Those Pleasant Girls

by Lia Weston

Everything was pink.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mary. ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘If He were listening,’ said Mini D, holding a wineglass up to the light and squinting at it, ‘neither of us would be working here.’

  By the end of the second reading, the groom was still upright, and Evie had lost a bet with herself.

  Had the guests at her wedding had their own tabs going on how long she and Gabe would last? Maybe not. Hopefully not. She and Gabe were still good at that point, in the first delirious you-and-me-against-the-world flush of love. Their wedding photographs were testimony: Evie glowed in a knee-length shift which did nothing to disguise her pregnancy. Gabe was so attentive and affectionate, his hand always on her back or around her waist. In contrast to their luminous happiness, their wedding guests mostly registered shock, except for Gabe’s mother whose thousand-yard stare reflected her resentment at discovering her new daughter-in-law was a knocked-up hippie.

  In the warm bath of Gabe’s love, Evie gradually stopped fighting against the world, her perpetual anger giving way, her spikes finally softening. Relaxed and happy for the first time in her life, she stopped arguing about politics at dinner parties, stopped clashing with her mother about the way she dressed and spoke, stopped going to rallies and writing letters to ministers, and eventually stopped being of interest to the man she adored so deeply.

  Evie was caught by surprise by the stab of pain in her stomach. Who was she kidding? People died, relationships collapsed, families fell apart, towns were bulldozed, nothing lasted. marriage was a doomed ship, and Joy and Barnaby were on the deck, sailing out to sea, with Evie paddling a canoe behind.

  ‘By the power vested in me . . .’

  Joy’s tulle parted just enough for Evie to see Nathan in his robes, looking thrilled to be joining two people together in marriage. She squinted. He was actually teary. Bless his heart. Nathan, a grown and sensible man, was teary, and she was a self-indulgent pessimist. She thought of the treehouse note, safely tucked in her purse. I, Evie Fleur Bouvier, promise to always be forsworn . . . Gabe could not be allowed to sour her outlook. Not everything was doomed to failure. Besides, Nathan was pretty much guaranteed not to cheat on her.

  ‘I now pronounce you husband and –’

  BANG.

  Everyone jumped as a pigeon, blinded by the sun, flew straight into the stained-glass window. Its body bounced off the glass and dropped out of sight.

  ‘. . . er, wife,’ finished Nathan.

  ‘Ex-cuse me? I asked? For a vegan meal?’

  Bianca could not end a sentence without an upward inflection. Mary was sure it counted as a speech impediment.

  All of the girls had coated themselves in body glitter in honour of Joy’s big day. Bianca had even decorated her décolletage with stick-on crystals. Her breasts winked at Mary. At the table beyond the girls, Zach and his posse were crammed together watching a video on someone’s phone. The boys guffawed. Zach sat back first, apparently bored. His eyes met Mary’s. She immediately looked away.

  ‘Could you? Do something?’ Bianca flapped her hand at the plate in front of her. The chicken breast, as if suspecting it wasn’t wanted, sank even further into its white sauce.

  ‘I’ll come back.’

  ‘But it’s just? Sitting there? I mean, I can’t eat that?’

  ‘And I can’t pick up plates in my teeth,’ said Mary.

  ‘Let me get that for you.’ Mini D appeared like a genie at Bianca’s elbow. The offending chicken was whisked away. ‘Ladies,’ he addressed the assembled bejewelled cleavages, and melted back into the crowd.

  Mary moved off, summoning her faith in God long enough to pray that Bianca would choke on a piece of asparagus.

  After the first champagne, Evie felt pretty. After the fourth, she felt like Ava Gardner. She was wearing the dress she had been saving for an occasion such as this. Black, backless and body-hugging, it was perfect for dancing and for seducing eligible curly-haired priests.

  Joy had apparently decided to suspend hostilities for the day. She toasted Evie between the balloons on the bridal table. Then again, she had already toasted the balloons twice.

  On Joy’s right, Rosemary was nattering, Therese was texting and Ebony’s seat was empty.

  On Joy’s left, Barnaby was gradually sliding further under the table, his balding pink head disappearing like the setting sun.

  Mary was over by a table of schoolmates. She’d made some girlfriends at last, how lovely.

  Nathan was talking to Rachel and Louise. Evie pooled her risotto in a circle on her plate, but found she had no appetite. Joy’s cousin, seated at her table, had been talking nonstop about bull semen; it wasn’t helping.

  The mirror ball above the dance floor was spinning slowly, biding its time until ‘Love Shack’ came on.

  Nathan turned as Phil passed the Pointers’ table, falling into conversation with his best friend. Evie envied their ease together. Phil’s stubble was gone, but the hair on the back of his head still stood up. He looked far better in a pale grey suit than Evie had expected. Why didn’t Phil have a girlfriend? Maybe he was too scarred by his ex-fiancée. Maybe he did have a girlfriend but just never mentioned her. A secret long-distance relationship with a woman who liked beer and Shakespeare. Shakesbeer. Evie laughed quietly at her own joke, courtesy of three of the four champagnes.

  ‘You look like a fox who’s spied a chicken coop.’

  It was Amy. Evie flushed. ‘Just people-watching.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ said Amy, lifting one precisely sculpted eyebrow. ‘Need a break?’ She was holding a silver cigarette case.

  Evie was about to say yes when she saw Nathan coming her way. ‘Maybe the next one.’

  Amy headed outside. She was wearing heels so high they would have given Evie a nosebleed. As Amy passed Phil, Evie saw her give him a rare flash of a smile. Maybe they had a thing. Ooh, maybe Amy was Phil’s secret girlfriend.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ said Nathan. ‘How is everyone? Evie, don’t you look smashing? Arthur,’ he continued, before Evie could thank him, ‘how’s the stud?’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Joy’s cousin. ‘Got some excellent red breeds.’

  And then Nathan and Joy’s cousin started discussing bull semen.

  ‘Champagne, Mrs P?’ said Mini D, appearing by her side.

  ‘Leave the bottle,’ said Evie.

  Mr Sturn was still in the coolroom. Mary had spent the good part of ten minutes trying to get him out, but gave up after he latched himself to the rack and refused to let go. He was now eating coleslaw straight out of the tub, a strange anaesthetised look on his face which Mary thought could be despair but was more likely an overdose of mayonnaise. Back in the ballroom, Bianca had not yet choked on her vegetable medley, but Mary still held out hope.

  Her heel was killing her. There were band-aids in Clayton’s office. Mary shoved open the swinging door to the corridor, and then stopped dead.

  Zach was slumped against the wall, ever-present phone in hand. It was the first time she had seen him alone – no hangers-on, no Therese. Panic buzzed in her ears. The skin on her heel burned. Somehow she would have to walk past him without limping. She should say hello or something.

  Should she?

  Yes.

  No!

  No.

  Maybe?

  Not that he’d do anything. Not that he’d like her. But, you know, it couldn’t hurt to say hello, keep it casual, see if he had any idea who she was. He was kind of a dick, and his band was crappy. But he had given that dog a drink, and thanked her for clearing his plate. Anyone who liked dogs and said thanks couldn’t be that bad.

  The main thing was to look like she didn’t care.

  Before she could even choose the right kind of casual greeting, Zach looked over and spotted her paused mid-stride like a gawking statue. Mary clamped her mouth closed and walked towards him, ignoring the pain as her boot clawed at the weal.

  ‘Hey,�
�� said Zach, straightening up, watching her approach.

  ‘Hey,’ said Mary, though it came out squeakier than usual.

  There was a hoot of laughter from beyond the corridor, and a cloud of Lynx aftershave rolled Mary’s way before Zach’s posse slouched into view, cutting off her access to the office. Mary balled the apron up in her hand. There was nowhere to go except into the women’s toilets, so she marched inside and immediately clapped her hands to her face in mortification.

  The bathroom stank of sickly sweetness. A half-full glass of cheap champagne on the counter was already flat, the scent of alcohol sharp against the perfumes of the girls who were blocking off the entry to one of the stalls.

  ‘You. Look. Awesome.’

  There was a muffled sound.

  Mary limped over to the sink, pinched her heel out of her boot and washed her hands, watching the backs of the girls in the mirror. Therese was in the middle, pink and silver and several inches taller than the others.

  ‘Pretty baby, pretty baby.’

  There was a mumbled response, then more laughter. One girl wobbled as her high heel gave way on the tile.

  Mary knew who the sacrificial pig in the stall was, for there was only one person it could be. She sighed.

  ‘Ebony?’

  The girls swivelled, Therese turning last. Mary could see her baby sister’s terrified face behind them.

  ‘What’s your deal?’ said one girl, cheeks texta-ed with acne.

  Mary ignored her. ‘Ebony, your mum’s looking for you.’

  There was an answering squeak.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said the same girl. They all turned back into the stall.

  Mary limped over and thrust her arm between the bodies. The girls recoiled.

  ‘Come on, Ebony.’ Mary wiggled her fingers. Ebony didn’t move. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Just as she was beginning to think that she had just committed social suicide for no reason, she felt Ebony’s cold hand touch hers. Mary grabbed the girl’s wrist and pulled her out from between the pack, a white-cheeked cork out of a bottle.

  ‘You look great!’ said Mary and dragged Ebony out the door without waiting for a response.

  The boys were waiting outside. Ignoring the comments and snorts, Mary pushed Ebony into the kitchen. As the door swung shut behind them, she made the mistake of looking back through the porthole window.

  The pack filled the corridor now, Therese in the centre. Under the fluorescent lights, her eyes were black.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Ebony was backed up against the industrial sink, clutching the lip with both hands. She was wearing a white unitard and veil, mascara pooling under her eyes like tar.

  Mary wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I was trying to help.’

  ‘You don’t get it,’ said Ebony, staring at the window. ‘She’s going to kill me.’

  Before Mary could reply, the door at the far end of the kitchen thumped open. ‘Cake duty calls, Pleasant,’ said Mini D. ‘Oh, hey, Ebony.’

  Ebony burst into tears and made a dash for the door. As she pushed past Mini D, Mary saw that her unitard said ‘BRIDE’ in sequins across the back.

  ‘There goes the entertainment,’ said Mini D. ‘What happened?’

  Mary threw up her hands. ‘I can’t do anything right today.’

  ‘And I can’t leave the bar unattended with Quentin around, so hurry up.’ Mini D withdrew.

  Mary re-tied her ponytail, practising indifference in the reflection of the microwave door.

  Fuck Therese. Fuck them all.

  They hated her already; what was the worst they could do?

  Joy let out a piercing scream. ‘It’s our song!’

  The new bride levered her husband out from under the bridal table and dragged him onto the dance floor. Clasping Barnaby to her bosom, Joy wiggled with matrimonial feeling. She had changed out of her tulle into ivory snakeskin. From the back, she resembled an enormous white python digesting its meal.

  Evie hung her arm over the back of her chair, tucking her legs underneath her to watch.

  Mary tromped past, carrying four plates and looking stoic. She was doing such a good job. Evie hoped she’d had something to eat, not that the Holy Father’s food had much to recommend it.

  Joy and Barnaby were dappled with sliding shards of light from the disco ball, Barnaby slumped on Joy’s shoulder as their song faded out. The music changed to ‘Take The A Train’. Evie’s toes wiggled. Never would have thought Joy was a Duke Ellington fan.

  There was a tap on her shoulder. Nathan, leaning over from his chair, pointed at the dance floor. Evie joyfully took his hand and prayed that she remembered the basics from the two Lindy hop lessons she took ten years ago. As they began, however, she realised it wouldn’t have mattered if she was a Lindy champion; Nathan had the rhythm and grace of a toddler in a centrifuge.

  Three songs passed in a blur of avoiding injury as Nathan jiggled his way across the dance floor. So handsome and yet so terrible. At the opening strains of ‘It Had To Be You’, Evie pantomimed exhaustion. They made their way through the abandoned tables and chairs, and outside to the fountain.

  ‘Is your foot okay?’ said Nathan, sitting next to her on the edge.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Evie sweetly, ignoring the shooting pain in her left metatarsals, thanks to Nathan’s unfortunate footwork. At least the alcohol was dulling the worst of it.

  Nathan rearranged his tie, which had become askew while he was attempting a move that involved windmilling both arms and narrowly missing a double-stepping set of Pointers. The chill in the air slowly started to penetrate Evie’s skin. She rubbed her arms to stop the goosebumps.

  ‘This may not be the right time,’ said Nathan, ‘and I don’t mean to be insensitive, because I know it’s quite soon after your . . . your . . .’

  ‘Divorce?’ said Evie. The word echoed off the courtyard walls.

  Nathan nodded. ‘Yes. But I thought it was important to say.’

  There was a short silence.

  Evie began to wonder if she’d had a small seizure or blanked out a series of minutes.

  ‘Important to say what?’ she finally said.

  Nathan, who had been gazing at the stars, looked vacant for a moment. ‘Oh! Yes. I wondered if you were lonely.’

  It was the last thing she expected him to say. Well, technically the last thing she expected Nathan to say was, ‘I’m leaving the church to begin my cage-fighting career; you can call me Misty Fingers,’ but this was a close second.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘Never,’ said Evie.

  ‘I mean, I know you have friends here . . .’

  Did she, though? Amy was probably the closest thing, and she still didn’t know what she did for a living.

  ‘. . . but sometimes friendship isn’t enough. You’re unique and beautiful, and you deserve someone who will treat you properly.’

  He’d called her ‘beautiful’. Evie’s heart felt as if it would burst out of her Ava Gardner dress. The pain in her foot dissolved into nothing.

  Clouds of spray from the fountain shimmered in the light from the ballroom doors. The violins at the beginning of ‘Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough’ struck up. There were whoops from the dance floor. Nathan glanced towards the party, tapping his thumbs on the concrete edging. She could see the side of his cheekbone and the long feathering of his lashes, which curled up slightly at the edges. Was this his declaration of intent? Or something else? He gave no more clues, and she had no idea how to proceed. The wrong word would shatter the moment.

  ‘Evie,’ said Nathan, reaching for her hand, ‘there’s something I must tell you.’ Her frozen fingers were enveloped by his warm ones, the skin of his palm soft and pliable, the hands of a man who did not do physical handiwork of any kind. She was aware of the long lean thighs next to hers, highlighted in the darkness by the flickering fluoro of the exit sign.

  Nathan looked deep into her eyes, and with a sinking feeling she s
aw that light again, the one she did not recognise and could not answer. ‘God has a plan for you.’

  ‘Hurray,’ said Evie faintly.

  *

  ‘Should we be letting them drive?’

  Mini D took a swig of the bottle and passed it back. ‘If you want to try and take Sturn’s keys away, go for it. Clayton almost lost an eye once.’

  From where they were sitting, the cars looked like Matchbox toys, peeling off left and right out of the Holy Father car park. Most managed to miss the fountain but not the decorative palms. From the end of the driveway, there was a faint sound of bark scraping over a side panel. No one drove into the lake, however, which was hugely disappointing.

  Mary had never been to the lookout before. After stacking the last plates in the industrial dishwasher, she had finally managed to get to Clayton’s office and was swaddling her heel with band-aids when Mini D shouted out to her that she should rug up.

  ‘I didn’t bring a coat,’ said Mary.

  Mini D appeared in the doorway with his arms full. ‘That’s what Lost Property is for. You want the dead animal or the army jacket?’

  Mary chose the army jacket, which smelled of Dencorub, and followed Mini D’s furry back to a barkchip path behind the centre, punctuated by tamped dirt steps.

  There was a flat stone bench at the top of the climb, a sacrificial altar in the moonlight. Under a golden moon, Sweet Meadow tucked itself into the covers of the valley. Main Street zippered up the middle, an electric spine. Tail-lights were dispersing into the streets like woozy fireflies.

  Joy had already been chauffeured away in her stretch limousine, her groom unconscious in the back. Neither being manhandled into the car nor a collision of head and doorjamb had roused him. Once the bride had departed, Therese and her girls had taken over the dance floor, all standing in a circle and feeling themselves up while pretending not to watch the men watching them.

  Mini D had pinched one of the centrepieces and was cutting pink balloons loose one by one. Mary sat next to him with her knees drawn up under her chin and her hands tucked inside the coat sleeves.

  ‘Mum should have made the cake,’ said Mary, still annoyed that her careful precision in dividing it up had been wasted. Only a handful of guests bothered to try it, and those who did didn’t take a second bite. She took a large swig from the bottle, clapping her hand to her mouth when some champagne leaked out.