Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  ‘Come on.’ Jennifer wraps an arm around her waist.

  ‘What?’

  She guides — pushes — Brigitte into the bedroom. The two men are on the bed. Brigitte looks at Jennifer and frowns. Jennifer giggles, leans forward, holds Brigitte’s head, and kisses her fully on the mouth. Brigitte pulls away. ‘What are you doing?’ She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘Come on, Pagan. Just like at the Gold Bar.’

  Their simulated lesbian stage show is always a crowd-pleaser, but it’s totally contrived, completely silly. This is not just like at the Gold Bar. She senses no hint of humour in the room. And Big Johnny’s not here to help if something goes wrong or gets out of hand.

  Jennifer holds her wrists; she is much bigger, and stronger, than Brigitte. She pulls her close and whispers in her ear how much they’ll be paid — more than their week’s combined income. A metallic taste of fear runs down the back of Brigitte’s throat, and her pulse accelerates. She glances over her shoulder at her bag and clothes draped on the back of a club chair, and estimates it would take about ten seconds to get to the door if she had to run.

  Jennifer tugs at her towel. Brigitte clutches it tighter to her chest.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Just a bit of fun.’

  ‘I want to go now Jen — Ember.’ She takes a step towards her clothes. ‘Please come with me.’

  Jennifer shakes her head and climbs into bed with the men, shimmying under the white sheets down between Vince’s legs.

  Dave watches Brigitte as she dresses. Annoyance — no, anger — darkens his face. He shoves back the covers, gets up, sways, and walks towards her. He’s drunk, slow, and she reaches the door before he catches up, but she doesn’t have her shoes. She scans the room for her $500 ruby-coloured sandals. They’re on the other side, poking out from under the curtain drawn across the wall-sized window. She decides to leave them, and wrenches the door open.

  ‘You can forget about the sales-rep job,’ Dave yells at her as she runs down the quiet, airless corridor towards the lift. ‘Cock-teasing slut!’

  A fire of jagged pain takes away her breath as she steps from the Hotel Como foyer and onto a piece of broken bottle. She hops, bends, pulls the chunk of glass out of her heel, and limps over to the first taxi on the rank.

  ‘Where to?’ the taxi driver says.

  She tells him Fitzroy, Brunswick Street. Tendrils of wet hair soak the top of her shirt. Blood drains from her face as it pools on the grey carpet square beneath her feet. She leans her cheek against the cool window. Her breath condenses on the glass as she breathes slowly, deeply, trying to stop herself from fainting. She was going to give the driver a big tip to compensate for the blood — until she sees his disapproving eyes judging her in the rear-vision mirror. Just another stupid, drunk girl — a dime a dozen on Chapel Street these days. She wants to tell him he’s wrong.

  Out front of Matt’s place, she looks up: the light’s on, and she sees him standing at the window in a blue plaid shirt. Three or four of his friends are still up there with him. A couple lean on the sill, smoking. Matt moves away from the window.

  Her phone rings, she presses cancel, her shoulders slump, and she tells the taxi driver to take her to the apartment instead.

  She sits for a long time on the shower floor, dizzy, watching blood run down the drain.

  After the shower, she bandages her foot and makes a mug of Milo. She takes some Panadol and goes to bed. She can’t sleep. She calls him — she has to.

  He picks up the phone. She hears him breathing, but he doesn’t speak.

  ‘Matt?’

  It sounds like he drops the receiver and then picks it up.

  ‘Matt, I — ’

  ‘You stood me up.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I — ’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I — ’

  ‘Don’t even want to know. Don’t want to talk to you right now.’

  ‘I had an accident.’ The taxi driver’s eyes were right.

  ‘What? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, just stupid — I broke a jar in the kitchen, cut my foot open. Must have fainted from the blood. I’m sorry — ’

  ‘Is somebody there to help you?’

  ‘No, but I’m OK.’

  ‘I’ll come over.’

  ‘No. You’ve been drinking. You can’t drive.’

  ‘What’s your address?’

  ‘No. I’ll get a taxi to you.’

  When she gets there, the door is unlocked and all the lights are on. Matt’s asleep, passed out, sprawled across the bed, fully clothed. Di’s sitting on his back, licking her paws.

  The cat sat on Matt.

  Brigitte turns off the lights, removes his shoes, climbs in beside him, and pulls up the covers. Di hisses at her.

  ‘I know — I don’t deserve him.’

  39

  ‘Guess where I’m calling from?’

  Matt hesitates, sighs. ‘Where?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘What work?’

  ‘David Jones.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I called them, and they still had a job vacant. Did a training session, and started straightaway.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good.’ She sneezes. ‘I’ve already sold two units of Poison.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Perfume. The manager’s coming — gotta go. See you after work.’

  Catherine Kerr, lipstick on her teeth again, comes over to check on Brigitte. She tells her she’s doing a great job, but needs to go into the aisle and spray perfume on customers when it’s quiet. Brigitte can’t quite bring herself to do that, so she pretends to be busy straightening products on the shelves.

  She has lunch in the tearoom with Gina from Clinique, and Christine from Clarins. It’s not as nice as she imagined.

  ‘Did you hear Kara was fucking Tim as well as George from the café?’ Gina says to Christine.

  ‘Your Tim? No way.’

  ‘Yes way. Stupid slut.’

  Brigitte glances over her shoulder, hoping nobody from her section is listening. These women remind her of Jennifer: big and loud and brassy. Brigitte feels small and plain next to them.

  Christine picks up one of her hot chips, dips it in gravy, and asks Brigitte if she’s married.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Chris. Look how young she is.’

  ‘Have a boyfriend?’

  Brigitte gazes across at the soggy food in the bain-marie. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Matt.’

  ‘Cute?’ Christine has a couple of gravy spots on the collar of her red blazer.

  Brigitte nods, and feels her cheeks turn pink.

  ‘Don’t let Christine near him then.’ Gina laughs, and slurps her Diet Coke through a straw.

  Brigitte forces a smile, and picks at her limp salad.

  ‘Wanna come for a drink with us after work tonight?’ Gina says. ‘There’ll be lots of cute guys from the office there.’

  ‘Come over to my counter just before knock-off time and I’ll give you a make-over,’ says Christine. ‘You need some more colour.’

  Brigitte bites into a flaccid cucumber slice. Gina and Christine scoff their chips and Diet Cokes.

  ‘Coming for a smoke before we go back?’ Gina fishes a packet of cigarettes and a pink plastic lighter from her gold handbag.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t smoke.’ Brigitte shrugs, and they leave her to finish her lunch in peace.

  When she gets back to the counter, she rings Matt again. ‘Just letting you know I’m having drinks with some of the girls after work.’ That sounds like such a grown-up thing to say. ‘I won’t stay long.’ Grown-up, sensible, nice.
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  ‘Brig, you don’t have to tell me everything you do.’ More grown-up.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that’s it’s OK to have our own lives.’

  ‘Fine.’ Maybe she will stay long. A child again.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’m just saying — ’

  ‘There’s a customer at the counter — gotta go.’

  She hangs up and smiles at the customer. ‘Hi. How can I help you?’

  ‘Can I get one of these eye pencils, please?’ The customer points to a tester on the stand.

  ‘Nice colour.’ Black. Brigitte takes a new pencil from the make-up drawer. ‘Can I help you with anything else?’

  The customer shakes her head.

  The transaction goes smoothly. Brigitte bags it and sticky tapes-it. ‘Thank you. Have a nice day.’

  She hums as she tidies the drawers under the counter. When she looks up, a man is waiting patiently at the perfume section. ‘Hi there,’ he says. Young, tall, nice suit. ‘I’m after a gift.’ He tilts his head to one side and smiles. ‘For my fiancé,’ he adds, somewhat reluctantly.

  ‘Perfume?’

  He nods.

  ‘Do you know what she likes?’

  He shrugs and holds up the palms of his hands.

  ‘I like this.’ She places a bottle on the counter. ‘It’s a floral-oriental fragrance.’ She strokes her index finger down the side of the bottle. ‘With amber-scented flowers, very sensual.’ She looks directly into his eyes, capturing him. ‘Want to try some?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She sprays some on to a card and hands it to him. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘I like to use it straight after a shower. Before I get dressed I spray it into the air and stand under it to clothe my skin.’ She demonstrates, does a little spin under the perfume mist, holding her breath so she doesn’t sneeze. He gets out his wallet.

  ‘Want to make it last longer?’ She widens her eyes and blinks a couple of times.

  He nods, swallows, and puts his wallet back for now as she places two more products on the counter. She takes his hand and massages some body moisturiser onto the back of it. ‘Does that feel nice? This is called layering. When you spray perfume on top of the moisturiser, it will last all day. Or all night. And this,’ she touches the other product, ‘is hair mist. To intensify your fragrance experience. Want one of those, too?’

  He nods.

  ‘Need a tissue?’

  ‘That’s OK, you could just rub it in a bit more.’

  ‘The eau de parfum is more expensive than the eau de toilette,’ she says as she undoes his cuff button, pushes up his sleeve, and continues to massage his arm. ‘But it’s much better. And there’s also a soap.’

  He purchases the entire range with his credit card, which means Brigitte has already doubled her daily sales target. Too easy. He leaves his real-estate business card — in case she ever needs help buying or selling a house.

  Another customer: a large woman with ruddy skin and jowls like a bulldog is tapping on the counter with her purple fingernails.

  ‘Hi. Can I help you?’ Brigitte says in a sing-song voice.

  ‘I want to return this.’ The red-faced woman produces a bottle of anti-ageing emulsion from her handbag. Brigitte hasn’t been shown how to process returns; she looks around for help, but her counter manager is on a tea break.

  ‘I said I want to return this,’ the red woman says.

  Brigitte takes the product from her and looks at it. It’s almost empty. ‘Was there a problem with it?’

  ‘Gave me an allergic reaction.’

  ‘But you’ve used most of it.’

  ‘No, I only opened it last week.’

  Another customer, in a floral dress, is waving Brigitte over, wanting her help at the make-up stand. ‘Won’t be a moment,’ she calls cheerfully.

  ‘Listen, I don’t have all day,’ says Red Woman.

  ‘Do you have any other shopping to do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Excuse me.’ The floral-dress customer is calling to her. ‘There are no tissues left. I need to wipe off this lotion.’

  ‘Won’t be a moment. Sorry.’ Back to Red Woman. ‘I haven’t been trained how to do returns, so if you could come back when my counter manager is here — ’

  ‘How rude. I’d like my money back, please.’

  The phone starts ringing.

  ‘If you could just wait — ’

  ‘I want to speak to the manager.’

  ‘Excuse me!’ It’s Floral Dress again.

  Brigitte bends down and takes a bottle of moisturiser from a drawer. ‘Here!’ She slams it down on the counter-top in front of Red Woman. ‘Just take another one. This will suit your sensitive skin.’ She blows the hair, which has escaped from its ponytail, off her face.

  She smoothes her uniform and crosses to Floral Dress.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I do need a tissue.’

  ‘I’m not sure where we keep the tissues, but I’ll have a look for you.’ Brigitte forces a smile; her mouth is dry, she needs a drink of water.

  ‘While I’m here, I want to try some of your new body oil.’ Red Woman is still hanging around. ‘Do you have any free samples?’

  ‘No. But feel free to try the tester.’ Brigitte hands her a glass tester-bottle of body oil, and sneezes.

  Red Woman frowns, reaches for the bottle, and misses it. Brigitte sucks in her breath as it rolls across the counter top, teeters on the edge for a moment, and then goes over and smashes on the tiled floor. ‘Stupid girl,’ Red Woman shrieks. ‘Look what you’ve done!’ There’s oil and broken glass on the floor; oil has splashed on the woman’s shoes and all up her legs.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Brigitte starts shaking, and feels herself turn the same colour as the woman.

  ‘Do you know how much these shoes cost? You’ve ruined them!’

  Brigitte knows exactly how much those violet faux-snake skin shoes cost.

  Heat prickles her eyes as she opens and slams shut drawers, looking for tissues, a cloth, anything, to clean up the mess.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Floral Dress yells.

  What the fuck now? Brigitte looks over the counter to see that Red Woman has slipped in the oil slick, and is moaning and flailing about on the ground like a fish on land.

  ‘What on earth is going on here?’ Finally, the counter manager is back.

  ‘Where the fuck are the tissues?’ Brigitte rushes off to the bathroom.

  When she composes herself and returns to the sales floor, the area around her counter has been cordoned off with rolled-up towels. A cleaner is mopping the floor. The counter manager tells her Red Woman was taken away in an ambulance, and Catherine Kerr is in her office writing an incident report.

  ***

  ‘Hi there.’ Matt opens the door. He takes something from his pocket, and presses it into her hand.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Spare key,’ he says — like it’s no big deal. ‘So you don’t have to knock.’

  She looks at the key, and tries not to smile — like it’s no big deal. It’s on a key ring attached to a silver letter J, with diamantes across the top.

  ‘What’s the J stand for?’

  ‘Don’t know. Last tenant left it on the key.’

  She puts it in the inside pocket of her handbag.

  ‘Thought you were going for drinks.’

  ‘Changed my mind.’

  ‘How was it?’

  She holds onto the banister and drags herself melodramatically up the stairs. ‘It was fucked.’ Her feet are sore, she has a headache, itchy eyes, a sore throat, and her face aches from smiling. And all for $73.50. No shift at th
e Gold Bar ever felt so long.

  ‘I thought you said it was good.’ He follows her to the bedroom, where she throws herself backwards onto the bed.

  ‘Kill me. Kill me now.’

  ‘Can’t have been that bad.’

  She groans.

  ‘You smell nice.’

  ‘No I don’t. I stink of perfume. I’m never going back.’

  ‘Yes you are. You’re stronger than that.’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘Let’s get a course application for you then.’ He pulls off her shoes, and rubs her feet.

  ‘Ouch, watch my heel.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Ooh, that feels good … Higher … Higher … Higher.’ She bends her good knee and giggles, suddenly not so tired anymore.

  40

  She catches a train to Carnegie, and walks up Koornang Road — following the map on a page torn from the Melways — to the number on the Lipgloss Promotions business card that Al gave her. There’s no signage. In the shop-front window, a black-and-white poster of a child holding a cat is displayed on an easel. It looks like a photographic studio. Is this the right place? Brigitte checks the number on the card again.

  A bell tingles when she enters. A man calls for her to please take a seat — he’ll be with her in a minute. An orange curtain separates the front of the shop from the back, so she can’t see him.

  On Brigitte’s side of the curtain, there are two black kitchen chairs next to a small wooden table piled with fashion magazines. She sucks in her stomach, smoothes her dress, sits down, and flicks through a magazine without noticing what’s on the pages.

  What is she doing here? She doesn’t want to be a model; she wants to do one of the courses Matt was talking about. She could model part-time — fit it in around study, and it would have to be better than David Jones. Or is that a stupid idea? She’s too short, too fat, has bad skin, isn’t pretty enough — all the things Joan has told her. There’s no way this agent is going to want her on his books. She tosses the magazine back on the table, picks up her bag, and stands up, ready to sneak out.