“Shouldn’t we do yours first, if you haven’t got... much time,” I say.
Guy’s face darkens, and he taps his fingers on the table. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Guy doesn’t look sick, his appearance more alive than people I come across in the 9-5 drudgery. We hardly know each other; whatever illness he has is none of my business. If he wanted to tell me, he would.
“Yeah. True. But I’m two items ahead of you, and you need to catch up. Some we can finish quickly, locally. What do you want to start with?” He studies my list again. “This is an easy one. ‘Ask a stranger on a date’. I don’t count, by the way.”
“This isn’t a date! Besides, you asked me weeks ago.”
“Yes, but you said no. You asked me to meet you today.”
“This still isn’t a date; this is just a meeting between...” I pause. Between what? A girl who almost jumped to her death and the man who stopped her. “Friends.”
“Travel buddies.”
“If I travel with you.”
“We can travel through our lists together,” he says and hands back my notebook. “Through your new life and the rest of mine. What do you think?”
I morbidly want to know why and when he’ll die. What if he’s been given a year and his time runs out because the doctors are wrong?
“So you need to travel soon,” I say.
“Soon-ish, but it’s the end of January now, and I don’t want to visit England in the winter.”
“That’s the best time to see snow fall.”
“Nah, I can see that in Australia, at the snow fields over East. An English summer sounds better. Can you do July?”
“I’m not sure.”
“If you can’t afford the trip, I’ll pay.”
The insistence in his demeanour from the night in my darkness returns and I grip onto my assertiveness. “What? No!”
He shrugs. “I’m loaded, may as well spend all my money before I go.” I can’t help but study his faded t-shirt and the black and blue board shorts. “Yeah, not dressed like I have money, I know.” He flicks his black Havaianas against his tanned feet. “I got the designer version of my bogan footwear.”
“Very cool.”
“I am.” Again, the bright grin, but his eyes don’t match.
I drain my glass and wipe the condensation from my hands onto my skirt.
“Another?” he asks.
“No thanks, I have to get back to work.”
“Had enough of me already?” He arches a brow. “Two months apart and this is all I get?”
“Sounds like we’ll be spending a bit of time together,” I say.
“I have all the time in the world for you, Phe.” Alarmed at the intensity, at this stunning man eager to spend his remaining time with me, I fight the unusual blushing that flares on my cheeks.
“I’m flattered,” I reply.
“So, are you up for this then? Me and you, a step out of life once in a while?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have a list, so do you. I need something in my life to distract me from crap, so do you. How about we get to know each other better, too? Could be fun.”
“Really? What kind of fun did you have in mind?”
He grins, revealing the sexy dimples. “Whatever you enjoy doing.”
In the bedroom or out? I’m not pursuing that line of thinking. I just met the guy. The real Guy. Sure, Phe, how long do you think you’ll hold out against the sexual presence humming around this man?
Guy taps my notepad. “Ten things. I challenge you to one this weekend. Today is Monday, call me later in the week, and tell me which item you’ve chosen.”
“Already?”
“Make it a good one.” He drinks deeply from his bottle, the man from the pages of a magazine with his cover story as bright as mine. In my experience, the gregarious people are often paddling furiously under the water, and in Guy’s case, I know this is true.
Chapter Four
Get a tattoo.
Sleep beneath the stars.
Visit London.
Swim with dolphins.
Kiss in the rain.
Attend a masquerade ball.
Learn to surf.
Write and publish a book.
Ask a stranger on a date.
Fall in love.
I smooth the page I’ve ripped from my notepad and pin it to the fridge with a round, blue magnet, smiling at the crazy list. Imagine how my prim and proper grandparents would react to some of these. My housemate, Jen, wanders into the kitchen, a wave of floral perfume heralding her arrival.
“Have you seen my phone?” she asks.
Her platinum blonde hair is coiffed into the 1950s style she spends an inordinate amount of time perfecting, face carefully painted to match her image.
“There.” I point to the phone half-buried beneath today’s mail.
“Thank you!”
Jen’s holding a pair of pink heels; her eclectic dress sense reflects her job at a retro boutique nearby. Tonight her outfit consists of tight, black capri pants and a sweetheart neckline, candy pink top.
She drops a matching pink shoe to the ground and slips her foot in. “What do you think of these?” She wiggles her foot.
“Very pretty.”
Jen steps forward and peruses my list. “This is interesting. What is it?”
“A bucket list.”
“That’s so cool! Have you done anything on here yet?” She runs a long fingernail along the paper. “I’ve done three of these.”
“Really?”
She points to her arm where the cartoon-coloured pin-up girl peeks from beneath the cap sleeves of her top. “Several times for some of them! Tattoos, asking guys on dates.”
“Do tattoos hurt much?”
“Depends. Why? Is that the first thing you want to do on the list? Start with a small tattoo if you do.”
“Start?”
She grabs her phone from the counter. “Oh, yeah, once you’ve had one tattoo, you’ll want more.”
Maybe not as many as Jen whose body is covered in a bright inked canvas.
“Almost forgot. You had a call before. I let it ring through to the answer-machine. Why don’t you give people your mobile number?”
I can guess who, only one person ever does. “I do, my gran doesn’t like calling my mobile.”
“Okay. Weird, but fair enough. I’ll catch you later.” She pauses. “Unless you want to come out this evening?”
“Seeing Cam?”
Jen and Cam, her boyfriend, are normally glued at the hip, their relationship intensifying in the short time I’ve known them. Some days I wonder why he doesn’t move in; he’s at the house that often.
“Yeah, but not just him. We’re catching up with a few friends for dinner.”
“Thanks, but I’m tired.”
Jen frowns. “You need to get out more.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“That should get you out and about.” Jen points at the fridge. “But you hardly leave the house apart from work so how the hell are you going to go to London?”
“I’ll work up to that one.” I turn away, irritated by her judgment. I know I need to make more of a life for myself, but I’ve no idea how to start. Focusing on making my mark at work takes up my time, success is important, and if I need to stay late to finish up, I do. A social life can wait.
With a shouted goodbye, Jen leaves, the door slamming behind her.
I look at the light blinking on the answer-phone. Why Gran can’t use my mobile number, I don’t know. Erica does, frequently messaging me and we chat daily. She’s concerned, but happier now the new meds are working for me. The dark blanket of sadness has fallen away but the fear is never far, gnawing at the edges of my life, waiting for the chance to slip through.
Uninspired to cook anything else, I pull out last night’s leftovers from the fridge, and as I heat the lasagne in the microwave, I read through the page again.
Chapter F
ive
1 Get A Tattoo
I don’t know Guy besides the fact he hangs around suicide spots with bunches of flowers. This is enough to put him in the ‘odd’ basket in my head, and despite his outward appearance, I don’t want Guy to know where I live until I know him better. Instead, on the following Saturday morning, we meet at a car park around the corner from the cafe. I spent the last few evenings researching tattoos, and now I have steeled myself to cross the first item off my list.
Guy’s wearing the same clothes as earlier in the week and is paler, eyes rimmed by red.
“Late night?” I ask him.
“Kinda.” He twirls his car keys around his finger before clicking the remote. The lights flash on a sporty red Audi and I stop.
“That’s your car?”
“Told you I was loaded.”
That’s the first truth confirmed and the first of my doubts quashed. Perhaps I need to accept he’s honest. “Where do you work?”
“I don’t. Get in.”
People’s ability to silence me with short answers is something I need to get a grip on, and learn to push for answers from them. One of the most irritating things in life is coming up with clever retorts several hours too late.
“You have a lot of spare time then.”
He frowns. “Phe. That’s unkind.” I redden and he laughs. “Teasing! I do, but I fill my time with the things I love.”
“Surfing?”
“I don’t surf.”
“But you look like a surfer. And you said you could teach me.”
“I mean, I don’t surf anymore, a mate got taken by a shark.” Guy opens the door and looks across the black soft top of the car at me.
“Oh, my God, really? I’m so sorry!” Guy chews on his lip, fighting a smile. “You’re teasing me again, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. My mission is to teach you not to let people do that. Don’t give people power over you, Phe.” He climbs into the car. “I surf. A lot.”
When I join him, I’m concerned he’ll put the top down; the summer heat has built over the last few days, a true Perth summer gripping the city.
“That’s what worries me about surfing. The sharks.” And the water.
“You’ll be in safe hands with me.” Guy fires up the engine, loud music instantaneously filling the car. When I blink at the volume, he turns the sound down.
“Why do you want to swim with sharks?” I ask.
“Why do you want to swim with dolphins?”
“Because I’ve loved them since I was a little girl, we went to Sea World twice and watched the show. At every performance, the handlers pick kids to feed and pet the dolphins, but not me.”
“Aww. Poor you,” he says and I bristle at his dismissive tone. “I don’t like dolphins. I prefer sharks.”
“Won’t they attack you if you climb in the water with them, though?”
“Nah. I don’t taste that good.”
I bet he does.
Guy manoeuvres the car onto the street, and turns the music back up, the local chart hits station blasts out ending conversation.
Tucked away on an industrial estate, between an air-conditioning unit distributor and a plumbing warehouse, the skulls on the black painted sign of the small tattoo studio look out of place. Without Guy, I doubt I’d have found this.
Guy climbs out and walks around the side of the car and, before I have a chance to, opens the door for me. “Thanks,” I say, surprised by his chivalrous gesture.
After the cool of the car, the humidity washes over me and I’m grateful I wore a short summer dress. Guy scratches his head.
“Where’re you having the tattoo?” He indicates the length of my body with his hand. “‘Cause you don’t want to have to get naked. Shorts and shirt would’ve been better.”
“On my collarbone!” I retort.
“Shame.” He strides away.
The fact Guy just implied he wanted to see me naked, momentarily blanks the fear somebody is going to pierce my skin with a multitude of needles.
Inside the studio, photos of clients’ tattoos and example art cover the bright red walls. A girl with blue hair and a sleeve of tattoos emerging from her baggy, black t-shirt looks up. “Hey. Got an appointment?”
I clutch my bag, feeling as if I’ve walked into the waiting room at the doctors, although she’s unlike any medical receptionist I’ve ever seen.
“Hey, Lola. Wes is expecting us,” says Guy and indicates me.
Lola flicks me a look. “God, I hope she’s not getting an infinity symbol on her wrist – or a Southern Cross, Wes’ll refuse.”
“No, she’s not,” I retort.
A middle-aged man with a crew cut appears in the doorway; when he spots Guy, he seizes him in a bear hug. “Hey, mate, how’s it going?”
Guy claps him on the back. “Not too bad. Yourself?”
“This the virgin?” Wes asks Guy and looks at me.
Despite strong attempts not to, I turn bright pink. Guy arches a brow.
“Tattoo virgin, I mean,” says Wes with a chuckle. “In you go, sweetheart.” He gestures to the open door.
“Want me to hold your hand?” asks Guy. “You look pale. Are you worried?”
“No. I’m good.”
As I edge past Guy, he leans in. “You never added that to your bucket list,” he whispers.
I shiver against his breath tickling my ear. “Added what?”
He steps back and crosses his arms. “V-card, Phe.”
“Shut up!” I snap. “Don’t make assumptions about me!”
“You’re so proper. Do you ever swear? If I were you, I would’ve told me to fuck off.”
I straighten and meet his eyes. “I will if you make any more comments like that.”
Guy shakes his head with another smile then turns away. “Hey, Lola. Can you take a look and suggest whereabouts I should put my next tattoo?”
“Take a look where?” she replies, looking up from her phone.
“Wherever you like.” He perches on the desk and sweeps a hand, indicating the length of his body.
“Sure, Guy. Why not ask your girlfriend instead?” She points her phone at me.
I wait for Guy’s response with interest, but Wes ushers me through a black door before Guy replies.
The couch in Wes’s room reminds me of my local GP, grey and covered in white paper. Ohmigod, will I bleed everywhere? The cramped room is covered in more pictures, and there’s a small desk holding a large folder and picture frames containing photos of smiling kids.
“You need help choosing?” Wes asks.
This man is an advertisement for his craft, ink spreading across every revealed inch of skin, a mash of colours and pictures that would take a good study to decipher. They stop at his neck, where a red and black skull decorates the front.
“No.”
Following the last few evenings searching on the internet, when the design I chose appeared, I knew straightaway I wanted this one. I show Wes the image on my phone. He squints at the picture and groans. “A common one. I got this in my book.”
Leaning back in his chair and reaching over his head, he drags a large binder over and opens onto page with artwork of different birds. “Like this?” he asks and points at a series of tiny, black birds in flight.
“Yes, exactly like that.”
“Four?”
I nod. They may be cliché, but they mean something to me. Swallowing down my nerves, I eye his tattoo machine in the corner.
“Relax, sweetie, they’re small, won’t take long.”
“Will this be painful?”
“Depends where you’re putting it.” I brush my fingers along my collarbone to my shoulder and he wrinkles his nose. “Bone. Not promising anything but fleshier is normally easier. Everybody’s different though. Let me stencil the design up.”
Wes focuses on tracing his drawing while I sit on the edge of the couch and swing my legs. Why did he have to tell me this would hurt? Of course, having a tattoo will
hurt, Phe.
The noise and vibration is the biggest shock, the needles barely felt. A stinging sensation spreads across my skin. Wes attempts to chat but I switch off, close my eyes, and consider what I’m doing.
All my hopes and plans had been carefully pushed down to the recesses of my mind by the ink black of my thoughts. The four birds flying from the edge of my collarbone to my shoulder represent a freedom from my self-imposed cage. Carving images onto my body mars the perfection I crave, with this tattoo comes a step toward an identity I hide from. Writing a bucket list is an acknowledgement of a future I denied I had, as I sunk beneath the quicksand of my present.
What prompted me to write one? Guy’s persistence? Or was each of his nagging texts a reminder I have what he doesn’t – a choice to live my life. Again, I drift to thoughts of what’s wrong with him. I’ve never known somebody who is dying – not someone young anyway.
And me. How long will the medication work this time? What if my brain tries to kill me again?
“Done.” Wes dabs at my chest with a wet wipe and examines his handiwork before reaching for a mirror. “Here you go.”
The reddened skin from the procedure surrounds the small black birds, one flying close to a freckle I never noticed I had there. I didn’t take into account how visible this would be. The tattoo won’t be covered up in summer clothing and only a few weeks a year in winter jumpers.
Back in the shop, Guy sits on the edge of Lola’s desk, chatting. Flirting? Hard to tell, Lola’s not responding. I picture her more with a longhaired, biker guy, but who knows? My journalist side goes by the magazine clichés, not always helpful in social situations.
Still, she fights against smiling at whatever joke he’s telling her, Guy’s natural charm winning over. But I’ve seen the depth hidden in his eyes and know beneath he must be struggling to stay afloat.
The Same Deep Water Page 3