‘Sorry, Joni…it was just such…I can’t believe that Johnny…I’ve just been in the city…’
‘Just eat,’ I tell her firmly.
Juliet and Simon walk through the back door together and sit straight down, tucking into their pasta.
‘I got a lot of work done today,’ Juliet slurps, her mouth full.
‘Good on you,’ Michael responds.
‘Six resin bangles done, and set and polished. I’m on fire!’ Juliet drips creamy sauce on her already stained bright-green cardigan. Her hair is up in two oversized Princess Leia bread-roll buns, and her ludicrously loud Minnie Mouse earrings donk against her neck, as she toggles her head from side to side.
‘Annabelle, this is Juliet. Juliet—Annabelle,’ I say, gesturing.
‘Hey,’ Annabelle slurs.
‘We met in January,’ Juliet blurts.
Annabelle pretends to remember. ‘Oh yeah.’
‘And Michael, Simon—Annabelle. My best friend, who needs sobering up before her interview.’
‘Joni, I’m just tipsy. I’m not drunk.’
‘I think I’ve seen you in the paper,’ Simon says, croaky-voiced.
‘Yeah, she’s an incredible singer. And songwriter,’ I tell him.
‘Oh yeah,’ Michael adds. ‘I’ve seen you play. You were amazing!’
Mmm, Simon and Michael come to life in Annabelle’s presence. Typical.
I leave them to chat, and go check on Aussie James in the Red Room. I walk along the hallway, and see him lugging lights and metal stands through the front door. I catch a glimpse of his face. Gosh, I didn’t notice before. He’s…unusually cute.
17
‘Do you need a hand?’ I ask politely.
‘I’m right, thanks,’ James answers, smiling. ‘You okay after that fall out there?’
‘Oh yeah, that was…embarrassing. Sorry about that.’
He carries two metal stands into the Red Room, and I can’t help but follow him in.
‘This room’s gorgeous,’ he says, admiring the urns and vases, then turns towards all the Valentine’s Day cards surrounding the door.
‘I know. It was my idea.’ I immediately regret trying to take credit for suggesting the Red Room as the perfect spot for the interview and shoot.
‘Well, you have a good eye,’ he says, looking directly at me. He has beautiful eyes. Dark brown. And they’re sad. He has sad eyes. Sad, but kind of playful at the same time, with an underlying I don’t follow the crowd, I climb fences at night, on my own, and I take photos of abandoned factories and infinite fields beside winding roads. I feel like I know him, yet I don’t. Like I can read him, but I can’t. He’s…mysterious, yet familiar.
I can’t move.
I try to act casual. ‘I…are…I mean, are you the assistant to the photographer from London?’
‘Oh no,’ James answers, running his hands over one of the stands, then undoing its black screw slowly. ‘He wasn’t able to make it.’
His voice is mellow, warm, low. He’s tall, lanky—although lanky is too ugly a word to describe him. The strands of his shoulder-length, layered brown hair fall softly around his olive-skinned face. He looks European, perhaps, and his mouth is a tiny bit crooked; but that doesn’t let his overall handsomeness down. Not to me, anyway. I smooth my black dress down with my sweaty hands. Is it too short? I wish I’d worn something else tonight.
‘So…you’re the photographer?’
As soon as I say it, I’m paranoid that it sounded as though I think he’s just the consolation prize. That he’s amateur photo boy—nowhere near as good as the London professional.
‘Yeah. I used to shoot for Dazed & Confused when I lived in London. Last year.’
‘Oh.’ I look at the black buttons on his brown woollen knee-length coat. He wears it open, with a knitted black jumper underneath. Black jeans. Blundstone boots. Like mine. A muddled-up thought pattern is taking shape inside my head. I want to be him. And I want him. All to myself. It’s a cocktail of attraction and admiration—shaken, not stirred. James smiles at me, and I almost can’t take it. The immediacy of this sensation is making me feel strange and…sort of frightened, because I have no control over it.
‘I’ve worked with Polly quite a bit,’ he tells me, pulling his camera out of its case. His hands are gently masculine.
‘Who’s Polly?’
‘Polly…lovely Polly.’ He places his camera on the table. ‘She’s going to be interviewing Annabelle. She’s an incredible journalist. Very funny. You’ll love her.’
I dip down, as though I’m on a rollercoaster and falling from the top. Who is this Polly? Are she and James an item? Where does James live now? What does he love? What does he hate? What’s his favourite food? I want to climb into his world.
He smiles at me as though he can hear my thoughts, and I’m bowled over by his adorable mouth. His full lips. His unconventional face. He has such an offbeat beauty.
‘Okay then, I should…get back into…’ I awkwardly point towards the hallway, ‘the Bar Room…I’ve got some setting up to do. Can I get you anything?’
‘Oh, I’m fine. I’ll just be setting up.’ He gives a little laugh, and I know it’s because we both just said setting up. ‘We’re gonna do the shoot first. Is Annabelle far away?’
‘Ah, she’s out…out in the Bar Room. You want me to bring her in?’
‘No rush. It’s going to take me a while to get things set up in here. I’ll come and get her when I’m ready.’
‘Okay,’ I tell him, in the most attractive vocal tone I can produce.
I walk back along the hallway. Holy-God-Jesus-Mother…
‘Joni, is Gatsby set?’ Lucy almost bumps into me as she hurriedly sets up champagne glasses on a tray.
‘Um…’ I can’t even think. Focus Joni, focus. I try to snap out of my James fixation, but it’s all James, James, James.
‘Yep, it’s set,’ I tell Lucy, pretending I’ve got it together.
‘Great!’
I sit back down at the staff table, and finish off the last of my dinner while in a daze.
‘Incredible pasta, Dave!’ Annabelle shouts out, and I can tell she’s still drunk.
‘Thanks, Annabelle!’ Dave calls back from the kitchen. He pokes his head through the doorway into the Bar Room. ‘Joni told me all about Johnny Harrison! That’s so amazing! I know his music.’
I turn, and rush towards Dave. Then, while making sure Annabelle can’t see my face, I do the slitting-throat gesture, clenching my jaw, baring my teeth. Dave shuts up, looking confused. I glance down the hallway, still doing the clenched-jaw/slitting-throat thing, and there’s James, watching me. I quickly try to shift into relaxed, easygoing, pretty face; but it’s too late, he’s seen me at my ugliest. Why did I do that stupid throat slit?
James smiles, and it’s a warm, you’re funny smile. I think he might…only might, and I may be wrong…but I think there’s the tiniest bit of a possibility that he might like me. Just a bit. Maybe. But I’m sure he has a girlfriend. Guys like that aren’t single.
I walk back to my spot at the staff table and catch Lucy flicking through the bookings diary. She turns sharply towards Juliet. ‘Love, you can take care of the Pines tonight. They are regulars, and they like their champagne and tight service. I need you to keep the standard high.’
Juliet chews on a torn-off piece of baguette, looking out at Tiger-Lily seducing the window.
‘Juliet!’ Lucy snaps.
‘Yep, got it. I saw them in the book. I served them last time. It’s all good.’
‘And Joni, we can both take care of Gatsby, but you do Lillibon, and I’ll handle the Red Room.’
Damn. Why has she given me Lillibon? I want the Red Room.
‘I’m happy to do the Red Room,’ I suggest, in the hope that Lucy will capriciously change her mind and give it to me.
‘I’ve got it, my love. I’ll take care of them.’
Lucy seductively tosses her head, so that the ends of h
er wavy blonde locks fall gently on her breasts. She’s got her tight, blood-red velvet dress on, the one with the low cleavage. A fine line of black liquid eyeliner on her lids, rosy rouge on her cheeks, gold hoop earrings. She looks incredible, like a movie star on her way to the Oscars in the mid-1960s. I know James is gonna fall for her. I just know it. My chances are over. James and Joni. Gone.
‘Hi darling!’ A super-cute, bubbly female voice spills into the Bar Room from the hallway. The accent is distinctly English.
‘Polly!’
I peek around the doorway and spy James greeting a woman with a kiss-kiss on either cheek. Lucy slides past me and walks on through.
‘Hi, I’m Polly, for the interview with Annabelle Reed.’
‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Lucy.’
I notice Lucy hamming up her French accent.
‘Oh, you’re French,’ Polly bubbles, the inflection in her voice bouncing all over the place.
‘Oui.’
‘Love Paris. Absolutely love it.’
Polly sounds fun. I walk up to say hi.
‘I’m Joni,’ I shake her hand, then feel awkward and businesslike. Wrong greeting, Joni. Wrong greeting. ‘Annabelle’s just out the back,’ I tell her. ‘Should I…’
‘Can I get you two a drink?’ Lucy cuts in, moving over to block me from Polly.
Okay, I get the picture. I’m not needed here. Lucy’s taking over.
‘Oh, I’d love a champers,’ Polly puffs out, casually removing her long mustard-coloured cardigan. Her turquoise skirt and red stockings kind of clash with her stripey pink-and-blue jumper, but in a good way. She’s like a mismatched, happy-colour bomb. Her teeth are slightly bucked, and her eyes have laugh wrinkles in the corners. Probably in her late twenties, maybe thirty. She spells out thrown-together, fun-loving British gal. And she looks like she loves a good party. Lots of Pimm’s and lemonade, and dancing until dawn. That’s what they drink, Annabelle told me.
I walk back towards the Bar Room, overhearing Polly’s effervescent questioning. ‘How long you been back, James? We miss you!’
‘Nearly six months.’
‘Really!’ Polly cries out, in gobsmacked falsetto. She lowers her tone, adding, ‘It’s hot in London now. Well, London hot. I’m so glad you were available, James. Bloody Robin, bailing on me.’
I return to the staff table as Juliet gets up—pen and pad in hand—and rushes off down to the Pines. Dave turns the kitchen radio off, as per Lucy’s instruction, and the woozy strings on the first track of the Josephine Baker CD fill the restaurant. Annabelle chats to Michael, and he listens and nods and yeps and agrees with everything she’s saying.
‘Michael, I need you in here, mate!’ Dave calls out.
‘Coming.’
Annabelle slouches and delivers a deep sigh. ‘They’re here, aren’t they,’ she says, sounding as though she wishes the whole thing had been called off.
‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘And the photographer is a total babe!’
‘I told you,’ Annabelle says. She reaches into her handbag, pulls out a hand mirror and applies a fresh coat of red lipstick. Then out comes her powder compact. As she starts dabbing the powder puff all over her face, I give her the finer details.
‘It’s not the London guy. He’s not coming. He’s Australian. The photographer. Annabelle, I’m…I’m really attracted to him. Like, I’m talking really attracted to him.’
Annabelle doesn’t respond, and I know it’s because she got dumped today. Internationally, over-the-phone, humiliatingly and already replaced dumped. She pulls a cigarette out of her bag and lights up.
‘You’re supposed to have that out the back once the restaurant’s open,’ I tell her, ushering her out the door.
‘It’s freezing out here!’ she cries from the back verandah, trying to force me to let her back inside.
‘Rug on the chair,’ I tell her, pointing to the red-and-black mohair rug Lucy wraps herself in while on her ciggie breaks.
I put my apron on and check the bookings diary. My Lillibon booking should be here soon. I tidy the bench and faff around a little, peeking out through the hallway for another glimpse of James.
Annabelle comes back inside, reeking of cigarette smoke. She pulls out a bottle of vanilla perfume from her bag, and sprays her neck. Smoke and sweets, her signature combo. ‘I’d better get in there,’ she says. ‘Do I look okay?’
I do a quick once-over of her face, ruffle her hair up a little, and straighten her black faux fur coat.
‘You look great,’ I tell her reassuringly. ‘Go get ’em!’
I give her a warm smile, and she embraces me lovingly.
‘Thanks, Joni. I mean it.’
‘It’s what I’m here for.’
I watch her walk up the step and into the hallway. Then five seconds later:
‘Annabelle, my god, you look gorgeous!’ It’s Polly, over the top and cheerily starstruck. ‘Everyone is loving your new single with Johnny Harrison. We’ve heard it. Got an advance copy.’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ I hear Annabelle say in her cool, confident rock-star voice. I feel relieved, sensing that she’s easily been able to switch from depressive drunk to professional singer-songwriter.
Polly continues, ‘Oh Annabelle—James. James—Annabelle.’
The sound of his name is enough to set my heart racing. I try to listen in to more of their conversation, then get disrupted by Lucy’s ‘Joni, your group for Lillibon are here.’
‘Okay, cool.’
I walk along the hallway to greet them with a quick ‘Hello, come this way,’ while trying to catch a glimpse of James in the Red Room. I manage to, only for a speck of a second, but it’s enough to give me a small frisson.
I seat my group of eight in Lillibon, sliding my body between the chairs and the ivy wallpaper, placing napkins on their laps. They seem a conservative lot—a group of older women, all with short, dyed, styled hair. A few fob chains, a mix of strong floral perfumes, polite conversation, friendly compliments. I feel comfortable in their presence.
I fiddle around in the drawer of the sideboard in the hall, digging out my notepad and pen. Slipping both into the pocket of my apron, I head towards the front door. As I pass the Red Room I pretend that I’m checking on something, even though there’s no need whatsoever for me to be there. I turn the doorhandle and peer out onto the street, pretending that I’m looking for someone.
And there goes Annabelle’s voice. It stands out above everyone else’s, and it hurts. Hurts me deep inside.
‘James, I love your coat. Do you know Andrew Webb? Brilliant Australian photographer…You do? Would you teach me how to take photos? I’m hopeless. Take me into your darkroom? Ooh la la, James, that would be lovely, you and me in a dark room together…We should hang out after the interview. Will you? I’d love to play you some of my new songs.’
She’s flirting with him! I can’t believe it. It’s as if she’s transformed into a completely different person. I walk past the Red Room and give her a dirty look. She mouths back: ‘What?’
Lucy passes me on her way into the room, her gold bracelets tinkling. She places her hand on James’s shoulder, handing him a beer. Everyone’s on James. Everyone.
I glance into Gatsby, continuing with the pretending I’m busy act. When I turn for one more look at James in the Red Room, I catch him taking the lens cap off his camera. All the women in the room have their eyes on him. He looks up through the doorway at me, and gives me a wink. I die. I walk through to Lillibon, feeling light-headed.
I’m going to tell Dave. After I take the drink orders, I’m telling Dave.
18
My ladies in Lillibon are beginning to lighten up. One of them is giving a drawn-out history of cuckoo clocks as the others stare inquisitively at the example hanging on the wall. When the history lesson is over, I take their drink orders, which are a mix of sparkling water and wine.
When I dash back into the Bar Room, I poke my head into the kitchen. ‘Dave,’ I half
-talk, half-whisper, beckoning for him to come closer.
He flips a tea towel over his shoulder and wipes the sweat off his brow with his forearm. ‘What is it?’
‘The photographer,’ I hiss, feeling my whole face come to life.
‘What? Guy from London?’
‘No. He’s Australian.’
‘What? Hang on. I thought the…’
‘Guy from London couldn’t make it. But James…oh my god. He’s the replacement.’ I edge in even closer and whisper in his ear. ‘Dave, he’s so cute!’
Dave does his hilarious eyebrows-raised, not-showing-teeth, silly smile. He drops his tea towel on the bench and, with one hand swipe, neatens up his hair. He ventures along the hallway as I try to call him back, but it’s too late.
He reaches the Red Room and stands in the doorway, observing. I stare into his eyes as he walks back towards me.
‘Annabelle’s all over him,’ he announces.
‘Yeah, but…he just winked at me, and I kind of think there might be something between us.’
‘Well, get rid of that idea, babe, because Annabelle is in there, and she’s reeling him in. I told you she…’ He glances into the kitchen. ‘Shit! The bacon!’
As I’m preparing the drinks for Lillibon, Dave pokes his head into the Bar Room. ‘We’ll talk more about this later.’ He disappears for a moment and then leans into the Bar Room again. ‘My advice is—if you want him, you’ve got to go in there and show Annabelle who’s boss.’ He glances back at the bacon frying in the pan, then asks, ‘Is he single?’
‘God, who knows?’
‘Okay,’ Dave advises. ‘Assume he is, and go in there and Joni it up for him. Got it?’
‘Yes, Dave. I’ve got it. Don’t worry. I’m onto it.’
I find the chablis, pour two glasses and set them up on a tray. Lucy is elegantly walking towards the back door, directing the large group who are to be seated down in the Pines. They all look tall, sophisticated, businessy.
Suddenly Juliet bursts through the back door, almost knocking Lucy over. ‘Sorry, darling,’ Juliet apologises to Lucy and then, in a girl-guides-leader voice, tells the group: ‘Follow me!’
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