All Aces

by Ellie Marney

  ‘This is amazing.’ He does a couple of experimental wrist snaps. ‘Really. This is awesome. Thank you.’

  Occasionally, I have a good idea, and right now is one of those glorious moments. ‘If you want more practise, why don’t you sign up to lead a workshop? It’d get you into a training schedule, and you’d get used to audiences again.’

  He cocks his head. I’ve gotten his attention. ‘They’re paying you for the workshops?’

  ‘Yes. It’s good money.’

  ‘Money is always good,’ he says, considering. ‘You think they’d take a washed-up cardsharp as a workshop leader?’

  ‘You’re performing soon, so I don’t think you qualify as washed-up. And they’ve got a contortionist teaching yoga, I’m pretty sure they could find you something to do. You could teach basic card tricks, three-card sleight, shuffling–everyone wants to learn how to do a waterfall shuffle. Go see Andi Jones if you want to sign up.’

  ‘I will.’ He smiles, then inclines his head in a short-form bow. ‘Muchas gracias, Ren.’

  ‘Kembali,’ I say, grinning. ‘No problem.’

  I leave Prac Shed Two, walking slow. Over the last month, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Zep Deal: the way he carried me out of the tent when everything was smoky, the way he spoke to me then, the rumours about him. He’s become a kind of mythical being in my head, like a unicorn or a garuda.

  But he’s not a myth. He’s a real person. His fingers are shapely. He’s Spanish-speaking. He has joint stiffness in his hands. He swears. See? Completely real.

  It’s not until I get back to my dorm room that I realise I didn’t locate the props.

  Fuckity fucking fuck.

  Two

  Sorsha stands between my bed and my dresser, to the right of the small mirror I’ve set up. ‘So you and Zep Deal are going to the CBD together to lead workshops at Cadell’s.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Tell me again how this happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t make it happen–it was Jones.’

  ‘But you suggested the workshop idea to Zep?’

  ‘Yes.’ I put down my pressed powder brush, pick up my lip pencil. ‘But it was just a suggestion. He wasn’t obliged to act on it.’

  ‘Well clearly he did act on it. And now you’re…’

  ‘Going into the CBD. To Cadell’s. With Zep. Yes. This is what is happening.’ I outline my lips carefully with the umber tip of the pencil.

  Sorsha’s eyes narrow. ‘And this has nothing to do with Zep rescuing you from the fire.’

  ‘It is entirely unrelated.’ I pause. ‘I mean, I suggested the workshops to him as a…kindness. To help him out.’

  ‘As a kindness?’

  ‘Yes. Because he once helped me. And he was looking for a way to get back into performance, so this seemed like a good way to do that. But the suggestion and the rescue are unrelated.’

  ‘Right. And now you’re going to Cadell’s. Together.’

  I pick up my eyeliner pencil. ‘You’re linking those things in your sentences like they’re related. But I just told you–’

  ‘They’re not related. Okay.’ Sorsha makes a sceptical face. Then she sighs. ‘Do you want me to help you with your slap?’

  ‘Yes, please. You’re better at eyeliner than me.’

  I pass her the pencil and she plonks down on the bed near my chair, gently tilting my chin with her hand. ‘Look up. Okay, I don’t mean to poke my nose in. It’s just that you’re my best friend, and I don’t know anything about Zep Deal except what I hear, and what I hear is about seventy percent bad.’

  I keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling of my dorm room. ‘Didn’t Colm used to work with him in the mech yard? What did Colm say?’

  ‘He was the thirty percent good,’ Sorsha admits. ‘I’m still cautious. Okay, I’m done.’

  She’s put the eyeliner pencil back into my makeup bag, so I take her hand. ‘I love that you’re thinking of me. But this is not a date. We’re going together so neither of us gets lost, and because our workshops start and end at the same time. And the classes run late–you know I don’t like walking around the city after dark on my own. Jones set it up. I honestly had no input at all.’

  Sorsha squints at me. ‘What if he really is an arsonist?’

  I consider this seriously. Yesterday afternoon, Zep seemed…skittish. Why would he be nervous if his slate was clean? But on the other hand, I don’t put much faith in gossip, especially gossip that seems out of character, or at least what I know of his character.

  ‘I’m intrigued and confused by the rumours,’ I say. ‘I don’t believe Zep is an arsonist. But I don’t know anything about him, either. I can’t form an opinion about a boy I barely know.’

  ‘Fair call.’ Sorsha nods, then smiles. ‘You look great. Your workshop will go off, I reckon.’

  I tuck the rest of my makeup into the practical pencil case where it all lives, grab my barrette. ‘I’m looking forward to it. It’ll be a break from study. And it feels like a performance–I miss performance.’

  ‘God, yes. That’s one of the reasons I signed up.’ Sorsha grabs a hair tie from the collection she’s dumped on my dresser and gathers her flaming ringlets with both hands. She speaks around the hair tie between her teeth. ‘I could happily fly all day on my own, just for fun, but I miss having an audience.’

  ‘Two more weeks,’ I remind her.

  ‘If the re-open date doesn’t get pushed back again.’ She twists the hair tie around her ponytail and frowns. ‘I’m worried we’ll lose more performers if that happens.’

  ‘How are rehearsals going without Rueben?’

  She shrugs. ‘We’ve been able to compensate. We’ve had to work out a completely different routine with Dee doing some catching–in some ways, it’s a more innovative routine. But it’s not ideal. I kind of wish I could invite my old trapeze family to join us. Alby and Ceilidh are amazing. But my aunt would kill me if I gutted the McNally’s trapeze act.’

  ‘Then I guess we need to find you a new catcher somewhere else.’ I fix the barrette in place. ‘I’m done. How do I look?’

  ‘Hot. Amazing. Limber. Hot. Are you sure this isn’t a date?’ She grins at my glower. ‘I’m kidding. You’re wearing something over your leotard, though, right? Because you’ll be the envy of every flabby commuter in the CBD, but skin-tight, fractal-patterned bodysuits aren’t exactly low-key city fashion.’

  I grab my overalls off the bed. ‘I’m wearing these over the top. And my Cons.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  I smile. ‘Good luck with your kids’ workshop.’

  ‘I’m a bit terrified,’ she admits. ‘I’m hoping it will pass.’

  My training bag is packed with my folded mat, a strap, a water bottle, my taxi whistle in case the bus fails us–my sister gave me that tip–and my phone, which has a relaxing playlist of mellow instrumental tracks that are nothing like the music I use in performance. I have a running order of yoga positions in my Notes app, but I’ll adapt to suit the workshop participants.

  Sorsha says her goodbyes–she’s meeting Colm in twenty minutes, and she needs to check the Prac Shed equipment first–as I tuck my small purse, with my public transport card, into the front pocket of my overalls bib. I tie my shoes and leave the dorm for the north gate.

  It’s five-thirty p.m., and the light is fading: I still get a fine view of the back of the Spiegeltent as I walk along the Parade Road. The huge, candy-striped balloon of the Big Top stands tall, the canvas skin taut. But it’s as if something took a big bite out of its back end. Repair scaffolding pokes out of the open gash in the fabric, and at this hour, klieg spotlights are illuminating work stations. A few people move about, like ants over a big iced cake at a picnic; I see the bright flare of an arc welder, hear the buzz of faraway talk. Mitch Gibson, the show’s chief engineer, is prob
ably up there right now directing operations.

  I have to walk right past Mr Gibson’s office to get to the north gate. They’ve built a temporary set of stairs leading off the path around the engineering and admin offices. It takes pedestrians directly to the patron car park, where the concrete is still damp from this afternoon’s rain. Beyond that lies the midway, where more repairs are taking place at the tent’s front entrance.

  I go straight to the gate, the iron smell of wet blacktop fresh in my nose. The air is damp and fresh, cooling as the sun goes down.

  At first, I think Zep is a no-show. But then he moves out of the shadow of the gate, where he’s been leaning against the wall. He’s wearing black skinny jeans, a Henley the colour of gravel, a mid-length, black leather jacket with a hood, and what Sorsha calls ‘shitkicker’ boots. A messenger bag is slung over his shoulder, and the strap pulls his collar away from his clavicle. He’s wearing a hat–not a top hat. It’s short-brimmed, with a dark green feather in the band–a fedora? I don’t know, I’m not good with hats. But combined with his crow’s-wing hair, it makes him look rakish.

  ‘Hey.’ He shifts on his feet, hands shoved in his pockets.

  ‘Hey.’ The jacket, the hat–this is Zep’s stage costume, I realise. And I don’t think he’s worn it in a while. ‘You look great.’

  It’s the right thing to say–his shoulders relax. ‘I feel under-dressed. Too casual, I mean.’

  ‘It’s fine. It’s just workshops, remember? Nobody will mind if you dress down a little.’

  ‘You don’t look dressed down. You look amazing.’ He pauses. ‘Sorry. Was that too forward? We don’t know each other very well yet.’

  I like that he said yet. ‘Not forward. And I’m wearing overalls and Cons, which is as casual as I thought I could get away with. What time is the bus?’

  He checks his watch. ‘In eight minutes. Come on, the stop is a block away.’

  I like that he has a watch. And he said ‘eight minutes’–not ‘in about ten’ or ‘soon’. He’s precise with time. I like that even better. This is not a date. I repeat that to myself a couple of times in my mind as we cross the road and walk up one block to the bus stop.

  At least I can think of topics of conversation. ‘How are your fingers?’

  Zep doesn’t go for the easy joke about his fingers’ relative shapeliness. ‘Better. I’ve been doing those exercises and the ice, like you suggested. It’s made a huge improvement. So I need to thank you again.’

  ‘You already thanked me once. That’s plenty.’

  ‘Well, you’ve stopped me from getting carpal tunnel syndrome and shown me a way to earn extra cash while we’re waiting for the re-open. I feel like I owe you a favour.’

  I grin. ‘Are you kidding? Since the fire, I’m operating at a favour deficit. You currently have about a hundred favours on the tab, so you’re fine.’

  He blushes. ‘A hundred sounds excessive.’

  ‘No way. Anyhow, I’m happy to help with the therapy, if it’s improved your practice. That’s why I’m studying–to help people train better, or relieve pain, or just allow folks to live more pleasant lives. It’s good to know the theory works.’

  He steps back to give me room so we can cross the road together. ‘You want to treat performers once you qualify?’

  ‘Yes.’ I watch passing traffic. ‘There are many injuries or conditions specific to the kinds of physical activities that show people perform. I can treat tennis elbow any day of the week. I’d rather treat a trapeze artist’s shoulder strain.’

  He side-eyes me. ‘Or a cardsharp’s tendonitis.’

  ‘Or a cardsharp’s tendonitis, yes. Although if your tendons get that inflamed, the therapy’s not working, so tell me and we’ll try something else.’

  He snorts and smiles, just as the bus arrives.

  We swipe our travel cards and Zep finds us places near the middle. The bus is packed.

  I look around at all the commuters. ‘I forgot it’s the end of the work day. Will we be delayed in traffic?’

  ‘We’ll be okay,’ Zep assures me. ‘We’re heading into the CBD, not out of it. And I asked Jones to schedule us on the earlier bus. Even if we’re a few minutes off, we’ll make it on time.’

  Phew. I hate being late, especially for the first session of a new job. This workshop series is a new job–I’m now working a second job to keep my first job afloat. That’s not an angle I’ll be spinning to my mother.

  Once passengers disembark, Zep and I manage to get a bench seat together. The bus trundles onward, and I quickly get lost in the streets, switchbacks and turns. A few distinctive buildings act as landmarks–a garish supermarket, a stately turn of the century public library–but if I had to find my way back alone, I would probably struggle. It takes me a second to realise that Zep is looking at my expression as I watch the darkening city out the window.

  ‘Do you know where we’re going?’ he asks.

  ‘Um, I know the general area? But I don’t really know the location.’

  ‘It’s okay. It’s easy to find.’

  He’s right. The bus lets us out about a block and a half away, and Zep leads unerringly to the street number we need. I think he knows the city way better than me. Admittedly that wouldn’t be hard–I hardly ever venture into the CBD.

  The building we’re going into has its own security guard station in the foyer. Cadell Event Management occupies a suite of offices on the twenty-second floor. We’re checked and name-tagged and directed to the lift, which is mirrored inside. We step in and I hit the button, then we wait. My stomach rises with the lift.

  Zep is quiet. If I wasn’t distracted by the imminent workshop, I’d feel more self-conscious about the way our mirror images stand side-by-side. Zep is taller than me, wider across the shoulders, but his overall build is slim-hipped and rangy. He really does look good in those jeans, with the hat. The main thing I notice is that his reflection looks as apprehensive as mine.

  ‘I’m nervous.’ I think I’m speaking for both of us. ‘I haven’t done a workshop before.’

  Zep stares at the rising numbers above the door. ‘Me either.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. How hard can teaching office workers be?’

  Zep blows out a breath. ‘If I get really stuck, I guess I can always pick their pockets.’

  I turn to say You can do that? just as the doors open with a polite chime. A very attractive, very blonde lady in a pantsuit is waiting for us. She has excellent teeth.

  ‘Hi, welcome to Cadell’s! It’s Ms Putri and Mr Deal, is that right?’

  Pantsuit Lady has a clipboard, and this small marker of organisation and efficiency makes me trust her implicitly. She ushers us through another foyer and into a wide hallway with a number of office doors and some open-plan spaces. The colour scheme in here is restrained neutrals, with bright touches of teal and warm orange and red in the carpets and artwork–someone has done a great job on the décor.

  ‘You have nice offices,’ I say. I don’t want Pantsuit Lady to think we don’t appreciate her, or the chance to work at Cadell’s.

  ‘Thank you!’ She beams. ‘Have you taught corporate workshops before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Well, I guess it might be a little different from the Big Top!’ she jokes, then waves us to the right. ‘And wow, circus performing! That sounds amazing. You haven’t ever worked in an office?’

  ‘I think I’d rather die,’ I say, and Zep fails to conceal a snort. ‘But this looks lovely. Thank you for everything!’

  ‘Uh, my pleasure!’ Pantsuit Lady says, looking a little confused. She checks her clipboard. ‘Your workshop finishes at eight-thirty. If you need anything before then, just buzz for me. I’ll let you get settled in. Mr Deal, please come this way.’

  ‘Break a leg,’ I offer as he walks off.

  He grins. ‘Yo
u, too.’

  I look around: the space in here is like a community networking area. There are large windows with adjustable blinds, sound-quieting carpet, potted plants on benchtops, and couches pushed back against the walls. All my props are stacked in the corner.

  I can work with this.

  Two hours later–I don’t need Pantsuit Lady to find my way back–Zep and I meet up in the CEM foyer. We grin as we reconvene on the teal-and-orange carpet, then we get into the lifts together.

  ‘We’re both still alive. Go us.’ I smile. ‘So did you have to resort to pickpocketing?’

  ‘No.’ Zep looks visibly less stressed, his posture loose. ‘But I did a few steals at the end, for laughs. How did your session go?’

  ‘Really well. Some of the executives seemed uncomfortable in sweatpants–I mean, who doesn’t like sweatpants? But there were a few people who were really stretchy. Once I stopped worrying about what I was teaching and just had fun, it was fine.’

  We stand in the lift again, the same as we did earlier, but everything feels different. We’re still ‘at work’ until we leave the building, so we’re not relaxed quite yet, but I can feel how my muscles have released.

  Zep eyes the descending numbers before we reach the entry floor. ‘Did this feel like an audition to you?’

  ‘It felt like an audition,’ I concede, as the doors open. ‘I hope we passed.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Zep says.

  The night is cooler now. There must have been another shower of rain while we were inside; the pavement is damp and the air has a bite. The CBD is streaked with flashing neon and car headlights.

  I buy a smoothie on the way back to the bus stop because I’m suddenly starving, and offer some to Zep because I’ll never drink a whole smoothie. We pass it back and forth as we walk, talking about our respective workshop experiences. We only have to wait two minutes for the bus, and it’s way less occupied than on the way in–we can get separate seats, but the seats are right next to each other so we can still talk.

  My words occasionally trail off mid-sentence as I watch the scenery out the window. The city is such a bizarre mix of architecture and advertising hoardings and people… Whenever I finish gazing at some distraction and look back at Zep, he’s watching me with an amused expression. Is my scattershot attention funny? I guess it must be.