by Austin, Lucy
CHAPTER 16 - VEGGING OUT
Later on that evening, the doorbell goes, good timing indeed as it jolts me out of thinking about Australia, this time prompted by my impulsive shift at the Globe. What’s strange though is that it’s awakened memories that are becoming less romantic in the cold light of day and more downright sad: Like the time that a barefoot Joe and a few of his hostel followers came over the road to eat at the café. I remember him sat there looking really suntanned, twisting his jade necklace, while some girl in a bikini did a French plait in his hair. When they then stood up to leave, to my horror, I realised that they had absolutely no intention of paying their bill.
Having reimbursed my boss out of my own pocket, when I mentioned it to Joe later, instead of being apologetic he just shrugged. ‘Oh come on, it’s just shitty food they make a massive mark up on. Whatever happened to mates rates?’
He sounded so sure of himself, I thought it was me that was being oversensitive and never mentioned it again. Nor did I think to tell him that that plait of his made him look like a tosser.
Answering the door, I’m now hoping it’s not anyone important as I’m dressed in proper unattractive slob wear consisting of flowery leggings, a long top and a bra that is barely doing its scaffolding job.
Liv stands there with her yoga ball, leaning against the wall, eating Pringles. ‘I need to sit,’ she pants, waddling past me, offering me a crisp.
‘That’s three days in a row you’ve been sat on my couch. You okay?’ I ask, following her down the corridor.
Liv has moved to the flat above the Globe, to save some money, she insists. I somehow suspect it’s more that she needs to be near civilisation and those almond croissants that stare at her all day, willing her to sneak down in the dead of night and eat them.
‘I’m okay.’ she yawns. ‘Just fancied pretending I have a flatmate. Paolo keeps ringing me on the intercom. He’s driving me fucking nuts. Asking me questions. So much for having some peace and quiet! He can’t bother me here.’ The half-hearted way she says it, you can tell she doesn’t really mean it and she quite likes being needed. ‘He was pretty impressed with what you did by the way Kate. Said you can work there again if you want to.’
I decide to ignore her as I’m still processing through that little stint at the Globe as I’m taken aback how much I loved it.
‘Liv, I’ve been thinking about Joe again recently,’ I blurt out.
‘Joe from Oz?’ she exclaims, staring at me in surprise and I slowly nod, annoyed at myself. ‘The one who assumed this god-like status that he didn’t deserve?’
That’s where Liv’s at on the whole Joe subject – she positively hates the guy. On the rare occasion I mention his name, she points out how vain he was (true), how he never bought a round of drinks (true) and how he didn’t wear any shoes walking the streets of Coogee (true). While it flares up like an open wound on a regular basis with me, I know better than to go there too often with her. However, every now and again, when I’m having an off week, I dare to go there – as casually as possible mind, for fear of getting shot down in flames.
‘Have you ever bothered to find out what he’s up to lately?’ Liv mumbles through a mouthful of crisps, compelling me to admit to sending that email a while back and the subsequent ‘unfriending’ on Facebook. ‘Jesus, why didn’t you mention this to me?’ she says, giving me a hug. You’re always really scary on the subject.
‘All I wanted was to stop building him up in my head,’ I moaned to Liv. ‘But instead I made it worse!’
Liv shakes her head. ‘All you did was ruin your timeline.’ I look up at her puzzled. ‘You know,’ she continues. ‘People in the past need to stay in the past, not turn up in photos wearing low-cut surf shorts that show off stupid tattoos, draped around some random person they befriended a few seconds before. You totally did the right thing by unfriending him.’
‘I feel such a sad cow,’ I say, as it’s true. I am truly pathetic.
‘Who can blame you? He was such a selfish asshole. It’s bound to leave some residual damage. Clever boy though, giving you all that long distance crap, so you then torment yourself thinking that it would have otherwise worked out. Surprised he didn’t tell you that you were too good for him.’
‘Actually, he did at the airport before I flew home,’ I say, smirking. ‘Golly, you’re on fire today with the advice. What have you been reading?’ Liv is using self-help phrases that she doesn’t normally use.
‘Oh I don’t know, some earnest celebrity dishing out some advice online,’ she grins. ‘Seriously though, you would probably get a reality check if you met Joe again,’ she munches. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I went onto his Facebook profile not that long ago and he put on there that he is “very wealthy, with ample time for leisure”. Seriously, he really isn’t all that. I think that maybe you’ve idealised him as you met him overseas.’
Liv has a point. Real life out there felt different in the forty-degree heat. Even those hostellers who literally had thirty bucks to their name found it positively exciting to have to hitch a ride up to Bundaberg to find fruit-picking work. After all, someone would always be there to shout them a pint or lend them some sun-factor – there was never any cause to panic. Therefore, it stands to reason that out there even a fairly bog-standard holiday romance could feel like Gone with the Wind.
Besides, the fact it was for a fixed period of time made the rest of the experience more golden, it added more meaning. So what if Joe was sponging off me every week? So what if I turned down a trip to the Opera House in preference for staying in with him on a rickety bunk watching repeat episodes of Friends? And did it really matter I didn’t bother with enjoying the rest of my time in Australia? Well, as it turns out, yes it did.
Pouring out a glass of water for Liv, I want to quiz her further on why, like Anna, she is so resolutely anti-Joe, as from what I can recollect he didn’t do anything to her personally. And if they are both anti-Joe, why are they so anti-each other? I then think better of it. Joe occupies far too much of my internal dialogue as it is. He’s not going to take over our entire conversation.
‘Guess what, I’ve not done a Facebook update for seven days,’ Liv confesses, as though she is in some sort of addiction programme. ‘I can’t cope with all the bragging. All of these friends who are lovely in real life, have these hideous alter egos. It makes me want to fucking slap them.’ I have to agree with her, as having been subjected to Joe’s smug selfies I’m starting to think that social media does not enhance anyone else’s life in the slightest, just the person doing the updates. ‘We need to sort out social media for the café though. Paula has taken over tweeting but I don’t think she’s got the hang of it yet,’ says Liv. ‘For a start, she’s got terrible grammar and secondly, she takes really bad aerial pictures of the food that make it look seriously unappetising. We’ve got to do something.’
I’m on the verge of saying that perhaps I could help them out, when Claire flounces in wearing a salmon pink Divine Beauty onesie, rendering me temporarily speechless.
Liv just snorts with laughter. ‘Geez, talking of adults who haven’t grown up,’ she shrieks. ‘Loving the giant baby grow Claire, I might borrow it for my own.’
Claire just glares at her. ‘Given the way you’ve let yourself go, you do know your baby is going to be huge. It’ll probably need a larger one. You not got a home to go to?’ Sucking on a lolly, my flatmate then switches on the telly and starts getting her extensive manicure set out, which folds out like a child’s pencil case.
Rocking from side to side on the ball, Liv now looks annoyed. ‘You wanna know something Claire? My baby needs stimulus,’ she retorts. ‘I figure I’d expose it to all the walks of the world before it comes out the womb, so it’s prepared for encountering bitches like you.’
‘Kate,’ barks Claire, ignoring Liv. ‘You complain about Linda hanging out here all the time, but you have this girl here, who happens to be pregnant by my ex-husband. How is that fair?�
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Liv interrupts. ‘Err, I am here you know. This is Kate’s flat that’s why. She can invite who she wants and guess what? You can’t.’ She then does what I love best and addresses what is not being said. ‘Oh, and by the way, if I haven’t already said a hundred times or so, I’m genuinely sorry for going out with your ex-husband. I even apologised again while you were waxing off my pubes! You need to get over it now, seriously - I am. We’re hardly a Hollywood love story are we?’ I love Liv for having this direct manner. The last time I had that confidence to cut through the crap was when I had to deal with difficult customers pretending they had a hair in their salad at the Sydney café.
Pretending that Liv and I aren’t in the same room to have a vote on it, Claire marches over to her DVD cabinet and pulls out Jerry Maguire.
‘I like this movie,’ I say, while Liv nods and yawns so loudly that Claire just puts her hand up.
‘Okay, okay. Liv, we get it. You’re up the duff. You should have used protection. Shut up already!’ She stomps off out of the room.
‘God, she’s a peach isn’t she?’ whispers Liv as the opening credits start and Claire comes back in with a drink. Looking at the two of them sitting there on the couch with that one thing in common, there’s a small part of me that sympathises with Claire. It can’t be exactly easy for her having to live within walking distance of a girl who is pregnant by her hairy ex-husband. Relations are bound to be strained at best, quite acrimonious at worst.
‘Claire likes watching the endings of romantic movies.’ I say to Liv within hearing shot of my flatmate, who is now approaching filing her baby toe like she’s doing open-heart surgery. I expect Liv to roll her eyes and privately smirk the way that I did when I caught her rewinding the same five minutes over and over again one Sunday afternoon. Only that she doesn’t.
Instead, she goes silent for a few seconds. ‘Oh I do that too,’ she admits in a sheepish manner. Nail file in hand, Claire turns around and looks at Liv in surprise, while I roll my eyes. ‘No seriously Claire, I always love watching the endings to the movies,’ she says.
‘Is this something only single women in their late twenties are supposed to do as a substitute for the real thing?’ I say as I’m starting to feeling like I’m missing something here.
‘Seriously, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. It’s therapeutic,’ explains Liv. ‘Seeing the happy ever after. None of the shit you know, just the best bits. Yeah, I pride myself on being the Queen of You Tube montages made by creepy super-fans.’
Under normal circumstances, Claire would want to pick apart what Liv has just said, but instead she nods furiously. ‘O to the M to the G, I thought I was the only one who did that! I love them all. Bridget Jones, Sweet Home Alabama. I love them all!’
Liv nods stroking her belly. ‘Say Anything, Serendipity. And of course the rather lovely Jerry Maguire.’
For the first time ever, Claire gives her a genuine grin, clearly delighted they now have something in common – well apart from the man with the hairy chest.
For the next hour, we then sit in a comfortable silence watching the movie while Claire paints her nails, only to swoon at the end bit where Tom Cruise marches in on a bunch of jaded woman and declares that he wants his wife back.
‘I came across Love and Other Drugs the other day. Have you seen?’ Claire asks conspiratorially to Liv like they are new best friends.
‘Yeah! The bit where Jake Gyllenhaal says he’ll carry her. I cried,’ says Liv. ‘I fucking cried man.’
I clear my throat as I’ve just about had enough of this syrupy chatter. They both look at me. ‘What?’ I say. ‘It just never occurs to me to watch the last five minutes of the film alright?’ It’s true. Surely, nothing is that sweet when you haven’t witnessed the bit leading up to it, done the groundwork beforehand. ‘It kind of sums up life doesn’t it? We just want to send off a few texts and then arrange the wedding.’ Finishing my rant, I get up from the sofa, feeling frazzled at the change in the group dynamics. ‘Another drink?’
A little while later, we’re all sat in the dark with only the glare of the screen for lighting and I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. Liv sniffs. ‘I sort of think these films are the nearest I’m ever going to get to romance,’ she croaks, her voice choking with emotion.
‘What are you on about?’ says Claire. ‘Look at Renee Zellweger in this, she’s a single mum and Tom Cruise still falls in love with her. It can work out you know.’
Liv then pats her arm by way of saying “I know that’s a pile of bullshit but thank you for saying the right thing”. A few seconds later, the moment is over as Claire shrugs Livs’s hand away as though remembering she’s still meant to be harbouring a grudge. But I’m not imagining it. The atmosphere is noticeably lighter, as though someone has switched off the commercial strip lighting in preference for some Laura Ashley side lamps.
CHAPTER 17 - WASH ON, WASH OFF
For the time of year, Broadstairs is cold today, so cold that the wind whistles through my flat and as the storage heaters only kick in when they feel like it I’m absolutely freezing, layered up to the max with not one, but two jumpers. Sitting in the lounge, I eat my toasted sandwich, staring absent-mindedly at yet another rogue hair extension of Claire’s lying there on the sofa. I keep coming across them around the flat in unexpected places, which is not terribly pleasant. It’s sort of like finding some sort of hairy pet in a food cupboard you weren’t expecting to find.
Earlier, on my way back from the Globe where I enjoyed an obligatory caffeine fix, I saw Scary Linda stomping up the hill.
‘Hey Linda!’ I studied her face closely, as there was something about her that was a little off. ‘You okay?’ Although dressed for business, she was looking more than a little lacklustre with bloodshot eyes and mascara running down to her chin.
‘Yes, well no, not really,’ she burst into tears, tucking her hair behind her ears. ‘Dave says that he wishes,’ she paused dramatically. ‘He wishes he didn’t live so far away. He hates the journey.’
Wow, this is a sharp departure from the other night when she was waxing lyrical on her perfect relationship. Within a short space of time, it would appear that Dave has gone from leaving love note trails around Linda’s flat to complaining that the train doesn’t have a buffet cart.
‘Is that all it is?’ I wanted to quiz her further, thinking that it was a little overboard to vent about trains when everyone knew they never ran on time.
‘Well,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I think it might also be that he accidentally stumbled upon the scrapbook.’
‘Oh,’ I sigh. ‘The Love Book.’
The other evening at ours, Linda happened to drop into the conversation that she had created a scrapbook made up of pictures of her and Dave, along with cut outs from magazines that detailed her living aspirations, where they might go on holiday, the appliances they might own and what their future children might look like. Overlooking the obvious – that being, with their gene pool Scary Linda and Dave were unlikely to produce beautiful babies – the book was ill advised on so many levels I couldn’t get my head round it, nor could Claire, to the point we discussed it after Linda gone back to her flat in a rare moment of solidarity.
‘This book must never see the light of day,’ said Claire darkly. The fact that Dave just happened upon it is not good news. In fact, from a ‘things not to do in the early days of courtship’ perspective, this is potentially catastrophic.
‘Anyhow, I just don’t want to talk about it,’ Linda said dramatically, cutting me off in my stride and walking up the hill. ‘I’ll let him cool down.’ Looking after her as she walks up the hill to work, it occurred to me then and there, that as sad as I still find the whole Joe break up, I’d rather it be down to timing than because I’d force fed my boyfriend to have a happy ending that I hadn’t actually yet got round to putting in the work for.
Imagining Linda now at her desk, barking shrill orders to her team to book her on a fly-drive quick s
mart – that or doing a spot of decoupage for a new ‘arguments’ page in the love book – I get on my hands and knees to scrub the kitchen floor. Kate, why haven’t you got a job to go to? As crappy as it is to clean up all the dirt, at least with cleaning there is a beginning, middle and end. I can see the overall purpose of it, rather than what I’ve been doing by way of work since I came home from Sydney, where lazy bosses can’t be bothered to communicate their strategy and just chuck more work your way until it just becomes a repetitive cycle. Maybe it’s because they too don’t really know what the point to it all is – I’m pretty sure that Barbara didn’t, what with her unnatural obsession with sandwich fillings.
And that’s when the penny drops. I suddenly realise what my problem is and the reason why I’ve been in the job wilderness for so long. I want to have a proper ending in what I do! I want files that stay filed, cases that stay closed. I want people that thank me and move on. And the work I did at the Globe the other day gave me just that – perfect, complete exchanges with people. No sooner had I dealt with a tricky customer, a new and shinier one would walk through the door. Every single time it was a different experience and I absolutely loved it. Looking back, I remember trying to explain why I loved café life to Joe in Sydney, but he just rolled his eyes over his free panini and said it wasn’t a proper job. Well, you were wrong Joe!
I’ve had a similar moment of clarity before, where I reached a breaking point and knew I needed to do something different in order to have something different. Moments like that don’t happen often, but when they do, you somehow find a new way to move forward. It was several years ago now. I had just settled into university life and then graduated, finding myself a little out of step with the real world. Shock horror, my fluffy ‘ology’ degree didn’t translate into getting a foot on a ladder rung of any kind. Despite applying to everything across the board, I couldn’t get a job for love or money, not helped by the fact I’d done absolutely no constructive work experience of any kind. Any optimism I did have soon disappeared when I started having to hold down random jobs that I could have done if I hadn’t bothered with higher education – highlights of which included over-pruning trees in a fruit orchard, working on a speedy conveyor belt in a sandwich factory, and a job as a ‘port receptionist’ at a ferry terminal where I had to say ‘embarkation’ with a nasal voice over the tannoy.
