Under the Influence

by Jacqueline Lunn

  He sounded so earnest, she thought, like he was telling a five-year-old that if she just believed, really believed, the Tooth Fairy would never die.

  Eve sat up and noticed she had left a half-moon wet patch on Sam’s T-shirt – a wet patch with one oversized streak of mucus dangling in the middle. ‘Sorry,’ she said, trying to wipe it off with her hand.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  Sam grabbed her hand to stop her rubbing at his chest and kept it in his. Eve could see the different colours in his stubble. He hadn’t shaved for four days, and there was black, grey and a tiny patch of ginger near his chin. Eve could see he felt sorry for her, and she knew that pity and scorn were only separated by the depth of weakness from the one inviting it. She slid her hand away just as something made a whipping sound outside. It could have been thunder; it could have been trailer wheels hitting a fallen branch. There was a rumble of voices downstairs and that scratchy microphone with a man in a high-pitched voice singing ‘November Rain’, going on for way too long.

  ‘Some people make you a better person. Some people make you worse.’ Her words came out rote-like, as though she was reciting a grocery list for Sam to pick up from the shop later.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Meg made me a better person. When I was with her, I was better.’

  ‘That’s a lot of responsibility to give Meg,’ he said. ‘Where do you fit in to all of this, or is it just easier handing over the responsibility to someone else? It’s never your fault, Eve?’

  ‘When she was with me, she was better too.’ There was a hint of defiance when she spoke. ‘And I know when it’s my fault. I know.’

  Eve stood up and folded the blanket, then set it down neatly on the end of the bed. She sculled her glass of water and went into the bathroom, where she took off her clothes. They fell at her feet. Sam could see a third of her long body, the curve of one of her breasts and her hip, from where he sat; the white door covered the rest. It took him a while to turn away.

  Sam opened a beer – he wasn’t leaving – and went outside on the verandah to sit. He could hear little water-soaked shrieks as Eve let the water from the shower fall over her. It was obviously cold.

  When Eve opened the French doors, she had a pale-blue towel wrapped like a turban around her head, and an emerald-green slip dress covered her translucent skin. She looked like a figurine that should be sitting in a tourist centre in the Bahamas with the word ‘Welcome’ at the bottom. She didn’t make any sense. She had a drink in her hand and took a long sip of her beer as she pulled out the chair opposite.

  ‘I need to ask. What happened in there when you collapsed? If you don’t want to tell me, I think you should go to the hospital or a doctor and see someone. It could be the sign of something.’

  ‘You’re a doctor.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I know what it was. It was a panic attack.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, I’m a nutcase. Perfect guardian material for a baby, really. One minute, I’m putting in a bin liner in my kitchen in rainy London. The next, well, I’m having a moment on the floor.’

  ‘Have you been diagnosed or are you just guessing? Do you get them often?’

  ‘Hold on, Sam.’ Eve put her hand up in a stop sign and took another sip of her beer. ‘I’ve been diagnosed. I’ve had a handful of mild ones where I just had trouble breathing and my heart raced a bit and other pathetic bits and pieces. I’ve only had three where I’ve collapsed. I get over it really quickly.’

  ‘A speedy recovery is not the point. When was the last time before this?’

  ‘About three weeks ago. In my kitchen.’

  ‘Are they coming closer together? What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Not much. That I should probably see someone. You know, someone I could talk to. Work out the cause. Work on any issues.’ Eve mocked the word ‘issues’, making the ‘s’ sound long and silly.

  ‘When did they start?’

  ‘About a year ago.’

  ‘Are they getting worse?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So are you seeing anyone about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Richard must want you to see someone. Make sure things don’t get worse.’

  ‘Richard doesn’t know, doesn’t even know I went to the doctor in October, the first time I collapsed. I lied to the doctor. He asked me if there was a common thread, anything I could put my finger on that would link the attacks, even when they were mild, and I told him I’ve always been the anxious type. You know, a creative tortured genius.’ Eve readjusted the towel on her head. ‘If you’re not tortured when you are creative, you’re simply not doing your job properly. The doctor accepted my reasoning immediately.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Sam said, ignoring Eve’s false bonhomie.

  Of course he didn’t. Richard was the common thread. They happened around Richard. Before she saw him. After she saw him. When she was across the other side of the world separated by seas and lands and lots of little people sunning themselves on lots of little islands in lots of little bikinis. ‘I let little things get to me. That’s all. I need to work on it.’

  Sam’s drink began to sweat on the low table. Beads of moisture slid down the amber glass bottle. A decent crowd had gathered below them, and the verandah floor vibrated and creaked with the movement and noise from below. It was dark now. Insects buzzed frantically around the fluorescent light high on the outside wall near the doorway, and two floating yellow eyes from a cat, or maybe a well-fed possum, stared at them from the far railing. The slight drop in temperature gave Eve goosebumps on the tops of her arms, and she rubbed them, the strap of her emerald dress sliding down her arm. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Maybe Richard’s called back,’ Eve said.

  When she stood up to answer, Sam grabbed her wrist. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Leave it.’

  He held her arm firmly. Eve took a step away from him but could not release his hold.

  ‘Kat will be here tomorrow. Don’t leave. Meet Kat. Just meet her.’

  ‘Sam, enough. I’m not the kind of woman to bring up Kat.’ Eve dug her nails into his forearm. ‘Sarah will be happy.’

  He let go, and Eve went to answer. Sam heard her speak to the young woman at the door, and then she returned with a piece of paper. Eve slapped it down on the table. The writing was childlike: neat and deliberate.

  ‘My plane leaves 10.30 tomorrow night,’ Eve said.

  ‘Safe journey,’ Sam said, as he put his beer down on the table and headed for his room.

  Inside, he splashed water on his face and rubbed it hard, catching his reflection in the mirror. He paced backwards and forwards outside his bathroom. Then he marched out to the verandah and pushed the doors open with such force they slammed on the wall. ‘Shit. Sorry,’ he said to the doors as he went past.

  A fork of lightning split open the sky, and grey and salmon and blue shot up from its tongue, lighting up the dark. The thunderclap didn’t take long to reach the hotel. The patrons downstairs missed it due to an almost decent rendition of ‘Nessun Dorma’. A few hard pellets of rain landed on the balcony rail, making tiny little dust puddles. A couple of men from the pub had come outside on the footpath below, and Sam heard them yell to the sky.

  ‘Jesus. I think it’s going to rain.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Just as someone added ‘Fuck me with a fish, that’d be good’, Sam pushed open the doors to Eve’s room, nearly knocking her backwards.

  ‘Panic attacks, anxiety attacks, are more common than you think, Eve, and they’re very treatable. You’re in a high-stress situation. No wonder one was triggered. Don’t let …’

  Eve sighed heavily and walked so close to Sam that he had to arch his head back so he didn’t connect. She put one hand on his chest and leant into his neck, just below his ear, her lips brushing skin. She whispered, ‘Sam, you couldn’t save Meg, you’ve got no hope with me, why don’t you go downstairs and sav
e a lovely girl with a mother who thinks all her Christmases have come at once because her daughter is dating a doctor?’

  Sam pushed Eve away as though he had been bitten. He looked at the creature in front of him, her shoulder blades narrow and sharp, her eyes matching.

  ‘Feeling superior isn’t the same as being in control,’ he said, wiping his neck where her warm lips had been. ‘It might make you feel good, Eve, but one’s a feeling, the other’s a state.’

  A handful of rain hit the balcony hard. At first, it came down in bits and pieces. Then it grew constant, and then it turned into a roar. Hard and getting harder. Eve ran to the far end of the verandah and gripped the balcony rail, leaning as far out as she could. In front, out to the horizon, the sky was opening up – white lightning and purple sparks. Above, it was black. A hazy veil fell across the stars. A crowd gathered below, their heads upwards, watching the hard rain fall.

  Eve pushed her hips further over the railing, elbows straight now and locked, her legs and feet dangling off the ground, her emerald dress bunching up around her thighs, and she turned her head to face the sky.

  ‘Honey, I’ll catch you. Trust me,’ someone called from below.

  The rain fell on her face and rolled down her shoulders and arms, down her neck. Eve tilted her head and looked back at Sam. She was leaning so far over the railing it was a miracle she could balance.

  ‘Darlin’, I’ll catch you.’

  Sam was angry about it, but he understood Meg was gone. He didn’t want it, but he understood his grief. He didn’t understand the woman see-sawing over the verandah rail. He wanted to shake her. Instead, he walked over to the railing and grabbed her by the waist. ‘Don’t,’ he said. He pulled her off the iron bar and into him. Then he kissed her hard, parting her wet lips and tasting her and the rain. Eve began to kiss him back, their bodies pushing into each other. Then she bit down hard on his lip.

  ‘Shit.’ He pushed her away. Eve smiled. A drop of blood formed in the middle fleshy part of his lower lip. Sam looked down at his hands.

  There was a wolf whistle and shouts from below, about being a spoilsport, about taking things too seriously, and a young girl in a red dress ran out of the pub across the road in the rain, pulling her miniskirt down at the back. The voices stopped, and there was just the sound of rain. And then there was one last call. The girl from the pub didn’t bother to turn around when a man shouted ‘You need to lighten up’ but stopped running, letting herself get soaked, and stuck out her hand behind her to give the finger to right below where Sam stood.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The principal asked for every single boarder in Year Twelve – her final-year girls, she would call them, like they were a pair of her comfy shoes or reading glasses, something she would pull out of her wardrobe or drawers with a sigh – to come to her office at ten on Monday morning. There were eighteen in all, of various heights and widths and curves, problem skin and clear skin, legs smooth and prickly, and they were to be excused from morning class to see Ms Davidson. In the long, dark hallway outside her office, rose-scented Impulse deodorant and wood polish mingled as the girls waited for the principal to open her door and usher them in. It was 10.18 am, and there was still no sign of her.

  ‘Do you think she knows?’ Camilla asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What else would we be doing here?’ Elizabeth replied.

  At 10.23 am, Mr Clarke, the maths master, a short, bearded man who also coached the netball teams, walked past and asked the girls, who were sitting on bench seats that ran down the length of the hall, to stand. ‘Stand up to wait. You should not be sitting. You do not deserve that privilege.’

  They lined the walls like blue-and-white bowling pins. Most placed their hands behind their backs out of habit. A couple nudged each other. A few kept their heads down, concentrating on the carpet.

  ‘We are in so much shit,’ Sarah said.

  A nervous giggle began at one end of the line and moved quickly through the ranks. All heads now were bowed in a pointless attempt to disguise the laughter, when an additional head popped out of the doorway.

  ‘Come in, please, ladies,’ Ms Davidson said.

  Inside her office were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with leather-bound books. In the far corner was a desk the size of a dining table, and in the middle of the room were two sofas, separated by a coffee table. Heavy curtains were pulled and tied at the side of the window, which overlooked a large grassed area where girls could sit for lunch. It was an English sitting room, with a gum tree visible through the glass.

  Heavyset Ms Davidson moved behind her desk and sat down in her chair in a rolling movement fitting a well-fed caterpillar in a lavender twin set. It was unhurried and precise, and no one could remember seeing any arms or hands used to pull the chair out or slide it back under the desk.

  ‘The first question is not did you do it, it’s why,’ Ms Davidson said, not looking up from the papers on her desk and making it clear she was in no mood for time-wasting. ‘Why would you cut up the spare sheets in the boarding house and make them into shorts, then sneak into the pool yesterday afternoon and have a swim?’

  Jenny went to answer and a finger came out, moved side to side, and the voice behind it said, ‘I will tell you when it is time to talk. Does any one of you deny cutting up school property and then sneaking into the pool grounds?’

  There was silence, broken only by the distant voices of two girls outside the main building talking about their weekend while they hurried to class after finishing an errand.

  ‘We take this sort of behaviour seriously. Very seriously. You are back at school for, what, three weeks in your final and most important school year, and you deliberately destroy school property. You then go and get yourselves into a dangerous situation by sneaking into the pool. Not to mention making fools out of yourselves swimming in home-made shorts that keep falling off.’

  None of the eighteen girls standing shoulder-to-shoulder in three rows dared to mount the defence that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

  ‘Do you understand I can pick up this phone’ – Ms Davidson felt the need to pick up the telephone receiver to illustrate this point – ‘and fill your beds and your place in this school in less than seven minutes? We have a huge waiting list. Huge. Do not think for a minute you are all immune from punishment because the entire year was involved. Every single one of you girls is replaceable. Every single one of you. I have called all your parents and there will be no weekend leave this term for any of you. Plus, you need to pay for the replacement of ten sheets and help in the laundry on a roster system.’

  A collective groan. Someone whispered in a tone reeking of unfairness, ‘What?’

  ‘Pardon? Does some bright spark have something to say?’

  There were no volunteers. Eve wondered how Ms Davidson knew the shorts kept falling off in the pool.

  ‘You have eight months to go until you are finished school, and then you are off to university, or, for those who don’t get the grades – and I pray that will be no one in this room – straight into the workforce. Trust me, there you will also learn you are replaceable. I’d suggest you stay out of trouble if you want to finish school here.

  ‘There will be no more warnings. You are all on notice. One more incident, one more, and you are out. I don’t care what your record has been up until this point.’

  The girls shuffled to the door, still obsessed by their shoes, and as the first three girls arrived at the doorway Ms Davidson stood up from behind her desk, took off her glasses, placed them carefully in a little clear dish by an open folder and added, ‘By the way, you will have another boarder joining you for the remainder of the year. Rebecca Thornton will be returning next week to Hetherington to sit for her exams, as her parents will not be returning from Germany for another year. I expect most of you know Rebecca already from her time with us when she was in the junior school as a day girl. I know you are a tight group, but I expect you
all to make her feel welcome. You are big girls now.’

  As soon as each girl stepped out of the principal’s office, the chatter began. The warning had been forgotten, replaced by news of Rebecca’s return. Rebecca Thornton, who left the school at the end of Year Nine for Germany with her family. It was all so glamorous. Europe. She was going to go skiing in France. Attend an international school. Speak a foreign language. Fluently. In the subsequent two years, no one had come close to replacing that girl. A ripple of excitement ran across the year. Drama was coming, and it was going to be sleeping in the boarding house, eating dinner with them, going to watch rugby games with the boys next door. Drama was coming.

  There were quick looks behind to gauge Eve’s reaction. She made a point of leaning into Meg and talking to her about what they would do at the next holidays on Meg’s farm. She talked about their plans in the most excited way, grabbing at Meg’s hands, emphasising the words ‘Can’t wait’ and ‘So much fun’. Eve had thought about Rebecca often, changing the endings to their encounters, but she never imagined her returning. Never. Of course, she knew Meg had nothing to do with it, but even so she thought it wondrous that Meg had returned from England and less than six months later Rebecca had disappeared.

  Eve tried to be rational. She was older now, nearly eighteen. She was fourteen then. She would be busy this term studying and practising for cello exams. Meg was in the room next to her at the boarding house. Sarah was down the hall. Eve would say the things she had to say, do what she had to do. ‘I’ve never seen you this pumped about coming to the farm,’ Meg said as groups of girls peeled off and hurried to class.

  At first, Sarah had been swept away with the throng of girls pushing down the hallway. At some stage, she must have broken free, because, without a sound and clutching her books to her chest, she was suddenly standing next to Meg and Eve at the bottom of the stairwell. Sarah pulled at the knot on her tie so it was fashionably low and loose.