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the
spaghetti-strap dress wasn’t exactly fitting with the dress code.
    “Yes, Glen
Remington was kind enough to invite us up to the house for dinner tonight.”
    Whaaaaat?
    “Remington, as in
Remington, Remington?” Somehow by saying the name more than once it was a way
of definitely determining the answer.
    Mum’s brows
furrowed. “Is there any other Remington?”
    In this case,
unfortunately not. All of a sudden the roast of the day sounded pretty bloody
good.
     
    ***
     
    “Oh, honey, what
did you do to your hair? It looked so lovely.” My mum’s shoulders sagged in
disappointment.
    Echoing my brother’s
earlier mocking words, I said, “I brushed it.”
    And it felt like
shit, literally. I had thought of ways to get out of this dinner party that
would no doubt be filled with painful small talk. I only hoped I wasn’t sat at
the kids’ table with Alex.
    Dad slung his arm
around my shoulders as we casually strolled up the walking track.
    “Relax, it’s never
as bad as you think,” he mused in good humour, before giving my shoulders a
reassuring squeeze.
    I had no real idea
what he was talking about. Dad often imparted his wisdom that, at a guess, was
just a way to snap me out of my Debbie Downer moods, and they were often as my
brothers lived to torture me.
    I pulled the
sleeves of my green cardi over my hands, scrunching the excess material in my
fists.
    “Oh, Bel, don’t do
that, honey, you’ll stretch the material,” Mum said, not missing a trick.
    I let the material
go loose and opted for folding my arms as if to ward off a wayward chill. I
inwardly grimaced at the thought of being openly chastised at the Remington’s
house.
    Bel sit up
straight, elbows off the table, eat all your vegies. Even though I was legally considered an
adult, some things did die hard with my mum, or as Dad would often remind me, “My
house, my rules.” How I couldn’t wait for the New Year to come, when I could
move out and find my own way. By all rights, this would be my very last summer
forced to holiday with my family, then I too could be living my life, just as
my older brothers lived theirs. An evil smile lifted the corner of my mouth. In
fact, was that a spring in my step I felt? My demeanour had lifted just at the
very thought of there being a light at the end of my tunnel, but when that
light in my subconscious turned into the very real light of the Remington’s
front porch, my cheery mood quickly evaporated.
    “Welcome!” called
Glen Remington, toasting us with a stubby of VB from the porch of his sprawling
cedar cabin home. He made his way down the steps dodging one of the hanging
plants his wife had dotted everywhere.
    “Bloody nice night
for a BBQ,” he said, taking my dad’s hand in a firm, manly shake. “Wanna cold
one, Doc?”
    “Thanks, mate.”
    My head snapped
around to my dad.
    Mate?
    Mum’s bemused
smirk wasn’t lost on me. My dad, the pale-blue-shirt-and-slack-wearing Doctor
Evans was hanging with the boys now, with Glen leading the way to fetch my dad
a beer.
    The Remington
homestead was the mission control of the caravan park. The home, with its green
Colorbond roof and wraparound verandah, snugly nestled amongst a thicket of
ferns and woodchip garden beds, felt like a rainforest retreat. The warm glow
of the house lights flooded through the windows and doors, beaming with a
radius and warmth that reflected well the personalities of Glen and Paula
Remington, the consummate hosts. We made our way into the large lounge room, my
eyes instinctively moving upwards to admire the cathedral ceilings, the shadows
of the large ceiling fans flickering shadows across the cedar beams. The walls
were aligned with stained timber dados and quirky little framed country signs
with ‘Bless this House’ embroidered on them; rugs crisscrossed over the
polished floors. Even though it was a place of business, it was definitely a
family home: a warm and welcoming one.
    Alex and I stood
stood together in the