Just As You Are

by Kate Mathieson

  ***

  The first few weeks flew by. I got used to being on my feet the whole time, and go, go, go. I drafted press releases, and social media teaser campaigns and Save the Date invitation cards, which were designed on thick white card, luxe and beautiful, with silver inlay – they were so expensive that the bunch of 1000 invitations cost more than my annual rent. Every night I finished at about 8 p.m. and walked home in the last of the summer heat. At home, I microwaved a meal and logged onto my PR course, determined to learn as much as I could.

  I was surprised to find it seemed I knew more about PR than I thought I did from all my years sitting in on PR meetings. Turns out I was doing well at my course – actually I was acing it according to my online tutor. Even so, I already felt like I was drowning at work. I thought I’d be managing the guests, the event logistics, the media, writing draft press releases and doing teaser campaigns – all of which I could do, and was doing, for Macabre.

  But it turns out, Donna had different ideas. She wanted me to be across everything. She constantly called out to me from her white albatross office, without checking I was sitting at my desk. I became attuned to hearing her, and running back from the kitchen, or the hallway, even the printing room, to scribble down another task on my to-do list.

  ‘Emma – would you work with the chef to create the menu, he is such hard work. You’re a gem!’

  ‘Can you choose the fabrics? It would be so much cheaper. Those design consultants cost sooooo much.’

  ‘Em!’ It appeared we were on shortened first name basis now. ‘Em, you’ll need to go to fabric place today, and put in an order, they’ve got a special on. And where is your concept pitch for the look and feel? I need it on my desk pronto.’

  And I responded ‘sure’ because, well, career prostitution, and because I was still feeling a little guilty for fudging my CV a bit, and I wanted to prove myself.

  But it seemed I was single-handedly creating the entire event myself. Donna was suddenly expecting me to choose a theme, and the fabrics, and finishing’s for the event, and design how they should be set up, and now I was meant to be suggesting dessert items for the chef’s menu – and I wasn’t sure this was meant to part of my job role at all. To make matters worse, Donna kept sending me emails, lots of emails, even at night, asking for an update. How’s the theme? What’s the approach? Where are the concept ideas? I was absolutely exhausted. Being in multitasking mode all day, every day was making my brain a frazzled mess. There were things I had to coordinate – guests, media, who was standing where, who was sitting where, what order guests would arrive on the red carpet. Table layouts. Decorations. I had spreadsheets to keep track of my spreadsheets.

  If I wasn’t in the office, I was at stylists’ and designers’, picking fabrics for the curtain entrance and choosing the right colour for the table centerpieces and flowers. Crimson or scarlet or carnelian? Ivory or alabaster or opaque milk? The length. The shape.

  But I didn’t have the theme, so how could I purchase the material? I prayed that the idea would suddenly drop from the skies into my mind. I’d even tried taking up meditation this morning at five, when my alarm went off. I spent the better part of ten minutes willing the force, or the collective consciousness, whatever it was called, to give me the answer telepathically or something, but then I realised the aim of meditation was to clear my mind and be OK with everything, rather than manifest exactly what I wanted. Anyway, it hadn’t worked.

  Given I had no idea what to pick, I just pointed at a load of different fabrics, telling myself, if we didn’t use them now, we could save them for another event. I bought swaddles of every colour combination I could think of – red and white and black, silver and gold, bright green, sunshine yellow and fuchsia pink. And then stared at them clumped together like a big mess. Even the decorating coordinator raised her eyebrows and said, ‘So it’s a rainbow theme?’

  Besides, most of my energy was focused on avoiding Donna. Which was proving very difficult, because she was sending me emails, lots of emails, asking for an update. How’s the theme? What’s the approach? Where are the concept ideas? Her emails were getting more and more demanding, and I could feel the suspicion seep out of her words and onto my keyboard. At first, I’d thought I’d finally leapt onto a cracking idea, when I’d remembered an old movie I had loved and suggested the theme The Garden of Good and Evil.

  I’d stood in front of Donna’s desk, feeling quite theatrical as I’d described an entrance of black curtains. Blood-red stars. White porcelain statues. Two entrances. But which one would you take? Or which one would choose you? Inside, an enchanted garden theme. Fairy lights. Long creeper plants. Ivy. Oak leaves. Black glitter stars. Tables with red tablecloths for evil – quite macabre; white for good and innocence. Donna had held up her hand and said, ‘Great idea, Emma, but this was used a few years ago by Maker for a product launch.’

  My heart had sunk. I’d scuttled back to my desk feeling defeated, and just wanting to sink my teeth into a very large cheese toastie with a Mars bar chaser, when Donna had emailed saying Glenn wanted an update on the theme by Friday. She even wrote ‘tick tock’ at the end of her email, like a countdown clock, which made me feel even more nauseous. I sat googling death, hoping no one could see my screen because they might have urged me to phone Lifeline.

  ***

  At night I wasn’t sleeping, because I was starting to feel completely overwhelmed. I tried to work out how I’d got into this mess in the first place. I think I’d done it to please everyone else – to please Tansy who wanted me to stay in Sydney and had gone to such lengths to find me a role and tell them I’d be perfect for them, to please my Mum and Dad who wanted me to finally ‘settle down and make something of myself’, to show Murray I had what it takes to settle down now I was older, to please Donna who did seem sometimes pleased I was doing everything she asked, but then, at other times, seemed to be aloof and cool about it, as though I was the most insignificant worker in the world. And mostly, I think I’d done it to please all my other friends who kept asking – why do you always travel? As if it was a strange habit or addiction I needed to kick in a thirty-day program. The truth was, I was doing it to please everyone, but I didn’t really feel that pleased about it myself.

  This is just life, I told myself. This is what you do – you go to work at a place you may not love, at a job that requires more than you can give it. You pay bills. You plan holidays for your four weeks of annual leave. You grit your teeth, and you just get through it, and you hope that one day it gets easier.

  One night, I left the office at 9 p.m. and realized I hadn’t eaten lunch and I started to feel a little lightheaded, and dizzy. I walked shakily into a city convenience store and just said ‘sugar’ like I was a diabetic. The man behind the counter pointed to some gummy lollies, which I bought, at a whopping seven dollars a packet, and sat on the curb outside tipping the entire contents of two bags down my throat and chewing as fast as I could, until I felt better.

  It was a new low. Sitting in that gutter, grits of sugar covering my green faux silk shirt. I almost dialled Donna’s phone number and confessed that I needed help, that I felt overwhelmed and I didn’t know the first thing about deconstructed desserts and if the chef should make dill and cucumber sorbet or pandan curd, and what the hell was pandan anyway? Or admit that I was not a fabric master and didn’t know which would hang better around the pillars, chiffon or organza or georgette.

  But then I knew I’d lose my job, and I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent, and my Mum had gone out of her way to help me get that unit, I couldn’t do what I had done when I was younger – just upped and left. I was an adult now – I had to face my problems, I had to stay and work it out, I had to just keep going and hoping and working as hard as I could.

  I was just about to call Donna, my thumb hovering over the call button, when my phone started to vibrate. It was Maggie. I brushed the sugar off my hand and pressed ‘accept’. As soon as I answered, she started gabbling do
wn the phone, excitedly talking about Tony.

  ‘Tony?’ I said standing up from the gutter, struggling to think of a friend called Tony that we knew.

  ‘Yes, I’ve fixed you up on a date! Step three, Em!’

  ‘Oh, great.’ I should have felt more excited.

  ‘I’m your matchmaker! He likes pizza. Well actually, he makes pizza!’

  I swallowed, too exhausted to think about going on a date.

  ‘Aren’t you excited?’

  ‘I am.’ I said with all the energy I could muster.

  ‘Great! Because I’ve set it up for Saturday night. Call me afterwards with all the juicy details!’

  Not to be outdone by Maggie, Tansy called immediately after, and said excitedly ‘I have a date for you! Step three is in motion!’

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s Saturday night? Maggie has already booked me.’

  ‘Of course not, we’ve worked this out perfectly, you’ll meet Tony Pepperoni on Saturday night, think of him like a trial run Em. And then you’ll meet my guy Peter the following Saturday night. He’s the real deal Em, he works in PR too!’

  ‘Oh great, we can talk more about work, because it’s not consuming my life enough already.’ I half-joked. ‘How do you know Peter? And why haven’t I heard about him before?’

  ‘He’s a friend of an old work colleague.’

  ‘Tansy, have you even met Peter?’ I said suspiciously.

  ‘Not really, but I hear he’s lovely. And Em it was hard to find a thirty-something single guy who wants a relationship but isn’t in one.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Chapter 10

  On Saturday afternoon, I was too exhausted to even get off my couch. I had to down a triple shot of coffee to even consider going on my date. Was this what it was like to work an office job, then crawl back home into bed, and then get up, rinse and repeat every day? How did people go to Friday night drinks? When Phil had asked me, I could barely utter a no before I managed to throw myself on the train, heat up a microwave meal, and get into my sweatpants and sleep until midday.

  I knew it was only my first month, but I didn’t know how people did this for their entire life. And more, they seemed to like this life. It will get better, I told myself. Once I knew what I was doing, it would get better. Because it had to.

  Now, Saturday evening, I was coffee-amped and striding down Elizabeth Street in very tall heels, with a pencil skirt, and a white silk top with a rose satin bra underneath, which I’d found in my BT (Before Trip) clothes, which meant it was a size, or two, too small and my ample breasts were cut in two, and billowing like a massive cleavage muffin top. I’d told myself it was very French, if only I could figure out a way to sit down for extended periods of time without possibly fainting as the bottom of it cut through my skin and into my actual ribs.

  Tony was already there, and he was, in every account of the word, Italian. Short, way shorter than me, and fed on pasta and pizza by his nonna or his shop, or both, which had given him a rather rotund barrel sorta look. He had dark brown thinning hair, and a prominent, strong Roman nose. He had a bright smile and was beaming when he saw me. Or rather, when he saw the cleavage pillows nestled in my rose bra. He took one look at them and looked as if he wanted to roost for life – he couldn’t stop staring. And I mean ogling. At times, such as when I was telling him that I worked at Maker, or that I’d travelled to Italy, I felt like putting my hands in the air, or bringing up a squeaky toy as I’d do with a child who was getting their photo taken on Santa’s lap and I wanted them to ‘look here’.

  Tony had recently moved to Sydney, a few years ago, from Melbourne, which was – according to him – the real home of coffee and Italians. He was now conquering the world of Sydney melted mozzarella – his words, not mine. Two beers (him) and half a wine (me) later, I was ready to go home. It turned out as magic as pizza is, it isn’t worth having a man give you a hug goodnight and putting his paws on your buttock region. Tony, you may be small, but I’m pretty sure you can reach my back.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. I tried countless times, but my mind kept going over how I was going to get all my work done at Maker. I got my paints out, but I didn’t feel like painting a thing. Instead I just drew big, black, round circles until my page looked like a Dalmatian.

  Somewhere out on the street, a siren wailed. The couple above were moving furniture around again at 1 a.m. – thud and pull, thud and pull – as something heavy like a couch was dragged across the floor. Since I was up, I thought maybe I should try and get some work done. I turned my artbook over and wrote at the top ‘Death Themes’. Just looking at it, I felt overwhelmed. My heart started thudding, and my chest felt tight. My stomach turned and for a second, I thought I was going to throw up. I ran to the bathroom, leant over the toilet and tried to vomit, but nothing came up. Shakily I stood and rinsed my mouth with water, and then ate a bit of toothpaste to get rid of the acidic bile taste in my mouth. This is what stress does to me.

  Suddenly, I knew what I had to do on Monday morning. First thing when I got in, I was going to tell Donna I didn’t have a concept. That she should give the project to someone else who possibly knew about sorbets and organza. Of course, I’d help in every way I could, I’d work around the clock, I’d do whatever it took, but I needed someone leading the way, so that this event didn’t become the biggest screw up for Maker. She could fire me. Ice me out with her perfect glacial stare. Yell at me. Or worse, ignore me as if I didn’t exist. Whatever happened, I’d take it on the chin.

  Exhausted, I climbed back into bed. It’s possible I’m about to have the shortest employment ever – one month.

  After that thought, I was unable to sleep at all. My stomach was in knots. I curled up in bed and left the light on, and scrolled through my phone. Facebook. Instagram. Photos of kids going fishing. And toddlers eating spaghetti and getting it all around their faces. Newborn babies swaddled tightly and sleeping. And dogs being, well, cute and doggy, sleeping on their backs, all paws splayed out. And married couples on date nights – taking photos of their amazing dinners, and expensive, elaborate bright fuchsia and spearmint coloured cocktails with steam pouring out of them, or dry ice, or something like that.

  Then I thought of me almost vomiting in my bathroom, and I thought – how do they do it? If this is everyone’s life, going to work, feeling overwhelmed and stressed, how do they look so happy?

  And then I started wondering why I wasn’t sharing date night pictures of my drinks, and my dinner, and my mediocre date with Tony, and then those silly questions tumbled out. Had Murray really been so bad? Should I have stayed with him? At least now I’d have a bigger house.

  For some reason, I felt compelled to log onto Facebook. My heart beat wildly, as I typed in his name, as if he could see me do it. As if he knew I was searching for him.

  Murray Roberts.

  There he was – he’d unblocked me. His profile picture was him, awkwardly crouched down at the beach; a young boy, about four, who looked slightly like him with brown hair and pale skin, was wrapped up in his arms. He’d always hated the beach. The sand, the sun. Even though he was pale and awkward, Murray looked happy, and fatter. Middle age hadn’t been that kind to him, his hair was receding, but, flicking through his photos, I saw he seemed to have everything he’d wanted. The house was undergoing renovations. They were putting in a pool. He remarked how long it was taking, and how their annual holidays up the coast had had to be cancelled.

  I flicked through countless photos of his toddler daughter and son, before I found one of his wife – Stephanie Roberts. And it felt weird, to know she had the surname I could have had. She had shortish brown hair that reached just below her shoulders, and pale skin, she didn’t wear make-up in any of the photos, and she was slim, and tall, and quite nondescript. And, I thought, that could have been me. I could have been Emma Roberts. And it filled me with a sense of relief that I wasn’t.

  Of course, I knew I’d made the right decision. I didn�
�t want annual holidays up the coast, I wanted international flights, and trekking Mont Blanc, and painting Lake Como, and learning Italian, and seeing wolves and polar bears in the wild. I wanted those things.

  Did I still want them? Tonight I did. Tonight the best thing in the world sounded like a one-way plane ticket out of here. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t let everyone down. I had to stay, and be resilient, and be like everyone else – and just get through this, and hope that in a week, two weeks, I’d feel a lot better about everything.

  Before I shut my laptop, there was one last name that was hovering in my brain. A name that had kept on popping up in my head this past week, even though I’d promised myself not to think about it again. It was a long shot, but I tried anyway.

  Nick.

  Do you know how many Nicks there are in Sydney? Thousands and thousands. Possibly millions. I tried ‘Nick Fiji’ and even got so desperate as to type in ‘Nick Fiji Timeshare’ to both Facebook and Google.

  I knew things were bad when I tried searching ‘Nick Corporate Long Hours Sydney Fiji’ and got a list of flights and business deals in the South Pacific.

  By this time it was 3 a.m., and way too late to be thinking about alternative lives and ‘what ifs’. I shut my laptop. That was enough reminiscing.

  Chapter 11

  Monday at work, the first email in my inbox was from Donna. Subject: Melbourne. She wrote:

  I’m off to the Melbourne office. Last minute plans. They need someone to head up the new media project down here to ensure it’s on point. They’ll get someone in as soon as they can. You know what to do.

  D

  My mouth hung agape.

  ‘Catching flies?’ Phil arrived, putting his vintage-find mahogany man bag on the desk between us.

  I couldn’t say a word. Finally I managed to stutter, ‘Sh- she’s gone.’