Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  The teacher introduces himself as Matt Elery. He’s wearing a brown sweater, jeans with frayed cuffs, and scuffed Converse All Stars. Brigitte guesses his age as late twenties. He’s a bit skinny, and his collar-length, dirty-blond hair could do with a trim. There are no designer labels on his clothes. He’s had a novel, which Brigitte has never heard of, published. And he writes regularly for food magazines and anybody else who asks him to — including Mad Monster Trucks Monthly. The class finds that funny. He doesn’t look like a monster-truck kind of guy.

  ‘I think we all know who Brigitte is.’ He grins, and they all look at her again. ‘But can we go around the class and have everybody else introduce themselves? Just your name and what you’re hoping to get from this course will be fine.’

  They all wanted to write — loved English lit at school — but never had time because of work or family commitments. One woman’s short story was published in an anthology, and now she wants to ‘hone her craft’, whatever that means. Jack, the older man, has an idea for a Hemingway-inspired novella.

  Matt explains the difference between popular and literary fiction. Brigitte thinks she’ll write literary fiction, because plotting and following a structure sounds too hard. The marker squeaks as Matt draws a truck on the white board: a cabin with a line connecting it to a rectangle trailer, and wheels. It’s not a mad-monster truck, he points out, and they all laugh again. On the cabin part of the truck he writes subject matter, and on the trailer he writes theme. Then he explains how any truck can pull the trailer.

  He talks about stream-of-consciousness writing, and gets them to choose a photograph from a pile on his desk and write whatever it brings to mind. Brigitte takes the photo of a man and a child holding hands, and writes about a day at the zoo with her dad. He let her look at the lizards and snakes in the reptile house for as long as she liked, he bought her a double scoop of ice-cream, and they took all day to walk around and see the animals twice. She was so tired he had to carry her to the car, and she fell asleep in his arms on the way. Of course, that day never really happened, because he was always away working, and then he died.

  Matt encourages them to share their words, but nobody wants to, except for Jack — he’s written about the photo of a fishing boat.

  At the end of the class, Matt says their homework is to start writing a short story to present. Then he invites them to have coffee at a café on Degraves Street.

  They sit outside around two rickety tables. Brigitte feels stupid as she listens to the group’s conversation about books and authors she’s never heard of. She’s been reading Stephen King.

  Two of the students finish their coffees, thank Matt for the class, and leave.

  ‘See you next week,’ Matt says.

  Jack finishes his cigarette, picks up his tobacco pouch and papers, and says he’d better be going, too.

  ‘Would you like another coffee?’ Matt says.

  Brigitte has things to do at the apartment, and costumes to wash. And Eric’s in town; he’ll be wondering where she is.

  ‘My shout,’ Matt says.

  The costumes and Eric can wait a bit longer. She asks for peppermint tea.

  ‘Anybody else?’ No, they are all leaving.

  Brigitte watches Matt go into the coffee shop to order. The woman behind the counter laughs at whatever he’s saying. The light catches in his hair, flickering like sunbeams through leaves. He reminds her of somebody.

  He moves his chair around to the other side of the table so he’s facing her. ‘So, Brig, do you still think the class is not for you?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no. It was good.’ He has a small, half-moon-shaped scar under his left eye. The waiter places the coffee and tea on their table.

  ‘Any ideas for your story?’

  ‘Um. Not yet.’ She sips her tea.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll come up with something. At the start, it’s a good idea to try writing about what you already know.’

  She nods.

  ‘But not what you think you know. That’s where most new writers make a mistake.’ He lifts the coffee to his mouth and sips. Steam swirls in front of his eyes — very blue eyes.

  ***

  What is that smell in the apartment? It obliterates all her story ideas and happy thoughts about the writing class. Tracy is sitting on the sofa eating a Big Mac and drinking wine cooler from a diamond-cut crystal glass. Kayla is crawling around, dropping French fries on the carpet. Eric didn’t mention that his wayward daughter — from his second marriage — and granddaughter were coming down from Sydney for a few days. Tracy’s blonde hair is streaked hot pink at the front. She has a black eye. Eric said she has a new boyfriend, and Brigitte is reminded of the theory about women seeking partners who resemble their fathers.

  Brigitte snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, and picks up the fries with a paper towel. Kayla pulls herself up on the coffee table and reaches for one of Eric’s precious collectable plates. Brigitte snatches it from her reach, just in time. Kayla screams. She stinks. How can Tracy stand it?

  ‘Where’s …’ Your father would sound weird; Tracy is only a couple of years younger than Brigitte. ‘Eric?’

  ‘Gone down the shop to get Kay Kay some nappies.’

  Great.

  ‘Want a drink?’ Tracy says.

  ‘No, thanks.’ Brigitte pulls off the gloves and pours herself a glass of filtered water at the breakfast bar. She lights a candle in the oil burner with a few drops of lemongrass essential oil to diffuse the smell.

  Dishes are stacked on the kitchen bench. Why can’t Eric just pack the dishwasher? And he won’t unpack it, either — he says he doesn’t know where things go. Bottles and baby paraphernalia are soaking in milky water in the sink. Gross.

  ‘Tracy!’ Brigitte points, choking on her water. Kayla is eating from the bowl of potpourri.

  ‘Fuck!’ Tracy pulls Kayla across her knee and whacks her on the back. She gurgles and vomits up dried flower petals and spices onto the sofa. Brigitte rushes to the bathroom, dry retches over the toilet, and promises herself she’ll never have children.

  29

  In the second class, Matt teaches them about showing and not telling in writing. Brigitte doesn’t understand the difference. Her eyes were green is telling, Matt says. Her eyes were the colour of olives with amber flecks like beer held to the light is showing. Brigitte thinks that sounds like over-describing. And what if you picture black olives? She doesn’t ask. She writes: His eyes were deep-blue ocean waters in which I would happily drown to soothe my soul from burning. When she catches Matt looking at her, she looks down at her acrylic fingernails. They’re polished the latest shade: Vamp, the exact colour of dried blood. Uma Thurman wears it in Pulp Fiction, the nail technician told her.

  At the end of the class, Matt says to keep working on their short stories for homework. When he doesn’t invite them to have coffee again, Brigitte’s shoulders slump a little. Maybe he only does coffee as an icebreaker after the first class. He probably has a date with his girlfriend now. Or boyfriend. Maybe he’s married. She packs up her things and walks out. But she stops just outside the door, turns, and goes back in.

  ‘Coming down for coffee, Matt?’

  ‘Can’t today.’ He packs up his notes. He’s not wearing a wedding ring.

  ‘Oh.’

  He looks up from the papers. ‘Don’t look so sad.’

  Why does she always have to be so transparent?

  ‘A long drive ahead of me. My uncle’s funeral tomorrow, in Deniliquin.’

  ‘That’s funny. I just went to my uncle’s funeral, too.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Great uncle, actually,’ she adds, a little too brightly, stupidly.

  ‘Coming for coffee, Brig?’ Jack sticks his head in the doorway.

  ‘Not today. I have so
mething on.’

  ‘See you next week then.’ He waves a hand.

  ‘Bye, Jack,’ Brigitte and Matt say at the same time.

  They take the lift together. Outside, Matt walks towards Collins Street, so Brigitte walks with him.

  ‘Do you drive in?’ she says.

  ‘Not usually, because I live close.’

  That’s two things they have in common: dead uncles and inner-city addresses. ‘I’ll walk with you to your car.’

  ‘Thought you had something on.’

  ‘No. Just didn’t feel like listening to more stories about Ernest Hemingway.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  They walk through the dim arcades — most of the shops have closed for the day — turn left into Collins Street, and cross the lights at Elizabeth.

  ‘This is it.’ He stops at an old red car parked on the street — a Commodore or Holden or something. He opens the passenger door and throws in his briefcase. She feels like doing something crazy, like saying: Take me with you, along for the company. Nobody should go to a funeral alone.

  ‘Want a lift home?’ he says.

  ‘My mother told me not to get into cars with strangers.’ Unless, of course, they drive a Porsche.

  ‘Your mother sounds like a wise woman.’

  She laughs.

  He walks around to the driver’s side and climbs in. He turns on the ignition, reaches across, and winds down the passenger-side window. ‘Sure you don’t want a lift?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I need the exercise.’

  ‘No you don’t.’ He grins.

  Who does he remind her of?

  ‘See you next week then.’ He does a U-turn, beeps the horn, and waves.

  She lingers and watches the tail-lights of Matt’s car until it disappears in traffic. As she dawdles towards the apartment, a strange hollowness — an aloneness — aches through her body. A breeze with a touch of warmth blows rubbish along the gutter, and dirt up into her eyes.

  30

  During breaks at work, when she’s not sewing sequins onto costumes, Brigitte starts writing a short story. At first, it’s hard to think of something to write. She remembers what Matt said: Write what you know. But she doesn’t know much about anything. She doesn’t have any hobbies or interests — not even the gym, since she buggered her knee — just work, and now this writing course. She hasn’t travelled much, and she’s seen no further than the inside of hotel rooms and band venues when she used to go on tour with Eric. Nothing interesting.

  She jots down in her notebook some ideas about people at work. A story about Rita the Gold Bar ghost would be interesting, but would need a lot of research. A scenario about the disastrous jelly-wrestling night might be funny, in a black-comedy kind of way. Or how about Vince the lawyer? What an idiot. She writes:

  Vince the lawyer brought me expensive gifts like lingerie and perfume. I was allergic to perfume, and dancers were not allowed to wear it anyway because wives might have smelt it and guessed that their husbands had been naughty. Body glitter was banned for the same reason. I used Vince’s perfume to clean the toilet at my apartment. When Vince got really drunk he would jump up on the podium and try to dance with me. The bouncers told him to settle down but they never kicked him out because he spent too much money at the club. He told me if I went with him, he would leave his wife and take me anywhere I wanted. He was so pathetic I almost believed him. I often thought about going with him — going anywhere with anybody, really.

  Forget it — she rips the page out of her notebook and throws it in the bin. Matt’s too clever to believe that’s fiction.

  She tries stream-of-consciousness writing. It uncovers a memory of a holiday at Cradle Mountain in Tasmania with Joan, Auntie Linda, and Brigitte’s cousins. It was after Dad died. Brigitte was nine or ten, and Ryan must have been eleven or twelve. It was during the summer, but it snowed. The kids had never seen snow before, and they played in it in their pyjamas, throwing snowballs at each other. Brigitte had imagined snow would feel like cold marshmallow or cotton wool, and she was shocked to find that it was so hard, that it could hurt so much. Joan had some sort of breakdown, and they found her wandering around in the snow wearing a nightdress and only one of her Chanel slippers.

  ‘Watcha doin’, Pagan?’ Ember jolts her back from the chill of Cradle Mountain with a glass of champagne and raspberry. Champagne is made from grapes, and there must be a trace of fruit in the raspberry cordial; so, technically, she’s not breaking the Cleo diet.

  ‘Thanks. I’m writing a story for my writing class.’

  ‘You’re too smart to be a stripper.’ Ember’s wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping. She’s just come off the main stage after performing her ‘wet-n-wild’ show. She throws her purple faux-snake skin shoes in the bin, and takes another pair from her bag.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s wasteful?’ Brigitte says.

  ‘The water fucks ‘em. Makes the violet colour run.’

  ‘Violet? They look purple to me.’

  ‘They’re violet. Only cost twenty bucks at the Vic Market anyway. Bought ten pairs.’ She dries her hair, reapplies her lipstick, and flitters out of the dressing room to do some lap dances before her next podium set.

  Brigitte forgets about doing lap dances as she sips her drink and chews her pen. She writes:

  Nobody usually came here at this time of year. The park ranger yawned. Boring routine checks. Hang on a minute — the door to the only occupied cabin was ajar. He’d better have a look. He zipped up his jacket, pulled on the hood and got out of the car. The driver’s side of the station wagon parked out front was open. The wind whistled and swung the keys in the ignition. There were no other signs of the family he’d seen arrive a week ago. Down at the old chalet he found one gold ballerina shoe half-buried in the snow.

  ‘Pagan. Podium two in five minutes,’ Hannah calls.

  Brigitte closes her notebook.

  31

  Matt teaches them about writing dialogue. Dialogue reveals character and subtext … avoid adverbs and attributions other than ‘said’ … William Faulkner … Brigitte can’t concentrate. She rubs her knee; it’s starting to ache. Matt’s eyes are too blue. Focus, focus. He’s wearing the brown sweater again, and faded jeans. She still can’t work out who he reminds her of. Dad? Maybe a tiny bit; but, no, that’s not it.

  The pain becomes unbearable, and she excuses herself while Matt finishes up the class. She rushes to the bathroom, takes some Panadol, and tightens the bandage around her knee.

  Matt’s looking at the notice board in the corridor when she comes out. ‘Coming down to the coffee shop, Brig?’

  ‘OK.’ She forces a smile through the pain, and tries not to limp.

  ‘Started your story?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Not telling.’

  He grins. They don’t speak in the lift. He puts his hands into his jeans pockets, and she stares at the floor. Then they look sideways at each other and can’t help laughing.

  They catch up with the rest of the class — the same café, same outside tables. Jack stays longer than the others, smoking, and talking — animatedly, using his arms — about Hemingway. Matt nods slowly, but his eyes are glazing over. He glances at Brigitte, trying to keep a straight face. Jack looks from Matt to Brigitte, back to Matt, then he raises his eyebrows, and Brigitte feels her cheeks blushing pink.

  ‘Ah, well. Better be going,’ Jack says, and ambles off towards Flinders Street.

  ‘Are you studying or working, Brig?’ Matt rocks back on his chair.

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Where?’ It was the question she’d wished he’d never ask.

  She twists her hair around a finger, not wanting to lie to him. ‘I work at the Gold Bar.’
/>   ‘No, you don’t!’ The front legs of his chair hit the ground.

  She nods.

  ‘But that’s a strip joint, isn’t it?’

  ‘I work behind the bar.’ Sometimes she does go behind the bar to get a drink for a punter, or for herself.

  ‘I can’t imagine you working in a place like that.’

  She looks at the table, picking at the edge with a thumbnail as if there is paint peeling.

  ‘You don’t seem …’ When she looks up, he catches her out with direct eye-contact — she can’t look away. ‘You’re so quiet and …’

  ‘Innocent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was meant to be a joke, and she laughs — not sure if she’s flattered or offended.

  ‘What’s it like in there?’

  ‘Are you telling me you’ve never been?’

  He shakes his head. Perhaps he’s telling the truth. Unlikely, but maybe all men aren’t the same.

  ‘It’s pretty sleazy.’

  ‘You need to find another job, Brig.’

  She runs her thumb-pads across the shiny surface of her fingernails. He looks down at them, too.

  ‘Coffee? Or peppermint tea?’

  How did he remember that? She asks for a flat white. She’s off her diet this week.

  He goes in to order. The white-and-black tiles are crumbling around the entrance. She looks at the sandwiches and cakes under dome platters in the shop front, and catches her reflection in the window, smiling. There’s a crack in the glass. She redirects her gaze to the old building at the Flinders Lane end — it reminds her of Gotham City. She wishes she didn’t have to go back to the apartment. She’s tired of playing house.

  ‘So what’s your story about?’ He sits back at the table.