Subject: Get your arse out here!
Mate u have got to get out here!! The outback will blow your mind!
U have to see it. I can’t believe we live in this country and really know nothing about it. You think it’s vast and empty but it’s teeming with mind-blowing sights. Just yesterday I came across a fossil dig that uncovered so many gigantic dinosaur bones they couldn’t move them. They’re 98 MILLION years old!! There are rib bones TWO METRES long!! Leg bones so big they don’t even fit on the back of a ute! They’re so big I could lie down on them like a bed. And these blokes, you know, real outback blokes, just standing around swatting flies like this is just an ordinary day in the dirt and I’m thinking, shit, shouldn’t you be getting some sort of security guard for these things? And they’re just laughing their arses off at me and saying, well what’s anyone gunna do with ’em? Feed ’em to the dog?
I’ve got more sculpture ideas than I know what to do with—dinosaur-bone furniture design! My sketchpad is full and I’m drawing on bits of bark.
Hey, and there’s a job going here right up your alley. Something about researching fossilised ferns that are coming to the surface and also fossilised plankton from some inland sea.
Get out here, man.
Rubble
•
The day after her first big day out alone, Christmas was thankful to have Mim take her in hand and lead the way confidently through the streets, to a taxi, and to a restaurant for Saturday brunch. It was more like lunch, since the doors opened at midday, but she’d done as Mim had suggested and fasted all morning until they got there. An array of bicycles and motorcycles lined the parking bays at the entrance to the building and a large chalkboard hung on the dark grey wall outside. It was just the two of them, Mim having sent Hank and Margot out on chores related to their upcoming trip to America, and Christmas was pleased. She was so grateful to be staying with Mim and her family, but she craved some time alone with her old friend.
Mim ushered her through the sombre front of the restaurant to the back, which was brightly lit. At a table for two, Mim sat in the chair and Christmas sat opposite on the bench seat along the wall, with huge white cushions at her back. Patrons filled the spaces either side of Christmas and she smiled good-naturedly at the woman next to her as they jostled their handbags into the small gap between their hips.
‘You must always book ahead here,’ Mim said, signalling a waiter, who appeared a moment later, briskly speaking to Mim while she nodded. She halted him a moment to address Christmas. ‘You choose your drink—coffee, tea, juice—and then the platters will start. Many types of food. You will find something you like.’
‘Orange juice, thanks.’
Mim ordered the juice and a coffee for herself and the waiter disappeared. What seemed like only seconds later, the first platter arrived—a huge white square with an eclectic mix of cake, salmon, cucumber, eggs and salad. Christmas began on the salmon and salad; Mim started with the cucumber in a white cheese sauce.
‘I still can’t quite believe I’m here,’ Christmas said, ‘with you, I mean. After all that time of writing letters to each other, like you were some sort of imaginary friend, and now here we are, in the flesh. It’s a bit like having brunch with a storybook character or something.’
‘You are exactly how I imagined you would be,’ Mim said, accepting the coffee from the waiter and directing the juice to Christmas’s side of the table.
‘Really? How so?’ Christmas asked, amazed. To her eyes, Mim was similar, certainly, but she seemed to have lost the softness of girlhood and the romantic indulges she’d loved reading in her poetry. Now, she seemed so practical, so business-like and efficient.
Mim progressed onto the cake and closed her eyes with pleasure as she moved it around her mouth. Then, ‘You are genuine.’
‘Genuine?’
‘Not pretentious. Not, ah, I don’t know the word I’m looking for . . . maybe, plastic?’
‘Plastic?’
Her friend giggled then, and Christmas suddenly saw that teenager she’d seen in the photos all those years ago. ‘You have heart,’ Mim said, affectionately.
‘Thank you. That’s a really lovely thing to say.’
‘As for me, I am a stressed-out mum with an unnerving daughter and no idea what to do about it. There is something going on with her but she won’t confide in me.’ Mim’s face scrunched in sadness and Christmas’s heart lurched.
A waiter hovered, wanting to take the first platter and move them onto the next. Clearly, seat space was at a premium. But Christmas refused to be intimidated. She’d waited more than half her life to have this meal with Mim.
‘I can’t say I know what it’s like to be a mum, but my sister has three boys and she worries all the time that she’s not doing enough. I think all mothers beat themselves up when the truth is they’re doing a superb job.’
‘You think?’
‘Absolutely. And, hey, you can cook! My sister just opens a can here and there and pops some toast on,’ she said, cheekily—she was only joking . . . kind of—and was pleased to see Mim’s face relax again. ‘Margot will be fine. Being a teenager is tough, remember?’
Mim nodded, thoughtful.
‘But we got through it,’ Christmas assured her. ‘And so will Margot. Don’t underestimate yourself. You’re a woman with a career and a loving relationship. I’m sure you’re a much more powerful role model than you think.’ She hoped her words had reassured Mim, at least a little, and given her back just some of the kindness she’d shared with Christmas so far.
‘Okay,’ Mim said, smoothing her brow with the back of her hand. ‘Enough about me. Tell me all about your life, everything you’ve done for the past twenty years.’
They stayed in the restaurant for as much time as they could tease out of the anxious waiters, who eventually delivered all three huge platters of food (Christmas had had to loosen her trouser buttons to go on after the second). And when they finally wobbled out the door, they linked arms, swung their handbags happily, and strolled the nearby shops, and Christmas felt as though she belonged here in this beautiful city, at least for the day, with her friend at her side.
A couple of days later, left to her own devices once more, Christmas found herself drawn back to the river, emerging from the Metro at Pont Neuf under the bright and hot summer sun and heading west towards the seven arches of the Pont des Arts. On the way she lingered at the bouquinistes, the book dealers with their numbered metal pop-open stalls and hundreds of secondhand books, posters, postcards and magazines laid out under the green leaves of the overhanging trees.
‘Bonjour, madame,’ the dealers called, proffering books with yellowed pages; aged books with faded ink and fraying edges wrapped in protective plastic; hardbacks, leather-bounds, paperbacks; copies of French Vogue; and packs of ten postcards of cafe scenes, which she found hard to resist, handing over some notes before putting them in her satchel. She also bought a novel in French, even though she couldn’t read it, because it had a stunning cover with a picture of sunlit wheat fields. The men shouted at her and waved her towards prints of the Mona Lisa and the Eiffel Tower, certain now they’d found an easy target.
‘Non, merci,’ she said, over and over, smiling and waving them gently away until they shuffled off in their sneakers and money belts towards the next set of tourists coming along the path.
Traffic rumbled past as she continued on her way to the Pont des Arts. At the pedestrian bridge, she stepped onto the wide wooden boards and took a deep breath. Far off in the distance, rearing many times as high as the highest building in view, was the real Eiffel Tower, standing dark and strong against the smoggy air, commanding the skyline.
The bridge was crowded and she couldn’t hear her footsteps above the ceaseless rush of traffic on the road on the other side and the gushing of the river below as it charged into the pylons. A busker played the saxophone, his case open at his feet, sending out soulful notes to the crowd gathered around him, many sitt
ing on the bridge. Christmas stopped too, listening to him play as she took in the sights around her.
She watched couples with their arms around each other, their faces beaming as they touched the thousands of padlocks chained to the railing as symbols of eternal love. Some took photos as they clipped their own padlocks to the metal grille or shared a picnic on a blanket, right there on the bridge under the mellow sunshine, a glass of wine in hand, feeding each other crusty bread dipped in olive oil. A man sat cross-legged against the padlock railing, a scarf around his neck, a notebook and pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Further along the bridge, another busker played an accordion. Someone cut into an orange and the sharp citrus tang hit her nostrils, propelling her back to The Apothecary, standing there with Lincoln and the smell of his aftershave. And her body rocked, hit with an invisible force.
Her breath caught in her chest. All she could think of was Lincoln and that kiss—the perfect kiss of truth, telling her it had to be over.
But why? Because she had some rule that said so?
Standing here now, the beauty of Paris flooding every one of her senses, optimism made her feel dizzy with possibility.
She’d been stupid. So stupid. Lincoln was lovely. Funny. Warm. Yummy to look at. They got on well. They worked together well. They both loved chocolate. They were creating a book together. He was single. She was single. And he liked her. He’d kissed her.
And she’d hurt him.
Why oh why had she pushed him away?
The saxophone busker finished his tune and the gathered crowd applauded and toasted him with wine and threw money into his case while he bowed.
Christmas began to jog to the left bank, across this bridge redolent with passion and amorous intoxication, which seemed to vibrate and urge her on. The stories in each and every one of those padlocks called to her. Go find love, Christmas.
She had to find a cafe with wi-fi. She had to contact Lincoln. Right now. Before it was too late.
•
Lincoln was just finishing up for the day. He’d been working on the book. For the past half hour he’d been writing about alkaloids. Theobromine was the alkaloid found in Theobroma cacao, and was part of the methylxanthine class of chemical compounds. He was trying to discuss the way certain medicines, such as analgesics and anaesthetics and recreational drugs like cocaine, were derived from alkaloids, and explain why dark chocolate makes us feel good. But it had all got very scientific. Very dull. There was far too much discussion of atomic structure. He needed to include more information on the interesting things. Like the way plants used alkaloids to kill or repel insects, for example.
Then again, most people would probably think that was dull too. He held down the backspace button on his keyboard.
Then he clicked undo. Maybe they wouldn’t think it was dull. He didn’t think it was dull, but then he was a botanist. He really didn’t know what the average person thought. But then wasn’t the point of a book like this to give people information they didn’t know before?
He needed Christmas, and that thought made him instantly angry because he’d felt guilty after going out with Emily and that was stupid because Christmas had made it clear that she thought kissing him was a mistake, uttering those exact words as she pushed him out the door. It was humiliating, frankly. And that made him even crankier about the fact that he was still hung up on her. Worse, he’d been hurt, something that was not easy to admit, even to himself.
She was making him crazy.
He rubbed his hand over his chin. Maybe it was the beard. There was too much hair on his head and face, messing up his thoughts. Like tree roots growing into pipes and clogging them up. And it was winter. Everything slowed and shut down and froze up in winter. Except at the equator. The Amazon just kept going, like a twenty-four-hour marketplace. The jungle that never slept. But maybe here in Tasmania his brain had gone into hibernation.
He cast an eye at Caesar, lying on his back with his paws in the air, his long belly hair just begging to be rubbed. He thought about his grandmother. And he felt the walls closing in around him. He was starting to feel an uneasy sense of permanence towards this dog. When he checked for job prospects overseas he immediately wondered what would happen to Caesar. And then he wondered how he could leave his nan all alone with no one to visit her.
He got up and paced the room.
His phone beeped with a text message. It was from Christmas.
Hi. Just wanted to say how sorry I was about the way we said goodbye.
Lincoln read it twice. What should he say to that? It was okay? Well, it wasn’t okay. He understood? But he didn’t.
Still, just getting that text from her made him soften a little, let go of some of the anger. Then hot on the tail of that came burning questions.
Finally he typed, Why did you push me away?
He waited a long time for a response. For several agonising minutes he even thought she might not reply at all. Then his phone beeped.
It’s complicated. But I’d like to see you again when I get back, apart from working on the book. Would that be okay? I’d like to make it up to you.
Now it was his turn to take his time. Part of him wanted to say that of course they could see each other, that nothing would make him happier. But another part thought that maybe it was a good thing she’d pushed him away when she did, because he’d become far too invested. And now he’d asked out Emily, again, and why shouldn’t he see her? She was nice, funny, clumsy, and she didn’t make his heart gallop like a racehorse, and that meant he could keep his head when he was around her.
At the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to totally smash down Christmas’s efforts. He wasn’t a complete prick.
He decided to keep it simple.
Maybe.
•
Maybe?
On the other side of the world, Christmas read his message and her heart plummeted. But what did she expect? She’d shot him down hard. She deserved to be on the back foot now. And at least he hadn’t outright turned her down. There was still a chance. She’d created this and would have to be happy with a small, partial opening in the window of opportunity. But she didn’t dare to ask for further clarification.
It was simply best not to ask.
18
Before she knew it, Christmas’s week in Paris had flown by in a whirl of walking (she had blisters), feasting (the weight gain fortunately offset by the walking), photography (it would take her days to upload the pictures when she got home), window-shopping and sightseeing, balanced with joyful non-touristy hours spent in Mim’s home as an extended member of their family. She’d offered to be on kitchen clean-up duty each night alongside Margot and had become quite fond of the girl. Her English was excellent and she regaled Christmas with stories of her school life and friends as they packed the dishwasher and scraped food into the sink’s disposal system. Christmas had no doubt that Margot had a secret life she was carefully protecting, but she also saw her natural sweetness and warmth during those nightly discussions.
When Margot then retreated to her room for homework and study, and Hank disappeared onto his laptop or mobile phone—with many last-minute things to organise for the dental surgery before they left for America—Christmas and Mim spent hours sitting on the balcony, overlooking the Haussmann buildings glowing brightly in the extended evening sunlight, drinking wine and talking about life.
Christmas had avoided the museums and galleries, but had taken a boat ride down the Seine, which was simply magical, and climbed the Eiffel Tower, which was packed with tourists and not as much fun as she’d hoped, but she’d spent many hours on the lawns surrounding the construction, eating her packed lunch, just sitting quietly and absorbing the atmosphere and gorgeous weather. And now it was her last evening with Mim, Hank and Margot; she would be flying to Marseille tomorrow afternoon.
She reclined against the leather seats of the family’s shiny black car as it sailed through the yellow-lit streets of Paris towards
the left bank, where they were taking her for her farewell dinner. Beside her, Margot’s earphones emitted scratchy music sounds and she gazed out her own window, her pretty face looking tired.
Christmas felt for her. The final years of high school were difficult, with enormous peer pressure, and the French culture set high expectations of its young people. How could it not? Look what lay on every street! Beauty and craftsmanship and grandeur. Inside every French person must lie some sort of molecular connection to the masters of art and design who built this city into what must surely be the most beautiful in the world.
Suddenly, she realised that all of this must be part of her too. The very genes that made up half her body had come from someone who breathed this country’s air, drank its water, lay in its sun, ate its food and grew up surrounded by its extraordinary beauty. It was all in her too.
Did it matter that instead of visiting the Louvre she’d spent afternoons when she was young visiting her grandparents’ redbrick home in Hobart and eating fish and chips by the water, throwing batter to the seagulls? She was French. How had she reached nearly forty years of age and never really believed it? Or felt it, more to the point.
But she had felt it, wandering through the royal bedrooms of Versailles palace, picturing the people who’d lived there, imagining waking up in a bed in a room the size of a ballroom, absorbing the history as though she was part of it, because she was part of it. The French history was her history too.
And she’d felt it in the Latin Quarter, watching old men playing chess while sitting on wooden crates and smoking cigars. Watching men and women in business suits ordering coffee and food and talking on their phones just as they would down near the docks in Hobart. Getting lost in the twisty, winding laneways. Finding herself unexpectedly alone in deserted, quiet streets and wondering where all the people had gone. Then finding them again a few minutes later, swarming outside bakeries and fresh food markets as though they’d never seen or smelled anything so wonderful as the baguettes that left the stores wrapped in paper, or the soft figs that sat piled on wooden barrows on the footpath.
The Chocolate Promise Page 20
