“Just tell Cece you like her.” I stand to collect my half-empty bottle of Julio. “You never know; she might be into it. The cougar movementcontinues to gain mainstream acceptance.”
His neck somehow goes even redder. “Quit messing with the music, freeloader.”
He bails out of the kitchen before I can jab him back. I have to admit that one kinda stung. I pay rent, but not as much as I should. Cece simply won’t accept my money. And God knows I can’t do anything around here to justify crashing in her spare room this long.
Oh Cece. Beautiful Cece, with your mile-long legs and freckles and big brown eyes. What were you thinking? You went from being the hottest nurse at Auckland Children’s Hospital to running a piece of shit bar in the second-most piece of shit place in New Zealand; the first-most piece of shit place being Pukekohe, the tiny town Cece grew up in.
I’d call her crazy, but as a jobless flute player, I’m in no position to judge. Still, I have no idea how Cecelia Anne Taylor wound up here, mixing drinks for the most boring alcoholics on Earth. And also me.
Last year, the woman was saving the lives of sick kids, arguably the most noble profession there is. IfIhad to get up at five in the morning and deal with terrified parents, I’d run headfirst into traffic. But not Cece. She was always getting nursing awards and promotions and ‘thank you’ bouquets…
Even as I think it, I hear Cece dismissing me. “Ada, you’re famous! You went to the Met Gala! You were in magazines!”
Putting aside that I went to the Met Gala to play the flute—basically a music waitress—and I was only ever in Kiwi women’s mags—literally no one who doesn’t own a harpsichord gave a shit—I’ve never helped a sick kid who wasn’t my brother with a cold. I blew into a steel stick and made mouth noises for a living. That’s the total sum of my achievements. That, and having massive cans. Although that’s always been a mixed bag. I certainly didn’t feel sexy and desirable when the Mill Park public lifeguard grabbed my left tit when I was twelve. Or when the second conductor at the Luxembourg Philharmonic accused me of ‘altering my uniform’ to draw more attention to the woodwind section. I should have ignored him. Instead, I said some people just have big naturals, and if he couldn’t stop staring at them while he waved his little stick around and pretendedto do anything of importance, then maybe he should get a different job.
I didn’t do so hot at the Luxembourg Philharmonic after that.
“Miserable old bitch,” I mutter, sipping my tequila.
I study the kitchen door, wondering if Davis is going to come back all butthurt about being called out for crushing on Cece. He denies having feelings whenever I give him shit, but he doesn’t need to work here. He has some actual job involving business and finance or some shit. He’s only bouncing in this dickhole bar because he worked as a security guard at university, and he wants in Cece’s pants something fierce.
It would be cute if Cece could ever catch feelings for someone who’s nice to her. The girl has so many hang-ups, you’d thinkshewas the neurodivergent Italian-Australian flautist. But she’s not. Cece’s a born and bred Kiwi; all long legs and bright smiles. She’s girl-next-door hot. Dudes constantly tell her she looks like a princess. Dudes constantly tell me to smile more. And I say I have lockjaw. And Cece tells me not to joke about lockjaw, because it’s a serious issue. And that’s why we’re friends, because she’s nice, and, alone among humans, actually cares about things. I love her, I just really hate this bar. This whole city, actually.
It’s not Auckland’s fault. The beaches and forests are as beautiful here as the rest of New Zealand. But like everywhere that sucks, it’s the people who make Auckland suck. The watery, blue-eyed conservatives who make up the bulk of the population.
See, the Italians didn’t migrate to the Land of the Long White Cloud. Neither did the Greeks, the Maltese, Croatians, Slovenians, nor the Sardinians. Too expensive. Shit climate for tomatoes. Thus, New Zealand is the only place on Earth where I have the dubious honour of being a white lady who constantly gets race-checked for having dark hair, olive skin and thick eyebrows.
“Where are youfrom?”strangers ask like that’s a normal question.
I say ‘Melbourne,’ and they roll their eyes and demand my last name. You try being called ‘Adalasia Renaldo’ in New Zealand, and I’ll show you a picture ofme and yell for forty-five minutes about how shit it is. To be clear, I don’t think you can be racist toward Italians. Only xenophobic. Then again, seeing as most Kiwis clock me as Middle Eastern, itmightcount as racism…
Whatever. Everything sucks.
A loud rattle makes me half-jump out of my chair. Aggie, the bar cook, banged a huge pot onto the industrial stovetop.
“Hi, love,” she yells over the reverberations. “How ya going?”
I smile and wave. Aggie’s been the head cook at Stabbies for decades, and all the customers love her. She’s middle-aged, butternut orange, wears miniskirts, fishnet stockings, and more leopard print than leopards. I’ve grown to adore her, too, but she specialises in the kind of mince-heavy pub fare that makes my guts knot. I know if I don’t get up in the next two minutes, she’ll plunk a huge plate of shepherd's pie in front of me.
“You’re getting too skinny,” she’ll accuse. “Don’t wanna lose that fantastic arse. Menlovea girl with a nice round arse.”
Men aside (who cares what they love? As far as I can tell, it’s just sports betting and lies), I don’t have much of an appetite these days. Being constantly hungover and vaping does that to a gal.
As Aggie’s kitchen banging intensifies, I get to my feet with a groan. I look okay for a ghost in a shell, but Ifeellike a busted mannequin. My days of being a Pilates junkie are so far away it’s laughable. I wander into the main bar, tequila bottle in hand and find Cece pouring a Guinness. Davis is by the door, arms folded, watching Cece pour a Guinness. He gives me a dirty look and points to a tiny corner booth—Ada’s playpen, as Cece dubbed it—and his message is crystal clear:sit down, shut up, and I won’t chuck you out for DIY bottle service.
I give him a salute and tuck myself away. I’d never tell Davis, but I’m glad he works here. With him around, I can drink and daydream the night away, knowing none of the punters will creep on me, lest he throw them through a window.
The crowd’s gotten younger since I was in the kitchen. Not underage, but young enough to make me tired. I don’t remember what it was like to have the energy to dance around a jukebox or give thestripper pole a few tentative spins. I don’t remember what it was like to be excited to go out with your girlfriends on a Friday, no matter the place. I guess that urge dissolved sometime in the past five years, just like my passion for exercise, orchestra and everything else.
I lean out of my seat and check on Cece. She’s still behind the bar in her blue peasant blouse, and her smile looks real enough—if you don’t know her. If you do know her, you’ll see the pinch between her brows. I can guess what she’s thinking about: money. Paying wages. Bar upkeep. Liquor prices increasing while she’s forced to keep drink prices the same, lest everyone sulk off to the other fifty dive bars spanning the city. Even though said bars water down their liquor more than I water down my personality in public.
Stabbies’ door swings wide, bringing in a rush of cool air and raucous male laughter. Suddenly, it’s lads galore. Big, tall ones in matching unicorn headbands. My stomach clenches. It’s either a rugby night out or a bachelor party. Or both. I reach for my vape like it’s an emergency latch and drag, blowing a quick gust into the floor. Youths are one thing. Rugby dudes and ‘bachelors’ are a whole other kettle of fuck. Even Davis doesn’t have the arm-power to keep them off their bullshit.
I watch as a huge redhead strides toward the bar, his drunk-ass face the same colour as his hair. “Oi, Big Dog, wadda’we gettin’?”
My blood goes cold. Iknowthat guy. I know his voice. I know his hair. A memory slams into my brain like a locker door closing. Jeremy Applethorpe, one big hand between me and the metal protecting my books and binders.“Hey, new girl, you ever stick that flute up your pussy and play it after?”
Jeremy Applethorpe is here. In Cece’s bar. And he’s not the only one. Behind him is Henry Bellinger, who twanged my bra strap like he was playing the guitar. Beside him is Xavier McColl, who was perpetually interested in asking whether I fingered myself at night. Following him are Hayden Tawera, and Fletcher Dean, and Bradley Wilson and?—
