August 2009
Zoe squints at me, her already smallish eyes threatening to disappear as they focus on a point in the centre of my forehead. Her scrutiny is so intense it verges on comical. I smother the urge to laugh.
‘Orange and yellow, that’s good.’
‘What do those colours mean?’
‘Shush, I’m not finished,’ she admonishes, closing her eyes. ‘Grey too, both light and dark …’ Her eyes pop open again, confronting me. ‘There’s more black than is considered normal.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Black – hatred, anger. Quite concerning when coupled with the greys, which denote deceit and fear.’
‘Oh. Anything good in there?’
‘The orange denotes ambition and yellow, intelligence.’
‘Something positive, thank God,’ I joke. ‘Good to know I’m more than an angry, deceitful ball of hate.’
‘And I see crimson,’ Zoe’s expression becomes sly, ‘which means love, of course.’
‘It does?’
‘Yes. Is there something, or rather someone, you’ve forgotten to tell me about?’
Zoe’s phone begins to ring in what I consider a very timely interruption. ‘Err … time to get back to work, I think.’ I scoot my chair from Zoe’s workstation to my own.
The clock on my laptop states the time as 3.45 pm. Having my aura read has killed only fifteen minutes of a terminally long day. My phone rings and I allow it to shrill four times before picking up; no point in making it obvious that I have so little to do. It’s Mike, the technician responsible for the Net Banc rollout, and he launches straight into a detailed account of what needs to be done before the much-revised start date. I listen a lot more attentively than I would have done if the conversation had occurred six months ago – when I was still relatively busy.
When I put down the phone, my ear is stinging from having it pressed too close. I should get headphones like Zoe. In fact, I’ll log on to the stationery website and order a set right away, and in the process kill another ten minutes or so. There won’t be any time to spare when the Net Banc rollout begins; I’ll be run off my feet for a few months at least. And I almost can’t wait.
Nic’s in top form, a force of nature as she replenishes drinks long before glasses are emptied, flirts outrageously with men she deems worthy and finishes her sentences with peals of laughter that cause other groups to look, somewhat enviously, in our direction. Nic isn’t just doing it for show. She’s having fun, lots of it. In this kind of mood she’s irresistible. Being single suits her much more than being part of a couple.
It’s Thursday night, not one of our usual nights at the pub, but Nic was persuasive and I was keen for some excitement after another too-quiet day at the office.
Nic leans close. ‘Man alert. Traditionally dark and handsome. Paying for his drink at the bar as I speak.’
I swing my head to take a look. The man in question is handsome, too handsome if there’s such a thing. David is off the scene, callously dumped by Nic the week after he lost his job. She’s already been on several dates with other men, ironically all the same prototype as David, the only difference being their employment status. I can’t help hoping that David gets a job soon, paying even more than his last one, and that he’ll saunter into the pub one evening smelling of money and success and snub Nic in the way she deserves. I check myself: I’m being mean. I look back at Nic and raise my shoulders in a non-committal shrug. The man at the bar, though Nic’s type, is not mine. My type is currently sitting behind his desk in the St Kilda police station, wrestling with paperwork. Or maybe he’s out in the car with Will. This pub, this very corporate and high-flying scene, isn’t his thing, which is one of the reasons I never arrange to meet him here.
‘You should get Zoe to read your aura,’ I say, changing the subject.
‘Why would I do that?’ Nic snorts.
‘It’s fun.’
‘What did she have to say about yours?’
‘That it showed I was incredibly intelligent and ambitious.’
Rather conveniently, I omit to mention that I am, at least according to my aura, in love. Crimson, if I recall the colour correctly. Since that June night Matthew’s told me many times that he loves me. He whispers it, his voice so low and breathy in my ear that I sometimes wonder if I’ve misheard. His eyes, though, reaffirm the message, their brilliance softened by the depth of his feelings and, when I don’t respond in kind, growing hurt.
I also omit to mention that my aura reveals me to be deceitful. If I admitted this to Nic, I could immediately prove it correct by telling her that I’ve been secretly dating a police officer, a sergeant no less, without her knowledge. The extent of my deceit sounds worse than it is, though. For a start, Nic isn’t exactly easy to confide in. She’s very cynical about men at the moment; well, she’s always been cynical but she’s even more so since the split with David. Nic’s use-and-abuse attitude towards men isn’t the kind of philosophy that encourages me to open up about Matthew and the terrifying love that I feel for him.
The reason I haven’t told Jeanie is harder to pin down. From a logistical point of view alone, it makes sense to tell her. She’s spending more time at the apartment these days, her travelling budget slashed after recent cutbacks in her firm. If I told her about Matthew, I could at least have him around more often. Because I haven’t told her, we spend most of our time at Matthew’s house, which also happens to be the preferred gathering place for his flatmates’ extensive network of friends and colleagues. An average night at the house is like being in Melbourne Central Station, and about as romantic!
But telling Jeanie means trusting that fate doesn’t have something terrible in store, trusting that things will work out okay. Along with everything else I lost that day in Clonmegan, I lost the ability to trust in the future. And for that reason it feels safer to keep this relationship secret, to hug it deep inside.
Nic throws back the last of her drink and presses her fingers to her lips to contain a hiccup. ‘You know, Caitlin, you’re a bad influence on me.’
‘No, Nic, you’re the bad influence.’
She shakes her head theatrically. ‘I beg to differ.’
I grin. ‘Beg all you like. It’s always you that’s the bad influence.’
Nic eyes the bar and its surrounds, no doubt working out the most aesthetically interesting route to get there. A few moments later she lurches off to get more drinks and, no doubt, flirt madly with the investment banker she spotted earlier. When she’s out of sight, I check my phone and see that there’s a message from Matthew: Hope you’re having fun.
Matthew would disapprove if he saw how drunk I was. He would get me some water and set about persuading me that it was time to go home. He worries and fusses too much, which is sweet of him but totally unnecessary. Suddenly I can’t wait for tomorrow night when we’ll have the apartment to ourselves: Jeanie’s going to a music gig in the outer suburbs and staying over with a friend of the band.
Miss you, I text back. It’s true. Despite Nic’s bubbly company and the high from all the alcohol I’ve managed to consume under her bad influence, I feel lonely for him.
*
Matthew stands in the hallway, bearing a bunch of flowers and a self-conscious smile.
I eye the flowers, gerberas in pink, orange, yellow and red. My day feels brighter just by looking at them. ‘Are those for me?’
‘Who else?’
I lean over the flowers to kiss him. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’
‘You deserve them for being you.’
Guilt swells inside me. If he knew how drunk I was last night and how hungover earlier today, he would not think me deserving at all.
He follows me to the kitchen and, at my request, takes down a glass vase from a shelf that’s too high for me to reach. I free the flowers from the cellophane wrapping, noticing from the label that he purchased them at a supermarket rather than a florist. I imagine him at the checkout, sheepish as he waited in line, the flowers held low but still attracting benevolent smiles from women in the vicinity.
‘I not only come bearing flowers, I have a movie too,’ he announces, removing a DVD case from the inside of his denim jacket.
‘Great!’ I glance at the title of the DVD. ‘I’ve heard it’s good. You go and set it up while I organise the snacks.’
Matthew abandons his jacket on the back of one of the kitchen chairs and disappears into the living room. I finish arranging the flowers and centre the vase on the kitchen windowsill where the bright colours will be illuminated further by the morning sun. I twist the lid off a bottle of beer and open a Diet Coke for myself: I can’t face alcohol after last night.
‘Ready to go?’ I enter the living room with a drink in each hand and a bag of popcorn wedged under my chin.
‘Yeah. What’s this about, though?’
I’m in the process of putting down the drinks when he asks the question. When I look up, I see that he’s holding the disc Maeve sent me, the one with the coverage of my father. It’s labelled: Dad – BBC news. Of course Matthew would be curious at seeing such a title. I curse inwardly. I shouldn’t have left the disc hanging around.
‘It’s just some coverage of my father on television.’
‘I can see that. Why was he on TV?’
I take a shallow breath. ‘He was involved in a civil law suit … It was related to the bomb I told you about.’
‘Can I watch it?’
‘Aren’t we meant to be watching the movie?’
‘I mean after the movie – we can put it on when it’s over.’
Quite obviously, he believes this is a reasonable request. He wants to know more about my family, my background, and what better way than to watch this disc, Professor Jonathan O’Reilly centre stage.
‘I –’ It’s unfair of him to back me into a corner like this. What can I say to dissuade him, to convince him that it isn’t a reasonable request at all? Why is he always so damned interested in every single thing about me?
Understanding dawns on his face. ‘Have you watched it, Caitlin?’
‘No.’ The disc has been sitting next to the DVD player since last month.
‘Why?’
I snap. ‘Because I don’t speak to my father and I have no desire to see him, in person or on TV. Now, for God’s sake, can we watch the movie?’
He treats me to a piercing look before he takes the remote and presses play. We sit on the couch, a careful distance between us. I drink some of my Diet Coke, regretting that I didn’t opt for something stronger. Damn it, damn it, damn it! I should have thrown the disc in the rubbish bin – or at least put it somewhere out of sight.
Lost in self-recrimination, I miss the opening scenes of the movie. The storyline evades me. Matthew isn’t concentrating either. He’s staring too hard at the screen, his fingers agitatedly drumming his denim-clad knee. I slide my hand over his, stilling it. ‘Sorry for snapping.’
He doesn’t answer. His eyes bore into the screen. A few minutes later, though, his hand turns upwards to clasp mine, his way of saying that I’m forgiven. I move closer, nestle my head on his shoulder and for the next hour and a half luxuriate in his closeness, paying only scant attention to what’s happening on the screen.
Matthew raises his head to look blearily across at the trilling phone on the bedside table. ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
‘They can leave a message.’
I know it’s Mum with her usual Saturday-morning wake-up call. She’ll be in a chatty mood, eager to share the minutiae of her day and week, and I can’t reciprocate, not with Matthew lying here next to me. She’ll be able to tell from my reticence that someone is here, and the questions will follow: Who’s with you? Is it a man? What’s his name? Is it serious? God forbid, she’s so fond of chatting with Jeanie she might well demand that Matthew be put on the line so that she can say hello. No, it’s better to let the phone ring out and to call Mum later, maybe tonight.
Matthew looks from me to the phone and back again. He says nothing but his expression shows that he understands more than he’s willing to say. The ringing stops and the unanswered phone promptly joins ranks with the unwatched disc, the fact that I haven’t yet committed to go to Deniliquin to meet his parents and, even more significantly, haven’t yet told him I love him, forming a malignant cell, a tumour on what’s otherwise a perfect relationship.