Maggie's Going Nowhere

by Rose Hartley

  ‘It’s just until I get back on my feet.’ Which might be never.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘maybe Sean will take you back. Few blowies should do the trick.’

  Jen punched him on the shoulder and he responded by squeezing her left boob. She slapped him over the head and he kissed her again, with tongue.

  ‘If you’re trying to make me leave, it’s working,’ I said.

  By the time I left Jen’s house I had a dozen eggs from her fridge, a packet of bacon, a loaf of bread, and a date set to help Jen find a new wedding dress. She’d dropped strong hints that she’d also like me to find bridesmaid dresses that would suit me and both her stick-thin sisters and organise her hens’ night within the next few weeks, but those things could wait.

  At first I didn’t even notice Agnes; the only person I saw was the lean, muscled man standing behind her with reddish stubble and intricate tattoos, the stillness of his stance oddly familiar.

  I had spent the previous night waking up every two hours, dreaming repeatedly that someone was trying to get in through the broken window of my caravan, and hadn’t got up for my second day at the Angels in time to shower. I’d rolled into work half an hour late and bleary-eyed, expecting a day of dull phone calls and typing into spreadsheets and maybe secretly recording Prayer Time on my phone in case Bunny debuted a Bob Geldof knock-off every day. But here was a handsome man with tattoos on his forearms, explaining to Agnes how to do something on her computer. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. The fact that I could not recall where I had met him was especially annoying given how hot he was. Agnes’s lined smoker’s mouth cracked a smile as she figured out whatever it was and she brushed away a strand of hair. She looked like a smitten teenager.

  ‘Oh, Maggie,’ Agnes gushed, when she finally noticed me. ‘Rueben is wonderful.’

  Ah, Rueben Blackwood. The man I’d hired. The ex-con who’d done time in Bindup minimum-security prison. How had he already made it into Agnes’s good books?

  ‘Did you know that he has a computer degree?’ Agnes asked.

  Rueben lifted his eyes to regard me evenly, and then it hit me. He was the guy who’d rejected me at The Fainting Chair. The slide guitarist. And those tattoos on his forearms: intricately detailed hummingbirds on one arm, patchy blue scribbles on the other. I swallowed and felt my cheeks burn. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Please don’t recognise me, I thought feverishly. There was no way he would. Just another girl in a bar. That smile on his face now was just friendly, there was no flirtation in it. No sex at all in that smile. Definitely not. God, he was handsome. So, I’d almost had sex with an ex-con in a public bathroom. I frowned at him slightly, trying to pretend I wasn’t blushing.

  ‘That’s great.’ I cleared my throat. ‘But I thought he was working in the shop?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve called Margaret to come in for the day. Rueben is too useful here in the office. He already fixed my emails! Maggie, show him our electronic filing system, he says he can improve it.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  Anyone could improve it, because it was the worst filing system in the world. I guess that was irrelevant in the face of a ‘computer degree’. I led him through to the back room and perched my bum on the desk while he looked around. The room was a touch small for two people, especially when one seemed to take up so much air.

  Rueben. It was a good name. He was wearing the same grey T-shirt he had been wearing at The Fainting Chair and his hair looked unbrushed. The T-shirt was clean and unwrinkled, but he wore it as if he had no idea that it clung to his broad shoulders, as if totally unaware that the dip of neckline exposed a sliver of chest hair, that the line of his collarbone was so fine as to be like a wishbone. It irritated me. He lacked the self-consciousness of the film-star fox that he looked like. He made no gestures, keeping his hands by his sides as if he was a Zen master. Just watched me lightly.

  ‘So, we spoke on the phone,’ I said.

  ‘We did.’ He held out his hand to shake mine. It was warm and firm. A little shiver ran up my spine as I thought about his hand making its way up my thigh. Focus, Maggie. I sat down at my desk and Rueben pulled up a chair next to me.

  ‘How’d you convince Agnes you were Christ reincarnated?’

  ‘You weren’t here yet and her emails weren’t coming through. She came into the op shop and asked if anyone knew how to fix her computer. No big deal.’

  ‘You know your way around Excel?’

  ‘Among other things.’ He smiled again in that sexy but irritating way and rubbed his nose. God, his nose was sexy. I hadn’t even noticed it earlier because I was too busy staring into his lily-pad eyes, but it was smooth and flat and had the tiniest hint of a ski-jump at the end. He caught me staring and winked. Argh.

  ‘Voila,’ I said. ‘Here’s our filing system.’

  He smiled in disbelief. ‘This is literally a folder called Nicholson Street Angels Records. Without any subfolders,’ he said. ‘Saved to the desktop. Is there even any backup?’

  ‘To back up, we print stuff out. Agnes has three filing cabinets in her office.’

  ‘Have you considered creating separate folders for tax, employee, donor and volunteer records? And maybe signing up to a cloud-based backup system?’

  ‘Oh, you’re trying to take my job now?’

  I don’t know why I was being snarky but something about his calm gaze and self-assurance was throwing me off.

  He shrugged. ‘Just saying, it’s not going to be hard to make improvements.’ He got up, pushing a stray curl away from his face. His hair was thick and dark, with just a few streaks of grey at the temples.

  ‘So when did they close Bindup?’ I asked suddenly.

  ‘Two thousand and nine.’

  ‘When were you there?’

  ‘A few months in 2001 and then a year in ’03.’

  ‘Two stints, eh? Must’ve been naughty.’ I sorted out the pens on my desk, for lack of anything better to do. I wished he would get annoyed at my nosiness, but he just stood over me, gazing with his infuriating blank expression.

  ‘Is that where you got your degree? While you were in prison?’ I asked.

  ‘No. I did a course after I got out. They’re free for ex-cons.’

  ‘Glad our taxpayer dollars are going to the people who need it.’ Yeesh, I sounded like my mother. For some reason, this guy was really bringing out my bitchy side.

  He smiled. ‘You don’t pay tax.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because Agnes told me you got this gig through Centrelink. And you’re a volunteer, too. So you don’t pay tax.’

  His calm, mocking smile was really starting to incense me.

  ‘Eh. Details.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not here to take your job, although I could probably do it better.’

  I huffed.

  ‘I’m volunteering because if I don’t, it’s either Work for the Dole or clean toilets. I’ve done both for ten years and I’m tired of it. No one will hire an ex-con for a professional role unless he’s got a reference from somewhere decent, and even then it’s a long shot.’

  I considered that. ‘All right. If you don’t muscle in on my job I’ll give glowing feedback about you to Agnes so she’ll write you a good reference.’

  He smiled. ‘I don’t need you to do that. Pretty sure she already likes me.’

  I rolled my eyes. It did seem that way.

  The rest of the day was quiet. I showed Rueben our processes, which he mastered in less than an hour. Aside from a crazed volunteer in a purple tracksuit who burst into reception shouting that one of the other grannies had stolen her favourite jumper – a situation Rueben quickly defused by finding her another jumper next door from the racks of the op shop – the day was nothing out of the ordinary. I called volunteers to remind them of their shifts, updated the shop’s records and inventory in a spreadsheet, and played solitaire on the computer when the internet went down, which happened at least once an hour. I d
iscovered that at around 2 pm the sun would come through the window at just the right angle that I could discreetly sunbathe my lower legs by resting them up on the desk as I drank a cup of tea. Overall, the job was unexciting, but more tolerable than I had anticipated. Except that I couldn’t help looking over at Rueben every now and then, clacking away on the keyboard and frowning at the screen. He had the kind of face that was broad and chiselled and yet somehow flat. It was beautiful to look at, and I found myself having to tear my eyes away from him to deal with the ‘inspirational’ emails from Bunny that were gradually filling my inbox with things like, ‘I don’t measure a man’s success by how high he climbs, but how high he bounces when he hits bottom. – George Patton.’

  I’ll hit your bottom, George Patton. I deleted the latest email and turned back to contemplating Rueben.

  Why had he turned me down at The Fainting Chair?

  At 5 pm on the dot I stretched, feeling the tired satisfaction that comes from a hard day’s work, and packed up my desk. ‘I have to shoot off,’ I told Rueben. ‘I have a date.’

  He didn’t look up from his computer. ‘Who with, bad handjob guy from The Fainting Chair?’

  I stopped dead in the middle of putting my phone in my bag, heart thumping.

  ‘You remember that?’

  He raised those long, dark lashes of his to shoot me a look of pure amusement.

  ‘Of course. Did you ever resolve your breasts-or-genitals dilemma, by the way?’

  I swallowed. Nonchalance, Maggie. Practise nonchalance. ‘Yeah. I broke up with the guy who thought breasts were genitals.’

  ‘Uh-huh. That night, I suppose?’

  ‘I like my relationships to go out with a bang.’

  ‘In an alley.’

  ‘That was a new method. But I would prefer you didn’t mention that little escapade to anyone here.’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled a secret half-smile, showing a hint of white teeth against light brown skin.

  ‘Not a word. If you ever mention The Fainting Chair or alleyways again, you’ll be outta here in five minutes.’

  ‘You just mentioned it.’

  ‘Well, that’s the last and only time. We’ve never met.’

  ‘And how exactly would you get me “outta here”? I didn’t think volunteers had the power to hire and fire.’

  ‘That’s exactly my job,’ I said. ‘Hiring and firing, organising volunteers. So just you remember that.’ I swung my bag over my shoulder, feeling Rueben’s grin on my back as I breezed out.

  Chapter 8

  My blood was pumping triple time as I got ready for my date with Dan. In Jen’s bedroom, I flung on one of her dresses and twisted to check myself in the mirror. Recalling Rueben’s eyelids lowered in amusement, the sexy half-smile when he revealed that he recognised me, seemed to carbonate my blood. There was only one way to calm my frazzled nerves.

  ‘I need to root something,’ I told the mirror.

  I slipped on my shonky old high heels that I’d dug out from the back of the panel van and drew a line of red lipstick across my lips. In the living room, Jono was watching a game of soccer on television, holding a glass of whisky in his hand.

  ‘You’ve hardly touched that,’ I said. ‘Do you even like whisky?’ I grabbed the glass from him and drained it.

  ‘Bloody hell, get your own drink.’

  ‘Good idea.’ I found his best bottle of aged Scotch in the pantry, cracked the lid and took a deep swig, to Jono’s audible disgust.

  I was ready to go.

  T-Bird was a dingy-looking but famous Singaporean restaurant on a busy corner of Johnston and Wellington Streets. I burst through the door like a mongrel in heat, nearly colliding with the waitress. Daughter of the owner, I thought. Looked closer. No, wife of the owner.

  ‘Got a booking?’ she asked.

  ‘No . . . I’m meeting someone,’ I slurred.

  She shrugged, not interested anymore. I walked past the ATM that slugged diners an extra fifty cents each time they took money out and into the warm, noisy dining area. It smelt of fried chicken and fish cakes. The place was cosy and familiar. I was mildly impressed that Dan knew about it; I had vague memories of him saying he lived in Richmond. I made a mental note to order the Hainanese chicken straight away before it ran out, as it inevitably would by 8 pm. An empty table looked inviting, so I sat down and picked up a menu, then remembered I was supposed to find my date first. I glanced up just as a cute sandy-blond guy reached my table and waved awkwardly. Dan.

  ‘I’m over here,’ he said, pointing to a spot two tables across. All cosy and sweet in the corner.

  I inspected him closely. He was better looking than I remembered, though he had nothing on Sean. Or Rueben, for that matter. His dimpled smile was kind of adorable. Not that I was all about looks, of course.

  The waitress approached. ‘You went to the wrong table!’ she said gleefully.

  I looked at Dan. He seemed calm and unconcerned.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ I said. ‘I’ll have the Hainanese chicken, thanks.’

  ‘None left,’ said the waitress. ‘It’s very popular. You need to come earlier.’

  Goddammit. I ordered the fried chicken balls instead.

  Within an hour, talk turned to our exes. Dan filled me in on his recent break-up, which I figured out wasn’t all that recent – a few months ago, at least. Some men take a long time to get over their exes.

  ‘We were together for four years,’ he said. ‘Then she says she wants time out.’ He swigged the last of his third beer. He’d brought four longnecks to the restaurant and had been averaging one every twenty minutes. Each time he took one out of its paper bag the restaurant staff would come running over to pop the cap for him. ‘Five minutes later she’s going out with some lawyer,’ he continued. ‘Some hotshot divorce lawyer.’

  ‘Divorce lawyer,’ I scoffed. ‘Of all the evil, scummy professions.’

  ‘Fuckin’ tell me about it. He’s all, fuckin’, wearing suits, and’—he took another sip—‘getting his hair cut, and—’

  ‘Divorcing people,’ I chimed in.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I was on my fifth wine, which made it approximately my seventh drink for the evening. I was heading up spew creek without a paddle.

  ‘My ex was really handsome,’ I said. ‘I stole him off someone else. And then I cheated on him. With you.’

  ‘She’s just so beautiful,’ Dan said, not listening to me. He had a little piece of noodle on his chin. ‘She has this long, honey-coloured hair . . . it’s like silk. And she was really nice to my mum.’

  ‘My mum adored Sean. She disowned me when we broke up.’

  Dan sighed and twisted his beer. We’d got in this state out of nerves, I suppose. He knew I was there for the free meal and I knew he was there for the free sex, and we were both trying to get drunk enough that we could pretend otherwise.

  His face cleared for a moment.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Did you say you were still with your ex when we hooked up?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  His eyebrows went up somewhere around his hairline. ‘Jeez.’ He sat back in his chair and looked at me, the noodle shifting up and down on his chin as he spoke. ‘Speaking as someone who’s been left for someone else, that’s pretty poor form.’

  ‘He didn’t love me,’ I protested. ‘He was looking for a way out, and I gave him one.’

  The truth hurts, even when you say it yourself. I was reminded that Sean had made zero effort to contact me since our break-up. It looked like he wasn’t even going to bother picking up his beloved Hawthorn scarf, which he’d left in my car.

  Dan narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know he didn’t love you?’

  ‘At first I was in denial about it. A while back he started comparing me to his idiot former girlfriend and I thought he was trying to make me jealous.’ I waved my spoon. ‘He kept saying things like, “She just really knew me, deeply,” and sighing a lot. Over a girl who had breast implants at
eighteen and told anyone who’d listen how she’d been in a Fanta commercial.’

  ‘A Fanta commercial?’

  ‘She didn’t even have a speaking part! Just splashed around in a pool with her glistening fake boobs.’

  ‘You watched it?’

  ‘I found it on YouTube. But then I had to face reality when I realised he was having a fling – or about to start one – with Sarah Stoll.’

  ‘Ah. I have met Sarah once or twice.’ He sipped his beer.

  ‘Enough said.’

  ‘So you felt it was time to take a wrecking ball to the relationship.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I was sick of this date. And I was sick. I felt a little burp coming up. ‘I have to go to the bathroom.’

  Dan insisted on escorting me home.

  ‘You’re too drunk to walk alone,’ he said, stumbling.

  ‘Nah, nah, I’ll see you round.’ I really didn’t want him to see the caravan. The shame spiral had begun and I needed to wallow in it on my own. I walked away from him, straight into a wall. ‘Easy does it.’

  ‘Maggie, you can’t walk home like this.’

  ‘Yes I can.’ I tested myself, walking onto the road to balance on the straight white line while the breeze ruffled my hair and little Victorian houses seemed to watch from either side of the street. I put one foot in front of the other and promptly fell over. A car honked directly behind me.

  Dan hooked an arm under mine and lifted me upright.

  ‘All right. Which street do you live on?’

  I sighed. ‘Fine.’ Guess I’d have to show him the caravan.

  ‘You live near Jen, right?’ Dan looked around as if Jen’s house would be waving a flag for him.

  ‘Yeah, just behind her house, actually.’

  ‘That’s so cool. You must get to see her all the time.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s gonna be different once she marries that jerk, though.’

  Dan shot me a sideways glance as we passed a tumbledown stone cottage that was obviously a student share house, with a couch in the front yard and a vine that had eaten the entire verandah.