Crossing Paths

by Dianne Blacklock

  ‘You don’t know for sure that no ferries have ever capsized, do you?’ she asked after a while.

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m pretty sure. You can Google it, find out.’

  She smiled. ‘Maybe it’s better if I don’t.’

  It was a long slow queue off the ferry when they eventually docked at Circular Quay. But Jo wasn’t bothered. As they walked up out of the terminal, she saw flowers blooming in planter boxes along the Quay. She’d never noticed them before. Or the gardens over in front of the MCA. There were new leaves on the trees out the front of Customs House; young girls were wearing flimsy dresses and strappy shoes, their legs bare. Spring always held that sense of promise, that things had a chance to start all over again, fresh. Something had definitely shifted since Jo was lying on her couch this morning. A butterfly had flapped its wings somewhere and now everything was subtly transformed. And clearer, so much clearer. She wanted to be with Bannister . . . with Joe. Preferably as soon as humanly possible.

  ‘You know what?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I don’t think I can face walking any further. My legs have had it. Do you want to share a taxi?’

  ‘Sure.’

  It would only take a few minutes to get to her place, the traffic was relatively light in the city at this time of the afternoon on a weekend. Jo spent the short trip rehearsing how to say ‘Would you like to come up?’ so that it didn’t sound rehearsed, so that it sounded casual, even if she was feeling anything but casual. She really wanted him to come up. She really wanted him. What was she so worried about? She doubted she was going to have to talk him into it, he was a man, after all. They pulled up at traffic lights, a block away from her street. Maybe she should say it now.

  ‘I had a really good time today,’ said Joe before she had the chance. ‘I’m glad you decided to come.’

  That threw her. The only reply she could think of was ‘It doesn’t have to end yet’, which was too clichéd for words.

  She nodded lamely. ‘Have you got plans later?’

  ‘Yeah, I do actually,’ he said, watching her. ‘I’m going home, up to the mountains.’

  She looked . . . thrown. Oh crap. She was going to ask him up when they got to her place, he just realised. Crap. He’d had no idea this morning that this was how things were going to turn out, or he would have . . . what? All week he’d been working himself up to ask her out, even just for coffee, but every time he tried to approach her there was someone hanging around, or else he couldn’t find her in the first place. Truth was, he kept freezing up, she had this effect on him . . . As the week flew by, he knew he had to do something before he went up to the mountains, because by the time he got back, his not-so-grand gesture of the week before was going to be barely more than a distant memory. Crap.

  He had to give her some kind of explanation. ‘I finally talked Mim into going away for a few days,’ he said. ‘She’s barely left that house in years –’

  ‘Just up there on the left,’ Jo instructed the taxi driver.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘she’s off to some poetry symposium in Melbourne. I have to get up there tonight because she’s leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow, you know, it’s a long way back down to the airport, and her flight’s at, like, ten or something.’ Jesus, he was just babbling now. But she wasn’t saying anything. Why wasn’t she saying anything? She was upset. And it was his fault. He’d stuffed up again.

  Jo opened the door even before the taxi had fully come to a stop. She had to get out of here. She felt like crying. Screw him.

  ‘Jo, wait –’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ she shook her head, rummaging for her wallet in her bag. ‘I’ll give you some money for the taxi.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’ve got it.’

  ‘Okay then.’ She leapt out and swung around to look at him. ‘See you,’ she said, slamming the door.

  ‘Where to, sir?’

  Joe watched her skitter over to the entrance of her building and then disappear inside.

  ‘Sir?’

  He looked at the taxi driver.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘You know what,’ he said, reaching for his wallet, ‘I think I’ll get out here too.’

  Joe didn’t fail to notice the knowing smile on the face of the driver as he paid him, before he dashed out of the taxi and over to the door. He could see Jo in the foyer still, waiting for the elevator. He banged on the glass and she looked around. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, before she walked slowly over to the door and opened it, stepping outside to stand in front of him. She didn’t say anything, she just stared up at him expectantly.

  ‘I have to go, Jo.’

  He saw her shoulders drop. ‘You already said that. Why would you come back to say it again?’

  He took a breath. ‘Because every time I’ve walked away from you lately, there’s been something I’ve wanted to do, and I haven’t because I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. And every time I’ve regretted it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Okay, this was it. The grand romantic gesture. Will had better be right.

  ‘This.’ He pulled her into his arms, and although he heard a mild gasp, she didn’t resist him. Their mouths met with fluky precision, there was no colliding of teeth or noses. Her body was a little tense, but then he felt her relax in his arms, melting into him. And then he became conscious of her lips, and tasted her mouth, and it was as good as he’d always imagined it would be. Better.

  He wanted her so badly . . . okay, he had to stop. This couldn’t go anywhere now. He had to stop. He felt her hands slide around him, her body pressing against his. In a sec. Just a little longer. Her tongue slipped into his mouth and entwined around his . . . Oh God, he really had to stop.

  He started to draw back from her lips, reluctantly, gradually breaking away. He opened his eyes to look down at her. Her head was resting in the crook of his arm, her beautiful, beautiful eyes were glassy as she gazed up at him. He smoothed his hand around her face, his thumb across her lips.

  ‘I’m sorry I have to go,’ he said huskily.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she breathed.

  ‘I really wish I didn’t.’ He couldn’t resist her. One more kiss. But this time he kept it short and sweet, definitely no tongue. Then he held her close, pressing his cheek against hers. He could feel her heart beating hard. This was going to be a long week.

  He finally released her, taking hold of her hands. ‘So, I’ll see you . . . end of the week . . . I’ll call . . .’ He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her palm. She was smiling at him, like she’d never smiled at him before.

  He stepped backwards, till he had to let go. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Bye Joe.’ He liked it when she called him Joe. She leaned against the door, watching him. He backed away slowly, till finally he turned and walked up the street. He could feel her eyes tracking him. When he got to the corner, he turned to look at her again. She was still leaning against the door, still watching him. She raised her hand in a wave. He smiled and waved back, as he walked around the corner and out of sight.

  JO LIDDELL

  BITCH

  Have you noticed the gardens around Circular Quay? Have you ever once lifted your head as you’ve swarmed with the rest of the hive off the ferry through the turnstiles before being swallowed up into the cavernous corridors of the CBD?

  Well, stop and take a look tomorrow. In fact, take five minutes to detour over towards the MCA perhaps, or to linger in the forecourt of Customs House. It’ll put a spring in your step, I guarantee you.

  Or better still, take fifteen minutes to walk through the Botanic Gardens. It’s springtime, people! What time is that, you say? Time to stop and smell the roses!

  Aren’t you sick of scurrying about like a rat in a sewer? Why are we all working so hard? Who are we trying to impress? What are we trying to prove? Is this how you thought life was going to be?

  What are we here for anyway? Jerry Seinfeld expressed it well when
he was asked to address a graduation ceremony some time ago. He came up with three rules for life. First, he said, “Bust your ass.” Okay, putting aside the American vernacular, we get it, and we’re all pretty much doing that already. Just make sure you’re doing it because it’s what you want to do, because it brings you joy and satisfaction, not because you help line the pockets of some faceless corporation, where you’re barely more than a cog in the wheel.

  But what’s the alternative, I hear you ask? Get a life. A real life. Have fun, stop being so serious. Waste time. Play. That’s right, play. It shouldn’t be just kids who have all the fun. What’s the point of growing up if all we get to do is work and have all the responsibility?

  Secondly, Mr Seinfeld said, “Pay attention.” Check out those flowers tomorrow. Smile at the people who pass you, look them in the eye and give them a real shock, say hello.

  And thirdly, says Seinfeld, “Fall in love.” Couldn’t agree more.

  bitch@thetribune.com

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘I gather it’s my column, Leo,’ Jo said calmly.

  He had summoned her to his office, and he was standing on the other side of his desk, waving a piece of paper with obvious disdain. Jo had emailed her column to him after she’d written it on Sunday evening, after Joe had left her standing outside her building. After he’d kissed her. She’d been a bundle of nervous energy and it had just come pouring out.

  ‘The column’s called “Bitch”, Jo, not “Barf”,’ Leo was saying.

  ‘I am aware of the name of my column, Leo.’

  ‘So how is this piece of motivational tripe a bitch?’

  ‘It’s a bitch about being stuck on the treadmill, and an exhortation to get off it occasionally –’

  ‘And smell the roses?’ he said, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. ‘You’ve been reading too many of those little books with the nature photographs and the saccharine slogans.’

  Jo sighed. ‘What do you want me to do, Leo?’ she said in a level voice.

  ‘I want you to rewrite it,’ he said plainly. ‘Make it . . . I don’t know . . . make it a piece about the time and money the city council spends maintaining those gardens. And the water, yeah, make it about the water. While the rest of us have to suffer under draconian water restrictions and plant drab natives in our gardens, council gaily abandons such restrictions themselves, planting water-hungry annuals that will be dug up and discarded in a few weeks. There you go, there’s your bitch.’

  Though that would have normally made her blood boil, Jo was serenely unaffected. Not even Leo could drag her down today. Nothing could drag her down.

  It was all because of that kiss. Jo had not been kissed like that in a long time, if ever. She hadn’t seen it coming, she was too busy feeling frustrated and annoyed with herself that she’d built her hopes up like that. See, if Lachlan had been unable to come up, she couldn’t have given a flying fig, such was life with a married man. But pin your hopes on someone who’s available and they’re bound to get dashed. She shouldn’t have risked it, she told herself as she stood waiting for the lift, feeling sick in the stomach and sore in the hamstrings and disappointed on a level she’d never experienced with Lachlan. It wasn’t worth it.

  Then he was banging on the glass. Jo had frozen momentarily, before forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other and walk out to meet him. It was all a bit of a blur, like when someone has an accident and their brain wipes out the events leading up to it. Not that Jo had suffered any trauma. Hardly. And she could remember the kiss perfectly. The way he caught her in his arms and held her just right, and their lips met as though they’d rehearsed it, like a scene in a movie or something. It was the most romantic kiss Jo had ever experienced, and she had thought she was immune to romance.

  ‘It literally took my breath away,’ she told Angie, still with a measure of dreamy disbelief, when they’d met for breakfast at Oliver’s that morning.

  ‘I’ve never heard you talk like this,’ said Angie, ‘and it’s beginning to freak me out.’

  Jo suddenly felt self-conscious. ‘I sound lame, don’t I?’

  ‘No! Not a bit,’ she insisted. ‘I was only joking.’

  ‘No, this is really schoolgirlie, isn’t it?’ Angie tried to protest but Jo forged ahead. ‘I’m building it up too much. So he kissed me, and he’s a good kisser, a really good kisser. Doesn’t mean anything. We’re adults, not teenagers, it was just a kiss –’

  ‘Oh shut up, would you, Jo?’ Angie groaned.

  Jo blinked at her.

  ‘I mean, come on, sometimes things just aren’t that difficult to read. Joe kissed you, no one forced him, you didn’t even expect it, so I think that means he probably wanted to kiss you, which means he probably likes you. It’s not rocket science, Jo.’

  Just vaguely terrifying.

  ‘In fact, some people might actually think it was a good thing,’ she went on. ‘I for one – if I was to be gathered up into the arms of a gorgeous bloke and kissed into the middle of next week, well, I think I’d probably enjoy that.’

  ‘Sorry, you’re right,’ Jo sighed. ‘I sound like a prat. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, don’t listen to me,’ Angie dismissed. ‘I’m happy for you, I really am.’ She paused. ‘It’s just that every now and then it hits me that I’m alone, and will most likely remain alone, and when your best friend falls in love, well, that’s one of those times.’

  Jo was about to refute the falling in love part, but this was about Angie now. ‘You’re not going to be alone forever, Ange.’

  ‘Mm, I guess only time will tell. We’ll see who’s right on our ninetieth birthdays, shall we?’

  Jo decided to avoid the detour into self-pity and take her on a more pleasant route. ‘Enough about that, it’s your turn. Tell me about Sandwich Man.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she shrugged. ‘And we both know there never has been.’

  Jo frowned.

  ‘I actually finally struck up a conversation with him the other day,’ said Angie, ‘and he was just plain rude, like I was bothering him. I’ve made that man’s lunch several times a week for the past year. And you know what I realised? He’s never even seen me.’ She paused, staring into space. ‘You know that saying, “Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses”? Well, they don’t even see fat girls. Ironic, isn’t it, when we’re actually pretty hard to miss.’

  ‘Angie, you’re not fat!’ Jo insisted. ‘You’re . . . voluptuous and luscious and –’

  ‘I think the particular “ou” word you’re searching for is round.’

  ‘An-gie!’

  ‘Jo-o!’ she mimicked. ‘I love my female friends, I really do, you all tell me I’ve got a pretty face and lovely hair and my weight is no obstacle, but get real!’ She slapped the side of her thigh. ‘This is a bloody big obstacle in the course of true love.’

  ‘Only if you allow it to be,’ Jo said.

  Angie shook her head. ‘That’s bullshit, Jo. And not only that, it’s insulting,’ she said seriously. ‘You think it’s our attitude that’s the problem, that fat girls don’t want love the same as everyone else? You’re going to blame us for that as well? Everyone has their insecurities, their secret shame, their guilty pleasures. But when you’re overweight, yours are out there for all the world to see. You can’t hide in the closet because you can’t fit in the closet. And so everyone has an opinion about you on the basis of your dress size. In the world we inhabit,’ she slapped her thigh again, ‘this means I must be lazy, I have no self-control and, worst of all, if I have a thick waist I probably have a thick head as well.’

  ‘But none of that is true.’

  ‘When did truth ever have anything to do with anything?’ she declared. ‘Do you think there’d be a market for gossip rags if people cared about the truth?’

  Jo was staring across the table, her mind ticking over. ‘I’m going to write a column about this.’

  ‘Great,’ Angie said wryly.
‘That’ll change everything.’

  Jo blinked at her.

  ‘No offence, sweetie, write your column,’ said Angie, ‘and some of us will feel momentarily better about ourselves, while a few bigots might think twice, for a week or so. But nothing’s really going to change, not in my lifetime.’ She smiled blithely, picking up her coffee cup.

  Jo watched her, frowning. This wasn’t like Angie. Something was wrong. ‘What’s happened, Ange?’

  ‘Nothing, ignore me,’ she dismissed. ‘I’m just bitter and twisted.’

  ‘But you’re not, you never are, no matter what happens,’ said Jo. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Angie sighed, putting her cup down on the table again. ‘I missed another audition, which, as we all know, is the story of my life. But I really wanted this part. It was only a small one, but it was ongoing, in a six-part series commissioned for SBS.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Probably no one will even see it, but I didn’t care if this was going to be my break, or what it would lead to, I just wanted to do it so bad. I wanted to play that character, I knew I could do it, and that I could do it well. I felt like the part had been written for me, so did my agent.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘The producers gave it to a slim little whippet,’ she said. ‘You’d probably recognise her, she does a lot of tampon ads. But the part didn’t require good looks, or any particular body type, it could have been played by anyone. So why did the skinny girl have to get it, she can go for so many parts that I can’t.’ Angie groaned. ‘God, I sound like a child. It’s not fair, miss, I haven’t had a turn yet!’

  ‘You don’t sound like that,’ Jo reassured her. ‘It sucks, it completely sucks, Ange.’

  She sat there, staring at her cup. ‘You know, the thing is, that part made me remember why I went into acting in the first place. Because I love it, I love getting lost inside a character.’ She sighed. ‘But instead I do dog-food commercials and walk-ins as a waitress and spend most of my time making sandwiches for stuck-up nobs who think I’m beneath them.’