by Bree Darcy
“It’s not something I’ve ever thought about.” Oh so not true. Andy’s face flashed into my head. As if Curtis would ever give me a free pass for him, he thought he was a moron.
“Come on, everyone’s got one. Who’s the one celebrity that if given the chance, you’d sleep with?”
Every office had a Lenny, that person who acted overly familiar with everyone but never quite fitted in.
No one knew how he ended up working at Capital Media or how he scored his unusual role of company floater, working in several different departments throughout the week, including every Monday with us at Starfix. He spent a good part of his day flitting around the building, chatting to anyone who as much as glanced in his direction. It meant he knew everything about everyone. But for all his gossiping, Lenny kept very tight-lipped about his own background.
One popular theory was that Lenny must be related to Capital’s chief executive, Dudley Fenney. Another was that Lenny had incriminating photos of old Duds and had blackmailed him into giving him a job. He was the bane of Zara’s existence but she’d had no luck getting him reassigned off her staff. Mostly she ignored him and allocated him a desk next to the toilets.
Lenny certainly went out of his way to add some sparkle to our beige office. When Christmas loomed, he’d stay late, wrapping tinsel over the computers and hanging ornaments from the roof to ensure everyone got into the festive spirit. At least the mistletoe above his desk meant we worked off those Christmas calories diverting to the facilities downstairs in order to avoid having him demand a kiss.
Lenny really did love his traditions. Every February he’d personally deliver Valentine’s Day cards to all his female co-workers – this year Zara had ripped hers up and stomped on it in front of him. In her defence, it had only been a few weeks since Patrick had dumped her.
At Easter a trail of mini chocolate eggs would magically appear while on Bastille Day we’d get croissants and the joy of seeing Lenny in a beret and fake pencil-thin moustache, speaking in an appalling French accent.
Two years ago for Halloween, he tried to get hip with his vampires and came as Edward from Twilight. But a stringy-haired middle-aged man was not going to cut it as a Robert Pattinson double, no matter how much sparkly glitter he glued to his chest.
I pondered Lenny’s free pass question for a moment before shrugging my shoulders. “Neil Lucas maybe,” I suggested, naming the actor with the amazing abs who played war hero Gunner Grey in last year’s blockbuster.
“So the Gunner is who you gonna call, hey? I must tell Zara never to send you to interview him then.” Lenny threw back his head and cackled, giving off a generous whiff of pickle breath.
I indicated to him that he had some multigrains stuck between his teeth.
“My celebrity free pass – not that I need a free pass because I’m still footloose and fancy-free, ha ha ha – would be either Cameron Diaz or Remy Fields.”
When Lenny started working for us, he didn’t even know who Brangelina was. Now he was so au fait with celebrity gossip he could outscore Perez Hilton in a trivia quiz.
* * *
The next day, I was grabbing a few essentials at the supermarket when I received a text message asking me to see the Holyoakes principal at my earliest convenience. I would have to be firm if they were looking to recruit more parent helpers. I’d already been roped into joining the women’s auxiliary at Ciara’s school. The painstaking groundwork underway for their fete extravaganza would put royal wedding planners to shame.
I certainly hoped it wasn’t about getting some private tutoring for Ryan. His last exam results had been dismal. I ducked into the soft drink aisle to ring the school. Matilda Grinsted had been hovering in the gourmet salad section and I didn’t want anyone listening in to my conversation. No self-respecting Holyoakes or Chesterfield mother would be seen dead in an aisle like this full of preservatives and artificial colourings.
The secretary wouldn’t reveal why I had been summonsed but efficiently booked me in for a one o’clock with Mr Beamish. I’d need to get my skates on to make it on time. I tossed a few more items into my shopping basket and headed for the express checkout. There was an old dear ahead of me, taking her time paying for her groceries.
“I need another three dollars and twenty-five cents,” the young cashier said after counting all the woman’s small change.
“Oh dear.” The customer rummaged in her floral carpet bag before triumphantly pulling out a fifty-cent coin.
“Two dollars and seventy-five cents now,” the sales girl said, snapping her chewing gum.
With the impatient mutterings escalating behind me, the woman peered at her purchases, musing over whether she should return the can of corned beef or bag of mushrooms.
I slipped a five-dollar note to the cashier. “It’s okay,” I said, patting the old lady’s hand. “You have more than enough money. That note must have fallen out of your bag.”
The woman held out her hand for the change with a big grin on her face then left, pulling her stripy shopping cart behind her.
Let’s hope my good deed for the day provided good karma for my meeting.
* * *
Holyoakes was an imposing institution, with eight hundred boys housed in a cluster of limestone-clad buildings set around leafy courtyards. Manicured sporting fields stretched as far as the eye could see.
It was a world away from the high school I attended with its mission-brown brick buildings behind mesh fencing to keep the vandals out – or the inmates in, as us students joked. The only bit of greenery we had was a bumpy oval littered with cigarette butts.
Despite its salubrious environment and exemplary curriculum, this was not where I’d choose to send Ryan. The faculty was all a bit snooty for my liking. But Curtis, with his boarding school upbringing in England, insisted on his children getting a solid private education. And Holyoakes had the best league table results in the district.
Ryan’s year leader Mr Dale – a lanky guy in a navy blazer and skinny tie last in fashion when Rick Springfield was crooning about Jessie’s Girl – accompanied me into the principal’s office. Ryan was still in class.
“It’s come to our attention that your son has become the target of bullying,” Mr Beamish boomed, his elbows resting on the solid timber desk, his hands locked together. “Nothing overtly physical, more verbal altercations. We have a zero tolerance policy at Holyoakes, so we wanted to address this issue forthwith and see how we can help him nip it in the bud.”
How about smacking the bullies’ heads together, for starters?
“Have you noticed a change in Ryan at home?” Mr Dale asked.
“Not especially,” I said. “Perhaps a bit quieter and withdrawn but I thought that was him being a typical teenage boy. He has been complaining of headaches though, making excuses not to come to school. What exactly has been happening?”
According to Mr Dale, a group of boys had singled out Ryan, making fun of his comments when he spoke up in class, calling him names and excluding him from activities. Ryan had not made any complaints about the bullying but some incidents had been noted by staff.
A lump rose in my throat as I pictured my darling son surrounded by a pack of boys, their faces twisted into cruel smirks as they poked and prodded him.
“I’m told Ryan is a sensitive boy,” Mr Beamish continued as I tried not to stare at his bulbous red nose. “And obviously he’s a lot smaller than most of his peers. He doesn’t appear to have a strong network of acquaintances …”
“His two best mates went to a different high school,” I pointed out.
“Perhaps you might consider a team sport or self-defence lessons. A bit of physical mastery always gives a young lad some confidence.” Mr Beamish handed over a leaflet on dealing with bullying.
“And what leaflet are the bullies and their parents getting?” I bristled.
“We find building resilience is the best primary approach,” Mr Beamish said. And with that the principal ushered me and th
e head teacher out the door.
* * *
You would think I’d be used to it by now. Any time a domestic drama cropped up, it was guaranteed to coincide with Curtis being away on a work trip.
I was still traumatised from the time next door’s cat left a dead Willie Wagtail on the doorstep and I couldn’t venture into the backyard for days.
I tried dropping hints to Ryan to see if he’d confide in me about the bullying. But have you ever tried talking to a boy about things they don’t want to talk about? They could chew your ears for hours about the latest computer game or which superpower they wished that had (for the record, Ryan’s was invisibility) but when it came to important discussions, they’d mumble about having something urgent to do and disappear.
After spending late nights online, researching anti-bullying tactics and viewing some heart-wrenching videos from victims, I decided to wait until Curtis came home to see how he thought we should handle it. Maybe a man-to-man talk would be better than a hysterical mother plotting revenge on the mean boys. As it was I couldn’t decide between spiking their sports drink with laxatives or ordering some embarrassing products to arrive at their home.
At least Ryan didn’t try it on again, pretending to be sick to get out of school. Each night I would slyly check if he had any telltale bruising on his arms and legs. And following the advice of an expert on a bullying forum, I tried to boost his confidence, by constantly telling him what a special person he was. How big and strong he was carrying in the groceries. How financially savvy he was when he bought all the railway stations and utilities while playing Monopoly with his sister. How impressive his health project looked – even though that’s not how you spell ‘hygiene’. I thought I was doing a swell job until Ryan told me my perkiness was freaking him out.
When Curtis finally arrived home, I gave him a good ten minutes to unwind – actually it was seven minutes but could you blame me, I’d been waiting to vent about this for four days – before I launched into our son’s woes.
But Curtis didn’t seem perturbed, he simply sighed, said something about Ryan needing to stand up for himself and that he was tired and heading to bed.
Later when I went up to the bedroom, Curtis seemed somewhat less tired. His hand slid down the strap of my nightie but I batted him away. Didn’t he understand I was far too worried about Ryan right now to be in the mood? My nerves were in shreds. I could definitely feel one of Ryan’s headaches coming on.
Curtis sighed and rolled back over to his side of the bed.
CHAPTER SIX
I didn’t end up playing much tennis that season. I quit the pennants team and Guy had to find himself a new doubles partner. Andy and I spent our weekends driving around in his pride and joy, an old red Sandman panel van nicknamed the Devil that he’d bought from his uncle’s friend, with the music cranked up and the windows cranked down.
Today we were headed towards the port of Fremantle, inhaling the salty sea air as we sped along the coast road.
“You are licensed to drive in Australia, aren’t you?” I asked Andy as he overtook a cautious L-plate driver.
“I don’t know, I guess so. I got my licence when I was sixteen – pops taught me to drive. And let me tell you driving stick in San Fran is no easy feat, there’s steep hills and stop signs everywhere. It’s nice and flat here but I don’t know why you people insist on driving on the wrong side.”
Andy fiddled with the tape deck, fast-forwarding to Nirvana’s Come as You Are. He thought Kurt Cobain walked on water.
“And what about work? Do you have a work visa?”
“Not technically. Let’s just say I’m working on getting one. Until then my boss is cool to pay cash-in-hand.”
“So if we get pulled over by the cops, we could be in trouble.”
“Nah, we’ll be okay – as long as they don’t find my stash in the glovebox.”
“You gotta be kidding me!” I yanked open the compartment. It was empty apart from a box of condoms.
“Never can be too prepared.” Andy smiled sheepishly.
“You obviously didn’t pay attention in sex ed classes though,” I exclaimed. “You can’t leave these in a hot car. They’ll perish and be no good.”
“Soooo, you don’t mind I’ve got them?”
I shook my head.
Andy turned his focus back to the road. At the next set of traffic lights he glanced over at me again. “Soooo, do you think we might, um, be needing them soon?”
“Maybe.”
Andy’s grin nearly split his face.
“But not these ones – you’ll have to chuck them out unless you’re dead-keen on becoming a father right away.”
I winced as soon as the words left my mouth. Last week had been the anniversary of his father Tony’s death and Andy’s emotions were still raw. His mother had been inconsolable – all day she sat, weeping and praying, by the shrine in their lounge. This time last year she had been seeing her husband off to work, and the next minute she had been identifying him in the morgue.
Andy’s dad had been working back late and was alone in the workshop cutting sheet metal when a piece slipped and sliced his arm, severing an artery. The blood trail showed he tried to crawl to the office to phone for help.
A compensation case was still underway but there wasn’t enough money in the world to make up for their loss. I couldn’t bear thinking about anything bad happening to Andy like that.
“So the drugs thing.” I returned to the previous topic, the wind whipping my hair into my face as we drove over a railway bridge. “If your stash isn’t in your glovebox, where is it?”
“And why would a nice girl like you want to know?”
“Just interested. I want to know everything about you. Like what drugs you’ve done.”
“I don’t want to talk about it with you. It feels like I’m corrupting you or something.”
“Spill.” I squeezed his thigh hard.
“Man, you don’t give up. Pot mainly – but you know that. Sometimes Gerry and I drop acid, it helps the creative juices when we’re composing riffs. And I might have done a bit of meth. You know, normal stuff.”
“Normal to you maybe – I don’t see the point.”
“It’s just another experience. Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.”
Brooding, I stared out the window counting container ships until Andy broke the silence. “So tell me about these friends of yours again?”
Nikki he knew well but this was the first time he was meeting my other best friend, Dawn, and her boyfriend, Corey. Dawn had been harping on that she never got to see me anymore, now that Andy was on the scene. “And why haven’t I met him? What’s wrong with him? Why are you hiding him from us?” Dawn liked to stick her freckly, snubby nose right into everyone’s business.
So far two of the most important people in my life – my mum and Nikki – had given Andy their tick of approval. Was Dawn going to make it a hat-trick?
I seriously doubted it.
I loved Dawn to bits but she was very outspoken and obstinate. Only five foot one, she went out of her way to make her presence felt. With six other siblings, Dawn had learnt early that if she wanted to be heard, she had to speak up. If she disagreed with you, she’d tell you. LOUDLY. If she had a problem with you, she’d tell you. REPEATEDLY. She totally believed that everyone was entitled to their opinion, as long as it was the same as hers.
Somehow I didn’t think she and Andy would share too many opinions.
Corey, on the other hand, was as easy-going as you could get. The only time I’d ever seen him fired up was on the football field. When he played his one hundred and fiftieth game recently, Dawn spent three days making a huge blue and white striped congratulations banner out of crepe paper. It even had a picture of his No. 5 jersey and the club’s lion emblem. The banner was on display for about a minute before he ran through it. All that work for a moment of glory. But Dawn didn’t care – she’d do anything for her beloved boyfriend … Well, a
lmost anything.
Dawn, you see, was saving herself for marriage. Her own mother, like mine, had been a teen mum and Dawn was adamant the same thing wouldn’t happen to her. No way! And the best contraception method as far as she was concerned was keeping her legs firmly together.
The pill was only ninety-nine per cent safe, she’d drill into me and Nikki. Would you put a loaded gun to your head if there was a one per cent chance of it going off?
“I’d be tempted, if it meant I didn’t have to listen to you harp on about this any more,” Nikki retorted.
* * *
“You’re doing it wrong.”
The three of us girls looked at each other and laughed. We’d all rebuked Andy at exactly the same time.
“You don’t just pop it in your mouth, you have to eat it like this.” Dawn splayed the fingers on her left hand, before sliding a Cheezel on to each one. “Then you eat them. Now you try.”
Andy pushed a savoury orange circle on to his pointer finger and chomped into it. We waited for his reaction. He didn’t look that impressed. “Sort of tastes like a Cheeto.”
“Okay, how about this?” Dawn pulled a packet of Tim Tams, a two-layered chocolate biscuit, and a flask of Milo from her picnic hamper. She poured two mugs of hot chocolate then nibbled a corner off each end of the biscuit and stuck it in her drink, using it like a straw. Once the biscuit had nearly melted, she stuffed it into her mouth and chewed, an expression of pure bliss all over her face. Andy followed suit, but left the Tim Tam slam too late and was left with a gooey mess on his hand which he wiped down my leg. “It’s good but I’m more an Oreos man,” he said.
Dawn looked stunned that someone didn’t find her Tim Tam trick the ultimate taste sensation.
“Stop force-feeding the poor guy,” Corey said. “Here, have something to wash it down with.” Corey threw Andy a can of beer and the two boys took a slug before leaning back, resting on their elbows.