Guy reappears holds a bottle in my direction. “Drink?”
“What is it?”
“Water that pretends to be special because it’s flavoured and in a fancy bottle.” He holds up a cup. “I have coffee, but it’s cold. You can have that instead if you like?”
I take the bottle and grip as he sits next to me. The incessant call of the cicadas and the low sound of cars travelling a nearby road edge into my awareness. Guy gulps his coffee.
“Who were the flowers for?” I ask.
“Whoever wanted them.”
He looks ahead, long fingers curled around the cup. “You randomly buy flowers to give to girls?”
“Why not? The flowers are thrown away by the store if they’re not sold.” He smiles to himself. “I like to see people’s reactions.”
“I wouldn’t expect you find many girls here.”
“I stop here on my way home sometimes. I told you, I like the view. I bought the flowers earlier and they were in the car when I saw you.” He pauses before adding quietly, “You looked like you really needed some flowers, Phe.”
I shiver again. The headache is joined by an exhaustion as I give in to the change in my evening. “That’s a strange thing to do.”
“So’s jumping off rocks.”
“True.”
The water is cool when I drink, and I hold the water in my mouth, the fizz bubbling against my cheeks as I focus on the flavour. Strawberry? Raspberry? Something more exotic? I swallow. Side by side, we don’t look at each other. Is Guy taking glances at me the way I am at him? His fringe reaches his heavy brow and every few minutes he sweeps a strand away, a gesture he probably doesn’t realise he’s repeating.
Despite the warmth of the evening; my body shakes with the awareness of what I almost did.
“Maybe I should take you to the hospital,” he says.
“No!”
“Okay. But I have to take you somewhere, otherwise, I won’t be able to tick you off my list.” He flashes me his dimpled smile.
“Your bucket list. Of course.”
“Will you write one?”
“Maybe.”
“Will you ask somebody for help?”
When I turn my head, he’s searching my eyes for the answer he wants. “To write my list?”
“No. To get well. To live your life instead of giving up.” The undercurrent of his words is clear in the intensity of the look we share. His is being taken. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to touch his face, ground myself completely with human contact, and ask him what lies beneath the deep water in his eyes.
“I’ll ask for help. Again,” I say.
“Good.” He stands. “Start with me. Either let me drive you somewhere or call a taxi.”
My bag lies in the scrub where I dropped it earlier and I grab the strap.
“Let’s go, Phe.” As Guy strides away, I hesitate, watching his tall figure as he steps into the shadows. I’m not sure I can trust a man who hangs around suicide spots, with flowers, at dusk.
But why would he save my life if he’s going to hurt me?
Chapter Two
Two Months Later
I scrape my hair into a ponytail and snap a band around as I step onto the bus. The bus is cramped with bodies and I squeeze onto half a vacant seat, next to the large woman encroaching on the remaining space. Good thing my backside is smaller than hers. Arms wrapped around her brown leather bag, she doesn’t take her eyes of her kindle, and I shuffle to the seat edge, feet dangerously close to tripping anyone else who heads along the aisle.
The journey into the city should be short, but is long thanks to the traffic. I’ve lived in Perth five months, moved over here from Melbourne after completing my Media degree. I’m not entirely sure how I fought off the competition and won the traineeship as a journalist at Belle de Jour, or how long I can hold onto the job without collapsing in a mess – or off a cliff. The fact the popular magazine held the traineeship open for me while I spent time in hospital, then the few weeks after as I took time out, bolsters my confidence. I must’ve impressed them somehow in the few months before my breakdown, and this vote of confidence adds to my determination to keep moving my life on.
I shudder, casting my mind back to the day I almost became a story in the local news. Sick? Visit medical professionals, they will give you medication and fix you up. Right? Wrong. If there were a magic pill, why would they be making new ones all the time? I fought against what I now know is depression for years as a kid, teen moods darker and deeper than my friends, my reality hidden from everybody but my best friend, Erica. Now she’s on the other side of the country. I moved to Perth alone and I share a house with strangers who’ve become new friends, but I’m alone without Erica.
My working world is full of the beautiful and famous, the airbrushed faces and bodies featured in ads in the magazine beside articles about the latest diets or sexual positions. Lies pull in readers and fool them that they can achieve this reality, that this world exists, and they should emulate the life at all costs. I subscribe to the lie, too, comparing my looks and lifestyle to those around who’ve succeeded. They act as if happy and free but they are trapped in the fake world they’re part of.
Watching the fable constructed around me has the opposite effect than I intended; instead of seeing through the transparency, I use the lies to beat myself up. I’m tall and naturally slender with what my gran constantly calls a ‘bonnie face’, but all I see are my faults. My less than symmetrical face, the kink in my long, brown hair that prevents me achieving the sleek look without straightening tongs, and I really hate my knees. Yes, my knees. I weigh myself every day, which is ridiculous because my weight hasn’t changed for years. The other day I noticed lines forming on my twenty-one year old brow, no surprise really considering the amount of worrying I do. At this rate, I’ll have Botox before I’m twenty-five.
Nobody in my current life realises how I obsess. Nobody but Guy has seen past the magazine-print bright and glossy picture I paint of myself. The real Phe is with the memories of death and darkness, safely sealed away again.
To distract myself from the encroaching thoughts, I check work emails on my phone. A message alert sounds and I flick across to the message:
Guy texts me daily; at first it was weekly and then more frequently as time went on. Two months have passed since our weird meeting and we haven’t met since, even though we’re in the same city. Guy’s become a friend, the distant kind you never see, but who’s always there to talk to on the outside of real life. Not that we talk about much, and he never talks about himself, mostly he checks in on how I’m going.
Guy’s pushing me to start my bucket list, as promised.
The beginning of my list is scrawled on a note pad at home. Guy wants us to meet, compare, and see if there’re any we share, that we can do together. I’m wary. The relationship between us can’t go beyond this weird connection underlying everything. Guy’s part of a night I’d rather forget.
I reply.
How much time does he have?
I glance around at the commuters, business-suited and tired even at 8.30 a.m., stuck in their rut. My future life. The bus lurches to a stop and the lady’s bag slides off her knee, spilling the contents over the floor. I shove my phone into my bag and bend to help her. She frowns, not meeting my eyes, and grabs the packet of tissues I hand her. No thanks or acknowledgement are offered.
Climbing from the bus, I’m jostled, a guy stands on my toes, and then I’m propelled through the street in the direction of the ten-storey building I work in. On the way, I duck into the coffee shop and wait in line for my morning mocha. Ross, the barista who always has a smile for me is serving, his deep brown eyes sparkle in amusement as I stumble over my words. He has that effect on me. The minute I look into the dark brown eyes that match the chocolate he sprinkles on my morning coffee, I’m lost.
Maybe because of my lack of recent dates, but I fantasise about his full mouth on my lips, and the slender f
ingers that brush mine when he hands me the cup, stroking my skin. Occasionally, I catch his scent; coffee and vanilla, with a hint of expensive cologne. Once when passing through a department store, I thought I smelled the brand. I doubled back to the men’s fragrances section and ran through a selection before the mix of scents confused my brain and the realisation what I was doing embarrassed me.
“For you, lovely Phe,” he says with a smile, the words I wish were only for me but are spoken to every girl who passes through here.
“Thanks.”
One day I’ll say more than my order, my name, and a ‘thank you’ to Ross, but on the conveyor belt of customers, there’s no time to chat. So I return his smile with the false confidence that rests on my surface, and leave.
* * *
Red pen covers the paper on the desk in front of me, obscuring the majority of the typed text. My body floods with stress, which is processed into head-pounding frustration, then tears threaten. My boss, Pam, could choose a different colour or use pencil. The words scrawled in red mock me, especially the capital ‘NO’ and ‘RE-WRITE’.
Pam began working at Belle de Jour in the weeks I was away; my original boss, Nora, was headhunted by a bigger publisher in Sydney and left suddenly. If I’d met Pam at my initial interview, I doubt I’d have taken the job. Pam knows I’m lucky to have the job, even more so since my absence, and takes advantage of my gratitude. I attempt to keep my head down until I’ve proven my worth but biting my tongue becomes harder each day.
My daily tasks are everything Pam can’t be bothered doing: answering her emails, fielding her phone calls, and fetching lunch from the nearby deli. After large hints from me about learning to write articles, Pam relented and allowed me to, but on something she chose. Excited I might write my first feature piece, my heart sank when I was given a list of facial products to write a comparison of.
This is my fourth draft.
How hard can it be to write an article comparing moisturisers and serums correctly?
I glance around the open plan office, which is half-empty, most people are in meetings I’m not privy to. I should be watching the phones, but the red on the paper steals my patience and I grab my bag. Heading through the expensively furnished room, past the pictures of magazine covers, awards, and accolades, I reach the elevator.
One tear manages to escape my eye and I catch the drop with a finger, cursing. My make-up will run down my face if I don’t get a grip.
In the lobby, I pause and pull out my phone.
I hit send on the message to Guy.
Chapter Three
The tables outside the small cafe line the pavements, crammed together on a small strip; surrounded by metal chairs that stick to your legs in the height of the Perth summer. There’re no menus here, just a chalkboard listing food and drink inside the dark wood panelled building. The places near my workplace are trendy, this one is on the edge of the suburb and popular with locals. After arranging to meet Guy, I composed myself and returned upstairs to work. Several hours later, I wait for him. This is short notice; will he come?
As I sit with my glass of sparkling water, I realise I don’t know whereabouts in Perth Guy lives, or how far I’ve asked him to travel. After half an hour waiting, I shift my chair so I’m beneath the black canvas umbrella and out of the strong sun.
Guy appears and I squint against the bright sunlight as he approaches with a laid-back gait to his walk. A young girl at a nearby table double takes as he passes. Guy stands out amongst the other pedestrians, taller than most with his dark blond hair now touching the edge of his jawline, the muscles on his tanned arms moulded by his blue t-shirt sleeves. I didn’t pay full attention the day in the shadows, but this guy – this man – is hot. My mouth dries as he reaches me and as soon as the dark blue eyes meet mine, my heart rate picks up.
I didn’t expect this reaction to him.
Guy drags a chair from under my table and sits opposite. “Hey, beautiful girl.”
I wrinkle my nose, but his tone suggests this is his a usual greeting for women. “Hello, Guy. How are you?”
Guy pulls a canvas wallet from his shorts pocket. “Such a polite lady. I’m very well, yourself?”
Is he mocking me? “Good, thanks.”
His blue eyes capture mine again, crinkling at the edges as he smiles at me. “Liar. What do you want to drink?”
“I’m okay.” I indicate the glass of water and he nods.
Weeks of communicating by text have led to a friendship of sorts, but I never expected him to behave as if we’re old friends meeting for a quick coffee. Will he mention what happened the last time we met, because this meeting is as if nothing happened?
The condensation runs down the glass and I watch the drops fall as I wait for him to return. Our second face-to-face meeting and his nonchalance matches my nerves. Does he meet a lot of girls? Is that why he’s relaxed about the situation?
Guy returns and settles back in his seat with an old-style bottle of Coca-Cola, then pulls a piece of paper from his board shorts. I smile at the image, my work follows me everywhere because in front of me is a man straight from an advert for summer happiness. Bronzed guys on the beach laughing with bikini-clad girls, eating fast food, and drinking sugar-filled soda. Models with bodies that don’t belong to people who eat much at all, and definitely not burgers. All Guy needs to do is lose his t-shirt and he’s ticked all the boxes.
“Am I funny?” he asks, unfolding the paper.
“No, you remind me of someone.”
“Oh?”
“Just some guy,” I say with a half-smile.
He shakes his head. “I knew there was a sense of humour in there somewhere.”
I relax back in my chair, my fear this would be awkward dissipating. Guy’s behaviour matches his texts, light-hearted and friendly with no hint of the weirdness that underpins our relationship.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I say.
“At last!” He pushes a strand of his fringe away, fixing me with his deep-water eyes. “I was beginning to think you’d bottled on me and I’d never see you again.”
“Bottled on you?”
“The bucket list. We’re doing some together, remember?” He shakes the paper at me. “I’m looking forward to having some fun with you, Phe.”
I look up sharply. A man like him could no doubt persuade any girl with a pulse to have fun with him, but the innuendo isn’t matched by any expression that could suggest he’s serious.
“You look unhappy. Are you okay?”
“Better than last time we met.”
“That’s not difficult, is it?” He drinks. “You can’t hide behind text messages when we’re face to face.”
“I’m fine, Guy. Normal everyday stress. Work stuff.” I lower my voice. “You know I got help. Things are different. I’m getting better and the dark thoughts have gone.”
Guy scrutinises me, and the outside world fades, returning me to the last time he looked inside my soul and yanked me back to reality. Empty of the thoughts controlling my mind that night, others flood in instead.
Who is he?
What’s killing him?
Why can’t I stop picturing what he looks like under his t-shirt?
Why does he want to know me?
Guy chews on his bottom lip, his own thoughts guarded. “Get it out.”
“Pardon?”
“Your list. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“Oh, right.” I pick up my small, black handbag and delve to the bottom. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay, I’m quite the distraction.”
Of course, looking like he does Guy has to be a self-love kind of guy. I give him a small shake of my head and he winks.
My small note pad on the table contrasts with his tattered page ripped at the edges, the large black scrawl much less legible than my neatly printed handwriting.
“We going to read them out?” Guy asks.
My chair is centimetres from touching the one b
ehind and too many people are in earshot of what promises to be a very weird conversation.
“No.”
“I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.” His mouth twitches with amusement.
“Seriously, Guy?”
“Had to be said.” He holds his hand out, palm upwards. “Show me.”
As Guy takes my note pad, he pushes his list across the table.
We read, silently, and his list intrigues me:
Swim with sharks.
Spend a night ghost hunting.
Visit Hawaii.
Learn another language.
Go skydiving.
See the Van Gogh painting ‘Sunflowers’.
Watch a shooting star.
Watch the snow fall.
Save someone’s life.
Fall in love.
Numbers two and nine are crossed out.
“Not doing them in order then?” I ask.
Guy holds his hand up in a gesture to silence me and to indicate he’s still reading, lips pursed. He strokes his chin in an exaggerated pose of a musing professor. “Interesting...”
“What?” This isn’t a diary, but the words on the page feel as if they shouldn’t be shared.
“One of our items matches. Almost two. ‘See a shooting star’ is a night together ‘sleeping under the stars’.” He runs a finger down the list. “These are very girlie: ‘swim with dolphins’, ‘kiss in the rain’.”
“Are you judging me? Look at yours! Ghost hunting? At least plan something achievable!”
“Yeah, tried that one at Fremantle Prison. Never found any. Maybe when we go to England, I’ll try somewhere else.”
“We?”
“The painting I want to see is in England, we’re going to England.”
“I never said I was doing my list with you!”
“Not all of them, just the ones that match.” He rakes his hair from his face as he reads. “Look, I can teach you to surf and help with the tattoo, I know some good artists.” Guy lifts the edge of his t-shirt, revealing solid abs decorated with the words omnia causa fiunt. I stare, mostly at his muscles to be honest, before he drops the t-shirt.
The Same Deep Water Page 2