some cheesy fake dating situation.
Thank goodness for that.
Net result: we’re going to have a lot of time
to kill with two people who simultaneously
require our presence but refuse to
acknowledge it. I am going to suggest to
William that he outsources the planning of
dates to me, which he will jump at because
he’s more of an ideas guy. And we can use
the dates to try out a bunch of stuff you’ve
never done before to see what actually
interests you. I’m sure once you start to trust
your gut on something like what you like to
do, the rest will follow and your worries will
vanish in a puff of smoke, or something less of
a cliché.
I tap back a thumbs-up.
IT IS WITHa new lease on life that I get ready for work the next day. A little boost. Some pep in my step. It is largely unwarranted as I haven’tdoneanything yet, but we have aplan.
And maybe I actuallyamdoing things. My normal routine has already been broken—the one that involves being stuck in the purgatory of needing to do things while simultaneously being scared to do too much because I have somewhere to be later. Instead, before my shift at a twenty-first birthday out in the leafy eastern suburbs of Melbourne, I go for a walk. An honest-to-goodness walk by myself without phone or headphones on which I make an effort to look up at the trees and the world around me. Of course, that means I trip on uneven concrete and am given a wide berth by passers-by in case making a dick of oneself is contagious. And then I want a coffee, but my wallet is on my phone. So, not a complete success, but given that I normally don’t walk unless it’s towardsfood, I’m proud of myself for trying something new. Even if my activewear game leaves a little to be desired.
On a quiet, oak-tree-lined street out east, I walk up to a nondescript white box of a house that was on the cutting edge of architecture at the turn of the millennium…and into the Twilight Zone.
To my right, a hookah lounge has been set up with pillows, drapes and sparkly beads in a frontal assault of pink, orange, red and yellow. To my left, a woman in a belly dancing outfit is checking an enclosure that holds a snake. And…sorry, is that a camel in the backyard next to the Bedouin-style rental marquee? Yes, it’s a fucking camel. I make eye contact with Reg as I enter the kitchen. Did he see the fucking camel? He rolls his eyes. Yes, he did.
‘Isn’t this amazing?’ Nicole says a bit later, after the sun has gone down. Amazing is one word. I only hope the light-up fibreglass dancefloor perched over the swimming pool will hold under the jumping and flailing of limbs. It’s chaos in the visual, but it is relatively quiet. After ten o’clock (when the camel had gone home), the birthday girl’s mother handed out headphone sets and turned the disco silent. Aside from someveryoff-key singing and the echoes of a woo girl, only the stomps of feet on floor can be heard. We can speak at regular volumes, and the mother will undoubtedly be up for Neighbour of the Year.
A passing girl drenched in sweat leans over to kiss Nicole on the cheek before heading to the bar. ‘Steph and I have a lot of mutuals, but I don’t know her well enough to score an invite.’
‘Is it weird that you’re working this?’
Nicole crinkles her nose. ‘So fucking weird.’ She gathers a few half-finished cocktails from a table and places them on her tray. ‘I live around the corner. A few of us are going to go back there for drinks after if you want to come?’ It is plainly obvious that Nicole is expecting a polite no. The polite no makes its way up to my mouth…but I clamp it shut and don’t allow it out.
What might happen if I say yes? I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I need to go and find out.
‘That sounds great!’ Nicole doesn’t even pretend to hide her shock. ‘I’m driving, of course, but I’m keen to come and hang out! If only to see where you live.’
‘Yay!’ The glasses on the tray teeter precariously as she flounces away.
Nicole lives in an equally grand house to the one I have just left. It is obscured by the kind of manicured hedge you have to pay someone to maintain which, when passed, reveals ornate columns flanking a large weighty door. The entryway is larger than my whole apartment (maybe an exaggeration? Not by much) and stretches all the way up to a skylight that must be professionally cleaned—it isn’t caked in specks of dirt and dust like mine. From there a lush spiral staircase with wrought-iron railing leads up to the next floor. Is that real marble on the floors?
My phone goes off. Bee.
