by PJ Mayhem
‘Are you free Friday night?’ Frankie’s words rush out in a nervously uncool way. (Definitely one for my mental list of Endearing Things About Frankie.)
‘No, sorry—not that I don’t want to be free. I would be free if I wasn’t busy, if you know what I mean.’
‘Saturday?’ he says, seeming to totally understand.
‘This weekend isn’t good. I’ve got lots of catching up with everyone. Friends, family, you know.’ He looks a little dejected. I can’t stand to see Frankie looking sad. ‘Next week?’ I quickly offer.
‘Next week for sure. What day works best for you?’
Ms Plan-a-Week-in-Advance loves that he’s onto the details already. His keenness doesn’t go unnoticed either.
‘Let’s do Friday, if that’s good for you,’ I say. The sooner, the better. From the smile that breaks across Frankie’s face, I get the feeling he’s thinking the same thing.
But having to wait that long feels like torture.
It’s hardly like I’m going to forget it but once I’ve floated home and landed back on earth from Planet Swoon, I add it in my diary. I snort out loud—amazing! Friday is the twenty-fourth. That Friday, Saturday and Sunday are the twenty-fourth, twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth. I have to keep mentally pinching myself to check that my dream is really coming true. After so long, this stuff with Frankie feels monumental but at the same time so natural.
It’s also pretty weird to be going to work in a good mood. I can’t say I’m exactly happy to be back but I’m excited to be seeing some of my workmates. And there’s Bing.
He wraps me in a hug when I walk into his café. I hold him tight, not squirming away from the oiliness of his cooking clothes. ‘My Mei Mei is home.’
‘My Da Ge.’ I squeeze him even tighter. ‘I missed you to death,’ I tell him in Chinese.
‘I told you that you should’ve waited and come with me and my family. Your Da Ge is always right,’ Bing says when I tell him about it all. Some things won’t ever change—Bing is one of them and I really wouldn’t want him to.
‘Fiona!’ There’s a flurry of excitement as people rush over to me when I walk into the office.
‘Did you meet anyone over there?’ Angela asks.
‘No. Sorry to disappoint.’
I don’t say: ‘I’m going on a date with a guy that it’s taken me months to get this far with, but according to all energetic influences and accounts, he’s my destiny, I’ve never felt so much chemistry with someone in my life, I’ve never enjoyed pashing someone as much in my life, when I’m near him my hands itch to reach out and touch him because being close is not close enough. Angela would absolutely self-combust, although I don’t withhold it because I feel like I need to be protective of the Frankie kernel anymore. It’s two-fold: it’s nice to just have my own little secret and it’s early days; Ms Middle-of-the-Road can’t be getting ahead of herself.
When it comes to Jane, on the other hand …
‘Well, just look at you,’ she says outside the restaurant that Friday night. It’s pretty easy for us to fall into second hug immediately, given that neither of us have fully let each other go from the first one. We’d squeezed each other so tight we’d wheezed for breath.
‘I missed you,’ we say in unison. The way we look at each other, we both know we’re talking about more than just the six weeks I was gone. Autumn is a season of the past. Here we were at spring, with new and, yes, slightly healthier growth.
‘Oh my fucking God, guess what?’ I’ve given up not swearing. Surely Spirit has much more to worry about than that, or even the occasional little white lie? Of course I don’t leave a gap for Jane to even try. ‘I’m going on a date with Frankie next Friday night.’
‘Jesus H Christ, about fucking time!’
People on the street turn to look as Jane and I jump, whoop and squeal.
‘You’re going to have to ask him what all that hot, cold, fuckwit shit was about and what took him so long.’
After Frankie, after more on China, after work, Jane has an announcement of her own—the ‘big decision’.
‘I’m going to do it, Kiz, the adoption. I’m going to formally apply and see what happens.’
‘Well, look who went and got all grown up while my back was turned,’ I joke as I stand and lean across the table to kiss Jane’s cheek and pinch it affectionately. I still can’t imagine Jane as a mother, but she has every right to want what she wants. I knew Jane and, no matter what, that child would know it was loved. ‘Have you narrowed down countries?’
‘Colombia. It has relatively short waiting times. I mean, I don’t want the poor little thing to be having to push me around in a wheelchair as soon as she can walk.’
South America is so Jane.
We might be speeding through stop signs, given there’s the whole approval process yet, but the more Jane tells me, the more excited we get.
‘I can’t wait to be the number one aunty.’
‘Super Aunty. Of course you’ll be Godmother as well. The moral guardian, no less.’ Jane laughs.
‘Like I would’ve let anyone else!’ Suddenly we’re snorting and from there the night just rolls on.
Sadly, things aren’t so positive with Stephanie when I see her the next day. We meet at the movies at her request. It’s her way of saying, I want to see you but I can’t pretend to be OK. Not that I expect her to be, but Stephanie expects herself to be.
‘How are things?’ I ask tentatively. Despite her protests I wrap her in a hug in the middle of the movie foyer. The skin around her eyes is drawn tight and dark blue with lack of sleep and there are tiny grooves splaying out from her lips.
‘It’s only a matter of weeks, a week—who knows?’
A feeling of guilt lands on me. I shouldn’t be taking any of the precious time Stephanie has left with her mum, but she’d insisted. I also feel pretty crappy because I’ve got an inner glow that radiates from me—everyone’s been saying it. I can’t dim it even for Stephanie. I don’t care that I won’t get to tell her about China or Frankie. Although we should have timed things better, the only session for hours is a high-octane Hollywood blockbuster, the sort of movie that normally we’d do anything to avoid. As tyres screech and gun shots ring out, I look at Stephanie. She’s focussed on her phone, waiting for a text or a call. An explosion on the screen lights up her face, and I see tears flowing down her cheeks.
I squint down at her phone to double-check there isn’t anything there that might have caused the tears—all clear. I rest my upper arm against hers and turn back to the drama and carnage. Stephanie knows I’d do anything for her—I just can’t do what she needs the most.
45
Even though I’m longing to bound into PGGG, I glide by each morning, looking properly in, sipping on my new platonic friendship–infused coffee from Jack. I give Frankie a wave and a full smile if I see him. My heart may flutter when I catch sight of him but I don’t want to go setting any false expectations by encouraging conversation at that hour. Mornings are never going to be my thing.
Sunday is family lunch.
‘Can you let us go, Aunty Fee? I can’t breathe,’ Sammy gasps when I wrap myself around him and his sister.
I’d easily won the battle with Mum to get to them first. She was a bit off her game after her meltdown when she saw me: ‘Fiona! I thought I’d lost you, that you’d never come home, that you’d stay there forever.’
I didn’t have the heart to correct her to Kismet, it didn’t feel like it really mattered. And naturally I don’t tell her that staying was what I’d originally planned. It’s best not to pour fuel on her drama fires.
‘Just one second longer, then you get your presents,’ I promise Sammy as he squirms. I know how to buy my time with kids.
They love their presents, everyone does. Well, almost everyone.
‘An abacus. Thanks, that’s different.’ Brian is impassive.
Of course it’s different, Brian, that’s exactly the point! Anyone could have br
ought you back a T-shirt. He was normally so appreciative but he really doesn’t seem himself at all. He’s distracted, stressed, having to go outside and ‘make an important call’ three times. I even overhear him snap at Catherine after she follows him outside when he’s making one of the calls. He’s really taking his life into his own hands there.
Speaking of Catherine, she actually loved the silk scarf I’d bought her.
The Chinese moon cakes I’d brought back for dessert weren’t the biggest hit. I guess lotus seed paste is an acquired taste, but everyone agreed they were an improvement on nougat.
Everything had improved since the nougat lunch. Not that I told them I was going on a date with Frankie. I didn’t mention him at all. There was so much to catch up on and, well, I was still trying to come to terms with the fact that I was going on a date with someone my family might actually be able to relate to.
It’s Monday. That means that on Friday night, I’m going on a date with Frankie. Which means I shouldn’t go into PGGG tonight. I should hold out, let the anticipation build. But of course I’m going into PGGG and I’m not even going home to recurl my eyelashes! Really, there’s been months of anticipation and as for the eyelashes, on departure day they were pretty flat and it hadn’t made a scrap of difference. Perhaps Frankie has a thing for girls with flat eyelashes or maybe he didn’t really notice them that much. Men!
There’s no path of rose petals laid along the floor to the fridge where my yoghurt is in anticipation of my visit—not that I was expecting it. A good thing, as it turns out, because my body temperature would have wilted them immediately. My temperature always seems to rise a few degrees around Frankie and now, after the taste test of departure day and with date night ahead, I feel like a bush fire is running wild in my body.
Rose petals are clichéd anyway. Frankie’s snort-inducing version of Michael Jackson’s ‘Rock With You’ is not. As he hands over my bag he says, ‘You know Friday is only four sleeps away. If you have a number you would be so kind as to give me for preparation purposes, that would be pretty handy.’
‘Who can sleep?’ I say, which is really just one of my dramatic-effect fibs. I am sleeping, and so relieved about it.
We’re grinning at each other like Cheshire Cats as I take an exaggerated step backwards. It’s the only way I can stop myself reaching out to grab him. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through a whole evening without throwing him on the table at the restaurant and having my way with him. I know I’m meant to want him to woo me and all of that but, really, it feels a bit like trying to put a runaway train in reverse.
When I get home I find Frankie has snuck a chocolate heart bonbon into my bag. I spin around and squeal.
But then I put thoughts of the date with Frankie on a low simmer. Something else requires my attention before Friday.
Being at the Centre for Strategic and Financial Excellence just really isn’t where I want to be. The excitement of seeing everyone at work waned very quickly and I’ve realised that even if I did find a role that involved speaking Mandarin, doing admin and/or compliance isn’t what I want to be doing. Surprise, surprise!
Kids are the answer. It isn’t so much an epiphany as a crystallisation of an idea that had begun to percolate after the visit to the tiny school in China. Not having kids or adopting them, but working with them. So I’ve rejigged my job alerts and put positive vibes out to the Universe.
It doesn’t waste any time. A solution that seems too good to be true floats seamlessly into my inbox—no desperate searches required. The job is as a teacher’s assistant at an intensive English centre, working with newly arrived, primary-aged students. They want someone who can assist with their bilingual Chinese classes. I know just the girl for the job. And I can walk there. Slight negative: the pay is less but I’ve done the maths (I cannot believe I’m saying that) and I can manage it with some cutbacks. I won’t be flush, but it’s the perfect way to dip my toe in the water to see if I might find a future in teaching. Some of the units I’d done previously in my false starts of degrees could feasibly go towards a qualification and, looking at the school’s website, I’d discovered they offer an annual bursary for staff training. Not that I’m putting the cart before the horse, I’m just going to do the application and see what happens.
The points for this application are particularly easy and, as I start typing, the answers just roll out of my fingers. Deep down, I know it’s the right thing—if not this job, then one similar. I haven’t even had to ask Lionel or Amethyst about it. There’ll be savings there too. I’ll definitely see Amethyst again in the future but my chakras are humming along pretty happily of their own accord at the moment. When I do see her it’ll be more for a tune-up than answers, and I know exactly what she’ll say: ‘Didn’t I tell you everything would be clear in hindsight? Now can you relax, trust and have faith. Wasn’t it looking Frankie in the eyes and your vulnerability that got you to where you are? Are you prepared to admit that the Universe and Spirit have it under control and everything really is as it’s meant to be?’
And Lionel, he’s going to have a fit—in a good way—when I tell him about Frankie and everything else, like my China realisations, and the whole working-with-kids thing. I can just hear him on that too: ‘Great idea, Kismet, use your imagination and that creative side of you for good, rather than self-paralysing evil.’
It feels way more important for me to see Lionel than Amethyst. In his own funny way, Lionel has been the most invested in my welfare and understands who I am. If I were to be honest, while Amethyst has taught me to trust the Universe, Lionel has perhaps given me the greatest gift in helping me trust myself.
Now that Ms Middle-of-the-Road feels OK staying reasonably close to the centre line without the need for training wheels, I won’t be tearing up to have sessions every week, but I like Lionel. I’ve learnt to enjoy talking to him and opening up. I even miss his hugs—a bit. It’s good to know he’s there whenever I feel the need for a completely unbiased ear. There’s no shame in needing someone removed from everything to talk to occasionally.
46
I’m meeting Frankie at PGGG tonight. Yes—oh my Buddha—it’s Friday! In approximately eight hours, at 7pm (they close early on Fridays) I will be rat-a-tat-tatting on their door using the code Frankie and I have arranged so he knows it’s me. He’d offered to come and collect me, but I’d declined. I’m not concerned about Frankie knowing where I live—it’s just more exciting this way.
With our secret knock and getting in after hours, I’ve begun imagining myself as a cross between a spy and the Queen; I think it’s the Queen that Harrods opens up for after hours. Not that I’ll be shopping and not that Frankie and I will be having a picnic of fresh produce on the floor, reminiscent of the so-a-date-date, I’m sure.
I don’t actually know where we’re going or what we’re doing. I hope it’s quiet, but not too quiet—not the sort of quiet where everyone can hear everything you say, or with that awful empty-restaurant feeling where every word seems magnified and the waiters loom, listening and being over-attentive, interrupting every five seconds just to pass the time.
I’m just back from the beautician when my mobile rings. My stomach doesn’t lurch in a ‘if that is Frankie calling to postpone, my life is over’ way, but it does do a little hiccup.
I look at my phone and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s Mum. I’d changed her to a normal ringtone, as the alarm tone had started to feel mean.
Mum’s sobs are audible before I’ve got the phone to my ear. A hundred things run through my mind, the most obvious being that someone has died. My head races trying to figure out who. Dad—surely Catherine or Brian would have called? Catherine—Dad would have called. If something has happened to the kids that would be Dad too—Mum and Catherine and Brian would be too distressed. It must be …
‘It’s Brian.’ Mum’s voice quakes in response when I ask her what’s wrong.
At first I imagine he’s killed himself—he was so
stressed. Oh my God, Sammy and Sonja are going to be devastated. I’ve no time to google ‘suicide rates of accountants’ before my next thought comes galloping in: I hope I didn’t manifest Catherine killing him with my ‘taking his life is his own hands’ thoughts—I understand that’s inappropriate to think right now but I can’t be held responsible, I’m in shock. Even if he’s only left them for someone less, well, Catherine-ish, they’re going to be shattered.
‘He’s been stood down from work,’ Mum says before I get any words out.
‘Oh my God, Mum, seriously? I thought he’d died or something.’ I fossick in my bag for my Rescue Remedy.
‘No, Fiona, you don’t understand, he’s been stood down—suspended, pending an investigation by a forensic accountant.’
‘Oh. Holy shit,’ I say before I squirt Rescue Remedy under my tongue. If it weren’t so serious I’d be making a joke about a slightly balding, bland man in thick glasses and a white coat with a fingerprint kit and a scientific-style calculator or something. But this is officially a family crisis.
‘Your sister is a complete mess,’ Mum whispers into the phone. Obviously Catherine and Brian are with them. ‘We need you to collect the kids from school, take them home to their place. Keep it all normal.’
‘Sure. What time?’ Saying, ‘No, I can’t, I have a date with that fruit guy’ doesn’t enter my head; this is Sammy and Sonja. But honestly, fucking hell, I really cannot believe it. How hard can it be to kick one relationship off?
I email Broomstick. I’ve got heaps of time before school is out but there’s a sense of urgency about getting there. I don’t wait for her permission to leave.
Catherine or Frankie—who to call first, I wonder as I run to the station.
‘Frankie, it’s Fiona,’ I say when he answers.
‘Fiona, are you OK?’
I must sound breathless from my run to the station. ‘Yes, sort of. I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to take a raincheck on tonight.’
