by Les Zig
That prompts me to shower and change, and then, with Ronnie’s gift in hand, to hurry to the station. On the train, I message Julie: On the way to Ronnie’s birthday. As I pass the Carpet Duke and Kmart, she responds, Will see you soon. I sit back, and my imagination stirs—ideas about where to take my novel and ways to rewrite my play. I’m sure it’s all petty, but it’s the first time in a long, long, long time that such petty, little things have truly excited me, and the first time ever I’ve had avenues to pursue with my writing. Nicole’s admonition from yesterday punctures the feeling.
When I get off the train, I recognise a few of the people getting off the other carriages, including—along with two friends—Suzi, in a tight red dress and frilly white jacket. She sees me and seems to recognise that I’m somebody she should know, but then she and her friends head off.
I follow behind them as my phone rings—Gen. I decline the call and message her that I’m going out for drinks for Ronnie’s birthday. She responds and asks me whether Julie’s coming. I tell her yes, that Julie’s going to meet me there and Gen sends me another and then, immediately after, We’re still on for dinner—right? And, before I have a chance to answer, she sends, Monday—right? I send back, All good! Gen sends back:
At the Palladium, I find Suzi and her friends milling around the entrance. I stop. Suzi points at me, as if she’s identifying me for a policeman.
‘We work together,’ she says.
‘Suzi?’ I say, like I don’t know her name.
Suzi nods, and holds out her hand, as if she wants me to put my name in it.
‘August.’
She shakes my hand. ‘You here for Robbie’s birthday?’
‘Ronnie.’
Suzi rolls her eyes—it’d be easy to assume she’s being snobbish, but I don’t get that from her. She legitimately messed up the name. A narrative unfurls in my head. Ronnie invited everybody in the office, but he did that so Suzi would come. Lots of people in the office asked workmates, Are you going? Are you going? A lot of people were ambivalent but nobody was conclusive. Maybe it even started with Sam—he told the person in the cubicle up from his that he was going, so that person passed it on, and the message spread.
‘Do you know where the party is meant to be?’ Suzi says.
‘Let’s have a look around,’ I say.
We don’t find anybody we know on the ground floor, or on the second floor, but sure enough they’re crowded around tables on the balcony. Boyd greets us with that big toothy smile—he pecks Suzi on the cheek, says hi to her friends, and shakes my hand. He draws Suzi aside to talk to her, and both disappear back onto the second floor. Sam—in this leather blazer that makes him look as if he’s stepped out of some sixties musical—detaches from a cluster of women and approaches me, arms outstretched.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he says.
‘Got caught up doing stuff,’ I say. ‘Where’s Ronnie?’
Sam points over his shoulder. Ronnie holds an audience of a group of guys in the far corner. As people between us part, he sees me, grins, excuses himself, and comes over. He hugs me with uncharacteristic affection, patting my back. Sam pours me a beer and hands it to me.
‘About time!’ Ronnie says. ‘Where’s your mystery woman?’
‘She’s coming—she might be held up,’ I say. ‘Don’t feel you have to wait.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Ronnie hugs me again and I smell the beer on his breath. ‘I’m glad you could make it.’
‘Want to get this started?’ Sam asks.
‘Let’s go for it.’
Sam claps his hands to get everybody’s attention. ‘Excuse me!’ he says. ‘Excuse me!’ He whistles, piercing the hubbub on the balcony. ‘If I could get everybody’s attention!’
People gravitate around him, their voices dropping. He waits until he’s sure he has everybody’s attention, holds it until that moment before people stir restlessly, then smiles that typically beguiling Sam smile, and begins.
‘Thank you for joining us for Ronnie’s birthday,’ he says.
Now people whistle and cheer and shout ‘Happy birthday’ to Ronnie. He nods and grins and bows with mock humility.
‘I’ve known Ronnie for,’ Sam pauses dramatically, ‘far, far, far too long, and I’ve always been thankful for his generous, generous nature to distribute porn whether you want it or not—’
‘Not!’ several people echo, and even Boyd hides a smile behind his hand.
‘—his biting wit, which actually transcends wit into gregarious fuckwittery, and his friendship … some of the time, well part of the time; okay, every now and then. But you know what’s good about Ronnie?’
‘Nothing!’ somebody says, and some of the crowd laugh.
‘What you see is what you get,’ Sam says. ‘He doesn’t pretend to be somebody he’s not, doesn’t put on airs, and underneath the abrasiveness, the lack of tact, the occasionally thoughtless humour—’
‘Easy!’ Ronnie says.
Sam smiles at him. ‘—is a good friend with a good heart. Happy birthday, Ronnie.’
Everybody breaks into a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ and out come Suzi and Boyd, bearing between them a cake shaped like a pair of enormous breasts, sparklers rising from each nipple. Ronnie crosses his hands over his chest and feigns great emotion as Suzi and Boyd set it down on the table.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ Ronnie said.
‘All Sam,’ Boyd says.
Ronnie holds out his arms, as if awestruck. Then he picks out the sparklers and, after a moment’s examination, plunges his face into one of the breasts, splattering cream all over the table. Ronnie rises, face now covered in cake, and grins, nothing but teeth as everybody around him laughs. He wipes some of the cake off one cheek with a single finger, pokes the finger in his mouth and sucks the cream off it.
I take a drink, immersed in the laughter, awash with the revelry, and think that this is okay, that this is good, that this is what life should be about if nothing else—friends, love, laughter. Julie appears in the doorway, in her jeans and leather jacket. She spots me and smiles. I wave and I’m sure that as reactionary as the response might be, no other day compares to this—not the birth of Bobby, not my wedding day with Lisa, not even losing my virginity to Andrea Debling when I was seventeen, in Ronnie’s parents’ bedroom during a party he threw when his parents were away.
In this moment, everything’s perfect.
Pasts
18
Julie comes over, kisses me, and we exchange a brief embrace.
‘Hey,’ I say, grab an empty glass and fill it with beer from a jug. ‘Guess what I did yesterday morning.’
‘What?’
‘I stopped in at the community theatre.’
‘Really?’ Julie’s large eyes go wide.
‘Really. Why’re you so surprised?’
‘Sorry. That’s great. And?’
‘They gave me a lot of stuff to read, but maybe you’re onto something.’
Julie takes my hand as I put the jug down. ‘That’s awesome. I’m so proud of you.’
I pick up her glass of beer. ‘You didn’t think I would, did you?’
‘I thought you would, but I thought I might have to nudge you a bit more.’ Julie looks around. ‘So, whose birthday is it?’
I point out Ronnie, who’s talking with a couple of people I recognise from the other side of the office—and I only recognise them because they’re the first people I see when I get off the elevator. Behind him, Sam’s talking to a cluster of women, including Suzi. She smiles and laughs at whatever he’s saying.
‘Whatever Ronnie says, don’t mind it,’ I warn Julie. ‘He’s socially oblivious.’
‘That’s okay. I’m used to life in a socially oblivious world.’
I brush the foam moustache off her lip, then kiss her. ‘You had beer,’ I answer her quizzical look.
We wait for Ronnie to notice us, and when he gives us his attenti
on, his first response is to stop abruptly, as if stunned. Then he grins.
‘Ronnie, this is Julie. Julie, Ronnie.’
Ronnie opens his arms, while Julie offers him a handshake; each adjusts to the other’s greeting. They smile, laugh, and hug. His chin resting on Julie’s shoulder, Ronnie gapes at me twice, as if to say … well, I don’t know what, but probably something lurid.
‘I’m impressed,’ Ronnie says when they break apart. ‘I was almost starting to think he made you up.’
‘Happy birthday,’ Julie says.
She kisses Ronnie lightly on the cheek. His grin is broad and moronic. I frown, wondering if he’s had an aneurysm, then thrust the bag that contains his gift and card at him.
‘From us,’ I say.
‘Well, not really,’ Julie says. She swipes my shoulder. ‘I shouldn’t take credit—unless it’s good.’
Ronnie peers inside the bag. ‘This is great! Thanks!’ His stupid grin finally becomes a typical Ronnie smile. ‘Marathon?’ he asks.
‘Julie’s a fan, too.’
‘Really? Even better. We could do a threesome. Movie marathon, that is. A few beers. A pizza or two. It’d be a hell of a night.’
‘Let’s take it slow, huh?’ I say.
‘Slow? Sure. Of course. Slow it is.’ Ronnie claps me on the shoulder. ‘I like slow. And steady.’
Sam detaches from his collection of women and appears behind Ronnie, subtly waiting for an introduction—I do the honours.
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ Sam says. ‘I’ve noticed a spring in his step lately.’
My cheeks flush hot with embarrassment.
‘Would you like some cake?’ Sam says.
Ronnie nods. ‘We have about half a boob of chocolate-orange left.’
‘Half a … what?’ Julie says.
‘Let me show you the cake,’ Sam says. ‘Excuse us.’ He takes Julie by the arm and escorts her to the table, where the cake remains.
Ronnie slaps me on the back, then grabs both my shoulders and gives me an appreciative shake. ‘You sonuvabitch,’ he says.
‘Pretty, huh?’
‘Oh yeah. Of course.’
‘And she’s really cool: funny, smart, really smart.’
‘I seriously can’t believe it.’
‘Not bad for a lost cause, huh?’
‘You. Are. A. God.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I say.
‘A fucking Adonis.’
‘Let’s not overdo it.’
‘Seriously, I am a breath away from dropping to my knees and bowing before you. You deserve that. You deserve that honour. You really do.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Seriously. Landing. A. Porn star.’
‘Yeah.’ I laugh, then pivot to face Ronnie. ‘What?’
‘She’s a porn star.’
‘A porn star?’
Ronnie nods. ‘Jewels Chaste.’
‘No.’
‘Yes!’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s not … she’s not …’ I don’t know what I’m trying to say, so settle for holding my hands out in front of my chest, like I have huge implants.
‘She’s not silicone?’ Ronnie frowns. ‘While that was the in-thing for a while, now you get a balance. There are the silicone babes, and the naturals. A number of the biggest stars are natural. And she’s all natural.’
Several thoughts jump into my mind. Ronnie’s joking—no, he wouldn’t. As tactless as he can be, he’s not malicious. Ronnie’s got it wrong—this one survives even shorter than the previous thought. Ronnie wouldn’t get porn wrong. And this explains the way he greeted Julie.
She’s listening to Sam chatter away as they both eat cake. Julie catches me staring and smiles. She’s so sweet. So cute. So innocent. But they’re all preconceptions. She wasn’t so innocent when she had sex with me on the road after visiting her aunt. She wasn’t so sweet when she shoved that guy onto the floor in that bar. Not that these things are qualifications to be a porn star—or anything for that matter.
‘You didn’t know?’ Ronnie asks.
I don’t know what to say. Julie stands before me, this ideal person, who miraculously somehow fell into my life, and now all that exists is this new reality I try to reconcile with her. My legs grow unsteady under me. Ronnie claps his hand on my shoulder and the pain resonates across my back and into my head.
I swill down what remains of my beer to wash away the dryness from my mouth. I undo the top button of my shirt. It’s stuffy. Even though I’m outdoors on the balcony and there’s a breeze, heat fills my face until sweat trickles from my brow.
‘I’ve got to hit the men’s,’ I say.
Ronnie reaches for my arm. ‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, yeah, great, perfect,’ I say and flash a grin that’s meant to be reassuring, but my face is so tense around it that it tries to straighten the grin back out. ‘Just, you know … be right back.’
I stumble from the balcony back to the second floor. If it was hot outside, it’s like a furnace in here. My clothes stick to me, and I run my hand down my shirt to unbutton it. There are people everywhere. They reek of sweat or cologne or perfume, the mixture of smells pungent. The noise from a full house is disorienting and everything’s too bright. I bump people, apologise, but keep moving, moving, moving, until I shove a door open and stagger into the toilets. It’s cooler in here but stinks of urinal cakes and like somebody must’ve had a nasty session. But the noise is muffled and the outside is shut out.
Logic tries to reassert itself. Ronnie can’t be wrong. I’d dispute his sci-fi knowledge before I’d question his porn knowledge. Yet Julie can’t be a porn star. She’s a student. Studying nursing. With a job as a PA. But outside of what little she’s told me about her family, that’s all I know.
The door opens and I retreat into one of the cubicles, close the door and lock it. Footsteps shuffle across the floor, followed by the stream of piss hitting the urinal. I lower the toilet seat, sit down, then hear the door open again. More people come in—at least two, talking about football. Zippers being undone. More pissing. A tap comes on—probably the first guy. Followed by the hand-dryer. I listen to the individual sounds until they muffle into white noise. I can’t hide in this cubicle forever. I need to address the situation.
Somehow.
I pull out my phone, open the browser.
My hands shake as I type the name ‘Jules Chaste’ into a search window. Nothing. I sit back on the toilet and every muscle loosens as a long breath escapes my mouth. Ronnie’s wrong. He’s confused her with somebody else. But I imagine going back out there and Ronnie being adamant that he’s not. Somehow I’ve got it wrong. That’s how he’d challenge me. And then he’d pull out his own phone to look it up to prove he doesn’t have it wrong.
Porn stars can have quirky names and this name Ronnie’s given me is obviously a pseudonym. ‘Jules’ could easily be a derivative of ‘Julie’, but there could be variations on spelling. I try ‘Jools’, knowing that’s going to be wrong, but certain now that the other alternative is going to be correct. Sure enough, ‘Jools Chaste’ brings up nothing.
My fingers are like lead as I type in ‘Jewels Chaste’, and I make so many typos I have to repeatedly pause between letters, clench my fist to steady my fingers, and then resume. I know—I just know—that the moment I hit SEARCH that this is going to yield hits.
Lots and lots of hits.
I go straight to IMAGES and sure enough, there’s Julie. Her smile’s the first thing I see. Then those big eyes, sometimes that right one a bit narrower. Then nudity. Then men. Then I hit BACK. I can’t look at this. I don’t want to see this. The initial hits from the search come back up on the screen.
My breath comes in ragged gasps and my hands shake. The phone falls, hits the floor, and a crack runs from the top left corner to the middle of the screen, then splinters to both bottom corners.
I pick up the phone, scroll through the hi
ts. They link to adult sites, although I find one link to an adult database. I bring it up. The first thing that greets me is a picture of Julie, smiling, hair tousled. It’s unmistakeably her. It couldn’t not be her and yet when I read the accompanying information, each detail is like her identity is being confirmed all over again.
Her birthdate and star sign, her birthplace, the years she’s been active as a porn star (the last two years and this year), her ethnicity, hair colour, measurements, height, weight, and then, then, a description of her tattoo—they complete the woman I’ve only just begun to know, but they do it coldly, impersonally, building her out of jigsaw pieces to make her somebody I don’t know, and I don’t know if I want to know.
Beneath this is a listing of the films she’s appeared in (there are fifty-five—I count them three times, to be sure), as well as abbreviations of what acts she’s performed. Several are marked with ‘Facials’, which is self-explanatory; as is one marked ‘LezOnly’; but I have to search to find a legend on the top of the page that explains ‘IR’ means ‘Interracial.’ Some are unmarked. It makes me hope she did nothing in those, although by now that sort of hope is redundant, and it’s likelier they haven’t been classified yet.
What does it matter?
Now there’s nothing.
Nothing but me and that truth.
It’s her.
I try to take a deep breath, but it gets caught in my throat. I try again and my ribs tighten.
The phone buzzes in my hands and I almost drop it again.
Julie: Where’d you go?
I move to reply but don’t know what to say, what there is to say. The message blazes at me, and behind it I see Julie’s eyes, Julie’s face, Julie’s smile, and there’s a grief, a loss, although I don’t know if that’s something I’m inferring, or what I’m imposing on my connection to her in the light of what I’ve learned.
