She’s alone in the small studio apartment staring listlessly at the ceiling, replaying her final day in Byron Bay for clues that it would all end this way. She remembers bumping into Kai at Suffolk Park Bakery; he’d given her the finger and walked the other way. She chews on her nails, seeing herself packing the last of her things into the blue duffel bag.
Whatever possessed me, she says out loud, figuring she was probably obnoxiously excited to be finally getting out of the Bay. She remembers wondering if she should go and say goodbye to Rip. She can see the nail polish on her fingers, bright pink, and her art supplies safely tucked into a big woven basket. She remembers hugging her mother a lot that day, some of their tension had released and she felt freer than usual with her affection. She remembers all of this, but she can’t remember the argument that convinced her not to go and see him.
There are no tears left in her, but something worse. The image of his face is burned on her retinas. She imagines the stroke of his hand in her hair, cradling her head, holding it as she climaxed. This image spurs her to her feet. She’s paced the room a hundred times already, but there’s no release. How could you do this? She shouts into the room. How could you? You were meant to find me again one day, you fucking idiot!
She screams until her throat is sore. She thrashes her arms against her own body, pulling, fighting, daring something to break. And then it does. Her resistance to his face crumbles and she tears the lid off a tin of green paint. She dips her right hand in it and splashes the colour against the wall. She smacks it hard so that paint splatters onto her forearm. She weaves the paint into forms bigger than her, right across the length of the wall. She finds black and white paint, using whatever she can find in the mess of her belongings to draw what she sees: the eyes that haunt her. When she’s done, she sinks down against the wall, hair streaked with paint. She sits while her mural drips down the wall to meet her.
Later, she opens the shiny box from the pharmacy. She tips the contents out: sheer gloves, a tube of colour and a plastic bottle. She reads the pamphlet then pulls on the gloves. Jess’s bathroom is small, almost like an aeroplane’s, and Sahara struggles to wangle her way in front of the mirror to get a proper look at herself. She opens the tube and squeezes it into the plastic bottle; it comes out like purple acrylic paint. She shakes the bottle like it says in the instructions and then unscrews the lid, it’s a strange sort of bottle, like a miniature version of the kind they put tomato sauce into in cheap restaurants. She parts her golden blonde hair in the middle and as her hand constricts around the bottle, thick black paste slurps out onto her scalp. She works methodically, drawing a line with the mixture and then flipping the hair over to reveal the next virgin area, ready for the dye. In ten minutes, her head is completely covered and she works the stuff all over, front to back. She squishes the ends of her long hair between her gloved hands and it streaks her bare skin black. She ties the lot in a bun and waits.
The water runs a deep-night black when she scrubs the dye off her head. When the water runs clear, she turns off the tap and stands again in front of the mirror. The skin around her hairline, her ears and the back of her neck, is a mess, inked with dye.
So what, she says. Her hair is now a shiny raven black. She looks like a different person, different from the one who once knew a guy called Rip Oatley and that’s all that matters.
What’s going on over here?
Hmmm? Sahara looks up from the blank canvas.
You haven’t painted a thing all week, her teacher says. What’s going on?
Sahara puts down her brush. Can’t you go and talk to someone else?
No, the teacher says, squatting down next to her. I’m here talking to you. The exhibition is less than a month away. You’re one of the best, you know.
You say that to all of us, Sahara says.
No, I only say it to the best. Now, are you going to tell me what’s blocking you?
Sahara glances around to see if anyone is listening in. Rachel meets her eyes and gives her an encouraging look. I can’t do it anymore, she says.
Then don’t, but stop staring at this canvas like it owes you something because it doesn’t. The rest will come, once you let it.
How many more do I still need to submit?
The teacher opens her folder and looks for Sahara’s name on a list of students. The gallery needs six from each of you, and you’ve done four so far.
There will only be four from me then, Sahara announces.
Would it help if I told you there was already some serious buzz about your talent? Some pretty influential people will be there on opening night, hoping to discover a bright new thing like you.
Sahara scoffs.
Right, well I can see you’re obviously going through something. You haven’t been yourself lately. It’s a natural part of the creative process, the highs and lows and doubts. Maybe if you tell me more I can help.
Sahara turns the canvas back to front and puts it back on the easel. The love of my life committed suicide and every time I try to paint, all I see is his face. No, his eyes. All I see are his eyes, they’re green and shining and staring into me, and I can’t paint unicorns anymore.
So paint those eyes then, the teacher says. Forget about the gallery and be authentic to your process. Channel this grief and paint whatever fire burns you. So the unicorns are over. Cool. Pick up a pencil or a stick or whatever feels right and get those damn eyes out of you. Creativity is simply cleansing the soul, sometimes it’s light, sometimes it’s dark. No judgement, just release whatever is there.
Sahara blinks. I’m hanging on by a thread right now and I can’t be here today. I need to go so I don’t lose my shit, okay?
The teacher nods. Do you want the number of a good counsellor?
No, Sahara says. I want you to never mention this again.
She has to get out of the city, away from the concrete and the hard edges closing in on her. She catches a bus up Oxford Street and walks down to the rocks at the south end of Bronte. She climbs up behind the ocean pool and over the white fence so that she’s on the edge of the cliff face, her legs dangling over. She breathes in the salt air and it feels good in her lungs. In the past weeks there’s been no break from torment, but here, by the ocean, she feels a gap in her misery.
The far corner of the beach is swarming with surfers. The waves are small, but they’re out there in droves, black wetsuits bobbing on boards. She thinks of all the times she watched Rip surf. So many times it feels like half her life passed as he rode the waves up north and she watched serenely from the beach. Those times were her most peaceful, with nothing stirring inside her, and the mesmerising tilt and flexion of his body and board slicing through the water. She watches the eastern suburbs surfers now, analyses their form, their curve and their handling of their boards. She knows not one of them has the natural flair that Rip had. Or Kai, he was the star, dropping out of school and travelling all over, riding for that big surf brand while they sat in boring geometry class. She throws a rock over the cliff and it splashes into the water below. It’s clear down there, so clear she can follow the rock sinking for a while, before it is swallowed up by the depth of the water.
Waverley Cemetery is behind her on the headland and the thought comforts her. She has no idea where Rip’s body is, but she feels like something led her here, to this open expanse of ocean beside a hillside graveyard to pay her respects. She rolls onto her back and stares at the drifting clouds. She feels the ache in her body surrender into the rock, into the solid platform that’s stronger and heavier than she is. She feels held and a layer of panic drops away. The sleepless nights take their toll and her body and mind surrender into the tide of sleep.
Their bodies are close. His hands are at her waist, holding her steady as the surfboard rushes through the wave. She cries out, feeling her body tip this way and that, but he’s got her and together they glide until the wave foams out into nothing. She falls off into the shallows, he reaches for her and pulls her up towards him. He holds the board steady while she climbs up and lays her body along it. He lies over her and paddles them out beyond the breakers, to the rolling, lilting ocean. As the next set comes in, he pushes her off and she stays up a while, then flops off the board into the water.
He swims over and gathers her in his arms. She clasps his face, his eyes glowing amid the tanned skin and smattering of summer freckles. He flicks the hair off his face and kisses her. Her mouth opens for him and he sucks the air from her body. She groans and kisses him deeper, feeling his heart beating through his chest. He puts a hand on her face and she feels electricity shooting through her, the colour of emeralds and sapphires and gold.
Sahara wakes. She’s groggy, but she realises she’s smiling. She sits up. Most of the surfers have left the beach except for two hopefuls. She salutes them and walks down over the rocks, back to the promenade, aware that she’s lighter than before.
In the apartment Jess is reading a magazine.
Were you waiting for me to get back? Sahara asks.
Jess flicks over a page. You look better, she says. Where have you been?
I left class early and went down to Bronte. It was beautiful. I sat on the rocks and did some thinking. She looks at the packet of chocolate biscuits on the table. I’m sorry about the impromptu artwork on your wall. It’s hideous, I’ll paint over it.
I wasn’t going to mention it, but I think we can definitely live without it. We can do it tomorrow, I’ll help.
Sahara looks at the big green eyes, they don’t taunt her anymore. Pass me those biscuits. I don’t think I’ve eaten since yesterday morning.
Eat up, Jess says. We’ve got a big day of painting tomorrow. I hope you’ve got enough white paint.
Sahara rests her head on the table, ready for the day to be over.
***
A week later and the strange, dragon-winged thing of grief inside Sahara makes her pick up her bottle opener. Today, she is ready for work.
Jess frowns. Are you sure going back to work is a good idea? I can lend you some money if you need it.
Like you can afford it. Sahara wrenches her hair into a ponytail. I’ve had enough time off. I’m fine.
You’re not fooling anyone, you know. I can see straight through you, Sahara. I know you’re hurting like hell.
Sahara clenches her jaw and packs her handbag. Lighter. Cigarettes. Bottle opener. Fuck off, she spits at her friend.
Jess stands up and shakes her legs until the air has clicked out of her knees. What else have you got in there, hey? Why don’t you tell me how angry you are, how you really feel?
Fuck off, will you! Sahara says, barging past Jess who catches her and pulls her back from the door.
Sahara scratches at Jess’s arms; despair shudders in her gut like a dying fish laid out in the sun, gasping for air. It twists higher up towards her heart, lashing out. I’m not crying again, not now, she says, hating the endless flow of tears from her eyes and her inability to control them.
You don’t need to cry, but I’m not letting you go to that shitty club, okay? No way.
Sahara submits, dropping her handbag. She rests her head on Jess’s shoulder. It wasn’t meant to be like this.
I know, sweetness, I know, Jess says.
Sahara dumps a stack of lottery tickets on the table and lights a smoke.
More of those, hey? Jess says.
Well, I don’t have much else going for me right now, do I? Sahara’s eyes remain dry; she’s well spent of tears. I wasn’t ready to spend my life with him, but I never thought I’d lose him altogether. Not like this.
So is that why you left Byron, because he proposed? Jess asks.
Sahara drags on her cigarette. It’s partly the reason. I mean I’d never known anything else except Byron and those same beaches and him. I just felt like I had to get out, had to explore and see what else was out there. I guess I wasn’t ready to settle and have my life tied up in a neat little bow.
You’re still young, you have plenty of life ahead of you.
But the crazy thing is I always thought he’d be there one day at the end. I still believed we’d end up together, no matter what happened in between.
Life is full of curve balls, Jess says. We never know what’s around the next corner and we just have to roll with it. I know that doesn’t help, but that’s all I have. Look, I don’t want to leave you, but I’m working for the caterers tonight.
Sahara forgets her scratch-and-win tickets. I’ll come with you. Please Jess, I can’t spend any more time sitting around doing nothing.
I guess it might be something to take your mind off everything, Jess says.
I promise I’ll be okay.
Fine, Jess concedes, but it’s a Winter Wonderland-themed party so you have to wear white.
They arrive at an impressive, gated Woollahra residence.
Winter Wonderland’s a stupid theme anyway, Sahara says. It doesn’t even snow in Sydney.
I think that’s the point, Jess says, pressing the buzzer on the wall.
The wrought-iron gates open inwards and their feet crunch on gravel that leads up to the front of the house. A willowy woman—long legs, long neck, long fingers—greets them at the front door, ushering them in quickly, aware of the people hovering around her, hairbrushes, make-up tools and shoe options in hand. She points them in the direction of the kitchen then makes her way back up a grand staircase with the team of stylists trailing behind her.
The house is a labyrinth of enormous rooms and endless passages. Sahara breathes in the air, pungent with the heaving scent of lilies and fresh vanilla. Tall square vases of white flowers are in every room, together with dancing flames of hundreds of candles lit for the evening’s festivities. Finally, the kitchen opens up, and Jess and Sahara step into a living, breathing chrome beehive of activity.
I brought one extra, Jess says to the chef chopping watercress at the sink.
Lifesaver, we’ll need her, the overweight, bearded man says, looking Sahara up and down.
And who are you? He asks, bemused by the pretty, tired-looking thing in front of him.
Oh, I’m Sahara, she says.
Good. Jess knows the drill. She’ll show you everything.
The kitchen is organised into a production line of chopping, slicing, grating, peeling and mashing. Towards the back of the kitchen is another group of workers who are polishing glasses and folding napkins at enviable speed.
She wants more candles out there, so put them everywhere, on every surface, the chef says, thrusting a tray of tiny candles into Sahara’s hands.
Jess walks over to the others and picks up a polishing cloth.
Hurry along now, Cinderella, we don’t want to make the wicked stepmother angry! Jess jokes as Sahara disappears.
Each room has been transformed into a white cocoon with plastic fir trees, fake snow, snowflake decorations scattered throughout. She touches things—vases, photo frames, cushions, curtains, statues, walls, petals, lampshades, books—as if the act of feeling the textures against her skin might bring her closer into this luxurious world. In one room she finds an entire wall taken up by a flat television screen, at least five metres wide, in front of three rows of reclining chairs. Sahara sits in one of the chairs, just briefly, and glances up at the screen. She hasn’t been to the movies since leaving Byron Bay and longs to be lost in a story other than her own.
You’re in charge of the dishes tonight, honey, Jess tells her.
Sahara sighs, regretting her decision to be here.
It’s only a few hours, please, Sahara.
Sahara grimaces and opens the dishwasher door to see what she’s dealing with.
Out in the courtyard around the swimming pool the party gets going, with guests sipping delicate cocktails and gobbling up canapés. Actors, entrepreneurs, lawyers, musicians, models, big names in the entertainment industry and some lesser-known names enjoy the party.
Sahara wants to check out the crowd, but she stays where she’s been told to stay, sweating under the kitchen lights and steam from the dishwasher. She jams a glass into the top rack of the dishwasher and it splinters in her hand.
You okay? Jess asks, loading a tray with full champagne glasses.
Can I have a break? I’ve been stuck here for two hours already. Just a quick smoke break, please, please Jess.
Jess pulls a plaster from a box and agrees. She wraps up Sahara’s right thumb with the bright blue plastic strip.
Ten minutes, then straight back here, okay?
Sahara nods and opens the back door onto the garden. She smokes her first cigarette, finally free of the constricting apron, welcoming the giddy rush of nicotine.
A man comes around the corner and spots her smoking alone against the wall. He saunters over, reeking of booze and props himself up beside her. Well, if it isn’t Magenta Wildchild. With new hair, I see.
Wildflower, she says, noting the black hair hanging limply in his eyes and red wine stains on his white shirt. I don’t remember yours.
Come on, surely I’m not that forgettable. He holds out a sweaty hand. I’ll give you a hint. First name Sean, last name Scott.
Sahara ignores his outstretched hand. So does that make you Scott Sean or Sean Scott?
He nods, and laughs wryly. Ring any bells?
Sahara stubs her cigarette out against the wall. I have to go back inside.
Wildfeather, off on another adventure, wherever the wind takes her.
No, I’m working, she says, tired. And you’re totally pissed.
You’re right, I’m pissed and I’m also a little bit pissed off that you keep leaving me like this.
Sahara stares at him blankly. She can hear someone calling him back to the party. Your girlfriend’s looking for you, she says.
I don’t have a girlfriend. But there’s something very mysterious about you. I like it. Just tell me your name, your real one. So I can whisper it in your ear next time. Sean leans in and inhales the scent of her.
She moves back into the wall. Who says there’ll be a next time?
One thing you should know about me, Wildfeather, is that I am a very persistent man and I get everything I want. He moves closer to her, stepping on her foot.
Jesus. That hurt, Sahara says.
The voice calls again for Sean, getting closer, the woman’s footsteps are audible.
I may be inebriated, but you are the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve seen all night. Come home with me. I’ll blow your mind, Sean says, licking his lips.
Oh, you already have, don’t you worry about that. Sahara pushes past him and heads towards the kitchen. She feels his leering eyes on her as she walks and turns back just as she reaches the door.
I’ll find you! he calls out.
Sahara watches as a tall blonde woman in a blue dress comes up to him and throws a drink in his face. She then runs down the driveway and he follows her. Sahara stays by the door, staring at the couple until they disappear and there is nothing left out there but the ghostly trunks of eucalypts and the gravel path.
A gusty wind streaks through the streets of Surry Hills rustling the fallen leaves. ‘I’m in a dangerous mood,’ Sahara thinks, as her legs stretch out along Crown Street. She shivers and digs her hands into the pockets of her black coat. The gallery is another hundred metres away, but she deliberately slows her steps. She sees a small crowd gathered out front and shrinks back into the foliage hanging over the fence of a terrace house. She lights a cigarette and chips away at the flaking nail of her right thumb. Something about this night feels wrong, it’s nothing like she dreamed of, back before the awful thing happened. Back then she was filled with anticipation at the inevitable becoming of herself, of her success, of her creative projects manifesting fully into the world. Now, hiding from those gathered to witness the display of young talent on the walls of the gallery, she doesn’t know herself. She flicks her cigarette and stamps it out with the heel of her boot.
Get it together, she commands, slapping her thighs.
She takes a deep breath in and propels her body out of the shadows and into the incandescent glow spilling out of the gallery onto the people on the street. She searches for a familiar face.
Rachel spots her and races over. Oh my god! There’s a curator from the MCA here tonight, imagine if he likes our work, she squeals, her hands flapping by her side. We did it, it’s really happening!
Yeah, um what’s the deal with drinks tonight? Is there a bar?
Hell, yes, there’s a bar, Rachel says, taking Sahara’s hand and dragging her inside.
Sahara takes a glass of red wine from a table and sips it hurriedly.
Are you okay? Rachel asks, tipsy from champagne. You seem a bit off, like edgy or something.
Sahara feigns a smile. I’m just excited, that’s all, it’s amazing, I am so happy for us. We did it. Go us, we’re the best. We rock. This is our night! She ends with a hip thrust to the left for effect.
Well, that was believable. Rachel straightens Sahara’s fringe. Seriously, are you okay or has the faintest whiff of success gone to your head already?
Do not want to talk about it. Let’s look around instead of mulling over my emotional issues, okay? Sahara walks towards Rachel’s portraits, clustered together in a group on the back wall.
Rachel bounces in front of the wall and squeezes Sahara’s arm.
Slow down, energiser bunny, this is going to be a long night.
Rachel takes Sahara’s wine from her hand. Is it because Rip’s not here on your big night, is that it?
Sahara hardens at the sound of his name. Don’t, she says to Rachel, and takes back her wine glass. She goes over to the unattended table of cheese and crackers and pours herself another wine.
Rachel follows, grabbing Sahara’s coat. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m just worried about you.
Sahara downs the wine and fills the glass again. Stop worrying about everyone else and just focus on your own goddamn life, okay? She sees the hurt in Rachel’s eyes, but she walks off.
She steers clear of her classmates for the rest of the night and the teacher who seems to be stalking her around the room. She drinks solidly to ease the fretful anxiety that’s swooped down on her. She sees the others networking, posing for photographs together and celebrating the triumph of their first official gallery showing. God help me, she says, as Rachel, wounded, glares at her from across the room.
The wine makes her feel like the floor is leaning to the left, like something is sucking half the building down into the earth. It also gives her the courage to finally face one of her own creations. She eyes it sceptically, aware that she may never paint like this again. With innocence. That’s what it is, she realises. I am no longer innocent. She steps in close to the largest canvas, a three by one metre painting emblazoned with a pink unicorn, set against a landscape of rolling green hills. Byron Hills.
Who painted these? a voice behind her asks.
She sees her teacher gesticulate excitedly to where she is standing, shrunken and drunk. She turns and it’s Sean, illuminated by a fluorescent bar light.
Well, hello again, he says. Look at that, my pink shirt matches your pink unicorn. Must be fate, don’t you think?
He peers closely at the cardboard next to her group of paintings.
Please don’t, she says, pulling him back from the explanation of her art. Those words are all wrong, they’re just rubbish. And wrong.
But your name is Sahara Wyld? Did they get that bit right?
She nods. Yup, that’s me.
Sean folds his arms sternly. You’re obviously insanely talented, he says. How many paintings have you sold?
What, tonight or in general?
Both, Sean says, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a chunky gold watch.
Tonight—none, and about twelve, maybe fifteen over the years.
And how much did you sell those for?
Sahara thinks. Somewhere between fifty and five hundred.
Sean goes to the bar and comes back with two champagnes. You just sold four more, he says, clinking his glass to hers.
What? When? She asks, looking around the room.
To me, he says. I’m buying all of them.
You’re buying all my paintings? That’s a line if ever I heard one.
I’m serious, those four unicorns have my name on them.
No, they have mine on them, she says. And who says I want to sell them to you anyway?
You do know you’re an art student at an exhibition showcasing your artworks? I’m pretty sure that selling them is the whole point of this exercise. He places a hand on her lower back. It’s okay I really dig them. I’m not kidding. I want them all.
And you get everything you want, isn’t that what you told me last time? She allows his eyes to meet hers fully for the first time; they are dark and menacing.
Sean smirks and looks away. That doesn’t sound like me, you must be thinking of someone else.
They both turn back to the unicorns, the mythical bodies taut and bursting with strength and agility. Sahara tries to recapture the feeling of painting the horns on her unicorns, the intricate detail of the spiral and perfect pointed ends, but she can’t, it’s long gone. Her eyes trace the lines of the silver unicorn, painted by moonlight and finished off one rainy afternoon in the studio. There’s a sheen to the animal’s coat that makes it stand out from the others. This is the one that most resembles Zephyr.
Please let me buy them. Sean says, his voice softer now.
You don’t even know how much they are, she says.
Sean steps towards her. Name your price.
That’s the last of my goodness up there and it’s not going cheap. Sahara wipes the alcohol from her lips and meets his gaze again.
You look far too young to be talking like that, he says, but it suits you, the whole tortured artist thing.
Sahara notices her teacher hovering, a few metres away from them. How much are you offering?
Five thousand apiece. And I’ll throw in a free dinner. With me, of course.
Are you out of your mind? Sahara lurches forward, sloshing her champagne on the wooden floor. You’re going to drop twenty grand on my paintings, just like that?
Twenty grand for your paintings and the last of your goodness, he says. Your words, not mine.
Sahara sees her teacher freeze, mid-step. She watches the woman caught between where she was going and the impossible information she’s just overheard and she resents her for it. Suddenly she resents everyone in the room, not because they have wronged her, but because they hold a piece of who she was before. Only the stranger knows nothing of what has been lost. The others, they own something that rightly belongs to her; they remember the parts of her being she can’t reclaim, no matter how hard she tries. Her skin is clammy under her coat and the lights; she feels a panic attack coming on.
Sean or Scott, whatever your name is, you have yourself a deal. She gives him her glass and surrenders to the possibility that he may just have changed her life. But not the dinner part, I don’t want dinner, I just want you to get me the hell out of here.
She holds tightly on the glass railing of the balcony and absorbs the galaxy of Sydney’s twinkling city lights. They’re outside, storeys up from the street in the penthouse of the Hilton Hotel. Sean points down beyond the glass paneling in front of them, to the illuminated buildings. Beyond that are the waterways and bays, dark pools of spilled ink, visible only in the ripples of reflected lights.
I don’t think I’ve ever been up so high before, Sahara says, wrapping Sean’s jacket around her shoulders against the chill.
Sean pulls her into him and sits down on the tiled floor, making space for her between his legs. Sahara picks up the vodka he’s poured for her and swallows the drink in two gulps. He hands her his drink and she finishes that too.
Why are you interested in me? she asks.
You don’t strike me as someone who usually asks those kind of questions, you’re very sure of yourself, from what I can tell, he says. But since you did ask, I like you because you’re the closest thing to real I’ve seen for a long time. I get a lot of people trying to latch on to me but you’re different. There’s something about you, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m hooked. He twists a curl of her hair in his hand.
Do you honestly not know who I am? he asks.
Sahara shrugs. Nope.
That is the fucking coolest thing I’ve ever heard. He pulls Sahara up into his crotch and rubs his face on her shoulder.
So who are you? She reaches back and explores the rugged, tanned features. She feels his hair in her hand; it’s thicker and fuller than Rip’s. As soon as she makes the comparison, she chokes. Am I really going through with this?
No one, special, Sean says, groping her breasts.
Sahara jumps up, suddenly too sober for the older man’s hands on her body. His touch is rough and greedy and unfamiliar. What about wine, do you have wine?
Sean holds out his hand and Sahara pulls him up to standing. He guides her inside, through heavy gold curtains into a room of cream walls and plush carpet that’s straight out of a magazine—pristine and sensual and stylish. The couches are light tan leather, a television screen dwarfs the far wall and a vase of pink orchids sits on a heavy-looking Balinese coffee table. Sean makes his way to the kitchen, where he pours fine white powder onto the smooth black marble. He snorts a line with a rolled hundred-dollar note and passes the green paper to Sahara.
Blow—the best.
Sahara takes the rolled note and sniffs, her first line ever. A burning shot fires through her nostrils and down her nasal passages. Burning and sour. A fast and potent mix of fear and freedom.
Sean hands her a small yellow pill and a shot of black Sambucca. Sahara takes both and opens her mouth to the onslaught of Sean’s lips on hers. He kisses her roughly and sloppily, licking her chin and slurping saliva into her mouth. Arms match these ravenous kisses and he backs Sahara out of the kitchen and onto the carpet, his sweaty body pressing into her, his hands pinning her down.
In this moment it all makes sense to her. It’s fate. In a haze of tangled limbs and saliva, she’s found her way into the good life.
Stretching out across satin sheets, back arched, Sahara feels the cold space next to her. She’s alone. Where exactly is she? She blinks away the intruding sunshine, her mind stumbling over flashing memories from the night before. She finds her clothes on the carpet and dresses hurriedly. A digital clock next to the bed displays the time, next to two condom wrappers.
Sahara leaves the hotel and jumps on the first bus she can find, straight up Oxford Street to the Cross. She jumps off near Jess’s and, carrying her shoes, she walks with blistered feet through a bleak Monday morning and a spongy honeycomb world that she can’t quite grasp. The heads of passers-by seem elongated, long horse faces stare as she goes past them. She creeps into the apartment, grateful that Jess is asleep.
Where have you been? Jess asks, woken by the sound of Sahara’s key in the lock. I was so worried about you!
Sahara starts speaking, frantic words that she can’t really hear or understand. Her mouth forms the consonants and vowels of English, but to Sahara’s muddled mind it’s all a faint scrambled static, the white noise of a broken TV. Jess gets up and eyeballs Sahara, staring into her pupils. Sahara is on the outside, skirting the thin wall of reality and a consciousness warped and broken by an ecstasy pill. Her sudden deafness switches to instant hyper- amplified hearing, and Sahara can hear the spit bubbles pop at the corners of Jess’s lips and the creaking of her knuckles.
Tell me what you’ve taken, Jess demands.
All this in a room that is slowly turning red before Sahara’s eyes. She falls on her knees, overwhelmed and confused and lets the crystalline hysteria flow out in sobs.
Sahara comes around from sleep in the afternoon.
Jess is watching her with a tense face and folded arms. Where were you last night?
Sahara rubs her eyes.
You could’ve let me know you weren’t coming home.
God, I’m sorry, Sahara says. I think I did something stupid.
Of course you did, Jess says, handing Sahara a cigarette. Now, what was it?
I left the exhibition with this guy.
Name? Jess asks.
Sean Scott, Sahara says. And he acted like I should know who he is.
You should, he only owns half the bars and clubs in Sydney. Did you sleep with him?
Sahara nods, opening one eye only, fearing Jess’s reaction. She sighs and smokes, wishing her brain would return to normal.
He has a reputation as a major player, Jess says.
Sahara sits up, dark circles of mascara under both eyes and a rash forming around her mouth and chin from his rough kisses. You should see his place, Jess, it’s totally decked out, all gold and cream and awesome.
And if it’s so awesome, why do you feel so bad today, huh? Jess puts her cigarette out in an ashtray and opens a packet of Tim Tams.
Sahara ignores the question, takes a biscuit and gnaws at the chocolate around the edges.
Did you take something last night?
I thought you said you weren’t going to tell me what to do? Sahara says, separating the two halves of her biscuit so she can lick the chocolate cream inside.
I’m not, I just know a bit more about that side of life than you and it’s not something to get mixed up it. I did my fair share of experimenting and I’d take those years back if I could.
Sahara takes another biscuit from the packet. How come?
Because they were shit, that’s why, and you can lose yourself for years. I was a complete screw-up and I’m lucky I made it out alive. Okay?
She thinks about Sean, his apartment and the powder and pills she consumed.
You’re still grieving, honey. It’s normal to do things like this when you’re confused, but you need more time to get over what happened. You need to look after yourself. Just stay away, Sahara, Jess says. That’s my only advice. Stay away.
Sahara wants to but, even now in her first drug comedown, she’s discovered something that temporarily bleaches the memories of Rip from her mind.