He stared back at me; I tapped his hand. ‘ Wouldn’t you?’
A shrug and a laugh. ‘Maybe, sometimes.’
I snorted.
‘What’s wrong with looking like Paris Hilton?’ he cried.
‘Du-unc!’ I pulled my hands away, annoyance suddenly flaring in me like matches tossed in a fire. ‘She’s a total ditz! And a complete tart,’ I added, folding my arms.
He grinned. ‘But a great-looking ditz!’ His smile widened as he watched me take the bait. ‘And hey – a bit of tart is good!’
I stared at him, suddenly wanting to wipe that grin off his face. Despite being a teasing one, it took a lot for granted.
It was a moment when everything could suddenly change. But then I laughed and gave him a punch in the shoulder – a small but hard one. He grabbed my wrists and held them firmly, his brownish eyes glinting in the sun. His smell so warm, so familiar.
‘If I promise,’ I cried, wriggling and giggling, ‘to be more like Paris Hilton, will you let me go?’
He pulled me closer, till our faces were almost touching.
‘You promise?’
‘Yes!’ I shrieked, finally wrenching free. I fell against him and started tickling him in the ribs, till we were both gasping with laughter.
Funny though. A tiny part of me had stepped away and was observing us, carrying on.
I still hadn’t really made up my mind about what I’d do that night when I asked Dad if I could borrow his car. If I showed up at the pub I wouldn’t be able to drink, being on my Ps, but at least having the car would give me flexibility. And it wouldn’t matter so much if I lost my nerve and chickened out from going to the playreading at the last minute.
I’d made myself useful before dinner, taking out the rubbish, pouring Dad a beer and getting stuff out of the fridge for dinner. We were having stir-fry. Not a proper, recipe-type, but one of the general hodge-podge variety, using up whatever veggies we had left in the crisper.
This was a sure sign that Dad was feeling uninspired. Up until recently he’d been a fantastic, show-off kind of cook, taking great delight in tackling new and complicated culinary challenges. Now, since he’d been at home he was doing all the cooking, but with none of his usual creativity or zest.
He put the water on for the rice and bent down to fish the wok out of the cupboard. I glanced at the clock: 6.45. Mum would be arriving home any minute; it was now or never. I reached for a knife and busied myself slicing some rather elderly carrots.
‘Oh, by the way Dad,’ I asked casually, ‘is it all right if I borrow your car for a little while tonight?’
Dad, looking for stuff in the pantry cupboard, grunted.
‘Where’re you going?’
‘Oh, to a thing at uni maybe, and then to a farewell for one of Dunc’s friends who’s going overseas–’
‘Where?’
I reached for the garlic. ‘At a pub.’ ‘
Well, no drinking then,’ he said automatically. He leant further into the cupboard and started ferreting through the jars and bottles.
I sighed. ‘No, Dad.’
‘Where the hell is the soy sauce?’
When I crossed to the cupboard, the very first thing I spotted was the bottle of soy sauce, hiding behind the olive oil.
‘There!’ I grabbed it, put my other hand round the back of his neck and practically rubbed his nose with the bottle. ‘You just never look, do you?’ I teased, imitating one of Mum’s catchcries.
Normally Dad would have laughed and said something like ‘You’re a legend!’, but now he just tried for a smile, taking it from me with barely a thank you.
Something caught in my throat. I stepped forward and put my arms around him, laying my head on his chest.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I whispered, alarmed to feel tears suddenly rising in my eyes. ‘You OK?’
He put his arms around me and I snuggled into him, his scratchy chin resting on the top of my head. He sighed, and we stood there like that, leaning on each other. My eyes brimmed, but I couldn’t move to wipe them. Finally I gave a huge sniff – a dead give-away.
‘Hey . . .’ Dad pulled away and looked at me. I hastily wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, turned and picked up the garlic again.
He put a hand on my shoulder and sighed.
‘Bubs – I’m sorry!’
I glanced sideways at him and got another little shock at how drained he looked, all saggy and defeated.
‘It’s not your fault!’ I cried, ripping the skin off a clove. ‘It’s those bastards who . . . let you go!’ I put it down on the board and started chopping at it savagely.
He stood there, quite still, and when I looked at him again I was aghast to see tears in his eyes.
‘Dad!’ I dropped the knife, staring at him. The only time I’d ever seen him cry before was when Nanna and Pop died, all those years ago. I made a little rush at him and grabbed his arms.
‘Stop it!’ I cried, almost shaking him. ‘It’ll be OK . . . things’ll work out . . . please, stop worrying.’
I hugged him hard again, as if to draw out his sadness. But he just kept standing there, like a block of wood.
‘Please, Dad,’ I said again. ‘Please . . .’
Just then Mum walked in, briefcase in hand. We hadn’t even registered the sound of her car.
‘Hi-i,’ she said, then stopped dead at the sight of the two of us, standing there looking so tragic.
‘Hi, Tinks.’ I could almost feel Dad shake himself, make an almighty effort to pull himself together. He went over, put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a kiss. ‘Good day?’
‘So-so.’ She put her case down and then her arm around his waist, looking into his face and then at me with a little frown. ‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ He tried to wink at me, but it had none of its usual cheek. He cranked out another laugh. ‘Think I just need some food, that’s all! Al’s going out tonight,’ he added, coming back to the bench, ‘so we better get a move on.’
Mum looked at me.
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah,’ I said lightly, steeling myself. ‘I’m going to this thing at uni, and then to a farewell for a friend of Dunc’s.’
Silence. She took off her coat, laid it over a chair, then turned to look at us.
‘And how are you getting there?’
Dad and I glanced at one another. I swallowed.
‘Dad said,’ I mumbled, ‘I could take his car.’
Mum glanced at the unset table and crossed to the cutlery drawer.
‘Well,’ she said finally, her voice deceptively even, ‘isn’t it lucky that you’ve now got someone else to ask.’
Dad, having lost his company car along with the job, had only recently acquired a second-hand Golf. And after the shemozzle of my recent lateness I certainly wouldn’t have been game to ask her for the Mazda.
‘Oh, Mum . . .’
‘Don’t “Mum” me, Alice – you made a promise.’
‘But I got stuck!’
‘Oh, for god’s sake, Marisa!’
It was Dad, suddenly sounding quite angry. Mum and I swung round.
‘She said she was sorry; it’s not as though she makes a habit of it.’ Dad banged the wok down on the cooktop and jabbed at the controls. ‘It’s not the end of the bloody world!’
Mum and I stared at him; I felt another sickening little drop in my stomach. This was so unlike Dad’s usual diplomacy.
Mum looked at him for a moment longer, then walked over, picked up her briefcase and coat and went upstairs.
Dinner wasn’t exactly joyous that night, either.
It started to rain as I set off and by the time I reached the Harbour Bridge entrance it was bucketing down.
Driving across the bridge at the best of times I find daunting, but on a wet night it’s positively scary. Teeth clenched, I ploughed along in my lane as though through a river, water spraying out on all sides, the oncoming headlights dazzling through the glass. The windscreen was getting
increasingly foggy, but I wasn’t familiar with the dials on the Golf and didn’t dare take my eyes off the road for a second.
Once I’d finally exited via the Glebe ramp, however, I found the demister, and also the time to start worrying all over again about my destination. I couldn’t believe I was heading for something I would never normally go to, and where I probably wouldn’t know a soul (apart, maybe, from the people at Paul’s house, who I didn’t want to see anyway), just to get a glimpse of my so-called double. I’d be there all on my own, looking, as Dad would say, like a shag on a rock.
The batting of the windscreen wipers back and forth in front of me was distracting; my thoughts fell into the same rhythm. Why go, why go, why go?
A light in front changed to red and as I braked I suddenly got a mental image of the farm rubbish dump in a gully down the back of Nanna and Pop’s place all those years ago. All kinds of stuff had been tossed there over time – lengths of rusted barbed wire, ruined tyres, empty drums, rotting cardboard cartons and sheets of corrugated iron. There were even the remains of an ancient ute, poking out from the bottom of it all.
One day when I was about seven, I’d announced that I was going down to the gully to get some bits and pieces to build a cubby house with. Nanna, however, soon put a stop to that.
‘You keep right away from that tip,’ she said. ‘It’ll be infested with snakes!’
Which at that age, of course, was an invitation to do the opposite. After that I spent quite a lot of time squatting on the slope above the dump, staring, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gleam of coppery scales sliding through the junk and grass. And I started getting nightmares about a head poised to strike, fangs bared, as a sheet of tin was lifted and sunlight flooded in . . .
The thought still made me shudder. I tried to think of something else.
Milly. I’d thought about asking her to come along, but had decided against it. I was hoping to be able to sneak in and sit at the back in the dark, incognito. And incognito was not a word you associated with Milly.
I thought about ringing her and begging her to come at the last minute. I could make a quick detour over to Annandale and pick her up. But with all Milly’s dramas I hadn’t even got around to telling her about Wilda, so it would involve a whole lot of explanation I really didn’t feel like making at the moment. Also, I could picture her taking over, forcibly dragging me through the crowd. Hey – are you Wilda? There’s someone here you should meet!
No, Milly was not a good idea tonight.
Well then, why not just keep going, straight through the uni and out the other side to the pub, where the farewell would already be getting under way?
Because that would leave me still wondering.
So, even though I could feel myself starting to tense up, I crossed Parramatta Road and drove in through the uni gates, turning left towards the Cave.
There must’ve been a lot of other stuff on that night, because the parking spot I finally found was quite a way away. It was still pouring and I realised there wasn’t an umbrella in the car. Dad isn’t as organised as Mum, who always has a folding one stowed behind her seat.
I sat there in the dark, rain drumming on the roof and running down the windows, waiting for it to let up. Fished out my phone and looked at the time: 8.03. I’d envisaged slipping in after most people had sat down, but I didn’t want to be too late.
Finally there seemed to be a slight lull, so I made a dash for it. Of course, getting out I managed to miss the kerb and stepped straight into the torrent pouring down the gutter; one boot got soaked. And by the time I’d hurtled all the way down the road to the Cave, I was just about wet all over.
As I rushed down the steps and into the entrance area I was relieved to see the two last stragglers going into the performance space. I slipped in just before the girl on the door closed it.
In the semi-darkness I could see the place was just about full. The audience was sitting on the floor in a wide semicircle around the empty spotlit stage area. I tiptoed around the back row and sat down in the far corner, hunkered down, arms around my knees, shivering a bit with cold and nervousness. I glanced surreptitiously about to see if I could see anyone who looked like me, but in the shadows the profiles and backs of heads were not exactly revealing.
Most people were chatting to their neighbours. Everyone probably knows one another, I thought. Even worse, perhaps this whole thing was for drama society people only. Any second now someone might turn around, stare at me and ask if I was a member . . .
Then, who should walk into the spotlight but the guy from the Rose and Star – the one I’d collided with! I got a shock like a zap of electricity. I hugged my knees even tighter, peeping over the top of them as the buzz of conversation died.
‘Hey thanks for coming – to support our newest wave of theatrical geniii,’ he said with a grin. Buzz of amusement from the audience. His glasses shone in the spot as he glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand. ‘We’ll get right down to it.’
I held my breath.
‘Our first reading tonight is from a new two-act play entitled Heartsick, by Jenny Katz.’
There were cheers from Jenny supporters; he indicated a girl down the front who half turned, giving a little wave of acknowledgment.
‘Jen, would you like to tell us a bit about it?’
The playwright, a chick with pink hair and a long multicoloured scarf, proceeded to stand up and give a few sentences of introduction, but I was too disappointed to pay much attention. Though it was a bit much to expect Wilda’s play to be first up.
If it was going to be on.
I stared at the paper in the announcer’s hand, wondering if it was a programme, then glanced along my row. Nobody else seemed to have one.
A guy and a girl appeared on stage, scripts in hand, and did a rehearsed reading of a scene. Once again I was too impatient for the next work to pay it a huge amount of attention, but it appeared to be a version of a standard boy/girl fight, except that every now and again what seemed like a completely absurd, unrelated line would appear in the dialogue. Signifying what, I’m not sure. It probably would’ve made more sense if, as I’ve said, I’d been in the mood to listen. Also the girl, who was short and stocky with black hair and piercing eyes, was very good, but the boy’s performance was pretty wooden, which didn’t help matters. It got a lot of applause at the end, however, and the girl in front of me murmured ‘Brilliant!’ to her friend.
And then who should be the next writer brought on, but Andy! Here he was, ambling into the spotlight, hands stuffed into his pockets . . .
I got such a shock, I heard myself gasp. I quickly shrunk down further, in the unlikely event those sharp eyes might stray through the darkness to the back corner.
‘Hey,’ he said with a little grin, pulling out a hand to give a tiny wave. There was a mini burst of acclaim.
Andy Mead, ‘renowned’, according to the announcer, ‘for his comic talents’, (more cheers and whistles) had ‘now turned his hand to something more substantial’. The working title of the play was Untitled, with Dog.
Then Andy began a rapid introduction, causing chuckles from the audience. ‘One act, with boy, girl and dog. Musings on the usual questions – love, death, the last Tim Tam, plus theatrical suicide from appearing on stage with an animal. I’ll play the part of the boy, the lovely Lily Lindstrom is the girl, and Jack will play himself.’
I froze, mid-laugh, at the mention of the girl’s name. Lily. Lil . . .
More clapping heralded the arrival of the girl and the dog, trotting into the spotlight beside her. The dog was little and terrier-ish looking, a Fox or Jack Russell cross. It immediately, of course, grabbed all the attention, and there were more cheers and applause, especially when Andy cried, ‘Sit, Jack!’ and he obliged.
I must have been the only member of the audience not focused on Jack. I was too busy staring at Lily – the gorgeous Lil Andy lived with, obviously. Who was very pretty. Big-eyed and dark and delicate, with
cheekbones as sharp as knives.
I found myself half hoping she’d be terrible, but she was very good, as were her two fellow performers. The comic timing was excellent, some of the lines and gags hilarious, and the whole thing zanily off-beat.
Every time things seemed to be getting serious between the other two, Jack, obviously cued from someone offstage, would do something to upstage proceedings – roll over, or bark, or make an entrance or exit. Don’t ask me why it was funny, but it was. The audience was roaring with laughter.
That is, until, in the middle of a big and pregnant pause, when everyone was waiting to see what Jack would do next, my phone went off.
I frantically groped for my bag – the red one – which had, of course, quickly filled up with junk again since its clean out. Feeling all those heads turning and eyes glaring (someone even hissed) as I frantically rummaged, the William Tell Overture tinkling tinnily through the darkness.
I finally located the glowing, whirring little bastard and killed it dead. Then looked slowly up, through the turned heads, into Andy’s piercing gaze.
He was staring out, one hand shielding his eyes. Not going to let such a wonderful opportunity pass.
‘OK,’ he called, grinning. ‘’Fess up. Who was it?’
Lily laughed and peered out too.
I sat very still, willing myself to dissolve.
‘What d’you reckon, Jack?’ asked Andy, still looking.
Jack barked joyously.
‘We need a spot, that’s what we need!’ He snapped his fingers and pointed in my direction. ‘Light, please–’
A spot detached itself, and, as heads turned and necks craned, began moving its slow and searching way towards me.
I sat there like a terrified tortoise, trying to pull my head into my body. Except, of course, I couldn’t.
The spot was coming closer, weaving this way and that. People laughed and held their empty hands out, protesting their innocence.
‘Find the perpetrator,’ cried Andy. ‘Where’s the ringtone saboteur?’
Suddenly the skinny boy sitting next to me could contain himself no longer.
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