Dessi's Romance

by Goldie Alexander

My heart hiccups. ‘I get nervous in cars.’

  ‘No more than ten K’s an hour. Promise…’

  His tone is so wheedling I can’t help giggling. ‘Make it twenty and I’ll come.’

  What will Emma say? But didn’t she ask Abdul to visit. Isn’t she having a good time? Surely I deserve a little fun, too.

  ‘Done,’ he says. ‘Pick you up midday.’

  10. EMMA, Surfers

  Midday, I’m wakened by the sound of Jodie chucking up in the bathroom. I make myself a coffee and take it out onto the balcony where Kaz, in a string bikini, is sipping orange juice. No sign of Bodie-dreadlocks.

  ‘I’ve been shopping,’ Kaz tells me. ‘Milk, cornflakes, bread, margarine, Vegemite and a six pack. You owe me twenty-one dollars, okay?

  ‘Okay.’ The retching now interspersed with audible groans. ‘Is Jodie all right?’

  ‘She will be when she’s finished regurgitating. Want a beer?’

  ‘Yes please, after I down this coffee.’ Though I’d promised myself to be careful about how much I drink… what the hell! I’m on vacation, aren’t I?

  ‘Great start to our week. Not!’ Kaz says sourly. ‘God knows what she got hold of last night. Anyway,’ reaching for her glass, ‘I want to go to Shooters tonight. Free entry if you’re there before ten. And they have great prizes too. Loads of freebies.’

  ‘Won’t we have trouble getting Jodie in?’

  ‘Oh god!’ She staggers out onto the balcony clutching a sodden bath towel. ‘I’m dying.’

  ‘Have an orange juice,’ Kaz suggests. ‘Without vodka this time, eh?’

  ‘Aaargh!’ Jodie reels back into the unit.

  I stare after her impatiently. How can Jodie be so immature? ‘What are you doing today?’ I ask Kaz, not ready to discuss my plan to contact my father, though Kaz, having divorced parents herself, would probably understand.

  Kaz shrugs. ‘Can I shower in your bathroom seeing ours is polluted?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’m just going to check out the shops. I really want to look over Circle on Cavill.’ Last night I’d noticed some bargains and I want to get back to them. ‘Catch you later, Kaz.’

  ‘Don’t forget Sash is coming over,’ she calls after me.

  Rather than use up my SIM-card, first thing I do is find a public phone. Having Dessi up here to support me would make things so much easier. Even though I know Dad’s number by heart, I look him up on my cell phone ‘contact’ list. My stomach clenches and I almost don’t phone. What if his ‘bimbo bitch slut of a home-breaker’ answers? What will she say? I feed coins into the slot and hit the numbers. My heart hammers. My mouth is dry.

  ‘Hi. You have called Robert and Laura Simpson. Please leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you asap.’ The voice is light, pleasant, clear.

  I don’t know what to say. Then my brain kicks in. ‘Hi. This is me, Emma. I’m here…on the Coast. Uh… staying at Broadbeach Towers and…‘

  Click. Whirr. Buzz.

  I’m out of time. Somehow this is comforting, as I can now leave it up to fate. I’ve made contact. Now it’s up to them, isn’t it?

  Time for some serious shopping.

  Three hours later and four hundred dollars lighter, I’m back at our unit. I find Kaz and Sacha sprawled on the balcony, both gleaming with suntan oil. But the sun is almost down. Sacha is in a black g-string, and Kaz has changed into a red bikini. Though they form a pleasing picture, instead of inspiring me to sketch them I feel mildly annoyed. How come? Then I realise it’s because Dessi isn’t here. If Dessi was with me we’d exchange a knowing grin. ‘No sun,’ I say pointing out the obvious. ‘Why not go down to the beach?’

  Kaz crinkles her nose. ‘All that sand goes up my bum.’

  ‘And we have cold drinks here,’ Sacha says with a grin. ‘Very convenient.’

  ‘What’d you buy, Emma?’ Kaz asks.

  I spread my acquisitions on the table. Sacha nods approvingly. Recently he’s been working on sketches of stylised women wearing glamorous clothes. ‘Hmmm, like that,’ says Kaz pointing to a silvery metallic halter-neck.

  ‘Want a beer?’ Sacha gets up to go into the kitchen.

  Kaz beckons me over. ‘He needs a favour,’ she whispers. ‘Can he stay here with us? He loathes it where he is.’

  ‘Where’s he going to sleep?’

  ‘You’ve an extra bed in your room.’

  ‘Uh, I don’t know if I want to share with a guy, Kaz.’ Another reason for missing Dessi. I have a sudden memory of the many times we’ve shared rooms, the total intimacy. Can I have this with a guy… even if it’s only Sacha?

  ‘…okay,’ Kaz is saying, ‘I’ll take your room and you share with Jodie.’

  Share with Jodie? No way.

  ‘Is it okay?’ Sacha comes back with two beers.

  ‘Well?’ Kaz stares at me.

  ‘Oh, okay I suppose,’ I say, knowing I could sound more welcoming.

  ‘You’re the best, Em,’ says Sacha. ‘I’ll go get my stuff,’ which I note, is already neatly stacked in a corner. He gathers his bags and heads for the bedroom.

  At the same moment, Jodie emerges from her room looking marginally better.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Ask Kaz,’ I say, suddenly cross as Picasso’s Woman in a Hat. This holiday is not going the way I’d hoped. Just then the intercom buzzes. Jodie hands it to me. ‘There’s someone down in the foyer to see you,’ she says, eyeing me curiously.

  My stomach lurches. ‘Tell them I’ll be down in a minute.’

  It must be my dad. I go to the door.

  11. DESSI, Melbourne

  I answer the door to Abdul. I’ve worked on my hair and make-up and changed into a colourful top and cut offs. From his admiring glance, I must look okay.

  He doesn’t have to bend to kiss my cheek. I remember him as being taller. He’s also in denim cut-offs and a skin-tight blue T-shirt. His eyes are black as ebony, his olive skin somewhat sallow, but the hair in the cleft of his chin and his head is pitch-black, collar-length and falls in tight ringlets over his high forehead. Only his nose, curved like a bird of prey, stops him having a certain ‘choirboy’ look I’m sure is misleading.

  ‘Mum, meet Abdul, Emma’s new friend,’ I tell Hannah.

  Abdul smiles politely but a second later his face is impassive.

  Hannah’s greeting is friendly if a little bemused. I openly scowl. I just know she’s thinking, ‘Nice boy. Shame he’s Lebanese...‘

  With some difficulty Abdul helps me into the van, makes sure my other leg is also safely inside, and we move down the street. Now we’re actually together and alone, I’m tongue-tied. The car dodges in and out of traffic. I watch the real world rush past. Each time Abdul glances my way, I feel my pulse quicken. He says, ‘Anywhere you’d like to go?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Everyone heads for Sorrento and Portsea. Let’s go the other way. How about we drive to Flinders?’

  Didn’t great-aunt Ella paint watercolours of Flinders?

  Is love really

  what the singers sing about

  Or is it just some

  damn fool attraction?

  We drive past the Casino. Desperate to break this silence with anything, no matter how stupid, I ask, ‘You into pokies?’

  He grins slightly. ‘No way. They’re programmed to make you lose.’

  How come he knows? Maths, of course! I slyly watch him. Though he’s not really all that handsome, he has an air of gravity I really admire. His wide shoulders, well-muscled arms and slender waist suggest litheness and strength. I like his older-guy manner, his exotic background, admire that he intends to be a professional mathematician; it takes him out of the ordinary. My breathing quickens…

  Watch it Dessi, I warn myself, you may be walking into something you can’t handle.

  My thoughts swing to Emma. Remembering everything we’ve shared – kindergarten, school, netball, swimming, inseparable almost every weekend, I gro
w pensive. People sometimes mistake us for sisters, even though I’m tall and dark and Emma is short and fair.

  Yet in some ways I consider her closer than any sister. Don’t real sisters bicker? But not us. Not in the past. Lately however, when I reflect on Emma and men, I groan in despair. Not that we don’t have endless conversations on that topic. Isn’t that what best friends are for? But for me there’s never that desperate edge to finding the right guy… like I’ve always known that if one doesn’t work out, there’ll always be another. Though I understand Emma’s greater need for affection, what with her father leaving, and having lovely if hopeless Julie as her mum, how much sympathy can a close friend have? Sometimes I wonder if she’s used up all mine? Right now I have to remind myself of how devoted she was when I was in hospital… how caring…how old our friendship... how much we love each other…

  Yet even these memories can be sullied.

  A fortnight before our finals, we took time off to visit the local pool. I intended swimming laps, but Emma fancied one of the lifesavers and tried everything to grab his attention.

  ‘Chill out,’ I muttered, totally embarrassed.

  Violet eyes mocked me. ‘Lighten up will you?’

  ‘Do you have to be with a guy to feel whole?’

  She laughed. ‘Lose your precious cherry and you’ll soon find out.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m on about…’

  ‘No? Then why get uptight?’

  Even the memory makes me cross. But it’s hardly my fault Mr Right hasn’t come along, is it? Not that I don’t get offers. I acknowledge that still being a virgin at eighteen might be unusual. But shouldn’t I be extra keen on the guy before we have sex? The rest of that day, though outwardly polite, we both fumed. A chasm loomed between us. If only she wouldn’t keep on about how many guys are onto her. Though she’s unusually pretty, I reckon I‘m passable, even if I don’t measure up to her sexy cuteness. Yet sometimes, like when she’s raving about all the guys who fancy her, I feel like Dracula’s daughter. What if it’s only that accident still sticky-taping us together? What if this friendship needs to be called off?

  12. EMMA, Surfers

  I’m tempted to call things off. I’m scared of how I’ll feel when I see my father. What if I make a complete idiot of myself? I have a sudden memory of him carrying me… recall his smell, his high forehead, the rough feel of his cheeks, how he’d call me ‘his princess’. But if he loved me that much, why didn’t he contact me more often? What was it I couldn’t give him?

  In the end I leave it too late and the lift doors open.

  ‘Hello Emma.’

  My stomach turns over. Surely it’s not her. Not Laura. My face flames.

  She smiles nervously. ‘Your dad’s doing a cruise today and… and he asked me to pick you up. He can’t wait to see you.’

  ‘Can’t he?’ I refuse to make this easy. Unsaid is, if he’s so keen why did he send you? ‘I have other arrangements I’m afraid…’ I say, turning back towards the lift.

  Laura catches my arm. ‘Emma,’ she says softly. ‘I so hoped we could be friends.’

  Friends? Is this woman mad? I hate her guts. But there’s enough uncertainty in her voice to make me pause.

  ‘Please,’ Laura continues. ‘Come home with me. Rob… uh, your dad, will be so disappointed if you don’t come. He’s been looking forward to this visit so much.’

  To my astonishment, I find myself following her outside to a blue Jeep Wrangler parked just outside. Laura is exactly twelve years older than me. Trouble is, she’s not at all what I pictured. Julie always described her as ‘…that cheap little slut.’ But Laura is slim and neat. Certainly not sluttish. If anything Julie might once have looked somewhat like her. I ask, ‘What am I supposed to call you?’

  ‘How about Laura?’ she says brightly.

  How about bitch-face?

  ‘Here we are,’ Laura says as we swerve into a broad driveway. She pulls up under a carport surrounded by hibiscus, opens the front door and ushers me in.

  My jaw drops as I take in white leather sofas, glass topped tables, an enormous TV, a bookcase filled with pigs of all shapes and sizes.

  Pigs! Who collects pigs?

  Meanwhile Laura is opening a bar fridge. ‘Would you like a cool drink? You might like a dip in the pool.’

  Pool? Following Laura outside, I stifle a gasp. The back yard could model for a David Hockney. A massive pergola, a huge barbecue, sun lounges and an aquamarine pool which, by some trick of the eye, has water spilling towards a tropical rainforest.

  Though I try not to look impressed, inside I’m indignant. This isn’t fair, not while we live in a weather-board fit for the wreckers…

  ‘Emma? Over here.’ Laura sets a platter of sandwiches on the table. I’d like to reject these offerings. Unfortunately, I’m starving so there’s nothing for it but to wolf down a few.

  Laura holds up a jug. The ice clinks invitingly. ‘Mint tea?’

  I need something stronger. ‘I’d prefer a beer, thanks.’

  She looks a bit startled, just long enough for me to realise that unlike Julie’s eyes, Laura’s are pale brown, her nose that bit longer, that she wears lots of mascara and cyclamen lipstick. We stare each other out. Then she goes to the fridge and hands me a stubby. ‘Did you bring bathers?’

  ‘No-o.’ A slight crack gives me away. ‘I wasn’t expecting to come here.’

  ‘No matter,’ Laura rushes on. ‘We keep spares. I’m sure one’ll fit you.’ Off she dashes and I admit to wanting a swim because I need to cool down and…and think.

  ‘Would you like to change?’ Laura asks. ‘Come on, I’ll show you your room.’

  Your room! What’s going on?

  Laura opens her mouth. Then shakes her head. ‘No, I’ll let your father tell you.’ She opens the door off the sunroom and shows me into a bedroom. ‘Hope you like it,’ she says anxiously.

  I stare around. I’m absolutely gob-smacked. This room is exactly what I’d design for myself. One entire wall is a shelf and desk arrangement; on it a TV system to die for, plus the latest Apple iPad. Back home, though I keep meaning to buy myself a cheapie I never seem to have saved enough, and in the end I use our aged desktop that always freezes and takes ages to download Facebook or anything else for that matter.

  On the other side of the room a double bed with a white satin duvet, masses of white cushions, and a cordless phone beside it. In front of the window is an ideal place for an easel. Laura slides back a door. ‘Your walk-in robe and bathroom.’

  I’m confused. What is she on about? Does she think I’ll be staying? Just then a car pulls up, a door slams and the sound of whistling wafts into the house.

  ‘Hi. I’m home.’ My father’s voice sends shock waves through me. ‘Where’s my girl?’

  Laura grabs my hand and drags me into the sunroom. ‘Here she is, Rob.’ She pushes me towards him. For a split second, I almost don’t recognise him. He’s lost ten kilo, has a fabulous suntan and a great haircut. He’s in white shorts, a short-sleeved white shirt with navy epaulettes and gold braid. He looks trim, taut and… and terrific.

  We stare at each other and I see a mix of emotions in his face: happiness, worry, anxiety, relief, sadness and a brief glimpse of… of could it be fear?

  ‘Long time…no see,’ he murmurs. ‘What a beautiful girl you are now.’

  I can’t move. I’m struck dumb. I’m about to burst into tears. Meanwhile Laura heads for the kitchen saying, ‘I’ll leave you two to get to know each other.’

  13. DESSI, Melbourne

  All this time I’m getting to know Abdul.

  ‘If you plan a garage sale for nine...’ explaining how he manages his small business, ‘I’m there at six. No sleeping in.’

  ‘What do you look for?’

  ‘Mostly glass and china. Toys. Old 78s. People have no idea what they throw out. I’m a bit of a music freak. Enjoy jazz?’

  ‘Don’t know any,’ I admit.

  ‘See if
you like this.’ One eye on the road, he reaches inside his glove box for his iPod. ‘Picked up some Miles Davis.’

  We turn off the freeway and head towards Flinders. Here the coastline is really spectacular, and the music, both complicated and melancholy, fits into the rolling green paddocks that fall into a sea the same grey as the sky. The narrow strips of sand are a rich orange-yellow, the rocks a spill from a prehistoric volcano. I listen intently. Knowing what music he likes will tell me more about him.

  ‘Great sound,’ I murmur somewhat surprised at his taste.

  ‘Suppose you think I’d only like Middle Eastern stuff. More like this.’ One hand on the steering wheel, he uses the other to change the music. This is Bakhaaf, one of our best singers.’

  Behind the orchestra and some instruments I don’t recognise, there’s the unmistakable Arabic wailing voice, unusual tonalities and strong syncopation. The singer’s voice is strong, melodious, almost female. But the anguish behind it transcends boundaries. Tears start to my eyes. ‘That’s terrific.’

  ‘He’s good isn’t he?’ Abdul half turns to ask, ‘What do you listen to?’

  I pause. ‘Guess my favourites would be R& B, some rock, psy trance...’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘You mean what’s on my iPod?’

  He nods.

  ‘Dave Matthews band, Portishead, The Cat Empire, Third Eye Blind, Edith Piaf...’

  ‘Piaf. Wasn’t she famous in the forties and fifties?’

  ‘Yes.’ I bristle. ‘Does this surprise you?

  ‘Course not.’ But his glance is amused.

  ‘Suppose you think I only listen to pop and rap.’

  ‘No way,’ he protests. ‘Thought you’d have wider tastes.’

  Absurdly flattered, I fall silent as we drive into the main street of Flinders. He stops by the hotel. I crawl out of the van and he helps me into a chair. It’s so hot, even the simplest movement is exhausting. After a while he returns with two Cokes. They’re cold and sweet. Just what I need. ‘Like another?’