‘Near enough,’ Emilia said. ‘No one’s going to know.’
Meredith had already turned to the guests, ‘Supper’s in the kitchen,’ she announced. ‘Come and get it!’
Auntie’s so glamorous, Sandra thought, tasting her wine – no wonder Mister L’estrange is in love with her. Some people were dancing a cha-cha, hips swivelling, Eric changing partners at random, and Sandra saw with interest how Emilia followed his every move, eyes narrowed over the rim of her glass.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ she whispered to Sandra. ‘Lucky Meredith. Those black eyes. I can see why you like him. Next to him, other boys are boring—’
Sandra interrupted. ‘Not Nick. Nick’s never boring.’
‘Second-best,’ Emilia added rudely. ‘Come on, I’m going to get more bubbles.’
Exchanging secret smiles, they quickly filled their glasses with champagne, camouflaged with orange juice.
‘What are these little rolled-up bacon things, do you think?’ Emilia asked, investigating a plate of savouries.
‘Angels on horseback,’ a woman answered, helping herself to several.
‘Oh, cute!’ Seizing one, Emilia popped the entire morsel into her mouth, chewed once, and her eyes and cheeks bulged with horror. Gagging, she abandoned her plate and ran for the bathroom.
Amused, the woman explained: ‘Grilled bacon wrapped around a fat little oyster, simply delicious. She’ll spit it out, I suppose.’
Slipping back to the lounge room, Emilia smothered a giggle. ‘I spewed! That was the worst thing ever—’ She pulled a disgusted face, then kicked off her shoes to wiggle and shake among the dancers.
Show-off, Sandra thought, sipping her wine, enjoying the fuzzy sensation that made her light-headed, in a floaty, pleasant way. She wished her parents would dance together like at the Denalbo bush dance, happily twirling around the hall, that lovely night she’d danced for a moment with Nick in a barn dance, changing partners all too soon.
The party became quieter as people helped themselves to supper and moved to the courtyard, dining room, or perched on kitchen stools. Eric was playing piano again – a boogie-woogie Baby Face, Meredith sharing the seat.
Past midnight, guests began to depart – waving goodbye, singing into the night as Meredith laughingly called, ‘Shsssh, you’ll wake the neighbours.’
Sandra couldn’t see her parents anywhere – maybe in the courtyard where conversation ebbed and flowed. Emilia was asleep on the couch, face squashed into a cushion.
Into the almost-deserted lounge room Sandra heard the singular sound of violins. No one else was dancing and Meredith and Eric held each other close. His arm around her, Meredith’s hand on his shoulder, they stood toe-to-toe, listening for the melody to begin. Then slowly stepping, turning, gliding, their steps mirroring each other’s, they danced a tango, Meredith’s cheek brushing Eric’s as they stepped to the side, to swing around each other, perfectly balanced.
Watching her aunt and Mister L’estrange absorbed in each other’s embrace, Sandra wondered at her own indefinable emotion ... her impossible desire to dance like this with Nick, nestled against his shoulder, oblivious to the world.
The rhythm changed from the earlier dramatic key to a lighter, yet equally yearning melody, and a couple joined in, woozily improvising. At the end of the record, Eric tipped Meredith back in his arms, kissing her to loud applause.
Emilia sat up, bleary-eyed, her dress with sweaty armholes, hair a dishevelled nest. Sandra fished her shoes from under the couch, then leaving Emilia to thoroughly wake up, she searched for Meredith, determined to reinforce the fact that Auntie and Mister L’estrange were together. Eventually he would move in with her, his books, his paintings; his beloved piano. Vaguely, she wondered where he would give his lessons.
Eric had returned to the piano. Hands loose on his knees, eyes half-shut, he paused as if to consider ... then with a little shake of his fingers, he began to play. Slow, slow, repeated pianissimo phrases gradually building in a crescendo. Sandra had never heard this piece before, and curious, she joined her aunt beside the piano. With a smile, Meredith put her arm around her, cuddled her close. Eric flung them a grin as he theatrically rippled the notes. His foot rhythmical on the pedal, the melody rose and fell, now treble, now bass, at times his right hand suspending the beat. The pianissimo phrases returned, built again in a crescendo that unbidden, carrying her back to the long-ago day she lay alone and dreaming on his bed. He was in England, she was only there to feed the kitten. She’d done her best to forget him – he was Aunt Meredith’s. He loved Meredith. The delicate aching phrases again, and again the engulfing crescendo. She’d been stupid ... stupid, stupid stupid. Deliberate big chords, the repeated phrases ... she’d meant nothing to him – his pupil, a kid, nothing more. No, she wasn’t jealous, Sandra had insisted so many times ... she was over her crush, grown up. Emilia had said he was gorgeous – well yes, she thought so too, and what was wrong with that? Angrily shaking her head, she closed her eyes as with a final crescendo fading to softness, the music ended.
‘You’re brilliant, darling,’ Meredith kissed the top of Eric’s head, her hand on his cheek. ‘That was delicious.’
‘Time to go, I think we’re the last to leave.’ Don and Angela already waited at the door. ‘Simply lovely party, Meredith dear,’ Angela said, as Emilia tottered beside them, and Sandra kissed Meredith goodbye, avoiding Mister L’estrange, lest by some weird design, he guessed how his music had affected her.
Don closed the gate with a soft click. Behind them, as they walked to the car, the coloured lights switched off, returning the street to lamp-lit shadows.
From down the hallway where Emilia lay asleep in Prue’s bedroom, Sandra could hear her snores.
Dawn lit the sky before she finally slept, and it seemed like only five minutes passed before the sun poked an irritating light through the slats of her venetian blind.
Angela knocked on the door. ‘Wakey wakey, rise and shine ...’ Regardless of Sandra’s closed eyes, she flipped open the blind and sat on the bed. ‘What a lovely party – we had so much fun, didn’t we?’
Sandra rolled over, squinting through slit eyes. ‘Muuum, do we have to wake up? It’s too early.’
‘It’s eight o’clock. We want to take you girls on a picnic. Emilia’s leaving tomorrow, and we should do something special for her last day.’
‘Ask Emmy. Maybe she’d rather do something else ...maybe just with me.’
Sandra pulled the sheet over her face, and waited for her mother to get up and leave the room. She knew Emilia wanted to go to the beach again – she wouldn’t want to go on a picnic with Sandra’s mother and father – a whole day out, eating sandwiches off plastic plates in a park somewhere? Uuurggh.
A thump came from Prue’s room. Unless Emilia had fallen out of bed, she must’ve got up. Wrapping her dressing gown around her, Sandra went to check.
‘Ooh, Sandy, look at my hair!’ Emilia made a face at her reflection. ‘How ever will I fix it?’
Sandra fingered a stiff hank of lacquered curl. ‘Wash it in a hot shower?’
Emilia vanished to the bathroom, to emerge some time later with her hair wrapped in a towel.
‘You look very regal, Emmy,’ Sandra giggled. ‘Nefertiti, the queen of Egypt.’
Emilia didn’t reply, but took off the towel and began to laboriously comb out the tangle.
After watching the torture for a couple of minutes, Sandra took her comb, saying, ‘Here, let me try.’ Slowly and carefully, she combed the damp hair, occasionally pulling a strand, with an Ouch! from Emilia.
‘Do you want to go to the beach?’ Sandra asked. ‘Mum said they want to take us