THIRTY-NINE
There’s sand in places sand should not be.
I’m talking biblical proportions. In my ears, in my hair, definitely in my butt crack. If I move too fast, I might start a fire from the friction.
I’m sitting on the beach soaking up the first glimmers of spring. My hair’s plastered to my cheeks. The taste of salt water still lingers at the back of my throat. My chest is tight and I’m trying to catch my breath when my phone buzzes on top of my towel. I squint down at the screen.
Ella.
I consider not answering. But I’m trying this new thing where I don’t avoid the people I love simply because I feel similar to a washed-up barnacle.
I swipe to answer it. ‘Hey,’ I say, my voice somewhere between winded and woozy.
‘Hi,’ Ella says, sounding suspiciously chipper. ‘I’m checking in to see if you’re still on your solo pilgrimage of self-discovery.’
I blow a breath out my nose. ‘Somewhere in the middle.’
‘How’s it going?’
I hesitate. She doesn’t know about Darwin. About Luke and Lauren. About how I flew all the way up there a couple of months ago to make a pathetic grand gesture, only to see him smile at another woman the way he used to smile at me.
I push the thought out of my head like a splinter I’m not quite ready to dig out.
‘It’s going okay,’ I say. ‘Alive. Sunburnt. Emotionally wounded, but what else is new?’
Ella hums. ‘You sound … as if you’ve recently been humbled.’
I snort. ‘I had my arse handed to me by the Pacific Ocean, actually.’
‘Oh god. What happened?’
‘I’ve been trying surfing.’
A beat. ‘You?’
‘Okay, rude.’
‘Sorry. But you don’t exactly scream “surf ’s up, brah”.’
‘I know.’ I sigh. ‘I thought maybe … I’d enjoy it. Old mate Rodrigo sent me on my first wave, and I went nose down, arse over tits, legs in the air like you just don’t care. Five minutes ago, I nearly drowned in two feet of water while a group of German backpackers cheered me on.’
Ella coughs through a laugh. ‘Are you okay?’
‘No. I’ve never been so humbled in my life. Rodrigo kept yelling, “You must try again!” While I’m like, “Rodrigo, mate, I have nothing left to give.” My dignity’s at the bottom of the ocean.’
Ella laughs harder. ‘I would’ve paid good money to see that.’
‘Sadly, no livestream.’
She quietens for a second. Then, teasingly, she says, ‘Abbey told me you’re on a man ban.’
‘Confirmed,’ I say, flopping back onto my towel and closing my eyes. ‘It’s only me and Derek now.’
Ella snorts. ‘Derek the vibrator?’
‘Best relationship I’ve ever had. No complaints. Quiet. Efficient. Always finishes the job.’
She cackles. ‘You always did have a thing for dependable men with powerful motors.’
I laugh, but it comes out a little thin. The joke lands too close to somewhere tender. I roll onto my side, digging my elbow into the towel to stop being ambushed by the memory of Luke’s stupid grin and the way he teased me when he found out about Derek.
I push the thought down. Deep. Then I clear my throat. ‘How are you?’
The pivot is abrupt. And necessary.
Ella pauses, then exhales as if she’s been waiting for someone to ask. ‘Motherhood sucks,’ she says bluntly. ‘But it’s also … amazing. Weirdly, stupidly amazing. I’ve never slept less, cried more, or loved harder in my life. It’s a headfuck.’
‘That sounds impossible.’
‘And yet,’ she says, ‘it’s true. Who knew feeding a human with my boobs and crying over nappy ads would be so fulfilling?’
I smile. ‘How’s Darcy handling it?’
‘He’s good. Great, actually. Sometimes I look at him holding Daisy and I feel like my heart’s going to explode out of my chest. It’s a version of love I didn’t know existed. It’s disgusting.’
‘Ugh,’ I say, dragging my fingers through the warm sand. ‘You’re disgusting.’
‘I know. I hate me too.’
There’s a lull. Then Ella asks, ‘What other weird hobbies have you picked up during your self-love pilgrimage?’
I start listing them off.
‘Pottery – disaster. My mug collapsed and Abbey made a clay dildo. True crime docos – too many abused animals. Rock climbing – I’m terrified of heights.
Bookstores – nice, but I keep buying books I don’t read.
Run club – it should be illegal. Surfing – clearly a bust.’ I take a deep breath and sit up a little.
Brushing hair out of my face, I add, ‘But I’ve been riding. ’
‘Horses?’
I scoff. ‘Yeah. I’ve had a few lessons at a place in Moore Park.’
Ella sounds interested now. ‘And?’
‘And … it’s good. It’s really good. There’s this mare named Stella, and she’s kind but doesn’t take shit, and the instructor, Ava, is this tiny, retired war general in disguise, and it’s slow and grounding and … I don’t know. It feels nice.’
I don’t realise I’m smiling until I stop talking and my cheeks ache a little.
Ella’s quiet for a moment before saying, ‘It sounds like you love it.’
‘I don’t know about love. But it’s something.’
Then, without warning, Ella murmurs, ‘He asked about you.’
The air goes still.
My fingers go still.
My heartbeat doesn’t.
I stare at the sea. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because,’ she says, ‘I love you and I know you’re trying. And I thought maybe you’d want to know.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t.’
‘Jamie—’
‘I don’t want to know what Luke’s doing. Or how happy he and Lauren are.’
There’s a pause. Then a sigh, full of unsaid things.
Before Ella can reply, Rodrigo appears in my peripheral vision like a bronzed, energetic ghost. He claps his hands. ‘You must not give up!’
I blink up at him and then say to Ella, ‘I’ve gotta go.’
‘Okay. Call me later?’
‘Yeah. Love you.’
We hang up, and I turn to look at the shadow looming over me. ‘Rodrigo,’ I say, calmly, ‘go harass a tourist.’
At work, the slogan they landed on is: ‘Black is the new white.’
I’ve officially hit the ceiling of my creative tolerance.
We’ve been workshopping this toothpaste campaign for weeks – charcoal-infused, naturally derived, approved by influencers and dentists alike – and that’s the best they could do.
I’m not even mad. I’m … creatively numb. I’ve overcooked the left side of my brain trying to make dental hygiene sexy.
‘Black is the new white,’ I repeat, deadpan, as I click to the final slide. ‘Minimal. Clean. Memorable.’
Someone across the boardroom table clears their throat.
I blink and realise I’ve been staring blankly at the slide, probably thinking about horses again.
Specifically, about Stella. And specifically-specifically, about how much I want to feel her galloping under me – not trotting politely through Centennial Park.
The meeting room nods with collective enthusiasm, as if we’ve reinvented the wheel instead of given a goth makeover to toothpaste. A few people clap. The clients look thrilled. My boss gives me a thumbs-up like I’m a gifted child who solved a Rubik’s cube with her elbows.
I smile like a woman who flosses daily and who definitely doesn’t fantasise about abandoning her career to go wrangle horses.
As they all pack up, I grab my phone and fire off a message to Abbey.
Still on for lunch?
She replies before I can even open my inbox.
Obviously. Already dreaming of kale.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re seated at the same table outside the same salad bar as always.
We both order the same thing we always do – Abbey gets the Glow Bowl because she’s committed to skincare, and I get the Harvest Crunch because it’s the closest thing to comfort food that still contains chickpeas.
‘So,’ I say, poking at a sad-looking roasted carrot. ‘How’s the PR apocalypse going? Did the animal fat cream finally take someone down?’
Abbey sighs, deeply. ‘We’ve had three influencers drop out, five returns and two customers post videos crying because they broke out in hives after applying it. So … yes. Full-blown disaster.’
‘Ooft.’
‘Yup. We’re calling it “collagen-enhanced organic tallow balm” now and praying the rebrand distracts everyone.’
I chuckle. ‘I’m sorry. That sucks.’
‘It does suck. But enough about me.’ She leans in, fork poised. ‘How’s the man ban?’
Luke flashes through my brain in quick, sharp bursts – his hand brushing mine while saddling Banjo, that crooked smile on his face when he stood wedged between my legs, the sound of his laugh in the ute and the way it hollowed me out like a pumpkin.
‘I’m fine,’ I say too quickly. ‘Really. I’ve been going horseriding once a week, and I’m shockingly into it. Fully converted. The same Jamie who used to roll her eyes at the horse girls in school is now one of them. I’m unapologetically galloping into my equestrian era.’
Abbey gives me a suspicious squint. ‘And you get along with your instructor?’
‘Ava?’ I nod. ‘She’s great. She’s seventy-five and terrifying in the best way. She made me clean out Stella’s stall last week and said if I could survive that, I could survive anything. I believed her.’
Abbey tilts her head. ‘Okay, I feel a “but” coming.’
‘There’s no “but”.’
‘Jamie.’
‘Abbey.’
She raises an eyebrow. The one that says, You’re lying and you know you’re lying and we both know you know you’re lying.
I sigh. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘It’s …’ I fiddle with the corner of my napkin. ‘It’s been great. Really. But there’s a part of me that misses the speed. The wildness. Stella’s wonderful, but we don’t gallop through paddocks. We trot past joggers and hope an ambulance siren doesn’t set her off.’
Abbey softens. ‘You miss the feeling you had on the farm.’
I nod, and then I change the subject before Luke can carve any deeper into the space between us. ‘What about you? What’s happening in your dating world?’
Abbey instantly lights up in that I’m-about-to-pretend-it’s-no-big-deal-but-it-totally-is way. ‘Okay. So … my boss.’
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. ‘Your boss?’
‘He’s hot, he’s emotionally unavailable in a weirdly poetic way, and he eats apples in meetings like he’s running out of time.’
‘You’ve always had a type.’
She shrugs, unapologetic. ‘We’ve been … casual.’
‘Emotionally? Physically?’
‘Jamie,’ she says, eyes wide, ‘I work in PR. I don’t do emotional clarity.’
I snort. ‘So, is it a situationship or something else?’
‘It’s two consenting adults with an aggressive amount of work stress and a shared Google Calendar.’
I laugh. ‘Wow. And they say romance is dead.’
Abbey grins. ‘Exactly. We’re having fun. No expectations. No drama. No, “Let’s define this over wine and an email to HR.”’
‘Well,’ I say, raising my glass of sparkling water, ‘to meaningless flirtations and surviving tallow cream scandals.’
She clinks her glass against mine. ‘And to horse girls and man bans.’ I smile. And I mean it. Because for now, that’s enough.