With all the hilarity the trip to the station had gone in a flash and suddenly there we were, stopped at a red light, with the entrance to Central just across the intersection.
‘OK,’ said Andy, unclicking his seatbelt, ‘I’ll jump out here.’
‘Oh,’ I started, as Milly and I twisted around. ‘OK . . .’
He started to open the door, but then leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
I looked at his hand. Then into the blue, quizzical eyes.
‘Catch ya later,’ he added, getting out. ‘See ya, Milly.’
‘Hey,’ said Milly, ‘don’t forget your bag!’
‘Whoops.’ He leant in again and grabbed his backpack off the seat. The light, meanwhile, had changed; the car behind honked loudly.
‘All right!’ cried Milly, whirling round and automatically raising a finger at the driver. ‘Chill!’
Andy grinned at her.
‘Scary!’
Then he pulled his head out again and was off, merging with all the office workers crossing at the lights.
We took off over the intersection, Milly craning her neck to catch another glimpse of him.
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘cute!’
And suddenly – whether because of road rage, silly Milly and all that she’d put me through, or whatever – I was furious.
‘Mill,’ I cried, ‘lay off!’
She glanced round at me in surprise. I shoved my indicator down to change lanes, my heart thumping. Then yelled, ‘Shit!’ and swerved back again as a car right there in my blind spot blared its horn.
‘He – he’s got a girlfriend,’ I went on in a more reasonable voice, after I’d straightened up. ‘He lives with her, in Summer Hill.’
Small silence. Milly folded her arms.
‘Mmm,’ she said airily, ‘don’t we know all about him!’
My eyes slid sideways; I made a withering face.
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
Milly smiled and shrugged, all infuriating innocence.
The car in front stopped suddenly; I braked and we lurched forward in our belts. Never again, I thought, will I drive in the city in rush hour.
‘I know something about all of them there,’ I said finally, taking refuge in my righteous anger, ‘because I was forced to stand there for hours in that kitchen like a complete dork while that dickhead Paul had his shower and then hunted around for your shoe!’
From the corner of my eye I saw her pale slightly at the mention of his name; her face crumpled a bit.
‘Yeah,’ she said, reaching over and squeezing my arm. ‘I know. I’m sorry, Al – I’m really, really grateful, honestly. And so,’ she added, all coochy-coo, ‘ees my li’l shoe!’
I gave a short laugh. ‘Yeah, well I’m never doing it again! From now on,’ I added, only half-jokingly, ‘you’ve just got to be more selective about where you leave your shoes!’
Now as I lay in bed I got a mental image of the object in question, being held out by the beastly Paul. And then felt prickly with embarrassment all over again at the memory of his housemates’ collective gaze on me, sharp and curious, and their obvious enjoyment of my predicament.
I groaned and flounced onto my side, scrunching up into the foetal position again. That thing about stepping outside your comfort zone being good for you, I decided, was very debatable.
I must’ve dreamt about my visit, because I awoke in the middle of the night mentally revisiting that dilapidated kitchen. My mind’s eye like a roving camera, slowly moving from Chet at the table and Andy leaning against the dresser, then to the fridge between them and the poster on the door. I had an idea it was advertising some kind of play reading, but maybe I’d dreamt that too. And the date . . .
It must have been lurking in my subconscious all along, because now I suddenly zoomed right in on it. My eyes flew open in the dark. Thursday, 12 May, it had said, at the Cave.
I remembered the guy in the pub. See you Thursday evening.
Probably a coincidence; he was most likely talking about something else entirely.
And yet . . .
When was the twelfth? Today was Tuesday, but what date was it?
Then I remembered that the deadline for my essay yesterday was the ninth. The twelfth of May was the day after tomorrow.
I kept a sharp lookout for one of those posters at uni the next day. I knew there’d be quite a few of them around, but of course the moment I tried to find one, I couldn’t. People rip stuff down, just for the hell of it. I know, because I’d helped put up a whole lot of posters for an O-Week dance party in aid of earthquake victims, and the next day there were barely any of them left. Some people are just dickheads.
I found what I thought was the corner of one, still pinned to a noticeboard in the library foyer, and just some sticky tape where I was sure I’d seen one on a window in the student union. I’d just about given up when I happened to spy a poster still bravely clinging to the underpass near the Physics Building. One corner was hanging down and it’d copped some graffiti, but it was still readable.
It was for a reading of extracts from new plays by different authors, put on by the uni dramatic society. To be held in the Cave, the basement where they put on most of their productions. At 8 pm, entry free.
I’d been to a couple of things at the Cave – a stand-up comedy night during O-Week and an absurdist play a little while after that. I have to say, I only went to the play because a friend, Jess, was in the cast. She’d been one of the drama stars at school and she did what she could in this production, which turned out to be a bit of a dog’s breakfast. I think a difficult play like that needs professional actors to bring it to life, and the student performers were mostly very far from that level. But who am I to criticise – good luck to them for tackling it.
I went with Milly and Dunc on the last night. Dunc, typically, thought the whole thing was a ‘heap of shit’ and had to be persuaded with some difficulty to stay for the party afterwards. Though we didn’t end up staying long. Most of the people there, if they weren’t in the cast or crew, had been, or hoped to be, in others. So that turned out to be just about the sole topic of conversation, and the basis for the in-jokes.
Dunc had stood around looking bored, like a fish out of water – if a drowning fish could ever look bored. I at least made an effort, but it makes you feel yay high when whoever it is you’re talking to is watching over your shoulder for a Somebody, not a nobody, to associate with. Even Jess looked a bit out of it – this being her first uni production.
The only one of us who did seem to be enjoying herself was Milly. She can really hold her own in the loud and theatrical department, though appearances can be deceptive. There was a skinhead-type boy – a member of the cast – whom, I could tell, she was singling out for special attention. Sure enough, that night did eventuate into one of Milly’s disasters.
So I wasn’t exactly desperate to embrace the scene at the Cave again. Anyway, I reminded myself, the gathering mentioned by the guy in the Rose and Star was probably nothing whatever to do with the dramatic society. In a city this size it could be anything, anywhere – a baroque ensemble concert at someone’s house, or a poetry recital in a church . . .
Then I thought about the crowd at the pub that night, of which that boy had seemed pretty typical. He hardly seemed like the classical music type, or a member of a church youth group – though you couldn’t always tell.
Your masterpiece . . .
It was obviously something arty, anyway. Something fairly switched on.
I thought about the poster’s other location in that house in Surry Hills, and its occupants. Wondered again about the sketches they’d mentioned writing for a revue. Surely it would be for one of the uni revues – they certainly seemed like students. Perhaps even for the drama society.
I wondered if Andy was going, on Thursday evening.
‘How’s lover boy these days? Haven’t heard or s
een much of him lately.’
I glanced across the table at Dad, rolling his pasta slowly around his fork. I shrugged.
‘He’s OK.’
It was the kind of question that normally he would have asked in a teasing, let’s-get-a-rise-out-of-Alice kind of way. Now, in his new glum mood, I knew it was just an attempt to fill in the fog of silence that had descended on tonight’s meal.
Mum frowned down at her food. ‘He was here on Saturday night, Pete.’
‘Oh . . .’ Dad gave a short laugh. ‘That’s right – I just didn’t see him.’
You were otherwise occupied, I thought. In the old days he would always have a chat with Dunc. They got on pretty well, and there was usually a current sporting event or three to discuss.
There was another pause, about the twentieth that night. We chewed on.
Suddenly there was a great lump in my throat; I thought I was going to cry. Either that or lean over, shake my father and scream: for god’s sake, Dad, just cheer up!
‘Still enjoying his course?’ asked Mum, after a moment.
I shrugged once more. ‘Seems to be. He’s doing OK, I think.’
Like many of his friends, Dunc was studying Commerce. He was in second year and got by on just enough work to maintain a credit average, with the odd distinction thrown in. He never seemed to get too stressed about work, or about anything else, for that matter. Like me, he was thinking about spending a semester on exchange somewhere overseas, but we never really discussed what he wanted to do at the end of his degree. If ever there was a here-and-now type person it was Dunc.
As for me, I didn’t have much of a clue either. Just navigating first year was enough to keep me occupied.
Mum lifted one eyebrow.
‘You could certainly never accuse our Duncan of being a worrywart.’
I turned my head.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
She shrugged, poking at her food. ‘Just what I said,’ she said lightly. ‘He’s not one to . . . take the weight of the world on his shoulders, that’s all.’
I stared at her, my pulse beginning to quicken. ‘What?’ I said at last. ‘You mean he doesn’t spend every minute of every day bemoaning the fate of the world’s starving millions?’
Sometimes it really annoys me just how easily she can get to me.
Dad sighed, very wearily. ‘Come, you two . . .’
Another tiny shrug from Mum.
‘Well, he’s not one to lose much sleep over the big issues.’
‘How would you know?’ I leant towards her, suddenly boiling with rage. It was one thing for me to think such thoughts, quite another thing for her to come out and say them.
‘How would you know, Mum, what Dunc thinks? He – he’s actually quite . . .’
I trailed off, unable to think of any examples of altruistic impulses on my boyfriend’s part towards the less fortunate. Their cricket team had coached some underprivileged kids a few years back, but that had been at the school’s instigation, not the boys’. Dunc had enjoyed doing it, but it hadn’t inspired him to carry on with anything else like that.
I could hardly accuse Mum of not doing anything for the greater good. She’s been the chairwoman of a high-powered professional women’s group that’s raised a heap of money for various charities over the years.
‘Anyway,’ I finished, ‘you wouldn’t really know what he’s like! You make him so nervous whenever he’s here that it’s a wonder he dares open his mouth!’
‘Al-ice,’ growled Dad, into the ensuing silence.
But I was looking at Mum, gratified to see a tiny look of shock, then hurt, register in her eyes. Her gaze met mine.
‘Nonsense,’ she said, but I knew I’d hit a nerve. I waited.
‘Well,’ she said finally, slowly, ‘I’m sorry if I . . . scare Dunc. I don’t mean to . . .’
She broke off, looking at Dad for support. He frowned.
‘I think you’re laying it on a bit thick, Al–’
‘No, I’m not!’ I cried recklessly. Things had gone from bad to worse; I might as well drag them right to the bottom.
I swung back to Mum.
‘It’s just that you’re so . . . judgemental sometimes, and not just about Dunc! About heaps of things.’ I folded my arms, staring down at the remains of my dinner. ‘I’m sorry I’m not Miss Perfect; neither of us are.’ Then I realised what I’d said and added, ‘He’s not Mr Perfect, I mean.’
Mum’s hand came onto mine. I looked up and was amazed to see that she suddenly seemed to be about to cry, something I’ve hardly ever seen her do.
Then I glanced at Dad again. By now he would normally well and truly have taken up the role of arbitrator and peacemaker; yet here he was staring down at his plate again, detached, almost remote.
Desolation flooded through me like a tide of dirty brown water.
‘I’m sorry, darling.’ Mum was blinking, squeezing my hand in hers. ‘It’s just that . . . well, we really like Dunc and everything, don’t we, Pete?’
Dad, still not looking up, nodded slowly.
‘It’s just that you’ve been going out with him forever – he’s the only real boyfriend you’ve ever had. And we worry about you getting tied down so soon, that’s all . . .’ She trailed off and I could feel her looking at me, but I’d dropped my gaze and was staring fixedly at the bowl of oranges in the middle of the table.
‘Perhaps,’ she went on, after a moment, ‘you should think about going out with other boys for a while.’
More silence.
‘I’m not tied down,’ I muttered finally. I’d grabbed the pepper grinder and was batting it back and forth between my fingers. ‘And I don’t wanna go out with other boys.’
Even as I said it I knew it wasn’t the absolute, one hundred per cent truth. Then again, what is?
I glanced surreptitiously at the two of them. Right now there was quite enough going on in my life without any more changes taking place.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Dunc and I ate lunch together on the lawn outside the library the next day, sitting facing one another cross-legged, knees brushing occasionally.
‘Brrr,’ I said after a while, reaching for my jacket. ‘I can’t work out whether I’m hot or cold.’
It was one of those days when you don’t realise there’s a breeze – until the sun goes behind a cloud.
‘Cold!’ cried Dunc automatically. ‘How can you be cold?’
I wouldn’t mind a couple of bucks for every time we’ve had this conversation. He as usual was in just his T-shirt – he only adds another layer if it’s about to snow.
I made a face at him as I stuck my arms in the sleeves and pulled it on.
‘Well,’ he said, swallowing a mouthful, ‘are you coming tonight?’
He was talking about a gathering at the pub to farewell one of his friends who was going overseas.
‘Um,’ I said, ‘what time will it finish?’
Dunc shrugged. ‘How would I know? Till the last ones go, I guess, or the pub shuts.’ He looked at me. ‘Why?’
‘We-ell . . .’ I took a deep breath and started plucking at the grass. ‘That guy at the Rose and Star that night – the one who thought I was Wilda – mentioned some kind of reading, poetry or something, in the Cave tonight that I . . .’ I broke off with a laugh, ‘I mean she was meant to be going to, so . . .’
‘Oh, for god’s sake, Al,’ he broke in, half frowning. ‘Leave it, why don’t you? This chick looks like you – big deal! She sounds like a weirdo if you ask me.’
I sighed. ‘I know. It’s . . . just that . . .’
But I was interrupted by a cry of ‘Hey Dunc!’
We looked up to see two girls, books in their arms, walking past – several metres away. They waved; Dunc gave a little wave back.
‘Hey.’
They both looked at me.
‘Hope we’re not interrupting anything!’ one of them called.
You are, actually, I
felt like calling out to them. We were discussing a plot to blow up the Harbour Bridge.
We both laughed and shook our heads.
‘No.’
Thankfully they kept going. ‘See you this afternoon,’ one of them said to Dunc over her shoulder.
‘Yeah, see ya.’
He turned back to me.
‘She’s in my accounting tute,’ he said, with a little shrug.
I looked back at the two figures, long hair bobbing down their backs as they chatted their way across the lawn. Both carefully dressed in layered, figure-hugging gear. I gave a little laugh.
‘They look like accounting students.’
Dunc looked at me. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh . . .’ I shrugged, feeling like a bitch again. I wondered if I was becoming like my mother. ‘It’s just that they look so . . . neat, that’s all. Like they’re already dressing for the office.’
We turned again and watched as they stepped off the lawn and onto the road. A car braked; they crossed in front of it without looking at it.
‘They look OK to me,’ he said, his eyes still on them.
‘Yeah.’ I gave another little laugh and resumed my grass pulling. ‘They would.’
I could feel him look at me again.
‘Alice . . .’
‘Well, I’m sorry I don’t dress up like that every day just to go to uni!’ I said, indicating my ancient jeans and two-year-old T-shirt. ‘I mean, they must spend a fortune just on make-up alone!’
How irrational and attention-seeking did that just sound, scolded inner Alice. Was I about to get my period?
‘Well, they’re allowed to if they want to.’ Dunc raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a free country.’
‘Yep.’ I sighed and touched his hand. ‘I know – of course they are.’ Then I grinned, my eyes meeting his. ‘Maybe you should go out with one of them – one of those glamour girls.’
He laughed. ‘Maybe I should!’
‘Or I should start trying to dress like Paris Hilton,’ I said, watching his face. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
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