3
May and Billy had lived in the same house my whole life. A five-bedroom weatherboard, five streets back from Bondi Beach, which had always been a second home. When I was a child, it had seemed huge and loud, and always filled with visitors, which, when combined with the three kids already living there, meant there was always something fun happening. Or some sort of trouble brewing with my big cousins. Now they’d all moved out and started families of their own, rendering May and Billy empty nesters. Not that it was ever empty, as there was always someone crashing in a spare room. After the break-up, when everyone—including May and Billy—started referring to the front room as ‘Alex’s’, I realised that I had technically moved in. I tried to give Billy an envelope of cash one day as a means of paying rent, and he was so upset he didn’t speak to me for three days. I never made that mistake again.
It was still dark outside when I woke up the morning after I arrived home, and in a moment of clarity and inspiration, I quickly jumped out of bed, found my yoga mat and headed to the beach in time for sunrise. I was no longer on a desert island, but I still had one of the world’s most famous beaches at my doorstep and it would be a shame to let the routine slip away—especially as I’d returned home without any plan for my life and would need all the good vibes I could possibly muster.
Afterwards, I walked home via my favourite overpriced juice bar, and was having an in-depth chat with a random girl in line about her limited-edition crochet Prada beach bag as the email came through.
When I saw who it was from, I nearly passed out.
For twenty-five years Goldie Miller had been the G.O.A.T. of radio in Australia and everybody knew it. Goldie didn’t just light up the airwaves, she set them on fire. Celebrities flocked to her. Listeners adored her. She was talented, electrifying, and I worshipped the ground she walked on. Goldie was probably also the first gay woman I’d ever known (apart from my mum’s cousin Alia who divorced her weird husband when I was six and shacked up with her best friend DeeDee six months later). Goldie and Joanie had been together since their university days, and had always seemed like a perfect, unbreakable pair. Goldie, the effervescent rock star of radio, and Joanie, the understated human rights lawyer who inherited a large fortune from her wealthy parents years ago and now ran a charitable foundation in their name.
Hearing Goldie on the radio when I was thirteen years old was the sole reason I had been determined to have my own radio show one day.
Goldie did the Sydney breakfast show on my station, and it was then networked through to the entire country that afternoon. Hers was the jewel in the network’s crown. In the four years that I’d done the night show, I had received exactly five emails from Goldie, all of which I had printed out, filed in a manila folder and hidden away in the locked top drawer of my desk at work. Everything from compliments (she loved a new artist I’d introduced and encouraged me to trust my ear when it came to breaking new music on the show), to advice (don’t be scared to stretch out the break past five or six minutes if you feel the interview is going somewhere) and criticism (nobody cares that much about your life yet … keep it about the music until you’ve earned the right to waffle on about your day). I cherished these emails more than anything; not only because her advice was incredibly helpful, but also because they were proof that Goldie Miller knew I existed. And more than that: she sometimes listened to my show. Probably after dining with Hugh Jackman, or chain-smoking backstage with Elton John—although ruminating for too long on the fact that Goldie might be listening was a bad idea in the same way that nobody wants to do karaoke with Adele or cook a steak for Gordon Ramsay.
So now that I had left the network, not only did the finance team have no reason to pay me (devastating), but Goldie Miller also had no reason to contact me (soul-destroying). Which is what made the email even more surprising.
Greetings, Ms York!
A little birdie tells me you’re back in town.
Would love to catch you for a little tête-à-tête in my office.
Thursday? 2 pm?
I’m assuming you’re free since you have no job (and apparently no boyfriend? Geez, what a run!)
Chat soon, x G
I sat staring at my phone, reading the email over and over. I even checked the email address to make sure it wasn’t someone (most likely Tom) playing a prank. Upon confirming that the email address did, in fact, belong to Her Royal Highness Goldie Miller, I responded straight away with great enthusiasm and with absolutely no desire or need to play it cool.
So, this was the reason Tom had wanted me to come home so quickly. But why? Why the heck did Goldie Miller want to see me? Should I be excited? Should I be scared? So many questions. The most important of which was: what the heck was I going to wear? Tomorrow would obviously be dedicated to doing the thing I did best. The thing that brought me clarity and joy like no other. The perfect distraction. The perfect preparation.
Tomorrow, I would go shopping.
I would buy the perfect ‘casual catch-up with Goldie Miller’ outfit. One that would give me the confidence I needed to walk into a room with my hero and feel like I belonged there.
I pulled out my phone and dialled Tom’s number. He answered after one ring.
‘Did you get the email?’ he blurted, not bothering with a hello.
‘Yes! What does she want?’
‘I don’t know. All she said was that I had to get you home. And to text her as soon as you were on a flight. I swear. It’s all so dramatic, I’m obsessed. What are you going to wear?’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘Don’t forget the mani-pedi. You look like you’ve got talons and Goldie deserves better. We all do.’
I was so deep in my shopping spree haze the next day that I almost felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. The intoxicating sounds gave me life. The beep of the credit card terminal as I tapped my card, the steely crunch of receipts being stapled together and handed to me, the soothing thump of shopping bags hitting each other at my side as I walked. I was in my happy place, and while I didn’t go as crazy as I normally would have (the peso-to-dollar conversion still had somewhat of a hold on me), I gave it a fair nudge, and once I got started it was hard to stop.
Mum FaceTimed me while I was in the dressing room at David Jones (our favourite department store) so I took the opportunity to catch up while getting a second opinion on potential purchases.
‘I’m pretty sure I made you that exact dress when you were about six years old.’ She laughed as I held up a silk and taffeta mini dress in blush pink. My grandmother had passed on her seamstress skills to Mum, which meant that while expensive shopping sprees were out of the question Mum could easily whip up anything I wanted without too much fuss. I still remember the sounds of her good sewing scissors cutting long strips of fabric against the dining room table, her sewing machine humming well into the night. Being a single mother to a precocious, fashion-obsessed ten-year-old couldn’t have been easy, but more often than not, the morning after a trip to the shops I’d wake to find an exact replica of a top I’d lusted after waiting for me on the end of my bed. While I accepted that homemade versions of the latest fashions were my lot in life, I often did so with a distinct lack of gratitude, and by the time I was old enough to appreciate having a bespoke tailor on hand, Mum had packed up the machine and refused to make me another thing. I didn’t blame her.
I always promised myself that one day I would buy myself all the pretty things I wanted, and for the better part of my adult life, I’d kept the promise. I wasn’t ashamed to admit that it felt good to be envied for once, to know that I had built the kind of life that would shield me from pity. There was a certain kind of satisfaction that came from a complete stranger eyeballing my outfit from head to toe as they walked past, though I knew it was altogether vacuous and represented everything that was wrong with the world. I worked hard, I had no dependants and no debt (apart from a credit card, the balance of which I checked only when I was feeling supremely brave). I had also earned a shit-tonne of money over the years and had nothing to show for it other than a world-class collection of designer shoes and handbags, but hey. Fiscal responsibility could wait.
‘I wonder what Goldie wants? I’ve got half a mind to call Tom myself for an interrogation,’ Mum said as I squeezed myself into a leather mini skirt.
‘He’s told me everything he knows. We’ll find out tomorrow, I suppose.’
‘Okay, darling. But you’ll let May and I know as soon as possible, won’t you?’
‘Promise, Mama. Love you!’ I waved at the phone as she blew a kiss back.
The martini craving hit sometime between the purchase of the Aje leather dress and the Golden Goose sneakers, and because I very rarely stopped myself from doing what I wanted at exactly the moment I wanted to do it, I soon found myself walking up George Street to the QT hotel, shopping bags in hand, salivating at the thought of my favourite drink and a gossip with Malik.
I loved this bar for many reasons, but perhaps the most obvious was that it was four minutes’ walk from my radio studio, which made it the perfect late-night spot to come down off the high of broadcasting live. Then there was the fact that the bar was in a hotel. Something that, even after years of travelling, I still found intoxicatingly romantic. The transience. The idea that everyone was from somewhere else and tomorrow they might all be on different continents. The reason I loved this bar the most, however, was that it was home to the world’s best cucumber gin martini, as judged by yours truly.
I lifted myself up onto a high stool and dropped the countless shopping bags I’d acquired to the floor, ignoring the urge to calculate how much I’d actually spent. That kind of behaviour was for rookies, and I was no rookie when it came to quietening the rising tide of anxiety with pretty new dresses and shoes. Why ruin a lovely day with those kinds of details? In any case, this was less of a ‘feel better’ shopping spree and more of an ‘I need a very specific outfit for a very specific meeting’ kind of shopping spree. Which made it totally okay.
A familiar voice sang out from across the room, getting shriller as it got closer.
‘Heeeeere she is!’
Malik was gliding towards me, tea towel over his left shoulder, his hands waving excitedly in the air. He leaned in for a long hug.
‘I missed you!’ I said into his aproned chest.
Malik was tall and slender with a shaved head, a gorgeous angular face and a thin gold nose ring. In four years, I’d never seen him wear anything but black.
‘I missed you too. Every time I make a cucumber gin martini, I think of my big-mouthed little barfly. And here it seems I’ve wished you into existence,’ he cooed, as he reached for the bottle of Four Pillars gin.
‘And not a moment too soon. I’ve been drinking dark rum for two months.’
Malik pretended to dry-retch as he got to work, and a minute later the perfect gin martini appeared in front of me. It felt like it had been both days and years since I’d been here last. I took a sip and let out an exaggerated moan as Malik spoke.
‘So, tell me everything. The island looked incred on Instagram. Please, tell me you got that arsehole out of your system?’
‘Affirmative. I’ve sworn off men altogether. I will never let myself be that pathetic ever again. I shall be forever alone with my shoes and my bags and my martinis. And I shall be happy,’ I declared dramatically, taking a long sip of my drink.
‘Love to hear it!’
We were interrupted by a cough at the other end of the bar. And not a real cough. The kind of fake cough people do when they want your attention. We both looked over to the man sitting on his own four empty seats down from me.
‘Oops. God knows how long he’s been sitting there waiting for a drink. Be right back.’ Malik winced as he ducked off.
I wondered what this guy was doing alone at a bar at 2 pm on a Wednesday. After all, I had the excuse of unemployment, but unemployed people didn’t wear Breitling Navitimers. (Most girls instinctively check for wedding bands; I check for watches. Because I’m classy like that.)
‘Gin martini, please. With cucumber.’ His voice was calm and deep.
Well, this was interesting. His taste in drinks was as good as his taste in watches. I had a real knack for chatting to strangers (or perhaps it was a compulsion). My ex used to roll his eyes as I’d launch into deep conversations with check-out chicks, strangers in the line at the post office, and literally anyone on the street with a dog of any description. I had another subtle look, trying to take in as much of him as I could in one quick glance. He would have been in his mid-thirties, with dark chestnut hair pulled back into a sort of man-bun situation. Ponytails on a dude were high up on my ‘ick list’ but I’d always considered the man-bun in an entirely new category altogether. This one in particular was not only acceptable, but also … kind of hot. He had stubble (not too neat) and wore a crisp black tee that looked like he’d just taken the tags off, and dark jeans rolled up at the ankle to reveal chunky, worn-in Redwing boots. The kind of boots I imagined Bradley Cooper or Ewan McGregor might wear while riding a motorbike into the sunset. Oh, and of course, the $15,000 watch. There was no two ways about it, this guy was gorgeous.
A watch says a lot about a man, in my opinion, and his choice was intriguing not because of the expense, but because of how understated it was. Douchebags spend that much money on a Rolex. But this was the kind of watch that flew under the radar altogether. Unless I was in the room.
‘Does this bar offer two-for-one deals, oh, handsome bartender?’ I called to Malik as I downed the last of my martini and motioned towards my empty glass.
‘For you, anything,’ he cooed as he pulled out a second glass from the rack, widening his eyes at me in a way that showed he too was vibing on our handsome interloper.
The man and I watched in silence as he muddled the vermouth with the cucumber, and added it to a cocktail shaker with the gin and ice. I raised my voice to contend with the sound of the shaker. ‘Has Malik ever made you a martini?’
‘Uhhh, no, actually. My first time here,’ he replied broodily, glancing very quickly at me, then back towards Malik’s hypnotic arm movements behind the bar. He sounded tired.
Malik passed us both our drinks. I raised mine in the direction of Watch Guy. He returned the gesture while making a very distinct effort to avoid eye contact. Was he being shy? Rude? Or did he just want to be left alone to enjoy his martini in peace? None of these possibilities deterred me.
‘Well, welcome. I’ve had approximately twelve thousand over the years and I’ve never had a bad one. So, good choice.’
‘I won’t need twelve thousand. Just one, and then I’ll head upstairs to my room.’ He said, more to himself than me. ‘I’m a little jet-lagged. I’m guessing you’re tired too …?’
I was confused for a moment, the penny dropping as I followed his gaze towards the shopping bags at my feet.
‘Oh … right. The shopping. I actually have a meeting tomorrow that I’m super nervous about. Well, I don’t even know if it’s a meeting. She called it a “tête-à-tête” so … yeah, look, I have no idea. But I’m shitting myself. And when I’m nervous, I shop.’ I was now officially rambling. ‘Which is dumb because I quit my job and I’m unemployed and shouldn’t be spending money on designer clothes … or martinis. But questionable life choices seem to be somewhat of a theme in my life these days.’
At first he said nothing, then after a moment he asked, ‘Do you always share this much information with strangers at bars?’
Malik interrupted and answered on my behalf. ‘She does. Every time.’
‘Yep. I do. It’s a compulsion,’ I added, swigging back the last of my martini and pulling out my wallet (vintage Gucci purchased from the most amazing store on the planet in Florence). ‘And now I shall leave you to finish your drink in peace.’
Malik held the EFTPOS terminal out and I tapped my credit card on top, a dance we’d both done hundreds of times. Only this time, a very loud and very unfriendly buzzing sound rang out from the little machine. It gave us both a fright. Malik squinted at the screen.
‘Well, babe, it was bound to happen eventually. Declined.’ He was trying to force a sad face but couldn’t through the giggles.
Mortified, I grabbed the terminal in my left hand to check for myself. ‘What? How? What do you mean?’
I pulled out my mobile phone with my free hand and saw a text on the screen. From the bank. Shit. I looked up at Malik, who was still giggling, and glanced over at Watch Guy, who was grinning and looking directly down at the bar.
‘My card got cut off. I … think the Aquazzura slingbacks may have tipped me over the edge there.’
Malik reached across the bar and patted my head as if I were a small, helpless dog. ‘Well, that makes sense. You have many strong areas but personal finances is not one of them.’
‘I suppose.’ I sighed. ‘I didn’t even know the card had a limit …’
Watch Guy stood up, put his phone in the back pocket of his jeans (classic Levi’s) and slid a fifty-dollar note across the bar. ‘Since we got a two-for-one deal, this should cover it.’
I defensively put my hand across the bar, pushing the note back towards him. ‘Oh God, no, it’s fine, I practically live here … I can pay next time!’
‘We can consider it an IOU for when our paths cross again,’ he replied, finally making proper eye contact. His eyes were a deep honey shade of brown and his lashes were thick and dark. This only made me more embarrassed.
‘But … it’s … it’s fine!’ I spluttered back.
‘I know. The martini was excellent, mate, thanks.’ He tipped his head at Malik as he strode towards the door, checking his watch (it was definitely a Navitimer). ‘See ya, Alex,’ he called as he walked.
‘Um, bye.’
Malik and I looked at each other, confused. Perhaps both realising at the same time that I had never actually told him my name.
Vanessa Blake, 8:01 pm: Adjusting to life in the big smoke?
Alex York, 8:02 pm: Yes. I went shopping today. ?
Vanessa Blake, 8:02 pm: What’s the occasion? Hot date?
Alex York, 8:0 pm: Work meeting. I think. It’s complicated. But I did share a martini with a hottie at a bar today.
Vanessa Blake, 8:0 pm: Work meeting sounds interesting … Wait, so you did have a hot date?
Alex York, 8:04 pm: Not really. He was at the bar at the same time as me. And we had a drink at the same time.
Vanessa Blake, 8:04 pm: That’s not really ‘sharing a martini’ but fine. Did you get his number?
Alex York, 8:05 pm: As if. I’m not you.
Vanessa Blake, 8:10 pm: No you’re not babe. I would have closed that deal in twenty minutes tops.
Alex York, 8:12 pm: He didn’t seem that keen. He was obviously blind. Or gay. If I ever see him again I’ll let you know. Bedtime for me. Love you. Miss you.
Vanessa Blake, 8:12 pm: xoxoxooxox