by Kirsty Eagar
I’m back inside and Roger’s at work now, churning through the dishes. He doesn’t say hello to me and I don’t say hello to him. Emilio’s head appears at the window.
‘How’re we going on the eggs hollandaise, Carly?’ His voice is funny.
‘Why?’
‘They’re for the team.’
‘Oh shit. Why didn’t you tell me?’
But he’s gone. I check the time on the docket. The order’s been there for twenty minutes. There are two orders still ahead of it but the eggs hollandaise will now jump the queue. They’re for the team: men from the master franchisor’s office. Manly is a flagship operation for New South Wales and they like to inspect it regularly, sometimes bringing potential franchisees with them to show the place off. I met one of them once, Max, a broad-shouldered American with a hard handshake and a smile full of white teeth. He repeated my name like a threat, gripping it with his teeth, and wiped his hand on his pants.
I plate up the eggs hollandaise and run it myself. I can’t give it to Roger – he’s not quite in keeping with the slick Café Parisienne staff member outlined in the franchise manual. The eggs have taken too long. It will not matter to these guys that we are rushed off our feet. The aim of the Café Parisienne operation is to provide consistent service.
There are five of them at the table, all wearing suits. They stop talking when I arrive.
‘Eggs hollandaise?’ I say in a bright voice with a plastic smile. Surely they must see the desperation in my eyes?
A short balding man raises his hand. I slide the eggs in front of him and he gives an appreciative mumble. I can feel sweat squishing under my arms as I hurry back to the kitchen. What if he gets sick from that hollandaise sauce? What if I’ve just committed the first act of franchise murder?
I’m convinced he’ll be vomiting within an hour. I’m going to be in so much trouble. It occurs to me that I should be glad they didn’t order the Thai. I’m so stressed my teeth are grinding into each other and I’ve got pains in my stomach because I need to pee really badly but there just isn’t time.
What sort of life is this, one where you can’t pee when you want to?
Roger shovels what I’m sure is the remainder of the eggs hollandaise into his mouth about forty minutes later. I watch him do it, standing at the end of the pass, gripping onto the stainless steel shelving as though I have sea legs and I can’t trust myself to move. The slamming has stopped, there are no customers waiting out front. I’ve just run the last food order myself. The kitchen looks like it’s been hit by a bomb.
Marty barrels into the kitchen, pulling his cap off – Emilio probably made him put it on when he saw the franchise inspectors arrive. He stops in front of me, standing too close so that my neck is cricked back and I can see how dilated his pupils are. He’s giving off a stale, flat smell. I wonder again if he’s on drugs. There’s something rushed and discordant about him.
‘I got kicked out of my place, eh,’ he says. He stares down at me with eyes that are too bright. ‘Arseholes.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Dunno, eh.’
I’m waiting for him to ask if he can crash at my place. Even though I don’t want him to, I’ll say yes, because it seems to me that people always want something from you and I can’t work out how to hold the door shut against that any more.
But he doesn’t. A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. ‘What are you doin’ tonight, Carls?’
‘What? Why?’
‘Nah, are you going for a drink?’ His voice is too loud.
‘No. I can’t.’ Holding a hand to my head, I scurry past him and around the corner to the cool room. I pull back on the door and walk inside, pushing through a curtain of cold air. It’s loud in there, the fan on top of the freezer door whirring away. I stare at the shelves blankly. I feel like I’m unravelling along the seams.
The door to the cool room opens with a slapping sound. Marty comes in, staring at me like I’m something he wants. I make a noise and back up slightly and he closes his hands around my shoulders. But then he blinks and his face changes. He looks so tired, blanked out, that I forget about what’s going on for a second and instead wonder what happened to Marty to make him like this.
The door opens. ‘Marty?’ Emilio’s voice.
Marty drops his hands.
‘Marty, for shit’s sake, I need you out the front, mate.’
As Marty pushes past him, Emilio stares at me. My arms hang loosely by my sides as though they’ve stopped working.
‘Nothing was happening,’ I say.
He doesn’t answer, just closes the door.
I drive home the Pittwater Road way. My eyes have gone funny and everything’s smudged. Streetlights, traffic lights and the lights of the oncoming cars have a haloed effect. The world’s a blur and it makes it hard to see the white lines, to know where I should be placed.
13
die and lay down
Hannah arrives home half an hour after I do. I’ve had three cigarettes and when I hear her car pull into the carport I quickly hide the jar I keep my butts in.
‘Cookie? Cookie?’ She appears as a dark shadow around the corner of the house. ‘But you’re out here in the dark?’
I stretch my neck out. ‘You’re home late.’
‘I’ve been at a work dinner. We went to Crows Nest.’
She’s in a suit but she sits down anyway, not seeming to worry that the decking will snag her stockings.
‘These guys at work … phew! They are so rude to me, you know? I asked Gavin – he’s the one I am supposed to be working with, we are supposed to be a team – I asked him a question about the project deadlines and he said to me, “Don’t worry about it, mate. You’ll be long gone before that becomes a problem.” And I said, “Well, mate, I am making it a problem now.” Ah! They’re just so rude, you know? Then tonight they all drink together and nobody listens to me.’
‘That sucks.’
Hannah sniffs and wipes at her face. ‘But it is not easy, you know, living in another country.’
‘Shit, Hannah, don’t cry … well … cry if you want. It must be really hard.’
‘I always thought Australians were friendly … They are so competitive.’
‘Yeah, they are. We are.’
She sniffs. Then she sniffs again. ‘Hey, Cookie, but I can smell cigarette smoke. Have you been smoking?’
‘No.’ I get up. ‘You want a beer?’
‘No. Oh, yes, all right.’
I go inside to my bathroom, rub some toothpaste on my gums and rinse out, then get two beers from the fridge in the kitchen, twisting their tops off and dropping them in the bin. Back outside I hand one to her and lie down on my stomach, placing my beer in front of my face.
‘Australians are competitive,’ I say. ‘You know what I heard on the radio the other day? On the news they said, “A recent study found Australia is not the number one country in the world in terms of shark attacks. America was found to have the highest incidence of attacks.” The newsreader was really disappointed, sort of outraged. Like, come on Australian sharks, get going, start snapping.’
‘Australian sharks are probably just very inefficient. They are probably spending their time drinking beer and talking about sport.’
For some reason that makes me laugh. After a bit, Hannah does too. Laughing helps.
‘You want to know what happened to me today?’ I ask. ‘I snapped my board and I wrecked another guy’s board.’
‘Were you hurt? Are you okay?’
That’s lovely somehow, the fact that she’s worried about whether I was hurt. I tell her about it and she really listens, and I feel bad for all the times I’ve been impatient with her.
‘The worst thing is, I probably shouldn’t go back there,’ I conclude. ‘Which is shitty because I love that break. I’ve improved so much surfing there. But yeah, not after today.’
‘But Cookie, you can’t just die and lay down.’
�
�What? What did you say?’
‘Die and lay down – is that not the expression? I’ve used it before.’
‘No, it’s … No, it’s great. Thanks Hannah. Here.’ I hold up my beer. ‘Let’s make a toast.’
We clink, I open my mouth and pause, not sure what to say.
Hannah says, ‘Maybe something like … like … I know!’ Her teeth flash in the dark. ‘Like, go vaginas!’
‘Okay,’ I say slowly, thinking that I just don’t get Dutch humour sometimes. ‘Go vaginas.’
‘Go vaginas.’
‘Go vaginas.’
‘Go vaginas!’ she shouts, and we both laugh. She sips her beer, kicking up her little finger like she’s drinking tea. ‘Yes. Now, while I remember, I did something today also. I rang the Salsa Lounge and I asked them if I could purchase entry tickets for tomorrow night.’
‘For us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you just buy them on the door when you get there?’
‘Yes, but this way you have to come with me.’
‘You’re kidding? You bought tickets to make sure I go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whew. Well. Don’t you think that’s coercion?’
‘Yes.’ Her chin juts out. ‘So when you finish work you’ll come home and then we will go. I’ll drive us there.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to see this Victor guy? Won’t you want to have a few drinks? Shouldn’t I drive?’
‘No. No, I don’t want to have any alcohol. Especially if we might …’ Hannah raises her eyebrows and sips more beer.
And that right there is how different we are. She’s about to get sex and she exercises control. If that were me, I’d have to be drunk out of my head.
14
not yet
Marty comes up behind me while I’m mixing a batch of muffins. I don’t hear his approach over the noise Roger’s making at the sink – he’s had his normal hours reinstated, Emilio must have realised his earlier decision to cut them back was madness. Anyway, when I feel hands close over my shoulders and start kneading I think they belong to Golden-Staph Adam and I’m about to snarl. But then I catch a glimpse of Marty’s blond-brown curls and – whoosh – my face burns so red I look forwards again in a hurry.
‘What do you want, Marty?’
‘To massage you, eh?’
‘Found a new place?’
The bell dings and Emilio’s round worried face appears in the window. ‘Carly? Come on, Marty, mate.’
He bustles off and Marty leans forward so he’s pressed up against the length of me.
‘You think he’s jealous?’ he whispers.
The laugh is squeezed out of me. ‘Yeah. He thinks you’re hot, Marty.’
‘What are you doing tonight?’
I can feel his breath on my ear and it’s giving me goose bumps. ‘Why?’
‘I’m finishing early. Adam and Emilio are doing the close.’
‘Oh,’ I say.
I’m using a male spoon to mix the muffin ingredients together. Female spoons are slotted – they have holes. Welcome to the international language of kitchen brigades.
I’m over-mixing the muffins to hell.
‘Nah, do you want to do something? Together?’ Marty stops his kneading and waits for me to answer him, his hands still on my shoulders.
I can’t speak. I’m overheating. If you can’t take the heat, get out of the … Why is the reality of attraction always so claustrophobic?
There comes an enormous crashing noise from behind us and Marty and I turn as one to look at Roger. I’d forgotten he was there.
He’s dropped a pile of plates. He doesn’t look at us, just angrily kicks the broken pieces of crockery under the sink. I feel like I’m being judged.
It’s a quiet night, which is odd because it’s school holidays and you would expect a Saturday night to be busy at the best of times. I tell Emilio I’m going to shut down the kitchen early and he nods. Even though I’m doing myself out of wages – pruning labour costs – I couldn’t care less.
Marty knocked off at ten. I didn’t answer him about tonight and he didn’t ask again.
Emilio’s in the office counting the register takings when I go in there to pick up my bag. Notes are stacked in neat piles in front of him and his fingers flick two-dollar coins off the end of the desk into a plastic change bag.
‘Hey, so I’m off, Emilio. Are you going to be okay?’
‘Sure. You get out of here.’ Scrape, scrape. ‘We’ll have to get you out the front soon. Get you making coffees.’
I can’t be bothered arguing. ‘Yep.’
He stops what he’s doing and glances over at me. ‘Everything okay, Carly?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Anything going on between you and Marty that I need to know about?’
‘No.’ My voice is surprised and my eyes are too big. I try to squint a little. I feel like Emilio’s a teacher and he’s disappointed in me. ‘You know what Marty’s like. He’s just mucking around.’
He nods. ‘You do a great job here, Carly. It’s appreciated. I was thinking about having a talk to Michael, telling him you should be on salary. You should know that.’
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I’m happy because it would mean better money, but I’m worried it might involve daytime shifts. I pick up my bag.
I’m just about out the door when he says, ‘Carly? That friend of yours that wanted the job?’
‘Danny?’
‘He can start next Friday if he’s still keen. I’ve lined his shift up with yours.’
‘Really? Thanks Emilio. I’ll let him know.’
For a second we stare at each other. I don’t know much about Emilio except that he lives with his girlfriend, who’s a physio, and he’s making a career of this, even though I don’t know why. But he’s a decent guy.
‘Thanks,’ I say again.
‘Have a good night.’
It feels weird to be leaving early. Hannah’s expecting me back home at 12.30 a.m. precisely, at which point I am to spend exactly fifteen minutes having a shower and getting changed before she drives me to the salsa club. Unless, of course, I decide to stunt roll from the moving vehicle and escape that way. Jesus Christ.
I could go home early – the sooner she gets there, the sooner she and Victor can get down to getting it on – but I’m feeling sulky and coerced. I go out the front, winding my way through the tables to the toilets. Once in there, I wipe my face over with a piece of wet soapy paper towel, pull my hair out of its ponytail and scrabble my fingers through it. It’s texture is different these days from the salt water and sun, and it’s so dry it drinks grease, which is a good thing. I rip my whites off and stuff them into my bag. Then I change out of my black T-shirt into the clean blue top I’ve brought with me, giving my chest a brief wipe over with more moist paper towel. Ever since the night Georgina, Marty and I went to The Steyne for a drink I’ve been carrying this spare shirt around in my bag just in case I ever went out again. Finally, I spray on more deodorant and wash my hands.
Outside the air feels thick and heavy. The lights, the noise, the jostling crowd on the Corso combine to make me feel drunk. Faces blur. The night is a mix of gold and shadows. I pause for a second and the crowd flows around me. Do I want to go the beach? No, I’ll get in my car and drive to Cook Terrace. Have a cigarette on the cliffs overlooking the ocean.
‘Carly!’
Before I turn around I realise I knew this was going to happen. That’s why I got changed. No, that’s not quite true. I never really thought he’d wait around for me to finish, I just liked the idea that he might.
Marty pushes through the crowd towards me, taking a drag from the cigarette he’s holding in the crook of his fingers. He’s still wearing his work shirt, but he’s rolled its sleeves up and unbuttoned it midway to his chest, showing the T-shirt he’s wearing underneath. For some reason all that cotton thrills me. I love the smell of cotton.
H
e blows smoke over my head like he’s tough, then his face splits into a grin. He looks embarrassed. I grin back at him. The two of us stand there in the middle of the Corso grinning like we’re deranged. Marty looks so beautiful. The sharpness of his shoulders leaves me pumped full of air.
I laugh because I don’t know what else to do.
He says, ‘I was just waiting around. For you. You want to do something?’
‘Um … yeah. But I … I’m supposed to be going out with my neighbour. We’re going to a salsa club.’
‘A salsa club, eh?’
‘A salsa club.’
‘What are you going to do there?’
‘I don’t know. Salsa?’ I laugh again like a fool, swinging my bag around to the front. ‘I don’t even know how to salsa.’
‘You got off early.’
‘Yep. But not before Emilio warned me about you.’
‘What? The bastard.’
He stubs his cigarette out on the ground, then glances back up at me, and I feel my face flush. His green eyes are very bright, very intense. I wonder if he’s on something. Does it matter?
I take a deep breath. ‘So.’
‘So.’
I fidget with the strap on my bag and open my mouth to say something – what? – but he’s talking.
‘You want me to walk you to your car?’
‘Okay.’
We start moving through the crowd. Marty puts a hand on my shoulder, the one nearest to him, steering me towards Pittwater Road. He must know where I park. Of course he knows where I park, everybody from work parks there. When we get to Pittwater Road he lets go of my shoulder and slides his hands into his pockets and I feel like I’ve done something wrong.
We stop at the intersection near the backpackers’, where, as usual, there are people out the front, squealing and carrying on. I hit the pedestrian button a couple of times.