Fury by Shirley Marr

sticky to the touch. Dr Fadden orders at the counter. I look down at my feet; I forgot I’m still wearing my new Manolo Blahniks. I kick the straps off impatiently. The backs of my feet are all bruised and my toes ache.
    “My mum’s in the legal system too,” I tell Dr Fadden as he sits down opposite me. “She’s always schmoozing it up in cocktail lounges, so shouldn’t you be somewhere nicer?”
    I see his eyes flutter toward the ceiling for a micro second.
    “You hate being here.” I narrow my eyes at him. “When you were young and still had dreams did you ever think it’d end up like this?”
    “I like my job,” says the doctor. Well good on him. At least I know he likes one thing.
    “We are not here on a play-date to talk about me. You know we only need to talk about one person. Here, I ordered a drink for you.”
    An angry-looking waitress plonks a tall metal cup in front of me. Guess I don’t blame her. If I worked here I would be angry too.
    Maybe for the first time in my life I can relate to someone else; maybe working at the canteen has changed me. Just imagine what my father would say if he hadn’t been absent for ten years already. He would say, “Eliza, you are learning to be humble, I’m proud of you.”
    I look inside the metal cup. It is a strawberry milkshake. I pick out the sinking plastic straw.
    “This is a straight straw. Can I get a bendy one?”
    Dr Fadden motions for the waitress without flinching. The same waitress comes over and she looks at me with contempt. She goes away and comes back with a red and white striped straw. A bendy one.
    “By the way, this is skim milk isn’t it?” I dip the straw in and take a sip.
    Oops. About the “humble” thing. I guess I’ll have to try again.
    “Can you get me a drink as well?” The doctor asks.
    “What would you like?”
    “I don’t care. As long as it’s served up in a wine glass.”
    The waitress gives an understanding nod and one last glare at me before she walks off.
    “I’m not his precocious Gen-Y daughter y’know,” I mumble more to myself than anyone else. “I’m not that bad.”
    “You know according to phrenology, women are seen as incapable of committing crimes because they are considered the weak and passive sex,” says the doctor.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Facial profiling. It says that women who are born criminals will exhibit physical characteristics such as excessive body hair, wrinkles and an abnormal cranium.”
    My hand flies to my face to touch the space between my eyebrows and I can see something resembling a smile on his face.
    “That’s not true!” I frown. “Or funny!”
    “You wanted to know why an anthropologist was assigned to you and I’m telling you what I do.”
    “Fine then. I’ll do the talking,” I say, backing down and away. “As I was saying before, Ella invited us over to her house. Well, Ella’s mother’s dress studio was like—WOW. Sure, they could only afford the worst house in East Rivermoor, but the important thing was despite where they came from before, they were now living in the best neighbourhood…”
    “Keep on track, Eliza,” reminds Dr Fadden. “You promised me you were going to talk about Ella.”
    “Oh yeah, that,” I reply.
    ***
    “Oh my God,” I mouthed.
    Behind me Lexi was also staring with her mouth open. I don’t think she’d closed her mouth since I let slip about Ella’s mum.
    Ella finished securing the French doors back against the wall and bounced forward to join us. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
    “More than lovely!” breathed Lexi.
    We stared greedily around the room, trying to take in as much as possible. Both walls were stacked with the most gorgeous fabrics in shelves that rose up to the ceiling. High in one corner a roll of cream muslin had rolled to the floor, leaving a trail like some fantasy spider’s thread. The huge bay window bathed the room in late afternoon sunlight, turning everything gold. Oh yeah, I had reached the end of the