“Well, if it’s worrying you so much, we can call the whole deal off.”
“You wouldn’t be upset?”
“Of course not! What do you think I am? Desperate?”
I’m not sure how to take that. On the one hand, he can have his pick of women and he chose me. On the other hand, he doesn’t seem bothered that I no longer want to participate in our little arrangement. Does that mean he never really cared about me at all?
“Oh. Okay. Great.”
He winks at me. “But how about one last go for old time’s sake?”
I throw a cushion at him. “Paul!”
“Just kidding. But you can’t blame me for trying.”
“I suppose I made it pretty easy for you.”
“Look, Jess. Give yourself some credit. You’re a great-looking girl. You have a good job and you’re fun to talk to. You’re quite a catch. And if you want a proper relationship, I’m sure there’s someone out there who will more than fit the bill.”
“Aw. That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“Yeah, okay, enough of this touchy feely crap. I think there’s another footy match on in a few minutes.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Just pretend I’m not here.”
“Hey, do you want a beer?” he asks while helping himself to more pizza.
“No thanks.”
“Could you get me one, then?”
I laugh. “Really?”
“Come on, you might as well be of some use tonight.”
“Like you were when we saw each other last?” I tease.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, when I stayed over.”
“Spit it out, Jess. What are you trying to say?”
“You didn’t finish me off!” I blurt out.
“Didn’t I? God, sorry. Do you want me to make up for it now?”
“No! I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Yes, you should. You need to be getting something out of it too. But in my defence, hadn’t we shared a bottle of vodka and a six-pack of Coronas?”
“Yes but I still fulfilled my end of the bargain.”
“Sorry babe, I don’t know what to say. I guess I was just drunk and tired. If you ever re-consider, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
***
I zone out for a bit. Football bores the pants off me, but I kind of find the steady drone of the commentators comforting. And the green field is strangely peaceful to watch when the camera isn’t focused on a bunch of sweaty men tackling each other.
I don’t know why I was so worried about talking to Paul. He seems fine with it all. Like nothing ever happened.
Well, that’s one issue sorted. Now to just deal with Alex, and then re-build my public reputation.
I glance at my phone and see that Alex has tried to phone four times. He’s also left a text.
Sweetie - can we talk?
I don’t know what to do. I can tell he’s trying to make an effort. And I know he couldn’t have predicted that my haircut would have such an unexpected outcome—or that my hotpants would get a hole in them. But if he hadn’t asked me to participate in the fashion show in the first place, none of this would have happened.
I wonder what they’re all doing now. Probably at the bar having a good old laugh at my expense. I can’t quite bring myself to talk to him yet.
I type back a quick message.
Sorry Alex, not tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.
He immediately texts me back.
Sorry about your outfit. Janet told me. Will make it up to you. BTW, the show was a success!
Me: I’m sure you’ll get tons of free publicity from my butt.
Him: Hardly anyone noticed. And I made the photographer delete those photos from his camera.
Me: Thanks. But I’m still a bit fragile.
Him: OK. Talk tomorrow.
I hope he’s telling the truth. That means I won’t have to worry about the press again tomorrow.
Still, I can guarantee Luke saw it. And I would almost rather flash a bunch of strangers than friends and crushes.
I stretch out my legs, resting them on top of Paul’s. He’s totally engrossed in the TV, and he’s eaten five slices of my pizza. Lucky I wasn’t that hungry.
I start to drift off, when I feel a hand creep up my leg. My eyes shoot open.
Paul is still glued to the game, but his fingers are making their way up my thigh.
“Paul!”
He looks at me innocently. “What?”
“I thought you said you were fine with us just being friends.”
“I am.”
“So what’s that?” I look pointedly at his roving hand.
“Nothing.”
“Will you kindly remove it, then?”
“Are you sure?” He starts rubbing his other hand over my arm and gently grazes my breast. I shiver.
“I…I think so,” I murmur.
“Maybe just this once? For old times’ sake?”
His verbal argument isn’t very convincing, but his physical one is. Paul always knows exactly where to touch me. I probably shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But my body doesn’t agree. And who knows when I might next get a chance to sleep with someone? Plus, all of the frustration surrounding Luke is really taking its toll.
Paul can sense my resolve collapsing. He increases his efforts and slowly removes my shirt. I shut off my brain and give in to the moment.
I’ll worry about the repercussions later.
FIVE
It’s finally Thursday. The last three days have been quite hellish. Even though Violet did her best to hide the papers on Friday, someone from the office still managed to get hold of a copy and stuck the front page on the community noticeboard near the kitchen.
Every staff member uses the kitchen at least twice a day, so by Tuesday, I was well and truly over the muffled giggling whenever someone went to fetch their tea.
By Wednesday, some wise guy had put out a collection tin with a label pleading for donations to get me off the streets. I know my department had something to do with it, because the label was professionally done.
Miraculously, I didn’t see any photographic evidence of my wardrobe malfunction in the paper, or on TV. I wonder what Alex promised the reporters in return. I’ll have to thank him when I see him. I never actually got around to calling him—I wanted to be alone on the weekend. But I did send him a quick text to arrange getting my keys. He left them under my doormat on the way to his shop on Saturday morning, and I didn’t get home from Paul’s until almost lunchtime. It had ended up being surprisingly pleasant, staying at Paul’s. I’d slept over, and then we’d grabbed breakfast at James Street the following morning.
After that, I’d had a lot to sort out at work and it was too late by the time I got home in the evenings to call Alex.
I’m sure we’ll sort it out eventually. Maybe I’ll contact him from Japan. I really should have tried to see him before I left, but I was kind of waiting for him to come to me first, and when he didn’t, I felt like maybe he didn’t value our friendship as much as I thought.
I’m now on my way to the airport. I have a 2:40pm flight out, with a few hours in Singapore.
Work has given me a Cabcharge voucher. I love pretending I’m in upper management and that I charge cabs to an expense account all the time. The truth is, I’ve only ever been given two before, and that was because I had to work all night to get a project completed by deadline. The office agrees to pay for your trip home if it’s after 11pm. And rightly so. The least they can do is pay twenty dollars to someone who is practically living at their desk. I think they should order a limo if they’re really serious about showing their gratitude.
My driver doesn’t seem to know the way. He must be new. I mean, wouldn’t the airport be the number one destination for all city cab drivers?
“I think you turn right here,” I suggest helpfully.
&
nbsp; “No, no. Straight ahead is quicker.”
“Um, I think that goes to Ipswich.”
“Trust me, I know where I’m going.”
***
I don’t think he knows where he’s going.
Twenty minutes later, we’re stuck at a set of lights further away from the airport than where we started and I’m starting to panic. You’re supposed to check in two hours before departure and it’s already 1pm. I don’t do stress well. And I’m not a good flyer, so I really don’t need the added pressure of getting to my flight on time.
I find some Rescue Remedy in my purse and squirt the whole dropper under my tongue. Why do they make these bottles so tiny? They should have a jumbo size for particularly nerve-wracking situations.
“Perhaps you can turn where that airport sign is?” I suggest.
“Ah. That’s what I was looking for. I’m glad you pointed it out. I would have missed it otherwise,” he chuckles.
I’m not sure how he could have missed the huge blue sign with the picture of the plane on it. Maybe he forgot his glasses today. In which case, he probably shouldn’t be driving.
We finally end up on the right road and I can see the airport in the distance.
The last time I flew was when I went to Sydney, and that was bad enough. I don’t think I’ve flown internationally since I was a teenager. I hate flying on my own too—there’s no one’s hand to squeeze when we hit turbulence. My airline has a near perfect safety record, but it would be just my luck that they decide to have a fatality while I’m flying with them.
The driver stops outside the departure terminal and unloads my bags. I have two small suitcases and a carry-on with my laptop in it.
I’m not sure whether to tip him. He doesn’t really deserve it. In the end, I tell him to round up the fare a dollar as a compromise.
Thankfully the majority of my fellow travellers are still checking in too and I start to relax a little. Maybe the Rescue Remedy is kicking in. I’ve always wondered how that stuff works. It’s probably mostly a placebo, but it could also be the brandy they use.
Meg gave me a folder late yesterday afternoon with all my official paperwork. There’s flight information, an itinerary for the first couple of days and a brochure on my hotel. There are a few other sheets of paper tucked in the back that I’ve ignored for the time being. There will be plenty of time to read them later.
I check in with an hour to go. The girl doesn’t even give me an evil look when she sees I’m a bit late. I still try to explain that it was my cab driver’s fault, but she doesn’t seem to care. I’m sure she gets hundreds of excuses every day. Blaming the taxi driver is probably the airport equivalent of the dog ate my homework.
I’m going to check out where my gate is before I look for duty-free bargains. These places can be like labyrinths.
Just as I’m about to go through the security scanner, I hear a voice.
“Jess! Wait up!”
I spin around. “Alex! What are you doing here?”
“I had to come and see you off. I hate that we haven’t talked properly since last week.”
I hug him. “I’m sorry. I should have made the effort, but I didn’t know what to do. You didn’t seem that bothered by everything. And then work was a nightmare, so I needed every ounce of concentration to avoid accidentally killing someone.”
“Oh, Jess. I’m so sorry. Of course I was bothered! You’re my best friend! I feel so bad about how everything went down.”
“It’s all right. I knew we’d sort everything out eventually.”
I don’t know what it is about airports, but they always make me more teary and forgiving than usual. Maybe it’s my subconscious thinking I might die before I get to see my loved ones again. I don’t want to be hurtling to the ground when my plane’s wings fall off and rue the fact that I didn’t get to properly make up with my best friend.
“Hey,” I ask suddenly. “How did you know where I’d be?”
“I called your work and spoke to Violet. Nice girl.”
“She is. That reminds me, I have to bring her back a kimono.”
“Aren’t they really expensive?”
“Probably. But maybe they have imitation ones that are cheaper.”
“So, do you want some company before the flight?”
I nod gratefully. “That would be nice.”
“I know what you’re like with flying. Remember when we went to Cairns that time and we were delayed for an hour before take-off? You thought it meant the plane was broken.”
“Well, it might have been!”
“It was because the check-in system stopped working! They had to wait for the other passengers.”
“Yeah, but if the computers don’t work properly, who’s to say that the planes are any better?”
“Maybe I should get you an alcoholic drink while we wait.”
“That’s a good idea. I could use something to take my mind off the flight.”
We sit at the bar for the rest of the hour and I down three gin and tonics.
I completely forget about duty-free, but I don’t mind. I’m distracted by Alex’s funny stories instead. And apparently business has been good this week.
“You know, you probably don’t want to be reminded about it,” Alex says, “but you were quite a hit at the fashion show.”
“Really?” I say doubtfully.
“Yes, really! I had several customers asking for you during the week. They thought you worked for me and wanted to ask you out on a date.”
“They probably think I’m easy, showing off all that skin in public.”
“That’s not true. Oh, by the way, Luke asked about you too.”
My heart rate quickens at the mention of his name. “Yeah, about that…how did he know to come in the first place?”
“I invited him. I ran into him in the men’s room at the pub that night and he asked about you, so I told him that you’d probably be at the show. I shouldn’t have kept it a secret, but I thought it might be a nice surprise.”
“Oh. Well, I appreciate the gesture, I guess. But I can’t ever see him again after what happened.”
“Why not? I’m sure he would love to hear from you.”
“Maybe. But I’ll be forever known as Butt Girl. He would never take me seriously.”
“Perhaps you’ll feel differently when you get back. Speaking of which, when do you get back?”
“I don’t know, actually. I assume a few weeks. It probably says somewhere on my flight information.”
“Well, let me know when you get there. I might be able to squeeze in a quick visit if you’re away long enough.”
“Oh, that’s sweet, but I doubt there’ll be time.”
“Hey, isn’t that your flight they’re calling over the PA?”
I yelp. “Yes! Okay, better go. Stay in touch over e-mail! I’ll try and phone you when I get a calling card.”
We hug again and I hurry through the scanner and down to my gate. I hand my boarding pass to the flight attendant and find my seat on the plane.
To distract myself, I flick through the stuff in my work folder. There’s a brief about the project, which I already know a bit about. Oh, and here we go. Duration of the project. Hmm. That can’t be right.
It says six to twelve months.
SIX
I’m suddenly finding it a bit hard to breathe. There must be some mistake. I would have known if work was sending me away for a year! Wouldn’t I? How could they have only given me a week’s notice? Shouldn’t I have seen an e-mail telling me this vitally important detail?
I whip out my phone and open the messaging feature. The reception isn’t very good but it’s connecting – slowly.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but I’m going to have to ask you to switch off your phone for take-off.’ An attendant is staring down at me.
“But I might have to get off the plane!” I cry.
She looks at me nervously. “Ma’am, the doors are closed. We are cleared for take-of
f. You will not be able to get off the plane.”
I start to shake. “But you don’t understand! I’m going to Japan for a year and I only packed for a few weeks! I don’t have any winter clothes!”
She frowns, probably considering the possibility of having to physically restrain me.
“Please switch off your phone and stay calm. I’m sorry for any confusion you may be experiencing, but we need to ensure the safety and comfort of all our passengers.”
The man next to me is pretending not to listen but I can tell he’s a bit anxious by my behaviour.
I pull myself together enough to nod that I understand.
She looks partially mollified. “If I can assist you with anything once we’ve reached cruising altitude, please let me know.”
I give her a watery smile and try to act as normally as possible to avoid being labelled a problem passenger. That’s the last thing I need right now.
I scan the rest of the documentation frantically, looking for something that might prove they made a typo. But it only confirms the worst. I hadn’t even read my itinerary properly, otherwise I would have seen that they’re putting me up at a hotel for a week until my apartment is ready. How could I have missed that? Admittedly, I have been distracted lately, but I can’t believe I overlooked something as colossally important as my living arrangements for the next year.
Wave after wave of realisation hits me.
I don’t speak Japanese.
I won’t be seeing my friends for up to a year.
I didn’t say goodbye to my parents properly. Will they be put out when I tell them I won’t be home for Christmas? (Probably not—they often go overseas themselves during the silly season to avoid exchanging presents.)
And my apartment’s lease runs out in a few months. How am I supposed to sort that out?
I feel like one of those women who only find out they’re pregnant when they’re actually in labour. I don’t know how that can be possible, but I’m sure it’s equally as terrifying as this situation.
Zen Queen Page 5