The Taming of the Bastard

by Lindy Dale

  Oh dear. And just when I thought it was safe to call him my boyfriend.

  A moment later there was a vibration from my apron pocket. It was a message from Sam.

 

  With visions of what the girls had told me swirling through my head, I began to imagine all sorts of things. Had he stolen a big spear to bring home? What in heaven’s name would I do with it? I couldn’t see Adele letting me bring it inside the house. Puzzled, I showed the message to Sasha, who shook her head in confusion. Her message from Simmo was equally puzzling.

 

  “Why would he to do that? We haven’t had that flat for over a year. God. He’s probably pissed again and forgotten we’re married. Once, after we’d been married about six months, he got legless and forgot where we lived for two days. I was about to file a missing persons report when he turned up,” she groaned. “He should stop playing rugby, I’m positive it’s making him punch drunk.”

  “You mean he should stop shagging other women and face up to his responsibilities as a husband. Christ Sash’, when are you going to see that man as he is? I think, if it’s at all possible, he’s gotten worse since you got married. He needs an ultimatum.”

  Sasha looked down at the cryptic message on her phone and flipped the phone shut. She knew the truth; facing it was a little more difficult.

  Then, Mel’s phone buzzed. Pressing the message button, she glanced at the screen, slamming it onto the table with venom. “Fuckwit.”

  “Who?”

  “Johnny.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Here….” She threw the phone towards me. “He’s such a dickhead.”

 

  “At least he asked this time,” I replied.

  Mel merely snorted and finished her glass of bubbles.

  “And he remembers who you are,” Sasha added.

  “And he, like, never says you’ve got a big bum either.”

  I sat listening to their rants. I knew I complained about Sam, everyone did, but compared to what the other girls put up with he was a prince in my book. A smartarse cocky prince, but a prince all the same.

  “So, you like Sam a lot?” Mel asked, after a minute. She was twiddling her fingers through one of the napkins I had so lovingly folded, trying to keep her tone light, but I could tell she was fishing.

  “No we’re just friends.” It didn’t sound convincing but my feelings for Sam were developing into something that was way more than friends. I didn’t, however, want to shout it to the world if it wasn’t going to be reciprocated on a deeper level than a funny clown with a bunch of balloons.

  “Oh fuck off, Millie. You’re so transparent. You drool when he looks at you.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  Melanie looked thoughtful. She was very good a reading people, or so I was finding. That was why none of the boys tried to pull the wool over her eyes. They didn’t have a hope of success.

  “The whole bastard thing does it for you,” she said. “Even though you’re revolted by that, you love the way he treats you and looks at you. So what if he’s stubborn and pigheaded and a little too out there with his humour, even for me. You absolutely love it. What he needs, you know, is someone softer to calm him down. He needs you. You’re perfect. That’s why he’s hot for you.”

  “You think Sam’s that into me?”

  “No, I think Sam is in love with you and because of that he’ll do anything you ask, even tone down the bastard. We’ve noticed the changes.”

  Kirby and Sasha nodded enthusiastically.

  “He’s, like, totally a new man. He was cool before but now he’s nice too.”

  “He hasn’t groped my bum in weeks. You’ve done that Millie.”

  Looking around, I wished Sam would hurry; I needed to see his face so I could find out if what they said was true. If he was in love with me it would be all over his face, wouldn’t it?

  At about eleven fifteen, Kirby pointed to the window. “Sam’s here.”

  “Where?” I heard the sound of screaming and laughing. People were gawking and pointing at the window. I followed their lead to spot a bottom, no two muscular bottoms, quite naked, pushed against the panes of glass. One had writing in permanent marker across the cheeks that read, ‘Millie is my sex kitten.’

  Oh God. Sam.

  It had been a matter of days since we’d had the talk and he’d promised to be more sensitive, to try harder. How could he be so juvenile? Surreptitiously, I looked to the bar. It was a busy evening. Bob must have gone out the back to connect a new keg. His too-darkened hair was nowhere in sight. Dianne had her head in the fridge searching for something and saving me from what could have been real trouble. She would have recognised Sam’s butt in an instant. She’d perved on it often enough. Nervous, I looked back to the window. The bums had disappeared. I dreaded to think what they would be replaced with.

  All a fluster, Kirby shuffled to the edge of the booth and with a shove of her hip, pushed me out and ran to the bar. Towing me behind, she wedged herself in between old Jack-one-arm and a bikie. Then she waved a credit card at Dianne who had surfaced from under the counter.

  “May I have four schooners of Guinness, please?” She tittered and gave her neck a quick squirt with Britney perfume while she waited.

  “Those boys,” Kirby giggled, unconcerned. “They’re so naughty.”

  From behind her, I reached across to pick up two of the beers, helping her to carry them to the table. “Don’t you care?”

  It amazed me that her boyfriend, the Assistant Principal at a well known, highly respected school had also flashed his bare bum to innocent bystanders and she was calmly buying schooners like he was a returning war hero.

  “What’s there to care about?” She giggled again as she lined up the beers on the end of the table. “It’s, like, not my butt on the line.”

  Then, laughing at her own joke, she turned to the others. “Hey, that was good wasn’t it, Sash, did you get it… not my butt?”

  Sasha sighed and patted Kirby’s hand.

  “Look, Millie,” Sasha explained. “The boys do stupid stuff like this all the time. They have high powered, high stress jobs. Playing rugby and acting the fool with their mates is how they let off steam.”

  I stared at her wide-eyed. The only time Sam had ever felt stress was when he couldn’t decide which girl to vote for in the Cougar Wet T-shirt competition, the girl with the big breasts or the one with the really big breasts. Too appalled to reply, I sat and sipped my champagne, trying to understand what she meant. I knew the girls put up with the odd sarcastic comment —they could give as good as they got— but this was way beyond that. They accepted everything the boys did as a given. Without question most of the time. It was second nature for them to laugh off the pranks, flirting and drinking games as innocent boy’s stuff. Well, I wasn’t about to get used to it. Sam could bail himself out of jail if he got arrested.

  “Hey,” Sam arrived at our table, picked up his Guinness, and took a long deep slug. “See you got my message.”

  He leant in, kissing me long and hard. The brown tinged ale from his lips wet my skin. He smelled of stale beer and cigars and fish and chips. Ick.

  “You mean the one that’s tattooed on your bum?” I studied him coolly. I didn’t care what other girls let their men do. Sam was not going to flash his bum in public. Not with my name on it, anyway. It was childish and embarrassing. Not to mention a minor criminal offence.

  “Yeah, I couldn’t find my mobile.” He chuckled, seemingly vaguely amused at my horror. Then, he slung a sloppy arm over my shoulder and tried to give me another kiss. The stench made me dry reach.

  “So, you thought I’d know you were here if you sent a smoke signal out of your bum, is that it?”

  “Hey chill, Mill’, it was a compliment.”

  Oh for God’s sake. He’d had way too much to drink. There was no situation in which I would ever dec
ide that having my name plastered across his bum was a compliment.

  “Please, don’t give me compliments like that again,” I replied. “I don’t appreciate it. Bob could’ve seen, or Dianne. Then you’d be without a job.”

  “It’d take more than my naked arse, babe. Besides, it’s nothing Dianne hasn’t seen before.” He guffawed loudly and slapped his leg. I ignored him.

  I looked towards the door where the other boys were leaning against the high bar tables. I dreaded to form the words but I supposed I should get ready to go into damage control. “So where’s the spear?”

  “What spear?”

  Pulling out my phone, I showed him.

  “You dope,” he smiled and wrapped his arms, python-like around me. I could feel his shoulders shaking. He was trying not to laugh. “It says… back soon have big surprise.”

  “So you don’t have a spear?”

  “No. Just a surprise. The message said,

  “And?”

  Sam gazed at me. His eyes were filled with tenderness. Suddenly, he was no longer drunk or silly. The putrid smell of cigar and alcohol seeping from his pores had disappeared into oblivion. His lovely vanilla musk was returning and making everything fuzzy. He was almost bashful.

  “Well, the surprise is, I just wanted to say, well, um, I love you; I really, really love you.”

  I sat for a moment, looking. Stunned. It was written all over his face. He loved me.

  “I love you too,” I whispered, and kissed him. “A lot.”

  I twined my fingers into his hair and laced them around his neck. I placed my lips against his cheek and eyelashes. If he hadn’t been so incredibly smelly it would have been truly romantic.

  *****

  That night I woke up in a sweat. Bolt upright, I sat in bed panting, trying to catch my breath or calm my nerves. I was shaking all over. God. Sam loved me, I loved Sam. And because I had naively assumed our relationship was not serious, I hadn’t bothered to tell him of my plans. His love had changed everything.

  What was I going to do?

   16 

  So, Sam and I were officially in love. I had been accepted as one of the Hornets girls. And to celebrate, we pencilled in a communal hair and beauty day for the Saturday of the Ball. It was a big step, and apart from my worries that I was keeping a huge secret from my boyfriend, one that would affect both of us, I was truly excited. I’d thought about my predicament endlessly since his declaration and I knew I had to tell him but somehow, every time I tried, the words choked in my throat. He seemed so happy. And when he wasn’t racing through town with a newspaper up his bum or inciting younger players to do silly things he was trying so hard to be good. It seemed a pity to spoil it.

  By ten oclock on the day of the Ball, Kirby, Sasha, Melanie and I were propped up in the treatment chairs at Paolo’s, ‘Stylist to the Stars.’ Wrapped in fluffy white salon robes we looked like little Eskimos ready for the winter and eager to begin my day of beauty, I picked up the card listing the services on offer.

  Stylist to the Stars my foot, I thought, reading the glitter emboldened title. I hadn’t seen any stars in the whole three years I'd been going there. Excluding, of course, the stars that shot before my eyes, every time Paolo told me how much a half head of foils and a cut would cost. But Paolo could work wonders with hair. I would look fabulous and, better still, it wasn’t costing a cent. Sam had got his tax return and was treating me.

  Deep in thought, I watched the girls settling themselves in. Kirby was on a high after finding the perfect dress with the help of the David Jones Personal Shopper and Melanie, always the cool one, seemed genuinely excited at the prospect of a night of dressing up. Now that I’d got to know them, I’d be sad to leave them behind to start my new life. I liked Kirby’s silly comments that made no sense; Sasha’s mothering of all the younger lads and the way Mel spoke her mind. She had a knack for seeing things others didn’t and with her forthright attitude you knew exactly where you stood. I was coming to value her opinion more and more. I considered whether I should ask them about what to do, then decided against it. The decision had to be mine and though I was unsure about what it would be, I knew it wasn’t going to spoil this night.

  We’d been sitting, gossiping, for about twenty minutes when Kirby threw a curve ball into the conversation. Thirty seconds previously, she’d been debating whether she should go for her usual French manicure or have her nails painted pink to match her dress. Now she sat pouting and waiting for some sort of attention from us. Her free hand—the one that wasn’t being worked on by the tiny Asian manicurist that Paolo paid four dollars a day to—was gripping her champagne with all the delicacy of a pro wrestler trying holding his opponent’s skull in his clenched fists.

  “Rambo’s, like, totally gone and taken a job in the country.” She sagged at the released of information.

  It took a moment or two for her statement to sink in, sweeping over our happy group as it did like a silent but deadly nuclear mushroom. One by one we ceased our conversations and turned our eyes to her. Melanie stiffened in her seat. The muscles of her long neck flexed and became taut. This was a warning sign I recognised.

  “When the fuck did this happen?” Her deep brown eyes, at that moment surrounded by some sort of green cleansing goo, bulged terrifyingly, cracking and ruining the effect of the mask altogether. It could not be possible that such a monumental step had been taken without her knowledge. She knew everything that happened in the club, sometimes even before it did.

  “Last Tuesday,” Kirby announced, tightening her grip on her glass even further. “He’s totally been offered a temporary Principal’s position at some primary school out back of Geraldton. I’m like so proooouuud!”

  “Why?”

  “Oh duh!” Kirby slapped her free hand to her forehead. “Because he’s, like, my boyfriend. It would be totally random if I, like, wasn’t proud.”

  Melanie rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Kirby, I mean why is he going there? Geraldton’s the arse end of the Earth, for God’s sake. People think stonewash and shoulder pads are a fashion statement there. Please don’t put the white so far down my nail,” she snapped at the technician, pointing angrily to her index finger, “I’ll look like some sort of ninth grade retard.”

  The technician wiped the white away and began again. Melanie nodded her approval but it was all too much for Kirby who dissolved in a flood of girlish tears.

  “Oh God!” she sobbed. “I don’t know. It’s, like, something to do with career advancement or something and it’s only till the end of next year. He has to go in two weeks and he only found out now. He explained it all to me but I was, like, so freaked out I totally couldn’t take it in. I didn’t understand half of what he was talking about anyway. I’m a sales assistant for Christ’s sake.”

  That was true. It was easy to baffle poor Kirby with logic. The most complicated thing she’d ever thought about was whether red and pink worked. Rambo had probably overwhelmed her with technical mumbo jumbo she couldn’t understand.

  “What sort of career-fucking-advancement is there in a shithole like Geraldton? There are fourteen thousand people and one horse in that town. They’re all inbred and they wear flannelette. Flan-a-fucking-lette, Kirby! That’s practically admitting you’re a bogan. Anyway, I thought you were meant to be getting married next year.”

  Clearly, as it was a stressful situation for Kirby, it was appropriate for the effects to flow on to us. We were allowed to be upset by proxy.

  “Geraldton doesn’t even have a Myers, Kirbs. They only got Target a couple of years ago,” Sasha added. “He has to be taking the piss.”

  “This has fucking Sam written all over it,” Mel seethed.

  Slowly, three sets of eyes turned to me. Seething, angry glares tried to burn the hair off my head.

  “Another of his bloody practical jokes. God, he’s a bastard. And there we were thinking…” Sighing with relief, the tension seeping from their bodies, they began to lau
gh.

  “He almost had us.”

  “That was a good one.”

  “As much as I’d like to totally blame this on Sam, this time, I don’t, like, think so. Ryan said he, like, can’t get a city posting unless he’s proven himself first in the country and as for the engagement—sniff—well—sniff—we have to put it on hold until he comes back.” Kirby blubbered, holding up a halting hand, as the tiny Asian lady opened a bottle and prepared to paint her fingers. “No, give me the French, please. I don’t think I could stand to look at that pink for the next three weeks. I’m totally over it already. I’m, like, getting a migraine as we speak.”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me, Kirbs. He’s up to something,” declared Melanie, pursing her lips. “Have you gone through his mobile?”

  Sasha let out an exasperated sigh. “Why is it that when men don’t do what you think they should, you always assume they’re up to something?”

  “Because they usually fucking are. Mark my words, girls. That man is up to something and I bet it involves some little bit of scruff in jeggings somewhere.” Draining her glass and flicking back her hair, Melanie retreated into the comfort her chair. Conversation over.

  Kirby chewed on her lip. She looked devastated, more devastated than when she’d discovered her boyfriend was going to live a long way away in a place where designer shoes were non-existent. Now she had to contend with the fact he was probably hiding something from her. Forlorn, she picked at a spot on her robe. “Do you, like, seriously think he’s got someone else?”

  “Of course not, that’s a silly idea,” soothed Sasha, shooting Melanie a look that would curdle milk. “Rambo loves you. He wants to marry you. And we all know it’s impossible to hide anything from people in the club. If he was hooking up with someone else, we’d know.”

  “Maybe it’s not a rugby girl,” Melanie argued.

  “But the Club is the only place we hang out. Where would Ryan meet other girls?” Kirby whimpered, her fake-tanned face taking on the pallor of a rotten mandarin. She looked as if she was going to puke all over her manicure.