Tigers and Devils

by Sean Kennedy

  “Uh, okay,” I said. I sat up and tugged at my clothes to straighten them out.

  “You’re pissed.”

  “No,” I said, and I wasn’t really. Just confused.

  He sat up and straightened himself. “I’ll take you home.”

  What, home already? Something was wrong now, but I heard myself saying robotically, “Sure.”

  Declan threw the car back into gear, and we pulled out of the space just as easily as we had swung into it.

  WHEN we got back to my house, I didn’t invite him in. I don’t think he was expecting me to, and I really don’t think he wanted me to either. I was already trying to figure out in my head what had gone wrong, but I couldn’t come up with an answer that seemed logical.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” I said, pulling on the handle to open the door.

  “Listen,” Declan said urgently, and he leaned across to me, putting his hand over mine. “Don’t go away mad. I meant what I said, I do want to see you again.”

  I couldn’t think of what to say. “Cool.”

  “Cool as in cool, or cool as in whatever?”

  “Cool as in cool,” I replied. Coolly, no doubt.

  Declan sighed and gave me a brief kiss.

  “Good night,” I said. I jumped out of the cab.

  He watched me from the driveway as I unlocked my front door and entered my dark house. I didn’t turn the lights on, but closed the door behind me and crossed to the window to look out into the yard.

  Declan sat there for a few moments, the engine running. I was hoping that I would hear the engine switch off, and he would come and knock on my door. But he stared stonily ahead at the house. Maybe he was waiting to see if I would come out again.

  Then he drove off, and I made my way to my bedroom in the dark.

  Chapter 6

  TO THINK that I had been stupid enough to entertain the thought that I might have woken up in the morning with Declan Tyler beside me!

  Instead, what I got was the cat staring at me, waiting for me to open my eyes so she could begin her wailing for her breakfast.

  “Morning, Maggie,” I mumbled.

  Her plaintive cry was a shock to the system. I stumbled out into the kitchen and got tripped by her three times before we reached her bowl.

  She was silenced by the food produced for her. If only people could be so easily pleased.

  At least it was Friday. I would only have to stumble through one more day before the promise of the weekend would arrive. A game with Roger on Saturday—which reminded me, I had to try and get out of shopping with Fran. I wondered if she would accept the fact that this relationship was over before it began and that I was too depressed to go shopping for clothes I would now never wear? I had a vision of myself—a male, modern Miss Havisham, sitting in my lounge room in my mouldering second-date clothes. I kind of liked that image.

  When I got into the office, Nyssa jumped on me immediately. “How was the interview?”

  I wasn’t with it that morning. “Interview?”

  “Don’t play dumb. For the new job!”

  I sighed. “There’s no new job, Nyssa.”

  “You say that now!”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll say that later as well.”

  I holed up in my office. I would like to say that I distracted myself by working like a demon, but I mainly stared out the window a lot and took the occasional phone call. I got messages from both Roger and Fran, asking how the date went, and I ignored them. I couldn’t talk to either of them about it yet, not when I didn’t even know what had happened!

  I should have known I couldn’t escape them at work, though. At ten my phone rang, and when I picked it up Fran was on the other end.

  “Oh, so you haven’t been murdered, and we don’t have to call the police.”

  “Morning, Fran.”

  “You could return a person’s phone call.”

  “Technically, it was an SMS.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why didn’t you text me back, then?”

  I hesitated, and it made a long enough pause for her to jump back in.

  “Simon, what’s wrong? Didn’t you have a good time?”

  I began to bite at my thumbnail. “At the start, yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “I can’t talk about it now.” I ripped the free edge off and winced as part of the cuticle came with it. “Can you make lunch?”

  “I can at one, if you don’t mind a late lunch.”

  “Yeah, I can do lunch at one.”

  Her voice entered super-serious mode. “Simon, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, of course, yeah. See you at one.”

  Fran didn’t sound like she believed me, but at least she hung up. Probably to ring Roger to tell him something was up and she was going to sort it all out, so he was not to call me because he’d stuff it all up. For that I was grateful, because I didn’t want to have to talk about this twice; one of the benefits of being friends with Fran. It was hard enough having to do it once.

  FRAN kissed me on the cheek before she sat down. “Okay, tell me everything.”

  I sipped at my Coke and wished it was wine. But I couldn’t go back to the office with alcohol on my breath or Nyssa would assume it was a drink to celebrate my new job or whatever she thought it could be at this moment.

  Reluctantly, I started giving her the details as we ordered. Fran had the linguini; I had a calzone. While waiting for the food to arrive, I got to the point where contact occurred in the car. I grew a little red as I tried to get away with the barest details. “Anyway, I was kissing him, and I… reached down—”

  “Down where?” Fran asked innocently.

  “Down.”

  “Oh, down.”

  I hated her right then. “It’s not like I managed to get it out… my hand was on his zipper… but he kind of freaked out and said he would take me home.”

  “Huh,” Fran said thoughtfully, but not helpfully.

  I looked to her for elaboration.

  “Did you ask him why?”

  I leaned back as the waiter arrived with our food. Once he was gone, I leaned back in. “No, not really.”

  “No, or not really? Stop being so vague.”

  I cut into my calzone savagely. “No.”

  “And I suppose he didn’t volunteer any further information?”

  “Just that it was too fast.”

  “Men,” Fran sighed, not for the last time in her life. “It’s hard enough being a woman and dating a guy, I can’t imagine how much worse it would be when there are two guys in the equation not communicating with each other.”

  I mumbled an incoherent reply.

  “Maybe he’s more traditional than you. And by that, I mean less slutty.”

  I almost choked on my food. I gulped at my Coke and tried to gain back some of my dignity. “I am not a man ho!” I don’t know where this reputation came from, seeing I had fewer relationships and hook ups than either Fran or Roger before they found each other and settled into coupled bliss.

  “Maybe to him you are.”

  “He’s a footballer! They’re supposedly all sluts.”

  Fran grinned. “Apparently not all of them.”

  “Can you think of any other reason he would fob me off like that?”

  “You said you had kissed him a few times, right?”

  The room seemed to grow warmer as memories of us in my lounge, against the tree at the party, and in the cab of his SUV swamped me. “Yeah, a couple. Why?”

  Fran seemed lost in thought. And then it occurred to me.

  “Oh, he was lying, wasn’t he? Maybe he just doesn’t find me attractive.”

  Fran hastily hid behind her hand and giggled.

  “He just gave me a mercy pash, thinking that would be enough.”

  Still smiling, Fran began to dig into her food again. “Oh, Simon.”

  “What?”

  She paused with a forkful of linguini in mid
air. “Wasn’t it just the other day you said you hadn’t suddenly grown a vagina?”

  I realised I was starting to sound like a maudlin chick flick character.

  Fran nodded to emphasize her point and swallowed her pasta.

  I stared disconsolately at the clichéd checkered tablecloth under my plate.

  “Did he kiss you goodnight?” Fran asked.

  “A very brief one.”

  “On the lips?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. It was on the lips.”

  “That’s a good sign.”

  I tried not to hope too much. “Is it?”

  “If he didn’t kiss you, but said he’d call you, then you’d be in trouble.”

  “Yeah, but I got a brief kiss and a promise to call later.”

  “But yours was on the lips. That makes it different, Simon.”

  “Unless he was just trying really hard to fool me so I wouldn’t ask any awkward questions.”

  Fran wiped her hands on her napkin and stared at me. It was the stare she sent right through you, that made you squirm and made you know you couldn’t lie because she would catch you out and make you pay. “It sounds like you almost want it to be a kiss-off.”

  I shrugged.

  That only threw her into persistency mode. “Do you like him?”

  I met her gaze and knew that resistance was futile. “Yes.” That one little word came out against my whole will. “What I know of him at the moment, anyway.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “So what do I do?”

  She patted my hand and let hers rest above mine. “You just take it as it comes, hon. It sounds like it’s going to be hard enough with him being in the limelight. You can’t make it more difficult for yourselves by second-guessing everything.”

  “So what you mean is I’m going to have to talk to him.”

  “I know that’s a hard concept for you. The whole opening-up thing.”

  “I’m doing it right now, aren’t I?”

  Fran laughed. “Yeah. To the wrong person!”

  She asked me to share sticky-date pudding with her. Feeling somewhat cheered, I had no trouble being convinced.

  I CONSIDERED catching the tram the two stops back to the office, I felt so bloated with food. But I walked it off and was in a much better mood when I walked back in the door.

  “Long lunch,” Nyssa commented.

  “Lots of things to talk about,” I said vaguely.

  I noticed the horrified look on her face, but decided not to reassure her again. Girl is too paranoid.

  I wondered if Roger was going to call me regardless. I knew Fran would have called him as soon as she got back to work so they could swap notes. She probably would have told him to lay off me for the moment. Roger, if he did what he always did, would listen to her for a day, so I was expecting him to grill me once he had me cornered at the footy tomorrow.

  Like I really wanted to discuss my love life when watching Richmond get thrashed once again. That’s just letting salt be poured into your open wound.

  As I settled back into my chair, Declan crossed my mind again. To try and get him off it, a futile attempt I know, I busied myself by starting to go through some DVDs delivered that morning. They were potential entries for the festival, and there was a reek of desperation and hope about them. The desperate ones always got to me the most.

  I knew how they felt.

  Halfway through a heartfelt and achingly amateur documentary about schizophrenic teens forming a garage band, which managed to check every box for guaranteeing a hit among the liberal-minded audience that always attended our festival, my mobile buzzed with a message.

  Far from being the cool, calm, and dispassionate person I hoped I would be, I almost did the Snoopy dance of suppertime joy when the screen informed me it was from Declan.

  Hope things are okay between us.

  Okay, so a flutter of hope sounded in my heart. Shut up.

  I pondered over what to write back. This was the best I could do:

  They’re fine. Good luck with the game tonight.

  I tapped the mobile against my lower lip, staring out the window and watching the crowds scurry in and out of Flinders Street Station as I waited for his message.

  A few moments later, it came.

  I’m glad. And thanks.

  I couldn’t help but be me, though.

  I’m only wishing you luck because you’re not playing us.

  His response was quick.

  I wouldn’t expect anything else from you.

  I laughed.

  Wise move.

  While waiting for his response, I entertained the possibilities that could arise from the first time our teams met each other on the field. When we couldn’t even figure out the sex thing, how would we tackle actual combat? Football was even more sacred than fucking.

  Declan became serious in his next one.

  I really want to talk to you. If I could, I would come and see you before

  I leave, but our flight is immediately after the game.

  I replied that I would definitely see him the next time he was in town.

  His next message managed to make me feel more confident.

  I’d like to talk to you before then.

  I thought I would give him a glimmer of hope.

  You know my number.

  There was no hesitation.

  I do. Talk soon.

  So he wasn’t dumping me, but I still had no idea what was going on with him. I wondered where he was exactly at this point of time. At the locker room in the MCG? Sitting on the field watching his teammates train without him? Maybe they were noticing him texting a lot and teasing him about finally finding a girlfriend.

  Even just the thought of that and of him playing along with it as natural cover made an irrepressible bitterness well up inside me. I pushed it down as much as I could, and tried to focus on the good, but came up empty-handed and had to distract myself with work instead.

  Nyssa eventually returned to haunt my doorway about four in the afternoon. She looked at me expectantly, half-fearful as always that for some reason this would be the Friday that I would expect us to work all the way through to the normal quitting time. And that divine light in her eyes would go out, possibly forever.

  “Yes, Nyssa?” I asked, as if the boss never thought of quitting early to go to the pub and must be reminded of these things even though he can think of nothing else.

  “So, it’s Bog-off-to-the-Pub day, Simon.”

  I closed my diary with a resounding thump. “So it is! Get your coat!”

  Nyssa clapped her hands excitedly like she was six years old again. Slightly disturbing to think of her as a six-year-old girl getting excited over the prospect of beer.

  I checked my mobile for the fifth time that hour to see if Declan had texted me. He hadn’t. That was fair enough, I mean, it was getting closer and closer to kick off time. Already, crowds were starting to make their way down to the G, last-minute ticket sales would be going fast, and beer and chips would be selling like… well, beer and chips.

  We hopped the tram to take the short ride into Fitzroy and headed for The Napier.

  Fran was already there, Roger was on his way, and the usual crowd was assembling. We pushed tables together out into the mosaic-tiled back room and ordered the first round of drinks. As the patrons got rowdier and the music got louder, Fran leaned in to me. “I can tell something’s happened,” she said, her voice low and warm in my ear.

  “He texted me,” I muttered back.

  “In a good way?”

  “I think so,” I replied.

  Fran leaned back into her seat, studying me. “You have that look again.”

  “I’m not getting my hopes up,” I assured her.

  I don’t think she believed me. I’m not sure I believed me.

  Luckily, Nyssa blundered into the conversation as she sat back down with roughly eight packets of chips crushed against her chest. “Are you talking about his interview?
”

  “Not again, Nyss,” I groaned.

  “Interview?” Fran asked, immediately beginning to open the chips.

  “Nyssa’s paranoid,” I said quickly.

  “I am not!” Nyssa objected, shoving a salt and vinegar chip into her mouth. “Just because I suspect things a lot doesn’t make me paranoid.”

  “You’re not seriously leaving the Triple F?” Fran asked.

  “No!” I yelled, partly because I was frustrated and partly because the music had gotten louder.

  “Bit defensive,” Fran said.

  “I told you,” Nyssa replied. “He’s being secretive about something.”

  “He’s a smitten kitten,” Fran teased, and then she screamed when I kicked her under the table. “What are you, five?”

  “What are you, the town crier?” I shot back.

  Nyssa stared me down. “That’s it,” she said slowly. “I thought you were planning to leave. But the phone calls, the lunch rendezvouses—”

  “That isn’t a word,” I interrupted her.

  “What is the plural of rendezvous?” Fran asked. I’m sure she was really interested.

  “Rendezvous is both singular and plural,” I said, trying not to sound like Grammar Boy.

  “Those French are so smart,” Fran mused, rubbing her ankle. “Two for the price of one.”

  “Anyway, Nyssa, those calls and rendezvous? Are mainly with her.” And I pointed at Fran.

  “You’re fooling around with my wife?”

  Roger had finally appeared. He whacked me over the head as he manoeuvred around the table to sit with the woman in question.

  “Only on Thursdays, hon,” Fran said, kissing him hello.

  “And Mondays,” Nyssa said. “Oh, and Wednesday as well.”

  “I told you, you were a manwhore,” Roger said to me.

  “Ha ha.” I frowned, trying to shake it off. After all, it’s not like he knew what had happened yet.

  Roger yelped when Fran kicked him under the table.

  “What was that for?” he cried.

  “Because it’s your shout,” she said grimly.

  “Alright, alright.” He knew when he was beaten, even though he wasn’t sure why his shin was suddenly bruising. “Come and help me, homewrecker.”

  I got to my feet and followed him back out into the main bar.