Girl in Between Read online

  ‘That’s alright,’ says Oscar, flipping open the esky. ‘Help yourself.’

  I glare at Rosie and bend over, feeling my top gape as I rummage around in the ice. I sense Ben and Oscar’s eyes on me, and abruptly stand, clutching a Tooheys New with one hand and trying to hold my top up with the other.

  Rosie winks and takes the beer from me.

  ‘So, what do you do, Lucy?’ Oscar asks as I return to my seat.

  ‘Oh, I used to work in the media but I’ve taken a break to try to write a novel.’

  ‘Much sex in it?’ asks Ben.

  ‘Ben!’ Oscar scowls at him.

  ‘Well, sex sells,’ says Ben with a cheeky grin.

  ‘Yeah, don’t I know it,’ agrees Ruth, shifting her hefty frame in the plastic chair. ‘I decided to wear my bikini for my latest flyer for the car wash, and now I’m that busy I don’t have time to scratch myself.’

  Helen nods politely as Ben almost chokes on his beer. ‘So, are you in a franchise, Ruth, or …?’ asks Helen.

  ‘Christ, no! I do it all myself. Ruth’s Wax ’n’ Shine on the unused corner of Fitzroy and Albert streets,’ Ruth replies, crushing a Dark ’n’ Stormy can in her hand and chucking it over her shoulder.

  ‘Right,’ says Helen slowly.

  ‘How about you, Ben?’ I ask as he battles to stifle his giggles and Rosie walks over to the clothesline gasping with laughter, unable to show any control at all.

  ‘Real estate … in Sydney …’ he says, taking a deep breath. ‘North Shore, the high-end stuff. But I’m taking a break for a week or so.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Is it? I don’t know,’ he replies, his expression suddenly serious.

  Before I can say anything, the front gate creaks open and we all turn to see Mum walking towards us wearing a tropical muu-muu and carrying a fruit basket under one arm and gifts under the other. ‘Hello, hello, hello! I’m Denise Crighton. Welcome to the street,’ she says, handing the basket to Helen.

  ‘Oh, how lovely! Thank you. I’m Helen Simpson, and these are my boys, Ben and Oscar. And do you know …’

  ‘Ruth,’ says Mum evenly. ‘Yes, I know Ruth.’

  ‘Terrific! Well, take a seat, Denise,’ says Helen cheerily.

  ‘Oh, I also have these for the boys,’ says Mum, smiling and holding up two parcels.

  ‘Thanks! Chuck ’em here so I can have first pick,’ says Ben, his hands at the ready, like he’s at the end of a tunnel ball line.

  ‘Ben!’ says Helen as Mum walks over to Ben and hands him the gifts.

  Grinning, he unwraps both presents to reveal two very large Hawaiian shirts. ‘Thanks, Denise,’ he says as he holds them up, before whispering, ‘Random,’ to Oscar.

  ‘What beautiful colours, Denise,’ says Helen. ‘Just lovely.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Mum nods. ‘They were Brian’s before he started walking again.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Helen, looking stricken. ‘Was he in an accident?’

  ‘No, he just stopped going for his morning walk and really porked up, so they’ve been sitting in the cupboard for ages.’

  ‘Oh,’ repeats Helen, shifting in her seat.

  ‘Yes, he watched an awful lot of television after we sold the business and retired,’ Mum rattles on. ‘I tried to get him interested in tandem bike-riding and clogging and such, but he wouldn’t have a bar of it. Even bought him his own set of bongos, which just gathered dust.’

  Rosie looks across at me and I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘But anyway,’ continues Mum, sitting up straighter, ‘like Cher says, “You don’t take your toys inside just because it’s raining”, and thank goodness Brian found the Jockey Club—and his waistline again.’

  A crow caws loudly from the fence, startling me, and I realise I’ve been holding my breath and exhale deeply. Ruth noisily crunches another can in her fist and carries on as if Mum isn’t even there. ‘Toss ’em my way,’ she says to Ben. ‘They’ll be too big for you runts. I could do with some more tops down at the car wash.’

  Ben throws the shirts to Ruth, who tugs one on over her black lycra singlet. It fits perfectly. ‘Cheers, Denise,’ she says, raising a Passionfruit UDL in salute.

  ‘Alright,’ says Rosie, clapping her hands together, ‘we’re not here for a haircut, let’s get this party started. Whenever anyone says the word “drink” or “Sydney” or “Rocky” they have to do a shot of Sambuca.’

  ‘Oh not Sambuca, Rosie,’ I plead, ‘you know that’s my kryptonite.’

  ‘I know, Luce, but you’ve got to be in it to win it,’ she replies with a not-so-subtle jerk of her head towards Oscar.

  ‘I could show you how I’ve arranged my furniture inside, Denise,’ says Helen half hovering out of her chair. ‘Would you …?’

  ‘I’d love to, Helen,’ says Mum, leaping from her seat.

  As they walk into the house the rest of us drag our chairs closer together.

  Ruth clears her throat loudly and proclaims. ‘Well, if I didn’t live in Rocky, I’d love to have a drink in Sydney.’

  ‘Good on ya, Ruth,’ I say and slap my thigh.

  Ben pours her three shots and Oscar looks on in awe as Ruth unflinchingly downs them, one after the other.

  ‘What was that movie where Sylvester Stallone played a boxer, Luce?’ asks Rosie.

  ‘Never heard of it, my friend,’ I say with a grin.

  ‘Rocky, Rocky II, Rocky III, Rocky IV, Rocky V and Rocky Balboa,’ says Ruth, counting the Rocky mentions on her fingers. ‘That’s six shots, Ben.’

  ‘Ruth, you’re not playing fair,’ says Rosie crossly.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing stopping you from saying “Rocky”, “Sydney” or “drink”, is there?’ retorts Ruth. ‘By the way, Ben, that’s another three shots. A total of nine. Actually, just give me the bottle, would you?’

  Ben tightens his grip on the Sambuca and Oscar stares down at his shoes.

  ‘Look, don’t worry,’ I say quickly, ‘there’s plenty for everyone to drink.’

  Rosie and the boys suddenly yell like they’ve just caught me out in cricket.

  I realise my mistake and put my head in my hands. Ruth and Rosie are chuckling now. I may be as sick as a dog later on, but at least I’ve dispelled the tension. I reluctantly accept the shot from Ben’s outstretched hand and grimace as the warm liquid rushes down my throat. There’s no turning back now, and I decide that if I’m going to get off my trolley I may as well do it on my terms. ‘Right,’ I say, standing up, ‘let’s play Wheel of Goon.’

  ‘Wheel of Goon?’ exclaims Oscar. ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘You’ve never played Wheel of Goon?’ I reply, smiling. ‘That’s crazy. Oh, hang on, maybe you know it as Goon of Fortune?’

  He laughs. ‘Nup. I don’t know what that is either!’

  Rosie bends over the esky and rips the wine bladder out of a Coolabah box.

  ‘Now, if you’ll just follow me,’ I say, walking over to the clothesline, where Ruth has already positioned herself under one of the steel spokes. The boys follow our lead and the five of us fan out under the crossbars. Rosie ceremoniously pegs the silver wine bag up to the wire, then stands directly beneath it, opens her mouth, and twists the nozzle. After an alarming amount of amber liquid has gushed down her throat she twists the nozzle closed and solemnly declares, ‘Welcome to Wheel of Goon.’

  Then, with an almighty shove, she sends the clothesline spinning, and we watch the silver wine bladder whir around and around until she abruptly puts her hand in the air, stopping the metal bar. ‘Oh, not again!’ she exclaims in mock disbelief, opening the nozzle. The wine cascades down her throat and she swallows several times before declaring, ‘Right, someone else better have a go now.’ She weakly pushes the clothesline, and the wine bag comes to a stop above Ben. He turns the nozzle and yelps in pain when the liquid enters his mouth. ‘Oh shit, that stuff’s sweet!’ he exclaims, clutching at his jaw. ‘Think I’ve got a dodgy tooth.’

 
; ‘Here, let me have a look,’ says Rosie, walking across to him. ‘I’m a dentist.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m a Supreme Court judge,’ jokes Ben.

  ‘No, she really is!’ I say. ‘She’s the best dentist Rocky’s ever had.’

  ‘Not sure about that,’ scoffs Ruth. ‘I go to Justin Adams on the northside and he’s very good.’

  ‘Whatever, Ruth,’ says Rosie. ‘Open up, Ben.’

  I look over at Oscar and we laugh as Rosie peers into Ben’s mouth.

  ‘You’ll have to lie down,’ she instructs. ‘I can’t get a good look from here.’

  Ben immediately obeys and Rosie leans over him until their faces are so close she may as well be doing mouth-to-mouth. I’m laughing so hard I have to steady myself against the poinciana.

  Suddenly she sits back and declares, ‘You’ve got receding gums. Get yourself some Sensodyne and a soft head toothbrush. That’ll sort you out.’ Then she unpegs the shrivelled goon bag from the clothesline and swallows the last of the liquid before blowing into the nozzle and inflating the bag like a balloon. ‘Here,’ she says, handing it down to Ben, ‘it’s a silver pillow now. You won’t fucking know yourself after a nap on that.’

  We return to our circle of chairs around the esky and Oscar angles his body towards me and asks about my novel and how long it takes to write a book. I explain that I’ve been writing for six months and have set myself a goal of seventy thousand words by the end of the year, and when I indicate how many typed A4 pages that would equate to, he shakes his head in wonder and with a lovely smile says, ‘Wow, I could never do that.’

  I worry that I might be boring him when he insists that I tell him the plot for my story, but he listens intently as I take him into the colourful world of the Foster family and the fossicking fields around Rubyvale.

  ‘Sounds very interesting,’ he says. ‘I’d like to say I know more about that history, but the closest I come is having “Gold Digger” on Spotify.’

  We both laugh. Who knew this man with eyes like a Siberian husky would be so warm and funny? And as our easy chatter moves from authors we both admire to our shared secret love of Bruce Springsteen, I find myself desperately hoping that no-one will interrupt our conversation, and that I can continue to keep his laugh just for me. To be honest, though, I don’t think I have much competition. Ruth’s flared up a durry by the front gate and Rosie is asking Ben if he mightn’t need a root canal treatment, to which he replies that he’s certain to need three.

  As the cans stack up and the afternoon drifts into dusk, Oscar continues to ask me questions about myself and my life in Rocky, and I’m so taken by his genuine curiosity that it’s only when Dad walks through the gate at eight o’clock, after returning from the Jockey Club, I realise that in all the time we’ve been talking I’ve hardly learnt anything about Oscar. He’d vaguely mentioned earlier that he worked in hospitality and I’m about to ask him more when I spot Rosie stumbling towards Mum and Helen under the moonlit poinciana.

  I struggle up from my chair—I’m not that sober myself as it turns out—and go after her.

  ‘Denise, Brian, thanks for your hospiltality,’ Rosie slurs, then reels around and mock whispers to me, ‘Pash him.’

  ‘He’s probably married, Rosie,’ I whisper back.

  ‘No, I heard him telling Ruth earlier about some on-again/off-again thing with a bird in Sydney.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t mean I should make a move on him.’

  ‘Don’t try and tell me you’re not a slut.’

  ‘Rosie! Go home!’

  ‘Oi, Oscar!’ she yells. ‘Pash Lucy!’

  ‘Sorry!’ I call to him, mortified. ‘She’s off her chops.’

  ‘No dramas,’ he says with a laugh.

  Meanwhile, Ben, who is now swinging from the clothesline, appears delighted by the exchange. ‘You country chicks are awesome!’ he yells, letting go of the line with one hand to high-five Ruth.

  ‘I think I might head off too,’ I say, sensing there’s no salvaging my chat with Oscar after Rosie’s outburst. ‘Nice to meet you guys. No doubt we’ll see you around.’

  ‘For sure.’ Oscar smiles. ‘See ya.’

  I thank Helen and welcome her to the street again, then walk to the footpath and find Rosie attempting, and failing, to hop on her bike.

  She looks at me sheepishly. ‘I know, I know—sorry, mate.’

  ‘That was the worst! Rosie, how could you do that to me? We’re thirty-two!’

  ‘It’s not my fault!’ Rosie protests. ‘There was Wheel of Goon, there were nachos! I felt like I was twenty-five again!’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ I concede. ‘Oh well, I’ll just have to lie low. How about that brother of Oscar’s?’

  ‘Oh! Wrong! When I fell over, he grabbed my arse while he was helping me up.’

  She rides off, wobbling all over the road. ‘See ya, Luce!’

  ‘See ya.’

  ‘Love ya, Luce,’ she calls, her voice growing fainter as she rides away.

  ‘Love ya,’ I call back.

  ‘I still think you should pash …’ she shouts, her voice fading as she disappears around the corner.

  Inside, I collapse on my bed and take a photo out of my bedside dresser. It’s of Jeremy and me, when we first met in Perth on a scuba diving course. I put it back and stare at the ceiling. Sometimes I wish Jeremy would just get engaged. Maybe then I would finally recognise that enough’s enough and sort of dust myself off to keep trekking on.

  I try to look at my situation rationally. I’ve got two thousand dollars in savings. I’m almost halfway there with my book. I’ve got my kelpie, Glenda. My life is not over, but somehow it feels like it’s lost that shimmering gloss of possibility it had when I was in my twenties.

  Apart from Rosie, most of my friends are married and have kids—and absolutely none of them live with their parents. I know I need to get out of this house, and get out of Rocky, but where would I go? I could head back to Melbourne and try to get an agent and crack the television presenting circuit, hoping to end up on Getaway, but how realistic is that? Or if I see myself bringing up a family in a regional town like Fremantle or Newcastle, shouldn’t I be moving there, meeting someone, and getting a job?

  Anyway, what if I nail it with this novel and become a published author? When I was little, I dreamt of either being a writer like Anne from Anne of Green Gables or operating a show bag stand; perhaps I just need to have faith in my childhood aspiration. I can write anywhere. I don’t have to be in Melbourne or Sydney. I can write in Rocky, and Rosie’s happy here, so why shouldn’t I be? Do I put up these barriers in my own head? Is it only myself I have to overcome?

  I shuffle the playlist on my iPhone and put it in the stereo dock. The first song is Radiohead’s ‘Fake Plastic Trees’. The drunken tears roll down my cheeks and onto the pillow.

  Moments later, there’s a knock on my bedroom door and Dad yells, ‘Turn it down, Lucy!’

  I lower the volume and hear him trudge along the hallway, muttering, ‘Awful bloody mournful music.’

  Soon after, I fall asleep to the lullaby-like lilt of Thom Yorke.

  I’m woken up the next morning by a horrendous whirring noise. I turn over and sandwich my head in a pillow, trying to block out the sound, but it cuts through and I sit up suddenly. Too suddenly. I feel rougher than a pair of hessian undies.

  As I lie down again, flashbacks from the night before hit me like a ton of bricks. Oh God, how embarrassing, I think, remembering Rosie yelling at Oscar to pash me. Ah well, who cares? I ask myself. He’s not available anyway. No-one that lovely and good looking is available. I hope we can be friends, though. I get up and change into some shorts and a t-shirt, then open my door to discover the source of the shocking racket is a silver disc whizzing around the hallway floor.

  I stride into the lounge room and find Mum doing Qi-Gong to Cher’s ‘Just Like Jesse James’. ‘Mum!’ I say, raising my voice above the din, ‘what’s the thing on the floor making all that n
oise?’

  ‘It’s Roomba!’ replies Mum, her arms outstretched and her left leg extended. ‘I ordered her from the HomeHints catalogue and I think she’s going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’

  ‘She woke me up!’ I exclaim, making a mental note to burn the bloody HomeHints catalogue the next time it arrives.

  ‘Well, it’s about time you got up, isn’t it?’ says Mum. ‘It’s midday! And don’t you go bad-mouthing Roomba—she’s vacuuming up all of Glenda’s white dog hairs!’

  ‘Oh, righto,’ I say, keen to avoid an argument. ‘What’s Dad doing?’

  ‘He’s in the TV room watching a rerun of Meals in Wheels. I have to admit she does a good job, that Tiffany Bloxsom.’

  ‘Mm,’ I grunt. Tiffany Bloxsom and I started out presenting on television at the same time in Perth. She now hosts Meals in Wheels—a reality TV cooking show where contestants prepare dishes in a van and compete for the title of Australia’s best food truck. Unbelievably, it rates through the roof.

  ‘Do you ever hear from Tiffany?’ asks Mum, adjusting her sweatbands.

  ‘Mum, why would I ever hear from Tiffany? I haven’t spoken to her in four years.’

  ‘Well, forgive me for trying to make conversation,’ says Mum, reaching for her water bottle. ‘Someone’s a bit touchy today, aren’t they?’

  My phone pings and I read the text message, which is from Rosie and says: You up? If so go and get us a DVD! I’ll be over in 15.

  Okay, see you soon, I type, and head for the car.

  Fading fast, I stand at the Video Ezy counter waiting for the cashier, who I immediately recognise as Colleen from the bottle-o yesterday. She flips over the case of season five of Girls and reads the blurb, eventually saying, ‘Girls, hey? What’s this season like?’

  ‘I don’t know—I haven’t seen it yet,’ I reply wearily, looking at the chicken Twisties longingly before realising I’ve still got the pack of Doritos from yesterday in the car.

  Colleen scans the barcode, removes the DVD, and slowly inserts it into a cleaning machine. ‘Maybe one not to watch in front of the kids?’ she says.