CHAPTER 14
THERE’S AN UNIDENTIFIED crusty bit of food stuck to my work pants. Scratching it off just leaves a white powdery residue behind, and there’s no helping it. Frankly, this company gets what it gets—it’s only a corporate awards party anyway.
Nicole walks in and selects a locker three down from mine.
It’s just the two of us, which is new because she’s never normally this punctual.
I don’t really know where we stand. We haven’t been to Friday drinks yet, but we also haven’t spoken since the Saturday-night exchange.
I exist in limbo, so I wave and smile. (Yes, I wave again.
Gross.) She has the option to just say hello and move along.
But instead she turns to me, leaning against her open locker. ‘So, how was your weekend? Did you have fun with your friend?’ An exaggerated wink.
‘I was away with three friends actually,’ I reply, a little smug. See? I have three friends (not sure William counts, but for these purposes he’ll do).
It does not have the desired effect, because Nicole just smirks. ‘Oh, I know. Bee tagged you and the other third wheel in her stories.’ The fucking stories strike again. ‘Is he hot? I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned him.’
‘Yeah, he’s Will’s friend.’ That doesn’t sound right. He’s my friend too. My friend, who I’ve kissed. ‘We’ve hung out a fair bit now. Hard to describe re: hotness. He’s not obvious. Like a librarian, maybe?’
Nicole nods sagely. ‘I get it. The Chris Evans in the cable-knit sweater effect; he’s somehow sexy in the jumper, but you also just know there’s a rig under there?’
‘Unconfirmed on the rig. I haven’t seen him shirtless yet.’ Nicole’s face indicates she has not missed the use of the word yet. In response, I don’t add that it’s about seventy-five per cent confirmed thanks to his shitty old (fantastic) T-shirt.
‘Anything happening there?’ She looks eager, excited to know. Keen for the tea.
She actually asked.
My pause, my diverted eyes, is enough for Nicole to connect a few dots. ‘Ah!’ she squeals, rushing to close the gap between us. She grabs my hands and squeezes them. ‘I was only like sixty-five per cent sure that there was something to tell! Spill!’
Deep breath. You can do this. She wants to know. Maybe she can help. ‘He kissed me.’
She squeals again. It hurts my ears, but it warms my heart. ‘How was it?’
‘Terrible.’
This stops her. ‘What?’
It’s a miracle that no one else has walked into the staff area while I relay the whole sad, sorry tale.
My telling doesn’t make a lot of sense. I keep remembering things.
Being his hero, baby. Drew Barrymore. Chaperoning.
Hands touching. Movie pashing. Cabernet sauvignon.
What even is your life? I hear Nicole mutter at one point.
I think it is during the part about the chaperoning. Honestly, fair.
‘So basically I’ve got no idea what’s going on and where we stand now.’
‘You didn’t talk to him about it?’ What, like mature adults with functioning communication skills? Is she insane?
‘There wasn’t really an opportunity.’
‘But you haven’t texted since?’
‘No.’
‘What is wrong with you?’
This shocks me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You like him. He likes you. He kissed you. Text him! Go on a date! Check out the rig!’ My hands are starting to fall asleep now from Nicole’s squeezing, but when I try to pull them back, she clings harder. Her face is really close to mine now, her eyes imploring me to listen to her.
‘That’s what you got from this story? I never said I liked him!’
‘Yes you did, just with different words.’
No. Nicole has never met Arthur, never seen us together. And I never said I like him. ‘I can’t like him,’ I say quietly. And I’m aware that’s not saying that I don’t like him.
‘And why the fuck not?’
‘Why the fuck not what?’ In saunters Reg, shirt unbuttoned scandalously low, hair artfully mussed. ‘Gertie, darling, it has been an age!’ Then he kisses me three times on the cheeks. Like I’ve been on holiday and not on the shit list. ‘Why the fuck not what, Nic?’
‘Gertie likes a boy, and he finally kissed her, but she’s too scared to ask him out.’
‘Okay, I’m interested. Do we have a picture?’
Before Nicole can answer, I say, ‘It’s a little more complicated than that.’
‘Complicated how?’ Reg asks, opening a muesli bar and taking an aggressive bite.
‘He’s Bee’s boyfriend’s best friend.’
‘So?’
‘Do you know how many men I have dated because they’re the best friends of Bee’s latest?
I can’t just go for yet another man hand-selected for me by Bee’s romantic preferences.
Gotta break the cycle or something.’ And just like that, I’ve stopped talking around it with carefully chosen can’ts and shouldn’ts.
It’s a tacit admission of feelings, and I think I’m ready to acknowledge it to myself now. I like him. Against my will, but I do.
‘Bullshit,’ Reg says. ‘Tell me this guy isn’t different. I can see it all over your face.’
He is. ‘He isn’t.’
‘Double bullshit,’ he replies, crossing his arms. ‘Not dating him just because you met him through Bee is just as bad as dating him because of Bee.’ Damn, that’s wise.
‘So text him!’ Nicole says. ‘Go out on your own date. Or, go out on another date. I mean, you’ve basically been dating for months anyway.’ Reg looks confused. Nicole tells him she’ll fill him in later. I should protest at how easily she plans to pass on the gossip. I don’t.
But hang on. ‘There’s a flaw in this plan. I might not not like him, but he certainly doesn’t like me.’
‘He kissed you!’ Nicole says. Reg gasps.
‘For science!’
They don’t buy that one. ‘Oh, come on Gertie, even you don’t believe that.’
‘She’s right, darling. Men don’t do that.’
‘Kiss women they’re not into? I entirely beg to differ.’
‘Right, well for the sake of science, text him,’ Reg concludes. ‘Ask him out. Take control of your life.’
And fuck if he hasn’t figured out exactly which button to press.
Sense of self. Taking control of my life.
Doing what I want to do. We’re all ready to start yet another shift, so we lock our lockers and walk out, passing the other team members rushing in two minutes before shift start.
(Stewart has clearly been day-drinking, if the smell is any indication.)
Reg turns and walks backwards, facing me. ‘And do it tomorrow if you can so we have something to discuss at drinks on Friday.’
Hey, so totally fine if you’re busy, no stress, but if you’re free would you maybe want to have some dinner tomorrow? Everyone needs to eat dinner, right?
I text like a teenage girl from a bad movie.
I objectively know this, and yet this is my output.
I type it out at the end of my break, with the intention of locking away my phone and not spending bulk time panicking about his response (or even worse, a lack of one).
However, on sending, the three dots appear immediately.
Is this a double?
It is impossible to read his tone. The man needs to use more emojis. And exclamation points. I should put him onto Nicole.
Just us.
I’m in.
Want me to make a reservation?
He’s back to the double texting, so I take this as a good sign.
No, I think you’ve planned enough of our outings.
Let me plan this one.
I’ll text you later with details.
He taps back a thumbs-up.
It only occurs to me later that I haven’t made it clear that this is a date.
In my defence, I’ve never asked anyone on a date, though I suddenly have much more respect for those people who do it.
When I text back with details for a hip new Asian fusion restaurant in St Kilda, I consider adding something like It’s a date!
to make it clear. But it just feels so trite I can’t bring myself to do it.
I’ll just have to be super obviously flirty on the date so that it’s crystal clear.
Before that I’ll have to figure out how to be flirty at all.
I take a painstaking amount of care getting ready for dinner on Thursday.
Probably longer than the actual dinner will last. I paint my finger and toenails, using a light pink colour to mask the mistakes of my shaky work.
Within about ten minutes I smudge the thumb, but he probably won’t be looking that closely at my hands, and I’ll have to take it off before my next shift anyway.
I hope he appreciates what an effort this is.
Before I shower, I duck into Bee’s mostly abandoned room and liberate a sheet mask and those little under-eye gels. Then I spy these little shower aromatherapy pods she has, and I nick one of those too. And it’s like showering at a fancy spa—entirely worth it.
I try to follow a beauty guru tutorial for my makeup, but I don’t have half the products or tools she’s using, and the liquid eyeshadow dried a bit funny on my eyelid, and I couldn’t even it out properly, so I guess my regular face will have to do. He knows what I look like.
I’m standing, made up but in my bra and undies, considering my underwhelming wardrobe, when I hear the front door open.
‘Bee?’ I call. God, I hope it’s her; I don’t want to die in my undies.
She appears in my doorway, carrying a large overnight bag. I assume it’s filled with dirty clothes needing to be changed over. ‘Hey!’
‘You home for long?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘Just grabbing some stuff then heading out to dinner with William. What are you doing?’ Her nose crinkles in confusion, and I get it. This is usually the other way around.
‘Just a last-minute work shift,’ I say. The lie comes easily. I’ll tell her about it after…if there’s anything to tell. Bee nods vacantly and leaves me to it.
Within fifteen minutes, she has come and gone, leaving a pile of dirty clothes sitting on the kitchen floor by the washing machine (who is washing those, Bee?) and doesn’t notice that I’m not dressed in work clothes.
I settle on wide-leg jeans and a nice top because that worked well when I was sixteen and going to that first Very Important Party.