Girl in Between Read online

  I’m even quite enjoying producing—skimming through the papers and online news sites every morning, diving into my trusty contacts book to track down talent, devising quirky talkback topics and writing introductions and questions for Desley.

  Originally from Melbourne, Desley is a gun presenter and is quickly learning the ways of Queenslanders, although I still rib her about the time she ordered a dirty chai from Bits ’n’ Pizzas and the waitress responded, ‘So, you want a dirty big chai?’ I also need to provide copious notes on the screen for her during our Friday sports segment, and constantly remind her that when she refers to rugby, she is not referring to rugby league.

  ‘Hearing your favourite recipes using leeks on 1300 599 444. Ah, Joyce is on the line from Blackwater … Hello, Joyce!’

  ‘Is that you, Desley?’

  ‘Yes, got you loud and clear, Joyce.’

  ‘Oh, Desley, I just wanted to say that I haven’t grown beets in years.’

  ‘What’s that, Joyce?’

  ‘I haven’t grown beetroot in years,’ Joyce says.

  ‘Ah, right, Joyce,’ says Desley. ‘That’s interesting. But we’re actually talking about leek—101 ways with leeks.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Thanks, Joyce. Joyce from Blackwater getting a little confused there, but wonderful to hear from her just the same, and we might talk about beetroots tomorrow. I used to have lovely beetroot lattes on the weekend at the Vic markets. Thanks for the suggestion, Joyce! But what about you, Terry, calling in from Yeppoon today—any secret leek recipes you can share?’

  ‘Is that you, Desley? Oh, I beg your pardon, I’ve rung in for Wally Ryan’s gardening talkback.’

  ‘Well, you’re half an hour early there, Terry, but stay on the line, Lucy’ll grab your number and you’ll be first off the post when we open the lines for Wally.’

  ‘Lucy,’ says Desley, buzzing me through the intercom during the next ad break, ‘have you got the weather bureau up? We’ve got ten seconds.’

  Fuck! I focus again.

  Despite the welcome distractions of work, my head is still full of Oscar, my thoughts oscillating exhaustingly between fondness and reminding myself he already has a girlfriend. So why, almost a month after I left him standing at Ruth’s car wash, do I care in the slightest whether he misses me? Why does my pulse quicken when I hear a car pull in to Helen’s driveway? Why hasn’t my heart caught up to my head in recognising the situation as hopeless?

  ‘Lucy,’ says Desley again, causing me to frantically check the rundown for what I’ve missed. Puzzled, I look up to see her winking at me from the other side of the glass. ‘I think someone’s got a visitor!’ she sings playfully.

  Desley is convinced that Lachy Campbell, the online producer, is smitten with me. I’m not so sure, though Lachy does consistently hang about the studio as we’re putting the show to air, and agreeably plies me with homemade food at every turn. He’s an affable guy, no doubt, and the fact that he is walking towards me with a chocolate muffin is delightful, but I have absolutely zero interest in him. Whatever the case, I’m willing to play along in the interests of Desley and me having something to chat about in the kitchenette.

  ‘Hey, Lachy, how are you going?’ I ask between screening talkback calls on the humane disposal of cane toads.

  ‘Fantastic!’ he says. ‘Chocolate muffin for you and Desley to share at half-time?’

  ‘Awesome, thank you—I’m starving!’

  ‘I thought you might be,’ he says, turning to leave. ‘See ya during the news.’

  Forty minutes later, after Desley hosts a heated discussion on bringing back daylight saving, he slides a tray of spring rolls and dipping sauce onto my desk. To be honest, if it meant kissing him to keep this food train coming, I could probably stomach it.

  ‘Spring roll for a roll in the hay, hey?’ quips Desley as she walks out of the studio during our five-minute news bulletin.

  ‘These are very good,’ I say, smiling while keeping an eye on the clock.

  ‘So what do you think?’ she says, perching on the edge of my desk in that way people from big cities are wont to do.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure how long I’ll be around Rocky, Desley, so I’m not looking to start anything with anyone.’

  ‘Hmmm. About that—next week is your last with me. What are your plans?’ she asks.

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ I say, hearing the newsreader move onto the sports headlines. ‘I’ve got a few options, but I’m just waiting to see what happens.’

  ‘You know, Lucy,’ she continues, unperturbed by the fact that she’s on air in less than half a minute, ‘I suspect you need to learn that commitment isn’t always evil.’

  I dodge answering and tell her I’ve got fifteen seconds to track down our expert on how to look six-foot-five when you’re only five-foot-six.

  On Thursday night, in celebration of getting paid, Rosie and I head out to do some late-night shopping on account of her telling me my current pairs of jeans are only fit for the farm and I need to buy me some new Lee’s. Despite her steady stream of talk and jokes, I can tell Rosie is distracted and she seems a bit tetchy.

  ‘What do you think of these?’ I ask, pulling back the curtain in the Red Dirt Denim change room.

  ‘Hot!’ She nods approvingly. ‘Turn around. Yep, they’re the winners. Get ’em and then let’s go to the food court.’

  As we walk towards Paradise Plaza’s familiar medley of carveries and juice bars, much frequented in our youth, I decide to air the niggling annoyance I’ve carried all afternoon.

  ‘Rosie, is there something about me which screams commitment-phobe?’

  She pauses, clearly unsure how to answer, so I continue, ‘I only ask because Desley made a point of telling me today that commitment isn’t always evil. And I don’t really know why she said it.’

  We hover around a spare table that’s being wiped down. ‘I don’t believe I’m a flaky person,’ I say, taking a seat. ‘I always aim to do my best.’

  Rosie slides in opposite me. ‘I do think you sometimes give off a bit of an untouchable air.’

  ‘What, like I’m too good for everyone?’ I ask, astonished.

  ‘No, like you’re just unattainable for anything—work, love, life …’

  ‘No I don’t!’ I reply, stung.

  ‘Do you want me to keep going or not?’ she asks.

  ‘Can I get a doughnut first to soften the blow?’

  ‘I understand what’s behind it,’ she continues as I return from Donut King. ‘You feel like you don’t want to regret making the wrong choice with work so you make none. You don’t want to get burnt again in a relationship so you search for perfection because you know, subconsciously, you won’t ever obtain it, and therefore you’ll never have to risk being hurt.’ She pauses. ‘I know you’re putting up a force field to protect yourself, but to everyone else it just looks like you’re hanging back—and, yes, that you’re a commitment-phobe.’

  ‘I don’t hang back,’ I say defensively.

  ‘Studying for medicine—did you ever look at one uni website?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I reply.

  ‘Teaching English as a second language. Did you download any course forms?’

  ‘No,’ I say, unsure whether Rosie’s interrogation is productive or patronising.

  ‘Living in London. Have you seriously considered coming with me?’

  I look at the half-eaten doughnut on the table, unable to answer, tears welling in my eyes.

  ‘I’ve got to grab a couple of things from Woolies,’ says Rosie, getting up.

  I don’t know where to start contemplating Rosie’s analysis, so I lean back in my seat, cross my legs and numbly watch the comings and goings of the food court without registering anything.

  ‘Earth to Lucy!’ calls someone loudly, causing me to jump in my chair.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Lachy,’ I say, looking up to see him standing grinning at me with a trolley full of groceries. ‘You startled me!’
>
  ‘I know,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘You were a million miles away.’

  ‘Something like that,’ I respond, sitting up straighter. ‘How’s things? Got the groceries, I see.’

  ‘Yep, got the groceries,’ he replies. ‘Oh, hey, did Tom talk to you this afternoon?’

  ‘No,’ I reply, feeling anxious at the prospect that Tom might want to extend my contract beyond next week.

  ‘Connor Silver’s coming to town!’ says Lachy, his face lighting up with excitement.

  ‘Connor Silver?! ‘Velvet Kisses’ Connor Silver from the eighties with the big blonde mullet? Why?’

  ‘Well, not Rocky exactly, but Capella. His band’s playing there.’

  ‘Capella? That’s bizarre. When?’ I ask.

  ‘This Saturday!’ he replies. ‘The concert’s only just been announced, and I think it’s sold out already, but we can get media passes for it.’

  ‘Does Tom want me to go?’

  ‘Well, I’m going to interview Connor, but Tom wants to make a big deal of it for online, so he wants both of us to head there.’

  ‘What about Desley?’ I ask. ‘Isn’t she a big Connor fan?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘Tom asked Desley, but she’s going to a wedding in Melbourne this weekend.’

  ‘Ah, right. Oh well, it could be fun,’ I say cautiously.

  ‘Yeah, I think it’d be unreal! Anyway, I’m sure Tom’ll talk to you about it tomorrow.’

  ‘Cool,’ I say, relieved to see Rosie walking towards us.

  ‘Alright, better get these cold things in the fridge,’ he says. ‘See ya, Luce.’

  ‘See ya, Lachy,’ I reply, noting the enormous amount of produce it takes to keep Desley and me fed.

  ‘There’s absolutely no fucking ham hocks in this town!’ yells Rosie as she approaches me. ‘Every bastard in Rockhampton is making pea and ham soup! So much for living in the bloody beef capital of Australia!’

  I should let it slide, but I don’t. ‘It’s pig, though,’ I say, getting up. ‘Ham is from a pig, not a cow. Beef is cows.’

  ‘Fuck off, Lucy,’ she says.

  I wish I was tougher, but I’m not. I start snivelling out the front of Best & Less.

  ‘Oh, mate,’ she says, stopping and putting her arm around me. ‘You know I love you to the moon and back.’

  I rest my head on her shoulder. ‘Maybe you could buy a chicken,’ I say, trying to smile. ‘And make chicken soup.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, rubbing my back. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  We retreat to a bench and silently watch the passing parade of shins and calves.

  Rosie sighs heavily. ‘I ran into Trent the Tradie this morning. It’s only been two months and he’s already bloody engaged to that new girl. I didn’t think it’d piss me off so much. I’m sorry if I’ve taken it out on you.

  ‘I’d sort of been holding off from booking my London ticket to see if I could convince you to come. But I know now you won’t.’ She looks at me with tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’m leaving in five weeks,’ she says. ‘I can’t wait to get out of this fucking town, Luce.’

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I know.’

  I wake the next morning feeling emotionally and physically exhausted. At Mum’s urging I’d made my bed with flannelette sheets before hitting the sack and it was the wrong move. I tossed and turned into the early hours, overheating like a car on Christmas Day. I even had nightmares, sitting up in a horrible rush to the image of someone gripping my neck and pushing me underwater. I decide I need to go easy on the late-night House of Cards episodes and switch my linen back to breathable cotton.

  I also need to cut back on the caffeine. Since I’ve been working at TROPPO FM and writing copy for the HomeHints catalogue at night, I’ve been completely under the spell of that cunning java vixen and having three coffees a day. When in her clutches, I’m on top of the world, my nervous system shaping up to move mountains, bursting with ideas for talkback topics and segments. Then, a couple of hours later, I look around the office with beige-tinted glasses and wonder if everything isn’t pretty dull, really. The upshot is, I can’t go on the way I am, so today I replace my afternoon coffee with a Panadol and make an appointment to see a psychologist after work.

  Now, with the show having gone to air, and Desley having gone for sushi, I sit at my desk, stretch my arms above my head and yawn. When I open my eyes I’m startled to see Tom hovering in front of me. Tom is the quintessential hoverer. He hovers around until you say hello, hovers until you say goodbye and does a lot of hovering between.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ I say with a weary smile.

  ‘Afternoon, Lucy. How are you?’

  ‘Well, thanks. The show was good today. Lots of talkback on becoming a republic and fluoride in tap water. I think tomorrow we’re going to do “your favourite useless kitchen utensil” and 101 ways with lemons.’

  ‘Yes, wonderful, terrific! Spoken to Lachy?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I ran into him last night. He told me about Connor Silver.’

  ‘Yes, yes, mmm, yes, ha!’ he says, hovering. ‘So, ah, would you be interested in going?’

  I’ve been anticipating this question and given it a great deal of thought. Other than him being a mega rockstar from the eighties, and once owning Hamilton Island, I know nothing about Connor Silver, so seeing him in the flesh could be a buzz. On the other hand, it involves being trapped in a car with Lachy for a three-and-a-half-hour return trip, so I’ve resolved not to go.

  ‘Well, not really, to be honest,’ I answer. ‘I had a few things planned for the weekend, so …’

  ‘Oh right, yes, yes, right. It’s just that we have no-one else to accompany Lachy and the orders are coming in from Sydney that we really have to get behind this.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Is TV going out?’ I ask.

  ‘No crews allowed. Connor doesn’t want any filming inside apparently. Photos yes, and the chat with Lachy fine, but no filming.’

  ‘So you’ll want me to take stills?’

  ‘You’ve taken some beautiful shots for our website so I thought you’d be the best person—after Desley, of course, who’s a massive Connor fan, but she’s got a wedding in Melbourne. But if you absolutely can’t …’

  I think of Rosie and Desley’s commitment taunts. ‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ I say. What the hell.

  ‘Terrific! That’s terrific! Wonderful! You can take the station car and we’ve arranged accommodation for you both above the Capella pub so I’m sure you’ll have a fantastic trip!’

  ‘Sure, it should be good. Alright, thanks, Tom. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ he says, though he remains hovering for a good thirty seconds.

  The psychologist, Beth Carmody, is kind, a good listener and a bearer of insights, which is everything I could have hoped for in my forty-minute consultation. There is a box of tissues on the table between us, and a clock on the wall behind me, which I glance at surreptitiously as I blow my nose.

  I tell her about Oscar, and how living at home and working back in the office of my first-ever employer makes me feel a little like a failure. I confess to constantly sabotaging myself with thoughts that I’ve missed the boat on having a career, and that I’m afraid of how I’ll feel if my novel is rejected. I also tell her I’m worried I won’t have enough money to make changes and that my parents think I’m unrealistic about what to expect out of a job and that, though they don’t say it, they believe I’m wasting my time writing a book.

  At this point, I burst into tears and she hands me the box of tissues and waits for me to pull myself together. Then she points out that if I think I have a genuine, burning desire to do things differently, I’ll walk over hot coals to make changes. She asks me to consider whether or not I enjoy this feeling of being stuck—whether it has become like a second skin, a habit I can’t shake, a faulty mode of thinking I’ve fallen into because negativity and apathy are easier tracks to tread.

  She also asks gently whether I’m tak
ing a lazy approach to my life.

  And though I don’t reply, I suspect the answer is yes.

  After my appointment with Beth, I have the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages, so I’m feeling refreshed and reinvigorated as Lachy and I drive along the western roads to Capella, the sunburnt landscapes opening up before us.

  I gaze out the window as we pass ghostly gums, their gnarled branches like witches’ fingers against the blazing blue sky. There’s a peacefulness in this harsh and rugged terrain, and as we continue further inland, the shifting sun bathing the barks in dappled light, I feel my mind relax as I soak up the scenery.

  ‘Mind if I put on a playlist?’ asks Lachy, turning down the radio.

  ‘Oh sure,’ I reply, smiling at him and bracing myself for something like Nickelback. I’m pleasantly surprised when he plays Old Crow Medicine Show, and a fine selection of Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings Machine. My mood lifts and I make a mental note to add some alternative country to my repertoire of what Dad describes as my ‘awful bloody mournful music.’

  ‘Well, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your DJ session, Lachy,’ I say as we whiz past the Welcome to Capella sign. ‘I’ll have to get those albums off you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He grins. ‘From time to time you do actually hear a good song on commercial radio. I’ve been thinking a lot about this interview tonight. I mean, Connor Silver’s an Aussie icon. At some stage everyone’s owned a copy of “Velvet Kisses”. There’s so much to talk about.’

  ‘Yeah, you just have to narrow it down, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you excited?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you excited to see him?’