Please Don't Leave Me Here (23 page)

‘A-hem.' Jack stands in the doorway, clearing his throat before entering the room.

After class, Brigitte feels the warmth from Matt's arm draped along the back of her chair. He crosses a foot over his knee — a Converse All Star almost touches her leg. The other women give her little jealous, disapproving looks, but she's used to those —she's tolerated them from women since she was eleven or twelve. It takes forever for them to leave the coffee shop. Jack, as usual, is the last. ‘Ernest once wrote a six-word short story,' he says.

Brigitte and Matt smile and nod.

‘For sale: baby shoes, never used.'

They stop smiling.

‘Drink?' Matt says.

‘No. I have to be going,' Jack says. ‘Be good.' Brigitte is sure he winks at Matt as he leaves.

‘Brig?'

‘OK.'
Gone.
No going back now. Fuck the consequences. Fuck Eric.

‘Really?'

She nods.

‘Don't you have to work?'

She shakes her head. Fuck work. ‘Young and Jackson's?'

‘No. Somewhere else.'

They walk hand in hand up the cobbled bluestone street, through the arcades, to Collins Street, where they catch a tram.

Commuters are crammed in, heading home from work, staring at their feet or straight ahead. Brigitte and Matt have to stand, holding onto the hand straps. An old woman with brown-paper skin and dyed red hair gets on, muttering about the lack of seating. She dives for the seat somebody offers her, bumps into Brigitte, and pushes her against Matt. Even when a few passengers get off and there's enough room, she doesn't move away from him. She smiles at the old woman, but she doesn't smile back. As the tram rounds the corner at the start of Brunswick Street, she struggles to keep her balance and is forced harder against Matt.

‘Where are you taking me?'

‘Next stop.'

The Standard is a nondescript white pub hidden in the back streets of Fitzroy. David Bowie's ‘Sorrow' is playing on the sound system as they walk in. It's dingy: brown bricks, wood panelling, maroon carpet, and Brunswick-green doorframes. Big mirrors and pictures of cowboys hang on the walls.

They order at the bar, and take their beers out to the leafy beer garden. It's crowded, but Brigitte and Matt are able to claim a table from a group of people who are just leaving. A breeze blows Matt's hair across his face.

‘Cool pub.'

‘It's my local.' He pushes the hair out of his eyes. ‘Cheers.' He clinks his glass to hers, and they drink. ‘Are you going to run off on me again tonight?'

She smiles at him over the rim of her glass. ‘Are you writing another book?'

‘Trying to. A bit distracted lately.'

‘Really?'

‘Uh-huh.'

A barmaid collects glasses, and wipes their table.

‘What's it about?'

‘What?'

‘Your book?'

‘Told you I was distracted.' He laughs and drinks. ‘I've decided to give up on literary fiction and try to write something that sells. A crime thriller.'

‘God. That'd be hard.'

‘Not really. It's very formulaic. But the police aren't helping much with my research. Told me to watch
Law and Order
, or make it up like everybody else does.'

‘How did you get to be such a great writer?' She picks at the edges of a beer coaster.

‘I'm not a great writer.'

‘Did you do a course?'

He tells her about his journalism degree at uni. He didn't like it, so he did copywriting and editing, and wrote restaurant reviews while he was working on his first novel. Then he got into teaching.

She leans closer to him, resting her chin on her hand. ‘You're so clever.'

He shakes his head. ‘I've just worked hard. Nothing to stop you from doing something similar. You write very well.'

She scoffs.

‘Why don't you do a writing course?'

‘I am. Haven't you noticed?'

‘There's only a couple more classes to go. And I meant a degree or diploma.'

‘Me?' She laughs. ‘I didn't even finish high school.'

‘How come?'

She takes a big drink. ‘I told you about my mother?'

He nods.

‘She decided she wanted to move to the country at the start of the year. I didn't want to go with her, so I stayed in the city. A job and somewhere to live were more important than finishing V.C.E.'

‘This year?'

She nods.

‘That would make you — eighteen or nineteen?'

‘Nineteen.'

‘No way!' He leans back in his chair. ‘I thought you were a bit older.'

Everybody does.

He swishes the last of the beer around in his glass.

‘Does that mean you're gonna run off on me this time?' she says.

‘Maybe.'

‘How old are you?'

‘Twenty-eight.'

‘God, that's old.'

‘Hey, watch it.' He laughs, then says seriously, ‘If you studied at night, you could work during the day.'

‘But I work at night.'

‘You need to find another job. You're better than that. Maybe give David Jones a chance.'

She finishes her drink and looks at the plant growing up the fence, trying to remember the name of it. Matt leans towards her, and she mirrors his body language. He reaches for her hand and holds it gently. His knee brushes against hers under the table, and her leg is on fire. She has never wanted or needed anybody like this. Wanting is an ache through her body, damp stickiness on the tops of her thighs. Needing is something else all together: it fills every part of her — the places that have always been empty and hollow — with an unfamiliar substance, warm and viscous. So close. He's going to kiss her. She closes her eyes.

‘Mummy! I can't find my mummy!'

She opens her eyes. A little boy of about five or six is standing beside their table, bawling.

‘It's OK, mate.' Matt lets go of Brigitte and takes the boy by the hand. ‘We'll help you find your mummy. Probably over there.' He points to a group of what looks like a few families celebrating a birthday or something. Some children are playing around them. Matt leads the boy back to his group, where his mother picks him up and wipes away his tears.

When Matt goes in to order more beers, the boy runs back over to their table with a little girl in a pink fairy dress. Brigitte tries to ignore them; she doesn't know how to talk to kids.

‘Is he your boyfriend?' the boy says.

‘No. I don't know.' She weaves her fingers together on the table. ‘Maybe.'

‘He's nice.'

‘I know.'

‘You're back again?' Matt places the beers on the table. ‘And I see you've brought a friend with you. What are your names?'

The children giggle at him.

‘Is that your girlfriend?' the boy says.

‘She's pretty.' The fairy girl does a ballerina twirl.

‘Her name is Brigitte. And yes, she is very pretty.' He looks at Brigitte. ‘And also very clever.'

Go away
, Brigitte smiles at them. She wants Matt's attention all to herself, but he's playing with the children. Finally, the mother comes over and tells the kids to stop bothering them, and drags them away.

‘You're really good with kids, Matt,' Brigitte says.

The boy comes back, throws a tantrum when the mother tries to pick him up, and knocks Matt's beer onto the ground.

Brigitte stands to avoid being splashed. The mother yells, and the child screams louder. She apologises to Brigitte and Matt.

‘It's OK. It was an accident. Now be careful of the broken glass.' Matt calmly picks up the pieces, goes in to get a cloth, and cleans up the mess. Brigitte sculls her beer.

When Matt asks if she'd like to order some dinner or have another drink, she grabs his hand and says, ‘Let's go.'

Matt lives around the corner above a tattoo shop at the grungy end of Brunswick Street, opposite the high-rise commission flats. Drunks sleep in doorways, and small-time drug dealers do deals in the public phone box across the road. Brigitte kisses Matt hard up against his front door as he fumbles in his pocket for the keys.

Inside, his bike hangs from a hook on the bluestone wall. He tells her to be careful not to trip because the light on the stairs is out. They almost make it up the staircase. Almost, but not quite. They kiss, trip, tear at each other's clothes, and fall together three-quarters of the way up. She kisses his mouth, his face, his neck. His skin tastes salty, and smells faintly of spice and citrus. She slides onto him, forgetting her knee pain, glad now for the stockings and suspenders instead of pantyhose.

A sensation she's never felt before ripples, then swells and surges through her body. She curls up her toes, tenses her muscles, and stifles a cry against his shoulder, but she can't stop the tears streaming down her face. The girls at work talk about orgasm all the time, but she never imagined it would be so … she has no word for it. Until now, sex has always been somewhat of a chore, mechanical and unsatisfying. But her experience has been limited to a rough schoolboy, an egotistical pop star, and semi-impotent Eric on the rare occasions he's managed to get it up — not for a long time, thank God.

‘Are you OK, Brig?'

She shakes her head, unable to speak.

‘And I thought you were so innocent.' He laughs and strokes her hair.

She's not sure if she can move, and doesn't want to anyway — wants to stay like this forever. Her hand rests on his chest. Something's wrong — his skin feels strange, bumpy. It's too dark to see what it is. She quickly pulls her hand away, thinking he doesn't notice.

‘Still want to come upstairs?'

She finds her voice — it's croaky. ‘As long as you're not going to try to take advantage of me.'

He laughs and kisses her. ‘You'll have to help me up. I think my back's broken.'

‘Knew you were too old.'

Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and she sees a flash of a tattoo on his back as he stands, but he pulls his T-shirt on before she can see his chest. Maybe it was her imagination.

Upstairs he leads her past a bedroom, a bathroom with a full-size bath, a tiny kitchen, and up another short flight of stairs to a big living room.

‘Feel like a glass of wine?'

‘Sure.' She screws up her nose a little.

‘Sorry I don't have any champagne. Or raspberry.'

She feels awkward, and can't meet his eyes after what just happened on the stairs. He goes to get a bottle. She slips the funeral shoes off her aching feet, and looks around the room: a scratched antique-looking dining table, brown-leather couch with worn arms, TV, desk with a word processor, and two big windows overlooking the street. Hundreds of books fill the floor-to-ceiling brick-and-board shelves: classics, lots of new-looking books, books on writing and teaching, cookbooks. She pulls her suit jacket tighter around her shoulders and rubs her hands together — she should have brought her coat.

He comes back with a bottle of red and two glasses. He pours their drinks, and crouches to put pages of balled-up newspaper and pieces of wood into the open fireplace. ‘Why don't you choose some music, Brig?' He strikes a match and lights the paper.

His CD collection takes up a whole bookshelf — lots of stuff she doesn't know, classical music, Australian music: The Triffids, Died Pretty, Hunters and Collectors, lots of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. No Prince. She pulls out
Nevermind
with the baby swimming towards the dollar bill on the cover. How did they take that photo of the baby in the pool?

Matt looks up from the fire, and groans. ‘I didn't realise I had that. You don't like them, do you?'

‘I think so. But I only really listened when he died.' She returns the CD to the shelf. ‘But now I finally know who you remind me of. It's him. You look like him.'

‘I do not,' he says indignantly, and stands up.

‘You do.'

‘No, I don't.'

‘He was pretty cute.'

‘When — before or after the gunshot to the head?'

‘Don't be cruel.'

‘Aw, I'm so depressed, I'm so famous, making so much money. I think I'll go kill myself.'

‘Stop it.'

‘He had a baby, you know? How could anybody leave their baby?'

‘I don't know.' She shrugs. ‘Maybe he was hurting so much he didn't have a choice.'

Matt shakes his head; he can't understand that. He hands her the new Nick Cave CD, and she puts it on while he rolls a joint.