She was lying on the floor when Kate came into her office. She opened her eyes to find those excellent cowboy boots in her face and realised she wasn’t thinking those things about Terry, but muttering them out loud. She let out a little scream.
‘God, I’m sorry. The door was open, so I thought it was okay to come in.’
‘It is okay.’
‘Should I come back later?’
‘No. I’m going to lunch with Terry and Sean.’
‘Who’s Sean?’
‘The new guy from Konica.’
‘Oh him. He’s dishy.’
The word lunch made Blanche’s stomach lurch. ‘Come in, Kate!’
‘We just need you to sign off on something.’ Kate stood awkwardly looking down at her. ‘Ya righ’?’
‘Just resting my back.’ Blanche stared up at the ceiling, hoping she looked cool and louche, rather than weird and sick, lying on the floor like this. She had lain here and stared at the ceiling every day this week and still couldn’t find a single flaw in the expanse of white. She sat up slowly. Blood drained from her head. ‘Have you ever been pregnant?’
‘Ye-ah.’ Kate eyed her warily. Blanche noticed the patterns on the cowboy boots were bucking broncos. Or flowers, or cacti. Maybe all three? The designs were ingenious. Oh god, why couldn’t she look like that, why couldn’t she have clothes like that?
‘I was always so paranoid about being the kind of woman Neil French and his ilk go on about,’ she said, staring at the boots.
‘Oh stuff him, he’s a dinosaur. He writes these three-thousand-word ads that nobody cares about. He’s just a bloody Pom.’ She grinned. ‘Are you pregnant?’
‘No, no.’
‘But you’re thinking about it? Lim was telling me a story recently about this boss in the US who was ringing her team right up until she started having contractions. And two days after having the baby she was back at work.’
Wow, that’s amazing.’ Blanche thought that if she concentrated hard enough on the bucking bronco cacti flowers, she might be able to stand up without fainting. She could pass the pad ad on to Kate, call overload. Pad ad, a voice in her head snickered. The brittle, flippant mood that Blanche had brought to work that morning was having a field day. On the other hand, she could call Terry’s bluff and do the best ad of the year with the most despised product on the planet. ‘The reason I’m asking is that there’s a pitch due for sanitary napkins.’
Kate made a face.
‘I know. But listen. Urban scenarios, fast editing, a young female executive in a rush. At the end she reaches for her’ — Blanche picked up the papers and searched for the name — ‘Invisible.’
‘I hate pads. I never wear them.’
‘Neither do I. And then it’s, Thank god I’m not pregnant! And a shot of her blissed out, holding the product against her heart, sort of thing.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘Well, we could change god to something else, so we don’t alienate the Christians.’
‘I’m a Christian.’
‘Thank heavens I’m not pregnant! Or something.’
‘That’s not the problem.’
‘Heaven is kinda the same, isn’t it.’
‘No, I’m a Christian, and that didn’t occur to me.’
Blanche was horrified that Kate was a Christian. Maybe it was time for another Crusade. Hang on, an anti-Crusade, wouldn’t that be? She said, ‘I’d love to do an ad in the Level 41 toilets.’
Kate was tickled. ‘You’ve got balls, Ms King. To be honest with you, I know loads of women who would love it but I don’t know if it would get through.’ She eyed the drawings propped on Blanche’s whiteboard. ‘What are they?’
‘Roche,’ Blanche lied. The drawings were of tunnels done in charcoal. Huge, tortured scrawls, the most satisfying, exciting things she had done all year. Just for the hell of it, for herself and not a client.
‘Interesting. They remind me of early van Gogh. This is an avenue of trees, isn’t it? They’re so dark and, um, European.’
‘Yeah.’ Blanche was flattered. ‘Have you been to the van Gogh museum in Amsterdam?’
‘Oh, only about a hundred times. It’s only one of my favourite places in the whole world.’
‘Isn’t it the best!’
‘God, I love these drawings.’
Blanche got up slowly, a smile plastered over her throbbing nausea.
‘It’s heart medication, isn’t it? Or cholesterol. It’s blocked arteries. You could digitalise these and do something really amazing with them.’
‘Well, they’re not quite there yet,’ Blanche said modestly.
Kate looked at her watch. ‘Sorry to rush you.’
‘Okay, I’ll be in in two secs.’ Blanche popped an anti-nausea tablet out of its blister pack. As soon as Kate left the office, she rang Clark. ‘Clark, I need you to pick Mum up on Friday.’
‘I can’t. I’m getting Nell from school.’
‘Well, it’s Leon’s day at Susan’s and I can’t leave work early this week. They’re tightening the thumbscrews. Could you get her after Nell?’
Clark spoke in hushed tones. ‘Look, I think it’s a bit confronting for them to see each other when Mum’s sick. I still haven’t told Nell.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she’s four? They don’t understand death at that age, Blanche. They’ve barely figured out life, you know.’
‘Sure, but can’t you tell her she’s sick? Like, Granny’s got a funny tummy?’
Clark said nothing. It occurred to Blanche that Clark might be worth asking about babies, but she resented the patronising, long-suffering tone he took with her whenever children were mentioned, as though she had no idea. She didn’t want to give him an opportunity to lord it over her. She craved comfort and a listening ear, neither of which she would get from Clark. She wanted him to tell her not to have an abortion because having a baby was so fantastic. She said, ‘Did you know she doesn’t have private health cover?’
‘I know. One of her cost-cutting measures last year. Look, I’m in the library. Can we talk about this later?’
‘Just text me when you’ve made up your mind.’
Blanche went up the corridor to sign off on the job and found Lim alone.
He smiled broadly when she entered. ‘Hey, lady, how is it?’
‘Good!’ Lim’s computer was on YouTube playing a rap song. ‘What are you watching?’
‘One of the best ads I’ve seen in years.’
‘Whose is it?’ Blanche perched on the edge of his desk and watched the song unfurl on a beach, the singer a white guy in sunglasses, white zinc and white hoodie.
‘These guys out west. It’s a guerilla ad for the Cancer Council. They’re in Parramatta.’
The ad did look sickeningly good. It featured a singing carcinoma on the main character’s back. Blanche noted the title so she could go back and watch it in her office, over and over. She could see out the door across the hallway into Terry’s office. Kate was in there. Terry had his hands behind his head and was laughing uproariously, looking Kate up and down.
‘It’s just so bold and funny. And they’ve had like five and a half thousand hits in less than two weeks, and someone’s set up a fan page on facebook.’
‘You’re from Parramatta, aren’t you?’
‘Yeh, I’m a westie,’ Lim said proudly. ‘I went to school with one of these guys. They’ve just asked me to join them actually.’
Blanche widened her eyes. ‘You’d go and work in Parramatta?’
‘It’s alright. It’s the real centre of Sydney, when you look at a map. It’s forty minutes on the RiverCat, which is quicker than most public transport in this city. Someone like me can afford to buy a house. It’s really multicultural. My mum and dad are out there, you know.’
‘You’re abandoning me!’ Blanche was only half
joking.
‘Look, I’m just thinking about it. I get to buy in as a partner and be creative director, which means I get to schedule my own hours, which means I’ll have time to write my novel. Blanche, I love working with you but it’s just too corporate here. I can’t spread my wings.’
Everything that Lim said made perfect sense: it was a golden opportunity. ‘I’m taking you for a drink after work, boy. I’m not letting you go as easily as that.’
‘Sure.’ Lim whispered as Kate came back in, ‘Nobody knows!’
‘Oh, while you’re here,’ said Kate to Blanche, ‘these are just in from casting.’
Blanche went through the photos. ‘No, too thin. No, he’s just done Westpac.’ She stopped at a photo of a handsome square-jawed man with perfect teeth. ‘Who’s this again?’
‘He was in that cop show a few years back,’ said Kate. ‘He was really good.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I don’t know why they sent his picture over,’ Lim said. ‘I mean, an Aboriginal in a car ad?’
‘Yeah.’ Blanche continued through the pile. She stopped at the last photo. ‘He looks a bit like Beck, doesn’t he.’
‘He was our pick too.’ Kate smiled.
‘Okay, team, we’re on the same page.’ Blanche held up her index fingers, like a rap singer.
‘See you at lunch,’ Kate said.
‘I can’t, sorry, date with Tez.’
‘I know. He’s asked me to come along.’
‘Oh. Oh great!’
Blanche went back to her office. Well, who would have thought. Kate and Terry. So it might be those cowboy boots rather than Lim’s Merrells that would tramp right over the top of her the second she dropped the ball. She had fluked it from the art department herself; who said it couldn’t happen again? This thought cleared Blanche’s head and a flinty determination took hold. She might just have this baby, and keep her job at the same time. She might do the best ad for sanitary napkins that anyone had ever seen. And why not hope like her brothers that Marie’s cancer would go into remission? Why not leave all options open? She might be dropping her baby off to her grandmother to be babysat in a year’s time. For the next hour Blanche cut a swathe through her backlog of emails and phone calls. She spent ten minutes in the bathroom fixing her hair and make-up. She lowered her head, smiled up at herself through her vampish brows, then strode out to collect her colleagues for their lunch date.
Almost every chair in the chemotherapy ward was occupied. The first woman was young, reading the Herald, her enormous eyes saintly in her bald head. The next was slightly older than Marie, chatty and curious, like a beauty parlour client in her pink scarf tied turban-style. A couple of the alcoves had their curtains drawn. A woman with wavy auburn hair sat white-faced as the line went into her arm, a man who looked like her husband reading to her loudly as though addressing a classroom. Both of them stared at Marie’s tattoos, then her face. There was a man adjacent with lush, pitted Islander features and volcanic eyes. He was reading a book called Stalingrad. A scorpion clung to the side of his scalp, a teardrop to his cheek.
The chatty woman on Marie’s other side said, ‘You’ve got the lime juice cordial. That’s what I call it.’
‘That’s a nice way of putting it.’ Marie had been thinking it resembled uranium juice, if there was such a thing. Liquid yellowcake.
‘Well, we have to look on the bright side. I had it for my first bout. It didn’t work for me.’ She nodded after each sentence, preempting disagreement, her nose denting the air. ‘But I’m sure it will for you.’
The woman with auburn hair glared at the chatty woman. Her husband read, ‘Robert had a job teaching ...’
A passing nurse said, ‘You’ve all got your own special mixture.’
Marie was surprised to find herself content in here with the companionship of the ill. She considered this a brief stop-off. She watched the antivenom infuse, imagining it course through her blood straight to the tumour like weed-killer. She knew it would actually poison everything, but hopefully the right cells would regrow. She shifted to relieve the skin itching on her flank.
The chatty woman said, ‘Is it breast?’
Marie panicked for a moment, thinking her bra must be showing. ‘No. Stomach.’
‘Most of us are breast, of course.’
From the auburn hair, a disapproving sigh.
From the Islander a cheerful, ‘I’m not!’
The chatty woman ignored them. ‘You’re quite exotic,’ she said to Marie. ‘Especially with those things on your arms.’
Marie politely agreed, hoped the Islander would notice them.
‘And this must be your son,’ the woman went on. ‘Isn’t he handsome?’
Leon had returned from the cafeteria. He placed himself tactfully between the chatty woman and his mother. ‘I got apple and blackcurrant fizzy drink, or organic orange juice. Take your pick.’ He added in a wry whisper as he sat down, ‘Compulsory Madonna lilies in the corner.’
The Islander was being infused with raspberry-coloured fluid. The pouch on his drip stand was nearly empty. Marie was aware of Leon’s eyes continually on him and she looked steadfastly at her feet. She was terrified the Islander would realise Leon was gay. She didn’t want him to register her curiosity either. She was angry with Leon for thinking he could just stare at a man in public like that, as though it didn’t matter. Especially one of those Islanders, god knows you shouldn’t provoke them. In a flash she imagined the Islander heaving himself up with a roar, ape-like, and crushing Leon between his fists. She collected herself and said to her son, ‘How’s it going in Susan’s garden? What are you doing?’
‘Digging holes and filling them in again.’
‘Ha-ha.’ She stared at Leon, willing him to look at her, not the Islander. ‘What else?’
‘She wants natives. She’s got this awful row of agapanthus that I’m replacing. And I’m going to try some roses.’
‘That’s not like you.’ Marie was barely registering what Leon was saying. Even with her head turned away from him, the presence of the Islander dominated her. When an intern arrived ten minutes later to remove the shunt from his arm, Marie began to relax. She and Leon watched him walk out of the room. Tall, big-boned, with a presumption of space, he would have once had the physique of a rugby player. He moved with the lumbering grace of someone unwilling to relinquish a fine suit that had grown too large for him.
‘Impressive,’ said Leon quietly.
Marie said nothing. She was enraged.
She began to feel sick towards the end of the hour. A flush had spread up her arm and the desire to scratch obsessed her. A spinning sensation moved over her brain every minute or so and she felt incapable of walking. They wheeled her into a ward to recover. She began to vomit. Leon stood by the bed with his hand over his mouth as an intern examined her. ‘It’s just a reaction to the chemotherapy. We’re going to keep you overnight and Dr Wroblewski will see you in the morning.’
At night the hospital reduced to its elements of cheap furniture, white linen and stainless steel. Marie didn’t want to be there. The bed was like a rack for objects, not humans; the others in the room coughing and groaning behind their curtains. She felt miserable in her gown, plastic vomit bowl by her side. She looked back on her fear and anger earlier in the day. You stupid bloody racist, she cursed herself. Stupid bloody homophobe. But there was something else in her anger with Leon that she didn’t quite want to let go: rivalry. Even in this decaying body she desired, to the point that she wanted to fight for it. With lust racing through her blood, it was hard to believe she was sick let alone that she was going to die.
She saw the Islander on the verandah the next day, smoking in a chair down the end. The young woman with the beatific eyes was up the other end, holding the hand of a Chinese woman in a red jacket. It was hot out here and patients shuffled to and fro with their skinny limbs exposed. Marie s
ettled into a chair not far from the Islander and dozed with New Scientist in her lap. Smoke from his cigarette rippled through the air elegant as silk.
‘Hope you don’t mind.’ He glanced over. ‘I only have a couple a day now.’
Marie’s nostrils sought the aroma as a reassuring envoy from the outside world. ‘I like the smell.’
‘Most people complain it makes them sick.’
‘I’ll blame the chemo for that.’
‘I’ll blame liver cancer. Brian.’ He held forth his hand. It was warm and dry.
‘Marie.’
They went back to their reading. The air began to tighten like an inflating balloon. Marie could feel Brian’s eyes on her arms. She had already taken in what she could of him. A spiderweb on the left elbow, little marks on the joints of each finger and other things too blurred to read from here.
‘Designer tatts, eh?’ he said with mild deprecation.
‘Somebody designed yours too at some stage,’ Marie shot back.
‘Yeah. The gods.’
‘I don’t believe in God.’
Brian chuckled. ‘Not mine you don’t,’ he affirmed.
Marie’s eyes remained glued on the headline: The rainfall and inflow crisis. She couldn’t decipher a single word.
Brian said, ‘It’s good work, eh. Passionflowers. Beautiful. Who did it?’ He pronounced it ut.
‘Someone called Rhys.’
‘Rhys!’
‘You know her?’
‘She’s a legend! I know a few blokes had work done by her. Her stuff’s won competitions all over the world. Where’s she working now?’
‘In a studio in Surry Hills, in partnership with a man called Rob.’
‘Oh yeah?’ It was hard to tell how much of his pallor was jaundice; criss-crosses were weathered into his neck. He looked frail in that moment, with his head hung forward and lips parted inquisitively, the gaps where back teeth were missing visible. His eyebrows had fallen out. A look of anger crossed his face, intimidating Marie. ‘She used to work at Skinned Alive, one of the Rickers outfits. That was years ago.’
Indelible Ink Page 34