by AJ Collins
‘I don’t know.’
‘There’s just one catch: we’ll have to share a cabin.’
I sense Snap instantly perk up. He nudges me under the table, but to his credit he remains quiet.
Harry holds up his hands. ‘No strings. No funny biz. Just work. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. The cabins are usually in the belly of the ship, no air, no light, late nights, and you get woken up early by the anchor clanging. But the pay is good, and I think the experience of solid daily gigs will be invaluable for you.’
‘But ... what about the casino gigs?’ I ask. This is all moving so fast.
‘They can wait. Plenty of musos on their roster.’
‘But ... do they know I’ve only done one gig?’
‘They don’t need to know that. They trust me. And I trust you. Have some faith in yourself.’
‘You’ve done cruise work before?’ Snap asks.
‘Yeah, a couple of times during semester breaks.’
I’m mute with panic.
Snap chuckles and rubs my back. ‘She’s tired. She needs time to think. Let’s sleep on it, shall we?’
I nod. Good plan.
I catch Snap’s wink at Harry. Then his grimace from the pain.
9. Cataclysm
Sleep. Oh god. Sleep.
‘Rise and shine, Kitten. It’s nearly eleven. Upsies.’
Snap opens the blinds, and I think I know where the term blinding comes from. I’m like a kid not wanting to get up for school, all moans and doona over my head.
‘You suck.’
‘Don’t blame me, honey. It’s all self-inflicted. “Vodka is my best friend” and “I never get a hangover”. Sound familiar?’
I peek my nose out. ‘Did I say that? I think my BFF in a bottle just dumped me, big time.’ Snap puts a cup of something on my bedside table. It doesn’t smell like coffee. ‘I hope that’s not some weird herbal brew,’ I grumble. ‘I need caffeine. And Panadol.’ I pull the doona back over my head. Snap tries to yank it back down but I’m holding tight.
‘Such a child.’
‘Coffeeeeeeeeeee!’
‘Alright. Anything to stop that shrieking. And you call yourself a singer.’
I wait until I’m sure he’s gone because I’ve realised I’m naked except for my undies. Did I do that? Or him? Oh hell, what’s the difference? He’s my sista from another missus. Ooh, bad. Note to self: strike rapping career off bucket list.
He’s draped my bunny-patterned dressing gown over the end of my bed. I pad out to the lounge room, where he’s sucking on a grapefruit segment. Bleh. At least he’s made some buttered toast for me.
‘Ta.’ I give him a kiss on his good cheek. He looks fresh. How does he do that? His night was just as late as mine.
‘Pleasure, treasure. Sit, sit. Dig in.’
I collapse into an armchair, taking the toast with me and shoving half a piece in my mouth. I can’t chew fast enough to get it into my needy stomach.
‘Coffee’s brewing,’ he assures me, still sucking on his grapefruit.
I’m looking at his bruises. The morning light isn’t doing them any favours. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Mmm. A little tender.’
‘So, fill me in on what’s happening with Bob.’
His face scrunches, and I’m not sure if it’s the grapefruit or the mention of Bob.
‘Nothing’
‘What?’
‘What am I going to do? Go to the police? How’s that going to work out for us?’
The P word. I drop the rest of my toast back on my plate. He’s right. So far, we’ve been lucky. Who knows if they have some sort of digital record on us that’ll ping if we come up on their radar.
‘What about your job?’
‘I’ll get something else. I know enough people.’
Snap suddenly sounds resigned, and I realise the freshness about him is artificial – all hot shower, moisturiser and hair product. His shoulders are sagging, and he has a slight double chin, which he usually hides by holding his head forward.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘I should have quit when you did. I guess I thought someone needed to protect the other young things still working there.’
An awful heaviness hits my stomach, and I don’t think it’s my hangover. If we were normal people, we could both report Bob. But we’re not. When are we ever going to stop worrying about the past?
‘Snap, maybe it’s time I—’
‘Don’t even think about it.’
He understands my fears, and it’s a relief. I’m such a coward.
‘Stop worrying, honey. Eat the rest of your toast, it’s getting cold. I’ll get your coffee.’
‘I’ll get it,’ I offer. Then I just sit there because I’m too lethargic to move.
Snap gets up. ‘I need to top up my tea anyway.’
He moves to the kitchen leaving me to ponder. What if neither of us did anything? What would happen? Nothing. Bob would still be an arsehole, and we would just get on with our lives. I’ve still got my 7-Eleven job, and the cruise work ... the cruise work! Oh wow. I grab my toast again. My appetite is back.
Snap comes back with two cups. ‘We’ve run out of milk. Black okay?’
‘Anything is okay as long as it’s got caffeine in it.’
He passes me a cup and holds out a couple of Panadol. I smile, grateful. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
While he sits and dunks his herbal tea bag, I gulp the tablets with a burning sip of coffee, then I close my eyes and bury my nose in my cup, snorting up the aroma, waiting for the tablets to kick in. If it wasn’t for the feeling of being stared at, I could fall asleep in my cup. It’s almost painful to open my eyes again.
‘What?’
‘Tell me what you’ve decided about the cruise. I think you’re crazy if you don’t do it. I would.’
‘Of course you would. You think he’s hot.’
‘Don’t you?’
I shrug. ‘He’s okay.’
Snap puckers his lips. ‘Don’t play coy. Nobody does it better than me. Here ...’ He gets up and goes over to his laptop at the kitchen bench. ‘I’ve been looking it up online. The Emerald Princess. It looks divine. It’s huge.’
I drag myself up and look over his shoulder. It does look amazing, all glossy white and ... cruisey. ‘Let’s see the rooms.’
He clicks a tab and a picture appears of a spacious suite with a large bed and porthole.
‘Yeah, but that’s not the type of room we’ll have. It’ll be crew quarters, all cramped.’
‘All the better to get you laid, my sweet. Gotta break the seal at some stage. You don’t want cobwebs where the sun don’t shine.’
A curl of alarm unfurls in my chest. I slap his arm to cover my uneasiness. ‘Shut up. It’s business. He’s managing me.’
Snap gives me a sideways look. ‘That’s one way to put it.’
‘We’re just friends.’
‘Crapolla. I see the way he looks at you. Don’t refuse a gift horse. Especially, one that’s well—’
‘Stop! Anyway, if he’s so uptight about knowing everything about me as my manager, what about my burning down Samuel’s house? He must know about it already. Mary would have told him. Why hasn’t he mentioned it?’
‘I don’t know. Why haven’t you asked him?’
I shrug. ‘Too hard basket.’
Snap strokes my hair. ‘Maybe it’s no big deal. Technically, it was your house to burn.’
‘Maybe is too big a risk. And what about my 7-Eleven job? My boss will never give me leave for the cruise. He’ll sack me.’
I go back to my comfy chair and flop. Snap follows suit and picks up his tea. ‘Big deal. It’s a crap job anyway. Do the cruise. You know you want to. The boy is hot.’
I roll my eyes. He’s right. Six weeks in the South Pacific is an enticing prospect. But then there’s the whole sharing a room thing. I’m sure Snap’s motive is my happiness, but he’ll also want a vicarious report of all the gory
details in a daily blog: Sordid and Sexy at Sea.
‘One sweet day you’re going to say, “Snap, you were sooo right. Will you be my best man?” And I will say, “No, honey, but I’ll be your bridesmaid”.’
‘Funny. When I was buying my little black dress yesterday, I saw the pinkest, frilliest, frou frou gown. You’d look gorgeous in it.’
‘Honey, I am not your average camp. I am dramatic.’
I’m grinning into my coffee, and when I look up there’s a strange expression on Snap’s face. He’s gone pale, and there’s a twitch in his left eye – the one with the stitches above it. Then it all happens at once: his face goes slack, his bottom lip droops, and his hand falls limp, dropping his tea into his lap.
‘Snap!’
I’m out of my chair and by his side as his head falls forward, chin resting on his chest. He’s making a strange ‘nnnnnnn’ sound. I kneel and try to lift his head. It’s all wobbly and heavy. ‘Snap! Snap! Speak to me.’ I’m worried about the hot tea all over his legs, but I’m more panicked about what’s going on in his brain; his left eye is all pupil – huge and black. I gently pat his face. ‘Snap? Can you hear me?’ I pull his damp robe away from his lap and fan his legs. They’re splotched bright red.
You hear about this sort of thing – signs to look for and stuff — but those stories never seem real. It’s something that happens to other people – someone who knows someone who knows someone. This is real. I think he’s seriously having a stroke.
I brush his hair from his face and plead with him. ‘Snap? Snap? Can you hear me? I’m calling an ambulance.’ He’s still making the weird noise, and once I let go of him, his body flops over the arm of the chair. I lean him back again, then look for my phone, his phone, any phone.
The operator asks questions, so many questions. I need to get him on the floor if I can, for his own safety.
‘Okay, Snap. You’re, okay. I’m just going to move you.’ I push his beloved feng shui table out of the way, and the sand skitters. ‘Sorry. You can fix it later.’ I think I’m talking more to reassure myself than him. Standing beside his chair, I lean him forward a little and dig my hands under his armpits from behind. ‘Here we go.’ God, he’s heavy for someone so svelte. I edge him down, bit by bit, until he slips onto the floor in a big lump, then straighten him out onto his side with a cushion under his head.
‘Now what?’ I ask the operator.
‘Check his breathing again.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘Make sure the door is unlocked.’
I do.
‘Stay with him until the ambulance arrives.’ Stay with him? Where the hell does she think I’d run off to?
I settle by his side to wait, then remember the hot tea. It’s probably too late to stop a burn. Should I get a wet towel anyway? Is it okay to leave him for a minute? I run to the bathroom. When I get back, his eyes have closed, and he’s stopped making that noise. I check his breathing again. Still there. I lay the towel over his legs. Now there’s nothing I can do but hold his hand until the ambulance arrives.
~
It’s 1.15 am when my phone vibrates. Somehow, I’ve managed to fall asleep under the glaring waiting room lights. It’s a message from Harry. Outside. Take your time. He’s in the car park. He can’t leave his car because he’s come straight from a gig, and his gear is piled in the back. He’s been amazing. Going back and forth from the hospital to get me a change of clothes, staying with me until he needed to leave for his gig, and now he’s back to collect me.
I rub my hands over my face, yawning as I walk over to the nurses’ station. The duty nurse has changed. This one’s a stout fifty-something with glasses on a chain around her neck. She’s on the phone. I lean on the counter and wait. More waiting.
‘Yes?’
Her voice jolts me. I must be in La La Land.
‘Um, I wanted to check on ... George. George Theodakis.’
She taps on her keyboard and examines her screen. ‘Still in ICU. No change. Sorry, I can’t tell you any more than that.’
I drop my head on the counter, trying not to let my frustration take over. She’s just doing her job, but they’ve been giving me the same story since Snap came out of surgery this afternoon. ‘Please. Can’t I see him for just a second? I’ve been here all day. All night. Has he woken up yet? Is he conscious?’
The nurse looks as if she’s going to give me the official are-you-a-relative line – which I’ve already had from the previous nurses who I should have lied to – but she weakens and reads her screen again. ‘It doesn’t say much else. Honestly. This kind of operation is complex. He may not wake up for hours or even days. Go home. Get some sleep.’ Blah blah blah. ‘Check back in the morning.’ Blah blah blah.
‘It is morning,’ I snap.
She ignores me.
Okay, I get it. I’m a dick. ‘Thanks.’ Sincerity escapes me.
~
Harry is leaning against his car, arms folded. He looks beautiful – tall and lean in his black suit and white shirt, open at the neck. Goddamn sexy. I can’t believe these thoughts are in my head while Snap is in there fighting for his life. I must be delirious. It’s my exhaustion talking.
‘Okay?’ he asks.
I shake my head. I don’t speak because I know I’ll start crying if I do. Then he makes it worse. He gives me a big hug, and it’s like he’s squeezing my tears out. The first sob hurts like hell. I’ve been holding it down so hard, it’s as if it’s ripped my throat on its way out. We stand like that for ages, him hugging, me shaking and bawling like a kid, until I’m drained.
He releases me, digging in his pocket for a handkerchief. Bless him and his hankies. He opens the car door, and I sit, all snotty, teary and nose-blowing.
‘Home?’ he asks.
I don’t want to go back to an empty apartment. Not yet. ‘Can we get some fresh air?’
We head to St Kilda beach. It’s a warm night, and the breeze is soothing as we walk along the esplanade. Harry tucks my arm through his. It’s comforting. Cosy. Like he’s taking the burden for a while. We must look like a romantic couple. On a different night we might be.
‘Any change?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so. Either that or they won’t tell me. I’m not a relative.’
‘Does he have any relatives here?’
‘His dad’s back in Wineera. Snap would kill me if I called him. His grandmother lives here, but they don’t speak. I found her number in his phone. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing, but I left her a message. I hope he doesn’t hate me for it when he wakes up.’
We approach a pier and turn onto it in unspoken agreement. I lose myself, listening to the hiss and drag of waves in the murkiness a metre or two beneath our feet. Across the bay, the lights from Port Melbourne warp and flicker in the humid air. The West Gate Bridge looks like an arc of fairy lights.
‘Can we talk?’ he asks.
God, there goes my pulse. Thump. Thump. Thump. I don’t think I have any energy left in me, but my heart thinks otherwise. ‘Okay.’ There’s a bench up ahead, and I point to it. ‘Let’s sit.’ I don’t think I can cope with walking and talking.
The bench is covered in bird poo. Harry starts to take off his suit jacket.
‘Are you kidding?’ It’ll ruin it.’ I shrug out of my cardigan. ‘It’s old,’ I assure him.
He tries to refuse.
‘Don’t be a masochist, or macho, or whatever it is. Just sit.’
‘You’re falling down with your vocabulary,’ he says.
‘And who’s to blame for that?’
The cardigan doesn’t stretch far so we sit close. I’m half expecting him to put his arm around me, or at least rest it along the back of the bench. He doesn’t. It’s disappointing. I was enjoying our earlier cosiness.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says.
‘Hmmm?’
‘About the cruise job. I know this is a really crappy time for yo
u.’
Oh shit. He’s changed his mind.
‘Maybe it’s a bad idea.’
There. He’s slammed the door before I’ve had a chance to put a foot through it. I want to shift away from him, but there’s the bird poo. He leans forward, massages his palm with his thumb.
‘I’m thinking maybe I’ve put too much pressure on you, too soon.’
I feel sick. As if the ground has heaved beneath me. My voice becomes tiny, like a child too afraid to ask if a parent still loves them after they’ve been bad. ‘Are you calling it quits on me?’
‘No, no. It’s just the timing is bad. And to be honest, I don’t think you really know what you want at the moment. Maybe we should ease off for a while.’
He couldn’t be more wrong. I do know what I want. I want all this confusion to go away. I want Snap to wake up and be alright, and for everything with Bob to have never happened. I want to keep making music, just without – like he says – the pressure.
‘Look, take a couple of days to decide. Be with Snap. Have a think about your priorities. If you don’t want to go ahead with the music, well ... you’re smart ... you’ll figure it out.’
‘Can’t be too smart if I stuff up my career after one gig.’
He’s looking at me, not saying anything. God, I hate that. He’s supposed to be contradicting me. Telling me everything’s going to be alright. That I shouldn’t worry. That he believes in me.
I hasten to the fill the silence. ‘You know what? When I was sitting in the waiting room today – and I know this sounds stupid, because I know I’ll never be a huge celebrity – there were all these trash mags with exclusives on Hollywood stars. You know, who’s sexing who, who’s wearing what, who said this, did that, and I thought ... I couldn’t live like that. Couldn’t have people in my face all the time.’
He laughs, and I feel like an idiot. Tiny.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘every superstar started off as a kid with a dream. Why shouldn’t that be you?’
‘For a start, I’m not a kid.’
‘I didn’t mean ... You just have to believe.’
‘Like in fairies?’ My laugh sounds forced.