?”

    “Let me see,” said Aidan sweetly. “Had a nice chat about the logistics of organic produce supply with Hugh and Bettany Throgmorton. Had a nice chat about the price of launches these days with the fat fellow in the Versace shirt. Diverged onto the subject of negative gearing and got cut down to size by bloody Pam Easterbrook. Gave it away and came home.”

    “Oh. I did see Pam, yes. Didn’t manage to speak to her, I was surrounded by bloody retirees,” said Andrew dully.

    “You didn’t miss anything, she hasn’t changed. Well, looks better than she did as a student, but not otherwise. Thank God I’ll never have to appear before her.”

    “Eh? Oh, in court! You mean she’s still capable of cutting you down to size. I thought she looked very nice, actually.”

    “Have her,” said Aidan with a shrug. “Though I should warn you, after five minutes in her company it becomes glaringly apparent why bloody Tom Jones divorced her.” He got up. “I’m going to bed, since there’s nothing else on offer.”

    “Have Caroline,” said Andrew sourly.

    “No, the chap in the Versace shirt’s got her.”

    “Good,” said Andrew frankly.

    Aidan sniffed. “Big mistake to do females you don’t really want, thought you were old enough to know that? –’Night.”

    “Drop dead,” replied Andrew sourly.

    Shrugging, Aidan wandered out.

    Andrew scowled at the TV set, not seeing it. “Bugger,” he concluded.

    Susan Jones had waited up for her mother. “How did it go, Mum?” she asked eagerly.

    Pam shrugged. “About as dire as I predicted, Susan, since life isn’t a Mills & Boon.”

    Susan had never read a Mills & Boon in her life. She reddened. “I never said it was!”

    “Uh—no. Sorry, dear. Well, Livia means well, I suppose. And she is genuinely fond of Wal. I suppose there were one or two quite interesting people there. The couple who run that permaculture place are very nice.”

    “Couple,” said Susan sadly.

    “Stop trying to match-make,” said her mother heavily. “I don’t want another dose of matrimony: I’ve more than paid my dues to the fragile male ego.”

    “There must be some men around who wouldn’t be jealous because you’ve got a better job than them!”

    “Yeah: they’re all sitting on the Supreme Court benches, but funnily enough I don’t fancy them, either,” replied Pam on a snide note.

    Susan shuddered. “Ugh, no: horrid old men! But it doesn’t have to be a lawyer!”

    “Good, because I’d walk barefoot to the moon over hot coals rather than marry another lawyer. Can we drop the subject?”

    “All right,” said Susan sadly.

    “Or I could tell you all about the divorcé with the Versace shirt who told me that it was a Versace shirt and how much it set him back, and how much his launch set him back and—”

    “No!” she cried crossly.

    “No,” concluded Pam drily. “Forget it. I’ve had my day. I’ve got you and David and a really interesting job, that’s more than enough!”

    Susan tried to smile but didn’t succeed. Nor did she succeed in looking convinced.

    “You’ll learn, dear,” croaked Pam in the voice of an ancient crone.

    “Hah, hah,” said Susan weakly.

    Smiling a little, Pam kissed her goodnight and went to bed, reflecting somewhat wryly that another thing it was pointless to tell the young was that it was no use crying over spilt milk.

    Pete having dropped his daughters off firmly at the Turpin landing stage after a nice little cruise with the launchful of retirees, they went obediently into their A-frame.

    “I saw you sitting with Andrew,” said Libby with a smile.

    “Yes, we had a nice time,” replied Jayne placidly.

    “Um, he didn’t, um, well, make a move or anything, then?”

    “Not at a barbie with all the ecolodge guests there, Libby, no: of course not.”

    “No. Um, didn’t ask you out?”

    “Well, no, because the Johnstones did,” admitted Jayne feebly. “They thought I might like to see the Blue and Green Lakes with them and the two American ladies.”

    “Rather than with Andrew?” she croaked.

    “Don’t be silly, Libby. He could hardly say ‘Don’t go with them, come with me instead;’ it would have been very rude.”

    Libby looked at her doubtfully. Surely he could have said something!

    “I’m not really thinking about him,” said Jayne on a firm note. “It would be nice if he asked me out, I suppose, but it’d be very silly to pin my hopes on it, wouldn’t it?”

    Libby was almost sure this was a lie. She looked dubious.

    “Never mind me; what about you?” said Jayne briskly. “I thought you might spend the night with Aidan.”

    Libby had thought so, too. “Um, so did I. He didn’t want to come on Dad’s cruise… Um, actually, he wasn’t in a very good mood. At first I thought it was just because he was hungry, but looking back… We met a very nice lady that he used to know back when he worked for Wal. She’s a judge, now.”

    “Really? A lady judge!” she smiled.

    “Mm.”

    “Ooh, heck, Libby, he didn’t drop you for her, did he?” she gasped.

    “No! I don’t think she’d have him if you were giving him away with a bar of soap!” said Libby with a sudden laugh. “Boy, did she put him down! He asked if her daughter was at uni and she said it was varsity and he was on the wrong side of the Tasman! Um, no: she’d heard about his catering, only she hadn’t realized it was him, if you see what I mean.”

    Jayne saw very clearly what she meant. She looked at her in dismay.

    “Everybody warned me it’d wear off once his real life impinged, and I guess it’s started to. Oh, well. I’m not even keen on cooking; I just liked contributing,” said Libby, making a face.

    Jayne tried to smile. “Of course. It’s been something different for you.”

    Yeah: the catering and dishy Aidan Vine both. “Fancy a cup of Milo?”

    Jayne did, actually: it was a consoling sort of drink, wasn’t it? So they had some Milo and went to bed looking determinedly cheerful.

Next chapter:

https://summerseason-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/09/just-another-ecolodge-morning.html