‘We’re already late.’
‘We could have taken the bloody photo by now and be in there if you weren’t being so difficult.’
‘Why do you want a photo anyway?’ he asks, deflecting hard.
‘Because it’ssocrazy to want a photo of us dressed nicely on a nice day out at a nice winery?’ I can see the influencer using her free hand to zoom in as the voices raise.
‘Can’t you just be present in the moment? Not everything is about your fucking Instagram!’
Talk about choosing the manner of your own demise. When Bee speaks next, her voice is deathly quiet, and that’s how I know William is fucked. ‘Yeah, let’s talk about that fucking Instagram. Let’s talk about the fact that you refuse to postanythingabout us online.’
‘So?’
‘So you’re hiding me!’
‘I literally just introduced you to all of my friends. How much more visible can you be?’
Can I go back to the silent car ride? Is it too late?
‘Then why are you so weird about posting me online? If everyone knows about us, what’s the problem?’
‘It doesn’t matter! None of this matters! It’s meaningless!’
‘Thank you so much for calling something I care about meaningless. I guess I’ll just go find some meaning somewhere else.’ Bee turns to walk away. It’s a good line, I think, if a little overdone.
William is frozen for a moment. I wish I could see his face right now. Then he jogs after her, which really doesn’t take long because she is wearing wildly impractical shoes that sinkinto the ground with each step she takes. She whirls around to face him, hair spinning in a perfect circle. He clutches her by the hips. I wish they were still speaking loudly because now I can’t eavesdrop. Bee is shaking her head in resignation. He tightens his grip on her hips and pulls her closer. Her arms curl around his neck and they hug. They sway slightly in the breeze.
William eventually and gently pulls Bee’s arms from around his neck, smiling down at her. He runs over to the awestruck influencers and brings them back with him. He hands them Bee’s phone with a charming grin. He unleashes the powers of the influencers to get the perfect shot. And then another. I think there’s about fifty perfect shots by the time I lean over to Arthur, ‘Let’s go get the table.’
He grins. ‘Good idea. They’ll probably bemaking upfor at least another fifteen minutes.’ We link arms and head inside, leaving Bee and William making out for the camera behind us.
AFTER A MORNINGof not enough talking and then far too much and far too loud talking, lunch is a welcome Goldilocks situation. Apparently we’ve all remembered how to behave in public and make light, innocuous conversation. Although not all behaviour is entirely appropriate. Arthur and I tactfully ignore hands disappearing at strange angles beneath tablecloths. I think I’m numb to it now. Our waitress looks vaguely nauseated; we should probably leave a decent tip.
Arthur and I sit next to each other, with a view of the whole restaurant. I spy the influencers, enjoying some off-the-menu degustation. Enjoying might not be the correct word. Each course is a tiny burst of colour presented on an equally tiny plate, accompanied by a chef to explain this newest work of edible art. Sparkle Influencer immediately pops the food in her mouth the moment it hits the table, while Red Gown Influencer takes photos before picking at it for several minutes.She refuses to move the plate closer to her and drops crumbs all over the table. Between courses, they sit hunched over their phones, only looking up to look at something on the other’s screen when it is offered.
With each course, the chef’s fucks diminish. At first he describes in rich detail (many grand hand movements) the origin of the ingredients (all local, or so I gather from my rudimentary lip-reading) and the preparation. By the sixth, he stays only a short moment, presumably to give a vague description of the dish (steak with green sauce). By the fourteenth, he sends a waiter out with the food. The influencers don’t notice.
Our lunch is far less memorable, and it could be argued that this is by design. I can’t remember anything about it beyond my new parasocial connection with the influencers, but that might have something to do with the wine-tasting that follows it. I can see Arthur smirking each time I choose to knock back the generous pours instead of using the spittoon. I think the cab sav is my favourite, but that might just be because it’s the last one I taste and so I’ve lost all sense of aroma, body, notes… space, time…
I like it enough to buy two bottles to take back to the house. Probably should look at prices before I commit to buying things, but it’s just way too awkward to do a wine-tasting and then not buy something, so I didn’t really have a choice. I can see Bee giving me a little side-eye while they place my bottles in a paper bag tied at the top with a ribbon.Can’t pay rent but you can pay $42 a bottle? Sure.
The drive from the winery is just as silent as the journey to, but more in an after-lunch-stupor way. When Arthur veers off the road onto what could only be very generously termed a dirt track, however, I am jolted alert. He looks weirdly calm, and I wonder if this is how I die, the final act of some convoluted murder plot.
Then I see a house. Okay, never mind.
It’s a tight squeeze getting into the narrow drive up to the house with branches and twigs scratching along the sides of the car. I don’t envy the reverse job Arthur will need to do tomorrow when we leave. The house stands on stilts and is covered in fibro panelling, with a late-addition ramp leading up to the front door. If I were a more chilled person, the overgrown garden of chaos would be charming, but I’m mostly worried about the spiders and snakes and bushfire dangers. What’s wrong with a nice manicured lawn where there are no surprises?
It takes a few goes for Arthur to wrestle the door open, his bag slipping off his shoulder and catching on his elbow, and then we go back in time. I don’t think this place has been touched since the seventies. To the left, the kitchen, with the inexplicably low glass cabinets over the benchtop that I see myself bumping into more than once tonight. The lime green linoleum floor that clashes with the blue benchtops leading to the fluffy orange-brown patterned carpet in the living area. Retro vinyl chairs around a shiny metal dining table. A mismatch of a holiday-home graveyard where furniture and knick-knacks go to meet their eternal rest. I love it.
But I really need to pee.
Arthur points me towards the toilet, which has a curved crochet mat around the bowl and a creepy-doll toilet-paper cosy resting on the cistern. It’s the kind of doll that will pick up a knife later and come to murder us all. Or at the very least haunt my dreams.
Why is the room swaying slightly? This isn’t a houseboat is it? And then I hear screaming. Am I imagining the screaming? Is the houseboat sinking?
‘What are we going to do?’ Bee shrieks, and I move as quickly as I can on unsteady ground to get out of the bathroom to find her.
I don’t have to go far—they’re all crammed in the hallway right outside the door. Lucky I wasn’t taking a shit, because they definitely would’ve got an earful. ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
