by Rose Hartley
‘What, are you angry with me?’
‘No, of course not.’ She dumped the box onto the table and went back to the lasagne dish. ‘I just think you need to learn to live on your own.’
‘Living on my own sucks. Why are you murdering that lasagne dish? Is it me?’
‘No.’
‘Jono?’
She was silent.
‘What, is he still not using his only God-given talent?’
She wiped a detergent bubble from her cheek. ‘We haven’t had sex in two months. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Or me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be mean.’
‘It’s wedding stress.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘Hey, let’s go dress shopping. This Saturday, after Dan looks at Mum’s floorboards. But don’t invite Mum this time. Let her think that by cutting me off, she might have annoyed you.’
‘I would never blame Valerie for cutting you off.’
‘Do it for me.’
‘Oh, fine. So Dan’s looking at your mum’s floorboards?’ She paused, as if to ask a question, then changed her mind. ‘I can’t Saturday. Sunday.’
Not long after I started the job, I got to know one of the Angels’ clients, a woman called Hannah. She was as thin as a sapling, with inky eyes and a wide, sad mouth. A fresh scar curved out from her top lip and ended halfway up her cheek. Hannah was nice in a way that people who are bluntly rude to your face can be nice. She’d take me by the shoulder and shout in my ear, ‘Girl, your skirt is too short! You look like a real slut!’ and then she’d shake my shoulder with her thin, warm hand and laugh as if it was a compliment. And weirdly, it did feel like a compliment, like she was letting me in on some secret with her. She’d stare at Agnes and tell her she needed to smoke less, and Agnes’s eyes would tear up because of the way Hannah said it, like she actually cared. Then Hannah would bum a cigarette from Agnes and pocket the lighter. But you could just tell Hannah’s heart was so big, it almost hurt to think about it. She’d wander through the door of the office some mornings and ask what we’d got in stock. There were strict rules at the Nicholson Street Angels. All donations went straight to the op shop via the granny volunteers and nobody but nobody could walk in off the street into the office next door and demand to see the wares. Not only that, but the office workers, with the exception of Agnes and Josephine, weren’t supposed to interact with the clients, to protect the privacy and safety of women who were fleeing abusive relationships. However, there were rules and then there were other rules. Hannah was allowed. She’d styled herself as something of a go-between – a representative, who informed us about what was needed in the women’s shelter. As a show of appreciation, we sometimes held aside a particularly warm beanie or scarf for her. She’d kiss Josephine on the cheek and tell her she was a crazy witch.
‘God loves you, Hannah,’ Josephine would say. ‘Peace be with you.’
‘Oi, you lot,’ she’d reply. ‘I need a new shirt.’
Hannah was the only person at work who knew that I lived in a caravan. Everyone thought I lived with ‘my friend Jen’, because I didn’t want things to get awkward if Josephine had missed the memo about the tiny house movement and decided she was harbouring a Vulnerable. But Hannah had lived in caravans, boats, tin shacks, on couches and the street, so I didn’t mind telling her. She told me about her ex-boyfriend’s caravan in Darwin, which had had no wheels, and how she’d worked on a sheep station in Western Australia as the only female shearer in a crew of thirty. I asked how she’d made her way to Melbourne and she shrugged.
‘Looking for my daughter,’ she said.
I almost asked if she’d found her, then didn’t. I didn’t want her to start crying or anything. We spoke in code about my caravan so that no one would figure it out.
‘How’s the cara?’
Everyone thought we were both into cars, because the words ‘axle’, ‘jack’ and ‘tyres’ popped into the conversation a lot. That is, until Rueben and I were both in the office on Friday morning.
‘Hannah tells me you live in a caravan,’ he said.
I was startled. ‘Hannah told you that?’
Rueben spread his hands flat over a pink file. Everywhere he went, he found a place to spread his hands, as if the fingers always needed to reach for something, as if he was trying to make his palms larger by stretching them. It was a peculiar gesture.
‘Hannah tells everyone that. But no one else figured out what a cara is.’
I swallowed. I didn’t like Rueben knowing my living arrangements, and I was getting really sick of his constantly inscrutable face.
‘And did you, er, mention this to anyone else?’
‘Nope. Why, don’t you want people to know?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Well, I’ll keep it to myself then. Though I don’t see what’s wrong with living in a caravan.’
‘Nothing’s wrong with it,’ I said defensively. ‘It’s just that the police officer implied I needed help.’
‘Police officer?’ he asked, studying a spreadsheet on his screen.
‘Never mind.’
Outside the office I could hear the kitchen singers starting up. Rueben and I exchanged a glance.
‘Did you hear the one on Wednesday?’ I asked.
‘“We All Love Jesus”? Yes.’
I was a little awkward around Rueben. Not only had he witnessed the debacle that was my first encounter with Dan, but now he’d discovered I lived in a caravan. Meanwhile, I knew next to nothing about the guy, except that he was as cunning as a fox.
‘So what was it like in jail?’ I asked.
‘What do you think it was like?’ He didn’t look up from the screen.
‘Parties and butt sex?’
I fiddled about with some folders, turned my desk fan on and off again, thought about updating the volunteers spreadsheet, then opened an email from Bunny.
Please have a think about one fact that you’d like to share about yourself for a special Prayer Time soon, it said. We’re having a getting-to-know-you session, so it should be something that most people don’t know about you.
‘There you go! Did you see Bunny’s email? You can tell everyone how you landed yourself in jail.’
‘Mmhmm.’
‘So how do you get by money-wise, since you’re a volunteer?’
‘Same as you. Centrelink pays me Newstart to volunteer twenty hours a week. Still, I’m looking forward to the day I never have to deal with them again.’
My suspicions rose. ‘So you want a permanent job here?’
‘Here, or somewhere else.’
‘You’ve got an IT degree. Surely you could do better than fixing computers for a second-rate charity part-time.’
He eyed me, a slight smile on his face. ‘You think I’m angling to get a full-time job here, and you want it. You don’t believe me when I say I just want to get Centrelink off my case.’
‘I’ve been thinking that I could use a paid job,’ I admitted. ‘Those Centrelink rats have given me a debt because I didn’t tell them I was living with my boyfriend, but they won’t tell me how much it is. I’ve got a bad feeling it’s going to be more than I can pay back on the Newstart Allowance.’
‘How did they find out you were living with your boyfriend?’
‘Bastard turned me in when we broke up.’
The lids of Rueben’s eyes dropped slightly and I couldn’t tell if he was amused or sleepy. ‘That’s low. I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy. It’s the people united against the tax office, that’s what I think.’
‘Exactly!’ I waved my arms. ‘He got the house, he got rid of me, he was probably already screwing Sarah Stoll before we broke up, and yet he has the gall to ruin my life.’
Rueben looked like he’d only followed half of my outburst, but I guess he got the gist of it because he rubbed the stubble on his chin and offered to hack Sean’s email for me.
‘You want to get back at him? Find some dirt?’
‘At f
irst I wanted to get back with him, now I want him to suck a cactus.’
Rueben cracked his knuckles and a little thrill ran up my spine as he gently pushed my chair to one side so he could take over my computer. The muscles on his forearms pulsed as he typed. I counted seven tattoos, mostly of birds, flowers and pinup girls.
‘What’s his email address?’ he asked.
‘Did they teach you this at uni?’
He laughed. ‘Not officially, it was a by-product. I used to hack into the lecturers’ emails to find out what the exams would be about.’
After a few minutes of Rueben tapping keys to no avail, I grew impatient.
‘Do you actually know how to do this?’
‘Not really,’ he admitted. ‘The university system was a pretty easy hack. I’ve never tried Gmail. Can you guess his password?’
I thought for a moment. ‘His Netflix password is “GoHawks99”, try that.’
He tapped it in. ‘Works. Pretty dumb to use the same password across different accounts.’
‘Sean’s IQ and his shoe size are about the same. He probably uses the same password for his online banking, too. In case that’s of interest to you.’
He angled the computer screen towards me, frowning as he handed over the mouse. ‘What kind of dirt will you look for? You gonna go the tax evasion route as well?’ he asked.
I wasn’t listening. I went straight to the instant messages from Sarah. There were over a hundred, starting from six months ago.
Chapter 11
At first they were just chatty, complaints about work peppered with smiley emoticons.
OMG did you see this cat meme, it reminded me of our stupid new boss, he is so lame.
You are so funny I can’t believe you said that to Cindy!
Did u get that email from Con, what a loser . . . generic, hardly worth reading.
Then the flirtation began.
Sean: I thought I saw you at the MCG Friday night.
Sarah: I was at a wedding in Kyneton on the weekend. Wasn’t me ;)
Sean: I know, it was just some other gorgeous blonde chick :)
Two weeks later, Sean wrote: I love casual Fridays for one reason. Your sexy as hell arse in those jeans.
Sarah: I’m glad someone noticed. They’re new – so tight I don’t know if I’ll be able to get them off!
Sean: I could help you with that ;)
It was a punch in the gut. Sean and Sarah were clearly an item well before I’d blown things up at The Fainting Chair. It’s not like I was an angel – I’d betrayed boyfriends with one-night stands plenty of times – but I’d never had an affair. I wanted to keep reading but couldn’t. My eyes were hot with tears.
Rueben had generously moved away from me and was sorting through a filing cabinet to give me some privacy while I violated Sean’s. He looked up when he heard me sniffle.
‘You’re dwelling on the personal stuff, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am,’ I said, trying to stop my chin from shuddering.
‘All right, stop it. Let me take over. I’ll find something incriminating in no time.’
‘Don’t bother. I don’t care anymore.’ I’ve never told a bigger lie in my life. ‘I need an egg and bacon sandwich.’
Rueben came over and rolled my chair to one side. He logged me out of Sean’s email account and leant on the desk. He looked me straight in the eye but his expression was kind.
‘Go and get one,’ he said. ‘What’s next on your list of jobs to do?’
‘Gotta call the volunteers and fix their rosters for next week.’ I wiped my eyes.
‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Just show me their files and phone numbers.’
I nodded, handed him the files, and shuffled out of the office. The corner store had a filthy black-and-white chequered vinyl floor. Greasy egg and bacon sandwiches were kept warm all day in a bain-marie, just for times like these. The bread was white and heavily buttered, the rashers of bacon generous and fatty. I bit into a sandwich and felt my troubles recede slightly. I scoffed it in about three seconds and licked my fingers while I walked back to the office, thinking that Rueben wasn’t a bad guy. Just a little unnerving, the way he looked people right in the eyes. I guess it didn’t help that he was my height. I was five foot nine and if we stood nose-to-nose our eyes would meet at exactly the same level. And God, those eyes of his.
Back at the office, I was still wiping my greasy hands on my jeans when Agnes popped her head in to say she had an important job for us. She seemed slightly breathless and kept adjusting her glasses.
‘There’s a very wealthy donor coming in to drop off some clothes to the op shop. There’s a chance she’ll leave a sizeable bequest to the Angels in her will so I try to deal with her personally whenever she visits, but today I have to take my dog to the vet.’
‘What would you like us to do?’ Rueben asked.
‘Just keep her happy. She’ll probably stay a while, wanting thanks for her Yves Saint Laurent or whatever she’s dropping off today.’
‘She donates Yves Saint Laurent?’ I said in awe. I’d never even seen a piece of Yves Saint Laurent clothing up close, unless you counted the women on my mother’s street stepping out of their luxury cars. I wouldn’t have even known how to pronounce it if Agnes hadn’t said it out loud.
‘Yves Saint Laurent, Chanel, Christian Dior. We on-sell most of it to upmarket second-hand stores because they pay more than our customers can. She probably knows that, but don’t mention it.’
‘What’s her name?’ Rueben asked.
‘Delia Fitz-Hammond. Call her Mrs Fitz-Hammond. Humour her. She’s a little . . .’ She didn’t finish her thought, instead giving Rueben a sly look. ‘I suspect she’ll like you, Rueben.’
Agnes hurried out. What about me? I huffed inwardly.
Rueben and I walked next door in silence. He looked particularly fine in his uniform of grey T-shirt and jeans as the sunlight bounced off his stubble, the dark hairs shining slightly auburn. By focusing on the delicately lilting planes of his face I could forget the humiliation of the emails I had read earlier, and pretend the burning rage thundering through my body was not because my ex-boyfriend had made a fool of me with a girl I’d hated since I was fourteen, but was, in fact, just sexual frustration brought on by being in close proximity to the most attractive man I’d ever met who wasn’t interested in me.
Delia Fitz-Hammond was standing in the centre of the op shop commanding a middle-aged man who I assumed at first was her son, but later revised the assumption to her driver. He and the shop volunteers were bringing in boxes from a black BMW outside and arranging them about her feet as she waved an imperious hand. She was small and slender, dressed in black with platinum-and-diamond bracelets, and very severe in the face. From the smooth, taut skin of her cheeks I would have put her at a well-preserved sixty, but something about the bowed thinness of her legs made me think she was probably closer to eighty. She was a tiny lightning rod.
‘Mrs Fitz-Hammond?’ I said, recalling my best Camberwell accent. ‘I’m Maggie Cotton and this is Rueben Blackwood. Lovely to meet you.’
She held out a delicate hand and I took her fingers and gave them a microscopic shake, worried she might break if I shook harder. She seemed to like my gentleness, probably taking it as a sign of deference.
‘Maggie Cotton,’ she said. ‘I have some wonders of the world to deliver to your little operation today.’ The driver hurried to open the first box at her feet. ‘Not that one!’ she barked. ‘The big one.’
‘We so appreciate your donation, and you coming in personally to deliver it,’ I began.
‘Maggie,’ she interrupted. ‘There is a social stratum.’
‘Is there?’ Was she going to tell me not to speak until spoken to?
‘I am going to show you something from the very top.’ She drew a mass of white, shining material from the box. Not another wedding dress, I thought. I looked closer.
‘Is that an Elvis jumpsuit?’ Rueben asked
.
Held up to the early afternoon light, the rhinestones on the white polyester glittered like stars. It was a men’s size large, too big for me. Delia Fitz-Hammond caught Rueben’s eye and winked.
‘This jumpsuit,’ she said, ‘symbolises the mating dance. The man who wears it, if he is of exquisite beauty or great talent, will render the suit a tool of attraction. However, if he is a fat, slobbering drunkard, he will render the suit and himself an object of ridicule. You!’ She pointed at Rueben. ‘Put this on.’
‘I don’t think that’s part of my job description,’ he said.
‘Rueben,’ I said, ‘this great lady is a very important person and a valuable donor.’ Delia Fitz-Hammond liked that. ‘Try it on.’
‘First I want to know if I’m a man of exquisite beauty.’
‘Perhaps!’ said Mrs Fitz-Hammond. ‘But to find that out you must try it on. It is a test.’
‘Just think,’ I said. ‘You’ll never get this opportunity again. On your deathbed, you’ll look up at the pressed metal ceiling of the poorhouse and lament, “Why, O why, did I not glory in thy holy glitteriness, Sir King? Why did I pass up thy greatest of offerings, thy spangled goodness, thy—”’
‘All right.’ Rueben shot me a dark look. He took the jumpsuit and disappeared into a change room. I thought I heard him muttering.
Keep her happy, Agnes had said.
‘Where did you get that magnificent outfit?’ I asked.
She smiled tightly. ‘In another life I was a playwright.’
‘And it’s from one of your plays?’
‘No, it’s from the night I slept with Elvis.’
I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. I looked at her sideways but couldn’t make out her expression. Botox will do that.
‘I myself cannot wear jumpsuits,’ she said, gesturing to her stomach. ‘My torso is rather long and they ride up in the crotch and separate my labia into little clamshells.’ She pinched her fingers together to mime the separation of her labia. An enormous emerald ring sparkled under the lights.
‘Camel toe,’ I said.