The Cait Lennox Box Set

by Roderick Donald

  And Jools just didn’t quite get it. She’d never been fully privy to G’s goings-on in London, as she didn’t join him until well after he had arrived, so she really hadn’t a clue what drew him to the Espy.

  “It’s simply a dirty rock ’n’ roll pub full of the great unwashed who are half my age and don’t really want me there in the first place,” she would say to G whenever he suggested dropping in to see a band.

  Which did, G had to admit, have a definite element of truth about it.

  So G’s”past” life ended up being one of those”secrets” that long-term couples often acknowledge but somehow manage to conveniently overlook. And besides, while G was having his”London time” as Jools called it, she was involved in her own self-indulgent”Melbourne time,” so it was quid pro quo.

  Which meant conveniently that time in their lives was now a case of”What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

  Being glued to the floor by the remnants of countless spilled drinks and rubbing shoulders with heavily tattooed, pierced twentysomethings who were all dressed in denim and a variety of shades of black was London all over. Well, as far as G was concerned it was.

  So much so that every time G was at the Espy, distant memories flooded back as if he was flipping through a photo album of his past life.

  But for G, the Espy last night didn’t quite happen as planned. The ability to finally let go with his mates, his sailing buddies of some twenty-plus years, drew him to them like a magnet. These were people with whom he’d stared death in the face as they’d slid down the bubbling front of a fifteen-meter rogue ocean wave trying its best to swallow their yacht; guys who he’d experienced the highs and lows with of winning and losing; guys who he’d shared their personal successes and failures with—the birth of their kids, their divorces and remarriages, their ups and their downs—and well, the rest of the night is history.

  In G’s head, in that male way of compartmentalizing events, he had already justified last night as being his equivalent of Jools having a night out with the girls—which she did on a regular basis.

  Girl Power, she called it.

  But unfortunately, he probably chose the wrong night to reciprocate.

  For G, last night was more about mateship; about being around people who he knew weren’t shallow, but who also wouldn’t ask questions about how you were faring or try and give an in-depth discourse about the comings and goings of life and its challenges. An unwritten law at the yacht club forbade talk about anything other than boats and yacht racing.

  It was just not de rigueur.

  “But I don’t really blame her. I know, I know, I really should have been there,” G almost said out loud to himself as glimpses of last night rushed through his head. “A low act. But with losing the business it’s been such a prick of a year for both of us and it was Open Day after all, and well . . . I just let loose.”

  “And I did invite Jools to come down to the club,” he muttered quietly to himself, as if his invitation was a justification for last night’s excesses.

  Not a good excuse.

  Didn’t really cut the mustard on that one. G’s mind continued to wander and talk to him. I suppose it was a bit of a mongrel act, but at half past six in the morning it’s way too early to think any deeper.

  Oh God, I’m busting for a piss . . .

  As G continued to move unsteadily around the edge of the bed, bouncing off the wall in his still half-asleep state and navigate his way toward the ensuite, he was beginning to realize he had a self-inflicted hangover that was about to come and wreak vengeance.

  Yes, I really am getting too old for this. Time for a leak and a shower.

  “You prick,” grunted Jools in a muffled, thick voice emanating from somewhere under the blankets. “Have a good night, did you? You selfish arsehole. You could have at least turned up last night.”

  Jools is definitely not in a good mood.

  “You no doubt got totally shit-faced.”

  Not looking good. And now the kill shot, no doubt.

  “Then again, I wouldn’t have wanted the embarrassment of you being there, slobbering over everyone and speaking out of the side of your mouth . . .”

  The tirade may have continued, but G was already in the ensuite with the door closed, sitting on the toilet with half a smile on his face as he farted, then finally began to feel relief as he emptied his bladder.

  G felt he could almost eat the air. He was walking down Acland Street with his beloved border collie, Mia, through an early morning mist that was so thick it enveloped him, wrapping him in a vaporous hold.

  It really is a gray day. And I’ve definitely felt better.

  Skipping over some of the remnants of last night’s festivities that the street cleaners had missed, G was making his way to the newsstands to get the Sunday morning papers. A small but loud group of exuberant revelers still high on the Saturday night rush, full of bravado and confidence and yelling at each other as they vied to be heard, parted like the Red Sea and walked around G and Mia who were approaching in the opposite direction.

  As one of the more high-spirited males was walking past, Mia in her protective way spun back to nip at his heels. Instinctively G gave her a gentle snap on the leash just as she was about to make contact, and she immediately turned her attention back to him.

  “Yes, Dad. Just helping out,” she seemed to say.

  “Mate . . . hey, listen to me . . . what about Angie . . . she was really shit-faced, eh. What about when she fell into that dude and he spilled his drink all over that good-looking chick with the white top . . .” The conversation continued as the Red Sea joined up again and the moving party slid past the mildly hungover man and his dog.

  To them, G and Mia didn’t even register.

  It was the coffee—the bittersweet aroma, heavy on the nose and almost addictive—that kept drawing G back time and again to St Kilda.

  Now that’s what Sunday in St Kilda is all about.

  The coffee. Quintessential Melbourne.

  As the smell of freshly ground beans wafted through the air, the gray, misty morning started gaining color. G’s nagging headache began fading into the background, and as if on automatic pilot, he made his way around the corner to his favorite”locals-only” café for a strong cappuccino and maybe an almond croissant or a savory muffin.

  It was 7:35 a.m. and G’s favorite coffee haunt, 21 Squares, was already scattered with a few familiar faces. Several pairs of eyes looked up, registering G’s presence, then with an”I feel as bad as you look” glance went back to their Sunday morning newspapers.

  And their coffee.

  “Morning, Dave. Big session yesterday, which continued on into last night and I badly need a coffee. What was your night like?”

  The Stones were playing “Fool to Cry” in the background and Dave edged the volume up a tad.

  “Hit a few bars, G, but got home early. Not as big as yours from the sound of it,” replied Dave in his heavy south island New Zealand accent. Dave was G’s favorite barista in St Kilda. He totally matched the ambience of his hole-in-the-wall restaurant, with his almost shaved head, heavily tattooed arms and legs, shorts, flip-flops on his feet, black rock band T-shirt, and of course his big talent—an uncanny memory for names and your favorite blend.

  “The usual?”

  “Yeah, sweet.”

  But G was starting to feel a case of the guilts.

  “Actually, better make mine takeout and make one for Jools as well while you’re at it.”

  The breakout from the grayness of the morning had lifted G’s mood slightly and in his head he was going over the expected conversation he would soon be having with Jools when he arrived home. The last thing he wanted to go through was a cruel and wounding cold-shoulder Sunday.

  ”You’re a selfish prick”—she’s already thrown that one at me, but maybe I deserved it. And then if I don’t demonstrate some show of remorse, she’ll no doubt snap back with a litany of my past indiscretions and shortc
omings as a father and husband.

  G decided he needed a peace offering. A freshly made cappuccino and a freshly squeezed orange juice that he would make as soon as he got home and the morning papers may just possibly nip Jools’s bad mood in the bud and change her looming gray-day attitude into something sunnier.

  “Oh my God, Dad, you look like shit,” said Caitlyn as she walked into the kitchen, not looking all that fancy herself.

  “And thanks for coming to the Espy last night. You know Mum’s pretty pissed off.”

  Mia started nuzzling her on the off chance there may be some food offered, so Cait stroked the dog’s ears as she talked.

  “Good one, Dad.”

  “And good morning to you, darling daughter. I presume you’re just getting in after a hard night’s partying?”

  But G’s defensive tone lasted only a millisecond. Cait melted his heart just looking at her, so he found it difficult to be nasty to her at the best of times, and besides, she was probably right, as usual.

  Cait was definitely G’s daughter. She wasn’t model material, but she certainly hadn’t been hit with the ugly stick either, and she had a body to die for. Tall and slim like her father, she had no hips to speak of, but definitely an athletic torso. Cait had also been blessed with clear, slightly translucent skin, ample breasts, strawberry blonde shoulder-length hair with the obligatory platinum and white blonde highlights that millennials spent so much money on, and large—no, huge—glacier blue eyes that were impossible to forget, even if they only glanced at you for a fleeting moment.

  “Want an OJ?”

  “Love one, thanks. And no, I haven’t been partying all night.”

  G grabbed another three oranges from the fruit bowl and tried juggling them on his way back to the chopping board, failing miserably as two of them rolled across the floor, ending up at Cait’s feet.

  Cait laughed. “You’re just like, sooo uncoordinated, Dad.” G let out a chuckle.

  “Rishi and I hung out with Jason and the guys for a while after their gig, and then that was it. We all went back to Jason’s place. Except Rishi.”

  “How come? Thought Rishi would have joined you and the others.” Even in his mildly hungover state, G picked up on Cait’s slightly defensive mood.

  “Yeah, we had a bit of a fight and he stormed off.”

  Cait bent down and picked up the oranges, then continued. “It was over nothing really. Rishi’s just so possessive sometimes. It’s like he thinks I’m his girlfriend or something. He wanted just the two of us to hang out. So when I said no, he upped and left.”

  “Well, that’s for you two to work out. He’s a sensitive boy. Well meaning, but sensitive. Maybe ring him today and see how he’s doing.”

  “Dad, you know I need my space. Sometimes Rishi almost smothers me, and last night, well . . . I wanted to hang out with the others. I think he went off to meet some friends at X-Base. As it turned out, I was really tired. Had a big week, so I didn’t feel like partying on. I stayed up for an hour or so and then crashed.”

  “Yeah, cool. It’ll all blow over I’m sure,” replied G. He liked Rishi, but he also knew his daughter well, and she could be very headstrong, and when pushed, brusque even.

  “Now, how’d the band go? Any good? What was the audience reaction like?”

  “Went really well, Dad. Rishi thought Jason’s band was great. It was the first time he’d heard them play for ages. Said they’ve really improved.”

  Rishi was Cait’s best friend from university. They studied together and liked each other’s company, usually catching up for a drink or a band at least once or twice a month. Rishi was an Australian-born Indian who was as Aussie as a jar of Vegemite. He cheered passionately for St Kilda, spoke with an Australian accent, and thought of himself as part of the scenery. There was never any doubt in his mind that he was a true-blue, genuine Australian citizen. He just happened to have dark skin and parents who were born in Delhi.

  G had actually commented to Jools the other night how Rishi had been at their place more frequently than usual lately. His habit was to arrive just before dinnertime, and more often than not he would stay and eat a meal with them . . . and Cait.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Rishi’s trying to make a move on Cait,” G had said to Jools during their pillow talk recently, to which Jools concurred. G thought to himself this may have explained Rishi’s reaction last night to Cait’s refusal to spend time alone with him.

  “I ended up crashing on Jason’s couch. Alone. Okay?” continued Cait.

  She may have been her father’s daughter and she really loved him, but sometimes he could be like, soooo overprotective.

  “Now, Dad,” Cait emphasized the word Dad as if to get his attention, “you know Mum’s a bit fragile at the moment. She’s still upset about Gran’s death. You need to treat her gently and cut her some slack. Let her get pissed off. It’s not just you she’s having a go at, you realize.”

  “She’s on Dec’s and my case as well, you know. It’s part of the grieving process she’s going through since Gran died, and she’s sort of stuck in a rut at the moment,” said Cait, showing a perception beyond her years.

  Cait had just completed an arts degree from Monash University, majoring in psychology, but more importantly she had inherited her late grandmother’s trait of being able to instinctively read people’s emotions and size them up without giving it a second thought. She just knew what people were thinking. The Gift, as they called it, ran in Jools’s side of the family. The women could all read you like a book. Jools used to say it was a Gaelic thing that came from her maternal grandmother and other Irish ancestors. Apparently they were Druids and into the spiritual side of life, if you could believe that.

  G used to joke that when he was in their company at family gatherings there was no point in him saying a word because it was all done and dusted before he even opened his mouth.

  “Thanks for the timely advice. And yeah, you’re right. To be expected, she snapped my head off this morning. So I’ll bribe her with a freshly squeezed OJ and a cappuccino and maybe she’ll lose the horns.”

  “Dad, you’re so shallow! She’ll see through it immediately, but I’m sure she’ll appreciate the effort. And don’t suck up to her—it’ll get you nowhere. You know what she’s like. Just say you’re sorry, eat shit for a while, then she’ll get over it. End of story.

  “And take Mia up with you to break the ice. Make sure she jumps up on the bed.”

  Dingggg. G’s iPhone told him a text message had just arrived with that synthesized, lingering bell ringtone Apple have as an alert option.

  Hows ur head? Big night last night. Not feeling too good this morning. Marcus definitely not impressed with me getting home so wasted. Thx for pouring me into the cab. Jools OK or r u in the shit too? K XXX

  G read the text and the grayness of the morning lifted; the world around him suddenly started changing from monochrome to Technicolor. Chuckling inwardly, he began recalling flashes of last night as fractured images ran through his mind.

  Yeah OK here. Head hurts a bit but to b expected. Will have to go down to the club later to find my lost brain cells. Jools not impressed, but that’s what happens when ur married to a yachtie I suppose. Any injuries? G

  Sore arse. We fell over on the dance floor didn’t we? And have strange bruises on my leg. Was I walking into tables all night or did u beat me up? K

  U wish. Just battle scars. Something to remember the night by. Sort of like rough sex without the memories only the evidence. G

  G and Kylie had been going through a flirty text thing for the past twelve months. Like Laurel and Hardy, they became adept at naturally playing off each other in a humorous way. G’s dry, sardonic wit frequently had Kylie laughing until tears rolled down her cheeks and allowed her an excuse to reveal a lighter side to her normally tough, take-no-prisoners persona.

  Most of the time their exchanges were meaningless banter. But if they could be truthful about it, they both enjo
yed the slightly coquettish nature of their discourses, so the texts continued on an ad hoc basis. Some weeks there were none. Other weeks there could be a thread of twenty or more texts in a continuing conversation over a day or so. Not that anything ever came of them bar a laugh and a nudge-nudge, wink-wink when they met up on the yacht.

  Well, as far as G was concerned in any case.

  Luv it when u talk dirty. Gotta go and face the day. Ugh!!! C u 12:30 on the boat next Saturday. U want a lift? K

  Sure. 11:45 OK? Will give us time to have a heart starter in the bar before the race. Toot ur horn when u arrive. Will b waiting in anticipation. G

  “Hey Jools, this isn’t good, you know. It’s like the Paki-bashing in London in the ‘60s and ‘70s,” remarked G, turning around the feature article he was reading in the Sunday paper so she could see the headlines.

  Jools just kept reading her part of the paper, not even bothering to respond, let alone turning to have a look at what G was gesticulating about.

  Not happy, Jan.

  He read the headline out loud to Jools regardless of whether she wanted to hear it or not.

  “’Curry bashing: Racist Australia, the Education Industry and Student Accommodation,’ by some journo called Bob Macillicuddy, whoever he is. Poor bugger, having to go through life with a name like that.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, G, I can read my own paper.” Jools turned and gave him a cold stare, cold enough to turn him to stone just as surely as the eyes of Medusa. “Will you shut the fuck up?”

  Yep, Jools is still pissed off. She’s not impressed. But G continued as if he was totally oblivious of her bad mood.

  “Raj Sati arrived in Australia from Amritsar in northwestern India full of hope and expectations, excited about a promising future in his newly adopted country. When he first stepped foot on Australian soil he was eagerly looking forward to completing his doctorate in IT. Two years later . . . “