Help. I don’t think I want to be here anymore. ‘Nothing.’ She looks away. ‘Just miss you.’
‘You’re not still dancing at that stupid club?’
She shrugs.
Sean comes back with the empty boxes. She introduces him to Ryan, and the three of them go out to smoke a joint down the back of the carpark, the exotic food forgotten on the bench top.
Ryan takes a long drag, and passes the joint to Sean. ‘So how long have you and Brigi been going out?’ He exhales smoke. Sean turns red.
‘Ryan!’ Brigitte frowns at him.
‘What?’
‘Eric,’ she says through gritted teeth.
‘Oh yeah. Where is the big man anyway?’
‘Sydney. I think.’
‘With his first family, or his second?’
Sean looks at his shoes, and then excuses himself to check on the food.
‘He likes you,’ Ryan says.
‘Just a friend.’
They pass the joint between them in silence for a few minutes. Ryan looks around at the luxury parked cars, up at the top-floor apartments, and then down into Brigitte’s eyes. ‘What the fuck are you doing with Eric, Brigi?’
She shrugs.
‘He’s older than Mum.’
She tries a cute giggle, a blink, but can’t pull it off. Ryan shakes his head and crushes out the joint on the concrete with a twist of his sneaker.
She feels so glamorous, swanning around the club lounge in her new, white Chanel sheath dress, pretending she’s somebody famous, somebody important. The guests — a group of her neighbours — are mingling. Ryan and Sean are getting along well. It’s the perfect party — except for the food. What was she thinking? Vogue Entertaining! She can barely make toast. But it doesn’t matter, because everybody’s too busy drinking to notice. The only things that worked were the rosemary lamb skewers (shame about the onion marmalade that was meant to accompany them) — which she’s left in the oven. She runs from the club lounge to the apartment, spilling a trail of champagne and raspberry on the way.
‘Can I help with anything, Brigitte?’ Sean staggers after her.
She burns her hand on the oven. ‘Fuck!’ She drops the tray of burnt lamb skewers on the floor. They laugh so hard they don’t notice the squeak of the little wheels on Eric’s suitcase. Brigitte smells his Juicy Fruit chewing gum, and freezes. She wasn’t expecting him home for a couple of days.
‘I don’t remember agreeing to a party,’ he says in his gravelly Benson and Hedges voice. He parks his suitcase against the wall and retracts the handle with a snap. ‘You’re a fucken mess, Brigitte — you need to go to bed.’ His hazel eyes water when he’s angry. She hugs her upper arms against her chest.
‘And you need to go home.’ Eric points a finger at Sean.
‘It’s OK, mate. Everything’s cool.’
‘I said go home. And you,’ he turns to Brigitte, ‘go to bed.’ He pushes her in the direction of the bedroom. She loses her balance, falls against the breakfast bar, and knocks a bowl of pistachio nuts onto the floor.
‘Hey! Get your fucking hands off her.’ Ryan strides through the door.
‘Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t do with her.’
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard.’ Eric juts out his chin, and Ryan uses it as a target for his fist. Ryan’s not as tall or fat as Eric, but stronger. And less than half his age. Eric wobbles and crashes against the wall, holding his jaw. Brigitte covers her mouth with her hands, and Sean takes a step back.
‘You dunno who you’re fucking with.’ Eric heaves himself off the wall. The bottom button pops off his shirt as it strains against his gut.
‘Come on then, old man. Or do you only know how to push young girls around?’
Eric swings a fist at Ryan, but he’s too slow. Ryan grabs Eric’s arm, twists it, and pushes him down.
‘Stop it!’ Brigitte screams.
Eric sits on the floor, coughing for a while before hoisting himself up. He points a finger and spits his gum at Ryan, then stumbles towards the bedroom, rubbing his arm. Ryan ignores it, pushes down his anger, and turns to Brigitte. She’s still hugging herself, shaking.
‘It’s OK, Brigi. Let’s get out of here.’ He holds out his hand. ‘We can go to Nana and Papa’s. Or a hotel.’
She doesn’t take his hand.
‘Come on. You don’t want to stay with that dickhead.’
She bites her bottom lip.
‘Whatever he’s got over you, Brigi, doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving you here.’
She makes her eyes as hard as she can, and doesn’t let her voice falter. ‘I think you better go, Ryan.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
She takes a couple of steps backwards.
‘Please.’
She shakes her head. ‘Go.’
He holds up his hands, exasperated, then picks up his bag and leaves. Sean follows him, but looks back over his shoulder mouthing OK?’
She nods.
When they’ve gone, she wipes pointless mascara-black tears from her cheeks as she cleans up the lamb skewers and pistachio nuts.
‘Your brother doesn’t care about you, Pet.’ Eric’s behind her, and she stiffens, cold and sober now. ‘I’m the only one who does.’ He walks over, shoves the iron doorstop out of the way with his foot, and locks the door.
26
The gathering at the chapel for Uncle Joe’s funeral is sparse and sad — just a handful of blokes from the pub, and Brigitte and Nana and Papa. Most of the people he knew are now dead. The Australian flag, a few service medals, a faded army photograph in a cheap frame, and budget flowers adorn the budget coffin.
‘Stupid old bugger,’ Papa says under his breath as the celebrant reads from the standard service, to which few personal touches have been added to reflect the ‘loved one’s’ life. Nana elbows Papa. Brigitte yawns. Stefan from the pub winks at her from a pew on the other side of the down-lit, golden-hued room. Brigitte frowns. Her new ‘funeral shoes’ are hurting her feet.
She stares at Uncle Joe’s coffin, listens to the service, the standard hymns, and remembers Dad’s funeral. It was in this same chapel. Or one exactly like it. The smells of diesel and Old Spice emanated from the truckies in bottle-green and indigo shirts with transport logos on the pockets. After they paid their respects, strong shoulders and big calloused hands ingrained with grease carried out the coffin to ‘Lights on the Hill’.
Four mourners come back to Nana and Papa’s house for sandwiches, and tea or coffee. Brigitte leaves the wake when she gets tired of Stefan panting after her, but not before drinking too much sherry with Papa. It’s drizzling, the path is slippery, and she falls on the way out down the sideway, tearing a hole in her stocking. Papa is watching from the kitchen. The window rattles as he jimmies it up; paint chips flake away. He sticks his head out. ‘You all right, Brigi?’
She gives him a thumbs-up and stands quickly. Lucky Nana didn’t see.
‘… No. This is police harassment.’ Eric hangs up his mobile phone as she walks into the apartment. He’s sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette while a plate of sushi and tempura vegetables, and a Nintendo controller, are balanced on his knees. Multi-tasking.
‘Who was that?’ she asks.
‘Nobody, Pet. Why are you all dressed up?’
‘Uncle Joe’s funeral.’ She puts her bag on the breakfast bar, and slips off her shoes; they’ve given her blisters.
‘How was it?’
‘Bleak.’
‘Good wake?’
She shrugs.
He pauses the game, extinguishes his cigarette, and looks at her. ‘What happened to your knee?’
She has a school kid’s graze; the edges of her torn stocking are stuck to the dried blood.<
br />
‘Tripped over.’
He laughs and shakes his head. ‘You’re a mess. But, God, you look good. A kiss, please.’ He puts aside his plate and chopsticks, and waits for her to come over. She bends down and closes her eyes. His tongues worms in her mouth; he tastes of cigarettes and raw fish.
‘We’re bringing out Death Rowe in December. Would you like to come on the tour?’ He holds her hands in his. They’re spongy and moist.
Calvin Rowe is pretty cute. But, no, she’s over vacuous pretty boys. ‘That’s a busy time at work. Don’t think I could take time off.’
‘You rostered on tonight?’
She nods.
‘Good. I’ve got a package for Al.’
She pulls her hands away. ‘I have to get ready.’
‘So early?’
‘We’re rehearsing for the jelly wrestling.’
‘Jelly wrestling!’ He laughs and coughs, and lights another cigarette. ‘I’ll have to come in to see that.’
She goes to the bathroom, locks the door behind her, cleans up her knee, showers, and gets ready for work.
The Gold Bar has been a bit quiet since the new clubs started opening along King Street, so Al has decided to introduce something different to lure back the punters. The posters are up, and the ads are in the girlie mags, but the bulk order of jelly crystals from the wholesaler hasn’t arrived. Al and Big Johnny, the bouncer, have had to drive to Safeway and buy all the packets of jelly off the supermarket shelf.
The dancers look young and tired without the help of make-up and stage lighting. Paris has fallen asleep in a chair, her head lolling to one side, a gob of dribble at the corner of her mouth. Her thin arms — with their track marks on display — rest limply on her thighs. The dancers yawn, and pour jelly crystals and water into a children’s inflatable pool on the main stage. This much jelly is going to take a long time to set. Al throws in bags of ice.
There’s no time to rehearse, and the jelly doesn’t set by opening time, but they have to use it anyway. The dancers complain that it’s so cold and sticky they need to shower in between rounds. There are only two shower cubicles in the dressing room; so, while they’re queuing for showers, the podiums are empty, and the punters complain as well.
Brigitte watches a few of the other dancers’ rounds, and it looks easy. The DJ plays Prince when it’s her turn, and she flashes a smile at the crowd as she steps into the pool of runny jelly. She sucks in her breath, shocked by how cold it is.
Al emcees: ‘Perfect Pagan versus Tempting Taylor.’
It’s ridiculously slippery, her feet slide, and she falls hard. Crunch. Something pops and rips in her left knee as her leg bends sideways beneath her. The pain feels like fire. Taylor doesn’t realise Brigitte’s hurt, climbs on top, and pins her down in the jelly. Taylor holds up her arms in victory. Her reward: to remove the loser’s bikini top. The crowd cheers.
It takes Brigitte a lot of champagne and raspberry to make it through the rest of the night.
Through pain, bleary eyes, and a taxi window, she watches the grey 4.00am city smudge by. One last pack of young men is still out prowling, wearing shirts tucked into jeans, and Blundstones. They’re country boys — the worst tippers — let off the farm for a big weekend in the city. A drunk sways, and holds up the corner of a building while he pisses on it. Two women with tanned legs and short dresses sit on a gutter; one lifts her friend’s hair out of the way while she vomits on the road. Street sweepers and police officers clean up last night’s mess.
At the apartment, Brigitte peels off her opal-sequinned dress, careful not to bend her knee. A missed fifty-dollar note falls from somewhere. She showers, gingerly puts on pyjamas, and makes a mug of Milo.
‘Brigitte.’
Fuck. Eric’s awake. She was planning to sleep on the sofa.
‘Come and cuddle me, Pet.’
‘Just a minute.’ She limps to the bathroom and washes down some anti-inflamms, Panadol, and a sleeping tablet with her Milo.
She edges into bed against Eric’s back. Her arms don’t reach all the way around the mountain of cold, white flesh.
‘Ooh, Pet, I think I feel something.’ He rolls over. The yeast-and-prawn smell of his cock is on his hands; no amount of showering or expensive cologne ever removes that smell. ‘Can you touch it for me?’
Too late — she’s already falling into dreams, again, of Kurt Cobain and a puppy with a red collar.
27
Brigitte had woken in agony — worse than the pain of tendonitis, worse than the time Eric had accidentally fractured her wrist. She’d guzzled the last of her anti-inflamms, and had made an appointment with Doctor O’Meara.
Now she sits, shaking, in the waiting room.
A poster of a rainforest is stuck on the wall next to one promoting AIDS awareness. A snotty child sits on her mother’s lap, coughing germs into the air. Brigitte holds her breath. A grey-faced man comes out of a consulting room and goes up to the reception desk to pay and make another appointment. Brigitte starts to sweat; the anti-inflamms are wearing off. What if something’s really wrong with her knee? Maybe it’s a cancerous lump — nothing to do with twisting it in the jelly. Her dad thought he only had a cold when he went to the doctor; eleven months later, Dan was dead from cancer.
Her heart yo-yos from her stomach to her throat when Doctor O‘Meara calls her name. She struggles to take a deep breath, and follows the doctor to her room.
‘Take a seat, and please try to stop that shallow breathing. You’ll hyperventilate.’
Brigitte apologises, and explains what happened — sort of, leaving out details about jelly. The doctor examines her swollen knee with a frown on her face.
‘What do you think’s wrong?’ Brigitte says, eyes wide.
‘Probably a torn cartilage,’ the doctor says matter-of-factly.
‘More anti-inflammatories?’
‘No. I think you need to see an orthopaedic specialist.’ She starts to write a referral.
Brigitte puts her hands over her mouth.
‘Calm down. It can easily be fixed with an arthroscopy.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A knee operation.’
Brigitte hyperventilates into her hands.
‘Brigitte!’ The doctor loses patience with her. ‘Stop acting like a child. I’ve seen a patient with terminal cancer today. Your knee is not that serious.’
She feels stupid for being scared, for the childish tears in her eyes. She looks up at the poster of the muscular-skeletal system, and asks if she can get some painkillers.
‘You need rest and an operation, not more medication.’
‘Some Valium?’
The doctor furrows her brow, and taps her pen on the prescription pad.
‘Please.’
‘All right. But try to make it last a bit longer this time.’
28
A brochure arrives along with the junk mail in the letterbox: a short-course guide from the Council of Adult Education. Brigitte throws the junk in the bin, but holds onto the brochure and flicks through the pages. Ceramics looks good. Why not? She rings to enrol, but the receptionist tells her that ceramics has been cancelled this term, because the teacher has gone overseas. The next course on the list is creative writing. She enjoyed writing at school — even wanted to be a writer at one time. Her body is exhausted, but her brain could do with a workout. She asks if there are any places left in creative writing. The receptionist says she could do the Thursday two o’clock class, and Brigitte books a place. She doesn’t have a credit card, so she organises to pay when she goes in. She arranges for the course information to be sent to Nana and Papa’s address, like the rest of her mail. Eric would make fun of her if he found out — tell her she’s too stupid to do a writing course.
She opens t
he windows, leans against the grille, and breathes the first traces of spring air: jasmine, and damp earth starting to dry out. Flower buds are opening in the gardens, and baby ducks are swimming with their mothers on the pond. The wind has lost some of its chill, and she feels herself thawing out, sloughing off the weighty coat of winter. This time of the year always makes her feel like a kid again, as though she could run and run barefoot in the gardens. She closes her eyes and stretches — her knee hurts, her arm hurts — imagining the sensation of running, unburdened by pain, with cool, damp grass beneath her feet. Her mind drifts to thoughts of how clean and peaceful the apartment would be if Eric never came back. Not through something bad happening to him: just not coming back. She opens her eyes, sighs, and moves away from the window.
She picks up a magazine from the coffee table and slumps on the sofa. A week of vegetable and fruit juices, and peppermint tea, is the key to better skin and a perfect body, according to the latest edition of Cleo.
***
The creative-writing class is full of middle-aged women — eight of them — and one older man. Too intimidating. Brigitte walks out, looking down at the CAE letter she’s holding, pretending she’s in the wrong room. And, smack, she crashes straight into the teacher as he walks in, knocking all the papers out of his hands.
‘Hey! Who’s trying to escape from my class?’
‘God, I’m so sorry.’ She helps him pick up his notes and handouts, her embarrassment stronger than the pain stabbing at her knee as she bends down. She feels the gaze of the entire class on her back, and wishes she’d worn a longer skirt. ‘I think I’m in the wrong room.’
‘What’s your name?’ the teacher says.
‘Brigitte Weaver.’
He checks his list. ‘No, your name’s here. You’re in the right place.’
‘Actually, I don’t think writing’s for me,’ she says in a quiet, apologetic voice.
‘Well, I think you should stay for the first class and then decide.’ He’s not so quiet.
She doesn’t really have a choice, because they’re all looking at her and she doesn’t want to make more of a scene. Sheepishly, she takes a seat down the back. The desktop flips up under her elbow, and her notebook and pens fall to the floor. Great — not only does she have to sit through a two-and-a-half-hour class with these scary people, but now they all know she’s a clumsy idiot. Her face burns the same shade as her red shirt.
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