by Lucy Arthurs
As I’m touching up my Las Vegas pout, Anna comes into the ladies’ room. She works with Patrick and I knew her before I knew him. She was one of the first people to suggest I get into voice-overs to supplement my acting work. She’s one of the lovely ones.
ANNA
Hey.
ME
Hi.
ANNA
Having fun?
ME
Bloody hell.
I can confess to her. I can let my guard down. I can be real.
ANNA
How you coping?
ME
I’m not. I just got bailed up by his ex.
Then the Brady Bunch ball comes crashing back into my life.
ANNA
Which one? I’m thinking of five or six who might be here.
Five or bloody six? On top of the wilted praying mantis come beached dugong?
Anna picks up on the expression on my face.
ANNA
You didn’t know?
ME
No.
ANNA
Oh . . . sorry. He’s still a nice guy, just never been able to settle down. Troubled past. Not sure of the details.
Breathe, Persephone. Breathe. He must have lied about not doing casual. Put it out of your mind. You’re not committed to this guy yet so you’re free to walk away, if that’s what you choose to do. In the meantime, just go back to your table and wait for the awards to be announced.
So I do. Patrick’s there. And at this particular moment, he seems more Benny Hill than Danny Devito or Elvis. I’m repulsed by everything about him. But most of all, I’m repulsed by myself. I feel deeply disappointed that he appears to be a dishonest guy who does in fact do casual and that I didn’t pick it. I also feel disappointed that it matters to me. I’m a self-actualised woman of the 21st century. Aren’t I? But I’m thrown by this. Shouldn’t I be crashing through the glass ceiling, saying to hell with it? So what if the guy does casual? Who cares? But that isn’t who I am. I do care. Deeply. I hate it when people don’t tell the truth.
And then I hear my category announced.
ANNOUNCER
Best Commercial Talent Female Award. The nominees are . . .
I kind of tune in, but I still have flashes of nicotine-stained fillings floating through my mind. And the winner is . . .
Me! Me? I won an award. My husband no longer likes me, but someone does. I do it for someone.
As I make my way to the stage to collect the glass trophy, I offer up a special thanks to baby Jesus for keeping me sober tonight. The only thing that could have made tonight worse would have been stumbling up to collect my award, half-pissed, full of Dutch courage and giving all Patrick’s ex-shags a mouthful.
And then it happens. I arrive back at the table to a ringing mobile. Boofhead. What does he want? Jack!
ME
Hello?
BOOFHEAD
He’s broken his leg. We’re at the hospital.
ME
What?
BOOFHEAD
You heard me. It’s being plastered.
ME
Jack?
BOOFHEAD
Of course Jack.
ME
How?
BOOFHEAD
Jumping on the bed.
ME
Which hospital?
BOOFHEAD
Children’s.
ME
Of course. I’ll get a cab. I’m coming straight away.
A broken leg? It’s being plastered. That means he’s been there for quite some time. Why didn’t Boofhead ring me sooner? Why was he jumping on the bed? Tonight, I swear I could get a job on Sale of the Century. I’m full of questions. Everything about tonight has raised questions.
ME
How do I get a cab?
PATRICK
What?
ME
A cab. He’s broken his leg.
PATRICK
Jack?
ME
I have to go.
PATRICK
I’m coming with you.
I flee. I leave the award, my camera, my program, everything except my bag right there on the table. All I want is to hold my little boy and tell him that hot chocolate will definitely make it feel better.
Until now, I’ve managed to keep my two worlds separate. I deal with Boofhead, I live with Jack, and I date Patrick. Patrick doesn’t have anything to do with Boofhead or Jack. Separate worlds. But as I turn up in the emergency ward, suddenly acutely aware that I’m dressed as a prostitute-y version of Farrah Fawcett and that I’m with a man who could easily pass for my pimp, the worlds begin to collide.
Tom’s there.
ME
Where’s Jack?
BOOFHEAD
In here.
He leads the way.
ME
This is Patrick.
BOOFHEAD
Hi.
ME
And this is Boofhead.
BOOFHEAD
What?
Oh shit. I said that out loud.
BOOFHEAD
Is that what you call me? Boofhead?
ME
Not now.
There’s Jack. He’s prone on the bed with a very friendly looking nurse talking to him. I smother him with hugs and kisses.
ME
Sweetheart, your leg. How are you?
JACK
Mummy!
ME
I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I didn’t know. I . . .
JACK
Did you win?
ME
Yes. They gave me a trophy. Does your leg hurt, sweetheart?
JACK
Yes. A lot.
ME
Oh dear.
And now I feel I’m going to cry. No crying, Persephone. There’s only one patient in this room and that’s Jack.
I swallow down tears.
JACK
It hurt, Mummy.
ME
I bet it did.
Then the Ralph Lauren polo-wearing, squeaky-clean grammar school educated doctor turns up and looks at me as though I really am a three-dollar hooker or a full-bogan rather than just the half-bogan I so often feel I am these days.
ME
It was fancy dress. Las Vegas themed.
I offer this by way of explanation. He couldn’t care less.
DOCTOR
Your son has been in a lot of pain.
ME
I’m sure he has.
DOCTOR
You’re free to go now, but he’ll need these painkillers.
He hands me a plastic bag.
DOCTOR
Follow the instructions to the letter. And he’ll need a follow-up appointment in a week.
ME
Thank you.
Ralph Lauren leaves.
I turn to Boofhead, managing to remain calm.
ME
Why was he jumping on the bed?
BOOFHEAD
Just back off, all right?
Defensive.
ME
Sweetheart. You’ll be okay. Let’s get you home.
JACK
Am I in trouble?
ME
No, of course not. You’re hurt.
And the worlds begin to collide even more. I’ve left my car at Patrick’s, so I’m without a vehicle and I don’t want to take Jack home in a cab. Patrick is standing silently behind me. What to do now?
I have to ask Boofhead for hel
p.
ME
Can you drop us off? I didn’t bring my car.
BOOFHEAD
Why?
ME
Because we were at an award night.
BOOFHEAD
So you’ve been on the sauce.
ME
No! I thought I might have a couple of drinks but I didn’t.
BOOFHEAD
Well, you look like you’ve been drinking.
ME
I can assure you I haven’t. Why was he jumping on the bed?
BOOFHEAD
Because we were having fun.
ME
Doesn’t sound like fun if he breaks his leg.
BOOFHEAD
Do you want a lift or not?
ME
Of course we do. Come on, sweetheart, we’ll carry you to the car.
BOOFHEAD
I’ll get a wheelchair.
Patrick hasn’t said a word. Boofhead races off to fetch a wheelchair.
JACK
Hi.
PATRICK
G’day, mate.
ME
Oh, sorry. Jack, this is my friend, Patrick. Patrick, this is Jack.
PATRICK
Looks like you’re in a lot of pain. I broke my knee once. Well, twice actually, so I know how you feel.
JACK
It hurts.
PATRICK
I bet.
JACK
How’d you break your knee?
PATRICK
Jumping around like a lunatic.
JACK
That’s how I broke my leg!
Boofhead comes back with a wheelchair and we all head off towards the lift. Boofhead is fuming. I’m a prostitute-y version of Farah Fawcett in shock, Patrick’s a silent yet supportive version of Elvis meets Benny Hill meets Danny De Vito, and Jack’s a brave little soldier in a wheelchair, strangely entranced by his newly plastered leg. It’s quite the tableau.
The motley crew bundle into the lift, the collision of world one (Boofhead) and world two (Patrick) almost complete. I chat with Jack, trying to take his mind off it all. And mine.
We get out of the lift, make our way to the car and then try to work out who’s going to sit where. Boofhead informs me that it’s way too weird to put the ‘current’ up front with the ‘ex,’ so I opt for up front, which means I’m away from Jack. I just want to get home. Jack seems intrigued by Patrick, and Patrick seems patient and supportive of Jack, whose leg is sticking out at a strange angle because it’s in plaster from knee to ankle and he can’t bend it.
We drive in silence. Jack starts to nod off. It has certainly been a huge night.
Sudden realisation . . .
ME
I don’t have my key.
BOOFHEAD
What?
ME
My key. I left it at Patrick’s on the keyring with my car keys. We can’t get into the house!
BOOFHEAD
Yes we can.
ME
No we can’t. I don’t have a spare hidden anywhere.
BOOFHEAD
I’ve got one.
ME
What?
BOOFHEAD
A key.
ME
Why?
BOOFHEAD
Didn’t give it back. Do you want to get into your house or not?
ME
You have no right to still have a key to my house.
BOOFHEAD
I never bloody use it.
ME
That’s not the point. Give it to me!
BOOFHEAD
Back off, will you? It’s on my keyring.
And the worlds continue to collide. Patrick is awkwardly perched in the back seat with Jack’s leg sticking out and his head on Patrick’s shoulder. Not the way I wanted my son to meet my boyfriend. I still can’t come to terms with being a single mother who has a boyfriend. I have trailer park cringe about it. Mothers have husbands, not boyfriends.
I don’t know what comes over me. Stress, I think—yes, let’s blame it on stress—as suddenly, I’m in desperate need of a cigarette. Of course I don’t have any because as a rule, I don’t smoke, but the combination of the overwhelming feelings, the leg, the key, the ex and the current makes me feel in desperate need of nicotine.
ME
Can you stop in at a servo?
BOOFHEAD
I don’t need petrol.
ME
No, I just need to get something.
BOOFHEAD
Jesus Christ, you’re not buying condoms are you?
ME
NO!
I manage to both whisper and hiss at him at the same time.
ME
(hissing)
Will you stop treating me like some sort of bogan? Of course I’m not buying condoms.
BOOFHEAD
(defensive)
Sorry. Well, what then?
ME
(whispers)
Cigarettes.
BOOFHEAD
No wonder I’m treating you like a bogan. You’re acting like one.
ME
(whispers)
Don’t you judge me. Just because you’ve always been a non-smoker. Pull in here.
BOOFHEAD
No way.
ME
(whispers)
Look, I’m not asking you to smoke one. I want one. I just need you to stop here.
BOOFHEAD
No way.
ME
God, you’re pathetic.
BOOFHEAD
I’m pathetic? You’re acting like a complete bogan.
ME
No I’m not!
BOOFHEAD
You bloody well are!
ME
You’re concealing the fact that you have a key to my house. If that’s not an act of boganism, what is?
BOOFHEAD
I just never gave it back. It’s no big deal.
ME
Then give me a key to your unit.
BOOFHEAD
That’s different.
ME
No, it’s not.
BOOFHEAD
You’re acting like an adolescent. You are being completely irresponsible.
ME
Me?
BOOFHEAD
YES. Dressed like a hooker, wanting to buy cigarettes, dating . . .
The full collision has occurred so let’s just go with it. Here it comes . . .
ME
Me? I leave our son in your care, so I can go and get an award for my work, at an award ceremony just happens to be fancy dress . . . an award for my work/
BOOFHEAD
/you already said that.
ME
For my work! My work that I have been doing to keep a roof over my head, since my selfish, juvenile ex-husband walked out on me because I no longer “do it” for him. All the while, demanding that I pay him one- third the value of the house that I paid for in the first place. While I’m attending this ridiculous, tacky, porn-themed, bogan function to get this crap, plastic piece of shit award . . .
And have to deal with every three-dollar whore this side of the Black Stump laying claim to my current.
ME
. . . you, you useless dickhead, let our son jump on the bed you affectionately call your “workbench,” he falls off, breaks his leg, and ends up in the emergency department of the children’s hospital. And I’m the irresponsible one?
We’
ve arrived at my house. Well aware it is completely inappropriate to use such language and discuss such topics in front of a child (even if he appears to be asleep on Patrick’s shoulder), I open the car door and bark at Boofhead.
ME
Give me the key and go.
He takes the key off his keyring while I attempt to lift Jack out of the back seat. I’m alarmed by how much heavier he is with a cast on his leg and can’t budge him.
PATRICK
Let me do it.
Patrick lifts him up and takes him inside. Jack stirs in his sleep but then snuggles in. Boofhead breaks the land speed record backing down the driveway.
Patrick carries Jack into his room while I organise some Panadol. When I come back in to give him the pain reliever, he stirs.
ME
I am so sorry about tonight, Jacky.
He whispers.
JACK
I need to go to the toilet.
ME
Okay, sweetheart.
I bend down to lift him up.
PATRICK
I’ll take him.
ME
Are you sure?
PATRICK
Sure.
ME
I’ll stand at the door. Is that ok, Jacky?
JACK
That’s okay. Are you Mummy’s boyfriend?
I cringe inside.
ME
That’s such a funny word, isn’t it?
JACK
It’s okay, Mummy. I’ve got a girlfriend at kindy.
ME
Really?
JACK
I wasn’t supposed to tell you.
ME
Patrick is my friend and we’ve been having some dates.
Get to the point, Persephone.
ME
I wanted you to meet him over dinner or something. Not like this.
PATRICK
But sometimes things don’t go the way you think they will, mate.
JACK
Like my leg.
PATRICK
Yeah. I can carry you to the toilet if you like. You’re a bit too heavy for Mum with that cast on.
JACK
You look strong.
ME
I’ll be with you too, darling so there’s nothing to worry about.