Authors: Dianne Blacklock
Three’s a Crowd
Dianne Blacklock has been a teacher, trainer, counsellor, checkout chick, and even one of those annoying market researchers you avoid in shopping centres. Nowadays she tries not to annoy anyone by staying home and writing.
Three's a Crowd
is her sixth book.
Also by Dianne Blacklock
Call Waiting
Wife for Hire
Almost Perfect
False Advertising
Crossing Paths
BLACKLOCK
Three's a Crowd
First published 2009 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Dianne Blacklock 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:
Blacklock, Dianne.
Three's a Crowd/Dianne Blacklock.
ISBN 978 1 4050 3942 0 (pbk.)
A823.4
Typeset in 12.5/14 pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group
Permission kindly granted by David O'Doherty/Sponsongs for reproduction
of
Very Mild Superpowers
.
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to
real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
These electronic editions published in 2009 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Three's a Crowd
Diane Blacklock
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To Joel, Jeska, Pat, Zac, Dane and Claire
I must begin this time with a correction. In the acknowledgements of my previous book I included what I thought was a witty line, though at my dear son Dane's expense, which was all well and good until he didn't get the joke! It was promptly clarified and understood, but then it occurred to me that I had been quite remiss in not acknowledging that he in fact provided a great deal of inspiration for that book, as the character, Will, and his cohort were initially modelled on Dane and his rather colourful bunch of friends. I stand corrected, and take this opportunity to give them their due. Thanks guys!
For this book, Dane and his fiancée, Claire, were back in the country, and were a willing and helpful sounding board whenever I needed it. As were Joel and Jeska, and Patrick and Zac, as always. And as always, Joel and Jeska were amongst the first readers of the first draft, and they provided fantastic and insightful feedback. I am lucky and grateful to have such a creative brains trust on tap.
Love and thanks are also due to all my family and friends, whose support and encouragement are never taken for granted, I hope they know. I would like to add a specific thankyou to Lesley McNiven for chauffeuring me around the eastern suburbs while I scouted locations, and for her endless encouragement and loyalty.
And thanks always to my Pan Macmillan family: the marvellous Cate Paterson, the brilliant Julia Stiles, the wonderfully efficient Louise Bourke and the tireless Jane Novak, to name but a few. I also want to mention how much I appreciate and value the camaraderie of my fellow authors, including Ber Carroll, Liane Moriarty, and especially the very generous Tony Park (who writes fabulous novels set in Africa), and his lovely wife, Nicola â two friends I can always count on to stay the distance.
Which brings me finally to you, the reader. I know I say it every time, but it means more to me with every book. The emails, the messages on my website, those of you I've had the pleasure of meeting, have given me such joy and encouragement. I would sit down at my desk on some of the hottest days last summer, my fingers actually numb from RSI, feeling a bit overwhelmed by
my looming deadline, and there would be an enthusiastic note from one of you in my inbox. I can't tell you how motivating that is for me, and I can't wait to hear what you think of this one.
âWhat are you wearing tonight?'
Rachel shoved the door open with her hip and backed into the hall. âAh, I dunno, Lexie, I haven't thought about it. I'm just walking in the door now.'
Her head hurt. The traffic had been a nightmare, even by eastern suburbs standards, and the bus seemed more crowded than usual, not that it had stopped the driver barrelling along like he was at the helm of nothing more substantial than a skateboard. Rachel was still not used to the way the buses bounced up and down the hilly streets and careered around hairpin bends. How they didn't take out whole rows of parked cars or just plain tip over was a feat of physics clearly beyond her intellectual capacity to comprehend. Arriving home in one piece always felt something of an achievement.
âI was going to wear my wide jeans with that new top,' Lexie was saying. âYou know, the peasant-style one, with the deep frill? I can wear it low on the shoulders, and with the right jewellery it looks pretty dressy, but, with the jeans, not too dressy. See? Perfect.'
âSo wear that.'
âIt's too hot for jeans now. And I don't think I have a skirt that will quite . . .'
Rachel kicked her shoes off into her bedroom and tuned out. She just couldn't get that interested in clothes; she thought about them the way some people think about cars â something to get you from A to B. She didn't like shopping either. Or jewellery. She didn't dislike it, she just wasn't all that fussed about it. She was obviously missing some fundamental feminine gene. She leaned against the doorjamb and surveyed the state of her room. Bugger. The clothes strewn all over and spilling out of her laundry hamper reminded her that she hadn't done any washing on the weekend. Saturday she didn't get around to it, because in Rachel's universe that's what Saturdays were for â not quite getting around to things. She needed that one day when she didn't have to get things done, or be anywhere at any given time, or
do anything to some arbitrary schedule. Rachel had spent last Saturday not quite finishing the newspaper, strolling down to the beach but not going in for a swim after all, stopping to chat with neighbours she bumped into on the way back from the beach, and saying yes to their offer of a beer, and then staying for another, and then, okay, just one more, and later, watching heaps of good clips on YouTube. Well, she watched heaps of clips, some of them were really good.
âBut then I worry that cropped pants might be too casual . . .'
Sunday it rained so the washing didn't get done. A more organised person would plan for such a contingency and, before taking that walk down to the beach, would have thrown on a load of washing. Easy. But it would have spoiled the very carefree nature of Saturday, even if it meant she didn't have enough clothes to get through the rest of the week. A more organised person would also have probably bought a dryer by now, to replace the one that had broken down earlier this year . . . or was it last year? Hmm, Rachel had a feeling it happened just as summer was coming on, and she thought she could get away without it, so that would make it last year. She sniffed under her arm now to see if she could get away with staying in the clothes she'd had on all day. She grimaced. That was the other thing she'd never got used to â the pong on the bus. Especially in this weather; there was a reason they called it âstinking' hot. If only everyone attended to their own personal hygiene a little more rigorously, Rachel might get away with pushing the boundaries occasionally with hers. She wondered if a squirt of perfume would do the trick.
âRachel, are you listening?'
âI'm listening to what a stresshead you're being,' she said, sidestepping the fact that she wasn't listening at all. âI don't know why you're so worried, it's only us girls.'
âOnly us girls â and
Catherine
,' Lexie reminded her. âIf I'm not dressed up enough, she'll make one of those comments she always makes, like “Just come from the beach, Lexie?” But if I'm too dressed up, then she teases me about going overboard, like “Who are you trying to impress?” You know what she's like.'
Oh, Rachel knew exactly what Catherine was like, but after twenty-odd years it was water off a duck's back, for the most
part. Lexie hadn't known her as long, so she was not fully desensitised yet.
âYeah well, it's not Catherine's birthday,' said Rachel, âit's Annie's, and do you think she'd care what you wore?'
She heard the sigh of relief down the phone line. âYou're right. In fact,' Lexie added with a significant bump in enthusiasm, âthat's what I'm going to do. I'm going to choose something that Annie would like.'
Annie liked anything and everything and everyone, but Rachel was not about to stall the horses. âOkay, so I'll see you soon â'
âOh, that's why I was calling in the first place,' said Lexie, her voice wavering. âI talked to Scott almost an hour ago and he wasn't anywhere near ready to leave. They were short-staffed today, poor baby was up to his elbows in washing-up.'
Okay, now Rachel began to feel a little uneasy â being late for Catherine was a whole other box of kettles. As a lawyer, Catherine was accustomed to accounting for her time in billable units of six-minute blocks, and this made her extremely . . .
precise
. That was the polite way of putting it. It also made her extremely intolerant of anyone who kept her waiting. Lexie was giving Rachel a lift, so this was going to make them both late. Not regular, within-reason late, but properly late. And that was not good. Catherine with the black cloud of self-righteousness hanging over her head all evening was no fun at all.