‘They were disappointed I didn’t land a place at Sydney,’ Sharon says. ‘After all, Melbourne is only the second-oldest university in the country.’
A lecture in first-year cultural studies gave her the idea, those accounts of sneaky urban ethnographers who lost themselves in the very subcultures they set out to infiltrate, becoming consumed by identities created with the sole intent of covert observation. More native than native in the end, their alter-egos providing an absolute – if highly quarantined – freedom from the petty and mundane demand of their everyday lives. Of their everyday selves.
And so Greta was born. Confident and mysterious, audacious and sexy, knifing her way through the night-clad crowd on little more than gall and a pair of immaculately drawn, derisively raised eyebrows. Greta, who could do anything, say anything, who lost not a moment’s sleep on what anyone might think of her. Panther-sleek in PVC and black velvet, towering above the plebs on her fearsome platform heels and downing glass after glass of white rum and cranberry juice which, she said with all the maudlin-eyed assurance of an ex-pat, was the beverage of choice back in the smoky basement clubs of Cologne.
Sharon laughs. ‘Ever notice how much easier it is to be what you aren’t?’
She likens it to getting dressed for battle, or at least cold war ops: cinching herself into corset after corset, outlining her eyes with ever more elaborate swirls and curlicues. Stepping outside of herself before stepping outside her front door, and the times when she wasn’t Greta – when she was merely Sharon Eddings with an essay to write, a phone call to make to her folks, a tutorial to find an excuse to miss – those times were soon playing a second, tuneless fiddle.
Antoinette grabs another brownie. ‘So, you were what, studying us? Like we were all some sociological experiment?’ She thinks she should feel angry, or at least used in some way, but she doesn’t. It’s too surreal, this Greta-Not-Greta sitting pale and plain-faced across the table, re-shuffling the deck of cards in her hands after having already sorted it twice into ranked and ordered suits.
‘No,’ the girl says. ‘I wasn’t studying you. I wanted to be you. All of you. Paul did become my friend, you know, for real. You all did.’
Of course, in the beginning, she hadn’t really thought it through. And the longer she wavered, the harder it became to picture herself standing up one night over drinks and proclaiming her identity to the surrounding faces.
Hey, guess what, you guys? I’ve never even been to Germany!
Impossible. And so, Greta. Entrenched. Ingrained. Unshakeable. The more she lived within her German alter-self, the less real – the less authentic – it felt to be Sharon Eddings. Going to class, doing the shopping, ducking around corners whenever she spotted someone who looked like someone who might know her as Greta. Until it came to seem that the timid, soft-spoken girl from Perth was the fiction.
‘Kinda screwed up, right?’ Sharon smiles ruefully. ‘But hey, at least I got my dissertation topic out of it.’
After semi-serious flirtations with philosophy and world literature, she ended up majoring in cultural studies, did well enough in her honours year to score a doctorial scholarship, which pleased her parents – and their purse strings – no end, and now spends much of her Sharon-time researching the performative aspect of the feminine, particularly in relation to descriptive/proscriptive portrayals of hair in fairytale culture. Which is a lot more complicated than anyone might think, and kind of scary, when you consider the kind of hair women are allowed to have – and where they’re allowed to have it – and what it says when they wander hirsutely across the line.
‘It’s like we’re supposed to have these long, luxurious locks in order to register ourselves as female – but only on the tops of our heads. Grow that shit anywhere else and a woman risks the verisimilitude of her entire performance. The fourth wall isn’t merely an attribute of theatre, not when you take into account . . .’ She laughs. ‘Sorry, I’ll save that stuff for chapter three.’
And then she’s quiet for a while, focused on dealing her cards into suits for the third time. It’s like this too has been a performance of some kind, a confession rehearsed and refined down to each inflection and self-conscious chuckle. And now that it’s over, she’s nothing more than an empty windup girl, the key in her back run all the way down.
‘Why are you here?’ Antoinette asks. ‘Really?’
‘I think . . .’ A pause. A frown. ‘I’ve had enough of Greta. It’s not liberating anymore, being her. It’s suffocating.’
Antoinette bites into her brownie. Chews slowly.
‘I talked to Paul,’ Sharon tells her. ‘As Greta, of course; I figure he gets to keep her, that it’s the least I owe him. But I told him she was going back to Germany, some issue with her family, and that it was absolutely nothing to do with you, that she hadn’t talked to you for ages. I don’t know how much of it sunk in, though. He seemed pretty upset. You know he wanted me to move in with him?’
‘Really? That’s fast work.’
‘I think it was more about helping out with the rent. He’s flat broke, Ant, now you’re not there to pay the bills.’
‘Poor thing. He might actually need to get a job.’
‘Yeah, the mind boggles.’ She glances up from her cards, a sly, sideways flick of the eye. ‘So, this guy, the one who looks like him . . .’
A piece of brownie lodges in Antoinette’s throat and she coughs, swallows a mouthful of cold coffee to push it down. ‘He’s no one. I mean, no one Paul needs to worry about. He’s, um, he’s Jacqueline’s new boyfriend.’
Sharon quirks an eyebrow and for a moment the ghost of Greta flashes snarkily into view. ‘Jacqueline’s new boyfriend. Who looks just like Paul.’
‘Not just like him. Not like a twin or anything.’
‘That’s not what he said.’
‘You know Paul: a sniffle or two means he’s got the plague; one skipped lunch and suddenly he’s starving to death. When doesn’t he exaggerate?’
Sharon chuckles, a slight smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘It sounds dumb, but you have no idea how desperate I was for him not to break up with you. Greta was so anchored to the both of you by the end, I wasn’t sure I could keep her going if you weren’t . . . if it was just Paul.’
‘I didn’t think you even liked me. I got the impression you were always a little bit jealous, you know, because of the time I spent with him.’
‘Oh, I was jealous.’ Sharon catches her lip between her teeth. ‘Just not of you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
The girl puts down her cards. There’s nothing left of Greta in the look she gives Antoinette now, merely a frank and open longing almost too vulnerable to witness, and Antoinette quickly drops her gaze. Blood rushes to her cheeks and she takes another sip of cold, bitter coffee just to have something to do with her hands, something to do with her mouth.
‘It’s okay,’ Sharon says. ‘You don’t need to say anything. I just have this weird compulsion to tell the truth these days, you know? I’m sure it’s going to land me in all sorts of trouble.’
Antoinette swallows. ‘I . . . um . . .’
‘If you’re not into girls, you can say. I won’t be offended.’ She crosses a finger over heart. ‘I won’t be offended, even if you’re just not into me.’ But her smile is fragile, full of bluster and hope.
‘It’s not . . . I’m not into anyone right now.’
‘You still need more time, I get that.’
Antoinette laughs. ‘You’ll die waiting, Greta – Sharon, I mean. I’m not going to be into anyone again, ever. I think I can pretty much promise you that.’
‘Pessimist.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘So tell me. ’ Sharon stretches her arms over her head, elbows cracking loudly. ‘I don’t have anywhere else to be tonight.�
�
Behind them, the screen door squeaks and Antoinette swivels to see her mother standing on the back step, short hair spiked from sleep, syringe driver tucked into its bag like a holstered weapon.
‘Mum.’ Antoinette jumps up from her chair. ‘Sorry, were we being too loud?’
Her mother ignores her, turns guarded eyes instead onto Sharon who’s also getting hastily to her feet. ‘Who might you be, then?’
‘Sharon Eddings. I’m a friend of Ant’s.’ The girl extends a hand, diplomatically drops it once she sees it won’t be shaken. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Paige. I’m sorry to hear you’re not feeling well.’
‘Not feeling well?’ Sally Paige lets loose a jagged, barking laugh. ‘That’s a very polite way to put it, dear. What I am is dying.’
Antoinette groans, but Sharon doesn’t even miss a beat. ‘Cancer, yeah, Ant told me. My nanna died of that when I was sixteen. Started in her lungs, colonised her whole body in less than a year. Colonised, that’s how my dad put it. Like she was some empty, unimportant tract of land, ripe for development.’
Sally Paige blinks. Beats down a struggling smile.
‘You want something to eat, Mum?’ Antoinette ventures, hoping to switch them all onto another conversational track.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and that was only half a bowl of Rice Bubbles.’
‘I don’t think I’d be able to keep anything down.’
‘Well, maybe you could try? Dr Chiang said–’
‘Dr Chiang isn’t the one standing here feeling like something the cat dragged in, chewed up, and spat back out again.’
‘You know,’ Sharon says, holding up a hand for attention like she’s back in school. ‘We could always score you some pot. I know a couple of guys, it’ll only take a phone call. I think one of them even lives around here somewhere.’ She throws a questioning glance at Antoinette. ‘Ferntree Gully, that’s not far, right?’
‘Um, I’m not sure this is such a good idea.’
‘Marijuana.’ Sally Paige is deadpan.
‘The very same,’ Sharon tells her. ‘When Nanna was at her worst, my brother used to sneak her in some of his stash. My parents would have freaked if they’d ever found out, but she said it stopped her feeling so sick all the time. Even brought back her appetite. So, if you think it might help . . .’
‘Do you make a habit of offering drugs to all your friends’ parents?’
‘Only the ones who are dying.’
There is genuine good humour in her mother’s laughter this time, but still it prickles Antoinette’s skin with gooseflesh. The dry, crackled sound reminds her of autumn leaves, fallen and raked together in piles for burning.
‘I like this girl,’ Sally Paige says. ‘She can stick around.’
Lina knows the nurse comes to the house at nine each morning. Not wanting to interrupt the proceedings, and not being entirely sure what’s involved or how long it takes to complete, she decides to wait until ten to return her sister’s call. The message Ant left on her voicemail last night sounded strained. Oddly vague. Lina wishes she hadn’t agreed to go to the cinema with Loki. Wishes she’d remembered to switch her phone on again afterwards. The film itself proved pointless and dull. A supposed romantic comedy which failed abysmally on both counts. Even Loki seemed embarrassed.
Sorry, I didn’t think it’d be that bad.
Forgiven. I wouldn’t have thought anything could be that bad.
There was a comforting sense of camaraderie in the experience at least. Taking themselves off to the multiplex. Sugary drinks and overpriced popcorn. Hands held in the flickering dark. Better than the sulk Loki manifested for most of the weekend while she worked on the Ryan Jellicoe catalogue. Last minute edits and tweaks before it went off to the printers on Monday. Each sentence weighed and measured. Each word. It had to be perfect.
Lina opens the document again now. Perhaps she should call Becca into the office. Have her cast a fresh pair of eyes over the text. Dante usually insists on doing all final proofreading himself. Usually picks up at least one or two errors each time as well. If he wasn’t away for most of the week on secret Segue business – no, ridiculous. She can handle this. Lina pushes back her chair and starts to get up. Only to sink back down as her phone chimes from the desk.
‘Ant, sorry. I was going to call you.’
‘Listen, can you come up here today? I’ll drive down and get you.’
‘Right now? I’m at work. What’s wrong?’
Her sister sighs heavily. ‘Nothing. Just, you know, there’s this little transfer thing we have to do. Mum’s getting anxious about it.’
‘I need to be there? You never said.’
‘Well, she reckons it’d be better if you were. Easier.’
Lina swallows. The notion of coming face to face with Sally Paige again is far from pleasant. Her stomach churns. Anger. Fear. Revulsion. She thrusts it all back down. Straightens her spine. ‘All right then, how about tonight? I can probably duck out early if that helps.’
‘Yeah, she’s not very good with nights. This medication she’s on, it knocks her round something fierce. She’s pretty much wiped out by early evening.’
‘I can’t really take a day off now, Ant. There’s a lot happening this week. And next week, come to that.’ Silence. Hoarse and ragged breathing. Lina can’t tell if her sister is mad or simply struggling not to cry. ‘What about you come and get me on Friday night?’ she says gently. ‘I’ll stay for the weekend and you can do . . . whatever it is that needs to be done.’
‘The weekend? Jacqueline that’s five whole days away!’
‘Is she . . .’ Lina hesitates, runs through some likely phrases in her head. ‘Is she that much worse now?’
‘She’s not about to up and die tomorrow, if that’s what you’re getting at.’ Snappish and bitter. Definitely mad.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lina says. ‘I know you want me to be more upset, but I can’t feel what isn’t there. I’ve tried to be a good daughter, the daughter she wanted, the daughter she loved, but it was never enough. I feel cheated, Ant. She’s been dangling this shining jewel above us our whole lives, and all the time she knew it was nothing but a cheap, plastic fake. Honestly, I don’t understand why you–’
‘The weekend then,’ Ant interjects.
Lina clears her throat. ‘The weekend, yes. I promise.’
‘Tell Loki he needs to come as well.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d just feel better if he was here.’
Her sister’s voice too casual now. Deliberately offhand, as though she is merely asking Lina to pick up some milk on her way home. ‘Honestly, Ant, how dangerous is this thing likely to be? What has she warned you might happen?’
‘Not much. It’ll be physically draining more than anything else, she says. Like a really bad hangover, I gather, and I’ve had more than enough experience with those. But still, I’d feel better having someone up here who can drive a car. You know, just in case.’
Lina hates the sound of those words: just in case. ‘You really don’t have to go through with this, Ant. I’m not your responsibility. You could simply . . . not.’ Her sister laughs. And she hates the harsh, hollow sound of that even more.
‘Jacqueline, not isn’t even an option.’
They exchange stilted goodbyes, and Lina resists the urge to apologise once more. To confess. Because, busy as she is, the gallery is really more excuse than impediment. Because, truthfully, she’s terrified. Of what might happen when Sally Paige gets her claws inside her sister’s head. And of what might not.
Five days. It feels like five years. Like five seconds.
She contemplates the phone in her hand, tempted to call Ant back straightaway. Sorry, I was wrong. Let’s get this thing
over and done with. Her thumb is hovering over the call button as the office phone shrills to life.
Lina closes her eyes. Takes a moment to compose herself before lifting the receiver. When she speaks, her voice is agreeably smooth and unruffled. ‘Seventh Circle.’
‘Ms Paige, I’m looking at the draft catalogue you emailed on Friday.’ Susan Keyes, brusque and straight to the point. ‘Wonder if you can spare a few minutes to chat.’
‘Ah, of course.’
‘Nice work, not so sure about the tone. Bit formal, don’t you think, for this type of show? Bit crisp.’
‘I did make some changes over the weekend. Do you want–’
‘Good good, but tell you what: I’m going to send through some notes of my own. You might like to incorporate those into what you have there.’ Her tone implies there will be no might about it. ‘Bounce it back to me once you’re done, yes?’
‘Ah, it’s just that this needs to get to the printers by midday.’
‘Tosh. They’ll do a twenty-four hour turnaround if you tell them my name’s on the work order. Let them bully you once, Jacqueline, they’ll keep you at the bottom of the pecking order for ever always. Now, about the catering.’
‘That’s all finalised. I sent you the confirmation last week.’
‘Yes, there’s just a small quibble. No baby hot dogs?’
‘Ah, no. I thought we might try for–’
‘But everyone loves the baby hot dogs. They’re so gloriously kitsch. I think lose the mozzarella arancini instead.’ Her laughter is a husky smoker’s rasp. ‘We don’t want to be picking rice out of our teeth all evening.’
Lina braces herself. A favourite of Dante’s, the baby hot dogs are precisely the kind of self-conscious irony she hopes to shed from Seventh Circle. ‘If you think it’s best,’ she tells the woman on the other end of the line.
‘And then there’s the monkey. I did tell you about the monkey?’
‘I don’t think you did.’
Perfections Page 29
