good thing. I was slightly obsessed by Audrey Hepburn; she was the epitome of
grace and elegance. And as I looked over my denim shorts and white singlet top
attire, with Yankees baseball cap, I suddenly felt anything but elegant. I felt
like a slob. I looked back up at Stan, searching for any crack in his facade.
Being raised with three brothers I had a pretty accurate bullshit detector.
Nope, nothing.
He was telling the truth.
And, yeah, he did
smile, but it wasn’t an ‘I’m taking the piss’ smile. It was friendly and warm
and against my better judgment, it had me smiling, too.
Damn the man.
He is not allowed to charm me. Hot or not.
“Well, see you
around, Bel-INDA,” he said, infuriatingly accentuating my name in a way that
was like running nails down a blackboard.
My smile fell
away. “Don’t count on it, Stan-LEY.”
Stan chuckled
before turning and making his way back up the track, his white tee stretched
over his square shoulders, the sun illuminating his physique as he walked with
his hands still in his pockets. He didn’t get far before he was stopped by a
passing couple who were asking him a question that had him nodding his head,
and then pointing in the opposite direction. Everyone knew Stan. He was the
go-to guy, that man with the answers and the knowledge, but as far as I
was concerned, as I pulled my cap off and ruffled my short-cropped hair, if I
needed anything, he would be the last person I would go to.
Pfft, Audrey
Hepburn.
***
As the hot summer
sun dipped in the sky, I could finally wash off the 30+ strength sunscreen from
my delicately fair skin, and work on the less offensive slathering of
frangipani-scented body lotion. I leant toward the vanity studying my skin, my
complexion slightly pinkish more so by the hot shower rather than the sun,
which I had avoided rather successfully throughout the day. But now I was more
focused on styling my hair in a way that resembled less punk rocker and more
silver screen chic seeing as that was the look I was originally trying for. I
combed the black mop, parting it on its side and sweeping the longer length of
my fringe across my forehead, followed by a generous slathering of Mum’s
hard-core hair spray. I stood back, taking in the long flowing boho blue dress
with spaghetti straps, and tilted my head from side to side, and for the first
time in a long, long time, I didn’t hate my hair. Holy shit, had Stan’s
compliment done this? Had I seriously taken fashion advice from a bloke? That
was a bit scary, and what was worse was the more I looked at my hair, the more
I loved it, which only cemented the fact that for the rest of the summer I had
to stay away from Stan Remington. Away from Stan-LEY.
I smiled to myself
every time I thought back to the way he tried to contain his annoyance when I
said his full name.
“What are you
doing?” came an all-too-familiar voice.
I sighed as I
marvelled at how the hair spray kept my hair in place. “Another question, what
a surprise,” I said, tearing my eyes away from the mirror and looking at my
little brother in the doorway.
“Mum! Bel’s
hogging the mirror,” Alex yelled.
“Why do you care?
You need a stool to see yourself.”
“Muuuum! Bel’s
calling me short.”
“Oh, for God’s
sake!” Mum’s voice closed in. “What have I told you two about … oh.”
She paused,
looking me over. “You look lovely, what have you done to your hair?” She
smiled.
“Oh I just—”
“Brushed it,” Alex
added, sticking his tongue out.
I clamped down the
urge to grab him into a headlock, and simply ignored him.
“Well, that’s easy
then, you’re ready to go, now I just have to get your father organised,” said
Mum.
“Organised for
what?”
“We’re going out
for dinner,” chimed in Alex excitedly.
“We are?” My heart
sank; I really couldn’t be bothered going to the RSL club for the roast of the
day. I kind of just wanted to be anywhere but in town, especially knowing
grace and elegance. And as I looked over my denim shorts and white singlet top
attire, with Yankees baseball cap, I suddenly felt anything but elegant. I felt
like a slob. I looked back up at Stan, searching for any crack in his facade.
Being raised with three brothers I had a pretty accurate bullshit detector.
Nope, nothing.
He was telling the truth.
And, yeah, he did
smile, but it wasn’t an ‘I’m taking the piss’ smile. It was friendly and warm
and against my better judgment, it had me smiling, too.
Damn the man.
He is not allowed to charm me. Hot or not.
“Well, see you
around, Bel-INDA,” he said, infuriatingly accentuating my name in a way that
was like running nails down a blackboard.
My smile fell
away. “Don’t count on it, Stan-LEY.”
Stan chuckled
before turning and making his way back up the track, his white tee stretched
over his square shoulders, the sun illuminating his physique as he walked with
his hands still in his pockets. He didn’t get far before he was stopped by a
passing couple who were asking him a question that had him nodding his head,
and then pointing in the opposite direction. Everyone knew Stan. He was the
go-to guy, that man with the answers and the knowledge, but as far as I
was concerned, as I pulled my cap off and ruffled my short-cropped hair, if I
needed anything, he would be the last person I would go to.
Pfft, Audrey
Hepburn.
***
As the hot summer
sun dipped in the sky, I could finally wash off the 30+ strength sunscreen from
my delicately fair skin, and work on the less offensive slathering of
frangipani-scented body lotion. I leant toward the vanity studying my skin, my
complexion slightly pinkish more so by the hot shower rather than the sun,
which I had avoided rather successfully throughout the day. But now I was more
focused on styling my hair in a way that resembled less punk rocker and more
silver screen chic seeing as that was the look I was originally trying for. I
combed the black mop, parting it on its side and sweeping the longer length of
my fringe across my forehead, followed by a generous slathering of Mum’s
hard-core hair spray. I stood back, taking in the long flowing boho blue dress
with spaghetti straps, and tilted my head from side to side, and for the first
time in a long, long time, I didn’t hate my hair. Holy shit, had Stan’s
compliment done this? Had I seriously taken fashion advice from a bloke? That
was a bit scary, and what was worse was the more I looked at my hair, the more
I loved it, which only cemented the fact that for the rest of the summer I had
to stay away from Stan Remington. Away from Stan-LEY.
I smiled to myself
every time I thought back to the way he tried to contain his annoyance when I
said his full name.
“What are you
doing?” came an all-too-familiar voice.
I sighed as I
marvelled at how the hair spray kept my hair in place. “Another question, what
a surprise,” I said, tearing my eyes away from the mirror and looking at my
little brother in the doorway.
“Mum! Bel’s
hogging the mirror,” Alex yelled.
“Why do you care?
You need a stool to see yourself.”
“Muuuum! Bel’s
calling me short.”
“Oh, for God’s
sake!” Mum’s voice closed in. “What have I told you two about … oh.”
She paused,
looking me over. “You look lovely, what have you done to your hair?” She
smiled.
“Oh I just—”
“Brushed it,” Alex
added, sticking his tongue out.
I clamped down the
urge to grab him into a headlock, and simply ignored him.
“Well, that’s easy
then, you’re ready to go, now I just have to get your father organised,” said
Mum.
“Organised for
what?”
“We’re going out
for dinner,” chimed in Alex excitedly.
“We are?” My heart
sank; I really couldn’t be bothered going to the RSL club for the roast of the
day. I kind of just wanted to be anywhere but in town, especially knowing