Perfections

by Kirstyn McDermott

  ‘How about you? Are you free on Thursday, or even Friday? You can’t possibly be working all the time.’

  Antoinette relents. Sally Paige with a bee in her bonnet isn’t a force to be easily dissuaded. ‘I could maybe do Friday. But I don’t finish until seven, so it’ll be fairly late by the time I get up there.’

  ‘That will be perfect. I find myself eating later these days, anyway.’

  ‘Don’t go to any trouble, Mum. If it’s only the two of us, I could just pick up a pizza on the way over. That place in Monbulk is still open, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t eat cheese.’ Her mother sounds appalled, as if Antoinette has suggested bringing along a kitten on a spit. ‘I haven’t eaten cheese for over a year. It’s a nightmare for your digestive system. No, I’ll make a roast, and pancakes for breakfast. With that maple syrup you like.’

  Antoinette stifles a groan. ‘Mum, I don’t think I’ll be able to stay over. I’m working both nights this weekend and there’s things I need to do here on Saturday.’

  ‘What things? You’re house sitting; it’s like being on holidays.’

  ‘Mum–’

  ‘And I don’t like the idea of you driving home so late. Not all alone.’

  ‘All right, we’ll see how it goes.’

  ‘I’ll make up your bed.’

  Antoinette clenches her teeth. Better to save the argument for Friday, when she might just be able to grab her keys and slip out the door before her mother manages to turn on the guilt full force. Matters of some importance. Sounds suspiciously like another of what passes for a Sally Paige heart-to-heart. A stellar evening of why haven’t you? and why don’t you? and what are you planning to do with your life, really?

  ‘Look, Mum, I have to go. My, ah, my dinner’s getting cold.’

  ‘But I’ll see you on Friday? You promise?’

  Those last words spoken in such an odd, near plaintive tone, a tone so unlike her mother, so unsuited to her, that Antoinette pauses, ears pricked to the hiss of dead air over the line like it might hold a subtext.

  ‘Antoinette? Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I promise.’

  The storm must have woken her, Jacqueline realises as a flash of lightning illuminates the room. It’s followed almost immediately by a deafening crack and rumble that sounds as though it’s directly above the house. Rain drums almost as loudly onto the roof. Spatters against the window in thick, angry drops. Without the lightning, the room is dark. Night time dark.

  ‘Damn it, Ryan,’ Jacqueline mutters. She throws off the sheet and slips from the bed. Tucks in her blouse and straightens her skirt. Her throat feels raw, her mouth mossy with sleep. She locates the glass of juice on the bedside table and drinks what remains in two greedy swallows. The liquid is almost warm. Pulp sticks to her teeth. She grimaces, running her tongue around her gums as she shuffles cautiously across to the bedroom door. Once in the hall, Jacqueline can see artificial light shining from the back of the house. Ryan’s studio. Smoothing her hair as best she can with only her fingers, she walks towards it.

  The large canvas is still uncovered. Unattended as well, its creator sprawled belly-down and shirtless on the mattress at the far end of the studio. His eyes are closed. His back rises and falls so gently it takes her a moment or two to catch its movement. She’s amazed that anyone can sleep through a tropical storm like the one currently raging beyond the house’s flimsy walls. Another clap of thunder splits open the sky. Ryan doesn’t so much as flinch.

  There’s no clock in the studio but outside the sky is black, the world illuminated only by the rain-hazed glow of streetlights. It feels very late. She should call a taxi. Get herself back to the motel and wash away the day’s grime and confusion beneath a hot shower. Tomorrow – she can’t think about tomorrow just yet. She spots her bag over against the wall, near the doorway where Zane’s suitcases had been. Beside it are Jacqueline’s shoes, arranged neatly side by side with her phone perched across their toes. Ryan must have done that, or Zane, after Jacqueline fainted. Maybe even Alice, tidying up while waiting for her patient to awaken.

  No, not Alice, because Ryan doesn’t let her inside his studio. Unlike Zane, unlike Jacqueline, unlike however many others to whom he happily swings wide the door. How that must make his sister burn – which is perhaps all the motivation Ryan needs. Jacqueline shakes her head. With a mother like her own, familial power plays are a game she understands only too well.

  And she has no intention of joining anyone else’s team.

  She picks up her phone and slips into her shoes. Slings her bag over her shoulder. Her phone screen is blank and she wonders if the charge has run out. She switches it on, pleased to see the battery icon displaying half its life. Not so pleased to find that it’s almost one o’clock. As the device searches for a signal, Jacqueline considers the back of Ryan’s painting.

  I’m working my arse off out there.

  She activates the camera. Dante will need to be shown something.

  Taking care not to tread on the myriad tubes of paint that litter the floor, Jacqueline makes her way around to the front of the canvas. Ryan really has been busy. The city is no longer simply abandoned. It’s flooded. The Brisbane River now swollen and stretched, swallowing the foundations of the metropolis it once wound through. The water itself is calm. Settled and still. As though it has always been this way. As though it always will be this way. A tangle of greenery bursts from a glassless window. Vines fall towards the water below, tendrils reaching for its surface.

  It’s not finished, but she can see how it will be.

  Jacqueline steps back a couple of paces. Raises her phone and tries to frame as much of the painting as she can within the small camera window. Then almost drops it as the device start to shrill, vibrating unexpectedly in her hands. Text messages, several of them, tumbling in on top of each other now a signal has been found. Antoinette, her mother, Dante – of course, Dante – and even a couple of voicemail alerts advising, no doubt, of messages left by the same.

  She groans. Tomorrow looms too close for any sort of comfort.

  ‘What do you reckon, then?’

  Jacqueline peers around the side of the canvas. Ryan’s eyes are open and serious. Yawning, he pushes himself up from the mattress.

  ‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ she tells him. ‘I was just calling a taxi.’

  ‘In this weather? An ark might be better.’

  There’s a tattoo on the left side of his chest. A tree, stylised and vaguely Celtic. Black ink fading to blue beneath the skin. She watches its movement over his muscles as he crosses the room to join her.

  ‘There’s still a lot to do,’ he says.

  She nods. ‘The river is a dramatic change.’

  ‘Yeah, but it feels right. The city was too passive before, you know?’

  ‘Passive?’

  ‘I’d left the possibility of choice, that we left because we wanted to, not because we had to. Not because we were pushed.’

  ‘Repelled.’

  ‘Expelled.’ He frowns. ‘Expulsion, maybe that should be the title.’

  ‘Of the painting?’

  ‘Of the show.’

  Jacqueline hesitates. ‘Ryan . . . the show’s already being promoted. Null and Void. You can’t change the name at this stage.’ She braces herself for resistance, for further argument, but Ryan only smiles.

  ‘Okay,’ he says.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘What’s a bloody name matter, anyway?’ He nudges her arm with his elbow. ‘Besides, I owe you, girl. You did this, you opened this for me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The stuff you were saying before, when you were still kinda out of it. Delirious, Alice said, but what would she know about it?’

  Her stomach clenche
s. ‘What . . . stuff?’

  ‘Don’t worry, nothing incriminating. A lot of talk about floating, about drowning. And not being able to find your way back.’

  ‘My way back? To where?’

  Ryan shrugs. ‘You weren’t making too much sense. But it set me thinking, about the floods we had up here, and some dots got themselves joined. I was never gonna do anything with the floods – it felt too cynical, too exploitative – but the reference is powerful here, don’t you reckon? It’s an anchor. It makes this possibility real, more real than a Brisbane left to rot for unimagined reasons.’

  ‘It is powerful,’ Jacqueline agrees. Privately, she wonders if unimagined reasons would be even more so. ‘But it’s late and I really need to go, Ryan. We can talk more about this tomorrow.’

  ‘Mmm.’ His face seems distant as he studies the painting. Tanned fingers scratch at his stomach. Circle his navel and pluck at the hair that grows in a scraggily line below it. A thoughtless gesture. And far too intimate.

  Jacqueline clears her throat. ‘Would you mind if I took a couple of photos before I go? To send to Dante in the morning.’

  ‘What?’ He turns away from the painting. Glares at the device in her hand as though she is offering him something poisonous. ‘No, no way. This isn’t something you can capture with a bloody phone.’

  ‘Ryan, this is important. I need to show him something.’

  He sighs. Rattles his dreads with his hand. ‘Yeah, look, I got this mate, pretty handy with a camera. I’ll give him a bell tomorrow and get him over here, get him to take some shots with his proper kit. Good ones, high res. That be okay?’

  ‘And you’ll email them to Dante?’

  ‘Sure.’ He crosses a hand over his chest. Over the tree. ‘Promise.’

  Which is probably not worth much, but she’s too tired to argue any longer. She flicks through her contacts. Retrieves the number of the taxi company.

  ‘You’re not really going?’ Ryan asks.

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘So, stay the rest of the night.’

  Jacqueline looks up at him. Considers the sly quirk of his mouth. His bare, lean-muscled torso. His skin the colour of perfectly toasted bread. She could stay. Split herself beneath him, fall back and allow her flesh to lead the way. Not the sort of release her razors could deliver, but still.

  But still. Ryan seems the type to confuse sex too easily with significance. With the sort of power she’s not about to relinquish. Not when she can feel the balance of the game shifting. Control returning to her hands. Tomorrow, she’ll ring Dante, make her apologies, give him the good news. Ring Ant as well and perhaps even their mother, find out what the state of emergency is back home.

  Tomorrow, she can fix everything. But not if she stays. Not if she slips any further. Jacqueline shakes her head. ‘I have to go.’

  She taps the call icon, holds her phone to her ear. Outside, there’s a bright flash of lightning followed a few seconds later by the rumble of thunder. Slightly muted now, as the storm moves across Brisbane, washing the city clean.

  Her phone rings just as Jacqueline is cutting into her poached eggs. The yolks flow thick and yellow, dripping onto the toast beneath.

  Dante calling.

  Damn. She was planning to ring her boss after breakfast. He never turns up at Seventh Circle much before ten anyway, and her appetite upon waking was unusually sharp. Ravenous, even. Perhaps not surprising, considering how little – and how badly – she’s been eating up here. Jacqueline puts down her cutlery. Takes a small mouthful of water, then picks up the phone. She’s not entirely prepared for this conversation but if she lets the call go through to voicemail yet again, the next communiqué from her boss might well be a termination notice.

  ‘Dante, how–’

  ‘Well, look who managed to answer her phone for once.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘You get my messages yesterday? My texts?’

  ‘Yes.’ His messages. Light on detail, heavy on anger. All variations on the theme of call me right the fuck now. ‘But not until late. Things have been . . . complicated. With Ryan, I mean, and the painting. I was going to ring–’

  ‘Save it, Jacks. Crazy suitcase girl already filled me in on your complications.’

  ‘Zane?’ Her face flushes, her skin feels damp and prickly. She’s thankful that the café has air conditioning. ‘Zane talked to you? How?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ he snaps. ‘Called my private number, from your phone, Jacks. Trying to tell me how brilliant her work is, and how you’ve personally recommended I take a look at it.’

  ‘That’s not true, I never said–’

  ‘Had to listen to the whole spiel to get any decent intel on was happening up there, considering I’ve heard squat from you, and it turns out that’s because you’re sleeping off some kind of drug-fucked hangover in Jellicoe’s bed. I sent you up there to sort this shit out once and for all, and you bloody well go native.’

  Jacqueline closes her eyes. ‘That’s not what happened.’

  ‘Whatever. Fact is, you’re no longer reliable.’

  ‘Ryan’s close to finished his painting. The painting.’

  There’s a pause. When Dante speaks again his voice seems a little calmer. Or perhaps that’s only wishful thinking. ‘How close?’

  ‘A week, Ryan says.’ Although that was before he painted the flood. Before he allowed the river to swallow the city up to its knees. She didn’t ask how much greenery he still intended to add.

  Birds too, maybe some critters even.

  ‘A week?’ Dante echoes. ‘That’s definite?’

  ‘Give or take a couple of days. He wants to do some more work on a few of the smaller pieces as well.’

  ‘What? We’ve got six weeks till doors open on this thing. Shit, not even six.’

  ‘He knows that.’ Jacqueline tries to sound assured. Assuring. ‘It’s only some minor tweaks, to improve cohesion. It’ll be fine, I promise.’

  ‘Your promises aren’t worth much right now, darling. I want photos, I want to see what’s going on with this.’

  ‘Ryan said he would email you something today.’

  Dante snorts. ‘What he says is worth even less. Get over there and take some shots, text them to me. Within the hour, Jacks, I mean it.’

  ‘I’m not sure Ryan will agree to that. He has concerns about image quality.’

  More silence, stretching across the seconds.

  ‘You’re done,’ Dante says at last. His voice is flat as iron. Colder, harder. ‘I want you back here. Now.’

  Jacqueline’s mouth is dry. She takes another sip of water and swallows, tries to find words to salvage the situation. ‘I thought the idea was for me to keep an eye on Ryan until he finishes.’

  ‘The idea was for you to remind the lazy rat-bastard that he has a contract to honour, a contract I will waste no second thoughts on suing his arse over.’

  ‘I don’t think the contract was ever really the issue. He was just stalled on the painting. Creatively, I mean.’

  ‘Well, you seem to have uninstalled him, darling. That’s wonderful, that’s fine and fucking dandy; have a gold star. But that doesn’t mean you get yourself a sweet little Contiki tour at my expense.’

  ‘No, it’s not–’

  ‘Listen to me carefully,’ Dante says, his voice somewhere between a whisper and a snarl. ‘I cannot trust you. And if I cannot trust you, you are absolutely no use to me up there. Bec will book your flight. This conversation is over.’

  Jacqueline opens her mouth to ask him to wait, to let her explain, but it’s too late. She can already hear the phone changing hands. Can hear Dante’s muffled instructions for Becca – get her on a plane, pronto – and then the girl is on the line.

 
‘Give me two secs, will you Jacqueline? I’m checking flights for you now.’

  ‘How . . . how bad is it?’

  ‘Mmm, yes.’ Becca pauses, then lowers her voice. ‘Pretty bad. He’s seriously pissed – you really should have called before now.’

  ‘I’m sorry if he took it out on you.’

  ‘Me?’ She sounds amused. ‘He’s been like a kitten to me. I think he’s saving the weapons of mass destruction for when you get back.’

  Jacqueline sighs. ‘That’s something to look forward to.’

  ‘Um, I can’t get you on a flight today, not for what Dante’s authorised me to spend. How does tomorrow morning at 9.15 sound?’

  As though she has any choice in the matter. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Cool. I’ll book it now and text you the details.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘You’re going to come in to the gallery?’

  ‘The sooner the better, don’t you think?’

  ‘Listen,’ Becca says. ‘You really need to get some photos for Dante. Right now, he doesn’t think you’ve done anything to fix up the Jellicoe mess; he thinks you’ve made it worse.’

  ‘Ryan is going to email him photos this afternoon,’ Jacqueline tells her. The words sound doubtful even to her ears. But she still has time. One last day, one last night to rescue what she can before tucking her tail between her legs and slinking dutifully back home. As much as she hates Brisbane, that’s not how she wants to leave the place. Not defeated. Not shamed.

  ‘Good,’ Becca is saying. ‘That’s good. Because from how Dante’s been carrying on, I’m not sure you’ll even have a job if he doesn’t.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.’

  ‘I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘Yes. I’m quite sure you are.’

  Stupid, she admonishes herself even as she cuts off the call. Becca was hardly making a threat of her own. At most she was relaying something she’s heard Dante say. Yet Jacqueline couldn’t help but detect a certain glee in the girl’s tone. An edge to her words that sounded suspiciously like schadenfreude. After all, if Jacqueline loses her job, it’s Becca who’ll most likely reap the benefits.