by Sasha Wasley
Hell, maybe this was me-and-Liv all along. Maybe this was all we ever were: just a hollow, barely-there connection over booze, drugs and boys. Over shallow and pointless and fun.
Liv turned her head so she could observe me and accepted the joint from Hayley. ‘You look kind of wrecked, Lottie. Are you sure you don’t want a toke?’
‘Are you all right?’ Elizabeth asked me, putting her glass on the coffee table.
‘Hey, I know – let’s do a group pic.’ Hayley fished her phone out of her pocket. ‘Liv, how mental did your poster photo of Lottie as Peach Queen go on Instagram? Holy shit.’ She laughed. ‘How many new followers?’
‘Three hundred and eighty-one and counting.’ Liv grinned.
Hayley made a noise of delight and opened her camera.
‘Lott.’ Elizabeth was frowning now. ‘You okay?’
Liv glanced up again and studied me. ‘What’s wrong, babe?’
No lying.
‘Well, that was an interesting evening,’ said Elizabeth, gazing through the windscreen as we drove away short while later. ‘Eventful, if brief.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. I could never stand those two scrawny bitches, if I’m completely honest, and I want to watch the rest of ep five of Serial Killing. I just didn’t expect things to go that way.’
She put her feet up on the dashboard and for the first time that night I realised she was wearing double-plugger thongs with black leggings. I glanced at her top; a no-brand wrinkled pink T-shirt. A leather over-shoulder strap crossed her ample breasts, leading down to a stitched bag at her hip. Elizabeth was, as ever, wonderfully, effortlessly comfortable with herself.
I, on the other hand, had worn my skinny blue-jeans and a sleeveless button-down top, tied loosely at the waist; slip-on beach shoes and a canvas shoulder bag. I’d found them in my backpack of clothes at Brooker’s, all innocuous enough on their own but together they formed a look. It was a look that unconsciously mimicked Liv’s boho style. I’d dressed for Liv, I realised, hoping it would help me relate to her, so that I could somehow be her best friend again – because I had no friends: no real friends. Only friends who calculated my worth based on what I could offer them: a broken clean-living clause, a crazy good time, media attention or Instagram followers. Trouble or fun or fame.
Christ, I was a goddamn chameleon.
‘Was there any particular reason you did it like that?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Making the effort to go over and pretend to have a good time with them, then after the first fifteen minutes confessing that you have nothing in common with them, and leaving?’ She couldn’t hold in a laugh and I shook my head. ‘So, you dragged me along as your witness, did you? Or was it unplanned – some kind of epiphany?’
‘An epiphany, I guess. I’m sorry. I didn’t see it coming and I sure didn’t mean to drag you into …’
‘Into what?’
‘My craziness.’
‘It’s not crazy. In fact, I thought you were crazy to want to hang with them, so you’ve kinda redeemed yourself with me. It’s proof of sanity, if nothing else.’
‘Lizzy, I have no friends.’
She snorted. ‘Bullshit.’
‘No, I mean it.’
‘You have friends – you always have. I’ve never known you as anything but surrounded by a huge circle of friends.’
‘Not friends, just people. None of them know me. They don’t actually care about me.’
Elizabeth was quiet as she digested the weight of my truth. The silence went on for the rest of the short drive. I pulled into my parents’ driveway and Elizabeth removed her feet from the dash.
She opened the car door. ‘You coming in?’
‘Are you serious?’
Elizabeth watched me, the interior light shining on her forehead, with its faint horizontal line that had made her look over thirty since she was seventeen. She sighed and climbed out, but before shutting the door, she tossed a sentence at me.
‘You know, you don’t continually have to be what people want you to be.’
‘Oh, thanks, Lizzy,’ I snapped. ‘Great advice, but I’m already reading some of Mum’s books.’
She drew back. ‘I was trying to congratulate you for what you did tonight.’ The front light came on and Elizabeth stood straighter. ‘Anyway.’ She shut the car door.
I drove fast back to Brooker’s.
I didn’t wake up any wiser or even any different, but at least I knew precisely where I stood with the friends I had previously chosen. I looked at Chooky in her fruit crate and she watched me in return, orange eye trained on mine – complacent yet expectant.
‘Are you ready to go back to the chicken yard?’ She kept that orange eye on me, her head still. I imagined her little heart beating fast with anticipation. ‘I think it’s time.’
Angus was tending a hive in the early morning heat, gloves on but still no veil. He glanced up as I passed by with the little black hen. Chooky started flapping as we reached the yard and I tucked her more securely under my arm. As soon as we were inside I set her on the ground. She stretched and shook, then looked around for her posse. They’d been approaching carefully, but a brown one came close and stared at Chooky, bobbed her head forward and grabbed Chooky’s comb in her beak, giving it a savage wrench. Chooky squawked.
‘Hey! Stop that!’ I shrieked.
Another chicken sauntered up and delivered a hard peck on top of Chooky’s head.
‘Stop it!’ I swung out a gumboot and they skittered away, but a moment later, Chooky was under attack again from her first hater.
I went to scoop her up to safety but Chooky dodged me and trotted away. There was nothing to catch her with, either – I’d left the towel in the caravan. I would have to chase her. I waded into the flock but couldn’t pick which black hen was Chooky. Even her russet chest and beady orange eyes were not as distinctive as I’d thought – all the black ones had those, and most had cuts and scratches on their combs. Chooky had disappeared back into happy anonymity and I would probably never be able to identify her again.
I stood back and watched them for a while, scratching over the already utterly scratched dirt in the yard, squabbling over imaginary treats. For the Brooker chickens, the highlight of each day was when someone came out with the kitchen scraps. Then their little eyes would light up across the yard and they would waddle-run at an immense pace towards the old yoghurt container of gastronomic delights. Chickens truly were the ultimate in mindful living.
I collected the eggs they’d left in the nesting boxes and left them to it.
Angus nodded at me as I went by. ‘Hey.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Do you still want to see how honey extraction works?’
I stopped. ‘Is it safe?’
‘It’s fine. You won’t be touching anything.’
I put the eggs on the ground. ‘If I touched something, would it be unsafe?’
He shot me a surprised look. ‘Well, you might get stung, that’s all.’
I feigned astonishment. ‘Oh, really? Maybe I should wear protective gear then, hey Angus?’
He tried to glare at me but couldn’t help laughing. ‘Okay, smart-arse.’
There were so many bees flying around, I did actually feel quite nervous, but Angus was oblivious. He eased the frames up from the box to show me how the waxy hive had been constructed from the outer edges inwards. One frame was covered in hexagonal beeswax cells, all capped, and he used a blade to shave off the waxy caps, then poured the warm, glowing honey into a waiting tray.
Occasionally, the bees became interested in what he was doing, so Angus puffed a little smoke down into the hive to make them sink back inside. It was perfectly clear how immersed he was in the whole process.
‘Don’t they need that honey to feed their babies?’ I asked when he had emptied the third frame.
‘They make far too much at this time of year when all the flowers are out. I can take all this and they’ll still have more than
enough. These bees have gathered their pollen from peach blossom – you can smell it.’
I leaned in and inhaled, catching the faintest whiff of peach blossom in among the thick, sweet scent of honey.
‘Taste, if you want.’ He looked almost shy for a moment.
I dipped in a finger and tasted. It was, without a doubt, the best honey I had ever tasted, and that had nothing to do with the fact that Angus’s deep brown eyes were locked on my face while he waited for my judgement.
‘It’s incredible,’ I said.
He brightened. ‘You like it?’
‘Would I lie to you, Angus?’
He grinned. ‘Fair call.’
Damn, he was cute with that big smile and his wild hair falling all around his face.
Good thing he had his ‘policy’.
Dear Kelsey,
I appreciate the respect you’ve shown for my decision to take a break from the public lifestyle.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I believe the best thing for me would be a complete change of direction. I don’t have the enthusiasm for performing I once had and wish to pursue a career that gives me more privacy and stability.
I was so honoured when you first offered me representation, Kelsey, and I appreciate your efforts to find me work over the years. I always felt like you believed in me. But I’ve lost my passion for the stage and it may take some time for me to work out what to do next.
You always said that if either of us wanted to end the contract, there would be no questions asked. I don’t want you to waste your time trying to find me roles or publicity I can’t take, so now’s the right time for me to let you know I don’t require representation any longer. Please consider this letter notice of the dissolution of our contract.
In case you’re wondering, I won’t be seeking representation through any other agent. I honestly believe I’m finished with acting.
Thank you for taking a chance on a starry-eyed twenty-one-year-old all those years ago!
All the best,
Lottie Bentz
The sun rose bright and hot over Christmas Day. I contemplated the morning glare through a gap in the half-closed curtains of the spare room. The old familiar excitement of Christmas Day was hard to shake, but this year it was tinged with something bleak.
For years, I’d shrugged off the vague sense of Mum’s disapproval every Christmas and embraced the role of cosmopolitan butterfly. I’d turned up with fire-engine red nails and handed out stupid citified gadgets to make my country family laugh. Right back at the start of the selfie stick craze, I gave one to my dad. We all giggled, and I pretended I thought selfie sticks were the bomb, and we played with it all afternoon. Elizabeth taught our parents about duckface and high shot and chinning, and we used filters to give Dad a forest animal nose and, after a couple of glasses of wine, my mother waxed lyrical about the way women still re-invented themselves for the male gaze.
It was kind of fun.
This year, there was no part for me to play. The fantasy had a stake through its heart; selfie girl wouldn’t garner a laugh. Blow-in, blow-out Lottie, who was mid-season and due back at rehearsals next morning, was no more. I was just Lottie, failed actress who’d got her tits out for money, who had a dead lover and no friends or fixed address. I sighed and climbed out of bed, donning shorts and a faded red T-shirt – my only effort to be festive.
When I came into the kitchen, Mrs Brooker and Angus were there, seated at the table with cups of tea in hand.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I said.
‘Merry Christmas, love.’ Mrs Brooker got up and came over to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Come, sit down and have a cuppa with us before we do prezzies.’ She sank back into her chair. ‘Angus used to wake us up so early on Christmas mornings – me and Ted – that sometimes it was almost still Christmas Eve.’ She chuckled.
I looked at Angus. ‘He doesn’t seem quite as excited these days, but at least he’s not out working in the orchards.’
‘I’m having a day off,’ Angus told me.
‘Good idea. But I’ll just get going, I think. I hope you enjoy your day.’
Mrs Brooker wasn’t having it. ‘Wait, love. You need breakfast. And we should do prezzies before you go off.’
Holy shit, did she mean it about presents? I hadn’t got either of them anything, assuming we’d be going our separate ways for the day. But I should have got them something, I realised. Of course I should. I’d been a guest for several weeks now, and they were even allowing me to stay in the family home. A simple gesture of thanks would have been appropriate.
Annoyed at myself, I made tea and put a slice of bread in the toaster. When I joined them at the table, Angus pushed the apricot jam my way but I went for the honey. Bringing the tub close to my nose, I inhaled.
‘Ooh, it’s the peach honey.’
His eyes sparkled. Mrs Brooker looked back and forth between the two of us several times, her face bright with interest.
‘I have a confession to make,’ I said. ‘I forgot to get presents for you, and even if I hadn’t forgotten, I’ve got no money. I didn’t get my family anything either, for the first time ever. I’m actually in debt to Paul Knezevic for Chooky’s antibiotics.’
Mrs Brooker took it with her usual grace. ‘Goodness, nobody expected you to get us presents, love. We know you’re in between jobs at the moment.’ She made it sound like I was a go-getter. ‘Let’s go and see what’s under the tree.’
She stood up and headed for the lounge. I trailed behind her with my mug and plate of toast. Angus took a seat and Mrs Brooker fished among the four or five presents under the tree.
‘Here, Angus.’ She passed him a box wrapped badly in birthday paper, and my heart gave a twinge. A woman who kept all her son’s primary school crafts wouldn’t wrap his Christmas gift in crinkled paper with birthday cakes on it – not if she still had all her faculties. She pulled out a smaller present, no label, and passed it to me. ‘Merry Christmas, love.’
I thanked her, wondering if it was really meant for me.
Angus unwrapped a portable radio and gave his mother a grin. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ He sounded surprised. ‘I can use this down at the shed. The old one stopped working months ago.’
‘Yes, I thought you said so.’ She smiled contentedly.
Angus looked at me and I unwrapped mine. It was the creamy crocheted doilies we’d sorted in the spare room.
I looked up at her in astonishment. ‘These! I love these. But you can’t give them away – they should stay in the family.’
She couldn’t have been happier with my reaction. ‘No, I’ve made up my mind. I want you to have them, love.’
I stroked the doilies and smiled at her. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs B.’
Angus was fishing under the tree now. He pulled out two gifts wrapped in brown paper, passing one to his mother and one to me. His ears were going red. Mrs Brooker peeled off her paper to reveal a new dressing gown, a battery-operated clock with a big flip display of the time and date, and a crossword puzzle book marked ‘beginner’ level. I was worried this last one would offend but she didn’t even seem to notice. She thanked him, examining her gifts with pleasure.
‘These are very nice, Angus, very useful.’
She turned to me expectantly, so I opened mine. Inside the brown paper I discovered a mess of strings, pieces of wood and dark lumps of metal.
‘Pick it up by the wooden ring.’ Angus looked highly uncomfortable.
I located an old wooden curtain ring and hooked my finger through it, lifting it up. As I did, the strings seemed to magically untangle and I was left holding a cross-piece of dark wood strung with several strands of thick black thread. At the end of each string was a lump of metal, warped and blackened, with a drill hole through its middle. It appeared to be a windchime.
With a thrill of shock, I recognised my high-school performing arts medal – burned and melted, the gold completely flaked away. I drew a sharp breath and examined each dangling metal pi
ece – my shamrock keyring; a clump of costume jewellery held together with melted plastic ‘gems’; the Bollywood headpiece, warped into a black spiky lump; St Genesius and the metal bear’s face keyring, paint melted off. They wobbled expectantly at the bottom of each string, ready to make music.
I looked at Angus. He was waiting, eyebrows drawn together in apprehension of my reaction. ‘You made this?’
He nodded. ‘Those bits were left after the bonfire.’
‘Oh, Angus, aren’t you clever,’ Mrs Brooker trilled, peering at the chime. She tapped one metal piece so it bumped against another with a soft, coinlike clink.
‘It’s amazing. Thank you.’ My audition voice failed me and I sounded more like I was going to cry than anything else.
Angus relaxed a little. ‘You don’t mind? You don’t have to keep it, but I didn’t want you to have, you know, nothing left of you – of who you were.’
‘I really like it,’ I said. ‘It’s clever. And beautiful.’
He nodded and dropped his gaze. I wished more than anything that I had something to give him. Mrs Brooker looked at the tree, where one present still sat.
‘What’s that one?’ she asked. She shot me a suspicious glance. ‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘Definitely not from me.’
Angus fished it out. ‘You must have put it under the tree, Mum. Same paper you used for Lottie’s. Is it for Aunty Pris, maybe?’
She was enlightened. ‘Oh! Yes, of course.’ She stared at the present for a few moments. ‘I wonder what it is.’
Angus looked at his mother and she gave him an oddly knowing chuckle. He laughed, too. I gave in to the urge to hug her. ‘It’ll be a surprise for everyone concerned,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the beautiful doilies, Mrs B. I’ll treasure them.’
She returned my hug. ‘You’re very welcome, love. Are you sure you won’t stay today?’
‘Sorry, I have to go.’