‘You have got to be fucking kidding me.’
‘What?’ She glares at me then turns her focus to the stage, where a suit has just started speaking.
There are two speeches. I zone out in both, but gather the broader talking points: the importance of the legal system; the rapid changes in society that our system is unable to keep up with; how working to change a system from within is braver and more difficult than cynically walking away. There’s a general acceptance of the faults or flaws in the legal system, but also an inherent respect for it.
I don’t want Sarah to see me checking the time, so I glance at the woman next to me out of the corner of my eye, waiting for her to turn her wrist so I can glimpse her watch. Eventually they begin reading names and the people in the front row walk onto the stage. Our group claps loudly as Annie shakes hands with the presenters. Once all the awardees are on stage they stand there smiling awkwardly. It reminds me of a school prize day.
After the official proceedings, a partition on one side of the room is removed, opening up the space. There are tables covered with glasses of wine and platters with large wedges of industrial-looking cheese and greasy cured meats. Sarah disappears and returns with a glass of champagne. Maureen tells me they won’t hang around long as they’re driving back to Mount Martha, but they’ll wait to say goodbye to Annie, who’s off having photos taken. We mill around. James and his father are talking. Maureen and I have run out of fodder, but I’m comfortable in the silence. Sarah is texting and not looking at any of us. Eventually she puts her phone away and looks across the room to where Annie is nodding politely as two older men speak with her.
‘Come on.’
‘Why don’t you just leave?’ I say to her. ‘You’re acting like a child.’
‘It’s not just me. Everyone is finding this annoying.’ She gestures to Maureen, who’s watching Annie too. I suspect, though, this is partly to remove herself from our snapping at one another.
When Annie eventually joins us, James hugs her first and then the two of us cling on, with the same kind of genuine, yet hyperbolised congratulations my friends always gave me after a performance. Despite having waited so long, James’s parents are quick with their congratulations and goodbyes. They hug Annie and James, but only wave at Sarah and me. ‘And good luck with everything!’ Maureen gives my arm an extra squeeze before she leaves.
‘What do you want to do now?’ James asks us.
‘I just want to go home,’ says Annie. ‘I’m exhausted and I have to work in the morning. Tomorrow’s Friday – we can get a drink then, if you want.’
She doesn’t have bags under her eyes but there is a despondence about her. Her shoulders are slumped.
‘I’m working from home tomorrow,’ says Sarah. ‘I’m going to meet Renee now.’ Sarah doesn’t invite me out with them. Of course, she knows I wouldn’t come but, still, she usually invites me. She hugs Annie goodbye but not James or me. This is pointed, I know, but it doesn’t worry me. I know I was picking at her. She’s irritated with me now and we’ll get past this, as we always do.
IT’S FOUR DAYS AFTER THE award ceremony that I find out what happened that night. Annie rings me at lunchtime the following Monday. ‘Are you home? I’m coming to get you.’
Sarah had forgotten when she planned to work from home on Friday that she had a meeting that day. When she messaged her boss in the morning to say she wouldn’t be coming in, her boss rang to remind her of it. Instead of saying she was sick, Sarah went to work straight from having been out and smelling like a strip club – the words her boss used when she sacked her. She didn’t do it on the spot. She sent her home on Friday. It was only when Sarah went to work this morning, planning on apologising, that she was told she needn’t bother. I feel slightly jealous that she rang Annie for support and not me; I don’t have a job, so obviously I’d be free. But then I figure I’d probably call Annie too. Although, of course, I would never end up in this situation.
Annie is silent on the drive to Clarke Street. She keeps opening her mouth as though she’s about to speak, but instead she exhales. She exhales again, loudly, when we stop at a traffic light, and again when we arrive and park out the front. Sometimes I wonder if maybe Annie’s annoyance with Sarah is partly driven by jealousy. Annie is successful, but she’s worked hard for everything she’s ever achieved, colouring inside the lines. Opportunities land in Sarah’s lap and she neglects them. Like every great person who’s fallen in love with her who she’s cheated on.
We sit with Sarah in her room. I make a pot of tea that Annie sips compulsively but Sarah doesn’t touch. She’s pacing back and forth, wondering what she’ll tell her parents. She’s not planning to tell them the truth; rather, she’s wondering how she can skirt around it. She’s going to start applying for jobs and hope she gets one soon enough that she doesn’t have to lie for long about not working.
‘They’ll get over it,’ I say. ‘The thing about your parents is that they have to love you no matter what you do.’
‘It’s possible to love someone and hate them at the same time.’ She runs her hands through her hair as she says this. Watching her despair, I imagine for a moment that it’s my own child who’s in their late twenties. Who’s partied too hard and lost their job. I think I would probably feel a lot like I do now. I’m exasperated, angry at Sarah for being so stupid. But also, it’s impossible not to feel sorry for her.
Annie tries to think of ways she might be able to spin having been fired. Wonders if she can speak to Sarah’s boss, see if she might agree to give her a good reference, at least, despite this incident. She asks Sarah about her usual work ethic and what her boss thought of her before now. But Sarah is fixated on the night with Renee, unwilling to reflect on anything else.
‘We should’ve gone home instead of going to Smith Street.’
‘What happened to Renee?’ I ask. ‘Did she have work?’
‘She never works Fridays – that’s why we were going out.’
I begin to feel intensely irritated with Sarah. Not the Sarah in front of me, stricken, staring at her bedroom floor, but the version of her I can envisage months from now, after having been spotted rent by her parents, laughing this off. This has the makings of a well-worn anecdote. An amusing story to endear her to people, or to denigrate her old boss. It’s impossible to picture this without picturing Annie too, firm and disapproving. I force myself to be present again and see my two friends, both looking as irritated as I feel. I’m conscious of the afternoon creeping along, and I want to protect Sarah from her housemates arriving home from work, exhausted and employed. ‘Let’s go out for an early dinner,’ I say.
Annie tells Sarah to shower and we go to the kitchen to rinse the teapot and cups. While we’re doing this Renee gets home. We tell her what’s happened.
‘I feel so guilty,’ she says. ‘I was the one who bought the bag on Smith Street. We should’ve gone straight home.’
‘Sarah is nobody else’s responsibility.’ Annie is frowning as she scoops soggy tea-leaves from the pot and tosses them in the rubbish. Her sternness is jarring, compared with her compassion just moments ago. I know that Annie is good at being a good friend. Putting a positive spin on a poor decision. Suddenly I’m aware just how good she is at it and I begin to wonder what Annie actually thinks of my behaviour. I put my hand on my stomach and rub the baby.
Renee notices me rubbing my belly and changes the subject. ‘I guess there are bigger things to worry about, though, aren’t there?’ She looks at me. ‘I’m so sorry – I didn’t realise Pat was the father. I just assumed it was a random guy. That’s so tragic.’
I think I almost fall over. I stare at Renee and see when her face turns. Out the corner of my eye I can see Annie stop what she’s doing. She braces herself with both hands on the sink and drops her head down.
I drive myself home in Annie’s car. Annie stays to speak to Sarah once she is out of the shower. I scream the whole drive. ‘You can’t just behave like this!’ I y
ell at the traffic through the windscreen. ‘Thinking that you can do whatever you want and there’s no fallout!’ I grip the steering wheel hard, lifting myself up in the driver’s seat.
It’s a good thing I don’t have alcohol in the house. If I did, I’d probably drink it. I put the kettle on then pace around my apartment and refine my argument with Sarah, articulating her failings. A poor person, a shit friend. It becomes a monologue I’m rehearsing. It was four days ago that Sarah and Renee went out. I look at Travis’s Facebook account, knowing I’ll find nothing there – it’s not like if he knows he’s going to post a status about this – but being disappointed still when there is nothing. As usual, it hasn’t been updated. No photos, no posts. I reread the message I sent him back in January. It’s still there, unchanged, unanswered. Vague sentiment scattered with clichés.
I’ve heard stories of women near the end of their pregnancy becoming so stressed they go into labour. I imagine this happening now. I’m seething at Sarah, but I will this not to happen so that I don’t have to go into labour without her. ‘Let me have my moment,’ I say to my round belly. ‘It’ll be your turn soon.’
Annie arrives and lets herself in. I’m standing in the lounge. She talks to me from my front door.
‘She doesn’t remember telling her. She actually swears she couldn’t have.’
‘Then how did Renee find out?’
‘I know.’ Annie holds both her hands up, trying to settle me before I launch into a rant. ‘Renee said Sarah told her.’
‘She thinks she can do whatever she wants and everyone will just forgive her.’
‘She knows she’s fucked up.’ Annie pauses. I can see she’s gearing herself up for whatever she’s about to say. She looks resigned. ‘Renee said that when she told Matthew –’
‘She told Matthew?’ I interrupt.
‘He already knew,’ Annie finishes. ‘He found out from someone else.’
‘So, how many people has Sarah told?’
‘She says she hasn’t told anybody else.’
‘She said she didn’t tell Renee.’
Annie is still; not calm but rigid.
‘Have you told anybody?’ I ask.
‘No, I haven’t. But, Eva’ – she pauses, a sad, strained look on her face – ‘why aren’t you telling people?’
‘Are you defending her?’ I demand.
‘I’m here and not there, and she lost her job today.’
I sit down on the couch, for the first time since I got home. Annie hasn’t moved from the doorway. I’m worried she’s planning on leaving once we finish talking and I don’t want to be alone right now.
I think of my life as it’s been lately, with people knowing half the truth. I always liked standing in the dark corners on stage. Step into the light, Eva, directors would have to remind me.
‘I think I’ve been worried that if I told people, it would make me regret my decision to have the baby,’ I confess.
‘Aren’t you worried that if you never tell anybody you’ll regret that too?’
I nod.
Annie joins me on the couch. We’re both silent for a bit, staring at my coffee table. One of the plants Annie gave me is there; it’s not dead yet, but it’s deflated and saggy. In other circumstances, Annie would water it.
‘Every day.’ Annie pauses before she continues; she’s staring at the coffee table, not at me. ‘Every day, there are people who are living with decisions that they regret.’ She nods slightly, agreeing with herself.
‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’
She shrugs, turns to look at me now. ‘It’s not meant to make you feel any worse.’
She’s not emotional and neither am I. She looks tired. Pale. Suddenly I’m reminded of when we used to take advantage of Annie in primary school. I wonder if we’ve ever stopped. Sarah and I careen around, making impulsive decisions, while Annie hovers around us, trying to block the worst of the consequences landing in the goal ring.
Annie and I spend the night on the couch watching Friends. I try to imagine what’s happened today happening to Phoebe and Monica and Rachel, but I can’t. It’s a storyline more suited to a soap opera.
‘I wonder if there’s an app to order booze,’ Annie says at one point.
‘You need new friends,’ I tell her.
She gets a bottle delivered. An easy-drinking shiraz that costs her a lot more than it’s worth.
I really want to phone Travis and hear his voice calling out to nothing, but I can’t with Annie beside me. Also, I’m worried he might suspect that the calls are from me. If he knows about the baby – as everyone else seems to – then who else would he think it is?
Annie leaves about six the next morning. I hear the door click behind her and I get up to pee. It only occurs to me now that she must’ve taken the day off yesterday. For a moment I wonder how it is she’s going to go do her job today, and then I think maybe I envy her having other people’s problems to deal with. I make a cup of tea and crawl back to bed, but I don’t sleep. I heave myself to one side and then the other. Never comfortable. Unable to move easily. Periodically my legs cramp and my hips ache from the weight of me. I get out of bed earlier than I have been lately and waddle through Thornbury. I go to a cafe where people are working on laptops. Other women with babies are drinking tea and chatting. I stare at people I don’t know and make up lives for them in my head. Horrible lives, full of affairs and death and jealousy. I wonder if Travis knows and, if he does know, how he feels about it. Has he not contacted me because he’s mad at me? Or does he, like me, just have no idea what to say?
I message Fergus.
Can we hang out?
He hasn’t replied by the time I’m leaving, so I message him again.
Things aren’t great and I could use a friend.
I start to walk home but as soon as I reach the driveway I turn and walk away. I can’t stand the thought of sitting inside all day with nothing to do. I walk back to High Street and jump on an 86 tram heading south. As I’m approaching Westgarth, I see the cinema in the distance and I remember that they have cheap films on Tuesdays. I’ve already spent five dollars on tea at a cafe and the film will blow out my budget for the day, but if I’m not going home I need something to do.
I watch Olivia Colman play a dominating, closeted lesbian queen. I recognise that I would enjoy this on any other day. I keep feeling for my phone, which sits cold and still in my pocket.
At the end of the film I text Fergus again.
Is everything ok?
This time he writes back almost immediately.
Sorry. Everything is fine, I’m just at work. Won’t be home until late tonight. I can ring you tomorrow.
I buy a tin of soup on my way home, heat it up for lunch, some wilted greens that are only just edible on the side. I’d been planning on doing the shopping yesterday. I start watching several things, but don’t finish any of them. Read the same page of my book ten times.
Early in the evening I go out and catch the tram south again. I feel most content on the tram. Watching the world glide past through the window is easier than trying to follow a narrative.
I get off at Smith and Johnston and from there I walk all the way to Fergus’s house. It’s a long walk, but I have time. The summer light is dimming slowly and the night turns amber before it becomes dark. I wonder if what I am doing is sexy and romantic, or predatory. Also, I wonder what undies I’m wearing. It’s possible I knew I would end up here when I left the house, but I wasn’t honest enough with myself to wear nice underwear. If he’s at work, though, I can just crawl into his bed naked. I’m not sure how I’m going to get into his place – maybe his housemates will be home. I can work it out when I get there. I tell myself this isn’t what I’m doing but just something I’m flirting with doing. I’m moving – walking one block and then another towards his house. I’m moving slowly, my belly is a boulder. I’ll find out what I’m doing when I get there.
I reach his house and knock on
the door. There’s no light spilling from the windows and I can’t hear any movement inside. I feel relieved when nobody answers the door, but I knock again. I look under the doormat, then check the pots beside the letterbox, fondling the soil. When I find the key, I place it in the door, but I don’t unlock it right away. I listen, expecting or hoping to hear someone coming. I stay holding the key in the door, waiting for myself. Eventually I step into Fergus’s hallway. I breathe out, relieved. I flick the light switch on.
I’m moving slowly, waiting to be caught each time I turn a light on or open a door. His room – like last time I was here – is immaculate. The bed is made, he even has a top sheet, its colour complementing the doona. I‘d assumed last time that he’d presented it especially for me, but it appears not. I graze a finger over a few of his things, lightly, as though I’m afraid to wake them. He has a polished wooden desk on which is a small vintage-looking console, the type theatre technicians operate from. A framed Talking Heads poster on the wall and one fern, marginally less well off than those in the rest of the house, but still doing better than my plants. Maybe since I was here last his other plants have wilted. I don’t want to check, afraid to roam the rest of the house, in case one of his housemates is actually home. I take my shoes off but keep the remainder of my clothes on when I climb into his bed. I don’t want to surprise him naked. Or maybe I will, but I’ll work my way up to that. I lie down and think about what I’m going to do if I need to pee. What if one of his housemates comes home before Fergus and I go to use the bathroom and they want to know what I’m doing here?
AT FIRST I’M baffled, wondering where I am. I hardly glimpse the woman whose scream awoke me before she runs out of the room. Then I remember where I am and I realise how bad it is that a woman is screaming.
Small Joys of Real Life Page 19