The three of us take cover in the office. It’s nice and warm and smells like a heater. On the corner of Belinda’s desk there is a piece of folded white cardboard that says, in perfect black printing, Marc Jarvis – Sales Consultant. Belinda looks pleased.
‘You can have half my desk, Marc. All your contacts and paperwork I’ve put in that folder, along with two GateWay Auto pens. I think they work.’
I don’t know what to say, but I do know that Belinda has done something that makes me feel special, like when Dot meets me at the gate with her frisbee in her gob, because most other people she just growls at. I thank her.
‘I guess I ought to ring Mrs Lockwood, shouldn’t I?’ I say, answering my own question, which is unusual, as I don’t often ask or answer questions, especially not at school, because I can’t see the point. ‘I’ll do it now.’
I ring, and end up talking to the supremely gifted Antonella, who informs me that she’d be more than happy to come in this afternoon to look at the MX while her piano is being tuned – by a piano mechanic, I suppose.
‘Oh, and one more question, Antonella.’ Man, I am just so professional. ‘You can drive, can’t you?’
‘Of course,’ she replies. ‘A bit. See you in an hour. I’ll bring my P-plates. If I can find them.’
Mikey and Belinda refuse to take Antonella out for her test-drive.
‘It’s your sale, Marc.’ Belinda looks up from some letter she’s typing for the newsagent, who she says can’t read or write very well – which is strange when you think about it. ‘You do it. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s right,’ says Mikey, sitting with his runners up on the edge of Belinda’s desk. ‘You’ll breeze it in. Besides I’m far too busy. You just get out there, and explain why it’s the best car for her in the world, and how happy it will make her.’
I’d be more inclined to take Mikey seriously if he’d actually stop reading an art catalogue with the picture of a neon frog on the cover. I look outside and see a girl walking up the driveway. She has long brown hair, flat shoes, and is carrying P-plates and an umbrella.
‘Go and bring her in,’ Belinda says patiently. ‘Sit her down. We’ll get her a tea or a coffee. You ask her for her licence, which we’ll photocopy, and you tell her how great the car is. Remember. Features. Advantages. Benefits. It’s that easy.’
Whenever someone says something’s that easy, I know it’s not. And so do they. But despite this, I head down the driveway in the drizzle, trying to work out if having a convertible sports car on a day like today is a Feature, a Benefit, an Advantage, or a Disadvantage.
‘Hi.’ I smile as I close in. ‘You must be Antonella.’
She is, which is lucky, and so I take her into the office, and we sit down at my desk corner. Somehow a brand-new writing pad has appeared and Mikey and Belinda have disappeared.
‘Gee.’ Antonella sits, her coat open to reveal a black jumper that’s not tight but tight enough. It also has a Minnie Mouse badge on it, which is a little alarming. ‘Your writing’s really nice.’ She smiles, her face so pale and her skin so clear I know she’s one of those girls who went straight from kindergarten to ballet lessons to piano exams, and not via the drive-through at McDonald’s.
Do I tell her it’s not my writing? Do I tell her I have no idea what I’m doing? Do I tell her I can’t drive? Do I tell her I know nothing about cars? No, I tell her that the MX 5 is an automatic, it gets stacks of kilometres to the litre, and then, after Belinda has photocopied Antonella’s licence, I suggest we hit the highway – which would also suggest I’m doing a great job, until Mikey comes back in to politely hold up something I’d completely forgotten about.
The keys.
Oh, yeah!
Antonella is either a really good driver or a really bad driver – I haven’t quite worked out which. One minute she’s nipping along with the traffic, the next she’s stopping without warning like the commander of a Leopard tank with Attention Deficit Disorder.
‘My mum says you know my brother, Luke.’ Antonella does a fast right-hand turn in front of a tram. ‘This is a groovy little car, isn’t it? It’s very snazzy.’
‘What? I mean, pardon?’ For a moment there I was so busy pre-planning my funeral, and what songs I’d have, I almost missed what she was saying. ‘Oh yeah, it’s um, Mickey Mouse.’ I decide going with the mouse badge theme is a good idea. ‘And with the price of petrol, it’ll save you stacks. Which is a real benefit and a great advantage. And a terrific feature, too, come to think of it.’
‘Is petrol expensive?’ Antonella smiles and takes her hands off the wheel. ‘I don’t know much about cars. I tend to focus more on music and study and things. But I do like this one, Marc. It’s cute. Although I think my piano is a lot easier to drive.’
I laugh, because if that’s not a joke she’s a Martian, and I’ve just been abducted.
‘It’s got a CD player,’ I say. ‘You could listen to, er, Beethoven on the way to uni. Or to the pool. If you’re a good swimmer. Like Luke.’
At this point, either with miraculous navigation skills or sheer luck, Antonella has driven us back to GateWay Auto. She stops the car neatly in the driveway and turns it off. Rain patters cosily on the roof, isolating us from the outside world.
‘Can I ask you something, Marc?’ Antonella turns towards me, her face the face of someone who’s not only far more intelligent than her mother or brother, but also a lot nicer. ‘Do you like my brother, Luke? Honestly.’
Hmm. Honestly? In this situation? Well … I look at Antonella, a rare flower of a musical girl who’ll end up marrying a butterfly specialist, or an importer of French cheese or English fountain pens, and I take a deep, business-like breath.
‘Ah, no, not particularly.’ Then I laugh, because I know that she wants to know if I’m a liar. And I want her to know that I’m not.
She smiles to herself, as if she’s worked something out that’s quite important.
‘All right then, Mister Marc.’ She tucks her hair behind her left ear, revealing a cheek so smooth and pale, tinged with pink, I’d like to kiss it. ‘Do you think this is a good car for me to buy?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I say, which is true, for many reasons. ‘And I’ll ask Belinda to drop the price by five hundred bucks.’
‘Okay.’ She touches the dashboard gently as if she is testing a strange type of keyboard. ‘I’ll buy it. Or rather, my dad will.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Deal.’ And we shake hands, her fingers, long, cool and delicate, holding my clammy but relatively clean paw for the count of one, two, three.
Mark it down on your scorecards, folks.
That’s first goal of the week to Marc E. Jarvis, Number 24, wingman, salesman, superstar!
In the office I’m treated like a prince – once I’ve seen Antonella off the premises. Belinda makes me a coffee and Mikey has bought me a double-chocolate-chip muffin.
‘But she hasn’t signed anything,’ I say. ‘I haven’t really sold it yet, have I?’
‘No,’ says Mikey. ‘But it deserves a muffin anyway.’
‘She’ll stick to her word.’ Belinda sips tea from a red-and-white Holden Dealer Team mug. ‘Whether or not her dad will is another thing. But you did really well, Marc. Vinnie’ll be impressed. I think he might be coming in tomorrow.’
I sit, listening to the rain on the roof, feeling as if the MX deal is hovering right over my head. Around here, I know a sale means different things, important things, to all of us. So I will do my best, even if I only ever went to Scouts once.