Lucky Jeremy. Wish I had an escape hatch. I could always move in with Julie, but her house is so messy, it’s hard finding somewhere pleasant to settle. Back here, Hannah’s so involved in her new job and all Graham does is renovate. These days they can barely manage a civil word to each other. How they manage to sleep in the same bed is beyond me. Might they end up by splitting? The thought makes me shiver. Half my class come from separated families.
Relationships! Why do they have to be so complicated? Even when it comes to best friends. I love Emma. She’s closer to me than any sister. Since this accident she’s been great. Just great. She sat with me all day when I was in hospital and turns up daily since I’m home. No one could be more devoted. We give each other total support. I’d do anything for Emma and I know she feels the same. But there are times when I could kill her... such as when she falls for jerks like Sam and Danny. Or when she draws pictures of herself with knives sticking out of her chest. What if she does this for real? Or when she pretends that everything will be okay once my ankle heals when it obviously won’t. Didn’t the physio say in this matter of fact way, ‘Breaks like this can develop arthritis in middle age.’
Great! Now I can worry about my middle age.
At the time Emma looked incredulous. ‘You may have a problem. I plan to kill myself before then.’ Why does she have to be such a drama queen? Even someone like me who’s known her from birth can’t always tell the wish from the actuality.
Did Lilbet and Ella feel the same? From their letters, messages and poems you might think all their thoughts about each other were positive. But I’d bet a million dollars that they weren’t.
I put down the book. More pressing on my mind is: what’s Emma up to in Broadbeach?
8. EMMA, Gold Coast
In the bathroom of our Broadbeach unit, I’m busy applying make-up. Up here I need loads of blusher until that unhealthy pallor caused by too much work and lack of sunshine disappears. I’m in the same dress I wore on my date with Abdul. When I assess my reflection, as usual, I’m disappointed. If only I could change places with someone taller, would guys then take me more seriously?
I go into the living room where Sacha has already turned up. ‘Em,’ he says, ‘you look good enough to eat.’
I smile back, grateful how quick he is to compliment me. ‘So do you,’ I assure him and it’s true. This evening he’s in mid-calf shorts, a shiny black tank top, and eyebrow, lip and ear piercings.
We catch a bus into Surfers and walk onto pavements choked with Schoolies and holiday-makers: the kids pimply and pale-faced waiting for something to happen; the holiday-makers tanned and in bright casual gear — loads of yellow, orange, a yellowy-green, every possible shade of blue, and masses of creams and whites. How I love all this colour. Tomorrow I plan to buy some shorts, a skinny teeny skirt and the brightest tops I can find.
Down Cavill Avenue, the crowd flanking the pavements is almost too thick to move through. We wind around mobs of kids determined to have fun, and Toolies, older guys hoping to pick up chicks or start a fight. A shiver runs down my spine. When Jodie turns to stare at a drunken Toolie throwing up in the gutter, I hurry her along. ‘Where to?’ she asks. ‘I’m starving.’
Kaz shakes her head. ‘Later. I promised Jon and Brad we’d check out their flat.’
‘Do we have to?’ Sacha asks, dismayed.
‘Yes.’ Kaz refuses to be swayed. ‘I promised!’
‘Just a short while. Okay Kaz?’ I chime in. I’m only too aware of Sacha’s reluctance to meet with those macho guys.
Kaz holds up a scrap of paper. ‘Here’s the address.’
She leads us to one of the streets that back onto the sand where some of the older high-rise group together. This late, shadows engulf the beach. If I half close my eyes, they hint at another dark dank city where just about anything horrid can happen.
The building’s foyer needs updating. Here, smudged mirrors and torn seats hint of too many renters. We ride to the twentieth floor in an elevator that smells of beer and vomit, then turn right along a corridor that reminds me too much of the hospital where I visited Dessi, similar nausea-making smells, until we come to apartment 2017.
The door swings open.
Inside we walk into a room already semi-trashed, the floor covered in cigarette burns and other unrecognisable stains, two coffee tables littered with empty cans, saucers overflowing with butts beside a NO SMOKING sign. Sprawled over the couch Jon McKenna waves a stubby at us. ‘Hi. When’d you lot get in?’
‘What a mess!’ Kaz exclaims. ‘The others here too?’
‘Yeah… Out there.’ Already half stoned, face flushed, bare-chested, Jon waves us towards the open balcony door. I hurry past. I know he’ll want to talk about Dessi and how sorry he is about that accident and how he wishes she’d talk to him.
What am I supposed to say?
On the balcony we find the other guys as drunk and stoned as Jon. Apart from checking whether we’ve brought any more cans, they’re too busy yelling insults to a group in an adjoining high-rise to bother with us.
My chin drops. The guys in other building are one level up: twenty-first or twenty-second floor. One guy has climbed over the balustrade and is perched on the narrow ledge gazing down at the canyon below.
‘Chicken… chicken,’ his mates yell, encouraging him to take that step further.
The guy dangling from the balustrade holds out one hand and hangs perilously with the other.
My breath catches. One wrong move and every bone in that guy’s body will be smashed.
To my intense relief, accompanied by cheers and whistles, he grabs onto the balustrade with both hands, pulls himself up and over and is back on the balcony and safety.
‘I’m out of here,’ I yell at the others, though I know that one day I’ll have to put this onto canvas. ‘Got more to do than wait for the cops.’
‘Me too,’ Sacha says quickly. ‘Where to now?’
As we head for the main door Jon waves a desultory hand, calls ‘See you at the pub…’ and goes back to sucking his stubby. What a jerk! I feel such a pang of guilt, I can hardly wave back. How could I have talked Dessi into going out with him and then getting into his car when she was so reluctant? How could I have been that insensitive?
We find a restaurant down a side street and order two large plates of fish and chips. ‘I’m dying for a beer,’ says Sacha. ‘What does everyone else want?’
I’ve already decided not to get drunk. ‘Coke for me.’
Kaz goes bug-eyed. ‘Hey, Simpers, get with it.’
I shrug, think, what the hell! and order a stubby.
‘Everyone’s going to the beach party tonight,’ Sacha announces.
‘No booze at the beach party,’ Kaz chimes in. ‘I feel like getting smashed.’
‘No, I want to go to Main beach,’ Jodie squeals. Still not quite eighteen, she will have to fake an entry stamp elsewhere.
‘That will be fun,’ says Kaz and looks cross.
They argue a while.
I yawn. Those two always bicker. So different from me and Dessi. If only Dessi was here…
Sacha settles the dispute. ‘I vote we go to the pub. Who’s coming?’
Jodie looks upset, but I jump to my feet. ‘Pub? Great idea.’
We head for the beer garden. Outside, all our wrists are stamped. Jodie manages to convince the security guy that she’s forgotten her ID. He pretends to believe her.
Inside, a group of guys, all sun-bleached hair and suntans, saunter towards them. ‘Mind if we park here?’ says a dreadlocks, looking straight at Kaz.
‘It’s a free country,’ she drawls, though I can tell from the way she sits up that she finds him interesting.
The guys space themselves between us. When Sacha turns up holding a jug of beer, he’s obviously put out. ‘Hey dude,’ says dreadlocks and holds out his glass. Sacha hesitates and dreadlocks says, ‘Next jug’s on us, okay?’
Within minutes, we’re chatting away li
ke we’ve known each other forever. ‘Here on a working holiday,’ the guys admit.
Jodie looks serious. ‘Doesn’t that make you Toolies?’
‘We’re in training for the Government Sponsored Surfing Team.’ They fall about laughing. ‘You up here for Schoolies?’
‘We were Schoolies last year,’ the guy called Jeff says. ‘Had such a great time we decided to stay on.’ He turns to me. ‘Want another beer?’
I consider where this might lead. ‘Okay.’
He goes to the bar and returns with a stubby. He has thick brown hair, clear blue eyes, nicely tanned skin and I can smell salt on his skin. Just as I’m starting to find him acceptable, beautiful, dark, exotic Abdul comes into my mind. My mood shifts. What’s he doing right now? Why didn’t he take me to the airport? Maybe his business deal took longer than expected? Maybe he lost my number? Still.
‘Another beer, Emma?’
‘Sure’ I say, defiant to Abdul’s image. ‘Keep them coming.’
I decide to phone my father tomorrow. This night promises to be a long one.
The band appears and the sound expands. Now the space is so crowded there’s barely room to stand. But shoulder to shoulder we’re into the bass beat, the music rising to a crescendo.
It turns out that dreadlocks is ‘Bodie’ and the band’s lead singer. ‘Schoolies week… Schoolies week…’ he shrieks and we surge forward to sing with him: ‘Don’t tell us what we can do… Don’t tell us what we can do…’ Lasers flash in time to the beat, and as the crowd moves in unison, it’s all excitement… us versus the rest of the world and there’s that awesome togetherness… so much so that right now I really love Sacha, love Jodie and Kaz, love the guys I’ve just met, love all the others crowding around me as the bass guitarist hammers out: ‘Don’t tell us what we can do… Don’t tell us what we can do…’
We dance and drink and dance some more enclosed in our world of private rapture, and my Chagall floating woman, his bride who is forever young, rises above the revellers as I leap into the sky, dancing and singing until finally, finally the band packs up and the bouncers chuck everyone out.
No problem. From there we go to another venue. ‘Twenty- six clubs… all open until five,’ Jeff informs me.
We choose Club Forty-five for no better reason except that it happens to be close. Even though Jodie is so nervous, she could be picked up in an eye-blink, no one asks for her ID. Inside a talented DJ ensures that the music keeps pumping at top volume, there’s almost enough oxygen to keep breathing and most importantly, the alcohol keeps flowing. ‘Very accommodating,’ says Kaz allowing her thirteenth drink to trickle down her throat.
The tiny dance floor is packed to capacity, sweaty people packed together like anchovies and that wonderful feeling of togetherness continues.
‘Schoolies time… Schoolies time…’ we yell and the all-consuming tightness of Us versus the rest of the world continues. Feeling part of it, yet viewing the room as sound and light and movement, is over-the-top excitement. Here, there’s no querulous mother, no assignments, no exams, no supermarket-from-hell, no worries about getting into the right course, no guy treating me like shit. Here, all that’s missing is Dessi dancing beside me.
Come three a.m. closing, we hang around watching a fight where a boy collects a broken bottle right in the face. After the boy falls onto his back, blood gushing everywhere, someone thinks to call for help. When sirens sound too close for comfort, we take off through more of the concrete jungle that makes up the centre of Surfers.
A clump of trees tempts us to climb.
Kaz takes up the dare. She scales one to dangle perilously by an arm and yell, ‘Schoolies Week, Schoolies Week…’
We echo ‘Schoolies Week…’ our cries going beyond the city lights into a darkened sky.
If Kaz falls, she could be hurt quite badly. But everyone’s too drunk to worry, and after she descends in one piece, the partying continues on the lovely wide strip known as Main Beach. Here the yellow sand is patterned with the outline of bare feet soon to be washed away by the tide. Though this stretch is now fenced and patrolled, we pretend the security guards are invisible. Kaz pashes on with Bodie and the group cheer as the couple strip off. Darkly silhouetted against an indigo and silver sky, they plunge into the sea.
Jeff turns out to be okay, and we kiss and cuddle until dawn. But it’s nothing serious and I won’t let him go far. He must be sure he’s onto a sure thing because he’s openly upset, then seriously angry when we return to the flat, Kaz brings Bodie in with her but I wave Jeff off and refuse to commit to another meeting.
Too tired to strip, I flop onto my bed and sleep like the dead.
9. DESSI, Melbourne
I wake early and I’m in the shower shampooing my hair; no easy task when one leg has to be wrapped in garbage bags and carefully taped so no water gets through, when Hannah knocks on the door. ‘Dessi, phone.’
I drop the bottle. ‘Shit!’ I have to hang onto a rail to pick it up. ‘Who is it?’
‘Abdul… Abdul Malouf.’
‘Oh!’ Anticipation and dread run through me.
‘You coming out?’ Hannah calls impatiently. Lately she doesn’t bother to hide her stress. ‘I need the phone.’
I try to ignore my racing pulse. ‘Tell him I’ll ring… I’ll ring back later.’
‘Phone him soon as you can,’ Hannah calls.
‘Okay.’ My hands tremble. ‘Get his number, will you?’
It takes ten minutes to dry my hair. When I get to the phone, the buzz goes on and on. Did Hannah get it wrong? Finally, someone answers. ‘Abdul.’ His tone is sour.
‘Hi. Uh… It’s me. Dessi. You… ah ... called…’
‘Dessi.’ His voice brightens. ‘How are you?’
‘Me? Okay, I guess.’ In the long pause I can hear Graham hammering in the front room. ‘You … ah… phoned?’
‘Yes, so I did.’ Another silence. ‘Emma get off okay?’
‘Sure. Yesterday morning.’ And though I’m really furious about the way he’s treated her and deep down I know why he’s calling, I ask, ‘Haven’t you two spoken?’
‘Not for a couple of days.’
‘How come? Weren’t you supposed to drive her to the airport?’
‘Um...ah...’ he sounds embarrassed, ‘Look, it’s better I didn’t.’
‘Then why not let her know?’
‘I figured it best if she didn’t hear from me. Don’t want her to get the wrong idea.’
‘So…’ I keep my voice cold. ‘What’s the right one?’
In the long pause, I hear Graham’s tuneless whistle.
‘Come off it, Dessi,’ he says at last. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Do I?’
‘Course you do.’
‘Okay.’ Impatient. ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’
‘Nothing. I just want to straighten things out between us.’
‘Between us?’
He sighs impatiently. ‘Well, I really rang to see if you feel like going out.’
I gulp. This is it! Something tells me this decision will influence the rest of my life. But I’m not yet ready to make it, ‘Don’t go out much these days.’
‘Why not?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘You can get in and out of a car, can’t you?’
‘Suppose so. But then I’d have to get dressed.’
‘So?’
‘It’s a hassle. Anyway, it’s not just that.’
‘What else?’
How come he can avoid the obvious? ‘I’d hate Emma to think I was poaching.’
‘Poaching.’ I picture his grin. ‘Like fishing or shooting wild ducks without a licence?’
My lips twitch. ‘Not quite.’
‘Emma did ask me to call you while she’s away.’
‘Suppose so... But it still doesn’t feel right. Emma and me…we’re mates. Actually more like sisters. Our mothers are … like family.’
/> ‘I didn’t think Anglos bothered with family.’
‘Guess we’re the exception. This way we have loads of people to fight with.’
‘You sound like my dad. You’ve no idea how many people he isn’t talking to.’
We laugh. A little tension disappears. I cast around for a safe topic. ‘How’s Uni?’
He laughs. ‘Fine. We don’t go back till March.’
Embarrassed, I manage, ‘Guess this accident’s left me brain dead.’
‘Sure. You’ve had a rough time.’
That’s not the half of it. But not wanting to get into any discussion, I shift the phone to my other ear. He quickly changes the topic. ‘What courses have you applied for?’
‘Melbourne Arts, Law. Monash Arts, Law. Latrobe Humanities. Swinburne Arts.’
‘That’s only four.’
‘The rest don’t count.’ I break into a sweat. What if I don’t get in? But my grades were good in English, History and Psychology, though Legal Studies and Geography could have been better. Still, I’m hoping my total score will still get me into Melbourne or Monash.
I push my fears away. ‘Weren’t you doing extra study?’
‘Yes. Heard of fractals? They’re a theory in geometry which claims things look almost identical at different scales. It’s an integral part of Chaos Theory. I mean, take the events of one day, and that pattern will emerge in one year. Your whole life is the shape of that one day...’
‘Terrific.’ I can’t avoid the envious tone. ‘All I’ve managed this morning is a shower and shampoo.’
‘Oh!’ His voice trails off. ‘Mandelbrot, the guy who invented Fractal Theory, would say today’s not typical.’
‘I suppose it’s one way of looking at things.’
‘It’s the only way.’ His tone is emphatic. ‘Look, how about a drive? Do you good to get out.’
Dessi's Romance Page 4