Family Drama 3-in-1 Box Set: String Bridge, The Book, Bitter Like Orange Peel

by Jessica Bell

  “Oh.” Seb sighed, sounding a little disappointed. “I don’t really want to sit in there. There are too many … you know, of those girls in there. I was hoping we could just skip lunch.”

  As much as I wanted to jam with him, I had learned enough from watching American high-school sitcoms to act hard-to-get, so I said, “Um, no thanks, Seb. I’m starving. Maybe another time?”

  I walked away, down the corridor, toward the canteen with wallet in hand. He just stood there, in front of my locker, watching me get away. But, just before I disappeared around the corner, he called out, “Party! My place! Saturday!”

  I did go to the party that Saturday night, hearing my mother’s recent act of parenting playing over and over in my head: Here’s a condom. Don’t even think about using it.

  His house was located in one of the rich suburbs of Melbourne. It was a two-story mansion with about six hundred square meters of garden surrounding it. His parents were away for the weekend, hence the party. Of course. I silently gagged at the cliché. The entire first floor was full of grungy-looking pot smokers, gothic lesbian couples snogging each other in every possible corner and hardly coming up for air, and the blaring sound of Nirvana rattling the ornamental pebbles scattered all over the place like confetti.

  Of course, I got a little drunk to shed myself of inhibition, and I can’t remember doing much else than snogging and snogging and snogging until my lips stung. That, and taking intermittent sips of Smirnoff vodka straight from the bottle to top up my fuel.

  Somehow I ended up in his en-suite watching him run a bath. I closed my eyes as he undressed me, and then himself, and we both lay in the bath together. The steam engulfed me like heavy fatigue. The heat of the water and weightlessness of his silky smooth body on top of me was like swimming in fog. That was until … well, the whole bath turned red. Oblivious to the pain in my drunken state, Seb had already sprung out of the bath and wrapped a towel around himself, when I opened my eyes. Shivering, he wailed, “Freak!” and left me there to clean up.

  “Heather? Shouldn’t we get back to our desks? Where are the PMs?” I ask, hesitant to walk near the window where they might see me.

  “Oh. Don’t worry. They’re at a conference. They won’t be back till late afternoon. They won’t even know you were so late.” Heather stands and brushes dry grass off her bum.

  “Oh-kay. Then why is everybody so quiet?”

  “Because they’re gullible. When the PMs left this morning, they said they’d activated the hidden video cameras.” Heather laughs. “Jodie winked at me, knowing very well I know there aren’t any. Poor sods—look at ’em working their bottoms off … oh, and Dianne told me to tell you they won’t be expecting you to write those kids songs anymore.”

  “Fine.” I couldn’t care less.

  “Oh! Damn! Look at me going on and on about myself. What happened to you? What’s your long story?”

  “Oh, nothing really,” I shrug. I brush away a strand of Heather’s hair caught in her eyelash. She blinks and smiles a thank you. “Just one obstacle after another this morning. Couldn’t get myself together.”

  Seventeen

  Instead of heading straight home after work, I do something I wouldn’t normally do. I send Alex a text message to say I won’t be home for dinner—to take Tessa out for a kebab. No explanation, no mention of where I’ll be at. I imagine, well hope, he makes an event out of it, by eating them in Lykabettus with the dog, for instance, instead of plonking Tessa on the couch to watch a movie while he messes around with emails. Wishful thinking?

  I, however, drop my car off at home, and go to the only Irish pub in town—a place guaranteed to be brimming with raucous expatriates—a place where privacy is indeed given a new meaning. This place is always so crowded and noisy that it seems to reverse the effect—chaos turned silent white TV fuzz.

  I drink three pints of Guinness, eat two plates of fish ‘n’ chips, and wander around the Plaka in the dark—a vibrant flea market by day, a seemingly abandoned crime district with hidden side-street gems by night.

  The Plaka is situated below the Acropolis, which you can see from almost every angle of the city—especially at night, when it becomes a glowing dynastic beauty. Its cobblestoned streets are splashed with traditional taverns left, right, and center, with loitering waiters trying to lure in passersby. On Sundays, these streets become even more alive when the flea market thrives with bargaining tourists and manipulative shop owners.

  I buy myself a coconut ice cream cone, sit in the square by the metro station, kick my sandals off and watch. As. They. All. Glide. By. Me. Like over-exposed photography. A sea of kebab skewers and gyros wrappers, gypsies rummaging through the aftermath of tourist mayhem for leftover food.

  My vision is. Spinning. Sleeping open-eyed in a river … melting … zesty sugar candy gloss falls on ground … igniting thoughts … chicken soup, curry green, milk … drowns market stall full of vinyl and misplaced dreams … my bare feet vibrate on chilly rough concrete … queasy … rumbling train … stains white shirt … thaws on skin … sticky coconut syrup smells of tears, of years, of breast milk.

  My eyes shut. The world turns black like a foggy windshield in the dark. I feel my head drop—whiplash—a tennis ball bounces behind my eyes. I wake to a stray dog licking melted ice cream off my toes …

  The apartment building is so quiet I can hear my stomach bubble. I burp up a thick bitter sweet mass of air as I unlock the door—it swims through my teeth like invisible dental floss.

  I guzzle down a litre of water and a couple of aspirin, before checking on Tessa. I open her door, a touch—I refuse to go in and breathe my alcohol breath all over her precious pearl face. She’s fine. Snoring. Gurgling yum yums. Dreaming of candy? Ice cream ballet?

  Laptop propped on my knees, I lie, back against the wall, on the fold-up bed in my office. I switch it on—the device which holds my missing link, like a confidential dossier.

  Charlie. Email. Please.

  Yes!

  To: Melody Hill Konstantinou

  From: Charles Hughes

  Subject: American Tour

  Hey there, Kitten!

  Just like I promised—an email with the nitty gritty.

  Right, a list of the facts:

  Tour starts September 1, ends September 25

  Rock band is called Muffin Lovin’ (don’t ask!—I hate the name too, but they’re doing really well and selling fresh muffins as merch)

  They lost guitarist and backup vocalist (they choked on muffins and died a slow death in the corner of the rehearsal studio while hugging their instruments—the Mamas and the Papas all over again lol )— joke Joice—if ya could do both, you’d be a champ.

  Need to know by weekend, to get things organized.

  If ya accept, I’ll send ya a CD of all the songs ya gotta learn, and I’ll organize for ya to fly out to Melbs two weeks before tour to rehearse with the band—so it’d be six weeks away in total for preps.

  Bring Tessa! We’ve great babysitting roadies—the bass player’s a single ma and has two young rug rats tagging along too, so she won’t be lonely.

  Please think about it seriously. It’s a great opportunity and we’d LURRRVE to have ya on board. Miss ya pretty face. And don’t worry, I won’t pull any funny business on ya. You can return to ya lovey when you’re done without any battle scars.

  Give us a call, or even an email to let me know.

  Cheers,

  Charlie

  Charles Hughes

  Tour Manager

  Kit Ten Management

  Email: chahug@kittenmanagement.com.au

  Website: www.kittenmanagement.com.au

  Is this for real? Have I just been given everything I’ve been craving? I stare at the email—the words swirl together like food dye in cake mix—dancing around my giddy head, drunk with buzz. I can bring Tessa!

  There shouldn’t be any reason I can’t take the job in London and do this too, right? I will have been working for four mo
nths by the time I have to leave. If they want me so much, surely they’d make an exception. Wouldn’t they? Well, I know they would here, but maybe the work ethic in London is a little stricter. God, it probably is—they’d probably fire me.

  I’ve been living in organized chaos now for so long that I can’t digest what’s normal anymore. Maybe I can lie—say I have to return to Australia—someone in my family could be ill—they might need assistance. That would get me off the hook. What a ridiculous thing to do—I might as well say my dog ate my homework.

  I need to talk to someone. I need to talk to Serena.

  Please be online. Please be online. Please be online.

  She’s not online. I bite my nails—a habit I gave up when I stopped needing them short to play guitar. They’re brittle between my teeth, but tear off with ease as if I’ve been soaking them in water. I stare at Serena’s MSN icon, praying for it to turn blue. What to do, what to do …

  I get up. Brush off my bum as if I were still sitting on the gravelly step in the Plaka. The realization that I’m not hits me like reverse amnesia. I go to the kitchen. Look in the fridge. I want something. I don’t know what. I look at an open bottle of red wine. Wonder whether I should pour myself a glass.

  You’re too drunk already. You’ll dirty dishes. Bugger it. I’ll drink from the bottle.

  I take the bottle out of the fridge—the cork out of the spout. Pop—like my mother’s finger inside her cheek—or like the day she accidentally dislocated my shoulder spinning me around in the back yard. A happy moment turned bad. Shame.

  Throw the cork away or keep it? How much wine left? I look through the opening like a telescope. Wine spills onto my cheek—cold, crisp, fruity—it cascades down my neck. Damn. I wipe it away with the collar of my shirt and hold the bottle up to the light. Shoulda done that first. About a third left. Hmm. Throw cork away. I’ll drink the lot. I throw the cork against the wall. It ricochets and bounces down the hall. I shrug. Meh.

  Back on the fold-up bed. Icon still not blue.

  “Serena, Serena wherefore art thee? I pray for thee, but cannot see thine blue man be lit.” I wriggle. Rub my hands together as if warming them by a fire.

  It should be mid morning in Australia now. I could phone her, but then I’d wake up Alex and Tessa. I don’t want anybody to wake up. I need to be alone. I need to speak to Serena alone.

  Text message.

  Pls log on msn. Need 2 talk. Desperatolita.

  Staring at the icon. Staring at the icon. I’m staring at the icon like a moron. Staring at the icon. Staring at the icon … icon blue!

  Serena_Servais

  What’s going on?

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Big dilemma.

  (Swig of mine wine)

  Serena_Servais

  What kind dilemma?

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Do you have time?

  (My goodness this rhymes)

  Serena_Servais

  Yes, about five minutes. Are you OK?

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  (Am I okay? No, in disarray.)

  You’re going to freak out.

  (When you hear what this is all about.)

  Serena_Servais

  You not having affair are you?

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  (Affair? Me? No way! Not true!)

  What??? You kidding me?

  Serena_Servais

  Well, I don’t know. Unusual behavior might lead to you unusually needing to speak to me in middle of night.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  (Hmm. Okay. Rhyming over. Sentence too long.)

  Are you sitting down?

  Serena_Servais

  No, I’m typing standing up.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Okay. To make a long story short. Got great job offer in UK, great salary, better country, good opportunity …

  Serena_Servais

  Congratulations!

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Thanks, but decided to turn down offer, because Alex didn’t like idea. Didn’t technically turn down job offer, just told Alex that I would …

  Serena_Servais

  That’s naughty.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Yeah, naughty … but minutes later I find out Alex had affair …

  Serena_Servais

  WHAT??? Are you serious? You not imagining this are you?

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  NO! He admitted it.

  Serena_Servais

  When? With whom? I’ll KILL HIM!

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Long story. Nuther time. Not before I do. Anyway, now what am I supposed to do? I’ve got great job offer and Charlie’s offer to tour with band for month. Want both. Probably can’t have both. If don’t take either, stuck with Alex who is cheating bastard, and for what? Do I want cheating husband organizing my gigs? I don’t think I do. At least not yet anyway. How do I know I’ll get over it? And in the meantime, I’d be miserable and regret turning down two great opportunities. What am I supposed to do?

  Serena_Servais

  Melody, it would be huge shame to turn down opportunity with Charlie’s band. If you need help with money, I can help you out. I got that

  inheritance from my grandfather remember? But you know, that still doesn’t mean you can’t resolve things with Alex.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  I know.

  Serena_Servais

  But on other hand, you should take job because it’s the responsible thing to do and you’ve got Tessa to think about.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Hey! That’s not helping!

  Serena_Servais

  I know. LOL. No sorry. Bad time to laugh.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Indeed :-(

  Serena_Servais

  Sorry. I’m being insensitive. I’m not myself today. :-( Regarding Alex. How? What happened???

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Can we talk about that another time? I need to know what to do about the job and tour!

  Serena_Servais

  Yeah, but if you can establish how you feel about Alex then maybe you can come to some sort of decision?

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Jesus.

  Serena_Servais

  Melody. Come on.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  I can’t. Not now. I need to make a decision SO that I know what to do about Alex.

  Serena_Servais

  Melody, I can’t tell you what to do. Make a decision and then talk to me about it. That might work better. I have no idea about running a family. I have no idea about being married. If I were in your situation I’d never want to see Alex again, and I’d probably jump on that plane to tour America in an instant, but I don’t have a kid to think about. Just wait until the weekend and see what happens. Go with your gut. Do what you feel at the moment when you have to give an answer. That’s the best advice I can offer. And remember what we talked about when I visited for your birthday this year? You need to get your confidence back. Here is the perfect opportunity. Don’t ruin it. Fate is giving you signs.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Fuck, Serena, you’re a social worker!

  Serena_Servais

  And you’re my best friend. It’s different. I’m not going to preach to you. I really have to go. I’m late for an appointment at UN. I’m so sorry Melody. Let’s talk on phone, when you can. MSN is too detached and I’m sure I sound like bitch. If only you could see my face and hear my voice.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  I know. Don’t worry.

  Serena_Servais

  Luv you xoxo

  My thirtieth birthday bash was on the eighteenth of March about four months ago. Unlike most women about to turn thirty, I had no problem with it. I wasn’t depressed and making up ridiculous excuses to avoid celebrating. I just didn’t want to turn what should be a memorable and joyous event into a night full of phony smiles and meaningless chitchat with people I couldn’t care less about.
Thankfully, Alex understood. And he surprised me with the unexpected.

  On the night of my birthday he put on Joni Mitchell’s Blue, and set the dining room table with four large black square plates detailed with silver around the edges. He bought a brand-new crimson tablecloth and pewter candelabra, and used my grandma’s silver cutlery I’d hidden away in some difficult-to-reach place—how he found it is beyond me. The dining room radiated a red scent and shimmered with the warmth and glow of the fireplace.

  Alex’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction. I asked him who the fourth seat was for, but he just shook his head, smiled, kissed my cheek, and patted me on the head as if I were the dog.

  Half an hour before the unidentified arrived, he locked me in our bedroom with my mobile phone. He said, “Just prepare yourself to see the one person on this planet who will make you whole again.”

  “But you make me whole. And Tessa makes me whole. Who else could possibly make me whole?” I replied, furrowing my brow.

  “Okay. Then prepare yourself to see the one person on this planet who used to make you feel whole before you met me and had Tessa,” he said trying to dislodge something between his two front teeth. “I’ll call you when we’re ready for you to come out.”

  I lay in bed wondering who he could be talking about. Who could possibly be here that used to make me feel whole? And what a big word to use. So many meanings—connotations. Whole? How whole? Can anyone ever really make you feel whole? Or is it just something we say. Like I love you. Words that become habits—you never really know if they’ve retained their original meaning, or if they are merely survival aids.