Small Joys of Real Life

by Allee Richards

  She messages me only minutes after I’ve hung up on her.

  You should ask Kate for more work.

  This is a thing I always hated about acting. I never felt like an adult. I always felt like I was still at school, with directors and agents standing in for the teachers. I told Kate I quit. I told Mum I quit.

  I seethe at both women while I shower. I don’t even wash; I just stand under the streaming water, letting it run over my eyes, my hair sticking to my face.

  Afterwards, I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair hangs over my collarbones in lank, black coils. I take a pair of scissors from the bathroom drawer and, without pausing to consider what I’m doing, I cut three inches off each side. I lift a centre section of hair from my back and hold it above my head, scissors at the ready. Then I drop it. Fuck. My darker, larger, nipples stare at me disapprovingly in the mirror, reminding me how I felt yesterday, like a good parent. Now, if I want to do another ad, I’ll need to pay for more headshots. Fuck. I blame Mum and then I feel even more pathetic.

  I call Sarah. She’s going out after work, but I tell her she has to come home first.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t tell you why, but I need help.’

  ‘You’re like Britney Spears,’ she says when she sees me. She ushers me back into the bathroom. I sit with my head tilted forward looking into my lap, so she can tidy up the back. I don’t want to look in the mirror. Not at me, not at her. So I stare at the black curls on the floor, the blood of this crime scene.

  I hear Sarah getting ready to leave as I vacuum up my hair. I don’t want her to go out, but I can’t ask her to stay after disrupting her plans already.

  ‘Bye, Britney,’ she calls. ‘Don’t get up to any more mischief.’

  On Friends, Rachel gets her dream job and she doesn’t have to work as a waitress anymore. On day one of the dream job she has to pour coffee. Monica gets fired and is scared to tell her parents.

  Sarah told me to help myself to her leftovers, so I do. After dinner, sleep feels so far away. The minuscule rush of adrenaline from cutting my hair is still pinging around my body. I haven’t told Kate yet what I did. Maybe I won’t have to. Maybe she won’t have work for me anyway.

  I feel dumb and reckless. I think of Travis. What would he think of me sabotaging my one way to make money? He doesn’t care what I do, I remind myself. Even so, I stew in his imagined disapproval.

  Eventually, I send a text. Not to Travis or Kate.

  I don’t want to hang out, but if you want you can sleep in my bed tonight.

  Fergus replies straight away.

  I’ll come over after work. I finish at 9.

  I’m not sure I can stay up that late. I tell myself I can always text to cancel if I get too tired. I go about tidying my room just in case.

  I got my first boyfriend in year nine. A surfer, although not a good one, who dumped me after six weeks because I wouldn’t sleep with him. I responded to his friends’ taunts that I was frigid by sleeping with one of them. That was the first time I slept with a man in an attempt to feel better about myself. My second boyfriend was nice. We dated through years eleven and twelve, right up until the last day of term four, when I told him we should break up because I was moving to Melbourne. I could say it was a mature break-up but I’d be lying. I used the last-day-of-school setting to enact the kind of melodrama I loved. I have to go. I don’t want to wake up one day and realise I never left here. There’s nothing here for me. These are not words I actually said, but I did draw on scenes I’d watched on television when I said, ‘I think we should just be friends.’ I then continued to sleep with him the entire summer before I moved.

  I dated a boy at drama school. We started to argue when I got an agent. We fell apart completely when I landed my first role.

  In my mid-twenties I was seeing a married producer. I deflected my guilt by convincing myself it was his, not mine. It was certainly more his, but it was also mine. Eventually I did call it off. I tried to run through the fire as opposed to playing with it. I still got burned. When I told Kate, worried it could affect my career, she said, ‘There’d be no girls left on TV if they stopped hiring the ones they slept with.’

  On stage I’ve said, I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.

  On screen I’ve said, I used to think we shouldn’t be together because you were my best friend. Now that’s why I want to be together.

  In real life I’ve said, I’m busy. I’m tired. I just want to be friends. Sometimes I’ve said nothing.

  In the past couple of years, I’ve entered into flings under no illusion they would be anything but bad – most recently during a show I was paid well for, with a big-name cast, which was slammed by the critics for its cultural insensitivity. All the reviews ended by wondering why my co-star and I would agree to take part in such a train wreck. You’re not meant to read the reviews. Every cast makes a pact at the beginning of a season not to read the reviews until it’s over. And every cast member in every show reads them. That season was a long one and we got good houses, in that they were always full, but bad houses in that the audience were only there to see if the show really was as terrible as they’d heard. My co-star and I held hands for our bow, which wasn’t scripted. Then I’d bend over the vanity in my dressing room, him behind me. We’d both avoid looking in the mirror. Afterwards, he’d leave to shower in his own dressing room before going home. After only three nights like this, we stopped speaking to one another off stage.

  FERGUS ARRIVES AT nine thirty. His hair is longer than the last time I saw him and is pulled back into a tiny ponytail, which makes it look darker red and makes his skin seem paler than I remember. He’s wearing a blue shirt; he doesn’t look like he’s arrived straight from work.

  ‘Nice hair.’ He leans forward and kisses the side of my mouth.

  ‘I’m eating.’

  I turn around and he follows me to the kitchen, where I’ve been slowly making my way through the vegetarian pie Sarah left. Rocket, drenched in vinegar, on the side.

  ‘You eat late.’

  ‘I do.’ This is my second serve of dinner.

  ‘Where’s your housemate?’

  ‘She went to an exhibition opening.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘It’s at No Vacancy.’

  ‘Right on.’

  He takes a six-pack from his bag and puts it in the fridge. He doesn’t ask me if I want a drink, but removes two. He uses a lighter to open the beers, then throws the bottle caps on the table as he joins me.

  ‘That’s presumptuous of you.’

  ‘Did I say one was for you?’ He tries to be smug, but he still hands me a beer.

  I take a large sip and swish it around in my mouth, push it back and forth through the thin gap in my two front teeth. It’s an expensive Pale Ale, overly floral.

  ‘So, you don’t drink much?’

  ‘I used to.’

  I study the beer. A tiny pregnant woman is illustrated on the back of the label with the fine print. A bowling ball, her silhouette a question mark. She’s drinking, but from a wineglass. I wonder if Fergus is guessing I’m being evasive because I once had a drinking problem and now don’t want to talk about it. I imagine him imagining me drunk, loudly talking over people or vomiting in my own lap.

  He talks a lot as I eat my dinner. He’s a theatre sound tech and has fitted me for mics before, apparently. He talks about that show. It was years ago, at a smaller theatre. The actors from that show have all gone on to bigger jobs, but not the playwright.

  ‘It’s just bullshit she can’t get work on the main stage, you know. Just because she’s a woman and her characters say “cunt”.’ He’s parroting lines from theatre columnists.

  ‘It’s because all her plays are the same. All the characters do is say “cunt”.’ I don’t necessarily agree with this, but it’s something I’ve heard other actors say.

  He finishes his beer quickly then goes to the fridge for anot
her.

  ‘So, what’s the plan now?’ He sits back down with his new beer. I’ve almost finished my meal and for a moment I think he’s talking about the evening, us having sex, before I realise he means my life.

  ‘Find a job.’ I stand and take my plate to the sink.

  ‘I have friends who need a director on their show next year. I can put you on to them.’

  ‘I need money,’ I call from the kitchen. ‘I don’t need to like my job.’

  ‘Right on. You’re probably too smart to be an actor.’

  If he was smarter, he would point out that if all I need is money, I could just be an actor.

  I take my shirt off as I walk to my room. I hear him follow behind me. I crawl backwards on my bed, he climbs over. When I take off my bra, he smiles then squeezes my left nipple, tight, between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Ouch!’

  He laughs, turned on. He pulls my undies off and lowers himself onto his stomach.

  ‘Oh my God, you’re so horny.’ He stares at me, lightly grazes his finger over the opening. It’s the vaginal discharge. I’m lucky if I only have to change my undies once a day now. I worry for a moment that it might make me taste different, before I remember he’s only slept with me when I’ve been pregnant. He lowers his mouth onto me and I try to relax. It feels good, but I can only relax for a minute at most before remembering the baby, now the size of an avocado. A hiccup of a thought, brief but disrupting. Despite this I come fast and long, which didn’t happen the first time I slept with Fergus. After feeling sick for three months, now I’m horny and quickly satisfied.

  We do it twice without much of a break between. I fall asleep immediately after the second time. I wake to him kissing my head, telling me he’s going to shower. When I wake again, he’s sitting up in my bed texting, his hair damp. I get up and go to the bathroom. There’s a faint sting at the tail of my stream. I wish for him to be gone so I can sleep alone. I go to the kitchen to get a glass of water and some chocolate. My body is heavy and my mouth feels chalky and tastes stale. I feel like I’m jetlagged. The clock on the oven says it’s twelve-thirty in the morning. Sarah’s bedroom door is open; she hasn’t come home. I return to my room, sit on top of my doona facing Fergus. I unwrap the chocolate, break off a piece and offer it to him.

  ‘No thanks.’ He’s still reading something on his phone, not looking at me.

  ‘Have some.’

  ‘I’m a vegan.’

  ‘Oh, shit, sorry.’ I try to remember if there’s a reason I should know this.

  ‘That’s okay.’ He puts his phone down, shimmies his body until he’s lying flat on the bed and rests his arms behind his head on the pillow. ‘It was nice of you to offer.’

  I don’t know if he’s suggesting I’m rude. I don’t know if I care if he thinks I’m rude.

  ‘Okay, so what’s this?’ I trace my finger over one of the tattoos on his forearm. It says Fish & Chips in a twee typewriter font.

  ‘Stick and poke.’

  ‘Really?’ I take his arm and hold it close to my face. The font is far too stylised to have been hand drawn. The letters align perfectly. ‘You’re lying. You paid for this.’

  ‘It was my first one, actually. I lost a bet on schoolies.’

  ‘So, you weren’t a vegan on schoolies?’

  ‘No.’ He smiles at me.

  ‘And what happened here?’ I lift his arm from the bed and point to another tattoo – Riley.

  ‘That’s for my friend Riley.’

  ‘Does Riley have a tattoo that says Fergus?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘Too cute.’ I drop his forearm. I hear a clattering at the back door and turn my head to listen, expecting to hear Sarah stomp down the hall. It’s not her. I picture the door banging in the wind. We’re silent. Fergus is looking at me. I turn my attention to a tattoo on his thigh. Larger than the others, but also more obviously hand-done. A wonky love heart with Baby and Angel inside. An arrow piercing the stencil. I trace my finger along the arrow. He watches me. I don’t ask about it and he doesn’t say anything. It’s so overtly saccharine I figure it must be very real.

  ‘You’re really beautiful,’ he says.

  I feel him looking at me, but I don’t meet his eye. I stop tracing the tattoo and take another piece of chocolate. He starts to rub his hand over my thigh; I can’t tell if he’s being affectionate or is hoping for more sex.

  ‘I’m going to sleep.’ I take a sip of water and swill it around in my mouth to remove the chocolate from my teeth.

  He sits up and kisses me on the side of the head. ‘You go to sleep. I’m going to get that last beer.’

  I WAKE TO the sound of the front door slamming. It’s morning. For a moment I wonder if Sarah has only just arrived home, then I realise I’m in bed alone.

  November

  I KEEP SEEING FERGUS. IT’S much the same each time except he doesn’t bring beers. The sex is good but our conversations are not. If he says he likes a particular band and I say I don’t, he’ll say, ‘I can see why you wouldn’t.’ He doesn’t elaborate, or if he does it’s vague. ‘They peaked at their debut.’ He tells me I’m smart or perceptive when I say anything, which is ridiculous, as all I ever say is the opposite to what he just said, regardless of whether I agree with it or not. We converse like people who’ve run into one another and do that awkward little dance of evasion – both move left, both move right. I pull him into me and have sex with him like a person might firmly shift a body aside, to get it out of the way. I’m not sure I’ve experienced anything like it – sensuous, but devoid of emotion. For me, at least. I wonder if it’s the pregnancy. I’m more carnal in so many ways. Feel more in my body at all moments of the day. Once we’re finished I slither off. Shiver at the feeling of his slimy, hot meat sliding out of me. He’s a sweaty guy. Sweatier than most people I’ve slept with. In the moment, Fergus’s sweat suits our sex – fast and aggressive. Then I come and it’s like I regain consciousness and discover I’m dripping and smelly. I shower straight after, then immediately throw the towel I used in the wash. He even sounds like an animal when he comes. A pathetic animal, injured and dying on the side of the road. None of this sounds sexy, but it hardly matters because I come so easily now. He barely needs to touch me. I hope he doesn’t take it as a compliment to himself, but it’s possible he does think that because I haven’t told him otherwise. I’ve wondered whether or not Fergus has realised I’m pregnant. ‘You do have great tits, don’t you,’ he said the other day, staring at my breasts, which get larger each time he sees me. My avocado is now a mango, so if he hasn’t noticed he must be particularly unobservant. I don’t waste much time wondering what he knows or suspects, though. Once I’ve showered, I open my laptop in bed and play episodes of Friends. I expect him to say something, to comment on how cheesy or old or outdated it is. He doesn’t, so I do. ‘You can make fun of me if you want.’

  ‘It’s cute.’ He watches me watching television. I have my back turned to him and he strokes my arm.

  When he leaves, I tell myself I won’t contact him again. To his credit he doesn’t contact me, but when I do message him, sometimes as soon as the next day, he replies straight away. He invites me over to his place. I ignore the offer and he comes to me.

  IT’S LATE ON a Sunday. I’m at my desk, messaging Sarah in the next room. Fergus is in my bed on his phone. I ask Sarah to please do something to make him leave if he isn’t gone soon.

  Get him to leave yourself, coward.

  I’m being as rude as I can. I can hardly say, ‘Can you please leave?’ Who does that?

  He’s been skittish since he came over late this morning, mostly monosyllabic. Occasionally he’d revert to his usual fervent adoration, then it’s like he’d catch himself and snap back to silence. Usually he leaves not long after we’ve had sex, but today, after seeming pissed with me, he’s hanging around.

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ He’s staring at his phone.

  ‘Um …’ I finish
a message to Sarah but pretend I’m still typing, feigning busyness. ‘Well, I’m sending some emails now. Then I’m going to a Red Stitch show.’

  ‘You’re seeing Morgan’s show?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No shit. So am I.’ He sounds lighter than he has been all day.

  I hadn’t even considered lying. I hadn’t thought I’d need to. And I can’t not go. Morgan is an old friend who I haven’t seen in ages. The show, which received heaps of funding for development, has been unequivocally hated by critics. Tonight is the final performance. I won’t get another chance to see it.

  RED STITCH IS a theatre company based in a small red building that looks like a barn on Chapel Street. It’s not overly warm when we enter to take our seats, but I know it’s going to feel like a furnace soon enough – they’re too poorly funded to have good aircon. At least Fergus and I aren’t sitting together, since we booked separately. The theatre is about two-thirds full. A couple of people look at me for longer than is comfortable, presumably because they recognise me from other shows. I see a guy I went to drama school with. He hasn’t had much success since we graduated and he avoids eye contact. Only seeing one person I know is a relief and I relax for a minute, which feels foreign, and I’m just wondering why I was feeling so anxious when I see Fergus walking towards me with two glasses of wine. He takes a seat next to me.

  ‘Someone might have booked that seat,’ I say.

  ‘No, it’s okay – look, they’re closing the doors.’

  He holds a wine out to me but I don’t take it.

  ‘Oh, shit, sorry,’ he says. ‘I totally forgot.’

  His eyes dart down towards my lap very quickly and he gives me a small, sly smile before turning his head to the stage. I stare at him as the lights go down. I don’t look away until it’s completely dark. I contemplate taking the drink in defiance, but know that I will need to pee if I do.