The First Year

by Genevieve Gannon

  ‘What? You’re joking?’

  ‘I am not. I thought, why am I killing myself for this company that doesn’t appreciate me? Besides, they haven’t got a clue how to run a law firm. They’re cowboys.’

  ‘They never appreciated how valuable you are,’ Rhino said.

  Krystyn paused and turned towards Rhino, then crinkled her brow as if seeing him anew. ‘Thank you, Rhino,’ she said, her voice tender.

  Emboldened, he reached for the bottle of wine in the middle of the table and filled Krystyn’s glass. ‘We’re all better off. You too, Andy. They did you a favour.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Krystyn said, raising her glass. ‘That place was no good.’ She reached across the table and gave Andy’s hand a pat. Rhino followed her movement with his eyes.

  ‘God, I expended so much energy trying to show them I was just as good as them, but they never would have admitted it.’ She let out a little mock scream that became a laugh. ‘I was so desperately unhappy there.’

  ‘You look much better,’ Rhino said. ‘I mean, you always looked radiant.’

  ‘You mean pertinent?’

  He laughed. ‘Perfect, is what I meant. But you look happier now and it suits you.’

  Krystyn’s brow creased again. ‘Thank you, Rhino. You look great too.’

  ‘Well . . .’ He chuckled again and examined the tablecloth. ‘It wouldn’t take much to improve upon the sad sack I was at HM&L.’

  This went on for some time. Andy ate his meal and mainly kept his mouth shut. After their plates were cleared he lifted his glass and said, ‘I’m very glad for the both of you.’

  He thought he sounded convincing, because he was happy for Krystyn, sincerely and wholly. But he must have failed, because Rhino said, ‘Cheer up, Ando. Of all the HM&L castaways I know, you’re the one I’m least worried about. You’re the man most likely.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ Andy said. ‘Time to get the bill I think.’

  ‘We should do it again some time.’ Krystyn nodded, her curls bouncing.

  Rhino made a show of looking at his watch. ‘It’s not that late. I might have a nightcap. Anyone else?’

  Andy knew the invitation wasn’t meant for him, so he demurred, but was pleased when Krystyn said, ‘You know, a nightcap sounds good.’

  ‘I’ll say good night then.’ Andy dropped some bills onto the table.

  ‘Chin up, Andy,’ Rhino said. ‘Things will turn around.’

  ‘Good night.’ Krystyn stood and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘I’m glad you convinced me to come out.’

  Day 248, Tuesday, June 16

  ‘Two shish and a falafel roll with extra baba ghanoush.’ Saskia held out two plates loaded with meat, and had a third balanced on her forearm, which was slowly being burned by the hot porcelain.

  ‘Miss, I asked for no tabouli with my shish kebab,’ a diner said sharply.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. They both seem to have tabouli. I’ll get you another one.’

  ‘Make sure it’s a fresh meal. Don’t just scrape the tabouli off. I have a parsley intolerance. It can’t be anywhere near my food.’

  Saskia employed her best service smile. ‘I’ll get that for you right away.’

  ‘Hassan, can I get another shish, no tabouli for table seven,’ she called as she pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

  ‘Just scrape it off,’ he hollered, elbow deep in a lamb carcass.

  ‘I can’t just scrape it off. Look, it’s everywhere.’

  ‘Give me that.’

  Hassan freed his hand from the lamb, took the plate from her, and began to remove the confetti of chopped parsley and bulgur wheat. ‘They’ll never know,’ he said, digging between the meat and falafel with stubby fingers.

  ‘Saskia, table 12,’ her boss Nick yelled through the doors.

  ‘There, take that with you,’ Hassan shoved the renovated meal at her before adding a sloppy spoonful of hummus to cover where the offending tabouli had been.

  Saskia rushed back to the floor where a large family was settling itself at table 12. She delivered the shish-no-tabouli with another apology, then went to see to the family.

  ‘What can I get you tonight?’ She smiled, her notebook at the ready.

  Despite the occasional crabby customer, Saskia found she liked working at Tiba’s. She already knew the menu backwards, so taking orders and answering questions was easy, and she enjoyed the company of the other wait staff. It felt good to be on her feet, instead of bent over a workbench, and the fast pace kept her mind mercifully occupied.

  At the end of the night, Nick would dump the contents of the tip jar onto one of the table tops, pocket the notes and divide the coins among the staff. Most nights Saskia would go home, shower quickly then climb into bed. The curtains were flimsy and didn’t block out the street lights, but she’d be so worn out she rarely had trouble falling asleep.

  Tonight she was feeling restless. She sank heavily onto the couch. Randa was studying. Saskia picked up her phone and glowered at it. Somehow she and Andy had allowed weeks to pass without speaking. She’d start to type out a message. ‘Hi, how are you?’ Then hastily delete it, embarrassed by her feeble effort. She felt guilty, hurt and unsure what to do.

  She had bought some lamb and falafel home in a plastic tub for Randa, who still refused to accept rent money. Saskia stashed it in the fridge, then she opened her mobile bank account and paid Randa’s electricity and gas bill that she’d taken from the letterbox.

  Jewellery money was coming in steadily, and with her first pay cheque from Tiba’s on the way she felt like she was getting her finances back on track. She had a fistful of tip-jar change in her handbag — about twenty dollars. Once, it would have been enough for a grocery shop from the Coburg market. While living with Andy she had easily slipped into the habit of buying a single bottle of olive oil for the same price. She bristled at the wastefulness.

  She clicked into the account they could both access. In a few short months she’d used thousands of dollars that he’d earned to pay for things her business needed. She opened her account and transferred five hundred dollars to Andy, labelling the transaction ‘Little Hill Repayment’. She knew it would take a day for the money to clear, but still, she couldn’t help but wonder what Andy would do when he saw she was paying him back.

  Day 250, Thursday, June 18

  The days dribbled away. Andy stayed up late keeping company with infomercials and TV evangelists so he wouldn’t have to face his bed alone.

  Each morning when his alarm sounded he played a game of grown-up chicken with the morning train. The aim was to see how long he could sleep without missing the 8.03 to Flinders Street. He had discovered that by eliminating shaving and slicking wax through his hair he could spend another six minutes in his doona’s unconditional embrace.

  This June morning, he was making good time and was halfway to his new office in the Cameron’s building when he remembered he had a breakfast meeting at the Duke up the east end of town.

  He felt the familiar stressful pull at his chest, like somebody had yanked on his oesophagus. A tram offered a solution. He strode towards it, and as he stepped aboard he found himself thinking, so what if I’m late? People are late all the time. A rich old man might be slightly inconvenienced for a minute or two. After the misery of the past few weeks, it didn’t seem that important. For the first time in his working life, whether he would arrive at the meeting on time didn’t feel like a life or death situation. The tram gave a ‘ping’ to announce it would soon be leaving. Andy took a seat, feeling markedly calmer than he had the moment he’d realised his mistake. He wanted to call Saskia and tell her about his epiphany, that he suddenly understood why she would get so frustrated with him, why she got so angry when he couldn’t get through a meal without picking up his iPhone.

  He’d give anything to be able to hear her voice now. He felt the urge to ring her, but they needed time and he was already late for his meeting. The desolation he felt when he f
aced the fact he couldn’t casually call Saskia was acute. What was the point of little victories if she wasn’t there to tell? What was the point of finishing work early if she wasn’t there to spend the time with? The tram glided towards the steps of Parliament House. Andy jumped off and headed towards the Duke.

  The once-grand Duke Hotel had a moth-eaten feeling of decay about it these days. Andy swung his briefcase as he strode across the dining room in an effort to convey a convivial demeanour. The busy breakfast service was reaching fever pitch.

  ‘Percy, Mr Morton,’ Andy greeted his boss from Cameron’s and their client, who owned a speciality stationary chain called The Pleasure Pen and wanted to sue a brothel that had recently opened under the same name. ‘Apologies for keeping you waiting,’ the words rolled off Andy’s tongue but his mind had ground to a halt. Mr Morton was lifting a dry-looking piece of toast from a silver holder identical to the one his aunt Mildred had given him and Saskia for their wedding. (She had commented it was a waste of perfectly good silver. ‘Why do we need to display our toast before eating it?’)

  Andy stared at it for a moment.

  ‘Andrew!’ Percy interrupted his reverie. His tone said the rest: You’re late. Sit down before I fire you.

  A waiter appeared at Andy’s side with a glass of orange juice and a pot of coffee. The aroma of earthy beans reached his nose, followed by the clashing citrus tang of the oranges. He was transported to the early days of dating Saskia when he would often meet in the lane behind her cafe after she finished work and they’d go to a pokey bar, where the drinks were strong and the meals were made in jaffle irons and eaten off paper plates.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ the hovering waiter asked.

  ‘Neither for me, thanks.’

  He was desperate for the caffeine but he knew that if a cup of coffee came within whiffing distance of his nose he was in danger of losing his concentration. Everything reminded him of her.

  ‘Could you excuse me for a minute, please?’ he said, standing.

  ‘Andrew,’ Percy called after him.

  In the gents, Andy let cold water rush over his hands then patted his damp palms to his cheeks.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ he said below his breath. He ripped a length of paper towel from the dispenser and added, ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  The reflection that stared back at him could have been a stranger. His hair was fluffy and he had bags under his eyes, which sleepless nights had reduced to bloodshot slits. He realised he had let this go on for too long. It was time to go and find his wife.

  He came back to the table with a sense of purpose. Percy was droning on, and Andy kicked into work mode.

  That afternoon Andy left the office early and drove to the Barton Building. There was no light in Saskia’s studio window. He went to the front door and pressed the intercom. He waited a minute and a half before pressing again. When there was still no answer, he got back into his car and headed north.

  ‘Andy!’ Randa’s expression, at first surprised, switched to guarded after she answered her door.

  She leaned against the doorframe, her arm creating a bar that blocked the entrance. Andy recognised that she was signalling to him that no amount of mutual love of Keats — which they’d discussed at a dinner party once with growing approval of each other — would shake her loyalty to Saskia. But he could sense something else: relief that he had come.

  ‘Randa, is Sas here? I really need to speak to her.’

  He sensed her stiffen. ‘You need to speak to her? What about what she needs?’

  ‘Come on, Randa. Please. I want to make sure she’s okay.’

  ‘She’s doing fine. Why didn’t you call her?’

  He paused. It was a question he couldn’t really answer. Because he hoped she’d come back on her own. Because he wanted to give her space. Because she’d wounded his pride. Because she’d left him when he was at his lowest. ‘I’m here now.’

  Randa sucked the inside of her cheek as she decided what to do. Finally she said, ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Hungry? I . . . thanks, Randa, but I really just want to see Saskia.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to Tiba’s?’

  ‘Tiba’s?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said meaningfully. ‘Tiba’s.’

  ‘Right.’ He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  Andy got back in his car and headed south towards Brunswick. Saskia had taken him to Tiba’s early in their courtship where she had explained that it wasn’t necessary to pay ninety dollars a head to get a decent cut of meat in Melbourne. Andy was eager to find her at one of the tables, perhaps doodling in her sketchbook, where he could join her and talk things out. See her smile. Hear her laugh.

  He turned onto Sydney Road and immediately cursed his error. Traffic was backed up as far as he could see. He inched forward past Halal butchers and discount stores, all the while tapping his hands against the steering wheel, worried that Saskia would finish her meal and leave. As he came to a stop at lights in line with Tiba’s, he looked through the front window. He didn’t see her at any of the tables and wondered if he should head back to Randa’s. A flash of movement drew his eye as the kitchen doors at the back of the restaurant flew open. Saskia emerged holding a plate in each hand. She swerved between the tables in hip-hugging denim, deftly dropping off meals. Her curls were swept up into a ponytail.

  The traffic light changed and he pulled onto a side street and parked, then jogged up towards the Lebanese restaurant where his wife now apparently worked.

  Once inside, he grabbed a menu and held it up to his face, peering over the top, surreptitiously taking in the scene before him.

  ‘Dinner for one?’ A young woman in a black Tiba’s T-shirts asked.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The waitress showed him to a laminate table set for two then whipped away the second cutlery setting.

  ‘Thanks.’ Andy kept the menu held up to his face so he could watch Saskia weave between the tables. She was wearing a tight black T-shirt that said ‘Tiba’s’ on the front and ‘Ask me about our catering services’, on the back. He sunk into his chair, even though now she had her back to him and was explaining how one of the dishes was prepared to a large table and admiring, middle-aged men. She was still scribbling down their orders as she moved to Andy’s table.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ she said without looking up.

  He cleared his throat. ‘You can come home.’

  ‘Andy!’ Saskia’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Randa said you were here. I didn’t realise she meant you were working.’

  She tucked her notepad into her apron. ‘I have to pay the rent on my studio.’

  He hated seeing her waiting tables, and indulgently smiling at male customers who thought their patronage entitled them to ogle his wife. But he also hated how easy it obviously was for her to move on. In a few short weeks she had already got a new job, setting things in motion to start again without him.

  ‘Sas,’ he watched her as she wiped down his table. He had to force himself not to reach out and touch the downy hair on her forearm.

  ‘Do you know what you want to eat? I’ve got a lot of customers to serve.’

  ‘You put money in my account,’ he said.

  Saskia didn’t look up from the notepad in her hand. ‘I was paying you back.’

  ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘Yes I did.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. I don’t want you to pay me back. I’m working again. It’s helping me feel sane. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.’

  ‘Andy, please, not here.’

  ‘Sit down for a minute, will you?’

  ‘I can’t. This is my job now.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this. You can still use the account.’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ she whispered, then added, louder, ‘I’ll have Hassan do you a kebab to go. They’re really good.’

  ‘I don’t want a kebab.’

  ‘Plea
se, this is not the time to discuss this. I’ll lose my job.’ What she meant was, we should talk about it later. When they had time to go over it properly. But Andy responded, ‘I want you to lose your job,’ and her stubborn instinct for self-protection took over.

  ‘And how will I pay for my silver and my studio? Letting you fund it cost me too much.’

  He swallowed. ‘Sas, you’re being unfair.’

  ‘I’m being unfair? It’s been weeks of silence, and now you come to my job, my new job that I need, and expect me to jeopardise it because you’re ready to talk?’

  ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you every day.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’

  ‘I . . . you’re the one who left.’

  Saskia drew a deep shuddering breath. She knew this to be true, bust customers were waving at her and Nick was watching her like a hawk. ‘If you’re not going to order anything please just go.’

  He frowned. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  The remorse hit Saskia after the door closed behind him. She was momentarily nauseated by her own behaviour; why did she have to push, push, push him to his very limits? He had done what she had been longing for him to do — he had come to find her and her response had been to tell him to go away. She cursed her stubborn pride.

  ‘Miss?’

  She didn’t have time to analyse it. The dining room was full and customers needed her attention.

  *

  After Andy left, Saskia was off her game. She mixed up three orders and dropped a plate of hummus onto a woman’s lap.

  ‘Wake up, Saskia. Please, you’re killing me,’ Nick said. ‘Take care of this couple, will you.’ He gestured at a table she’d neglected while trying to scrub spatters of chickpea dip from her T-shirt.

  ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ Saskia said, frazzled. She was fumbling in the pocket of her apron for her pencil, when something silver and familiar caught her eye. The woman was wearing the Hero cuff.

  Saskia’s heart fluttered with pride, her anxiety evaporated, and a smile came naturally to her face. She said warmly, ‘What can I get you?’