by AJ Collins
We both turn our heads as a barrage of squealing girls bursts into the bar, complete with a hen in frilly white veil and pink sash declaring her the Bride-to-Be.
‘Oh goodie,’ Snap sighs. ‘It’s Katy Perry and her entourage.’
Bob has come behind the bar to top up his drink, but he hurries back to the stage, starts up the karaoke machine and yells, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our very own Meghan Trainor.’ He points at me. I roll my eyes and head up to the stage where Bob throws me the mic. It smells like beer. God, it’s nearly one in the morning, and I wish I were in bed. As I sing ‘Dear future husband’ I look around the bar. Which spot was Harry hiding in last week when I missed him?
3. Irreparable
(adj. incapable of being rectified, remedied, or made good)
It’s afternoon, and I’m squatting at a low shelf in the storage room, loading up with limes to stock the bar. Prepping is like therapy for me: time to centre myself before the crowds filter in after five. I slice lemons and limes into fine half-moons, lining them up like fallen dominos on a tray, ready to pinch into bottles of boutique beer, or slip into fizzing gin and tonics. Half strawberries, dipped in castor sugar, and little pineapple chunks sit on a separate tray. That’s as far as we go here – no paper umbrellas.
Normally, my mind is a blank, relaxed, but for the past five days there’s been something niggling me: Harry. I keep expecting him to show up again. To settle at the bar, wanting to reminisce about old times. ‘Do you remember that ram in the back paddock? The time we forgot to shut the gate, and he got into the garden and ate all that clover, then blew up like a balloon and Dad nearly killed me? Or what about when you snuck over to my place when you were supposed to be studying and your bike got a flat tyre, and you had to push it all the way home, and Samuel went off his rocker?’
Samuel. Why did I have to think of him? That life is dead. Buried. Literally. I shake it off. It’s Harry’s fault. Why did he have to turn up? And the bigger question is, why hasn’t he been back to ask me about the fire? I can’t help but wonder if he’s dobbed me in. Surely not. Surely the police would have turned up by now?
As I stand and straighten, I bump into Bob who’s on his way out back for a ciggie.
‘Careful, love.’
‘Sorry, boss.’
He stands there regarding me. ‘You know, I can’t figure why you won’t listen to me. Here.’ He sticks his unlit cigarette in his mouth and steps forward. Before I know it, he’s popped my top two buttons and pulled my blouse open halfway down my chest, revealing my bra.
I’m dumb with shock.
‘There,’ he says, flattening out my collar. ‘Much better. Bit of cleavage. You watch. Your tip jar’ll double tonight.’
Suddenly limes are thudding all over the floor, and my hand is stinging from the slap I’ve landed on Bob’s face.
‘Fuck!’ he says, stunned. He reaches to pluck his crushed cigarette from his mouth. ‘What was that for?’
‘You’re a moron!’ I snatch my shirt together, turn and scramble through the plastic strips that separate the storeroom from the bar. My arm catches in a tangle, and I yank hard, tearing half the strips from their mooring. Snap has just arrived. He looks startled.
‘Kitten? What’s happened? You okay?’
‘Enough’s enough,’ I mutter, ripping off my apron. ‘I quit.’ I grab my bag from underneath the counter.
‘What’s he done?’
‘Broke the camel’s back.’ I try to push past Snap, but he blocks me.
‘Honey, slow down. Tell me what happened.’
I glare at him. ‘Get out of my way.’
He looks unsure, but finally says, ‘Do you want me to drive you home?’
‘No.’
‘Well, if you’re going to go ...’ he reaches up to the top shelf and takes down a bottle of Famous Grouse thirty-year-old scotch, ‘you should go out with a bang.’
‘I can’t take that. It’s worth a fortune.’
‘Sure you can. You’re never going to get your back wages out of him. So shhh.’ He shoves it in my bag. ‘Go.’
I round the bar and continue through to the bistro, where the only patrons – a couple of grey-haired veterans who spend their pensions sucking on pints all afternoon, every afternoon – glance at me, then return their gaze to the sports channel on the overhead telly.
‘Give us a top-up would ya, love?’ one says, holding out an empty beer jug. I pause for a moment, then take the jug from him, pull the scotch out of my bag and stick it into his hand. ‘Merry Christmas.’
The veterans’ cries of surprise are cut off as the door swings shut behind me. Out on the street, I lean back against the brickwork of the pub, bag clutched to my stomach, waiting for my shaking to subside. A couple of tradies in shorts are approaching. One stubs a cigarette on the footpath with his Blundstone while the other, the one wearing a grubby singlet, looks me over. He seems about to speak before his mate pushes him through the door and into the pub.
The bistro will be filling soon – punters wanting their Wednesday night Ten-Dollar-Parmas. Bob will be swearing at being short-staffed. Good. He should have thought of that before he put his disgusting hands on me.
As I move to heft my bag over my shoulder, I notice my bra is still showing, the white satin stark against the black of my shirt. I button up properly, wondering if that’s what caused the singlet bloke to stare at me. Creep.
A little calmer now, I wander off towards a music store two blocks away. I can’t afford to buy anything, especially now, but I don’t feel like going home yet. I need to walk. To think. I’ve screwed up. Snap’s going to have to cover my half of the rent now. And I was just starting to get ahead with a bit of savings. Now I’m wishing I’d kept that bottle of scotch. Wishing I’d at least taken a double shot of it before I stalked out. Even if I don’t know whether I like the stuff or not.
I should probably start door-knocking the restaurants further up the strip, before word gets around. Ha. Sometimes my thinking is so small-town. Not everyone in the city knows everyone else’s business.
Brunswick Street traffic is crawling. I stand at the side of the road waiting for a gap so I can cross. Some jerk blares his horn at me as if I’m about to step in front of his SUV. I startle at the jarring blast. ‘WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM?’ I yell. Does he think I’m going to risk my life to put a dent in his blah-blah-custom-coloured metallic paintwork?
Why can’t people be decent? Look at those drivers, smug in their cocoons of personal comfort, pushing and edging forward to own a few more inches of the road. As if getting home five minutes earlier will make all the difference to their survival of peak hour. Arseholes.
Here’s a gap. I sprint across the road, then stalk up the footpath towards the music store. As I shove my hands in my back pockets, something catches on my fingernail, and I pull out a crumpled note. Harry.
4. Vacillation
My leg is jiggling under the table. Above it, I’m flicking a sugar packet back and forth. I’ve counted eleven tings of the bell on the café door. He’s late. Twelve. This time my glance is rewarded. I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. Maybe this is a bad idea.
Harry strolls towards the café counter, hands in his pockets, surveying the room. He’s just as hot as I remember, but what’s with the suit again? His tie dangles loosely, à la Rat Pack style. The café’s not huge. It shouldn’t take him long to spot me. It’s noisy though, distracting.
He’s looking in the wrong section of the café. Should I wave? No. This is such a bad idea. I grab my jacket and bag and start to slide off the bench seat. If I’m quick, I can sneak off. That’s if the doorbell doesn’t give me away.
Too late. The grin that breaks across his face is startling, and I suddenly remember something Mum once said: ‘A beautiful smile doesn’t make a beautiful soul.’ She may have been wrong. He’s coming towards me. Nothing to do now but act casual.
‘Going somewhere?’ he asks.
A flush heats my face, and I look awa
y because I’m crap at lying. ‘Just thought it might be a bit selfish to take up a whole booth with just the two of us.’
He eyes my bag. ‘Nah. You were leaving.’
‘No.’ There’s an awkward moment where we both know the truth. I sigh. ‘Yes.’ I slip back onto the bench.
‘I didn’t think I was that late. Sorry. I sent you a text. Didn’t you get it?’
I shake my head, dig my phone out of my bag, and there’s his message. ‘Didn’t hear it. Too noisy in here.’ Let him think that’s the reason I was about to skitter.
He slides onto the bench opposite me. ‘So, I bet you’re wondering if the city has corrupted me? Turned me into a stalker who picks up pretty bartenders in pubs?’ He lowers his voice and leans forward. ‘You can relax. It definitely has.’
‘That’s a relief.’ I hang on the word ‘pretty’.
He laughs. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Nothing, I’ve still got my shake.’
‘Raspberry. Right?’
‘Wow. You remember.’
My sarcasm might be a little much, but he doesn’t flinch. He stands. ‘You’re not going to run away while I go order, are you?’
‘Tempting, but no.’ I screw up my nose in lieu of adding something pithier.
It’s weird, but while he’s standing at the counter, I’m anticipating his return. It’s as though I’ve been warming myself by a fire, then stepped away. Suddenly it’s cold, and I’m yearning for the heat again.
‘So, long time no speak,’ he says when he returns. ‘I didn’t think you were going to call.’
‘Neither did I.’
‘Why did you?’
‘My circumstances changed.’
‘Spell oblique.’
I can’t help but smile. ‘So, riddle me this. Why are you getting about in a suit when you’re a student?’
‘Jazz.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve switched to jazz. It’s goes with the scene, and I kinda like it.’
‘A hipster in disguise.’
He frowns, looks puzzled. I stroke my chin. He does the same with his beard. ‘Oh. Yeah.’ He shrugs. ‘Convenient. Saves me shaving every day.’
‘Didn’t know laziness was in fashion.’
‘Ouch.’
That was rude. I should apologise. But I’m cranky, confused. It’s not true that old friendships always pick up where they left off – even if ours feels as though it might. Too much time has eaten away at the edges of what was between us. Hasn’t it?
‘So, what made you call?’ he asks again.
I pull out his note and smooth it over the table. The scribbled message reads:
Need a singer. Work waiting. Call me. Harry.
I turn it over. On the back is a class schedule for the Victorian College of the Arts. ‘I thought you might need this ... for school.’
‘Oh? Thanks.’ He folds and slips it into his pocket.
I’m relieved he’s cool enough not to make a big deal of my weak excuse. Especially since I haven’t figured out my own motivations yet.
‘Your schedule looks busy.’
‘Actually ... I’ve decided to take a gap year.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a CD. I don’t recognise the cover, but I know the artist’s name: Josh Maker. He’s on the radio all the time. Harry turns it over and points to the first track listed on the back – Josh’s first hit single. ‘See that? I wrote it.’
‘You did not.’ I grab the CD and examine it closely. There, in fine print under the song title, it says: Words and music by H Carter. ‘Wow. I’m impressed.’
Harry takes the CD back and pushes it aside. ‘Yes, well so were the masses for a while. Now I’ve got to come up with another one.’
A waitress brings over an iced coffee. Harry sips it, then adds sugar. I have no idea what to say next, so I blurt the first thing that pops into my head.
‘I lost my job.’
‘That’s bad luck.’
‘Not really. It sucked. My boss sucked. The whole place sucked.’
‘No more Karaoke Queen.’ He smirks.
I smirk back. ‘At least I won’t have Snap berating me for my pathetic cocktail skills. One bartending course, and he thinks he’s Tom Cruise or ... whoever.’ I can’t think of any contemporary comparisons.
‘He sounds like a character.’
‘He is. He’s ... my best friend.’
Harry doesn’t react. It wasn’t a deliberate barb. It’s just how things are now. Silence hangs between us. He sips. I sip. It’s ridiculous, so I address the white elephant.
‘Sorry I cut you off. Back then.’
He looks surprised. ‘We’re going there already?’
I shrug. ‘No point delaying the inevitable.’
‘Guess not.’
‘So, you’re not going to dob me in?’
‘For what?’
Seriously? I give him a hard look. ‘Let’s not play games.’
‘I’m not a player.’ He says it simply. He means it. ‘Accidents happen.’
‘I’m not going back.’
‘No-one’s making you. Although, Gran would love to know you’re okay.’
I shrug. ‘I’m sure you’ll tell her.’ That sounded sarcastic. I’m not meaning to be ungrateful, Mary was incredibly kind to me, but I don’t want reminders. ‘I have a new life now.’
He nods. Plays with his straw. Tries to pat the blob of ice cream under the milky coffee. ‘Some life,’ he murmurs, then changes the subject before I can respond. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come back for Samuel’s funeral.’
‘Yeah. Me too. Don’t know if I can forgive you for that one.’
I take a long pull of my shake to avoid his gaze, then look out the window. It’s a bittersweet feeling. All this honesty. He reaches towards me, and I jerk away.
‘Don’t!’ I’m shocked at myself. ‘Sorry, but don’t touch me, okay?’
He looks awkward. ‘Of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean to ... you have something in your hair.’
I’m too embarrassed, too tense to reach up and feel what it is. This is too hard. ‘Well, you look great. Apart from the face wool.’
His expression tells me he’s having trouble keeping up. He strokes his beard. ‘Why? Don’t you like it?’
‘You look like Ned Kelly.’
He shrugs. ‘I’ll shave it off then.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’
I laugh, but then he asks how Mum is, and it’s like a sandbag has landed on me.
‘Okay, I suppose. I call to check how she is, but she wouldn’t know who I was if I spoke to her.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘I guess. I try not to think about it.’
He looks contemplative, as if he’s deciding whether to say something. I’m pretty sure I know what it is. I change the subject.
‘So, you’re for real? The music, I mean. It’s all happening for you?’
‘Has happened. Was happening. I’ve got to make it work again.’
‘Uh huh. And what’s this “work waiting” thing? What’s it got to do with me?’
He smiles like I’m so amusing. ‘Talent. Writing one hit song does not a lifetime fortune make. I’m branching into management.’
‘But you’re not even finished college yet.’
‘I’m getting ahead of the pack. I want to move now, while I’ve still got industry contacts from my first song. Besides, you’re here now so why not? I’ve always liked your voice, even if you never appreciated it.’
‘I appreciate it. I just know my limits.’
‘I don’t think you do. I think you’re scared.’
This makes me blush because he’s right. ‘But ... you want to manage me?’
‘I know. Weird huh? There you were on stage after years of no contact. I thought it was a sign.’
I frown. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘Maybe. At the very least, I’ll land you some gigs. I’ve already got a few semi-regular ones myself �
�� a couple a week – pay’s not great, but together we should be able to get more. Pay the rent so to speak.’
‘But what would I have to do?’
He lowers his voice, making it all raspy. ‘Give up a pint of blood, an arm and a leg, and promise your soul to the music industry devil.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Exactly.
‘Spell Quixote.’
‘Spell shut up and drink your shake.’
‘Fork you.’
We both laugh, and it feels scarily good. I look out the window as Harry stirs his iced coffee, spoon clinking on glass. Outside, the hot north wind has picked up. It creates a little eddy of dirt with bits of discarded paper. I think how Harry left in summer, and now he’s back in summer. Random. I turn to him.
‘If we’re going to do this, you can’t tell anyone back home.’
‘You want me to lie?’
‘It’s not lying,’ I reason. ‘You’re just not talking about it.’
‘But at least let my gran know. She’s been worried sick about you.’
This strikes me hard. Poor Mary. ‘She shouldn’t be. I left a message for her, at Mum’s hospice. I said I was okay.’
‘You’ve changed your mobile phone number too, so she couldn’t check. That wasn’t fair.’
He’s got me there. ‘Well ...’
‘Just call her. Nothing bad will happen.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve got my reasons. Look, I won’t get all up in your business, you don’t get up in mine. Okay?’
He doesn’t look happy, but he nods.
5. Sanction
So here I am, outside our apartment, peering through the wrong side of the peep-hole. Snap swings the door open and gives me his ‘I’m disgusted’ look.
‘Do you know how gross an eyeball looks close up?’
‘Yep. But you still fall for it every time.’ I grin.
He stands, hands on hips, examining me. ‘Trying to hide a smile, are we? Smashing, isn’t he? I knew it.’
‘He’s okay.’
His smile fails. ‘Oh, Kitten. Tell me you didn’t wear that?’
