The Dark Part of Me by Belinda Burns Read Free Book Online Page A

guy, let alone rooted one.’ It was a low blow, one which I immediately regretted.
    Hollie turned on her heel and was flying, two steps at a time, up the marble staircase. I called out to her, pleading with her to forgive me, but all I heard was the door to Mrs Bailey’s
bedroom slamming behind her.

4
    When I got home, Mum was on her knees rolling out the plastic runners across the lounge room carpet. It was a ritual which went back a long way in our household, as long as I
can remember, and meant only one thing – that someone was coming over, a rare occurrence which caused Mum great anxiety and an entire day of preparation.
    Mum has a ‘decontamination procedure’ of military precision: clear plastic covers with elasticated edging for the couches; disposable plastic tablecloths; a hand-made sign positioned
in the entry at direct eye-level – ‘Welcome to our humble home. Please remove your shoes before entering’ – then an arrow pointing down to a pair of ‘jiffy’
slippers vacuum-sealed in a plastic bag. In the bathroom, she disguises industrial-strength anti-bacterial liquid in a Palmolive ‘Gentle On Your Hands’ pump container, places a
scrubbing brush next to another sign which reads, ‘Please Use Vigorously’, and hangs disposable hand-towels.
    ‘Expecting visitors?’ I asked.
    She spun around. From under her bathrobe, I caught a glimpse of black lace.
    ‘Oh, no one in particular,’ she said, smoothing out the runner with her hands.
    ‘C’mon, Mum. You haven’t let anyone in the house since the plumbing broke last year.’
    Mum got to her feet. With android meticulousness, she scanned the room for any remaining tasks. Satisfied, she turned back to me. ‘I’ve got a date.’
    ‘Who? How?’ Mum hadn’t dated since the sixties.
    ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you.’ She dragged me onto the plastic-covered couch. ‘I’m really excited.’
    ‘I don’t have much time.’ I glanced at my watch.
    ‘Sit down.’ She patted the seat beside her.
    I sat, my thighs squeaking hot and sticky against the plastic.
    ‘I went to see Clive this week.’
    ‘I thought you were done with him.’
    ‘No. He’s got this new therapy he thinks could really help.’ Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes glittered. ‘It worked on one of his other patients, a woman who
couldn’t stop pulling out her hair. She was a lost cause, but then Clive recommended she join a dating agency.’
    ‘Come off the grass.’
    Mum wasn’t listening. ‘Clive calls it his love therapy technique. Learning to love again. You know I never loved your father. But now Clive says it’s time I went out and found
myself a nice man, before it’s too late.’
    ‘That’s great, Mum.’ I stood up but she yanked me back down.
    ‘So, this morning, I went to a dating agency in Spring Hill. A lovely woman called Jeanie asked me all these questions like, “What’s your favourite movie?”, “Are
you an early morning person?” and “Do you like spicy food?”, and inputted my answers into a special computer which came out with my “compatibility partners”. It was
all very hitech.’
    ‘I’m sure.’
    ‘Then I watched the videos and picked out my favourite one.’
    ‘Did he say how big his—’
    ‘His name’s Andy Bronson and he’s a widower with no kids. His first wife died of cancer, very sad, but now, three years later, he’s ready to move on. He’s into
ballroom dancing and fine dining. He’s after a sensitive, caring woman who’s not too tall.’
    ‘What? Is he a dwarf?’
    ‘Don’t be smart. He’s picking me up for dinner at eight so I need you to help me decide what to wear.’
    She pulled me into her bedroom. Arms crossed, she stood in front of the built-in wardrobe, her pastel suits hanging like corpses in see-through plastic body-bags.
    ‘I’m going for classy and sophisticated.’
    ‘Mum, can’t you do this yourself?’ It was already six-thirty. ‘I’ve got to get ready, too.’
    She turned