Those Pleasant Girls

by Lia Weston

  The man was Nathan.

  Mini D had been right. Zombies were much easier.

  Mary finished the greasy black eyelids on a little girl with bright red curls peeping over her headband. ‘Now, go outside and say, “Grrrr!”’

  ‘Grrrr!’ growled the little girl, making tiny claw hands.

  ‘Perfect.’

  Mary was still grinning when her next customer came in. He had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the booth ceiling.

  ‘I want to look like that.’

  Mary’s stomach went cold while her cheeks became hot. ‘Like . . . Oh, like a zombie?’

  ‘It’s cool,’ said Zach, folding himself down onto the tiny stool opposite her.

  The white stick became slippery in her hands. She turned away to clean her fingers with a towelette and surreptitiously wipe the sweat off her face. Her T-shirt clung to her with the lack of airflow in the booth.

  ‘Close your eyes.’

  Thank God zombie faces didn’t require precision; her hands were trembling way too much. Mary silently blew air onto her face with her lower lip and began to stroke the white onto Zach’s cheeks. Some of it caught on his stubble. She frowned and rubbed a patch with her thumb. Zach opened an eye.

  Mary pointed the greasepaint at him with mock seriousness. ‘Shut.’

  When he obeyed, she exhaled silently and continued colouring. Just focus on the work. Don’t think about Zach. Who’s sitting in front of you. Oh God, your knees are touching. Don’t think about it don’t think about it no no no no. She put one hand on the side of his head to keep it steady while she worked the black into his eyelashes, and prayed her deodorant was working.

  ‘Open your mouth.’

  He did, and his eyes, too. Mary dropped her gaze to his lips, definitely, definitely not thinking about kissing. Or open mouths or tongues or anything or wow he has no fillings stop it don’t think about it.

  She stroked the stick back and forth until his mouth was a black hole. Mary leaned back to look at it critically. It needed blood. She twisted to get the red from the box. When she turned back, his knees were between hers. She started spotting the colour around his lower lip and down his chin. Had she imagined it? Maybe he was always sitting there. No, he was definitely moving. Definitely.

  Slowly but surely, as she blooded his mouth, Zach tipped the tiny plastic chair forward. His knees slid up between Mary’s thighs. Her denim skirt was already short; she felt it sliding higher and the air against her skin. The hand that had managed to steady itself while she painted started shaking again. As her skirt tightened, she fought the urge to run away, and pretended nothing was happening.

  All of the air had been sucked out of her lungs. All of the sound dissolved in her ears. Evie tripped on the dip in Plowers Avenue, landing heavily on her knees. She saw a car slow, the owner winding down their window, did not want to hear the words, pushed up and kept running.

  The job was done. Zach’s eyes looked like empty sockets, his mouth a slash of bleeding tar. He sat there, staring at her with his knees practically in her crotch, saying nothing.

  Mary wiped off her hands. ‘You’re all finished.’ Her inflection shot up at the end like Bianca.

  The zombie finally spoke.

  ‘C’mere.’

  Zach’s hands slipped up her sides and tilted her towards him. She felt as boneless as a rag doll. As his face got closer she saw the coffee-brown of his eyes like islands in his black makeup, the mouth blurring until it touched hers.

  Her body liquefied, melted into lava. He tasted of greasepaint and something familiar yet unfamiliar, distinctly alien. It took her body a good minute to acknowledge her brain again. What was she doing? Moreover, what was he doing? She opened her eyes and saw the dark shapes of his face, and suddenly Therese was in the corridor again, watching her with black eyes through the porthole.

  Panic rose like nausea. Mary shot away from Zach like a bottle rocket. He fell onto the grass, his long legs tangled in the plastic chair. Mary leapt over him and out of the booth, tugging down her skirt, tripping over a family outside. Without a backwards glance, she ran, with Zach’s colours smeared across her face.

  Mary would not open her door.

  Evie sat at the top of the stairs, a cup of tea cold next to her, the hem of her dress brushed with blood. Her eyes felt as if they had been sanded. She had been crying in the kitchen when Mary stormed in and up the stairs. ‘I’m fine,’ was all Evie managed to get out of her.

  Evie was not fine. She hadn’t been quick enough to get out of the marquee without being seen. Nathan had been a little embarrassed, but not embarrassed enough.

  ‘This is Cameron,’ he’d said.

  Cameron had a smokey lounge-singer’s voice and tiny tanned feet wrapped in gold sandals.

  ‘How nice to meet you,’ Evie had responded, and she had managed to hold the panic attack at bay long enough to finish the introduction and then pretend to be late for an appointment. And then she had run.

  Nathan hadn’t been hinting about asking her out at Joy’s reception; he’d been asking on behalf of Phil. In less than five minutes, she had managed to lose both of them.

  Travis drew his knees up under his chin, bracing them on the slope of the slippery dip. It had been hours, and still no movement from inside. Lights did not go on or off, but both Mary and Evie were home. No one answered when he knocked on the front door. Mary was not responding to his texts.

  He had found the face-painting stall abandoned, money scattered on the floor, chairs tipped over. Travis gathered the money, neatened the booth up and then fruitlessly searched the sideshows and crowds for his friend.

  Headlights swung around the corner and lit the jacarandas on Cherry Orchard Way. Travis automatically dropped his face to his knees as the vehicle passed, his head covered by his hood.

  Mary’s room stayed dark.

  The fireworks display – Evie’s final touch for the spring carnival – began. The sky was sprinkled with white-hot glitter, the Pleasants’ house flashing red and blue like a police siren.

  Travis sat, with his skeleton face, and could do nothing to help.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Barefoot, Mary walked on tiptoes along the slab of footpath. Even after six months of trekking back and forth across the Holy Father floors, her work shoes still hurt. She was considering inventing a full-foot band-aid.

  The dining room had been dead, and there were no bookings for dinner. Faced with the Sophie’s choice of paying staff for doing nothing or sending them home early, Clayton chose the latter. Mary, given the reprieve, shrugged and obeyed.

  She had begun studying in the kitchen so she couldn’t just sit and stare out her bedroom window and wonder for the kabillionth time why Zach had kissed her, and what it meant. She had tried to broach the subject with Evie twice, but her mother had been in a weird mood since the carnival, so she had left it alone.

  There was no way she was going to tell Travis or Mini D.

  The dead flies in the Rose Apothecary’s window had multiplied. Soon they’d be their own shop display. Mary put her hands on the cool wood of the door. Something about this place bothered her and she couldn’t work out why. The wasted potential, perhaps. Mrs Beadles said potential was part of beauty, but so far Mary couldn’t see it here. If only she could rescue it . . . after she won a million dollars, of course. Mary rolled her eyes at herself and her delusions of grandeur.

  ‘Heel’s bleeding.’

  His voice came from behind. She would later congratulate herself for not showing how much he’d startled her.

  Zach’s car was idling across two handicapped parking spots. The driver dragged his eyes up over her black knee-length skirt and gravy-splashed white blouse. Another failed topknot was working its way down Mary’s head. She knew she had no eyeliner left after taking a thousand racks of steaming glasses out of the dishwasher.

  Mary cast a disinterested look at the back of her foot. ‘I know.’

  Zach was in no hurry to
move. The car growled quietly in the background. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  So many words danced on her tongue. Asleep. Hiding. Buried. ‘Work.’ Her traitor’s body arched towards him. She crossed her arms.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ The lips that she had definitely not been thinking about curved in a lazy arc. ‘Thought you might wanna hang out.’

  ‘With you?’

  Zach pressed a finger into the dashboard. ‘Why not?’

  Why not? Was he kidding, why not? What the hell? ‘What about Therese?’

  He tapped the side of the car and looked towards the middle of Main Street for a moment. ‘Maybe I want to do something different.’

  All of her cool responses dissolved before she could gather them together.

  ‘Band’s not rehearsing Sunday next week. Kieran’s away. If you wanna get together or something, I mean.’

  Mary shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You know where the orchard is, right?’

  It was a challenge. Mary’s nose began to itch; she fought the urge to scratch it. With another unhurried smile, he finally turned the steering wheel away from her and drove off.

  Mary deliberately turned and walked in the other direction. She was not looking back. She was not going to meet Therese’s boyfriend in a deserted apple orchard.

  No way.

  It had been a whole week and Evie still felt as if someone had scooped her out with a melon-baller. Wonderful, kind Nathan – her Nathan – holding someone else, kissing someone else, looking at that woman as if all his Christmases had come at once. A vision of their embrace played repeatedly in her mind, a sadistic loop that kept her awake into the night. Something had gone horribly wrong. She rewound the days, looking for the flaw in her plans. Should she have involved him more in the carnival preparations? Should she have been less capable, asked for help, subdued her natural organisational abilities? Perhaps it was something more superficial. Was her look wrong? Not sexy enough? Too sexy? It was torture.

  Evie opened a hand-addressed envelope sitting on the kitchen table from the day before.

  Dear Ms Bouvier, We appreciate your interest in Snoad’s Flour Mill and the position of Mill Coordinator for which you applied. Unfortunately, your application was not selected for further consideration . . . We wish you every personal and professional success . . .

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ said Evie, tearing the letter into tiny pieces and scattering it across the table.

  There was a tentative knock on the front door. Evie slouched down the hallway, offhandedly checking the hall mirror. Her hair reflected the previous night’s thrashing. She half-heartedly patted it down before opening the door.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ said her visitor.

  Evie’s tongue seemed stuck down. ‘Of course not,’ she managed at last. ‘It’s wonderful to see you.’

  In the kitchen, Nathan seated himself at the table among the scattered pieces of the rejection letter. Evie switched on the coffee machine and searched the fridge for a suitable offering.

  ‘Well, congratulations on the carnival,’ said Nathan. ‘What a day, eh?’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Evie, still with her head in the fridge. She leaned her forehead on the cheese drawer, trying to dispel the blood that had gathered in her skull.

  ‘I’ve had so many people come up and say what a great time they had.’

  ‘How lovely,’ said Evie, wondering if she could crawl into the shelves and stay there.

  Nathan then started telling her about who had approached him and what they’d said and the rides they’d liked and things they’d eaten, and as Evie tumbled raspberries over a cheesecake and prepared coffee, she felt the words falling over her like raindrops. She could think of nothing but the other woman. Where was she, who was she, why was she? Nathan’s voice skimmed along in the background, and all Evie heard was ‘not you, not you, not you’.

  ‘Evie?’ Nathan’s fork was still sticking out of his slice of cheesecake.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Fifteen thousand dollars. That’s what the carnival raised.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said Evie, tasting neither coffee nor cake. ‘Is it enough?’

  ‘It’s enough to keep everything going for a bit longer at least.’ Nathan put his cup down. ‘Are you okay? You’re quite pale.’

  ‘Just tired, I think.’ She smiled, though her mouth felt heavy.

  ‘No wonder, with all the work you’ve been doing.’ Nathan picked up one of the shredded pieces of paper and started folding it in halves. ‘Which is why I’m rather hesitant to tell you the other reason why I’m here.’

  His words sliced through her inertia. Evie inhaled so sharply through her nose that her eyes stung. ‘No, please. Go ahead.’

  ‘Cameron’s birthday is on December first. I’d like to throw her a surprise party, you know, introduce her to Sweet Meadow. I want everyone to be there.’

  ‘She doesn’t live here?’

  ‘She’s currently based in Trinidad. She works for the UN.’

  Of course she did. She probably threw herself in front of tanks while inoculating babies.

  ‘Will you . . .’ Nathan hesitated for a moment, his fingertips playing over and under each other, the thumb looping around the others. ‘I’m already in your debt. I feel I have no right to ask anything more of you.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d make her birthday cake.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Evie before she had a chance to think about it properly. ‘Is she . . . er . . . Cameron allergic to anything?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Nathan.

  ‘Well, what’s her favourite cake?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that either.’

  ‘Okay, then, do you think she’s more of a mud cake or butter cake kind of person?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Nathan. ‘We’ve only been together for about five months. But I think she’s the one.’

  Evie stared at him. ‘I thought you were bad at being impulsive.’

  ‘This feels different,’ said Nathan, getting a dreamy expression. ‘We met at one of my retreats, and I . . . just knew. You know how you just know?’

  Looking at his glowing face, the random curls lifting, Evie sadly did.

  She walked behind him up the hall, giving her face a reprieve from the endless smiling, almost desperate for him to leave.

  ‘Oh,’ he said on the doorstep, ‘did you see Phil at the carnival?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Evie, ‘for a bit.’

  Nathan was clearly expecting more information. Nothing was forthcoming. ‘Oh. Well once you’ve worked out the cost of the cake, just let me know.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘You can’t do it for free.’

  ‘It can be my gift.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that, Evie,’ he said, smiling.

  She was about to insist when she remembered the rejection letters and her slowly sinking bank account. He was right. She couldn’t even afford to be magnanimous. Evie clung to the doorframe. ‘Thank you.’ And for the love of holy hell, please go home.

  Evie ran a bath so hot the temperature verged on molten steel, but did not get in. She sat on the floor and waited until the tightness in her chest subdued.

  They met on the retreat. Only five months ago. It was still hatching, this romance. It was still an egg for the most part. Long-distance, too. What were the odds of it lasting? Not great. He wasn’t married. He was barely in love. She still had her plan. Now she just had to change its direction.

  By the time Mary came limping in from work, the kitchen floor was papered with scraps. Evie sucked on the end of her pencil and examined what looked like a lumpy panda.

  ‘Whassat?’ said Mary, throwing her shoes into the corner by the doorway.

  ‘It’s supposed to be the dove of peace.’ Evie held the page up.

  ‘If that came flying at me, I’d shoot it.’ Mary turned on the tap hard enough for most of th
e water to spurt out of her glass and back into the sink. ‘Why are you drawing doves?’

  ‘Nathan has asked me to make a birthday cake for his friend.’ Evie stumbled on the last word. ‘I’m just playing with the design.’

  ‘You should ask D. He can draw anything.’

  Evie crossed out the panda-dove and started again. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise. The fewer people know the better.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ said Mary, shrugging.

  After eight more minutes of careful drawing and crossing-out, Evie threw her pencil down. ‘Fine. Get Mini D.’

  Mary grinned and started texting.

  Travis and Mini D trooped through the garden, past the elm tree and up the stairs to the back doors where the kitchen glowed. A saucepan on the stove wafted drifts of cinnamon and clove. Travis was last inside, wiping his feet on the doormat. Mini D emptied his pockets on the counter, creating a small pile of paper scraps and pencil shavings.

  Evie handed them giant mugs of hot chocolate and swore them both to secrecy. She was wearing a dark blue dress – one of Travis’s favourites – her hair swept off her neck like a question mark.

  ‘What kind of cake is it?’ said Mini D. He took the last packet of chips from the pantry.

  ‘A big one.’

  ‘Like a wedding cake?’ said Mary.

  ‘No,’ said Evie, very quickly. ‘It’s not a wedding cake. It’s for a birthday.’

  ‘Whose?’ said Mary.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Dean, I’m thinking of a flora-fauna theme,’ said Evie, making a vista shape with her hands.

  ‘Got it,’ said Mini D, sitting down with his sketchpad.

  ‘You know, flowers, birds, butterflies.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Mini D.

  ‘Things found in nature.’

  Mary rolled her eyes. ‘Mum, God, he’s got it.’

  ‘No extra snouts, no four-eyed nothings, got it,’ said Mini D, scribbling away.

  Evie turned to the bench and began chopping vegetables into tiny cubes, the blade flashing between her fingers. Travis settled in his usual chair facing the oven and added another marshmallow to his hot chocolate. His mug was now mostly gelatine. He could have made a third of a cow out of it.