Dessi's Romance (2 page)

I know how much I’ll miss Dessi while
I’m on the Gold Coast. That accident was just bad luck. We had such plans: me
and Dessi; Jodie and Kaz. Two lots of best friends sharing a two-bedroom
apartment. Now half of me suspects I should stay with Dessi. The other half
argues that it isn’t
really
my
fault she’s got
such a badly broken ankle. Maybe I should never have talked her into climbing
into Jon’s car. But the rain was heavy, our bags were loaded, and I needed to
look in on Myrtle’s new kittens.

And now there’s
Abdul! Abdul Malouf. How can I bear to leave this gorgeous guy a whole week?
Slim and lithe, he has molasses-black eyes, the most amazing eyelashes I’ve
ever seen, pitch-black collar-length hair falling in tight ringlets over a high
forehead, and a tiny beard in the cleft of his chin. His skin is golden, his
hands slender yet strong. He’s so… the only word I can think of is,
elegant
. Maybe it’s the way he fits
into his designer jeans, that expensive leather belt, the way that slim shirt
moulds his body.

Only two more hours in the
supermarket-from-hell, then I’m so out of here. If I ever have to unpack
another carton, I’ll fire-bomb this place. If anything was needed to convince
me to study hard, it’s this bloody job. No, I’m counting on getting into RMIT,
where I intend becoming world famous for my mind-blowing art.

As if!

The only good thing about
working here was meeting Abdul.

First thing this
morning I’m halfway up a ladder filling shelves, when a woman with an
overloaded trolley barges straight into me. The ladder tilts. I lose my
balance. Grab wildly at a shelf. Miss. And crash. Then to my astonishment, I’m
cradled in the arms of this total eye-candy.

‘Are you okay?’
he asks not attempting to let go.       

‘I… I think so,’
I stammer.

Meanwhile the
woman with the trolley is raving on how
It wasn’t her fault!

Finally the guy
lets go.

But I stand
there, openmouthed.

‘I’m Abdul.’ He
holds out his hand.

‘Emma.’ I place
mine in his.

The supervisor
bustles up. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Listen matey,’
Abdul chips in. ‘You should do something about this ladder. I could report you
for breaking safety practices.’

The supervisor’s
eyes bulge. Abdul ignores him and turns to me. ‘What time do you finish?’

‘Two-thirty.’

‘Can I meet you
out the front?’

‘Sure. See you
then,’ I casually add and go back to stacking shelves. But inside I’m buoyant.
Light as air. Did he mean it? Will he be there when I knock off? But he is. And
his wide smile when he sees me, says he likes me as much as I like him.

While Emma’s
checkout-chicking, my bum aches and the fire-ants with permanent residence
inside my boot are extra active.
What
I’ve discovered is that my world, the entire universe, can shrink to the size
of a golf-ball. Nothing matters except coping with pain. Everything else:
family, friends, getting into the right uni, even finding a great guy… all
irrelevant…

pain

gnaws with canine
teeth

leaves its carcass

helpless and

calling for the
grim reaper

By the time I left the hospital and the
rehab, I reckon my veins and arteries ran painkillers and antibiotics instead
of blood. That meant no memory, or not much, and a general slowness to catch
onto the simplest idea. At first I could hardly speak I was so angry. Then I
couldn’t stop crying. I sobbed over everything; even soapies like the ones Emma
and I used to wet ourselves over laughing. I still can’t think of life ever
becoming normal again… can’t think what I was like before this bloody ankle
stopped me in midstream.

When the paramedics finally
managed to prise me out of Jon’s car, I have only vague memories of the
Emergency Ward; being sent into theatre, the overpowering medicinal and
antiseptic smells; other patients’ cries; the nurses’ brisk kindness; two young
doctors examining my leg; injections and more injections; being attached to a
mobile drip and wheeled to X-ray; the operating room where two more doctors,
faces hidden behind plastic glasses and masks placed something over my face
...

Then sliding… sliding… into
darkness.

It was waking to reality
some hours later that was worst. At first I thought it was a nightmare. Then
realised I was in too much pain to be a dream. No, this was real. I really was
in a two bedroom ward with an old lady calling out in another language.

I really was sick!

My cell phone buzzes.

‘Dessi,’ a familiar voice
shrieks. ‘You right for net-ball training tonight?’

‘Netball?’ I manage a
faint smile. ‘Can’t wait.’

‘Great. We’ll go
rollerblading after.’

My mind’s eye pictures my
best friend’s thick straight beige hair and slim curvaceous figure. Emma’s
artistic flair gives her that indefinable quality known as ‘style’. Browsing
through op shops, she finds big floppy hats and harem pants she wears under a
tube top or singlet, chunky wooden bracelets and shimmery anklets. She can
even make the dull supermarket uniform look sexy. Not that she doesn’t moan
about her short upturned nose, cleft chin and being short, like barely
five-two. But no matter how often I tell her how pretty she is, she never
listens.

‘Listen Cowan,’ she’s
saying. ‘Rang to see if you need anything.’

I manage a hollow laugh.
‘New ankle?’

‘Mind the ‘use by’ date?’

‘Course not.’

‘Right. I’ll bring it
later with my new guy I want you to meet.’

‘But you’ve only just got
to know him…’

‘…he’s taking me to
Chapel’s tonight…’ the line cuts out. Typical, I think and stare at the cell
phone in frustration.

We talk a lot. When we
aren’t talking, we’re texting or on Facebook. Sometimes Hannah stalks in to
say, ‘Together all day. What do you talk about at night?’

I shrug and laugh.
‘Everything.’

Mostly, this is true. No
one else has known me for as long as Emma. Or is as close. Before I can let
myself think the worst, I remind myself that if the worst thing that can happen
is listening to her rave about her latest find, our friendship is secure. All I
can hope is that
this
time she won’t get hurt.

Friends! What makes a
decent friend? At a guess it has to be trust, loyalty and putting up with the
other person’s dramas. Our mums, Hannah and Julie, have been best friends
forever. But while Hannah is a total perfectionist, Julie says, ‘Fair enough is
good enough’.

Not long ago I asked Hannah
what keeps them together? She was ironing. In spite of her new job she still
irons everything. Even Graham’s and Jeremy’s jocks.

The iron stayed in mid air
while she thought this over. ‘I couldn’t stand anyone who’s as fussy as me.’
Then she added, ‘Friendship is like a good marriage without the sex. You like
the good bits, tolerate the bad, and know when to compromise.’

What about the aunts who
left Dad this house? Was their friendship like ‘marriage without sex’? I know I
should be interested in climate warming, oil spills, and refugees, stuff like
that, but laid up like this, what difference can I make? A few days ago when I
mentioned this to Graham I ended up with ‘a lecture on personal responsibilities
now you’re old enough to vote,’ and had to think of a million excuses before I
could get away.

The old clock in the hall
strikes ten-thirty. The day looms emptily ahead. Beside me is a pile of
magazines, Nanna Pearl’s cross-stitch, some yet to be viewed DVD’s, my iPhone,
laptop and Kindle. But all that’s mildly interesting are some books Emma
brought on her last visit saying, ‘You write poetry so I thought you might like
to read other women’s stuff.’ Not that my poems are any good, but without
poetry I might never have coped with that accident. So trying not to brood on
all the fun I’ll be missing and that new, if yet unknown, guy I’d been really
hoping to meet, I keyboard:

Guys look at my friend

all the time

and she looks back

at them wondering

which is the right one
for her.

Does any guy ever look at
me?

Abdul picks me up on the dot of
two-thirty. While we drive home, my mind traces his hawkish profile. Meanwhile
I tell him how the day after tomorrow I’m off to the Gold Coast, then about the
accident, finishing off with ‘...why Dessi isn’t coming.’

Inside the
cottage, I settle him on our old couch. As he looks around, I suddenly view the
room through his eyes. I know artists are supposed to rise above their
surroundings, but as Abdul’s gaze takes in torn curtains, stained walls, a
threadbare carpet, coffee table covered in last night’s dinner plates, I say,
‘Um… sorry about the mess,’ and whisk those plates back into the kitchen. I
distract him by introducing Myrtle’s kittens. ‘This is Picasso, the tabby is
Raphael and the fluffy grey is Chagall.’

His eyebrows
lift slightly. ‘You into art?’

‘Hmm, I guess.’
I hold out Chagall for him to stroke.

Only Dessi, and
my other best mate Sacha, know how much time I spend drawing, painting,
visiting galleries, and studying art books. But what I’ll never confess, not
even to Dessi, is how certain paintings symbolise my emotions. For example, any
of Chagall’s people is when I’d like to be somewhere else, though his floating
couple can also mean I’m buoyant. Picasso’s archetypal cubist woman, his
Femme à La Resille
is
when I’m feeling fragmented and depressed. A Raphael
Madonna
is me when I’m calm and
collected… not that this happens too often.

Abdul studies me
then hands Chagall back. ‘Why are these kittens so different?’

‘Well, yes.’ I
say with a grin. Chagall tries to nibble my finger. ‘You see, Myrtle’s a bit of
a slut.’ He giggles so I quickly add, ‘Look… Do you mind if on the way we call
in on Dessi? I’d love you to meet her, she’s so beautiful.’

His eyebrows
shoot up. ‘Beautiful?’

‘Maybe not in
the usual sense,’ I say slowly. ‘I mean she’s pretty enough, but it’s more her
smile and who she is. She’s a poet…real talent.’

‘Yeah?’ He
settles back in the chair. I’m wondering if he’s being condescending, then
realise he isn’t when he adds, ‘You’re lucky to have such a close friend.’

‘Sure am.’ We
pause to consider this.

I suddenly
realise how late it is and hand him the TV remote. ‘Quick shower, promise.’

In the shabby
bathroom flecked with mould I tell myself is ‘aboriginal-country’, I shampoo
and shower. Back in my room I pull on a floral print dress I found at Vinnies
and add a wide leather belt. Then I slide on an anklet, some strappy high heel
sandals, and my collection of multi-coloured bracelets. I blow-dry my hair, fix
my make-up, douse myself in perfume and return to the sunroom all within a
record twenty minutes.

I find Abdul
texting on his cell phone. Glimpsing me, he shuts it down. ‘Sit here.’ He pats
the couch. My stomach does a flip-flop. ‘You smell lovely,’ he says, his face
in my hair. I snuggle up close and he murmurs, ‘That’s better.’

Tonight Julie,
my mum, isn’t due home until late. We’re alone. The overhead lamp lights up
glossy patent leather curls. My heart begins to thump. I feel the pressure of
his lips, his tongue. Our kiss goes on and on…somehow I’m not able to stop
.
He draws me close and I’m
Raphael woman, all soft and calm and melting. The next minute his hands are all
over me. Oh God! It would be just too easy. Part of me wants to so badly. But I
also want things to be different. This time things have to be
special
. They have to be
perfect!

‘You want to?
I’ll be careful,’ he says reaching into his pocket.

‘Oh Abdul,’ I
sigh. ‘I don’t know. Not yet. It’s too soon, I hardly know you
...
’

How can I tell
him? How can I admit that I’ve slept with too many guys, and now wish I hadn’t?

The start of
Year 9 was when Robert, my dad, left home and my mum, Julie, fell in a heap. I
was so angry with both, all I could do was hang out with kids who got drunk or
drugged most nights, either stealing booze or the money for it. Once stoned,
we’d strip naked, climb trees, swing off ledges, fight with other kids, even
hook up with dangerous strangers. Not only were our nights risky, the only cure
for next day’s hangover was more alcohol. I either wagged school or slept in
class. No wonder I felt as dislocated as a cubist painting. It was Dessi who
straightened me out, the only person I ever trusted enough to confide in.