CHAPTER 7
IT IS WITH a new lease on life that I get ready for work the next day. A little boost. Some pep in my step. It is largely unwarranted as I haven’t done anything yet, but we have a plan.
And maybe I actually am doing things. My normal routine has already been broken—the one that involves being stuck in the purgatory of needing to do things while simultaneously being scared to do too much because I have somewhere to be later.
Instead, before my shift at a twenty-first birthday out in the leafy eastern suburbs of Melbourne, I go for a walk.
An honest-to-goodness walk by myself without phone or headphones on which I make an effort to look up at the trees and the world around me.
Of course, that means I trip on uneven concrete and am given a wide berth by passers-by in case making a dick of oneself is contagious.
And then I want a coffee, but my wallet is on my phone.
So, not a complete success, but given that I normally don’t walk unless it’s towards food, I’m proud of myself for trying something new.
Even if my activewear game leaves a little to be desired.
On a quiet, oak-tree-lined street out east, I walk up to a nondescript white box of a house that was on the cutting edge of architecture at the turn of the millennium…and into the Twilight Zone.
To my right, a hookah lounge has been set up with pillows, drapes and sparkly beads in a frontal assault of pink, orange, red and yellow.
To my left, a woman in a belly dancing outfit is checking an enclosure that holds a snake.
And…sorry, is that a camel in the backyard next to the Bedouin-style rental marquee?
Yes, it’s a fucking camel. I make eye contact with Reg as I enter the kitchen.
Did he see the fucking camel? He rolls his eyes. Yes, he did.
‘Isn’t this amazing?’ Nicole says a bit later, after the sun has gone down.
Amazing is one word. I only hope the light-up fibreglass dancefloor perched over the swimming pool will hold under the jumping and flailing of limbs.
It’s chaos in the visual, but it is relatively quiet.
After ten o’clock (when the camel had gone home), the birthday girl’s mother handed out headphone sets and turned the disco silent.
Aside from some very off-key singing and the echoes of a woo girl, only the stomps of feet on floor can be heard.
We can speak at regular volumes, and the mother will undoubtedly be up for Neighbour of the Year.
A passing girl drenched in sweat leans over to kiss Nicole on the cheek before heading to the bar. ‘Steph and I have a lot of mutuals, but I don’t know her well enough to score an invite.’
‘Is it weird that you’re working this?’
Nicole crinkles her nose. ‘So fucking weird.’ She gathers a few half-finished cocktails from a table and places them on her tray.
‘I live around the corner. A few of us are going to go back there for drinks after if you want to come?’ It is plainly obvious that Nicole is expecting a polite no.
The polite no makes its way up to my mouth…
but I clamp it shut and don’t allow it out.
What might happen if I say yes? I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I need to go and find out.
‘That sounds great!’ Nicole doesn’t even pretend to hide her shock. ‘I’m driving, of course, but I’m keen to come and hang out! If only to see where you live.’
‘Yay!’ The glasses on the tray teeter precariously as she flounces away.
Nicole lives in an equally grand house to the one I have just left.
It is obscured by the kind of manicured hedge you have to pay someone to maintain which, when passed, reveals ornate columns flanking a large weighty door.
The entryway is larger than my whole apartment (maybe an exaggeration?
Not by much) and stretches all the way up to a skylight that must be professionally cleaned—it isn’t caked in specks of dirt and dust like mine.
From there a lush spiral staircase with wrought-iron railing leads up to the next floor. Is that real marble on the floors?
My phone goes off. Bee.
Are you off work yet?
Yep, just finished.
Come to Golden Fleece!
I look at the little clock on my screen.
Half-past midnight. There are a lot of factors to consider.
If I walk right back out the door and get in the car, I could be at the bar in half an hour.
Then again, I would likely struggle to find parking in South Melbourne at this time of night.
And once I park, there would be the issue that I’m in my daggy, ill-fitting work clothes.
Would the bar even let me in? Or would they take one look at my clodhopper shoes and tell me to go away lest my unfashionable dress cause trauma to micro-influencers.
And then, even if parked and let in dressed as a waitress, how much longer would Bee (and William…
and whoever else they are with) stay at the bar past one in the morning? How long is the bar open, anyway?
And, disregarding all this, I don’t want to go.
It feels weird to admit that. I want to have a drink at Nicole’s parents’ ridiculously large house.
Now my heart is beating very fast for no reason. I put a finger to my pulse. I’m onto you, heart. Slow the fuck down.
Reg walks in the door carrying a few half-empty bottles of bubbles and says, ‘You coming?’
Soz, no good tonight. Have fun!
‘Coming!’ I click ‘Do Not Disturb’ and lock my phone.
Nicole, Reg and a few other colleagues I only know by sight sit around an outdoor setting that overlooks a tennis court and a pool not unlike the precarious dancefloor I just left; also what looks like a pool house bigger than my entire apartment.
I take the empty seat next to Reg, and he hands me one of the half-finished bottles.
Everyone has one. They seem to be drinking straight from them, skipping the glass middleman.
I don’t want to stand out, so I try to fake every few sips with closed lips.
‘About time you joined us for a drink, Gertie!’ Reg says, clapping me on the shoulder so my teeth hit the lip of the bottle. ‘I was starting to worry that you were no fun.’
‘Or just had your head stuck too far up Bee’s ass,’ the blond guy to his left mutters. I don’t think I am supposed to hear that; Reg’s narrowed eyes in Blondie’s direction confirm it.
Too loudly, Nicole says, ‘It doesn’t matter now! She’s here! Welcome to the Land of Discarded Champagne.’
‘And sparkling,’ someone says.
‘And sparkling,’ Nicole repeats.
I turn to face Blondie. ‘You just don’t know her like I do.’ They all look sceptical, but I plough on. ‘You only see her in a management context. And it’s hard to reconcile being a supervisor with being a friend. I just happened to be her friend first, so it’s easier.’
‘Hmm,’ Reg says, finally. ‘That’s an interesting point, Gertie.’ Then he changes the subject.
It’s four in the morning by the time I extricate myself from Discarded Champagnistan. I’m light-headed, but not from the neglected bubbles that Reg eventually confiscated from me and drank. There might be a bit of exhaustion there. But mostly it’s from laughter.
After dropping off a thoroughly jolly Reg (who turns out to live quite close to me), I curse myself for all the times I said no. How much of this feeling could have been filling me up all this time? Would I feel so empty now if it had been there?
We talked about nothing at all, the kind of conversation that would drive unconnected bystanders nuts.
I finally learned the names of the other three colleagues.
Nicole plans to pursue a JD once she finishes undergrad.
Summer in Europe first of course, and after that she plans to leave the catering company because her mother and father offered to fund her life so she can focus on her studies.
Reg was much like he is at work, taking any opportunity to turn the conversation to his ‘sexy Brazilian husband’, José.
José is a Pilates instructor. José and I are planning to go back to Sao Paolo next year.
José learned how to macrame during lockdown.
He showed me a photo: a hot bleached blond who seemed to stretch the black muscle tank from which his pecs were erupting.
The look he was giving Reg in the photo was nearly as blinding as his hair.
I was somewhat paralysed by the need to be interesting.
God knows their expectations had been built up regarding my attendance, and I was terrified of letting them down, of seeing regret on their faces.
Of course, that kind of pressure usually just leads a person to forget their own name while the expectant smiles sag.
I aimed to say just enough to satisfy them, then relied on bubbles and Reg’s camera roll to keep them all occupied.
It was only my first time, after all.
And at risk of sounding sound like a National Geographic article, it was fascinating just to listen, to observe how they interacted with one another, to see what I could learn to maybe one day do the same.
After Reg took carriage of my champagne I clutched my water glass in both hands, eyes darting between each of them as they lobbed banter at one another in a way that indicated years of practice.
As two o’clock passed, then three, I inserted myself just a bit.
A little bit more. Felt a little more confident that even if I screwed it up, they would move on quickly or be too drunk to remember it.
What surprised me was the lack of work chat.
It’s the main thing we have in common. I’ve seen enough workplace comedies to know that bitching about work is a rite of passage—and I had a whole bit about the uniforms I concocted in my head—but they skirted it effortlessly.
Even when I made a timid attempt to get something going on the fucking camel in the middle of Melbourne suburbia, Reg just segued to the time he and José had ridden camels in the Northern Territory, illustrated with a comprehensive slideshow on his phone.
But it wasn’t for me to dictate conversation.
Later, as Reg opened the door to my car and thanked me for the ride he said he hoped I would join them again next time.
I think he was sincere and not let’s have lunch-ing me. So I must not have done too badly.
The house is silent when I get in. Bee’s door is open but her room is dark.
Before getting into bed, I remember that my phone is still on Do Not Disturb.
I suppose it’s the marker of a good night that I haven’t checked my phone at all.
I contemplate setting an alarm, but it seems like a waste as I watch the skylight lighten above me.
I find increasingly loose texts from Bee, the last at around two in the morning.
Noooooo Gertrude!
Don’t be lame!
Come to the bbbar
Fine bra lame.
I’m staying ay willies
Willy’s
wiLLIAM’s
There’s another text too. From Arthur.
I hear that you said no to joining us for drinks!
Did you know that you’re lame?
I laugh.
So lame! I actually got a better offer for after-work drinks.
The sun does not wake me before eleven. Bee is still not home. I have one new text.
Proud of u.