Please Don't Leave Me Here (27 page)

She can't speak, can't breathe. And she can't make her body swim, can't move at all — it's as if her limbs are filled with cement, paralysed.

It sounds like he's swimming back to her. But it's too late — she's drowning. She feels faint, and sinks into blackness and bubbles. He pulls her up, and she paws and clings to him, almost dragging him under as well.

He tells her over and over that she's OK as he swims back slowly to the island with her floundering under his arm.

He lifts her onto the jetty. She stumbles, coughs up water, and lies on the parched wooden boards. Cold air rushes up through the cracks.

He climbs out after her, and covers her with his sweater and her dirty coat.

‘I almost drowned,' she splutters as she sits up.

‘No, you didn't.' He kneels behind her, and rubs his hands over her back. ‘You just panicked. I was right there. I wouldn't let you drown.'

She coughs up more water, and hugs her knees to her chest. ‘You weren't there. I told you I wasn't a good swimmer. You left me.' Her voice croaks. ‘I hate you.'

‘No you don't.' He wraps his arms around her.

‘Yes I do.' She tries to push him away.

He holds her tighter. ‘No you don't. You love me.'

‘No I
don't!
'

‘I love you.'

Even after having a hot shower and drinking two glasses of sherry from a dusty bottle that Matt found in a cupboard, Brigitte can't stop shaking. He tells her she should write a short story about what happened — it might be cathartic — and she hits him. He laughs, calls her Courtney, and says it turns him on when she's angry. Hitting him again, harder, is
cathartic
.

‘Look what I found on the way back.' He produces a shell from his jeans pocket, and tosses it into the bowl full of other shells on the table. ‘Coming to bed?' He puts a hand on her shoulder and sings, ‘Night swimming, remember that night …' She pushes his hand away and doesn't follow him, for a while.

She wants him to know how angry she is with him for leaving her when she was scared, so she puts up a wall — her back to him in bed. She tries to resist when he moves against her. But she can't.

***

They drive back to the city on Melbourne Cup day, listening to the race on the radio. Duene wins the Cup.

‘I thought it was pronounced
Dune
— like the David Lynch film, with Sting,' Matt says.

‘I think it's French —
Ju-ane
. My Nana would know. She's crazy about horse racing.'

‘Want to come home with me? Or shall I drop you at your place? Wherever that is.'

‘Home. With you.'

‘You're not still angry with me?'

A bit. But she shakes her head.

‘When are you going to invite me over to your place, anyway?'

She looks out the window as they drive through Richmond, pretending she didn't hear.

38

How she came to be naked in the black-marble spa with Jennifer/Ember, Doctor Dave, and Vince the lawyer is a bit of a blur. It started when she was getting ready to go to Matt's dinner party and she heard somebody yelling from the street. She opened a window to see Jennifer standing up on the back seat of a silver convertible — a horse emblem on the grille — parked in front of the apartment complex. Dave was in the driver's seat, and Vince in the passenger's.

They yelled at her to come down.

‘Can't. I'm going out,' Brigitte called back.

‘You've gotta check out this car. Just one spin around the block,' Jennifer said.

Dave revved the engine.

‘OK. Just one spin.' It
was
a cool-looking car. And she was still a bit angry about Raymond Island when she grabbed her phone and bag.

Just one spin around the block
became a drive to the casino, where she agreed to
just one cocktail
, which became far too many cocktails, and somehow led to a duet of ‘When Doves Cry' with Vince at a karaoke bar, followed by a failed attempt by him to feed her sashimi and grilled prawn heads at Tokyo Teppanyaki. She saw two missed calls from Matt on her phone screen — she'd meant to call him back and tell him she was on her way, but now it's late, and she's here. Somehow.

She climbs out of the spa, wraps herself in a fluffy hotel towel, and takes her glass of champagne with her.

‘Hurry back,' says Vince.

In the bathroom, she pours her drink down the sink. She's been doing this since they got here and the vibe changed. She's sitting on the toilet when Jennifer staggers in. She finishes, washes, and dries her hands. Under the down-lighting, she notices the harsh shadows and the fine lines around Jennifer's eyes. She's only 23, but she's already starting to look way older. Men are not going to pay her for much longer. Twenty-five is about the use-by age for a dancer. What's she going to do then? Matt was right, of course: you can't stay young and gorgeous forever. Matt — she was supposed to meet his friends tonight. She's not angry with him anymore. Sober now, she needs to get out of here.

‘Come on.' Jennifer wraps an arm around her waist.

‘What?'

She guides — pushes — Brigitte into the bedroom. The two men are on the bed. Brigitte looks at Jennifer and frowns. Jennifer giggles, leans forward, holds Brigitte's head, and kisses her fully on the mouth. Brigitte pulls away. ‘What are you doing?' She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘Come on, Pagan. Just like at the Gold Bar.'

Their simulated lesbian stage show is always a crowd-pleaser, but it's totally contrived, completely silly. This is not
just like at the Gold Bar
. She senses no hint of humour in the room. And Big Johnny's not here to help if something goes wrong or gets out of hand.

Jennifer holds her wrists; she is much bigger, and stronger, than Brigitte. She pulls her close and whispers in her ear how much they'll be paid — more than their week's combined income. A metallic taste of fear runs down the back of Brigitte's throat, and her pulse accelerates. She glances over her shoulder at her bag and clothes draped on the back of a club chair, and estimates it would take about ten seconds to get to the door if she had to run.

Jennifer tugs at her towel. Brigitte clutches it tighter to her chest.

‘What's wrong with you? Just a bit of fun.'

‘I want to go now Jen — Ember.' She takes a step towards her clothes. ‘Please come with me.'

Jennifer shakes her head and climbs into bed with the men, shimmying under the white sheets down between Vince's legs.

Dave watches Brigitte as she dresses. Annoyance — no, anger — darkens his face. He shoves back the covers, gets up, sways, and walks towards her. He's drunk, slow, and she reaches the door before he catches up, but she doesn't have her shoes. She scans the room for her $500 ruby-coloured sandals. They're on the other side, poking out from under the curtain drawn across the wall-sized window. She decides to leave them, and wrenches the door open.

‘You can forget about the sales-rep job,' Dave yells at her as she runs down the quiet, airless corridor towards the lift. ‘Cock-teasing slut!'

A fire of jagged pain takes away her breath as she steps from the Hotel Como foyer and onto a piece of broken bottle. She hops, bends, pulls the chunk of glass out of her heel, and limps over to the first taxi on the rank.

‘Where to?' the taxi driver says.

She tells him Fitzroy, Brunswick Street. Tendrils of wet hair soak the top of her shirt. Blood drains from her face as it pools on the grey carpet square beneath her feet. She leans her cheek against the cool window. Her breath condenses on the glass as she breathes slowly, deeply, trying to stop herself from fainting. She was going to give the driver a big tip to compensate for the blood — until she sees his disapproving eyes judging her in the rear-vision mirror.
Just another stupid, drunk girl — a dime a dozen on Chapel Street these days.
She wants to tell him he's wrong.

Out front of Matt's place, she looks up: the light's on, and she sees him standing at the window in a blue plaid shirt. Three or four of his friends are still up there with him. A couple lean on the sill, smoking. Matt moves away from the window.

Her phone rings, she presses
cancel
, her shoulders slump, and she tells the taxi driver to take her to the apartment instead.

She sits for a long time on the shower floor, dizzy, watching blood run down the drain.

After the shower, she bandages her foot and makes a mug of Milo. She takes some Panadol and goes to bed. She can't sleep. She calls him — she has to.

He picks up the phone. She hears him breathing, but he doesn't speak.

‘Matt?'

It sounds like he drops the receiver and then picks it up.

‘Matt, I — '

‘You stood me up.'

‘I'm sorry, I — '

‘Where were you?'

‘I — '

‘Don't even want to know. Don't want to talk to you right now.'

‘I had an accident.' The taxi driver's eyes were right.

‘What? Are you all right?'

‘Yes, just stupid — I broke a jar in the kitchen, cut my foot open. Must have fainted from the blood. I'm sorry — '

‘Is somebody there to help you?'

‘No, but I'm OK.'

‘I'll come over.'

‘No. You've been drinking. You can't drive.'

‘What's your address?'

‘No. I'll get a taxi to you.'

When she gets there, the door is unlocked and all the lights are on. Matt's asleep, passed out, sprawled across the bed, fully clothed. Di's sitting on his back, licking her paws.

The cat sat on Matt.

Brigitte turns off the lights, removes his shoes, climbs in beside him, and pulls up the covers. Di hisses at her.

‘I know — I don't deserve him.'

39

‘Guess where I'm calling from?'

Matt hesitates, sighs. ‘Where?'

‘Work.'

‘What work?'

‘David Jones.'

‘Really?'

‘I called them, and they still had a job vacant. Did a training session, and started straightaway.'

‘How's it going?'

‘Good.' She sneezes. ‘I've already sold two units of Poison.'

‘What?'

‘Perfume. The manager's coming — gotta go. See you after work.'

Catherine Kerr, lipstick on her teeth again, comes over to check on Brigitte. She tells her she's doing a great job, but needs to go into the aisle and spray perfume on customers when it's quiet. Brigitte can't quite bring herself to do that, so she pretends to be busy straightening products on the shelves.

She has lunch in the tearoom with Gina from Clinique, and Christine from Clarins. It's not as
nice
as she imagined.

‘Did you hear Kara was fucking Tim as well as George from the café?' Gina says to Christine.

‘
Your
Tim? No way.'

‘Yes way. Stupid slut.'

Brigitte glances over her shoulder, hoping nobody from her section is listening. These women remind her of Jennifer: big and loud and brassy. Brigitte feels small and plain next to them.

Christine picks up one of her hot chips, dips it in gravy, and asks Brigitte if she's married.

‘Don't be stupid, Chris. Look how young she is.'

‘Have a boyfriend?'

Brigitte gazes across at the soggy food in the bain-marie. ‘Yes.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Matt.'

‘Cute?' Christine has a couple of gravy spots on the collar of her red blazer.

Brigitte nods, and feels her cheeks turn pink.

‘Don't let Christine near him then.' Gina laughs, and slurps her Diet Coke through a straw.

Brigitte forces a smile, and picks at her limp salad.

‘Wanna come for a drink with us after work tonight?' Gina says. ‘There'll be lots of cute guys from the office there.'

‘Come over to my counter just before knock-off time and I'll give you a make-over,' says Christine. ‘You need some more colour.'

Brigitte bites into a flaccid cucumber slice. Gina and Christine scoff their chips and Diet Cokes.

‘Coming for a smoke before we go back?' Gina fishes a packet of cigarettes and a pink plastic lighter from her gold handbag.

‘Sorry, I don't smoke.' Brigitte shrugs, and they leave her to finish her lunch in peace.

When she gets back to the counter, she rings Matt again. ‘Just letting you know I'm having drinks with some of the girls after work.' That sounds like such a grown-up thing to say. ‘I won't stay long.' Grown-up, sensible,
nice
.