Including me, he means. I, Gertrude, revolve around Bianca. Because Bianca is the sun, and I’m like a rock in the asteroid belt.
He follows my account. I follow back. A throat clears behind me, and Reg is there with raised eyebrows, shocked to see the normally rule-following Gertrude on her phone. Hehands me a sugary mini donut, obviously because it looks like I need it. My eye bags probably match the blueberry jam inside. I tuck the phone back in my pocket, eat the donut in one bite and grab the tub of glassware to bring back into the kitchen.
I love brunch events. They always have the best food. And right now, I need to eat my feelings. How many mini donuts equal one full donut? No reason why I’m asking, of course.
It isn’t unusual for me to get anxious. Heart racing a million miles an hour, even when I’m just doing standard things, like cooking dinner. Sitting tensely behind the steering wheel, gripping it for dear life when I’m just popping around to the supermarket. Finding myself taking deep breaths every so often because I haven’t realised I’ve been holding it. Sometimes it’s about something specific. Other times it is just a general feeling of foreboding I can’t quite kick. More than once I’ve wished I was like Bee, who only needs a whiff of some essential oil blend and a collagen facemask to put her right when she’s feeling slightly off.
But one thing I’ve always known about my little bouts of stress is that they pass. A few days of subsisting on crackers and cheese, pretending I’m capable of meditation while really just taking naps on the floor, and only showering when strictly necessary, and I’m usually back to whatever mynormalis.
This won’t pass.
Light-headed from lack of sleep. Irritable. Permanent sour grimace on my face. Liable to explode if someone breathes funny. For days on end.
Poor Nicole is the victim during a Wednesday-nightwedding. (Seriously, who gets married on a Wednesday?) She is minding her own business, polishing glassware in the steamed-up glass room when I enter and stub my toe on a slab of beer.
‘Oh, fuck!’ I yell. The door is still slightly ajar. There is a non-zero chance that a guest has heard that, although at least it didn’t happen during the speeches. ‘Did you leave this in the fucking doorway?’ I get nothing but a deer-in-the-headlights stare back. I let out a frustrated cry and passive-aggressively pick up and move the slab, nearly breaking every bottle inside. Nicole murmurs something and leaves the room.
I only realise hours later that I need to apologise. Nicole probably didn’t even touch the beer. Not that there’s any excuse.
I ignore the monthly call from my mother too, but that’s not a big deal. My mother sets herself up with an Aperol spritz and a cigarette and talks about herself for half an hour, then ends the call. If I don’t answer, she calls whoever is next on her list. It’s less about the call or caller and more about the smoko. I can’t even muster up half the energy my interjected hmms about the politics of the local farmer’s market would require.
Perhaps most shocking is my very first argument with Bee. Shocking to both of us, really.
We have barely seen one another all week, which is probably why she has so far been sheltered from my tempest. I don’t know if that’s because she has been with Bill (unchaperoned! Gasp!) or because of work. But on Friday morning, I manage to fall asleep at around four, which gives me a few precious hours before the sun ruins it all again.
Or would have.
Poor Bee. She doesn’t even know what she’s walking into.
Of course some would argue that walking into anyone’s room at six in the morning without explicit permission is the very definition of poking the bear. It’s me. I am some who would argue that. And she doesn’t just enter. She bounces into the room in crisp black activewear, a slick high ponytail and a smile, looking exceptionally well rested, and all I want to do is wipe that smile off her face.
Bee starts saying something, and over the buzzing filling my ears I catch words likeWilliam,drinks, maybeSunday.
‘No,’ I spit. I pull the covers back over my head. Bee pulls them back down, leaning over me.
‘What? Gertrude, were you even listening to me?’
‘Of course I fucking wasn’t.’ Hurt flashes across Bee’s face, and I’m a little bit satisfied. Which I’m aware isn’t a good thing. It hasn’t been a great week for me. As quickly as it appears, it is replaced by another smile, though I’ve known Bee long enough to see that it is not fully genuine.
‘Oh, I forget how crabby you can get in the morning.’ She pats my head. Honest to God pats my head.
‘Maybe I’mcrabbybecause I want to go back to sleep. Leave.’
‘But…’
‘I’m serious, Bee. Get out. If it’s so important, text it to me or wait until I have actually gotten out of bed.’ As with most people when put in a completely unfamiliar situation, Bee doesn’t seem to know how to respond. Her eyes dart around, as though looking on the floor for my dropped marbles, but she certainly doesn’t find them. So she gets up, quietly mutterssomething about bringing back a coffee after Pilates, and leaves the room.
Well. I’m certainly not getting any more sleep now. Every time I close my eyes I see the hurt on her face.
I text my apology, I send her a voucher to that fancy facialist in Hawthorn. I make homemade parmas for dinner that night, and she smiles weakly at my effort, saying that if we can eat it on the couch watchingLove Island, then all will be forgiven. I think it’s implied that we have to watch it without my shit-talking it the whole time, which I do, so we’re fine.
But I can’t continue like this. What I need is to get to the root of this problem.
Luckily, I follow him on Instagram.
I THANK ARTHURfor meeting me for breakfast, which seems weirdly formal, so now it feels like a job interview. He says, ‘No worries,’ and opens the menu in front of him. ‘Is it just me, or does this menu feature an unnatural amount of fairy floss for any place outside a theme park?’ I envy his ability to sound like a normal person. Maybe I could learn to do that. He’s right about the fairy floss.
The little piece of paper listing the specials has a juice stain on the corner which is important because it’s easier to focus on paper quality than jump into discussing my inner turmoil. It’s also important to warm up with small talk. ‘I like the sound of the Turkish eggs.’
