Chapter Fifteen
The airport is busy. Very busy. Most of the people seem to be heading home from a holiday; there’s no buzz of pre-holiday euphoria. Sophie and Teddy check in and Elliot and I wait with them until boarding.
‘Babe, I can’t believe you actually bought us tickets home. Thanks heaps,’ says Teddy.
Elliot and Sophie have both gone to find coffee. We sit against a greyish wall. Why do airports insist on being so visually boring? Airports usually mean distance travel and I’d have thought people would usually associate distance travel with high emotion. The juxtaposition hurts my head.
‘Nah, it’s fine. Sorry for basically kicking you off the trip.’
‘Well, at least it’s less time with you,’ he says slyly.
‘Hilarious.’
Every two minutes or so we’re interrupted by a prerecorded announcement warning us about security risks, behavioural regulations and the prohibition of smoking – nothing groundbreaking.
‘Too much of a good thing, you know?’
‘Whatever.’
Finally, Teddy and Sophie’s flight is ready for boarding. Outside the gate, Sophie and Teddy both hug Elliot and me.
‘Thanks for this, Jen,’ says Sophie. ‘The whole trip was so much fun. Sorry we can’t stay for the journey home.’
‘Yeah, agreed,’ says Teddy. ‘Really – thanks.’
‘Have a safe flight,’ says Elliot.
‘I love you,’ I call to Sophie. ‘And I tolerate you,’ I add to Teddy.
They’re still waving when they disappear through the gates to board the plane.
‘So, kiddo, it’s just you and me,’ says Elliot, placing his arm around my shoulders. ‘Thanks for staying.’
‘It’s going to be so much fun,’ I say, hooking my arm around his waist. We head for the exit.
‘Seriously,’ he says. ‘I can be an absolute arse to you but you stick around. You’re a good kid and I’m really glad you’re my friend. The whole Nessie thing really got to me, and I need to get it out of my system. I want to surround myself with positive –’
‘All patrons are reminded: smoking is strictly prohibited in this airport –’
‘Excuse me,’ he says to the roof, ‘I’m halfway through a heartfelt soliloquy and –’
‘Monologue,’ I correct.
‘Whatever. The point is that interrupting me is rude. Besides, what airport can you smoke in?’
He waits for the announcement to finish before he continues. ‘Where was I? Oh yeah, positive people. You just … You’re always there for me and I know I can rely on you. You’re super-easy to talk to. I love you, Jen.’
‘And I you,’ I say. After a moment, I add, ‘So where’s our first stop?’
‘Wherever we are when we get sick of driving,’ he says, smiling.
The car feels empty without Sophie and Teddy but not as if anything is missing. I love them both, I really do, but they wear me out so I’m kind of glad it’s just me and Elliot now; he’s one of the few people I find unconditionally tolerable.
Though I’d noticed him all through year seven, it wasn’t until late in the year that we first hung out. He was in a group with all these jocks who spent their lunchtimes playing football and talking about their success rates with girls, a notion that’s flawed not just for its implicit misogyny but also for its implication that these year sevens had active sex lives, which simply wasn’t the case.
We first hung out in November, on the day before Melbourne Cup Day. Technically it’s not a public holiday and school still runs, but most people just take the day off anyway and claim a four-day weekend. Only five people bothered to show up that day: Lily, Jasmine and Mia, a group of best friends who kept to themselves, and Elliot and me. Since the teachers didn’t give us any work, we spent the day together and that’s when our friendship was born.
Elliot’s friendship with the jocks was, he said, a product of social convenience rather than of any real affection. He was adopted into their group on Orientation Day, before we started year seven.
Sophie and I had pretty much been friends since the first week of year seven. We both went to a weekly lunchtime creative writing class and we were the only two year sevens there, so naturally we stuck together. Teddy was on Elliot’s cricket team, which is how I came to meet him. By the end of the year, we’d formed this socially inept group who didn’t really talk to anyone but each other. The label ‘socially inept’ always bothered me – we are the four most charismatic and frankly hilarious people I know.
For the first few months of our newly formed friendship group, I was particularly concerned with how those outside our group perceived me, and worried about whether they’d make fun of my hair or my face on that particular day. Eventually I realised that my friends liked me and that’s really all that mattered. We were the social outcasts to the jocks in the same way that they were the jocks to us.
It strikes me now that I was perhaps a little unfair on them at school. All those people in other social groups were just side characters in my life – I knew nothing personal about them at all. But I’d say that, to them, I was that person too, just a side character in their lives, even though I have a complicated life with connections to a bunch of people – Elliot, Sophie, Teddy, my family – and so do they, just with different people. The universe is populated with so many people that it’s impossible to know them all. It’s a weird thought.
‘Question,’ says Elliot, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Are you as sick of driving as I am?’
‘We got in the car literally half an hour ago.’
‘Point being,’ he says, ‘you want to make Byron our first stop?’
It takes us about an hour in total to get to Byron Bay. It feels like a smaller, cosier Gold Coast. It has the same beachy vibe and the sunlight bounces off everything, radiating happiness. I doubt it looks this pretty in winter.
We find this cute little pub called Brand Five, which has a motor inn attached to it, where we book a room for the night.
There are only two sections: a bathroom and an everything-else room.
‘What’s missing from this picture?’ says Elliot. He stands in the bathroom doorway with one hand raised a little, as if he’s scanning the room with his index finger.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look around,’ he says. ‘Aren’t we missing something?’
A couch faces a television; against the wall is a small dining table with a pile of linen on it; and a microwave and kettle are both on a bench … I shrug at him. ‘It seems fine to me.’ It’s a motel. What did he expect?
‘Where do we sleep?’ he says.
That’s a good point. There’s no bed. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘Maybe on the couch?’
Elliot runs his hand along the bench. ‘I guess. Why’d they give us sheets, then?’
The couch is not super-comfortable and one of the cushions has a tear in it. ‘I don’t know. Should we ask at reception?’ I don’t really want to ask, though. I’d feel incredibly awkward asking the receptionist where our bed is.
‘We should,’ he says. ‘I can’t be bothered though.’ He comes over to sit next to me but he stops and stares down at the couch. ‘You leave me the torn one? Good on ya.’
‘Fine,’ I say, rolling my eyes. I get up and pull the torn cushion off the seat of the couch, planning to turn it over. It’s crusty and stiff and I don’t really want to know what’s on it. As soon as the cushion is out of the way, I realise that we haven’t been given a room without a bed but rather that the couch folds out to become a bed.
‘Dude, it’s a sofa bed,’ I say. I toss both of the cushions aside and together Elliot and I unfold the bed. It creaks something awful.
‘No wonder this room’s so cheap,’ Elliot says dismissively as we apply fresh sheets. It’s still early afternoon but we anticipate some dysfunctional hand–eye coordination later in the evening so it’s probably best to get the bed ready now.
After changing into our bathers, we leave one outfit in our room to wear later and take our dirty clothes over the road to a laundromat. Elliot is running out of clean underwear and I want more outfit choices. We dump all of our clothes into a washing machine and start the cycle. I want to go straight down to the beach but Elliot doesn’t think we should leave the washing unattended so we wait. I sit with my back against the machine. It’s almost like a little massage.
We finally get to Main Beach and it’s packed. The sand grains are pure white, soft and warm against my feet. I lay my towel down to sunbathe for a while but Elliot grabs me and hoists me over his shoulder. He weaves through the crowd and dumps me in the water. I swallow a mouthful of salt water and, presumably, traces of mixed urine from the billions of people who have ever peed in the ocean.
I splutter as I surface.
‘You were supposed to hold your breath,’ he says.
‘I hate you.’
‘Ily.’
He knows I hate it when people use text speak irl.
We swim for a while before I remember I forgot to put on sunscreen, so I return to my towel and cover myself in it. After the mental strain of figuring out a way to extend this holiday, I don’t want sunburn coming along and ruining it. I ask Elliot to do my back, which he does without complaint.
Having skipped lunch, we’re starving by five-thirty so we head back to the motel. To Elliot’s disgust, I take a shower to rid my hair of the salt water (he just wants to eat) but we’re at the pub next door by six. (Elliot reckons my shower took forty-five minutes, but I stick by my timeframe.)
We order our food and we have beer in front of us. The pub is relatively quiet. A digital piano and an acoustic guitar sit on a small stage near the back.
A group of perhaps six seniors drink together at a table and a tall dark-haired woman, who’s perhaps in her thirties, sits on a stool at the bar.
‘How’re you doing?’ I ask Elliot.
‘I’m … uh … good?’ He seems thrown by my question.
‘No, no, I mean about the whole Nessie thing.’ We haven’t spoken about it since the day it happened. I didn’t bring it up earlier in case he didn’t want to talk about it in front of Sophie or Teddy, but I want to make sure he’s doing okay and not just pretending his feelings don’t exist.
‘Oh. Yeah, I’m okay, I guess.’
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to put a damper on things.’ I take a mouthful of beer. I’ve never had beer before. It’s bitter and gross – I doubt it will become my drink of choice.
‘No, it’s okay.’ He seems to mean it. He drains his glass (which had still been half-full) and goes to the bar to order another. When he comes back, he says, ‘I didn’t assume we were going to spend our whole lives together or anything, but I didn’t think it would end so soon.’
I rub the back of his hand. ‘If she was unhappy, it’s probably a good thing it ended sooner rather than later. What if you had been in the relationship for a year or two? If she wasn’t happy, that wouldn’t be fair to her – or to you, because she’d be leading you on. It’s the same thing as my relationship with Dylan. I wasn’t happy with him and you’re the one who told me it was better for both of us if I just ended it.’
‘But I would’ve been happy for a year.’
‘Is that really the most important thing?’ I take my hand off his and look him in the eye. ‘A superficial happiness that’s doomed to fail? I mean, is it really happiness if it’s based on this idea you’ve formed that’s not really true?’
He exhales deeply and takes my hand. ‘You know, it really annoys me when you’re right.’
‘I am sorry to interrupt,’ says an accented voice. ‘I just wanted to tell you that you two are a very cute couple.’ The dark-haired lady from the bar smiles down at us.
‘Oh we’re not –’ says Elliot, quickly pulling his hand away from mine.
She smiles and holds up her hands. ‘You presume I meant you are lovers. I have made no assumptions in regards to the nature of your relationship. I merely noticed that your bond – or coupling, if you will – seems very strong. I have previously made the error of mistaking platonic and amorous relationships.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. I can’t place her accent and it’s starting to annoy me. Not the accent – my mental blank.
‘Have a seat,’ says Elliot. ‘Do you want food or anything?’
‘No, no, I have no desire to impose.’
‘No imposition at all,’ I say. After all, what’s the point of a road trip if not to meet new people? Actually there are hundreds of other points but I still like the idea of talking to this woman – and not just because I want to figure out where her accent is from. She has an aura of warmth about her; I’m almost surprised she isn’t glowing. I think it’s her smile – it’s asymmetrical and shows off slightly crooked teeth. It seems so genuine.
‘In fact, we insist,’ says Elliot, and he scoots around the booth and sits next to me.
The mysterious foreigner sits opposite us with her glass of wine. ‘I am humbled by your offer. Let us begin with your names.’
‘Elliot.’
‘Jennifer. Or Jen. Either is fine.’
‘I am most pleased to make your acquaintance,’ she says. ‘My name is Marjolijn Jacobse.’
To me, it sounds like Marr-yoh-line Yah-kobs.
Across the table, we both shake her hand, which is warm and silky, bony yet strong. ‘Marjolijn,’ I repeat. ‘Is that … German?’
‘Dutch, mijn engeltje.’
A term of endearment, I assume.
‘So you’re Dutch … Does that mean you’re from Denmark?’
For such a smart boy, Elliot sure says some idiotic things. I put my hand on my face, partly to shame Elliot and partly to prove I know the answer. ‘ “Dutch” means you’re from Holland, you fool.’
‘Indeed,’ says Marjolijn. ‘Though Dutch actually refers to those from the Netherlands, of which North and South Holland are only two of the provinces. My permanent residence overlooks the canals of Amsterdam and it is beautiful.’
‘Sorry,’ says a sheepish Elliot. ‘It’s a beautiful name, anyway.’
‘Thank you,’ Marjolijn says with a grin. ‘You should tell that to my mother. She has never been a fan of it.’
This strikes me as odd. Why would a parent not like her own daughter’s name? Surely she had some say in it, right? ‘Why doesn’t she like it?’
‘She desired a Lebanese name for me,’ says Marjolijn. ‘She emigrated from Lebanon in her youth and, as I look like her, she wanted my name to match my complexion.’ She runs her index fingers along her cheekbones. ‘My father argued that as I was to be raised in the Netherlands, a Dutch name was more fitting.’
‘Well, I agree with Elliot. It’s a lovely name,’ I say. ‘What brings you to Australia? I hope that’s not a rude question.’
‘Not rude at all. I am actually participating in a brief musical tour,’ she says. ‘I am performing here later this evening.’
‘So you sing?’ Live entertainment is always good, even when it isn’t good, so I immediately look forward to hearing her. But before she can answer, our meals arrive. We initially feel bad for having food when Marjolijn doesn’t, but she insists it’s not a problem.
‘I do not like to eat before a performance. I like to consume a single glass of wine an hour or two before singing, and then relax my vocal folds.’
‘Musical talent. God, that’d be nice,’ says Elliot. ‘How long have you been playing for?’
‘Twenty-five years of singing, twenty of playing the piano. I am thirty-six now,’ she adds in response to our unasked question.
‘So you’re good?’
She laughs a little. ‘I like to think so. It is how I make money, after all.’
The pub is cute – in fact, you could make the argument for quaint – but especially judging by the state of our room, I doubt that performing here would pay well enough to make a living. Asking about her income is a little rude, though, I imagine.
Marjolijn must have noted my wandering eyes. ‘I usually perform in professional musical theatre,’ she says by way of explanation. ‘In the Netherlands I have performed professionally in many shows. I have also performed for a brief stint in Germany. I am here in Australia for a show in Sydney but the owner of this pub is an old family friend so I am here for a visit.’
‘You performed in three countries?’ asks Elliot incredulously. ‘In three different languages?’
Marjolijn nods and smiles. ‘I actually speak five languages: Dutch, German, Arabic, English and Polish.’ She counts them off her fingers as she lists them.
‘That’s … Wow,’ says Elliot.
I’m equally impressed. ‘I speak English and can count to ten in French. Does that count for anything?’ I say.
She laughs, though I think it’s more so I don’t feel bad about my lame joke. ‘Are either of you musically inclined?’
‘Not even a little bit,’ says Elliot. ‘I tried guitar but I was useless at it.’
‘I used to dance,’ I say. I’m not really sure if that counts as being ‘musically inclined’ because I can’t sing or play any instruments, but I know a little bit of music theory, and to dance I have to stay in time and know all the rhythms and stuff. I’m no good at actually making music but once it’s there I know how to use it. ‘I think I was okay at it. I loved it, at least. I had to give it up for school, though.’
‘But you have finished school?’
I nod.
‘Will you go back to dancing?’ asks Marjolijn.
I shrug. I haven’t really thought about it.
Elliot finishes the last forkful of his dinner (I swear that kid inhales his food), offers Marjolijn another glass of wine (she says no) and goes to order another drink for the two of us. This time he gets me a mojito.
‘So what type of music are you performing tonight?’ I ask, taking a sip of my drink. It’s sweet and refreshing – much better than the beer.
‘I am doing a mix of things: a few songs I wrote myself, a couple of theatre songs, some pop covers …’
‘What shows have you been in?’ asks Elliot.
‘Professionally?’
‘Yeah.’
She lists a number of shows in which she was in the ensemble and a few other shows where she had a minor role, but by far the most impressive is her performing the lead role in Next to Normal. In both English and Dutch.
‘What’s Next to Normal?’ asks Elliot.
‘Teddy was singing the score to it on the way up here,’ I say, though the extent of my knowledge is that a) it’s a musical and b) Teddy likes it. Then it hits me. ‘Oh my God, Teddy!’ I don’t know why the thought hadn’t occurred to me right away but Teddy is a huge musical theatre fan and Next to Normal is his favourite show. I excuse myself from the table and ring him.
‘Yeah, babe?’
‘Guess who I’m with,’ I say.
‘Who?’
‘Marjolijn Jacobse. Ever heard of her?’
‘Uh, as in the Marjolijn Jacobse who is the best Diana in the world? Let me talk to her! Oh my God! Wait. As if you’re with her. I don’t believe you.’
I return to the table and ask Marjolijn if she’d mind talking to Teddy. She takes my phone and speaks into it.
I guess Teddy still doesn’t believe it’s her, so she sings a couple of bars from a song I vaguely recognise. Though she sings quietly, her voice is remarkably pure.
Elliot catches my eye and raises his eyebrows. Then he smiles at me with half his mouth. Marjolijn hands me back my phone.
‘It is always nice to talk to a fan. Not many people out here know me.’
‘Marjolijn!’ calls a European woman in a high-pitched voice.
‘Paulina!’ Marjolijn gets up to greet her friend, a short, plump woman with silver hair bordering her ageing face.
They begin conversing in rapid Polish. Of course I understand none of it, with the exception of our names, which are accompanied by gestures to each of us. I wonder how Marjolijn introduces us.
‘It’s times like these,’ Elliot says to me, ‘that I feel as though understanding a foreign language would be useful. Then we could talk and nobody else would be able to understand us.’
‘I’d just switch between languages all the time – swear at people in Italian and then insult them in Arabic or something.’
‘I must apologise, friends, but I need to prepare,’ interrupts Marjolijn. ‘May we resume our conversation post-performance? I do hope you will stay.’
‘Of course,’ says Elliot.
Marjolijn disappears for perhaps forty-five minutes, during which time we significantly decrease our inhibitions via drinks from the bar.
Many other people wander in and the pub becomes surprisingly full. The roars of conversation and laughter are cut short when a small round man climbs onto the stage.
‘Hello everyone, and thank you for your attendance.’ His accent is similar to Paulina’s. ‘We have a very special treat for you all tonight. All the way from Amsterdam we have Marjolijn Jacobse, internationally renowned singer and actress. Please welcome her to the stage!’ He sweeps his arm to the side in the same way that a magician might to reveal his assistant.
Marjolijn glides onto the stage.
The crowd applauds, albeit somewhat unenthusiastically.
‘She looks amazing,’ I whisper to Elliot. She has since changed into a crimson, figure-hugging dress, which flows all the way to the floor, and has done her make-up.
‘Couldn’t they find any Aussie talent for us?’ I hear one of the men in the next booth say. ‘Plenty of local bands who could’ve used a gig.’ His bogan accent is incredibly striking. I screw up my nose a little and contemplate saying something.
‘Leave it,’ breathes Elliot, and he grasps my hand. We both turn our attention to the stage.
‘Hello, everyone. It is a true pleasure to be here to perform for you,’ says Marjolijn into a microphone. ‘As Rudi said, I am here travelling from Amsterdam. But I am sure you do not wish to hear me talk about myself, so let us begin the music. I wrote this song when I was fourteen and first visited England. It is the first song I wrote in English. It is called “White Comfort”.’
She sits at the piano and runs her fingers along the ivories before settling into a minor key. It’s immediately clear that she hadn’t been singing her best on the phone to Teddy. Her voice is smooth, crisp and resonant. Before she even reaches the first chorus, most of the chatter has died down and everyone has shifted their attention to the Dutch songstress.
The song is beautifully written. It’s about a girl who is afraid to disappoint others and can only find solace when she cuddles a white stuffed kitten. It’s her only source of comfort. The final chord of the song echoes through the bar and the audience cheers, Elliot and me on our feet. I’m awestruck. When I stand, I get a view of the next booth where three men sit, scoffing and sneering at Marjolijn.
She sings four more songs, each with as much emotion and power as the first, before she stops to introduce her sixth song.
‘I understand that most of you are not from the Netherlands but if you will please forgive me, I would like to sing you a song in my native language. Performing this song is when I first received media attention in my home country –’
‘Where you belong,’ comments one of the men.
I squeeze my thumb inside my fist and bite the inside of my lip. Why does it matter what country you were born in?
‘– as the understudy in Wicked. This is the Dutch version of “Defying Gravity”, called “Ik Lach om Zwaartekracht”. I do hope you enjoy it.’
If Teddy is to be believed, Wicked has a demanding score. Marjolijn doesn’t accompany herself for this song. Instead, a backing track begins to play. She opens her mouth to sing and I get goosebumps at every note. Her vowels are full and rich, almost like a physical presence in the room. Even the guttural, phlegmy Dutch sounds smooth and clear.
While the majority of patrons at the bar have their attention focused on Marjolijn, I’m acutely aware of the conversation the guys at the table next to us are having.
‘It’s all well and good that she can make some pretty sounds, but where’s it really going to get her in life?’
‘At some point you got to stop and think “this shit has gone too far”. A few melodies ain’t going to put the dinner on the table, is it?’
They all laugh after each comment, like they’re trying to outdo each other.
I slip my hand free from Elliot’s and slide to the edge of the booth.
‘What are you doing?’ hisses Elliot, but I ignore him.
I stand, straighten my dress and step across towards the group of guys.
‘Hello,’ I say harshly.
‘Hey sexy,’ says one. He looks as though he hasn’t had a shower for days. ‘You want a drink?’
‘Not particularly,’ I say. I place my hands on their table and lean in. ‘I’m more interested in what makes you think you have the right to sit here and make degrading sexist and racist comments.’
‘None of us ain’t done anything like that,’ says another. ‘We was kidding.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘because saying she should be home cooking dinner is hilarious, right?’
‘Look out, Billy,’ says the first guy. ‘We got ourselves a little feminist here. A right little man-hater.’
The guy who hasn’t spoken laughs.
‘Darlin’, here’s the deal,’ says Billy. ‘We been workin’ hard all day and just want a drink and a laugh, so stop pushin’ to get rid of us and go mind your own business.’
‘But if she were a white man, there’d be no issue, would there?’
They all laugh again. ‘The white man is the reason your life is so privileged,’ says the guy who hasn’t spoken until now. Arrogance seeps from every pore in his body. He gives off the vibe that, in his mind, I ought to consider myself lucky just to be in his presence. He stands up and steps closer. He’s much taller than me. He glares down at me and continues.
‘You feminazis don’t want equality, you want superiority. Come and talk to me when you’re willing to be represented equally in the low-paying jobs, instead of expecting a leg up because you have a vagina. You discriminate against us without even knowing who we are because the white man is evil, but the second anybody says anything about a woman you wave your little feminist flag and call it sexism. People like you are the reason the white man is quickly becoming the most oppressed type of person on the planet. So you can fuck off and take your equal pay and equal representation with you.’
Fury boils inside me. I try to laugh at him, to point out everything that’s wrong with what he’s said, but I can’t. I stare directly up into his eyes and the rage swells in my palm. I’m ready to strike. Before I can do anything, though, a body steps in front of me and pushes the guy away.
‘Dude, back off. What the hell is wrong with you?’ says Elliot.
‘Just finishing what she started. She belong to you, does she?’
‘I don’t belong to anyone,’ I snap.
The guys all laugh again.
‘None of us wants to hear your close-minded sense of superiority, so why don’t you take it somewhere else?’ suggests Elliot.
‘I agree,’ says another voice. Rudi, the owner, shuffles over.
I become aware of my surroundings and realise that Marjolijn’s performance has stopped and that most eyes are on us.
‘This is an establishment of acceptance. I take great offence to what you have said and I would encourage all three of you to leave before I phone the police.’
The men laugh uncontrollably yet again, though they grab their keys, wallets and phones from their table and walk out.
I start to breathe slowly and deeply, calming myself … Then he says it. I don’t know which one it is but on their way out one of them uses it. That despised four-letter c-word. Hands-down the worst thing you can call anybody, even in jest, and here it is being used brutally, as an actual insult. It’s just four letters but the fury inside me is phenomenal. Impulse takes over and I run after them. I don’t know what I’m going to do but I want to hurt them.
The only reason I don’t is Elliot’s incredibly strong hold around my waist.
‘Let me go!’ I yell at him. I try to throw his hands off. ‘Get off me! Let me go!’
Elliot holds me, despite my struggle, until the three guys have left the pub. Eventually I give up and just hug Elliot as tightly as I can. The rage inside me spills out in the form of tears instead of violence.
It takes Elliot about fifteen minutes to completely calm me down. Objectively, I knew before I went over that saying anything to those guys wasn’t going to achieve anything, but I figure if nobody calls anybody on their 1950s views, they might never realise that they’re wrong. I didn’t have the foresight to prepare for a retaliation.
Breathing steadily, my heart rate back to normal, I ask Elliot to get me another drink. I watch him go up to the bar where Marjolijn intercepts him. She says something to him and then follows him back to our table.
‘Jennifer, are you okay?’ she asks.
‘I am now,’ I say, which is relatively true. I’m still mad but my physical reaction has faded.
‘That was very brave of you.’
Even though I’m at risk of getting fired up again, I tell her what the guys had said and why I had gone up to them.
‘I must thank you for defending me,’ she says with a smile. ‘I admit I was unaware of the particular factor that instigated the argument, but the sheer level of volume made it abundantly clear what you were arguing about.’
‘I’m sorry for interrupting your performance,’ I say quietly.
‘No matter,’ she says with another slight grin. ‘I had only one song remaining.’
A few of the other customers stop on their way past our table to make sure I’m okay. One couple says that those guys are well-known troublemakers in the area and that it was good to see somebody stand up to them.
I’m very relieved when Marjolijn changes the conversation topic to our trip. I let Elliot do most of the talking. He tells her how we came to be in Byron Bay, from leaving Melbourne, to Nessie, to here. Marjolijn is extremely interested in how Nessie got her nickname.
‘That is adorable,’ she says after Elliot tells the story. ‘If you do not mind me asking, how did you come to be dating her?’
‘We met when we were little. Maybe four? We went to the same day-care centre. Obviously we didn’t stay in contact, because day-care friendships rarely last, but early last year we were both at the same party. She thought she recognised me, so she Facebook-stalked the entire invitation list on her phone until she found my profile.’
‘Kind of creepy,’ I add.
‘Kind of creepy,’ he agrees, ‘but also kind of sweet. She came over and introduced herself and I thought she was really cool, so we hung out for pretty much the whole night. Admittedly alcohol can be a remarkable catalyst, but I had this wave of confidence and when she returned from getting another drink, I just walked up and kissed her. And then we dated until, well, three days ago.’
I knew they had met at a party but I didn’t know the whole day-care aspect, or the ‘I’m going to go and kiss this girl I just met’ part.
‘That is so cute,’ says Marjolijn. ‘What about you, Jennifer? Do you have a boyfriend? A girlfriend?’
‘Oh no, I don’t.’
‘You will find someone.’
I just smile and drink some more. I’m not too fussed about it right now. ‘What about you?’
She angles her head down a little. ‘I am recently divorced.’
‘Oh,’ I say, not sure how to respond. I glance at Elliot. ‘Sorry.’
‘No matter. He was a pig,’ she says dismissively, waving her hand around.
I laugh. I like Marjolijn.
Elliot stifles a yawn.
‘Oh my, I do apologise if you are remaining here for my benefit,’ says Marjolijn. ‘It is getting late so please, head on home. I will, however, insist you take these.’ She hands me a card with her phone number on it and two tickets to see a performance of Next to Normal in Sydney.
‘We can’t accept these,’ I say.
‘Nonsense. But if it helps you to accept them, know that I did not pay for them,’ she says, smiling. ‘I am only an understudy –’ she says as though it isn’t a huge achievement – ‘but I will be performing on Monday, as the lead has prior commitments. I would love for you both to come as my guests.’