Short Story
Words: Josie Dale
The red leather boots, on their six inch stilettos, look expensive. One slender toe turns slightly outwards, as if poised to flee its inverted image in the gleaming timber below.
Colin and I had recently returned home to Auckland after ten years working in London. It had been years since I’d spoken to Jody, but I recognised her voice instantly. I’d idolised her at College. Jody was cool, excelled at sport, and was always near the top of the class. She was almost beautiful; her shoulder-length tawny-blonde hair perfectly set off by clear olive skin – no zits, ever!
“Who rang?” asked Colin absently. He was absorbed in the tennis on TV.
“You remember Jody? She was in our year at Rangitoto – the pretty, tall, blonde girl,” I replied. “She wants to meet me for lunch today.”
He looked up grinning. “Ah, yes. The hot chick with incredible tits. Plus, she had the most blatant ‘come to bed eyes’ I’ve ever seen.”
The sudden, gut wrenching surge of jealousy took me by surprise.
“So, along with most of the First Fifteen, you had it off with her too,” I said snappily. I vividly remember struggling to create boobs with scrunched up loo paper. All I achieved was two lopsided bumps. To add to my humiliation Jody publicly dubbed me ‘stick insect’.
Colin laughed and ruffled my hair. “Don’t be silly Hon’ – it’s over twenty years ago. She came on to me a couple of times. That’s all. I’m surprised you’ve agreed to meet her. She was up herself, and treated you like a loser.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” Sometimes Colin was a tad insensitive. “I’m curious to find out what she’s doing – probably married to a millionaire with two perfect kids,” I said. “And to be perfectly honest, I’d like to see if she’s maintained her looks.” Dear God, my face was well past its best. Hopefully there’d be some deterioration in hers.
“Women!” said Colin shaking his head. “Don’t come home all up tight. By the way, we’re meeting Mags and Brian for drinks later.”
I spotted her instantly at a prominent table under the pergola in the courtyard. Casually elegant in jeans and a crisp white shirt, she’d retained the compelling ‘look at me’ aura.
Dublin Bay roses hung voluptuously red over the white-painted arch, as if placed especially to frame her head and shoulders. Trust Jody.
I called “Hi Jody.”
She turned towards me. The blonde streaked hair was cut short, feathering around her face. Though she looked stunning, I noticed her skin had lost its elasticity. It seemed unusually stretched, like old parchment, over her cheekbones,
She smiled and we hugged fleetingly; not instinctively like old friends, but because it seemed the right thing to do.
“Shall we order a bottle of wine?” I asked.
“Why not,” she replied. “It’s a lovely day. Let’s celebrate with a Rosé.”
We sipped our wine and I listened. “I run the Newmarket branch of Simpson’s Employment Agency”, she said. “I’m incredibly successful.”
Jody rattled on and on, all about herself. I shouldn’t have felt miffed because she showed no interest in me. Egotism had been her best friend at College.
The waitress brought our lunch and I tucked hungrily into chicken and mushroom pasta. She toyed with a tuna salad, pushing it around her plate with the fork.
“So, how’s your love life?” I enquired. “I expect you’re married to a dishy rich-lister by now.”
She pulled a face. “There’s no-one at the moment. Fact is I’m hopeless at long term relationships. Unfortunately, the only man I really wanted didn’t reciprocate.”
“That’s hard to believe,” I said. “At College you chose any dude you fancied. They queued up, slavering to take you out.”
“Well, strangely enough the one I wanted was Colin, and he only had eyes for you. Odd I thought. You were such a skinny little thing. Let me know when you get tired of him,” she said wryly.
“Not a chance,” I said quickly. “We’re solid as.” I decided not to mention that little gem to Colin.
She pushed her plate away and took a sip of wine. I shared the remainder of the bottle between us.
“If there’s no man on the scene, don’t you miss sex?” I asked.
She laughed. “I’ve solved that problem with my friendly vibrator. Unlike men, it makes no emotional demands, and I never have to plead a headache.”
The waiter brought our coffee.
“I guess there must be advantages to living alone,” I said. “It doesn’t appeal to me though.”
She licked the cappuccino moustache from her top lip, and looked at me miserably.
“You’re the lucky one. I always believed I was bulletproof and life would be perfect. I didn’t intend to tell you this, but the final kick in the guts was delivered last week. I’ve been diagnosed with the big ‘C’.”
“I’m so sorry. How bad is it?” I asked.
“It’s in my lungs. I’ve given up smoking, but it’s too late. My specialist wants to try chemo, but losing my hair plus constant spewing sounds the pits. I’m not a brave person.”
“You should never give up hope,” I replied. What else could I say?
She looked away. “I know you’d give it a go if you were in my position. You were game for anything. I was a real bitch at school wasn’t I?”
A tear slid down her cheek leaving a wet rivulet smudging her makeup. She rubbed at it with the back of her hand.
“Look, forget it. That was years ago. What’s the prognosis for you?” I touched her hand fleetingly.
“They think I’ve six months left. It’s weird; the slightest unrelated pain scares me. I’m not ready to die. Nights are the worst – I’m scared to go to sleep in case I don’t wake up again. I lie staring at the darkness for hours, worrying I’ll look like shit in the morning; and I do!”
She sighed. “Would you mind if I phoned occasionally? I feel comfortable talking to you.”
She was an enigma; like a crème brulee, shiny and brittle on the outside, but soft and gooey in the middle.
“Of course, ring me anytime,” I said. “We’ll keep in touch.”
I hugged her again. “Have to go. We’re meeting friends for drinks.” I turned to wave from the door, but she was gone.
She kept in touch by text. Last Monday she phoned, ostensibly to tell me about her shopping spree.
“Guess what I bought today?” She sounded breathless, as though she’d been running up stairs.
“Sure to be related to clothes,” I said. “A new pair of shoes?”
She laughed. “Yes, red patent leather boots”.
“Heels, I bet” I replied.
“Gorgeous killer heels,” she said, giggling uncharacteristically. I could hear her struggling for breath. We both knew she would never wear her killer heels.
The casket glides silently down into the floor. One of the shiny red boots topples over with a clatter.
Colin squeezes my hand. “Come on Hon’. Let’s go home,”
Retired from work in the City, Josie lives life to the full on Waiheke Island with her husband, Ali. They are keen walkers and take full advantage of the beautiful tracks on the Island. Though her main interests are reading and writing, she is often distracted by the native birds visiting their garden to feed and splash in the birdbath.
