The Sebastian Worthington is safely in the closet of its rightful owner, one Penny Santos, and I’m back in Mudgee, in my uniform of comfy jeans and Converse. I’m relieved to return to my new, quieter, anonymous existence here – where there’s no past chasing me down, or best friends to fight with.
It feels good knowing that I have Penny’s support, even when I’m in Mudgee. I’ve been home for two days, and last night she sent me a photo from the Scuttlebutt event. I’m looking away from the camera, one of the frilly red dress straps has slipped down off my shoulder and my hand tickles my collarbone. Even I must admit that I look wistful and pretty – even though in reality I was on high alert for another Markus run-in. I’d only just managed to hold my tongue on Sunday night. Eryka had returned with more drinks just as Markus had begun to shower me with compliments.
Beautiful, that dress is divine on you.
Tell me, how is it that a stunning woman like yourself is single?
I’d sculled my champagne and hightailed it back to Penny. A narrow escape.
Penny insisted the pic was too good to waste, and that I send screenshot proof once I’d updated my Tinder profile to include it. Once I had her tick of approval, I’d swiped half-heartedly for a bit, delaying my pre-show bedtime. I ended up having a chat with a local photographer. I’d tried to overlook the fact that his Brazil travel photos had Rio 2016 flags flapping in the background. I may never have been overseas – which I’m highly aware is unusual in itself – but surely they don’t keep Olympic memorabilia up forever? If his photos were seven years old, that did not bode well.
After making plans to meet the possible-catfish photographer at Lesters next Saturday – mainly because I appreciated his ability to actually lock in a date – I’d closed the app and gone to bed, suddenly struck with the thought that I might come across Markus on there.
I’m pondering the possibility again as I get ready for my post-show errands. Markus wouldn’t be stupid enough to use his photos, would he? But he might be one of the many faceless profiles lurking for their next prey. Disgusting. But who knows – he and Eryka could have an open relationship.
I shake my head to rid it of yucky Markus thoughts, grab my grocery list – meticulously ordered by aisle number – and walk out the door. (One of the upsides to a limited social life is plenty of time to plot the most efficient supermarket route.)
I walk in the direction of Woolies. It’s mac ’n’ cheese again for dinner tonight, and for Squash, a tin of the finest Delightful Tuna Gourmet. Despite the rain, there’s a delicious crunch underfoot as I kick my feet through the fresh fall of golden autumn leaves. It’s not like this in Sydney, with noisy street cleaners mandated by cautious council workers quickly erasing any slip hazards and potential lawsuits.
It was apparently raining heavily here all weekend, which meant aggressive turbulence during Monday night’s landing and getting completely soaked as I ran from the tarmac into the terminal. But you don’t complain about rain in the country; I’ve learnt that quick enough. Despite the downpour, I was informed by both Cedric and yesterday’s astute Tuesday callers that it hasn’t been anywhere near enough to break the drought. Sadly, it’s still the fourth-driest May since the Bureau of Meteorology started taking records.
The weak autumn sun warms my back and bounces off the beautiful old buildings casting low shadows beyond the kerb line. There’s the flamingo pink post office, town hall and civic theatre. One of the perks of early morning starts is the stretches of afternoon to enjoy. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, picturing the original businesses that operated along here in the 1900s, buzzing with locals. There was the general store and bootmaker on one side, and the butcher on the other, all now turned boutiques, op shops and chain stores. On the corner was the grand tearoom, ready to receive mothers and daughters in their Sunday best. It’s almost laughable to think mothers did such enjoyable things with their daughters. My mum was always too busy ‘working’ – no time for tea and tiny cucumber sandwiches – only to coach me on the expected ROI (return on investment) on a Japanese solar-powered, head-shaking dashboard Kokeshi Doll. She didn’t even come to collect me on the first day of kindergarten, when I split my head open chasing Kate Adams around the schoolyard. Three stitches later at hospital and it was Dad who was there to console me. But it wasn’t until Wes stopped by later that afternoon with melted Mr Whippy, transported via skateboard from a steamy Galdwell Park, that I finally cracked a smile.
There’s no point dwelling on the past, I remind myself as I enter the supermarket. I grab a basket, pull a disinfectant wipe from the packet in my handbag, and sanitise the basket’s handles before beginning my tracked route through the fruit and veg section.
Another perk of moving somewhere new is fewer nostalgia-triggering landmarks, yet the moment I reach for a bunch of extra-large Cavendish bananas I’m hit with another wave of memories. I pick up the bananas and put them in my basket, but in my head I’m back in October 2015 – one of the final days of Wes and Rosie’s BIG Adventure.
Wes enters our motel room first, doing his usual hygiene sweep before calling out to me that it’s safe to proceed. I shuffle through the doorway behind him like I’m on death row.
It’s not in the least bit sanitary. The visible cobwebs caught in the corners of the windows means there’s invisible filth that lurks in the carpet threads and, worse still, the bedding.
‘Eww, look at that stain.’ I point out the brown smudge like it can’t already be seen from outer space.
‘You know that we’re just going to be adding to that filth.’ Wes grins mischievously, before reaching forward and pulling me over to the bed.
I don’t put up a fight as I flop down on top of him. He’s literally the only person in the world who can get me this close to suspected faecal matter.
I plant a kiss on his full lips. Better to inhale his car-chip breath than the respiratory virus lingering in the stale motel room air. He kisses me back, sliding his tongue inside my mouth. As our kisses become deeper and more urgent, I begin to slip off his body.
Instead of catching me and adjusting me back on top of his hips, he turns on his side, causing me to topple onto the bed.
I shuffle back on top of him like the bedspread is lava.
‘I can see what you’re doing, Posie.’
‘Urgh,’ I groan into his mouth. ‘It’s just so gross.’
‘Would you prefer the floor?’
If looks could kill.
‘How about the shower?’ he tries again.
‘Fine.’ I relent. ‘I’ll grab our thongs.’
It’s not like it’s hard to convince me. I want him just as much as he wants me. Just look at those muscular legs. He’s wearing his absurdly small footy shorts again, the pair he usually wears when he’s painting.
I move to roll off him, but his arms go around me, and his fingers sink into my sides.
‘Wesssssssssss!’ I screech, squirming uncontrollably as he tickles me until I fall, arms flailing, right on top of the brown stain.
After our shower, the room is suitably steamed and we’re sitting flushed-faced across from each other on steel dining chairs, our feet grazing underneath the table.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ I ask, giving him an extra kick.
A smile plays on his lips. ‘The plan, Rosie, is that there is no plan. That’s the purpose of a road trip.’
‘But hypothetically speaking. Like, if you had to make one . . .’
‘I don’t know, maybe watch some terrible cable TV, then a walk into town to –’
I clear my throat, then stare pointedly at the remote like it’s a detonating bomb. Everyone knows TV remotes are as bad as bar peanuts. More semen than channel-surfing going on there.
He sighs, but his nostrils flare, a tell-tale sign that he’s amused.
‘Okay, we’ll skip the TV. Let’s walk into town and find a local spot for some dinner and people watching, then get an early night and head up to the Big Banana first thing for sunrise?’
A grin dances across my face. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
‘You and your bloody plans . . .’
I stick my tongue out at him. ‘You love them.’
He leans over, tucks the strand of hair I’ve been twisting behind my ear and kisses the tip of my nose.
‘Incorrect. But I do love you. Despite your incessant planning.’
A few hours later we fall back into bed, bellies full of creamy pesto pasta from the Coffs Harbour RSL. We’d planned on playing Keno, but we’d gotten too caught up watching an elderly couple eating dinner together. There’s nothing we love more than observing grey-haired couples and wondering how long they’ve been good to each other for. Wes sketched on the back of a coaster while I commentated.
‘Ohhh he’s cutting up her chicken for her! Will you cut up my chicken for me?’
‘Without a doubt, Posie-pants.’
It takes me a full hour to get to sleep that night, even with the disease-ridden bedspread removed and bundled into a corner of the room. I wish we’d decided to drive south to north, not the other way around, so we were at the beginning of our BIG Adventure and not the end. I hadn’t even wanted to come. But as was the case with most things, Wes had managed to convince me. In this moment I’m happier than I ever thought possible, even with bed bugs nipping my ankles.
I’m in the frozen food section, the final stop of my grocery route, before I even realise it. My cheek feels wet. I reach up to wipe away the single tear that’s slid silently down my face.
It’s slim pickings in TV dinner land here – not like in Sydney where professionals live on a diet of frozen dinners and UberEATS. I throw a couple of mac ’n’ cheese boxes into my basket and head for the checkout. It seems I’ve completed the rest of my list on autopilot.
The friendly cashier with a name badge that says ‘Shelly’ scans and bags up my items slowly, instead of pelting them at me like we’re engaged in a competitive game of paintball. Yet another big plus for country living. I hope my face isn’t blotchy, I think as she cradles the bananas, before sliding them carefully into the bag on top of the mac ’n’ cheese stack. Like she’s aware of their time-travelling powers.
I thank Shelly with a shy smile. I’m feeling extra tender after my BIG Adventure down memory lane. The sooner I can forget about Wes and get back to my new life here, the better.
Although my Tinder dates have been epic disappointments, so far all the ‘side’ characters in this town have proven to be every bit as enchanting as rural romances depict. I’m yet to witness any ‘small-town blow-in’ hierarchy nonsense, but maybe that’s because I’ve been subconsciously keeping the locals at arm’s length so I can romanticise life here. Or maybe I’m the one being kept at arm’s length?
A flash of yellow catches my eye and I turn to see a taxi pulling up beside me.
The driver winds their window down and I instantly recognise the wide-brimmed hat. It’s the driver from the other night. His hat is adorned with a stripy rainbow band and studded with an assortment of pins. A golden gumboot glints in the sun and my heart skips a beat. The Golden Gumboot in Tully, in Far North Queensland, was a part of our BIG Adventure too.
My mind goes to the motel with the murky pool in the shape of the boot. Wes had pushed me in fully clothed – Converse and all. I’d emerged from the swamp like some creature from the deep with a serious case of the giggles. So serious that Wes had insisted on giving me ‘CPR’ on the pool’s edge until I pulled him in too.
‘Hi girlie. Can I give you a lift home?’ the cabbie asks, eyeing my grocery-laden arms.
‘I’m okay, thank you,’ I say. ‘It’s not far.’
Yes, the bags are heavy, but I’m in no rush. Prior to this week, I’d been spending most afternoons poring over show notes for the next day, but Ceddie has put a stop to that, refusing to let me know what’s planned until I arrive at the station the morning of the show. He says the magic happens when I’m ‘woefully underprepared’. I’m still not sure about that – it’s nowhere close to my natural state. I’d also like to platform some local stories, and that will require some planning.
For all of its headaches, I suppose dating has helped me handle curveballs like a pro. I hate that I am crediting any of those losers for my adept ability to think fast on my feet, but I guess it’s true. The moment I identify the ‘never ever’ I throw out a quick one-liner excuse and skedaddle.
The cab continues idling beside me. The driver rests a roughened elbow out the window.
‘Yes, I know, dear. You’re in one of those old terraces off Court Street.’
Oh! He recognises me. I feel like I’ve earned some type of small-town Scouts badge.
‘Let me take you. On the house.’
‘Okay,’ I agree. ‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’
I move to the rear of the car, opening one of doors and placing my groceries on the back seat. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should slide in next to my bags, before making a firm decision to close the door and sit up next to the driver. Time to get my head out of the past and into the present.
‘I’m Jack.’ He introduces himself as I fasten my seatbelt.
‘Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Rosie. Thanks again for the lift.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ he says, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear stick and eyes on the road. I can’t remember the last time I was in an old-fashioned taxi. Sydney is all slick leather seat Ubers with complimentary waters. ‘Have you been in Mudgee long?’ Jack asks.
‘Almost two months. I’m working at the radio station.’
‘You really are a local then.’ His eyes shift sideways and his mouth curves into a toothy smile.
‘Not quite.’ I laugh. ‘Hopefully one day. How long have you lived here?’
‘About forty or so years,’ Jack says, glancing at me. ‘I’m from Thubbo initially – you know it as Dubbo. I moved to Mudgee for work and fell in love with the place.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I mumble, suddenly at a loss for words.
I’ve gotten too used to city Ubers and selecting the ‘quiet preferred’ option.
‘Have you always driven cabs?’
Okay. Basic, but at least something.
‘Only since retiring, love. I’m a paramedic by trade, but after decades of heart-racing trips on the road it was impossible to put my feet up completely without getting restless. Besides, I knew the town needed drivers. I take all these short trips the other cabbies don’t think are worth their while.’
As we round the corner into my street, my left bum cheek vibrates. I ignore it.
Jack’s hand drums the steering wheel. ‘But the people need to get places, the places don’t come to the people, now, do they?’
I laugh as we come to a stop outside of my terrace flat, and Jack tips his hat at me.
‘Thank you so much for the lift.’
‘You’re welcome. I’ve gotta rush and take one of my regulars to Bingo, otherwise I’d whizz you around town for a quick ‘locals only’ tour.’
‘That’s very kind of you, thanks Jack. Another time?’
‘Certainly. There’s more to this area than just great wineries, you know. There’s a lot of history too.’
As I climb out of the car, and collect my groceries from the back, Jack reaches over and presses a business card into my palm.
‘Call me anytime you get stuck,’ he says, voice gruff but warm. ‘Or if you ever fancy me joining you on air to tell you a bit about Mudgee’s Indigenous history. I know a thing or two.’
‘Thanks, Jack. That’s a lovely offer.’
I’d love to learn more about this place I now call home, and I’m sure our listeners would too.
‘Now if this were an audition – which it ain’t ’cause I’d have to charge you for that – I’d tell you that the name Mudgee comes from the Wiradjuri word Moothi, which means ‘nest in the hills’.’
‘Ooh, that’s beautiful,’ I say. Mudgee does feel a bit like a nest to me actually, somewhere I’ve sought refuge.
‘Lots more facts where that came from – you get your people to call my people.’
I laugh again. ‘Sure. We’ll be in touch. Thanks again for the ride,’ I say as I shut the door. I wave at the taxi’s rear as it bumps down the road, before glancing down at the card in my hand to read the small print underneath the mobile number.
Jack Ballard
Call for lifts, a good yarn, or emergency first-aid*
*only if desperate and you’ve tried the ambos first
I carefully slide the business card into my back pocket like it’s a winning lotto ticket and retrieve my mobile. The heavy shopping bags lassoed over my arms knock into my thighs as I bring the phone into view.
My Tinder notifications are muted, otherwise I’d assume it was the photographer already cancelling our date. I was half-thinking about doing the same anyway. I’ve given it a good crack here, but it might be time to call it quits and focus on the show, and put some real effort into making friends. I look down at the screen and see I have a text from an unknown number.
My heart skips a beat as my brain instantly goes to Mum. I wasn’t bluffing when I told Dad that I haven’t heard from her in ages, but I wasn’t honest about how unsettled that made me. I like having eyes on her to minimise any element of surprise. The last time she went MIA on Facebook she popped up in my LinkedIn messages a few months later with a ‘Business Opportunity’ that was ‘guaranteed to make me millions’. It was like a bullet to my side. I’d long since given up hope of any meaningful interactions, and learnt to endure the infrequent ‘Hope you’re doing well and smashing your business goals’ Facebook comments, but I drew the line at outright scams. I acknowledged the message with a ‘thumbs up’ emoji, then promptly updated my LinkedIn privacy settings to receive mail from first-degree connections only, before heading to my next meeting, ten minutes ahead of schedule.
I can’t wait until I’m inside to find out who the message is from, so I perch on the edge of the nature strip and hold my breath as I swipe.
Hi Rosie, I hope it’s okay that I’m messaging. Ange gave me your number. It was great seeing you the other night. Would you be open to meeting me for a drink? I can come to you. I’d like to talk properly
Oh, this is Wes
In an instant, my bones feel like they’ve turned to jelly. It’s a good thing I’m already sitting down. I stare at the message for a moment, hands wobbly and weak, before my screaming brain kicks in.
Goddammit, Ange.
I banned myself from stalking Wes years ago. After those initial few weeks of checking his whereabouts hourly, while simultaneously ignoring all of his messages, I decided that it was making me feel worse. Mostly because it didn’t change anything. He was still in London and I – well, I wasn’t. I felt like the little matchgirl looking through a glass pane at the brilliant, colourful life that wasn’t mine. It was different from keeping tabs on my mum; I was never a part of her world anyway.
The girls set me up with a stalker jar. I had to drop twenty bucks in every time I checked his page. A week later, Penny and Ange were sporting designer handbags care of the ‘Wes Preston stalker fund’. I stopped completely right after that, and blocked him for good measure. I suppose that’s when my ‘precise life’ stepped up a notch. Like father, like daughter. Suddenly I found great delight in colour coding my bookshelves and scheduling my weekends. Penny and Ange even joked that they’d have to send me calendar invites months in advance for a chance to see me. Textbook, really. One habit replacing another.
I wait until I’ve unpacked the shopping, fed Squash, heated up my cheesy mac and re-fluffed the couch cushions before I text back. Wes has had six years to get in touch with me. Seeing him at the reunion hasn’t changed anything. I’m still no closer to understanding how he could have hurt me so much when I’d trusted him more than anyone. If you squinted and looked past Wes’s rust-coloured eyes, you’d see the words ‘selfish prick’ strung together around his head in an unfortunate halo. He’s a ‘proper fuckstick’ as Pen would say. And why that fuckstick thinks that there’s any part of me that wants to hear from him now is completely beyond me.
Hi Wes, I don’t want to be rude, but I’d like you to leave me alone. Rosie.
I’m happy with the mature way in which I’ve responded. I place my phone on the coffee table and resume my pillow plumping.
My phone beeps again. This time it’s just one word.
Okay