by Rose Hartley
‘Man, you are one tough nut,’ I said.
‘It’s a poodle-eat-poodle world, isn’t it?’
Dot padded into the kitchen and jumped up on the table to headbutt me. She was unofficially living with Mum now and seemed quite content at having tuna on tap. Silence fell, except for the sound of Dot purring and Jen chewing her chicken. Red sauce coated the corners of Jen’s mouth.
‘Are you all right, darling?’ Mum asked her gently.
Jen swallowed her mouthful. ‘I never want to mention Jono’s name again. Just then, that was the last time. I’m starting my life over and it will be as if he never existed. If we ever have to refer to him for any reason, which I hope we don’t, he shall henceforth be known as Shitballs.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Good plan,’ said Mum.
‘So keep talking,’ Jen ordered. ‘Talk about something.’
‘Okay.’ I nodded. ‘Anyone want to hear my theory about how to talk to a therapist, if you ever get one, to demonstrate how sane and sensible you are?’
‘No,’ Jen and Mum said simultaneously.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘How about we come up with a back-up plan for my life.’
‘There’s no such thing as a back-up plan,’ Mum said.
‘But – and please don’t throw jelly at me this time – everything’s fucked.’
Mum sighed. She didn’t even tell me off for swearing. ‘What is it, specifically, among all your stupid problems, that is bothering you?’
I thought over all my problems. The Centrelink debt, the broken caravan, Mum’s will. Everything came down to money. Almost everything.
‘I can’t make people love me.’
Jen snorted.
‘Of course you can’t make people love you,’ Mum said. ‘I’ve tried myself. It never works.’
‘Do you mean Dad?’
She refilled Jen’s bowl. The chicken slopped in, red and steaming. ‘Before he left, I did everything I could. I let him waste my entire inheritance. But you can’t force someone to love you. If anything, you push the person away by trying.’
‘That’s so depressing, Mum. I thought you taught me to be persistent.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Persistent in what you do, Maggie, not persistent in trying to force other people to bend to your will. And you have a hell of a will. If only you applied some of your admirable work ethic for soliciting sex to other aspects of your life, you might actually have a career by now. And quite possibly a husband.’
‘I don’t want a husband. I just want him to—’
‘Who?’
I shut my mouth. Jen smirked at me.
‘I bet it’s that man who looks like a criminal,’ Mum continued. ‘I saw you drooling over him at the rehearsal dinner. All right, when are you going to pop out some babies with him?’
‘I thought you didn’t want me to reproduce?’
Mum considered that for a bit. ‘He’s a bit of a handsome dog.’
‘You would have good-looking babies,’ Jen agreed.
‘His mother was a beauty queen,’ I told them.
‘Ahhh,’ Jen and Mum said, nodding together like puppets.
‘I suppose if you’re going to get knocked up it may as well be by him,’ Mum went on. ‘Do you think he would stick around, though?’
‘I’m not getting knocked up!’ I said. If they moved on to baby-talk, it was time to leave. ‘Jen, do you think it might be your bedtime?’
‘I’d drive you home, but this idiot buggered up my driving foot,’ Mum said, gesturing to me.
I took Jen home in a taxi and tucked her into bed.
‘You might as well stay over,’ she said sleepily.
I didn’t need asking twice. I removed my bra and cuddled in next to her. ‘Don’t wake me tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I don’t have to work until three.’
I was just dozing off when my phone buzzed with a text. Rueben’s name flashed on the screen.
Hey Teflon girl. Tomorrow’s my last day at the Angels. Make sure you get to work on time so I can show you how to run the new website.
Rueben was quitting? My throat closed over like a hand had grabbed it and squeezed.
It was a beautiful December day and I was miserable. I trudged down Nicholson Street, crushing fallen blossoms under my feet, muttering a string of expletives. The first person I saw when I crossed the threshold of the Nicholson Street Angels’ office was Bunny, which didn’t improve my mood one iota. She’d paired a gypsy skirt with cowgirl boots this morning, and had stuck chopsticks through her bun.
‘I think you’re needed in the op shop today, Maggie,’ she announced by way of greeting, smiling through perfectly white, gritted teeth.
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Excuse me?’
‘No, I’m not needed in the op shop today. Rueben is showing me how to run the new website.’
‘No need for that,’ she said. ‘I’ll be running the new website.’
I counted to three. My options were: turn around and leave the Angels, never to see Rueben again. Spend the day in the op shop and sneak out to see Rueben at lunchtime. Ignore Bunny and sit down at my desk as usual. I chose option three.
‘Uh,’ Bunny said, stepping back to catch her balance as I pushed past her to the inner sanctum of the office. She was lucky I didn’t grab a chopstick from her hair and shove it down her throat.
Rueben was looking badass in his grey T-shirt and jeans that hugged his slim hips. He was at his computer and didn’t acknowledge my arrival. I wondered if he was trying to play it cool. I threw my bag down and nosed my way in between him and the desk, hands on my hips.
‘Did you really resign?’
Rueben’s lily-pad eyes met mine. I stared into them: the heavy eyelids I was now familiar with, the slight downturn at the outer corners. Fine lines fanning out, the skin otherwise smooth and tanned.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Because I’m El Bitcho de Teflon?’
He put his head back and laughed. ‘Because I got another job.’
‘What job? What could possibly be better than working with me?’
‘A paying job,’ he said. ‘Full-time. Nothing amazing. I’ll just be doing low-level database management at a software development company that my sister’s friend owns, but it’s something.’
It felt weird standing over him. My knees were touching his, and they were growing warmer by the second.
‘Well. Congratulations.’ My words were devoid of feeling. I hardly wanted to stay at the Nicholson Street Angels if Rueben wasn’t going to be there. I dug my nails into the palm of my hand to stop myself saying something stupid.
‘It’s a good job,’ he said. ‘I’m happy.’
‘Sounds like it.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I’m happy for you.’
‘Shall I show you the back end?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The back end of the new website. It’s easy. I’ve switched us over to WordPress. Any monkey can run the site now.’
I pulled up a chair and sat next to him, my heart thumping. ‘I guess that means this monkey can do it.’
He smiled. ‘Here’s the login URL, the password is—’
‘Bunny’s trying to steal this off me, too,’ I interrupted. ‘She wanted to handball me into the op shop today and get you to show her how to run the site.’
‘It makes sense to have more than one person know how to do it,’ he said. ‘For the days when you’re away, or in case you leave the Angels sometime.’
‘You mean in case Bunny has me fired.’
‘She can’t fire you. You’re a volunteer.’
‘You know she could get me booted.’
He swivelled to face me and put his hands on my shoulders. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked gently.
‘You know what’s wrong.’
He didn’t take his eyes off me. ‘Why don’t you say it?’
For a moment I nearly did: Rueben, I love you. I even opened my mouth. Then I shook my head.
Agnes chose that moment to pop her face through the doorway.
‘Come on, you two. We’re posting out the fundraising letters today. All hands on deck to stuff them in the envelopes.’
I was half relieved, half frustrated. We both jumped out of our seats like jack-in-the-boxes and followed Agnes. Ahead of us, I could see thousands of letters already stacked in neat piles, presumably according to dollar amounts, on the meeting room table. Rueben walked ahead of me into the room but Agnes stopped me outside the door, her face stern.
‘I need to talk to you later,’ she said. ‘I had a phone call from someone at Centrelink this morning.’
So Centrelink had finally got around to telling her that I’d had my Newstart Allowance cut off and was being forced out of the volunteer program. Numbing dread filled me. My time at the Angels was up.
Bunny bounced towards us, blocking me from coming near the meeting room table, all up in my face with her buoyant red hair and glittering teeth.
‘Agnes, we really need someone in the op shop today,’ she said, still nose to nose with me as if I was a wild animal trying to escape. ‘I already asked Maggie to do it once. There’s only one volunteer in there and it’s Olga – she can’t operate the till.’
Agnes sighed. ‘Fine. Maggie, do you mind?’
Fucking Bunny. ‘Yeah, all right.’
As I turned to leave, I saw Rueben pick up a copy of the letter on the table and frown.
‘Wait,’ he said.
Bunny practically shoved me out the door. I batted away her hand and held on to the doorframe with my fingertips, peering over her shoulder.
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘This is your letter.’ He looked up. ‘Agnes, this is the fundraising letter that Maggie wrote. I proofread it for her six times. Did Bunny tell you she wrote it?’
Bunny’s hands went slack on my shoulders. I shoved her out of the way, picked up the letter and scanned it. It was my fundraising letter, word for word. Bunny hadn’t just stolen my idea, she’d stolen the whole damn thing.
‘Whoa,’ I said. ‘Bunny, how did you get this?’
‘She must have taken it off the printer,’ Rueben said. ‘You printed it out about a hundred times before it was finished.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Bunny said. Actually, her voice was a screech. ‘Agnes, it’s a conspiracy. They’re obviously in on it together to undermine me. They’re liars!’
Agnes sighed and adjusted her glasses. ‘God, this is a huge pain in my arse. The letters are good. Can we just stuff the envelopes and discuss it later?’
Nobody moved.
‘Maggie,’ Agnes said. ‘I will talk to you about this at lunchtime. Go and cover the volunteers in the op shop.’
‘The lack of clichés and spelling errors should have alerted me that it wasn’t Bunny’s work.’ Agnes sighed and leant back in her chair. I was seated opposite, fiddling with the toy cats on her desk.
‘Because she didn’t write “Every dollar is a holy gift”?’ I asked.
‘What a huge pile of donkey shit this is,’ she said, and I stifled a giggle, valiantly turning it into a cough at the last second. Agnes swearing was like a ballet dancer farting. She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I’ve asked Bunny to resign. I’ve long suspected that girl does nothing, and the last song she wrote made me want to swallow arsenic. It looks like you’ll have to do her job for now. You’ll be on probation for three months before we make it permanent.’
I did an internal happy dance. I didn’t feel bad for Bunny. She’d suck some idiot into giving her another job.
‘Does that mean I’ll get paid?’ I asked. ‘I mean, like a salary?’
‘Yes. Good timing for you, I imagine?’ She gave me a knowing look. I nodded. ‘It’s still three days a week, but you’ll earn more than you’re getting now.’ Which was currently zero. ‘Bunny is finishing up at the end of the week. I’ve asked her to show you the ropes of the marketing job but I doubt she’ll do it. She really hates you.’
‘I’ll add her name to the list,’ I said.
Agnes stretched. ‘Don’t screw it up,’ she said. ‘My idiot fuse is getting shorter and shorter. I’m tempted to fire every last worker in this place and do it all myself.’
‘You’d probably do an all right job,’ I said. ‘But just think, you’d never be able to take a holiday.’
‘That’s true. My wife would kill me.’
I practically skipped into the kitchen, where I found Rueben making a cup of tea. I did a Sucked-In-Bunny dance. It involved holding the kettle in front of my crotch and pumping my hips at Rueben.
‘Bow down, Bunny! Bow down, Bunny!’ I sang, channelling Beyoncé.
‘Maybe you should, uh . . .’ Rueben cleared his throat and nodded in the direction of the doorway. I turned. Bunny. Crap.
‘Excuse me?’ Bunny said. She flushed and looked from Rueben to me.
‘Hi, Bunny.’
‘Were you just singing about me?’
I decided to unleash the fury. ‘Yeah, yeah, I was. It’s called “Bow Down, Bunny”. Hit single in the making.’
Bunny drew herself up, nose high in the air. ‘You will drag everyone in this charity down into your pit of sin,’ she told me. ‘I’ve worked here for three years. I’m a believer. You won’t last ten seconds in my job. What will you do for office morale?’ She shook her finger at me. ‘I know about you. I know you don’t know the difference between the Anglican church, the Catholic church and the Baptist church. I heard you once call a Reverend “Father”.’
‘Who the hell cares?’ I said.
‘I care. Where do you worship? What church?’
‘I have an altar to Beyoncé in my caravan.’
Bunny huffed.
‘Is that true?’ Rueben asked me. ‘I thought Gillian Welch was your favourite musician.’
‘I can’t believe this,’ Bunny said. ‘I do the Lord’s work. You’re just a volunteer from Centrelink!’
I grinned. ‘Not anymore.’
Bunny turned pale. ‘This circus is a sign. My talents are being wasted. I should have an audience. I should be singing for Jesus in front of thousands.’
‘You should, Bunny,’ Rueben said smoothly. ‘You have so much talent. Anyone who’s heard you sing can’t talk of anything else afterward.’
It was true, kinda.
‘Thank you, Rueben.’ She sniffed. ‘You’re the only one here who’s nice to me.’ She turned on her heel and flounced out.
‘And why are you wearing chopsticks in your hair?’ I called after her. ‘They’re eating utensils. What would you think if a Chinese woman walked around with a fork stuck through her bun?’
Rueben shook his head at me.
‘Why are you nice to her?’ I asked. ‘She’s the devil.’
‘Yeah, but she just lost her job.’
‘Ah, she’ll be fine. I’m sure she’ll sell tens of copies of her next album.’
He sipped his tea, offering a slight smile. I put the kettle on for my own tea, humming to myself. The kitchen seemed brighter, cleaner somehow, the grey lino floors almost jaunty now that I knew I’d never see Bunny step on them again. I wanted to keep Rueben talking, to at least cement our friendship before he left for another job. It was obvious I had to play the long game if I was going to bring him around. I turned the conversation to a subject that I knew would hook him: Americana and alt-country greats. I already knew he loved Gram Parsons, Emmylou Harris and Townes Van Zandt, so I asked him what he thought of David Allan Coe’s ‘Revenge’.
‘Perfect songwriting,’ he said.
‘I agree. But I bet you just love David Allan Coe because he’s an outlaw, so you think you’ve got something in common.’
He shook his head. ‘He’s far more outlaw than I ever was. I think he spent time on Death Row, and it wasn’t for throwing a bag of peas at someone. Do you just like him because he lived in his car?’
‘It was a hearse
.’
His smile stayed in place. I stepped closer. We can work this out, I was thinking. I took note of every detail of Rueben’s person. The stubble on his cheeks that was one part silver, three parts rust. The whites of his eyes, turning to blue around the edge of green irises. The curved outline of shoulder blades beneath his T-shirt, which I noticed when he reached to get the carton of milk out of the fridge and handed it to me for my tea.
‘Okay Rueben,’ I said. ‘I’m ready to say it now.’
‘Say what?’
‘Come to my caravan after work.’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘I don’t want anything from you.’ His mouth was set in a line.
‘But it’s your last day. We need to . . . we need to celebrate,’ I said lamely.
He bent his head towards mine and I felt his breath on my cheek. ‘You know exactly what will happen if I come to your caravan.’ I felt a shot of fire head south. ‘But I told you, I’m not getting involved with you. I’m gonna go on eHarmony and match with an accountant or something. Someone safe.’
‘I practically am an accountant,’ I said. ‘I have a diploma of accounting from the University of Melbourne. Only took me ten years.’
He shook his head again.
‘I’m very safe,’ I called as he left the kitchen. ‘I’m a prophylactic.’
Clouds rushed to cover the sun in the afternoon, and the first drops of rain tapped on the roof and darkened the asphalt outside. Typical. Agnes sent me back to work in the op shop after lunch, probably so I wouldn’t run into Bunny in the corridors. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Rueben again until I was locking up the shop and saw him leave the office and get into his car. I ran out of the shop and knocked on his window.
‘Charlotte Court, Collingwood,’ I yelled through the window. ‘That’s where my caravan is parked. Come round at seven. I’ll have dinner ready.’
He mouthed No, and put the car in gear.
‘I’m a changed woman!’ I shouted as he pulled away from the kerb. ‘I have a paid part-time job!’ I cupped my fingers around my mouth as his tail-lights disappeared around the corner. ‘I’m ethically non-monogamous!’