There are some stands to hide behind in the liquor section, but I also know it is easy to be cornered there, with only one checkout, one way out. Ambush territory. I’m selecting a shiraz, and I hear a voice I know. It is a man’s voice, and not one I want to hear: Ben Ruder. He is asking the young, dopey guy behind the counter why they’ve put the price up on a particular whisky. The young guy doesn’t have any answers, and Ben demands he go and get a manager to explain. The young man disappears, and Ben strolls away from the counter, obviously waiting for a result. I move further down the display of reds to the merlots, which I consider unsuitable, and keep my back to Ben, showing I’m far too engrossed in my potential purchase to engage in any other sort of interaction. It doesn’t stop him. He takes a few loud steps in my direction and says, ‘Martin, I’d stay away from that Slade woman if I were you. Lot of bad rumours going around about her.’ He sniggers. ‘She’d be too much for a wuss like you to handle.’
It’s dirty and nasty, and I ignore him. The young attendant returns with his explanation. I stay perusing the reds until I hear Ben complaining again about the price, and maintaining he’ll take his business elsewhere. I pick two shirazes, grab a sav blanc in case Elaine’s not a red drinker, and add a case of beer to my trolley. And then I move to the section with expensive reds, choose one at the top end of the price range, turn, yell ‘Ben!’ and then toss the pricey bottle at him. He swivels to see the missile arcing through the air at him. His instinct won’t allow him to drop something that might be very valuable. His face reddens and his eyes widen, and his unthinking response is to juggle the bottle from side to side, eventually grasping it by the neck and stopping it crashing to the floor. He expels a breath, looks at me fiercely, puts the bottle on the counter, and leaves.
The young guy lets out a stifled laugh. I purse my lips, shake my head, and say, ‘Dickhead.’
He swallows a grin as he keys in my purchases. ‘Does it every week. Miserable bastard. Complains about price. No matter what he buys, he complains about the cost. I could call my supervisor in, over the mic, but he won’t come. So I just pretend to go and see him.’
I push my trolley to the ute, and almost ask aloud: ‘Are there really rumours about Elaine? What sort?’ A large woman in maroon tracksuit alongside a maroon sedan watches me mumble my way past. Tonight I am going to give Elaine a few drinks and a nice meal, and ask her everything.