by Nicki Reed
‘Don’t cry, Rube.’ This time she lets my arm stay there.
‘Are you a lesbian now?’
‘It’s not about women, Rube, it’s about a woman. BJ.’
‘BJ? What kind of a name is BJ? What does that stand for? Blow Job? Better Just hang on to your wife?’
‘Stop it. It’s short for Belinda Jane and she means something, too. Or I wouldn’t have let her meet Keith.’
‘She’s met Keith? Are you mad? God, I wish I still smoked.’
I wish she did, too. I’d play with the packet, slide my finger between the plastic and the box, make it concave. She hated me doing that. I’d have something to look at other than the hurt in her face.
‘How did this happen?’
‘She was at the pub on my birthday. I didn’t say one thing to her until I asked her if she needed a lift.’
‘Jesus, you’re a dickhead. What do you reckon happens when you go round offering lesbians a ride?’
I wrap my sandwich in a serviette. I’ll eat it at my desk.
‘Ruby, I didn’t think about it. I drove. She talked about uni, her opinionated mother who lives not far enough away, and her Thai father who lives in Bangkok. A few weeks ago I found out her mother is Mark’s boss. That should stop me but it hasn’t. She asked me in. I was on her couch and when she kissed me, well, I flew.’
‘But he’s so great. Don’t you love him anymore?’
She has a takeaway coffee from another cafe and I’m anxious about being told to leave.
‘I don’t know, Ruby. He’s never home, neither am I, who knows what we think of each other. I have BJ’s mother to thank for that.’
Ruby is smirking. Now what?
‘I have to ask, have you gone down on her?’
‘Yes. Is there something wrong with that?’
‘No, there’s nothing wrong with it. I suck cocks. You can suck all the clits you want but you’re going to fuck up your marriage.’
‘Ruby, there is only one clit I want to suck. God, listen to me. I sound like you. Don’t worry, I’ll figure this out. It’s probably a phase.’
I don’t have phases. I have me being regular and depend- able and I only get on couches to sit.
‘And I’m going to join the Liberal Party. Try to have Tony Abbott’s next illegitimate child. Imagine it, Pete, his ears, my personality.’
Ruby is impossible but she makes me laugh.
‘You’d be running the country in your bathers. Rube, I can’t do this if you’re not with me.’
‘Does it have to be me?’
‘You know it does,’ I stand and pull her up. ‘Come on, Stavros is coming to hassle you about your coffee. Or he’s going to ask you for your phone number again. I’ll walk you back.’
‘So it’s serious?’
‘Feels like it.’
Top Ten Ways With Nipples:
Until I met BJ I’d never thought about nipples, that sizes may vary with the size of the breast.
BJ’s breasts are smaller than mine, her nipples are smaller and darker than mine.
BJ says she loves my nipples.
When we’re in bed and our nipples squash against each other—and even though we’re warm, very— I shiver.
I didn’t know I could orgasm from having my nipples sucked.
I have never come with Mark like that.
She was sitting at the kitchen bench watching Blondie clips on her laptop, I was standing next to her when she unbuttoned my blouse and pushed my bra up, started kissing my nipples, took a nipple into her mouth. I turned into her. Teeth clenched and holding my breath. She kept sucking. Her mouth burned, my nipple burned. Aching. I felt like a kid, like an idiot. I pulled her hair, opened her legs with one of mine so I could squash myself onto her, and I came in her kitchen, my pants done up, no hands below the waist.
That’s all I’ve got.
I don’t know much about nipples.
But BJ does.
18.
On the first of May, an email from Mark:
Pee-Wee, How’re things? How’s the new library? I’m staying another two weeks, should be back on the seventeenth. Hope you’re looking after yourself. M
He didn’t say: hope you don’t mind, or bad news. So I don’t care he’s away longer. I can’t say I’m happy but I’m not unhappy. I’m working. Checking emails. I get hundreds a day. Updating, subscribing, indexing. I’m dragging myself through the day to the time I can be with BJ. I’ve stopped wearing my watch. I was looking at it too often. The library relocation has gone better than I envisaged. I project-managed every wrinkle out of it and I’m feeling surplus. Maybe I should stand outside the goods lift and see if someone wants to find me a new home.
I’ve stayed at BJ’s place the last five nights. I take the tram in to work from Northcote, it’s a faster trip and a different view. I’ve been home to rotate my clothes, check the mail, feed Mrs Dalloway, empty her litter tray.
It’s a long time since I’ve walked around town for no reason. And it’s forever since I’ve been up the Russell Street end.
‘Who is your best friend?’
‘Loz. We’ve known each other since Year Ten and we’ve been living with each other for three years. She’s funny, honest and I can borrow her clothes. And Justine. We ride on Sundays—if she’s not writing or hanging out with her sister. Who’s yours?’
‘Taylor. You met her at the cafe. Her first name is Imelda, but nobody calls her that, for obvious reasons. We met at preschool when she pushed Jason Tanner out of the way to get into the sandpit first. I admired her for it and followed her in. I’ve been admiring her ever since.’
‘When did you last speak to her?’
It’s easy for BJ to see I haven’t been talking to my friends.
‘I texted her last week.’
‘Texting is not speaking, is it?’
‘I look upon it as the busy person’s thinking of you, kind of thing.’
‘Really,’ BJ says. We’re walking close to the side of the road, holding hands, and BJ is balancing on the gutter. ‘I look on it as a CBF talking to you properly, kind of thing.’
‘I can imagine the conversation: Hi Peta, what have you been up to? Taylor, there’s no easy way to say this, don’t hate me, I’m seeing someone and she’s a girl. Not that she’d be surprised after that breakfast.’
We’re on the corner of Bourke and Russell and I’m trying to figure out what the sculpture is. Ruby reckons it’s an old-fashioned toilet. I say it’s Gulliver’s bronze pipe and we’re all Lilliputians. I like it. It’s Melbourne: peculiar, idiosyncratic, brought in from somewhere else.
BJ lets go of my hand.
‘What do you reckon it is?’ I nod at the pipe-thing.
‘It’s a complete lack of understanding. You only want to be with me if there is nobody around. You’re ashamed. And not of going behind Mark’s back, but that you’re going there with a girl.’
‘I was talking about the sculpture.’
I reclaim her hand. She tries to let go but I won’t let her.
‘Who gives a fuck what it is? It’s a stupid arse piece of junk that takes up parking spots and has idiots stupefied on street corners.’
‘Okay, what did I do?’
‘Peta, we are not going to get anywhere while I’m your best-kept secret. We’re not going to know what we have while skulking about hiding from the people you love.’
‘You are not a secret. Ruby knows about you—she saw us kissing and I had to explain myself—and you’ve met Keith. I’m holding hands with a girl on one of the busiest streets in Melbourne. I’m not afraid of it. I’m letting people in on you incrementally, that’s all.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
We cross the road.
‘Let’s come back later and make it on that earphone thing,’ BJ says.
‘Taylor’s pretty suburban. All of my friends are. She might not like it.’
‘Do you like everything she does?’
�
��Of course not. Her husband is creepy. And her kitchen, God, it’s over the top. And she has way too many mirrors in her house. She says it gives the illusion of space.’
‘Maybe it’s so she can see herself and what’s-his-name fucking in the laundry.’
‘You are as bad as Ruby.’
‘So I’m told.’
I angle my phone out of my bag. ‘Let’s see if Ruby wants to catch up tonight.’
‘But,’ she points, forlorn, ‘the pipe.’
‘There are surveillance cameras all over the place.’
‘Sounds good,’ BJ says. ‘YouTube of us on Gulliver’s pipe, it’ll get more hits than any AFL footballer caught with his pants down. You could be outed on the web and not need to tell Mark yourself.’
Even on Sunday night Brunswick Street is happening. Usually, I’m in bed early, my weekend list ticked off, my Monday list written. It’s BJ. She’s young, unconcerned. If some of it rubs off, that’s okay with me.
Ruby’s sitting on the other side of me, away from BJ. I’m in the middle and feeling it. The waitress arrives with our pizzas.
‘Vegetarian?’
‘That must be yours, BJ,’ Ruby leans forward, elbow on the table. ‘How did I know you were a vegetarian?’
‘She’s a weeknight meat-eater and weekend vegetarian, actually. Not that we should feel the need to classify.’
‘What have you got?’ BJ says. ‘Meat-lover’s? All meat and no tact?’
‘Well, this is going nicely,’ I say.
BJ squeezes a twenty-dollar note out of her hip pocket. ‘I’m getting a drink, anybody want one? My shout.’
‘Heineken. Thanks,’ Ruby says.
‘I’ll have a Stella, please, BJ.’
The bar is across the room. I watch her order. BJ will talk to anyone. The bloke next to her bursts into laughter and slaps her on the back, almost tipping her over. How does she do it? Will she be able to bring Ruby round?
‘Listen,’ my head is close to Ruby’s, ‘can you give her a chance? If I had known you were going to be so obnoxious…’
The angle of BJ’s hips, a cowboy in a saloon. Can she see me in the mirror above the bar, the way cowboys in the movies watch their backs? She winks and my mouth goes dry.
‘What if you leave Mark to be with BJ, only to find out it’s a bad fit? What if you miss him? The sex? What if you like cock after all?’
‘Ruby! It’s more than that. Anyway, Mark has to stay in Chicago another two weeks. That’ll be a month. He’s married to that firm, Rube. And I’m in lust with BJ. What she knows about me without me having to ask… and I’m not just talking about in bed. She gets me. I think I love her.’
‘Well, that happened sitcom-fast, didn’t it?’
Do I really love BJ? Is that why this accident is so hard to walk away from?
‘Does she know?’
‘Not yet. Here she comes.’
BJ sits next to me, slips a hand onto my leg, holds up her glass. ‘To new friends.’
‘To Chicago,’ I say.
‘You two are revelling in his being away, aren’t you?’
‘Why not, Ruby? I’m finding out.’
‘To finding out.’ BJ’s glass is up for another toast.
‘To duplicity.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Peta.’
‘Ruby, you’ve been there.’
‘And I’ve been on the other side.’ She’s sitting up straighter, prim.
When Ruby folds her arms it’s uphill going.
‘You’ve been on our side more than the other side. You’ve been the other woman so many times I’m surprised you know whose woman you are.’
‘I’m my woman, Peta.’ She sets her drink on the table, and points. ‘I’m just telling you, you’re married and this ain’t going to go anywhere good.’
‘Ah, but the getting there.’
‘To the getting there.’
‘I need another one. You two?’
‘Same again, please, Ruby.’
‘Ditto. Thanks.’
Ruby at the bar, I relax.
‘So, she’s a bit of a hard case, your sister.’ BJ’s head is on my shoulder.
‘She has a better sense of what we’re up against than I do.’
‘She seems very protective of your husband.’
‘She likes him. And she likes the idea of me and him. Sometimes I think she likes the idea of her and him.’
‘She wants him?’
‘No, she just wants someone like him.’
‘I’ll win her over. Everybody loves me.’
‘God, where did you come from? Come here.’
‘Hello? Remember me? You wanna get a room?’
Three beers on the table.
‘To sisters,’ I say.
‘To suck-ups,’ BJ says.
‘To never saying you’re sorry.’
‘What?’
‘I had a Barbra Streisand marathon last week,’ Ruby says. ‘What’s Up, Doc?, Funny Girl, On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.’
‘I love Streisand,’ BJ says. ‘What’s Up, Doc? is my favourite.’
‘Bullshit. You’re too young.’
If anyone can unite them it is Barbra. I pretend to drink my second beer and a friendship unfolds over Streisand. They argue about who had the best lines, was Streisand’s nose instrumental in her career, did Ryan O’Neal do anything better? I stay out of it. I like Barbra, have seen the movie, but I don’t know it from credits to titles like BJ and Ruby. Ruby has the DVD of What’s Up, Doc?
Gulliver’s pipe can wait.
YouTube can wait.
Ruby is on her feet. What’s Up, Doc? cannot wait.
19.
Last night BJ picked me up after work. We went for a drive. She showed me The Boulevard in Kew, said it was a cycling mecca, the curves, the gradients, not a lot of four-wheeled traffic. In the dark it was hard to see what she was talking about. We pulled over and ate our fish and chips, Melbourne illuminated ahead of us.
When we got home there was no sign of Loz so we spread out in the lounge room and watched Shaun of the Dead. BJ is into zombies. She and Mark would get along if this was another life.
This morning we’re in the bathroom, BJ is at the basin, dressed and doing her hair. I’m in the bath. My head is under the water. I hear nothing but the bass sound of BJ’s steps, the plink, plink, plink of the water, then talking, warbled, like the spooky voices of the adults in the Snoopy cartoons.
I lift my head out of the water.
Loz is talking to BJ through the door.
‘BJ, she’s married.’
‘Shut up, Loz. We’re having fun. Anyway, she’s gorgeous.’
I sink back into the water up to my chin, leave my ears out.
‘Bullshit, BJ. When she’s not here you check your phone fifty times a day.’
‘So?’
BJ’s repartee isn’t always witty.
‘You haven’t looked at anyone the way you look at her, since Serena. And you never let anybody stay the night. What happens when she decides to go back to what’s-his-name?’
Who is Serena?
‘Loz, it’s okay. Isn’t it, Pete?’
‘Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Peta. BJ, you are a bitch.’
‘And you are not my mother, Loz.’ BJ’s getting out of her clothes. ‘Move up.’
‘I thought you were going,’ I say.
‘Tuesdays are always slow, they won’t mind if I’m a bit late.’
I sit up a bit. She steps into the bath, turns the hot tap on. I don’t tell her it won’t work. The bath won’t feel any hotter unless we get out while the tap is running and get back in once it’s ready.
‘Who is Serena?’
‘Just a girl.’
As if that’s going to do. This is the first time BJ has been evasive with me. She sounds like me. Yuck. I try from another angle.
‘You’ve never let anyone stay?’
‘Nah, can’t be bothered.’
Laconic is getting old thi
s morning.
‘Right. I’m not going to run off. I’ll sort it out. We’re fine.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Can I wash your back?’
I turn around. Her hands slide up and down my back- bone, slippery, she’s writing soapy words on my back, wants me to guess them. C…U…N…
I was having fun.
Now I’m late for work.
You know you love someone when they give you the shits.
‘Where’s BJ tonight?’ Ruby is cooking. She’s happiest when she’s in the kitchen. She’s often saddest and most stressed in the kitchen, too. She cooks for stress relief, to feel better, to soothe anger. When I’m stressed I oil hinges, tighten screws, replace washers. Since the couch, nothing rattles, squeaks or drips at my house.
‘She doesn’t stay here. I made her an Excel timetable and Thursday is a study night. She says with me on the case she’ll get the marks she needs to keep going. She wants to stay on and teach Classics, you know, pass the torch. She says I’ve been good for her career.’
‘That’s good.’ Ruby opens the oven, slides in a tray of baby beetroot, closes the door. ‘She’s been good for your bad-girl image. Well, you never had one.’
Opinions and Ruby go together like Lygon Street and hotted-up cars and she can say whatever she wants when she’s cooking for me.
‘I’ve done plenty of bad stuff, Rube.’
‘Like what?’
‘Sometimes I take the last Tim Tam and don’t throw the packet out.’
‘Shock horror. When are you telling Mark about BJ?’
Trimming the beans like Ruby showed me. ‘Why are you so keen for him to know?’
‘Because it’s the right thing. Can you set the table?’
I’m using the good stuff tonight. The kitchen window is foggy, the barramundi is hissing in the pan and the roasting beetroot smells incredible. The wedding silver. Mum’s plates used to be her mum’s plates. Ready.
‘Rube, the idea of life with somebody else is another country. New customs, new language. I’d have to find a new favourite everything. I’m not explaining it well.’
‘You are, Pete. You’re scared because it might not work out.’