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The sparkly dress hangs as if it’s been tailored for the ridiculously tall and impossibly thin mannequin on the pedestal.
‘It’ll look amazing on you,’ the salesgirl says. She’s been following me around, suggesting bits of clothing that maybe a fifteen-year-old would wear.
‘Amazing isn’t my thing,’ I tell her.
Besides, I suspect she would say a baggy t-shirt that’s been rolling about on my bedroom floor for a week would look amazing on me – if it made her a dollar.
‘It’s vintage,’ she says.
‘What? Second-hand?’ How can something used cost a hundred and eighty freakin’ dollars?
‘Vintage design,’ she says unblinking.
She’s good. She has this way of communicating her superiority without being obvious. There must be some special school that slinky, blonde-tressed salesgirls attend to learn this Zen kind of put-down. Who knew? Snap would. I wish he were here with me. Why won’t he wake up? I can’t do this fast lane without him.
I sigh. ‘Okay, what the hell. Nothing else seems as if it’ll fit.’
‘Great.’ She looks me up and down in a glance. ‘Size twelve.’
Her tone doesn’t leave room for argument. I eye her sideways. How does she do that?
She flips through the rack and whips out a dress. ‘I’ll put it in the fitting boutique, shall I?’
She pronounces ‘boutique’ with an emphasis on the ‘que’, like ‘boutiquay’. Maybe not ‘quay’, more like ‘kah’, ‘boutikah’. What is that, anyway? Code for tiny, little upright coffin with surround mirrors that make you look taller and slimmer than you really are, until you try the dress on again in your bedroom and go WTF?!!! Did I grow a spare tyre on my way home?
‘Special occasion?’ the salesgirl asks.
‘Mmm.’ I can’t be bothered explaining.
‘Oh, where are you going?’
Damn her. I explain: I’m a singer, blah blah blah, and we’ve got our first gig in the casino’s Ruby Room tonight. I don’t tell her I’m super excited because the casino’s entertainment manager has promoted us so quickly, or that I’m sad too because it’s my last gig with Harry before he leaves for the South Pacific.
The salesgirl is buzzed and promises to bring her friends along to see me, obviously unaware it’s a restricted room, and she and her dinky little friends will have fat chance of gaining entry. Weird, now it should be my turn to feel superior. But I don’t. Instead, I smile and try to sound sufficiently grateful for her help so that she’ll leave me alone with the dress.
It’s a little tricky to get on, and the sequins scratch my arms when I zip up. I look in the mirror and OMG. She’s right. The dress looks freakin’ amazing. Just enough cleavage, just enough of a split in the side, and the perfect red for the Ruby Room.
~
It’s crazy busy here. Apparently, weeknights at the casino are no different from weekends. I guess school nights are irrelevant to high rollers. The décor is a cut above the Starlight Lounge: all crystal chandeliers, lush red carpets and velvety chairs, but that’s as far as the ruby theme applies.
Harry waves when he sees me. I dump my gig bag on the stage and take my jacket off. He whistles, then grins.
I look all innocent eyes at him. ‘What?’ I know exactly what, but I want to hear it anyway.
‘You look stunning.’
‘Thanks.’ I don’t even blush.
We kick off with a few standards and Harry is right: no-one much pays attention. They’re too focused on the roulette and poker tables, which look as if they might be made of real wood — rosewood or mahogany? — not that plastic-looking stuff. The crowd is different. I’m not sure if it’s the scotch, martinis and champagne instead of beer, or if it’s a general nonchalance. As long as we get some of those generous tips Harry mentioned, I’ll be a happy girl.
Our performance is smooth tonight. I’ve only glitched a couple of times, and it didn’t even faze me. Must be the shot of vodka I took at home. Or being tired from the 7-Eleven. Or an attitude adjustment after spending hours this week sitting and holding Snap’s hand — nothing like the prospect of death to make you wake up to yourself. Priorities.
We’re working through the same set list as last time, when Harry angles his head, trying to direct my gaze to someone in the crowd. I’m looking but not seeing. I keep singing, and looking, because he seems agitated that I’m not getting it.
‘What?’ I whisper during his solo.
He shakes his head, unable to talk and play lead break at the same time. Then it’s my turn to sing again. It’d be comical if it weren’t so frustrating.
‘Joe Davidson,’ he manages to whisper.
Like I’m supposed to know who that is. Then it clicks: Solway Records – the company Harry does session work for. Oh crap. I’m not ready for this. It’s only our second gig. What was Harry thinking? Suddenly my confidence takes a U-turn, and I’m a sea of tight muscles.
It’s his turn to solo again. I stand close to him and hiss. ‘Tonight? Why?’
‘I didn’t invite him.’
‘So how?’
‘Dunno. Do the new one,’ he says. And it takes me a moment to realise he’s transitioned into an original song we’ve been working on. I glare. Thanks for the warning.
I try not to look panicked as I search for the lyrics on my iPad. Got them.
As I sing, I scan the crowd, seeing if anyone particular is paying attention. There he is ... maybe? Towards the back of the room, a guy leaning against a pillar, watching us. He’s got that middle-aged, paunch-bald thing going on. He must be the only person in the room without a drink; both his hands are tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. I stumble on a phrase. Crap. I flick my eyes back to my iPad, trying not to look obvious. At least the bit I made up rhymed with the previous line. It’s an original. Who’s gonna know?
We finish the song and switch back to our normal repertoire. Joe, if it is actually him, keeps staring. My squirm-factor slides up a notch. My dress is clinging in all the wrong places. Sweat prickles my scalp. But he must like us. He’s not smiling or anything, but he’s still there. He stays for the start of the next song.
I’ve got to get this under control. Show him we have the talent he’s looking for. My singing isn’t the problem. I’m rockin’ every song. It’s what to do with my body that throws me. I need some dance lessons, something that’ll give me physical confidence. I attempt a slinky move and think I actually pull it off. There’s only fifteen minutes left before we finish our set and get to talk with him. I’m filled with excitement ... and dread. I can imagine the three of us cosied up in a booth, Harry and Joe exchanging testosterone and me sipping a vodka martini, smiling stupidly every now and then, unable to verbalise my horror and enthusiasm at being considered for a recording project.
He’s on the move. Maybe he’s getting a drink? Nope. He saunters right past the bar and out of the room. I deflate. Why the hell couldn’t he stay for another few minutes? All that anticipation for nothing. As soon as Harry and I finish up, I crack it.
‘Seriously?’
‘What’s the problem?’
Harry moves towards the bar, and I follow, desperate to voice my annoyance. ‘He just walked off.’
‘So? No-one said there was going to be a meeting. He dropped in of his own volition. He didn’t have to.’
‘Yeah but ...’ My shoulders slump as I slide onto a bar stool. ‘I mean, why not at least wave or something?’
‘Why? He’s not the queen. You’ve done two gigs and you’re expecting royal treatment? He doesn’t know you from a bar of soap. Maybe you need to lower your expectations a little.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Language.’
Crap. Okay, I’m a diva. But this industry is ... I hate it and love it at the same time. Is that normal? How do entertainers survive without going crazy? No wonder so many of the brilliant ones die young. It scares me that maybe I want this more than I realise.
Tomorrow, I’ll come down from my lofty high and everything will be mundane again. Then I’ll visit Snap and remind myself what the real world is like.
~
Freaking hell. Harry’s knock on the car window gives me a start. I’ve been sitting in here, in Snap’s car, pondering whether I’m making the right move. It seems like a good idea. I mean Harry’s apartment is nice and cushy with Foxtel and central heating. Who wouldn’t like that? But it’s Harry’s place. And we’ll be sharing it for a couple of days before he leaves – his idea – so I can get comfortable with how his stuff works. I mean a washing machine is a washing machine isn’t it? It’s not like it’s What does this button do? Boom!
I wind down the window, and he leans on the doorframe. ‘Who taught you to park?’
‘Snap. Why?’
‘Well ... parallel means ... never mind. I thought you were coming a couple of hours ago?’
‘Sorry. I thought I’d drop in and see him on the way.’
I don’t tell him that I was secretly hoping Snap would somehow give me a miraculous sign to let me know if I’m doing the right thing or not. Not a chance. He was still lying there with that hissing machine breathing for him. If I’m honest, I’m pretty sure he would say I was crazy if I didn’t go ahead.
‘Any change?’
I shake my head.
‘Poor kid,’ Harry says, and there’s the flicker of annoyance I get when he uses that word ‘kid, kiddo’. Sometimes he seems like an old man in a young man’s body. He thumps the roof of the car. ‘Pop the boot.’
I point to the back seat. ‘It’s just these boxes.’
‘Oh.’ He looks surprised.
‘You said not to bring bedding and stuff, yeah?’ I don’t tell him that most of the stuff in our apartment belongs to Snap.
‘Yep. All taken care of.’
Harry tries to open the rear driver’s side door, but it’s locked.
‘Hang on a minute.’ I reach behind my headrest and pull on the lock. ‘Gotta love old cars.’ Snap’s not wrong when he calls it a bomb. A late 1990s silver Honda Civic. But it gets us from A to B in one piece.
Harry yanks the door open and pulls out two of the boxes. I grab a third and we trudge them up to the lobby lift. It feels weird, as if I’m actually moving in with him. Only, he’ll be catching a plane to Sydney on Friday to meet his ship. Then I’ll have to get used to being in a strange place and working with strange musos.
Harry insists the gigs will round out my experience, get my confidence up, because I can’t always stay in my comfort zone working with him – as if the stage is ever a comfortable place for me. Stop. Think positive.
The boxes he’s carrying are heavy – my books probably. His face is red by the time the lift doors close. I smile to myself. He’s trying to impress me. When we get to his front door, he presses the boxes against the wall for support and tries to reach for his pocket.
‘I’ll get them,’ I say.
‘Would you mind?’
I put my box down and start digging around in his pants pocket. His face goes redder and so does mine. Awkward. I pull the keys out and unlock the door, propping it open while he lumbers past me down the hallway. I retrieve my box and follow. I pass a little table with a polished wooden dish on it and pause to drop the keys into it. I guess that’s where I’m going to be leaving them for the next six weeks. New habits.
He turns right, through a doorway. ‘You okay?’ he calls.
‘Yep, right behind you.’
He dumps the boxes just inside and moves back into the hallway. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll get the last one.’
I start to object, but he’s already gone. I check out the space. I only had a quick glance at it a few days ago, after he first offered it to me. Now it feels way different. Suspiciously fresh. Like everything is shiny and new. The room also seems to come with its own cat. A black and white boofy creature that’s sitting on my bed.
‘Hello. And who might you be?’
It reminds me of a Boynton cat, with its head looking strangely too small for its plump body. Its intense yellow eyes defy me to dethrone it. I stand hands on hips, hoping an authoritative posture might show it who’s boss.
‘Where did you come from?’
It licks its fur a couple of times, then curls up, its head resting on its paws, still keeping an eye on me. It wins the staring contest – I relent, sit next to it and stroke its short fur, softer and thicker than I expected. I’m immediately rewarded with a tractor engine purr. It’s a nice sensation. The only felines I’ve known in the past were Samuel’s cat, Smith, who didn’t like anyone except Samuel; and the farm cats – mean, lean, feral, rat-catching machines that growled if you got too near.
‘I see you’ve met Mr Pink.’ Harry says. He’s hovering in the doorway, holding the last box.
I stand and take it from him, place it on top of one of the others.
Harry points to a chair beside the bed. ‘May I?’
I shrug. ‘It’s your place.’ Then it occurs to me, this is my bedroom ... for the time being.
He sits and looks accusingly at the cat. ‘You traitor, Pink. She’s only been here a few minutes, and you’ve deserted me already.’
I return to sitting on the bed. ‘He’s a big smooch. How come I’ve never met him before?’
‘He comes and goes as he feels like it. Usually doesn’t venture into the rest of the place. Makes a furry mess of the bedding though. I had to replace it.’
Ah, that explains the newness of the doona cover. Mr Pink responds by lifting his back leg and licking his bits.
I laugh. ‘You have classy friends.’
‘He’s not my friend. I don’t actually know who he belongs to. But he’s well fed, judging by the stomach on him. I wouldn’t recommend leaving any food uncovered in the kitchen. Little bugger helped himself to a hot chicken I left on the bench once. Foil pack and all.’
I laugh again and stroke Mr Pink’s head. He responds by lifting his chin and closing his eyes. ‘Mr Pink. That’s such a wack name for a beautiful beast like you.’
‘Wack?’
‘You know ... lame.’ Now I’m thinking how lame I sound, trying to use street-speak from the pub. And my swearing? Harry’s still on my back about it. He says I’m above it. That I used to have a better vocabulary. But that was a lifetime ago. Just because he doesn’t swear ... actually, now I think about it, not even back in Wineera. Tough. I like swearing. I mean ‘fuck’ – that’s a whole world of expression: fuck, fucked, fucking, fuckitty-fuck, fucker. It conveys everything I want to say in one word. Economical, I call it. I’m trying to substitute freakin’ for fucking, but I doubt I’ll ever get there. Fuck feels so good rolling off my tongue. Crap. Will I ever get the hang of being the ‘new me’ Harry wants? It’d be so much easier just to be the ‘real me’. Fuck it.
‘Don’t know his real name,’ Harry says. ‘But the first time I saw him, he reminded me of Steve Buscemi. You know – the actor from Boardwalk Empire. And Reservoir Dogs. Tarantino. Have you seen the movie? It’s a cult classic.’
I shake my head. It’s probably another one of those ancient Mr Miyagi movies. He was never this retro back in Wineera. Is this part of his new ‘jazz persona’? I bet he wants me to watch it.
‘Dark humour. If you’re into that kind of thing, I’ll play it for you one night.’
Bingo.
He points at Mr Pink. ‘See how his eyes kind of bulge a little around the edges?’
I can’t. Mr Pink’s face is buried in his butt again.
‘Well ... they do. And he always looks a bit startled. Reminds me of Steve’s character in the movie. Mr Pink.’
Harry leans forward and rubs Mr Pink’s exposed stomach. He’s rewarded with a swift belt from a paw. Mr Pink jumps off the bed, struts over to the window and disappears behind a curtain.
‘Is that his favourite spot to sit?’
Harry walks over and pushes the curtain aside, revealing a pet door built into the lower section of the window. ‘Must have been the previous owners. I haven’t bothered removing it. I can block it up though, if you don’t want a visitor in the middle of the night.’
‘No, no leave it. He’ll be good company while you’re away.’ I stand next to Harry at the window, and I’m surprised to see a decent-sized balcony outside. During rehearsals, I haven’t ventured much further than Harry’s music room, lounge room, kitchen and toilet.
In the courtyard below, there’s a well-maintained grassy common area. ‘Where the hell does he come from? We’re three storeys up.’
Harry points to a fourth storey apartment. ‘Up there, maybe. I’ve seen him walking along their balcony. Then again, he could just be an opportunist and visit anyone and everyone for food and attention.’
‘It’s dangerous, though. What if he slipped?’
Harry shrugs. ‘That’s Mr Pink for you: a thief who gets away with shit.’
‘You said shit.’
Harry smiles. He’s still gazing out the window. I smile too; I must be rubbing off on him. We’re standing close, and I catch the scent of musky deodorant and fresh sweat, and there’s his dark-blond beard. I want to touch it. To feel if it’s soft or scratchy. He looks down, and I’m swept back to another moment, a lifetime ago. The impulse is there to repeat it, but I remember how it ended. Instead, I stand on my toes and peck his cheek. His beard tickles my lips, prickly.
‘Thanks. For this,’ I say. ‘It means a lot that you trust me.’
Harry steps back. ‘Sure. I’ll leave you to unpack. If there’s anything you need just holler. I’ll go move your car into the parking lot. The tenants next door don’t own one, so you can use their spot.’
I sit on the vacated bed and run my hand over the doona cover. It’s silky and cool. New. He must have bought it especially for me. My tattered boxes look foreign in these polished surroundings, the contents jaded. Maybe I should just throw everything out. Start anew. My old self included.
