by Ali Berg
‘At first I didn’t want to fall in love, you know? Love seems to get people into trouble. And I didn’t want any part in something that could risk turning my life upside down.’
Bea nodded, knowing that feeling all too well.
‘But then I realised that the fear of falling in love, well, that’s already love. Just not spoken out loud.’
Who is this talkative, emotional guy and what has he done with my introverted barista?
‘Oh, how I fell, Bea. Not just for her face. She was beautiful. Is beautiful. But it was so much more than that.’
Bea shifted next to him. He wasn’t hers, so why did it hurt to hear him talking like this about someone else?
‘She was such a great storyteller. And she was nice to everyone. Literally, everyone! She even felt empathy for bruised fruit. But God she was a mess. Yet somehow, even that I loved.’
Bea caught her breath. She was falling for his falling. And she wanted it to stop. But she also needed to know how it ended. ‘So, what happened?’
‘She broke my heart.’ Dino didn’t break eye contact.
‘How?’
‘Ah, it’s all ancient history now, isn’t it?’ Dino said, snapping back to his usual self all too quickly. They sat in silence for a minute. ‘I wrote you a poem, you know?’ Dino said, in a lighter tone.
‘You did? Really?’
‘Yup, I wrote it a couple of weeks ago. It mightn’t be as poetic as those ‘Mystery Writer’ scribbles you’re always going on about. But, wanna hear it?’
Bea nodded and licked her lips happily, washing away traces of tomato sauce. She sat up a little straighter, ready to listen.
‘A freckle tells a story,’ Dino began.
On your life it traces your inventory.
The beaches at which you’ve soaked,
The friends with whom you’ve joked.
But that freckle, that one that sits by your bottom lip, is
The one that shadows your courtship.
The one that demands your wishes be heard,
The one that keeps dreams stirred.
‘Wow, Dino.’ Bea was at a loss for what to say.
‘It’s nothing really, Babbage,’ he replied, picking up another slice of pizza and shoving three-quarters of it into his mouth in one go. ‘I just like you, I guess,’ he said between chews. ‘And I know that you’re going to be okay.’
‘You like me? I thought you just tolerated me?’
‘Nah, girl. I like you.’
Bea frowned. ‘But what about Sunday?’
‘What about Sunday?’
‘Wouldn’t she be uncomfortable if she knew you were writing poems about other women?’
‘Why would she be uncomfortable? Sunday doesn’t even like poetry,’ Dino said matter of factly.
‘Oh,’ Bea said, picking at a piece of discarded pineapple. ‘I don’t know, Dino.’
‘What don’t you know? That you have a dollop of sauce on your nose?’ He chuckled.
Bea swiped at her nose with the back of her hand, blushing. ‘What about Zach, then?’
‘Zach? What’s there to think about? He’s a tool. End of story,’ Dino said. He seemed to be sobering up, the carbohydrates soaking up the bourbon.
‘I saw him today,’ Bea muttered, averting her eyes.
‘You what?’ Dino dropped his pizza crust on the plate in his lap. ‘Please don’t tell me you said what I think you just said.’
‘It was just lunch.’
‘Just lunch? You’re not thinking about getting back with him, are you? He’s bad news, Bea.’
Bea pushed herself off the couch, suddenly frustrated. Who was Dino to gatecrash her home and give her advice? The same Dino who’d just recited a poem about one of her freckles when he had a girlfriend. ‘It’s really none of your business, Dino.’
‘None of my business? Was it none of my business when you spent two weeks sobbing into every one of my lattes, yelling that everything reminded you of him?’
Bea sighed. She knew Dino was right. But she wasn’t in the mood to be lectured. It had been a bloody long day and she was beyond exhausted. Her bones ached and her heart felt twisted. ‘I don’t want to do this with you, Dino. I’m sorry, but I have to work this out on my own.’
‘Fine. I’m just warning you to be really sure you want to go there again. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’
‘Mmm hmm.’ Bea folded her arms firmly across her chest. ‘I’m a big girl, Dino. I can look after myself.’
‘Just be careful, is all I’m saying.’
They held each other’s gaze and something passed between them that Bea couldn’t quite name.
‘I should go,’ Dino finally said.
Bea nodded. ‘Thanks for the pizza. I hope the hangover isn’t too rough tomorrow.’
Dino went to the door with Bea following him. He pulled the door open, then turned around abruptly. He took Bea’s hands in his, squeezing them tight. Bea inhaled sharply.
‘You know what?’ Dino said and Bea inclined towards him just the slightest bit. ‘I’m taking the pizza with me.’
In 25 words or less, why do you want to win 6 months of unlimited visits to the zoo?
My BFF hates me. I imagine if I visited the zoo regularly, I could befriend a smart and friendly giraffe who could fill her place.
It was a Wednesday afternoon and Bea was procrastinating. Avoiding work, avoiding assessing her thoughts about how she left things with Dino, avoiding whether she should reply to Zach’s last message asking how she was feeling. She was procrastinating so much that she had dragged herself across town to a café that she wasn’t nearly cool enough to be frequenting.
The café in question was ARK. And the visit was part of her hunt to find the Mystery Writer. Earlier that day she had highlighted and then googled an address that turned out to belong to this very café. The address was scrawled next to a simple sketch of what looked like a croissant. She had her Wanted posters curled up in her handbag, and was ready to place them in the window of this uber trendy café, as soon as she’d had her caffeine fix. She had heard that the coffee was better north of the river, and, while sceptical, she was about to put it to the test.
Hidden behind her menu, Bea peered around the café, taking everything in. It was relatively packed for a mid-week afternoon: small pockets of friends and families with young children, chatted conspiratorially, catching up over lattes and slabs of sourdough toast. She jotted down a few things on the notebook she had left open next to her, deciding on the best place to stick the poster.
‘Ready to order?’
Bea looked up, knocking her menu to the floor. The waiter bent down to retrieve it.
‘Sorry, you caught me unawares!’ Bea said apologetically, to which the waiter, sporting an impatient smile and ripped jeans, simply raised his eyebrows. ‘Um, one skinny latte, please.’
When the waiter returned with her drink, Bea decided to pounce, hoping to get some information from him. ‘Busy day for you guys, isn’t it?’ Bea asked coyly, taking a gulp of her drink. ‘Ugh, too hot!’ she yelped.
The waiter looked on, unperturbed. ‘Will that be all for now?’
‘Mmm, just one more thing,’ Bea said, gulping down some cold water. ‘Get many broody writers in here? I’m such a book nut! Last year I took myself on a road trip based on one of my favourite books: Lost & Found. Have you heard of it? I pretty much just visited bus stops all over Western Australia, but still. Book nut!’ She practically yelled and took another tentative mouthful of her coffee.
‘How fun for you.’ The waiter was clearly not having a bar of Bea today.
‘So, a lot of writers come in tap, tap, tapping away at their laptops? Scribbling notes in journals? Annotating books, by chance?’
‘I don’t know. I guess so. We’re in Northcote, after all.’
Propping her elbows on the table and leaning in, Bea said, ‘Could you be more specific?’
‘We get a couple of book clubs i
n, every now and then. Lots of post-it notes get left behind. I don’t know, maybe you could join one?’ The waiter had taken two steps back.
‘Oh, that’s great. Great! Do you have any contact details for them?’ Bea asked, pen poised.
The waiter frowned. ‘I doubt it, but I’ll check with my manager.’ And, with a sigh of relief, he left.
Bea felt frustrated. She hadn’t gotten any intel at all. She polished off her coffee, including licking the cup’s rim while nobody was watching, downed two glasses of water and trotted off to find the bathroom in the rear courtyard-hoping to find a place to put her Wanted signs. Thankfully, the toilet was unoccupied, so Bea slid straight in. She stuck a poster to the back of the stall door and one to the right of the mirror. Then, sitting down, she relaxed, and began swiping away on Instagram.
A shake of the door brought her back to reality.
‘Sorry! Ocupado!’ Bea yelled out.
‘My apologies,’ a feathery voice called back.
I know that voice! Bea bent forward until she was almost folded in half, craning to look under the slit at the bottom of the door. Two cobalt blue suede skyscraper heels. I know those shoes! Bea frantically balled up some toilet paper, wiped, flushed and washed her hands. I can’t believe this! Her heart was racing. She quickly dried her hands, stuck another poster above the paper towel dispenser and swung open the stall door.
‘Martha!’
A short, petite woman with dark skin, shoulder-length blonde hair with a textured fringe and fabulously large resin earrings turned towards Bea.
‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’ the woman asked, clearly embarrassed by the fuss.
‘Martha, it’s me! Bea! From AKDB Agency,’ Bea said, already pulling the unsuspecting woman into a hug.
‘Cubicle Bea?’ Martha pulled away, holding Bea by the shoulders. ‘What are you doing here? I can’t believe it’s you!’
‘I know! I’ve missed our toilet chats so much.’
They stepped to the side as a young girl eased her way into the toilet, throwing curious looks back at them.
‘How’s work going?’
‘Terrible!’
Bea raised her eyebrows in concern.
‘Oh, you know, just the usual staffroom politics. In fact, I’m playing hooky today. If anybody asks, I’ve got conjunctivitis,’ Martha said, surprising Bea. She had always thought Martha would be a stickler for the rules on account of appearing so posh. ‘And since you’ve been gone, I don’t have the same Jane Austen escapism to look forward to each day! I miss the familiar sound of pages turning whenever I go to the bathroom. Although, I must say, I’ve been far more productive of late.’
They laughed. It was a little strange to be talking face-to-face.
‘Now tell me.’ Martha leaned in, the smell of her expensive perfume wafting over Bea. ‘When’s the next book speed dating night? I hope you’re still running them. I’ve just finished the most extraordinary book – The Girl with Seven Names. It’s about a woman who escapes from North Korea. True story! I’m just dying to talk about it. And my husband is sick to death of hearing about it!’
Bea was heartened by Martha’s interest. ‘I have one pencilled in for a few weeks’ time. It’s all been a bit of a juggle, there’s been a lot happening with work.’ Bea brought her ex-colleague up to speed about Platypus Agency.
‘That sounds just fabulous, darling! Fabulous! Any way I can help?’ Martha inquired, side-stepping out of the way of the waiter, who was delivering coffees to a pair gossiping in the corner of the courtyard.
‘Oh! Help from you? I would love that! Accounts are absolutely not my thing!’ Bea said.
‘You know what, give me a call. I’ll see what I can do.’ Martha slipped her hand into her purse, pulling out a card on which she hastily scrawled her mobile number. ‘Just don’t email me at work. I can’t be seen consorting with the enemy.’ She winked and handed over her details before pulling Bea into a warm embrace.
‘It was so good running into you,’ Bea gushed.
Martha blew a kiss to Bea and strolled out of the café. Bea collected her jacket from the back of her chair and went to pay, when she glanced at the waiter one last time. He was standing behind the register. She decided that she needed to up the ante, and do more than just stick pieces of paper to random toilets.
‘Hey,’ she said, walking up to him. The waiter nodded apathetically, without a doubt sick to death of her by now. ‘Just one last thing, I promise! Have you ever spotted this book?’ She took out her copy of Meeting Oliver Bennett and held it in front of him, flicking through the pages, practically shoving her secret scribbles in his face.
The waiter faked interest, momentarily squinting at the page before shaking his head. ‘That’ll be three fifty today.’
Bea wasn’t ready to back down. ‘Are you sure nothing’s ringing a bell?’ She waved the open book even closer to the waiter.
‘I see a lot of signatures and notes every day, and if I were to remember every single scribble that came through these doors,’ he nodded to the entrance, ‘there’d be no more room left up here for the important stuff.’ He tapped his temple.
Bea conceded, and finally dropped the subject. She dug around for loose change in the bottom of her bag then handed over a hodgepodge of gold and silver coins. The waiter cupped them in his hands with a grimace.
Noting her disappointment, he said, ‘You could try the fishbowl.’ He gestured to a large glass bowl filled with business cards that sat on the counter. ‘We used to run a competition once a month – the name we pulled out would win a week’s worth of coffee, but between you and me,’ he leaned in, ‘we haven’t done it for a couple of years now. The bowl keeps getting filled anyway. People usually write their names on the cards, so you could try your luck to see if there are any matches.’
Bea smiled gratefully at the waiter and picked up the bowl, taking it over to an empty table near the back. Humming a quick prayer, she stuck her hand in, pushing it all the way to the bottom. Flipping through each card, she took in the variety of names and numbers left behind. Large, thick handwriting, loopy handwriting, handwriting that was so messy it was impossible to decipher, but not a single word that belonged to her Mystery Writer. Repeating the process, she plunged her hand into the bowl, extracted a pile and sifted through them, meticulously checking each one. Again and again, she performed the same ritual, until more business cards and discarded receipts sat outside the bowl than in. On two occasions the waiter sashayed past her, simultaneously tutting and peering over his shoulder with curiosity.
‘One more pile, and then you’re taking your sorry arse back to work,’ she whispered. She closed her eyes and grabbed another bundle.
No, no, definitely not, no – wait a second.
Bea paused, her hand suspended in the air almost in front of her nose. Curled between her thumb and forefinger was a movie ticket stub. Bea examined it closely. It was so faded that she could only just make out the film, but above the cinema’s name, in the scribble she had come to know so well, it read: kindness. pass it on.
‘It couldn’t be.’ Bea quivered. Her hands shaking.
She quickly grabbed Meeting Oliver Bennett from her bag and compared the handwriting, even though she knew she couldn’t be mistaken. She knew the writing too well.
‘Found something?’ the waiter said, appearing by her side.
‘You have no idea!’ Bea jumped up, the force of the movement sending a small handful of business cards fluttering to the floor. ‘Can I take this?’ She waved the ticket stub in the waiter’s face.
‘Sure, go for it. It’s just an old ticket stub.’
Just an old ticket stub that might help me get to the bottom of this mystery.
Helloisthisyourbook
Finding my inner film buff
Scribble of the day: Kindness. Pass it on.
Guys, I just discovered an old movie ticket stub with OUR EXACT SCRIBBLES on it! I finally feel like I’m onto something. In the meantime,
I’m off to @astortheatremelb to put up more posters. We’re getting closer! I can feel it!
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Comments (32):
NoOffenceBut: I love the Astor!! One of the only sensible things you’ve said so far.
BookClubbing: Ohhhhhh I can’t handle the suspense! I hope you find Mystery Writer! I’ll keep my eyes peeled.
MinkyPinky: @TheWayWeWere, have you read Meeting Oliver Bennett?
TheWayWeWere: @MinkyPinky Nope, sorry! But sounds interesting.
StephenPrince: @NoOffenceBut, can I take you there this weekend? (and maybe also move back in?)
NoOffenceBut: @StephenPrince Okay, fine. (And I’ll think about it)
Bea sat at her desk in her leafy coworking space and played with the ticket stub, which she had tucked in the pocket of her jeans. She typed ‘Astor Theatre’ into Google and scrolled through the movies on offer. Deciding on one that sounded like the perfect combination of quirky, romantic and entertaining, she was about to take out her credit card to purchase a ticket when she stopped herself. Invite someone to join you. Bea had always relied on others to invite her places, but since coming to Melbourne she realised that she needed to be more proactive. She picked up her phone and clicked Zach’s name. He had been texting her incessantly since their lunch date, but she had been cold and casual in her replies. Absolutely no x’s at the end of her messages. She took a deep breath. She couldn’t leave him hanging forever.
Bea: Hey
Zach: Hey! How are you? X
Bea: Good. You?
Zach: I’m good thanks. How’s your day going?
Bea: Great.
Zach: That’s good, Bea. I’m glad you messaged
Bea groaned and clicked out of the messages. Chicken! She opened a new text message to the other man on her mind, Dino. She hadn’t spoken to him properly since he had recited that freckle poem to her. She didn’t want to get too close – she was afraid of what she might do. Remember Sunday, she thought, and then drafted a quick message – as a friend.
Bea: Hey!
