by Lia Weston
Kain solemnly shakes her hand. Gen stares at his giant red head.
‘Kain, would you mind looking after her for a few minutes?’
‘You like football, don’t you, Genevieve?’ says Kain.
‘No,’ says Genevieve.
‘Fascinating game,’ says Kain. ‘First invented in Melbourne in 1858 –’
Gen clamps my leg in a death grip. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Too late.’ Detaching her hands, I promise to be as quick as I can.
Rohan is with Felicity and her friends, making sure no one’s in danger of sobering up. Felicity is not wearing a tiara or birthday button, but she has acquiesced to a drink with things stuck in it. Alex is in his version of casual gear, which means he’s not wearing a tie.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Can it wait?’ says Rohan. He’s still wearing some bronzer from the photo shoot.
‘Not really.’
‘We’re just about to do a round of bittered slings.’
‘Elderman,’ I say. ‘Gibson. Bowden.’
‘Ah.’ Rohan turns to the girls. ‘Excuse us.’
At least we can skip straight ahead to the ‘What the hell are you doing?’ part rather than go through the whole ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ thing; that’ll save some time.
We head out to the beer garden, which is studded with flaming torches because nothing says ‘good idea’ better than drunk people and easy access to fire. Despite this drawcard, it’s deserted.
‘Tell me what you’re doing.’
Rohan crosses his arms, his biceps stressing his shirt fabric. He’s wearing the kind of shoes that Alex would wear, if only Alex could afford them. ‘Expanding the business.’
‘Without asking me.’
‘I don’t need your permission to do my job. You should be pleased at the places I’m taking IF. You should be stoked, in fact. I’ve potentially made you a lot of money.’
‘In exchange for what?’
‘Pictures that no one else has. Come on, you’ve seen the stock image libraries. You know how shit they are.’
‘You’re selling our work to advertisers.’
‘It’s the next logical step. IF is a goddamned goldmine. People will pay through the nose for high-quality images no one else has, especially the niche stuff like Mrs Bellamy. Money in the bank. I’m talking retiring-at-forty kind of money. IF can pivot in ways other companies can’t match. We can create customised photos before a photographer can set up a shoot. We don’t even need models or locations. Do you know how valuable that is?’ He looks past me and waves. Gen, peeking out the door, waves back. ‘Your sister’s really cute.’
Without thinking, I shove him, hard. Rohan stumbles backwards, nearly into one of the torches. ‘Okay, okay. Jesus.’
I furiously gesture for Gen to get back to Kain. She disappears.
‘Who did you sell the pictures to?’
He neatens himself before answering. I choke back the desire to beat his head into an outdoor table. ‘Italian company called ConText. Just a sample – six client books to show them what we can do. Don’t get hysterical.’
‘I can’t believe you’d be this stupid.’
‘I have actually thought this through, Thomas. These are rights-managed images. ConText can only use them once, offline only. There’s an agreement on strict terms of use.’
‘Like with Pyne.’
His eye twitches. ‘They’ve pulled the ad and reassured me that it won’t happen again.’
‘And what about our clients’ confidentiality?’
‘All images remain the property of IF to be used at the company’s discretion. Honestly,’ he looks reproachful, ‘you should read the fine print in the client agreements sometimes.’
‘This is why you wanted to go to the cloud.’
‘Of course.’
‘And I guess the whole AI plan is part of it, too.’
Rohan smiles. ‘Wow, okay. Some initiative, some detective work on your behalf. Didn’t see that coming.’
‘Tell me what it’s for.’
‘Providing a viable future.’
‘By selling people’s secrets, their fears and projections. How did you get Kain to agree to that? He’s a colossal berk, but he’s got principles.’
‘The ConText stuff isn’t really Kain’s department,’ Rohan says. ‘He’s just the numbers guy.’
‘He reconciles the payments.’
‘But he doesn’t know all of our clients. You threw him out of the meetings, remember? He was surprisingly okay about downsizing our creative department, however, once I showed him the cost-benefit analysis.’
‘Jesus.’ I rub my face in lieu of punching his lights out. ‘Have you listened to yourself? What happened to you, Ro?’
‘Fuck you.’ Rohan’s smooth facade cracks. ‘I’ve evolved. I’d suggest you do the same, but you’re not capable. All you do is bitch. Don’t be so fucking ungrateful and let me do what I’m good at.’ He takes a few steps away. It’s a visible effort for him to tamp the hair-trigger fury down. When he turns back, the facade is patched up again. ‘You know, I really thought for a minute that you’d want to come with me. Ten years we’ve known each other. I thought it might count for something.’
‘I’m not violating my ethics so we can sell photos that will end up on a fucking superannuation brochure.’
‘Your ethics seem extremely fluid sometimes. Happy to exploit grieving parents, aren’t you? Happy to set up stalkers with their happily ever after fantasies.’
‘That’s not what IF was supposed to do.’
‘But it’s what it’s become,’ says Rohan. ‘And I don’t see you trying to stop it. You’re too lazy to take control, you just want to hide away in the basement and hope that everything stays the same. Why should I short-change my future because you don’t have any drive? There are other people to take into consideration, people who are prepared to work to get what they want. We’re evolving. You’re either on board or you’re not.’
‘It’s my company.’
‘Bullshit,’ Rohan snaps. ‘Until I made it a company, all you had was an idea.’
‘You never used to care about expanding the brand or whatever crap you call it. You just wanted a good product.’
‘I’ve got a plan. I always have. You’ve got nothing, no motivation, no meaning.’ He runs his hand through his hair. ‘God, even your girlfriend could see that you weren’t going to get off your ass and do anything useful. Yes,’ he adds, ‘June talked to me about that a few times. You’re not very good with women, are you?’
‘You are, though,’ I say. ‘Especially with ones old enough to be your mother.’
He inhales, raises his eyebrows to mask his surprise that I know. ‘You’re taking everything way too personally. Maybe you should get some professional help.’
‘You’re an asshole. You’ve become one of those guys who has a pet name for his dick.’
For a second, he looks nonplussed, but shifts into a smile. ‘If you want to know what it is, just ask your mum.’
And then I do punch Rohan in the face.
‘We have to go.’
‘Hi!’ Gen waves, the Coketail nothing but a fizzy memory in the bottom of her glass. ‘How did it go?’
‘Well, I’m pretty sure I’m fired.’
Kain’s nose is almost on the table, and his eyes are shut. There’s a small puddle of drool.
‘Gen, what did you do to Kain?’
‘Mphhrgs,’ says Kain into the woodgrain tabletop.
‘He’s had a Bingamazoo,’ says Gen.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘A curated collection of cold-pressed vodka, smoked grape juice, Belgian cognac, twenty-year-old absinthe and shaved ice,’ recites Gen.
‘You’ve been giving Kain absinthe.’
‘And Felicity said he’d already had seven beers,’ Gen says happily.
‘How did you get the bartender to serve you?’
&nbs
p; ‘Kain told me to say it was for him and put it on a tad.’
‘A tab.’
‘Yeah, that. He told me to get him something interesting. I guess he liked it because then he got all mumbly and then he told me I had a good work ethic and did I want a job.’
‘Good girl,’ mumbles Kain. ‘Yur a good gurl. Not like your brother.’
‘Why isn’t Tom good?’ says Gen, searching for peanuts in the little brass dish of mixed nuts.
‘Unsozzamel.’
‘Huh?’ says Gen.
Kain raises his planetary head with visible effort. ‘Unsociable,’ he says. ‘Thinks he’s so clever. Just because . . . art things and people things . . . All no-Kain-can’t-do-this, not smart enough . . . Laughs at me. Well, he’s . . . he’s . . . a fugwid.’ Inexplicably, ‘Ride Of The Valkyries’ starts emitting from Kain’s person. ‘Shit.’ He paws at his jacket. ‘Woman. You know. The thing. Wife thing.’ The ringtone stops. Kain’s head goes back on the table with a thud.
Gen calmly picks peanut skins out from between her teeth.
At least knowing that Kain’s ostensibly ignorant of ConText and Rohan’s long game means I can just go back to disliking him instead of wishing he’d choke to death on an artisanal chip.
I wave Alex over. ‘Might need a hand here.’
Between us, Alex and I manage to get Kain outside, hoisting him along like a used mattress. Gen bounces along behind like this is the best outing ever, getting her brother’s dickhead co-founder hosed on Victorian hallucinogens. I can’t wait for the What I Did On My Holidays essay.
‘I’ll get him home,’ says Alex, and trots off to get his car.
Kain lies like a slab on the bus stop bench. His shirt has ridden up, revealing a Chesty Bonds singlet.
There’s some dog crap near his feet. I get a small stick, poke an end in the crap and then, very, very gently, dab it just inside Kain’s nostrils. He breathes heavily through his mouth, but doesn’t flinch.
That’s for bitching about me to my baby sister.
When Alex drives up, I heave the body inside, not particularly carefully.
‘Make sure Rohan gets Kain’s tab,’ I say to Alex. ‘And everyone else’s.’
‘Smells funny in here,’ mumbles Kain just before I shut the door on his head.
*
We detour to IF on the way home so I can get my laptop before Rohan decides to confiscate it. I leave Gen in the car – she’s got her iPad and a giant bag of Skittles; she’ll be fine – and hit the keypad to let myself in.
Nothing happens.
I punch the numbers in three more times before dialling Alex. No answer. Fuck it, call Mica, grovel later.
‘I can’t get into the building. Ro has changed the fucking passcode.’
To my surprise, the door buzzes open. Everything inside is dark, except the glow emanating from the basement staircase.
Downstairs, Mica is still at her desk. She’s turned the fairy lights on, illuminating the photo board.
‘Is there any point me working on this?’ she says without looking up. ‘Or are we all being replaced by worker bots?’
‘You’re okay for the moment.’
‘What about you?’
‘Why do you think I couldn’t get in?’
She puts her stylus down. ‘They can’t do that, can they?’
‘Two against one. Even I can work out that I’m mathematically outnumbered.’ I sit on the stairs to give my ankle a break. ‘Besides, we’re director employees, not partners. That means I’m fireable if Ro and Kain want me out.’
Mica looks almost out of focus under the fairy lights. There are shadows under her eyes, as if she’s been gently brushed with ash. ‘I’ve still got your drawing,’ she says. ‘The one you did for Dan.’
‘You can have it if you like.’
‘You might need it later.’
‘For what?’
‘It’s a good piece. You could give it to someone else.’
‘“Hello,”’ I mime holding the frame out to someone, ‘“here is a picture of my goddaughter, who I’m no longer allowed to see.”’
‘I guess.’ Mica rolls the stylus back and forth across the pad with her fingertip. ‘Hey, at least you can hit your lady friend up for financial support if you’re not working here. What’s her job?’
I link my fingers and look at the joints. ‘I don’t know.’
Mica’s pen stops rolling. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know? How do you not know?’
‘It’s a bit complicated.’
‘So, fine, okay, what’s her name?’
‘Sophia.’ There’s a thread of uncertainty that Mica immediately picks up on.
She stares at me for a long moment. ‘What does she look like?’
‘Dark hair. Your height. Kind of athletic.’
Mica hesitates, starts to get up, hesitates again, and finally stands. She walks to the photo board, where Sophia is now sitting at a bar that looks remarkably like the Grace, and points to her photo. ‘Is this . . .’ She takes a breath, holds it for a second, exhales. ‘. . . Sophia?’
I don’t reply.
Mica has the weirdest expression – half horrified, half triumphant. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh wow.’ She goes back to her desk and rummages. ‘This is . . .’ Shaking her head, she can’t finish the sentence.
I look at the picture of Sophia on the photo board again. I’ve missed something. What have I missed?
Mica pulls out a folder and throws it at me. Photos cartwheel out and spill across the floor – my favourite actresses, bands, artists, beers, places.
‘Everything you like,’ says Mica. ‘Everything you complained June wasn’t. I thought she’d cheer you up.’
The pictures lie scattered at my feet, a personalised carpet of my likes.
‘I’d say she’s my best work but I can’t even do that.’ Her voice cracks on the final word.
The folder has a name printed on the front: Leoni Dutnoff.
‘The worst part? I liked you just the way you were,’ says Mica, and there’s anguish in her voice that hurts to hear. ‘All the fucked-up bits of you, I noticed them, and I liked you anyway. What an idiot.’ She looks up at the ceiling and breathes out, a long drawn sigh. ‘What an idiot.’
My skin begins to feel very, very cold.
Mica looks at me sadly. ‘Sophia is a composite, and you are a fool.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Eighth floor. North side.
A set of red-spotted curtains stays unmoving.
Eighth floor, north side.
Looks down on a rooftop with a high-sided wall, a fire escape and a guy staining a wall black.
Eighth floor, north side.
Does not belong to Sophia, but instead a photographer Mica knows, who sent her pictures of the interior for a special project.
My arms burn, and my sneakers are splashed with paint. I don’t bother trying to make it neat. I don’t care what it looks like. I just want it gone. I pull my hoodie down against the rain that’s started misting across the roof.
The roller makes a weird sucking noise, like a giant piece of sellotape coming off the roll. Every swipe removes another bubble, another coloured streak, another piece of stupid hope. I black out Sophia, stroke by stroke, even as the rain pools into the plastic tray at my feet.
I dump the last dregs into the tray and dredge the roller again. The rain presses closer, spreading dampness across the back of my head and shoulders. I know you’re not supposed to paint in wet weather, but you’re also not supposed to fall in love with women who don’t exist, and yet here we are. I am a black-eyed unemployed skeleton sponging on a rooftop. This is what my life has become. I’d consider throwing myself off the ledge, but it would probably put Gen off her exams.
The paint can is empty before I can cover the wall completely, the black marred with streaks because even the elements hate me right now.
My phone rings.
Dad.
I feel like I’m stuck in gl
ycerine and am slow to answer.
‘Hey.’ I do not add: did you know your wife is possibly having sex with my ex-colleague at this very moment? In revenge for your possible affair with Amity? Just making sure we’re all on the same page here.
‘Bad time?’ says Dad.
‘No.’ Of course it is, you numbnut. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t called earlier. I’ve been trying to work out a few things.’
I stay silent.
‘I have a bit of news.’
My stomach – already churning – goes into overdrive. This is it. I prepare myself for anything from, ‘You have a half-brother who’s moving in with us; do you have a van we can borrow?’ to ‘Did you know Amity can put her feet behind her ears?’
‘I’ll be out of a job soon,’ he says.
‘What?’ It comes out automatically, though it’s more out of surprise that it’s got nothing to do with my parents’ marriage.
‘Funding cuts. The Department of the Environment doesn’t seem to think the environment needs that much help.’ There’s a chuckle, grim and brief.
‘That’s why you haven’t had your car.’
‘The uni owns it. I’ve been trying to get used to coping without it. It’s not been that bad, really. I quite like doing everything by bike. Mind you, I haven’t had to take one into the field yet. That could be interesting.’
I put the roller down. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’ve been doing the rounds, contacting old colleagues, applying for jobs.’ He sighs. ‘You think you don’t have to do this after a certain point. It doesn’t get any easier. I’m also competing with guys who are twenty years younger than me.’
(Speaking of that.) ‘Does Mum know?’
‘No. She seems to have a lot on her plate at the moment.’
Yeah, there’s a seventy-five kilo chunk of fair-trade aftershave on her plate at the moment.
‘Dad, you have to tell her.’
‘Amity said the same thing.’
‘You’ve been . . .’ – how to phrase it? – ‘. . . talking to Amity?’
‘Her husband’s on the Environmental Defence Committee. They’ve been trying to help with possible contacts and projects. I told her not to tell Amanda. She hasn’t been happy about it.’
