"The roses are dead,
The violets are too,
Don't mention romance,
You'll make me spew."
Francesca Burton knows all there is to know about love and romance. She knows that love is for the naïve and romance is for the delusional. Her parents taught her...
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My mother's midnight blue Mercedes coupe pulls up at the Riordans' at 6:30pm sharp. If there is one thing that Principal Burton is a stickler for, it's punctuality. Many a St Mark's student has earned themselves a detention trying to sneak in the side gate after the second bell has gone.
"How did it go?" she asks me, reapplying her lipstick while I do up my seat belt.
"Okay," I say with a noncommittal shrug.
"I'm so pleased that you and Travers are studying together. That boy has an impeccable academic record. You could learn a lot from him." She gives me a quick, pointed look as we pull away from the curb.
"I told you. We aren't study buddies or anything. We just have to do this BusComm thing together."
"Still, you couldn't have asked for a better partner. And if you apply yourself to this, maybe when it's over he'll be willing to keep studying with you..."
Not in the mood to listen to another episode of 'Ode to the Great Travers Riordan', or to the unsubtle digs about my own general lack of academic greatness, I quickly change the subject.
"How was the School Council meeting?"
"Oh, a complete palaver as usual. I cannot believe that John McDonald. How he ended up being Council President I will never understand. You will not believe the motion he tried to move..."
And she's off and running. When it comes to my mother, I am the master of distraction. One thing my father and I have in common.
By the time we pull into our driveway, I know more about Old John McDonald and his farmyard of 'ludicrous' motions than I would ever need or want to. But my sole required contribution to the conversation has been the occasional head nod or appropriately timed "unbelievable". I bought myself ten minutes free from parental interrogation and that's what counts.
Unlike the Riordans' house, the Burton abode is not a period classic. No weatherboards or soft colour schemes or farmhouse style kitchens for us. We're all sharp angles and hard edges; experimental materials and polished concrete. Lots and lots of polished concrete. Great for sliding in your socks, not so great for lounging around on.
I'm sure there's a metaphor in there. It's not even a very subtle one.
"There you are, my beautiful ladies."
Meet Michael Burton. Husband of Olivia. Father of Francesca. Charmer of the world. Dutifully out the front of his house, watering his ornamental pear trees, still in his suit.
I look like him, which I used to love but now don't. Dark haired, pale skinned and blue eyed. A single dimple in our left cheeks. Slim, athletic build. A bit taller than average.
"Hello Darling," my mother says to him, wrapping her arms around him from behind.
"Livvie Lou," he replies, leaning back into her embrace. "I bought you a present today. Something beautiful that reminded me of you. I just couldn't help myself."
