‘Leave those,’ I say.
‘It’s okay.’
‘Dishes dry themselves; tea towels were invented to sell linen.’
Annie folds the towel and hangs it on my oven door. ‘Do you have any tea?’ she asks.
‘Sorry, I should’ve offered.’ I start making a pot.
She’s no longer complaining about Sarah, but she doesn’t seem to have anything else to talk about. She drinks her tea slowly as if she’s putting off going home.
‘How’s work?’ We hardly talked about Annie over dinner. This happens sometimes. She won’t talk about herself, so she gets left out of the ring-around.
‘Okay,’ she says. She’s blank for a second then not. Her expression changes, as though she’s just shaken herself awake. ‘Good, actually,’ she adds. ‘I’m being awarded this thirty-under-thirty thing – for significant achievement under the age of thirty.’
‘That’s amazing.’
She shrugs. ‘I think a lot of people get them.’
‘What do you get?’
‘Résumé wank.’
I suspect there is actually more to it than that.
‘That’s amazing, mate. Honestly, we should celebrate.’
She smiles, drains her tea and leaves.
IN BED AT night I think about when Mum was here. How obvious it was that she was keeping something from me. I get a similar sense from Annie now, though she’s subdued about it, as if her secret is not something exciting. I also think about Sarah and I wonder if Annie was trying to tell me to pull her into line, as though Sarah is my responsibility.
I find Annie’s irritation more irritating than Sarah’s behaviour, yet on the weekend I decide that instead of staying in reading I’ll go to Clarke Street to check on her. We have brunch on her back deck then spend the afternoon at All Nations Park looking at other people’s dogs. Renee comes with us and I realise how much I have let other friends drift from my life since I’ve been pregnant. Renee started a new job months back without my realising. Matthew is on a work trip to London. Renee asks me about pregnancy and about the baby, but I don’t say much, letting Sarah answer for me. I want her to ask me about something else but realise I have nothing else to talk about. I have no job or job prospects, and my romantic life is limited to a guy I don’t think I’m interested in. All I have to share are my small joys – a pleasing turn of phrase in a book I’m reading, the eggplant my neighbour plucked from his veggie patch and left on my doorstep, the feeling of my baby kicking in a moment I was feeling lonely. For some reason, we never talk about these things.
Just before the sun sets, we walk back to their house, stopping in at a bottle-o on the way so the girls can buy a slab.
‘I bet you can’t wait until the baby’s born and you can drink again,’ Renee says.
‘I guess. But it’s not like I can have a few wines after dinner when I have a baby sleeping at home.’
‘Yes you can,’ says Sarah. ‘I’ll come over and take care of it.’
This is hardly reassuring, but I don’t comment. We sit on their back deck and watch the sun go down over the city. From their back porch you can see a flat sprawl of houses and greenery leading all the way up to the storybook cluster of skyrises in the distance. Watching Sarah and Renee, I don’t sense any of the tension that Annie hinted at. Sarah is looking at her phone, objectifying boys on a dating app. She matches with someone on there, shows us, and Renee says she went on a date with him recently.
‘He was fine,’ Renee says. ‘Nothing wrong with him.’
Sarah peers at his photo. ‘Did he go down on you?’ she asks.
Renee nods.
Listening to Renee talking about men she’s dating, I’m reminded of Travis and I realise that, amid moving, I haven’t thought of him nearly as much lately. He never replied to the message I sent him in Mount Martha, which probably should be driving me crazy. I feel guilty suddenly, which is stupid given my obsessing over him wasn’t helping anyone at all.
‘Have you spoken to Travis recently?’ I ask.
If Renee is surprised by my question she doesn’t show it. ‘No, not for ages.’
‘That’s always sad. When you lose touch with an ex.’ This isn’t true, but I’ve said it. As always when it comes to Travis, I’m not even sure what I’m fishing for.
‘We weren’t together that long,’ she says. ‘I mean, I’d hardly call it a relationship.’
Although I thought Travis was overdoing his pain, I feel a little hurt on his behalf by Renee’s nonchalance.
‘He was so obsessed with you, though.’
‘He’s obsessed with everything he does.’ Renee shrugs and looks out to the city behind her.
Sarah stands. ‘I’m getting another beer.’ She goes back inside.
‘I haven’t seen him in ages.’ I know this information is uninteresting; my ability to loiter around this topic is about to run out.
‘He has a gig next week.’
‘Really?’
‘I think it’s next week.’ Renee takes her phone from her pocket to check. ‘Oh, shit – it’s tomorrow.’
‘I’ve never seen his band.’
‘They’re okay.’ She puts her phone back in her pocket. ‘A little over the top.’
‘Kind of like him?’ I ask.
She laughs.
Sarah returns with beers for her and Renee.
‘Do you want something?’ Renee asks me. ‘We have ginger beer, or juice.’
‘I’m fine.’
I spend another hour on the balcony with them. I connect my phone to a speaker and select tracks for us to listen to. I play some of Travis’s music, but Renee doesn’t comment so neither do I. We don’t actually talk a lot and it’s relaxing. By the time I leave they’re four beers deep and on to their fifth. Renee gives me a big hug at the door, holding on tight. ‘Stop being a stranger.’
I don’t say I will, but I squeeze her back.
AFTER FORGETTING THE MESSAGE I sent Travis from Mount Martha, I stay up for hours thinking only of it.
Maybe he saw it while he was busy and then forgot.
He must get lots of these kinds of messages, surely.
Maybe he wants nothing to do with me.
But then why would he have invited me to label the wines.
Maybe he’s found something out since then.
I message Renee the next day.
I’m thinking I’ll go to the gig today. Want to come?
What gig?
Travis’s.
I toy with feeling guilty for using her to get close to Travis. But it’s not only that – I enjoyed her company yesterday and she told me not to be a stranger.
I get the tram down High Street late in the afternoon and meet her in the front bar of the Northcote Social Club. I haven’t been here since we came to see Gabriella Cohen months back. My stomach is so much larger now and I feel out of place. I want to feel righteous, as though it’s absurd that pregnant women shouldn’t go to gigs or even pubs, but I’ve stopped doing any of these things of my own accord, so I guess on some level I believe it. Renee is here on her own, which pleases me. I didn’t message anybody else, but I figured she might invite her housemates.
‘What’s Sarah up to?’ I ask as I sit across from her.
‘Nursing a sore head.’ Apparently they’d stayed on the deck until midnight the night before, at which point Renee went to bed and Sarah went out. Renee tells me about a woodwork course she’s doing on Sunday mornings and shows me photos of a table she’s building. When it’s time for the show we walk into the band room. She’s barely drunk any of her pint. ‘I just want something to hold while we’re in there,’ she says.
‘So, are they good live?’ I ask.
‘When I first saw them I thought so,’ she says. ‘But that was when I first saw Travis and I just wanted to fuck him.’ She smiles.
The crowd is not as large as when we came here to see Gabriella Cohen, but it’s decent. A few people wave at Renee, but we don’t speak to
anybody else. The band walk on stage wearing matching outfits: pairs of dark green workmen’s overalls. The two other band members – a male drummer and a girl who plays the synthesiser and keyboard – stand quietly as Travis picks up his guitar. Without speaking or looking at the audience, he starts to play. Not chords, but a melody. The lighting is dim and there’s a faint haze of smoke over the stage.
I haven’t seen Travis since we bottled wine together and he doesn’t look well. I’m not sure if it’s the lighting on stage, but his skin is dull and he has dark bags under his eyes. His expression is serious and moody, which I guess is part of the act, but I don’t think it suits him like the farm did.
The gig is slow, flat and pretty boring. A few people standing near the stage are interested, eager, but other people are shifting from foot to foot, talking. Some people leave.
‘This is really different from the stuff I listened to,’ I tell Renee.
‘Yeah, this is their new EP,’ she says. She doesn’t seem either bored or interested; she remains relaxed and fairly calm. It’s obvious how someone could be enamoured of Renee: she’s so unfazed, so cool. It’s no wonder she and Travis didn’t work together. I was nervous to come here today, wondering if he would be unhappy to see me, but I’m beginning to feel less anxious. With Renee around, nothing could be awkward. I get a water from the bar and when I return the band is playing a song I recognise. It’s the one I heard in the car; the one I thought was about Renee.
‘I know this song,’ I say.
‘This is about Pat,’ she says.
I put my hands straight on my stomach when she says it. Everything goes fuzzy for a moment. Fuzzy, but amplified, as though I’m underwater.
‘Are you okay?’ Renee touches my arm.
My hands are still on my stomach. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. I just …’ I just can’t move. I just can’t think of a lie.
‘Do you need me to get you something? A water?’
‘I’m going to go home.’
Renee is looking at me, concerned. ‘Eva, are you okay?’ she repeats.
I nod. Try to shake whatever expression I have off my face. ‘It’s nothing, really. I just get tired really quickly now.’
I lean in and kiss Renee on the cheek, press myself against her and give her half a hug.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ she offers.
‘I’m fine, really.’
She doesn’t follow me, but Travis’s words do. They taunt me from the stage as I leave the band room. ‘I used to love you, but I fucking hate you. I wake up and I think of you. I go to bed and I think about how much I fucking hate you.’
AT HOME I listen to the song again. The lyrics are full of anger, but the melody and tempo are melancholic. I know sleep will be impossible tonight, so I put the song on repeat and flick through all the photos of Travis and Pat again. I wonder at myself the way I used to wonder at the people I was pretending to be. Renee knew that song was about Pat. Maybe she knows more than that. I’m like a schoolgirl. Desperate to be near Travis, but useless in his presence, mute and intimidated.
I used to love you, but I fucking hate you.
The only person I can imagine being angry at for their suicide would be Sarah, because I’d assume it was because she was reckless. The more I think about it, though, I realise I would be angry at Annie too – angry that she didn’t ask for help. Initially this has the feeling of a breakthrough, like I am closer to understanding something. Soon, though, I just feel more confused.
As I lie here, heartburn starts to radiate through my body. I go to the bathroom and find that I’ve run out of antacids; I’d meant to pick some up when I was out earlier. I grab a pillow from the bed, clutch it to my body, bury my face in it and scream. I scream loud and long, stifling the sound with the pillow, like I’m both the attacker and the victim.
A REVIEW DESCRIBES WORKING FROM Home’s new EP as a complicated mix of upbeat tracks with serious vocals. Another review describes it as teenage angst music. I read an interview with Travis.
‘I wrote the EP as a response to a friend passing away. I’d never really experienced grief before then and it was not like I’d expected it.’
I think about his words for days. Not what he had expected. I try to imagine my life without Annie or Sarah, but I can’t. Beyond being angry at them for their suicides, or in shock at whatever else might have happened, I can’t envisage what possibly goes next. I’ve known them so long. It’s like trying to imagine having amnesia. What is there to expect?
OVER THE NEXT few days I read and reread the interview with Travis.
‘Not everyone is going to like the album but that’s because it’s meant to be messy. It’s not meant to make sense. Given the mass commodification of popular music, some people might consider it more like performance art.’
I feel like this is a cop-out. An excuse for why his music isn’t pleasing to listen to. It’s how I always felt with experimental scripts – art given as the reason why a playwright was unable to wrangle his ideas into something coherent.
The interviewer asks Travis what is coming up next for him and he says he’s going to hit the road. Not on tour, but alone. He’s going to throw his swag in the back of his car and travel around Australia.
I feel weirdly dejected on reading that he’s leaving. Abandoned. Offended he hasn’t told me his plans. I’m aware how unreasonable I’m being. Not letting anyone in, then blaming everyone for how lonely it is out here on my own. Awareness isn’t making me act any differently, though.
I play the song a lot. It’s not a nice song, but it is about you. I play it and rub my belly. Something of you for our baby to enjoy, now, when it can’t understand what the song is actually about.
I’M NOT AROUSED AS I wait for Fergus to arrive at my house one afternoon, only lonely, so when he does arrive, I suggest we don’t do it.
‘Is everything okay?’
I’m surprised by how surprised he looks. Startled, like he’s afraid of what I might say.
‘I have my period.’
At least he laughs with me.
We go to the Thornbury Picture House. It’s relatively new and I’ve never been. An old Australian film is showing, something Fergus loves and I haven’t seen. Before the film we eat panini at the Italian place a few doors down and he tells me a lot about the director, the shooting, how significant it was in the eighties to have an Australian film not set on a beach. I’m sitting across from the old Fergus, the one who irritated me when I first met him. I wonder why it is that this annoys me: something as innocuous as liking a movie. I suspect his enthusiasm is put on. Or maybe it’s that his enthusiasm feels like a rebuke: like he thinks I’m not capable of feeling that passionately about something. I think about what I would say if I was going to do this, talk at someone about something I’ve enjoyed – like the book I’ve been reading, Swing Time. Quotes I underlined: ‘I experience myself as a kind of shadow of a person.’ How I thought the celebrity from Bendigo wasn’t very well drawn. All the parts of motherhood, the war between mother and child. But I can’t be bothered articulating these thoughts. Maybe I don’t want people to think I’m feigning substance, which I so often thought Fergus was doing when I first met him. More than that, though, I think a part of me wants to keep my love for that book, the joy I had reading it, to myself. My epiphanies are secrets for me alone.
After the film, we walk back to my apartment. I feel like the story happened in front of me and I was hardly aware. I have nothing to say, but this doesn’t matter as Fergus is talking and gesticulating, moving his hands ahead of his body in circles, like he’s showing wheels moving. I’ve found myself wondering lately whether I could be with Fergus. On paper, he would be a good partner. He has a job and he isn’t racist or homophobic. But there’s something in the way that he is aware of his privilege, how he mentions it and acknowledges it, that doesn’t seem genuine. Like he knows it’s something he’s supposed to say, not something he believes. Like his obsequiousness, it seems mannered, learn
ed to please. The real problem, though, is I just don’t like him that way. I don’t mind him. I even look forward to seeing him sometimes. Occasionally I read something and make a note to tell him about it later. But I always tire of his company eventually. I don’t know why, but I can’t help feeling a little sorry for him.
He walks me all the way to my door.
‘Do you want to come in?’
‘I guess I should go to work.’
‘Okay.’
We smile at one another. Usually we kiss goodbye, but this time we hesitate and it doesn’t happen.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asks.
‘Yes. I mean, I don’t know. I just don’t really know what we’re doing.’
I’m uncomfortable having this conversation outside. I don’t want my neighbours to hear. I feel horrible looking Fergus in the eye, but when I look down I see my bump and I don’t want to look at the baby either.
‘I don’t know either.’ Fergus is looking at me.
We stand awkwardly at my door. We hug. Fergus gives me a small, sad smile and leaves.
Later, before I go to bed, I write Fergus a message.
I’m sorry things got awkward today. I should’ve thought more before you came over what I was going to do/say. Now I have had some time to think about it: I said to you a long time ago, before you asked me out the first time, that I’m not in a position to see anybody and this is more true now than ever. We were going to have to stop this some time, and now seems as good a time as any. I’m sorry if I led you on or anything. I didn’t intend to. Having said that, I’m not really sure what I was intending. I guess I wasn’t thinking.
I add, I hope we can be friends at the end then take it off. Add it on and take it off for about twenty minutes. Eventually I send it without.
I tell myself that if Fergus hasn’t responded in two weeks, I’ll message him again. I manage two days.
Reply. Please.
He answers immediately.
I don’t have anything to say, but if you want we can be friends. I’m not mad at you.
Small Joys of Real Life Page 17