My eyes pop. ‘Wow! Dazzling, Sacha. Absolutely stunning!’
The midnight blue shirt highlights his golden hair and turns his eyes dark blue. He strikes a pose and smiles. He’s so handsome he reminds me of Michaelangelo’s beautiful statue of David, only without the outsized hands. What do straight chicks wear to gay clubs? I choose the new silver halter top, match it with loose scarlet harem pants, silver strappy sandals, more bracelets and anklets and lots of glittery make-up.
Sacha kisses my cheek. ‘You look…great.’
Suddenly this feels all wrong. ‘Look, Sacha, are you sure you want me to come with you? I mean, I don’t…’
‘Oh, pul-eeease, Emma,’ he groans. ‘You have to. I…I’ve never been to a gay place before. I’m…nervous, you see.’
But I’m edgy. What if I’m the only straight person there? If only Dessi were with us I wouldn’t feel this awkward. Confronted by too many questions in this last week – such as Who am I? What am I? Can my problems with my father and previous guys mean that I’m really gay? I ask, ‘This place we’re going to…is it just guys?’
He looks uncertain. ‘I think so.’
I panic. ‘Oh Sacha, I don‘t want anyone coming on to me.’
‘It’ll be fine. Don’t worry, Emma. I’ll take care of you,’ he says and grabs my hand. ‘Let’s get a cab.’
We do and pull up outside a softly lit doorway with a flight of stairs leading upwards. There is nothing to indicate that this is a club. Sacha pays the cab driver and we head up the stairs.
‘Membership?’ An old guy is perched on a high stool behind an elaborate desk. He examines us with piercing blue eyes. ‘Or just visiting?’ He smiles at Sacha. For him I might well be a spot on the wall.
‘Visiting.’ Sacha says in a shaky voice.
‘You’ll need a visitor’s card then,’ the guy purrs and slaps a book down on the desk. ‘Just fill that in for me dear, will you? And your guest’s name, if you please. I take it she is with you?’ His gaze is dismissive.
I glower back. One day I’ll use him to draw someone nasty. Sacha pays forty dollars for two small glittery pieces of cardboard.
The old guy smirks. ‘Enjoy your evening.’
I let my scowl hang out.
‘Stay cool, Em,’ Sacha says softly and steers me into a gently lit room with leather couches and gilt framed mirrors. Small groups of guys are scattered around, some sprawled on couches, others posing at tables. It seems that a million pairs of eyes turn on us as we stumble to a bench against a wall. Sacha is breathing too quickly. ‘I’ll get us a drink,’ he says.
While he’s gone I check out the clients. Everyone is in tight fitting jeans and tank tops. The only difference is the stitching on their boots. When I remember the jerks at our school, all acne and smelly feet, these men could come from another planet. Two men begin dancing together. They’re really close, gazing into each other and then kissing. Sacha almost drops the drinks when he sees them.
‘Hi. Would you like to dance?’
Standing in front is a tall, slim guy. Sacha glides on to the dance floor. He doesn’t even notice when I swallow my drink, pick up my bag and head for the stairs.
19. DESSI, Melbourne
I manage the two stairs to my physio’s rooms. Joyce would be okay, if she didn’t ask me every single time: ‘How do you feel?’
‘Fine,’ I say, when I really want to scream, ‘Get this bloody boot off me!’ Then of course I get an extra long lecture about ‘thinking positive, and how these exercises must be viewed as necessary homework, all delivered with a fixed smile and a piercing gaze. Until that happens, Joyce is keeping my other muscles in shape. But she must know how I feel because she says in her usual brisk way, ‘Soon as we get rid of the plaster, we’ll use deep tissue heat and massage your ankle back to the way it was.’
I smile politely. No point being rude. I know Joyce is only doing her best to keep me going.
This over, I hop out to the pavement to wait for Abdul. Three minutes later his white van lurches round the corner. I can’t help feeling smug. This is the man who couldn’t find time to take Emma to the airport. Any lingering doubts disappear. Now I’m quite sure he’s interested in me and only wants Emma as a friend.
He kisses my cheek. He smells of toothpaste, after-shave and a faint spicy scent that’s his alone. I swing myself into the car and he comes around to help me hoist my ankle inside. He closes my door and jumps into the driver’s seat. ‘Brunswick or Acland Street? You get to choose.’
‘Acland Street,’ I decide.
We tear around the corner at breakneck speed. He glimpses my face and slows down. ‘Sorry,’ he says, repentant. ‘Forgot.’
‘That’s okay!’ I try to hide my relief.
We park behind Luna Park. ‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere they make a decent coffee.’
‘Oh,’ his brow crinkles. ‘For that you’ll have to walk...’
‘Hop…’
‘But not far,’ he hastens to add.
We set off through the summer crowd. Halfway down the street, I ask, ‘Where are we going?’
‘Best is here.’ He guides me to a café further along and we settle at an outside table. The weather is perfect, a warm sun with just enough wind to keep us cool. Abdul orders, then leans back and stares. I feel my cheeks flame.
‘Something wrong?’
He leans forward to rub my cheek and run a finger over my upper lip. Then he laughs and says, ‘You look fine. Even prettier than yesterday.’
I redden some more. I’m not used to being flattered.
The waiter brings our coffees. I ask, ‘Had a busy morning?’
He shrugs. ‘My folks driving me nuts. How about you?’
So I tell him about Nanna Pearl. He listens very carefully. I ask, ‘Do you have any grandparents?’
‘One grandfather. He lives with us.’
I lean forward. ‘Tell me how your parents came to be here.’
‘You mean, why they chose Oz?’ He shrugs. ‘Seemed the best place to settle. But it didn’t happen all at once. They first went to Italy and stayed there until they finally got Australian visas. With too little English the only jobs they could find were in a hospital. They’re still there. We lived upstairs from a kebab shop, only moved to the suburbs four years ago.’ His lips twitch in a half smile, ‘Reckon my grandfather brought us up.’
His phone buzzes. Abdul pulls it out, glances at its face and frowns. ‘Yes?’ A quick gesture and he walks further down the street. The conversation only lasts a minute or so. When he returns his face is thunderous. ‘Sorry about that,’ he says hooking the phone onto his belt.
Though it’s none of my business, I can’t resist asking, ‘Who was it?’
He stares silently at me. ‘No one important.’
But I can tell this call has jolted him.
‘Tell me about your school?’ I ask. ‘Where did you go?’
His tension visibly drops. ‘Weshill Secondary.’ He laughs. ‘Great place for a general education. You’re forced to learn certain skills. Some of your Aussie mates don’t like Muslims.’
I grimace. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘What’s there to tell? Skips don’t like Wogs or Slopes and vice versa. No one likes Muslims, and Muslims don’t like anyone, either. We had to do some quick thinking to stay alive.’
‘What’s happened to the rest of your class?’
‘The lucky ones got to Uni or went into the family business. Others got into party drugs or jail. How about you?’
‘We’re still waiting to find out.’
Inside, I quake.
‘Course.’ He glances at his watch. ‘Got to make a delivery before two.’ He goes inside to pay. Then we slowly make their way through the pedestrians and back to the car. I wait for him to fire the engine. ‘Tomorrow night,’ he says. ‘You busy?’
I pretend to think. ‘Well apart from a meeting with Stephen Spielberg who’s promised me a scriptwriting job...’
>
‘Let’s go out for dinner?’
‘Love to,’ I say.
We don’t speak much on the way home, though I can tell he’s battling some hidden problem. Finally he takes a deep breath and says, ‘How about my place?’
‘Sure.’ If only I could stop that stupid smile. So uncool. But being with him sends me half-crazy. Anytime Emma pops into my mind, I quickly dismiss her. Of course Emma’s having a great time up north. I’m sure that given this accident and everything, she won’t resent me having a little fun down here.
Abdul draws up in front of our house. He opens my door to allow me to lurch out. Then waits for me to unlock the front door. This time it’s lips on lips, tongues meeting, bodies clamped together. A charge surges through me. Head to toes vibrate. My hips, thighs, stomach press helplessly to his. For a moment I feel that if I died out here, died on the gravel in front of my door, it will all be worth it.
When he eventually moves away, I say as casually as I can manage, ‘Thanks. I had a great time.’
‘See you tomorrow at five.’
I wait for the van to disappear around the corner before crutching down the passage. Rap thumps from Jeremy’s room. A buzz-saw whines out the back. Hannah is in the kitchen working on her laptop. She looks around when I come in. ‘Have a nice time?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Abdul seems nice.’
Do I sense some reserve?
‘Abdul is nice.’ I peer inside the fridge.
‘What religion?’
‘Muslim.’
‘Oh!’ Hannah frowns, opens her mouth as if to say something. Then changes her mind. ‘Had lunch?’
I shake my head and reach for the chocolate cake.
‘Why not make a cheese and salad sandwich? There’s a fresh loaf in the bread-tin.’ She returns to her laptop.
I make myself a sandwich. Then add a thick slice of cake. All this time Hannah doesn’t look up, but I can feel her disapproval. As I crutch down the passage, I ponder how easily she can make me feel no more than six.
In my bedroom, the clutter has developed a life of its own, the way it pours out of the hold-all and sprawls onto the floor. I imagine my belongings moving through the door, twisting into the passage, wriggling into the kitchen, taking over the house.
Shoving clothes, books and other stuff on the floor, I sprawl on the bed to review my morning to that final heart-stopping kiss. Even the replay makes me feel light as air. I remind myself that if it hadn’t been for that accident, Emma and I would have met Abdul together. He would have made it obvious that he really likes me. I would never have felt torn in two. Never felt disloyal.
Emma accuses me of being too careful. Of us being exact opposites. So could I really have fallen in love in just two days? I’ve read this is something totally out of one’s control. Like catching flu or hepatitis. Is this happening to me? All I know is that my body is walking on air… my brain is obsessed… my head singing his name…
Raised voices from the kitchen butt in. I clench my jaw. Oh, no! Not another fight. Until recently, I’ve always seen my parents as gentle folk prepared to put up with difficult bureaucracies and demanding superiors. But these days their fights are about money… or rather, how to spend what little money we have.
But none of this mess is my fault. Before leaving his job, why didn’t Graham wait for Hannah to establish herself? Why didn’t he wait for me to get better? But how do you tell your parents what they ought to be doing when it’s perfectly obvious to you if not to them. Not as if they’ll ever listen.
Starving, I sit up and start eating.
20. EMMA, Surfers
After leaving the club so quickly, I realise that I haven’t eaten all day. I’m starving. But instead of looking for an all night snack bar, I take a cab straight back to the unit. The cabbie charges me more than he should. When I complain he points to his dashboard and waits for me to pay up. If only Dessi was here, we’d know where else to go. Kaz mentioned a party in Tweed Heads, but I don’t know where it is and besides, Tweed Heads is a long way from Broadbeach.
What is Dessi doing tonight? I’ll bet she’s wishing she wasn’t stuck at home with a broken ankle. The only good thing is that I’m sure she’ll be writing more wonderful poetry.
In the kitchen I find a half empty jar of Vegemite and a few dry biscuits. I settle on the balcony where a tiny breeze stirs the humid air. Lights twinkle from the surrounding buildings. In the street below, kids tumble past shouting drunkenly into the night. Farther out, an indigo ocean rolls onto the sand leaving foamy suds. The night seems to go on forever. I’ve got too much time to think. Seeing my dad again forces me to recall what things were like before he left. Though their arguments had gone on for years, I still wasn’t ready for the split. I must have given him that final push. I wish I knew why. I can still picture him standing in the doorway saying, ‘Princess, even if I’m not living here, we’ll still see each other.’ Maybe he even meant it. But two days later he phoned to say he’d taken a job up north.
Julie has never forgiven him. But in my opinion what she really hates is being single. If only I had a sister to share the heat maybe I wouldn’t be this angry. But how to explain to even my closest friends what it’s like to come home to a house in perpetual mourning? Though I love Dessi and Sacha, they can’t help.
A tiny bit of me suspects that I went ‘over the top’ about Abdul to prove that this new relationship could work. Still, brooding on the way the men in my life behave makes me resolve to never let anyone, no, not anyone ever treat me this badly again.
As storm clouds gather, my thoughts switch to Sacha. He owes it to me that he finally joined a gym to develop a ‘killer punch’. He only had to use this twice before the message went out that he might be gay, but he was no walkover. ‘You’re my closest friend,’ he often tells me. I never have the heart to tell him this special place is reserved for Dessi. Curiously while Sash and I share lots, like we’d never dream of visiting to a gallery without each other, I’ve only been to his home twice. His mum is as round as a butterball and ever so sweet. His dad only ever appears at parent/teacher nights where his bear-like stature and booming voice are truly frightening. Sacha never mentions him. What does this say about their relationship?
Relationships! So complicated. Even with Dessi. I remember how, during swot vac, we decided to veg out at the pool. Maybe I did come on a bit strong when it came to that lifesaver. But there was no need for Dessi to go all prissy. I reckon that soon as she really falls for someone, her attitudes will change. Agreed, talking her into going out with Jon MacKenna was a mistake. It’s a shame she isn’t here. Maybe she’d meet some decent guy who will help change her mind?
I check my watch. It’s already three a.m. and still no one’s come home. No good trying to sleep. Suddenly, I wish I was at Robert and Laura’s. There, I could be emailing, even phoning Dessi on their landline. I just hope she isn’t getting too depressed. I know she’s waiting on every message. I turn on the TV. There’s nothing interesting to watch. It’s too humid to go to bed. No stars, only distant flashes of lightning far out to sea and occasional rumbles of thunder. The air is oppressive. Gradually the thunder grows louder and lightning flashes across the sky in great arcs. The wind picks up and an eerie sound whistles around the balcony. Watching, I feel myself open up to it like the fronds of a sea anemone. As the palms on the foreshore whip about it’s like I’m part of that storm until suddenly, without any warning, rain comes down in sheets. In seconds I’m drenched and pushing hard to close the balcony door.
In the darkened lounge room, I pull out my sketch book and water-pastels to try and capture what’s in front of me. Colour is everything. Each object has an extra sheen – as if this light, this atmosphere, contains some unknown element. The sky wears a dull smouldering hue, and it takes me a long time to work out which colours to blend to get that exact yellowish grey and then it’s still not right. The bliss is that when I’m working, all those doubts that flood my
mind disappear.
Half an hour later when there’s no sign of the rain letting up, I go to bed. If only Dessi was here. I often tell myself she’s the lucky one, what with having parents that really like each other. But maybe my lack of a proper family will turn me into a better artist. I never forget that I intend to make it in the world of art. I know that I will have to sacrifice a lot to even exhibit in some minor gallery. But many artists had unhappy childhoods. I can only hope that this will give me an edge. I have to believe that if I keep on that I’ll succeed… or die in the process trying.
Still no one comes home and eventually I go to bed. I don’t know what time it is when I wake. Have I been dreaming? Rain is still pelting against the windows. But there’s another sound. Like someone crying. I turn on the bedside lamp. Sacha is in the other bed, curled up under the sheet like a baby.
‘Hey, Sash?’ I whisper. ‘You okay?’
All I get is a whimper.
‘What’s wrong?’ I get out of bed and sit beside him. His face is stuffed into the pillow and he won’t look at me.
‘Turn off the light,’ he mumbles. ‘Please.’
I do as he asks and go back to his side. Flashes of lightning cast weird patterns on the wall and I glimpse a face drenched in tears.
‘What happened?’
He shakes his head and snuffles into the pillow.
‘Hey, you can tell me, Sash.’ I reach out and stroke his head.
He grabs my hand. ‘Promise you won’t tell the others?’
‘Course I won’t.’
He heaves himself up, wipes his soggy face on the sheet and looks at me with desperation in his bloodshot eyes.
‘Did something…happen?’ Though I’m curious, I don’t want to intrude.
‘Do you think that someone could… could think they’re gay, and then find out that maybe they’re not?’
‘Uh, I don’t really know.’
‘Em…’ I can hardly hear him. ‘If I tell you that I’ve never actually done it, would you believe me?’
Dessi's Romance Page 8