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relationship with Jack Jones, which is a work one, of course. Although I quite like the occasional extracurricular activities. I called him as I drove. I don’t have bluetooth in my old car but I put my mobile on speaker and rested it on my lap.
    â€˜Hey,’ he said.
    â€˜You haven’t called! When am I going to see you?’
    There was a brief silence, then, ‘I —’
    â€˜I’m
joking
, Jack. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all clingy and demanding just because we had magnificent sex.’ I sighed, remembering it.
    He chuckled. ‘It was.’
    â€˜I’m not even going to invite you to my parents’ for dinner tonight.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t mind dinner at your parents’.’
    â€˜I’ll assume you’re either joking or have some form of mental deficiency.’
    He laughed again. Jack had in fact been to my parents’ house for dinner and hadn’t seemed to mind, which is the only thing about Jack Jones I find suspicious. That and the fact that he goes for Collingwood.
    â€˜Actually,’ I said, ‘I just wanted to tell you that JD’s invited me to his cocktail party on Saturday night.’
    He made a hissing noise.
    I said, ‘Didn’t you know he was inviting me?’
    â€˜No,’ he said, clearly unhappy.
    â€˜You don’t want me there?’
    He hesitated. ‘It’s not that I don’t want you there. It’s the reason he’s invited you that annoys me.’
    â€˜What’s the reason? Apart from the fact that he might enjoy my fabulous company and witty repartee.’
    â€˜No doubt.’ But that’s all he said and I waited through a long period of silence.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said, ‘too many questions.’
    â€˜Look, I’m going to talk to Degraves. Don’t be surprised if you’re uninvited.’
    I couldn’t help feeling a bit hurt by that but I was trying not to. Jack must have sensed it, probably because of the deafening silence from my end, and he said, ‘I don’t want you any closer to this than you need to be. I already regret involving you.’
    We said goodbye and hung up, and I continued on to my regular Monday dinner with my folks. As I whizzed by Chadstone Shopping Centre I felt a deep mournful desire for the good old days, when life’s agonising moments meant trying to find a parking spot there on Christmas Eve.
    I sat in my car out the front of Mum and Dad’s cream-brick 1950s house. I could see Mum in her bedroom, fluffing the curtains. My old room was the next window along, with its frilly pink curtains that were a present for my fifth birthday. I thought with a big sigh how nice it would be to return to my childhood days, when everything was pink and frilly. Nah. Because that would mean I’d have to do everything again, including living with my mother until I moved out with my crappy husband. But if I knew what was coming, I could have not been at that bar the night I met my ex, and I could have definitely been at the pub instead of finding Jack Jones half-dead in my front garden. Except then I wouldn’t have met him. Or I still would have met him, but he might’ve been dead by the time I got home.
    They parted suddenly, the curtains, and Mum stared out at me. She gestured wildly for me to come inside. I gave her a wave. She stood there, hands on hips, mouth pursed, probably wondering why I was still sitting in my car, not knowing that I always do this, mentally preparing myself for a visit with her. She crossed herself – I could see her lips moving and her eyes rolling heavenward – and walked away. Poor Mum. Traumatised by her own wicked mother’s indiscretions; my gran who had a one-night stand in Italy with a swarthy local and that fling produced Mum. Scandalised before she was even born. She’s tried to make up for it since by living like a nun (apart from two