The thoughts are back to torture me, the nightly replay of the night my father killed everybody I loved begins again.
Chapter Eight
“Can I touch?”
Erica doesn’t wait for a response, instead lightly running a finger across the shiny black ink against my pale skin. The tattoo healed and, a week later, somebody from my past sees.
“When did you do that? Why didn’t you tell me you were getting a tattoo? This isn’t like you!” She streams out the words in shock.
“It’s on my bucket list.”
“You have a bucket list?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Erica sits on the sofa in my bright and airy lounge. “I have things I want to do, but not an actual list. You wrote them down?”
“Yes. Don’t you have one?”
“A vague one. Should’ve expected you’d be all organised. I bet you have deadlines for each one too.”
I poke my tongue out. “Do you want me to take you for lunch or not?”
“Yeah, to that coffee shop where the guy works you told me about. Mr Eyelashes.”
“What a weird thing to call him.”
“You mentioned his eyelashes! I mean, come on, that’s not the part of his body where length matters.”
“Erica!”
She grins. “Legs! He has to be taller than you! Whatever did you think I meant?”
“Sure,” I mutter, “let me grab my bag.”
Friends since high school, Erica’s candy bright attitude to the world smudges colour over my grey. I owe Erica for helping me through my teen years, growing up with grandparents after the loss of my family and a switch of towns and schools no doubt triggered the dark side of my mind. My friendship with Erica stopped the depression blacking me completely.
Erica follows me into my bedroom. “How are the new meds going?” she asks.
The box rests at the edge of my bedside table and I quickly push them into a drawer. “Better.”
“You worry me. I wish I lived closer for when you needed me.”
“I’m fine, Erica. The change in meds a few months back screwed with my head. I don’t have the thoughts anymore.”
Erica has seen through my lies before and I’m thankful she wasn’t around at the time I met Guy. His daily texts and calls after the day I almost died prompted me to see my doctor, keep going with the medication, and hold me in a world I fought against.
In the early days, the change in medication screwed with my ability to think, walking around in a leaden-limbed daze that took me away from the thoughts instead of dealing with them. Gradually, I moved from not seeing a future to the prodding by Guy to create one. Guy’s background presence stopped me turning back into the shadows; now I’ve allowed him to pull me into the bright future he’s being denied.
“A bucket list is good though, tells me you’re thinking of the future.”
Erica doesn’t know. Nobody knows apart from Guy and my psychiatrist. The day after I met Guy, I saw my psychiatrist and admitted to him that I had thoughts about harming myself. Guy texted to check up on me and I informed him I was being admitted to hospital. I debated whether to give Guy my number the night we met and there’s a deep-seated reason why I did. By doing so, I made myself accountable to Guy. The texts continued. On days I didn’t reply, Guy would send funny memes until I’d relent and respond. I can only cope with a finite number of funny cat pictures in one day.
“I should write one too, just things like places I want to visit. Not a tattoo though.” Erica shakes her head. “Still can’t believe you did that!”
“I might not stop at one.”
I’m half-serious.
We head to the city, despite the fact I prefer to stay out of the place at weekends, but Erica’s flown from Melbourne to visit and she wants to compare Perth to our home. She was horrified when I chose to move to the loneliest city in the world, isolating myself the same way Perth is. Perth is more than 2500 miles to the nearest Australian city. I’d hoped moving would help, not appreciating that even though the stress was good because I got the job I wanted, the relocation still had an effect on me. I underestimated the strength of my pull to the familiarity of friends and family. But I’m stronger than I thought and I’m pulling through. Slowly.
“Which one?” Erica asks.
I indicate the small shop tucked between a real estate agent and a bookshop. “There isn’t much room!”
“The place is more coffee shop than cafe.”
“Evidently” She wrinkles her nose and sits, pulling a face at the crumbs left on the table by previous occupants.
I check out the staff behind the long, marble counter and spot Ross. Immediately, I duck my head. I’d hoped he wouldn’t be here because Erica is bound to say something I’m sure will call me out.
“I’ll buy the coffees! What would you like?” I ask.
“Vanilla latte.” She doesn’t look up from the menu.
Ross is serving another customer, so I’m served by somebody else, and avoid another attempt to hide my attraction to him, deliberately not looking in his direction. When I return to the table, Erica’s smirk says everything.
“That’s him.” She sucks the froth from her spoon and indicates Ross.
“Shush!” I grab her hand.
“Why sit so you can hardly see him? You could flirt with him from here.”
“I don’t want to flirt with him!”
“Jeez, I would.” She sips from her cup. “But, out of respect to you, I won’t.”
Erica loves to flirt, and especially enjoys shooting down in flames anybody who hits on her in an obnoxious way. She’s half a foot shorter than I am, complains she’s average everything; but Erica is also a master of disguise and has an impressive array of make-up and clothes. Her hair is currently blonde; last time I saw her, it was as brown as mine. One thing’s certain; Erica’s never short of attention.
I tear open a sugar sachet and tip the contents into my coffee. “I don’t want to get involved with somebody.”
“A date or two wouldn’t hurt.”
At school, I didn’t bother with boyfriends, instead spending all my time studying. Same when I went to uni. Sure, I had boyfriends and went through the whole relationship make and break cycle once with a guy from my creative writing class, then gave up. Luckily, I got bored before he did. Battling the dark moods was enough, facing more relationship breakdowns would have added to the spiral.
“How’s the job? Any better?” asks Erica.
I’ve whinged to Erica plenty of times, my excitement over the role tempered within weeks, thanks to my treatment by the boss. Did Pam have the same baptism of fire when she started out? I haven’t figured Pam’s age yet or the trajectory her career took but she seems to think being a bitch is acceptable people management.
“I’m not sure Pam thinks I can do the job.”
“Of course you can! Don’t let somebody ruin what you want to achieve. Just don’t stay if the job’s making you unhappy, it’s not worth the stress. You can always look for another job and you’ll have experience.”
“How’s life as a post-grad?” I reply.
“Good. Stop changing the subject.”
“I hope you didn’t come over here to mother me.”
“Fine!”
My phone beeps and I pull it from under Erica’s in case I miss a message from work.
“Hey! We said no phones while we’re chatting!” She takes the phone from me and looks at the screen. “Who’s Guy?” Erica looks up from the message.
“Just some Guy,” I say with a smile to myself.
“Some significant Guy?”
God, I hope the message is a sane one.
“‘Hey, beautiful. Check this out’,” reads Erica. “Um. Beautiful?”
I snatch the phone away. “He’s a friend.”
“How come you never mentioned him? How long have you known him?”
“About three months.”
“Three months? Far out
! Who is he?”
How do I explain Guy to Erica? Or anyone? He hovers on the fringes of my life because I won’t let him in. Since I got the tattoo and spent the evening with him a couple of weeks ago, we’ve conversed by text only; he never tries to call. Is he waiting for me to contact him first?
I click on the link and the webpage opens to a charity masquerade ball being held in Perth in a couple of weeks. I was aware, invites were emailed to work, but huge social events with an expectation of networking don’t appeal.
“Like I said, just a casual friend. We’ve only met a couple of times.”
Erica points at my phone. “Photo? Is he hot?”
“I guess...”
“Photo!” She grabs the phone from me and scrolls through my pictures. “Huh. Why no picture? Facebook? Is he on there?” She clicks open the app.
“No idea, I never asked.”
“You’re friends but not Facebook friends. That’s weird.”
“Not really, I just don’t know him well.”
“Well enough for him to call you beautiful!”
“I don’t think he reserves that term for me only.”
“So what did he message about?”
“Nothing.” I switch my phone off and place it pointedly on the table.
Erica eyes my shaking hand. “Is he a creeper? Is that the problem?”
“No, no.” How do I explain this? “We’re friends. We’re... working on our bucket lists together.”
Erica sits back. “What does that involve?”
“So far, not much. We’re planning what to do.”
“Phe, do you know how weird that sounds? Kinda romantic too.”
“No romance.”
“So Mr Eyelashes is in with a chance? Two men to choose from!”
“Erica!”
I look over my shoulder. Ross serves a new customer adding his natural charm to the order, broad smiles for the young mother and her brown-haired daughter. Ross remembers the names of regulars, asks how their day is with genuine interest; I’ve heard him many times. I stare, as I often do, picturing his full lips on mine, his large hands against my skin.
‘Ask a stranger on a date’?
Ross looks over, because he has a sixth sense I’m staring or because he noticed where I sat when I arrived here? Our eyes meet briefly, too brief to gauge any interest.
No, I’m one of hundreds of customers who pass through here daily. Part of Ross’s job is to keep customers coming back and flirting is a useful tool to use. Rejection would be embarrassing. I need to choose somebody who I’m certain is interested.
* * *
I responded to Guy’s text with an “I’ll think about it” and he didn’t reply. That was two days ago.
He’s a curious person, sometimes his texts are sharp and witty, smoothing the rough edges off frustrating days, and other times they’re short and opinionated. This dichotomy puts me off. I’m uncomfortable spending time with people who I’m unsure how they will react. I like my world organised and predictable; people who aren’t don’t fare well in my life.
I return to work refreshed after my weekend with Erica. Today, Pam is out interviewing a local doctor who’s an ambassador for women, the type of woman who stands for the person I’d like to be when I’m older: successful, self-assured, and an achiever. I’m left to copy edit articles and scour stock photo sites for suitable accompanying shots. An hour later, and my eyes glaze as I stare at beautiful beaches and tropical paradises. The untouched sand and solitude would add these places to anybody’s bucket list, why aren’t they on mine? Because I live in a city edged by impossibly blue ocean and white sands, my preference is to experience the cold and rugged.
And I hate water.
I’d like to visit historical places. England. With my bucket list partner. Possibly.
My phone beeps.
Guy texts the link again and I glance around before clicking on the invite. My experience of balls is school formals. One school formal. A childish excitement harking back to childish dreams of being a princess accompany as I read the description and look at the photos. Ball gowns and beautiful people, mysterious Prince Charmings. I shake my head, well aware the thrill of disguise underlies the attraction of masquerade balls.
What would Guy look like in a suit? The image amuses me – the raw material of the casual Guy unimaginable in formal attire. Undoubtedly hot though. I dismiss the thought, Guy’s not interested in me, and we know too much about what’s wrong with each other.
I reply.
I smile at the text and return to the stock photo site and somehow find myself on Etsy, because going to a masquerade ball calls for research, obviously.
Chapter Nine
6 Attend A Masquerade Ball
As a girl, I loved Cinderella. Absolutely adored the story, spent weeks with my head filled with the tale of the downtrodden girl and the handsome prince. My mum got sick of watching the Disney movie on repeat while I flounced around the house in a blue dress and tiara. Secretly, I wanted to be the fairy godmother because she could perform magic – I had plans for my cat that may or may not have involved dress-ups.
Then, one day I read the Brothers Grimm version of the fairy tale in which the ugly sisters cut off parts of their feet to fit into the glass slipper. The victim of an overactive imagination my whole life, this gave me nightmares for a week. That was the end of my love affair with Cinderella and all Disney princesses. Who knows what horrors lie in the other books?
This doesn’t stop me spending the next two weekends shopping for a dress any princess would be jealous of. Masquerade balls hold mystery and allure, a step out of reality and back in time. Eventually, I find a dress I can’t really afford. The dress hugs my hips, reaching the floor. The gathered gold bodice pushes my not very ample breasts upward so I look several sizes bigger, pulling in my waist to give me a classic hourglass figure. Silver thread runs from the seam, across the dress, and curling across one side of the bodice, sparkling like stars when the dress moves and catches the light. The shoes match perfectly, black and gold, adding several inches to my height. I spent an hour in the shop justifying buying everything. I told myself this is my bucket list and I should let go of the constraints I attach to myself, financial or otherwise
Choosing a mask was fun, I spent hours on Etsy looking for something different, and eventually, chose a Venetian gold butterfly mask where one eye spreads upwards in a butterfly shape, the wings touching the side of my pinned-up hair.
The evening of the ball, when I prepare to leave the house, Cam and Jen are in the lounge watching TV. Jen had helped me into the dress and enthused about the fit and quality, bemoaning the fact she couldn’t borrow it due to our height and build difference. Her track pants and oversized blue shirt are about as far removed from my outfit as you can find.
Cam stares as I walk in to say my goodbyes, rendered speechless for a moment. I place my phone into my gold bag then pick up the mask, avoiding his eyes.
I like Cam; he’s friendly and tempers Jen’s exuberance with his calm nature. Into the same scene as her, Cam has tattoos beneath his vintage black shirt and brown hair slicked upwards in a pompadour style. He’s a few years older than her, one of those people you can’t quite tell how much older. Cam’s maturity outweighs Jen’s by at least ten years. Perhaps that’s unfair, Jen likes to live life and screw the consequences. She runs out of money within days of being paid, her wardrobe brimming with clothes, and has no thought for the long-term, whereas I’m all for career paths and superannuation.
“Looking good,” says Cam. “Lucky guy.”
“Guy?”
“The guy you’re going with, he won’t be able to keep his hands off you, I’ll bet.” Jen purses her lips at Cam, increasing my discomfort. “What? She’s stunning, but what chick wouldn’t be dressed up like that.”
“I wish we were going,” says Jen, placing her legs across his lap.
“Yeah, waste of money, babe.”
“The ball is
for charity,” I reply.
“We don’t have money to throw at charities.” He nods. “But have fun.”
Guy bought the tickets, with his usual protest that he had the money, and if he was going to take a girl to a ball, he should pay. I relented to his old-fashioned view. Cam’s comment about Guy not wanting to keep his hands off me sticks. Does that concern or excite me? I push the thought away.
The masquerade ball is held at the most expensive hotel in the city, one recently refurbished to rival the most exclusive establishments in Sydney or Melbourne. Their sponsorship of the event ensures this new image will receive a lot of attention. The taxi drops me at the marble-pillared entrance where I make my way through the other arrivals and into the building.
The vast modern lobby is filled with chattering groups, voices amplified by the high ceilings. The hotel is an eclectic mix of traditional and modern, the dark grey painted feature walls at odds with the unusually shaped chandelier above. I agreed to meet Guy close to the entrance; but now I’m here, I wish we’d arrived together.
Finding Guy could prove difficult. Every man here is hidden by a mask and many wear identical dress suits and are only distinguishable by their build. I’ve never seen Guy in a suit and can’t imagine him in one, add in the mask and he’ll be impossible to spot. I should’ve asked him to pick me up from home.
Initially, I take quick glances nearby men in case he’s one of them, but become uncomfortable they’ll think I’m checking them out and using my mask as an excuse. What else can I do but appraise their height and build to figure out if any of them is Guy? I’m not interested in faceless men.
A stressful ten minutes later, and the only solution is to text Guy. A sick worry he might not arrive at all grips me as I begin a message. Half way through typing, my screen flashes with a picture of myself taken recently. The mask fortunately obscures the panic but I’m secretly pleased by how I look. The view in the mirror before left me feeling over-dressed and awkward; the poised girl in the picture stands out amongst the guests around her.
I glance in the direction I imagine the picture was taken from and a group stand in the open doorway to the function room, chatting. No Guy.
The Same Deep Water Page 5