by K J
“Apparently, you like his manly beard, which he’s wearing in a man-like manner on his manly face.” She hugged Lin with one arm around her shoulders. Lin leaned her head into Sophia’s side, and chuckled.
“Well, my grandmother did tell me that in Chinese tradition, men must keep a clean face.” She reached up to cup Ben’s cheek, the movement sending her elaborate forearm tattoo dancing along her skin, and narrowed her dark eyes mischievously. “I never really listened to my grandmother.” Sophia and Ben laughed, and they followed Lin down the hall into the small combined kitchen and dining room. The little four-person wooden dining table was beautifully arranged, with red individual place settings, and intricately folded cloth napkins. Sophia smiled. That was all Lin’s doing. It was a routine she undertook each time Sophia came for dinner, which was usually once or twice a week. Lin had explained to Sophia, when she’d questioned the effort, that it was significant when family met to eat together, and should be cherished.
Ben puttered around the tiled space that was the kitchen. The new stainless steel oven/stove combination sat comfortably, if not incongruously, in the cut-out alcove where one-hundred years ago an open fire would have been lit. The diagonal bricks above it indicated a long-gone chimney, and a range-hood was now inserted discreetly into the space. Lin poured out two glasses of red wine, offering one to Sophia, who smiled and slid onto a chair at the table. Lin positioned the other glass at Ben’s place, then sat opposite.
“Is this from the shop?” she asked Lin, holding the glass higher in query. Lin nodded, then smoothed her long black hair away from her face, and caught it up in a low ponytail. Ben spoke over his shoulder.
“Yeah. Tell me if you like it. I want to add it to a wine tasting night that I’ve got planned next month.” He scooped his hands into padded mitts, lifted the casserole dish from the oven, and placed it on the bench. “I thought it would go well with tonight’s meal.” He lifted the lid and an explosion of steam and aromas filled the air.
“Wow!” Sophia raised her nose. “That smells amazing! What is it?”
Ben beamed. “It’s lamb, squash, and apricot tagine,” he announced, like a chef on a competitive cooking show. He quickly dished up, brought the plates over, then he sat and as had become their custom, they held hands around the table.
Lin spoke quietly. “It’s your turn, Soph.” Sophia breathed deeply, and nodded softly. She closed her eyes.
“Hi Mum and Dad and all the other relatives for the Lindstrom and Wang families. I’d like to say thanks for always being there for us, and I want you to know that we’re being the best humans we can possibly be for ourselves, each other, and for those whose lives we touch. We eat this meal together as a family to honour and respect your memory.” She huffed out a small breath. This sort of grace, giving thanks and acknowledgement had started after their mum’s car accident. The three remaining Lindstroms had clung together in their grief and one night at dinner, their dad had grasped their hands and, with his eyes closed, he’d had a one-sided conversation with their mum, sharing with her all the details of their day. It had grown from there. In her twenties, on the nights when she wasn’t at a work function, or partying, or staying at the latest-latest girlfriend’s place, or having one of many evenings of solo fuck-the-world drinking, she’d had dinner with her dad and brother, and they’d continued their tradition of Lindstrom grace. Lin had slipped seamlessly into the routine—another tick on the why-Lin-is-amazing list—and when their dad had died, the tradition seemed overwhelmingly profound. He’d left them the entire building, which housed Provender and Sophia’s flat, and also Ben and Lin’s cottage, and they were determined to make him proud. As if reading Sophia’s mind, Ben let go of her hand to pick up his fork.
“Speaking of making him proud, which I know you weren’t speaking of, but you’re always thinking it, are you excited for this season?”
Sophia chewed on a mouthful of food, and mumbled an “oh my God” through her lips, then swallowed. “This is amazing. And yeah, I think there’s some changes coming this season. Good ones. Haven’t got a clue what they are, but I know we’re doubling the teams to twelve and maybe even flying interstate to play our games. Just like real footy teams.” She rolled her eyes at her emphasised word.
Lin laughed, and took a sip of water. “I hope they do a better job this year. It felt so much like an ‘oh yeah oops’ addition last year, as if it was tacked on at the beginning of the men’s season.” She pursed her lips. “I was so happy and so annoyed for you, Soph.” A soft hum floated over the table, as Sophia continued to enjoy her food. “Maybe they’ll recognise you as professional players, which will be good. Then you can coach your niece or nephew.”
“Yeah, I—what?” Sophia’s head shot up, and she stared at Lin, whose smile lit the room. She whipped her head around to Ben, who wore a matching grin. “You’re…?”
Ben laughed. “You’re allowed to say the word. It’s okay. The world won’t implode.”
“Oh my God! You’re pregnant.” Sophia leapt up and danced tiny little steps on the spot, as if suddenly there were a million ants on the floor. “Oh my God!” She took two strides to reach Lin, and held her arms out. “Is it okay to hug you…with…being…?” Lin rolled her eyes, then stood, and embraced Sophia, resting her cheek on Sophia’s chest.
“I’m not breakable, silly.” She squeezed Sophia’s torso.
“Oh, Lin. This is so amazing. I’m so happy for you. How far along?” Sophia gazed down at Lin, who grinned.
“Two months.”
Sophia gaped, peered at the waistband of Lin’s jeans, then looked over to Ben who was still seated. His eyes were sparkling, completely filled with tears. She held Lin’s shoulders and leaned back. “You’re going to be a mum, and…” She stared at her brother. “You’re going to be a dad. Jesus Christ!” She shook her head and went around to haul Ben out of his seat, hugging him fiercely. “Dad would be so chuffed. Good for you.”
After they’d reseated themselves, Sophia pointed her fork at Ben. “This is amazing! Why didn’t you tell me you were thinking about having kids?”
Lin answered for them. “That was my choice, Soph. I wasn’t about to say to people, ‘Hey, I’m trying for a baby’ because all that says to everyone is, ‘Guess what, guys? I’m about to have lots and lots of sex’.”
Sophia dissolved into laughter, as Ben blushed.
Later, on the return journey to her flat, the undulations of emotions, like the waves fanning away from a speedboat, threatened to engulf her heart. The selfish, irrational fear sat simmering, as the anxious voice told her that people always leave and now Ben and Lin would too because the baby would be their focus. Then joy and love rolled in, swamping the anxiety, washing around, and clearing the doubts and the niggly voice. Anxiety, she decided, like last time and the time before, was messy and complicated. And tiring.
Chapter Two
“And then he said that he didn’t, like, think I should be allowed to masturbate because that would be, sort of like, insulting to his performance.” Cam raised her eyebrows at the latest development in the incredible story unfolding behind her. Waiting for her morning latte had never been so entertaining. Please finish your story before my coffee arrives. The young woman—Cam estimated her to be early twenties after a very quick glance over her shoulder—continued regaling the mind-boggling details to whoever was on the other end of her phone call.
“I know! And then I said, like, ‘does he masturbate?’”
Cam nodded. Good question, random coffee-line lady.
“And he goes, well, yeah, and then I—I know, right? So I go ‘so what’s the difference?’ and he—I know, right? And so he goes, like, ‘because he’s a guy’.”
Cam scoffed quietly. Seriously, anonymous solo dude? Her coffee, the little black plastic lid sealing it inside the cup, slid across the counter in front of her. Cam mouthed a ‘thank you’ at the funky, multi-colour-mohawked barista, who lifted his chin in response. She edged to the si
de of the pick-up counter as slowly as she could, without seeming too creepy, to catch the next sentence of the saga.
“And so I go, maybe he should handle himself all the time, because I’m not hanging about for any one-sided sex sessions, you know what I mean?”
Cam grinned. What she said. Then, figuring she’d heard the best part of the story, she shuffled past the other coffee addicts in the queue, delighting in the catalogue of expressions on their faces. You go, Blonde Masturbation Girl! You share those details with the public.
Still giggling, Cam sipped her drink as she walked along the footpath, her brown shoulder-length curly hair matching her steps in a rhythmic bounce; the cadence only interrupted when fellow pedestrians caused her to do a sideways stutter-step, simply to then avoid the caged trees, which were planted at the edge of the footpath next to the road. The cages amused Cam. It was as if the council was worried that the trees would hitch up their roots like skirts and run off across the tram tracks in the centre of the road.
She pushed her black-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of her nose to stop the lenses becoming fogged by the wisps of steam sliding out of the little hole in the lid. Wonderfully random moments like that in the café were perfect for her writing, not that she got the chance to write what she wanted to write lately. Her laptop screen was littered with folders full of ideas, half-finished stories, abandoned manuscripts, and her queer historical novel, which she kept re-reading each week hoping it would magically write itself.
She wriggled the backpack so the straps sat more comfortably on her shoulders and lengthened her stride towards the offices of The Post, her place of employment for the last five years. Cam was a staff writer, but a very low-on-the-ladder staff writer. Really only hanging on to the ladder by a fingernail, if she was honest. It seemed that all the stories were outsourced to freelance journalists nowadays, so she knew it was only a matter of time before she was forced into the freelance life, where she’d have to pitch her pieces around town. Hence the plethora of folders on my laptop. If only Eddie would give her a chance. She shook her head at the thought of her boss. Eddie was a newspaper dinosaur. A misogynistic, homophobic, xenophobic relic who only kept his job because he was a friend of a friend of the Turner family who owned The Post and another billion media outlets around Australia. Whatever point of view the Turners wanted pushed out to the public, Eddie and every other editor or network manager complied, even if it was awful, which suited Eddie just fine because his views aligned with theirs anyway.
Cam was at a point in her life—twenty-eight years old—where she had to make a decision about whether to love the pay cheque and suck up the crap taste that working for a Turner publication left in her mouth. Or dive into the big freelance pond, where significant financial belt-tightening would occur, but at least the air was not polluted by toxic Turner emissions. Or fantasy option number three, which was to score a job at the Beacon, the other big newspaper in the city. It was the rival to The Post, and was completely ethical and wonderful. And there are never any jobs going because people stay there in all that ethical and wonderful wonderfulness. Her boots clicked across the marble floor of the foyer.
So, it was back to options one and two. Ethics versus finances. Melbourne was not a particularly cheap city to live in, and as it was, she already shared her apartment with Francine, the fine arts student at Melbourne Uni who was majoring in ceramics, and J’aann, the massage therapist who only ate food from the warm side of the colour wheel. She couldn’t afford to do anything extreme at the moment. Like quit my job. Because Cam was all about making her own way in life. Always had done. And quitting couldn’t be one of the sweets in the pick-n-mix bag of her independent life. Nope. That bag of goodies was full of things like moving to Melbourne away from her hometown that squatted out beyond the last wombat in Queensland. It was full of completing her journalism degree at uni without assistance. It was full of applying for and scoring a job straight after graduation. Cam’s life was her own and she didn’t need anybody’s help. Or interference. Or entanglement. Like a lover. Cam scoffed, startling the courier standing beside her near the lift. Lovers interfered. They betrayed as well. She frowned. Okay, I may have some unresolved issues there.
Cam shifted some curls from her face, which, as per normal, ignored her efforts and promptly sprang back, then poked at the up button, despite the fact that it was already lit. She packed away the last few thoughts into their various boxes in her brain, and took a long pull from her coffee as she was absorbed by the group of people waiting to enter the lift.
In the five years that she’d worked at The Post, the newsroom landscape had changed dramatically. Eddie still clung desperately to his office with its door that he insisted on slamming on numerous occasions throughout the day. However, the rest of the floor was arranged so teams were within chatting range of each other, which was supposed to foster collaboration, but mostly just encouraged the younger guys to run lines of masking tape along the carpet and conduct team races with the office chairs. The betting pool for the Grand Prix event each Friday afternoon was deep. The ‘huddle spaces’—tables grouped around charging cables and power points—were another collaboration-enhancing brainwave from the efficiency team flown down from Sydney last January.
“Miss Weathers!” Eddie’s voice bellowed her name across the open space. Cam paused momentarily, as the thought of shrugging off the backpack at her desk came and went. Instead, she headed straight to Eddie’s office, striding across the grey carpet tiles, which were so thin that it may as well have been bare concrete under the soles of her boots, and tossed her coffee cup in the bin at the last work station. She knocked, and straightened her five foot seven frame.
“Come in!” yelled Eddie’s disembodied voice and she rolled her eyes at his power play. He had opened the door, shouted her name, then closed the door simply to force her to knock and be granted entry. It was ridiculous, and she was still shaking her head as she pushed inside. Eddie, tall and thin, with a large nose buried under bushy eyebrows, like a cartoon buzzard, was planted behind his desk, his hands splayed on the wooden top; a judge overlooking his court. “Sit, sit.” He gestured impatiently at the green chair on the other side, so Cam pulled the backpack straps over her arms, dropped it to the side of the chair, and duly sat. Eddie fixed his gaze on her face as if trying to place her in relation to the work stations outside. “What do you do here?” he grunted, his eyebrows pushed down.
Really? “I create content for the paper’s website. Usually summaries of the latest stories.” Cam watched the incomprehension deepen in Eddie’s face. “Um, I chase down some of the content for the stories that the senior reporters cover…” She faltered, and unable to think of anything else to offer that would assist in her answer, decided instead to smooth her palms along the tops of her jeans.
Eddie huffed. “Okay. Well, I have a job for you. A series. It’s a favour for a friend at the AFL.” Cam held her breath. Eddie nodded slowly, staring blankly past her left ear, then narrowed his gaze, like he was weighing up whether to have one sugar or two in his coffee. He slid his eyes to Cam. “What do you know about the women’s AFL?” Cam blinked. Then blinked again, and decided honesty was the only response.
“Um. Not a lot. I know it’s football and it started last year, and they’re running another season this year.” She shrugged helplessly. “The ball isn’t round, and you kick it through white poles?” Cam raised her eyebrows at the end of her sentence, hoping her answers were what Eddie wanted to hear. He hummed in acquiescence.
“Good. That’s all you need to know. It’s not like you’ll be writing up a weekly match analysis.” He smiled, which was faintly terrifying. “The AFL women’s competition is getting some promotion this year, and my friend, Dennis Harrington, who’s on the board, wants some pieces about the girls—”
“Women.” Cam smiled thinly.
Eddie waved his hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah. So you’re gonna follow some of the girls—women—around for the
season. Find out what they like to eat, when they find time to get their nails done in between games, that sort of thing. Make them likeable.”
Cam gaped. “But none of that stuff has anything to do with football.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s about promotion and getting spectators to go to matches. Choose the pretty ones, okay?”
Cam pulled her head back towards her neck, poked at her glasses, and stuttered a couple of inarticulate noises before she could speak. “So, I’m writing puff pieces.” Her laugh of disbelief sounded more like a cough. “The players will hate it. How am I supposed to get them to talk to me about that stuff?”
“You work it out, Weathers. They’ll talk to you. They’re your people.”
Cam’s mouth and eyebrows pushed down in confusion. “My people?” Then it dawned on her. She eased back, folded her arms, and rested her ankle across the knee of her other leg. “Oh! Like curly-haired people? Or people with glasses? Or people who wear quite a lot of denim?”
Eddie frowned and shuffled papers on his desk. “You know what I’m talking about,” he growled. “You’re part of the rainbow flag…community. They’re your people. The AFL women’s league is full of…lesbians.” He cleared his throat.
This is unbelievable. Yet so completely believable, since it was Eddie. “Do you have any idea how deeply offensive that is?”
“It’s fine. They won’t mind—”
“I mind.”
He ploughed on. “Don’t mention that aspect, though, in your stories. People don’t need to know that sort of information.” He stood, scooped up a sheet of paper, and thrust it at her. “Here. The date and time of the first meeting that the girls—” Cam glared at him as she took the piece of paper. Eddie sighed. “—the women have to attend. I want you there as well.” He pointed. “The address is at the top.” Cam folded the paper in half, then stood and collected her backpack. He pinned her with a steady gaze. “Read up on the footy rules, Weathers, so you go in with some idea. I need copy each Friday for ten weeks.” Then he flapped his hand in dismissal, and after a moment to absorb the gesture, Cam plastered a smile on her face, and injected a note of overwhelming happiness into her voice.
