Just one.
That was it.
“Did he text back?” I heard Chloe say in the background lazily, she was inches away from me, our towels lined up adjacently facing the water on that beautiful day.
I’d had my hand wrapped around my phone that whole time. I would have felt it buzz. But I brought it to my face to examine it anyway.
There was the text again, and the letters underneath it, four of them, slender in shape.
Seen.
And nothing more.
“Nope,” I responded.
“He will. Don’t worry. He’s totally into you. Guys are just like that ... they’re all playing games,” Chloe waffled.
I’d heard it all before. Guys our age were like that. They played the disinterested game because that’s just how things were. They weren’t supposed to seem emotionally involved, or compromised in any way. It was the underlying Australian bloke narrative. Stoicism and all that sort of thing.
I mean it kind of made sense, for half a second.
But even I couldn’t fool myself on this occasion.
Maybe, he’d forgotten my name again. Or even that he’d kissed me.
Was that possible? Was I that forgettable?
I sat up now.
The thought was disarming – and it hadn’t been the first time it had crossed my mind. In fact, it was a consistent occupier of that space. That somehow despite my cute face, I just wasn’t enough. Not even my cheek bones were enough.
It was like there was an empty space deep within me. Cavernous. Waiting to be filled up.
And no matter how perfect my presentation was, people just sensed the vacuousness of my innards. They knew that underneath that tanned skin, and perfected limbs, there was nothing but nothingness. And it perturbed them.
No, it wasn’t the first time I’d thought it, I’d always kind of thought it.
Maybe that’s why I wanted Benji so much. It was like he was the polar opposite. The positive to my negative. It was almost like he would fill me right up again.
The water was a deep grey colour, and the sky overhead a cerulean blue. Like a Brett Whiteley painting. The boats out at sea bobbed quietly, effortless movements.
It was such a perfect day it almost hurt my eyes.
Everything about this place was faultless. Sydney was flawless on an immaculate late summer’s day like today. The weather was almost always warm, the sky shot a resplendent tone, the boats nodded, your friends fed you bullshit but palatable excuses for your failure, the beach was filled with people with immaculate physiques, coloured just the right shade of brown ... it felt almost as though there was a background sound-track. An upbeat summer hit. The type of song that people played at a certain point at a party, and everyone’s eyes lit up in recognition, and then there was a general chorus ... “turn it up.”
That was Sydney, ideal, immaculate and ... fake.
And I didn’t hate it. But I didn’t love it either. It kind of felt exactly like I did. A pristine exterior, and a vacuous state inside. Incapable of really feeling the nuances and sensitivities that really made someone alive.
“What time is it?” Chloe asked. She’d turned over, and unhooked her bikini top so she could tan without lines. She looked like a golden, shiny seal. Her seriously perfect body, slender and buoyant all at the same time.
“2pm,” I’d responded, not needing to look at my phone again.
“Maybe we should go to Watson’s Bay for a drink?” she said, voice still muffled. “I’m starting to roast.”
Chloe always said that, but she never roasted. She wasn’t the type of girl who would ever be sunburnt. Practically speaking she had spent too long at the beach as a teenager, and her skin was attuned to the sun’s rays, her skin was also olive brown. But alongside that, she was, like me, the impeccable girl, the one that never popped a zit, or never had a zit to pop, never soiled a shirt, never had a hair out of place ... and of course never turned bright, sunburnt red.
It just wasn’t in our constitution.
We had been raised to be proper and perfect, by proper and perfect people. We didn’t have any angles, no bumps or raised edges, no nobly bits or sharp one’s either. We were smooth and polished like a piece of recycled glass washed up on the shore of that creamy beach. It didn’t hurt to touch. It was cool and rounded in the palm of your hand.
But it also wasn’t memorable or very interesting either.
“Let’s go Maddie. It’s getting too hot,” Chloe murmured next to me, as she sluggishly got to her feet. She was wearing a metallic bikini, which was perfectly subtle, and incredibly on trend. It had crept up her bottom, as she had tanned, and now she wedged it out unselfconsciously.
People like us weren’t self-conscious.
We knew all of our actions were right. And yet ... I always felt so wrong.
I got to my feet beside her, and started collecting our things, folding them up and storing them in the compartmentalised spaces in our bags. The towel was always shook out, anything wet was put in the plastic sealable carrier with the rest of the wet things, my wallet and phone stowed in a zipped area at the top.
Like our lives. Everything had its discrete place. And nothing ever cross-pollinated.
It was all unnaturally tidy. So ordered there was no room for the remarkable, or the curious, or the noteworthy.
“Ready?” asked Chloe.
“Yep,” I responded, like those thoughts had never crossed my mind.
We drove to Watson’s Bay in Chloe’s stylish Fiat, with the Italian flag colours tracked as lines on the outside of the car. Chloe wasn’t Italian. But she had holidayed in Italy with her family before. The Amalfi Coast, Positano, Rome, La Costa Smeralda. She’d even had a summer fling there. But the car wasn’t a reflection of her passion for Italy. It was just kind of on trend, and sporty. Something the boys liked to comment about, and the girls were comfortable cruising in.
She played Dua Lipa at a loud, but respectable volume. Only a couple of times she turned in my direction and said, “I love this song” and pumped the volume. But after a few stanzas it was quickly turned back down.
We found a park close to Watson’s Bay Hotel. The car was small enough so it was easy enough to squeeze into parks that other people struggled with. Chloe was an expert parallel parker, she swung the car into position with the confidence of a pro, barely checking her mirrors.
“Let’s go,” she said.
I trotted along next to her, heading down the misshapen red brick path to the bar. We came here often on a Saturday summer’s afternoon. Most of the right people came here. Sometimes a smattering of the wrong people came too, but it was obvious that they didn’t fit in. They were either too loud or wearing the wrong clothes ... or there was just something acute about their behaviour. It was clear that the edges hadn’t been chiselled off.
The bright blue and white striped umbrellas greeted us. Familiar, and suspended above the tables, jostling in the slight breeze for space and attention.
We found a seat at a wooden table on the upper level, facing down towards the beach. The sun was still beating down, severe, but the umbrellas provided a shady area that we both scrambled into.
Chloe headed off to get two glasses of Pinot Grigio.
I sat and waited, my hands itching to yank my phone out of my bag, even under the pretext of checking social to see if he had responded. But I resisted the urge.
I knew he hadn’t.
It wasn’t worth it.
I hated sitting alone in a crowded place like this. It was awkward. Especially without the security of my phone. I let my eyes filter about and take in the scene. The tables were filled with girls and guys fresh from the beach, or family groups with prams, and others already done-up, ready for the night ahead. It was a veritable array of Zimmerman, Thurley and Alice McCall – a kaleidoscope of colours and fabrics, and blow-outs and fake tans. I knew the new season looks, they were the one’s my mum wore.
I felt incredibly small and insignif
icant in the face of such armour. Like those people might have been glancing in my direction and having a little giggle, about why I was alone. It was a stupid feeling because I knew they wouldn’t be looking in my direction, not even close. I eased into every image, like stock footage. An image that you could purchase from a library and set in any frame.
There was so much pretending going on, it filled up every space of that venue, sucking out the air.
I couldn’t stand it sometimes. But I had the lurid sense that I was part of it. No matter how much I tried to not pretend, everything about me remained an elaborate ruse.
Chloe returned with the glasses, and a broad grin. Bright and brilliant, like she had assumed the energy of the room.
“Let’s take a photo for Instagram,” she said, setting the glass down next to me.
“Sure,” I acquiesced.
Everything was captured and curated for Instagram. There was nothing remarkable about the request.
She sat the phone down in front of us propped against the sky blue metallic bucket on the table which held the knives and forks, and set the timer to 10 seconds. Chloe didn’t do selfies.
“Here, let’s clink glasses, and smile, like we’re having a fabulous time.”
I nodded, collecting my glass, it was slippery from condensation from that hot summer’s day.
I lined my face with a grin, and tilted my head back, so my blonde hair tumbled behind me, arched my back just so. I knew the angle, I knew the look, I knew everything I had to mimic to get it just right.
Chloe did just the same, and for a second I stared into her similarly blue eyes and smiled. I took it for what it was, a moment of staged intimacy. Perhaps the closest I would get to any form of intimacy, if anything else even really existed.
I heard the phone click the image.
Chloe’s face whipped across to the photograph, she snatched up her phone quickly.
“It’s perfect. You look so good in this,” Chloe said excitedly, showing me the photo to inspect. We did look good in it. A flawless image of youth, beauty, sunshine and fun. We embodied a Sydney’s summer afternoon in a single shot. And something else, a feeling. But I wasn’t quite sure what it was.
“I’m putting it up now, I’ll tag you in it. When he sees this he’ll definitely text you back.”
I took a sip of the wine. That wouldn’t be the case. Benjamin Carroll would not be looking at my Instagram account. That was the entirety of the problem. He didn’t think I was interesting enough to observe.
As I glanced out to that beautiful ocean: flat and blue, the tiny waves kissing that yellow beach, I stomached the reality. The worst thing was ... to be unwatched. To go unobserved. To be kind of like a ghost, wandering among real people. And that’s what I was. Bleached grey.
Chloe was busy manipulating the image. Blurring lines, and making arms look slenderer, applying filters. She was incredibly diligent with such things. I let my eyes creep across the room again. Bored. They connected with people and objects. It was all so familiar to me. And it was kind of like my life; all of it, past, present, and future, laid out in a storybook. From the baby in the pram, to the toddler zoned out watching an iPad, to the younger groups of guys, the older ones with the kids, and even the ancient ladies in the corner, eating oysters with a bottle of Veuve. Here it was, the immensely pleasant lives of the eastern suburbs elite, and those that wished they were part of it. Satisfying, amusing, agreeable and even amiable ... but intensely boring.
That’s when my eyes startled on her. Because she didn’t belong. She didn’t suit the colour palette, the shapes, or even the vibe. There was something angular and strange about her, and odd-fitting. Like she vibrated at a different frequency. Francesca Moore. Wearing an ill-fitting kaftan ... and watching me. Watching me.
So apparently, I did have it wrong. Someone was observing me. The idea surprised me and made me feel momentarily ... real.
It made my heart race slightly faster.
She didn’t look pleased. She was frowning at me, and there was a crease down the centre of her forehead.
She didn’t belong here.
She was here with someone else. Someone who opened doors, and let you wander through, even though he was a junkie. Hamish Chiel was somewhere, lurking.
“Ugh ... she’s here,” I said to Chloe, taking another sip of my wine. My motions were languid, and my eyes slid away from Francesca like they had barely registered her. A lifetime of feigning made you a champion pretender. You could barely make out the actions that were simulated and the ones that were real. Was there a difference?
“Who?” Her eyes were still locked on the phone.
“Francesca Moore,” I responded. Bringing the glass up to my lips, to conceal the words as I uttered them. I could sense she was still watching.
“Ugh ... she’s so gross. Don’t even worry.” Quickly dismissed, she held the phone up to me to show me the image she had just posted.
There we were, big bright grins, tanned skin, tumbling blonde (me) and auburn (her) hair, glasses in hand, bright blue sky and the tiniest wedge of a blue and white striped umbrella in the background.
It was perfect. She was right.
We looked faultless.
“So good,” I commented, handing the phone back.
I just didn’t really feel like the girl in that image. But maybe when I looked back at it, later, that evening, or even in a year’s time, I would. Maybe that made it okay. A staged life, so it could be viewed in retrospect as cheerful.
“I know.” She raised an eyebrow, impressed by her handiwork.
That’s when Hamish Chiel startled upon us. He was wearing a shirt with bright colourful fish on it, cream shorts and Huaraches. His hair had been shorn incredibly short, which gave him a strange fearless quality, like a pit-bull that had been shaved. He ran the palm of his hand over the top of his head like he knew his new look had been observed.
He made me instantly uncomfortable.
“Ladies,” he said.
“Hey,” we both responded, semi-distractedly, half smiles dutifully pasted on our faces.
Yeah, we knew Hamish, and sometimes we even bought a bag off him if we were pretending to party. Just so we had a couple of memories behind us of our misspent youth, not because we really enjoyed it, just because it was the done thing.
I’d also purchased another thing from him recently.
But it was information. Or digits to be exact.
And yeah, there was more too ...
I rarely felt anything ... but Hamish did manage to make me feel ... strange. Like the fine hairs on my arms stood on end when he was around. He was weird and kind of gruesome, but somehow cute and charismatic all at the same time. It was a nuanced combination, not easily readable, and not categorizable. It threw me off. Set me off balance. And most of the time I just wished he would go away.
His dark eyes settled on mine, and then flicked across to Chloe, who was back on her phone, likely assessing the popularity of the image that she had just uploaded.
“How are you both?” he asked pleasantly enough. He had a strange voice, like it came from somewhere deep within his throat, and it had to stumble past various obstacles before it exited. Gravelly almost. It wasn’t like the other carefully polished voices which usually circulated in my vicinity.
“Good,” I responded for the both of us. Chloe was lost in her Instagram haze.
His eyes were on mine again, and he leant up against the table with both hands, like he owned it. He was so intense sometimes.
“Do you need anything?” he said in a quieter voice, and looked away in a strange way, like he was suddenly embarrassed. I wasn’t sure why, everyone knew what he did. It was hardly a state secret. And besides it was kind of his personal brand. What more was there to Hamish Chiel?
There was nothing more to Hamish Chiel.
“No,” I responded, silently wishing he would leave.
The association was not a desirable one.
A coup
le of awkward seconds past. Then he said,
“What else is going on?”
The question startled me. It was like he was trying to have a conversation. But we didn’t chat to Hamish Chiel. Not Chloe, not me. It wasn’t part of our personal brand. One interaction was fine. A question and an answer. But a prolonged exchange, or even a slightly longer exchange ... no. We all functioned and related to each other via a tight set of rules, never vocalised, but keenly observed and experienced.
This was not part of our compact. Maybe he thought because he’d gotten that number for me, that we now related to each other on a different level. But we didn’t.
There were just exchanges between the two of us. Just exchanges.
“Nothing much.” I clipped the words slightly, still wearing a slight smile, but giving the response a frosty air.
His eyes remained fixed on mine for a second, there was an interesting quality to them. Like they were searching for something in mine ... I looked away quickly. I wasn’t sure what he wanted. I hated that. It made me feel uncomfortable. Off kilter.
Another couple of seconds of awkward silence, enough of them for Chloe to look up from her phone, like she too was aware that something strange had happened.
Suddenly I was afraid that he might reveal our secret. And it wasn’t really a secret ... secret, per se. But it felt nonetheless grimy. I’d asked him for Benjamin Carroll’s number. A couple of days ago. Benji and I didn’t have any mutual connections. We operated in completely different circles, and there was no cross-pollination in between.
Except for Hamish Chiel.
The idea of texting Hamish and asking for Benji’s number had kind of turned my stomach. To begin with, I only texted Hamish for one thing, and one thing only, and the request was irregular. We weren’t in the business of having any other interactions. So it was weird, reaching out to him for a guy’s number, and one that he wasn’t even directly associated with. How would he get it? Would he ask Francesca for it? Would he go through her phone? Would he just say no, or not respond? They were all thoughts that had crowded my mind in the lead-up to that text.
The Overthinkers Page 13