Dead in the Water

by Tania Chandler

‘I’m writing a novel.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ A gang of black-leathered motorcyclists zipped past.

  ‘It’s about an ornithologist married to a woman who doesn’t understand his love of birds.’

  Brigitte didn’t remember asking what it was about.

  ‘They go down to Tasmania, and he discovers this rare bird that was thought to be extinct, which is, of course, a metaphor for their relationship.’

  Of course.

  ‘Then when they get lost on a bush walk, they discover they have very different beliefs and values.’

  There was a kelpie running around in the back of the ute tray in front of them.

  ‘I’m looking for somebody to read it for me.’

  The kelpie tried to jump over the side. A logging truck drove up too fast behind them.

  ‘I’d really value your feedback.’

  The truck tailgated. Brigitte gritted her teeth and stuck to the speed limit, her life flashing before her. Whose idea was it to stick ‘Public forests for public good not private profit’ bumper stickers on the studio cars?

  The ute turned off and the truck overtook them. Brigitte peeled her fingernails from the steering wheel, took a deep breath, and blew the hair off her face.

  ‘Was that you?’ Tate wrinkled his nose as a cattle truck rattled by in the opposite direction.

  A bell tinkled as they entered Marty’s Cameras. The shop smelled of dust and chemicals.

  ‘Can I go pick up a prescription for my mum at the chemist?’

  ‘You don’t have to ask, Tate. Meet you back at the car.’

  A man of about sixty with ginger-and-white hair appeared from out the back. Marty? She placed the box on the countertop and explained that the repair instructions were inside.

  Marty opened the box, read Cam’s note, lifted out the camera, and turned it over in his hands a couple of times. ‘No worries. Ready for ya on Monday, love.’

  Out on Nicholson Street, she caught her reflection in a window, distorted, elongated. Tate was still at the pharmacy, so she stopped at the op shop. She took off her cream trench coat, which she’d paid a fortune for last winter, rolled it up, and shoved it in the donations bin.

  Inside the shop, on the ladies’ rack, she found ‘gold’: a 1960s-style, sage-green woollen coat, with champagne-pink lining and fake fur trim — well, she hoped it was fake. The volunteer at the counter assured her (three times) that it had been dry-cleaned before she would try it on. Perfect fit. She fastened the buttons, double-breasted, as she walked out.

  Baby clothes were half-price at Target; a Don’t Get Court shoplifting sign hung in the pharmacy window. She crossed the road and bought lunch — a salad roll and an apple-blackcurrant juice — from the café, and took it back to the car.

  She tossed her ‘new’ coat onto the back seat in case she dropped crumbs on it. After only a few bites, she felt full and put the roll back in its paper bag. She twisted the top off the juice and checked her phone. No messages. She rang Ryan. He sounded chirpy enough. He’d spoken to Rosie, and she was withdrawing the intervention-order application, and talking about letting him see Georgia on the weekends.

  She looked across the road. A skinny brown dog — no owner in sight — was pissing on a rubbish bin.

  ‘And I’ve got a call back for a Honda TVC, and an audition for a hospital staff training video.’

  Brigitte oohed and aahed and sipped her juice. A couple of scruffy teenagers walked hand-in-hand along the street. The girl looked pregnant, the boy stoned. They paused to gaze into the pharmacy. Brigitte turned her head in the direction of the Court House, and clocked Aidan and fucking Carla Flanagan walking up together. She choked on her drink.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Ryan said.

  Aidan and Flanagan stopped for a word to the teenagers before crossing the road to the café. Brigitte watched in the rear-view mirror. From her parking spot in the median strip, she saw them pull up chairs at an outside table. ‘Sorry, I’ve gotta go, Ryan. Ring you back later.’

  A waiter came out and took their orders. Aidan slid sunglasses on; Flanagan took a cigarette from a pack and offered him one. Aidan stuck it in his mouth, felt his jacket pockets, and pulled out the gold lighter. He lit both their smokes and handed the lighter to Flanagan; she laughed and held onto it. She exhaled a plume of grey-blue smoke. They talked and smiled. The waiter brought their coffees. Flanagan scraped her chair closer to Aidan’s. She sipped her coffee and looked at him over the rim of the cup, listening intently to whatever he was saying. Aidan extinguished his half-finished cigarette in the ashtray. Flanagan touched his shoulder, teasing him about something. Brigitte spilled her apple-blackcurrant juice down the front of her shirt and onto the white Gip TV seat cover.

  She turned on the ignition when she saw Tate step out of the pharmacy. He looked both ways and then smiled as he sauntered across the road.

  ‘Hurry up,’ she said as he got in. A horn blasted as she pulled out of the parking space, cutting off a car. Tate complained that he didn’t have his seatbelt on yet.

  32

  The roads, the towns, the countryside blurred by without Brigitte noticing. She was glad when Tate fell asleep; she didn’t want to talk. Aidan and Flanagan at the café. Just having a coffee. That’s all. She turned up Radiohead a little, hoping for guidance from Thom Yorke. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. How could he? ‘Karma Police’.

  She ran over a plank of wood just out of Rosedale. She hoped what she saw in the rear-view mirror wasn’t roofing nails sticking out of the wood.

  The tyre was good for another ten or so kilometres and then the car started to wobble. Brigitte pulled over.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Tate opened his eyes.

  ‘Know how to change a tyre, Tate?’

  He shook his head. ‘Why don’t you just stand out the front and wait till somebody stops to help.’

  ‘Why don’t you go stand out the front till somebody stops?’ She put her head on the steering wheel.

  Tate touched her shoulder. She shrugged his hand away. ‘We need to call the RACV.’

  When they got back to the office, Cam and Kumiko were discussing something at the front desk. Brigitte felt like she was going to cry as she braced herself for Cam’s tirade about taking so long. She started explaining about the flat tyre.

  ‘Oh my God, Brigitte,’ Kumiko said.

  She looked down at her shirt and pulled the lapel of her op-shop coat over it. ‘It’s just blackcurrant juice. And there’s a tiny bit on the —’

  ‘When do I get my manager’s fee?’ Cam grinned.

  ‘What?’ She blinked.

  ‘Remember the farmers’ market ads?’ Cam said.

  Hard to forget.

  ‘Well, a Melbourne casting agency saw them, and they want to represent you.’

  ‘You’re going to be famous!’ Kumiko gave a little jump, kicked up a heel.

  ‘They said to call them back,’ Cam said.

  ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Ring them,’ said Tate, touching her elbow, invading her personal space again. She pulled away from him.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Cam said, handing her a name and number on a Post-it note.

  ‘All right.’ She sighed, and told her colleagues to stop hovering. She needed a minute for composure and to think about what she was going to say. She wrote a little script: her mother and brother were both actors; how much she’d enjoyed working on the recent local commercials; she’d done some modelling when she was young — actually, best not to mention that.

  This could be fun — whatever that was, she could barely remember. And a bit of extra cash. A distraction to take her mind off things for a while would be good. An image of Aidan and Flanagan kissing made her eyes water. Stop! They were just drinking coffee. She cleared her throat and called Sandra Johansson at SJ Talent Management.

 
Sandra spoke with a contrived English accent, similar to Joan’s after a few. She said she’d booked Brigitte an audition for a Coles TV commercial at Zac Gecko Casting in Melbourne next Wednesday. She’d need to supply a photograph taken by one of the professional photographers on Sandra’s list, apply for a MEAA number, and pay an agency joining fee. Ryan had told her about agency scams, and she was about to say ‘no thank you’, when Sandra told her how much the Coles TVC was worth (a lot more than Gip TV paid talent), and she could organise the photo and fee after that.

  When Sandra hung up, Brigitte instinctively started to key Aidan’s number. She stopped and called Ryan instead. He told her what to expect at the audition and said he’d email her a list of vocal warm-up exercises. ‘And if you’re feeling really nervous, get some Inderal from your doctor.’

  ‘You know I can’t take things like that.’

  ‘A beta-blocker or two’s not going to do anything. Unless you mix them with Valium, sleeping pills, and half a bottle of whisky,’ said the pot to the kettle.

  ‘Ryan!’

  ‘Sorry. Please, please can I tell Joan? She’ll be green.’

  ‘No, I want to.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want to come for a drink to celebrate?’ Tate was waiting by the studio door with Johnno.

  ‘I’ve got a spare top you can borrow,’ Kumiko said, looking at Brigitte’s shirt.

  Cam stood with his hand poised to set the alarm, telling them to hurry up.

  Brigitte thought again about the café, and asked the crew to wait a minute. She rang Aidan and told him he’d have to pick up the kids; she was staying for after-work drinks. He protested — he was going to the boxing gym.

  ‘You’ll have to make something for dinner, too.’

  ‘But —’

  She hung up on him.

  33

  The smells and sounds of the pub reminded Brigitte of childhood. Hops and clinking glasses, potato chips and lemonade for dinner, playing Donkey Kong on the arcade table. And falling asleep — growing pains in her legs — under the pool table while Joan entertained friends.

  Kumiko’s little heels clicked on the hardwood floor as the Gip TV crew entered the front bar. Gold-rush architecture, brown bricks, timber, and stained glass. They chose a table next to the fireplace. Brigitte pulled off her scarf and coat, and threw them over the back of a chair. The black top Kumiko had lent her was a size or two too small. Tate slipped off his jacket. His Western shirt was another relic from Brigitte’s childhood. Or were they back in fashion? He sat with Johnno on the opposite side of the table.

  Cam asked what they all wanted to eat and drink, waving his Gip TV credit card in the air. Kumiko asked for the fish, and a vodka and lemonade. Tate and Johnno ordered steaks and beers. Brigitte said she wasn’t hungry; she just wanted a drink — a glass of red. Cam went up to the bar.

  Kumiko cupped her smooth, cool hand over Brigitte’s, tilted her head, and asked if she was OK.

  ‘I just got a talent agent.’ She couldn’t force her smile to meet her eyes, and slid her hand away. ‘I’m fine, Kumi. Really.’

  ‘I’m always here if you need to talk.’

  Brigitte nodded. Hurry up, drink. She looked at Cam’s back and laced her fingers on the glass-topped wooden table. It must have been special, extra-strong glass. The pub didn’t look like the kind of establishment where punters would be gentle with their drinks at the end of the night.

  A group of sweaty men in ripped jeans and black T-shirts carried guitars and band equipment through to the back room.

  ‘Do they have a band on here?’ Brigitte said.

  ‘Don’t get out much, do you?’ said Tate.

  Cam placed the drinks on the table. They raised their glasses to Brigitte’s imminent fame and fortune. Brigitte gulped her wine. Her phone rang in her bag, and she fished it out.

  Aidan. She hesitated, and then answered.

  ‘What time will you be home?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t know. Kids in bed?’

  ‘On their way. Do you know where the remote for the telly is?’

  ‘I can’t hear you, I have to go.’

  ‘I can’t find the remote.’

  Tell your problems to fucking Carla Flanagan. She hung up and put her phone away, carefully. She took another big drink, almost finishing the glass.

  ‘What are you, a fish?’ Cam said.

  ‘I said I wasn’t hungry — Oh, like Tate said, I don’t get out much.’

  Kumiko asked what she was planning to wear to the audition. That was the last thing on her mind. ‘Not too dressy. Neat casual, but not jeans.’ Kumiko sipped her drink through a straw. ‘Make-up, but natural — not too much. Neutral lipstick.’

  Brigitte nodded, not really listening.

  ‘I like your new coat,’ Kumiko said.

  Brigitte’s glass was empty, and she looked at the others’ drinks. They were all still going — except for Tate’s, but she pretended not to notice and went to order another. There were lots of coloured bottles lined up behind the bar; a menu advertised cocktails like Cocksucking Cowboy and Sex on the Beach.

  ‘Hi, Brigitte.’

  She turned to see Jeremy standing beside her. He was clean-shaven, and his khaki shirt brought out the colour in his eyes.

  She smiled. ‘Ferry all fixed?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Scott back?’

  He nodded.

  The barmaid poured Brigitte’s wine, and she reached for it, aware of how tightly Kumiko’s top stretched across her breasts. ‘What kind of dog do you have?’

  He glanced up at the race results on the TV screens. ‘A Rottweiler.’

  She’d pictured something smaller and fluffier running around his neat, little gingerbread house.

  ‘You’re lucky.’ She sighed. ‘I miss my dog so much, he was my best friend.’

  ‘Do they know who did it?’

  She shook her head. The headlights of a passing vehicle caught the sharp edges of the polished bar.

  ‘This is one of the longest bars in the country,’ Jeremy said.

  She followed it with her eyes — it was circular, looping all the way through the back rooms.

  Jeremy looked around her. ‘Aidan here?’

  ‘No. Here with some people from work. You?’

  ‘On my own. Just dropped off some stuff at a mate’s down the road, thought I’d pop in for one before heading home.’

  ‘Want to join us?’ She tilted her head towards their table.

  Jeremy followed with a beer in his hand. Cam said her phone had rung again. She turned it off this time. Cam and Kumiko exchanged glances. Did they think she couldn’t see?

  The meals arrived with a bowl of chips. Cam said he’d ordered them for Brigitte because she needed to eat something.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said. She shared them with Jeremy.

  ‘The new Symons Homes contract looks interesting,’ Kumiko said.

  Cam agreed enthusiastically between bites of rib-eye.

  Brigitte finished her wine and held up the empty glass. ‘Who shot the bartender?’

  Jeremy laughed.

  ‘Isn’t that the name of a racehorse?’ Cam said.

  Brigitte thought it was a saying Joan had made up.

  ‘Another round?’ Jeremy stood up. Kumiko shook her head. One was enough for her.

  ‘I’m right for the minute thanks.’ Cam covered his gin and tonic with his hand.

  Tate and Johnno held up index fingers. Jeremy asked Brigitte if she was having the shiraz or cab sav by the glass.

  ‘Whatever’s going. I’m easy.’

  Kumiko looked at her like she was her mother — well, a concerned mother, not like Joan.

  ‘Maybe get a bottle,’ Brigitte said.

  ‘Do you have a favourite?’

 
‘They’re all my favourites, Jeremy.’

  ‘Slow down, Brig,’ Cam said under his breath.

  Brigitte widened her eyes at him.

  ‘I’ll share it with, Brig,’ Tate said.

  ‘You, too, Tate,’ Cam said. ‘Neither of you’ll be able to drive home.’

  Brigitte didn’t feel like going home. ‘Cops might pull me over?’ She laughed.

  The band started tuning up out the back.

  ‘I love Cold Chisel,’ Johnno said.

  Seriously? Shouldn’t he be into ‘young people’s’ music? She tilted her head and said, ‘I thought they broke up.’

  Tate and Johnno laughed. ‘It’s a cover band,’ Tate said. ‘Cold Sizzle.’

  ‘Wow. Silly me. Sounds great. I really should get out more.’

  Jeremy placed a bottle and two glasses between Brigitte and Tate. Brigitte poured, spilled some on her hand and on the glass tabletop. She licked her hand. ‘Cheers, Tate.’ They clinked glasses. ‘Lucky they didn’t call the band Cold Pizzle.’ She laughed and choked on her wine.

  Cam and Kumiko frowned at her.

  She cleared her throat. ‘What? It’s funny. Cold Pizzle. Do you know what pizzle is, Tate?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Brig,’ Cam said.

  ‘What is it?’ Tate said.

  ‘I know,’ Jeremy said. ‘Bull’s penis.’

  Brigitte laughed again until her eyes filled with tears.

  After dinner, one of the bar staff cleared away their plates and glasses. Johnno excused himself to go watch the band. Tate joined him — he’d recognised the drummer as one of his mates, or, more likely, that the girl in the frayed shorts was young enough to still find him interesting in the morning. Good. Brigitte flashed a condescending smile as he walked away.

  ‘Don’t take it out on him, Brig,’ Cam said.

  ‘Why not? He’s annoying.’

  The pub was filling up with men in flannelette, and women in not much. Cam finished the last of his drink, stood, and asked Jeremy what he was having.

  ‘A light thanks, mate.’

  Brigitte tilted the wine bottle — it was empty.

  ‘And Brigitte’s had enough,’ Cam said.