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Bollocks to barbecuing!
A man with a ruddy face and a cap that read “Proud Grey Nomad” appeared at her shoulder.
“Now, love, what’s going on here?” Both their gazes travelled to the chop, nicely coated in dirt.
“It’s salvageable,” the man said. “Here, give me the tongs.” He picked it up, scraped off the dirt with a knife and added with a cheeky grin, “Give it to hubby and tell him it’s a crumbed lamb chop. My name’s Mitch, by the way. That woman rabbiting on to the others over there is Shelley, my wife, and the rest are some old codgers who’re scrounging our Horses Doovers.”
“For the love of god, Mitch, she won’t know what you’re talking about.Hors d’oeuvres,he means,” shouted Shelley.
Felicity gave a feeble wave to the assembled group of six. “Hi everyone. I’m Felicity.”
“You don’t sound from around this neck of the woods. Where you from?” Mitch asked.
“London.”
“Which part?”
“Islington.”
“Mitch was born in Hackney,” piped up Shelley. “He’s a ten-pound pom.”
“I’m sorry, but what’s that?” Felicity asked, one eye still on her spitting chops.
“It was an incentive plan to get workers to come over here from the UK when I was a young’un. You only had to pay ten pounds to migrate.” Mitch gestured towards Shelley. “And then I mether-who-must-be-obeyedand she pinned me down to a life of marital hardship.”
With a snort, Shelley got up, pulled down the corners of her blue shirt and marched over to the barbecue. She pushed Mitch out the way and took a good look at the pots and pans. “Here love, pass me the tongs and I’ll sort it for you.” And within a couple of minutes the chops, peas and potatoes were on the plates, just as Felicity saw Oliver sauntering over.
Shelley looked up, did a double-take, and gave Mitch a dig in the ribs.
“Look. It’s that guy.”
“Which guy?”
“The guy on the cover of that ‘How to be wealthy at sixty’ book. You know the one, I’ve been reading you snippets out of it.”
“Don’t be daft.”
The group of six were standing now and craning their necks.
“It is him,” Shelley said. “Gotta be.” She proceeded to shout raucously, “Hoi, are you that finance guru guy who writes those books on how to get rich?”
Oliver halted, momentarily taken aback.
“Yes, er—I guess I am.”
Shelley sandwiched her cheeks between her palms. “Oh my gawd, oh my gawd! Can you believe I’m reading your book, right now?”
And suddenly it was like an actor had taken to the stage. In the lights of the camp kitchen his white teeth flashed, his dark eyes sparkled. Charm oozed out of every pore as Oliver laughed off the women’s excited squeals, shook the men’s hands vigorously, and magnanimously agreed to wait while Shelley ran to her camper to grab her book for him to sign.
Meanwhile, Felicity cast nervous glances at the fast-cooling food.
A few minutes later, book in hand, Oliver was shaking his head as he opened it. “Jeesh, I really can’t believe I wrote all this. There’s a really good section on self-managed super funds at the back. I’m not sure which page, but it will be in the index.” He flicked through to the back of the book and suddenly his expression changed. Felicity watched as he blinked and his features pinched, the smile wiped away and the muscle in his jaw ticked.
“Yes—well, it’s in one of the later chapters. Now, will you excuse me? I have to um… eat, yes—we have to eat.” He glanced at Felicity, his face oddly blank, before turning on his heels and striding off.
“I’ll bring the dinner over, shall I then?” she called after him.
He raised a hand, and she wasn’t sure if it was a wave of assent or… good lord, whatever had come over him?
