She does look vaguely familiar as I hold out my hand to complete the greeting. Tall-ish, but then again, isn’t everyone compared to me? About my age, but sort of hip looking, or as cool as someone in black and white clown pants can be. Maybe it’s her piercings—the fleshy bit between ear and cheek and one of those tiny above lip piercings. An eyebrow, too.
‘I’m not sure—’
‘Yeah—didn’t you go to St. Bridget’s? I’m pretty sure we had, was it P.E. together?’
Her eyes flick over me again, landing on my bare legs, no doubt only confused, recognising them as usually being covered in bruises. You see, I’ve just realised this chick has seen me eat dirt on more than one occasion, probably recalls hearing our sadistic teacher—why do gym teachers have to be shit-heads?—shout that I run like ‘Farmer Giles’. It took me years to work out that, as a rule, farmers don’t actually run funny. She was insinuating I run like someone afflicted by piles.
I don’t, but this is why I don’t exercise. I’m still traumatised. Fact.
‘Yeah, you do look kinda familiar,’ I demure. ‘I’m Kate. Sorry, my memory’s a bit cactus, but I think I remember you now. Weren’t you on the girls AFL team?’
‘Yup. And the footy team. Touch footie, swim team. The lot. Think I was trying to burn off a lot of feelings and... stuff.’ She runs her hand across the back of her head in an oddly masculine gesture. ‘Remember the principal, old bird Contermann? Remember her nickname, the Cuntsaman?’
‘Er, yeah.’ Retired, my old head-teacher plays golf at the same club as Geoff.
‘Those were some top times,’ she adds wistfully. ‘But here we are.’ She holds out both hands, indicating the kitchen around her. ‘Me; the queen of this kitchen, and your personal chef. And you? I imagine you’re getting screwed,’ she says, chuckling.
Screwed? I suppose hiring a house this size and in this location must cost a fortune. Glad it’s not coming out of my pocket.
Opening one of the drawers at hip level, with ease, I might add, Jazz pulls out a chopping board. ‘Fancy some brekkie?’
‘I might in a bit, thanks. Maybe toast. I’ll make it—’
‘Dude! You stick to your job, and I’ll stick to mine. I so don’t wanna swap!’ She chuckles, slapping the board down with a bang. ‘Are you done for the day?’ Turning to open a large handle-less walk-in pantry, her words are muffled. ‘Or are you still on the clock?’
I must have it on the brain, ‘cos I’m sure she said cock. Couldn’t have, surely...
‘Grabbing a bite to keep up your stamina?’ She sniggers weirdly, appearing with a large loaf of sourdough.
‘Yeah,’ I say, sounding slightly confused. ‘Something like that.’
‘So I’ll make your toast. It’s my job, after all. I come with the house. Sweet gig. Got a little annex flat above the pool house, rent free, too. Get to use the pool and stuff, when it’s not tenanted.’
‘Cool,’ I answer a little vaguely, walking around the bench and taking a seat on a stool that clearly wasn’t built for comfort. Chrome and plastic. White, of course, and a bit toocold for an almost bare arse.‘It’s a beautiful house. Is it rented out very often?’ I tuck the shirt further under my thighs, very aware that I don’t have a bra on underneath and that I’m pulling the damp and slightly orange cotton tight against my nipples.Because, of course, I decided to forgo unlaundered grundies. Wasn’t aware we’d have company.
‘Heaps.’ Jazz’s gaze lingers over my general boob-area as I casually—okay, self-consciously—fold my arms, leaning them against the counter.
‘What was I saying?’ she asks, her tongue darting out so fast I might’ve imagined it. ‘Yeah, loads. Usually the fly-in, fly-out types. At least one a week. Businessmen and their... mates. Mates with rates—I’m sure you’ll be familiar with the form. More money than manners, some of them. But I only see them at breakfast time, prepare a dinner, maybe,ifthey do have company. Other than that, the place is used for TV—the odd commercial, that sort of thing. Not that I have to cook for anyone then. Once in a while it’s leased for a blow-out celebration. Weddings, milestone birthdays, that sort of stuff. Like I said, cool gig. What about you? Do you work out of one of the...’ She makes a wheeling motion, as though searching for the right words, the loaf still in her hand. ‘Err,houseshere on the Coast or in Brissy? I heard they’re pretty high-end. You should see some of the gorgeous chicks that pass through here, not that you’re fugly yourself.’
Her eyes flick over me weirdly again as she murmurs something under her breath. Something about cash and her birthday gift?
‘I worked in Brisbane up until lately, and then I moved to Dubai.’
‘You work in Dubai? Isn’t that like, dangerous?’
‘Nah. Not even. I love it.’
She eyes me now like I’ve just made a bit of a revelation. ‘You must’ve been in the business a while. Unless... sorry. None of my business.’
‘No, go on.’ I’m intrigued. Ever feel like you’re talking to someone, when in actual fact there are two conversations going on?
‘Well, I was just thinking, maybe you work exclusively for one... client? Maybe?’ Her voice rises in question, eyebrows along for the ride.
‘God, yeah. I couldn’t do this job for more than one.’ There’s nothing worse than supply teaching. ‘I did it once, but I hated the unpredictability. Not knowing what you’re in for, how many—and for how long! And sometimes there are just too many gigs, haring from one side of the city to the other, arriving feeling worn out before you’ve even begun. No one gets any satisfaction in those circumstances. Honestly, you never know if you’re on your arse or your elbow half the time!’
‘You mean, you get... satisfaction? From your job, so to speak?’
‘Well, yeah. I love what I do. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.’
