Free Dinner at Rose's by Danielle Hawkins Page B

sling. We had all migrated out to the garage to eat burnt sausages and doubtful bean salad, and Scott called, ‘Bloody hell, King, what’ve you done to yourself now?’
    ‘Flattened by a cow,’ said Matt serenely, accepting a beer with his slow smile. ‘Could have happened to anyone.’
    ‘It usually happens to you, though. Did you break it?’
    ‘No, just dislocated my shoulder.’ He wandered up beside me. ‘So it looks like you’ll be taking Rose to chemo on Tuesday, if that’s still okay.’
    ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Hi, Cilla.’
    ‘Hello.’
    ‘If I were you I’d grab a sausage,’ I advised her. ‘Just avoid those funny purplish ones – they taste like warm dead pig.’
    ‘How delightful,’ she said. ‘What would you like, hon?’
    ‘I’ll finish my beer first,’ said Matt. ‘I’ve only got one hand.’
    ‘I could feed you if you like,’ Cilla suggested.
    ‘That’s a very kind offer, but think of the damage to my manly reputation.’
    ‘Have you got a reputation for manliness?’ I enquired as Cilla made her way towards the food table.
    ‘Well, I’d like to think so. Did you know you’ve got baby spew on your shoulder?’
    ‘Hey, Matt, are you still interested in that V6 engine?’ asked a large hairy man I didn’t recognise. The two of them embarked on a long and involved conversation about split diffs and automatic chokes, and I drifted off to chat to Scotty.
    By around ten I was sitting with Clare on the bottom step of Scott’s deck. She was cuddling Lucy, who was fast asleep with her thumb in her mouth, and Charlie was leaning against me sleepily and playing with my mobile phone. I had to admit that the child was reasonably cute, and seeing that his parents were excellent people he would probably become quite nice, eventually.
    ‘Matt!’ I called as he went past, Cilla attached to his side with limpet-like devotion. I didn’t think I’d seen her more than two feet away from him all evening.
    ‘What’s up?’
    ‘Could you grab me a beer? I’m a bit stuck here.’
    ‘Okay,’ he said, and passed me his, which was very nearly full.
    ‘You’re a legend,’ I told him.
    ‘I know.’ He sat down on the edge of the deck and Cilla sat beside him, so close their thighs touched. Kim was wrong: he wasn’t just a suitably tall and good-looking accessory; Cilla was well and truly smitten.
    ‘Your parents bought Reynolds’ farm, didn’t they?’ I asked her.
    ‘That’s right,’ she said proudly. ‘We’re Mountain View Angus. And Dad runs fifteen hundred Perendale ewes.’
    ‘Psychotic animals,’ Matt remarked.
    ‘Matt, don’t be rude,’ his girlfriend said, placing a slim hand on his leg.
    ‘He’s very disparaging about sheep,’ I said. ‘Dairy farmers mostly are.’
    ‘I spent far too much of my youth catching the bloody things for your father to dag,’ said Matt. ‘It put me off.’
    ‘Have your parents retired now?’ Cilla asked.
    ‘No. They’re milking dairy goats in Nelson.’
    ‘Nice place, Nelson,’ Clare put in.
    ‘Mm,’ I agreed.
    Matt held out a hand for his beer. ‘But not as nice as here?’ he prompted, taking a mouthful and passing it back.
    ‘Nowhere’s as nice as here,’ I said firmly.
    He grinned. ‘Here in particular?’
    I ran a thoughtful eye from the rusting corrugated-iron fence around Scotty’s section, past the disintegrating cars on the lawn and on to the verdant bed of thistles beside the steps. ‘Yep.’
    ‘Honey,’ said Cilla, ‘are you ready to go?’ She slid a hand into Matt’s and stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. ‘I’m helping Dad pick lambs in the morning.’
    ‘Can do,’ he said. ‘Want a lift, Jo? You probably shouldn’t wander around town by yourself in the dark.’

    NOT LONG AFTER , I clambered down from the back seat of Cilla’s great silver ute and went wearily up the front steps of the house. I was tired and lonely and I’d had enough to drink to become a little bit maudlin. I