Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  ‘Sorry, I —’

  ‘You don’t have a job here anymore.’

  She loses the dumb smile. ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve fucked me around too many times, not turning up for your shifts. I can’t run the business like that.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’

  ‘Dunno. Doesn’t Eric look after you?’

  ‘He only pays the rent — nothing else.’

  ‘Not my problem.’

  She bites her lip.

  He softens. ‘Have you heard from Dave?’

  She shakes her head.

  He takes a business card from a desk drawer and hands it to her. ‘My mate Richard’s business.’

  She turns the card over in her hand: Lipgloss Promotions, embossed in gold writing on glossy black.

  ‘Go do some modelling. Better for your knee anyway.’

  ‘But I need this job.’

  ‘Sorry, Pagan. I can only use reliable girls.’

  She turns to leave. There’s no point arguing with him.

  ‘And another thing,’ he says when she’s at the door. ‘Tell Eric I won’t be needing his business anymore.’

  She trudges up the hill (still no sign of Eric at the apartment), through the gardens — past the Exhibition Building and the ten-metre-high sculpted fountain of white merpeople — down Gertrude and into Brunswick Street. She knocks on Matt’s door. He’s not home, so she keeps walking, aimlessly.

  A driver in a red car going the other way beeps his horn, does a U-turn, and slows. She ignores it. Leave me alone, I’m not in the mood. The car pulls up beside her. Men are so stupid.

  The driver reaches across and opens the passenger-side door. ‘Hey, beautiful.’ It’s Matt. He tells her to get in, and they drive back up Brunswick Street. ‘What are you doing in this part of town?’

  ‘Nothing. Just going for a walk.’

  ‘What a coincidence.’

  He gets a parking spot in front of his place, jumps out, and takes some shopping bags from the boot. She follows him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he says.

  She thought her sunglasses were doing a good job of hiding it. ‘I lost my job.’

  ‘Good.’ He puts the shopping bags on the footpath while he locks the car.

  ‘It’s not good.’

  ‘I hated you going to that place.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.’

  A black car with tinted windows double-parks across the road in front of the flats. Matt hands her a bag. ‘Come and have dinner with me, and we’ll talk about it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘You can cook?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Too perfect, aren’t you?’

  While he opens the door, she glances over her shoulder to see the black car driving away. She follows him back into the cocoon, smiling the dumb-teenage smile again as they climb the stairs.

  She sits on the bench in his tiny kitchen, sipping white wine and watching him prepare ingredients for paella. He fries some vegetables, adds stock, rice, prawns, and mussels, then leaves it to simmer while he brings out a tray of oysters from the fridge.

  ‘Just happen to have oysters in your fridge?’

  ‘Not usually. But I think I’m psychic, because when I was shopping I thought to myself: Brig might be coming back, and she will like some seafood.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And if she doesn’t, I’ll just have to share it with the cat.’ He places the oysters, a lemon, and sea salt next to her on the bench. ‘So, you think I’m psychic?’

  ‘No. But very sexy.’ She wraps her legs around his hips and pulls him to her. He reaches over a leg, cuts the lemon into quarters, squeezes juice, and grinds salt onto one of the oysters. She looks at the slimy grey substance in the dirty shell. ‘I don’t know if I like oysters.’

  ‘You didn’t think you liked wine either. Here.’ He lifts the oyster to her mouth, ‘Close your eyes.’

  She does as he says, chews, and it spurts — explodes — in her mouth. She swallows, it slides down her throat, and she screws up her face. For a second, she thinks she’s going to throw up. She washes it down with a gulp of wine. He kisses her softly, slowly, for a long time. She drapes her arms around his shoulders, holding her wine glass aloft.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Uh-ha.’

  ‘Want another one?’

  ‘Kiss or oyster?’

  ‘Oyster.’

  ‘Maybe in a minute.’

  ‘Kiss?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Her body feels limp and warm and tingly.

  The rice catches on the bottom of the pan and starts to burn.

  Brigitte looks down at the street from the living-room window on the city side. The black car with tinted windows is there again. It’s just your imagination. It couldn’t be the same one.

  ‘So, what are you going to do about work?’

  She jumps, and spills wine on her hand when Matt enters the room. ‘Can I close the curtains?’

  ‘If you want to.’ He places two bowls of slightly burnt paella on the table, lights the two big white candles in the centre, and opens another bottle of wine.

  ‘I’ve sort of got a job lined up.’ She sits opposite him.

  He pours the wine.

  ‘As a sales rep. Just have to get my licence, so I’ve been taking driving lessons.’

  ‘Well done. That sounds great.’

  ‘Can I drive your car sometime?’ She tries a slow blink, but her cute little tricks don’t seem to work on him. ‘To practise.’

  He suggests they go away for the Melbourne Cup weekend. Somewhere down the coast. Camping. He might let her drive then.

  ‘Camping! Are you crazy?’ She laughs. ‘My family has a holiday house on Raymond Island. We could go there.’

  He asks where Raymond Island is, and she explains that it’s on the Gippsland Lakes. Near Lakes Entrance. The only way across to the island is by ferry.

  ‘Wouldn’t your family mind you going there — with a man?’ He looks up from his paella.

  She shakes her head. ‘Nobody uses the house anymore. Not since my brother and I were little, and Nana and Papa used to take us there all the time.’

  ‘Your Mum and Dad didn’t go?’

  ‘Dad always had to work. And my mother hates it there. Not sophisticated enough. She wants to sell the house, but Nana and Papa won’t let her.’

  He tops up their glasses. ‘Let’s go there — straight after my Friday class.’

  ‘You really want to?’ She tries to rein in her smile, but she can’t control it.

  He nods, then turns his attention to his dinner. She studies the mussels in her bowl, not sure if she can eat them.

  ‘Have you thought anymore about studying?’

  She scoops a little of the saffron-coloured rice from the side of her bowl and spills it on her white shirt. He pretends not to notice as she wipes it with a napkin. ‘I might do some modelling.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Not sure how secure or reliable that would be.’

  And writing is? she thinks, but doesn’t say. She sips her wine, and forks the mussels around, not sure how she is supposed to get them out of the shells without totally ruining her shirt.

  ‘What about David Jones?’ he says.

  ‘Doesn’t pay enough.’

  He suggests calling them back; she could say she’s changed her mind. It might be OK until she finds something better. He sounds like he’s been talking to Marco. Why do men think they know what’s best for her?

  ‘Modelling is better.’

  ‘You can’t stay young and gorgeous forever.’ He
looks into her eyes. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Dunno. I’ve still got a few good years left.’ She laughs, and pushes away her bowl.

  ‘Eat some more, Brig.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m full.’

  When he goes to the bathroom, she calls the apartment. No answer. She peeks out from behind the curtain. The black car has gone.

  He comes back, sits next to her, scrapes a mussel and some rice onto the fork, and feeds her like a child.

  ‘Are you trying to fatten me up?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’re saying I’m too skinny?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You can never be too thin. Or too rich.’

  ‘Too rich or too thin. The Duchess of Windsor said that, didn’t she?’

  ‘I thought my mother made it up.’

  ‘You’ve achieved the thin part. Now how’re you going to get rich?’

  ‘My mother also used to say it’s just as easy to marry a rich man as it is to marry a poor man.’

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the wrong place.’

  ‘I never said I was going to marry you.’

  ‘Good, because I didn’t ask you.’ He laughs.

  She looks into those blue eyes, and has the sensation of falling again. He feeds her more paella, and tops up their glasses. ‘Did your mother have any other pearls of wisdom?’

  ‘Heaps. Like: Why buy a book when you can join a library?’

  ‘Am I just one of the books in your library?’ He puts a hand on her thigh.

  ‘I only like to read one book at a time. Over and over.’ She laughs and kisses him.

  He asks if her mum and dad are still together, and she tells him about her dad’s cancer.

  ‘That’s awful. Do you remember much about him?’

  ‘They were singing “Morningtown Ride” on Play School when he died.’

  She remembers being home from school that day. He was in his old leather lounge chair. An odour like nail-polish remover filled the room, along with the awful, watery sounds of dying. The air felt dead cold. She has no memory of Dad in hospital; maybe she wasn’t allowed to visit. It’s hard to believe her mother was capable of nursing him at home.

  ‘He loved Johnny Cash,’ she says. ‘He was kind and gentle. Total opposite of my mother. Don’t know how they ever got together.’ She thinks of Joan sitting at the Laminex table at the old pink house in Brunswick after Dad died — his scratchy records playing, a cigarette burning down to the filter between two nicotine-stained fingers in one hand, a glass of brandy, lime, and soda in the other. Joan would get so drunk she’d wet herself — indigo rivers running down her tight jeans. Ryan thought it was funny, but her loss of control made Brigitte feel sick. She and Ryan would have to clean her up and drag her to bed, ranting about how she wished she’d never had them, how they’d ruined her acting career.

  Brigitte shivers, and covers Matt’s hand with hers, curling her fingers between his.

  ‘When he was home, Dad always made pancakes for me and my brother,’ she says. ‘And he’d always come in and kiss us before he went away on long trips. I’d pretend to be asleep, but I’d always wait for that kiss.’ She looks into her glass, and asks if he has any brothers or sisters.

  ‘One child was too many for my mother.’

  ‘Do you ever see her?’

  He shakes his head. ‘She died when I was ten.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was allergic to aspirin, and one night she took some instead of Panadol.’ He looks away. ‘Anaphylactic shock.’

  Brigitte frowns. Why would anybody keep medication they were that allergic to in the house? She doesn’t ask.

  ‘My mother’s not worth talking about,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll listen if you want to.’

  He smiles. ‘I don’t need therapy, Brig. All that … stuff, was a long time ago. I barely remember. My dad took care of me. He was a good man. A bit like your dad.’ He empties the last of the wine into their glasses. ‘He was in your Cradle Mountain story, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Not sure why, where that came from.’

  ‘You should try writing more about him. Might be cathartic.’

  She’s not quite sure what that word means — she must look it up. He’s made her eat all her paella without noticing. ‘I’ll have to go to the gym tomorrow to work it off.’

  ‘I had some other kind of exercise in mind for you.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He blows out the candles, picks up their glasses, and she follows him to the bedroom.

  ‘Do you have any condoms?’

  ‘What!’ He stops, turns, spills some wine on the carpet, his face contorted with horror. ‘But I thought you —’

  ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Brigitte!’

  ‘We’ll be careful from now on, OK?’

  Sometime during the night or morning, she is jolted from sleep by shouts and banging on the front door. Oh my God the black car. She sits straight up.

  ‘Shh, it’s OK.’ Matt pulls her back and wraps his arms around her. ‘Just junkies. They do that all the time.’

  The sound of a mug and plate clinking together wakes her, and she opens her eyes. Dust particles shimmer in a sheet of light across the room.

  ‘Hey, beautiful.’ Matt places a tray on the bed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice is sleep-croaky.

  ‘Bringing you breakfast.’

  Coffee, orange juice. And pancakes! She cries — all of a sudden, tears from nowhere — for her father. Matt holds her and kisses away the tears. She looks over his shoulder at the butterfly mug, knowing the butterfly names by heart now: Dark Green Fritillary, Monarch, Swallowtail, Marbled White, Adonis Blue …

  37

  The room smells of expensive cologne, flatulence, and Juicy Fruit. Eric’s suitcase is open on the bed. He’s rolling his clothes into tight cylindrical shapes, and packing them like it’s a game of Tetris. Brigitte leans against the doorway and sneezes. ‘Tour?’

  ‘Yeah, Bullet Brain. Kicks off in New Zealand.’

  ‘I’m going up to see Ryan for the long weekend.’

  ‘Thought you weren’t talking.’

  ‘We are now.’

  He turns to face her. ‘Which one?’ He holds up two ties: one, royal blue; the other, crimson, with small white spots.

  ‘The blue.’

  He ties it around his collar, and she straightens it for him.

  ‘Want a lift to the airport?’ he says.

  ‘No. My flight’s not till later.’

  ‘Have fun.’ He zips up his case. ‘And tell Ryan he’s a dickhead for me.’ He grins, and kisses her on the mouth as he leaves. She feels a pang of guilt for thinking he was having her followed. And for lying to him.

  ***

  She waits in the corridor until Matt’s Friday students have left. She sneaks up behind him while he’s cleaning the whiteboard, and wraps her arms around his waist. He turns and smiles; she kisses him, but he pulls back, glancing at the open door.

  ‘I could shut it, and we could do it here on your desk.’

  He pushes her away gently and packs up his books.

  ‘You prefer the stairs?’

  ‘Stop it, Lolita. You’ll make me lose my job.’ He places some pens in the desk drawer. ‘Did you bring your stuff?’

  She points to the big duffle bag next to the door.

  Matt puts his notes and books into his briefcase. ‘Let’s go, then. Car’s parked in Collins Street.’ He throws her bag over his shoulder. ‘God, what have you got in here?’

  ‘You don’t have to carry it for me.’

  In the lift, he wraps his free arm around her shoulders and ki
sses the top of her head. She looks at the emergency stop button. Would they have enough time to do it if she pressed it?

  Matt lets her drive the Commodore with L plates on when they get out of Melbourne, until she gets scared by the speed and amount of traffic on the freeway. She pulls over, and they swap seats.

  He drives with his left hand resting on her thigh. It leaves a warm, invisible imprint whenever he lifts it to hold the steering wheel.

  It’s getting dark when they reach Paynesville. They drive around the town a couple of times because Brigitte can’t remember how to get to the ferry landing. Matt finds it, and they queue at the water’s edge.

  ‘Sorry. I haven’t been here for a while.’

  ‘That’s OK. It was hard to find in the dark.’ He unbuckles his seatbelt, and leans across to kiss her. They don’t stop kissing, hands all over each other, until the car behind beeps for them to board the ferry. The ferry operator waves them on and collects his fare. Matt squeezes Brigitte’s hand and sings, ‘Don’t Pay the Ferryman’.

  She laughs, and reaches into the back seat for her white woollen coat as a cool breeze dances across the lake. Boats bob, and a few lights glimmer on the black wavelets as the ferry chugs across the strait. It wobbles and groans when it juts and aligns with the slip on the island.

  Matt follows her directions past the park and community centre, and turns left into Sixth Avenue.

  ‘Sure this is the right street?’

  ‘Yep. That house there.’ She points at number six: a white fibro shack, with its sky-blue window-frames and doorframes ghostly-grey in the dark. The Commodore’s headlights catch an echidna ambling across the road. There are no other cars around, so Matt stops and lets it pass in front of them before turning into the driveway. Loose gravel crunches under the tyres.

  Matt shines a torch around inside the house, and screws up his nose at the stink of mould when he looks in the fridge. ‘How long since anybody’s been here?’ He starts opening windows and doors.

  ‘Ryan and I came down for a weekend just before he moved to Sydney. Nearly two years ago.’