When I was nine I was convinced I had tuberculosis and confined myself to bed rest.
Nobody believed me of course. My dad would smile patiently and kiss my brow each morning. ‘See you tonight, duckie,’ he would say. ‘If I make it through the day,’ I would reply miserably. ‘You will,’ he would say. ‘You’ve got more life in you than anyone I know.’ Then he would give me a wink and shut the door, his footsteps echoing down the bare floorboards and out into the world. I would turn over and stare out the window. How could he be so certain?
People die every day.
Rose wasn’t so patient. She would huff and complain; fresh air and a bath would fix me up. I wasn’t so sure. TB was my destiny. It had to be. I was a poet.
Poets die, you know that right? Writers too. Just a quick who’s who of writers who’ve died from TB: Voltaire, Chekhov, Dylan Thomas, DH Lawrence, Keats, Kafka, George Orwell, Somerset Maugham, Katherine Mansfield, Emily Brontë, Washington Irving, Sir Walter Scott, Thoreau … the list goes on and on. Even Charles Bukowski (not to be left out, the drunkard attention-seeker) caught a bout of it in 1988. He didn’t die, but 1988! It was not out of the question I could catch TB in this day and age.
It didn’t help that Dad once called me the family poet laureate. My hero at the time, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, was called that by her father and she died of TB. It was too much of a coincidence. It made me certain I was doomed. I mean, more than I already am.
That month in bed I learnt her poems by heart. It was the only worthy way I could think of spending my last days.
I think of her most famous poem now as I watch Tom. He emerges from the surf, shaking the water out of his hair and jogging up the sand, surfboard wedged under one arm.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
The problem is, the only ways I love Tom, that I can count right now, are superficial ones. Hot body, cool hair, iceberg eyes. I don’t think that’s what Elizabeth BB had in mind. Especially since Elizabeth BB was writing about her beloved husband, not lusting over some hot stranger.
Tom lays his board on the sand and unzips his wetsuit, peeling it down over his chest. It hangs like a second set of arms at his waist. His back is golden, his arms and neck even bronzer where his wetsuit doesn’t cover. He dries his face while watching the waves. A girl jogs by and checks him out. I see Tom flash his white-ass super-smile and I want to kill him.
He starts walking up to the car park so I keep my distance and follow behind. He washes his board down under the shower and stows it in the back of an iridescent blue ute. Not my choice of car I have to say, but necessary for a landscaper I guess. Again, not my choice of occupation. I laughed when I took his business card and saw what he did.
My dad would love him. Salt of the earth, all that crap. I always imagined I would end up with more of an intellect though. Listen to me—‘end up with’—I’m more invested than his dumb-blond ex. I need to relax, dilute the desperate vibe. I wish I could enjoy this crush like any other girl. Maybe I should hang back and dream about him a little more, pretend we have a chance.
Not that he’ll reject me right away. It’s obvious we have an attraction; that snap, crackle, pop.
Tom returns to the shower to rinse himself off. He moves with grace, self-assurance, his eyes shut against the water. He pushes his hair back off his face as another woman walks by and glances at him. Again with the white-ass smile. I’m going to knock those teeth out.
He flings his wetsuit into the back of the ute, then begins to wrestle on his shorts with his towel wrapped around his waist. It’s a move well practised. He must surf a lot.
He’s walking to the front cab—I have to speak up now or he will drive off. It’s taken me nine days to work up the courage to do this. I can’t wait another day. I step out of the shadows.
‘Olive! Wow.’ I can see his eyes move down my body, looking at my outfit. Boat-necked pinafore, Mary-Janes and long socks; I’m hardly clothed for a beach outing. He doesn’t mention it. ‘Great to see you.’
‘Yeah, I saw you just now. Thought I should say hello.’
‘Great. Great. I’m glad you did.’ I’m pretty excited to see how happy he is to see me. The whole thing was beginning to feel like a dream. He flicks a look at his watch. ‘You up to anything right now?’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, I’m supposed to be at work in twenty … but screw it. Can I buy you a coffee?’
‘I’m not really a coffee person.’
‘Not a coffee person, mmm, this could be a problem. A milkshake then? You look like a milkshake girl.’
‘How can you make milkshake sound sleazy?’ I laugh at him. He looks a bit dejected.
‘Well, then your choice—my shout.’
‘Do you want to just take a walk?’
‘Sure. Give me a tic.’
Tom opens the driver’s door and out bounds the loopy looking cattle dog I saw in pictures on Tamara’s phone. I think about calling him a cliché again, but then think better of it.
When I told Rose about Tom, it was like I’d lit a firecracker of excitement up her ass, but her cheeriness quickly turned to panic as she realised how little chance I had of actually keeping him. She’s been lecturing me ever since about how to be ‘nice’. One of the lessons was try not to taunt. So I hold my tongue. It’s not that hard, I’ve had enough practice keeping my mouth shut.
Tom pulls a red leash from the front seat and slips on a pair of aviators as his dog leaps all over me with its eager tongue.
‘Hey buddy, control yourself,’ Tom berates it as he clicks on its leash. ‘Sorry, Olive, this is Bluto.’
‘Pluto?’
‘No, Bluto.’ He crouches beside the dog, rubbing it behind its spotty ears.
‘Right. I didn’t figure you for an astronomer.’
‘Or a Looney Tunes buff?’
‘Huh?’
‘Pluto, Mickey Mouse’s dog?’
‘Mickey Mouse had a dog?’
‘You’re not one for cartoons I take it?’
I shake my head emphatically. ‘No.’
He stands up. ‘Huh.’
We start walking up the path toward the sand dunes. The Marram grass sways at our feet in wisps of pale gold like a field of uncut wheat. There is a point where I think Tom is reaching for my hand but by the time I realise he’s not, it’s too late and I’m lurching forward to avoid him, which I not so elegantly modify into a dog pat. I’m not sure I get away with it. Even the dog turns around and gives me a weird look. I don’t like dogs, they’re so rowdy and slobbery, so desperate for attention.
‘So Bluto? Where does that come from?’
‘Bluto is the bad guy in Popeye—you know—the spinach-eating pirate?’
I laugh at him then. ‘You are a cartoon geek.’
He pulls off his glasses to get a good go at scratching the sand out of his hair. I try to look away but his blue eyes sparkle like they’ve been kissing the sun. They’re too pretty to be sitting in such a masculine face. He catches me looking, winks and pushes them back on. I look away, completely mortified.
‘Your parents too?’ he asks after a bit.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Olive Oyl, Popeye’s girlfriend.’
‘Oh that.’
‘Heard it before?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s a bit weird—walking here with Olive and Bluto.’
I snort. ‘You think I should call you Popeye?’
‘Do you think I’ve got the muscles for it?’ He holds out his bicep for me and flexes.
I feign indifference. ‘Maybe more like Sweetpea.’
‘Oh ha ha! I thought you didn’t watch cartoons!’ he accuses.
‘I had to see who this Olive was,’ I point out very reasonably.
‘But you didn’t know Bluto?’ There is a hint of disbelief to his tone. It makes me frown.
‘Obviously I didn’t pay that much attention to the stupid show. Besides, I probably assumed that big guy was Brutus, that’s more your classic villainous name.’
‘I think it’s a play on words.’ He says it like I’m stupid and I want to murder him all of a sudden.
‘No shit, weasel breath.’ I’m trying to hide the fury in my voice but it’s really, really difficult. It’s especially hard when he doubles over laughing at me.
He drops onto the sand—the laughter seems to be hurting him. I’m glad.
‘Olive …’ He can’t get the words out.
‘What?’ I snap back, all irritation. It’s not that funny.
He falls back against the sand dune, folding his hands behind his head. His laughter subsides and he squints up at me. I can see his eyes through the aviator lenses, they must be fakes. He gives me that damn fool smile he’s been treating all the ladies to this morning. It makes me crazy. He’s so demonically irresistible I kick sand in his face.
‘Hey!’ He’s spitting it out now; whipping it out of his salty hair, flicking it off his enragingly fine chest. ‘What was that for?’
‘You’re kind of irritating.’
‘I’m irritating!’ he snarls, sitting up and giving me a pretty dirty look.
Okay, so I’ve pushed it too far. I’ve messed up half a dozen of Rose’s rules already. I plop down next to him although I know I’ll regret it later. I’m not a beach girl. My hair is like a sand magnet, it takes days to get it all out of this mop. Still, the warm sand feels good on my limbs so I stretch out and try to relax. Bluto is ferreting around in the bushes. I roll onto my side and face Tom, my head cocked against my palm. His arms are looped about his knees, his eyes are far away, watching the waves. The hush-ca-hush sound of them seems to calm him. Sand is wedged behind his pink earlobe.
‘Tom?’
He turns his face toward me. He is annoyed and a little hurt but I can see he wants to give me a chance. It makes him even more beautiful.
‘I’m sorry.’
He collapses back beside me, lying on his side so that we are face to face. I could reach out and touch him, but I don’t.
He doesn’t say anything but stares into my eyes. It’s amazing. I feel beautiful and safe, truly alive. In this space, in this time, I exist.
I feel the itch of a tear on my cheek, dribbling down the side of my nose. I mop the tear away. He doesn’t ask if I’m all right, he just lets the tear fall without questioning me. I like that.
‘Sorry I’m such a freak,’ I say eventually.
‘You’re not a freak.’
‘Well, whatever, I just want to let you know, it’s okay if you don’t want to hang out. I know I’m kind of different.’ I try to keep it light but my stomach is churning. What if he agrees?
‘Are you? I really wouldn’t know, Olive. We’ve had like two conversations.’ His tone is impatient. ‘I don’t know anything about you except that you’re a writer and a cartoon snob. Oh, and obviously you’re stubborn and don’t like dogs.’ He tuts into the sky. ‘I think you’re being a little dramatic.’
Dramatic? I suck back a breath. Instantly, I want to suffocate him in the sand. How dare he call me dramatic! He doesn’t know anything about me!
But I’ve pushed my luck already this morning. I want to prove him wrong. ‘I like dogs,’ I say, careful to use my best calm voice.
He raises his eyebrows.
‘Well—they’re okay.’
His lips twitch into a tiny smile, it’s genuine and I like it so much more than that cute try-it-on one. ‘Any chance we could just start with some basics? Family, friends, where you live et cetera, et cetera?’ he asks.
I jump up in a flurry. ‘I can do better than that. Come back to my place. Now.’
‘Hey, I’m not that easy,’ he objects. ‘Ah, shucks—who am I kidding? Let’s go.’ He pushes himself up.
My stupid jaw has dropped. Surely, he didn’t think I meant go home for that?
But he is laughing at my open mouth—he was kidding, damn him. I try to act cool. ‘You wish, Adonis! I only meant I can introduce you to my sister.’
‘Sister huh?’ He whistles Bluto to his side and gives me a look that says, ‘We’ll see about that.’
He really doesn’t know me.
‘Where to?’ Tom says when we get in his car.
‘Inner west, baby.’
‘Inner west? Seriously?’
I arch an eyebrow. ‘Would you prefer me to walk?’
Tom checks his phone briefly. ‘No. Of course not.’ He reverses the car out while he fiddles with the air conditioning.
‘Can we put the windows down?’
His frowns for an instant but he complies. ‘You like the wind in your hair.’
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘Just hold on to Bluto.’
I wrap an arm around Bluto, who loves the open window even more than I do, and hunch against the door so I can watch Tom as we drive across the city. His hair pales as it dries, sticking up after he musses it. It feels like I’m living someone else’s life. Like I’m someone normal, with an actual boyfriend and a day to plan together. I hug my knees to my chest with my spare arm because I need to hold on to something real. And the only thing that doesn’t seem imaginary in this scenario is me.
As we drive, Tom keeps looking over at me and smiling. His smile is better than anything anyone could ever say to me.
He reaches out to touch my knee but I scold him. ‘Keep your hands on the wheel, buster.’
If he touches me, this will start. And the sooner this starts the sooner it will end. Nobody hangs around long.
It’s difficult to know what to talk about with Tom. What do you say to the man who could be the most important person in your life? So mostly we drive in silence, grinning at each other, happy as fools.
Tom glances at his phone as he pulls up outside my house. ‘Damn. I really need to get to work …’
I move to get out. ‘Just come in for a minute.’
He shakes his head. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. My boss is going to kill me.’
‘You were more than happy to come in when you thought we were going to … you know …’
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘That was a joke. I didn’t know you lived so far.’
‘Well …’ I struggle for any excuse to keep him here. ‘You’re being very rude to Rose.’
‘Rose doesn’t even know I exist,’ he objects.
She does. But he doesn’t need to know that.
‘Well she will soon. And she’ll think you’re very rude.’
Tom sighs. His head drops onto the steering wheel. I’ve gone too far.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Another time. Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it.’
He looks at me with suspicion. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’ I get out and shut the door, then bend through the open window. ‘You’re a real prince, Adonis.’
His mouth cracks into a grin. ‘Can I make it up to you? Tomorrow?’
I toss my hair in victory. ‘I doubt it—but you can try.’