Chapter Nineteen Netta
Chapter Nineteen
NETTA
Rhona’s double-storey terrace was distinguished from the identical homes on either side by its turquoise front door, upon which a woodpecker-shaped knocker sat at Netta’s eye level, inviting her to announce her arrival.
The brass bird and the bright, summery hue of the door made her smile despite the nerves crimping her belly.
She’d kept herself busy all day—a long walk, a poke around the market and a jetlag-induced afternoon nap—but nothing had been able to keep the thought of seeing Morrison again from her mind.
Within moments of Netta’s hesitant rat-a-tat-tat, Rhona swung the door open with a flourish and ushered her in, welcoming her with a hug and a haze of citrusy perfume.
Netta looked over Rhona’s shoulder as she released her from the squeeze.
The house had already knocked her socks off and she’d barely taken two steps inside.
The hallway was laid with beautiful timber floorboards the colour of honey and the walls were lined with bold modern art: canvases textured with brushstrokes.
No printed reproductions here. High ceilings.
A tall archway. A timber staircase. Quirky pendant lights casting a warm ambience over it all. It was beautiful.
‘You didn’t have to bring anything, but this will be lovely, thank you.’ Rhona took the bottle of pinot noir from Netta’s chilled hands and set it on the hall table. ‘Let me take your coat.’
Netta slipped out of her jacket and self-consciously tugged her hem a little further down her thighs. Rhona was decked out in a sparkling, ankle-length kaftan. Netta felt decidedly undercooked in her knitted dress and leather knee-high boots.
‘You look great,’ said Rhona. She hung Netta’s coat on the hat rack near the front door and collected the wine. ‘Come on in. I hope you didn’t get too wet on your way over. I really should’ve just come to pick you up.’
Netta followed Rhona down the hallway, past a beautiful formal lounge lit by an enormous Christmas tree to a big open-plan space, where exposed brick walls rose through a double-height void to the soaring roofline and floor-to-ceiling windows looked out to a fairy-lit garden.
Netta swept her gaze around the cavernous space, taking in the long dining table and huge kitchen with deep forest green cabinetry, thick timber benchtops and tiles in various shades of pearl.
‘Oh my God, Rhona, this place is incredible.’
Rhona smiled. ‘We love it here.’
‘Who wouldn’t? It’s an eight-page spread in Home Beautiful.’
‘Don!’ Rhona shouted up to the mezzanine level above. ‘Netta’s here!’
A balding head popped over the railing. ‘Hello there! Welcome!’ Don’s face creased into an easy smile. Netta liked him instantly.
‘Netta, Don. Don, Netta,’ said Rhona. ‘The kids are both face first in their iPads somewhere, I’d say. They’ll surface once they smell the food.’
‘How many do you have?’ asked Netta.
‘Two. Miles and Carly.’ A smile twitched at her lips. ‘They’re teenagers now but they were beautiful once,’ she said drily.
‘Ladies!’ boomed Don, suddenly appearing in the kitchen. ‘Let me get you both a drink!’ He was long-limbed, lean and bespectacled—and dressed head-to-toe in denim.
‘We’re going to need one to get past that outfit, darling,’ Rhona said. ‘Double denim on a fifty-six-year-old man is …’ She trailed off and shook her head.
‘Well, I was going to wear the sparkly kaftan, but you got to it first. What’s a man to do, love?’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Okay, are we feeling a red or a white tonight?’
‘Netta brought a pinot,’ said Rhona, swiping it from the bench.
‘Wonderful!’ Don took three luxuriously large wine glasses from the cupboard, expertly removed the cork from the bottle and poured them all a rubber-wristed measure.
‘Thanks so much for having me over, Rhona—and you too, Don,’ said Netta as she accepted a glass.
Don opened the fridge door and started taking out an army of covered plates. ‘Is this your first time in London?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘No,’ answered Netta, watching as plates of sliced mushrooms, slivers of capsicum, fresh prawns, grated cheese, olives and herbs started to crowd the kitchen bench. ‘I used to live here, a long time ago. It feels quite … strange, to be back, to be honest.’
More plates landed on the bench: prosciutto, little balls of mozzarella, strips of roasted eggplant, artichokes.
‘How far back does that fridge go?’ marvelled Netta. ‘It’s like a clown car!’
‘I have a very disciplined packing technique,’ said Don, seriously. ‘You’d be surprised how much you can fit into a fridge if you’re strategic.’
Rhona rolled her eyes. ‘The kitchen is Don’s kingdom. I was banished long ago for disrespecting the dishwasher-stacking regime.’
A bowl of red sauce and a big ball of pizza dough were the final additions to the bench.
‘It’s pizza night,’ announced Don, slapping his palm to the dough. ‘I hope you’re a fan, because otherwise we’re a bit fucked, I’m afraid.’ He locked eyes with Netta.
She laughed. ‘Who doesn’t like pizza?’
‘Psychopaths!’ shouted a young female voice from upstairs.
Netta swung her gaze to Rhona. ‘Carly?’
‘She’s a shy flower,’ Rhona said, laughing. ‘Struggles to speak her mind.’
‘So, tell me, Netta. Why does it feel strange to be back in London?’ asked Don.
Netta paused. Now wasn’t the time for honesty. ‘It’s just been so long—almost twenty years—everything feels the same and so, so different.’
‘Twenty years!’ exclaimed Don. ‘But surely you were but a zygote twenty years ago!’
Netta snorted, her hand flying to her mouth to catch the wine she had yet to swallow. ‘Oh, you’re good,’ she said. ‘I was twenty.’
‘Well then, you’re old enough now to help me roll the pizza dough,’ said Don. He looked up to the mezzanine, where Miles and Carly remained unseen. ‘SEEING AS MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD CHILDREN WON’T HELP.’
Netta pushed up her sleeves and washed her hands in the huge sink. ‘Where do you want me, chef?’
Don pointed to a bench on the other side of the kitchen, where a row of six pizza trays and a rolling pin lay waiting. He divided the dough into equal portions and dropped a piece onto each tray. ‘There’s some flour in the bowl just there so it doesn’t stick.’
Netta sprinkled some flour over each piece of dough, and, of course, all over the front of her black dress. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, trying to dust her belly with one hand while wielding the rolling pin in the other.
‘Here.’ Don threw her a dry tea towel.
She snatched it mid-air, catching it just as the woodpecker declared another arrival at the front door.
Rhona disappeared from the kitchen to answer it and Netta busied herself making an even bigger mess of her dress, the towel doing nothing other than spreading the flour into a bigger, infinitely more noticeable smudge.
Heavy footsteps followed Rhona’s back down the hall to the kitchen and a familiar voice greeted Don behind Netta’s back, causing her stomach to drop so fast and so far it felt like it was holding hands with her colon.
Morrison had arrived.