Tamara works at a travel agent. I remember the shopping centre location from the business card in her wallet.
After Dad’s call I’m pushing it to make it there by five pm, but I do and I trail her as she walks home in her awful uniform—navy skirt and striped and logo-ed business shirt. It would kill me to have to wear that. Still, she makes it her own with patent leather pumps and dangly earrings. She looks okay, I guess.
She talks loudly into her phone as she walks. People glare at her high-pitched squeals, but she doesn’t notice. She’s meeting the girls at a beer garden someplace. Mason might be coming.
At the bus stop she gets out gum and plays with her phone some more, tapping and scrolling and making faces at it. I jump on the bus after her and we ride a few suburbs. It’s pretty empty so I get a seat to myself. She presses the button to alight, so I exit through the back doors as she takes the front, thanking the driver all giddy-like, as if she’s still ten years old.
Her house is a large double storey place, two-car garage, Mercedes parked in the drive. It’s got to be her parents’ place, which is a bit rich after she had a go at Tom for still living at home.
She pulls the front door shut behind her, so I stalk around the perimeter, checking out my options. Tamara’s mum is reading in a lounge chair on the back porch. She’s perfectly put together, just like her daughter; immaculate blond hair, fake tan, loads of jewellery.
Tamara opens the screen door. ‘Hi Mum, I’m home.’ She says it extra cheery, like she’s on a TV commercial.
Her mother doesn’t look up. ‘Fine.’
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Tamara asks eagerly. ‘I can make a pot for us?’
Her mother still doesn’t look at her. ‘No, thank you, Tamara.’
‘Do you want me to make that curry dish tonight? Dad loved it.’
She turns a page. ‘Your father and I will be out this evening.’
I watch Tamara slump, her hand on the door handle. This is why she made plans with her friends. It must happen all the time. ‘I’ll just be upstairs then,’ she says quietly.
No response. Tamara shuts the door.
Damn this mother is cold. No wonder the girl is so keen to get started on her own family. She obviously doesn’t have one going on here.
I watch through the window as she disappears upstairs. Cac. I’m going to have to go in.
I promised Rose years ago that I would stop climbing onto roofs. When I was fourteen I’d had a bad fall and there was no doctor she could take me to. It was pretty scary but it inspired her to think about nursing full time—so she does owe me something.
I scoop up a handful of soil from the garden and scatter it gently on Tamara’s mother’s carefully coiffed hair as I walk past, then I go inside, letting the screen door bash back into place. The mother looks annoyed for an instant, then goes back to her book, assuming it was her daughter. What a banshee.
Upstairs, Tamara’s room is easy to locate. Bright white, loads of light—I’m jealous. She turns on music and starts dancing as she pulls off her uniform and throws it into a hamper. She’s moving about the room singing, I’m backed against the wall, she could bump into me any second. It’s too dangerous for me to lurk in her room, but she has an en-suite, the spoilt princess, so I slip in and watch from the safety of the door.
It’s not evident from Tamara’s room that she’s broken up with Tom. There are photos of him everywhere, just like on her phone. Photos of him posing on the beach with his board, photos of them cuddling, her holding out the camera to get selfies of them kissing. Gross. His white-ass smile is on every wall. I lean against the doorframe feeling sick.
Stop it! I tell myself. Remember—she knows him. This is why you came here. To learn about him.
Tamara has slipped into jeans and a white tank top. She looks like she’ll be heading straight out. I need to think of something fast.
Before I do, she walks straight at me. I step backward as quietly as I can, trying not to trip over the bath mat, and squat beside the toilet. Unfortunately she shuts the door and squats right there beside me. There is no escaping this.
I would like to say I haven’t been in this situation before but as luck would have it, I have. Jordan’s father. I was about seven and had just finished using the toilet myself when he came into their bathroom and shut the door. He was noisier than Tamara. He sat on the toilet for close to twenty minutes reading the paper. It stank. I almost fell asleep with my head butted up against the tiles.
There is nothing worse than being stuck in a toilet with someone when they think they’re alone. Honestly—nothing.
I clamp my eyes shut, trying to pretend to be somewhere else, but the foul smell pervades my nostrils. It’s my punishment. Instant karma for spying on her.
Eventually she reaches for the toilet paper and I have to squeeze myself back to fit into the space behind the lavatory. That part of the toilet is always dirty. I try not to think about all the grime. Tamara flushes and washes her hands. I’m desperate to wash too—all over my body though.
This is hopeless. She’s about to leave and I’ve learnt nothing, apart from the fact she’s still disturbingly obsessed by Tom. I can’t find what I need here, I should go to his house. But where does he live?
Tamara’s bent over doing up strappy sandals so I go out into the hall and pull out my phone. Sadist that I am, I stored Tamara’s number that first night at the club. I type quickly.
Olive: |
Tam, I got a new number. Come over if you want. |
I hear a squeal of delight from her room and then my phone vibrates. She’s replied. Just as I suspected, she assumed it was from Tom.
Tamara: |
Tommy. Knew you’d call. I’m on the way past in ten minutes, I’ll pop in. |
I don’t answer it. The poor girl still has her hopes up. I feel bad.
She finds it necessary to shower all of a sudden. Brilliant. I wait until the water is running and open up the contacts on her phone. New plan: find Tom’s address and then text her not to go over.
I scroll through—damn it. His name and number but nothing more. I rifle through her drawers for an address book but there isn’t much to be found: fashion magazines and … diaries! Here we go. They are all identical black leather with the year printed in gold. Standing order Christmas present from her mother, I bet. I can just imagine the thought process: I’ll pre-order for the next ten years, that way I won’t have to bother thinking about her again.
I flick open the top one, this year. She hasn’t written for a while, three weeks maybe:
Work has been busy, I have at least four new customers but Alec is still riding my ass. Ashallah says it’s because he likes me, ew disgusting. Like I would ever go there. There is a new sushi place down the road that is just brill, I’ve been there every day this week. I’m getting into miso soup.
Christ, how boring. I put it back and pick up one from two years ago, when she and Tom were going out. It’s immediately more interesting, she’s doing that schoolgirl thing, scrawling hearts everywhere. I love this stuff. It’s the real deal.
Today Tom had practice at lunch and I didn’t get to sit with him. I missed him soooooo much. Evie says we make the best couple and Charlotte agreed but I could tell she was only saying it. She’s jealous because Kalen isn’t into her as much as Tom is into me. Kalen is okay, he has a cool car. He sits with us sometimes but mostly he’s off with his friends playing football and it really hurts Charlotte. I understand a bit more after missing Tom at lunch today. If he did it to me tomorrow as well I would just die!!!!
It’s hard not to laugh. I imagine teenage Tom sitting with this group of teenage prom-queens for lunch every day while the other boys got to go off and play football. No wonder he finds me interesting!
Tamara walks out wrapped in a towel. Cac! I didn’t find the address: I was too busy snooping. I drop the diary back in the drawer but there is no time to close it. I tiptoe for the door. I hear her make a confused sound and then shut the drawer. Too close, Olive, I warn myself.
Tamara is in a totally different outfit when she comes out of her house. Short skirt, tight top, higher sandals, more make-up—she looked better before. I’m going to have to follow her to Tom’s house. It’s not ideal.
I text her questions as I follow. I may as well make the most of it. She seems delighted by the exchange. You can see it in her gait and the sharp angle of her shoulders.
Olive: |
I have a few questions to see if you really do know me. |
|
Tamara: |
Fire away babe. I’ll ace this exam! |
|
Olive: |
What is my favourite food? |
|
Tamara: |
Easy. Ham cheese toasties, BBQ chicken rolls, mangoes and your mum’s spaghetti. |
Good to know.
Olive: |
My best friends? |
|
Tamara: |
When are the hard ones? Jason Harry Dave and me! |
That’s disturbing. Are they still good friends or is she deluded?
Olive: |
When did we see each other last? |
|
Tamara: |
Harry’s on Sunday |
What? I didn’t know about this! I’ve been moping around all miserable after our fight and he’s been out seeing his ex? I try to stay focused.
Olive: |
My family? |
|
You’re kidding right? Sisters Sarah, Jacqui, Marnie. Mum Janelle, dad Maxwell, step-dad(?) Paul |
She knows his real dad—Maxwell. Great name. He has a step-dad too. I wonder if they get along.
Olive: |
Do I like Paul? |
|
Tamara: |
You tolerate him coz he makes your mum :-) |
Figures. Tom’s such a stand-up guy.
Olive: |
What do I hate? |
|
Tamara: |
Traffic, the city, sitting around inside doing nothing, stubborn people. |
Mmm. We may have a problem.
Olive: |
What do I love? |
|
Tamara: |
I’ll show you in person. |
Argh. Yuk.
Tamara is knocking on the door of a small caramel-coloured brick house. Wow, they live close. I scuttle up behind her.
‘Tamara!’ A tiny woman answers the door, white-bleached hair, wrinkly tan, obviously doesn’t care about that skin cancer stuff. Good healthy tan, she’d call it. She’s in lycra and sweats, probably been running or at the gym. Typical beachy mum. ‘Come in, come in,’ she insists.
‘Tom just texted.’ Tamara follows her inside and I slip in behind.
‘He did? He’s supposed to be at work.’ She notes Tamara’s dejected face. ‘Have a cuppa anyway love, I’ve just made some for Paul. We’ve missed having you around.’
This house would never make the pages of Home Beautiful. The kitchen has spotty orange and green wallpaper, a cracked lino floor and glass cabinets heaving with knick-knacks. None of it matches.
A skinny guy in a cheap shirt is sitting at the kitchen table, cup of tea in his hand.
Tamara sits next to him. ‘Hi Paul, hope you don’t mind the intrusion.’
‘Not at all. Tea?’ he says, holding up the pot.
‘Thanks,’ she replies. But there is no cup.
I settle against the kitchen bench, half perched on a stool as Tom’s mum starts fossicking about in an overstuffed cupboard trying to find a mug that’s not chipped.
‘How is Marnie, Janelle?’ Tamara asks her.
Janelle. It’s not awful, but it’s not a great name either. Still, she seems like a kind enough woman. ‘She’s gone five months now. Won’t find out the sex of it either. Driving me mad—I’ve seen that many cute-as-a-button pink things.’
‘You’d be keen for a girl after Sarah’s boys.’
So Tom is an uncle! And his sister is pregnant! I’m making some mean mental notes here.
Janelle answers her. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love the boys. Nice change after all my girls. But a little granddaughter …’
‘So cute—I know.’ Stupid Tamara, I bet she wants a dozen kids. ‘Any news on the Alex front?’
Janelle sighs as she hands Paul the cup.
‘Selfish bugger still won’t make an honest woman out of her,’ Paul mutters as he pours the tea.
Baby out of wedlock! Scandalous! I wonder how old this sister of Tom’s is. This family stuff might be more interesting than I thought.
A dog barks with excitement outside and I turn around to see Tom in the pebbled courtyard at the side of their house. He is bent over greeting Bluto, his work bag slung over one shoulder. I spring to my feet but I can’t move fast enough, he’s seen me before he slides open the glass door. He stands there in mild shock, looking at me, then Tamara, then back at me again.
‘What’s going on?’ He directs that at me. ‘What are you doing here?’
Tamara speaks up. ‘You told me to come.’
He looks back at her, confused. ‘What?’
‘Your message.’ She holds up her phone.
‘What?’ He looks back at me. ‘And you?’
I put my finger to my lips, squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remind him nobody else can see me.
The sigh that comes out of his mouth is the longest, most painful one I’ve ever witnessed.
I so shouldn’t have come.