Sahara

The agency is immaculately polished and styled. Sahara waits at reception, fiddling with the hem on her shirt, cursing Sean for making her come here. Suddenly the silence is shattered with a blast of music that shakes the agency, reverberating, pushing speakers to their limit. The jarring burst of noise rattles the chrome and glass around her. It lasts for twenty seconds, Sahara watches the receptionist scramble to find the source of the noise—fiddling with the computer, radio dials, nothing helps—then, just like it began, the music suddenly stops.

A woman bursts out of a room, hands over her ears. Are you trying to deafen us all? Unacceptable, she shouts at the receptionist. So sorry to put you through that, she says to Sahara.

That’s okay, I love that song. It was pretty loud though, the radio must have gone haywire or something. Sahara stands, thinking how much Rip loved the song too.

But it wasn’t even on! the receptionist whines, still searching for the source of the music.

Now that my eardrums are ruptured for life, the woman holds out her hand to Sahara, so lovely to finally meet you. I’m Kiki. I’ve heard such wonderful things about you.

Sahara stands to meet the woman holding out a manicured hand towards her. She is tall in black stilettos and wearing a tight black knee-length dress.

Follow me, we’ll just go into my office for a little chat, shall we? Or would you prefer a cafe? Double Bay is full of gorgeous cafes, we can just pop downstairs.

Here’s fine, Sahara says with reserve.

Kiki’s office is spacious and light. She sits behind a heavy black desk and picks up Sahara’s sketchbook. These are just brilliant, of course. You do know that, right?

I guess, Sahara says.

Well, you’d better start knowing because I’m going to make you into a star and a star needs to know how brightly it shines, am I right?

Can I have my book back please? Sahara says.

Kiki gives her the book. You know you’re not exactly how I imagined you. Sean told me you are sparky, ambitious, that you have spunk. But it seems you’re a bit of a shrinking violet. Which we can work with too, of course.

It’s just that I’m not really sure what I’m doing here, Sahara says after a long pause, taking in the agent’s words.

You are here because of your wonderful sketches of your wonderful boyfriend, great catch by the way, I’m sure half the women in Sydney, if not Australia are hating you right now for landing that one. But, the point is, I have had the pleasure of holding your hot little doodles in my hands and I am very, very excited.

Sahara frowns. I don’t really know where this is going.

This is going all the way to the top, if you let it. Kiki shakes her hands above her head. With Sean’s profile, and your talent, I can make you Australia’s new bright young thing on the art scene. Overnight, Sahara, it can happen that fast. All the ingredients are right in front of us, it’s just about cooking them at the right temperature so the cake turns out the way we want it to.

So you’re offering to make my art into a cake? Is that it?

Not your art, you. It’s about your image, branding. That’s the only way anything happens these days. The agent props her patent leather stilettos on the desk.

Sorry, but I don’t want to be some tacky TV makeover bullshit person, Sahara says. That’s not my vibe.

And that’s exactly the Sahara I want to see, the one who belongs in a Ryan McGinley photo shoot. I knew she was in there somewhere. That’s the one who’s savvy and street-smart and talented. And a little bit cynical, like all you youngsters these days. I see it in the eyes of so many like you, it’s like you’re mad that we screwed everything up and you’re not going to play by our rules anymore. You’re creating your own. Kiki clasps her hands on her desk. So do we have a deal?

I need some time to think, Sahara says.

Okay, but don’t think too long. There are other, younger, hungrier kids out there. Granted, they’re not all dating a millionaire entrepreneur, but who knows, maybe they will be one day. She stares intensely at Sahara. This is what I’ll leave you with. I’m meeting with some people from the MCA on Friday. It seems you caught their attention at an art school exhibition. Your teacher tried to put them in contact with you, but they hit a dead end.

I thought she just wanted to convince me to go back to class, Sahara says. So I ignored her calls.

Well, lucky for you they’re still interested in you. Very interested. They’re launching a new Thursday night program, similar to something already happening in places like San Francisco and New York to bring the hip young things in. I know I can get your work shown there, I’ll reel in influential art buyers and collectors for the opening and you’re away. Just don’t pull any of that disappearing shit again. I’d like to present these sketches and some shots Sean gave me of your earlier work, the horse ones—with your permission, of course.

They’re unicorns, Sahara says.

Yes, those ones. So you can think for a few days and next time I see you, I’ll have something up my sleeve that you won’t be able to say no to. She opens a drawer and takes out an envelope. Take this. It’s a voucher for the salon downstairs. Get your nails done. The little things help in this game.

The bus hisses loudly as it pulls out into the King Street traffic in Newtown, leaving Sahara on the pavement. The grungy mix of cafes, pubs, piercing parlours, tobacconists, adult shops and Thai restaurants comes as a welcomed relief to her after the sanitised agency office at Double Bay.

Rachel comes up behind her and puts her hands over her friends’ eyes.

I know it’s you, silly, Sahara says. She turns and hugs Rachel gratefully.

I can feel your bones, Rachel says. I thought you said you’d put on weight?

Please, not now. I can’t eat, there’s too much else going on in my life. Sahara links her arm with Rachel’s and walks away from the bus stop.

So what’s the big crisis? Rachel asks.

Let’s sit, I need coffee.

Sahara walks into the first cafe they come to and jams into a booth, pulling Rachel next to her. She orders a long black and a chamomile tea for Rachel.

Come on. Don’t make me wait any longer, Rachel says.

I’m sorry we haven’t caught up since you came over to the hotel. I know it’s been weeks, I know I’m being a shit. But I’m so glad you came to meet me.

Rachel nods. It’s okay, I’ve forgiven you already for all of that. You’re not an available-all-the time-friend anymore, and I just had to accept that. Now just spit it out, will you? You’re not pregnant are you?

God, no, Sahara says. These hips are not pushing out a baby any time soon. If ever. It’s about those sketches you saw that day, remember the ones you found in the bathroom?

How could I forget, Rachel says.

Well, Sean found them and gave them to his agent and now she’s in this big spin because she wants to manage me.

So that’s great, no?

No … well I don’t know. Maybe it is. I haven’t been able to sleep for days. He thinks the drawings are of him.

Of course he does, everything’s about him, Rachel says.

And now this agent wants to get me a show at a gallery, a big one, and her whole pitch is that I’m the young starlet artist and the show will be my homage to my drop-dead gorgeous boyfriend. Shit. I can’t think straight.

Okay, slow it all down there, Bambi. Take a breath, drink your coffee. It sounds like this woman is getting a bit ahead of herself, but don’t let that knock you off kilter. You just need to think it all through.

But it’s not Sean in those drawings, you know that. It’s Rip and it’s my pain and my own process. Sahara plays with the spoon on her plate. And he’s taken that and offered it up to this woman like it was his to give away in the first place.

I’m sure he was only trying to help you, Rachel says. I’m not fond of him, as you know, but maybe he was genuinely trying to use his contacts to benefit you. I never thought I’d say this about him, but it’s kind of sweet.

Sahara groans. No, you can’t be on his side. Those drawings are all I have left of Rip, they were the most precious things I had. That book was the only thing I’d take with me if that whole hotel burned down.

I get it, Rachel says. It’s violating.

And it means that anything that comes from them is a lie. I can’t draw or paint Sean like that, it’s just not the same relationship. I can’t even picture, right now in my head, the details of his face and I see him every day. I can’t do it. Even if she gets me the MCA, I can’t make a show out of my feelings for Sean.

Did you just say the MCA? This changes everything. Rachel squeezes Sahara’s bony knee. Sahara, listen to me and listen good. The MCA is what people like us dream of. Who cares which lover you paint. I’m sorry to be harsh, but if it’s the dead one or the living one, it really doesn’t matter. Whatever inspired you in the first place, channel that and you get your work into the MCA. Whatever it takes.

Sahara leans back into the plastic booth. What am I doing? It feels like my life is racing away without me and I don’t feel like it’s going in the right direction.

Just eat a goddamn meal once in a while, get some carbs into your brain and paint, woman, Rachel says. You will regret it for the rest of your life if you say no. Who gives a shit if you break up with Sean next year, what you’ll remember when you’re sixty is that he helped launch your career. Nothing else matters. You can’t let this pass you by. I’d kill to be in your place.

You do the paintings then, paint Jaimie. Then I won’t feel like I’m losing every ounce of integrity I have. Sahara drinks the bitter remains of her coffee.

I have never had in my entire life what you had with Rip. I’ve never connected with anyone like that and maybe I never will. But don’t you dare deny the world what you have inside you. That joy, that torment—all of it Sahara. There’s nothing fake about it. Get it out and let it sing, and forget about Sean and his ego trip.

I never thought of it that way, Sahara says.

Ring that woman right now and say yes. Rachel smacks the table. And thank the universe every minute you’re awake for dropping this opportunity into your lap. This is your moment and you’d better take it.

Sahara leaves a ten-dollar note under her coffee cup and leaves the cafe with Rachel. Shit, she says, stopping dead in her tracks. I might actually have my work in the MCA.

Yes, you might. I’m going to work, but ring me later. We have to go shopping, we’ll need dresses for your opening night.

The bright Japanese fabrics in Yoshi Jones catch Sahara’s eye and she stands at the shop window, marvelling at the modern kimonos and fashion pieces in fabrics like origami paper. She’s tired after the adrenaline of the day and waits for Sean to meet her. A car horn beeps loudly and she turns to see his long black Mercedes double- parked outside the store, causing havoc as cars weave to get past.

Get in! Sean shouts through the open window.

Sahara moans and steps onto the road. She gets into the passenger seat and fastens her seatbelt.

What are you trying to pull, making me come all the way out here? You know I hate the western suburbs.

Whatever, just drive, she says, turning on the radio. Newtown’s the inner-west anyway.

You’re more of a snob than I am, so no need for the attitude, he says, blaring his horn at the car in front. I’ve had a hectic week and I just want to have a good night, okay?

Sahara nods. I met your agent, she says.

And?

And I haven’t decided. By the way, you need to increase the limit on my Visa card.

They drive to Darlinghurst. Sean parks in a no parking zone in front of a small bar with wooden stools on the street and a bench top by the window. Inside, Sean gestures to the young tattooed bearded guy behind the bar and heads upstairs. The room up here is sparsely and stylishly furnished in a way that suggests no effort has gone into the interior design. It took hundreds of thousands of dollars to make this small space look like an old deserted warehouse, a stumbled-upon mistake.

So, what do you think? Sean asks.

Sahara looks at the old cow skin under her feet and the dirty bay windows. The floor is splotchy-red paint on cement, and the furniture is second-hand. I like that couch, she says.

I know, it’s amazing, the designer got it for a hundred bucks on eBay. But I mean generally what do you think of the whole place?

It’s just like the others, Sean. The young hipsters will love it.

You’re a young hipster, and yes, they’ll love it.

The barman appears and delivers a bottle of champagne to the table and two frosted glasses. Sahara yawns.

Sorry, am I keeping you up? he says with sarcasm.

Just a headache. Do you have any valium on you?

Sean hands her the bottle from his pocket and fills their glasses. Take two and drink up. You’ll be fine.

After champagne they drive to Bondi. Sahara stares listlessly out the car window; she doesn’t notice Sean watching her.

The noise in North Bondi Italian is deafening. Sahara puts her fingers in her ears as they are led to their table. Sean disappears. In the men’s room he takes a bottle from his pocket and tips it into his hand. Three pink pills, two white. One yellow. He swallows the lot with water from the tap. On his way back to the table he sneaks by the bar and has two shots of vodka—something to wash the pills down and take away the acid fizz of them disintegrating against his oesophagus.

Sean orders for both of them.

Do you have to look at every woman like that? Sahara asks, once the waitress has left their table.

Nothing wrong with looking, Sean says, touching the stubble on his face.

Sahara scoffs. That beard makes you look like a wanker. She wouldn’t want you anyway.

When the food arrives, Sahara picks at a salad of radicchio, shaved fennel and pecorino cheese. She has a mouthful then sets her fork aside.

What now?

Nothing. Sahara looks through the glass balustrade to the tide hitting the shore. I’m just not in the mood.

It’s like you’re always somewhere else these days, Sean says. He reaches over for her hand.

I don’t know anymore, she says. It’s just my life, I can’t quite work out what’s going on.

Sean cuts into his steak. Sahara watches the blood leak out and pool on the plate.

We’re happy, Sean says, his mouth full of meat. God, most people would kill to have our lives. We have the best of everything money can buy. I’m living my dream life and you’re living yours.

Am I, Sean?

He drops his cutlery. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Sometimes I just wonder how I ended up here, that’s all.

Jesus, you say that like living with me is a bad thing.

Sahara shakes her champagne glass to bring the bubbles back to life but they’re long gone. It’s not you, it’s me. I feel empty inside, like nothing means anything anymore. I feel numb.

You’re lucky. I pay a lot of money to feel that way. I don’t know what you’re complaining about. He returns to his steak, which is now cold.

But don’t you ever wonder what it’s all about?

It’s about having fun and being as successful as you can be, and not having heavy fucking conversations like this on a Friday night. That’s what it’s about. I’m sick of this shit, Sahara. Get some new pills or some other way to sort yourself out, you’re ruining my night. Sean puts down his steak knife. Jesus, I give you everything. You can at least pretend to be grateful.

I’ll try my best to be perkier for you, Sean. Sahara grins falsely. And I’m still hurt that you took my book without asking. I’m trying to get over it, but I can’t. There, I said it. Whatever comes of all of this, I still wish you hadn’t done that.

Sean pulls out his credit card. You can’t have it both ways. You can’t have Kiki manage you while hating me for introducing you to her. That’s not fair.

I’m sorry, I just feel like I’m being pulled in all these different directions and it’s overwhelming.

You just need to let off some steam. We both do. I’ve been working like a maniac. We just need to have some fun. Sean waves his card at the waitress.

The rooftop party’s been going for hours. Sean and Sahara cling to each other, passing a cigarette between them. Babe, it’s so good to see you smile again. I never see that smile. He says.

Sahara nods. The music gets louder and she throws her hands in the air. This is such an awesome party! Ah, it’s wild up here!

Sean pulls her to him and they topple backwards onto the concrete.

You fell over! Babe, are you okay?

Sahara slaps his chest, laughing. I’m going swimming. She eases herself off him and stumbles to the side of the pool where she strips down to her black lace underwear.

A group of men cheer and egg her on. She undoes the clip to her bra and flings it to them. She rubs her breasts and blows Sean a kiss, then dives into the water.

The pool fills with half-naked bodies around her and she calls to Sean. Baby, I made it a pool party! She catches a ball that’s thrown to her and tosses it upwards; it knocks a tray of champagne glasses out of a waitress’s hand.

Hello, Sahara, the woman says, bending to clean up the mess.

Sorry, do I know you? Sahara says, feeling giddy.

Jess shakes her head and piles her tray with the broken stems of champagne glasses. I used to know you, but apparently not anymore. I saw your picture in a few magazines. I guess it’s true then.

Sahara swims to the edge of the pool. You guess what’s true?

That you’re just as lost as you look in the photos.

Where do you get off talking to me like that? God, you’re still working at these gigs and I’m a guest. We’re in different worlds now and you know nothing about my life these days.

Jess steadies her tray and walks away.

Sahara lights a cigarette and groans. She kicks over the pool lounge cushion she passed out on, but there’s no sign of her handbag. She brings a hand to her cheek where a bruise is forming. She remembers nothing, the details of the night are smoke rings drifting away from her.

It’s time to go, Jess says, passing Sahara her handbag.

What? What are you doing here?

Jess pulls Sahara up and props her against the wall. I was working at the party, remember?

I don’t even remember how I got here, Sahara says. She coughs into her hand and spits over the wall.

Well, Sean was here, if that helps.

Sahara nods. I need to get out of here.

Yes, you do. We’ve just finished cleaning up. I can walk down with you if you like.

Thanks, Jess. Sahara struggles to fit her feet back into her six-inch stilettos.

Jess picks up the shoes and takes Sahara’s arm. She leads her away from the pool and down the stairs.

Whose party was this? Sahara asks.

Some album launch, Jess says.

They get out of the building and stand on the street. Sahara searches in her handbag for her wallet. It’s all gone, she says.

Jess hails a cab and hustles Sahara inside. I’ve got money, she says. We’ll drop you off first.

Yup. At the Hilton. Sahara curls her legs up on the seat. Did you know Rip? He died, Jess, she mumbles and falls asleep on Jess’s shoulder.

A white box sits on the coffee table. It came early, delivered by hotel staff before Sahara woke up. Thin orange and brown ribbons have been expertly tied around and secured in an elegant bow. Sahara knows what’s inside, but the thrill of a new Hermes handbag is lost on her this morning. He would’ve dropped thirty grand at least, she can tell by the size of the box. She opens the card, For the birthday girl.

I’m a kept woman, she says to no one. The words come out and she watches them take shape and land like pebbles thrown into a pool of water. The ripples around their fall spread out and away from her, forming rings of self-loathing in the airless room. There is nothing admirable in this discovery—rather a thickening of saliva and the kind of clammy tongue that comes after a mouthful of hard yellow cheese.

Sahara sits in the silence. She disappeared into Sean’s world, merging into his game, keeping nothing old and creating nothing new for herself. She wonders about the sliding doors that closed when she chose him, what other possibilities would life have offered? The giant gilded wall mirror catches her face—sleep-deprived, filthy hair, stooped posture, sharp collarbones and hooded eyes. She’s moved upwards in the world, but she feels low, depleted and empty. No one to blame but me, Sahara mutters, sliding the white box towards her.

It’s not the handbag she expected, but a more expensive one. She stands the camel leather bag on the weighty coffee table books. She’s always wanted one of these but it fills her with disgust now. Her phone rings, she sees Rachel’s name flash across the screen but does not answer the call. She stands, slings the bag over her shoulder and looks up again into the mirror. She looks like the woman she strove to be: thin, rich and stylish. Everything she wanted is right here in the reflection, but she’d give it all back for a life of her own and something of what she threw away.

The lift dings. Sahara is caught posing. She chucks the handbag hurriedly down.

Excuse me, just a delivery, says a voice from the other end of the room.

Sahara goes over to a girl about her own age. I’m Sahara, she says.

I know, I’ve seen you in magazines. And we’ve met before. A few times actually. I bring up your breakfast sometimes.

Oh, Sahara says, embarrassed. Yes, of course, you just look different today.

My name’s Mia. These got dropped off at reception for you. She hands Sahara a large flat object wrapped in newspaper and a small bundle in pink tissue and presses the button for the lift.

Actually, Mia. Can you do something for me? Yes, I just—hang on, I’ll be back. She goes over to the coffee table, picks up the leather bag and jams it back into the box. She takes it over to Mia. Can you take this for me, and I’ll find a pen and paper somewhere… She trails off, looking around the kitchen. She finds a pen next to the phone and a receipt in her pocket. She writes, speaking the words as she scribbles them, Jessica, c/o Hugo’s Lounge, Bayswater Road, Potts Point. Then she tears the front off the birthday card from Sean and scrawls: Dear Jess, Love Sahara.

There. She opens the lid of the box in Mia’s arms and puts the card inside. She gives the receipt with the address to Mia. Can you please make sure this gets couriered to this address today?

Sure, that’s fine, Mia says.

Thank you, Sahara says. I won’t forget your name next time.

Sahara takes the deliveries out onto the balcony. She unwraps the smaller package first, peeling back the tissue paper. Inside is a dreamcatcher, a circular wreath woven with sticks and dried vines and a web laced in the middle with pink thread. Sahara picks it up by the loop of twine on the top, it dangles from her hand. The dreamcatcher is lined with tiny crystals that catch the light, dried flowers and three white feathers hang off the bottom. In the middle of the feathers is a charm of a tiny silver unicorn.

Rachel, she whispers aloud.

Lying amongst the tissue is a note:

Happy birthday, dear friend. Wishing you a day of magic and dreams. I made this especially for you. I’m selling these and some of my art at the Paddington markets on Saturdays, come and visit some time. All my love, Rach xx

Sahara watches the dreamcatcher spin gently in the breeze. It’s so beautiful she can hardly bear to put it down, but she does, and turns her attention to the larger item. She strips the newspaper from it and there in her hands is Jaimie’s completed painting from the day they all took mushrooms. A shred of white paper is stuck in the top left-hand corner: Cosmic Lovers.

Sahara clutches the painting to her chest like her life depends on it and she sits like this, long into the afternoon.

She jangles the keys in her pocket, unsure if the lock they fit will ultimately lead to her demise or her salvation. Hesitantly, she tries one of the keys on the bunch and it fits. The heavy steel door opens and she steps into the loft that will be her new studio. The room is bare, as she’d requested, apart from an old brown armchair in a corner. It takes her a while to walk the expansive warehouse space to get to it. She sits gingerly, feeling the soft cushion beneath her with relief. A large table is piled high with supplies: canvases, palettes, paint tins, tubes. ‘There must be a few thousand dollars worth there at least,’ she thinks. It is exactly as Kiki promised it would be, on loan to her from the MCA. On the windowsill is a blown-glass vase of pink lilies, and that’s it. Two rows of windows extend a hundred metres in each direction, she’s in the corner of an old building down by The Rocks and she can see a bit of the Opera House.

She kneels down and presses an ear to the floor—silence, just as she hoped. Her head’s a mess of Sean and Rip, battling it out in her brain among the toxic chaos inside her body and out. For now, all she can do is rest on the cement floor; to pull anything from the ether onto the canvas today is impossible, like pulling teeth without anaesthetic. Sometimes the flow is a gift of divinity, and other times, like now, it feels so much less than that. To paint would just be hard and wrenching. Her forehead is on the cold concrete, her hands beside it—the artistic struggle, the weight of expectation, her own and others, and the feeling that she will fail.

With her head pushing down, she thinks of Rip’s final decision, his quitting of his struggle. Was his so much worse than anyone else’s or was he just that bit less resilient? She smacks a palm against the concrete. ‘It’s a choice. Simple. A choice and any person’s right to make it and check out.’ This thought surprises her. I’m angry because I can’t make that choice, she says. Two walls of windows surround her, but she knows she could never jump. She groans because there is no way out but through. Carry on, kid. These words escape her mouth, talking to herself.

She lifts her head to begin the excruciating process. She fears the poignancy of what’s inside her, the depth, darkness and power of the shadows lurking; there is no way to rid herself of this but to get it out, which means she will have to feel all of it, every last flash of what she’s been avoiding. But in doing that, she also fears that nothing will come, that she’ll continue to stare at blank canvases or, worse, have to tear her hideous attempts from their frames: and then she will have failed. It is a cursed blessing, a blessed curse. She doesn’t know how she will crack open this body of work, how she will paint her tortured love on canvases as big as the ones at the other end of the room. All she knows is that she’s here. She’s shown up, she’s at the starting line, she’s not jumping and that’ll have to be enough.