The Helpline

by Katherine Collette

  ‘There’s just one small logistical problem,’ said Jack. ‘Bainbridge is away. I checked with Stacey and she’s not back until the day of the ball. In fact, Stacey said the mayor’s going straight to the golf club from the airport.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Gladys.

  But I was relieved. ‘That’s okay. I’ll email her.’

  No one was convinced by that suggestion. Jack pointed out that we might not want evidence of our own involvement, an argument others seemed to find compelling.

  Celia said, ‘You’ll have to talk to her at the ball. It’s the only way.’

  There was another spontaneous non-vote: everyone (else) in favour.

  ‘I wish I could be there,’ said Betsy, most out of character. ‘I’d love to see her face when you show her those emails.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Gladys. ‘I wish we could all be there.’

  I didn’t wish that. I was glad the event was sold out. I didn’t want an audience for what was bound to be a sensitive conversation. What if I broke down and started crying?

  ‘Wait.’ Eva’s face lit up in a way I found troubling. ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘Maybe keep it to yourself?’ I said.

  ‘What if we catered the event? Wouldn’t that be great?’

  I shouldn’t have let Eva come. It was only because she was so enthusiastic that I’d thought to include her. Now she was getting ahead of herself—quite a long way ahead—and wasn’t everyone delighted? Weren’t they all jumping about, saying good idea, Eva and aren’t you clever?

  ‘It would be great exposure,’ said Jin-Jin. ‘We could get a few testimonials for the website.’

  I alone was the voice of reason. ‘Bit late now,’ I said. ‘I’m pretty sure they’d have their catering organised already. Can’t do much about that, can we?’

  Ralph coughed. ‘I have known instances in which licences for food provision were suspended for short periods due to non-compliance. The list of terms is long and, ahem, open to interpretation.’

  I was shocked. One would have thought a health and safety inspector would be scrupulously impartial and beyond reproach, but it appeared this was a view only I held.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Celia, and there was an energetic hum of approval for this blatant manipulation of power.

  One would have also thought the main actor—the one person who was doing more than anyone and had a number of concerns (i.e. me)—should have had a greater say.

  Apparently not.

  ±

  After the meeting, en route to the car, Jack said, ‘Germaine, do you feel like walking back?’ Ralph and Eva were ahead of us and gave each other looks. The looks were not discreet; I had to disabuse them of what they thought they knew.

  ‘Jack and I were discussing the importance of moderate exercise as it relates to life expectancy,’ I said. ‘I have a pedometer on my phone.’

  For once, Eva didn’t comment. All she said was, ‘Ralph, can we get Slurpees on the way back?’

  But I told Jack I couldn’t walk as I’d pulled a muscle in my knee—I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. Then I ran to catch up with Eva and Ralph. ‘Yeah, can we, Ralph? I’ve never had a Slurpee.’

  40

  I was not involved in the health and safety inspection but I knew it occurred because later that week Ralph advised me that the golf club’s food and beverage licence had been suspended until further notice. They’d been given a reprieve for the night of the mayoral ball, which was rapidly approaching, so long as an ‘external provider’ was responsible for the catering.

  I was nominated as the one to suggest Don use the Olde World Catering Company, which, since Ralph had streamlined our accreditation, was up and ready to go.

  I could have emailed Don or called him, but I went to see him instead. There were things I wanted to talk about in person.

  I dressed carefully. I put on the shirt Don once said was ‘impressive’. The mayor didn’t have a shirt like that. No one did. It was a limited edition from ten years ago. I polished my shoes and wore tan-coloured stockings.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about seeing Don. My emotions had been a roller-coaster. One minute I was embarrassed at how I’d thrown myself at him, the next I was furious he’d led me on. I didn’t know what the truth was. You could argue either way.

  I found Don in the bistro area of the golf club. He was in a booth up the back, doing paperwork. I tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped. ‘Germaine, you scared me.’

  ‘Did I?’ I didn’t apologise.

  ‘It’s okay…It’s good you’re here, I’ve been meaning to call you. I feel terrible about nearly running you over.’

  ‘You mean nearly killing me.’

  ‘Well…Killing’s a bit much, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it, Don? Is it?’ I was in a picky mood. I don’t know what I wanted him to say but he wasn’t saying it. Everything he said was wrong. Even when he said, ‘I’m glad you’re okay.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re glad,’ I said.

  Don put his pen down, carefully, like the table was a miniature battlefield full of tiny landmines. ‘Germaine, are you okay? You seem…I don’t know. Not yourself?’

  ‘Not myself? How can a person not be themselves, Don? Isn’t that exactly what they are? Don’t they have to be… themselves?’

  A cautious laugh. ‘That’s a bit deep for me,’ he said.

  I was myself. It was only because Don hadn’t met the real me that he wasn’t able to recognise it.

  He tried to move us on to a new topic. It was his favourite: ‘Remember in 2006 when I was about to go to regionals? Did you know I got interviewed for Lateline? Have you seen that interview? It’s still on YouTube.’ He swallowed. I watched his Adam’s apple go up and down. ‘It comes up if you google Alan Cosgrove Eastern Region Sudoku Melbourne 2006…Anyway, it doesn’t matter…Hey, how are my trophies going?’

  ‘Want to see?’ I said with assertive—possibly aggressive—enthusiasm.

  He moved back about thirty-five millimetres. ‘Yes?’

  I got out my phone and showed him a photo: Gauss and Archimedes in their bowl on the mantelpiece. Just those two, nothing else. No trophies, no medals, no certificates.

  ‘Ah…I don’t understand,’ said Don.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to call you…I feel terrible…I had to get rid of them.’

  I enjoyed watching his face. How it went from shock and disbelief to horror and then sadness.

  ‘Yeah, I binned them. All of them. I tried selling them but no one was interested…You know if you mention the name Alan Cosgrove people’s first thought is “cheat”. Or sometimes “liar”.’ I put a hand to my chin, thoughtful. ‘But you probably do know that, don’t you?’

  Don fussed with his collar. ‘Have I done something to upset you, Germaine?’

  ‘I don’t know, Don…have you?’ I stared at him.

  He coughed. ‘I told Verity I saw you and Celia in the car. It just came up in conversation, I wasn’t…I didn’t suggest anything.’

  ‘You and Verity seem close.’

  He flinched. ‘We are close.’

  ‘Very close.’

  Don examined the hands in his lap. They were his hands, the ones he’d always had: i.e. they did not warrant such consideration.

  ‘I heard you had a problem with your kitchen,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Health inspectors. I don’t know why…But don’t worry. Verity’s going to fix it. She’ll turn it around. Eventually.’ He gave a half-laugh. ‘Don’t know anyone that can cater a ball on short notice, do you?’

  I felt like people didn’t really acknowledge what a feat it was, getting him to say yes. When I told the committee (et al.), they acted like it was a foregone conclusion.

  ‘Our menus are world class,’ said Eva.

  ‘We just have to practise cooking them,’ said Betsy.

  ‘And find some people to wait the tables,’ said Gladys.

  ‘And order uniforms,’ said Jin-Jin.

>   ‘And get a refrigerated van,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Also: Don’s an idiot,’ said Celia.

  Only Jack seemed impressed. He came to see me in my office and said, ‘That was quite complicated manoeuvring, what you did with Don.’

  I agreed. ‘It was complicated.’

  ‘But you did it. I knew you could.’ Then he asked if I wanted to go for a drink to celebrate. By drink he meant alcoholic beverage.

  I wasn’t opposed to the idea. I said I’d be happy to, and we organised to meet at a pub on Friday, after work concluded.

  Before Jack left, I asked him if he intended for other people to attend the drink. He said it would be just the two of us. It was only when he confirmed this that I understood it was what I’d been hoping for.

  There is a lot of research on relationships but not enough of it is empirical; far too much is qualitative. That’s why I don’t think psychology is a science. It’s a humanity, maybe even a form of fiction. I read every article in the Australian Journal of Psychology and its American equivalent from 2016 to the present day and still I was uncertain as to the categorisation of my relationship with Jack. I was determined not to make a fool of myself.

  What I needed was some way of understanding what was currently going on and the likely future trajectory. Trajectories are tricky though, as evidenced by figure 1 (Career Trajectory) which pertained to my career. Just because you think something might happen or you want it to doesn’t mean it will.

  Not that I wanted anything to happen. I was simply interested, as one party in the relationship, in what its nature was.

  One way of understanding this was to consider my scoring system.

  The research said that people are attracted to other people who are as attractive as they are. In crude terms: if I was an 8 and my significant other was a 7, regardless of the specific scale or system of ranking, then I would always think I could do better. Conversely, if I ranked my partner a 9 and me an 8, then I would always think I was overachieving. If we were both 9s or 8s or even 2s, then we’d both be happy.

  But I knew that a person’s appeal could fluctuate.

  People can be more or less attractive the better you know them. Take Don/Alan Cosgrove. In the days when he was sudoku champion, a man I greatly admired, he was a 9.999 recurring. Now he was a 1.6. Most of the time I was an 8.8 but I’d been as high as a 9.2. During that black period after I left Wallace’s I went down to a 4.3. My lowest ebb was the day I looked into the eyes of a butcher, elbow deep in pigs’ tails, and winked.

  The question was: what was Jack’s number?

  When I first met him, I decided he was a 3.7. But he’d improved since then. At the picnic he was a 6 and at his house he was a 7.5 (refer figure 6).

  There was a line of best fit, but could I extrapolate it out? Or was this an incorrect application of the theory?

  I ruled it inconclusive, but it was my current favourite graph. I thought there was something very pleasing about it.

  41

  Jack and I were meeting after work but I found I had time to go home first, mainly because I left early. One benefit of having my own office was I didn’t have to pretend there was a family emergency: I could just leave.

  At the apartment I took a shower, using the lavender-scented soap Sharon gave me for special occasions instead of the Dettol antibacterial that was my normal preference. I didn’t put the same clothes back on. I put on fresh clothes that looked the same. This was so that if perchance Jack had seen me during the day he wouldn’t know I’d come home and got changed. I didn’t want him to think I was making an effort; he might get the wrong impression. Or at least an impression he didn’t reciprocate.

  Was I really an 8.8, or did I have an inflated sense of self?

  ±

  The tram into the city was slow and nervous, but even so I was in Swan Street ten minutes early. I checked the location of the pub again on my phone. It hadn’t moved, it was still down a side street near the supermarket.

  I didn’t mind if I was the first one there. It meant I could sit down and plant The List in a discreet location, maybe tape it to the leg of the table. I’d never needed The List with Jack before, but this time I decided to bring it with me—a modified version—just in case. I felt it in my pocket, a comforting wad of folded paper.

  I don’t know what I was concerned about. Sometimes when we had lunch Jack and I would sit in silence most of the time; we might hardly speak at all, and it didn’t matter. Those silences felt effortless and not just because we were chewing. We weren’t thinking about what to say next or worrying what other people thought. We weren’t thinking about anything, really. We were just…being, which was probably complacent of us and certainly typical of Jack.

  The pub had two levels, and Jack had said to meet up the top. I took the stairs, three at a time.

  When I came out there was a small undercover area, a holding bay where people could gather if it was raining or if there were a lot of people going up and down. Neither of these things was occurring but Jack was sitting there anyway, waiting for me, on the one and only bench.

  When he saw me, he stood up.

  I couldn’t believe what Jack was wearing. I was glad I’d been home to freshen up. In fact, I regretted not having put something different on because not only did Jack have a T-shirt with a printed tie on the front (bow variety, black) but:

  Pants.

  I pointed at them and Jack grinned in a way that could only be described as ‘goofy’.

  ‘Aren’t you hot?’ I said, regretting the sentiment the instant it slipped out; but Jack’s only response was that he’d been misinformed about the rate of heat loss via exposed limbs.

  We left the undercover area and approached the bar. The sign said it was ‘Happy Hour’, inaccurately, as it went from 5 pm to 7 pm. During this time pots of beer (285mL) were $2.50 and jugs (1L) were $8.

  Jack asked for two pots but I stopped the bartender from getting them. I said to Jack that based on cost per litre the jug was the better option. He said that jugs were problematic. According to him, a set proportion of the beer in any receptacle went flat by the time you got to the bottom. This proportion was manageable in a single serve (it was just a mouthful or two) but in a jug the issue was magnified.

  ‘It’s not worth it,’ he said. ‘No one wants a flat beer, do they?’

  This was disappointing. It not only showed Jack as a spendthrift, but also suggested that when he’d said ‘a drink’ he really did mean ‘a’.

  Jack paid for the drinks and we carried them to a table. When we were sitting down he raised his glass and said, ‘To the Olde World Catering Company’s first gig.’

  ‘And my ability to convince Don to take us on.’

  We chinked our glasses and sipped the beer.

  ‘So, tell me. How did old Greg Norman take the news? What did he say when you told him you knew what he and the mayor were trying to do?’

  As stated previously, whereas everyone else had been blasé about my meeting with Don, Jack was very interested. We hadn’t discussed the specifics of it yet because, strangely, once he suggested we have a drink, we’d stopped talking. Normally we sent emails multiple times a day, or he’d call down either on the phone or in person, but for the past three days there’d been none of that. It was very unusual.

  At the pub, Jack said, ‘I hope he was worried. I hope he thinks he’s going to jail for corruption. He could get fifteen years, you know.’

  I wiped my upper lip. ‘We didn’t really talk about it,’ I said.

  ‘Oh.’ Jack seemed disappointed. ‘Did you tell him you knew about the sudoku competition?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jack looked in his beer, as if for answers. ‘I guess he did it as a personal favour, did he?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ There was a reason ‘Don’ was not a topic of conversation on The List. I tried to think of what was on The List but it was stuck in my pocket. I should have got there earlier. You can never be too ea
rly. ‘I don’t think he had a lot of options. And Betsy is surprisingly well known.’

  Jack nodded. He didn’t look very happy about Betsy’s level of fame. I tried to think of things that he might be happy about. Maybe it would have been better if we’d invited other people along to the pub. A group.

  ‘Nice tie,’ I said, pointing at his top.

  Normally, Jack would have recounted the story of the top’s origin. Like ‘my mum got it for me’ or ‘it was free with a six-pack’, but he was awfully quiet. All he said was, ‘This one?’ Followed by: ‘Did you want to tell Don you knew he cheated at sudoku? Because I can give you all the information.’

  ‘No, I don’t really…’ I lifted my shoulders up and let them fall again. ‘I don’t care. I already knew Don wasn’t who I thought he was.’

  It was as if I’d proven Betsy wasn’t famous: Jack was very pleased.

  That’s when I remembered something from The List, the modified version. It was a topic I’d thought about for a while but hadn’t mentioned yet. Whenever I went to, it seemed stupid and unimportant, but now I wanted to tell him.

  I ran my hand along the table top. ‘Remember that picnic you did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t say it at the time but…it was a very nice picnic.’

  I didn’t look at him, just at the table, but I knew he had the stupid grin again, the goofy one.

  ‘Was it?’ he said.

  ‘Probably the best one I’ve been to,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah…But I haven’t been to many.’

  42

  Though Jack said ‘a drink’ and chose a size of beverage that reinforced this idea, we had more than one. We had several and he paid for all of them, even those consumed after happy hour, when there was a 30 per cent increase in the price.

  By the time we came out of the pub it was dark outside and all the streetlights had turned on. In the sky the moon was visible, a crescent shape. It was not a comma but a tick: approving.