“Why am I lucky?” I asked, confused.
“Because if Hayley cares about you even half of what I think you care about her, then she’ll give you another chance. That’s the kinda person she is.”
Another chance? Hayley could barely look at me, I didn’t think she’d ever speak to me again. She’d seen what an arsehole I was and quite rightly didn’t want anything to do with me.
The weeks flew by and still Hayley kept her distance.
I waited.
And waited.
And hoped.
CHAPTER 31
HAYLEY
“Humidity’s rising.”
“Barometer’s getting low.”
“According to all sources.”
“Rainbow Reef’s the place to go.”
Pete leaned forward between the front seats of my mum’s car so that he and Helen were cheek to cheek as they drunkenly belted out yet another rendition of It’s Raining Men. It had been the last song of the night at Rainbow Reef and the two of them had been singing it non-stop since we’d left Mackay nearly an hour ago. I didn’t mind. Well, maybe the repetition was starting to get a little irritating but the three of us had had a brilliant night and were still buzzed (although in my case the buzz might have had more to do with caffeine from the ten glasses of Diet Coke I’d consumed) and I didn’t want to say anything to bring us down.
I drove north along the Bruce Highway. Outside my window the predawn sky was starting to lighten ever so gently. If there hadn’t been a mini-karaoke party in my car, I’m sure I would have heard the waking of the surrounding bush – cockatoos, galahs, and lorikeets greeting the new day. Dawn was always my favourite part of the day.
As we turned off the highway onto the road to Airlie, Pete slumped wearily across the back seat which he occupied fully while Helen dozed in the passenger seat next to me. I was glad Helen finally relented and decided to come with us as I would have spent the entire evening alone if she hadn’t. The only time I’d seen Pete all night was when he was wiggling his ginormous sequined (yes, sequined) butt on the dance floor. The Reef was always full of guys in all kinds of fabulous outfits: drag queens in feathery frocks with faces painted like glittering rainbows, butch guys in studded leather jeans and peaked caps, boys with gorgeous muscled torsos and six-packs in nothing more than a teeny pair of rubber pants. Tonight Pete had bravely dressed-up in sequinned shorts and a body-hugging shiny silver lycra t-shirt. The outfit had the desired effect. Pete hooked up the second we arrived and that was pretty much the last we saw of him for the next five hours. Occasionally, Helen or I would catch a glimpse of something sparkly gyrating on the dance floor but that was about it.
So I spent the night propping up one end of the bar with Helen and giggling till we nearly peed our pants. I was on the Red Bull and Coke but Helen steadily worked her way down the cocktail list.
“I can’t decide between an Orgasm or a Screaming Orgasm,” she slurred sometime around midnight.
“Honey,” said the bartender, a diminutive young guy covered in body glitter and wearing feathery pink angel wings on his back, “this is so your lucky night because I’m the only guy in this joint who can deliver both.”
We both burst into a fresh set of giggles as Helen said, “ohhhh, go on then.”
Helen forgot she was shy.
And I forgot my heart was broken.
I danced. I laughed. I even flirted. Of course I had no chance of picking up a guy in a gay bar but that was the appeal. It was harmless fun. Just the way I liked it. Before I knew it I’d began to feel like my old self again.
Both Helen and Pete were snoring loudly as I passed the colourful flags that marked the entrance to our farm and turned into the drive. I pulled up out front of my house and got out to watch the sunrise. Brighter rays of light were piercing the dark. I’d been awake for 24 hours and although I was tired and weary, I turned my face to the rising sun and let the sunlight erase the shadows that clung to me while I welcomed what felt like a new beginning.
Mr Evans stood at the front of the class, a pile of Orwell assignments on the desk in front of him.
“Before I hand back your assignments,” he droned, “I want to say this….poor effort people. I expected better. This is not the standard I would expect from seniors. There were a few notable exceptions…” he picked up a paper on the top of the pile, flipping over the cover page and read aloud…
“Orwell’s fictionalised use of psychological manipulation has its roots in reality. Like Winston, people all over the world today feel compelled to support opinions, ideas and beliefs that are not our own. When the crowd rallies we do too as we feel the pressure to acquiesce, regardless of our personal feelings or opinions or desires. To dissent would mean ostracisation, both socially and physically, or in extreme situations, death. So publicly we conform and play the role that is expected of us, and we raise our voices in agreement and privately banish our hopes and desires to the realms of an impossible dream.”
Evans put the pages on the desk in front of Alex.
“Well done,” he said quietly before taking another paper from the pile. “Now, an example of poor work….”
I tuned out the second I realised the next essay Evans was dissecting wasn’t my own and for the first time in what felt like forever, allowed myself to look at Alex. I say allowed but really I had no control over the action; I had always been irresistibly drawn to him. It had been a constant battle of wills to block him these past weeks and I was tired of fighting the compulsion. So I opened my eyes and my mind. What was real, and what was imagined? What was the truth, and what was the lie? I wasn’t certain anymore.
Weeks ago, I’d trusted my instincts implicitly and believed I had Alex all figured out. Only to realise I’d believed the lie. But now? Now I was beginning to wonder if I hadn’t been right all along.
Publicly we conform and play the role that is expected of us, and we raise our voices in agreement and privately banish our hopes and desires to the realms of an impossible dream.
Oh Christ. I was so confused. There had been too many mixed signals and misunderstandings. My heart and my head were at odds with each other trying to work out who the real Alex was.
Was it possible Alex didn’t know either?
As if he felt my scrutiny, Alex turned his head and my eyes unflinchingly met his for the first time in weeks. My heart skipped when I realise the spark was still there, as strong as ever and it pierced me high in my chest and sent tingles through my limbs, reigniting the feelings I had suppressed since Dave’s party. My head started shouting at me to stop, look away, you’re going to get hurt again; and at the same time it asked, what if I’d been wrong, what if I’d been right from the very beginning? Too questions shouting, confusing questions.
So I asked my heart – what does it feel? And it answered – how could feelings this intense and consuming be possible if they weren’t real?
CHAPTER 32
ALEX
It wasn’t stalking. How many times did I have to tell myself that before I believed it? I. Was. Not. Stalking.
I certainly had no malicious intentions. I wasn’t a pervert or a psychotic freak. I just needed to see her face, that’s all. So I trusted myself to the supernatural forces that always seemed to put us in the same place at the same time and drove to Airlie Beach on the pretext of dropping off some papers at my uncle’s office. I didn’t know if Hayley would be working but I hoped she would be. No such luck. That’s what you get for trusting the powers that be.
I peered through the window at Juicy Bits but Hayley wasn’t there either so eventually I wandered down to the tiny music store at the bottom of Main Street thinking I’d check back later. I wasn’t planning on buying anything. The music store only stocked older stuff like Dylan and Abba, or bubble-gum pop like Miley and Britney – nothing to my taste. I was killing time.
It was late in the afternoon and the shadows were stretched lazily across Main Street as I made my way back up the hill. I pas
sed the foodstore which was heaving with people grabbing last-minute items on their way home from work and popped into the chemist next door to kill more time. Along the back wall was a long pharmacy counter where a couple of tourists were speaking with the pharmacist, gesticulating widely and coughing dramatically in emphasis. The only problem was they were speaking Spanish and the pharmacist couldn’t understand a word. I watched for a while as the tourists tried to make themselves understood. The pharmacist was going into shutdown mode, too tired at the end of the day to exert more than a minimum of effort. I could tell the tourists getting more and more agitated; I didn’t need to speak Spanish to realise that they were concerned about the child who was cradled in the woman’s arms. But I did speak Spanish.
My feet stepped forward before my brain caught up with what they were doing.
“Perdonme, puedo ayuedas?” I asked the couple while at the same time asking myself what I was doing.
“Hable espanyol?”
I nodded in affirmation and relief washed over their faces.
“Thank you,” the man began in Spanish. “Our daughter is ill and the doctor is closed. We need medicine for her,” his words rushed out so quickly I had to fully concentrate to understand. It had been a while since I’d spoken Spanish.
As best I could, I translated for the couple and the pharmacist. The couple’s daughter was complaining of a sore throat, aches and tiredness. Did she have a fever? No, no fever. The chemist checked the girl’s throat and recommended ibuprofen and paracetemol and gave the parents the card of a doctor in town in case the girl’s symptoms hadn’t improved by the morning. As the man ran up their purchases, the Spanish woman thanked me, her face still pinched with worry but not as distressed as when I’d arrived. I smiled at the little girl. “Que bonita,” I said to her. “Ciao.”
I nodded to the pharmacist and turned to leave and stopped short when I saw a too familiar head of hair. Hayley stood a few feet away, a contemplative look on her face.
“Ah, um,” I stammered awkwardly, the familiar rush of electricity tingling with embarrassment. “Hi.”
“You speak Spanish,” she said matter-of-factly as if to say ‘of course’. It was the most she’d voluntarily said to me in weeks.
“Just a little,” I admitted. I didn’t want to stop looking at her but I was so nervous and worried I’d put a foot wrong that I had to keep glancing down at the dull blue carpet. I didn’t want to make a mess of things again.
“That was kind of you to help, Alex. I could tell they were really worried about her.”
“Yes. I mean yes they were worried, not that it was kind or anything.”
“It was kind,” she insisted. I could feel her unwavering gaze on me.
God I love her so much.
So much it hurt. I had to take this slowly or I would screw it up again. I was about to say goodbye when Hayley said the last thing I expected her to say.
“Who are you really, Alex?”
The question shocked me so much that I froze, not out of fear, but hope. Hope that all my hard work over the past month hadn’t been for nothing.
“I think that maybe you’re not as bad as everyone thinks you are,” she said after a moment.
I disagreed. “No,” I said, letting out the breath I’d been holding. I ignored the trembling in my body and made myself meet her eyes.
Keep it honest and real, Alex.
I’d promised myself I’d never lie to her again.
“I haven’t been a good person. But I’m trying to change.”
I moved past her towards the exit, mumbling “hasta luego,” over my shoulder as I fled out the door.
CHAPTER 33
HAYLEY
Alex was absent from school the remainder of the week and I didn’t see him at the beach all weekend. The last time I’d spoken to him was at the chemist.
Something had changed in him. And in me.
The more I thought about it, the more I realised Alex had been different ever since Dave’s party. I’d been trying so hard to avoid and ignore him that I hadn’t noticed just how much he’d changed, and I wasn’t the only one to notice. I started listening to what people were saying: Alex had stopped going to the parties, stopped dating, stopped hanging out with Dave and his mates every day, he’d found a new group of friends but didn’t see them out of school. Alex might still be friendly and sociable and popular, but he didn’t pretend to be fake-happy 24x7. He’d started to let his scars show.
He seemed more and more like my Alex every day. The Alex I thought I’d imagined. How was that possible? I’d imagined my Alex.
Hadn’t I?
That was the million dollar question.
I was compelled to get past the doubt and the re-doubt and the double-doubt and find the truth once and for all. Who was the real person underneath?
I needed to talk to him. I need to be sure.
Who was he?
Where was he?
CHAPTER 34
ALEX
When I woke from my dream I was gasping and drenched in sweat as if I really had been drowning. The sheets were damp and twisted around my legs as if they’d been pulling me under the dark waters. The hotel room was unfamiliar and it took me a minute to get my bearings.
It was the same dream. The one where I was swimming in the ocean at night and the strong current of a rip-tide had caught me in its wake. Voices were shouting at me to ‘swim to the shore’ as the forces pulled me against my will. Except this time, instead of the rip pulling me further out into the unknown, it was forcing me towards the beach where my parents were waiting.
I got out of bed and opened the sliding doors that led to the balcony.
The hotel was on a converted pier that jutted out over Sydney Harbour and my room had a panoramic view of the Harbour Bridge. Long white yachts with tall sails danced on the water, ferries transporting workers buzzed in and out of the quay, and an enormous ocean liner was silently docked near the bridge so that rich passengers would have uninterrupted views of the famous Sydney Opera House. Sydney offered breath-taking views for anyone rich enough to afford a place on the harbour and I was no exception.
I was staying at the hotel with more than two dozen members of the British press, including my father who had the suite next door. They were in Sydney to cover the British Prime Minister’s visit down under and I’d reluctantly flown down a few days earlier to meet my father. Charles had been the one to receive the phone call, or should I say order, late Sunday night requesting my presence, and at sunrise Monday morning I found myself on a ferry to Hamilton Island and then on a flight to Sydney a few hours later. I was anxious because I’d only received a handful of emails from my father since the accident – not a single phone call – and now I was expected to spend three days with him. I couldn’t remember the last time I spent three days with my father.
A small part of me hoped that he actually wanted to spend time with me to make sure I was ok, but from the moment I’d arrived it was clear that wasn’t the case when the check-in clerk handed me a note from my dad that said “Breakfast 6am sharp” and attached was a full itinerary of media events, receptions and dinners. My parents obviously hadn’t abandoned their plans for my future and I was there to show my face, renew acquaintances, inflate egos and put on a good show for my father’s colleagues and peers. It was a second chance and an opportunity to get back in my parent’s good graces, just not the chance I’d been hoping for. I didn’t know how Charles thought he could make a difference when it was obvious my parents were never going to change.
I plastered on a smile and a look of eagerness, while clenching my jaw shut so that I wouldn’t scream. I gave the performance of my life.
Three days felt like three years.
In the evenings I accompanied my father to various functions where I would shake hands with his colleagues and try to impress various officials and powerful men in Saville Row suits. At least I had my own time during the day while my father was busy working. I walke
d across the Sydney Harbour Bridge, took the ferry to Manly, and spent an afternoon drinking beer on Bondi Beach. I should have felt more excited to be back in civilisation but I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to go home. Home to Charles and Maria and her.
I miss her.
The seconds excruciatingly ticked by until finally it was time to leave. I said goodbye to my father and he left with assurances that I was working my hardest to win back his approval and trust. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what was expected of me and the real reason I was in Sydney. I felt nothing as I watched his taxi leave the hotel and for that I was thankful.
I wandered around the local markets to kill time before my flight back to the Whitsundays. There were dozens of stalls selling souvenirs and trinkets and even more displaying art and crafts. I spotted the carved stone almost immediately. It was a perfect, emerald green just like the one at Airlie. The same colour as her eyes.
The small drawstring pouch sat in my shirt pocket, directly over my heart, the entire journey home.
CHAPTER 35
HAYLEY
It was always easier to tell tourists and locals apart during winter. Firstly, there were fewer locals at Juicy Bits in the colder months as many preferred coffee or hot chocolate to keep the chill at bay, plus you could spot a local by their woolly jumper and knitted hat. Tourists however, especially those from Europe or North America, would stroll along the beach in shorts and t-shirts marvelling at the sunshine and questioning whether an average daytime temperature of 22 degrees celsius could really be considered winter at all.
We didn’t have four seasons in the Whitsundays. We had two – wet and dry. Summer was distinguished by hot weather, thunderstorms and occasional cyclones that would rip the roofs off houses and uproot palm trees along the beachfront. It rained. A lot. Sometimes non-stop for weeks on end. Winter was the dry season with cool mornings, warmish days and occasional drought. Locals turned off the airconditioning and wrapped their quilts tight around their bodies when the night-time temperature would drop to a chilly 15 degrees celsius.
Numb Page 15