Part 27 (2/2)

'Hot cross buns, anybody? The dough should have risen by now. I'm adjusting my recipe this year-using lime zest instead of lemon to mix it up a bit.'

'Sounds delish,' said Debs, kissing Daphne's forehead. 'In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out whose hot buns Ruby's been crossing.'

'Oh, very droll,' I said, not even thinking about it.

Much.

'Has Ruby got a boyfriend?' probed my aunt.

'No, I don't have a boyfriend. I did accidentally slip and fall on a journalist though, which in hindsight wasn't my wisest move.'

'Did you hurt yourself, Aunty Wooby?' My stealthy niece's ringlets were tucked up into a towel-turban almost twice the height of her.

Debs cackled. 'Good question, Clem.'

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. 'Not really,' I said, 'just a little bruised, that's all.'

'And the journalist?'

'The journalist is fine. He wasn't hurt at all.'

'Who wasn't hurt?' asked Fran. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks squared.

'The journalist who Aunty Wooby slipped and fell on.'

Debs was gleeful with the salaciousness of it all.

'I see,' said Fran with a disapproving big sister look. 'Why don't you go and find the puppies, darling?'

With Clem at a distance the interrogation intensified. 'You're sleeping with a journalist?' The three women gathered around, cornering me against the kitchen bench.

'It's more past tense and singular an episode than that,' I said. There hadn't really been time since leaving Canberra on the previous Monday to dissect the Oscar incident over a box of Kleenex and a s.e.x and the City marathon, as any right-minded female would have done.

'Which one?' asked Debs.

'Not a chance,' I said.

'They're mostly feral,' she said. 'Did you sleep with a feral one?'

'No.'

'Then you slept with a hot one. That narrows it substantially- pretty much rules out print and radio.'

'I didn't say that. It was a stupid mistake anyway. I don't want to relive it, if it's okay by all of you.'

Debs whipped out her BlackBerry.

'What are you doing, Debs?' asked Daphne.

'Googling TV journos from the national press gallery.'

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks cubed.

'Now, darling, leave poor Ruby alone,' said my aunt. 'I'm sure she'll tell us if she wants us to know.'

'Tell me,' said Fran. 'I'm your sister.'

'I suppose that makes you a bastion of confidentiality?' I could recall countless examples of merciless teasing over high school beaus, including one my family affectionately dubbed Lumpy Liam.

Cue the emotional blackmail. 'I'm going through an exceptionally difficult time in my life at the moment, Ruby, as you're well aware, so I think I have the right to know who my baby sister is bonking.'

Debs and Daphne exchanged concerned glances.

'Bonked. Single occurrence. Past tense.'

'Okay,' said Debs, scrolling s.a.d.i.s.tically. 'There are only four possible candidates-the rest are female, unless...?'

I shook my head.

'Okay, so that leaves us with Michael Joyce?'

'Is he still alive?' asked Daphne, checking the buns in the oven.

'Apparently so,' said Debs.

I stood still and silent.

'What about that Patrick man from Network Six?' asked my aunt, dismounting the moral high horse she'd only just saddled.

'No, he's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the proprietor. Everyone knows that. What about that Oliver what's his name?'

'Oh, I know who you're talking about.' Daphne clicked her fingers and bit her bottom lip to make her brain work faster. 'Oscar Franklin!'

Debs stopped scrolling. All three of them stared at me. The oven timer buzzed.

'Bingo!' squealed Fran delightedly, high-fiving Debs. 'Show me a picture!'

Naturally I was pleased to see my discomfort bring such renewed vivacity to my sister. 'He's hot, Ruby!'

'I'll set the table,' I said.

It was both impressive and amusing to watch three grown women find a plethora of s.e.xual innuendoes in religious buns at teatime. Thankfully, halfway through, my phone rang.

'Roo speaking.'

'Roo, it's Oscar.'

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