Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  She twists her mouth, doesn’t get it, but finds a scrap of paper in her bag to write her number on anyway. Their hands touch as he takes it from her. She fiddles with the phone again, and tries to think of something clever to say. She doesn’t want to go back to the apartment.

  ‘Feel like going for a drink?’ He’s read her thoughts.

  ‘Can’t. I have to work.’

  ‘You could call in sick.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘One night off won’t hurt.’

  She hasn’t taken a night off since Uncle Joe died.

  ‘Come on. I’ll call for you. Show me how to use your phone, and I’ll tell them you’re too sick to talk.’

  Al made her work a day shift after the last time. ‘No.’

  He makes sad puppy-dog eyes.

  ‘Maybe I’ll come for one drink, and then I can still go to work.’

  They put on their coats, and he holds the door open for her. At the corner of Degraves and Flinders streets, he takes her hand. She doesn’t pull it away. She looks up at him, fighting to hide a smile, but he’s looking straight ahead. A rainbow shimmers over Flinders Street Station as they walk into Young and Jackson’s brown wood-panelling, mirrors, red-and-gold carpet, and pressed-tin flowers on the ceiling. About a dozen drinkers, mostly men, sit around tables looking at the TV on the wall.

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘Um, I don’t normally drink beer.’

  ‘What do you drink?’

  ‘Champagne. With raspberry.’

  ‘Champagne and raspberry! How old are you, anyway?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘Maybe when it’s your shout, but I’m on a beer budget. I’m a writer, remember?’

  ‘Beer’s fine.’

  ‘I’m joking. You can have whatever you like.’ He puts some money on the bar.

  ‘Beer’s fine.’

  They take their drinks to a window, and sit on bar stools in an alcove. Across the street a red neon sign blinks: City Hatters.

  ‘It’s not meant to be here,’ he says.

  She frowns and tilts her head.

  ‘Flinders Street Station. It was meant for India.’

  She loses the frown, and studies the arched entrance and the dome: it does look Indian.

  ‘The plans were shipped from England, and got mixed up.’

  ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘It’s true. And India got the station meant for Melbourne.’

  Young cops are patrolling beneath the station clocks.

  ‘Actually, I think it’s just an urban myth.’

  After three pots of beer, Matt tells her she drinks like a man.

  ‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’

  ‘Dunno. Cheers.’ He clinks his glass to hers. ‘I don’t think you’re going to work tonight.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  He smiles and shakes his head. A tram rattles along Flinders Street.

  After four pots, she leans on her hand and tells him about her childhood. He’s a good listener, and after five pots he knows all about her loving father, her evil mother, her high-school dream of becoming a writer. Their hands are resting on the countertop, almost touching. She’s still sober enough — but only just — to realise it’s time to go, before she blurts out something stupid about work or Eric.

  Matt leans closer. ‘Your hair smells amazing, Brig. What do you put in it?’

  ‘Sandalwood and rose oil.’

  ‘Wanna come back to my place?’

  Yes, more than anything. ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe I should take a hint.’ He finishes his beer, and places the empty glass on the counter. ‘You’re always running off on me.’

  She apologises as she stumbles off the bar stool. ‘What are you gonna do now?’

  ‘Dunno. Have another drink. Then go get my bike, left it at work.’

  ‘You have a motorbike?’ She pictures riding behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, an ocean road, the wind blowing her hair.

  ‘Push bike.’

  Oh, not quite as sexy. She stands on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, but he turns his face so it’s on his lips. He holds her head gently in his hands. His lips are so soft. She closes her eyes, wants to stay, but pulls away. Eric will be waiting for her at the apartment.

  ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Sure.’ And he mumbles something she can’t understand.

  She shouldn’t have come here with him. Maybe he’ll pick up somebody after she leaves. A group of pretty office workers are giggling, getting drunk at a table in the corner. One of them would be a much better choice for him.

  ***

  She stumbles up the apartment complex’s white marble steps, through the security door, tells herself to ‘shh’ as she fumbles with the key in the lock. She switches on the light, and smells Juicy Fruit. Eric’s been waiting, in the dark.

  ‘Where were you, Pet?’ His arm is draped across the back of the sofa, his fat fingers drumming.

  ‘At work.’

  ‘No, you weren’t.’ Legs crossed, his trouser seams are stretched to their threshold — sausages about to burst their skins.

  ‘What are you talking about? I’m home early because my knee was hurting.’

  ‘Where’s your work bag then? And your money?’

  She looks at the carpet. ‘Forgot it in my locker.’

  ‘I went into the Gold Bar. They said you didn’t come in tonight.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘Paris.’ He struggles to uncross his legs, hauls himself out of the sofa, and lumbers towards her.

  ‘Paris is a junkie.’ She takes a step backwards. ‘She doesn’t know if she’s there half the time. You didn’t see me because I was in the lap-dance area all night.’ Suddenly sober, her palms are sweaty, and her heart beats like a bird’s as she lies to him. ‘My knee was too sore to work the podiums,’ she adds, unnecessarily, almost in a whisper.

  She looks across at the print hanging on the wall behind the sofa: two lovers embrace against a background that looks finger-painted — frosty white smears tinged with aqua. If you could taste it, it would be spearmint. The female figure rests her head against the man’s neck. She is veiled in black, her face hidden by a hood. He is shadow-like, grey, his face visible but chiselled, without detail like a sculpture. Against the small of her back he holds a bouquet of flowers: white, perhaps daisies, with centres the colour of fresh blood. Is this their last time together? Is she in his dream? A memory? Or a ghost? Why can’t they just be together?

  Eric thinks prints are tacky, and when he’s away she swaps his original David Boyd for her mass-produced copy of Charles Blackman’s Lovers. She forgot to change them back this time.

  Smack! Eric knocks her off balance with a back-hander. She falls sideways, and her cheek hits the corner of the breakfast bar.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Brigitte. I talked to Al, too.’

  Dizzy with pain, she holds one hand against her cheek, and steadies herself against the breakfast bar with the other. A police car screams past.

  ‘He was expecting a package. I had to take it in myself.’ Eric’s eyes are watering. She feels herself fainting, leans against the wall, comes back, knows he’s going to hit her again, and protects her face with her hands. The dizziness dissipates, and her flesh ices over at the sound of her mobile phone in her bag, but Eric doesn’t seem to notice the ringing. Tinnitus.

  ‘Don’t fuck me around, Brigitte.’

  She nods and struggles to swallow; her throat is too tight, her mouth too dry. He holds her face in his big, doughy hands, and squeezes. Matt’s hands were smooth and gentle when he held her head at Young and Jackson’s. If she can keep thinking about that, whatever Eric does to her won’t hurt so much.

&nb
sp; ‘Do you hear?’ he yells.

  She starts, and squeezes her eyes shut as tightly as she can.

  ‘You don’t want to know what happens to people who fuck me around.’

  She nods again without opening her eyes. She won’t be going to writing class next week.

  35

  ‘Unknown caller’ flashes on the little screen. Brigitte blows her nose on a tissue, lies back on the satin sheets, and answers her mobile.

  ‘Hi Brigitte,’ says a too-cheery voice. ‘How are you?’ The cheery voice doesn’t wait for her answer. It’s Catherine Kerr, the cosmetics-department manager from David Jones. She says that the letter Brigitte sent them was very impressive.

  Brigitte had forgotten all about the job application. ‘Thanks.’ She forces her voice to sound like she hasn’t been crying, but there’s no way she can match Catherine’s tone.

  Catherine asks if she could come in for an interview next Thursday, and Brigitte says she needs to check her diary. She sits up and flicks the pages of the magazine on the bedside table. ‘Yes, I’m free on Thursday. Anytime would be OK.’ She’s not going to class, so time doesn’t matter.

  Catherine makes it one o’clock at the Christian Dior counter on the ground floor. Brigitte thanks her, and hangs up. She folds the tissue, and pushes it inside her sleeve. She’s never had a normal, proper job. What would it be like? Normal hours, normal people who keep their clothes on, probably a uniform, lunch in the tea room with her co-workers, drinks — but not too many — on Friday nights after work. Sounds nice. Nice? What is wrong with her? Nice is not her thing.

  ***

  On Thursday, she covers her bruised cheek with lots of concealer, and brushes her hair into a neat ponytail held with a simple black band. What do normal, proper people wear to job interviews? She stands in the walk-in robe, narrowing the choice to her funeral suit or the Chanel dress. She goes with the suit, and digs out her funeral shoes. What colour stockings? Sheer black or natural? Natural is nice. There’s that word again.

  She applies an extra coat of nude lipstick, and blots it with a tissue. A final check in the mirror: hair, nails, and make-up look good. She fastens her top shirt button, and removes a stray hair from her jacket collar. She wishes she’d bought pantyhose instead of stockings, and hopes nobody will notice the little bumps of suspender-belt clips protruding through her skirt.

  Catherine Kerr is wearing a lot of make-up, and she smells of expensive fragrance. Her wheat-blonde hair is swept up into a glass-smooth chignon. She’s dressed in a smart black suit, similar to Brigitte’s funeral suit. They sit opposite each other at the Christian Dior make-over table, next to a palette of eye-shadow colours too bright for anybody in their right mind to seriously consider wearing. Catherine asks Brigitte questions about her education and work history. Brigitte lies, and feels annoyed at herself for blushing. Strippers shouldn’t blush at anything. She won’t be a stripper anymore, fingers crossed; she’ll be a normal person, going for drinks — but not too many — on Friday nights. Nice. She sneezes.

  ‘Where are you working at the moment, Brigitte?’

  ‘Um, I’m a bartender at a nightclub.’ Should she tell Catherine she has lipstick on her teeth?

  Catherine doesn’t ask the name of her work place or why it is not included on her resume. Brigitte rubs a finger subtly across her own front teeth.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Catherine says.

  Too subtle. Brigitte nods and smiles. Catherine asks why she would like to work at David Jones.

  ‘I’m tired of working hard, long hours, you know.’ Wrong answer. She sneezes again, and Catherine hands her a box of tissues. Better add allergy tablets to her shopping list of medication. ‘I love make-up. And I always shop at David Jones.’ Better. Shut up now.

  ‘Great. We have vacancies at the Christian Dior and the general cosmetics counters. The roster for both positions includes Saturday and Sunday shifts. Would you be available to work those hours?’

  ‘Sure.’ Why not? She’s used to working Saturdays. And Eric’s often at the apartment on Sundays, so it would be nice not to be there. Her mind meanders to dreamy Sunday mornings in a big bed with Matt — breakfast, reading the papers, sleeping till lunchtime, kissing … Very nice. She wonders where he lives. Stop it! That’s never going happen — it’s over.

  ‘Do you have any questions for me, Brigitte?’

  ‘Huh?’ Come back, focus.

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘How much does this job pay?’

  ‘The pay rate for beauty consultants is $10.50 an hour.’

  The super-enthusiastic smile falls off her face. She tells Catherine, ‘No, thanks.’ There’s no fucking way she could get by on that wage. Not without Eric.

  Her feet and knee hurt as she waits at the tram stop in the mall. She looks at her gold Gucci watch — the circle around the face is interchangeable to match the colour of your outfit, or to suit your mood. It’s a black circle today. Almost time for writing class. A busker sings Bob Dylan. Matt would be angry with her for teasing and leaving last week. Or he’d pretend the kiss never happened, which would be worse. He’ll be glad she’s not there today. Miserable. Pain. No Matt. No job.

  Ten minutes, and there’s still no tram. And she can’t see one coming down the hill. Should she go to class? No. She knows what Eric will do if he catches her. Actually, she doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to find out. But he’s away. And it’s just a writing class. No harm in that. Yes. No. What if Eric has somebody watching her? She wouldn’t put it past him. No. The busker sings ‘Tangled up in Blue’. Yes. She throws ten dollars into his guitar case, and limps across the mall and through the arcades.

  Matt’s in the classroom, sitting at his desk. She’s the first student to arrive. Her heart races. Why did she come? Stupid. He hasn’t seen her yet; she can still sneak out. Too late — he looks up from his notes with a cheeky grin. Her face burns.

  ‘Wow, you look amazing. Why so dressed up?’ He’s not angry. She bets he never gets angry.

  ‘Had a job interview.’

  ‘Great. Tell me about it.’

  She turns to take a desk down the back.

  ‘Come up the front.’

  As she’s telling him about David Jones, his grin slips away. ‘Brig! What happened to your face?’

  She thought she’d covered it well. ‘I think I had a bit too much to drink last week.’ She laughs it off. ‘Tripped and fell against the breakfast bar when I got home.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I tried to call you, to apologise for …’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  He steps from behind his desk and moves close to her, touches her face, and winces as if the pain is his. She feels the heat from his body. She wants to turn her head and kiss his hand, wants to do more than that — suck his fingers, push her face against his khaki T-shirt. God, what’s wrong with her? She feels like she’s falling. She looks up into his eyes. So blue. And that’s it. The instant. She’s gone. Gone, and she’ll never be able to get out of it, regardless of the consequences.

  ‘A-hem.’ Jack stands in the doorway, clearing his throat before entering the room.

  After class, Brigitte feels the warmth from Matt’s arm draped along the back of her chair. He crosses a foot over his knee — a Converse All Star almost touches her leg. The other women give her little jealous, disapproving looks, but she’s used to those —she’s tolerated them from women since she was eleven or twelve. It takes forever for them to leave the coffee shop. Jack, as usual, is the last. ‘Ernest once wrote a six-word short story,’ he says.

  Brigitte and Matt smile and nod.

  ‘For sale: baby shoes, never used.’

  They stop smiling.

  ‘Drink?’ Matt says.

  ‘No. I ha
ve to be going,’ Jack says. ‘Be good.’ Brigitte is sure he winks at Matt as he leaves.

  ‘Brig?’

  ‘OK.’ Gone. No going back now. Fuck the consequences. Fuck Eric.

  ‘Really?’

  She nods.

  ‘Don’t you have to work?’

  She shakes her head. Fuck work. ‘Young and Jackson’s?’

  ‘No. Somewhere else.’

  They walk hand in hand up the cobbled bluestone street, through the arcades, to Collins Street, where they catch a tram.

  Commuters are crammed in, heading home from work, staring at their feet or straight ahead. Brigitte and Matt have to stand, holding onto the hand straps. An old woman with brown-paper skin and dyed red hair gets on, muttering about the lack of seating. She dives for the seat somebody offers her, bumps into Brigitte, and pushes her against Matt. Even when a few passengers get off and there’s enough room, she doesn’t move away from him. She smiles at the old woman, but she doesn’t smile back. As the tram rounds the corner at the start of Brunswick Street, she struggles to keep her balance and is forced harder against Matt.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Next stop.’

  The Standard is a nondescript white pub hidden in the back streets of Fitzroy. David Bowie’s ‘Sorrow’ is playing on the sound system as they walk in. It’s dingy: brown bricks, wood panelling, maroon carpet, and Brunswick-green doorframes. Big mirrors and pictures of cowboys hang on the walls.

  They order at the bar, and take their beers out to the leafy beer garden. It’s crowded, but Brigitte and Matt are able to claim a table from a group of people who are just leaving. A breeze blows Matt’s hair across his face.

  ‘Cool pub.’

  ‘It’s my local.’ He pushes the hair out of his eyes. ‘Cheers.’ He clinks his glass to hers, and they drink. ‘Are you going to run off on me again tonight?’

  She smiles at him over the rim of her glass. ‘Are you writing another book?’

  ‘Trying to. A bit distracted lately.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  A barmaid collects glasses, and wipes their table.