by Kirsty Eagar
‘Once will do it,’ he says.
‘Three times makes them change faster.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that right?’
‘It’s a fact.’
‘You really want to go to this salsa club?’
‘Not really. I just said I would. I’ve been roped into it. She’s bought tickets.’
I want to ask him to come with me. But that means him coming home with me now and waiting while I get ready before we drive there in Hannah’s car. And then … well, Hannah will be with Victor, which means I’ll be with Marty. And he’ll come home with us because that’s what you do. And the whole night will be like a funnel leading to one inevitable conclusion.
I’ve seen the girls Marty flirts with, the ones who work in the surf shops on the Corso. They sneak sly glances at him while they’re waiting in line to order their coffees. They are tall and slim with long blond hair and faces that are bored and knowing. I’m not like them. But even so, when Marty first looked at me, way back before the serious flirting started, there was a spark in his eyes. I’ve got something that has his interest, even if I don’t know what it is.
On Kangaroo Lane the traffic noises die away and our footsteps sound loud on the bitumen. Marty takes a hand out of his pocket and gently massages the back of my neck. It feels like a cliché and it makes me want to giggle and duck away, but I don’t. I’m trying to breathe quietly.
I’ve parked under one of the few streetlights. I can see my yellow Laser in the distance, the deadline for a decision.
‘Hey, where are you parked?’ I ask, suddenly realising I can’t see Marty’s Kingswood.
‘Nah, I didn’t drive today. My brother dropped me off. I’m staying at his place.’
‘Oh.’
I start biting my cuticles.
‘You nervous?’
I glance sideways, bumping against him, and find him watching me. I drop my hand. ‘No.’
‘How about a lift to Harbord? To my brother’s?’
‘Okay.’
We get to Harbord and he directs me through the flat streets down near the beach. He’s slouched down in his seat and looks like a stranger. Are his pupils dilated more than they should be?
‘Are you on something, Marty?’
He enunciates his words carefully. ‘No more than usual. Here, it’s just here.’
I pull over and leave the engine running. That way if he just gets out and slams the door closed behind him it’s no big deal. But he doesn’t. He runs his teeth over his bottom lip, studying me.
‘You know I like you, eh?’ he says.
I take a breath, can’t speak.
‘Come in with me, Carly.’
‘What about your brother?’
‘What about him?’
‘I’d feel a bit funny.’
He flicks his head, suddenly insistent. ‘What about the beach then? We don’t have to do anything, just talk.’
‘Yeah right.’ But I’m flattered. I’m so flattered. I like his persistence because I need to be pushed. I want it, but I don’t, and I’m sick of that.
He puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes it. ‘Please?’
I hesitate, then turn the car around and drive down to the parking lot at the beach. There are quite a few cars there but they probably belong to the customers and staff at Pilu restaurant, which overlooks the beach. While I’m locking the car I hear the crash of the surf, smell the salt tang, and I suddenly feel sure. The beach is good, the beach is my place. When I catch up to Marty he smiles at me, and I push my way under one of his arms so that he squeezes my shoulders and we jostle together as we walk. We hit the soft sand and he waits, swaying, while I pull my boots and socks off.
He’s wrecked on something and I need to be. Arms around each other, we help one another down to the beach.
Down near the water, out of the lights, the sand still feels warm. All the longing in me is arcing out to him, but I’m afraid to stop walking because I’m not sure what comes next.
In the end he stops. And then he pulls me around to face him and starts kissing me. Really hard. His tongue rams into my mouth and he tastes like a cigarette. And I’m just relieved that the waiting is over. My body goes weak like it’s been punctured.
His hands move all over me in a physical onslaught, squeezing my bum, rubbing my back, pushing my breasts upwards. Our teeth clack together. Then he’s down on his knees in front of me, pulling me down and pushing me back on the sand. With one movement he’s on top of me, grinding into me even though we’re still fully clothed, and I arch up, even though there’s something mechanical about it all.
Breathing heavily, he reaches for the waistband of my black pants. I catch his hand and pull it up. Not yet, not yet.
He slumps forward, pinning me with his weight, tugging roughly at my pants with both hands. And that’s when I start to panic, feeling claustrophobic. I try to push him off me and I can’t. I push against his chest, raising him up slightly. His face is in shadow and for a second I wonder who he is. He tries to kiss me again and when I shove him he grunts.
I struggle with him silently until he gradually winds down, like a clockwork toy. He stops doing anything, just lies still, a dead weight slumped on me. I squirm out from under him and I sit up, pulling my knees up to my chest.
He pushes himself up on one elbow and looks around. ‘Not gonna happen, eh?’ His voice is flat.
‘Marty.’ I want him to look at me. If he would just look at me and really see me, that would be a kindness. Things in me are still arcing out, wanting to connect. But right now I don’t know who he is, or what he’s thinking, or if he’s thinking anything at all.
He’s blank.
After a while he gets to his feet and trudges off, mumbling, ‘I’ll see you later, eh?’
I don’t say anything. I don’t make a sound.
I take the long route home, following the curving coast road around the point to Curl Curl then over the hill to Dee Why, past the parade of restaurants and cafés. I want to drive all the way up to Palm Beach, stopping only when I run out of road at Barrenjoey Headland, the end of the peninsula. But Hannah’s waiting for me.
I should have let him do it. When he finished he would have left me on the sand like a piece of litter, the slime from him running down my legs. And that must have been what I wanted or else why was I there? I relive it all, whipping myself with it. What’s wrong with you?
I turn off Pittwater Road into Rickard Road where the houses are small and made of fibro. There’s a slight hill and a curve then a long straight stretch with cars parked bumper to bumper either side. The remaining bitumen is so narrow you breathe in to pass anything coming the other way. I floor it. Three cars pass me and I don’t slow down, blinded by the glare of their headlights, feeling my way through rather than seeing anything. It’s like something’s pulling the car, making it go faster and faster.
At the end there’s a sharp turn where the road climbs steeply and I lose it on the corner. The Laser swings wide into a glare of headlights. I brake with my eyes closed, hearing a horn blast. When I open my eyes again, I’m alone on the road, red brake lights in my rear-view mirror. By some miracle they swerved in time.
15
Salsa
‘I’m sorry I’m late but work was really busy.’ My voice is terse.
Hannah doesn’t seem bothered. There’s Latin American music blaring out on her stereo and she stands in her doorway doing some sort of dance step. Salsa, I guess.
‘Don’t worry about it, Cookie, mate! We are gonna party tonight. Have a shower, get changed.’
She’s wearing her black dress, the one that buttons up the front and only barely covers her backside. No glasses. Her hair looks good, feathery.
I go down the side steps, carrying my bag. I put my black shirt back on in the car, otherwise Hannah would have asked me why I got changed. She notices everything except the big things.
I shower quickly and get dressed: jeans, a black top and gold
hoop earrings. It’s the standard uniform I have for going out. I leave my hair to drip dry and put on some mascara and lip gloss. Nothing else. My skin’s too brown for my old foundation now and I’ve never been big on make-up. I tuck money, ID, a lighter and some cigarettes into the pocket of the white denim jacket I use instead of a handbag, then I head up to Hannah.
Marty seems like a long time ago. I don’t feel anything.
The salsa club is hell, but with cold beer. The beer is unbelievably cold as a matter of fact, kept in tubs full of ice and water. I buy two San Miguels and sit on a stool at a bar-table watching Victor and Hannah and the other dancers. Guys keep trying to cut in on Victor. It’s incredible really, how many guys want to dance with Hannah. I don’t know if it’s the dress or because she looks excited and sparkly. She really gets into the dancing, even if she’s a little bit stiff. Victor doesn’t let anybody near her. He just wraps her up in his arms whenever someone taps him on the shoulder. He looks really seventies, reminds me of the lead singer from Hot Chocolate. Although maybe he doesn’t look anything like him and it’s just that he’s black and shaves his head.
Hannah saw him as soon as we arrived and dragged me over to meet him. She was so excited, and I was afraid for her. There was something at the back of his eyes that I didn’t like. I’m Hannah’s neighbour, her only decent friend in this country; he should have looked carefully blank when he asked me: So are we going to see you back here then, Carly? Going to get you out dancing a little bit more? But he wasn’t blank. The question was loaded with an offer if I was interested.
The song, some frenetic Latin American mix, ends. Victor nibbles on Hannah’s neck and she laughs. She glances over at me and pulls away from him. He drops his arms, doing the big dejected act. But as she’s walking my way he’s watching me not her. It’s predatory and I hate it. I focus on Hannah.
‘Hey, Cookie, mate!’
I smile at her, handing her the other beer.
‘No, no, I’m driving. Oh to hell with it, just a little bit then.’ She takes a sip of beer, holding the bottle neck between her thumb and forefinger. ‘But you’re not dancing?’
‘No, I’m on the bench tonight.’
‘But you have to dance!’
She pulls me off the stool and onto the floor. The song playing is some sort of favourite because everybody’s up for this one: Yeah, baby! I like it like that.
Jesus Christ. Hannah’s holding my hands and doesn’t stop clucking at me until I follow her lead and do a salsa three-step. She turns me under her arm then turns me back the other way.
‘Yes, Cookie. Go vaginas!’
And it’s all surreal to me. I’m in a bubble. Inside my bubble the music’s too soft, the beer tastes stale and my thoughts are too loud. Hannah’s movements seem pixilated. She doesn’t realise I’m cut off from the night. All I have to do is smile and nod.
Victor moves in behind Hannah and wraps his arms around her waist, tucking his face in against hers. She leans her head back against his shoulder, watching me with happy eyes. Oh Hannah.
She straightens up and grabs at both of our hands, trying to pull us in towards each other. ‘Victor, you dance with Carly. Go on, Carly, Victor will show you the steps.’
Well, I would rather drink bleach. But I don’t say this to her, I shake my head and point vigorously in the direction of the toilets. Then I push my way back to our table, pick up my jacket and escape outside.
The noise of the club is muted out there, replaced by the roar of city traffic. There’s a small crowd of people hanging around the bouncer, talking. They’re moving all the time, doing their steps, and I think that’s cool. Salsa is to them what surfing is to me, I guess. I feel like I’m a long way from the northern beaches. I feel like I’m out of my place.
I lean back against the side of the building and wonder how long we’re going to have to stay. I take out a cigarette and think about lighting it, but it feels weird smoking in public.
‘Here you go.’
I blink and focus on the guy holding a lighter out to me. He’s in his mid-thirties, wearing a black leather jacket.
‘Thanks.’ I take the lighter and look at it.
‘Yeah, watch out. They’re a bit tricky.’
‘No, I just don’t know if I feel like a cigarette or not.’
‘It’ll kill you. And if you’re pregnant it can harm your baby. Or it might even give you a disgusting gangrene mouth. I read my packets. Great reads, can’t put ’em down.’
He’s got slicked-back hair, dark eyes and heavy brows, and a bit of a paunch. Dark chest hair curls up out of the round neck of his white T-shirt.
‘I’m Jacob,’ he says. ‘How about I smoke one with you?’
Seeing as he’s only interested in bumming a cigarette, not in me, I relax.
‘Sure.’ I give my unlit cigarette to him and fish another out of my pocket, light up and hand him the lighter.
‘Have you been in?’ He flicks his head in the direction of the club.
‘Yeah.’
‘Haven’t seen you here before. Gettin’ into it?’
It reminds me of the break. Gettin’ a few?
‘Not really. I’m here with a friend. She comes all the time.’
‘I probably know her then. I’m here every week.’
‘How come?’
‘I like to dance.’
‘Oh. What do you do? In the real world, I mean.’
‘I’m a builder.’
‘Really?’ A salsa-loving builder?
He shows me his hands. His palms are calloused and cracked.
‘What do you do?’ he asks.
Instead of answering, I show him my hands. They are covered in burn marks and the scars of old cuts.
‘You’re a builder too?’
I smile. ‘No, I’m a chef. Sort of.’
‘All right then, Chef-Sort-Of – you still haven’t told me your name, but it don’t matter to me – let’s finish these and go have a dance.’
I look down at the ground.
‘Now, don’t be like that. It’s hard enough for men these days without all that. Sometimes – and I mean no offence by this because I’m sure you’re a nice girl, and you’re not bad-looking – sometimes, we really do just want to talk to you, not jump your bones. And me? Hey, I don’t even want to talk. I just want to dance.’
He leans against the wall, drags back on his cigarette and blows a plume of smoke up at the stars. My face is flaming.
‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve had a crap night. I’m a bit uptight.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Chef-Sort-Of. That’s a good thing, that’s what the world needs, uh-huh, more uptight people. Come on, come and dance.’
He chucks his cigarette down onto the pavement, leaving it to burn, and waits until I stub mine out. We head back inside, him walking in front of me. He nods at the bouncer.
Jacob dances with me like a male relative would: close, but not too close. His whole posture’s changed, making a frame for me with his body. He’s a good dancer. He uses his hands to steer me. When I baulk at a move he tightens his grip until I’m faced with the choice between completing a turn or a broken wrist. It’s very effective.
While he dances, he stares over my head, singing to himself, completely wrapped up in the music.
A slow song comes on and people pair up to move in a gentle shuffle. I don’t feel comfortable pressed up against Jacob’s paunch, but I’m not exactly panicked either.
‘So this is your thing?’ I shout near his ear.
I pull back to look at him and he raises his eyebrows to show he didn’t catch what I said.
‘This is your thing? Like you work all week and then you dance?’
‘Yeah. This is my thing. Get up at five, work ’til three, have a few beers. Watch the telly, scratch my balls, go to bed. Friday, Saturday, go dancing. Salsa, merengue, cha cha cha.’
‘How long do you think you can keep it up for?’
He regards me, frowning. My
neck’s cricked back to look at him and I keep stepping on his toes.
‘What do you mean, how long?’ he asks.
‘Like, how long will you keep doing it?’
‘As long as I want.’
‘But how long do you think that will be?’
‘Hey, Chef-Sort-Of, if you sit around waiting to get older, it’ll happen. If you’ve got a thing, do your thing.’
My gaze drops to his salt-and-pepper chest hairs.
Hannah and Victor dance up beside us. Hannah’s gleaming at me. Victor’s watching her. Jacob steers me away from them, over to a less crowded part of the floor where I won’t stand on his feet so much. I think his continued patience in the face of my dancing ineptitude is admirable. He’s still singing to himself, eyes closed, pretending, I think, that I’m someone else.
I shout in his ear again. ‘So you can’t just lay down and die?’
He doesn’t open his eyes, but he nods. ‘You can’t just lay down and die.’
Four-thirty in the morning. Hannah and Victor are going at it upstairs. I’m down on my deck with the lights out, smoking. The sounds they’re making are muted and I don’t feel bad for being out here while they’re doing it. I’m not interested in them; I’m listening to the surf. It’s thundering, which means the swell’s picked up.
My mobile is on the deck beside me and I pick it up and dial the message-bank service again – the third time in ten minutes. I’d left it in the bag I take to work and it was only after we got home from the salsa club that I saw I had a message.
He rang at 9.27 p.m.
Hey, uh, Carly … I wanted to let you know I’ve got a spare board for you if you need it. Mark gave me a couple of demos to use while he’s fixing our boards. I don’t know if you want it, you might already have a spare, but if you do, give me a call.
He recites his mobile number even though he should know it’ll be on my call bank. It’s Ryan, by the way – the guy you ran into today. He pauses. But yeah, you’ve probably figured that out.
Another pause. Unless, I dunno, maybe you’ve run into a few people lately. Anyway … See ya, mate.