While You Were Reading

by Ali Berg

  To all the teachers who helped ignite our love of reading and writing, and to book lovers everywhere

  ‘If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.’

  — Oscar Wilde

  Bea Babbage would have killed to be any of the ladies sitting neatly in a row in front of her. Eliza Doolittle, Elizabeth Bennet, Rachel Chu, Nancy Drew, Aibileen Clark. Each of these women lived boldly between the pages of the books nestled in the towering oak bookshelves she had come to know so well. Bea still remembered the first time she laid eyes on Cassandra’s family’s library. Her heart had panged with jealousy, then desire. She’d been desperate to explore its grand oak bookshelves, which spread across every wall and reached up to the high ceiling. And after she and Cassandra became best friends, that’s exactly what she did most weekends, until they left their hometown of Dunsborough for university in Perth. It was something else being back in this room after all these years, as Cassandra’s maid of honour.

  Bea’s reminiscing was interrupted by a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing up here?’ Matt asked, eyes a little glazed. His bowtie was untied and hung loosely around his neck. His brown hair was a little scruffy, but he still looked indescribably happy.

  ‘Me? What are you doing here?’ Bea stumbled a step forward, slightly tipsy. ‘You’re the groom!’

  He smiled, placing his hands in his pockets. Then they stood in silence for a moment, taking in the impressive room that held so many memories for them both.

  ‘I just needed a little breather, Beatrix Potter,’ he said. Matt had been calling her that ever since discovering she was named after the author. ‘It gets overwhelming, everyone staring and smiling at you.’

  Bea nodded, as if she’d been married tons of times and could totally relate.

  ‘You look great, by the way,’ Matt commented. Bea smoothed her sleek black ponytail and awkwardly played with the straps of her too-tight suede dress.

  ‘Doesn’t Cassandra look beautiful today?’ Bea drifted to the other side of the bookshelf, fingers skimming the colourful spines. ‘You’re a lucky guy, Matt. Truly.’

  ‘I know. She’s perfect. But she always looks perfect.’ Matt smiled. ‘Except after her hen’s weekend. Then she was an absolute wreck. And, Bea, she was mortified. I don’t know how you let that happen!’ Matt laughed.

  ‘Oh, so she told you?’

  ‘Of course she told me.’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ Bea hiccupped inelegantly and covered her mouth. ‘She told me she would.’

  ‘It’s just one of those things, you know? It’s your last hurrah, after all! It’s really no big deal, Bea. I did the same thing at my bachelor party.’ Matt winked.

  ‘You also slept with the topless waiter?’ Bea gasped, dropping the copy of Little Women she had just plucked from the shelf.

  Matt froze. ‘What? No! I vomited at my bachelor party!’ He took a step forward. ‘Wait – Cassandra slept with the topless waiter?’

  Bea shuffled uneasily. ‘Oh, did I say slept with the topless waiter? I meant, um, she was a topless waiter. No, I meant she danced with the topless waiter.’ Bea knew that her lame attempts at covering for Cassandra weren’t working. Her head began to whirl, her chest tightening – she couldn’t breathe.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Matt.’ Bea stumbled towards him and grabbed his arm, but it was too late. He pulled away and sprinted from the library. Bea hobbled after him, struggling to walk straight in her stilettos.

  ‘Cassandra!’ Matt bellowed, storming down the flower-adorned marble staircase. Women dressed in silk gowns and pearls froze on the dance floor. Men wearing crisp shirts and sharp bowties turned their heads in surprise.

  ‘Cassandra!’ Matt roared again. He flew by beribboned chairs and tables decorated with soaring floral arrangements and sweet-smelling candles, past beaming guests and beneath fairy lights. Bea chased him. Then Matt spotted Cassandra. Standing gracefully beside the chocolate fountain, a champagne flute in one hand, the other resting on the railing of the outdoor decking, his wife was the epitome of beauty. She wore a low-backed, white lace dress that enhanced her height and her tan. Her lips were stained a cherry pink and her thick blonde hair was held in a loose braid that draped down her back. She was the stark opposite of pale, dark-haired, barely-taller-than-five-foot Bea.

  ‘My loves,’ Cassandra said in her whispery voice as she caught sight of her new husband and her best friend.

  ‘Is it true?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Is what true?’ Cassandra asked, glancing nervously at Bea, who shook her head.

  The photographer and videographer homed in on the couple, capturing their conversation as diligently as they’d captured every minute of the ceremony.

  ‘Did you or did you not cheat on me at your hen’s party?’ Matt demanded.

  Cassandra blanched. She looked at Matt and then at Bea, accusation forming in her eyes. ‘You told him?’ Cassandra’s usual whisper was now a violent spit. The photographer snapped ferociously and the videographer fiddled with his lens. Bea hoped he wasn’t zooming in.

  ‘Cass, I’m sorry. I just blurted it out. I thought he knew. He implied that he knew,’ Bea pleaded, trying her hardest not to slur her words, and not to dissolve into a heap of tears.

  Cassandra ignored Bea and turned to her husband. ‘Matt, it was a mistake. A terrible, horrible mistake. I was out-of-my-mind drunk. It obviously meant nothing. I love you, you know how much I love you.’ Her hand trembled as she reached for him. Guests surreptitiously gathered around the three of them, their hushed, intrigued whispers rising like hot air.

  Matt pulled away from Cassandra. ‘A terrible, horrible mistake you’ll have to live with for the rest of your life, Cass,’ he said, his voice dark. ‘I can’t even look at you. How could you do this to me? To us?’ He looked devastated. Defeated. Taking one last look at his now less than blushing bride, he spun around, pushing his way through the cluster of guests. The videographer and photographer looked at each other as if to say Do we stay with the bride or follow the groom?

  Cassandra went to race after Matt.

  Oh Bea, you terrible person, you have to fix this. She knew Matt well enough to know he needed space. So she enveloped Cassandra in the biggest hug she could muster.

  ‘It’s going to be okay, Cass. I promise you, I’ll make it all okay,’ she said.

  Snap, snap, snap. The photographer had decided to stay.

  ‘Get off me!’ Cassandra yelped, shoving Bea away.

  Bea struggled against her, holding onto Cassandra for dear life, hoping that, eventually, she would collapse into her arms. The harder Cassandra pushed, the tighter Bea held on. Then Cassandra punched and kicked, and Bea relented and fell away. Unfortunately, that was the exact moment when Cassandra gave one last heave, pushing herself and her couture dress straight into the chocolate fountain.

  Dear Justine,

  Thanks for coming on such short notice. Please do a thorough clean today, including wiping down all the cupboards and cleaning the windows. This will be my last clean as I’m moving to Melbourne tomorrow. I know what you’re thinking, that’s pretty short notice to uproot everything and jet off to a new city where I have no friends, job leads or accommodation – save for my sister, who lives fifty minutes out of the city. But desperate times call for desperate measures and I’m off to start afresh in Melbourne – the city of literature, coffee art and smashed avocado. I’ve always wanted a more exciting life, and if not now, then when? Maybe I’ll even ‘live large’ and get balayage? Oh, Justine, I’m so excited (while still filled with the usual dread, remorse and humiliation).

  Sincerely,

  Bea x

  PS. I know that
the year’s worth of cleaning services that I won from Spick & Span doesn’t include end-of-lease cleaning, so I’ve left $50 extra for you. I hope that’s enough.

  Bea squeezed the bottom of the toothpaste tube and smeared a blob onto her finger. She put the tip of her finger on her tongue and tasted the minty freshness. Furrowing her brow, she picked up her pen and scribbled some notes: Mildly minty, crunchy, crisp. Crisp crunch???

  This was not what Bea had envisioned her first month in Melbourne would be like. While books and reading were her lifeblood, working in the fast-paced, creative world of marketing was what got her out of bed in the morning. She thought of her work like a book cover – an opportunity to create something that drew consumers in. At her old job, she’d felt fearless – in fact, it was just about the only time she felt confident and in charge. But after securing what she thought was her dream job at a marketing agency not long after arriving in Melbourne (‘They have the Melbourne Writers Festival as a client!’ she had squealed down the phone to her sister, Lizzie), Bea had been positioned solely on the CoolFresh Oral Hygiene account. This involved coming up with new names and slogans for toothpastes, whitening products and, on a good day, dental floss.

  Bea looked up from her desk and peered over at her cubicle neighbour, Bill, who was typing so slowly Bea thought he might actually be dying. Balding on top and bulging on the sides, Bill had barely said boo to Bea since her first day at the office. In fact, almost nobody had. Up until this point, Bea had never really had to put herself out there in the friend department. Somehow, she always ended up with the friends, boyfriends, work wives who chose her – she never had to think about choosing anyone else. Even when it came to Cassandra, the cards had never been in her hands. As a very assured eight-year-old, Cass had plopped herself down next to Bea during fruit break, declared, ‘now we’re best friends!’ and well, they just were.

  She glanced over at the Melbourne Writers Festival section of the office. In comparison to her sparse, white surroundings, colourful book posters adorned the cubicles. A giant plush penguin sat in the corner, and the Melbourne Writers people sat on blow-up bosu balls. Dressed in polka dots, Doc Martens and velvet scrunchies, they reeked of quirky fun. Bea adjusted her own drab silk shirt and beige capri pants. No wonder they wouldn’t let me swap onto their account.

  ‘What’re you looking at, Bea?’ It was Anika from Melbourne Writers. She passed Bea approximately three times a day on her way to the tea room, and was one of the few people to acknowledge her existence (possibly out of guilt, but Bea would take whatever she could get!). Dark-skinned with long brown hair, Anika was wearing her signature glasses with their thick purple frames, which took up most of her dainty face.

  ‘Just looking at the fun you’re all having,’ Bea said with a twinge of longing. Good one, Bea. Could you sound any more desperate?

  ‘Oh. You can come over and join us for a chat any time!’ Anika said sweetly, with only a tinge of pity.

  ‘Oh, thanks. You can come over to me too.’ Because I’m such a hoot? I am literally talking to no one at all times.

  Anika smiled at Bea cautiously. Bea needed to break the awkward silence, and fast.

  ‘So, books.’

  Anika looked confused. ‘Books?’

  ‘Do you … like them?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Oh. Me too.’

  ‘That’s great.’ Anika looked uneasily towards the big glass doors that would take her far away from Bea.

  ‘Okay, you can leave now,’ Bea said in an octave she had never heard her voice reach.

  Anika laughed nervously and walked away at a speed that almost looked like running.

  Bea cringed, and checked her phone hoping that she might find some less cringe-worthy human interaction there. Nothing. After three months of radio silence, Bea still hadn’t given up her repentant daily messages, hoping to make amends with her best friend. Her cheeks still flushed red with horror whenever she thought about the wedding day. The agony of it all had taken up firm residence in her heart – the pain she caused her best friend, and the fact that she wasn’t her best friend anymore, after all.

  When the clock ticked over to 11am, Bea rushed downstairs to The Nook, the little café that sat under her office building, to get her second caffeine fix for the day. It was a new, three-times-a-day ritual that she couldn’t quite afford, but which almost made work bearable. Especially because of Grover Dinopoli, AKA Dino, AKA her barista-slash-knight-in-caffeinated-armour. Fond of paperbacks, poetry and soy piccolos, he was the closest thing she had to a friend. And he only spends time with me in exchange for money, Bea thought with despair.

  She walked through the bright blue door and into her salvation. A cosy café hidden away amongst the hustle and bustle of Commercial Road in South Yarra, only six wooden tables filled the compact coffee shop. The light autumn sun shone through the large window panes, almost beckoning Bea to make the most of the warmer days while they lasted, and the soothing smell of freshly baked danishes and rich coffee made Bea feel instantly at ease.

  She waltzed up to the counter and smiled, waiting patiently for Dino to recognise her. He stood in his usual pose: hunched over a Moleskine notebook, ballpoint in hand. He was scribbling away at what she assumed was his latest poem. Dino didn’t seem like the poetry type. Six feet tall, with one tanned arm covered in tattoos, shaggy brown hair, perpetually clad in a dusty green apron and oversized op shop purchases, he hated talking about ‘his feelings’. He was the opposite of what she imagined E. E. Cummings, T. S. Eliot and Edgar Allan Poe had been like. In fact, it didn’t take long for Bea to discover that there was nothing typical about Dino at all.

  When she realised Dino wasn’t going to notice her any time soon, Bea cleared her throat ever so delicately. He curved around instantly, trance broken. When he spotted her, he simply raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I should’ve known. Right on time, Beatrix Babbage,’ he said, nodding at the clock that hung precariously on the wall behind him. Bea was never sure whether he was playing at being pissed off.

  ‘I couldn’t go another second without seeing you, dear Grover Dinopoli.’ Bea feigned a faint, draping her arm across her forehead.

  ‘We’ve talked about this – don’t call me Grover. The very syllables of that name grate like nails on a chalkboard. If it weren’t for that nasty caffeine habit of yours keeping my business afloat, I’d have thrown you to the kerb,’ Dino said, already going to work on her strong skinny latte: one large hand steadily grinding the beans, while the other steamed the milk.

  ‘Ah, you’re welcome.’ Bea rubbed her thumb and fingers together in the universal symbol for money. She watched his coffee-making skills with admiration, before getting distracted by a gentle lapping at her hand. She looked down to find Agatha Christie, the apricot-coloured toy poodle Dino had inherited from his late grandmother, sitting in her canvas basket on the bar stool next to the counter. ‘Why, hello to you too, Agatha,’ Bea chirped, scratching the tiny poodle behind the ears. The dog groaned in delight and continued stamping wet kisses along her arm.

  ‘She’s a serial licker.’ Dino winked, handing over a steaming cup of frothed coffee. Bea gave him a grateful look and pressed the caffeinated goodness to her lips, savouring her first taste.

  ‘You’re an addict.’

  Mouth still resting on the lip of her coffee cup, Bea shrugged, as if to say, tell me something I don’t know.

  A brief commotion from the kitchen drew Bea’s attention. A flash of fairy floss–pink hair poked from a hole in the back wall.

  ‘Bea! Is that you?’ called Sunday, Dino’s silent business partner, pastry chef, customer service manager and wannabe fashion stylist. ‘Get your arse over here. I’ve got spoons that won’t lick themselves!’

  Bea went to the serving hatch, leaving her coffee to cool on the counter. ‘What’s cookin’, good lookin’?’

  ‘Peanut butter, jelly and honeycomb slice.’ Sunday placed a burnt orange–coloured nugget i
nto Bea’s open palm.

  Popping it straight into her mouth, Bea let the dessert sit on her tongue, allowing the flavour to slowly soak into her taste buds. She sighed, closing her eyes. ‘You’re an artist, Sunday!’

  ‘Wait till you taste what I have in store for you next week. Spoiler alert: it has three different kinds of chocolate in it.’

  Bea licked her lips.

  ‘So, how’s work going? Still spending your days coming up with names for toothpaste?’ Sunday asked.

  Bea nodded, wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘And to make matters worse, I’m horrible at it. I haven’t thought of one approved name since I started. But work is work and I guess my bills won’t pay themselves!’ She forced a smile. ‘Speaking of, I better get back to it.’

  Sunday placed another of her peanut butter creations into Bea’s hand and waved her off. On her way to the front door, Bea grabbed her coffee and bid goodbye to Dino, who was wiping croissant crumbs off the bench. At the door, she paused and turned around. ‘I was in such a rush to get my hit I didn’t even read your quote! Now, let’s see.’

  Bea walked back to the front counter and angled her takeaway cup to reveal a scratchy note written around the circumference of the cup: Enough fuss about sleeping together. I’d rather go to the dentist.

  Dino, she had come to learn, did nothing half-arsed, nor conventionally. Rather than her name, Dino wrote a more or less accurate book quote on each of her takeaway cups. He had done so on her very first skinny latte, while her head was buried in a copy of Normal People by Sally Rooney, and it had become routine. A routine Bea chose to believe was shared only by the two of them.

  ‘Inspiration for your next toothpaste commercial. It’s from Vile Bodies, Evelyn Waugh.’

  Before Bea could put her smug barista in his place, a blonde woman wearing a smear of bright red lipstick appeared next to her and coughed dramatically. ‘I’d like a tall, nonfat, soy flat white with whipped cream and a caramel drizzle.’