Isolde Byrne: Ignoring you.
Ana Zhang: Now I’m sending you an angry face, both in person and via DM >:( >:( >:(
Isolde Byrne: You’re angry because . . .
Ana Zhang: Because you’re a buzzkill. Anyway, back to Taylor and AMAZING. The guy sent you chocolate. He’s some kind of Breakup Whisperer, I swear. I thought the playlists were genius enough. I’m going to DM him here on Insta to say thanks . . .
Isolde Byrne: You’re not actually messaging him right now.
Ana Zhang: For reals, I am.
Isolde Byrne: ANA!!!!!!!!!!
Ana Zhang: I’m BEING POLITE. I’m also going to ask him for another playlist. You need something upbeat, like ‘I’m better off without you, Elephant Crap’.
Isolde Byrne: Given it was my friend who created the playlists for my breakup, shouldn’t I be the one to ask him for a new one?
Ana Zhang: You totally should. Do it right now!
Isolde Byrne: I can tell from your face that you’ve already DM’d him, haven’t you?
Ana Zhang: GUILTY. Hey, he’s already replied. He says: IT’S COMING AT YOU :) :) :)
OCTOBER
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday 1 October, 7:56am
Subject: The Better Off Without You playlist
I had some serious fun with this one.
Hope you and Ana get a kick out of it too ;)
Xx Tay
Better Off Without You
So What P!nk
Since U Been Gone Kelly Clarkson
Shout Out to My Ex Little Mix
Shake It Off Taylor Swift
I Hate Boys Christina Aguilera
Most Girls Hailee Steinfeld
Ugly Heart G.R.L.
Single NatashaBedingfield
We Are Never Ever Getting
Back Together Taylor Swift
Don’t Call Me Up Mabel
Somebody That I Used to Know Gotye & Kimbra
Regular Touch Vera Blue
Thank u, next Ariana Grande
Taylor
Sunday 7 October
‘I still reckon you should go as a pirate,’ Finn says as he crouches down to put his ball on the tee.
Finn and I are out on the Jack’s Point Golf Course today, playing the full eighteen holes, and we’re talking Halloween costumes between swings. Mum and Dad are holding their usual epic shindig at our place at the end of the month, and I don’t have a costume sorted yet.
‘Dad and Mum are planning to be pirates,’ I say.
‘So?’ Finn shrugs.
‘Isn’t it a bit uncool for a seventeen-year-old to coordinate his costume with his parents?’
‘If it was anyone else’s parents, yeah,’ Finn says. ‘Your parents? They might be old, but we both know they’re cooler than we are. There’s no way they’ll damage your rep. It’s more likely you’ll damage theirs.’
‘Thanks, Finn.’ I give him a look, hoping it’ll put him off his practice swing.
‘I’m messing with you. Go with the pirate option. Then the Hellemann fam are one big piratey crew. Plus, if you go as a pirate, my Tamatoa costume totally works in with that.’
Yup, Finn is going as a singing, dancing Disney crab. No-one can say he doesn’t have confidence.
I pull a face.
‘Girls love pirates,’ Finn says, like he’s an authority.
‘Yeah?’ I turn my head so he can’t see my expression. I love Finn, but every couple of weeks he takes up a new activity that he thinks will give him cred with girls. Last month he signed himself on for rugby, and at the very first session, the sports cream he’d put on his thighs to help with muscle tightness somehow wound up in the area of his you- know-what, and the only sprinting he did that day was to the showers.
‘They do! Think of the Captain Jack Sparrow/Johnny Depp association.’
‘If that’s actually a thing, then my dad’s going to have the rock-star pirate vibe covered,’ I reply. ‘You know how good he looks in eyeliner. Plus, don’t you think the whole pirate thing is a bit tongue-in-cheek?’
‘Huh?’
‘Think about it. Parrot on the shoulder . . . steel hook . . .’
He’s not getting it.
‘Wooden leg?’ I add.
‘Your leg’s not wooden,’ Finn replies. ‘It’s carbon fibre and titanium and a bunch of other materials that totally didn’t exist in pirate days.’
He knows that, but that’s because we’re friends. The average person doesn’t know much about prosthetics. Before the accident, I didn’t either. Let’s face it, unless you have an artificial limb, or a friend or family member has one, it doesn’t generally cross your mind to think about what they’re made of.
‘Plus – wouldn’t you be wearing pants?’ Finn says. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pirate in shorts. So it’s not like everyone at the party’s going to see your leg.’
‘Small town? News travels? Even if I haven’t seen some of these people in years, they’re still going to know what happened to me,’ I say. ‘We both know how awkward some of those “Hey, I heard about your accident” convos get. And if I’m standing there in front of them in a pirate get-up, someone’s eventually going to make a wooden-leg crack.’
Finn shrugs. ‘Fair call. Hmmm. Why don’t you go as a—’
Finn’s costume suggestion is drowned out by a small plane that’s dropping off a group of skydivers in the field next to the Jack’s Point settlement. I watch as the skydivers’ parachutes open in succession, and they begin their dip and dance through the sky. The red-and-yellow parachutes are miniscule against the scale of The Remarkables looming behind them.
It’s a funny thing to live in a town hugged by mountains on every side. I can see The Remarkables from my house and from work and from pretty much every side of town (if you live in Queenstown, they’re in your face 24/7), and I know they’re massive – 2319 metres tall if we’re being exact. But out here, at Jack’s Point, standing underneath the mountain range, 2319 metres is a feeling.
Finn stuffs his next shot, badly.
‘I can see your dad’s watching from the verandah with his binoculars, and he’s gleeful,’ I joke. ‘He knows you’re no threat to him.’
You can see Finn’s house from here – it’s way up the hill, where the best views and the biggest places are. I’ve never asked Finn exactly what his dad makes in a year, but real estate is nuts in this town. Cian is one of the most popular QT agents, so he’d be killing it commission-wise. Hence the house, and the Jack’s Point golf membership, and Finn’s credit card, the latter being the only way I get to play a course like this – aka one of NZ’s most beautiful – every so often.
On from the next bluff is the place that Mum’s hired for Violetta’s big day.
It hits me – eight months and Is will be here.
The thought of that triggers the same feelings I get whenever my phone vibrates with an email from her. It’s like some part of me starts buzzing as well, like I’m a tuning fork, and excitement is bouncing off my skin and reverberating into the atmosphere around me in every direction.
Today it’s not only excitement trembling through me, but anxiety as well. I know why my insides are quaking. It’s because I know that when Issy is here, she’ll be seeing me, in person, for the first time since before the accident. Seeing me as I am now – instead of the Taylor she’s always known.
She’s my friend, and I know she loves me, but I’m still scared as hell.
It’s stupid to feel this way about seeing her when I’ve missed her like crazy this past year. A part of me wishes she could be here right now. And yet, another part of me is a sweaty mess just thinking about it.
In my imagination, when we see each other again, it’s like nothing has changed. I guess that’s what every fibre of my being is hoping for. That’s because I don’t want my friends to see me differently. I don’t want girls to see me differently either.
&nb
sp; And I guess that is what is making me extra nervous about seeing Is. She’s not just a girl – she’s THE girl, the most important in my life. She’s always been my second-best friend next to Finn. We might fight now and then, but no matter what, I respect her, and I value her opinion like crazy.
In short, she’s everything to me.
So that’s why I’m stressing about June. Why, if Issy sees me and is odd around me, or treats me differently, I’ll be devastated.
My head’s now crowded up with awful thoughts like: Are girls going to be put off by my prosthesis? Is any girl actually going to want to be with me now?
I know that’s an awful way to think, but these two questions hover in the back of my mind these days, even if I also tell myself I don’t want the type of girl who’s superficial and close-minded enough to be bothered by my leg.
I can feel the anger starting.
Stop it, I tell myself. Think about the game.
I put all my focus into my swing and trouncing Finn.
By the ninth hole, I’m feeling better. I decide I’d have to be a moron to let fear make me feel like I don’t want Issy to come here. What happened last year took enough from me. I’m not going to let Issy be a casualty as well.
And so I pull out my phone and snap a photo, just for her.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday 8 October, 6:42pm
Subject: Meet me here in eight months? :)
Attachment: 65161jpeg
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday 8 October, 3:43pm
Subject: RE: Meet me here in eight months? :)
Jack’s Point? Can we make it tomorrow? This close to throwing in the towel here.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday 8 October, 10:23pm
Subject: Don’t play with me like that
Seriously. I can handle being on an eight-month waitlist for See-Goldie-Live-and-In-Person if I don’t think there’s any other option. If you start throwing ‘tomorrow’ at me all flippantly, then you’re totally toying with my emotions. That said, if your mum’s CFO gig suddenly comes with a private jet and you can be here tomorrow, you’re off the hook.
Back to real life though – who or what are you throwing towels at, and why? You need to stop NOW. You know I remember just how pedantic your mum is about how your fam’s Egyptian-cotton towels are folded, right?
You’re probably hoping I wouldn’t still remember this, but folded towels always make me think of that fight between your mum and dad.
My favourite part was when your dad stalked upstairs with the perfectly folded towels, and instead of putting them away, he stopped at the top of the stairs and emptied the whole laundry basket over the railing, like it was his symbolic stand against your mum’s oppressive laundry regime. I can’t remember how old we were then, but we must have been pretty small because we laughed like crazy and thought it was the best idea in the world to copy him, and we grabbed all the socks and underwear out of the second basket and flung them over as well, shouting ‘Geronimo!’ as the undies took flight. And then we got in MEGA trouble from both our mums.
Anyway, STOP throwing towels because she’s not going to let you borrow the Learjet if you trash the linen cupboard.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Tuesday 9 October, 10:51pm
Subject: That wasn’t their stupidest fight
That fight had nothing on the burnt-toast fight (aka last month). ‘Burnt-toast fight’ ISN’T a metaphor, BTW – it was an ACTUAL fight about burnt toast.
I didn’t know it was possible to be that attached to two slices of gluten-free bread.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday 10 October, 4:56pm
Subject: Burnt toast
Gluten-free bread is NOT a food worth fighting for.
It’s not chocolate. Like come on – if you’re going to go into battle for a food, that’s the one, right?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday 11 October, 8:45pm
Subject: RE: Burnt toast
I think what gets me about my parents’ fights is that they’re always over crap. That’s what makes it so annoying to anyone who’s in earshot (me, my cousins, the neighbours, the people shopping alongside us at Ikea). All I can think every single time is: it isn’t worth it.
Vi once told me (you know how she loves sharing science facts) that it takes seven or eight trees to produce enough oxygen for one human being over a year. So when Mum and Dad huff and puff about towels, or toast, or something else not important, they are literally wasting precious oxygen.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday 11 October, 10:58pm
Subject: Ikea
Just so you know – everyone fights at Ikea. That’s old news, Goldie.
I know you’re thinking, ‘Queenstown doesn’t even have an Ikea, Taylor, so how do you know everyone fights there?’ You’re right – we don’t have an Ikea. Yet! But I have solid evidence for my opinion:
THE INTERNET ;)
What I really wanted to know was – why are you wanting to throw the towel in?
Aka what’s going on over there in Mosman?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday 12 October, 7.39pm
Subject: It doesn’t matter any more
It was just something that I hit ‘send’ on without thinking.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Saturday 13 October, 9:48am
Subject: RE: It doesn’t matter any more
I’m insulted to think that you think I’m dumb enough to believe that one . . . Goldie, just come out with it – what’s the deal?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Saturday 13 October, 4:45pm
Subject: You’re not going to let up on this, are you?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Saturday 13 October, 6:49pm
Subject: Nope
Spill.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Saturday 13 October, 10:22pm
Subject: Fine
But it feels stupid because now you’re expecting some dramatic revelation, when really, I guess I said ‘throw in the towel’ because I just wanted to jump on a plane and escape.
I feel like everyone I have a real connection with doesn’t live in Sydney.
You. Vi. Ana.
The trilogy that is the total of my friendship sphere. You know me – I’ve never been the girl with a squad. Part of it’s the ballet schedule, of course. But I know it’s also because I can be . . . well, you know – a bit too serious.
Before Vi and Ana left, and before you and I had our fight, I wasn’t bothered by not having a massive group of besties. Having a few good, loyal people in my life was always enough.
But now my sister is gone, and Ana’s in another state, and I haven’t seen you in forever, I guess I feel lonely a lot of the time.
I should feel relieved that I don’t have many personal commitments because then I don’t have to deal with the guilt of neglecting people in my life due to dance. But this thought keeps hovering in my mind:
Even if I had free time, I wouldn’t have someone to spend it with.
And it’s not a nice feeling to have. Deep down, in the pit of my stomach, I’m kind of scared that people don’t like me. That I’m unlikeable.
That I’m boring. Too driv
en. A perfectionist.
Who wants to be friends with someone like that?
When Aidan broke up with me, he said this one thing, which is now superglued to the walls of my brain: 90% of our conversations were about ballet, Isolde.
What he was really saying was: You have nothing else to talk about.
And that’s totally my fault. Over the last few years, I’ve made Ballet everything.
Ugh. It’s tough to admit this stuff to you, Tay. You get me 99% of the time (which BTW, is kind of scary), but this thing, I’m worried you might not get.
Let’s face it, everyone likes you.
You’re the human equivalent of a labrador.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Sunday 14 October, 7:45pm
Subject: You’re not boring!
If we’re talking spirit animals, I reckon you’re a wolf. Not the scary Little Red Riding Hood eat-your-grandma kind (aka Slash’s Halloween costume for this year), but the real wolves that you see on the nature documentaries. Those wolves observe the world from a distance, using their intelligence and instinct to analyse everything in front of them, before they carefully decide on their next move.
I’ve always admired that about you, you know – you don’t rush in.
I’m always rushing in.
You know wolves are fiercely loyal, right? They might take their time when it comes to revealing themselves – they aren’t going to do it until they absolutely trust you – but it’s worth the wait. You aren’t going to find a more committed, got-your-back-at-all-times friend.
IMHO, that’s the type of friend everyone should have.
I’ll let you in on a secret. Up until last year, I always thought that I had tons of friends. I had an iPhone full of numbers, and I didn’t spend much time alone. But a lot of those ‘friends’ disappeared after the accident.
So, I’m more careful who I let in now. Like you say, quality over quantity – I’d rather have a small circle of friends I know that I can count on, than a posse of the fair-weather type.
That said, I reckon you need a friend in Sydney. I’m not saying you need to replace Ana as your bestie. But what about someone to meet for coffee? What about the other girls in your ballet class? You guys already have an unusual interest in common. Plus, they’ll be able to sympathise with ballerina-life demands.
The Long Distance Playlist Page 7