18
‘I ’M so sorry about that.’ Paul tugs his seatbelt across his torso to click it in. ‘I showered as quick as I could. I was in such a rush to get us out of there I’m still wet under these jeans.’
‘No, it was fine, parents are my thing.’ I wish I were game to look at how they might be clinging to his thighs. ‘Parents love me, all my friends say so. But I don’t know that any of my friends’ mothers have ever called me “jailbait”. That’s a first.’
‘Oh God, I can’t believe you heard that.’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s just Mum, don’t take it personally. She’s hard work. But now you know why I like hanging around your place so much. Here, let’s get some tunes happening.’
Music fills the car. My legs tucked up under me, I lean against the door, watching the fields fly past the window. His hand keeps the beat of the song, tapping against the steering wheel.
‘I love this,’ I say. ‘Who is it?’
He names a band I have never heard of before. ‘You like? Your old man would too. They’re on almost every surf movie soundtrack. I saw them live a couple of years ago, they were phenomenal.’
‘Phenomenal?’
‘Phenomenal. Don’t ask me to spell it.’
‘I won’t.’ A small grin tugs at my lips, and I relax into the car seat’s embrace.
We talk about everything and anything: music, movies we’ve seen, holidays, everything but that kiss at the Gap lookout.
I thought it would feel awkward, sitting in his car, but there’s no stilted conversation.
It just flows like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
Paddocks turn to houses sprawling on either side of the freeway as far as I can see.
We turn into an industrial estate and pull up in front of a double story warehouse.
A man paces in front of a reception desk, and spotting us, he flings open the door.
‘Caterina Kelty? Your mother said you’d be here by five. I was supposed to leave here ten minutes ago.’
‘Calm down, mate, her mother said she’d be here when she gets here,’ says Paul. ‘And this is your stuff up, not ours. Do you have her books ready to go?’
‘No need for abuse, mate .’ He crosses his arms across his chest. ‘I’m doing you a favour so you might want to watch how you speak to me.’
‘You’re doing us a favour?’ Paul shifts his weight forward, his shoulders back.
‘My books?’ I interrupt before the male standoff continues. I don’t think the wiry frame of the administrator would do well against the guy who battles waves for fun.
He bustles behind the reception desk and lifts a box.
‘Here.’ He holds them out to me, looking over my head at Paul in the doorway.
‘Thank you. I’ll just check everything’s here.’
‘They’re all there, I assure you.’
‘Forgive me, but since we’re here because I still don’t have the right books four months after I ordered them, I’m going to check.’
He sighs and shifts his weight from foot to foot as I pull the books out of the box, checking them against my booklist.
‘Are we done?’
‘Yes, thank you. You’ve been so generous and helpful.’ A hint of facetiousness comes out in my tone.
‘Look, I’m here, aren’t I? I shouldn’t be, but I’m here. I don’t get paid to put up with smartarses.’
‘Who you calling a smartarse, mate?’ says Paul as he steps up to my side.
‘I think he’s calling me a smartarse,’ I say. ‘I can’t imagine why? I’m quite lovely. Anyway, sir, again, thank you. I’ll be sure to tell my school how wonderful this experience was. Have a nice evening.’
‘What a dick,’ says Paul as we walk back to his car. ‘You handled that like a boss. I just wanted to punch him in his smartarse face.’
‘Such a dick,’ I agree as we both take our seats. ‘And thank you. I’m not normally good with confrontation. But I have my books now, I can get moving, and I’m not going to let someone like that get to me. Did you hear that? I have my books!’ I hug the box to my chest.
‘Pass them here.’ He takes them off me and I put my seatbelt on. ‘Man, they’re heavy! And what, this is only half of them? How are you going to carry them to school every day?’
‘I’m stronger than I look.’ I pretend to flex my muscles.
‘Yeah, nah,’ he says, ‘I think we better put some meat on those bones. You hungry?’
‘I’m starving.’
‘What are you thinking?’ He leans back to put the books behind us, beneath the car seats.
‘I don’t know, maybe something Asian-y?’
‘Asian-y? Hmm. Let’s head into the city. Are you thinking something we can’t get at home?’ The car hums to life with a turn of his keys.
‘You’re not suggesting that Batter’s Cove is lacking in diverse dining opportunities, are you? How dare you, Paul Lightwood.’
‘Have you ever had a good pho at the pub?’
‘ Pho sure I have. The best pho in my life was at that pub, almost as good as their chicken parmas that aren’t an insult to my heritage at all .’
‘Not a fan?’
‘Are you kidding? It’s as close to Italian food as the plastic pizzas in the frozen food section of the supermarket. Let’s pho. You know a good place?’
‘I do. Pho real.’
We park in a seedy-looking carpark at the back of a busy shopping strip teaming with Vietnamese restaurants.
The backs of the stores are covered with graffiti and the footpath is strewn with ingrained chewing gum, mottled black.
I grip Paul’s t-shirt. He glances down and takes my hand.
So much for no handholding. I cling as we pass a line of people entering a pub.
‘I know it looks dodgy but trust me.’ He leads me into a restaurant. ‘You’re about to have the best pho of your pho -king life.’
The smell of hot wok hits my nostrils, making me salivate to the point where I thumb the corners of my mouth to check for drool.
While we wait for a table, I notice that the restaurant is lined with small tables for two along the perimeter walls and large round tables fill the middle.
The kitchen is separated from the restaurant with a high bar where food appears as if by magic and is whisked away to waiting diners just as quickly.
Loud, clanging music from two speakers hanging from opposing corners accompanies the hiss and sizzle from the kitchen.
We sit at a table topped with white butcher’s paper under a faded poster of a Vietnamese fishing fleet.
Beside it is a giant copy of the menu. Prices are handwritten on top of masking tape that do little to hide the former prices.
A roll of absorbent paper serves as napkins and a caddy of sauces in a mix of plastic and stainless-steel sits against the wall.
‘It’d better be good, because the decor really isn’t floating my boat. The pub wins out in the design stakes, but I’m a little biased there, aren’t I?’
‘Why biased?’
‘It’s one of ours. Well, not ours, we don’t own it or anything. Mum’s firm designed it, and Dad’s team built it. Sorry, I thought you knew that.’
‘Actually, I think I did know that. I remember them building it, so much better looking than anything else around. Like your house. That makes total sense.’
‘Still, what a wasted opportunity for something cool,’ I say.
‘Mum and Dad were so excited, kept going on about date nights and being able to walk home like when they lived here in the city.’ It didn’t take them long to realise they were barking up the wrong tree.
No chance of having something fresh, light and gorgeous.
No chance of even getting a decent coffee.
No, it’s surf and turf and crappy chicken parma all the way.
We are shown to a small and intimate table for two and a pair of giant steaming bowls of fragrant broth are placed before us. Paul sprinkles his liberally with chilli and bean sprouts, wielding chopsticks like he was born to do so. Noodles slip through mine and the hot liquid splashes all over me.
‘I’m so glad your mum’s not here.’ I reach for a napkin. ‘So much for my lovely manners.’
‘Mum wouldn’t even drive down this street, let alone step foot into a place that’s making something other than meat and three veggies.’ He emphasises his point by expertly manipulating his noodles.
I swallow the dismal mouthful I managed to coordinate between my chopsticks.
It’s the most delicious pho I’ve ever had in my admittedly limited experience.
It’s fresh, light, the noodles soft in my mouth.
I accidentally swallow a chilli and the heat moves in slow motion through my body, making my eyes water.
I take a sip of water and laugh. ‘So, here’s a question for you. ’
‘Do your worst.’ He places his chopsticks across the rim of his bowl and gives me his full attention.
‘Why’d you get so fired up at the book warehouse? You looked like you wanted to fight that doofus.’
‘Did I?’ he raises his eyebrows. ‘I wouldn’t have touched him. I wouldn’t need to. Guy like that? He would’ve backed down real quick.’
‘So, what, you were trying to intimidate him?’
‘I sound like a real meathead, don’t I?’ Paul looks down at the table, his pointer finger doodling on the paper tablecloth. ‘“I’ll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.”’
‘What?’ I tilt my head.
‘Nothing, just a quote.’ He scoops a mouthful of noodles and follows the bite up with a slurp of his broth.
‘It’s Macbeth,’ I say.
‘I know.’ He mimics my tone of astonishment, his voice high. ‘But I’m not someone who’s into fighting.’ His eyes meet mine. ‘It’s just, when someone comes at me with an attitude like that, they see the car, the dumbarse tradie? I don’t know. I don’t like it.’
‘Why do you care what some random thinks?’
‘I don’t, not really,’ he says. ‘I didn’t like the way he spoke to you.
Your mum said for you to stand your ground, and here’s where you’re really going to think I’m coming in with a saviour complex or something like that, but I kind of think that if you’re with me, you shouldn’t have to take shit from some little prick by yourself.
There’s nothing worse than feeling like it’s you alone out on a ledge.
Anyway, you going to eat that rice paper roll? ’
‘It’s so good, but no, I can’t. It’s all yours.’ I slosh what feels like another litre of pho into my lap as I scoop up the last of the soup with a flat spoon. I’d sigh with contentment if a food baby wasn’t making its presence known by squeezing against the waistband of my jeans.
He takes the roll and plonks it in his mouth, then drains the remnants of his bowl.
We wait to pay next to a giant fishtank teeming with lobsters.
‘You still hungry?’ Paul says.
‘Are you kidding? I can barely walk.’
‘You sure you can’t squeeze in some gelato? It’s just up the road.’
The Italian in me perks up at the thought of gelato. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Three years of trade school,’ he says. ‘Once a month for a week I’m up here, doing nothing other than scoping out good food. You’re gonna love me when you go to uni.’
I feel the flush move across my face. We walk along the street back to the car. Red lanterns swing from awnings and fairy lights adorn windows.
‘You know what, forget the gelato. I’d love a decent coffee, one I haven’t made myself. Can we do that?’
‘Hardly a challenge. Let’s do it.’
We drive across the city, the skyscrapers lit up against the dark sky, helicopters weaving in and out.
We walk into an Italian cafe with a wall full of pastries.
The staff call to each other in Italian.
A giant coffee machine takes up a slab of the marble bar.
Our reflections grin at us; I look so happy I could slap myself.
I order for us in Italian and the barista unashamedly flirts with me until an older gentleman stands beside him, admonishing him.
‘ Che bella coppia !’ He raises his right hand, his fingers touching, a wide smile across his face.
He adds a cannoli to our order, free of charge.
‘What’s he saying?’ Paul whispers into my ear.
‘We’re a beautiful couple.’ I roll my eyes.
‘I wish,’ Paul mutters, his voice low, and when I look at him, he busies himself with cutting the cannoli in half.
Paul’s headlights illuminate the dark. We’re the only car on the highway, the city lights dwindling behind us. The music is low, and he sings along so softly I can barely hear him. My eyes drift closed.