Ah, Joni, get over yourself. It’s never going to happen. I pull the chain and feel ridiculously immature for letting myself get so carried away with my mid-wee Michael Nyman fantasy.
I realise I’ve been in the outhouse toilet for an unusually long time. People will be thinking I can’t flush my giant poo, or I’ve got diarrhoea, or worse, that I’m uncomfortably constipated. Straightening my dress, taking in a deep breath, I exit and climb the stairs back up into Harland. The warmth and chattering of my co-workers takes my mind off how much I hate myself for being such a daydreaming, late-blooming loser.
The first thing that grabs my attention is Lucy who, I notice, is leaning over what looks like an old record player. ‘Kill that radio in the kitchen, would you, Davey,’ she orders loudly.
‘Party pooper!’ yells Dave, peeking around the doorway. Then he quickly changes his tune: ‘Oh, gramophone time! Old-fashioned dance hall time!’
‘I thought you were saving this up for the winter staff dinner!’ Juliet calls out to Lucy, untwisting the wire on the top of a champagne bottle. The cork pops, rebounding from the ceiling straight into my shoulder.
‘Ouch,’ I shriek. ‘Juliet!’
‘Joni, let me fill your glass, sweetheart.’
Lucy closes the restaurant and holds two staff dinners each year. A summertime one—which I went to in January, and loved—and a winter dinner, which is coming up in about six weeks. Two of her schoolfriends from France joined us for the summertime dinner, and Lucy brought out a box of dress-ups, and we all carried on dancing and drinking until the wee hours of the morning. It was incredibly fun. Crazy fun, actually. I’m so excited for the upcoming winter one.
I scull my remaining wine and hand Juliet my coupe. She fills it to the brim. Lucy meanwhile dumps a pile of incredibly old records on the table. I can see some of the sleeves look off-white, tea-stained. I head straight for the pile. I love music, although I’ve never learnt an instrument. Taking a sip of bubbly champagne, I lick my lips and start sifting through the pile of records. I find a cover I like.
‘“A Fine Romance” by Fred Astaire,’ I share with the room. ‘From the film Swing Time.’
‘Never heard of it.’ Michael has suddenly come to life after his first beer.
Dave and Simon join us in the Bar Room, both throwing their aprons in the dirty laundry basket.
‘Bubbles?’ asks Juliet.
‘Sure, I’ll have a glass,’ Dave says with enthusiasm.
‘I’m going straight for a beer,’ Simon says, reaching into the fridge.
‘So, ladies and gentlemen, these records and this wind-up gramophone were purchased by moi at a garage sale last weekend. All the records are from the thirties, and I’m going to start the night with…’ Lucy reads out the label on the record she’s placed on the gramophone, ‘“Begin the Beguine”.’ She squints a little. ‘By Artie Shaw and His Orchestra.’
Lucy winds up the gramophone, her gold bracelets moving back and forth elegantly on her slender wrist. ‘Begin the Beguine’ starts up, and it’s such a cute little song I can’t help calling out, ‘Oh my god, this is so Annie Hall!’
‘Woody Allen?’ asks Juliet.
‘Yeah. It’s like the music he has in his films,’ I say, taking another sip of champagne.
‘I love the clarinet solo,’ says Dave, showing off to everyone that he can actually tell what instrument is playing. He’s like Annabelle—really musical.
Lucy downs a shot of port from an ornate crystal glass, slamming it on the bench when she’s done. She begins to dance, mimicking the moves of a sassy whore in an Italian arthouse film. I don’t know anyone else who drinks port except Annabelle’s grandparents. Lucy, of course, somehow manages to make everyone around her want to drink whatever she’s drinking.
‘Watcha!’ Dave invents some weird word and joins in with a mix of karate moves followed by overly enthusiastic West Side Story finger snaps. The music sounds so quaint and old-fashioned, it’s adorable. I smile widely and swing my hips in time, closing my eyes for a moment. Juliet joins in next, with a bottle of champagne in her hand, topping up glasses. She pokes her boobs out, lifting her right shoulder and then her left—up and down, up and down to the beat. The sight of her dancing makes me want to puke. She’s so uncool, it hurts.
Placing the bottle on the bench, she transitions from Boobs-Out Dance to Crazy Exotic Indian Hand Movement Dance. Neither style resembles the dancing style of the 1930s at all. Not that I really know what the 1930s dancing style is.
A friend of Simon’s rocks up through the back door and sits with him at the table. There’s no chance in hell they’ll get up and dance. Simon lights up a joint, and the whole room starts to smell like pot. Tiger-Lily arches her back elegantly as she walks across the table through the smoky fog.
I love my life, I think, followed closely by I feel a bit tipsy.
I check out more of the records in the pile while Dave, Juliet and Lucy continue dancing.
‘Oh my god!’ I cry out. ‘Here’s a song called “That Cat Is High”—and check out Tiger-Lily! She’s breathing in all your stinky pot smoke, Simon!’
Everybody laughs.
‘Put it on! Put it on!’ shouts Dave, spilling his champagne mid-spin.
Fumbling with the gramophone, I carefully place the record on the turntable and bring the arm across.
‘So funny,’ says Dave, making me feel really good.
Lucy pours herself another full glass of port and holds it in her hand while she starts sexy dancing with her back against Juliet. I put the Fred Astaire record back in the sleeve, and place it gently on top of the pile. Shimmying backwards, I gradually move in closer to the dancefloor action. I turn to face the others, and literally two seconds later Lucy starts pashing Juliet.
Eeww, this is awkward and weird. An up-close-and-personal view of my boss giving a sloppy tongue kiss to Juliet.
‘Woooooo!’ cries Dave, holding his hands up in the air.
So she’s bisexual too. Lucy Bourdillon, sexpot extraordinaire!
‘That Cat Is High’ gets flipped off pretty quickly, and someone puts on a slower number. Dave and I embrace, and do some silly, over-the-top ballroom dancing moves. Lucy lights up a cigarette and blows out a full puff of smoke.
Juliet goes in for another kiss, but Lucy pushes her away. ‘Don’t!’ she says sharply, demonstrating that she purely made the move on Juliet to shock me and Dave.
Even after her rejection by Lucy, Juliet displays a new-found confidence. She closes her eyes, reaching her arms out wide for more of her ugly Indian finger dancing. I can tell what she’s thinking, and it’s in a bragging tone, on repeat: Lucy just kissed me, Lucy just kissed me, Lucy just kissed me.
5
‘I should get going,’ I announce to the group.
Michael is sitting with Simon and Simon’s mate Chris. They’ve been talking politics all night. Well, Michael’s been talking politics all night; right now he’s preaching to Simon and Chris about the dangers of John Howard possibly being elected prime minister. Simon and Chris look stoned and uninterested, just nodding, only half-listening.
Poor Michael. He’s like a sad dad with a kind heart. He always seems a little melancholic and despondent, except for when it comes to discussing politics—particularly his faith in the Greens, and his dislike of right-wing policies. His face lights up and his eyebrows rise and fall with his in-depth descriptions of party members and former leaders he approves of. But I do feel for him a bit. He doesn’t really fit in with me, Dave, Lucy and Juliet, and he is also unlike Simon.
‘See ya Joni!’ he calls out.
‘Bye! See you tomorrow night.’
Juliet offers me another glass of champagne, even though she clearly heard that I’m planning to leave. I decline, feeling irritated. She’s desperate to keep the party going, but we’re all saying no to another round. Instead, Lucy reminds everyone that it’s Friday night, suggesting to Dave and Juliet that they move on to the Emerald for a few mor
e drinks.
‘Wonder who’s working behind the bar tonight?’ Dave winks at me, making it much too obvious.
‘Why do you want to know who’s working behind the bar?’ Lucy asks.
Dave and I act busy, hoping that Lucy will leave it alone, which she does, thank god.
I grab my beret and slide it onto my head, tucking my hair up underneath it. I notice Dave gazing at me, up and down, for an unusually long time, and I feel slightly uncomfortable.
‘I’ll come with you, Joni,’ he says. ‘I rode in tonight too.’
I’m surprised that Dave decides to leave at the same time as me. He nearly always stays back later. He grabs his backpack from the base of the hatstand and plonks it on the table beside me as I put on my black cardigan, followed by my jacket. Lucy looks over at Dave and me, unafraid of exposing her envious scowl. It’s so obvious she wishes Dave had chosen to go to the Emerald with her, as opposed to riding home with me.
‘I’ll come with you, Lucy,’ Juliet offers.
‘I don’t want to go now. I’m tired.’
Lucy reaches for her large brown handbag, and dramatically dumps it on the table. She packs up the wind-up gramophone and carries it back into the hallway, looking grumpy and pissed off. The sound of her fumbling around opening and closing cupboard doors drowns out my ‘Thanks for bringing out the gramophone tonight, Lucy!’ I add, ‘See you all tomorrow,’ as I head towards the back door.
‘Hang on, Joni,’ Dave says. ‘I’ve just got to close up in here, and I wanna get changed.’
I wait patiently. He’s taking forever.
‘Davey!’ I howl in a tired voice towards the kitchen.
‘Yep, coming.’
The lights in the kitchen finally flick off, and Dave walks towards me. He’s changed out of his greasy chequered chef pants and stained white top, and is now wearing blue jeans, black Converse boots and a red-checked flannel shirt. He has a beaten-up denim jacket in his hand and he’s pushing one arm through the sleeve, trying to get it on as quickly as possible.
‘Let’s go, girl.’
I feel kind of special when he says that. I suddenly have a warm feeling between my legs, and wonder whether I might be attracted to Dave. This feels weird. Maybe I’m just tipsy. I look at his face. Yep, just tipsy. Nothing there.
We walk out into the freezing cold and attempt to disentangle our bikes from each other. They’ve been resting together side by side against the wall of the shed all night. Dave suggests that our bikes are romantically involved. We giggle as our frozen fingers untangle the handlebars, and I scream, ‘It’s fucking freezing!’
Once we’re out the front of Harland, we put our helmets on. I drop my bag into my basket and Dave takes off ahead of me. I look towards the moonlit harbour; its beauty is overwhelming. The night is so crisp I can hardly feel my face, but I still manage to smile. My boots push on the pedals, and the wheels of my bike turn. The chain makes its rhythmic squeak, and I finally catch up to Dave.
We pass the rows of small cottages with bare winter gardens. There’s not a cloud in the sky, just stars, and an almost full moon. My warm breath makes a beautiful fog in front of me. It’s times like this when I feel most alive. I feel free, and at one with the world and everything around me. We once talked about nature during drawing class, and about the twelve signs of the zodiac being divided into four elements: fire, earth, air, water. I certainly do not believe in star signs, but it’s moments like these—riding home in the middle of a freezing cold winter’s night—that I do believe in. It’s an invigorating version of euphoria. But I don’t want to arrive home to no one; I want someone to come home to.
We ride past the Emerald, and I keep my head down, focusing on the road, hoping desperately that Brendan doesn’t see me. An awful ache in the depths of my stomach reconfirms how much I regret having slept with him last night. I look ahead to where Dave has stopped on the side of the road—this is where I turn off and he’ll continue on.
I roll up beside him. ‘See ya mate,’ he says.
‘Thanks for hearing me out tonight.’
‘No worries. See you tomorrow.’
He takes off, and I watch him get smaller and smaller, further and further away from me. The strands of my hair that managed to escape being tucked under my beret and helmet flick across my face as I make a right-hand turn towards my place. Almost home. It’s around about now that I start thinking about my pillow, and my bed, and the feeling of hot water from the shower running over my body. Cup of tea, piece of toast. Mmmm, I can’t wait.
The streetlight on the corner of my street shines down on the large gum tree I can see from my bungalow. The web of shadows created by the branches makes an abstract pattern on the road. I think about my painting again. About the shapes I’m filling in, in the lower section of the canvas. And then that’s interrupted by the thought of Dave. His face, when I felt all warm and fuzzy, just before we left Harland. Maybe he’d be an okay option for me? Maybe I could have a go at being his girlfriend? I think he might like me? Nah, he’s just a friend. But we get on.
Now that I’m an expert with boys, I should be able to work this out in my head. Maybe we could just be sex buddies? No, that’s so not me. That’s Annabelle’s style. It needs to be all or nothing for me. And last night—ugh. It was worse than nothing. I won’t let anything ever, ever develop with Brendan. I’d rather cut my hands off and never be able to paint again than pursue a relationship with him.
I pull up beside my gate, which is tricky to open. I have to reach my arm up high and over, unhooking the latch on the other side. I wheel my bike through, over the grass that’s covered with fallen gum leaves, bark and twigs. I look towards my backyard bungalow, its front door facing the gate. Someone’s on my doorstep.
Oh my god—it’s Annabelle!
6
Sitting in the dark, she glows. Her hair looks a little different, but it’s still bleached blonde, in a messy bob. Her adorably chubby legs are covered with cream ribbed woollen tights, and her arms are wrapped around them in an attempt to keep warm. Her velvety faux fur black coat—its collar curled up around her neck—makes her porcelain face look angelic. Below her coat, her denim skirt is so short it’s barely visible. Once she notices me, she spreads her arms wide and calls out, ‘Joni!’
I drop my bike on the grass and run to her, giving her the warmest embrace possible. ‘Shhh!’ I say, concerned that she’ll wake the neighbours. I continue, in an excited loud whisper. ‘What are you doing here? My god, it’s so good to see you!’
Tears well up in my eyes, and Annabelle pulls back from the hug and looks at me lovingly.
‘Stop it,’ she says. ‘Now you’ve got me going.’ She begins to cry, and we hug each other tighter.
‘I have so much to tell you,’ she blubbers, sniffing loudly, and pulling away from me. She wipes her tears from her cheeks. ‘I just flew in from New York.’
‘What?’
‘Well, via LA. I arrived this morning. I’ve been at Mum’s sleeping, but I desperately needed to see you.’
‘I thought you were in London?’
‘I was, but I ended up in New York. I have so much to tell you, Joni,’ she repeats.
‘Come in, it’s so cold out here.’
I walk back to get my bike, and wheel it up onto the verandah of my bungalow. I fumble around for my keys in my bag, and quickly unlock the front door.
‘Ah, smells like Joni,’ Annabelle says, taking in a deep breath.
Once we’re both inside Annabelle flops on my comfy light brown couch. My keys jingle as I toss them towards the wooden kitchen bench, then a deadened metallic clap follows as they land. I light the gas heater and, once the blue flame turns the grate orange, lift my finger off the switch.
‘Mind if I put a record on?’ Annabelle asks.
‘Go for it,’ I tell her, and suddenly it feels like she has never been away, we’ve never been apart.
She chooses Dummy by Portishead, but the slow groove of the first
song is quickly drowned out by our conversation.
‘What were you doing in New York? Why are you back so early? Weren’t you supposed to be coming home in September?’
I walk into the kitchen, fill the kettle, and turn it on. Annabelle follows me closely, ignoring all my questions.
‘Joni.’ She holds onto both my arms and looks me in the eyes. ‘I’m in love. I’m in love, I’M IN LOVE,’ she says, with a great crescendo. She lets go of my arms, swishes her hair out of her face and sits up on the bench. Then—BANG!—she bumps her head on the cupboard.
‘Ouch!’
I smile brightly, and we both burst out laughing. I’ve missed her so much. Her sparky blue eyes, and her exhilarating spirit. Her presence gives me a new surge of energy, and I’ve completely forgotten how tired I was when I finished up at Harland.
She reaches for the open bottle of red wine sitting on my bench. I hand her a glass, and make myself a cup of tea.
My bungalow is open-plan, except for the bathroom. The couch is pretty much in the middle of the room, and I have a corner studio space set up diagonally opposite the small kitchen. My bed is on a mezzanine level, and was the deciding point for renting the place. The ladder stairs that lead up to my bed are a light-coloured grainy wood, and the ceiling is lined with darker timber panels.
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