by M R Field
“So, if you are after something to do, I have a storage room filled with glasses in cardboard crates. You can help me do a quick stocktake?”
There’s no reason to do stocktake, as it’s all been done, but she doesn’t need to know that. She runs her fingers along the keys of the piano and glances back towards me.
“Yeah, let’s test my numeracy skills.”
“I’m more of a linguistics guy myself,” I quietly mutter. If my recent actions haven’t worked, hopefully when the moment is right, my words will soon fill in the void that separates us. A numbnut can fuckin’ hope.
“When you choose to be an actor, you are going against the odds.”
Olivia Wilde.
HAZEL
When I first landed home a few months ago, it took a while to get my eardrums used to our Aussie accents again. The refined tongue of some of the British I worked with contrasted greatly to the ragged and harsh tone of our accent. The grating against my hearing sent unwelcome chills, as people on the streets lived up to our foreign stereotype with our good ol’ accent mirroring a Paul Hogan wannabe—yet it was something that although could be abrasive, also made me laugh. All these Aussie nuances welcomed me on home soil. They made me proud for coming back. More so than my own family, who barely acknowledged my return to the country.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be an actress. The moment that I could walk, my great-aunt Cynthia would grab my hand and spin me around while singing to me. Barely able to stand, I’d mimic her songs while twirling in a circle, bathed in their melodies. She’d give me a coat of hers to wear and that became my costume. I was a shy girl, but around her, I’d use that cloak to shield myself from the world and become someone else. Someone more engaging—someone you’d want to be. A far turn from reality.
This was not something my mother enjoyed watching. Both her and my father, while they were together, thought it was a waste of time. They’d take turns ignoring me, or better yet occasionally engaging in a deprecating lecture. Growing up, I often wondered if I had been switched at birth despite my familiar likeness to my mother, I was clearly a pariah in both my parents’ eyes. I wished that Aunt Cynthia had adopted me.
Four years away didn’t give me any homesickness for my family—my family was never there to really miss. They were never physically abusive or hideous like that, just … indifferent. My sisters bullied me, but I chose to ignore them. While my family ignored me, there were other people in my life who filled that void. My parents made it very well known that I was inconveniencing them with my calls by being instantly dismissive, yet they never fail in guilting me when I didn’t contact them.
The decision to live in Melbourne was an easy one. Entertaining the thought of moving back to my hometown took all of point-three seconds to decide with a no. Father allowed me to use his city apartment. I was surprised by the generous notion but the space is just like him. It’s cold and scant, a mirroring of our relationship. I want my home to instil a sense of belonging, warm and welcoming. Something I’ve wanted in other areas of my life. So, I used other parts of being back to lighten the loneliness I felt. I embraced being back here to welcome the sun, the open streets and the less congested walkways. Plus, the coffee! Where London mesmerised me with its culture and beautiful landscapes, it burnt my tastebuds with the poor excuse for coffee. That was something I latched onto once I was back on our shores.
Today is going to be a great day. I was not going to let my family nor my relationship failure in the UK ruin it. I run my brush through my hair and tie it into a low ponytail. My eagerness to start my day translates into a smile on my face as I scoop up my handbag to throw my phone and keys in. The apartment door closes with a loud click as I make the short route to the tram tracks.
I’m on my way to see Trinity, who lives in a warehouse only a short distance away, and today we were set to start creating my costumes for the club opening. Wow. I was going to be performing in a club. If you’d asked me four years ago what I’d hoped to do today, this would have never crossed my mind—and that thrilled me. No more intensive workshops with divas, no more jealousy amongst peers for no reason whatsoever. Just my best friend and me.
I’m surprised at how well I’m adjusting to my new career pathway. Since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamt about being part of musical theatre. I imagined performing on those large stages in front of thousands of people. In the beginning, when I had sung in those grand halls it was phenomenal. Towards the end, the reality wasn’t as sweet. The troupe dynamics, the larger productions all had their merits, but I didn’t seem to find my place. My tutor was incredible, but towards the end of the four years I realised it wasn’t for me. I had the sudden realisation that the dream I’d harboured for all those years was just that—a dream. The reality was far removed. In some ways, my douche bag ex gave me a great excuse to leave and try something new.
Ever since moving back from the UK, my new adventure was shaping up. My best friend Trice and I’d been working on a small project of building a performance duo. Trice was meant to meet me today as well, but she was still stuck in a sex fog with her boyfriend, Alex. The two of them had finally gotten their act together a few months ago, and hardly came up for air. The glimpses I saw of her gave me hope about love, but my cold feet were always going to prevent me from taking the plunge again. I did, however, enjoy sending her texts like Make sure you are still eating balanced meals while our other best friend, Trinity, would text in a more blunt way with Cock is not a meal. As much as we love teasing her newfound sex life, it is a welcome thought. One that I am envious of.
Approaching the track, I reach into my pocket and retrieve my MET card. Flicking it between my fingers, back and forth, I contemplate what needs to be done in order for our act to work. Both Trice and I had decided to make our duo based on a cabaret theme; we were originally planning on burlesque, but with the two of us it seemed a bit out of reach. Trice being a contemporary dancer and myself a musical theatre gal, we could make cabaret work. Plus, the added bonus of the small band we’d found made it perfect.
Exciting times were ahead of us—glitzy costumes, rambunctious routines and slow seductive ones, and of course, red lipstick. If anyone could be entertaining, it was Trice with her long legs and gorgeous dark hair. I was curvy, with deep auburn curls and to be honest, a very corset-friendly décolletage. We were in very capable hands with Trinity making and designing our outfits. Gone were the days of being shy. A girl never grows out of dressing up.
I pull out my phone to check the time and see a message that I didn’t hear. I unlock it and then smile as Robbie’s message pops up.
Robbie: Ginge! How does it feel having red hair and green eyes? Did u always fancy yourself being a living, breathing carrot?
I shake my head and use a few moments to combat his jibe. For the past ten years, Trice’s brother, Robbie, and I had developed a friendship that had initiated from his relentless teasing. He took particular interest in sending me every redhead joke he could find. Now with the age of smart phones, it wasn’t uncommon for him to snap a photo of an unsuspecting redhead and forward it to me with captions like, It’s your long-lost brother!! Or Your new BFF! As the years progressed, the teasing softened to a friendship that I cared deeply for. He didn’t always start with a joke, but often he knew when to ease a joke over to me when he thought I needed it. I guess, seeing as a joke was first on the cards today, I was pretty transparent last night at his club. He knew how to bridge the gap that I obviously kept between us. Even though he was something that I couldn’t have, he was a constant in my life that I was grateful for.
Even while I’d studied in the UK, he’d still sent me daily text messages. With each message, it became a unique friendship. He’d share his day, and I’d share mine. Day by day, these messages became like air—necessary. Our friendship strengthened, and in those bleak moments when the class dynamics were difficult, his thoughts would ground me. If my folio disappointed me, he sent a joke; if I had a great day, he’d
cheer me on. Little did he know, I forwarded every last message to an email drive and kept them. In those moments when I felt smothered by darkness, those jokes shed light on my bleary days. When I felt the dream that I had held on to since childhood slip from my fingertips before crashing down, he seemed so in tune with me that my fall was softened by his humour, and then he saved me—without even realising it.
It was all grounds for a blossoming friendship. But that was where the thin line was drawn. That was the line that remained. I had suffered enough disappointment to know that I could never withstand losing him. While I was away, our friendship never showed me the chance of taking it further with him. The fear of losing not only him, but his sister, Trice—my heart wasn’t strong enough. Robbie had made it pretty clear recently that he wanted me. Every look, every slight touch across my arm with this fingers, all held meaning. But I was afraid. As a teenager, I would have jumped at the chance. Back then, however, I watched helplessly as he dated countless girls. It is soul destroying to think I could become another number. Yet, now that we are older, the hurt and the jealousy still linger with the same clarity. I do not need further heartache.
I had seen what love was like in my family. I was part of that toxic genetic pool, and though I wanted love for myself, I was a realist. Watching my parents’ marriage self-destruct meant that I was only going to settle for the real thing. A relationship or two was fine, but love? Love with Robbie? Indifference, from him would destroy me. When does the line disappear and you become more than friends? I am hoping that I have etched it deep enough into the sand to never blow away.
I have loved him for longer than most relationships I know of. It’s no wonder my ex had cheated on me. Nothing could make me change the direction of my heart. This crippling love bombarded me day and night, and instead of running towards him, my belief in love itself imprisoned me. A gripping fear overtook my senses, irrationally convincing me that this force that I felt would never be enough for him. I would expire, irrevocably.
After dealing with a complacent and indifferent family for most of my life, I wanted that chance to have someone to love me fiercely. Yes, I was a sap. Yes, I read romance novels, but I deserved to have that happily-ever-after with someone who loved me back entirely. With Robbie, I refused to be a fling. I wasn’t just a shiny new toy that he could play with, a throw away once he got bored. I was worth more than that.
I adjust in my seat on the tram while thinking about my response to his message. Lately, I had been sending random photos of objects back to him. A shoe, a table, etc. Just random objects that have no meaning. I contemplate sending a picture of me giving him the bird, but as I get ready to turn my camera on, a passenger sits next to me, foiling my plan. I revert back to flirting texts. I’ve been so closed off from him lately, and now that I’m not in close proximity to him. This harmless flirting that makes me feel vibrant. It’s just the same friendly banter we’ve been at for years. But I know it’s only a matter of time before he will tire of it. Who could blame him? Hot and cold is not what he deserves. But today, I can walk the dangerous line to ease the tension I had caused.
Me: Why? Know anyone who wants a nibble?
For a moment, I wait for his response and then smile when not one but two messages fly back.
Robbie: I can think of someone. He loves to bite. Especially in the right spots.
Yep. I knew he couldn’t resist. Playing coy isn’t wise, but he tempts me like warm chocolate. Ever since Trinity’s housewarming party a few months back, his flirting has increased. Light touches across my shoulder, brushing my hair behind my ear— each touch heats my skin. At that party, our chemistry was very much alive, but my anxiety continued once again and stopped me.
We’d gone from just friendly banter to something more. We’d spent that night talking and laughing. When he’d leaned over and kissed me, I’d thought my heart would explode out of my chest. My teenage self openly tried to resurface, but I smashed that hussy down, breaking apart from his lips and gently pushing him away. I wasn’t ready to risk it.
My phone vibrates in my hand and I smile, swiping to unlock it. Knowing Robbie, he will be impatient to hear my comeback and be desperate to tease me about it. Especially if he thinks I am slow on the uptake. The screen unlocks and I glance at the message. The air from my lungs escapes out of me suddenly as my grip tightens around my phone.
“No,” I grumble. “Not again.” My eyes sting as I read the first word that fills my screen.
Petal
Jerry. I clench my teeth and look out the window. God, I hate the nickname. A bitter tang is left in my mouth just thinking about why he calls me that. Hadn’t ignoring his messages been enough? How did he even get my number in the first place? My cheery mood is dampened once again by him. I compose a soft breath before my eyes return to the screen. I run my thumb across the dull glass to awaken it. Not only has he sent me a text, but he’s also attached a photo of us standing in front of Big Ben, taken years ago. I stare at the photo for a moment, taking in our smiles while not feeling anything. His arm was draped across my shoulder, but I still stood slightly apart from him. Had I done so that entire time? I glance down to read the text.
Petal,
Why haven’t you responded to my texts? Surely you know it’s me. I’m coming soon & I want to see you. Maybe you can show me around your city? You can be my tour guide this time. Guess what I’m reading at the moment? It’s a favourite of ours. I miss you.
Jerry.
Just the mention of ‘our’ favourite play sends my sorry brain to the first day we met. Ugh.
“What are you reading?”
I jolt in my seat as a deep voice startles me. Waiting for my first class to begin, I’m nervous and excited. The caffeine is beginning to wear off from my morning coffee, which isn’t surprising, seeing as it tasted like the insole of a shoe.
I gaze up into two very blue eyes. He smiles as I stare mutely at him for a moment, taking in the lines of his clean-shaven jaw moving up to his short blond hair. Cute. He clears his throat, and I blink, realising he has spoken to me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, a hot blush creeping across my cheeks. “What did you ask me?”
He chuckles and points to the book I am now clasping tightly in my hand.
“That.” He runs his finger across the cover to lift it closer for him to see.
“Oh!” I release my grip and flatten out the cover to reveal The Laramie Project. “It’s a play that I like to read now and then. Um,” I stammer. “You might not know it, but it’s really evocative.”
“Moisés Kaufman. Yes, it’s a definite favourite.” He reaches out his hand. “Jerry.”
I fold the play on my lap and clasp my fingers around his hand. “Hazel.”
Shaking the memory from my mind, I cringe, looking down at his fake, sweet message. My shoulders tense as his underlying messages quite simply pisses me off. No way. Never use my favourite play to sweeten me up. After what he did, there’s not a chance that I want to see him. I’d rather stick a fork in my eye.
I delete his message and I’m about to put my phone away when I see a new message from Robbie light up. Oh Robbie. When are you going to change? Would you hurt me? Everyone else seems to.
Deflated, I leave it unread, locking up my phone and connecting my earphones. Flicking to my song files, I close my eyes as the soft beats of Ellie Golding begin removing the ache I feel. I’m torn between responding to a persistent ex and an apparent reformed manwhore, (according to his sister) who I’ve harboured a crush on since I was fourteen.
If Trinity notices my mood, she’ll hound me until I confess what’s bothering me. I don’t want to talk about it today. Sitting up straight in my chair, I pinch my cheeks and huff out a few breaths. I begin reciting a familiar mantra. “Hold on tightly, let go lightly.” My high school drama teacher taught me that a few years ago. I repeat it until I’m feeling like myself again. For now.
Since forming this duo, any time I hear a song I imagine
it on stage. So naturally, right now, I imagine how Trice and I will dance and sing and wow the audience. This is our moment, and I force all the other unravelling parts of my life aside. No one can hurt me on stage.
I look up and recognise the familiar junction near Trinity’s warehouse. Clasping my hand around my handbag strap, I excuse myself and climb awkwardly over the lady sitting next to me. I walk over to the door and wait for the tram to halt. The shuffle of fellow bystanders around me, muffled conversations, all remind me how much I love being home.
The tram doors slide open and I step down, awkwardly holding onto my bag, too used to being wary of pick pockets. As my feet hit the asphalt, my shoulders loosen as the familiar sounds of traffic and trams, unique to Melbourne bring me back to reality.
Spotting a café across the road, I smile. A coffee and a muffin are just what I need on this bleary morning. Walking across the road, the smell lingers under my nostrils as I approach the café door. After retrieving a quick coffee and muffin, I’m on my way to greet Trinity.
Walking closer to Trin’s place, my steps increase in momentum as I near the double white-framed glass front door. Out of all of us, Trinity has changed the most—gone is our little pixie girl. She’s still a firecracker, but with colour. Through her hair and on her skin. I love it.
I reach the glass doors and push through. The musky red worn bricks welcome me as I pass them. The warehouse is the front to her business, Tailored by Trinity, while it also has her apartment upstairs in the back. Her clientele has increased over the past few years, and now with her new social media accounts, she is able to showcase her designs to a bigger audience.
Stepping through, the interior is a lot different than when I was here last. The smooth, polished oak floors that were bare in the centre last time now have small stands with mannequins displaying various formal dresses. The front bay windows also have several mannequins, currently with the same sapphire blue fabric but used in several different dress styles.
