Unmarry Me

by Nicki Reed

  ‘We’ll be fine. We’re doing this for a good reason.’

  ‘Say it again. Use that as your mantra.’

  What the heck, I sit up straight, square my shoulders, push out my chest, and say it: ‘We’re doing this for a good reason.’

  I’m getting better at the new night-time routine. Have dinner, wash and dry the dishes, do a last check of my email, lock up. Shower, teeth, pyjamas, bed. Read my book until Mark calls.

  The phone rings. ‘How are you, Boydy?’

  Nothing. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Homosexuality is a sin.’

  ‘What?’ I hang up.

  Some idiot has too much time on his hands. My number’s listed so it wouldn’t be hard. How can you take seriously some dickhead who won’t face you? I’ll get a whistle and give them hearing loss, sort it out in one phone call.

  On my bedside table, next to the photo of Mark and me under our eucalyptus tree, is a notepad. I write, whistle, then settle back in bed and wait for Mark to call.

  9.

  Am I holding my hand up in front of my face? It’s so dark I don’t know if my eyes are open. And Mark’s running shoes are in here. Great, I’m going to die, asphyxiation by Asics.

  I’m on my side because there’s no room and that is something else I didn’t count on. When you put your mower, or your bike, or a chest of drawers in your boot, you marvel at the space. You stand back and look around the garage: what else can I jam in there?

  The things I do for a little Valentine’s Day action. We parked side by side at the back of the supermarket. With a bit of luck, we parked away from any cameras because I’m not looking to make a series for YouTube. I climbed into Mark’s boot, said, ‘See you at Dad’s’ and he closed the lid on me. Blackness like I haven’t seen.

  The plan: Mark drives into the garage, we enter the house through the internal door, make wild, I-miss-you love, then he drives me back to my car. It’s got to be the shortest drive in history, two streets, but we’ve stopped.

  ‘Rube, can you hear me? Thump if you can hear me.’

  I kick something.

  ‘I’ve been pulled over.’

  I kick a couple more times for emphasis.

  ‘Ruby, shhh.’

  I can’t hear much. Blurred voices. Time stretches when you’re locked in the boot of a car. It can’t be more than two minutes, but it feels longer. I have a cramp in my calf and I need to move. I roll over. If we ever get to bed I reckon I’ll be too sore to be wild. It’ll have to be quasi-wild sex.

  ‘Achoo.’

  The talking stops.

  ‘Achoo. Achoo.’ I have my hand clamped over my mouth. ‘Achoo. Achoo.’

  The boot opens. We’re under a streetlight and I blink against the accusing yellow halo and the cop-shaped silhouette.

  ‘Thank God for that!’ I cough, splutter. My eyes adjust to the light and I peer up at the policeman. ‘Ah, hi.’

  ‘Are you okay, Miss?’

  ‘Yeah, yep.’

  ‘Can I help you out of the boot?’

  He’s not really asking. I take his hand and he sort of guides me, sort of lets me do it myself. The policeman closes the boot and I lean against the car. His partner speaks to Mark.

  ‘Get out of the car, sir.’

  Mark gets out. He shoots me a see-what-you-got-me-into look. All my life I’ve been getting looks like that. What can I say? Some of us lead and some of us follow. I shrug my sorry. That’s muscle memory: I’m hardwired for shrugged apologies.

  Mark has to place his hands on the roof of the car and spread his legs. They pat him down and he has to empty his pockets. A packet of Lifesavers and a handkerchief. A real tough guy.

  ‘Do you mind explaining yourself, Mr Boyd?’ They seem to have decided it’s not as bad as it could have been but this isn’t going to be easy.

  ‘It was my idea,’ I say.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Ruby Wheeler. Mark is my husband. Really, we’re fine.’

  ‘Listen, plenty of husbands put plenty of wives in their boots. The only reason yours isn’t in cuffs in the back of our car is that you’re conscious.’

  ‘We parked at the back of the supermarket and we’re going just around the corner. To Angel Street.’

  ‘What’s on Angel Street?’ The older of the two policemen is leading the way tonight. Good cop, old cop?

  ‘My dad’s place. That’s where I’m living at the moment.’

  ‘Achoo.’

  ‘Are you Keith Boyd’s son?’

  ‘Yes. You know Dad?’

  ‘I worked with him on and off for twenty years. He was my sergeant when I left the academy. I’m Declan McManus. Your old man was the best copper I ever worked with, wise, patient and a great sense of humour. Jim Davis and I took up the collection for your dad’s retirement.’

  ‘I remember Jim,’ Mark says.

  ‘Do you remember how Jim died?’

  Mark nods slowly. ‘Car accident.’

  ‘That’s right. And he was a good driver. Never drove around with anyone in his boot. Never drove in the middle of the night without his lights on. Drove safely and died in a car accident.’

  This is where we take our medicine.

  ‘Now, out of respect for your father, I’m not going to book you for a passenger without a seatbelt or driving with your lights off, and I reckon you won’t do it again. But, Mark, you parked in a No Standing area.’

  Sure enough there’s a No Standing sign. Mark stopped where the police told him. ‘But…’

  ‘Do you have something to say, Ms Wheeler?’ Sergeant McManus looks up from the ticket he’s writing.

  ‘Ruby,’ Mark says, ‘get in the car.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant McManus,’ I mumble, and get in the passenger seat.

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant McManus.’ Mark says it, too.

  ‘Listen, say hello to your dad for me. Come to think of it, I might call him and say hi myself.’

  The smile on Mark’s face slides off. He can take a fine and a stern talking to, but his dad finding out? ‘You’re not going to tell him, are you?’

  ‘Maybe.’ McManus flips his notebook closed. ‘I haven’t decided.’

  We drive in silence to Keith’s place. We park in the garage and use the internal door to go inside. We sit on the couch and it’s no lie to say the mood is gone.

  ‘You want to watch TV?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I want to get my sexy vibe back.’

  We sit with out feet on the coffee table. I love how the size difference in our feet mirrors our height difference. We’re so compatible even our feet think so.

  ‘You had to sneeze, didn’t you?’

  ‘And you had to drive with no lights.’ I nudge his foot with mine, more of a kick than a nudge.

  ‘You had to get in the boot.’ He kicks back. God, I miss his feet.

  ‘I was being impulsive, fun, sexy. Valentine’s Day style. You wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t want to.’ How many times have I said that to Mark? I feel bad.

  ‘Don’t frown, you look like Peta,’ he says. ‘It’s okay, Rube, I’m an adult and I make my own decisions.’

  ‘I guess.’

  On the lounge-room wall is a family portrait. Mark, Keith, his big sister, Margie and his mum, who drowned when he was six. Sometimes I wonder if she would have liked me.

  ‘I was thinking about going to bed with you. That’s probably why I forgot the lights. I was thinking about you and me making love in my old man’s bed.’

  ‘It’s quite the nasty teenager thing to do, isn’t it?’

  Or would his mum have liked Peta better?

  ‘It is,’ he says.

  Doesn’t matter. He likes me. I stand up and take his hand. ‘Let’s.’

  10.

  Another week, another chance to change the world. I’m pumped this morning. I re-read our mission statement on the train: End homelessness or bust. That’s Poverty Project. I love working in a place where most of us wouldn’t think of working a
nywhere else.

  ‘Hold the lift.’

  I did say most of us. I’m pressing the button, pressing, pressing.

  ‘Hold the lift.’

  Pressing…I’ve hurt my thumb on the plastic edge of the button.

  ‘Hold the lift.’

  A hand with an oversize metal bangle shoots the gap and pings the sensors. The lift door opens. In she steps.

  I let go of the Door Close button. ‘Cassandra, it’s you.’

  We didn’t have the best of starts. In my first week at Poverty Project Cassandra asked me out to lunch and it wasn’t long before she got to the point. I was buttering a roll when she asked me how it was all going.

  ‘Oh, pretty good,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it’s a good job.’ Her white-blonde hair seemed to be reflective and I found myself wondering what product she used and if I could use it on my car. ‘It was going to be my job,’ she said.

  ‘So, this isn’t a social lunch.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ she said. ‘I was told they were only interviewing internally, and then you come along.’

  ‘Little old me,’ I said, and took a bite of my roll.

  Cassandra sipped her water and didn’t take her eyes from mine.

  I wasn’t bothered. Ask Peta: nobody can beat me in a staring competition. ‘You don’t want the job,’ I said. ‘You should see how the last person left it.’

  ‘I was the last person.’

  ‘Well.’ I smiled. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Don’t get too comfortable, Ruby.’

  ‘Oh, I feel pretty comfortable. Of course, I’m not used to such a jump in salary. I’m lucky I’ll have to spend so much time at work because there’s no way I could ever use up all that money. Can I have your roll if you’re not going to eat it?’

  She drained her glass. ‘I’ll see you back at the office.’ And she got up and walked away from her untouched plate of pasta marinara.

  ‘I’ll get the bill,’ I called out. ‘I’ve got plenty of cash.’

  Two years on, even though she’s been promoted along the way, she’s still giving me the shits. Running into her is the pleasure that it always is.

  ‘Good morning, Ruby,’ Cassandra says. ‘And how is life on the floor below?’ She presses her floor button and her jacket creaks. It looks like it’s made of metal; it’s shiny, straight-edged. She needs to oil her clothing. Does she know we call her Megatron?

  ‘I love the new haircut, Cassandra. Asymmetry suits you.’

  She smiles and I see her eyeteeth: they’re extra pointy, better for blood sucking. She likes clothes that shine and, if there is asymmetry in her outfits, she’s rapt. I hate asymmetry.

  ‘I hear you’re getting a divorce. Your bloke must be a real schmuck to let himself be divorced by a second Wheeler sister. I mean, really.’

  If I cared about anything Cassandra said, that last comment could hurt. Anyway, she doesn’t know Mark. She’s met him once, at the office Christmas party the year before last, when he spent most of the time at the bar trying out the free cocktails with my boss, Damian, and his then girlfriend. All Cassandra got from Mark was ‘Do you know where the toilets are?’

  I catch my ring finger in the mirrored lift door. I’m warming to the empty look: it reminds me that we’re trying to make a difference. The lift stops and I go to step out.

  ‘Ruby, before you leave.’ She has a foot in the door. ‘Why do you care so much? It’s just marriage. They can live with each other perfectly fine. In fact, it’s easier when they want to go on to the next partner. Who cares what people get up to in their own homes?’

  Fortunately, I remember that arguments against certain people can’t be won with bad behaviour. Otherwise, I’d beat her up. I’d have her hair in clumps by her ears and I’d be banging her head on the floor of the lift. I imagine how, if you listened closely, her hair might crackle as her head hit the carpet again and again.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Sorry, Cassandra, I zoned out. I was imagining a world that you just described, you know, where everyone could marry and we could all get on with our lives. I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  The look on her face.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Have a good day, Cassandra.’

  In hell.

  11.

  Peta works in a building not far from mine, on Bourke Street, and if it weren’t for the building between us, we’d be able to see into each other’s windows. I could watch her dust her precious library and boss people around. She says she’d be able to watch me being right all the time.

  ‘First, tell me about Celeste. What is she up to, what’s she doing, does she ask about me? I miss her. I’m sleeping with Tall Guy, that’s how much I miss her.’

  True story. Last night the peace and quiet and tidiness got to me and I pinched Celeste’s soft toy giraffe from her bed. It smells like her and the tag is satiny soft from all the sleepy stroking she’s given it.

  I’ve got a bag of Celeste’s clothes by the front door to drop around to The Girls but I can’t bring myself to put them in the car.

  ‘She’s good, sticky-fingered trouble. Twice recently she’s taken her nappy off and smeared the contents onto her bedroom wall.’

  Celeste’s bedroom wall has dado panelling; baby poo would get stuck in the grooves and take about a year to get off.

  ‘So, she’s a smearer.’ I say it mostly to get Peta’s back up.

  ‘Shut up,’ Peta says. ‘We’ve put her cot in the middle of the room so she can’t reach the walls. On both occasions I was at work and BJ had to deal with it. She says I owe her and she’ll be taking it in skin.’ Peta reddens. Yes, she can say stuff like that now, but her face hasn’t caught up with the boldness of her new sexuality.

  ‘Maybe Celeste is trying to tell you she doesn’t want to wear nappies. She doesn’t wear them when she’s with us.’

  Cute little girl has underpants now. We let her pick and she went straight for the Barbie ones.

  ‘She could use her words,’ Peta says.

  ‘And ruin the surprise?’

  Peta looks up from her turkey sandwich. ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Hey, here’s some news,’ I say. ‘Cassandra isn’t into marriage equality. I thought she’d have said something before now but she cleared things up for me on Wednesday. After all, it’s been almost two months since she heard about the divorce.’

  ‘Maybe she’s been busy burying bodies in the basement,’ Peta says.

  Peta’s never met Cassandra but hates her because I do; it’s a taking-care-of-your-sister thing. Just like I used to hate BJ’s mum. It was my job to give her a run for her money until BJ and Peta asked me to stop.

  Before Celeste was born, Peta and I had lunch twice a week. Now it’s about every second Friday. Peta has mayonnaise on her chin and I’m still deciding if I should tell her.

  ‘Actually, Rube, I am surprised. I’d say she’s not into you being into marriage equality, if you know what I mean.’

  Peta’s height must be in her legs because when we sit with each other we’re eye to eye but when we’re standing my eyes are level with her neck. ‘Megatron would be dumb enough to hate me more than discrimination? Cool. I feel powerful.’

  Sometimes during lunch Peta and I don’t talk; we people watch, nudge each other when somebody gorgeous happens by. And we traffic watch. It’s amazing what people will do for a park in a one-way side street.

  ‘I love that you don’t mind,’ Peta says, looking like she’s thinking about chewing her bottom lip. She worries about me and that’s nice.

  ‘Freedom fighters sometimes have to suffer a bit of fear and ignorance,’ I say. ‘It’s all part of the job.’

  ‘So now you’re a freedom fighter. A couple of weeks ago, you were the Fundraising Champion of the Universe.’

  She’s right, but I’m flexible. If you’re going after the biggest fish of all for Poverty Project’s first gala and you w
ant to make some marriage equality noise, you have to be ready to go with whatever’s coming.

  ‘You never did tell me how you landed Maya Croft,’ Peta says.

  ‘Maria’s friend, Georgia, works in reservations at the four-star hotel up the road. She told Mars about the big guest, her room number and itinerary, and I took it from there. Georgia and Mars had an argument because, although Mars used the information, she told Georgia off for sharing it. Said it was unprofessional. So Georgia toldher to go fuck herself. As you do.’

  ‘As you do. And then?’

  For once we’re talking more about me than her. Weird. I wonder what Peta’s not telling me. I put my sandwich down, roll up my sleeves and continue the story.

  ‘Well. I got lucky to find a cleaner’s cart on its own, lucky that the basic white uniform I bought at the op shop did the job, and lucky that when Maya Croft answered my knock she was charmed by my blather. I think it didn’t hurt that I’m a bit of a shortie, like she is. I’ve always said that if you want to get a smaller person on side, it doesn’t hurt to send someone smallish, and we were eye to eye.’

  Actually, I’ve never said that but since I’ve got the floor I’ll bullshit as much as I want. I take a breath and a sip of my coffee.

  ‘Interesting. Maya Croft likes her stalkers to be diminutive. Then what?’

  ‘Diminutive is a bit strong, Pete.’ I’m chewing and talking and Peta makes a face but I ignore her disgust and continue. ‘I gave her some background on Poverty Project, and a DVD of a speech Damian gave at a recent luncheon. We talked for fifteen minutes without being disturbed, and I signed her as the international mega-guest of our first gala.’

  ‘I read somewhere that she was a millionaire by the time she was twenty-three and that by the time she was forty she’d given away twenty-three million dollars. People turn themselves inside out trying to get time with her. Your boss must love you.’

  ‘He does, but he has a funny way of showing it. He looks more worried than rapt, like he thinks the whole thing’s going to fall over. What could go wrong? We’ve got Maya; anything else is a bonus.’