One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘Sneaking out of bed and stealing my shirt.’ The words rumble over his shoulder as he steps out the open doors and onto the deck. ‘A coffee would be wonderful, if you don’t mind.’ Walking into the sunshine, he slides black wayfarers over his eyes.

  ‘Earth to Jazz!’ I wave an attention grabbing hand, because yes, I know. He’s dazzling.

  ‘I can see why your job is satisfying,’ she says eventually, blinking down at the loaf in her hand like she’s not sure what it’s doing there. ‘Dude, I came over all . . . not-queer!’ She shakes her head, laughing as she turns to what I totally thought was a microwave set into the wall.

  ‘How does he like it?’

  ‘He . . . I . . . he . . .’ Christ, she’s forward! I bite my tongue from the torrent of words that appear in my head. Hard. Complex. Dominant. Often?

  ‘His coffee, you drongo,’ she says laughing again. She somehow opens another handle-less drawer, pulling out a tiny cup. ‘I can imagine, though. Dead-set, I nearly went straight for a minute or two.’ She grasps her chin, another masculine gesture, as her words begin to form into some sort of conclusion in my head.

  ‘Mind you, after this weekend, I’m not surprised,’ she blunders on, oblivious to the cogs in my head whirring into action. ‘Prince might’ve said there are 23 positions in a one night stand, but he never had to look at what I did.’ Her whole body shudders. ‘So, Saturday night, right?’ She pops the cup into the microwave/coffee machine-hybrid-thing, pressing a button as it whirs to life. ‘I’m guessing espresso?’ she asks, lifting a carton of milk from the fridge, placing it back at my head shake. ‘I might’ve been wasted, but I had this one night stand, right? Only, turns out, the chick had a vadge like a badly packed kebab. Man, the only position I was interested in was the one at the bus stop.’ Her face is pensive for a moment, her gaze tracking Kai as she stares out of the window now. ‘Bet you’d do him for free,’ she says quietly. ‘I’d almost consider getting on my knees to give him a blowy myself.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Free? A blowy—a blow job?

  Hear that? That’s the sound of the penny finally dropping. I think I must be a little slow this morning. I’ll blame jetlag.

  ‘Jazz,’ I say slowly, ‘I’m not his prostitute. I’m his fiancé.’

  One awkward conversation later—because, as it turns out, the house is used semi-regularly by big-shot business clients, often with a high-end escort in tow—Jazz is very much at pains to make clear she doesn’t discriminate on issues of race, gender, or employ, and therefore meant no offence. No discrimination from me—prozzies pay their taxes just like everyone else. It’s just a fucking job. Ha-ha, literally!

  I decide not to mention it to Kai; I can’t imagine he’d be too impressed. Following him out into the sunshine, I hum that all time Electric Six classic, Gay Bar, under my breath, with Kai’s coffee in one hand and my balanced breakfast in the other. Well, balanced in as much as my plate of Vegemite on toast is sitting on top of my muesli bowl.

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t wish to visit that kind of establishment,’ he says, taking the coffee from my hand. ‘Though I would like to see some of your other stomping grounds.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘I’m serious. I thought you could show me around later. After we’ve visited your mother.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I reply noncommittally, taking a seat next to him, not much interested in either of those options.

  ‘What’s that brown stuff?’ he asks, peering over at my plate as I set it down. ‘Is that . . . Marmite?’ By his expression, you’d think he’d just asked if I’d smeared shit on the plate.

  ‘Vegemite,’ I reply, licking the salty, buttery goodness from the warm bread. I tear off a large bite, poking it into my mouth. ‘Mmm. Ambrosial.’

  ‘It smells like socks. Old socks, I might add, and disgustingly on-par with that.’ He points at the bowl.

  ‘What’s wrong with muesli?’

  ‘It’s repulsive. If we were meant to eat dried fruit, it would grow to look like an eighty year old penis from the start.’

  ‘Quick,’ I say giggling and gesturing to his cup. ‘Drink. You’re obviously dehydrated.’

  ‘Eating raisins is the fruit equivalent of eating dead people,’ he says, mockingly severe.

  ‘I bet you’ve never tried either of them.’

  ‘Muesli or eighty year old dick?’

  I wave my toast under his nose as he pulls away with a grimace. ‘I bet you were a stubborn little bugger, as a kid. Beautiful, too.’ My heart rises to my mouth at my Freudian slip, and I quickly blunder on. ‘And how do you know you won’t like it, if you won’t try? Think of all the good stuff you could’ve been missing out on.’

  ‘I was force-fed Marmite as a child,’ he says, fending off my toast. ‘That was bad enough. ‘What you have there seems far worse. It smells like old socks and looks like a smear of faeces.’

  ‘Were you a slapper or a streaker as a boy?’ I ask, giggling.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Personally,’ I say, attempting a seductive purr now, ‘I like it spread. I love to use my tongue, especially the tip. Love to lick at the salty goodness.’ Then I do just that, all while looking at him. Hopefully, not cross-eyed. ‘Mmm. That touch of musky saltiness. The thick warmth just melting down my throat.’ I take another bite, leaning back in my chair with a theatrical groan.

  ‘Say that again,’ he demands all husky now. ‘Salty. The back of your throat thing.’

  Cramming the remainder of the toast into my mouth, I mumble around it, ‘Tastes great with cheese, too.’

  Chapter Five

  Making our way back into the house, Jazz has discretely buggered off, leaving a pile of parcels on the kitchen bench.

  ‘Ah, they arrived. Here, habibti. I’m guessing you don’t want to greet your mother in my shirt. So, you know.’ He pushes several shopping bags into my arms. I recognize the branding as a local designer boutique. ‘Clothes.’

  Sliding his hands into his pockets, he stares at me with something that looks suspiciously like challenge.

  ‘Thanks,’ I answer simply. His gaze narrows. Mistrust? ‘Maybe I should deprive you of sleep more often.’

  ‘No, it’s just, well, I’m going to have to get used to this sort of living, aren’t I?’ I place the bags back on the bench, contents unexamined, throwing out my arms feebly. ‘I don’t want to fight with you constantly.’ In the grand scheme of things, his buying me clothes isn’t important. It’s not like he’s buying me stuff, insisting I wear it and when to do so. It’s not a controlling thing; it’s more for convenience.

  Well, other than the expensive lingerie I’m amassing.

  ‘No,’ he murmurs, pulling me into his arms. ‘Not all of the time. Just sometimes, because then we have spectacular make-up sex.’

  His eyes smoulder, his thoughts bare and exposed in those burning embers. He lays one gentle hand at the base of my throat and my heart jolts. His gaze never leaves my own as he holds it there, very still. His finger lightly grazes the vein and my heart flutters in response, becoming more erratic as his hand tightens. Blood races thick through my veins and pounds in my neck.

  Pounds between my legs.

  ‘You liked this,’ he asserts, the weight of his hand and his gaze holding me very still. My skin is inexplicably alert, nerve endings having risen to the surface at his touch. I release a tremulous breath, my longing almost carried into the air. ‘It’s fun to colour outside of the lines a little, isn’t it?’ Without waiting for an answer, his hand slips to the back of my neck, pulling me forward. ‘We’ve an appointment to keep,’ he whispers, kissing my forehead. ‘Go and dress.’

  Fun, I ponder, wandering trance-like upstairs. And sort of frightening.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ I grumble.

  ‘Come on, Kate, you can’t keep it from your parents. Surely they’re not all bad.’

  ‘I didn’t say they were bad, just bad for my mood, mainly,’ I mumble, half turning m
y back on him. ‘Kind of headache inducing bad.’ Staring out the car window, I follow a trail of raindrops from the sudden shower with my hand.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Look, they’re not terrible people,’ I say, turning to face him. ‘Just misguided.’ Like an echo, I’m filled with a familiar sense of inadequacy. ‘And generally disappointed in me.’ Even I can hear how forlorn those words sound.

  Kai reaches over the console between us, grasping my hand. ‘How anyone can be disappointed in you I don’t understand.’

  We take the coast road to my parents’ place. The traffic is light; the tourist season not yet in full swing. I point out snippets of my youth as we pass; my favourite gelato shop, the first pub I ever fell out of drunk, that sort of thing.

  ‘Oh, I got my first job there!’ I point as we pass the familiar orange and white signage.

  ‘You used to work at Hooters?’ Incredulous doesn’t even cover his tone, his head twisting back to the already passed sign, as though seeking confirmation of a glimpse.

  ‘What? You think I couldn’t?’ I glance down at my Zimmerman shorts, courtesy of Kai. I’ve got pretty good legs. They could do with being a bit longer, but that’s not likely to happen. Unless I get run over by a steam roller or something.

  ‘Answer the question, kitten,’ he mutters, all growly.

  ‘It’s just waitressing. You’d see loads more flesh over there.’ I point my thumb to the opposite side of the road, knowing the ocean sits just beyond a row of houses and holiday apartments. ‘Waitresses wearing shorts and a singlet—a, what would you call it?’ I pull at my beautifully cut T-shirt. ‘A tank?’

  ‘Vest. But—’

  ‘It’s not like it’s a strip club or anything. They don’t grind poles. Or blokes. Jeeze.’ I blow a burst of air through my lips, lifting hair from my brow, only for it to fall right back, but sometimes, it’s the effect that matters.

  A muscle in his jaw ticks, his brow furrowing as his hands grip the steering wheel. His mood is a difficult one to gauge. I’m not sure whether he’s annoyed or imagining me in the skimpy uniform. ‘How long ago since . . . you worked there?’

  ‘I was fourteen.’

  The car sways a little, Kai correcting it immediately with an uttered curse. ‘You were what?’

  ‘Mate, calm your farm! Did you not see the putt-putt course next door?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The mini golf joint. I worked the kiosk on Saturdays.’

  ‘You’re—’

  ‘In trouble? A tease?’

  ‘Yes. To both.’

  ‘Too bad, ‘cos it’s the next right and we’re at the old’s.’

  My parents live in a weatherboard Queenslander painted a neutral cream. Steps lead up to the front door and a veranda that wraps around one side. The street is one of the older ones in the suburb; the antiquated homes experiencing a resurgence in popularity of late. As a result, my parents have suddenly found themselves living en vogue amongst the DINK’s: double incomer’s, no kids. Lawns seemingly trimmed by nail-scissors and pristine driveways housing European SUV’s. Backyards with ample boy’s toys storage—boats and the like—and elegant pools housing water features. Not that the ‘rents are short of a bob or two themselves. Geoff has a pretty senior job in the local quarry, and Mum has always stayed at home. She keeps pretty busy for a woman who doesn’t work. She’s active in the Country Woman’s Association and volunteering in the local Salvation Army op-shop. Then there’s flower arranging at our local church, and her endless interfering in my life. Though it looks like she’s got a vacancy in her schedule these days.

  The rain has stopped as I trudge up the driveway, past my darling little butter-box—my bright red tiny Hyundai.

  ‘Suppose I’d better sell that.’ I won’t be needing a car in Queensland anytime soon.

  My feet are heavy on the staircase, which is, I suppose, why Mum’s wiry frame appears at the door before I’ve even pulled open the ornate flyscreen.

  ‘Katherine! Oh, thank goodness you’re home.’

  ‘Dial down the melodrama, Mum.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, narrowing her eyes over my shoulder to where Kai stands. ‘Well, come in. Don’t stand out there on ceremony.’

  The hallway is bright, light bouncing off the pale timber walls in a kaleidoscope of colours, the emerging sun reflected through a 1920’s stained-glass window. Threading my hand through his, I lead Kai down the hall into the kitchen, following Mum’s lead. Sometimes I wonder why she ever decorated the other rooms, because we rarely use any beyond the kitchen and its adjoining deck.

  ‘Now,’ she says, wiping her hands on a tea-towel, even though they’re evidently clean and dry. ‘Is someone going to tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘Mrs. Saunders. I take responsibility for any misunderstandings yesterday. As I said on the telephone, Kate was sleeping. After her recent journey, I thought it best to leave her to continue to do so.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ she replies, patting her hair nervously. ‘I suppose I can stop worrying now that she’s here, and she can tell me herself.’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I snipe, completing an antagonistic twirl, arms held wide. ‘See? Not kidnapped by the bad man.’

  ‘I see your flu has gone.’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah.’ I lower my arms, a slight flare of guilt warming my stomach. I’d told her I had flu to make sure she’d leave me alone. To wallow in abject Kai-less misery. ‘I’m feeling heaps better now.’

  ‘So I see.’

  Silence descends, the atmosphere in the kitchen awkward as my mother stares between the two of us, as though expecting one of us to crack and confess. Though to what, I’m not sure.

  ‘Tea,’ she says quite suddenly, turning to the kettle. ‘Erm?’

  ‘Kai,’ I supply. ‘His name is Kai.’ But then he’s told her that already.

  ‘Yes, so he said.’

  Like I said.

  Her eyes flick over him again before she turns back to the sink. ‘Sit down, the pair of you. Help yourself to slice.’

  The kitchen table is set, and it’s clear she must be expecting either news or an announcement of some sort as she has the fine china out. Geoff has always said this particular china, handed down from his mother, only comes out for hatches, matches or dispatches: A birth, death or marriage announcement. I swallow uncomfortably recalling Shane and I sat at this very table, our hands clasped as we were congratulated, sipping from these china cups. Geoff even pulled out champagne.

  ‘Get the serviettes, Katherine, please.’ I snap out of my reverie. This announcement so isn’t going to go the same. ‘The peach embroidered ones,’ she repeats in an exasperated tone.

  I do as I’m bid, opening the appropriate drawer and retrieving the desired napkins.

  ‘Do you want slice?’ I ask, knife now in hand. Mum should’ve been a 1950’s housewife. She’s a fabulous cook and loves to bake, but will never ever be the size of a house. I, on the other hand, have yet to master the culinary arts, but I can sure shove the results down my throat.

  ‘Slice?’ Kai asks, looking confused.

  I point the knife at the confection on the table, a hardened layer of chocolate suggesting what’s beneath. ‘Caramel, Mum?’

  ‘Millionaire shortbread,’ she answers from behind me.

  Awesome! Talk about a coinky-dink!

  The knife clatters to the table as I begin to giggle. Loudly. Some would say hysterically.

  ‘Katherine,’ Mum scolds. ‘What in heaven’s—pull yourself together, girl!’

  But I can’t help it, and I can’t stop. This is just all so surreal. My mum and the millionaire sharing a cup of Earl Grey, eating slice!

  I slide a glance at Kai, unsurprised that he isn’t joining in, or at least smiling.

  ‘It’s m-m-millionaire short—’

  ‘Yes,’ he replies, unamused. ‘I heard.’

  ‘M-m-mill—’

  ‘Is she often like this?’ Kai asks my mum as she brings
the teapot to the table.

  ‘Sometimes. It’s nerves,’ she responds without looking at him as she places it down. ‘Australian Breakfast tea?’

  ‘I’d thought so. Yes, thank you.’ Pensive for a moment, eyeing me like I’m something he’s never quite seen before, Kai adds, ‘It’s because I’m quite rich, you see.’

  ‘Oh?’ replies Mum, sitting down a little too heavily for her light frame.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A million—’ Her voice is a couple of octaves above normal but she stops herself from completion, vulgarity avoided, manners recalled.

  With a wry twist of his mouth Kai mutters, ‘Something like that.’

  I hold a hand to my mouth, huge gulps of laughter squeezing past my fingers, fat tears rolling down my face.

  ‘And I’m marrying Kate.’

  Like a case of hiccups and shock tactics, my giggles cease. Immediately.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Mum springs from her chair, her hands in the air.

  ‘Because he only just asked!’ My voice is pitched too high. I sound like a fifteen year old losing her shit over something unjust. Some things never change. We’ve been going back and forth over this for at least five minutes, neither of us willing to hear the other out, our voices growing louder with each passing minute.

  ‘What, just now?’ She gestures between Kai and myself, finally grasping what I’ve been trying to tell—okay, yell.

  ‘Mum! Did that look like a proposal to you? Jeeze,’ I wheeze out. ‘Earlier. Kai proposed yesterday.’

  ‘But Shane was here yesterday?’

  ‘Yeah, and that was pretty shitty of you, thanks.’

  ‘Katherine!’

  ‘No, I get to swear all I want right now because it was underhanded and shitty and . . . bang out of order! So fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck!’

  ‘I sometimes wonder where I got you from, my girl,’ she berates. ‘And Shane was here, but you were engaged to him. You were supposed to be marrying him!’