The Happiness Show

by Catherine Deveny

  When Lizzie arrived at the pub late one afternoon, covered in a fine layer of sweat and still smelling of the plane’s refresher towels, Jules was standing on the pool table flashing a brown eye. What Lizzie had always thought of as an Australian custom – dropping your daks if you didn’t manage to pot one ball in the entire game – was obviously an internationally ratified treaty. Lizzie wasn’t surprised to see Jules baring her arse: she couldn’t play pool to save herself. But she played all the time anyway. She reckoned she was better looking under the fringed pendant lights.

  The pool table was surrounded by boys clutching pints and chanting, ‘Jules, Jules, Jules, Jules.’ But when Jules saw Lizzie, she squealed, pulled up her pants and clambered down from the table.

  ‘LIZZIIIIIIIEEE!’ She leapt through the air, throwing her arms and legs around Lizzie, who toppled backwards to the floor, her spine cushioned by her backpack. And they laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

  They spent the evening in the front bar of the Hog’s Breath, catching up on gossip. By the time they’d both drunk their body weight in red wine, Tom arrived, looking clean and fresh and dashing. Lizzie hardly recognised him in his London clothes. For weeks they’d both worn the same rotation of half a dozen travelling outfits. Their uniform. Their costume.

  As he walked towards them, Lizzie tried to look a little less drunk than she was. After being joined at the hip for a month it had been strange to be separated, even for a few hours. She had missed him so much, she felt tragic and addicted. She’d almost forgotten how to talk to other people. This, she thought, must be what it’s like to be in a cult.

  ‘Alright, Lizzie?’ His hands were in his pockets and they both shifted awkwardly on their feet.

  ‘Alright what?’

  ‘That’s how you say “How’s it hanging?” in London,’ translated Jules.

  ‘I thought that was “Fancy a shag?”’

  Lizzie introduced Tom and Jules and sat back, watching in utter contentment as her best mate and her new bloke got on like a house on fire. When Tom went back to the bar to get another drink, Lizzie leant in close.

  ‘Well?’ she slurred.

  ‘Funny guy. Kind of cute in a Hugh Grant way.’

  Just then a man walked up behind Jules, put his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. He had tousled hair, wore a sleeveless flannelette shirt and looked exactly like Russell Crowe.

  ‘Lizzie, this is Pauly. Pauly, Lizzie.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Pauly. Mind if I call you Russell?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ he said in a broad Australian accent. ‘Everyone does.’

  Lizzie didn’t know where she’d be sleeping that night. In fact, she didn’t find out until she woke up the next morning – in Jules’s bunk with a hangover and a vague recollection of throwing up in the hair of the girl sitting next to her. Just, thankfully, after Tom had left with some mates.

  She lay there concentrating on not moving and pieced the evening together. She wondered where Tom was and whether it had all been a dream. It was dawning on her that perhaps it had just been a travel romance. She loved him, she ached for him and she missed him violently. She wanted to cry, she wanted to spew, but most of all she wanted a toilet. She wandered out into the hall, bleary-eyed and bed-headed, and found the bathroom. She stuck her head under the tap, drank as much water as possible and, steadying herself against the sink, vowed never to drink again.

  When she made her way back to Jules’s bed, there was Jules, putting on her mascara and looking as fresh as a daisy.

  ‘Jesus, Lizzie, you look like shit.’

  ‘Feel free to state the obvious at any stage.’ Lizzie collapsed onto Jules’s bunk. ‘What’s your secret?’

  ‘Mega E with vitamin B and garlic,’ said Jules, handing Lizzie a cup of tea in a mug with ceramic tits on it. ‘It’s a prophylactic. Have two before you drink and you’ll never be hung over again.’

  ‘Where do you get it? I’ll have two million.’

  ‘Boots.’

  ‘Boots?’

  ‘Boots. It’s a pharmacy chain with everything you will ever need and I want to set one up in Australia when I go back. Every time I go there, I feel like I’m on a girl’s own adventure.’

  While Jules finished her makeup, Lizzie stared at the underside of the top bunk and blinked hard, trying not to cry. But when Jules put her makeup bag away and turned away from the mirror, she saw immediately that Lizzie was not in a good way.

  ‘Lizzie, what’s going down?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Lizzie Quealy.’

  And Lizzie let go. ‘I don’t know what’s happening with Tom now we’re here. I don’t know if it’s still on. Or what’s going on. And I think I love him, Jules, and it was weird last night. Fuck, I wish I hadn’t been so pissed. Oh GOD, Jules, I don’t know where he is. Maybe he has another girlfriend. I’m supposed to be a feminist. FUCK!’

  ‘Heyyyyy. Get it together, Liz,’ said Jules firmly, lowering herself down onto the bed. ‘Yes, you were pissed, but didn’t you notice he’d had a smoke or two? And even if he’d known you were pissed, he wouldn’t have given a shit. I could tell he was crazy about you. He left because he had to meet up with some mates and I thought it would be far more sensible for you to stay here last night because everyone’s away at Glastonbury for the weekend. Yes, you were a bit pissed and okay, you did throw up in some girl’s hair. But everything is fine. I’m moving into a proper house today with some English girl and I told Tom to come over there for a few drinks. It’s just around the corner from his brother’s place. Okay?’ Jules gave Lizzie a hug. ‘And look. What’s that?’

  Lying on the floor was a coaster. Lizzie picked it up. Written on the back were a phone number and the words ‘Love, Tom.’ It was the first time Lizzie had seen his handwriting, apart from the signature in his passport. Suddenly she felt better.

  Jules took Lizzie out for a restorative fry-up. When Lizzie found herself dipping chips into runny eggs smothered in tomato sauce for breakfast, she knew she was in England. She’d never had any interest in coming to England before. It had never seemed like somewhere that would be exciting or exotic – and it wasn’t. But right now she couldn’t think of a place she’d rather be.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping, counting the hours and reading trashy magazines in the dorm room. She did quizzes with titles like ‘Are You a Good Best Friend?’ ‘Does He Really Love You?’ and ‘Are You a Sex Bomb or a Wallflower?’ The dorm was deserted most of the day, but at one point a Norwegian guy turned up and they compared notes.

  ‘What is the drinking age in Australia?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Is that enforced?’

  Lizzie thought for a second before answering seriously, ‘Yes. They make us drink.’

  When Pauly arrived to drive Jules and her stuff over to Stoke Newington, Lizzie went with them. That was the great thing about travelling – you needed so little and you had so little to lose. Sometimes Lizzie felt like a snail, her house on her back wherever she went.

  The house was pokey and a little twee, but comfortable. It belonged to an English girl who rented the spare room out to backpackers for fifty quid a week. She liked backpackers because they were hardly ever home.

  Lizzie and Jules threw their stuff into the empty bedroom before piling back into Pauly’s car to get supplies. When they arrived back with chips, dips and beer, Tom was waiting outside. Holding a bunch of flowers. Lizzie had never been happier in her life.

  ‘A house-warming present,’ he said, handing the flowers to Jules. Lizzie felt briefly deflated but she was so happy to see him again. He was there and that was a start. Pauly and Jules started fussing around in the kitchen and Tom pulled Lizzie into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. He threw her onto the bed and slipped h
is hands up her skirt, kissing her wildly. ‘Fuck, Lizzie, I missed you. Fuck, Lizzie, I missed you. Fuck, Lizzie, I missed you,’ he couldn’t stop saying. And she melted.

  When Lizzie and Tom rolled out of the bedroom smug and dishevelled, Pauly and Jules were sitting out on the tiny terrace with a tiny white dog. Its name tag said ‘Clarence.’

  ‘A hard-earned thirst needs a big cold beer,’ said Jules, handing them a bottle each. ‘You can get it when you’re having a fag.’

  Lizzie took a sip. ‘You can get it when you’ve just had a shag.’

  ‘Matter of fact,’ chimed in Pauly, ‘I’ve got it now.’

  The three Australians clinked their bottles. Tom had no idea what they were on about, but he decided that he liked Australians. Or at least these ones.

  ‘Cheers,’ he muttered. ‘Here’s to international peace-keeping through alcohol.’

  As the sun went down and the moon came up, a cultural exchange and a bloody good laugh was had by all. They spent a good half hour exchanging misunderstood song lyrics.

  ‘You know that Billy Joel song?’ said Lizzie.

  ‘You like Billy Joel? Call the police,’ Tom said in horror.

  ‘I don’t like him, but you know that song “You May Be Right, I May Be Crazy”? I thought it was “You Make the Rice, I Make the Gravy.”’

  ‘I thought that Eurythmics song was “Sweet Dreams Are Made of Cheese.”’

  ‘Aren’t they?’

  ‘Okay, you know that Beatles song “She’s Got a Ticket to Ride”? I thought it was “She’s Got a Chicken to Ride.”’

  ‘My little brother thought it was “Dirty Deeds Done to Sheep.”’

  ‘And then there’s the swearing in The Sound of Music,’ offered Lizzie.

  ‘What swearing?’ asked Tom.

  ‘You know, when Maria goes in to see Mother Superior and Mother Superior says …’

  And the Australians recited in unison: ‘What is it, you cunt face?’

  It was at this exact moment that the English girl who owned the house walked in.

  ‘Oh!’ said Jules, standing up. ‘Sorry. I’m Jules. You said to make myself at home. I’m Jules, and this is Pauly, Lizzie and …’

  ‘Tommy!’ said the Englishwoman. ‘Tommy, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Japan.’ And she grabbed Tom into a hug.

  It was Barking. The Tit Girl. It was Sophie.

  CHAPTER 12

  Shit, thought Tom. Shit, shit, shit. ‘Um, I met, well, we all kind of met, er … travelling.’

  Sophie’s twice-weekly letters to him had finally stopped when he got a Japanese student he was shagging to write ‘NOT AT THIS ADDRESS’ in kanji on the envelopes and send them back. He felt a little guilty, but it seemed the kindest thing to do. Anyway, he hadn’t written to anyone else for the entire trip, so at least she couldn’t feel left out.

  Suddenly a tall blond man in a suit appeared behind her, carrying a briefcase.

  ‘Ah, everyone – sorry, Tom, this is rather awkward – this is my fiancé, David.’

  Tom had never been so happy to see somebody in his life. ‘Wonderful to meet you, David.’ He shook the man’s hand vigorously, grinning from ear to ear. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of Lizzie. He realised how far he’d come and how lucky he was and wondered when the bubble would burst.

  So Lizzie and Tom moved into Mad Will’s room with the 1920s wallpaper and a window that looked out over Brixton common. Kids by day, smackies and dealers by night. They shared the house with a crazy black gay bodybuilder called Terry who drank nothing but protein drinks and an albino Goth called Jane who had an eating disorder and only answered to the name ‘Rat.’ The plan was that Lizzie would stay until she and Jules found somewhere to set up house.

  Tom and Lizzie bought a double bed and concentrated on sex, drinking and pillow talk. They went out occasionally for food, purely for the novelty of wearing clothes. They never really felt like eating but their appetites were insatiable – usually they had no idea how hungry they were until their meals arrived, but food had never tasted so good. They gave the term sex-starved a whole new meaning. Chicken Caesar salad, chips and beers, fettuccine carbonara, beef in blackbean with cashews and green capsicum, egg and bacon sandwiches on thickly sliced toast. Chianti, Chinese tea, coffee and orange juice. Nothing works up a hunger like sex, talk and more sex. Lizzie had never been so svelte in her life.

  Lizzie met Tom’s mates, who had names like James, Dan, Hugo and Nick and girlfriends with names like Lucy, Alice, Jane and Arabella. They drank at pubs called the Bishop’s Finger, Fanny on the Hill, the Funnel and Firkin and the Barmy Arms. She liked the lads; they were reserved with her but polite. They didn’t strike her as guys who had female friends. The women were friendly but standoffish, which was fine by her.

  She also met Tom’s brother Ned, who had once been a punk in the Nuclear Disarmament Party. He was now an architect and, as far as Lizzie could see, a condescending Tory wanker. It was Ned who’d introduced Tom to Billy Bragg, back when he was still stuffing envelopes for the NDP. Their mum had just died and Ned would take Tom along with him to a dingy Islington warehouse, hoping to impress the chicks. While fifteen punks sat around folding fliers and listening to music, Tom would play Galaga on an old computer table that had been ‘liberated’ and donated to the cause. Ned adopted a northern accent on these occasions and told Tom that if anyone asked, they were from Newcastle.

  Lizzie picked up the odd shift at the Hog’s Breath and Tom started going for interviews at law firms. Not to be a lawyer, of course; just to get a bit of money behind him so that he could be a photographer.

  You know how to make God laugh? Tell him your plans.

  Lizzie had no plans but to be with Tom. Just to smell him, to breathe him in, to meld. But that was easy for Lizzie because she was still travelling; this wasn’t real life. Tom, on the other hand, was at home. Now he was back, he felt the pull to play the game. Or at least to look like he was playing the game.

  He first felt this pull a couple of weeks after their return, when he took Lizzie to his cousin’s wedding in Sussex. The invitation said ‘and friend,’ so Lizzie got to frock up and meet the family. As you can imagine, she had nothing to wear. She called Jules in a fluster.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Jules. ‘Size ten?’

  ‘Ten if it’s big, twelve if it’s small and fourteen if it’s couture.’

  Jules struck gold. Freya, a Canadian girl who’d lived for a while in the Hog’s Breath, was now working at Selfridges in the ladies wear department. Jules promised her free beer if she could set Lizzie up with a frock. Lizzie would buy something on her credit card on the Friday and return it on the Monday for a refund. Not the most original plan, but it would work.

  Lizzie took the tube to Selfridges on her own because Tom was at an interview. It felt strange being by herself. Strange but good. She loved missing him. When she walked into the shop, she was overwhelmed by the beautiful clothes – and flabbergasted by the prices. ‘Five hundred quid for a satin shift made in China! Fair suck of the sav, mate.’

  ‘I know,’ said Freya. ‘I remember being at a market in Beijing, wading through cow shit ankle-deep and haggling over something just like it. I got him down to the equivalent of one dollar! I was arguing over a quarter of a cent in the end. And you know what? I still didn’t buy it. Here, try this on. You’d look stunning in this.’

  And she was right. It was a midnight-blue shot-silk halter dress with a slightly flared skirt and beading in the bodice. It was classy, it was sexy, it was gorgeous. Lizzie put it on, Freya zipped it up and Lizzie was speechless. For the first time in her life, she felt like a princess.

  ‘I love it.’ Lizzie’s eyes glowed. She looked at the tag. Three hundred and fifty quid. ‘That’s not too bad,’ she reasoned as she handed Freya her credit card. ‘Fu
ck, what am I saying? Seven hundred dollars for a frock. It didn’t take me long to acclimatise.’ Then she remembered something. ‘Oh, shit – shoes!’

  ‘What size are you?’

  ‘Seven and a half.’

  ‘No problem.’ Freya reached into a small closet near the dressing room and pulled out a pair of navy blue mules with a high but manageable heel. ‘On the house,’ she said, popping them into a bag with the dress.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We have millions of these things. They’re for women to use when they’re trying on dresses. There’s black, navy, red or cream. I’d give you the red ones – but was it Andy Warhol who said red shoes should only be worn by children and hookers?’

  Lizzie wanted to cry. She felt as if Freya was her fairy godmother. ‘I’m so grateful. What can I do to make it up to you? Do you want my first-born? An organ, maybe? Does anyone in your family need a transplant?’

  Freya laughed. ‘Just get the dress back in one piece on Monday. I do this all the time.’

  The day of the wedding, Tom sat in their grubby lounge room staring absent-mindedly at the television, waiting for Lizzie to get ready. Rat was sitting in a corner pulling a bong. It was 10 a.m. on a Saturday.

  And then Lizzie was standing in the doorway. She’d imagined this moment. ‘Well?’ she said.

  Rat looked up first. ‘Good one,’ she said, exhaling a fat cloud of Jamaican Gold.

  Tom turned around and an expression of pure astonishment rolled across his face.

  Lizzie glittered. He had never seen her in heels, lipstick or stockings before and she was breathtaking. The first words that came to mind were ‘vision of loveliness,’ but instead he tried to play it cool and said, ‘Fancy a shag?’ Then he said, ‘Where did you … how much did that … fuck, Lizzie, you look gorgeous. Where did you get all that stuff?’