‘What did you think of this one?’ The girl holds up one of the brochures. Her fiancé takes it from her and opens it up.
Geoff’s, I note. I know him. He’s good, but over-priced.
‘Oh, him. He was OK. A bit pricey, though, don’t you think? Compared to the others?’
She nods. ‘Mmm. I guess.’ She puts the brochure back on the pile and holds up another one. ‘I liked her. She was really nice. And her sample albums were great.’
I crane my neck to take a look at whose brochure this one is. It’s Sally’s.
The guy takes it from her. ‘She was the one with the car?’ He glances up. The girl nods and he laughs. ‘She was fun. I wouldn’t mind having her. At least she wasn’t as serious as some of the others. They’re only photos.’
‘Only photos we’re paying thousands of dollars for…’
He nods. ‘Well, yeah. But some of those photographersit was like they were doing us a favour even seeing us. She was friendly, her samples were good, and her prices were comparable with everyone else’s. Way less expensive than that Geoff guy’s, anyway. Why don’t we go with her?’
‘Are you basing this decision on her work, her car, or her skirt?’
I laugh at this. Sally’s skirts must get even shorter and more daring in the future.
‘Her work, of course,’ he tells his fiancée, with a smirk.
She laughs as well. ‘Well, if you’re sure…OK. I’m happy with that.’
‘Yeah, I thought she was good. Her other photographer seemed nice too.’
His fiancée nods. ‘I’ll give her a call later.’
‘Great.’
I smile when I hear this, thinking it’s nice that they liked both Sally and myself. But then I pause. Again, this is the future. Maybe the other photographer isn’t me? I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Sally’s brochure. But, their decision made, the girl is now tucking all the glossy paperwork away in her handbag.
One brochure falls to the floor and she opens it as she picks it up. When she sees what it is, she snorts. ‘Well, we can get rid of this one.’ She shows her fiancé the brochure before I can see whose it is.
He takes a look. ‘Ohher. Wasn’t she a freak? I couldn’t wait to get out of there.’
‘Me either.’ She takes the brochure from him and stuffs it in her bag with the rest of them. ‘The way she looked at us as we walked init gave me the jitters.’
Jesus, that’s a bit harsh, I think, my eyes widening. I wonder for a second if it’s Trudy’s brochure. I mean, she’s not exactly much to look at, with that ever-developing mono-brow, and I heard she threw a photographic tanty at someone’s wedding not long ago, when the groomsmen got too drunk to stand in any sort of a line…
The couple start talking about their vows then, and I take a few steps back, figuring this was all I’m supposed to see and hear.
I go back over to Barbara, who now has the jar of macadamia and white chocolate chunk cookies sitting on her table and is taking out the last one.
She stands up when I reach her, and I realise soon enough that she’s not going to explain anything. We’re simply going to move on to the next moment in time.
I pick up her train.
I’m right. There’s another flash. As the brightness dies down I see that it’s still daytime and we’re now standing on a busy road in front of what can only be a pawnbroker’s shop. It has bars on its shopfront windows behind which all kinds of goodsfishing gear, jewellery, computers, etc.are displayed. The name of the place kind of gives it away. ‘Cash, Cash, Cash’ the sign above the door reads.
Barbara moves forward and up the few steps, pushing open the front door and jangling the bell. I drop her train as she pulls away from me and follow her inside.
There’s not much going on. Apart from some serious dust collecting.
It’s a shop that doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned in a whilethere’s dust forming on all the surfaces, and there are plenty of surfaces. TVs, guitar cases, stereos, fansyou name it, it’s there with dust on it. Besides Barbara and myself there’s one sufficiently dodgy-looking customer, who exits right after we enter, leaving only the also dodgy-looking man behind the desk, who’s writing prices on small tags and attaching them to the items he has placed in front of him, which I see are mostly cameras and lenses.
Hey, good camerasreally good cameras. And good lensesreally good lenses.
Interested, I go over and take a look at how much he’s charging for them. The answer is: not enough.
I turn each tag over after he attaches it and become more and more shocked as I work my way down the line.
I should come to these places more often. I pause. More often? I don’t know if I’ve ever even been in a pawnbroker’s shop before, so I can’t go more often, but I’m definitely starting now. It’s bargain city in here. For example, the two Nikon camera bodies he’s just tagged are a steal. You’d pay at least three or four hundred dollars more for those from a proper second-hand camera dealer. And one of the lenses is so cheap I wonder if he thinks it’s actually a View-Master.
I look around for Barbara. ‘I guess I can’t buy anything while I’m here?’
Turd look number three.
Well, it was worth a shot, wasn’t it? Imagine the interest-free credit I’d get, purchasing in the future. Now that’s my kind of shoppingwhack it on the credit card and get five to ten years interest free.
I turn back as he marks up the medium format camera. The one I was really coveting. When I see the price I almost faint. ‘Hey!’ I say, the tag in my hand. ‘What are you doing? This camera’s worth a bloody fortune!’
Of course he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he starts transporting the pieces of equipment to a space he’s made for them in the window. I watch as he carries them inexpertly and almost want to cry. I would love to have that equipment. Whoever’s let it go for this price is crazy.
When every last piece of equipment is in the window, and the guy’s placed signs there as well, indicating the ‘too low to be believed’ prices, I finally turn and look at Barbara. ‘Can we go now?’
I get turd look number four before she flounces out of the shop as fast as a very large, chocolate-coated-arteried, diamond-encrusted old lady can flounce.
Outside, I pick up her train again. ‘Let’s motor,’ I say sourly.
Bang. Barbara doesn’t waste any time, and we turn up in front of another shop. This time it’s on a road that isn’t busy at all, and the shop itself is very different from ‘Cash, Cash, Cash’it’s a gorgeous little old-style yellow-painted shop with a tin roof and a creeper crawling up its left-hand side. It’s lovely. Warm and welcoming in the lazy afternoon sun.
‘Davo!’ I hear a voice above me and raise my eyes, wondering where it’s coming from. The roof, I guess.
‘Yeah?’ another voice calls out.
‘Want to start on the other end?’
I walk out from under the covered front of the shop onto the road and look up. Barbara doesn’t follow. I guess she knows what’s up there and, as it isn’t food based, she’s not budging.
There are two guys up there in white overalls. Tradesmen.
‘The other end? Yeah, no worries,’ Davo says.
‘Probably only take two coats. Should be able to start on the new sign as well. It’s hot enough. Paint’ll dry in no time.’
Davo agrees, takes a roller, and starts painting down at the other end.
What they’re doing is painting over the shop’s sign. The first man has already painted over the business name at least once, and is halfway through painting it again. I can only make out the last word’Photography’…
Something ‘Photography.’
Something Photography…I mouth the words. And then I freeze.
The brochure. The pawnbroker. The yellow shop. Something Photography.
I want to sink down slowly, my knees suddenly unable to carry my weight, but I can’t move. Something, or someone, is keeping
me stuck to the spot, my eyes glued on the sign above my head. Something Photography. The words flip over and over in my mind. Something Photography. Something Photography. Taunting me. Torturing me.
And I don’t know what that first word is, but I can guess.
I flick my eyes over at Barbara now, who’s looking at me with pure and utter loathing. Then suddenly I’m unstuck again. I make my way over unsteadily and pick up her train.
But after the flash we don’t land somewhere in the future. Instead I’m back on my apartment balcony again. Home. I drop Barbara’s train, confused. I don’t understand. That’s it? All I get to see of the future? What about my family and my friends? And Drew? I look over at Barbara, but she’s already making her way up to the other end of the balcony. She isn’t interested in me, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to get any answers from her.
I take a deep breath, trying to quell the nasty, nauseating feeling I still have in my stomach. I start to look around me. And as I look I realise that something’s wrong here. It’s dark, night, but even though there’s only a little light to go by one of the first things I notice is that the balcony’s looking a bit tatty. There are a few tiles that have come unstuck here and therewhich is funny, because I hadn’t noticed them before now, and I spend a lot of time on the balcony. I look down as something makes a noise under my feet. Wow, I really need to sweep, I think, when I work out I’m standing on quite a large pile of leaves. Hosing it down wouldn’t be a bad idea, either, because I keep getting a whiff of some foul smell. Like cat pee or something. Ugh.
There’s a noise from up above then, from the balcony of the floor upstairs, and I glance up. It sounds as if they’re having a party. A good party. And that’s kind of strange as well, because the apartment upstairs has been for sale for ages and I didn’t think anyone had bought it yet. While I’m thinking this, something falls from upstairs, and because my balcony is longer and wider than the ones on the upper floors the something hits the tiles almost in front of me. It’s a packet of cigarettes.
‘Oh, shit,’ a voice says, and when I look up I can just see some long hair dangling over the railings.
‘What is it?’ another voice says.
‘I dropped my fags on the balcony down below. Almost a full packet.’
‘Downstairs? You’ve lost them for good, then. That’s Auntie Social’s place. Catwoman. Cut your losses and buy a new packet. She’ll never give them back to you.’
‘What?’ I turn and look at Barbara, who’s moved back towards me now something’s going on. ‘Why wouldn’t I give them back? People are always dropping things over onto my balcony. Towels, stubbie holders, pegs. I always give their things back. Or at least I put them at the bottom of the stairs, so they can grab whatever it is as they go past.’
Barbara just looks at me. I shrug and glance back upstairs, but they’ve stopped talking now. I shake my head. Barbara moves away once more, her dress trailing behind her. I follow her and try to pick up the train again, but she swishes it away just as my fingers are about to touch the fabric and turns her head to glare at me.
‘What?’ I shrug. ‘You mean this is really it? We’re not going to see anything else? This is the end of the line?’
I’m expecting turd look number five when, instead, Barbara points inside. As if I’m supposed to go inside the apartment. I’m about to protest when suddenly I get it. All too well.
The bile rises again.
I glance over at the door that leads inside my apartment and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I feel the leaves scrunch under my feet. I hear the people upstairs…
And realise I’m still in the future.
I’d assumed once we landed on my balcony again that I was home free. Safe. That I’d reached the end of the ghost train and could go to bed and hide under my doona.
But I can’t. I might be back at my apartment, but it’s not my apartment as it was when I left it. This is my future apartment. The apartment I live in years from now.
The leaves scrunch again, and I look down to see just how dirty the balcony is. Instantly I know I really don’t want to go inside.
But I have to, because right before my eyes the screen and the sliding glass doors open and a gust of wind pushes me forward.
It’s dark in the apartment. Very dark. At least on the balcony there was the moon and some light from the balcony upstairs to see by. But in here the only light is emanating from two candlesone on the dining room table and one in the kitchen. I reach over and flick on the kitchen light, but it doesn’t work. I try the balcony light instead. It doesn’t work either. Something brushes past my leg and I yelp. It’s a cat. Twono, threeno, four cats.
Ugh.
I turn and look at Barbara, who’s sitting down at the dining room table. She points again. This time to one of the couches a few metres away in the living room.
When I look over, my eyes finally adjusting, I see that there’s a woman in here. A woman sitting with her back to me on the couch. In the darkness, I didn’t notice her before, but now I know she’s there I can hear somethinga low noiseas if she’s muttering to herself. Either that or she’s talking to someone softly. Maybe the cats, because there doesn’t seem to be anyone else in the room. I notice then that there are another two cats standing on one of the sofa arms. That makes six cats that I’ve counted all up.
Six cats? That can’t be City Council legal.
I stand and watch her as she keeps muttering. ‘Catwoman,’ I remember the girls upstairs said. I pause and shake my head. No…
It can’t be. This isn’t right.
And it’s strange, but from where I’m placed, near the dining table, I could swear that it’s Mrs Batty-Smith sitting on that couch. Not the ghost-like dusty one, though, from the crematorium bathroom. I mean the real one.
The dead one.
Quickly I reach out, grab the candle off the dining room table and take a few hesitant steps over towards the couch. My heart starts pounding, as I’m remembering Mrs Batty-Smith’s bony finger pushing into my chest. A few steps closer and I’m able to see her more clearly.
Jesus, it does look like Mrs Batty-Smith. Hair in a loose bun. Dark-coloured clothingnot grey, but dark enough nonetheless. I take one last step forward, holding the candle out so I can see better.
Oh, my God. The place is a pigsty.
There are newspapers all over the floor in the living area. And when I say newspapers I don’t mean ‘Hey, let’s give the place a lick of paint’ properly laid down newspapers. I mean dirty, old, half-shredded newspapers.
And the cats. The cats! There has to be at least eight writhing around in here. Not six, like I’d thought before.
A clattering noise from the kitchen makes me turn around. I pause, then decide to investigate further and take the few steps over I need to see. I hold up the candle.
Another cat. Or one of the ones who brushed past me before? Who knows? Not that that’s the most important thing here, because what the animal is actually doing is standing on the kitchen bench top and eating something off one of the plates that are stacked high in the sink, cockroaches crawling over them.
Disgusting.
‘Cuddles, Snookums, Cutie, Whiskers…’ The woman in the lounge calls out in a husky voice.
The cat on the kitchen benchtop looks up at her voice, then jumps off and pads out of the kitchen.
I follow it back into the lounge room to see what the woman is up to. I go as close as I need to with the candle, to see, but not one step more.
She has something in her hand. A packet of something. I move just a fraction closer. Cat treats, it looks like. I move back again and hold the candle close to me.
‘Come, my darlings,’ she croons, and I almost gag as the cats start to gather. She shakes the treats into her hand and then holds them out. The cats move in for the kill, pushing and squabbling and shoving to get to the food.
My eyes bulge as I take in the scene. It doesn’t look like she fee
ds those cats at all. They’re all kind of scrawny and unkempt-looking, with dull coats and sticky-out ribs. Also, by the way they’re diving into those cat treats, I’m guessing they’re not receiving their daily bowl of vitamin-enriched Happy Cat, fresh water or regular cat flu boosters.
I keep watching until the cat frenzy stops and the treats have obviously all been eaten.
The woman pats a cat here and there. ‘That’s it. No more,’ she says, and after a while the cats begin to move away from her, realising this themselves. ‘Time for bed.’ She pushes herself up off the couch with an old-person noise. I take a few steps back again, towards the dining room table this time, so I won’t be in her path as she heads down the hallway.
She stands for a moment, brushing off her skirt and running a hand over her hair.
And I’m waiting, waiting for her to turn around, frozen, stuck, glued in place again just like before. She brushes off her skirt again. Pats a cat.
Barbara comes over and hovers beside me just as the woman starts to shuffle towards me from the living room.
I hold my breath and lift my candle up higher to get a better look. Just as I’m about to see the woman’s face for the first time, Barbara pushes me from behind. I stumble forward a few steps, looking at my feet. Finally I stop. And then I look up.
The woman is right in front of me. Inches away from my face. I yelp in surprise, even though something inside me knew what I was going to be confronted with all along. Still I can’t believe it. Can’t believe what’s right before my eyes.
It’s me.
Me.
As she passes by I stumble again, backwards this time, awayaway from her, away from Barbarafeeling my way to the wall. Vomit rises in my throat and I put my hand over my mouth, willing myself not to be sick. Once a week is definitely enough. I keep backing away, and when I hit the two walls that form the corner of the room, I stop. There’s nowhere else to go.
Barbara follows me closely.
Me.
No. I shake my head. No. It can’t be. How can that be me?
Hating Valentine's Day Page 23
