Girl in Between Read online

  ‘Ah, yeah, I am,’ I say. ‘But it’s more getting out here that excites me. I love hitting the road.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he replies. ‘I miss my skateboarding days.’

  This is why I’m not attracted to Lachy. He says things like that.

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaim as we get out of the car. ‘It’s bloody freezing!’ We scoot inside the old weatherboard hotel and stand at the bar. A woman eventually appears and gives me a key, then tells me Mr Campbell and I are in a room straight upstairs. I frown, but assume she’s made a mistake and Lachy and I have a room each. However, when I ask, the woman shakes her head and tells me the lady at TROPPO FM said a room with two single beds was fine.

  ‘Man, you’d think they’d have organised separate rooms for us,’ I say to Lachy as I gaze at the two single beds, which just fit in the tiny room with about a metre to spare.

  ‘Me too, but it’s TROPPO, isn’t it?’ he says, looking much too delighted for my liking.

  ‘True,’ I concede. ‘Oh well, doesn’t matter. I suppose we’d better get to this concert.’ I throw my bag on one of the beds.

  ‘Hang on,’ he says, unzipping his backpack. ‘I just have to change.’

  I look down at the floorboards while he whips off his t-shirt, then glance back up after he sings, ‘Ta-da!’ to see he’s wearing a skin-tight black skivvy bearing a faded and cracked iron-on of Connor from his Bad Attitude band days.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s Desley’s. She insisted I wear it.’

  ‘It’s shocking, Lachy,’ I say, shaking my head as we close the door behind us.

  Connor Silver and his band, Sterling Silver, raise the roof at the Capella Cultural Centre. Spirits are high, literally, with one man dousing himself in Bundy and Coke. The crowd love it. And why wouldn’t they? It’s not often a chart-topping artist with a spectacular blonde mullet puts on a show in the Central Highlands.

  At the end of the concert, Connor sits onstage to sign autographs for a queue of several hundred people. Weaving among them with my camera, I take happy snaps of little girls in braids and boots, middle-aged men in Harley-Davidson leather, straight-talking, Wrangler-wearing teenagers and, to my great delight, a couple of sapphire hawkers from the nearby gemfields who thought they’d try their luck with Connor.

  Half an hour later, I find Lachy leaning against the wall at the back of the venue.

  ‘Can you tell Connor I’ll do the interview when he’s finished signing?’ he asks, looking a bit pale.

  ‘Yeah, no worries.’

  I walk up to the stage and sit down beside Connor Silver. ‘How’s it going, Connor?’ I say, smiling at him.

  ‘Good, mate, how are you?’ he asks, between signatures.

  ‘Yeah, good. I just wanted to let you know that Lachlan from TROPPO FM will be doing an interview with you after all this. He’s at the back of the room.’

  ‘No worries. Who’s this for?’ he asks, handing me a white bra.

  ‘Whose is this?’ I ask the crowd.

  ‘It’s for Kathy with a K, love!’ a woman wearing a purple- and-black flannelette shirt calls back.

  ‘Right, Kathy with a K,’ he says, signing one of the cups and flinging it back into the outstretched arms of its owner.

  ‘What about this one?’

  I look to the burly bikie who handed over the tea towel.

  ‘Roger,’ he replies.

  And so we go on like this for the next forty minutes—people handing things to me for Connor to sign, and me handing them back. Connor and I share the odd joke, and I’m surprised by how easygoing he is.

  At one point I stand to stretch my legs and he signs my jeans.

  ‘Oh, Connor!’ I say, looking down at him, annoyed. ‘These are my brand-new Lee’s!’

  He laughs and continues signing.

  When the last of the autograph hunters and sapphire hawkers have left, I tell Connor I’m going to get Lachy for the interview. I find him at the back of the hall, but just as I reach him his phone rings and he looks like he’s going to take the call.

  ‘Time to do this interview, Lachy,’ I say with some urgency, conscious that Connor might not want to hang around for too long.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lucy,’ he says quickly. ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘I have to answer this,’ he says, thrusting the recorder into my hands. ‘You’ll have to do it.’

  ‘I can’t do it!’ I exclaim. ‘I know nothing about Connor Silver! I was only two when “Velvet Kisses” went to number one!’

  He shoots me an apologetic glance before raising the phone to his ear and walking out of the venue.

  On my way back to Connor I feel like I’m shuffling towards the gallows. I honestly know nothing about this man—nothing.

  He smiles and taps me on the head with his marker pen. ‘Let’s do the interview, hey?’ he says, jumping down from the stage and heading towards the back of the building. ‘Where’s your man?’

  Oh God. Fuck! I think as we turn the corner into a small room. A fridge stocked with VB sits against one wall, and off to one side of the fridge are two chairs. ‘Ah, well, it turns out he’s had a family emergency,’ I say, inwardly cursing Lachy, ‘so I’m going to do the interview instead.’

  ‘Cool. Want a beer?’ asks Connor, opening the fridge and offering me a can of VB.

  What the hell am I going to ask him? What is going to come out of my mouth here? I wonder as we sit down. I turn on the recorder and check my levels, trying to dredge up something—anything—about this man.

  ‘Sitting down to do an interview with Connor Silver here. Welcome, Connor, thanks for doing the interview.’

  ‘Thank you, it’s my pleasure,’ he replies, taking a swig of his beer.

  ‘So, you look like you get a lot of enjoyment up there. Have you always performed musically?’

  ‘Yeah, mate, I’ve been doing gigs from a very young age, since I was fifteen. The stage is like my theatre …’

  I’m panicking so much I hardly take in a word he says.

  ‘You really do look like you get a buzz from performing musically. You’ve always performed, from a young age?’ I ask.

  Connor gives me an odd look, then starts laughing. ‘Ah, if you listen back to my previous answer, you’ll hear me say that I’ve been performing since I was a kid.’

  ‘Oh,’ I reply, gutted. ‘I’m sorry. Hamilton Island’s lovely, isn’t it.’

  We chat for forty minutes, with me making mistake after mistake, incorrectly referring to his band as Stainless Steel, and him looking at me in good-humoured horror when I ask him to explain the meaning of the word ‘zeitgeist’.

  Given the circumstances, he’s very kind and generous, and I actually think my complete unpreparedness may have been refreshing.

  At the end of the interview, we hug and Connor says with a chuckle, ‘Now, if you’re brave, you’ll just broadcast all of this.’

  I apologise again and tell him that now I’ve met him I’m going to buy ‘Velvet Kisses’ on LP.

  ‘You know, you’ve got a lot to offer,’ he says as we return to the hall.

  I grin. Connor Silver thinks I’ve got a lot to offer. Maybe things are going to work out after all!

  I’m busting to see Lachy, and after searching around I find him back in the pub, perched at the bar. He apologises for dropping me in it but I tell him it ended up going okay and Connor said I had a lot to offer. Lachy’s excited for me, but I sense he’s also a little disappointed that he missed the opportunity.

  ‘I got this for you,’ I say and slide him a signed VB coaster.

  ‘Oh, Luce—thanks!’ he says, and reads what Connor wrote on the coaster: Lachy, mate, the next one’s on you! Cheers, Connor. ‘Awesome, Lucy, this is going straight to the pool room!’ he says.

  ‘I thought you’d like it.’ I smile.

  He takes a sip of his beer. ‘Did you get something signed for Desley?’
r />   ‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘I feel a bit bad, but all I could find at the last minute was this Woolies receipt in the back of my jeans, so he signed that too!’

  We laugh, and I feel on top of the world. I’m proud of my courage. I still can’t believe I was brave enough to do that. It definitely wasn’t the world’s best interview, but it was certainly my own, and not one I think Connor will forget too quickly either.

  I buy us both another drink.

  ‘Hey, Luce?’ he says earnestly, swivelling towards me.

  Oh, man! That’s right. I forgot about Lachy’s crush. Stuff it, I think—maybe I should just kiss him. It might help banish Oscar from my mind forever.

  ‘Yeah?’ I say.

  ‘Do you think Desley likes me?’ he asks.

  ‘Desley?’ I say, gobsmacked.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replies shyly. ‘That’s who called me when I was going to do the interview.’

  ‘Ah …’ I say slowly.

  ‘Why do you say it like that?’ he says, blushing slightly.

  I laugh. ‘Lachy, Desley is convinced that you’re keen on me!’

  ‘Ha! Well, I was for about three days, but I could tell you were all over the shop; you don’t know whether you’re coming or going. Trouble!’

  ‘So all that food,’ I say, as if I’m DCI Barnaby piecing together evidence at the end of Midsomer Murders, ‘that was actually meant for Desley?’

  ‘Well, you and Desley. By the way, you can eat a lot!’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve always been a good eater,’ I say and am surprised to find my ego slightly bruised. ‘So, Desley, hey? But she’s from Melbourne.’

  ‘I know, that’s the only thing. But she can angle park properly and she goes for Queensland in the State of Origin.’ He smiles into his drink. ‘I think she’s pretty cute.’

  ‘I thought she was with that Craig guy from the Beef Australia committee?’

  ‘No, that finished months ago. I saw him about three in the morning at Subway the other night, kissing some chick. I think she runs the car wash on the corner of —’

  ‘Fitzroy and Albert streets. That’d be Ruth.’

  I take another swig of my beer, thinking.

  ‘So, does Desley often call you?’ I ask, still attempting to make sense of it all.

  ‘No,’ he replies. ‘That’s why I thought it was important to answer. She’d had a few drinks at the wedding. She wanted to know all about the concert.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say, smiling. ‘The old had-a-few-drinks phone call. That’s a good sign. So what’s the plan, man? I don’t think you’re going to win over Desley with muffins and spring rolls alone.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. She’s from Melbourne, Lachy! Think more macarons and macchiatos. You need to ask her out for coffee.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘What, like to Bits ’n’ Pizzas?’

  ‘No, take her somewhere classy, like Cup of Jo on Bolsover Street. Jo Fleming just opened it. Desley will love it.’

  ‘Thanks, Luce,’ he says, and we clink glasses.

  Later that evening, I struggle to fall asleep and shift about, restless.

  ‘What about you, Lucy?’ asks Lachy suddenly, cutting through the silence. ‘A good-looking girl like you’d have a few fellas hanging around.’

  ‘Oh, not really,’ I reply.

  ‘Not really’s not really an answer,’ he says.

  I laugh. ‘Well, it’s sort of a long story.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he says. ‘I’m not going anywhere for at least six hours.’

  I figure I have nothing to lose, and reconstruct the Oscar timeline for Lachy, from the initial knock on my front door to the incident on Mount Archer and, finally, leaving him all those weeks ago at Ruth’s car wash.

  I tell him about my confusion, Oscar’s confusion, and how a quiet acceptance of it all is now sinking into my bones. When I finish pouring my heart out, there’s silence.

  ‘Lachy, are you asleep?’

  ‘No, no, I’ve been listening,’ he says. ‘Have you heard of the weather map test?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘you know when Jenny Woodward presents the weather on ABC News?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, at the start of the weather, a big map of Australia flashes up and you can see all the capitals and the big cities.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘After you’ve looked at Rocky, where do you look next?’

  ‘Sydney,’ I reply immediately.

  ‘See, there you go,’ he says, triumphant. ‘If you were completely over Oscar, you wouldn’t be glancing down at the Sydney temps.’

  I sigh. ‘Well, you’re a guy. What do you make of it all?’

  ‘If you want the truth, it sounds to me like the ball’s in his court. He’s obviously into you, but you live in Rocky and he lives in Sydney and so does the woman he’s seeing. Things are just too easy for him to make any massive changes, especially when they involve hurting someone he likes.’

  ‘Yeah, I know you’re right.’

  ‘But what would you do if he made a grand gesture and said, “How about moving to Sydney and being with me?” What would you say?’ asks Lachy.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘It’s too hypothetical. There’s too many variables. And besides, he’s not going to say that. We haven’t spoken in a month, and I’ve been trying to just carry on like he’s died.’

  He yawns. ‘Sounds dramatic, but all I’m saying is that sometimes it takes guys a long time to realise what they actually value and what they actually want in a partner.’

  ‘I guess,’ I reply, not finding any hope in his words. ‘Thanks, Lachy. You’re a good listener.’

  ‘Still can’t believe Connor Silver signed your jeans,’ he says.

  ‘I know! My brand-new Lee’s, bloody ruined,’ I say, though at the same time I’m marvelling at life’s unpredictability. Just when you think you’re making a mess of everything, out comes a superstar from the eighties to tell you over a VB that you’ve got a lot to offer.

  Halfway between Capella and Rocky, I play Lachy audio from my conversation with Connor and he almost drives off the road with laughter at my embarrassing faux pas.

  ‘You can’t play that!’ he gasps.

  ‘I know!’ I agree. ‘There’s no way I could play that!’

  But as we pass the fields of cattle and crops, I gaze out the window and wonder whether there’s any way I can salvage my Connor Silver interview. By the time we arrive back at the TROPPO studios, an idea is taking shape … I could turn my disaster into a piece on how not to interview Connor Silver.

  I write a script for Lachy to voice as if he’s just heard my interview with Connor, and is taking me through step by step, telling me what I could have done differently. Lachy’s a champ and absolutely nails his lines. We also record my reactions to his suggestions, and I then cut the whole piece together, including audio of the exchanges between Connor and me to which Lachy refers. At the end of our efforts, we play the piece back through the studio speakers and laugh and laugh. I sound like an absolute dill, but I couldn’t be happier. I have always felt most alive making people laugh, and if it’s at my expense, then all the better.

  My train-wreck interview is played the next day, to much hilarity, on TROPPO FM-affiliated stations dotted around the country. Soon I’m fielding congratulatory phone calls and emails from one-time colleagues at WIN TV and The Headline Act. I even receive a flattering Facebook comment from Tiffany Bloxsom. I sense this is what it’s like to be flavour of the month, and I admit to feeling ten feet tall.

  Then Lachy receives a call from Connor’s publicity manager, who asks, ‘Who on earth is this Lucy Crighton? And why did she stick the boots into Connor when he’d been so generous to her?’

  Lachy looks across to me as he replies that I had no idea the announcers would interpret the piece as Connor picking on me and then proceed to take my side. He said I’d naturally assumed listeners would be laughing at my incompetence a
nd not pointing the finger at Connor.

  After Lachy debriefs me on the call, I’m devastated to think that what I’ve put together could be misconstrued, especially given how friendly Connor was to me. Apparently his publicity manager had caught the interview on TROPPO FM in Brisbane, and immediately called Connor, who told her he’d had a lovely chat with me in Capella and that I was sweet. ‘Well you should listen to what she’s done with your interview!’ she’d replied.

  The consensus in the office is that Lachy handled the phone call extremely well and I am grateful for his clear, confident, pragmatic advocacy on my behalf. I am, however, gutted that Connor might think I’ve set him up.

  Back at home that afternoon, I find the business card for the guy who was travelling around with Connor’s band, operating the merchandise stall. I sit down at my laptop and begin writing an email. Twenty minutes later, I am still typing, pouring my heart out telling Connor I never meant him any harm, and sobbing into the keyboard.

  ‘Who are you writing to?’ Mum asks after walking into my room and seeing my tear-streaked face.

  ‘Connor Silver,’ I reply between sobs, still tapping away.

  Mum looks at me as if I’d said I was writing to George Jetson from The Jetsons.

  I press ‘send’, knowing deep down there’s a slim chance Connor will ever read my heartfelt apology, or that our paths will ever cross again.

  With my TROPPO FM contract over, I heed Beth’s advice and vow to be completely disciplined about writing Diamonds in the Dust in the mornings and to do any work for the HomeHints catalogue in the evenings.

  A week goes by and I’m really happy with my progress. I’ve been waking up early to take Glenda for a walk, writing till one, followed by making lunch and then laps at the pool and writing again. I’ve been allowing myself one episode of Marcella after dinner and then get stuck into any HomeHints copy.

  Right now, though, I’m whizzing around the aisles of Woolies, one hand on the trolley, the other holding Mum’s grocery list. I’m always slightly ashamed at how content I feel in Woolies. As soon as I enter the store my mood lifts. I don’t know if it’s the music or the lighting or whether it’s that it reminds me of being very little and carefree, scooting off to retrieve boxes of cereal and laundry detergent, listening out for the familiar jangle of Mum’s keys against her handbag to track her down. Whatever the origin of my sense of wellbeing, it’s embarrassing, and I wish I could shake it.