Maggie's Going Nowhere

by Rose Hartley

  ‘Maggie? Are you asleep already?’ It was Jen’s voice, coming from outside the caravan.

  I got up and opened the door to find her bearing a steaming, foil-covered dish that I desperately hoped was lasagne. As if she’d read my thoughts, she pulled back the foil: cheese, cheese and more cheese, golden brown. A hint of white bechamel. Definitely lasagne.

  ‘I was hoping we could do some wedding planning.’ She was practically shivering with enthusiasm.

  ‘Sure, come in. What does wedding planning involve?’

  ‘Spreadsheets.’ Great. She placed the lasagne on the table and eased her laptop satchel from her shoulder. ‘Where can I set up?’

  ‘There’s only one table in here, and the lasagne has priority,’ I said.

  ‘Well, of course, I knew I’d have to feed you if I wanted to get any work done.’ She threw the satchel on the bed and got to work cutting slices of lasagne and putting them on plates. ‘Do you have any lettuce to make a salad?’

  ‘For once, I do.’

  After we ate, I cleared the table and Jen opened her laptop to show me her spreadsheets. Her wedding spreadsheet contained six tabs and was nauseatingly detailed. The current projected cost of the wedding, not including the engagement party and the honeymoon, was $56,000. ‘But I haven’t even thought about lighting yet,’ Jen sighed, as if it was a given that the lighting would blow out the budget.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ she said, immediately businesslike, ‘we’re having a cake at the wedding but we’re not going to be serving it for dessert, so I want you to research take-home cake bags and bag ties, so each guest can take a piece home with them.’

  ‘Bag ties,’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes. I’d prefer if the bags aren’t too cellophane-y, because if they are everyone will crackle on their way home. And I don’t want crappy ribbons for the bags but I also don’t want super-expensive ribbons.’

  I scratched my head. ‘Is there anything a little less detail-oriented that you can get me to do?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Help me choose the wedding dance song? I don’t trust my own taste, and I definitely don’t trust Jono’s. He’ll have us dancing to “Pony” by Ginuwine.’

  ‘I know exactly what you want,’ I said. ‘I’ve been preparing for this moment my entire life. I’ve already been making a song list to send to the DJ. Get a load of this.’ I showed her Rueben’s playlist.

  Twenty minutes later Jen and I were slow-dancing to Buddy Miller’s version of ‘How I Got to Memphis’ and she was showing me a two-step move while I tried to convince her that it was a perfect first-dance song.

  ‘But it’s about a woman leaving,’ she said, twirling me in the tiny space between the sink and the wardrobe.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Jen narrowed her eyes at me.

  ‘And the man following her,’ I added, bumping my elbow on the edge of the bench. ‘A small but crucial detail. He follows wherever she goes.’

  ‘I’m marrying a man, not a dog.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Careful! You nearly knocked over the wine.’

  I’d opened a bottle of cleanskin red to assist in our important wedding-planning tasks. To avert disaster, I topped up Jen’s and my glasses, took a swig from mine, then placed them out of reach of clumsy elbows. An hour later we’d nearly finished the wine and I had eight ‘absolutely definitely’ songs, five ‘maybe’ songs and three ‘I’ll-convince-you-when-you’re-drunk songs’ on the list to give to the DJ. Jen switched the music on my phone to Beyoncé and turned it up.

  ‘Okay, this has to be on the list,’ she shouted, flinging her arms in the air.

  ‘A wedding’s not a wedding without “Single Ladies”,’ I replied. We jumped around, rocking the caravan dangerously.

  ‘Is that someone knocking?’ Jen asked, still dancing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone’s knocking!’

  I opened the door and leant against the cold aluminium frame to steady myself.

  ‘Hello,’ said a young but authoritative voice.

  It was dark outside, but a streetlamp shone down on a man standing arms folded, legs spread, a slightly podgy Bruce Willis with faintly familiar rosy cheeks like soft pillows. It was the police officer who’d tried to arrest me for public urination.

  ‘Hello again,’ I said. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘The neighbours have registered a noise complaint. It sounds like a bunch of elephants thundering around in there. I thought I told you to move on.’

  I decided to lie in the hopes of moving him to pity. ‘But where will I go? I told you I have no one to stay with.’

  He sighed and adjusted his uniform, which looked a little tight. ‘Look, you can’t just park this on the street and sleep in it. I can arrange for a social worker to get you a bed, if you don’t have anyone to stay with.’

  My heart skipped a beat as I imagined him dragging me into the Nicholson Street Angels shelter as a client. I didn’t know what street the shelter was on – only Agnes and Josephine had access to that information – but they would instantly see my name on the list. Christ. This guy really needed to be more of a hardarse if he wanted to perform the Bruce Willis stance. Now I had to slink out of the pity party I’d created.

  ‘I have every right to live in a caravan!’ I stuck my finger in his face. ‘People used to live under a pile of leaves in caveman days. You can’t intimidate me. I will live however I want!’

  He folded his arms, a new, contemptuous line about his full mouth. ‘Fine. But you have to move on.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Jen had finally stopped dancing. She stuck her golden head out. ‘Is there a problem, officer?’

  Jen was wearing her house pants, silky purple floaty things. Earlier, when she’d got too hot dancing, she’d taken off her jumper. Now all she had on was a white tank top with a built-in shelf bra. You could see her nipples through it just a tiny bit. Perfect.

  PC Pink Cheeks tried not to stare at her headlights.

  ‘Ahem, ah,’ he said. ‘I just, ah, need you to turn down the music and move the caravan somewhere else. There’s been a noise complaint.’

  ‘Of course we’ll turn down the music,’ she said, soothing him. ‘It’s this broken window, it must be seeping out and disturbing everyone. Is it eleven o’clock already? I had no idea. We should wrap this up anyway, I have to work early tomorrow. I’m a nurse.’

  Pink Cheeks was nodding along with her words, probably without realising it. He looked so freshly scrubbed it was almost cute.

  ‘Have you met Maggie before?’ Jen asked.

  ‘Yes, er,’ he said.

  ‘He tried to arrest me for peeing in the gutter,’ I said. ‘Allegedly.’

  He tore his eyes away from Jen reluctantly and fixed them on me. ‘I just need you to move on,’ he repeated. ‘This is a residential area and the neighbours don’t like it.’

  ‘I’m a neighbour and I like it,’ said Jen.

  ‘Er, what?’

  ‘I live in that house.’ She pointed. ‘And Maggie has my permission to park her caravan here. What’s your name?’

  She must have caught him by surprise because he opened and closed his mouth like a fish for several seconds before replying.

  ‘Tommasio,’ he finally managed.

  ‘Oh, you’re Italian too!’ Jen exclaimed. That was my cue to go inside. I busied myself with packing up the laptop as she charmed him. ‘My father’s from Castelrotto. Are you Northern or Southern?’

  Tommasio cleared his throat, flustered. ‘Um, yeah, I’ve got some family in Campania.’

  Within minutes, Jen was regaling him with stories of her nonno sun-drying tomatoes on his roof. By the time I cleaned a plate to serve Tommasio up a piece of her lasagne they were comparing war stories of their Catholic fathers. The end result of Jen’s charm offensive was an agreement: I could stay in the caravan as long as I kept quiet, behaved myself, and promised to move the caravan
at least as far as Abbotsford the instant I got a third complaint. PC Pink Cheeks left the caravan in a daze, still gazing absent-mindedly at Jen’s golden curls as he threw one leg over his police motorbike. She waved, and he almost fell off the bike in his hurry to wave back.

  Chapter 18

  Jen’s charm and quick thinking had got the police officer off my case, so to thank her I went around on Sunday night to shower her with compliments as she cooked me a roast chicken dinner. Jono was in town but thankfully had gone out with friends, so Jen and I settled in front of the television with plates of chicken, peas and potatoes and a bottle of wine each. One of the reasons I love Jen: despite the fact that ninety per cent of brides go on a diet, she steadfastly resisted. The wedding was three weeks away but she was already perfect and deserved roast chicken with extra gravy.

  ‘Do you want the last potato?’ she asked, eyeing the last golden gem.

  ‘You have it.’ A fine example of the self-restraint and generosity that nobody ever gives me credit for.

  After dinner it was time for The Bachelorette, a mud face-mask for Jen and choc chip cookies for me. Maybe she was on a diet after all, because she refused the cookie I offered her.

  ‘Are your sisters going to be in town for the wedding rehearsal?’ I asked. ‘I have to give the restaurant firm numbers this week.’

  ‘No.’ Jen’s eyes were fixed on the sexy magician onscreen, juggling bowling pins for the blonde bachelorette. ‘That was one of the reasons I wanted to have the rehearsal a week before the wedding, so they’d miss it. They’re getting in the day before the wedding.’

  ‘Won’t they need to practise their duties?’

  ‘They’ve been in hundreds of weddings. You walk down the aisle, hold flowers, cry and smile. You’ll be the one holding my train, anyway. You’re the only one who needs to practise. It’s actually a good thing you’re here, because I have some wedding stuff I want to go over with you.’

  I sighed. ‘The price I pay for roast chicken.’

  She gave me the finger and took a cookie. Guess she’d decided to have one after all.

  ‘So you’ve booked the venue for the rehearsal dinner,’ she said. ‘What else?’

  ‘I’ve hired you a band, too. Rueben’s band.’

  ‘So you can shag him afterwards? Good thinking. Listen, I want to invite more people to the dinner, not just the bridal party. My sister told me the bride never gets time to hang out with her friends at the actual wedding, so can you ask Biyu, Dan, my book club, everyone?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Do I have to invite Jono, though?’

  ‘Oi,’ she said.

  ‘Seriously, Jen, you could do a lot better.’ I may have drunk too much of Jen’s wine, and it may have been the exact wrong moment to hit her once again with the hard truth – three years ago might have been a better time – but no one else was going to take one last shot at helping her see the mistake she was careening towards. Besides, indiscretion looks so good on me, I wear it like a fancy top hat. I drank up and let rip.

  ‘For God’s sake, can’t you dump Jono and marry Tommasio the cop instead? He loved you. I’ve already thought ahead to what your children will be called.’ I counted on my fingers. ‘Traditional Italian: Maria, Giuseppe. Modern Italian: Adele, Antonio. Modern Australian: Mia, Joshua. Modern celebrity: Apple, Blue. I’ll even be godmother. I can totally pretend to be Catholic in the ceremony. In fact, I’m ready to take your daughters out shopping and corrupt them completely.’

  Jen’s face closed down as if someone had drawn the shutters, and she put her wineglass on the coffee table. ‘Can you stop saying things like that, Maggie? I know you don’t like Jono but it’s pretty awful for me. Especially when you’re the only person I’ve got to help me with the wedding. You’re telling me to marry some red-faced cop I just met the other night? I had to sweet-talk that guy to get you out of trouble. Jono is the person I’m marrying. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with him, and if you want to be my kids’ godmother you have to get along with him.’

  ‘Get along with him? Get along with the guy who’s wasted half your youth, blind to the fact that he’s the luckiest tool in Melbourne? I’m supposed to get along with a man who’s got an intellect the size of an ant’s dick and an ego—’

  ‘Maggie!’ Jen’s sharp interjection and pained look over my shoulder made me turn.

  Jono had entered the room at some point during my speech and was staring at me, mouth open. I hadn’t heard him come in over The Bachelorette’s skydiving date. Jen gripped the edge of the coffee table as if for balance. There was a wariness in her expression I didn’t recognise.

  After a long silence, Jono pointed at me. ‘Get out of my house.’

  ‘It’s Jen’s house. She decides who comes in.’ Limp comeback. Blame it on the wine.

  ‘Jono,’ Jen said. ‘Maggie didn’t mean it. She’s had too much to drink.’

  He turned slowly to Jen but kept his finger directed at me. ‘I’m going to stay at Rob’s house. If I see her face in this house between now and the wedding, there won’t be a wedding.’

  ‘Oh, hell no,’ I said. ‘That’s manipulation. Jen, don’t fall for his crap.’

  A soft tone entered Jono’s voice, like he was speaking to a child. ‘You really think she’s going to choose you?’ he said to me, half smiling. ‘Which one of us can give her kids, you or me?’

  He walked out, slamming the front door. Jen put a shaking hand to her forehead and blinked too many times.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Maggie, I can’t believe you’ve put me in this position.’

  ‘I didn’t realise he’d come in,’ I said lamely. ‘He just . . . pops up.’

  Jen began cleaning up our dishes and I had a bad feeling that it was just so she didn’t have to look at me. I tried to collect the wineglasses and take them to the sink but she waved off my help.

  ‘I could put up with you using my place like a hotel,’ she said, ‘and being cavalier with Jono – you’ve been treating him like an afterthought for years – but I thought you’d be able to keep your actual bloody opinions to yourself, if only to keep the peace during the most important time of my life.’

  ‘Oh right, of course, because I’m such a fucking train wreck and you’re a saint for putting up with me, is that the subtext?’

  ‘Subtext? No, it’s the freaking text. You think Jono sponges off me, but you’re so much worse! You come into my house and make yourself at home and reprogram my Netflix and open my letters and eat my steak and borrow my money, and tell me what’s wrong with everyone, including me, including my fiancé—’

  ‘You mean I tell the truth.’

  ‘You have no boundaries!’ She was shouting now.

  ‘You’re going to have a go at me for sleeping around, too, aren’t you?’

  ‘No! That’s literally the only thing I’m not having a go at you about. If you’re going to screw everyone in Melbourne at least stop being so sensitive about it.’

  ‘There it is. You’re judging me.’

  ‘I am not!’ She slammed the cutlery into the dishwasher with such force that bits of chicken flew off the forks and landed on her cheek. ‘I have never judged you. I didn’t even judge you the time you ended that poor bastard’s eight-year relationship when you slept with him in Ios.’

  ‘That “poor bastard” got the best blowjob of his life. He made his bed.’

  ‘Good for him!’

  ‘Exactly, good for him.’

  ‘Christ.’ Jen wiped her face.

  Through the window to the backyard I could see Dot, illuminated by the streetlight beyond, kicking up dirt in Jen’s vegie patch, presumably to cover the unwelcome fertiliser she’d just added to the tomatoes. Jen had her back to me now and was running hot water over the roasting dish. I was convinced she was cleaning with force in order to induce guilt in me, to hammer home the point that she was always the one looking after me and never the other way around.

  ‘Every time,’ I began, ‘every single time I
want to do something that feels good I have to be reminded that everyone else thinks it’s bad, and that if I’m going to do it I’ll have to contend with everyone else’s need to preserve their reputations, which they insist on projecting onto me as well.’

  ‘You tell yourself whatever you need to get by.’ Jen shut off the water and leant back against the kitchen sink. Her voice was quiet. ‘I reckon, in sex, we forget who we are. And I think you want to forget yourself more than anyone I’ve ever met.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘He’s asked me to choose, and it’s not easy, but then again it kind of is. I need a break.’

  Her words hung in the air.

  ‘A break from me?’ I said.

  ‘A break from you.’

  I watched her, trying to ascertain how serious she was. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes pink from holding back tears. There were things I wanted to ask, like, am I still your maid of honour? Am I still invited to the wedding? Am I still your friend? But I was afraid of what the answers might be. So I left, creeping back to the caravan in the cold, reassuring myself that by tomorrow night we’d have made up and everything would be all right.

  The caravan that night felt more solid, its walls thicker, the squares of carpet under my feet heavier, as if in the wake of Jen’s rejection it had suddenly become my permanent living situation. I went to bed without showering or cleaning my teeth, worrying about what I would do in the morning when I couldn’t walk into Jen’s house like I was its third occupant and refusing to think about what I’d do if Jen decided she wanted me out of her life forever.