Girl in Between Read online

  I go over to the window and have a proper look at our two new neighbours—who, I can’t help but notice, are pretty hot. I watch as the shorter one opens a bottle of beer, which he offers to a similar-looking but more athletic man who is talking intently on his mobile.

  ‘Hard to tell, Rosie,’ I say, gazing across the lawn, and getting a jolt when I lock eyes with the taller, lankier man, who glances up as he finishes his phone call. He looks thirty-something, and has a smile and physique that suggest he’d surely be off the market. I contemplate waving at him, but he walks out of sight before I get the chance.

  ‘She’s had her teeth done,’ says Rosie, holding up a spread of various starlets in Woman’s Day. ‘So’s she. She needs her teeth done.’

  Mum restarts her bongo drumming DVD, and Rosie is updating me on Brad Pitt’s alleged catch-up with Jennifer Aniston, when there’s a knock at the door.

  Mum stops the DVD again and we all look at each other gormlessly. Hardly anyone we know ever knocks.

  We’re all still sitting there when the doorbell rings. I jump out of the chair to go and answer the door, only to find the taller of our new neighbours standing on the other side of the screen, smiling.

  I grin back at him and for a moment we just stand there, flashing our teeth at each other.

  ‘Hi, I’m Oscar Simpson,’ he says eventually.

  ‘Lucy Crighton,’ I reply, opening the door and holding out my hand. ‘Welcome to Rocky.’

  I take a step back as I gesture to Oscar to come inside, and bump into Rosie, who clears her throat. ‘Oh, this is Rosie,’ I say.

  Oscar nods at her and says, ‘Hi, Rosie.’

  She gives him a knockout smile and he starts to say something but most of it gets lost in the awful din of Mum drumming along to the DVD in the lounge room.

  ‘So, I just thought I’d let you know … in our … this afternoon.’

  ‘Hang on,’ says Rosie, before yelling, ‘Denise! Denise!’

  ‘Yes, love?’ Mum calls.

  ‘Quit it!’ shouts Rosie.

  I giggle as the drumming suddenly stops. Oscar looks amused, though slightly wary. ‘So, as I was saying, we’re having drinks in the backyard this afternoon to celebrate finally moving Mum in. We’d love you to come.’

  ‘Drinks sound good,’ I say encouragingly.

  ‘Yeah, very good,’ Rosie echoes. ‘Being Saturday night and all.’

  ‘Can we bring anything?’ I ask.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Oscar replies. ‘We’ve got it all covered.’

  ‘We’ll bring some sausages,’ blurts Rosie.

  ‘Okay, great,’ says Oscar. ‘And feel free to invite any of your other housemates too.’

  ‘Er, they’re not exactly Lucy’s housemates—more like her parents,’ says Rosie, with a smirk.

  ‘Oh, well, they’re very welcome,’ says Oscar, sounding a bit bemused. ‘See you later, then.’

  ‘See ya,’ Rosie and I chorus.

  ‘Thanks for letting him know I’m a major loser who lives with her mum and dad,’ I mutter to Rosie as Oscar heads down the front path.

  He’s barely out the front gate when she wolf-whistles.

  I grab her arm. ‘There’s no way he wouldn’t have heard that.’

  ‘He’s a good-looking man, Lucy,’ says Rosie, smiling and raising an eyebrow at me. ‘A very good-looking man.’

  ‘Who’s good looking?’ Mum calls. ‘Besides me,’ she adds.

  We return to the lounge room, where Mum is now lying on the couch, charging her phone through a nearby salt lamp. Her feet are elevated, pointing towards a signed and framed photo of Cher on the wall.

  ‘The new guy next door. That smile! His teeth are superb! And did you see his eyes? Who has eyes that blue?’ gushes Rosie, adding, ‘He’s asked us over for drinks later, Denise.’

  ‘You should go for him, Rosie,’ I say.

  ‘No, you should go for him! You’re the one who’s been moping around for a year,’ says Rosie. ‘I’ve got Trent the Tradie, remember?’

  ‘I haven’t been moping,’ I protest feebly.

  Rosie and Mum exchange glances, then simultaneously pull identical hangdog faces at me. I scowl back at them.

  ‘Go and get changed, Lucy,’ says Mum. ‘And for God’s sake, wear something a bit flattering and put some makeup on …’

  ‘Yeah, for God’s sake!’ agrees Rosie, laughing.

  ‘You two are out of control,’ I huff, walking to the hallway and lingering there, knowing I’ll hear them talking about me.

  ‘Rosie,’ Mum whispers, ‘make sure you help her out when you go next door, okay?’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘I’ll pop over later, darl. I need to align my chakras or they’ll get away from me.’

  ‘Fair enough, Denise. Anyway, what can I do?’ says Rosie.

  ‘Get her chatting with those young men or something—anything!’ Mum says, then pauses before asking, ‘Has she mentioned Jeremy recently?’

  ‘No, not lately,’ Rosie says with a sigh. ‘But that doesn’t mean she isn’t thinking about him.’

  ‘I know, just the other day I saw her on that Facebook …’

  I continue to my bedroom. Though I know they both have my best interests at heart, a sense of despair looms when you hear your loved ones talking about you in hushed, urgent tones. And when the despair cloaks you, its favourite playmates—hopelessness and frustration—are never far behind. I try to shake my sudden gloom off, and replace it with positive thoughts like all those self-help books and Lululemon carry bags advise, but the reality of my present situation sinks into my bones until I’m sitting on my bed, cursing myself for lacking the strength to change my perspective and take charge of my life.

  I stay there a while, listening to Mum recap the latest episode of The Crown before Rosie starts talking about an article titled ‘Sixteen Ways with Leftover Bolognese’.

  ‘Look, Denise,’ I hear her say, ‘you can do chilli con carne, fajitas—oh, and here’s an exotic one: toasted sandwiches!’

  I smile as the two of them burst into laughter. When they’re not discussing me, I find Mum and Rosie’s banter very reassuring. There’s no need to feel anxious when your best friend and Mum are only metres away, listing the advantages of leftover bolognese.

  Looking across at my laptop I zone out, thinking about when I’ll have the heroine from Diamonds in the Dust dig up a 64-carat green sapphire. Probably in the next chapter. After a while Rosie calls out, ‘Are you sewing an outfit or what?’, bringing me back to reality. I sigh and start rifling through some drawers before finally settling on my favourite comfy jeans and a floral t-shirt.

  As I walk down the hall I hear Mum and Rosie resume their quiet, conspiratorial chat and when I enter the lounge room they look up guiltily.

  ‘You two have been talking about me, haven’t you?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ they chime back in unison, unconvincingly.

  ‘Yes you were.’

  ‘Nah we weren’t,’ says Rosie, looking me up and down. ‘Maybe pop another top on?’

  ‘You don’t like this one?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s a bit Noni B,’ she replies. ‘Why don’t you wear that sparkly top I got you?’

  ‘And put on some lippy,’ says Mum.

  I go and change into the silver Country Road top Rosie gave me for my last birthday, which I usually avoid because I worry it’s too revealing. Then, ducking into the bathroom, I put on a dash of makeup to please Mum. When I return to the lounge room Rosie and Mum look up from the latest HomeHints catalogue and nod their approval.

  Peering out the window into next door’s yard I see a woman who must be Oscar’s mum along with the bloke he was with before and feel quite excited at the prospect of socialising with new people. I chuckle as a familiar figure appears carrying a carton of Dark ’n’ Stormy. ‘They’ve invited Ruth,’ I say, knowing this will get a rise from Mum.

  Mum grimaces. ‘Oh well, they’ll learn.’

&
nbsp; Even though forty odd years have passed since Ruth and Dad were sprung skinny dipping in the pool at TAFE, Mum still holds a real set against her. Which seems weird, considering Mum and Dad weren’t even dating at the time. I mean, sure, Ruth’s personality is abrasive, and she has a way of throwing her considerable weight around, but underneath her gruff, man-eating, take-no-prisoners exterior, she means well. Rosie always says she wouldn’t trust Ruth as far as she could throw her, invariably adding that it wouldn’t be far. Rosie thinks I put too much faith in people but I still think Ruth’s pretty harmless. Anyway, I’ve given up asking Mum what her issue is with Ruth, and accepted that not everyone likes everyone.

  I’m watching Ruth knocking back a tinnie when I hear the sounds of glass chinking and look over to see Rosie crouched in front of the liquor cabinet carefully placing bottles into a Woolies bag.

  Mum, meanwhile, is horizontal on the couch again, highlighting sections from Ask and It Is Given. She’s always been a modern-day hippie with lippy, but since she and Dad sold the business she’s become more attuned to messages from the metaphysical. I suspect she’s still struggling to fill the void of losing her daily work routine selling frocks. She loved chatting with all the shoppers. Sometimes you’d even find her in the change rooms trying on the same outfit as a potential customer, convinced that if they saw her in the clothes they were considering they’d appreciate how smashing they too could look.

  ‘So I’ll see you there later, Mum?’ I ask.

  ‘You sure will,’ she says, closing the book and reaching for her phone. ‘I just want to revisit this podcast about the five people you meet in heaven.’

  ‘As you were, Denise,’ says Rosie, loaded up with her heavy stash of spirits. ‘Let’s go for a drive and get some ice, Luce. Then I’ll need to duck in home and get changed, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Yeah, no worries.’

  ‘Have fun, girls!’ calls Mum as we head to the front door. ‘And remember what Cher says!’

  ‘“These suspenders are too tight and I’ve got a massive friggin’ wedgie!”’ shouts Rosie. ‘Ha ha!’ she grins as we hop in my Corolla. ‘That’s what I’d say if I was Cher.’

  With Rosie beside me, Triple J on the radio and the wide blue skies overhead, I feel happier. We whiz past the schools on the range and down the hill, spotting familiar faces queued up at Bernie’s pie van in Allenstown, and a few girls we knew from high school pushing prams along the wide streets.

  ‘Hey, Susie!’ I yell out to a brunette with a Bugaboo.

  ‘Hey, Lucy!’ she yells back.

  We’ve barely gone a block further when Rosie rolls down her window.

  ‘Hey, Katie!’

  ‘Hey, Rosie!’

  I turn the corner onto the Bruce Highway and spot another old friend. ‘Gina!’ I call out and get a wave in return.

  Rosie peers intently into the rear-view mirror. ‘That wasn’t Gina,’ she says.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘Nuh.’

  We’re giggling again as I pull into the bottle-o, where a middle-aged woman I’ve seen around heaps ambles over to our car. According to the name badge pinned to her dark green polo top, she is Colleen.

  ‘Hi, just a bag of ice, please,’ says Rosie.

  ‘That’s all?’ the woman asks.

  ‘I think so,’ replies Rosie. ‘You don’t want anything else do you?’ she says to me.

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘Doritos?’

  ‘And a packet of Doritos,’ says Rosie, handing over ten dollars.

  Colleen sighs and shuffles off.

  ‘They don’t work on commission here, do they?’ I say to Rosie.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replies.

  Eventually Colleen returns with the chips and ice. ‘Chuck ’em in the back?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, thank you,’ says Rosie.

  We jolt in alarm at the almighty crack that sounds as the ice hits the floor.

  ‘Here’s your change,’ says Colleen, leaning on Rosie’s window sill. ‘So, what have you girls got planned?’

  ‘Just drinks with people who’ve moved here,’ says Rosie.

  ‘Two cartons of Tooheys New, a magnum of champagne and a few wine coolers?’

  ‘Sorry?’ says Rosie, clearly bewildered.

  ‘Couple of blokes came through earlier and got that. I think they’re brothers. Could that be them?’

  Rosie nods. ‘Could be.’

  Colleen steps away from the car and taps the roof twice, like she’s just serviced us at a Formula One pit stop.

  ‘I see her everywhere, that woman,’ I remark as she walks away.

  We drive the three blocks to Rosie’s apartment complex at the top of hilly Denham Street.

  ‘Hey, Luce, have you seen this?’ Rosie says, pointing as we cross the lawn.

  ‘Uh, it looks like a sprinkler,’ I say, not sure why that would be of interest.

  Rosie shakes her head. ‘Nup, it’s a fake! It’s a sprinkler head hide-a-key.’ She flips over the fake plastic sprinkler to reveal her house key.

  I laugh. ‘What’s the point of that? You’ve got a sprinkler head that doesn’t work, and a key that could just as easily be hidden under a rock!’

  ‘Oh, where’s your sense of fun, Luce?’ Rosie retorts. ‘I ordered it from Denise’s last HomeHints Direct catalogue. It’s got some fucking useful things.’

  I roll my eyes. Mum and Rosie are always buying useless contraptions from that ridiculous magazine.

  ‘How’s Trent the Tradie going?’ I ask as we walk up to her unit on the second floor.

  ‘He’s good,’ she says, opening her door. ‘Handy when he’s around. He can fix things.’

  ‘How often is he around?’ I ask as I sit on the couch.

  ‘I know what you’re getting at,’ she replies, ‘and yes, I’m still limiting it to Monday, Wednesday and Saturday nights. If I find that I like him more, then I’ll add in a Tuesday or Thursday. Maybe a Friday.’

  I smile wryly. ‘Well, it’s only been three months—I think he’s lucky to be getting three days a week at this stage.’

  ‘He’s fucking lucky alright,’ says Rosie, admiring her reflection in the microwave. ‘Anyway, sometimes you just need to have sex,’ she adds before heading into her bedroom.

  ‘But tonight’s Saturday, Rosie! It’s a Tradie Trent night!’ I call out to her.

  ‘No it’s not!’ she yells back. ‘He’s up fishing with some friends in Arnhem Land.’

  ‘Oh, righto,’ I reply, secretly glad that she’s unlikely to bail early on the drinks.

  I go out onto the balcony and admire the view. Soaring into the air about a kilometre away are the iconic sandstone spires of St Joseph’s Cathedral. The Fitzroy River glistens in the distance, and traffic streams across the two bridges separating the north and south sides of town. Beyond the bridges, in the north, lie the lofty blue mountains of the Berserker Range.

  Wandering back into the kitchen I pour myself a glass of water. Cookbooks are stacked up in a pile beside the sink, and a tall glass vase bursting with pink bougainvillea sits to one side of the stovetop. Rosie’s fluorescent orange kettle and toaster happily clash with the fridge, which she painted yellow. When it comes to Rosie, whether it’s her shoes, her handbag or her language, you can always count on it being colourful.

  I examine an unopened plastic box on the bench, emblazoned with the title Universal Can Colander, and look up to see her walking into the kitchen looking stunning in a summery blue dress.

  ‘It’s a little tiny colander that fits over the top of your can when it needs to be drained,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘It’s going to be a bloody godsend, Rosie!’

  ‘I know,’ she says, ignoring my sarcasm. ‘We’d better get that ice in an esky, hey?’

  As we walk over to our new neighbours’ house, my heart races like I’m a sixteen-year-old at her first co-ed dance and it strikes me that it’s been an age since I last went to a party. Looking at Rosie, I can t
ell she feels the same.

  ‘If we need to leave, at least we don’t have far to go,’ I whisper.

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ Rosie says, swinging open the creaky gate. ‘By the way, what does Cher say again?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your mum said …’

  ‘Oh, yeah—Cher.’ I shake my head. ‘Cher says, “Are you strong enough?”’

  Rosie looks at me. ‘I just hope my drinks are strong enough,’ she says, deadpan.

  I grab her shoulder. ‘Shit. We forgot to get sausages.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, you just say you’ll take stuff,’ she reassures me as we head around to the backyard, where we find Ruth, Oscar, and the others I’d spotted earlier, lounging in a semi-circle of collapsible chairs beneath a sprawling poinciana tree. A large esky is in front of them, and a clothesline to their right. Triple J plays in the background, which I take as a good sign. Oscar smiles and we exchange greetings before he introduces us to his kindly-looking mother, Helen, who has a mumsy-style haircut.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Lucy,’ she says, smiling brightly and extending her hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ I reply. ‘I live next door with Mum and Dad at the moment. And Rosie practically lives there.’

  I smile across at Rosie, who is pouring herself a generous amount of rum.

  ‘So, did work or family bring you to Rocky?’ I begin.

  ‘Neither,’ says Helen. ‘My husband passed away in Sydney earlier this year, and I decided a complete change could be good, so the boys helped me move up and are staying for a few days to help me unpack and settle in.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear about your husband,’ I say, surprised to find myself also feeling slightly sorry that Oscar and his brother won’t be here for long.

  ‘He was in pain, so it was a blessing in the end. But both the boys are taking it really hard, particularly Ben.’

  I follow her gaze towards Oscar’s brother, who’s just downed a shot of Sambuca.

  ‘Lucy!’ Rosie calls out, having already finished her rum. ‘Can you get me a beer?’

  ‘I don’t think we brought any, did we?’ I say, knowing full well we didn’t and suspicious of the glint in her eye.