Dead in the Water

by Tania Chandler

  After she’d brought the kids home from school, Brigitte ironed the white linen tablecloth — their only tablecloth. She found candles and polished Nana’s old silver.

  She applied some of Sunny’s clay facemask, showered, rubbed herself with ‘sensual body oil’, blow-waved her hair, and put on a little black dress and a touch of make-up — no lipstick.

  ‘Oh my God, Mum, what happened to your face?’ Phoebe said.

  ‘Nothing. Just a bit of a reaction to a mask.’ She went back to the bathroom and blended a little more make-up over the rash.

  At five o’clock, she filled their largest pot with water and put it on the stove. According to the recipe: If you can boil water, you can boil a lobster.

  When the water was rolling, she took the crayfish out of the fridge. Finn and Ella stood around watching. Phoebe had refused to witness such ‘animal cruelty’. Finn had told her it was a crustacean, not an animal, as she’d huffed off.

  The recipe instructions were to hold the lobster by its back and place it head-first in the water and then quickly cover the pot with a lid. Depending on how active the lobster is, this may be a two-person job. Brigitte told Finn she might need his help as she lifted the lid off the esky. The crayfish looked up with its little black eyes and waggled its feathery antennae. She replaced the lid, turned off the gas, and told the kids to put on their shoes and coats. They complained as they took the crayfish back to Joe’s to exchange it for two salmon steaks.

  When they returned home, Brigitte put on the fish fingers and veggie burger.

  She dispensed a few drops of ‘romance blend’ into her new, ultrasonic vaporiser. Sunny had explained how it worked on the vibration of water rather than heat to disperse essential oils into the air, and it had a romantic LED light.

  There was no answer when she phoned Aidan to see how far away he was. Hopefully he was on his way, driving.

  She heated some oil in a pan to fry the salmon steaks. Joe had told her to be careful not to overcook them. She seared the steaks on both sides and lifted them out carefully with a spatula. They looked raw in the middle when poked with a fork, so she put them back on the heat. The fish fingers were also taking a long time, so she turned up the oven.

  She’d forgotten to put white wine in the fridge. There was no wine — white or red — left in the cupboard. Should have bought some in town. Harry might have a spare bottle? She turned off the salmon, left it in the pan to cool, and went over to Harry’s. Not home. He was quite the man-about-town these days. She heard the ferry docking, and ran down to ask Jeremy if he could pick up a bottle for her on the mainland.

  When she got back, the stink of burning fish overpowered the aromatherapy oil. She opened the oven, and smoke billowed out. Black fish fingers and veggie burger. The smoke detector went off, and the kids came out to see what was going on as she whacked it — fuck, fuck, fuck — with the broom handle.

  She opened the door and windows to clear out the smell. It was cold outside; a koala grunted in a tree. She flicked on the porch light for Aidan, and phoned him again. He answered this time, said he was busy — at the boxing gym.

  When she slid the salmon out of the pan, it fell to pieces. She scraped it, along with the fish fingers and burger, into the bin, cleaned up the mess, soaked the pan, and took the Paynesville pizza-place menu off the fridge.

  ‘Pizza,’ Harry called through the open door. Brigitte started, and he apologised. ‘Bumped into the delivery bloke in the driveway.’ He was holding their two pizzas, and a bottle of red. He’d had a haircut and ironed the white shirt that was tucked into his jeans, but he still looked dishevelled somehow. He screwed up his nose at the smell in the house.

  ‘Burnt our dinner.’ Brigitte sighed and took the wine and pizzas, saying they would go perfectly together. She offered Harry some money, but he insisted it was his shout.

  She served the pizza for the kids and let them eat in the lounge room.

  ‘You look nice,’ Brigitte said to Harry. ‘Got a hot date later?’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘Where’s Aid?’

  ‘Boxing gym.’ She put on Tom Waits. ‘Sit down, Harry.’

  He looked at her dress and at the table. ‘You sure?’

  She took two glasses from the cabinet, sat at the head of the table, and lit one of the candles. ‘Supposed to absorb odours, isn’t it?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘You look tired, love. Aid still upset?’

  She nodded and poured the wine.

  ‘Sorry, none of my business.’ He kept his gaze on the table.

  ‘Hope you like Margherita or Hawaiian.’

  He cupped a hand over hers, and her bottom lip wobbled; she couldn’t stop it, the dam of tears broke the wall. He opened his arms, and she leaned against him, blubbering over his crisp, white shirt. ‘I don’t even like salmon.’

  He stroked her hair. ‘Shh. Aid just needs some space for a bit.’

  It felt like he kissed the top of her head. At the sound of footsteps on the porch, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. She’d forgotten she was wearing make-up — mascara blackened her knuckles and Harry’s shirt.

  Aidan brought the cold in with him. His boxing gloves were slung over his shoulder; his hair was still damp from showering at the gym.

  Harry stood and said, ‘G’day, Aid. Just on my way out.’ He left with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Pizza?’ Brigitte looked up with a tired smile, and a desire to rush over and wrap her arms around him, rest her face against his chest, lead him to the bedroom, make things better.

  Aidan flung the door behind him, too hard; it bounced open. ‘I can’t believe you hate me that much.’ His eyes were shining. ‘And I trusted him.’ His voice went up a few decibels.

  Harry! It would have been funny, but for the anguish on Aidan’s face, the crack in his voice.

  ‘I saw through the window, Brigitte!’ He threw his boxing gloves; she ducked, and they narrowly missed her head, knocking over the candle and extinguishing the flame. Wax oozed across the tablecloth.

  He turned to leave.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Ray’s!’ He stormed out.

  ‘Aidan!’

  She heard another male voice in the driveway — not Harry’s — and angry words from Aidan. Then his car door slammed and the engine revved.

  ‘Where’s Aidan?’ Phoebe rushed into the kitchen. ‘What did you do to him, Mum!’

  Brigitte held up her hands. Phoebe ran out after him. Too late — by the time she’d reached the edge of the porch, he was gunning his car out of the driveway, spraying gravel against the side of the house.

  Phoebe stomped back through the house, leaving the door wide open behind her. Brigitte’s shoulders slumped, and her head wilted forward like a flower too heavy for its stem.

  At the sound of scuffing on the mat, she looked up. Jeremy was holding a bottle of wine in a bag from The Old Pub. She walked over, sniffing as the cold air stung her nose.

  He tilted his head, an I’m a good listener look in his eyes.

  ‘People are waiting for the ferry, Jeremy.’ She swapped the bottle for a twenty-dollar note. ‘Good night.’ She locked the three locks on the door behind him, turned down the music, and sat back at the table. She poured more wine, and picked at the candle wax on the tablecloth. Why the fuck had she taken notice of some crazy old fisherman?

  39

  It would be about a three-and-a-half-hour drive to Zac Gecko Casting in South Yarra. If Brigitte left straight after the school and day-care drop-offs, she’d have plenty of time to make her 12.45 audition. She’d been lying in bed stressing about it for at least an hour before the alarm went off.

  She drank two glasses of warm water with lemon juice — something Joan used to do every morning, for clear skin. She took her coffee to the bathroom, and applied make-up, but not too much, as per
Kumiko’s advice. A slick of concealer under her eyes to disguise the dark circles, a dab on her forehead to cover the scar. Neutral lipstick. Blot with a tissue. Powder. Reapply. That would make it last all day. Joan’s life tips were finally coming in handy.

  She straightened her hair, and then pulled on underwear, new thirty-dollar opaque tights, a cream shirt, and a black skirt. No jacket. Not too dressy. She frowned at the mirror as she zipped up her skirt: she looked like a waitress, but there wasn’t enough time to iron another shirt. She hadn’t worn the skirt for a while and, even when she sucked in her stomach, the roll of flesh around her middle mushroomed over the top. If Joan could see, she’d suggest that was part of the reason for Aidan’s disinterest in her.

  She’d wear the jacket. And jog more often, and get to the gym at least three times a week, no excuses.

  She drank another glass of water while she made the school lunches, and shouted at the kids to hurry up and get ready. Joan always drank at least five litres a day in the week leading up to an audition or performance, not that she’d performed in at least ten years. Superhydrating, she called it. She hadn’t named her counterbalancing alcohol consumption. Superdehydrating?

  Waiting in the ferry queue, Finn said he’d forgotten his bag, and Brigitte yelled at him for making her late as they went back to get it.

  After rushed school and day-care drop-offs, she did some deep breathing. Her armpits were sweaty, so she folded two wads of tissues and stuck them under there. She flicked off the heater — too dehydrating — as she headed towards the turnoff in Bairnsdale.

  Nick Cave on the stereo, the rhythm of the tyres, the pattern of the white lines, the flicker of paddocks in her peripheral vision. Finally, she started to relax, allowing her mind to drift.

  Aidan. She thought about being curled against his back in bed, his warm citrus-scented skin. If she rolled over, he would follow and mould his body to hers, his erection nuzzling her back. He’s leaving me. Don’t think about that — not now, not today.

  She redirected her thoughts to painless, silly places. If she nailed this commercial, it might lead to something more — a series of commercials, a role in a TV drama. Maybe she should take some acting lessons.

  She sipped water from her bottle, rolled her shoulders, stretched her neck, and started preparing for the audition with Ryan’s vocal exercises. ‘Down deep in the mine, dig down, down, down. Father’s car is a jaguar. Red leather, yellow leather, red leather …’ She thought of the stitching on Matt’s red leather couch. Walking up the path to his little house with the picket fence, the blue roof. Wearing Kerry’s boots. How could you be so fucking stupid? Not now. Not today. She ejected Nick Cave, and put on Radiohead.

  She slowed for road works and glanced at her fingernails. One was split. She tore it off with her teeth. Should have had a manicure. She’d have to keep her hands out of sight, folded in her lap at the audition. At least her skin would be hydrated; she swigged more water.

  Just out of Warragul, there was a blue sign pointing to a rest stop with a toilet. She could wait.

  She drummed her hands on the steering wheel and sang the wrong words to the song playing: something about being let down and squashed like a bug on the ground.

  There were no public toilets on the freeway, and, as she hit the leafy south-eastern suburbs, she really needed to go.

  The traffic was thick on Toorak Road. Why hadn’t she just gone in fucking Warragul? She reached around and unzipped her skirt to ease the pressure on her bladder.

  She yelled at the cars in front to hurry up, and thanked God when she saw Chapel Street. Her phone rang as she rounded the corner. She turned down the music. Sandra Johansson from SJ Talent Management, asking if she was at Zac Gecko yet. She put her on speaker.

  ‘Just around the corner.’

  ‘You’re late.’

  She glanced at the clock: 12.43. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘I’ll call to let them know you’re running late.’

  ‘A lot of traffic.’

  ‘This is unacceptable.’

  ‘Rightio.’ All she cared about was finding a toilet. Her bladder was about to explode.

  There were no parking spots out front of the agency. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She was seriously going to wet herself. There was a small street-level car park at the end of the street. No way would there be a spot in there. But there was. Hallelujah! She slammed the car into ‘Park’, almost within the parking space lines, and rushed out. She hobbled across the road — bent forward, thighs squeezed together — to the office with the big gecko on the one-way glass frontage.

  ‘Brigitte Serra for “Soft drink mum”? You’re late,’ the receptionist said with a cat’s-bum smile as she handed Brigitte a form on a clipboard.

  ‘Where’s the bathroom!’ She slammed the clipboard on the desk.

  The receptionist pointed, and Brigitte charged up the stairs. There was somebody in the ladies’, so she went into the men’s. She almost made it: hitched up her skirt, but didn’t have enough time to pull her tights and underpants out of the way.

  Massive relief quickly became mortification as she rolled off her wet undies and thirty-dollar tights. It could have been worse: diarrhoea, her period. The urine was so diluted — superhydrated — it was practically water anyway, and it hadn’t gone on her skirt. Still, she felt nauseated as she wrapped her underwear in toilet paper and threw it in the bin.

  A tall handsome man in a suit scowled at her as she walked out.

  She bobbed down to pick up the tissues that had fallen onto the floor from under her armpits. The receptionist didn’t smile when she retrieved the clipboard from the front desk.

  Five women — most wearing expensive gym wear, all wearing a lot of make-up — sat on chairs, filling in forms. They must have been auditioning for a different role. Photos of actors lined the walls; a stand filled with agents’ business cards and acting-class brochures stood next to a water dispenser. Brigitte took a seat, and filled in her details on the form. Measurements? She looked up, trying to guess, and noticed a handful of tape measures hanging from a hook in the corner — lucky, because her guess was way off.

  A tanned, blonde woman breezed in, wearing high heels with her gym gear. She paused momentarily to make sure everybody had noticed her entrance. The water dispenser gurgled as she poured herself a cup before approaching the reception desk. She and the receptionist knew each other by name. She was also auditioning for ‘Soft drink mum’. Great.

  Brigitte checked her phone. M.E. Elery would like to connect with her on LinkedIn. Delete. And a text from Tate:

  Good luck with the audition.:) T x

  Oh my God — all the x’s, and smiley faces, and touching — it dawned that he had a crush on her. She chided herself for the stupid warm flush that rushed through her body. She thought about her reply for a minute and then texted:

  Thanks, but you’re supposed to say ‘break a leg’.:) B

  She went to cross her legs, but stopped herself. A bad idea without underpants, Sharon Stone. She kept her knees together and frowned at her calves — she hadn’t bothered shaving the stubby hairs, as the expensive opaque tights were supposed to be covering them.

  Back to silly thoughts: If Tate was thirty, which she doubted, how old would he be when she was forty? And when she was forty-five? Fifty? A lesser age gap than between Aidan and Carla Flanagan?

  The receptionist — twentysomething, skinny, dressed in black — interrupted her calculations, calling her to an alcove beyond the front desk. She felt all the eyes in the room on her, judging, with nothing to judge except the way she looked. Vultures, waiting to feed on failure. The soles of her flat shoes squeaked on the polished boards.

  The receptionist took the clipboard, and told her to smile as she snapped a photo for the Zac Gecko database. ‘Damian will see you now.’

  Damian — age hard to guess, even skinnier th
an the receptionist, narrow rust-coloured trousers and salmon shirt — shook her hand firmly. She followed him down a corridor to a room containing a couple of chairs, a camera on a tripod, and a monitor. He told her to stand on the mark: a strip of gaffer tape on the navy carpet.

  ‘Please tell us your name and agent,’ he said from behind the camera.

  Her mouth was dry, and she found it difficult to keep her head from shaking as she spoke. Ryan was right: she should have got some Inderal. Stop being silly, you are an adult.

  ‘Terrific.’ Damian beamed, and handed her a script with one line highlighted: After a hard day at school, there’s nothing the kids love more than a big, cool glass of 3% real, natural fruit juice with 100% fizzy fun. And twenty spoonfuls of sugar, she thought. She could have written something much better.

  She rehearsed the line a few times. Damian asked her to lose the jacket and roll up her sleeves so ‘we’ could see her muscles. She reluctantly did as she was told.

  ‘We’re after a healthy, sporty look.’

  It would have been nice of Sandra Johansson to have briefed her on that.

  Damian handed her two bottles of soft drink and told her to do bicep curls with them while she said the line.

  She laughed. ‘Are you serious?’

  His look told her that he was.

  He allowed her five takes, but she was too nervous to memorise the line and didn’t once get it right. Damian thanked her, told her she’d done great, and he’d see her next time.

  ‘Thank you,’ the receptionist called as Brigitte rushed out of the agency, ignoring the pretty vultures smoothing their hair, filing their nails, and talking on mobiles to their people.

  In the car, she flopped her head against the steering wheel. How could she have been so childish? The ideas she’d harboured of being a TV star, what she’d done to her and Aidan, her thoughts about Tate. And somewhere, a family were grieving for their murdered wife and mother, while at the same time others were pretending to do exercise with soft-drink bottles in order to sell crap that causes obesity, diabetes, and tooth decay.