Girl in Between Page 9

  For tourists, the village provides a peaceful escape from the crowds of Kyoto and the opportunity to stay in a working Buddhist temple. For followers of Buddhism, Koya-san—along with its incredibly atmospheric cemetery, Okunoin—is one of the most spiritually significant sites in Japan.

  Though I’m clearly no Buddhist, getting here felt a lot like a pilgrimage. I caught a series of trains heading south of Kyoto, travelling on gravity-defying tracks that wound between soaring mountains, before a final cable car ride that grazed the treetops. I felt so alive, it was like I was reconnecting with my fearless twenty-five-year-old self: the Lucy who existed before Jeremy, before The Headline Act, and before the various missteps and wrong turns I’d taken. I was rediscovering the Lucy who’d travelled around Portugal on her own, who had made the decision to move to Perth after living with Rosie in London, who had danced on a table at the Oktoberfest beer halls—the Lucy who had fun!

  Heavy footsteps stop outside my door and one of the monks knocks and then walks briskly into my room, carrying a tray laden with several dishes. He arranges them on the tatami mat with precision, each dish more colourful and exotic than the last.

  After he leaves I feast on sesame-seasoned tofu, plumflavoured miso and soba noodles with pickled ginger root and white radish. It’s easily the best meal I’ve eaten so far during my fortnight in Japan, and I savour every bite. Soon after I’ve slurped the last of my miso, the monk returns to unroll my futon.

  I lie down and listen to the rain falling lightly outside. This holiday is exactly what I needed. Walking through the ancient forests of Okunoin, gazing out at the changing landscapes from the train and doing some meditation classes, I’ve been gradually letting go of all the turmoil in my heart and mind over Jeremy, and finally seeing our former relationship for what it was.

  He and I had both harboured misgivings about each other. From our first meeting in Perth to breaking up in Melbourne, one of us was always more into the relationship than the other. We never seemed to dance to the same tune for very long. I’m the one who hasn’t been letting go and has been clinging to the sadness, and acknowledging that, and forgiving myself for remaining captive to it, has been a revelation.

  Some people seem to be masters of letting things go, to the point where you wonder if they ever hold on to anything in the first place. Perhaps therein lies the secret; to be detached yet engaged; to not hold on too tightly to an emotion or an outcome. Finally, it’s sunk in that nothing is really holding me back and, to be honest, there probably never has been.

  It’s both exciting and confronting, though, for me to realise that the world might again be my oyster, because then I feel compelled to do something amazing with the opportunity. I think one of the greatest gifts for me would be to know myself more: to understand what makes me happy and what makes me sad, and to cultivate the former. I wonder why something that sounds so simple can be so complicated. Is it because your ego is too quick to join the conversation, convincing you that you can do better than what you think makes you happy?

  This past fortnight, I’ve resolved not to dwell on what I’ll do next and just focus my efforts on finishing Diamonds in the Dust, while continuing to earn money writing freelance articles. If I’m ever going to have a shot at becoming a published author, I need to back myself and be disciplined and diligent.

  I’ve also been thinking about Oscar. He’s messaged a couple of times, asking how much sushi I’m eating, marvelling at the speed and efficiency of the bullet trains, enthusing about some of the chain eateries he visited when he was here last, and enquiring whether I’ve mastered chopsticks and basic Japanese. I think he kind of likes me, and I definitely like him, but I’m well aware that he has a girlfriend, and I don’t want to make grand plans in my mind built on false hopes.

  Right now, lying on the futon, listening to the rain, I feel content. I want for nothing, and so I say to my mind: Let’s, from this day on, travel down different pathways. No more default-mode self-defeating thoughts about indecision or low self-esteem dictating your life. No more beating yourself up about Jeremy. No more of any of that.

  By the time I leave Koya-san to meet up with Rosie in Tokyo I am feeling extremely Zen. Miraculously, I manage to spot her at the pedestrian crossing outside Shibuya Station, which is one of the busiest intersections in the world. Then again, with Rosie wheeling along her bright pink Samsonite and causing havoc by photo-bombing every second tourist’s snapshot, the task of finding her was relatively easy.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here!’ I say, hugging her as she spins around to face me.

  ‘She’s a bit busier than the corner of Fitzroy and Albert streets, Luce!’ she declares, taking my arm as we join the throng of humanity crossing from one corner to the other.

  ‘How about it, Rosie!’ I yell, craning my neck to take in the dizzying spectacle of towering video screens and flashing neon lights. We grin at each other, energised by the electrifying streetscapes.

  ‘Wow!’ she exclaims, patting my shoulder as we finally reach the footpath. ‘How fucking good is it to be in Tokyo?!’

  I lead her into a brightly lit, fairly crowded sushi train café and we squeeze ourselves and her suitcase into contention for the passing plates.

  ‘Can I buy you a beer as big as your head?’ I ask.

  ‘Only if you’re buying yourself one too,’ she replies, smiling.

  I order our drinks and we high-five each other as they arrive.

  ‘Gee, I haven’t seen you looking so happy and well in ages,’ she observes. ‘Japanese air done you a world of good, has it?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about the Tokyo air,’ I say, ‘but the time I spent meditating up at the Buddhist monastery on the top of a mountain in Koya-san was absolutely magic.’

  ‘Oh, she was right!’ says Rosie, resting her chin in her hands. ‘Sounds like I got here just in the nick of bloody time. But she’s always right, isn’t she?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, though I know the answer.

  ‘Your mum. She said that after two weeks alone with only your thoughts and the self-help books you no doubt snuck into your bag, you’d be barmy.’

  I smile at the thought of Mum, still scheming from seven thousand kilometres away.

  ‘She told me I couldn’t delay one more hour in getting over here,’ Rosie says, taking a large swig of her beer. ‘She even bought me some packing cells from Kathmandu!’

  ‘They’re actually very useful, Rose!’ I say in my mother’s voice.

  ‘Oh, Lucy,’ she says, patting my back. ‘Staying in a monastery on top of a mountain with fucking Buddhists. Well, I can tell you right now, I’m cutting all that crap out. For the next week, I’m in charge. I’ve got it all planned.’

  ‘Ha!’ I say, laughing. ‘It’s so good to see you! I don’t know what I would have done without you in Rocky.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ says Rosie. ‘Anyway, kanpai!’ She raises her glass.

  As we clink beers as big as our heads, I feel the happiest I’ve been in twelve months.

  True to form, Rosie’s plans consist of little more than a desire to follow the fun. Hence, the next day we find ourselves heading to the ‘hot spa capital’ resort city of Beppu, our destination a place we can only decipher as ‘Mudworld Onsen’.

  ‘Thirteen-yen admission, cheap as chips!’ says Rosie, handing over some crumpled currency to the attendant as we stroll under the entry flags into a large building of labyrinthine corridors and follow the signs to the ladies’ section, which consists of a bathroom lined with naked women sitting on stools, scrubbing themselves and shampooing their hair, using showerheads connected to washbasins. The onsen bathing rituals are a significant part of Japanese culture, and I’m determined to approach the experience with maturity.

  ‘Oh shit, Rosie!’ I exclaim, turning around to find her stark naked. ‘You could have given me some warning!’

  ‘Get your gear off, Luce, we have to wash ourselves before we get in the mud,’ she say
s, sitting down on one of the stools. ‘It makes no sense to me, but they’re not my rules to break, are they?’

  I should have known Rosie would take us to a city that has more than two thousand onsen. I can tell she’s absolutely loving this, and delighting in my awkwardness.

  ‘The water temperature is just divine!’ she gushes.

  I turn away and strip off my jeans and unfasten my bra, then sit beside her and twist on the showerhead.

  ‘So, how have you been, Luce?’ she asks casually, soaping up her chest, and I start giggling under my breath. It’s too much for me.

  ‘Alright, enough washing, Rosie,’ I say, turning off the showerhead and getting myself together. ‘Let’s hit the mud.’

  ‘After you, Luce,’ she says, looking across at me.

  ‘No! After you!’ I say, finally meeting her eye.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaims, ‘you may have been school captain but you’ve got no initiative! Follow me!’ she orders.

  We walk quickly across the tiles and down a dimly lit corridor. At the end of the corridor we walk into a brightly lit bathroom full of naked men washing themselves.

  ‘Fuck me!’ exclaims Rosie as some of the men glance up. ‘Quick, turn around,’ she sputters between gasps of laughter. ‘We’ve taken a wrong turn!’

  I run back along the corridor feeling ridiculous with Rosie trailing after me, breathless from laughing.

  ‘Here!’ I say, pointing to a sign that looks similar to the one printed on our entry ticket. ‘I think if we go along here, we’ll …’

  ‘Bingo!’ says Rosie as we emerge from the tunnel into a vast, open field of mud.

  We walk across the muddy expanse, joining dozens of other naked bodies in the centre, all wading around with mud up to their necks. A flimsy rope, strewn across the surface, divides the field into male and female zones. We lounge about by the rope.

  ‘Rosie, I haven’t been able to stop looking at men’s crotches,’ I say, to which she almost doubles over laughing. ‘And not just today,’ I continue. ‘I’m talking guys on trains, guys walking down the street, young guys, old guys, it’s like a disease.

  ‘No, I’m serious! It’s not funny,’ I say as she continues laughing. I add, ‘Oh, and guess what? I pitched two articles to Travel and Leisure magazine about the Buddhist monastery and cemetery, and they’ve accepted them both.’

  ‘That’s great, Luce!’ Rosie says. ‘Well done!’

  ‘Yeah, I think they’ll be published in a few months, so I’ve been getting my notes together, and it just feels so good to be writing again.’

  ‘How about your book?’ she asks. ‘What’s the Foster family up to?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re back on track. Trying to make a go of it on the gemfields.’

  Rosie rubs mud into her cheeks, like it’s an exfoliator.

  I take a deep breath. ‘So, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’

  She looks across at me. ‘You’re moving back to Melbourne?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve got a job?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re getting back with Jeremy?’

  ‘No, no, no.’ I shake my head. ‘Oscar.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ She grins, ceasing her exfoliation.

  ‘No, Rosie, I don’t know if it’s an “Oh, hello” or not.’ ‘Continue, please.’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve been thinking about him, but I don’t want to play games anymore, if you know what I mean. I’ve already wasted too much time. I just want to meet someone who loves me and knows they love me, and that’s that.’

  ‘You’ve got to love them too, though.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Rosie, ‘I know what you’re saying, but realistically, anyone we meet now, unless they’re twelve years old, is going to have a past. They’ll have been with other people, and there’s going to be some people that really got under their skin and that they’ll always love, and we just have to accept that, so I think we have to be okay with finding someone who may still love someone else, but is not so in love with them that they can’t make a happy future with us.’

  I stare at her. ‘Bloody hell, that was philosophical!’

  She smiles and flings mud at me. ‘Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think, haven’t I?’

  I gaze around at the sea of bathing bodies. ‘Maybe you’re right, Rosie. Actually, I think you are right, but it’s a bit depressing.’

  ‘Depressing but realistic,’ she replies.

  ‘God, you sound like my dad!’ I begin to apply a mud mask to my neck. ‘I think I’d prefer to meet a twelve-year-old.’ She laughs. ‘So let’s get back to Oscar. Shame you didn’t pash him at Helen’s housewarming when I told you to. He’s very good looking.’

  ‘Ha! Yeah, well, it can’t go anywhere as long as he’s with Kate. But he has messaged a couple of times since I’ve been over here.’

  ‘What, nude pictures?’

  ‘No, just trivial stuff about bullet trains and the best karaoke bars.’

  Rosie nods approvingly. ‘Useful information. I wonder if he went to the one we were at last night.’

  ‘Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know Jeremy is out of my head and I feel a lot better about life generally.’

  ‘Good, mate.’ She smiles. ‘I’m very pleased to hear that.’

  ‘What about Tradie Trent?’ I ask.

  ‘What about him?’ she replies. ‘I saw on Facebook that he’s got a new girlfriend.’

  ‘You don’t care, though,’ I say, knowing that she does, if only a little.

  ‘Yeah, I don’t care.’

  ‘He got under your skin, didn’t he?’ I ask.

  ‘I just can’t understand why he wouldn’t want to be with me. I mean, I’m me!’ She breaststrokes through the mud. ‘I’ve had far too much time on my hands since you left Rocky, Luce. I was round eating dinner with your mum and dad most nights, and taking Glenda for walks. I started feeling like you, God help me!’

  As we both laugh, we notice a man slip under the rope. He grins widely in our direction, and ever so slowly inches towards us. Rosie and I exchange a glance but pretend not to notice him and splash about on our backs. When we stand up we’re startled to see that he’s almost on top of us.

  ‘Hey, Luce,’ Rosie says, her voice an octave higher, ‘did you just touch my thigh?’

  Between convulsions of laughter, I manage to say, ‘No!’

  ‘Might pop out, hey?’ she says, giving the interloper a dirty look.

  ‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘This mud stinks a bit.’

  ‘I know!’ she says. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, because it was my idea, but this mud’s fucking feral!’

  We clamber out of Mudworld Onsen and in stitches of laughter, but without a stitch on, we run back along the corridors to our clothes.

  After shouting ourselves a stiff drink to recover from Mudworld, we decide to shout ourselves several more before trying out Beppu’s indoor sand baths.

  On arrival at the baths we are given summery cotton kimonos called yukatas to change into and instructed to lie down in adjacent sandpits. Beautiful Japanese women then begin to shovel loads of black sand over us.

  ‘Rosie,’ I say, shifting under three inches of soil, ‘I sort of feel like I’m being buried alive in a shallow grave.’

  She chuckles. ‘Me too. Wouldn’t it be a terrible way to go?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I reply as sand rains down upon my legs.

  ‘I’ve been thinking I have to learn that whatsit manoeuvre so I don’t choke to death,’ she says matter-of-factly.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The other night I was eating a celery stick while watching an old Seinfeld episode and I laughed so hard I almost choked on my celery! So, I thought it could be handy to know that manoeuvre.’

  It could be the sake I’ve been drinking most of the afternoon, but I suddenly feel an ocean of sadness for my friend and my eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Yo
u’re not always going to be alone, you know,’ I say, my voice quavering. ‘You’ll find someone who loves you very much, Miss Rose.’

  ‘Cut your fucking soppiness out right now!’ she yells. ‘If I could kick you in the shins, I would.’

  I laugh. ‘Oh, mate, I can’t even lift my hands up anymore to wipe the tears away. This is the pits!’

  ‘Literally!’ she quips.

  We listen to the scrape of the shovel on the cement and the dull thudding sound of the sand as it is deposited on top of our bodies.

  ‘You know how you were telling me last night about the Jeremy watershed moment you had in the monastery?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Was it all worth it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sadness of the past year to get to that point?’

  ‘No,’ I reply immediately.

  We both laugh and laugh.

  ‘I wish I’d let go of it all eight months ago. I just hold on to things for too long.’

  ‘You know when I think you were at your happiest?’ asks Rosie.

  Another shovel load hits my neck. It’s now impossible to look across at her.

  ‘Any time I wasn’t buried under three feet of volcanic sand!’ I exclaim.

  Ignoring me, she continues, ‘When you were in the Anne of Green Gables merchandise store on Prince Edward Island.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘It’s true!’ she says. ‘I remember you standing there in that I Love Gilbert t-shirt, holding up a tea towel printed with the recipe for raspberry cordial, and you were just glowing!’

  ‘That was one of the best days of my life, being in that shop.’

  ‘It’s the things from childhood, isn’t it, that take you back?’

  ‘Mmm. I don’t think I could move to Prince Edward Island, though. Too cold.’

  ‘London was cold and you loved living there,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, true. I did love London. It seems so long ago now, Rosie.’

  ‘I know! So long ago. And yet …’ She pauses. ‘It’s still there.’