by B M Carroll
‘Thanks, Grace, I’d appreciate that. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called so late.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m here any time, day or night. Goodnight, Katy. Talk to you tomorrow.’
‘Goodnight, Grace.’
Grace hangs up the phone. Rests her forehead against her hand. It’s burning; she definitely got sunburnt when she was in the garden this afternoon.
Tom is standing, waiting for an explanation. ‘Where were you planning to send me?’
‘To Katy’s place. In Neutral Bay.’
‘Is she in some kind of danger?’
‘I don’t think so. She got a weird note about the yearbook. She’s upset and frightened more than anything.’
‘Should I go there?’
‘She said no need. But can you talk to one of your cop friends and see if anything can be done to stop this?’
They give up on the movie and go to bed.
Grace sleeps fitfully. She dreams that she’s in a strange apartment and someone is repeatedly knocking on the walls and doors. She keeps running from room to room, trying to see who it is.
‘Who’s there?’ she shrieks frantically. ‘Who is it? Why are you doing this?’
Suddenly, she comes face to face with a corpse-like Katy Buckley: translucent skin, dilated eyes, unkempt hair.
‘It’s me,’ she breathes. ‘It’s been me all along.’
Grace screams until she’s awake.
Tom reaches out in the dark. ‘Shush. It’s just a nightmare.’
Grace has a quick shower and surveys herself in the mirror. Her forehead and nose are sunburnt, her hair is in need of a trim, and her face is drawn from last night’s restless sleep. She puts on some foundation, one of her best tops, and rubs some cream into her hands, which are tattered from the garden. She always makes a special effort when she sees Annabel. She suspects that at some deep-down level she’s still trying to impress her. She laughs at the thought.
Grace dispenses chores before she goes out. ‘Tahlia and Poppy, I want you two to change the sheets on all the beds. Lauren, honey, you’re to help Daddy with the gardening. Billy, your job is to tidy away all the toys.’
The children groan half-heartedly. They know by now it’s better to get the chores over and done with; moaning, as well as being ineffective, is a waste of time. Grace and Tom are firm believers in natural consequences as well as chores. If the kids forget their homework or sports uniform, Grace does not rush to school with the forgotten item; instead, they’re expected to deal with their irate teacher, possible detention and other consequences of their forgetfulness. If they don’t put their dirty clothes in the wash, they have to wear the item in a less-than-clean state – although this doesn’t bother Billy in the slightest.
Manly is a short drive down the hill. Seven minutes later, Grace has transitioned from suburbia to beachside. It’s a stunning morning: cloudless sky, piercing sun, barely a breeze.
Annabel is waiting at the café where they agreed to meet. She’s wearing large sunglasses and a white sundress that shows off her golden shoulders. Grace kisses her cheek and gets a whiff of the scent she associates with her friend: a sophisticated, expensive smell.
Grace smiles and gestures towards the blue sky and sparkling ocean. ‘What a glorious morning!’
Annabel grimaces. ‘Shall we order?’
This response is abrupt even for Annabel, who specialises in being curt. It’s obvious something serious is afoot. Grace knew this from the minute she received Annabel’s text, asking if she was free for an impromptu coffee. Their catch-ups, while regular, are rarely of the impromptu kind.
Annabel raises her hand and a waitress – blonde, tanned, like a young Annabel, in fact – appears with astonishing speed.
‘What’s up?’ Grace asks once the waitress has taken their orders.
‘I don’t know where to start ...’
‘Start wherever you like,’ Grace says, reaching out to give her hand a squeeze.
‘It’s Daniel—’ Annabel’s voice breaks. Is she about to start crying? Here in the middle of the café? Grace is thrown. Annabel doesn’t cry easily.
‘He was assaulted last night, here in Manly—’ Annabel chokes on a sob, tries to compose herself, fails miserably. Now she is crying openly and attracting glances from the other patrons.
Grace, who was half-expecting to hear that Daniel had been expelled from school or perhaps had got into trouble with the police, is shocked. ‘Is he okay? Was he badly hurt?’
‘He has cuts and bruises and a few cracked ribs. But it’s not the assault that’s the problem, it’s the drugs ...’ Annabel pushes her sunglasses back on her head and roughly wipes her tears away with the back of her hand. Her eyes are bloodshot. ‘He was so off his face he made himself a target. And not even this – ending up in hospital – has made him see the light.’
‘What kind of drugs?’ Grace asks with dread.
‘Amphetamines ... Speed ...’
Grace could burst into tears too but that would be of no help to Annabel. ‘Tom says that’s the most prevalent at the moment. Seems to be everywhere.’
‘I’m at my wits’ end.’ Annabel slides her sunglasses back in place. Her mouth is trembling and it’s obvious she’s trying to hold back another bout of tears. ‘I don’t know what to do or where to turn. Jarrod is too distraught to think straight. I need your help, Grace. I need your support, because Jarrod is as good as useless right now.’
Grace has never seen her friend this vulnerable. ‘I’ll help you and Jarrod any way I can ... Do you mind if I tell Tom? The council provides some really worthwhile services. They’re often badly advertised, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t good .’
‘Tell whoever you like. Jarrod and I tried to keep it quiet, and look where that’s got us.’
‘You’ll need to get Daniel on some kind of rehabilitation programme ...’
Annabel nods. Then she crumples in her seat and begins crying again. ‘Something this devastating hasn’t happened since I found out I was pregnant with Jemma.’
Grace takes the opportunity to be positive. ‘Jemma worked out okay, didn’t she? This will too, honey. You’ll get through it.’
Annabel uses some serviettes to dab her eyes and blow her nose. They both turn to their coffees, which arrived some time ago and are already half cold. Grace looks out at the ocean, her mug poised at her lips. There are dozens of surfers bobbing out at the break. A wave rolls in, they all paddle furiously and rise up on their boards, one managing to ride inside the curve of the water – a feat of timing and skill – while the rest topple and get wiped out. Life goes on, some people thriving at the same time that others are falling apart.
Her phone beeps with an incoming text.
Thanks for listening last night. Sorry I woke you up and alarmed you. I’m much calmer this morning. By the way, Rickie phoned. Drunk as a skunk and obviously looking for sex. First child will not be your namesake after all. xx Katy.
‘Excuse me a minute,’ Grace says to Annabel as she hits the reply button. ‘I just need to answer this. It’s from Katy Buckley.’
Glad to hear you’re feeling better this morning. So sorry about Rickie. Can’t believe he did that. What a jerk! We should catch up soon. Xx Grace.
‘Why is Katy Buckley sending you texts?’ Annabel asks, sounding more like her usual self.
‘She received one of those messages last night, about the year-book. She was totally freaked out by it.’
‘But why text you?’
‘Because I went to look at the venue with her. We had coffee and talked about the emails ...’
Annabel snorts. ‘All these years later and she’s still trying.’
‘Trying what?’
‘Don’t you remember? She was always trying to get into our group. Being all friendly and annoying. I guess she’s finally got to you.’
The spitefulness in Annabel’s voice propels Grace back through the years. The snow excursion: Annabel eyeing Katy’s d
uffel coat as they waited to get on the bus.
‘Oh my God. Where did she get it? The fucking army? It looks like a sack on her.’
Another flashback: Annabel sneering from the check-out counter as Katy, her arm hooked through Luke’s, disappeared down one of the library aisles.
‘She still thinks she has a chance with him. Wake up, Katy. He’s fucking gay and you’re fucking pathetic.’
But worse than anything was that scene with the birthday card. Its fragments floating to the floor, Annabel’s inexplicable hatred, Katy’s face puce with mortification.
‘Get your own friends, Katy Buckley. Stop acting like you’re one of us because you’re not.’
Grace comes back to the present, guilt mingling with the taste of coffee in her mouth. She’s tempted to tell Annabel to stop being such a bitch. She would, if it weren’t for Annabel being so upset about Daniel.
‘As a matter of fact, I really like Katy Buckley. I guess she has finally got to me.’
20
LUKE
Luke’s schedule has been horrendous. Six trips to Paris this week, four to Amsterdam; he’s lost count of the domestic flights. There’s a staff shortage at the airline, along with a spate of sicknesses caused by London’s nasty weather.
‘Jesus, my feet are killing me,’ Nerida groans as they emerge from the aircraft on to the gangway. They’re greeted by a blast of cold air – a warning of the weather waiting outside – before the heating kicks in.
‘Me, too.’
‘Shut up. You’re not allowed to complain.’
True. He shares her outrage that female flight attendants are still required to wear heels of a certain height and skirts instead of trousers. So much for equality.
‘Let’s find a warm bar and get pissed,’ Nerida suggests, linking her arm through his.
Nerida is the perpetual party girl. No matter how tired or dispirited she feels, a glass of wine is all she needs to be instantly revived. Her social life is non-stop – four or five nights a week – and astonishingly eventful: Luke usually gets a blow-by-blow account when they’re rostered on together.
This is where Luke should say no. This is where he should explain that he’s bone tired and has barely seen Aaron all week. This is where he should show some self-awareness and willpower; after all, he knows he drinks too much. Some of the problem traces all the way back to high school. Competing with Zach Latham to be the funniest and get the most laughs. Then competing to see who could get the drunkest; Luke always won that competition hands down.
Nerida pulls on his arm. ‘Ah, go on.’
‘Okay, just a quick one,’ he says, hating himself for being so weak.
It’s after midnight when Luke fumbles his key into the lock, pushes open the door and lurches inside. The hallway is pitch-black. He tries to turn on his phone light, somehow loses his balance and bumps against the door frame. The phone goes flying into the blackness, clattering as it hits the ground.
‘Shit.’
He sweeps his palms across the floorboards. Where the fuck has it gone?
This is how Aaron finds him – on his hands and knees – when he turns on the hall light.
‘Jesus, Luke. What are you doing?’
Luke squints into the sudden brightness. ‘Dropped my phone.’ He spots it a few metres away – how the fuck did it travel so far? – and crawls towards it.
‘Gotcha.’ The screen isn’t smashed, everything seems to be working. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am happy to announce that the missing item has been located.’
He’s tired now. Incredibly tired and incredibly drunk. Bloody Nerida. She was still going hard when he left. How does she do it?
‘How does who do what?’ Aaron asks.
Must have been thinking aloud. Luke is too jaded to elaborate. He thinks he might as well stay down here, on the floor, and have a little nap. He props himself against the wall, closes his eyes, immediately feels himself drifting off.
‘You’re pissed,’ Aaron declares from somewhere above.
Luke snuggles against the wall. He is so happy to be home ... even though he hasn’t made it past the hallway. He’s drifting, drifting ... There’s something cold touching his lips. It knocks against his teeth: a glass. Aaron is crouched down next to him.
‘Drink some water, for God’s sake.’
The water is delicious. Exactly what he needs. Relieves the stale taste in his mouth, the dull ache in his head.
‘This is why I love you.’
‘I love you too, you moron.’
The water is gone. Now Luke can sleep. Finally. All day he has been waiting for this moment.
‘Up you get.’
‘Ah, I’m fine here.’
‘You’re too pissed to know the difference between a soft bed and the cold, hard floor. But you’ll thank me in the morning. Come on.’
Aaron hoists him to his feet. Props his shoulder under his armpit. Half carries, half drags him to the bedroom. The mattress sinks beneath his weight. Luke is vaguely aware of his shoes coming off, then his trousers, finally his shirt. Then the weight of the bedclothes over his bare skin. He is cocooned, safe, home at last.
Aaron gets in the other side of the bed, turns off the lamp.
Let’s get married.
The words are on the tip of Luke’s tongue but they won’t come out. They refuse to formulate into anything beyond a thought. They never do. Why is that?
Aaron is a professor of sociology at University College London. He teaches as well as researches; as part of his position he’s expected to publish regular articles on his area of expertise. Luke met Aaron in a pub. His first impressions were intelligent, cultured and self-possessed, as well as cute-looking. Four years later those impressions hold true, in addition to some other admirable attributes: Aaron never has more than three or four drinks at a time, he doesn’t say yes when he means no, and he doesn’t have a self-destructive bone in his body.
‘You’re burnt out, Luke. This is what you do when you’re tired. You get filthy drunk and make things even worse for yourself.’
Luke groans. His head is aching. Waves of nausea rise and recede. He feels unbalanced, as though he could topple off the kitchen stool and crack his head on the floor tiles. He grips the counter. Steadies himself. ‘I know, I know, I’m a fool.’
‘You can’t go on like this,’ Aaron declares. He moves around the kitchen as he speaks, tidying away dishes, wiping surfaces. The movement is making Luke feel dizzy. ‘You need a holiday. Three or four weeks at least.’
‘I can’t—’
‘Look at yourself in the mirror. If you can see past the hangover, you’ll notice a perilously tired man.’ Aaron grins, and Luke knows he is about to say something harsh and wants to soften it. ‘Being haggard is not attractive, you know.’
Luke laughs, which makes his head feel significantly worse. ‘Jeez, thanks ... And there was I, thinking I was hot ...’
There’s a small silence. Luke sips from a glass of coconut water. Aaron swears by it for hangovers ... not that he suffers from many of them. ‘I suppose I could take a week ...’
Aaron rolls his eyes. ‘That’s not enough, and you know it isn’t. You’ve never taken more than a week’s holiday since the day we met. What are you scared of?’
Good question. Is he scared of something? That his job and livelihood will somehow disappear while he’s vacationing? In the early days it was a money thing. Being on leave meant not being paid overtime, and the basic wage simply wasn’t enough to live on. But money hasn’t been a problem for years. Is it more to do with having time to stop and reflect on all the things in his life that are shit?
‘It’s a busy time of year.’
‘So?’ Aaron is being uncharacteristically obtuse.
‘It’s not really a convenient time to be taking extended leave.’
‘You could be back on the job the week before Christmas. Surely, the airline would be happy with that?’
Actually, the airline would be thr
illed with that. Finding people willing to work over Christmas is never easy.
Aaron rinses some coffee cups, then tries a different angle. ‘Look, it’d be an opportunity to go to Australia. You’re overdue a visit, and I’ve never been. I want to see the opera house, the bridge, Bondi Beach ... More than that, I want to meet your family—’ Luke snorts at this but Aaron continues nevertheless. ‘I want to see where you grew up. You’ve met my family, seen my childhood house ...’
Aaron’s parents live in Wales, in the same three-bed semi they purchased when they first got married. Luke and Aaron visit several times a year and are pampered for the entirety of their stay.
‘You know how difficult my father is,’ Luke says.
Difficult being the understatement of the century. Belligerent. Scathing. Bigoted. And more. His roar on seeing Luke’s outfit for a Mardi Gras party. Take it off before I tear it off ya.
The scuff across the head when Luke got blond highlights. Bloody hell, next you’ll be wearing make-up.
Luke’s earrings and other jewellery gathered up and deposited in the garbage. Where did I go wrong with you?
‘I know,’ Aaron says gently, bringing Luke back to the here and now. ‘But I still want to meet him at some point.’
Luke takes another sip from his glass. He doesn’t think the coconut water is helping. Neither did the Panadol he took as soon as he woke up. The only thing that will help is another twelve hours in bed – and no further thoughts about his father.
‘There’s a reunion coming up,’ he admits huskily; even his voice is not working properly. ‘I don’t want to go.’
‘Why not? I thought you liked school?’
‘What’s the point in looking back? “Look forward” has always been my motto.’
‘Might be time for a new motto.’
Luke closes his eyes and he’s back in time again. Katy grinning as she brought her car to a jerky stop outside his house. ‘Your taxi is here.’
Singing loudly to Backstreet Boys on the way to school, a bubble of happiness before the drudgery of class.
