They were still arguing over that when Jamie and Sam came in.
He heard the door thunk shut and braced for the inevitable mauling. It came, a headlock from Jamie. He had to slap the bar to get him to let go, then he copped a bear hug from behind from Sam. Sam kissed him on the back of the neck so he made an elaborate show of wiping it away.
“Man, when did you get home?” Jamie sat on the stool beside him. Angus poured more coffee.
Sam was still standing behind him. Untrustworthy. “Last night.”
Sam did the lips to the back of the neck thing again, this time with sound effects. He would’ve gotten a mouthful of hair, Damon needed a cut badly.
“That’s it.” He swung the stool around and grabbed Sam by the shirt and they wrestled, haphazardly bumping into chairs and tables, grunting and laughing. Sam taunted him sprouting dialogue from Dystopian Conflict, pretending to be Lord Wrack to his Sky Pirate Captain Zice Vox.
“I banish you to the Red Star Dystopia, Vox.”
“You couldn’t banish breakfast, Wrack.”
In Dystopian Conflict, the movie and the video game, that was the line that got Vox into big trouble, his galaxy ship impounded and his pirate queen, Umbria Starstarter, taken hostage. In the sequel he’d just finished recording, Dystopian Outlaw, the actress who voiced Umbria had taken a shine to him, offering to start his star anytime he liked. He’d spent an uncomfortable ten days declining the opportunity.
Sam tried to wrestle him to his knees. “Filthy pirate scum.”
He choked out, “From spew spawn like you, Wrack, that’s a compliment.”
“He’s staying a while.” That was Taylor, and it had the effect of distracting Sam long enough that Damon got his arms around Sam’s knees and tipped him over. They both went down tangled with a couple of chairs, and Angus yelling at them to quit it.
He sat on the floor and laughed. It was good to be home. Sam hauled him up and half an hour later he was singing U2’s Beautiful Day just to prove it.
2: Sound of Alone
Georgia pulled the grimy wooden blinds closed and collapsed into the only chair not piled with boxes or other household guff. It would take hours to unpack and get sorted but she didn’t give a hoot that this tiny flat was grubby, messy and missing a connection to functioning electricity.
It was her private space. If she never unpacked a box, washed a plate, scrubbed soap scum off the shower curtain she’d yet to hang, no one would care. She sprawled in the chair and breathed deeply of dust and musty smells and they were cleansing. This was freedom, this was her new life and it was joyful. She’d start over with her old name, in this new space where no one could make her feel responsible, guilty, frustrated or angry.
She could wear all those emotions without judgement, without needing to cover them over with smiling patience and polite forbearance like cheeks that needed colour or eyes that didn’t pop.
She could be grumpy and slobby, flippant and silly. She could sing off-key without worrying about anyone’s headache, or dance like she was having a fit without complaints she was being juvenile. She could eat junk food till she packed on the weight and exploded in oozing fatty lumps out the seams of her clothing. She could cultivate bad breath till the scent of it permeated the whole flat and seeped under the door into the street, making dogs howl and cats drop dead.
Even better, she could lie in bed all weekend, or watch endless bad television, or play games on her phone all day, or take up a dorky hobby like scrapbooking. Or she could sit in this comfortable chair all day and read a book, if she could find one, and no one would need a meal, or a complaint heard, a pillow plumped, attention for their bitterness and misery, or an audience for their betrayal.
She was done with the need for attention most of all. When it had been necessary vigilance she’d borne it better, with sucked up grief and determination, with a constant ache in her chest. With love. But once the fear wore off, once a reasonable recovery was imminent, it was the attention that wore her down most of all, because it was always so opinionated and unforgiving.
And Hamish had never been that way before.
But whose fault was that?
She struggled upright and pushed a box of kitchen gear out of her way with her booted foot. There was enough space between the chair, the new old coffee table and the two suitcases to dance. She took her phone out of her hip pocket and thumbed through to her music, picked the Cyndi Lauper track Girls Just Want to Have Fun, and played it through the tinny phone speakers. It was her new anthem, except fun was taking this whole break free thing a little far. What she wanted was to be alone, to be uninvolved, careless and quiet. Not to be defined as a patient girlfriend, a caring wife, a nurse, a companion, a slave. Not to be the one who ruined it all.
Cyndi sang and Georgia faked a dance step that was more a sideways old lady scared of breaking a hip shuffle than a recognisable groove. Not that she had much dancer in her anyway, but somehow in all that time with Hamish she’d lost her sense of rhythm, along with the logic of who she was without him.
And without him was bliss, a deep hot bubble bath, a feather bed, a big mouthful of chocolate praline, endless coffee refills you didn’t have to make yourself.
So getting her hippy hippy shake back should be easy.
But maybe not today. She dropped into the armchair with a grunt. Today her back ached from humping suitcases and boxes up the stairs. Today was all about the savouring, and she could do that while slumping. It was the equivalent of a day spa appointment that was going to last the rest of her life. It was indulgence and choice, ease and relaxation served with real peppermint tea that was steamy and fragrant.
It was so weird.
She’d hadn’t been on her own, truly on her own, without someone in the next room whose needs she’d committed to meet, for eight years. And even before that, after Mum died, with Dad’s drinking, there’d been that need to be the one who cared, who was responsible, whose needs came last.
That realisation was probably why it was hard to get out of the chair. She felt heavy with the difference. Not that it mattered. She could rust in this chair and no one would mind. That was such a lonely loser thought it made her smile. Because that’s exactly what she wanted, to be alone, and if that made her a loser then bring it on, baby, embrace the lame, cultivate the nerd, and institutionalise the geek.
She swung a denim-clad leg over the arm of the chair and fist-pumped, feeling vaguely stupid for doing it. Because for all the sit in the chair till she fused with its second-hand distressed leather notions, she had to get at least part way organised. She had a new job to start Monday and in that particular sphere she had to show a whole lot of anti-loser characteristics. Which meant finding appropriate clothing to wear, sorting out the bathroom and working out how to manage without a power supply and still have decent hair.
The better casual clothes she needed were in the red suitcase. The confidence she needed had to be summoned, and it wasn’t going to be as easy as ringing for a pizza. But she’d managed to conjure cool, calm and professionally collected during the Skype interview a month ago, and that’d been a disconcerting experience, pitching her heart out about her experience to her laptop screen in a cubicle at the library while a man in a tweed jacket with actual elbow patches and a cloth cap scowled at her over the partition.
He was reading something that exuded old book smell and making increasingly aggressive shhh noises. She was reading the expression on the faces of two people whose Sydney-based recording studio she fervently wanted to work for and sprouting off about her Bachelor’s Degree in Audio Engineering.
At about the time she mentioned being a panel operator for Radio London Mode, tweed man stood up and glared at her. She ignored his looming presence and went on to talk about her stint as house engineer for the Little Shakespeare Theatre. Tweedy lost it and started complaining loudly while she grimaced and explained how she’d been the engineer for a variety of freelance contracts in the advertising and documentary m
aking industry over the last four years. It wasn’t the career she’d hoped to build, it was what she had to trade with.
But Tweedy was making noises akin to a human distress beacon so she’d been forced to acknowledge she was logged in at the library because she’d needed a private space. She didn’t tell them Hamish would’ve made life even tougher for her than Tweedy had. She did tell them she’d need time to relocate from London to Sydney. Then she expected to wait with all the pleasure of having a dead limb from pins and needles before the inevitable analysis of her résumé revealed her patchy work experience and killed the opportunity like catastrophic blood loss.
Instead she got a cheery text before she got to the tube. We’d love to have you. When can you start? That meant telling Hamish she was leaving was a pressing reality.
She got up and righted the suitcase so it stood on its wheels. If she dragged it into the bedroom and unpacked it would feel like progress and it might stop this senseless rehashing of the events of the last few weeks. They no longer mattered. The whole of the last eight years hardly mattered; it was scar tissue, a non-lethal brain lesion. She never needed to think about it again.
She thumbed to a David Guetta track on her phone and swayed in the space between the boxes, cases and badly positioned furniture. She couldn’t sing for nuts and no sooner krump, pop, lock or hip hop than she could get a basic side to side step, school disco à la 1997 going, but moving, no matter how randomly, felt better than remembering that night she announced she was leaving.
Hamish was seeing someone. He hadn’t bothered to hide it, staying out all night and leaving restaurant receipts and movie tickets on the kitchen counter. It was the act that pushed her to end things and look for a way to move home.
And it was the admission that made her announcement seem like retreat instead of advance. She’d expected him to fuss, cause a scene. He’d laughed and told her it was good timing.
Georgia turned in a circle, knocking her hip on the edge of a tallboy dresser and didn’t care that it nipped and would bruise. She was dancing and no one could tell her she looked like an idiot and moved like a zombie on human meat ‘roids. She was dancing, in her own place, halfway around the world from Hamish and his new lover, Eugenia, and the grey, hesitant existence she’d lived since she’d married him for all the wrong reasons.
The song changed and she was just getting warmed up. She worked a shimmy into her shoulders. Did anyone shimmy anymore? Who cares? She did. In her own flat, where no one could see her, she shimmied and sidestepped and bopped her head, got a little tush action going and knocked over a box of new linen. If she kept this up she might need to strip off, dance barefoot in her mismatched Marks and Spencer’s underwear because she wasn’t scared and awkward, she was young still, and hot and desirable, about to set the local recording scene on fire with her stunning command of sliders, her dab hand at sequencing and her perfection with pre- and post-production.
Dancing made you sweaty. She should’ve remembered that. It made you a little light-headed and giggly. She pulled her t-shirt over her head and did the twist in her beige bra and her vintage 501s, using the shirt as a makeshift boa around her neck. Dancing made your breath come short and your chest hurt. That was peculiar. Was that normal? It made you feel a little panicked and burned your eyelids. But she was absolutely not crying, so it had to be the dust she was kicking up irritating her eyes, making water course down her face and drip off her chin, like it had that night in front of Hamish as she’d packed a bag and left him.
He’d done all the talking. She’d said nothing after all of it, the youthful love, the horror and blame, the stupidly hopeful bedside wedding and the years of trying to make something good from the disaster of feeling responsible.
She wiped her face on her t-shirt and closed her eyes. It wasn’t the loss of innocence and love that hurt. Hamish had cherished his mastery of her guilt more than he’d ever loved her and she’d been the one dumb enough to let him manipulate her into staying in the relationship so long. What hurt, struck the knockout blow, like walking into a glass wall you didn’t see, was the years she’d lost to putting his needs exclusively above her own.
So she danced in a whirl of flailing arms and jerky gyrations to crappy audio, in her cheap flat, surrounded by newly purchased credit card debt, while she sobbed for all the decisions she’d made that led her here, and resolved that everything in her personal life that came after this maddened prancing would be about independence, caring less and standing clear of being needed so she could learn who Georgia Fairweather was when she wasn’t the one to blame.
3: Lucky
Sometime between the rehearsal and the gig the jet lag really kicked in—hard. He thought going to the gym might stave it off, but now Damon felt all fifteen and a half travel hours, and the impact of the dateline in the heaviness of his limbs and how much worse than normal he played pool. And he normally played like it was chess, which is to say the only way he could win was to employ a strategy where he totally screwed with the other guy by making him fudge shots.
Character voices were great for that. He’d wait till the other guy was lined up then give him a blast of Arnold Schwarzenegger or Jack Nicholson. Al Pacino also worked a treat to put a guy off his shot, and so did Buzz Lightyear.
But Jamie was immune to all that, so he’d tried Captain Vox, but that didn’t work either because he hadn’t created a voice for Vox. He was Vox.
He managed a decent break, but after that Jamie chased him all over the table; he might as well have been playing by himself. They both cracked up the fourth time Damon air swiped the cue ball, but Jamie, being Jamie, never said a word; he passed more chalk, as if that was going to make it easier to align white, red, pocket with more than fluke on his side.
The pepper steak and jacket potato with sour cream topping Angus put in front of him before they went on made a difference. All that protein woke his system up and the carbs refreshed him, but he still felt like he was sleepwalking.
“You okay?” Taylor. She massaged the back of his neck.
“Feel trashed. Worse than usual.” He moved his head side to side as her fingers found sore spots. Now that he’d vocalised it, he did feel like shit warmed up. The coming home jet lag was usually worse than the fly out version, but he was a master at managing it after so many years moving between Sydney and LA, New York or London. The Dystopian Outlaw movie read had been quick and intense, but the game had needed long hours over months; he was either more exhausted than he’d thought or he had picked up a bug. His throat felt tight and his eyes were gritty and wouldn’t stop watering. Maybe he was coming down with something.
Taylor’s hand went to his forehead. “You’re not hot.” He grinned; Umbria Starstarter thought he was molten lava. Taylor pinched his cheek. “Did you get any action this trip?”
He pushed his plate away and turned on the stool to face her. “Why would I answer that?” The bar had filled up in the time he’d taken to eat. There was a low-level buzz of chatter, the occasional shriek of laughter. He had to go get changed in a minute if he was going to bother. He could go on in his jeans, but bloody Sam had stretched the neck of his t, and Taylor had changed so he should make the effort.
She put her hand over his where it lay on the bar. “I think you’re lonely.”
He flipped his hand and clasped hers briefly before putting it back on the bar top. “Christ, where’s that coming from?”
“Just a thought.”
Just a thought that was going to make it harder to get her to accept the idea of moving in with him. It’d virtually convince her she was right if he asked now. “Umbria wanted me.”
“They all want you.” Taylor’s voice was all it’s hard to believe but true. “Was she as sexy as she sounds?”
“We only did two sessions in the studio together.” Umbria had wanted to go all method on his Captain Vox ass, ten minutes after they were introduced. “She was interesting.”
“Is that code for old, fat and
ugly?”
He laughed. “She was one of those instant clingy ones.”
Taylor put a glass of water in his hand. “Oh, you hate that.”
He shivered. It was an occupational hazard and he did hate it. “The only one allowed to cling to me is you, Tay.”
“But one day you’re going to want someone else to cling to you.”
He sipped the water and the ice in it made him cough. “Meanwhile I’ll stick to the non-cling variety.” By which they both knew he meant women happy to sign up for a good time, not a long time. He held out his hand and she took it. “I need to change.”
She went with him behind the bar and into the room they used as a green room. Sam and Jamie were already there. Still short-staffed, Angus stayed behind the bar pouring beers.
He ditched his jeans and t for black tailored pants and a white dress shirt, no tie, couple of buttons left undone and the sleeves rolled up. It was what he usually wore on stage. Taylor tousled his hair with gel and he donned his shades.
“The Voice is ready,” he announced to the room and got no reply. Bastards. The three of them were breathing, the least they could do was laugh.
Angus came in smacking his hands together. “Full house out there. Had to call Heather to come help in the kitchen.”
“You’ll be on the couch tonight,” said Jamie.
“Can’t be a shock,” said Taylor.
Angus grunted. “How the fuck am I supposed to get reliable staff? I hate having to call on her.” He was genuinely upset.
“What have I missed?”
“Ah crap, Damon. I promised she wouldn’t have to work nights anymore while she’s studying.”
“She got in. Man, why didn’t you tell me?” Damon stood and they hugged. Two years Heather had been trying to get into uni to study law as a mature age student. “Where is she? I need a hug.”
Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) Page 2
