Chapter 11
7 August 2023
Bridie:
I babysat Matty for a couple of hours this morning while Uncle Chris went to the footy. He’s doing so good Brynn. Getting super tall. Here’s a picture of him and Henry getting up to mischief in the backyard.
I doze on the subway home, my hand throbbing where Perdita nipped me. I’m supposed to go to Hilde and Mason’s housewarming tonight: an event I was excited about when Hilde first invited me. But the gloom of my homesickness feels heavy. Maybe I’ll just curl up in bed and pretend I forgot about it.
The four flights up to the apartment seem a bit longer tonight and the deadbolts on the door a little harder to open. The apartment is dark, and I sigh as I flick the light on. Another night home alone.
My spirits lift when I get into my room and see a huge box with an Australian postmark. I drop my stuff on the ground and sit on the bed, careful to keep my gross doggy daycare shoes off the covers, and tear into it.
Packets of Tim Tams come flying out, plus a wad of drawings from Matty and an envelope with Nan’s handwriting. I rip open the Tim Tams and eat three without stopping for a breath while I open Nan’s envelope. It takes me a while to read her neat writing punctuated with phonetic spellings. I never realised that Nan writes the way she speaks, and as I read her gossip about ‘Uncel’ Rusty getting stuck into some fulla down the pub for handing out Pauline Hanson ‘ No Campaign’ flyers with the meat tray tickets, and Matty telling her I’ll be home in time for Christmas, it’s as though she’s sitting here, chatting with me.
When I get to the last page, after the hugs and kisses and ‘love, Nan’, there’s an arrow indicating I should turn over. Stapled to the back is an international cheque, for 3000 US dollars and a PS that reads:
Chris says your job isnt covering rent and your using savings for it. So I hope this helps abit. You can use it for rent but betta if you use for some fun stuff too. The lady at the bank did it up and said you can cash it in america. Go and chase your dreams bub.
My eyes fill with tears and I want to kiss the page. I’m not out of money because I’ve been saving for New York since my first job in high school, but I am relying on my savings to supplement rent, which has made my New York life a bit hard. It’s not easy to enjoy all the city has to offer when you’re worried that buying a treat here and there might cut your time short.
I think about Nan in her little house in Ipswich that she’s had forever. She worked hard to be able to buy that place, and only recently retired. I run my fingers over the cheque and Nan’s letter, and think about tearing it up or returning it uncashed. It doesn’t feel right to take money from her when I know I won’t be able to pay her back for a long time. I grab my phone and check the time back home, then log in to Skype. We tried to get Nan on to WhatsApp before I left, but it was too confusing for her. In the end, I decided it would be easier to buy Skype credits and to call her landline. So after checking I’ve got enough credits, I dial.
‘Hello?’ Nan shouts as the line connects and I can hear her hearing aid whistling.
‘Nan, it’s Brynn.’
‘Who? Betty?’ she asks, saying the name of one of her sisters who lives up in Toowoomba.
‘No, Nan, Brynn. Granddaughter Brynn.’
‘Oh! Brynny! How are ya, darlin’?’
I try to tell her I’m good, but halfway through the sentence she starts calling out, ‘Rusty, where are ya? Brynny’s on the phone and I can’t hear a ruddy word she’s saying.’
The commotion that goes on in the background; the cries of ‘Ay? What did you say?’, Nan’s hearing aid squealing and the sharp Aussie twang of her and Uncle Rusty hollering at each other make the tears start streaming again; this time they’re tears of laughter, not homesickness or sadness.
‘Brynny, you there, darlin’?’ Finally, Nan’s voice comes down the line, this time without the whistle of her hearing aid.
‘I’m here, Nan. I got your parcel. Thank you.’
‘Ahhh, I knew you’d be callin’ then,’ she said. ‘Bloody take it down the bank and cash it, love.’
‘Nan, I’m real grateful but ...’
‘But nothing. It’s money out of your inheritance so don’t go crying when all the rest of the kids gets more when the day comes.’
I laugh. ‘I won’t.’
‘I want you to have a good time. And, you know, part of you is from there as well. Even if he’s not part of your life, some of your spirit comes from there.’
My lip wobbles. She’s always been so insistent that I connect with America, even though Mum went back to Nan pregnant after studying in New York.
‘Brynny? You gone quiet, love. You okay?’
‘Sorry, Nan, I was I thinking about Mum. I think about her so much. I wish I’d talked to her more about her time here.’
‘I thought you did?’
‘I mean, we did. But now I’m here, I want to know what it felt like that first time she saw the New York skyline, or where her favourite coffee shop was.’
‘She loved it there,’ Nan says. ‘I’m too old to remember the specifics, but every time we talked on the phone—I had to have one of those phone card things with those great big, long pin numbers—anyway, she’d call and sound so very happy. I was always sure I was gonna lose her to that city. But instead she came home with even more for me to love.’
‘You didn’t always think that, though, did you?’
There’s silence for a moment. ‘No, I didn’t. I was angry for a start and said lots of stuff that I wish I hadn’t. But sweetie, it all worked out in the end. I loved your mum. I love you. And Chris loves you too, even if ya want to go see if you can find the other fulla.’
‘I know where the other fulla is,’ I say.
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, we’re Facebook friends. Not that that means anything. We’ve sent each other, like, two messages about three years ago. He doesn’t even live in New York anymore.’
I’ve read enough novels to know that going searching for my biological dad—or the other fulla, as Nan calls him—should theoretically make a good New York story. But I’ve never wondered much about him: probably because Mum and Nan got in touch with him when the pregnancy became obvious and he never answered. But also because Mum never hid him from me. She talked about their young love like the whirlwind romance it was and while she never villainised him for not being in my life, I didn’t feel like I was missing anything by not having him around. Mum and Nan were enough when I was little, and then Chris came along.
I friended him on Facebook a few years ago because I was curious, and we’ve had a few messages here and there. I asked about family—do I have brothers and sisters? What were my paternal grandparents like?—and he told me about him and his wife being happily childfree, about his parents passing—his dad from cancer, his mum in an accident while he was in college.
I would have been open to meeting up with him but as he’s on the West Coast there’s no chance of that, and I find I’m fine with the fact.
Nan and I chat for a little while and then the computer beeps to tell me I’m almost out of Skype credit. We end the call with me promising that I’ll pay her back when I get a proper job. She’s yelling out ‘Bullshit’! as the phone cuts off, leaving her voice ringing in my ears and my heart aching for home.
I rub my fingers over the cheque again and think about cashing it tomorrow. Nan is right, it would give me the chance to settle without scrimping and saving so much.
My thoughts are interrupted by the apartment door opening and Corey bursting in. She’s wearing a beautiful grey wool skirt suit and her signature black Louboutin shoes. Her hair looks as though it’s been blow-dried, and is long and straight and so shiny I can practically see my reflection in its surface.
‘Hi, sorry, I’m running late,’ she says, waving down the hallway to me. She disappears into her room, where I hear the thud of her bag, then her shoes. She comes into my room a couple minutes later dressed in a navy silk wrap dress, sticking a huge gold hoop earring into her ear.
‘Why aren’t you dressed?’ she asks, looking at my nest of blankets and Tim Tams. ‘Is this what was in the parcel? Are they cookies?’
I hold out an open packet to her and she takes a Tim Tam. ‘I’m not up to it tonight,’ I tell her.
‘You have to come. I hear she’s got some of the burlesque girls and drag queens from Cat’s performing, plus it’s open bar. Free booze. Come on, you haven’t been out in ages.’
I feel my resolve to stay home dip just a little bit; an open bar at a house party is kind of fancy. Corey senses that I’m convincible and grabs hold of my hands, forcing me to my feet. ‘Go, shower. There’s time. You’ll wear that black and gold wrap dress, ay?’
Thirty minutes later, we’re out the door and into a cab. Hilde’s apartment is across the park on the Upper West Side, and Corey spends the whole trip wrangling both my hair and makeup into submission.
‘Holy shit, that bitch got herself a doorman,’ Corey breathes as the cab pulls up and a uniformed man opens the door for us. She pays the driver and palms the doorman a note as he buzzes us into the building.
The lobby is plain, but it’s clean and tidy and has an elevator, which, compared to our fourth-floor walk-up with its dingy, narrow staircase and mailroom that’s never seen a cleaning cloth, makes it akin to the Ritz. The door is open on her floor, and we walk inside, both of us letting out a gasp at the same time.
The room is bright and white with lush, honey-coloured floorboards that, unlike the ones in our apartment, are polished and gleaming. Our living room would fit into the space three times over, and there’s an enormous black leather sectional couch underneath a huge picture window that looks out onto the street. The view isn’t anything special, but I can tell that during the day the apartment will be full of light. The kitchen is huge with a white marble benchtop to separate it from the living space, and gleaming stainless-steel appliances lining the counters. The place even smells good: like vanilla candles and delicious things cooking in the kitchen.
‘There’s no way she’s paying for this on her tips and daycare,’ Corey says in a low voice. ‘She’s a fucking awful bartender. This is either all Mason’s doing, or she’s got some kind of side-hustle I don’t know about.’
I think back to all the nights we’ve spent at the Cat’s Meow and try to remember if Hilde was a bad bartender. It’s hard for me to tell what’s good or bad in the US, though, given that they free-pour and every mixed drink tastes like pure alcohol to me. There’s been some questionable cocktails that we’ve sampled a few times. But they were free so who was I to complain? Anyway, Hilde is universally adored at daycare, so maybe the pet parents are tipping her well?
‘Is there something about Mason you don’t like?’ I ask.
Corey wrinkles her nose. ‘I don’t know, just something about him rubs me up the wrong way,’ she replies.
Hilde spots us then and comes over, bearing two flutes of champagne. She gives us both air hugs and then hands us the glasses. ‘Hope you like Veuve?’ she says as I take a sip. I snort and it gets stuck in my throat so the honey-flavoured bubbles burn at the back of my nose.
‘Since when can you afford Veuve?’ Corey hisses, and Hilde shrugs.
‘Mason’s got connections,’ she says.
‘Of course he does.’ Corey rolls her eyes when Hilde isn’t looking. She really doesn’t like this guy.
‘It’s a special occasion. We’ve just got a few bottles and then we’ll switch to beer and wine, okay?’
More guests arrive and Hilde races off to get them each a glass of Veuve. Corey turns to me and I can see that she’s fuming. ‘Mason’s contacts,’ she says, as though I know what she means by that. ‘Where the fuck is the man himself if it’s his contacts paying for everything?’
‘In the spare room ogling the burlesque girls,’ a voice comes from behind and we turn to see another bartender from Cat’s clutching an empty champagne flute. His eyelids are smeared with glitter and his hair has been dyed a soft pastel pink.
‘Fucking typical,’ Corey says, and that sets my spine tingling.
‘Well, at least you don’t have to work and live with Hilde anymore. That must have drastically reduced your exposure to Mason’s shit,’ he answers. ‘Hey, Brynn, how’s it going?’
We chat for a while, but I’m out of the loop and awkward. Corey drifts off with people I don’t know and I get sick of having the same ‘Nope, not English’ conversation and smiling through people’s Crocodile Dundee impressions, so I head into the kitchen. Finding one of the open bottles of Veuve, I refill my glass and snap a selfie, holding the flute out like I’m toasting the camera, before sending the picture to Dotty and Bridie.
The phone buzzes almost as soon as I’ve done so, but when I check the notifications, it’s not the girls, it’s Jacq.
‘Did u block me on insta?’
I frown at the screen and shove my phone back in the black clutchbag Corey loaned me.
I might be homesick, but it’s for the way Bridie and Dotty and I have a shared language, a shared understanding and way of being. I’m not homesick for the creeping anxiety I was feeling more and more often with Jacq.
‘Hey, where’ve you been?’ Corey comes into the kitchen and helps herself to a refill of champagne.
‘Just feeling a bit homesick.’
‘I know it’s hard,’ she says, grabbing my hand with her free one and dragging me out into the living room. ‘But the dancers are going to start and they will definitely cheer you up.’
She leads me to where all the other guests have moved, some to sit on the giant sectional, others standing and leaning against the wall. At the front of the room, with two almost floor-to-ceiling picture windows behind, stands the blonde, gorgeous, fat burlesque dancer I saw on my first night at the Cat’s Meow with Corey. She’s wearing a fitted, sparkling pink strapless gown with matching satin opera gloves, and as she turns around to peel one of them off seductively, we make eye contact and I realise why Sienna at the vet surgery looked so familiar.
‘Oh god,’ I breathe.
‘What?’ Corey asks.
‘I know her,’ I say.
‘Who? Scarlett Belle?’
On the stage, which is just a giant rug, the dancer has removed both gloves and is now making a show of unzipping the pink gown, her back to the audience, her face framed in silhouette. I squint, but then realise that’s a bad look when there’s a girl taking her clothes off in the room.
‘Oh, maybe that’s not her. But I could swear ...’ Then Scarlett Belle turns around as she drops the dress to the ground to reveal a sparkly pink bra and high-waisted undies set, and we make eye contact again. I feel my cheeks heating. ‘Nope, definitely her.’
‘You know her by a different name?’
‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s ...’
Corey holds her hand up to stop me. ‘No, don’t say it. There’s, like, a code in the bar and nightclub world. You would know her by her day-walker name, but it’s better for her if you don’t use it here,’ she says.
‘Day-walker?’
‘Her real name. All the dancers and queens at Cat’s and all the other clubs in the city use stage names.’
‘Oh, okay, so am I allowed to talk to her here?’ I ask, wondering if it’s appropriate for me to be watching the nice girl from the vet surgery take her bra off and twirl her pasties while the thirty-odd people in Hilde’s living room toss dollar bills at her.
‘Of course you can. In fact, she’s a friend and hangs out at our apartment a bit, so you’ll kind of have to talk to her at some point,’ Corey says, giving me a strange look that I can’t read.
‘I meant here while she’s dancing.’
‘Brynn, be cool,’ she says, and reaches into her purse. Corey hands Sien— Scarlett —a ten-dollar bill as she passes on her way out of the lounge. Scarlett and I make eye contact again.
‘Hey, Brynn,’ she says, not a hint of embarrassment on her face. ‘Will you be here in a sec?’
I nod and Corey nudges me. ‘I guess you’re gonna talk,’ she says, grinning. ‘And then you and me are going to talk in a cab on the way home.’
Before I can say anything, a drag queen comes out of the back room to begin her performance and the audience cheers.
As soon as the show is over, a skinny white guy wearing a fedora comes over and drags Corey up to the centre of the room, where the rug-stage has now turned into a dance floor. I watch her jiving with him and think that in the cab home I’m going to have to ask her why all her friends from the bar, including her, seem to know how to swing dance.
I find a place on the edge of the chaise in front of a plate of cheese and have a mouthful of excellent brie when Sienna emerges, dressed in an emerald cocktail dress with a flared waist and black high pumps with super thin heels. Her hair is set in a perfect ’40s pageboy that frames her face. She hands me a cocktail and sits down.
‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she beams. ‘You know Hilde?’
‘Sort of. I’m living in her old apartment.’
‘Oh, you’re Corey’s new roommate? I should have put it together when we met today! Golly, this town, I tell you.’
‘And you’re ... a dancer?’
She grins. ‘Yep. Shaking my pasties for dollar bills at the Cat’s Meow since 2018.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Oh, I fucking love it,’ she says and I can’t help smiling. The curse coming out of her doll-like face, in her sweet Southern accent is a contradiction. ‘Seriously, I started taking beginner classes because I had a friend who said it made her feel sexy. And then I just kinda got addicted to it, and before you know it, I was booking solos.’
‘You look amazing up there,’ I say. ‘I could never ...’
‘I do look amazing, and you could. You’re sexy as hell, Brynn, you’d be great at it. And the tips don’t hurt either.’
‘No, seriously, I do my Ancestors shame with my lack of rhythm,’ I say, but my cheeks flush. ‘How many nights a week do you dance?’
‘Once or twice a week at Cat’s, maybe same again at one of the gay bars downtown, but the drag queens headline there, so it’s just if they need filler.’
‘Four nights a week, and you’re at the surgery too? No wonder I haven’t seen you out with the Cat’s crew at other things,’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘That’s NYC for you. I’ve got to make up for lost wages from the pandemic.’
‘Well, as an editor who spends a fair bit of time picking up dog poo, I feel your pain,’ I say.
‘Ahh, see that’s why you should take up dancing.’ She nudges me and then takes a deep sip from her drink. ‘Get yourself away from the doo-doo and into the glamorous side of life.’
I look at her: the hair, the makeup, the beautiful dress. She—maybe without the dancing—is what I thought I’d come to New York and be. Seductive and confident, hard-working but enjoying life too. The job at Dogue’s isn’t remotely enough for me to even entertain the thought of upgrading from the occasional visit to Pam at the 86th Street Goodwill to Sienna levels of sophistication.
‘So, is that why you’re here? In New York?’ she asks, sparkling eyes flicking from my eyes to my lips for a second.
‘Yeah, I had grand plans of getting an internship at The Paris Review and being a proper New Yorker,’ I say, unable to hide the embarrassment from my voice.
‘You’re not the first one to come here and realise the city’s not what it is in the movies.’
‘But it is for some people,’ I answer, taking a sip of the cocktail. It’s nice—fruity and sweet.
‘How many times has Corey told you that damn story about the agent in the park?’ she says, glancing to the dancefloor, where Corey and Fedora Guy are all over each other, while that same Dua Lipa Barbie song that I danced to with Bridie and Dotty at my going-away party back home plays.
‘A lot,’ I answer.
‘Corey’s great, and she was lucky, but she also had to interview for that job. And Gleeson’s is a big PR company. There were lots of reasons why her CV stood out.’ She grabs the half-drunk cocktail out of my hand and sets it on the coffee table. ‘Come on—let’s see what we’re working with.’
I let Sienna drag me out onto the makeshift dance floor. I hate dancing in clubs or at parties: my instinct is to shuffle from foot to foot. I know I look fine, but whenever I think about people watching, I realise I don’t know what I’m doing with my hands and get awkward. It doesn’t help that Sienna is a natural, and even just bopping to pop songs, she’s got natural rhythm. When she sees me clamming up, she reaches out and directs me. After a few songs, I let go, and we spend the rest of the night laughing and dancing to pop music. Dancing with Sienna is fun: she makes me feel comfortable by doing silly things that make me laugh and then shows me simple moves that I can easily copy.
Later, when the party starts to wind down and there’s no sign of Corey, Sienna and I share a taxi home.
‘We should do this again,’ Sienna says as we stop outside my building, touching me lightly on the hand. There’s a weird moment where my skin feels electrified under her touch.
‘Definitely,’ I say. ‘But how is it that I keep making friends with New Yorkers who work two jobs and are super busy?’
She grins. ‘Babe, that’s all New Yorkers. Just you wait, it’ll be you too.’