Girl in Between Page 17

  Dad rubs his chin. ‘I’ll take her to the Men’s Shed sometimes, if you like. A few of the fellas bring their dogs along and they spend the first ten minutes sniffing each other.’

  ‘That’d be good, Dad, thanks. She might help you out at the sausage sizzles at Dan Murphy’s on a Saturday morning.’

  ‘Ha!’ laughs Mum. ‘I can just see her behind the barbecue with tongs!’

  ‘Christ almighty, I don’t think we’d be selling many sausages with Glenda at the helm,’ scoffs Dad. ‘Men’s Shed’d go bankrupt!’

  The Wild West Saloon is its usual hair-raising, Bundy-rum-swilling, hay-and-manure-scented self on Friday night for Rosie’s and my joint farewell party.

  On the drive there, I’d blurted out my London news to her, unable to contain myself, and she’d reached over and hugged me so hard I almost veered into the BP.

  Mum and Dad, at peace with my decision, enjoy the spectacle of bulls bucking cowboys five feet in the air and the unbridled, party-like atmosphere found ringside at the rodeo arena.

  I suppose I’ve always taken the Wild West Saloon for granted, assuming it was normal to have bulls stampeding around a sand-filled stadium out the back of a pub. But the expression on Oscar’s face when he and Kate approach Rosie and me by the steel barricades—just as a man is flung sideways before narrowly escaping the hoof of a one-tonne Brahman—reminds me that it’s not your average watering hole.

  ‘You wouldn’t get this in Sydney,’ I say after we’ve hugged, feeling a bit overcome at seeing him again. I lean in to Kate’s light embrace, the scent of her delicate perfume heightening the sense of guilt I suddenly feel as I inquire how she’s been.

  ‘There’s a platform over there with a bird’s eye view of the ring if you’d like to check it out,’ says Rosie to Kate after we’ve exhausted our small talk.

  ‘Sure,’ she replies and I glance at Oscar as they walk away.

  He looks fit and handsome, with his hair cut shorter and his skin tanned, and as we chat and laugh it almost seems like we’re picking up a conversation from yesterday. I feel an undercurrent of sadness at the thought of not seeing him for what could be years, but remind myself that new horizons and new adventures await.

  He asks about my writing, and I tell him how much progress I’ve made and how I’ve also been conjuring up copy for the HomeHints catalogue. He’s thrilled to hear that Diamonds in the Dust is coming along and urges me to keep going and not to give up. We lean against the side of the rodeo ring and watch a knee-high cowgirl in spurs and a safety helmet race around on the back of a poddy calf, and when he turns to talk with Kate as she and Rosie return, I take a step closer to Rosie and curse my thumping heart.

  Later in the evening, Oscar and I are seated opposite each other in the steakhouse when Dad raises his glass, wishing Rosie and me all the best in London and urging us to ‘make every post a winner’.

  Oscar looks at me with a devastated expression. You’re leaving? his eyes say. But …

  But what? I respond with my gaze. Yes, there is a connection between us, and maybe you do love me. But you love Kate too. And I’m moving to London, so there’s no future for us.

  I clink glasses with Kate and then him and he looks away, knowing there’s nothing more to be said.

  Not long after, the night takes a very unfortunate turn when, upon hearing our chorus of cheering, Ruth, who’d been sitting a couple of tables behind us with Colleen from the bottle-o, Video Ezy, Bits ’n’ Pizzas and Romancing the Rock wanders over drunkenly to see what the fuss is about. On hearing that Rosie and I are London bound, she roars with laughter and slaps the table, saying, ‘Ha! You played that one well, Oscar!’

  When everyone looks at her quizzically, Ruth blurts out. ‘I thought for sure when I sprung you and Lucy snogging on Mount Archer road that she’d be shacking up with you in Sydney by now. Was he a lousy kisser, Luce?’ Then, as she realises Kate is at the table, she slaps a hand over her mouth. ‘Jesus Christ! Catch ya’s later.’

  Kate gets up abruptly and runs towards the bathroom, Oscar nearly knocking his chair over as he races to follow her.

  I desperately wish that one-tonne Brahman would storm through the barricades and sit on me. By the look on everyone’s faces, I can’t leave the country quick enough.

  I board the Qantas flight to London buzzing with the sense of anticipation I always experience upon heading overseas.

  ‘Congratulations, Luce,’ I say aloud, to the alarm of the passenger beside me, and pat myself on the back. ‘You’ve done it.’

  As our plane descends into Heathrow twenty hours later, I gawk out the window at the huge expanse of inky blackness below, and my veins surge with adrenaline as I spot the red circle of the London Eye, the unmistakable outline of Tower Bridge, the dazzling city lights.

  By the time I’m walking across Putney Bridge a couple of hours later, I’m grinning from ear to ear. I am back! Back among the red double-decker buses and the high street fashions and the screech of the tube. I can revel once more in the magic of Soho, the edginess of Angel, the magnificent sweeping buildings and electrifying atmosphere of Piccadilly Circus. I am walking around with other people who’ve chosen to spend time in one of the most exciting cities in the world. Yes, it’s freezing, but even the breathtaking cold is exhilarating. And there isn’t a bull statue in sight.

  I double-check the address on my phone, then stop and gaze up towards the top-floor flat of a three-storey apartment block just off Putney High Street. My spirit soars at the thought of seeing Rosie, and I race up the building’s internal staircase two steps at a time.

  The buzzer by the green door is answered by a scruffily good-looking, athletic Scotsman wearing an Arsenal jersey and ill-fitting long johns, which bunch at the crotch, blouse at the thighs and hug the calves.

  He grins cheekily as my glance shifts upward from his legs. ‘You must be Lulu.’

  ‘Lucy,’ I reply.

  ‘Joe,’ he says. ‘Welcome to the Putney Palace!’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply and follow him inside. ‘Terrific location.’

  ‘Yes, it’s not bad, is it?’ he says as we pass a hallway bookshelf lined with well-thumbed Lonely Planet guides before turning into a boxy lounge room.

  ‘I’ve been here two years,’ he says loudly over the blaring TV football commentary. ‘Shit!’ he yells, cracking his knuckles. ‘You’re missing a good game, ref!’

  After watching the match for a few minutes he turns back to me and says, ‘Rosie’s not here, unfortunately. She’s gone to a bar up The Shard with the others.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, as if I know exactly what he’s referring to and thinking how, when she’s not looking into someone’s mouth, Rosie’s attention to detail can be poor. Still, I feel disappointed that she must have mixed up my arrival date.

  ‘Amazing views,’ he responds, momentarily switching his attention from the game again.

  I swing my backpack to the floor and glance around the room, which bears the telltale markings of an antipodean London share house. Two faded couches face each other from opposite walls. A smallish TV balances on a stack of magazines near a fireplace, above which is strung a collection of holiday snaps. I feel like I’m back in 2009.

  Joe turns to me after a whistle sounds.

  ‘Sorry, not much of a host, am I? This is a must-win for Arsenal. They’ve been rubbish so far.’ He picks up my backpack and flings it over his shoulder. ‘Quick tour of the rest, then I’ll show you Rosie’s room, yeah? I’m sure you’re exhausted.’

  He leads me into the kitchen, where cereal boxes are lined up on top of a microwave and an assortment of crockery balances precariously in a dish rack. An electrical cord drapes from speakers on a bench hanging low above a toaster. It’s a scene that would send my dad into a health and safety fit.

  ‘Help yourself to anything marked Joe,’ he says, opening the fridge door.

  I shake my head as I take in the various milks, beers, jam jars, salad containers and tins bea
ring the names Nick, Bec, Carl, Tina, Sam, Baillie and Fiona.

  ‘Jeez, how many people live here?’ I ask.

  ‘About eight, give or take. Hard to know, really. Follow me.’

  We turn right out of the kitchen and come to a halt in front of a door at the end of the hall. He knocks gently before entering the darkness and flicking on the lights, revealing a decent-sized room with two single beds.

  I get a shock and stagger back as a woman abruptly sits up and rubs her eyes, blinking into the brightness.

  ‘Sorry, Hyuna,’ says Joe. ‘Time to go, babes. Your flight leaves in four hours.’

  ‘Shit!’ Throwing off the blankets, she leaps out of bed fully dressed—including sneakers—and makes a beeline for a backpack propped against the wall.

  ‘Sweet girl,’ says Joe, smiling whimsically. ‘But that’s the problem with you travellers, isn’t it? You all have a plane to catch sometime, don’t you? Anyway, this is Rosie’s room, so this is you, Lucy. The new Hyuna.’

  My semi-stunned silence is replaced by the dim roar of the television.

  ‘The shower’s opposite you!’ says Joe, before running back into the lounge room.

  Sitting down on the floor at the foot of the bed, I glance around the room. I take comfort in the familiar sight of Rosie’s pink suitcase atop the wardrobe and her extensive collection of makeup strewn across a chest of drawers. A wave of fatigue suddenly overcomes me and I yearn for bed, but the effort required to get there makes it seem unattainable. Instead, I lean back against the frame and close my eyes.

  ‘We won!’ yells Joe, jolting me awake as he appears in the doorway. ‘Goodnight!’ he shouts, vanishing again before I have time to reply.

  Dizzy with tiredness, I stumble into the shower, then stagger back to the bedroom, where I collapse on the bed Hyuna had so recently vacated.

  Five hours later, I awake to a familiar voice. ‘Fucking hell!’ exclaims Rosie. ‘You’re here!’

  A week later, having settled into a routine with my writing, I’m walking to Waitrose in the Putney Exchange when I pass a bookstore called Scribe, which has a sign in the front window advertising for full- and part-time staff. For several moments I stare at the notice before deciding it could be great fun to work in a bookshop, and upon going inside I’m heartened to discover that the store has a lovely vibe.

  Perhaps on account of our ‘across the ditch’ camaraderie, Penny, a Kiwi woman with a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, takes an instant shine to me when I approach the front counter and enquire about work. She asks if I like kids’ books and I nod, thinking she may as well have asked if I like sausage rolls. Conscious of wanting to keep on track with my novel, I counter Penny’s offer of a full-time job with a request for three or four days per week. We settle on three and a half days and I agree to start in the children’s section the following morning.

  From my very first shift I adore working at Scribe, due in no small part to the fact that I adore Penny, who has a wicked sense of humour and is incredibly encouraging. After I tell her about all the books I loved reading to Jack and Isla, Penny suggests I do a Storytime session every Friday morning, reading picture books to kids. Storytime is soon the hottest ticket in Putney and sometimes I wonder, as I watch all the Aussie nannies and their posh British charges crowding around well before the eleven o’clock start time each week, whether it isn’t my broad accent that’s the drawcard. I often look down as I’m reading to see the kids staring up at me wide-eyed from the carpet, their mouths gaping, half stunned and clearly not understanding a word. The Aussie nannies are always laughing, though.

  With a weekly wage coming in from Scribe, I’m able to write on my days off without anxiety over affording rent or the odd pint, and with Rosie away travelling with some old dentistry friends in France for a couple of weeks, I’ve been devoting every spare moment to my book.

  I’m feeling so happy with my novel’s progress and so positive about life generally that I suddenly yearn to speak with Mum and Dad and tell them how well I’m doing. I often think of them, particularly on Friday afternoons when the floors are being vacuumed and I’m reminded of Roomba. Mum would be back from Mongolia by now and Dad from Kakadu.

  Later that night, I text Mum to say that I’ll be calling, hoping Max had taught her how to use Skype, as he’d promised.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ she shouts on answering my call, appearing upside down on my screen. ‘Is that you in London, Lucy?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Mum!’ I say, wondering who else she’d think it might be.

  ‘Oh, Lucy,’ she says, ‘look at you. All the way over there with the Queen.’

  ‘Mum, if you can swivel that camera around on top of your computer, you’ll be the right way up on my screen.’

  ‘Lucy, I’m not going near that camera! It’s taken your father and I half the morning to try and mount it properly. As it is we’ve got it hanging on by a lick of Blu-Tack.’

  ‘Hello, Lucy!’ Dad yells into the camera, his face so close to the computer that I can make out the blackheads on his upside down nose.

  ‘Hello, Dad! How was Kakadu?’

  ‘Just marvellous, Luce. Caught some bloody big barra too.’ He takes a step back from the camera. ‘Anyway, glad you’re looking well, love. Glenda and I are off to the cattle sales now. Come on, Glenda!’ he shouts.

  ‘Oh, Dad, let me see Glenda!’ I exclaim as she starts barking.

  ‘Here you go,’ he says, holding her so close to the camera that all I can see is her panting tongue and then, ‘Righto, we’re off!’ he shouts, lowering Glenda to the floor and walking out of shot.

  ‘Bye! So tell me about Mongolia, Mum.’

  ‘Oh!’ she says. ‘If I did one arm sweep, I did a million. I was up at five-thirty every morning and meditating until eight. I kept getting told to return my thoughts to nothingness, but it’s hard to return to nothing when you’ve slept all night on a slab of wood with six others in a sleeper train! Oh, Lucy, you’ve no idea … And there’s no changing of the sheets between passengers, mind you. They just shake the sheets out and put them back on. And the hotel in Beijing! Well, didn’t I cause a ruckus there! First of all, the windows didn’t shut properly, so I had sheets of rain coming into the room, and then I turned on the taps in the bathroom and left to try to pull the windows closed in the bedroom, and when I came back the bathroom was flooded because the pipes weren’t connected underneath the basin.’

  ‘Oh, Ma!’ I exclaim. ‘It sounds like you had the trip from hell.’

  ‘Well, believe me, I felt like telling Master Ray to go to hell by the end of it. It’s well and truly cured me of Qi-Gong, Lucy. No more navel gazing in a yurt for me, thank you very much.

  ‘Anyway, tell me your news now and cheer me up.’

  I tell her about Penny and the bookstore, and how I love working in the children’s section with Margie, a lovely South African woman around my age, who swears in Afrikaans when orders are delayed and dreams of opening her own bookstore in Cape Town, and conducting Storytime on a Friday. I speak effusively of Putney and the parks, and how the other day I spotted squirrels.

  She laughs when I say Rosie’s been larking around Europe like she’s on a Contiki tour and is delighted with my latest caption for the HomeHints catalogue, Sure to Appeal, for a banana storage container.

  After we stop laughing she brings me up to speed with Rocky’s social pages—she saw a snap of Todd Doherty and Cherie having lunch at Bits ’n’ Pizzas the other day, she tells me, which might be a sign of reconciliation—and complains that you can’t drive two metres without seeing a flyer of Ruth in her bikini plastered to a light pole advertising her annual Suds ’n’ Thuds disco at the car wash.

  As I hear kookaburras cackling in the background, I feel a sudden pang of homesickness, but am careful to remain cheery, and remind myself that the buzz of living in London outweighs the sound of laughing birds.

  On the days we overlap, I enjoy standing behind the counter chatting with Margie.
Between customers, she tells me that she misses braai, which turns out to be Afrikaans for barbecue, and we vow to have braai in Kensington Gardens before the summer’s end.

  As the weeks go by, and Margie and I grow closer, she tells me one day that she’s desperately in love with a gorgeous black man called Dennis, who doesn’t even know she’s alive, and I tell her that I’m happily in love with my life in London and that Dennis must be a few stubbies short of a sixpack not to notice her. She looks at me with a baffled expression but laughs anyway.

  Being a prominent bookstore in well-heeled Putney, Scribe often attracts big-name authors for readings, and I sometimes turn from stacking shelves to see the likes of Julian Barnes and Michael Morpurgo walk into the store as if it’s no big deal. My exposure to these inspiring writers and their wonderful books and passionate readers spurs me on with my writing, and three months after arriving in London I finish the first draft of Diamonds in the Dust.

  ‘Fucking yeah!’ says Rosie when I share my exciting news with her as we tube surf to Hammersmith to see Radiohead. ‘I’m so proud of you, Luce. You did it!’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply, grinning. ‘I did it.’

  ‘Best decision we’ve ever made, doing this, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I know!’ I say. ‘As if you’d ever see Radiohead in Rocky!’

  ‘No, I mean the decision to live in London again. Look at us, we’re fucking thriving over here! You’ve finished your first draft and I’m having a ball jumping on trains to Paris. We’re killing it, Luce!’ She makes a face. ‘I’ll probably need to pick up the drill again soon to afford it all, though.’

  ‘Did you hear back from the recruiters?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, they got back to me,’ she says. ‘But they all want me to work full-time! It’s like your dad’s been talking to them or something! How are your parents going, anyway?’

  ‘They’re so funny.’ I smile and shake my head. ‘I skyped them this arvo to tell them about finishing my book but the reception was a bit dodgy. I heard Mum yell out to Dad to turn off the toaster in case it improved things!’