While You Were Reading

by Ali Berg

  Bea waited for a response, listening agonisingly to the discreet rustles coming from the next cubicle.

  ‘Oh, that’s so sweet,’ Martha finally responded. ‘I can’t tonight though. Maybe another time.’

  Flush. The sound of a tap running and a final tapping of heels leaving the bathroom signalled that Bea was, once again, on her own.

  ‘Oh,’ said Bea, chewing on her lip, trying not be stung by the rejection. She took out her phone, not quite ready to leave the sanctuary of the toilet, and started to type her thrice daily apology to Cassandra when another message popped up on her screen.

  Dino: See you tonight – 8pm at The Sea Bar. – D

  Bea: SEA you then, D – B x

  Dino: Ugh! You’re terrible.

  She smiled, getting a kick out of annoying Dino with a good pun.

  Dressed in a tight black faux leather skirt and a low-cut olive green singlet, Bea was ready to be somebody else. Her hair was freshly curled and she had swapped her canvas sneakers for nude wedges. She tried to ooze conviction and coolness – even if she didn’t entirely feel that way – as she walked into the hip Hawthorn bar. On an ordinary day, walking into a bar alone would mean all sorts of social angst for Bea. Plus, she wasn’t used to having to be alone at all. She’d always had Cassandra. And Cassandra being Cassandra, all extroverted giggles and brazen banter, knew how to command an audience. To her credit, Cassandra would diligently find a way to work Bea into any conversation, setting her up for jokes or daring her to flirt with the bartender. But, sometimes, it was just easier listening to the punchline than having to devise one yourself. Now, as the increasing ‘new town’ isolation threatened to consume her, Bea was desperate for companionship. And as much as she wanted to avoid it forever, making new friends meant making the effort to go out.

  Small tables cluttered the tiny, beer-stained bar which was lit almost solely by candlelight. A hearty mixture of laughter and chatter filled the room. Bea felt elated by the buzz of the bar, so different from the quiet and slow-paced Perth nightlife. Holding onto the glass of wine she just ordered, she spotted a seat at a table with two women already sitting at it, and made a beeline towards it.

  ‘This chair free?’ she said, sitting down. So forward, Bea! Bravo!

  ‘Sure,’ a woman with purple hair and piercings running along the ridge of her left ear replied.

  ‘Come here often?’ her companion asked.

  ‘No, my first time. You?’

  The two women smiled condescendingly and turned their heads away to chat among themselves. Bea took out her phone and snapped a photo, uploading it to Instagram.

  Helloisthisyourbook

  William ShakespHERE

  Feeling #cultured waiting for my friend to slam some poetry #talknerdytome #hewouldhatethatpun

  She was excited to see Dino perform. She hoped his poetry would be the funny, slightly self-deprecating kind and not the tragic, I-feel-sorry-for-you-and-must-not-make-direct-eye-contact kind.

  Laughter slowly morphed into murmurs as the first poet crept on stage: a small man with a long, bushy beard, who rhymed ‘dog’ with ‘log’ approximately four times and hiccupped once in the middle of his poem. Bea bit her lip, wincing her way through the performance. Three judges sitting in the front row of the bar held up scrap paper emblazoned with the numbers 3, 2 and 5. The man was clapped politely off stage and an elegant woman wearing a high-necked, floor-length golden dress appeared. She sung her poem in an airy, high-pitched voice that was beautiful, yet completely indecipherable. She curtsied after her performance and the same judges held up new pieces of paper reading 5, 6 and 5.

  Tough crowd, Bea thought. Next to her, the two women giggled, pointing at a blinding iPhone screen. Just as Bea was about to take out her own phone, Dino appeared on stage. He was dressed differently from his usual The Nook attire. He wore black Converse, black chinos and a big black tee; his hair was slicked back and a passionate expression adorned his face. Bea caught his eye and the corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly.

  He walked towards the microphone, careful not to trip on its snaking cord, and spoke into it in a deep, penetrating voice Bea had never heard before.

  ‘Ah, this poem is a little something I whipped up a week ago.’ A burst of static echoed from the speakers, forcing Dino back a step. ‘It’s still a little raw. It’s called “The Grind”.’ Clearing his throat, he began.

  Made of small, oval beans

  Turning quick glances and brash requests

  Of warm smiles and glazed eyes

  Of light feet, wanting hands on frosted glass.

  Bea was surprised. She had expected Dino to be bitter or trivial with his poems. She had not been prepared for – well, this.

  Dino continued.

  Light tug. Small whine. Bell chime.

  Bea joined the chorus of claps and whoops. She tried to catch Dino’s eye again, but he disappeared from stage all too quickly. Pushing her seat back, Bea stood up at exactly the same time as the purple-haired woman returned to her seat carrying two glasses of shiraz. They collided and the red liquid splashed onto Bea’s silk top. She squealed as the woman muttered brash apologies and, somewhat unhelpfully, patted her down with her hand then quickly vanished leaving Bea’s spirit stained.

  After a few more poetry readings (and the 15 minutes Bea haphazardly spent soaping her top in the bathroom, before clumsily drying it under the hand dryer) the formalities ended and the judges announced a winner. Dino! The audience whooped and cheered, got up from their tables and gathered at the bar – ready to order their next drink. Bea walked towards the cluster of people, where she spotted Dino standing with the other poets. He was nodding along seriously to something the operatic rhymer in the golden dress was saying. He leaned in, as if to hear her better. Bea tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Congratulations, you superstar!’ She pulled him into a hug. He remained stiff and straight.

  ‘Thanks,’ Dino replied.

  ‘To be honest, I didn’t know quite what to expect.’

  Dino smiled and took a long sip of his drink.

  ‘But seriously, will your mum please not come in the future so I can take her ticket again? I really enjoyed myself tonight!’

  ‘Yeah, well, I can almost guarantee that. She’s missed more of my events than she’s come to. So you can take her ticket any time.’ Dino shrugged.

  ‘Does she live around here?’ Bea asked.

  ‘No. Anyway, I better get back to the party. They’re celebrating yours truly, after all.’ Dino winked. ‘Thanks for coming, Babbage. Now you can get back to your real friends!’

  ‘Shall do.’ Bea smiled, thinking of the only friend in Melbourne she had to get back to. Meeting Oliver Bennett.

  Helloisthisyourbook

  Scribble of the day: Love completely. Trust wholly. Question constantly. What a farce.

  I just can’t tear my eyes away from the inscriptions in this book. You know when you overhear someone’s conversation at a café and you can’t help but listen and wonder about their backstory, their life? About where they work and who they love, and who loves them? That’s what these scribbles are like for me. I’ve had a glimpse into Mystery Writer’s world – and I can’t stop imagining who they might be. And for the first time in a long time, I suddenly feel connected to someone or something.

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  Comments (7)

  StephenPrince: @NoOffenceBut Have you seen this Instagram account? I think you’ll like it. Reminds me of the book blog where we met.

  Holliefraser: Thanks for following! I love people watching!

  NoOffenceBut: @StephenPrince Ha, it’s pretty cute. But not as cute as you.

  Back in Perth, Bea would always host drinks at the Wines of While bar for her birthday. Every year Cassandra would come over to her apartment early, bring a spectacular present (Cass was the best at presents) and Bea’s favourite bottle of pinot noir, and the two of them would have a glass before joining the rest of their friends
at the bar.

  Bea had tried to recreate a similar birthday in Melbourne this year. And since then had scolded herself for thinking that she could. You have no friends and no Cassandra – how could it possibly be the same? She paced up and down in her poky apartment, sipping on the same pinot noir, which no longer tasted as sweet. Bea was dressed and ready for her thirtieth birthday drinks with another two hours to go until anyone would arrive at the bar, which was only a ten-minute walk away. Not really knowing what to do, or where to go, she took out her phone and dialled her sister Lizzie’s number.

  Named after Elizabeth Montgomery, AKA Samantha Stephens from Bewitched (because she put a spell on her parents as soon as she entered the world), Lizzie seemed to blaze through life, collecting acquaintances, tales of romance and piercings as she went. Her most notable escapade? Being the third runner-up on the second season of The Bachelor (for Bea, there was nothing more mortifying than having a reality TV star for a sister). Now the mother of two-year-old identical twin girls, Lola and Willow, and a professional social media influencer, Lizzie lived her newly piercing-free life loudly through Instagram filters and Snapchat stories. Today would be only the third time Bea had seen her sister since moving to Melbourne. Lizzie lived almost an hour away in the beautiful seaside town of Mount Eliza, and Bea had moved to Melbourne knowing that she was just close enough to her sister in case the shit hit the fan (like if she became a penniless nomad), but still far enough away that she wouldn’t get roped into becoming Lizzie’s personal Instagram photographer. Or on-call babysitter.

  ‘Hi Liz,’ Bea chimed into the phone, holding it in between her shoulder and neck so she could pour herself some more wine.

  ‘Bea! Aren’t I seeing you in a couple of hours?’

  ‘Yeah. Just thought I’d call to pump myself up for tonight. I used to spend my birthday pre-drinks with Cass. And now, well, I’m feeling a little lost.’ Bea sipped at her wine, hating how desperate she sounded to her cool, older sister.

  ‘Oh, Bea. Like I told you, you need to put yourself out there a little more. When I signed up for The Bachelor it opened so many doors for me. How many times have I told you to reactivate your Tinder account?’ Lizzie shrilled.

  ‘I don’t need a boyfriend, Liz. I need friends. People who can keep me company. Right now the only thing I’ve got close to that is this book I found.’

  ‘A book? Well, that’s pathetic. I’m signing you up to Tinder right now. One second. It’ll only take a tick!’ Lizzie interrupted.

  ‘Liz, no! Please stop!’

  ‘I’m almost done.’

  ‘Liz, listen to me! I’m sick of online dating.’

  ‘Okay, all done. Your profile photo is that hot one of me and you from my wedding. More guys will click into it if they see your sister is from The Bachelor. Trust me. Your username is your email, your password is my birthday. Anyway, I’ve got to run. Nick is starting up the car. We’ll all see you soon!’ Liz hung up the phone before Bea could utter another word.

  Bea groaned, opened her phone, downloaded the Tinder app, logged in, and then deleted her account.

  God, how I miss Cass.

  Sick of aimlessly fidgeting in her apartment, Bea arrived at Woods of Windsor, a small wine bar tucked away on Chapel Street, half an hour early. Still new to town, and to the art of making friends, Bea had an embarrassingly small invite list. Apart from her family, it consisted of Anika from the Melbourne Writers Festival team at work (who Bea was convinced had agreed to come out of sympathy) and her partner Ruby, Sunday, Dino and, of course, Cassandra. Driven by blind hope and desperation, Bea had texted her not once, but three times to beg her to be there, if only via FaceTime.

  Sidling up to the bar, she ordered an espresso martini – according to Lonely Planet, every local Melburnian’s drink of choice – and pulled out her copy of Meeting Oliver Bennett. It was becoming a cherished companion with whom she felt most at ease. The notes scribbled inside it were the sort of things that she had always wished someone would say to her, but never had. In fact, each and every annotation made her feel more and more like someone was missing in her life. That person who saw deep inside your soul, and despite what they found there, still liked you. Someone who said words you still thought about long after they’d been spoken. And someone who, for once, Bea had finally chosen – even if they had yet to choose her back.

  She glanced at a pair of men wearing short-sleeved checked shirts and chinos cradling pints near a dartboard. She made awkward eye-contact with one, and then quickly turned back to her book.

  Twenty pages and half a martini later, she noticed what appeared to be a phone number crammed in the corner of page 32, beside which was written the letter ‘e’ (cursive, and lower case, of course). Bea frowned. Who could it be? A lover? A friend? The person all these beautiful notes are directed to? She took out her mobile to dial the number, pressing each digit resolutely. What are you even going to say, Bea? Inwardly rolling her eyes at her own impulsivity, she held the phone to her ear. The call went straight to voicemail, and a light, airy voice said, ‘Sorry, I can’t get to the phone right now, leave a message at the beep and I’ll get back to you. Probably.’

  ‘Darling!’ Arms fell around Bea’s shoulders, pulling her into a warm, bosomy embrace.

  ‘Mum!’ Bea disconnected the call and swivelled on the bar stool. She wrapped her arms around her mother, a petite woman with a dark, cropped bob and a warm-hearted smile.

  Bea felt her mum’s arms frantically patting up and down her ribs. Suddenly, she thrust Bea back, clutching her by the shoulders. ‘Beatrix, you’re wasting away. Have you been eating enough?’ Maggie, Bea’s totally ‘non’-overprotective, ‘non’-doting, ‘non’-force-feeding mother, showered her two daughters with affection through lasagne, apple pie and barely concealed maternal angst.

  ‘Happy birthday, love.’ Bea’s dad ambled out from behind his wife, bending down to plant a sloppy kiss on Bea’s cheek. Martin, a recently retired GP who had, since then, developed an obsession with drones, looked pleased. ‘Don’t mind your mother, she’s just intent on cramming as many worries into our short trip to Melbourne as possible.’ He winked. ‘This city agrees with you. And Lizzie tells us she’s been taking extra good care of you. We’re so proud of what a doting big sister she is. And of you, for making this move all on your own.’

  Maggie and Martin, or the M&Ms as they were affectionately known, had only just touched down from Perth after booking a last-minute ticket to celebrate Bea’s momentous birthday. Not wanting to ‘cramp her style’, as her mother had said (Maggie, having recently discovered Twitter and emojis, relished any opportunity to ‘text and Twitter like the kids these days’), they had checked into a little Airbnb studio apartment a couple of blocks from the bar.

  ‘Where’s Lizzie?’ Bea scanned the bar in search of her impossibly tall, beautiful and only slightly self-obsessed older sister.

  And, just like that, Lizzie shot out from behind a pillar and raced towards her. Her husband Nick, a slightly reserved former West Coast AFL player, followed closely behind, holding a squirming twin under each arm. Lizzie sang an operatic rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ (not in tune) as she went and waved vigorously with one hand, the other aiming her phone towards Bea.

  ‘Bea! Happy Birthday! I know, I know, the twins are here. At a bar! The sitter cancelled on us last minute.’ Lizzie shoved her arm around Bea’s shoulders, pulling her towards her so that their cheeks were smooshed together. ‘Smile!’ she squealed, snapping a selfie, the flash glaring. Bea gently brushed her sister away. She had forgotten what it was like to be out with Lizzie.

  ‘Liz, how are you?’ Bea asked, fondly kissing each of the twins’ curly-haired heads. The M&Ms gazed adoringly at their brood.

  ‘Exhausted, three kilos heavier than my goal weight, and annoyed at you for deleting the Tinder account I spent so long making! Don’t think I would have switched notifications off on my phone,’ Lizzie thrust her chest out and popped her hip.

&n
bsp; Bea tried to dismiss her sister with a wave of her hand. One of the twins, having freed herself from her father’s firm grasp, had sat down on the floor and was now running her gooey hands up and down Bea’s left leg.

  Maggie chimed in. ‘You really should listen to your sister. Apparently, the apps are the only way to meet new people nowadays.’ Bea’s face paled, wanting anything but to be speaking about her non-existent love life with her family.

  ‘Anyway, enough about this, let’s get celebrating!’ Lizzie, quickly tiring of the conversation, surveyed the bar with its mostly empty round tables and handful of wonky bar stools. ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘I wanted to keep it intimate this year,’ Bea said, to cover for her dismal invite list. ‘You know, not make a big fuss of the whole descending-closer-to-my-own-demise thing.’ Bea whispered the last part, leaning in conspiratorially as if she were revealing the secret to staying young.

  Lizzie laughed, which sounded more like a high-pitched yelp, and snapped a couple of candid photos of her gorgeous girls.

  Bea looked around anxiously, then tapped at her phone, which she realised she was clutching a little too firmly. No messages. Then Maggie swooped in, engaging her family with talk of drink orders and proudly showing off Martin’s latest aerial footage of Cottesloe Beach. Bea took a step back, surveying the animated group, and smiled to herself. She hadn’t realised how much she had missed being immersed in the regular rhythm of familial chaos.

  Laden with drinks and sippy cups, Bea’s family set up camp among the tables and chairs by the window. The sound of laughter and chatter mingled with soft jazz. Her remaining guests filed in slowly, bringing with them well wishes and an immediate readiness to head to the bar to order drinks. Everybody except for Dino. Bea checked the time on her phone again, shuffling her feet as she tried to concentrate on the conversation taking place between her dad and sister. They were banging on about something to do with hashtags and the power of viral movements. If Lizzie took anything seriously, it was reclaiming the label ‘mummy blogger’. Bea glanced around the room, checking that her other guests were having fun. Sunday was chatting to a random woman in the corner, and Melbourne Writers Festival Anika and Ruby were drinking quietly on the couch.