Dessi's Romance (16 page)

‘Uh?’ Jon
muttered, ‘Thought you might want to...’

‘No way, Jon!’ I
said firmly. ‘Not interested. Please take me home.’
That was that. And if it hadn’t been
for that accident, I would never have given him a second thought. How different
is this? I sit as close to Abdul as a bucket seat will allow. Less than five
minutes ago, his fingers moved so cleverly across my body, they almost scared
me. I examine his hands, his carefully trimmed oval nails, the way he handles
the steering wheel, how he nips in and out of traffic, and wonder at his
perfect hawkish profile. No wonder lovers break rules, no wonder every love
poem and song seems so profound.

As Abdul drives through the
city, my brain’s in total turmoil. At long last, determined to break the
silence, I say, ‘Are your folks pleased you’re at Uni?’

To my dismay, he doesn’t
answer.

Oh no! What have I done
now?

Just when I’m almost in
tears because I know this silence is my fault, he bursts out with, ‘My old
man’s pathetic. He wants me to act like we’re still back home. He doesn’t
realise how different things are here. They hate it when I think for myself.
They say I’m being too Aussie.’

My shoulders sag. His
anger isn’t directed at me. ‘What if you don’t?’

A slight shrug. ‘They’d be
disappointed. Maybe even disown me.’

‘It’s tough having migrant
parents.’

‘Yeah.’ Another pause. ‘How
about your lot? They pressure you?’

‘Well… Not that obviously.
I mean, not like it is for Sacha.’

‘Who’s Sacha?’

‘Close friend.’ Right now
all friends seem a world away. ‘His father wants him to get into accountancy,
but he just hates it.’

‘Think he’ll make it?’

‘Not in accountancy. But
he’s artistic and should be doing something with that. ’

He glances sideways. ‘What
about you. Are you artistic?’

‘Not. Can’t draw to save
myself.’

The corners of his mouth
twitch. ‘Being artistic isn’t just being able to draw.’

‘Well, no,’ I have to
admit. Then, as if like biting your nails or farting in public, I admit,
‘Sometimes I write poetry…’ but before he can ask to read any, ‘It’s not very
good.’

‘Is literature what you
plan to study?’

‘Maybe.’ I pause. ‘Dad
being a teacher – he’ll be disappointed if I don’t get a place.’

‘You shouldn’t have too
many problems, should you? I mean, that accident was after the exams.’

‘I’d better make it. Otherwise...’
I mime cutting my throat.

‘How about after?’

‘Don’t know,’ I admit. ‘How
about you?’

‘I’m hoping to do
post-grad. I’d really like to get into M.I.T. ’

‘Isn’t that hard?’

‘Yeah, but I’m good. I came
first in my year.’

I’m impressed. Not only is
he gorgeous, he’s also brilliant. Next time I’ll go all the way. I was just
being stupid. No wonder Emma keeps accusing me of being frigid…

Emma!
Mustn’t think about her tonight!

Abdul draws up in front of
Chapel’s and waits for me to clamber out after grabbing my crutches. ‘See you
inside.’

I hop towards the door. A
security guard waves me around the queue and straight into the club. The
original altar is now a curved mirror-backed bar. I hop across the crowded
floor, stopping every so often to dodge swaying bodies. Reaching the bar, I
settle on a stool and order a drink. It’s so good being back where people are
enjoying themselves. It feels like a century since I was last part of this
scene. Abdul comes up and points to my glass. ‘What’s that?’

‘Vodka and orange. Cheers.’

Abdul mouths ‘same again’
to the bartender. I swivel about to watch three women step onto the floor. I
feel so proud. I want them all to know that I’m gorgeous Abdul’s girl. I want
them all to feel jealous as hell.

Abdul downs his drink,
looks around and says, ‘What are we doing here?’ As he helps me back into the
van, I consider how we’re quite capable of finding our own entertainment,
thank-you-very-much.

He drives me home, walks me
to the door and leaves with promises to pick me up the following evening around
seven. So it’s only when I’m in bed that I suddenly feel lost. Once me and
Emma would spend hours going over the evening…

‘He was amazed I still hadn’t done it.’

‘I’ll bet! What happened
then?’

‘Course, this bloody ankle
got in the way.’

‘Wow! Did he mind?’

‘Actually…I’m not really
sure, though he was really nice about it. He must have had heaps of women he’s
so good at knowing what to do.’

‘That’s like it was with
Daniel. Now I know you can’t stand Danny, but he was a terrific lover. Like
your Abdul, he just knew how to turn me on. So, what score does Abdul get?’

‘Well… He’s got a great
sense of humor so how about 20/20?’

‘Danny was high on looks
but zero on humour. I only gave him 5/20.’

‘Then there’s 18/20 for
looks, 22/20 for intelligence, 20/20 for loving, 20/20 for charm, but only 5/20
for predictability.’

‘Wow! Totals eighty-five.
Not bad for a new guy.’

But what if I no longer have an Emma to
confide in? What if, when Emma finds out, she can never forgive me? I know how
unrelenting Emma can be if someone offends her. I know that when someone feels
rejected, that their rage, pride and jealousy can do terrible harm. These
thoughts are so uncomfortable I close my eyes and will myself to fall asleep.

Sacha manages to avoid any
discomfort about last night, because on the way to Jupiter Casino, he squeezes
my hand and says, ‘You look terrific,’

‘So do you,’ I
say aware of how many eyes turn our way as we head into the reception area. Not
a place for Schoolies. Instead, loads of well dressed middle-aged couples. The
shops carry fantastic clothes. There’s a glittery aquamarine shoestring top
that would look great on Dessi but the price is awesome. Presents will have to
come later.

We find a small
cocktail bar with a guy playing a baby grand. The atmosphere is a world away
from beer-gardens where a fight can break out any minute. ‘Let’s stop here a
while,’ I say and settle at one of the tables while Sacha buys our drinks.

The
pianist plays a little longer, then stands up, gives a little bow and saunters
over to the bar. Sacha returns with two frosty glasses as well as a bowl of
nuts, saying, ‘The nuts are free. Cheers, Emma. Here’s to us.’

We clink glasses
and sip.

‘We’ll eat in
the Garden Restaurant. There’s a smorgasbord, but I’d rather we had table
service, wouldn’t you?’ His eyes are a bit too bright. What does this mean? I
feel myself flush. Raphael’s calm
Woman of the Unicorn
, where are you?

‘Do you want to
play the machines first?’

‘Don’t know
how.’  

He pats the
pocket with his wallet. ‘Don’t worry. It’s easy.’

I’d be happier
watching the crowd, mentally searching for the right medium if I wanted to
sketch or paint them: water-colour, pen, gouache or acrylic? But Sacha is already
on his feet. We go back into the gaming area with three burly guys at the door.
One comes over just as we’re about to set foot inside. ‘Good evening, Sir.
Madam, can I see some ID please?’

He’s polite but
his eyes are hard. I fumble in my purse for my ID.

‘Date of birth?’
the guard fires without warning.

I rattle it off
without a second thought, relieved Jodie isn’t with us and I don’t have to lie
for her. Sacha manages to look bored. He is as tall as the guard but not as
heavily built, shaped like a V with broad shoulders tapering to slim hips. In
another century, he would have been an artist’s model. Right now he reminds me
of Raphael’s
Bindo Altaviti,
though his spiky hairdo with the blond tips is punk.

A painting of a
cat on the opposite wall, reminds me of Myrtle and her kittens. I hope Julie
is feeding them. How weird that I can be so far from home and yet bring
everyone with me. I always feel Dessi by my side. Just hope she isn’t getting
too depressed stuck in that shabby old house. Thinking about houses makes
Dad’s offer even more attractive. I can always consider deferring for a gap
year. Aren’t artists supposed to experience as much as possible to further
their careers?

‘Enjoy your
evening,’ says the guard and strolls back to where the others are. He murmurs
something. They all laugh.

‘Pig,’ Sacha
mutters, taking my arm.

‘He wasn’t too
bad,’ I say, ridiculously pleased to be allowed in. We wander around. I’m
fascinated by the people sitting around the roulette wheel. I’ve only ever seen
this in movies where suave men in dinner suits fling chips worth hundreds of dollars
onto the tables. Here, the gamblers wear casual gear, but are equally intense.

‘Let’s try the
machines.’ Sacha leads me into an area where it is all bright lights and coins
rattling into trays.

‘We’ll share
one.’ He heads for a machine at the end of a row. A meter on top declares that
the jackpot is thirty-two thousand dollars.

‘Ten dollars and
five presses each, okay?’

‘You’ve done
this before, haven’t you?’

‘A few times.
It’s fun. Go on. You go first. We’ll play every line with one credit.’

I follow his
directions. The symbols whiz around. Nothing comes up. I try another few times.
Still nothing. The final time I press there’s a small explosion of music and
the screen changes.

‘You’ve won!
Look, Emma! You’ve won five hundred dollars!’

Stunned, I stare
at a machine lit up like a Christmas tree. A man playing the machine next to us
mutters ‘Beginners’ luck, wouldn’t you know.’

‘What do we do
now?’

‘Just wait here.
Someone will come over.’

A man and a
woman appear, the man holding a bunch of keys and the woman a clipboard. She
passes me the clipboard, shows me where to sign, then counts out five hundred
dollars.

‘Thank… thank
you very much.’

I give Sacha
five fifty dollar notes. ‘Sharing’s only fair,’ I insist when he starts to
protest. ‘Let’s use that payout for dinner.’

‘No way,’ he
says. ‘I asked you out, right?’ He presses a button and the remainder of our
investment pours out.

We’re shown to a
table in the Garden Restaurant and handed a very long menu. Sacha orders
cocktails with fancy names. They turn up flaunting giant swizzle sticks.
‘What’s in these?’

‘Everything.
Like it?’

It’s sweet and
tangy and I could drink it all night. From various glances, I’m aware of how
good we look. Would being seen with Abdul be the same? Though he’s nowhere near
as handsome, he’s also ‘eye candy’. Yet in a curious way, his features keep
slipping out of my mind. When I try to picture his broad shoulders, curly black
locks, hawkish nose, olive skin and sensual mouth, somehow it’s hard to
remember them with the accuracy even a quick sketch will need.

We linger on
after the meal chatting about this and that. However hard we try to avoid it,
much of our talk is what we hope to achieve from our final results. For the
first time Sacha really admits how badly he performed.

‘How do you
know?’

He shrugs. ‘I
walked out of both accountancy and economics. Look,’ he sighs. ‘I just know.
What about you? What’ll you do if you don’t get into any uni?’

‘Course I will,’
I say holding out crossed fingers. I already know my art-folio was good. But
how can I be sure until I read those results? Failure will mean more dead-end
jobs like in the supermarket-from-hell. Please God, no…

Our talk reverts
to how much I miss Dessi. ‘She would never have been in Jon’s car if it wasn’t
for my wanting to get home to the kittens,’ I tell him. ‘In a way I feel responsible.’

‘You shouldn’t.’
His tone is firm. ‘Jon’s bad driving had nothing to do with you.’

Eventually I
dare ask what happened to him at the gay club. His cheeks redden. ‘Oh, this guy
came onto me… you know feeling me up, trying to tongue kiss… he made me want to
throw up. I had to shove him away real hard before he got the message I wasn’t
interested.’

I turn to watch
our waiter stack dishes before asking, ‘Didn’t he make a fuss?’

‘Yeah, called me
a few names… cock teaser, stuff like that. By then I was out of there.’ He
shakes his head. ‘Now I’m sure I’m straight. Actually,’ his grin is self conscious,
‘It’s a
big
relief. I don’t care how tolerant people think they are; they really aren’t,’
he gloomily adds.

Recalling Jon’s
behavior, I nod. ‘No, guess not.’