The Better Woman by Ber Carroll Page B

and an apple. You?’
    â€˜Banana bread – Mum baked it last night. I had it for breakfast too!’
    Samantha didn’t like sports and ate whatever she liked. Taller than Jodi, with red hair and freckles, she was starting to show the signs of her relaxed attitude to food. She and Jodi had been friends since Year Seven but their friendship was limited to school; they didn’t go to each other’s houses and didn’t hang out at weekends. Samantha didn’t know about Bob. Nobody did.
    It was already oppressively hot in the school yard and most of the kids clustered under the trees to eat. Jodi’s heart missed a beat when she caught sight of Nicholas Green, his friends circled around him. His blond hair glinted under a stray ray of sun that broke through the canopy of trees. Colour flooded Jodi’s face as she recalled what it felt like to be kissed by him. Her lips suddenly salty, she gulped back some water from her drink bottle. The cold water regulated her blush and she risked another look his way. Her heart fell when she saw that he was talking to Katrina Stuart.
    Jodi glanced at the wall clock: five minutes past six. Bob was slightly late.
    Shirley wiped her brow. The dinner, roast chicken with boiledpotatoes and mashed pumpkin, was ready. The kitchen was like a sauna thanks to the hot oven. But Bob loved a roast dinner.
    Shirley’s work day finished at four. She’d spent two hours preparing Bob’s feast, with no time for even a cup of tea. It didn’t stop there: after dinner she would do all the cleaning up while Bob slouched with a beer and newspaper.
    â€˜Cup of coffee, Bob?’
    â€˜Need that shirt ironed for tomorrow, Bob?’
    She was perpetually at his service, so eager to please that it made Jodi want to gag.
    â€˜We’re getting a real stretch from summer this year,’ Shirley commented, her face flushed as she wiped her brow once again.
    â€˜Go outside, Mum,’ said Jodi, becoming the adult. ‘I’ll get you a cold drink.’
    Shirley took a look around the kitchen to ensure all was in order before leaving her post. Jodi poured two glasses of icy water from the pitcher in the fridge.
    â€˜You should do salad in the summer months,’ she said when she joined her mother outside.
    â€˜Bob doesn’t like salad,’ Shirley replied, moving along the wooden bench so Jodi could slide in next to her. ‘He’s a big man, he needs a hearty dinner.’
    Silence fell and ten minutes passed. Bob was unusually late.
    â€˜Must be bad traffic,’ Shirley remarked, looking down at her watch.
    Jodi allowed herself to drift into a fantasy where Bob had a fatal crash on his way home. Taking one of the bends on Spit Road, he veered into the next lane, his driving as sloppy as his personal hygiene. The oncoming bus, propelled by the steep incline, had no chance to stop and crushed the Commodore as if it was nothing more than a matchbox car. The police read Bob’saddress from his driver’s licence and radioed the Dee Why station to send a car around to Lewis Street. The officers, a man and woman, took off their hats respectfully when Shirley opened the door.
    The sound of an engine in the driveway brought her fantasy to an abrupt end.
    â€˜He’s home.’ Shirley smiled.
    A few moments later Bob walked around the side of the house and up the steps to the deck. With patches of sweat on the underarms of his white shirt, a red tinge to his heavy jowls, he was horribly alive and, other than hot, well.
    â€˜Hard at work, ladies?’ he asked sardonically.
    Bob worked in a government department pushing paper and sitting on his fat ass while his staff did all the work. Shirley was on her feet all day serving customers, yet Bob didn’t count her job as
real
work.
    â€˜You’ve caught us playing truant,’ Shirley giggled, not hearing the sarcasm in his tone. She started to get up. ‘I’ll get you a cold