And I want so badly for them all to like me.
I feel dirty.
‘Sorry, Gertie,’ Reg offers. ‘We know that she’s your friend…’
‘And housemate,’ Nicole adds.
‘And housemate,’ Reg agrees. ‘But it’s like you said, she’s just our manager. And frankly a pretty shit one a lot of the time. We try not to talk about it in front of you.’ He glares over at Sam, who flinches.
‘Mostly because at the start we thought you’d be like her,or you’d dob on us to her out of loyalty or whatever,’ Mariana says from up the back.
‘But we know better now, right?’ Nicole says, face daring anyone to contradict her. No one does.
I could try a bit harder to bridge the gap. As I shut and lock my locker, I say, ‘I really think if you could all get to know each other on a social level you’d change your minds. Maybe we could invite her to stay for champagne one night?’ My hopeful tone is met with sceptical looks. There won’t be any changing of minds.
I push it off with a shrug of a shoulder. At least I can say I tried. I slip my phone into my pocket and say, ‘We should probably get going. Or everyone who isn’t me is going to get in trouble for being late to the briefing.’ I could get high off the feeling of making people laugh just because I said something funny.
The next time I hear from Arthur, it’s in a group text with Bee and William (assuming the unknown number is his). It features a link to a spreadsheet populated with expenses from karaoke. The numbers all wash over me, but the upshot is that I owe Arthur $168 (including dinner at the pub) and he provides his bank details for the transfer. Bee and William have each left a thumbs-up. I am left to spiral.
After Arthur said he’d already paid, I somehow failed to process the fact that karaoke night would cost anything extra, and that every call on the magic phone that brought forth alcohol was accompanied by the cash register’sding.
I don’t have $168. I will have to dip into my savings, meagreas they are, or wait until payday on Friday. Surely Arthur could hold off for a few days? If he can’t, I canmaybeswing it if I nick some of Bee’s food and eat a lot of the bulk rice we got from Costco that time we took Bee’s mum’s membership card. Bee is hardly home at the moment anyway. (William lives alone, so his apartment is more convenient.) If anything I’d be liberating the food and preventing food waste like a good global citizen.
Waiting is the preferred option of the three. Unless Arthur gets weird about it. There is nothing more fundamentally uncomfortable than having to have a stilted, awkward chat about money and one’s lack of it in an owing situation.
Hey, is it okay if I hold off on transferring until Friday when I get my pay?
Waiting for an answer is torture. It has been fourteen seconds.
Thirty-two.
Fifty-six.
Three dots. Then nothing. Dots again. Then nothing.
Yeah, of course!
A moment later:
How are you going, by the way?
Then the triple text:
I was thinking ice skating next time. Do you
reckon you’re sporty? They have a pop-up
rink with those winter igloo things on the
foreshore. You can get charcuterie boards and
wine flights after. How does that sound?
It sounds expensive. It sounds like the gurgling drain atthe bottom of my bank account. That’s my first thought. Then I think of hands touching hands, fingers intertwined and wonder why he’s still pushing this when there’s a perfect out for him to let this slow-fade into nothingness. Then I imagine those same fingers resting on the ice and then being cut clean off by a swiftly passing blade. The contrast of the red blood on the white ice looks quite artistic in my head. I rub my hands together, definitely not checking that my fingers are intact. I could use that fear to my advantage and get out of it…
But there’s no way of knowing if his next suggestion would be even more outlandish. Better to kick it down the road a bit.
That could be fun! Maybe in a couple of weeks?
