foot on the top stair of the RoadMaster Royale as she carted a half-dozen bottles of Rutherglen merlot through the narrow door.
‘Anyway, while he was making the coffee, the van ran off the road and crashed. And then he sued the company because the handbook didn’t tell him he had to stay behind the steering wheel!’
‘Bloody hell! Is that true?’ Nina was kneeling in front of a cupboard with a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar in one hand, and red wine and tarragon vinegar in the other.
‘No, no, no! I’ve heard that story before. It’s an urban myth.’ Meredith, down the back, was huffing with the effort of stripping off synthetic bed coverings and replacing them with her designer linen.
‘Is it? Well anyway, it’s a good metaphor for my life.’ Annie heaved her provisions onto the table and paused to capture her curls in a hair clip. ‘I’m in the back having a drink, and my life is driving itself straight into a concrete crash barrier.’ Nina and Meredith’s attention snagged on the sharp edge in her voice.
‘You can’t mean that?’ Meredith paused, up to her elbow in a pillowcase.
Nina snapped the cupboard shut. ‘I can’t imagine you not ever living an authentic life.’
An ‘authentic’ life? What the fuck did that mean? Annie wondered. Nina was a walking, talking self-help book. Annie wouldn’t last the distance with the Oprah of East Malvern spouting these ridiculous platitudes. She briefly and fondly entertained a highlight of last year’s real estate conference at Melbourne’s Crown Casino when she’d won $500 on the blackjack table. Maybe she’d been too hasty in writing off the entire event. She retreated down the stairs.
‘Hey, only joking! Now . . . champagne for all my friends!’ she called over her shoulder.
It was 2 pm on Saturday—two hours after the scheduled departure of the RoadMaster from Nina’s triple-fronted cream brick home—and the stocking of the vehicle was in full swing.
‘Here—take this crockery, and be careful. It’s from Finland.’ Meredith passed a cardboard box to Nina.
‘And then take this—it’s from France,’ Annie piped up from behind. The van rocked as she dumped another half-dozen bottles on the table.
‘Actually,’ Meredith began, ‘all champagne is from—’
‘I know, I know—from the Champagne region, or else it’s “sparkling wine”. Let’s not start arguing now, Meredith. We’ve got ten glorious days to do that. Let’s just get this lot on board.’
‘There’re bottle shops along the way,’ Nina mentioned helpfully as she tried to think where she could possibly store all of Annie’s alcoholic supplies. The procession of boxes, suitcases and shopping bags seemed endless. As each one was unpacked, its contents were the subject of a running commentary.
‘Dim sum dipping sauce? Satay skewers? Cinnamon sticks? Are you sure you’re going to use all this stuff?’
‘Seven pairs of shoes? And you’re not really bringing this illuminated make-up mirror, are you?’
‘Cotton table napkins? What’s wrong with a roll of paper towel?’
There was a final swipe from Meredith. Annie had swung by Toorak Road on the way to Nina’s and bought herself a couple of new outfits for the trip; now she was stuffing glossy shopping bags sprouting tissue paper under the bed in the rear of the cabin. Meredith watched her, shaking her head in amazement.
‘There are boutiques in Byron Bay. I’m sure even you’ll find a couple of wearable items in the provinces.’
‘Yeah? Well, that’s what they say about Noosa—and you get there and it’s just a load of last year’s tat that’s been hauled up in the boot of someone’s Beemer.’
‘Oh, my God! Imagine being spotted in last season’s sarong!’ Meredith threw up her hands.
‘Oh, my God! Imagine having to actually eat off a plastic plate!’ Annie countered.
Meredith ignored the comment and retreated to her Audi to fetch one last item. She returned carrying a large box exquisitely wrapped in silver and white embossed paper.
‘Now, where will I put this?’
‘Oooh, Sigrid’s wedding present!’ Nina fingered the gorgeous silky ribbons. ‘What did you decide on?’
‘It cannot—and I repeat, cannot—be damaged in any way. There’s a thousand dollars worth of Fabergé crystal stemware in here.’
‘Lucky Sigrid and . . . what’s his name again?’ Annie was blithely unaware of the depth of the sorrowful swamp she was wading into.
‘Charles Newson. Although it’s written as “Charlie” on the invitation.’
‘But didn’t you say the other night that you’ve never met him? He might be some scruffy seaweed-head who’s never seen crystal in his life. Maybe you should have waited and bought something that suits their house.’