CHAPTER 10 #3
I meet Nicole’s flavour of the moment, Matt.
If I were a betting woman (and I can’t stress enough that I’m not), I’d bet money that he doesn’t last until Nicole’s Eurotrip.
I have never seen a young man look so bland about every aspect of life.
Hand him a beer on the bus? Grunt. Get picked to be captain of a team to compete against his girlfriend?
Okay. Venture out into no man’s land and get taken down by a rainstorm of paint bullets, dying in a blaze of glory? Cool.
‘Gertie,’ José says, making my name sound much sexier than it has any right to. He links arms with me as we walk, camo-clad, to our starting position. ‘I feel as though we are best friends already.’
I giggle. I imagine José has that effect on everyone, regardless of gender. ‘Are we?’
He pats my hand. ‘Certainly! My dear Reggie has told me so much about you.’ That can’t have been a long conversation, unless it’s the ‘so much’ from before, when the whole staff thought my place of residence was up Bee’s ass?
‘All good things, I hope?’
He winks. ‘Some good things,’ he says and pauses for dramatic effect. ‘And some naughty things.’
‘Well, now I know he’s pulling your leg!’ I laugh. I allow myself to believe, from José’s open face and genuine smile, that Reg has had nice things to say about me.
‘Now,’ he goes on, ‘tell me about your men.’
That catches me off guard. ‘My men?’
‘A beautiful girl like you must have many men following along after her!’
This optimism suggests that Reg and José’s marriage predates the horror that is online dating. This is nearly no woman’s experience with men these days, least of all mine.
‘No, my love,’ Reggie says, approaching from behind us. ‘Remember that we are going to share all of our salacious secrets with Gertie?’
‘Ah, yes, and then they’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand!’
That sounds terrifying.
I thought Nicole was kidding when she said to wear something I’m not attached to.
I did what I was told because I felt physically incapable of doing anything else (note for Arthur: deep down I am a rule-follower, and my people-pleaser tendencies extend beyond Bee), but I was certain they’d supply overalls or whatever.
And they do, but the protective suit I am given is so loose as to be ineffectual.
The first game, to ease us in, I guess, divides us into two teams and requires us to capture the flag from the opposing team’s camp and return to our own base.
In a random selection, I end up paired with most of Nicole’s uni friends, who I don’t know.
I spend most of the first twenty minutes hiding out behind a deconstructed cubbyhouse before getting supremely bored, so I sacrifice myself as a diversion to allow my teammates to steal the flag.
We still lose, but it doesn’t feel like that when my team surrounds me, shouting praise for my attempted heroics.
The second game is every person for themselves, and I’m not going to lie, it’s going well for a while there.
I take out Bland Matt, which is supremely satisfying, and I hit two others and scare a few more.
It’s all going well until an invisible sniper makes contact with the back of my helmet, sending paint oozing down the back of my neck.
I hear a giggle in the distance and I know: José.
Sweet, kind, treacherous José. He wins it all in the end.
On the bus ride back, about half of the group falls asleep instantly. A long, hot day in the sun (and beers) can do that to a person. I find myself sitting next to Nicole; Matt is snoring in the back with a precarious can of Carlton teetering on his chest.
Nicole hugs me. ‘I’m so glad you came, Gertie!’ she says.
‘Thank you so much for inviting me.’
‘Of course! I’m so glad we’re friends now.
’ That solves another riddle. We’re friends.
With no qualifiers. Cool. This is totally cool and chill.
Don’t make it weird, Gertie, or you won’t have friends for very long.
I need to change the subject before I do something like beg for reassurance that we really are friends or ask her what her definition of friends is.
It’s a new mantra—don’t do weird shit in front of your friend(s).
Change the subject. ‘Have you done any more planning for Europe?’
Nicole squeals excitedly. ‘Yes! We just booked our Croatia sailing last week before the early bird ended. The girls were being absolutely useless, so I had to put my foot down and just book it.’
The girls in question are asleep behind us. ‘Well, you don’t want to miss out on a discount.’
‘Exactly! And I had to make sure we got the cabins on the deck because everyone told me that the ones below start to smell really rank after a few days.’
‘I bet.’
‘I mean, the boats are way better now than they used to be. There’s aircon and all that stuff. I’m sure the boats were a bit more basic back in your day.’ How old does Nicole think I am?
‘I’ve actually never been to Croatia!’ I’ve never been to Europe. Or the Northern Hemisphere.
Nicole gasps. ‘You haven’t? Everyone says it’s amazing.’
‘They do.’
‘I’ll give you all my tips when I’m back. You absolutely have to go.’
‘Sounds good!’
I get home, and the apartment is empty and dark, because in the Era of William I mostly live with Bee’s stuff and my own dark thoughts.
I’m used to being alone, especially while Bee has been in relationships.
With her first uni boyfriend Bee would cancel pretty much every plan she made with me for the better part of a year.
We’d be getting ready to go for dinner or drinks or out to a club, and he would text, and I would understand, because this was what it was like to be in a relationship, and it was just dinner, we could do that anytime. Don’t be selfish; it’s not a big deal.
The empty house used to feel like a sinkhole.
That’s less true now, energised as I am from a great day out, and I am humming to myself in the kitchen, washing up after dinner, when I hear the door open.
‘Hey!’ I call out. ‘How was your day?’ The door shuts, and I hear the lock click.
I’m elbow-deep in soapy water, chained to the sink, so I call out at the frosted window in front of me.
‘I know you were probably out for dinner, but there’s leftover pasta if you want it!
’ Then I hear another door shut: firmly.
She must be tired. Or it’s an intruder making themselves at home.
I turn off the lights in the kitchen and hall and go to stand outside Bee’s door, poised to knock. The light through the crack at the bottom of her door vanishes, so I go to my own room and settle into bed.
I’ve read the same page in my crime novel about five times now.
I feel like I’m on top of the fact that something no one in this town wants to talk about happened in that condemned barn twenty years ago.
I wonder what Arthur’s doing. I dog-ear the page and pick up my phone, open our chat and scroll up.
I look back at our early texts. I’m so frenetic; he’s so calm, and understanding. And then we settle into a comfortable reel relationship and gif reactions interspersed with date logistics.
There wouldn’t be any harm in telling him about the paintball, would there?
He would be thrilled to know I am continuing to say yes when he’s not around.
Actually, it would be rude of me not to inform him that his hard work has paid off.
Then once I’ve done it I can go back to my book and find out who died.
I should message him on Insta—more casual than a real text.
Like, oh, I was doomscrolling and then I thought I should quickly drop you a line.
Rather than, I purposely opened the text app, found our conversation, read our entire history and then wrote you a message.
That is way too intentional. Coming on a little strong.
So, I got invited paintballing today. And I went.
He sees it right away. Dot dot dot.
Who were you chaperoning?
It was a twenty-second birthday, so technically I was supervising a number of children?
Look at you, so hip!
So hip as in, I nearly threw out a hip somersaulting, but sure.
Were you any good at it?
The paint splotches and bruises suggest otherwise.
Is it bad that I’m a bit glad we found
something that you’re shit at?
So he is still salty about the boardgames—I knew it!
Yes.
Pics or it didn’t happen.
I send a picture of the bruise on my thigh. It’s about five centimetres across, covers the entire colour spectrum and at the centre features a crescent-moon cut.
Is that your nip?
It’s very obviously my leg.
Disappointing.
Is he flirting with me?
Are you soliciting photos now?
Does that seem like something Real Gertie
would be into?
Are you answering my question with another question?
Maybe?
I leave him hanging for a bit here. The typing dots appear and disappear in quick succession. Then I send him a picture taken by Reg: Real Gertie covered in paint from head to toe. My face is concealed by a helmet and all that’s visible is the bright smile on my face.
That’s hot
Don’t go sharing that with anyone now, that’s NSFW content.
He laugh reacts. A moment later a new photo appears: Arthur, glasses on (he wears glasses!), hair mussed (probably from pulling on the hoodie he’s wearing), comical expression that gives him a double chin.
Mutually assured destruction
I reply in kind: makeup-free, hair wet from the shower, rugged up in a hoodie of my own, albeit with a large coffee stain marring the light grey shoulder. I caption it with a winky face.
No, you gave me more destruction!
I can hear his laugh through the phone.
It’s okay. I trust you with it.
He sends back a heart.
So, I think we can say a picture of the Real
Gertie has emerged, no? Chess hustler and
all-round boardgame queen, Spin refuser
but otherwise up for anything including
(inexplicably) paintball. And she looks just as
smokin’ in a pair of oversized coveralls as she
does all ready for bed.
I think I like the way Arthur describes her.
Another pause.
It seems our work here is done.
I think about that, too. And I realise I’m not sure how it makes me feel.