Holding Out for a Hero

by Victoria Van Tiem

  I glance at Jasper, then step over Carl’s words myself, knowing there’s no way. ‘OK, well, thanks for everything, we’ll get back to you. Lots to consider.’ I avoid another damp handshake and move towards the door, hoping Jasper’s quick to follow.

  Outside, I suck in a fast breath and blow it out so it plumps my cheeks. Right now, I pay eleven hundred a month plus utilities – that’s it. Five times the rent, plus a yearly maintenance fee, utilities and build-out? Less than two weeks. Worse location. I may be sick. Finn better find a way for Pretty in Pink to stay put, or . . .

  ‘Sorry. That isn’t going to work, is it?’ Jas says, catching my stride as I start to hail a cab.

  ‘No, but I really appreciate you meeting me and . . .’ I shake my head. ‘It’s just, I didn’t deal with any of this last time. I bought it from the owner, just assumed the sublease. This is too much, there’s just no way.’ I glance back at the empty location and shake my head. ‘Let’s just hope we really won’t need to move.’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ Jas runs a hand through his hair, causing spikes of blonde to jut up through his fingers. He leaves it there as if he’s forgotten.

  ‘Hey, I’ll just look further out, and really, maybe we won’t have to move. Don’t stress it, OK?’ I fake a smile, and wave the cab over.

  ‘You looked stressed.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m meeting Dora for her dress fitting, and I’m already late.’ All I’ve been doing today is chasing time. I jump inside the cab, but Jasper taps the glass, so I roll down the window.

  ‘Listen, you’re right. Something will turn up. It’s all good, OK?’

  His eyes are warm and encouraging, and I’m grateful for his optimism, but nothing about this feels good.

  Mrs C., myself and Finn sip champagne cocktails and talk wedding details while Dora tries on yet another bridal gown. Yes, she’s wearing white, and yes, they now make maternity wedding dresses. Who knew?

  Finn wrinkles his beak-like nose and leans close. ‘So are you ready to meet Nigel?’

  ‘What’s this about? Who’s Nigel?’ Mrs C. moves closer. She’s wearing a plum-coloured mother-of-the-bride hat, for no other reason than she wants to. It’s wide-brimmed, with a sloping edge and oversized feathers sprouting about.

  The two of them are now huddled by my sides, leaving most of the horseshoe sectional empty and me squashed tightly between them. Finn’s musk cologne battles Mrs C.’s floral and the combination stings my eyes. The last perfume I wore was Poison, which smelled good; their combination may actually kill me.

  ‘Oh, Libby.’ Mrs C. smiles with an excited nod, causing the feathers from her hat to graze and tickle my cheek. ‘First a neurologist—’

  ‘An anesthesiologist,’ Finn says, patting her knee. ‘Dr Theo is an anesthesiologist.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She smiles affectionately. ‘Well, it just warms my heart to see you getting back on the dating horse. You know . . .’ Her eyes moisten and take on a gleam. ‘I always imagined you would marry my Oliver, but I guess life doesn’t always spin in the direction we think it should, does it?’ She nods, with a wistful expression. ‘Just nice to see you out there, really giving it a whirl.’

  My stomach knots from her words. ‘It’s more like a dating merry-go-round, and honestly, it’s making me dizzy,’ I admit.

  ‘Yes, well, you never know, maybe you’ll be next?’ Mrs C. motions to the surrounding bridal gowns with a quick nose-wrinkle.

  Me? I glance at the sea of white ruffles, intricate beading and delicate lace. It could be fun to stand on the lighted platform with everyone gushing about how pretty I look. And I guess if marriage ever did suddenly become appealing to me, then I would’ve chosen Ollie. But God, no to the traditional white-pouffe gown. I’d opt for something with a bit more fashion flair, like Madonna’s in the ‘Like a Virgin’ video.

  In the video she’s seen first in all black with a million necklaces dangling about, and then next, it’s a dress with dramatic puffy sleeves. Hmm, maybe I don’t like that dress after all. Oh, Billy Idol’s ‘White Wedding’ video had . . . a coffin, and again, a woman dressed in black. Maybe it’s a sign. ‘I think I’ll just pass,’ I say, with a nose-wrinkle of my own.

  The bridal assistant rounds the corner, arms full of something billowy and ruffled.

  ‘Oh, Libby, this is the maid-of-honour dress I picked for you. I think it’s perfection. It really screams your name, don’t you agree?’ Mrs C. stands, fans out the bulging skirt and fawns over it.

  ‘Oh, that’s divine,’ says Finn, now standing to the other side.

  She’s lucky I don’t scream. I mean, how much have they had to drink? My eyes widen as I take in the strange shiny mass of . . . ‘What colour is that?’

  ‘Salmon,’ says the bridal assistant.

  ‘You mean like the fish? Are they this colour?’ I look to Finn. ‘I always thought they were silver or greyish.’

  ‘They’re silver on the outside.’ Finn nods, assuredly. ‘On the inside, they’re salmon.’

  ‘So it’s the colour of fish guts?’ It just slipped out.

  Mrs C. furrows her brows. ‘Don’t be difficult, Libby.’

  ‘Mom? I need your opinion,’ Dora says from behind the dressing-room door.

  Mrs C.’s up and over, with Finn on her heels. I stay put, happily downing what’s left of Finn’s drink, since I’ve finished my own. I glance to Mrs C.’s, but she’s emptied it. Being here makes me squirmy. This whole day has me squeamish, actually.

  ‘Are you ready? Say you’re ready!’ Finn clucks, leaning out from the dressing room. ‘Wait till you see her, she’s . . .’

  ‘Divine,’ I say to myself, mocking him.

  Dora walks out, her mom and Finn all smiles beside her. She lifts the train, stepping carefully onto the circular platform, and turns so she can see herself in the lighted mirror. She’s beaming as the bridal assistant fluffs the material and makes adjustments.

  Finn and Mrs C. chatter on about how beautiful she looks. They’ve swept her dark hair back and placed a small jewelled tiara on her head. It’s quite lovely, and the dress . . .

  It’s dreamily suited to her, strapless, simple, flaring from under her bosom in an empire style. It’s short, which is perfect to show off her spindly, although somewhat swollen, legs, and with the long train it still carries the elegance of a longer gown. She is divine. She’s simply breathtaking. A vision.

  A bride.

  Dora’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. I half-smile. My best friend’s getting married again. She’s found love twice, and I’m happy for her, ecstatic really . . .

  Dora’s brows crease. ‘Libbs? Are you OK?’

  Mrs C. and Finn spin round.

  I flutter-blink to clear my vision. ‘You’re just really beautiful,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Really. I’m just really happy for you, really.’

  ‘That’s a lot of reallys. How much bubbly has she had?’ Finn asks, leaning close to Mrs C.

  Dora ignores him, never breaking our connection. My lips contort to hold back the emotion. I’m plagued with it all of a sudden. My throat’s tensed and my chest has swollen from the pressure to keep it all in.

  Just seeing her like that, in that dress, and I’m . . . I’m . . . My face scrunches up. Oh God, tears. I have stupid tears. I’m a complete shambles; what is the matter with me?

  ‘Oh, Libbs.’ Dora gathers her dress and quickly steps from the platform, while the bridal attendant tries to keep her from falling over the train’s excess fabric.

  She sits beside me and takes my hand.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ I manage to get out again. ‘Really, really lovely.’ Glancing at Mrs C., the tears start afresh. ‘My best friend’s getting married. Again.’

  ‘She’s really snockered,’ Finn whispers.

  ‘I’m not snockered, I’m . . . I’m about to be thirty-three.’ My voice cracks in a whisper. ‘And I’m never getting married.’ Now I’m blubbering. Bloody hell.

  Dora buries me in her arms.
I love her. I do. She knows I’m not intentionally being a prat. Maybe I have drunk too much. Maybe all this talk of dating, and Mrs C. bringing up Ollie and how she thought we’d end up together, is just too much. Maybe the thought of losing my shop location is. Or maybe I should have eaten something earlier; I am a bit light-headed. I sniff, and try to stop the blasted waterworks.

  ‘Can you all give us a minute?’ Dora asks.

  Her mom and Finn walk towards the front shopping area, the assistant in tow.

  My hands cover my face. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve gone and spoiled your moment, haven’t I? Typical Libby.’

  ‘No. No . . .’ She strokes my hair, then holds my head with a hand on each cheek. ‘Aw, Libbs, since when do you want to get married?’

  ‘I don’t . . .’ I’m still talking from behind my fingers, not that I have any choice; Dora’s hands are still over them. ‘I don’t know, maybe I do.’

  ‘You don’t.’ She leans her forehead to mine, and laughs softly. ‘You hate the whole idea of it. Always have. Remember when you burned Bridal Barbie’s dress?’

  ‘Yeah, only because she didn’t have a bra. I was making a statement.’ I sniff. ‘You know how much that’d be worth now?’

  She laughs under her breath. ‘Well, it proves my point. You’ve never warmed to the idea.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ I nod with a taut look. ‘But maybe I’d just like to know it was considered at least once. I’ll be thirty-three and I’ve never even come close, so what does that say about me?’

  ‘That you’re independent. Don’t need the stereotypical two-point-five kids, minivan and husband, and you’re secretly in love with your manager. You just won’t admit it.’

  ‘Not funny.’ I sniff.

  ‘Libbs, are you sure you’re OK? Is this about Ollie?’

  I freeze, holding my breath. ‘Your mom brought him up, said she always thought . . .’ I don’t need to finish, Dora knows.

  ‘Have you considered going back to Dr Papadopoulos? He seemed to help last time, and I’m worried.’ Dr P. is a family friend of Dora’s; in fact, that’s how I met him.

  ‘I’ve been managing just fine, you know that.’ Although I’m grateful for the initial contact, my on-again-off-again sessions aren’t something I want to discuss.

  ‘You have, but . . .’ She releases a long sigh. ‘Don’t be mad, but Finn told me what’s going on with Pretty in Pink, and I just don’t want to see you go to that dark place again. I worry. We all do.’

  I’m silent for a moment then sit back, freeing my hands to wipe at my eyes. That place is inescapable, it’s not somewhere you can leave; but she doesn’t understand. Most people don’t. When you struggle with any form of depression, you have periods of coping, not the other way round.

  ‘Well, the store thing, yeah, it’s a mess, but it’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. It’s just this whole birthday thing is always confusing, you know.’

  ‘Well, technically I don’t . . .’ She grins playfully and bumps my shoulder. ‘Because I’ll still be thirty-two.’

  I sigh. ‘I hate you.’

  ‘You love me. And I’ll help with the store any way I can.’

  ‘I know.’

  A moment passes between us as we sit together, an understanding between friends. Sisters, really. Nothing else needs to be said. She knows and I know, and what she doesn’t know I’m not ready to tell her, but it’s fine, because it’s enough. More than enough.

  Although Dora’s right to be worried. Last night I woke again, sobbing.

  When I first started seeing Dr P., that’s really all I wanted fixed. That’s all I thought needed fixing. I mean, I didn’t come from an abusive home, nor was I in a volatile relationship. There were no addictions or hallucinations. I wasn’t a nympho, klepto, or pyro. I was tired. That was it; not exactly exciting cutting-edge psychology stuff, but he said we’d talk, and that’s what we did.

  Every week.

  ‘So tell me something about you, Libby,’ Dr Papadopoulos said.

  I fidgeted across from him, questioning why I had come back for a second visit when I knew he couldn’t prescribe me any meds. But there I was. ‘Um, nothing really to tell, I have a business that I love and it keeps me pretty busy.’ I half smiled then told him how I worked at the thrift store throughout high school, and right after, when they were about to close, I struck a deal to buy it by making regular monthly payments to the owner. No bank, no loan, just me. Nice and easy.

  ‘That’s a huge accomplishment right from high school. So, no college, then?’ Dr P. asked as he leaned back in his chair. It was the kind that swivelled and rocked in any direction. It also squeaked.

  I shook my head and eyed the clock, wondering how much time was left.

  ‘Ever consider going?’

  ‘You mean to college? Oh . . .’ I laughed with a breath, because I was considering going home. ‘Wasn’t for me, I guess.’ Another shrug.

  ‘How’d your parents feel about this?’ His words held intentions. He was baiting me.

  ‘Um, they seemed to understand.’

  He sat up, leaning elbows to knees. ‘Didn’t your friends go? At least some of them did, I’m sure. You never really considered it?’

  My throat tightened as I thought back. And even now, I’m not sure why I said anything. Maybe because he was listening and I couldn’t tell you the last time anybody was. They’re busy. They have kids and spouses and lives.

  ‘Well . . .’ I scratched at my neck and looked past him, remembering, thinking. ‘The summer between my sophomore and junior years, I got in a really bad car accident, and I didn’t really snap back from it when the school year started.’

  ‘Really? What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh,’ I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. My car was totalled, but I was OK, surprisingly.’ My mouth opened and then shut again, the words lodged deep as a lump. I shrugged again instead, and flicked my eyes between him and the floor.

  ‘You said you weren’t hurt, but didn’t recover from it. How do you mean?’

  ‘Um . . . I don’t know. It shook me. I started to question everything and school just didn’t hold my interest, so I got really behind.’ I looked up. ‘But when I started to get things together in my senior year, I asked my counsellor, Mr Franks, what was available . . .’

  ‘You mean for college?’

  I nodded. ‘Mm-hmm. I didn’t know where to start, really.’

  ‘And?’

  And this is stupid. That’s what I’d been thinking. This is stupid, and I’m making too much out of it, like always.

  ‘Libby?’ He leaned, the chair creaked, and I debated if what I was saying had any relevance. It didn’t, but . . .

  ‘It’s not a big deal. He told me I didn’t have any options left. I was too late, that I blew my opportunities.’

  The vein next to his eye ticked. I only noticed because he scratched at his brows and they were in need of a trim. I wasn’t sure what else to say, or if I should’ve said anything at all.

  ‘Huh.’ Dr P. leaned back and shook his head. ‘What a prick.’

  My eyes snapped to his, not quite believing what he’d said.

  ‘Even if you were failing, as long as you’re willing, there are always options. What’d your mom say?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I ever told her.’ His reaction was confusing; he appeared angry for me.

  ‘Didn’t she ask what you were gonna do after high school? Didn’t you have some sort of plan in place?’

  ‘No.’ My skin warmed. I began twisting my fingers round one another. ‘We didn’t talk about things like that.’ I didn’t want to tell him why.

  He paused, as if considering where to steer the conversation. ‘OK . . . why didn’t you just apply yourself?’

  ‘I didn’t know who to call, what to do, and was too embarrassed to ask anyone else ’cause . . .’ Why were we discussing this? ‘I don’t know, he said I’d be lucky to graduate. I blew it.’

  ‘And you believed him.’
He shook his head.

  I didn’t have any reason not to.

  Is that still the case? Have I done it again? Stalled to the point I’ve lost the opportunity to turn things around? The accident may have thrown me in high school and caused me to question things, but what’s my excuse now?

  The memory fades as Dora drops her head on my shoulder and rocks into my side a bit. Mrs C. and Finn can be heard chatting just outside the door, probably growing impatient. Or maybe not. Finn’s wearing her hat, and they’re laughing.

  I sniff. ‘Please don’t make me wear that hideous fish-gut dress your mom picked out.’

  Dora stifles a laugh. ‘No promises.’

  Flipping through the channels on the TV, I pick at my late dinner and talk with Ollie. I’m somewhat distracted by the bathroom bears commercial. At least that’s what I call them. I find them disturbing. The only way bears should be humanoid is if they exist in their own universe like the Care Bears with their happy belly-tats. I flip to another station and reposition my legs. The bottom one’s fallen asleep. Wish I could.

  ‘You there?’ Oliver asks.

  ‘In theory. Are you?’

  He laughs. ‘In theory . . . Hey, are you OK? You sound out of it.’

  ‘I’m good, just tired, and I’m worried about my store. I think I’ve really screwed things up again.’ Giving up on my makeshift dinner, I set the plate to the side and pet one of the cats instead. Lucky’s back arches in his sleep as I scratch. ‘I should call Finn, to see if he has any news.’ I called him less than an hour ago.

  ‘Have you looked for another location, then?’

  ‘Yeah, of course, but . . .’ I rub above my eyes, trying to quiet the panic that’s working itself up. ‘I went to see a space today, in fact, but there’s a yearly fee and build-out costs; oh, and it’s almost five times as much in rent, and in a worse location. Even Jasper was surprised.’

  ‘Jasper’s helping you? Are you sure including an employee is a good idea?’

  ‘Despite appearances, he’s quite clever, I assure you, and he’s more than an employee, he’s—’

  ‘Look, you just need to be careful mixing business and . . . well, to be honest, I can’t really see you two together. I mean, he and I are very different, aren’t we?’