Please Don't Leave Me Here (21 page)

Better do some writing for him
. She puts the phone aside, and takes out her notebook. She can't think of what happens after — or rather, before — the park ranger finds the gold ballerina shoe in the snow. But she has an idea, a picture in her head, of the ending:

Soft snowflakes caught on the protagonist's (Joanne/Joni/Julie?) spun-gold hair. One gold ballerina shoe, one bare foot and droplets of blood left strange pink-tinged prints in the snow. It was a long way to the summit, to find her husband and child. Her dead father took her hand and walked beside her. There was no hurry. Out here, there was no time and nothing mattered.

But what happens in between? Writer's block.

She takes a break and tries to read the paper, but her mind keeps going
AWOL
. Matt. Matt. Matt.
Stop it!
Matt's a nice guy. Nice guys are not interested in dumb strippers with homicidal boyfriends.

But she won't be a stripper for much longer, she reminds herself. Maybe then … She finds Doctor Dave's card in her purse, and rings the number. She doodles some love hearts on her notebook cover while she waits for him to pick up. No answer. She leaves a message for him to call back about the medical-rep job.

There are plenty of other jobs in the paper's employment section. One of those might be better than the rep job. David Jones is looking for a sales assistant in the cosmetics department. She loves shopping at David Jones. She writes an application letter on the back page of her notebook, and tears it out carefully. She'll post it with a copy of the resume they had to write at school, after her driving lesson.

She puts the notebook aside, lies back in the satiny cloud of big, fluffy pillows, and closes her eyes. After the next writing class they will all sit laughing, crowded around those wobbly little tables in Degraves Street, with not enough room, so Matt will have to move closer to her. Their bodies will touch. She won't freak out this time. He'll accidentally put his hand on her leg. He'll apologise, she'll say it's OK, and he'll leave it there …

The sound of vacuuming disturbs her fantasy. She opens her eyes; the sheets feel hot, and her pelvis aches. Sean must be out in the foyer. Something happened at work on the weekend. She thinks Sean came in and got angry with her, but she can't remember why.

Eric and Ian don't look up as she walks past them to the door. She opens it, ready to apologise for whatever she did. Sean walks away, and she calls after him.

‘Who are you talking to, Brigitte?' Eric shouts from inside.

‘Nobody.'

‘If it's Shane, tell him to piss off.'

‘
Sean
.'

Eric coughs.

‘I'm going now.'

‘Where?'

‘Told you, I have a driving lesson.'

The vacuuming drowns out the sound of Eric's and Ian's stoned laughter. She closes the door behind her, and yells over the vacuuming. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘I don't want to talk to you.' Sean hits the stop button on the vac and walks towards his office. She follows him.

His office is not much bigger than a broom cupboard, or (having never seen a broom cupboard) the size she imagines one to be. There's a desk with a phone and a computer; a metal shelf holding cleaning products and cloths; and brooms, of course, in the corner. It smells of furniture polish and lemon-scented disinfectant. She sneezes, and looks up into Kurt Cobain's frozen blue eyes in a huge poster above the desk. He's wearing a white T-shirt with
Captain America
printed across the front in blue letters, and holding a pistol to his mouth. The office is warm and stuffy, but the poster makes her shiver.

Sean stands the vacuum cleaner in the corner with the brooms, and sits at the desk with his back to her. She lingers in the doorway. He rubs his face with his hands. ‘Can you please just go?'

‘I said I'm sorry.' She studies her fingernails. She remembers what happened at the Gold Bar, while pretending that she didn't — that it was Pagan, not her.

He can't even look at her.

‘It's just my job, Sean. That's not who I am.'

‘Close the door on your way out, please.'

She climbs into the driver's seat. It feels strange, unnatural. Marco explains how everything in the car works. He has his own brake on the passenger side, just in case, which is reassuring.

‘Okey-dokey, Brigitte, turn on the ignition and put the gear into “Drive”, please.'

She turns the key, stops angsting about Sean, and smiles proudly as the engine starts. ‘Here?' She looks down at the gears, and he guides her hand with his to select ‘Drive'.

‘That's right. Now check your mirrors, and indicate to pull out into the traffic, please.'

‘This?' She glances in the mirrors, and fumbles with the stick next to the steering wheel.

‘Yes, that's the indicator — push it down to indicate right. And up for left. Okey-dokey, any time now.'

‘But there are cars coming.' She looks to the sides, behind, in the mirrors.

‘Those cars are a long way away. It's safe to pull out now.'

‘Can we wait just a minute?'

‘Okey-dokey. When you're ready.' He folds his hands in his lap.

She looks in the mirrors again. ‘Now?'

‘Now is fine.'

She inhales deeply, puffs out her cheeks, lets it go, and pulls out into the road. ‘Ha ha! I'm driving.'

A car beeps at them.

‘What?' She glances nervously at Marco. ‘What am I doing wrong?'

‘You're fine. Watch the road. We can go a little bit faster.'

She touches the accelerator tentatively with her right foot.

‘Let's get our speed up to 60.'

God, that's fast.

When she relaxes a bit, Marco tells her about his wife who's in her thirties but still holding onto the dream of being an actor. She was gorgeous when he met her, just 17. A talent scout for a modelling agency discovered her in a shopping centre. The next Elle Mcpherson, they said. Then she started getting acting roles, left school, took drama lessons. Brigitte looks at a dress in a shop window on Lygon Street.

‘Watch the red light, Brigitte,' Marco says. ‘Slow down.'

She brakes too hard, and the car jolts. ‘Sorry.'

‘It's all right. You're doing fine.'

The light turns green, and she accelerates. ‘Was your wife on TV?'

‘She had a small role in a film and a bit-part in
Sons and Daughters
, but never got another break.'

‘My brother's an actor.'

‘Turn left at the road before the cemetery, please.'

She indicates, and turns the wheel.

‘Make sure you get a good education, Brigitte. A good job.' He barely knows her — why is he telling her what to do? ‘Left again up here, please.'

She doesn't make the turn. She sits up straighter, in control now. It feels good.

‘Okey-dokey, we can go a bit further.' He glances sideways at her, and she lifts her chin. ‘You got a boyfriend?' he says.

She shrugs.

‘Bet you have at least two.'

She can't help smiling.

‘You do!'

It's pie night, so she has Marco drop her at Nana and Papa's house after the lesson. She mails her job application to David Jones in the post box on the corner before she goes in.

34

‘Who would like to share their story?' Matt is sitting on the big desk at the front of the room.

Only Jack raises his hand. Brigitte slinks in, late, along the wall, when Matt looks the other way.

‘Brig.'

Oh no.

‘How about you go first?'

She groans, ‘Do I have to?'

‘It's your punishment for being late.'

They all laugh, and her neck and face prickle. But if she can dance naked in front of crowds of men, she can do this.
Pagan could do this
.

‘OK.' She fumbles around in her bag for the A4 plastic sleeve containing the story hand-written neatly on lined, loose-leaf paper. Jack nods and smiles encouragement. She drops her bag on the floor next to Matt's desk, clears her throat, and takes a deep breath. For a moment, her eyes are unable to focus on the words, and she can't find her voice — she can't do this. She takes another breath and, with the pages shaking in her hands and her face burning, reads her story about the woman who went insane in a cabin at Cradle Mountain after her husband and child disappeared on a bush walk.

When she finishes, the class is silent.
They hated it
. She looks up, Matt is staring at her, and one of the women in the front row has tears in her eyes.

‘Wow, Brig.' Matt stands up. ‘That was great!'

They all clap, and she feels herself turning even redder.

The class workshops her story. Matt offers suggestions about punctuation, and Jack tells her how Hemingway would have approached it.

It's raining, so they sit inside the coffee shop. Everybody stays longer — congratulating each other on their stories. When they finally leave, Matt tells Brigitte again how much he liked her story. ‘That didn't really happen, did it?' he says.

‘Of course not.'

The rain stops, the sun comes out, and it's hot behind the window in the shop. They take off their coats, Matt pushes up his shirtsleeves, and Brigitte puts on her sunglasses. Her bag emits a ringtone.

‘What's that noise?' he says.

She fishes out her new mobile phone.

‘Aren't you going to answer it?'

‘Just as soon as I work out how to.' She presses the wrong button and hangs up. ‘Oops. It's OK. Just my nana. I'll ring her back later.'

‘How do you know it was your nana?'

‘It shows up on the screen. See here.' Her chair scrapes on the floor as she pulls it closer to him. She's so excited about her new purchase that she doesn't notice how close he's daring to lean. ‘You can program numbers into it. If somebody in your phone list calls, their name will show up on the screen so you know who it is.' She presses some buttons.

‘You probably need mine — in case you're running late for class again, or something,' he says.

She looks up and, catches him gazing at her. He looks back at the screen, pretending to be interested in the phone's memory system, and frowns. ‘I see you already have a
MATT
in there.'

‘Oh, no, that's a mistake.' She quickly deletes it.

He tells her his number and she keys it in — to be listed alphabetically between Jennifer and Nana. She places the phone carefully where she can admire it on the table next to her empty coffee cup. He's grinning at her.

‘What?'

‘You have to give me your number, too, or it won't work.'

She twists her mouth, doesn't get it, but finds a scrap of paper in her bag to write her number on anyway. Their hands touch as he takes it from her. She fiddles with the phone again, and tries to think of something clever to say. She doesn't want to go back to the apartment.

‘Feel like going for a drink?' He's read her thoughts.

‘Can't. I have to work.'

‘You could call in sick.'

She shakes her head.

‘One night off won't hurt.'

She hasn't taken a night off since Uncle Joe died.

‘Come on. I'll call for you. Show me how to use your phone, and I'll tell them you're too sick to talk.'

Al made her work a day shift after the last time. ‘No.'

He makes sad puppy-dog eyes.

‘Maybe I'll come for one drink, and then I can still go to work.'

They put on their coats, and he holds the door open for her. At the corner of Degraves and Flinders streets, he takes her hand. She doesn't pull it away. She looks up at him, fighting to hide a smile, but he's looking straight ahead. A rainbow shimmers over Flinders Street Station as they walk into Young and Jackson's brown wood-panelling, mirrors, red-and-gold carpet, and pressed-tin flowers on the ceiling. About a dozen drinkers, mostly men, sit around tables looking at the TV on the wall.

‘Beer?'

‘Um, I don't normally drink beer.'

‘What
do
you drink?'

‘Champagne. With raspberry.'

‘Champagne and raspberry! How old are you, anyway?'

She doesn't answer.

‘Maybe when it's your shout, but I'm on a beer budget. I'm a writer, remember?'

‘Beer's fine.'

‘I'm joking. You can have whatever you like.' He puts some money on the bar.

‘Beer's fine.'