33

The smells and sounds of the pub reminded Brigitte of childhood. Hops and clinking glasses, potato chips and lemonade for dinner, playing Donkey Kong on the arcade table. And falling asleep — growing pains in her legs — under the pool table while Joan entertained friends.

Kumiko’s little heels clicked on the hardwood floor as the Gip TV crew entered the front bar. Gold-rush architecture, brown bricks, timber, and stained glass. They chose a table next to the fireplace. Brigitte pulled off her scarf and coat, and threw them over the back of a chair. The black top Kumiko had lent her was a size or two too small. Tate slipped off his jacket. His Western shirt was another relic from Brigitte’s childhood. Or were they back in fashion? He sat with Johnno on the opposite side of the table.

Cam asked what they all wanted to eat and drink, waving his Gip TV credit card in the air. Kumiko asked for the fish, and a vodka and lemonade. Tate and Johnno ordered steaks and beers. Brigitte said she wasn’t hungry; she just wanted a drink — a glass of red. Cam went up to the bar.

Kumiko cupped her smooth, cool hand over Brigitte’s, tilted her head, and asked if she was OK.

‘I just got a talent agent.’ She couldn’t force her smile to meet her eyes, and slid her hand away. ‘I’m fine, Kumi. Really.’

‘I’m always here if you need to talk.’

Brigitte nodded. Hurry up, drink. She looked at Cam’s back and laced her fingers on the glass-topped wooden table. It must have been special, extra-strong glass. The pub didn’t look like the kind of establishment where punters would be gentle with their drinks at the end of the night.

A group of sweaty men in ripped jeans and black T-shirts carried guitars and band equipment through to the back room.

‘Do they have a band on here?’ Brigitte said.

‘Don’t get out much, do you?’ said Tate.

Cam placed the drinks on the table. They raised their glasses to Brigitte’s imminent fame and fortune. Brigitte gulped her wine. Her phone rang in her bag, and she fished it out.

Aidan. She hesitated, and then answered.

‘What time will you be home?’ he said.

‘Don’t know. Kids in bed?’

‘On their way. Do you know where the remote for the telly is?’

‘I can’t hear you, I have to go.’

‘I can’t find the remote.’

Tell your problems to fucking Carla Flanagan. She hung up and put her phone away, carefully. She took another big drink, almost finishing the glass.

‘What are you, a fish?’ Cam said.

‘I said I wasn’t hungry — Oh, like Tate said, I don’t get out much.’

Kumiko asked what she was planning to wear to the audition. That was the last thing on her mind. ‘Not too dressy. Neat casual, but not jeans.’ Kumiko sipped her drink through a straw. ‘Make-up, but natural — not too much. Neutral lipstick.’

Brigitte nodded, not really listening.

‘I like your new coat,’ Kumiko said.

Brigitte’s glass was empty, and she looked at the others’ drinks. They were all still going — except for Tate’s, but she pretended not to notice and went to order another. There were lots of coloured bottles lined up behind the bar; a menu advertised cocktails like Cocksucking Cowboy and Sex on the Beach.

‘Hi, Brigitte.’

She turned to see Jeremy standing beside her. He was clean-shaven, and his khaki shirt brought out the colour in his eyes.

She smiled. ‘Ferry all fixed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Scott back?’

He nodded.

The barmaid poured Brigitte’s wine, and she reached for it, aware of how tightly Kumiko’s top stretched across her breasts. ‘What kind of dog do you have?’

He glanced up at the race results on the TV screens. ‘A Rottweiler.’

She’d pictured something smaller and fluffier running around his neat, little gingerbread house.

‘You’re lucky.’ She sighed. ‘I miss my dog so much, he was my best friend.’

‘Do they know who did it?’

She shook her head. The headlights of a passing vehicle caught the sharp edges of the polished bar.

‘This is one of the longest bars in the country,’ Jeremy said.

She followed it with her eyes — it was circular, looping all the way through the back rooms.

Jeremy looked around her. ‘Aidan here?’

‘No. Here with some people from work. You?’

‘On my own. Just dropped off some stuff at a mate’s down the road, thought I’d pop in for one before heading home.’

‘Want to join us?’ She tilted her head towards their table.

Jeremy followed with a beer in his hand. Cam said her phone had rung again. She turned it off this time. Cam and Kumiko exchanged glances. Did they think she couldn’t see?

The meals arrived with a bowl of chips. Cam said he’d ordered them for Brigitte because she needed to eat something.

‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said. She shared them with Jeremy.

‘The new Symons Homes contract looks interesting,’ Kumiko said.

Cam agreed enthusiastically between bites of rib-eye.

Brigitte finished her wine and held up the empty glass. ‘Who shot the bartender?’

Jeremy laughed.

‘Isn’t that the name of a racehorse?’ Cam said.

Brigitte thought it was a saying Joan had made up.

‘Another round?’ Jeremy stood up. Kumiko shook her head. One was enough for her.

‘I’m right for the minute thanks.’ Cam covered his gin and tonic with his hand.

Tate and Johnno held up index fingers. Jeremy asked Brigitte if she was having the shiraz or cab sav by the glass.

‘Whatever’s going. I’m easy.’

Kumiko looked at her like she was her mother — well, a concerned mother, not like Joan.

‘Maybe get a bottle,’ Brigitte said.

‘Do you have a favourite?’

‘They’re all my favourites, Jeremy.’

‘Slow down, Brig,’ Cam said under his breath.

Brigitte widened her eyes at him.

‘I’ll share it with, Brig,’ Tate said.

‘You, too, Tate,’ Cam said. ‘Neither of you’ll be able to drive home.’

Brigitte didn’t feel like going home. ‘Cops might pull me over?’ She laughed.

The band started tuning up out the back.

‘I love Cold Chisel,’ Johnno said.

Seriously? Shouldn’t he be into ‘young people’s’ music? She tilted her head and said, ‘I thought they broke up.’

Tate and Johnno laughed. ‘It’s a cover band,’ Tate said. ‘Cold Sizzle.’

‘Wow. Silly me. Sounds great. I really should get out more.’

Jeremy placed a bottle and two glasses between Brigitte and Tate. Brigitte poured, spilled some on her hand and on the glass tabletop. She licked her hand. ‘Cheers, Tate.’ They clinked glasses. ‘Lucky they didn’t call the band Cold Pizzle.’ She laughed and choked on her wine.

Cam and Kumiko frowned at her.

She cleared her throat. ‘What? It’s funny. Cold Pizzle. Do you know what pizzle is, Tate?’

‘Keep your voice down, Brig,’ Cam said.

‘What is it?’ Tate said.

‘I know,’ Jeremy said. ‘Bull’s penis.’

Brigitte laughed again until her eyes filled with tears.

After dinner, one of the bar staff cleared away their plates and glasses. Johnno excused himself to go watch the band. Tate joined him — he’d recognised the drummer as one of his mates, or, more likely, that the girl in the frayed shorts was young enough to still find him interesting in the morning. Good. Brigitte flashed a condescending smile as he walked away.

‘Don’t take it out on him, Brig,’ Cam said.

‘Why not? He’s annoying.’

The pub was filling up with men in flannelette, and women in not much. Cam finished the last of his drink, stood, and asked Jeremy what he was having.

‘A light thanks, mate.’

Brigitte tilted the wine bottle — it was empty.

‘And Brigitte’s had enough,’ Cam said.

She pouted.

‘It’s OK,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ll get mine and Brigitte’s.’

‘I’ll get them,’ Cam said. ‘Last one, Brig.’

‘In that case, I’d like Sex on the Beach, please.’

‘Fucken poof.’ A guy in a Jimmy Barnes T-shirt and blue jeans bumped past Cam. He stumbled a step forward, bristled, and drew in his breath.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Kumiko reached across and patted his arm.

When Cam came back from the bar, Kumiko stood and announced that she was leaving. She thanked Cam for dinner and pulled her coat on.

‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ Cam said, his face clouding over.

‘Watch yourself, Brig.’ Kumiko kissed her goodbye on the cheek.

Brigitte nodded, made a show of looking around the pub wide-eyed, and sipped her sickly, orange-coloured cocktail.

An icy wind swirled into the bar as Cam and Kumiko exited through the front door.

Conversation was impossible as Cold Sizzle bashed out their opening number. Brigitte leaned her chin on a hand. Her head felt heavy; she looked down at the drops of spilt wine.

‘Staying for the band?’ Jeremy shouted over the music when Cam sat back at the table.

Cam yelled that it wasn’t really his cup of tea. Brigitte said she’d stay. Cam shot her a fatherly look. The band wasn’t that bad; they were sounding better with every sip of Sex on the Beach. She banged her glass down too hard, but the tabletop didn’t break — just as she’d suspected: extra strong, drunk-proof.

She walked through the dingy band-room to the bathroom. The guy in the Jimmy Barnes T-shirt was standing next to a bald man; they were both nodding their heads to the music and spilling beer on their hands. Jimmy Barnes guy looked at her and winked. She wished Aidan could see and be jealous.

In the cubicle, she stumbled and knocked her shoulder against the wall. She sat on the toilet for a while with her head in her hands, the walls spinning around her. ‘Aidan,’ she whispered, and sniffed. ‘Aidan, Aidan, my light.’

She sighed, hiccupped, and felt for the toilet paper. Fuck — there was none left. She lifted her head, and cut her thumb on the edge of the dispenser as she fought it for the toilet-roll core to use instead of paper.

When she came out, two young women with long, tennis-player legs and short dresses were standing at the mirror. They applied make-up as they discussed some cute blond guy they both wanted to fuck. Probably Tate. They were blocking access to the basins.

‘Excuse me,’ Brigitte said. Without acknowledging her, one of the women moved over slightly so Brigitte could wash her hands. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bloodshot. She splashed cold water on her face, smoothed her hair, stood up straight, and sucked in her stomach. She looked tired, old. She looked like Joan. What the fuck was she doing here?

On the way back to the bar, Jimmy Barnes guy blocked the doorway. She smiled and asked him to let her go through.

‘Have to giss a kiss first.’

Maybe she didn’t look as bad as she’d thought. She laughed, swayed a little, stepped forward, thinking he’d move out of the way. But he didn’t.

‘So you gunna giss a kiss, or what?’ He put his hands on either side of the doorway and leaned down towards her, licking his lips. She stopped smiling. His face was shiny with perspiration, his eyes glassy.

This kind of thing hadn’t happened to her for a long time, and she didn’t know what to do. She tried to look around him, over the bar, at her friends.

‘Think you’re too good for me?’

‘What’s going on, mate?’ Tate was suddenly by her side.

‘Nuthin’ to do with you,’ Jimmy Barnes guy said. He stood taller, thrusting his chest forward like a rooster.

‘Just let her go through,’ Tate said.

Jimmy Barnes guy stepped aside. He grabbed Brigitte on the bum as she hurried past. Tate said something she couldn’t make out over the music. But she heard the crack and the gasp that followed. She turned to see Tate against the wall, holding his nose.

Jeremy strode into the band-room, arms penguin-like by his sides, eyes gleaming. He looked bigger than normal, chest puffed out. Without a word, he right-hooked Jimmy Barnes guy. Brigitte sucked in her breath and cupped her hands over her mouth as Jimmy Barnes guy’s head snapped to the side; he wobbled and crashed into the wall. He came back at Jeremy with an awkward punch to the left cheek. Jeremy twisted Jimmy Barnes guy’s arm. The bald mate came over to join in, and it was on. Neither of them were any match for Jeremy. Cold Sizzle played ‘You Got Nothing I Want’.

Security were onto the fighting men like flies at a barbecue. Brigitte ducked her head and scuttled past them towards Tate, who was sitting on the floor. She snatched a handful of paper napkins off the bar, kneeled down, and helped him hold them against his bloody nose. God, she hoped it wasn’t broken.

‘I’m sorry, Tate.’

‘Not your fault.’

The carpet was sticky and held the smell of a million spilled drinks.

‘Time to go home.’ Cam stood over them, holding their coats. He threw Brigitte’s at her; she missed and picked it up off the floor. He held out a hand to help Tate up.

Outside, the cold nipped her nose and cheeks, and there was ice on the windscreens of the cars parked along the deserted street. Her ears were ringing.

‘First bar fight I’ve seen for a while,’ Cam said as he twirled his scarf around his neck, his breath a twist of steam in the air.

‘Me, too,’ said Tate through his bloody napkins.

‘And, God save me,’ Cam looked at the starless sky, ‘the last, I hope.’ His shiny shoes clicked on the footpath. ‘Must have been a long time since two men fought over you, Brig?’

She ignored him as they walked along. Alcohol was spinning in her head and whirling in her stomach.

‘Four men.’ Tate hiccupped.

Brigitte looked down the street for her car; she couldn’t remember where she’d parked it. She needed to lean against something.

‘I’ll take you both home.’ Cam’s car blipped across the road as he unlocked it with the keyless remote. ‘Have to come back and get your cars in the morning.’

Fuck. What would Aidan say?

‘Wait up!’ Jeremy strode, arms stuck to his sides, up the street towards them.

Maybe he walked like that because he’d been in an accident?

Cam made a low, growling noise in the back of his throat. Behind Jeremy, the brown-brick hotel was glowing with golden light from its arched doorways and windows. Cold Sizzle was playing ‘Flame Trees’.

‘I’ll give you a lift home, Brig,’ Jeremy said. His left cheek was red and swollen, a bruise starting to form.

Cam frowned.

‘It’s all right,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ve only had three light beers.’

Brigitte leaned against a rubbish bin and looked at the pockmarks of chewing gum staining the footpath.

‘You OK with that?’ Cam asked her.

She nodded, and gave him a kiss goodnight. It made sense — as much sense as anything could make at the time. It would be a four-hour drive to the island and back for Cam. Tate hugged her, swaying, bleeding on her coat, singing about trees and weary drivers. Cam yelled at him to hurry up as he headed across the road to his car.

Brigitte concentrated hard on walking straight beside Jeremy — past the local MP’s office, the Metron Homes Sales Centre, the mobile-phone shop. As they crossed the road, she could still hear Tate singing, which was comforting, somehow.