by Jessica Bell
I burst into uncontrollable laughter and in my gusto, squeeze my breast a little too hard and squirt Charlie in the eye. Then Serena bursts into laughter, too. Charlie wipes it away with his milkshake hand, which sends me into hysterics, cackling like a hen in heat.
“I bet you don’t want to lick that off your fingers!” I squeal, struggling to catch my breath.
Charlie looks at his hand, as if a foreign object. Tessa giggles, straw clenched between her teeth. She reaches into Alex’s supply bag and pulls him out a baby wipe. I’m so proud. She’s known the man for two minutes and is already offering him a helping hand.
“Oh, thanks, Chickie-dee!” Charlie exclaims, taking the wipe and bouncing on the spot like a pogo stick.
Tessa pulls the straw out of her mouth and says, “Charlie, my name’s not Chickie-dee. My name’s Tessa.”
I’m instantly reminded of the day Charlie and I met at the band competition.
That’s my girl … you tell him.
Following in my footsteps? Or just plain cheeky?
Thirty-four
I’m sitting in Serena’s red-tiled kitchen in my chunky white dressing gown, drinking decaf espresso at her large perfectly-square chocolate brown table. Serena is making me and Tessa french toast and squeezing some fresh orange juice. She serves us our breakfast and then goes to fetch The Age from the letter box before joining us at the table. As I reach for the Real Estate section to look for a place to rent, Serena slaps my hand away.
“If you so desperately want to be independent, look for a job, and when you finally have some money, then I’ll let you spend it. I’ll babysit for free.” She winks and sits down opposite me.
“I have the money. I told you. I have the twenty grand Mum gave me.”
“No! That’s for you to make a record. Your mum wouldn’t have wanted you to spend it on anything else.” She passes me the business section. I flip to the Classifieds, and right there in front of me, in bold capital letters, is the all-too-familiar UTD Publications logo. Since when did they have a department in Australia?
“Serena. Shit!” I thump my finger on the ad and spin the newspaper around.
“Well, that’s fate for you. Call ’em up.”
“You reckon?”
“Of course. Why not?” With one look at my face, I know she knows what I’m thinking. She shakes her finger at me. “No, no, no, no, Mel. Don’t start thinking like that. It’s moving forward. It’s a new beginning.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Call them.”
I jump up and approach the collector’s spin dial phone in the hall. All it takes is two minutes explaining my history with the company to the receptionist and she puts me through to the Human Resources department.
“They want me to come in for an interview!” I scream down the hall when I hang up.
“Great! When?” Serena yells back, poking her head above the newspaper.
“Now. Shit.” I run down the eight-meter long hall and lose a slipper in my haste. “Can you—?”
“Yes.” Serena nods, waving her hand for me to go and get ready.
“Alex needs—”
“Yes, I know. Don’t worry about it. I got it. Get dressed!”
“—a nappy change!”
“I’ll deal with it. Go.”
“It’s a bit runny, honey.” I contort my face, trying to make her laugh.
“I’ll. Deal. With. It. Get dressed,” she growls wide-eyed.
I’m about to run back down the hall to my bedroom when I’m struck by a daunting thought.
“Um … Serena, in what?”
“What do you mean? You’re being a drama queen.”
“What am I going to wear?” I whisper, as if speaking more quietly might make me seem less insane.
“Oh, right. Come on, Tess. Let’s help Mummy choose some clothes.”
While seated in the waiting room, I check my face for squashed bugs in my compact mirror. Comfortable in a soft jade Indian silk skirt and sleek black body-fitted blouse with a low neckline, I silently congratulate myself for not slipping into my comfort clothes. No more floppy male shirts and black trousers for me.
I can’t believe I’m about to have a job interview at UTD. I can’t believe I have this second chance. Am I dreaming? Did I imagine the whole newspaper ad and phone conversation with the receptionist, and find my way here while experiencing some kind of alien possession? What if I’m waiting here like an idiot without an appointment?
“Mr. Viadro will see you now,” the receptionist says, tapping the counter. Mr. Viadro? I stare at her. Jaw open.
“Um, Ms Hill? I said you can go in now,” the receptionist repeats, pointing toward a door with her pen. On the door is a plaque that reads, Publisher.
I walk into Mr. Viadro’s office, hoping it’s not him; hoping I can escape the humiliation only I can understand. But no, there, sitting behind a gray stained-glass art-deco desk, with a pale orange backdrop, is button boy.
“I had a feeling it was you, Melody,” he says, holding his hand out to greet me. “When HR told me you were coming in for an interview this morning, I took the liberty to cancel all my appointments and interview you myself.”
I try to speak, to thank him, but I stammer something incomprehensible.
“I’m sorry, I’ve shocked you. Can I get you a cup of tea? Coffee? A glass of water perhaps?”
“Er … water … please … thanks,” I stutter. Either I’ve completely lost it, or Serena is playing a practical joke on me.
“Sure, take a seat and I’ll tell Helen to fetch you some.”
I sit down and Richard pokes his head out of the office door and mutters to the receptionist.
“So, Melody, it’s great to see you again.” He sits back down behind his desk. “Before you say anything, I’d first like to apologize for having to re-employ your position in London. And I’m terribly sorry for your loss. It can’t have been easy and I want you to know if there’s anything at all I can do, just let me know.”
“Thank you, Richard.” I fold my hands in my lap and try to inconspicuously smell the air for remnants of cologne. If it’s Prada, I’m bolting. I can’t live every day with that scent rubbing unwanted memories into my face.
Richard scans the floor for something, gets up, comes around to my side, bends down next to me and picks up a black pen.
“I wondered where that got to,” he winks, returning to his seat.
Nope. Nope. Don’t recognize the smell at all. Okay. Relax. First sign is peachy.
“Second, I’m not going to interview you because I know very well how qualified you are, and I’d like to offer you a position here at UTD Australia.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Now—” Richard leans back in his seat and scratches under his arm. “It’s not the position that has been advertised because I believe you are far too talented to simply be a commissioning editor. In fact, I’m going to offer you a position I have just today, decided we need—a position I have not yet had the opportunity to advertise. Now, I’d just like to make it clear that this is in no way favoritism.” Richard pauses, seeming to expect an emotional response. But I keep a straight face, and nod to let him know I’m following.
“I’ve created this position due to the fact that UTD Publications is in a great need of some innovative talent and improvement. Some of the books being made these days are just atrocious and so utterly old-fashioned. Sales are dropping worldwide, and I believe we need someone, like you,” he points his pen at me, “for us to bounce back in the market. I’d—”
The receptionist enters with my glass of water.
“Yes, thanks, Helen. Hold all calls until further notice, hmm?” he says, gesturing for her to close the door behind her, again with his pen. They seem to like pointing pens around here. What, do they double as magic wands?
“Right. Where was I?”
“Bouncing back in the market?” I prompt, feeling unusually like I belong in here and at a d
esk like this. This whole corporate concision is tempting. I can smell fresh crisp stationary and paper; hear the photocopier upstairs running on overdrive through the ceiling; women chatting at the coffee station next door in friendly Australian accents. Perhaps I’ll meet someone like Heather. I could probably find myself millions of Heathers here—in an English-speaking country. The thought makes me buzz.
“Yes. Yes! Melody, I’d like to offer you the position of Creative Director. You’d have your very own office, much like this one, on the floor below, and the flexibility to work from home twenty hours a week until your son qualifies for preschool. Now, those are very unusual benefits, Melody, but I like you. I like what you represent and I like what you are capable of. Therefore, I am more than happy to offer you this incentive to join our team. So, what do you say?’
“I—” want this. I want this bad.
“Of course, excuse me for pushing you straight into the ballgame, you’ll need time to think this over, discuss it with your—”
“No. Er, Richard, your offer sounds wonderful. I …”
I look out the window and see a band lugging their sound equipment into the pub across the road, but without a second thought I draw my attention back to Richard’s kind and charming hopeful smile.
“Richard, thank you so much,” I say, holding my hand out to shake. “When would you like me to start?”
Epilogue
Eight years later:
I had Dad bring over a few things from Athens when he visited, after I’d finally saved enough money to buy an inner-city Victorian townhouse big enough to fit it all in.
Tessa is going through some pre-teen blues, and has all of her father’s records sprawled across the lounge room floor, feeding her need to wallow in adolescent angst. Little Alex is picking out all the ones with psychedelic-colored covers, not really knowing what’s what.
“How about this one?” he squeals, holding up Jimi Hendrix’s Axis: Bold as Love album over his head and prancing from foot to foot. “This looks awesome!”
“No, Pinhead! I don’t want to listen to that one! That’s old people’s music. Get it out of my face. Jeez, you don’t know anything about music. Why are you pissing me off?” Tessa retorts, getting to her feet to move away.
“Hey!” I call from the kitchen counter, laboring over my first homemade mousaka. “Don’t speak to your brother like that. Let him have some fun, for crying out loud.”
I close my eyes and hear a big grunt and a shove and a thud as I assume she pushes Alex onto the couch and out of her way. I open my eyes, hoping the catastrophe is over and Alex comes running toward me, still holding the Jimi Hendrix album above his head.
“Mum, can we listen to this?” Alex moves his silky black hair out of his face, stares at me with his sparkling blue eyes and displays a ridiculous fake smile, while wobbling his bum side to side like a happy dog.
“Sure, honey, but not just now. We’re about to eat dinner.”
“Orh!” Alex contorts his face and jumps up and down, making an effort to land as hard as possible on each impact.
“Orh,” nothing. Go and tell Tessa to put all the records away ’cause we’re going to eat, okay?” I remove the mousaka from the oven. It smells delish. Baked eggplant, ground lamb, smothered in tomato and kefalotiri (a hard Greek cheese), seasoned with onion, garlic, bay leaves, cinnamon and dry red wine. The aromatic steam fills my nose with pride and makes my mouth water. I did it. Yes!
As Alex is about to tell Tessa what to do, she joins us holding a limited edition single of Joni Mitchell’s Blue.
“Mu-um,” she cajoles, in her typical I-want-something way.
“Ye-es,” I reply, mimicking her tone.
“Can you teach me how to play this for the end-of-year concert on Grandma’s piano?” Dad also got Mum’s piano shipped over for me. It’s got an entire room of its own, and the walls are decorated with my parents’ album covers and band photos.
“Um, you might have to get your piano teacher to help you with that, but I can play the general chords on guitar for you and teach you how to sing it properly. Does that sound okay?”
“Cool.” Tessa does a little dance on the spot and gives me a peck on the cheek.
“What was that for?” I ask. “An hour ago you said you hated me.”
“Well, I love you now,” she replies with a wonky grin.
“Okay, then, if you love me now, do you think you could set the table?”
She nods, screwing her face up to the side, grabs plates out of the cupboard and the cutlery out of the drawer. When she’s finished, I bring the mousaka and a jug of water to the table. I pour myself a glass of wine. But Alex has disappeared with the Jimi Hendrix record.
“Alex, Dinner!”
He comes running down the corridor and sits at the table and hangs his head in his hands.
“What’s the matter?”
“I want to listen to that re-cord,” he whines.
“You will, when we finish dinner. Now eat. … Um, Tessa?”
“What?” she snaps, exposing a full mouth of mushy mousaka.
“Why have you set the table for four?”
“Oh. Whoops! I forgot Grandpa left this morning … um, Mu-um?”
“Hmm?” I hum, trying not to sound annoyed that I haven’t yet had the chance to taste my very first traditional Greek meal.
“When can I come and see you play at the pub?”
“I told you, when you’re eighteen and old enough to get in the pub at night,” I reply monotonously, due to repeating it for the millionth time.
“But you used to take me there when I was a kid.”
“That was different.” Can’t I buy any more time? “That was during the day. And there are different laws for after dark.”
“But you said that Grandma used to take you to her gigs when you were a kid.”
“I know, but she wasn’t supposed to.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Tessa. I said no. Full stop.” I sigh, dreading the feeling this might actually be the night I give in.
“Please.” She drops her knife and fork, folds her hands under her chin, and bats her eyelids.
“Okay, how about I make you a deal?” I hope I don’t regret this.
“What kind of deal?” Tessa wriggles in her seat, a habit she hasn’t yet grown out of.
“When you turn thirteen, you can come along with Serena.” That’s it. There’s no going back now.
“But that’s a whole month away,” she squeals, almost deafening me.
“A month will fly by, Hon.” I keep my cool.
“Why don’t you ever become famous, Mum?” she asks in a breezy, relaxed tone as if her previous outburst hadn’t even occurred.
“I can’t just snap my fingers and become famous, Tessa.”
“But Serena said you got offered a contract and you turned it down.”
What? How could she? She knows how impressionable Tessa is. Christ.
“Tessa, I don’t need to be famous. I have you and Alex and enough stuff to do at work. I don’t have the time.”
“But you wouldn’t have to work if you were famous.”
“Of course I would. I’d have to work harder, and I’d have to be away from you guys all the time. I don’t want that. I’m not interested.”
“Orh … well, I thought it would be cool to have a famous, Mum.” Tessa bats her eyelids. Again. Who taught her that? “Anyway, nice mousaka.”
“Really? Thanks.”
“That’s cool. I didn’t know you could cook stuff like this. You should do it more often.”
“Yeah, I know. It did turn out pretty cool, didn’t it?”
“Orh, Mum, stop trying to sound … young,” Tessa groans, flinging her head backward.
“What do you mean?”
“You keep saying cool.”
“That’s ’cause it is cool.”
Tessa rolls her eyes and shoves her mout
h with too much food. Unable to chew it properly, she spits some out onto her plate.
“That’s disgusting!” Alex cries.
“Yes, it is,” I say. “Can you watch your manners, please?”
Tessa rolls her eyes again, picks up a small amount of food on her fork, makes a huge display of how much is on her fork, by presenting it to us like jewelry on a TV Shopping channel, delicately places it in her mouth and chews in slow motion with her eyes closed.
“Mu-um?”
“What, Alex?” I huff, dropping my cutlery in my plate.
“Was Jimi Hendrix Dad’s favorite musician?”
“No Pinhead!” Tessa barks. “You asked me that before and I said no!”
“Tessa, calm down.” I take a sip of wine. “Alex, Jimi Hendrix is Grandpa’s favorite musician. Dad’s favorite was Elvis Costello.”
“Orh. Well, can we listen to Elvis Costello then?”
“Honey, please, can you wait till after we’ve had dinner? Dinnertime is conversation time. You know that.” I touch Alex’s hand.
But he doesn’t give up. Alex gets out of his seat, runs down the corridor toward the music room.
“Where you going? What about dinner?”
I look at Tessa for answers. She shrugs.
“Why is he in such a mood?” I ask.
Tessa shrugs again.
Alex returns holding my guitar. He sits on the couch, with it on his knees, and slowly plucks the bottom string with his tongue sticking out of his mouth.
“Alex, what are you doing?” I smile. In shock, in awe, in admiration.
“Well,” Alex replies, “If you’re not gonna to let me listen to Dad’s music, I’m gonna have to make it myself, aren’t I?”
During sound check I only have to tune my guitar once now that it’s accustomed to my regular bashing. The sound engineer wishes me luck with her reassuring wink from behind the mixing desk. Sensitive about my lighting needs, she reminds the lighting guy not to use red. He nods, laughs and gives a thumbs up.
When the venue is full, I step back onto the stage, breathing freely; knowing that my engineer is going to make me sound like an angel despite still being a bit croaky from the flu. My footsteps vibrate through my body, as laughter turns to talking, talking turns to mumbling and mumbling turns to absolute silence.