‘Enough to stop me seeming cheap, but less than an amount that makes me seem rich.’
She looked at me with renewed interest. ‘Are you rich?’
‘Is that relevant to buying a present?’ I asked.
‘It might be,’ she flirted.
‘I’m not rich, or in the market for anything more than a gift.’
I flattered myself she was disappointed, but she continued to ask questions and we slowly narrowed the selections down to a black blouse that had faded patterns on the lapels. The price tag of $75 was smack bang in the middle of an appropriate price range.
‘Come again,’ the sales assistant said cheerfully.
I fully expected to, in exactly one year’s time.
Emily took the package off me at her front door, smiling at the professional wrapping. She ushered me into the kitchen where her boyfriend Ben poured the wine. He gave me a guarded smile, untrusting of the single male constantly sniffing around his woman. Those were pretty much the exact words he’d said to me when he and Emily started dating. After rejecting several responses, including punching him in the face, I simply replied Emily was her own woman, not anybody else’s. There’d been an uneasy truce since then. Every time they broke up he held me responsible, and every time they got back together he considered it a triumph over the evil friend secretly in love with her and trying to steal her away from him. In short, he was a dickhead. But Emily liked him, so I remained mostly supportive.
They’d moved in together six months ago, a move I was totally against because they’d only recently renewed their relationship – and because it meant I needed to get a new flatmate, which I’d failed so far to do. I think part of me was waiting for this thing to fail and for her to move back in.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she declared, earning me a scowl from Ben. ‘Very corporate.’
Dammit, I’d gone too conservative.
Ben handed me a wine, his smile warmer now. ‘I bought her a necklace. Show him, babe.’
The thing I now noticed wrapped around her neck must have cost a fortune. When he turned away she gave me a wry look, and I rolled my eyes.
Dinner was pleasant enough – Italian food ordered in, which went well with the wine. As we were clearing the table after dessert Ben’s cell phone went off. There was a brief unhappy conversation, the gist of it being that he had to go to work. He looked between Emily and me, torn between duty and insecurity. Duty won, but not without a fight.
‘I’ll drop you home, Troy,’ he suggested brightly.
Emily slipped her arm through mine. ‘No, you won’t. We have to catch up. I’ll see you later, Ben.’
He disappeared out the front door in a cloud of muttered protests and apologies.
‘He means well,’ she said once the front door closed.
‘They always do, right up to the point where they cut you up and make a paperweight out of your skull.’
She punched me on the arm. ‘My boyfriend is not a psychopath.’ She gathered plates and started filling the sink.
‘Seriously, what are you doing here, Ems?’
‘I’m doing the dishes.’
‘You don’t do dishes,’ I retorted.
‘Things change. I’m a domestic goddess now.’ She raised her yellow rubber gloves as proof.
I picked up the tea towel and waited expectantly. She looked down at the sink full of dishes and bubbles and sighed, then picked up the brush and began cleaning. ‘Have you found a new flatmate?’
I took a plate from her and wiped it dry without answering.
‘I’m not coming back, Troy. This thing with Ben is going to work out.’
Moodily I continued drying. ‘What makes this time different?’
She paused and looked across at me. ‘He loves me.’
‘But do you love him?’
‘He makes me feel good.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ I said.
‘Shut up,’ she snapped.
So I did. It wasn’t until the dishes were all done she spoke again. ‘Do you remember when he first asked me out? I thought he was cute, but…’
‘But what?’ I prompted.
She gave me a thoughtful look. ‘Sometimes I’m not sure whether I said yes because I liked him, or because I was pissed off at you.’
I stared at her in amazement.
‘Oh, it wasn’t anything you’d done in particular. But we’d been flatting together for years and I kept waiting for you to start living. To start showing me you would change. Do you remember what you got me for my birthday that year? A scarf.’
‘I thought you liked the scarf.’
‘I loved the scarf, but it was a scarf. It’s one step up from socks or underwear. I wanted you to put some thought into it. I wanted you to show you cared about me. Cared about anything. And a scarf didn’t cut it. So when Ben asked me out I figured, What the hell, at least he cares about me.’
‘I do care about you,’ I protested.
‘With a scarf?’
‘It was a nice scarf.’
‘It was the sort of thing my mother would buy for me. I wanted you to get me something that showed you knew me.’ She started pacing the floor.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
She laughed bitterly. ‘I’d been trying to tell you for months. You obviously weren’t listening.’
‘Why haven’t you said anything before now?’ I asked defensively. ‘I thought we were friends.’
‘We are friends, Troy. You didn’t piss me off – you disappointed me.’
I didn’t want to hear any more, almost reached up to cover my ears. ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ I said sullenly. ‘I should go, before the guy you don’t love comes home to the house you don’t want to live in and makes you do more domestic things you hate.’ It was petty, but I was hurting and embarrassed and pissed off. I ignored her calls and slammed the front door, not calming down until I came through my own front door and threw my shoes across the bedroom. A few swear words later I’d settled enough to realise I never felt angry in the first place, just guilty. Out of habit I looked at the corner of the room where the canvas used to be. I’d thrown it out a couple of years ago, but still found myself looking for it in moments of stress, or stupidity. Reaching for my phone, I thought about what to say as an apology. I’m a dickhead seemed to be a good start. I typed it in, and blinked…
And stood on the ground floor of the department store. My eyes, having come from bedroom light at night-time, strained against the sunlight pouring in through tall windows. I blinked a few times and they slowly adjusted.
The displays looked different; the clothes weren’t the same. I pulled my phone out and saw I was back four years, it was 2016 – 4pm on Emily’s birthday. Some things don’t change. I had a do-over, but apart from knowing that she was reaching the end of her tether and about to start dating Mr Bland, and that I mustn’t buy her a scarf, I didn’t know much. Well, actually I knew a lot, but not the most important thing. What the hell to get her for a present?
I wracked my brain for ideas, trying to think of what I’d bought her in the past, both in real life and Possibilities. Inspiration remained elusive. I closed my eyes and tried to think of everything I knew about her. Frustratingly nothing leapt out with a big sign saying Buy this for her.
‘If you’re pretending to be a statue you’re doing a great job.’
I opened my eyes to find Cat standing in front of me. Her hair was tied up and she wore a grey T-shirt and jeans.
‘On the other hand, if you’re trying to hide by being a statue then I’m sorry to tell you it isn’t working.’ She grinned and I felt my mouth respond.
‘I’m looking for a birthday present for Emily.’
‘Oh, what are you going to get her?’
‘If I knew that I wouldn’t be standing here,’ I replied.
‘Where would you be standing?’
‘I wouldn’t. I’d be walking.’
‘Technically you have to stand to walk,
’ she pointed out.
‘Why is it every time I talk to you I get a headache?’
She grinned again and I noticed the way her eyes sparked. Dammit, stop it.
I asked, ‘What are you doing here anyway? Are you stalking me?’
She casually leaned in closer. ‘You wish,’ she whispered.
I didn’t know how to respond so I just gaped at her.
‘Take a picture,’ she advised me. ‘It’ll last longer.’
Something tickled the back of my brain and I tried to tease it out, but it remained elusive. Something to do with Emily – something she said, or did, back in school.
An idea came to me. ‘I need a computer.’
‘Wow, that’s an expensive present.’
I kissed her on the forehead. ‘Thanks, Cat.’ Spinning around, I headed back to work. Hopefully there was enough time to get everything sorted.
Later, after we’d eaten large servings of Emily’s favourite meal of homemade cheesecake with red wine – it was the one time a year she didn’t give a shit about diet – I handed her a plain white envelope. She peered around for the real present, and I gestured for her to open it.
Inside was the obligatory funny birthday card, and inside that a single sheet of A4 paper, folded into thirds. She smoothed it out and read it, then reread it, before looking at me with curiosity. ‘What made you think of this?’
‘I remembered that you were into photography at school. I thought it might be something you could get back into.’
She looked back down at the paper, momentarily lost for words.
‘And I wanted to let you know that I know,’ I said, and when she gave me a puzzled look added, ‘That sometimes it’s not easy living with me. I wanted to give you something that showed…’
She nodded in understanding. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said softly.
‘Promise me you won’t turn into some artist type who’s always talking about light and composition,’ I said to lighten the mood.
‘We could become a bohemian flat. I’ll turn your bedroom into a darkroom.’
‘Where am I going to sleep?’ I protested.
‘No time for sleep – you’ll be outside painting the stars and leaving stained clothes in the bath.’
‘You’ve given this way too much thought. And no one uses a darkroom any more – it’s all digital.’
‘Hush, don’t ruin my fantasy. So will you join me? Start painting again?’ she asked casually.
‘One step at a time,’ I lied.
She sipped her wine instead of replying. Maybe she didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have.
‘This is a lousy present,’ she stated. ‘Now I have to go out and buy a camera. There’s no sense in doing lessons without one.’ She waved the paper.
‘It’s the gift that keeps on giving,’ I replied smugly.
‘Shut up and get me more cheesecake.’
Ben’s name was never mentioned.
Later I sat on the edge of my bed and gazed at the canvas – mostly finished except for a blank piece in the top left-hand corner. Where something would naturally be painted, given the rest of the picture.
It was a reminder of a time before the Possibilities. Finishing it would be an acceptance.
I would never do it.
The one at the beach
A week after her birthday Emily and I hit the beach. She said the sea air would be good for me, Emily-speak for she had a new bikini and wanted to test it out, which is Troy-speak for she wanted to show off her body and be admired by all the boys and called a bitch by all the girls. Emily isn’t vain, but she worked hard to stay in shape and sometimes liked validation with admiration from others. At five foot six, slim and toned, with long brown hair, admiration wasn’t in short supply.
We live a five-minute walk from a beach. So of course we hopped into the car and drove thirty minutes up the coast. To be fair our local beach is usually buffeted by a cool southerly, so there was a certain logic about making the trek, but it was still a pain in the arse.
The day was bright and warm, the beach packed with families and couples and groups of friends. The heat forced some people under beach umbrellas, while others revelled in it. Children darted between the water and family blankets, pausing to get a drink or reluctantly be re-sunscreened. A group of teenagers were throwing a ball around, and overhead seagulls circled like vultures, waiting to swoop on discarded morsels of food. The waves were steady but not high, and heads were dotted on the surface, calling for reluctant friends to join them.
Emily staked out a spot that didn’t meet her precise requirements but was the best available. She liked to be halfway between the road and the water to ensure maximum foot-traffic exposure.
‘Put some sunscreen on me,’ she ordered.
I took the sunscreen and rubbed it on her back. Once done, I haphazardly applied some to my arms and legs. Skin cancer was the least of my worries. Emily set the alarm on her watch – fifteen minutes on her back then time to turn, like a rotisserie chicken. I laughed at the sudden image of a chicken on a stake wearing Emily’s bikini, and she raised her sunglasses.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Just remembered something I read earlier.’
She studied my face for a moment, then settled back, covering her eyes once more. ‘You don’t do enough of that.’
‘Reading?’
‘Laughing, you dick. You’re such a grump all the time. Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you.’
I didn’t know the answer. She was my best friend, but I knew it was hard work for her. ‘Why do you?’
‘Why do I what?’
‘Why do you put up with me? Why aren’t you off living with some fabulous man, shagging your brains out every night and having fun?’
‘Are you asking me why we’re friends?’
I gazed at the water. ‘I guess.’
She was quiet for an eternity. Suddenly she sat up, took off her sunglasses and punched me in the arm. ‘God, you’re such a dickhead. Why does there have to be a reason? You need to stop looking for meaning behind things and accept them for what they are. We’re friends because we are. Now shut up, you’re ruining my rays.’
She lay back down and closed her eyes. Our friendship had been born at school, after all the shit with Heather. Everyone else looked at me strangely. Emily walked up to me and said, ‘Tough break.’ By the end of that year, she and I were firmly and permanently planted in the friend zone.
I lifted handfuls of sand, letting it fall through my fingers, and thought about the story I’d told Cat – how the beach used to be a mirror before it was shattered by a moon who hated its reflection. I smoothed the surface, and wondered what I’d see if the sand was still glass. Quickly I scuffed it up, already knowing the answer.
At fifteen minutes Emily’s watch beeped and she turned over. I became officially bored, so wandered a few feet away, knelt in the sand and began to dig. The sand here was firmer, better for what I was doing, which was … I don’t know really, creating something from nothing, attempting to exert control over a malleable substance, bring order to chaos. Or maybe it felt good to take a handful of wet sand and mould it into something.
Suddenly Emily stood over me. I glanced at my watch, surprised to see an hour had passed.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked curiously.
‘Just playing around,’ I replied, carrying on with the work.
‘Boys!’ she retorted. ‘Always playing with things. I’m getting some lunch. You want anything?’
I shook my head and she left in search of something healthy to eat. A little while later I heard loud voices. The group of teenagers who’d earlier been playing with a ball were arguing. I didn’t catch what they were saying, and didn’t care, so went back to my task.
Suddenly a shadow blocked the sun. I looked up, expecting to see Emily; instead it was one of the teenagers. I glanced past him to see the rest of the group heading off down the beach. One of the girls gave a couple o
f backwards glances before being dragged away by her friend.
‘What are you building?’ he asked.
‘How do you know I’m building anything?’
‘Otherwise you’re just a sad guy playing in the sand by himself,’ he retorted.
I ignored him.
He looked up the beach at his friends, then back at me. ‘Can I help?’
No, you can fuck off, I thought. Leaning back, I stretched out sore muscles. ‘Sure. Do what I say when I say it.’
Close up I could see he was about sixteen, with shaggy brown hair and a solid build. He wore black board shorts, baggy grey singlet and bare feet. He saw me looking at him and glared back defiantly. I pointed at a pile of sand. ‘Put that over there.’
He was pretty good at following directions and seemed in no mood to talk so we worked quietly.
Finally I said, ‘You seem pretty pissed off at the sand.’ He looked at me in confusion. ‘The way you’re slamming it down I figure you and sand have some history and this is payback.’
He stared at his hands, then laughed ruefully. ‘Well, sand is always getting up my ass, but I guess I could cut it a break.’
There was more silence.
‘I’m Steven,’ he said.
‘Troy.’
‘So it’d be easier to do this if I knew what we were building.’
I sat back on my haunches and wiped sweat off my forehead, replacing it with a fine layer of sand from my hand.
‘We’re making the moon,’ I said.
He looked confused for a second, then shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay? No follow-up questions?’
‘Look, dude, I don’t really care what it is. I’m just filling in time until my friends stop being dicks.’
I laughed. ‘Fair enough.’
More silence.
‘Don’t you want to know why my friends were being dicks?’
‘Nope.’
‘Man, I thought that’s what all grown-ups want to do – talk about feelings.’
‘For a start I’m only about ten years older than you. And secondly I’m not like other grown-ups. If you want to talk I’m not going to stop you, but let me be up front – I don’t care what your problems are. That’s between you and your dickhead friends.’
Troy’s Possibilities Page 7
