by Zane Lovitt
He rummaged in his bag. Oh,god, please let it be in here. When his hand registered the smooth case of the DVD he ripped it from his satchel. Then he saw the title, Entourage Season 7. The pressure in his head extended into his gums and it felt as though his teeth might shoot out like popping corn.
*
‘You’re a sculptress, right?’ Phil asked Natalie.
The women started laughing, throwing back their heads and exposing their throats. Scott could see Sophie’s back teeth and Dawn’s epiglottis.
‘What did I say?’ Phil widened his eyes.
‘Sexist,’ said Natalie, batting him on the shoulder. ‘It’s sculptor.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry, I’d no idea.’ He grinned wickedly so they would be in no doubt he was lying.
Natalie was sitting very close to Phil on the velvet love seat. She’d kicked off her shoes, tucked her feet under her legs and was practically snuggling in. Dawn leaned over the table towards Phil, breasts threatening to spill out of her corset, and Sophie fingered the stem of her martini glass. Scott noticed his teeth had started to grind, and excused himself to go to the bathroom. He urinated, washed his hands, and squinted to examine himself in the mirror. He’d gone casual: old jeans; converse shoes; checked shirt over a band t-shirt, but now wondered if he just looked pathetic – trying to seem younger than he was. He was thirty-seven, still had a head of thick brown hair, but his boyish look had evaporated after the baby arrived, sleepless nights cutting crow’s feet into the corners of his eyes. Still, he was better looking than Phil, who, to be honest, looked closer to fifty than forty and had a kind of bulbous nose.
*
A voice piped up from the back of the classroom. ‘You alright sir? Looking a bit green.’
Scott didn’t have to glance up from his bag to know who was taunting him – Hamish Thorsten, white-blond, arrogant son of a QC. Hamish ruled 11B.
‘Head cold,’ Scott said.
Hamish whispered something to his offsider, no-necked, Rugby-playing Lachlan Farr-Baden, whose ‘Haw-haw-haw’ set the rest of the classroom giggling.
Normally, Scott would have asked Hamish to share his observation with everyone, if it was so amusing, but he was desperate to put on the DVD and turn out the lights.
‘Settle down, everyone. Slight change of plans. Instead of the film, we’re going to watch a related text that highlights some of the major themes in the novel such as the emptiness of the American Dream, the importance of friendship in a cruel world and the loneliness of the working man,’ Scott improvised furiously. ‘It’s called Entourage and is about a Hollywood actor who—’
The class burst into excited chatter.
‘Oh, my god, Adrian Grenier is so hot. I’d totally do him!’ screeched Ophelia Howard, the resident valley girl. Her best friend, Ali, a bookish brunette, laughed so hard she nearly fell off her chair.
Scott saw Lachlan turn to Hamish. Under the general classroom babble, Scott caught the words ‘sluts’ and ‘tits’.
‘Lachlan!’ Scott shouted.
‘He was just telling me it’s a brilliant show,’ Hamish said. ‘Lots of actresses with their, um, assets revealed. You rock, sir.’
The mocking tone made Scott want to wrap his hands around the kid’s neck.
‘It’s quite a bit more than that I can assure you. Alright, pens out while I cue it up.’
‘Can I take notes on my iPad?’ Hamish asked.
‘No.’
‘But I’m a kinaesthetic learner. My educational psychologist says I need the new technology because I struggle with traditional learning methods. It’s in my file.’
Scott was about to tell him to piss off, until he remembered the stack of shrinks’ reports he’d been given on the first day.
‘Sure, fine,’ he acquiesced. He finally got the DVD playing and in the semi-darkness buried his face in his hands, gingerly probing the dimensions of his hangover.
*
When he got back to the table his third martini had arrived and he took a large swig before munching through both olives. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Amazingly, they were all still praising Phil’s book. Scott had read it – you were sent the other panellists’ books for free – and could admit it was solid, if also a bit more commercial than his previous work. There was a real sentimental streak, obviously designed to appeal to the female demographic, but hey, they were the ones who bought books, right? Good on him for playing the market. Scott wasn’t jealous – he knew he was the better writer – but he wouldn’t have minded just a fraction of Phil’s money to get them out of the hole they were in. Natalie had insisted on buying a place (in Brunswick!) and although her parents had helped with the deposit the monthly repayments were breathtaking.
‘I’m simply a storyteller…’ Phil was telling the women, but Scott didn’t think that was why they were hanging on to his every word. Success had settled about Phil like a patina of fairy dust, bringing instant charisma and sleeker looks. Even the globular nose seemed less offensive, kind of Roman and heroic.
‘How much did you actually make on the book deal?’ Scott blurted. ‘Was it really more than a mill?’
‘I don’t like to talk about money,’ Phil replied.
‘How about Dawn’s book?’ Sophie quickly changed the subject. ‘I thought it was really beautiful, so accomplished for a first novel.’
‘Wonderfully lyrical,’ Phil said, and Scott wished he’d got in first. Lyrical was what you said when a book didn’t have any discernible plot. The waiter came and took orders. Phil, soft-cock that he was, ordered a Perrier.
Scott switched to Shiraz.
‘What did you think?’ Dawn asked Scott.
‘Honestly?’
‘Of course.’
‘It was certainly poetic. You have a deft touch.’ Where was he getting this shit? ‘But I had a bit of a problem with the inner life of your male character.’
‘Gabriel?’
‘I’m not sure you quite nailed him.’
Dawn’s mouth became a thin, hard line.
‘Don’t get offended.’
‘I’m not offended.’
‘He was kind of like a chick in drag.’
*
‘Mr Tallis, are you asleep?’ a voice bellowed as the lights snapped on, and Scott nearly leapt out of his chair. Clearly, he’d drifted off, but for how long? Lewis Brayfield, his teaching mentor and head of the English department, loomed over him, nostrils quivering.
‘Of course not, Lewis. Just, ah, thinking for a second.’
On the TV screen a pair of young women were giving the lead character an exceptionally thorough lap dance. Scott scrambled for the remote control and stabbed at the buttons, hitting pause just before the bustier of the two completely removed her bikini top.
Lewis tugged his waistcoat down over his rotund abdomen.
‘Can anyone here explain to me what this has to do with John Steinbeck?’
Lewis had had it in for him ever since he’d shown Scott the unpublished manuscript he’d been working on for twenty years. How was Scott to know he’d be offended by constructive criticism?
‘Well, it’s about the nature of the American Dream and how it…’ Scott faltered, his feverish brain refusing to join the dots. Lewis looked triumphant. Scott tried to moisten his mouth to speak, but his tongue was sandpaper. All of 11B were looking from him to Lewis, except for Hamish, who gazed at Scott steadily, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk.
Ophelia wiggled in her chair. ‘Ooh, I know this, Mr Brayfield!’
Scott shook his head and willed her to shut up.
‘It’s about sex!’ she announced. The girls looked at each other and rolled their eyes and the boys grunted like warthogs. ‘No, I’m serious. Like … what’s his name from the book?’ She nudged Ali. ‘His wife’s a total ho…’
‘
Curly?’ Ali offered.
Lewis turned to Scott with raised eyebrows.
The silence was interrupted by a soft cough. A student in the front row had raised his hand. Somboon Aksornpan, aka Sammy.
‘Yes?’ Lewis called on him. Scott didn’t have enough saliva even for that.
Sammy stood and clasped his hands in front of him. ‘Entourage is a visual text that portrays the emptiness of the American Dream. Its emphasis on material wellbeing and physical decadence demonstrates the spiritual impoverishment of the characters, and juxtaposes the modern-day version of the Dream with its initial conception, exemplified in George and Lennie’s simple pastoral ideal.’ He gave an almost imperceptible bow and sat back down.
Scott stared at the boy, slack jawed.
Lewis coughed into his fist. ‘Of course, of course. You’re absolutely right. Very good, carry on.’
*
Natalie shook her head at Scott and turned her attention back to Phil. Well, two could play at that game. Scott shifted his leg so that it rested lightly against Sophie’s thigh. She didn’t move away. There had always been a subtle attraction between them. Ever since his first book, the reasonably successful dirty realist novel The Street, had (jointly with Phil) won the National Young Writer’s award. Luckily for Phil, a writer was still considered young at thirty-five.
‘Chick?’ Dawn raised her eyebrows and opened her red-lipsticked mouth.
‘No, no. Hear me out,’ Scott said, aware that he was waving his hands around more than usual. ‘He didn’t quite ring true. His inner life, thoughts and feelings seemed…’ he took a big gulp of Shiraz and groped for the right words, ‘…filtered through a young, naïve female lens. I’m sure young women will really like the character, because he a mirrors them, but that’s not how a man thinks.’
‘Do you agree?’ Dawn turned to Phil.
‘No, I think Scott’s being unfair. Gabriel was a sensitive character, sure. But I found him very relatable.’
Relatable?
Dawn smirked triumphantly as Phillip went on.
‘Gabriel may not have been tough enough for Hemingway here, but I have to say I saw certain aspects of myself in him.’
Scott snorted and took another large sip of wine. A little dribbled onto his chin but he managed to wipe it with the back of his hand before anyone noticed. Sophie shifted in her seat so they were no longer touching. Natalie started to drone on to Phillip about her upcoming exhibition at the community centre and Dawn got out her iPhone and began to furiously peck at the screen. Scott’s wine was nearly finished, so he motioned to the waiter for another.
*
Scott shot Sammy a grateful look, switched the DVD back on and turned off the lights. Walking back to his desk he noticed Hamish and Lachlan huddled over the iPad, sniggering, so absorbed that they didn’t notice him inching his way around the perimeter of the room. With a fast, soft-shoe shuffle and a final unsteady leap, Scott was behind them, peering over the boys’ shoulders at what seemed to be a wide-eyed woman fellating a horse.
There was a burst of movement as hands flew over the screen and the image was quickly replaced with a few typed sentences. Scott seized the device, Hamish grabbed the other end and they tugged.
‘Hey!’ Hamish protested. ‘That’s my property. Let go!’
‘You dirty little pig,’ Scott grunted, suddenly winning the battle and staggering back with the iPad.
‘Mr Tallis!’
Jesus, it was Lewis again. Hovering in the doorway with his comb-over and his tweed.
‘What on earth is going on here?’
‘He’s touching my personal property!’
‘This … student,’ Scott said, swiping at the iPad, ‘was looking at hardcore pornography during class.’
‘Sir, I was just taking notes. Mr Tallis is lying.’
‘You little bast—’
‘Mr Tallis,’ Lewis boomed. ‘Would you step outside?’
*
‘So, how long you in Melbourne for?’
Scott rested his arm against the back of Sophie’s chair. His leg touched hers again, softly, as though by accident. While Natalie was dark and cultivated a bit of a gypsy look, Sophie was sleek, with blond hair tied back in a bun, subtle beige makeup, and a slick of shiny gloss over full lips. She was staring into the middle distance, taking a long time to answer.
‘Sophie?’ he prompted, nudging her thigh. Abruptly she stood up, clutching her handbag.
‘Could you please stop touching me? It’s making me very uncomfortable.’ She dashed to the bathroom.
He looked around at the others. ‘I wasn’t—’
Dawn glanced up from her furious texting. ‘You know, I suspected you were a misogynist when I read your book. All those degrading sex scenes.’
‘They weren’t… What are you doing?’ He looked at her phone.
‘I’m quoting you on Twitter. Chick in drag. Young naïve female. And then you grope our publicist.’ She lifted the phone and snapped a picture of him before continuing to type. ‘Hashtag ScottTallis, misogyny, literarysexism.’
A shadow fell across the desk and Sammy looked up. Hamish had obviously grown bored without his iPad and was looming over him, the freckled, red-haired gorilla Lachlan by his side. Mr Tallis and Mr Brayfield were still not back and Sammy covered the book he was reading with his forearms.
‘Way to suck up to Tallis, bum-boy,’ Hamish said.
Sammy squinted up at them. ‘What?’
‘Ooh,’ mimicked Lachlan. ‘Entourage juxtaposes the American dream of blah blah blah. Let me suck your dick, Sir.’
‘Are you reading?’ Hamish said reading like someone else might say wanking.
‘No,’ said Sammy, instinctively sliding the book closer to his body.
Hamish got that dangerous, sideways smile. ‘Give us a look.’ He held out his hand.
Sammy shook his head and they were on him in a flash: Lachlan behind, yanking his elbows, and Hamish in front, trying to wrest the paperback from his weakening hands.
‘Hey,’ Ali shouted as she and Ophelia marched over.
‘Leave him alone, cockheads.’ Ophelia crossed her arms and tossed her hair.
‘Shut up, I’ll-Feel-Ya,’ Hamish said, pulling the book from Sammy’s grasp and stepping back to examine it.
Ali punched Lachlan on the shoulder and the rugby player let Sammy go with a laugh. ‘Love the S and M, babe.’
The other students sniggered. Hamish’s sneer grew broader as he turned the book over and read the back cover.
‘You fucking prick,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve got you now.’
‘What?’ Lachlan danced around him, trying to see.
‘Where’d you get this?’ Hamish asked Sammy. ‘Tallis give it to you?’
‘No, I bought it in an op shop.’
‘Give him the book back.’ Ophelia said. ‘You’re already in enough trouble over the porn.’
‘They won’t find any porn,’ said Hamish.
*
‘Hey.’ Scott reached for Dawn’s phone. He wasn’t on Twitter, but he knew what a hashtag was. Before he could grab it Phillip stood up and laid his hand on Scott’s shoulder.
‘Time to get a taxi, mate.’
‘Don’t call me mate,’ Scott rose up and shook him off. ‘The salt-of-the-earth Aussie persona doesn’t really gel with the Hugo Boss jacket. What are you worth now? It’s more than a million, right?’
‘You should leave.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Natalie said to Dawn. ‘He’s not used to drinking this much, after the baby. So good to see you.’ She hugged Phil and kissed his cheek.
‘Stop fucking touching him!’ Scott seized her bicep and for a second it looked like Phil was going to put up his dukes like an old-fashioned boxer, but Natalie ran up the stairs and Scott followed. Outside in th
e cobbled laneway a light rain misted the evening air.
‘How dare you embarrass me in front of those people?’ Natalie hissed. ‘My first night out in over a year.’
‘You were all over him. What are you now, a star fucker?’
‘We need to get a cab and you need to sober up. You’ve got school tomorrow.’
‘Fuck school. I’m getting another drink.’
*
‘I know what I saw,’ Scott said.
They had not found any porn on the iPad. Nor had the school IT tech.
‘Yes, well, there’s nothing we can do without proof.’ Lewis looked relieved. ‘I suggest you give the device back and apologise to the boy.’
Scott was going to do no such thing. He took a detour past the staffroom and hid the iPad in his pigeonhole, under a pile of marking.
Back in the classroom there had been a minor miracle. The students were quiet. Doing homework, messaging each other, shopping for shoes on their phones. Hamish Thorsten was reading. He looked up from his book when Scott walked in.
‘Excuse me sir,’ the boy drawled, ‘may I have my iPad back?’
‘Sorry Thorsten. IT has sent it off for forensic testing. Can’t say how long...’
Suck on that, dipshit, he thought, headache dissipating slightly. He had never seen Hamish read anything that wasn’t on a screen, and couldn’t help asking what it was.
‘The Street,’ Hamish replied, turning the book over to read the jacket blurb. ‘The dirty realism of Tallis’ snovel is supported by the saltiness of his language and the startlingly erotic nature of his imagery. You can smell the soiled bed sheets and feel the sting of the needle hitting the vein.’
The rest of the class looked over.
‘This is my favourite part, Sir,’ Hamish started reading out loud. ‘Rosie’s sex had come up in a bumpy red rash, like the skin of a freshly plucked chicken. The sharp black stubble stung Victor as he thrust his—’
Scott hurried across the room and grabbed the book off him.
Hamish and Lachlan looked at each other. Lachlan burst into a fit of braying giggles, sucking in air like he’d punctured a lung.
