I go back into my room to discover a delicate bunch of creamy white frangipani on my pillow. I know they’re from Sacha. They remind me of Chagall’s Woman on Roses where a beautiful nude hovers over a vase of exquisite flowers. Not wanting to put them on display in the living room, I place them in a toothbrush glass. Passing the bathroom mirror, I pause to study my reflection. This far north my hair has taken on an unwanted kink, but my skin looks soft and fresh. Placing the flowers on my bedside table, I wonder what Sacha’s gesture means…really means.
‘Hey Em?’ Kaz calls from the living room. ‘Guess who’s here?’
For a mad moment I think Dessi’s turned up. Rushing out, I walk straight into Jon McKenna. ‘Shit!’ I yelp in a rush of disappointment. ‘What do you want?’
‘Be nice, Em,’ he moans, his usual arrogance gone. ‘Got a bit of a problem.’
‘What’s new,’ I snarl taking in his red eyes, two day growth stubble and pallid complexion.
Kaz goes bug-eyed and heads for the balcony.
‘You wouldn’t have a beer, would you?’
‘No way! Didn’t you bring some?’
He shakes his head like a desolate bloodhound. How could I ever have persuaded Dessi to go out with him? Or even get into his car? I so wish I hadn’t.
‘Nah,’ he moans, ‘an’ I got this real head…’
I give in and the bloodhound follows me to the fridge. ‘What’s wrong now?’
‘Got chucked out of the unit. Don’t suppose I could crash here?’
‘No way,’ though the temptation to sketch his greenish complexion and hangdog face is truly compelling. ‘We’re full up.’
‘What about the couch? Look, I’m really low…’ Sucking on his stubby, he’s a baby about to burst into tears.
Why is this decision up to me? ‘Oh, talk to Kaz,’ I mutter and turn away. Just then Sacha walks in. He and Jon bristle at each other.
‘What you doing here, McKenna?’ Sacha’s voice is tough.
Jon pulls himself together. ‘Same as you, ya poofter. Lookin’ for somewhere to bludge.’
‘I’m no poofter.’ Sacha’s voice is dangerously quiet.
‘Ya pansy.’ Jon isn’t too sick to yell. ‘No secret, is it?
Right off Sacha is on to him. They grapple with each other and fall to the floor. Kaz rushes in from the balcony. ‘What’s going on? Stop it, you two! Stop acting like feral pigs!’ She jumps onto Sacha. ‘Em… help me get him off.’
Between us, we manage to drag Sacha off Jon, whose nose is bleeding from a lucky punch.
‘You want to get us thrown out?’ Kaz rages. ‘I’ve had it up to here. What with Jodes, you two fighting, and this room turning into a tip.’ Her gesture takes in dirty cups, empty stubbies and discarded food cartons. ‘Grow up, everyone.’
‘This is just great,’ I yell, my cubist woman coming to the fore. ‘My Dad’s organised for us to go on this cruise tomorrow and you’re all chucking wobblies. I’ve a good mind to cancel.’
McKenna hauls himself up from the floor. ‘What cruise?’
‘Shut it, McKenna. You’re not invited.’ Sacha says meanly. There’s something different about him, too. What is it? Then I realise he’s taken off those earrings and his stance is far more aggressive.
Kaz strides out to the balcony. Jodie follows her. We hear snuffles and then a few giggles.
Sacha comes over to give me a hug. ‘How about dinner tonight?’
McKenna’s chin just about drops to the floor.
‘Okay. Why not,’ I say as if going out with Sacha is the thing to do.
Jon’s mouth hangs open. ‘You two an item?’
‘None of your business.’ Sacha’s tone is casual. ‘Why don’t you piss off?’
‘Got nowhere to piss off to.’ Jon’s face falls into weird geometric lines.
The others overhear. ‘Guess he’d better stay here then,’ says Kaz. ‘He can sleep on the couch.’
Sacha gives me a meaningful look. ‘We’re out tonight,’ he tells Kaz. ‘Emma and me.’
‘Well, thanks for including us.’ Kaz’s tone is heavy with sarcasm.
‘It’s okay, Kaz.’ Jodie’s face is doleful. ‘I can’t drink anyway. Let’s get a video and takeaway.’
‘Okay,’ says Kaz. ‘Pizza do?’
‘Yes, please.’ Jodie’s smile is so grateful, she’s totally pathetic. ‘And maybe some Coke and a couple of Mars Bars.’
Kaz grabs her purse and heads out. Jodie flops on the couch. I go to get changed and a very subdued Jon settles in front of the TV.
25. DESSI, Melbourne
I settle more comfortably into the van’s passenger seat. Abdul fires the engine and says, ‘Call into Chapel’s, huh?’
‘Great.’ I’m so thankful he’s still talking, I manage through dry lips, ‘I’m so… so very sorry…’ my voice trails away.
‘Maybe next time,’ he says casually.
‘Course. Guess I just have to get used to the idea...’ But I’m quite aware of how lame this sounds.
We drive in silence. I can’t believe what I’ve done, I’ve just rejected the first guy I’ve ever loved. And he’s been so good about it. Anyone else would’ve acted like Jon on our second date. I think back to what happened. Though Jon made no move on our first date, and though I still thought him a jerk, he seemed so keen, I reluctantly agreed. We were in the front of his car when he went to grab me, I ducked, and my hip hit the door handle. ‘Oh hell!’ I yelped.
‘Uh?’ Jon muttered, ‘Thought you might want to...’
‘No way, Jon!’ I said firmly. ‘Not interested. Please take me home.’ That was that. And if it hadn’t been for that accident, I would never have given him a second thought. How different is this? I sit as close to Abdul as a bucket seat will allow. Less than five minutes ago, his fingers moved so cleverly across my body, they almost scared me. I examine his hands, his carefully trimmed oval nails, the way he handles the steering wheel, how he nips in and out of traffic, and wonder at his perfect hawkish profile. No wonder lovers break rules, no wonder every love poem and song seems so profound.
As Abdul drives through the city, my brain’s in total turmoil. At long last, determined to break the silence, I say, ‘Are your folks pleased you’re at Uni?’
To my dismay, he doesn’t answer.
Oh no! What have I done now?
Just when I’m almost in tears because I know this silence is my fault, he bursts out with, ‘My old man’s pathetic. He wants me to act like we’re still back home. He doesn’t realise how different things are here. They hate it when I think for myself. They say I’m being too Aussie.’
My shoulders sag. His anger isn’t directed at me. ‘What if you don’t?’
A slight shrug. ‘They’d be disappointed. Maybe even disown me.’
‘It’s tough having migrant parents.’
‘Yeah.’ Another pause. ‘How about your lot? They pressure you?’
‘Well… Not that obviously. I mean, not like it is for Sacha.’
‘Who’s Sacha?’
‘Close friend.’ Right now all friends seem a world away. ‘His father wants him to get into accountancy, but he just hates it.’
‘Think he’ll make it?’
‘Not in accountancy. But he’s artistic and should be doing something with that. ’
He glances sideways. ‘What about you. Are you artistic?’
‘Not. Can’t draw to save myself.’
The corners of his mouth twitch. ‘Being artistic isn’t just being able to draw.’
‘Well, no,’ I have to admit. Then, as if like biting your nails or farting in public, I admit, ‘Sometimes I write poetry…’ but before he can ask to read any, ‘It’s not very good.’
‘Is literature what you plan to study?’
‘Maybe.’ I pause. ‘Dad being a teacher – he’ll be disappointed if I don’t get a place.’
‘You shouldn’t have too many problems, should you? I mean, that accident was after the exams.’
‘I’d better make it. Otherwise...’ I mime cutting my throat.
‘How about after?’
‘Don’t know,’ I admit. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m hoping to do post-grad. I’d really like to get into M.I.T. ’
‘Isn’t that hard?’
‘Yeah, but I’m good. I came first in my year.’
I’m impressed. Not only is he gorgeous, he’s also brilliant. Next time I’ll go all the way. I was just being stupid. No wonder Emma keeps accusing me of being frigid…
Emma! Mustn’t think about her tonight!
Abdul draws up in front of Chapel’s and waits for me to clamber out after grabbing my crutches. ‘See you inside.’
I hop towards the door. A security guard waves me around the queue and straight into the club. The original altar is now a curved mirror-backed bar. I hop across the crowded floor, stopping every so often to dodge swaying bodies. Reaching the bar, I settle on a stool and order a drink. It’s so good being back where people are enjoying themselves. It feels like a century since I was last part of this scene. Abdul comes up and points to my glass. ‘What’s that?’
‘Vodka and orange. Cheers.’
Abdul mouths ‘same again’ to the bartender. I swivel about to watch three women step onto the floor. I feel so proud. I want them all to know that I’m gorgeous Abdul’s girl. I want them all to feel jealous as hell.
Abdul downs his drink, looks around and says, ‘What are we doing here?’ As he helps me back into the van, I consider how we’re quite capable of finding our own entertainment, thank-you-very-much.
He drives me home, walks me to the door and leaves with promises to pick me up the following evening around seven. So it’s only when I’m in bed that I suddenly feel lost. Once me and Emma would spend hours going over the evening…
‘He was amazed I still hadn’t done it.’
‘I’ll bet! What happened then?’
‘Course, this bloody ankle got in the way.’
‘Wow! Did he mind?’
‘Actually…I’m not really sure, though he was really nice about it. He must have had heaps of women he’s so good at knowing what to do.’
‘That’s like it was with Daniel. Now I know you can’t stand Danny, but he was a terrific lover. Like your Abdul, he just knew how to turn me on. So, what score does Abdul get?’
‘Well… He’s got a great sense of humor so how about 20/20?’
‘Danny was high on looks but zero on humour. I only gave him 5/20.’
‘Then there’s 18/20 for looks, 22/20 for intelligence, 20/20 for loving, 20/20 for charm, but only 5/20 for predictability.’
‘Wow! Totals eighty-five. Not bad for a new guy.’
But what if I no longer have an Emma to confide in? What if, when Emma finds out, she can never forgive me? I know how unrelenting Emma can be if someone offends her. I know that when someone feels rejected, that their rage, pride and jealousy can do terrible harm. These thoughts are so uncomfortable I close my eyes and will myself to fall asleep.
26. EMMA, Surfers
Sacha manages to avoid any discomfort about last night, because on the way to Jupiter Casino, he squeezes my hand and says, ‘You look terrific,’
‘So do you,’ I say aware of how many eyes turn our way as we head into the reception area. Not a place for Schoolies. Instead, loads of well dressed middle-aged couples. The shops carry fantastic clothes. There’s a glittery aquamarine shoestring top that would look great on Dessi but the price is awesome. Presents will have to come later.
We find a small cocktail bar with a guy playing a baby grand. The atmosphere is a world away from beer-gardens where a fight can break out any minute. ‘Let’s stop here a while,’ I say and settle at one of the tables while Sacha buys our drinks.
The pianist plays a little longer, then stands up, gives a little bow and saunters over to the bar. Sacha returns with two frosty glasses as well as a bowl of nuts, saying, ‘The nuts are free. Cheers, Emma. Here’s to us.’
We clink glasses and sip.
‘We’ll eat in the Garden Restaurant. There’s a smorgasbord, but I’d rather we had table service, wouldn’t you?’ His eyes are a bit too bright. What does this mean? I feel myself flush. Raphael’s calm Woman of the Unicorn, where are you?
‘Do you want to play the machines first?’
‘Don’t know how.’
He pats the pocket with his wallet. ‘Don’t worry. It’s easy.’
I’d be happier watching the crowd, mentally searching for the right medium if I wanted to sketch or paint them: water-colour, pen, gouache or acrylic? But Sacha is already on his feet. We go back into the gaming area with three burly guys at the door. One comes over just as we’re about to set foot inside. ‘Good evening, Sir. Madam, can I see some ID please?’
He’s polite but his eyes are hard. I fumble in my purse for my ID.
‘Date of birth?’ the guard fires without warning.
I rattle it off without a second thought, relieved Jodie isn’t with us and I don’t have to lie for her. Sacha manages to look bored. He is as tall as the guard but not as heavily built, shaped like a V with broad shoulders tapering to slim hips. In another century, he would have been an artist’s model. Right now he reminds me of Raphael’s Bindo Altaviti, though his spiky hairdo with the blond tips is punk.
A painting of a cat on the opposite wall, reminds me of Myrtle and her kittens. I hope Julie is feeding them. How weird that I can be so far from home and yet bring everyone with me. I always feel Dessi by my side. Just hope she isn’t getting too depressed stuck in that shabby old house. Thinking about houses makes Dad’s offer even more attractive. I can always consider deferring for a gap year. Aren’t artists supposed to experience as much as possible to further their careers?
‘Enjoy your evening,’ says the guard and strolls back to where the others are. He murmurs something. They all laugh.
‘Pig,’ Sacha mutters, taking my arm.
‘He wasn’t too bad,’ I say, ridiculously pleased to be allowed in. We wander around. I’m fascinated by the people sitting around the roulette wheel. I’ve only ever seen this in movies where suave men in dinner suits fling chips worth hundreds of dollars onto the tables. Here, the gamblers wear casual gear, but are equally intense.
‘Let’s try the machines.’ Sacha leads me into an area where it is all bright lights and coins rattling into trays.
‘We’ll share one.’ He heads for a machine at the end of a row. A meter on top declares that the jackpot is thirty-two thousand dollars.
‘Ten dollars and five presses each, okay?’
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’
‘A few times. It’s fun. Go on. You go first. We’ll play every line with one credit.’
I follow his directions. The symbols whiz around. Nothing comes up. I try another few times. Still nothing. The final time I press there’s a small explosion of music and the screen changes.
‘You’ve won! Look, Emma! You’ve won five hundred dollars!’
Stunned, I stare at a machine lit up like a Christmas tree. A man playing the machine next to us mutters ‘Beginners’ luck, wouldn’t you know.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Just wait here. Someone will come over.’
A man and a woman appear, the man holding a bunch of keys and the woman a clipboard. She passes me the clipboard, shows me where to sign, then counts out five hundred dollars.
‘Thank… thank you very much.’
I give Sacha five fifty dollar notes. ‘Sharing’s only fair,’ I insist when he starts to protest. ‘Let’s use that payout for dinner.’
‘No way,’ he says. ‘I asked you out, right?’ He presses a button and the remainder of our investment pours out.
We’re shown to a table in the Garden Restaurant and handed a very long menu. Sacha orders cocktails with fancy names. They turn up flaunting giant swizzle sticks. ‘What’s in these?’
‘Everythin
g. Like it?’
It’s sweet and tangy and I could drink it all night. From various glances, I’m aware of how good we look. Would being seen with Abdul be the same? Though he’s nowhere near as handsome, he’s also ‘eye candy’. Yet in a curious way, his features keep slipping out of my mind. When I try to picture his broad shoulders, curly black locks, hawkish nose, olive skin and sensual mouth, somehow it’s hard to remember them with the accuracy even a quick sketch will need.
We linger on after the meal chatting about this and that. However hard we try to avoid it, much of our talk is what we hope to achieve from our final results. For the first time Sacha really admits how badly he performed.
‘How do you know?’
He shrugs. ‘I walked out of both accountancy and economics. Look,’ he sighs. ‘I just know. What about you? What’ll you do if you don’t get into any uni?’
‘Course I will,’ I say holding out crossed fingers. I already know my art-folio was good. But how can I be sure until I read those results? Failure will mean more dead-end jobs like in the supermarket-from-hell. Please God, no…
Our talk reverts to how much I miss Dessi. ‘She would never have been in Jon’s car if it wasn’t for my wanting to get home to the kittens,’ I tell him. ‘In a way I feel responsible.’
‘You shouldn’t.’ His tone is firm. ‘Jon’s bad driving had nothing to do with you.’
Eventually I dare ask what happened to him at the gay club. His cheeks redden. ‘Oh, this guy came onto me… you know feeling me up, trying to tongue kiss… he made me want to throw up. I had to shove him away real hard before he got the message I wasn’t interested.’
I turn to watch our waiter stack dishes before asking, ‘Didn’t he make a fuss?’
Dessi's Romance Page 11
