Raw Blue (16 page)

‘Oh yeah. Thank you.’

In the kitchen, I look in the cupboard first, but of course there aren’t any clean glasses left. I grab one off the bench and rinse it out, then pour him a glass of water. When I hand it to him my hand is shaking. I clean another glass for myself and fill it carefully, just so I can face the wall. Then he steps forward and places his glass upside down in the sink, putting his hand on my shoulder.

‘Um … it’s just in here,’ I tell him, moving away. In my bedroom, I switch the light on, then turn it off again, stepping quickly across the clothes strewn over the floor to turn on the reading lamp by the bed instead. He turns off the living room light and a moment later he’s there in the room with me.

I turn to face him. I want to apologise for being so awkward, for handling this so badly, but I can’t even speak. He must be regretting this already.

I realise I’m still holding my water, like it’s a cocktail and this is some sort of party. Some party.

‘You’re right.’ He means the water. I should take my time. Drink it.

So I do. And I sit down on the bed because I don’t know what else to do. And he might be looking at me, or he might be wondering how one person could be so messy – I don’t know because I’m staring at the floor.

‘Finished with that?’ He takes my empty glass and puts it down on the bedside table. Then he kneels on the floor in front of me, considering me with his grey eyes. ‘So.’

It’s unbearable, like being X-rayed. My face flushes. ‘Don’t look at me.’

‘
Shh
, okay.’

He pushes me backwards so I’m lying flat, my legs hanging off the edge of the bed. I feel his fingers undoing my jeans, tugging them down, and I raise my hips like an obedient child, heart thudding, eyes squeezed shut. There’s a rustle of denim as he casts my jeans aside.

Now I’m just in my underpants, my bra and T-shirt, arms crossed over my chest. He rubs his palms over my thighs and I stare at the ceiling. Surely he must think I’m a freak? Lying here frozen, unable to move.

His hands slide up my thighs and take hold of my underpants, tugging them down. I raise my hips again, shut my eyes tight. It’s agony, this. I want to sob because I’m so scared.

I feel his breath and a wave of goose bumps ripples over me. Then he starts kissing the insides of my thighs, imprinting his mouth on my skin, burning me like a brand. He passes over my pubic mound, blowing on it gently, then I feel his mouth coming to rest on me and I’m thinking that I’m glad I’ve showered tonight, so there can be little smell down there. I’m so uptight it’s not funny.

It takes an eternity, but finally I’ve got the courage to touch his fine sandy hair. For a moment he stops what he’s doing and looks up at me and I’ve never felt more exposed.

I fake it. I make the noises women are supposed to make – not loud enough for anybody else to hear, but I do them. I think it’ll be okay; it’ll be enough. But he doesn’t stop, he just keeps going as though he knows it’s bullshit.

And finally I let go, letting my legs stiffen and relax in a rhythm I never thought I’d share with anyone else. The feelings peak and I crest for so long, legs straining, hands clutching the doona, holding my breath, tensing to reach it, my whole body aching like a bubble that wants to burst. And then it breaks and I feel the falling away.

When it’s finished, I open my eyes and crane my neck to see him. He’s kissing me again, all along my thighs, and I touch the top of his head gently. His fingers are still inside me and he wiggles them, flashing me a glance. I’m embarrassed but I don’t look away.

He gets to his feet, swaying a little, and I sit up, not sure what to do, feeling a bit self-conscious in my half dressed state.

‘Take your shirt off,’ he tells me. So I pull my shirt over my head, then I unclasp my bra, shrugging it off too. He reaches for my hands, guiding them to his waist and I unbutton his jeans, tugging them down his legs. He steps out of them, pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it on the floor with his hair all mussed up. I move back on the bed and lie down, waiting, watching him.

Everything happens fast, a runaway train I don’t want to stop. He’s laying down on me, biting my shoulder as he does it, and the weight of him is a relief. He starts kissing me and I can faintly taste the salt of myself, but it doesn’t taste ugly or awful. I pull at his underpants and he helps me get them off. Then he’s leaning across, heavy on my chest, reaching down to his jeans on the floor. He gets out his wallet and he takes out a condom, chucking the wallet back onto the floor, ripping the foil packet open with his teeth. He lies on his side and starts to put it on, but I reach down wanting to do it and his penis throbs.

I pull him on top of me, then arch up, wanting the push, and when it happens it’s so sharp the world goes somewhere else. When he comes, he groans like he’s hurt.

Later, after he’s peeled the condom off, wrapped it in tissues from the box beside my bed and put it in the bathroom bin, he climbs back into bed naked and pulls me over to him so my head’s resting on his shoulder.

Before he turns off the light, he says, ‘You all right?’

‘Yes.’ I clear my throat. ‘Are you?’

He kisses me on the forehead.

When I wake up, the grey light of dawn is in the room and we’re overheating and sweaty. Our skin peels apart like we’ve been melted together.

25

going for an early

I doze for a while. When I wake up again I lift my head up to see his face. His eyes open and I freeze, feeling caught out, but then his eyelids flutter closed and I hear his steady breathing. Is he awake or asleep? What time is it?

I need to pee. The bed’s pushed up against the corner of the room and I’m on the wall side, so I wiggle down to the end, trying to be as quiet as possible. I’m still naked. He’s still naked. My toes find the carpet and I tiptoe quietly across the room, stopping to pull on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, barely breathing. While I’m doing this, his eyes peel open, blink, focus on me.

‘I’m just … The bathroom.’

He closes his eyes again. The digital clock beside my bed says it’s 5.47; we’ve probably only slept for four hours. I’m dry-mouthed from the beer.

I close the sliding door of the ensuite as quietly as I can, then pat around for the light. I pull my shorts down and sit well forward on the toilet seat, wanting to soften the noise because I know the pee is going to stream out of me and he’s right there next door. It seems like I’m peeing forever. My face scrunches up. Oh, for God’s sake.

Then I wash my hands and face and drink a lot of water from the tap. As I pat my face dry with my towel, I’m watching myself in the mirror. My eyes look tired and swollen.

Before I go back out, I get a clean towel out of the cabinet.

He’s pulled his jeans on and is making the bed.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ I say, surprised. Then I remember the towel, offering it to him. ‘Here, if you want to wash or whatever.’

‘Thanks.’ He goes into the ensuite, half closes the door and a second later I hear him pissing soundly.

I smooth out the doona as though I always make my bed and yesterday was an aberration. The toilet flushes and then I hear the tap running. I push the bed back in against the wall and fix up the pillows.

When he comes out I turn to face him. ‘Sorry, you could have kept sleeping if you wanted to. I didn’t mean you had to get up.’

‘I thought we’d go for a surf. You keen?’

He heads up to his car, telling me it takes a while to warm up and he’ll start it while he’s waiting for me to get ready. Our newly repaired boards are still in it. I’m in a fluster. I spray deodorant on, clean my teeth and give my hair a quick brush. Then I pull on my bikini, board shorts and a singlet.

I’m just pulling my sliding door shut when I hear: ‘
Cookie?
’

Hannah’s leaning out her lounge room window, her face all sleep creased, smiling down at me.

I wave up at her. ‘Hey.’

She continues to whisper. ‘
Did someone come home with you last night?
’

My face flushes and I nod.

She motions over her shoulder. ‘
Me too. Victor is here
.’

‘Oh.’

‘
Go vaginas
.’

Ryan’s fiddling with the radio, zipping through the stations.

‘Sorry I took so long,’ I say, plopping into the passenger seat.

He doesn’t find anything he likes so he reaches across me and opens the glove box, and I look at the pale hairs covering his forearms and wish he’d do something to acknowledge that last night happened. He pulls out a tape and pushes it into the cassette player. The Sunnyboys – which is sort of funny given it’s classic surf music and we’re about to go for a surf. If I knew him better, I’d pay him out.

He lowers the volume then leans over and kisses me. Once, twice, three times.

Then he runs his hand over my hair. ‘Sorry, mate, I’m not very good at mornings.’

After our surf, when we’re back at the car and Ryan’s got a towel around his waist like a skirt, pulling his boardies and wet swimmers off underneath, he says, ‘So I’m going away for a couple of days.’

I say nothing, not sure if it’s a euphemism.

‘I’m heading up to Queensland.’ He bows his legs and rubs himself with the towel. ‘There’s a guy I know who’s put in a good word for me at one of the mines up there. I’ve got a job interview. The money’s good and they give you two weeks on, one week off. I figure it’s worth a shot.’

‘Like Plan B?’ My voice sounds normal but inside me things are clenching tight.
What’d you expect? He’s had you now
.

‘That’s the one. The straight and narrow.’ He starts pulling a pair of shorts on underneath the towel. ‘The interview’s supposed to be pretty full-on, medical tests and all that. They’re going to overlook my criminal record, but if I’ve got epilepsy – forget it.’

‘That’s good for you, then. Unless you’ve got epilepsy.’

That knocks a grin out of him, then he turns serious.

‘It’s out in the middle of nowhere, about a hundred k’s west of Mackay, so I dunno if there’s any mobile coverage. Should be payphones but I might be tied up. What I’m trying to say is that I mightn’t be able to call you. If I can’t, I’ll be back Thursday. I’ll give you a buzz then.’

‘Okay.’ I hide my smile in my towel, pretending to dry my hair.

26

deeper

Tuesday, 5.22 p.m.

Hey, Carly, it’s me. Guess you’re at work – should have checked when you were working this week. Things are good up here. Weird set up, eh. Had the medical today. I’ll try and give you another call tomorrow night – mobile’s working as you can see. But … yeah. It’s Ryan, by the way.

Wednesday, 9.53 p.m.

Yeah, so it’s me again. Not having much luck getting you. I’m sleeping in a dog box – that’s what they call a donga. It’s a demountable, like the classrooms at public schools. Six dongas to a block, that’s your toilets and showers. Like living in a caravan park or something. Bet you’re fascinated by all that. So … yeah … I’ll talk to you later. Bye, mate.

He takes a really long time to answer the phone and when he does his voice sounds scratchy. ‘Yep? Hello?’

‘It’s me.’

‘You’re kidding. How are you, mate?’ His voice changes during the course of the sentence, like he’s trying to force himself to sound more awake.

‘Sorry, were you asleep?’

‘Yeah – no, doesn’t matter.’

‘You sound really tired … your voice.’

‘Mate, I’m buggered.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t get your message until after work, and because I missed your other call too, well, I didn’t want you to think …’ I didn’t want him to think I was ignoring his calls. ‘I just felt rude, that’s all.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Sorry I couldn’t ring earlier. They’ve been keeping me busy all day long. Nights are the only chance I’ve had to call you.’

We both sound so formal, like we don’t really know each other, which I guess we don’t. This is so hard. Calling him, laying myself open like this. What if it’s a mistake?

He clears his throat. ‘Hang on a sec, I’ll ring you back.’

He cuts the line. A second later my phone rings.

‘That’s better,’ he says.

‘What’s better?’

‘Didn’t want you calling.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if I get this job I’ll be earning heaps out here, mate. Not going to hurt to spend some of it on phone calls.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Nah. Yeah, so … what’ve you been up to? How’s the surf?’ he asks.

‘Big. There’s a southeast swell around at the moment.’

‘Good?’

‘Okay. It’s breaking further over, Carparks is working. I wasn’t out there for long today because my leg rope broke and I had to swim in.’

‘Bummer. Have you got another one?’

‘No, I’ll have to buy one tomorrow.’

‘Go to Pumplines, you know, in Collaroy. Ask for a guy called Kratzy. Tell him you know me and he’ll give you one for free.’

Well, there’s no way I’m just going to march into a surf shop and start throwing my weight around, but I don’t tell Ryan that. ‘How come?’

‘He owes me a favour.’

‘How come so many people owe you favours?’

‘Logistics.’

‘Oh.’

Silence stretches between us and I search for something to fill it up with before it gaps too much. I’ve got the phone pressed to my ear so tightly I can hear the faint sound of my own pulse, a rasping
prr-ump … prr-ump … prr-ump
. I think of Ryan somewhere in central Queensland, in a donga, lying on his bed, holding onto his phone. Is he pressing it tightly against his ear, too?

‘What’s it like out there?’ I ask.

‘Mate, not worth wasting my breath over. No, it’s all right. Pretty full on, though. I’m so tired it’s not funny.’ He yawns.

‘You sure you don’t want me to –’

‘Carly, I want you to stay on that phone.’

We’re both quiet for a while.

‘I wish I was there, mate.’

‘Do you?’ My voice is tentative, balanced on something sharp.

‘Aw yeah, mate. Look, I’m not good on the phone, but know that, all right?’

‘Okay.’

‘So just … I don’t know, relax about me.’

‘Okay.’ I take a catchy little breath.

‘I’m hanging to see you tomorrow. What time are you working?’

‘Not ’til the afternoon. When do you get in?’

‘Ten o’clock in the morning.’

‘Do you want me to pick you up?’

When I see him standing there on the edge of the kerb I get a rush of nerves. I leave the motor running and pop the hatch, suddenly glad that we’ll be greeting each other inside a vehicle instead of the terminal where there’s too much space.

He throws his bag in the back of the car with a thud. Time’s not a steady thing because it slows down before he opens his door. I’m not good with suspense. I would like to just drive off to be honest, take my shaky-shakiness somewhere else. Find the back exit.

Then he’s getting into the seat beside me, the Laser shifting under his weight.

‘How’re you goin’?’ He looks me over, his eyes unreadable, the way they used to look.

Oh. You’ve made a mistake
. My face is red, I know it.

But then he flicks his head back in the way that means give me a kiss. I lean across and peck his mouth, but he slides his hand through my hair and makes me give him another one, and this time it’s longer, with more questions asked.

‘Well, it’s good to see you, mate, I can tell you that much.’

I smile at him, feeling shy. I know it’s not because he’s got a lift home.

On the drive back, which takes forever because traffic is a total nightmare, he tells me about the mine. He seems so big, so male, squashed in the Laser. I can imagine Ryan working in a mine, even though I can’t see his physical surroundings when I do it. I see him parked in a bunch of sweating men wearing big boots, reflective vests and construction hats, not saying too much and earning their respect for it; just like I can see him sitting deep in the water on his board, the crows lying belly down around him, talking at him.

‘Do you think you’ll get the job?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, probably. They’re chewing through workers up there. The coal industry’s booming. They said they wouldn’t drag it out, they’d give me a ring as soon as they know.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Plenty of jobs going, if you wanted one.’

All those men, away from civilisation. ‘Probably not for me.’

‘Yeah, fair enough. What’s the surf like?’

I sigh. ‘Flat. Flat as a piece of paper. I’m going insane.’

‘No waves, eh?’

‘No.’

‘Well, we’ll just have to find something else to do.’

I keep my eyes on the road but my face flushes.

His tone is casual. ‘We can go for a swim.’

Confused, I glance at him, and he laughs. He squeezes my thigh hard.

‘I’ve had you in my head for three days, mate. All I want to do is get you in a room alone.’ He leaves his hand on my thigh. ‘We should, though. Later.’

‘What?’

‘Go for a swim.’

I wrinkle my nose up. ‘A swim?’

‘Yeah, why? What time are you at work?’

‘Four-thirty. I don’t know, I never really think about swimming.’

‘How flat’s flat then? Is there anything surfable at all?’

‘Flatter than the lagoon.’

Yesterday I listened to Reggae Elliss’s surf report on the radio in disbelief, suspecting he was exaggerating. I drove down to do a surf check myself, thinking that there had to be something, anything, even a ripple. But Reggae was right. The ocean was perfectly still, beautiful in green and blue, mocking me.

‘You know what’s good about it being flat?’ Ryan asks.

‘Is this another sex joke?’

‘No. You can check out the banks.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Put on goggles, swim over them. See how the bottom changes. It’s like seeing the break naked.’

I stare across at him, my mouth open.

He gives a start. ‘That wasn’t meant to be a sex joke. That’s just what came out.’

‘That is so corny.’ But I’m smiling while I say it.

His mobile rings when we’re crossing the Spit Bridge. It must be someone from the mine, because Ryan says, ‘That’s great, mate. Thanks for that. Good news.’ And, ‘Yeah, I can do next week.’

My head’s scattered from the noise and traffic of the city. I’ve been driving for two and a half hours all up. It takes less time than that to get out of Sydney and go to the Central Coast. I realise that in the whole time I’ve been back here, this is the first time I’ve gone south of the Spit Bridge. Why you would want to live over there, I do not know. Even when I lived in Surry Hills I’d come north to surf.

Ryan says, ‘Yeah, okay. I can do that. Yeah. Monday. Qantas. Hang on for a sec.’ To me, he hisses, ‘
You got a pen?
’

I pat around in the pocket on the inside of my door and hand him a biro. I’ve got a funny feeling listening to Ryan sorting out the details, like I’m going to be left behind.

Ryan’s got my glove box open. He pulls the Laser’s manual out and opens the front page, scratching the biro on it to get ink flowing.

‘Yeah okay, mate, right now. Shoot.’ He pauses then says, ‘Q – F – five – five – nine, yeah, terminal three. Okay.’

He winds up the conversation and turns his mobile off.

‘So you got the job?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s good.’

‘I don’t know. It is and it isn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m lazy, mate, and I won’t get to surf for two weeks.’

‘Oh.’

‘So what do you reckon?’

‘I couldn’t be away from the ocean that long.’

‘No, do you think you’ll remember who I am in a couple of weeks time?’

I grin. ‘Nuh.’

He squeezes my thigh again.

And later, when we’re almost at his place, crossing the pelican bridge, he says, ‘You know what we should do? On one of my breaks we should head up to Laurieton. It’s great up there, surf’s good at Bonny Hills, good fishing. You ever been there?’

When we reach his house he tells me to park in the driveway.

‘Where’s your car?’

‘Shane’s probably taken it.’

Relief’s sweet.

In his room, Ryan’s hands grip my hips, moving me up and down on top of him. His eyes squeeze shut and his breathing gets louder. I break the rhythm, lifting slightly, not knowing when I learned to tease, and he arches up, whispering, ‘
Aw, come on
.’

There is no one else down there. The whole world is ours. The beach is still, quiet and perfect under a blue sky that curves around it like a dome.

Ryan touches the bottom and pulls his goggles off. I float behind him, holding his shoulders, so that as he walks through the water I’m pulled along like a cape. He stops and twists around, breaking my grip, then pulls me up against him and I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling the rub of his board shorts, arms resting on his shoulders.

He pulls back to see my face, scrunching the skin under his chin. ‘You look like a little kid.’

I remember a photograph of me with goggles on, taken when I was eleven, waist deep in Auntie Yvonne’s pool: belly like a poisoned pup, hair flat to my head, ears pushed forward. I pull the goggles off and he grins.

‘Shut up, Ryan. You should see the marks on your face.’

‘Mate, don’t go to work. Just this once, I promise. Don’t go.’

And suddenly, I desperately want to stay with him. ‘What would we do?’

‘I don’t know. Have a few beers, play some pool, take it easy. I dunno about Shane, but we can hang around mine if you want. Or … have you ever been to the Collaroy Services Club?’

‘No.’

‘Well, let’s go there for tea or something.’

‘Okay.’ Suddenly fierce, I hug him tight, tight, tighter, and squash my mouth up against his ear.
‘I don’t care what we do.’

I ring work later, back at Ryan’s place. We’re lying on the bed and there are damp patches on the pillows from our hair. Our wet swimmers and towels are clumped on the floor. Ryan’s no Hannah, but his room is really tidy – the rest of the house looks like a place where two guys live. There’s a desk with manila folders stacked in in-trays and a study chair parked in front of it. A clothes stand runs along one wall displaying shirts and jeans hung neatly on hangers. On the floor, just inside the door, there’s a stereo and speakers, and two tall CD towers. His bed has a navy blue doona cover, which I like for some reason. And there’s a stack of surfing magazines on the floor beside his bed,
Tracks
on the top – no girlie mags, which is good.

While I wait for Emilio to come to the phone, I scrabble my fingers in Ryan’s pubic hair and they brush against his penis, which is spent and soft, vulnerable.

I should feel guilty throwing a sickie, but I don’t. Ryan’s planing his hand up my thigh, watching it intently like a kid with a toy car.

‘Emilio? It’s Carly …’

‘Hi Carly, how are you?’

‘Good – well, not so good. I’m really sorry, but Glenda – that’s the lady I look after – she’s not very well today.’

‘Oh, right. So you’ll be in late?’

Ryan drives his hand up over my pubic hair and then onto my stomach. He presses harder, doing a victory lap around my belly button.

‘Ah … no. That’s … I don’t think I’m going to make it in there, realistically. She’s pretty bad. Can you ask Stu to cover for me?’

Emilio sighs. He’s not being very gracious about Glenda’s predicament. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks, Emilio. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

When I hang up, Ryan says, ‘Who the hell is Glenda?’

‘I lie all the time. I told you that at Dee Why.’

He shifts up onto his elbow. ‘So it was all right?’

‘Yep.’

‘Good.’

He starts to stroke me with his fingertips, running them over my belly and along my sides.

I flinch. ‘Tickles.’

‘Just relax.’

I give a shiver and try, making myself breathe. And he’s right, I get used to it and like it. He strokes my shoulder, then lifts my arm up over my head and runs his fingers all the way down the inside of it to my armpit.

‘Sorry, I’m sweaty.’

He leans forward and licks me there. ‘I like you sweaty.’

When he’s stroking the inside of my palm, I feel a heaviness overcome me. So relaxed. Couldn’t move if I wanted to. He strokes my eyes shut, then traces my eyebrows.

‘
You’re beautiful
.’ Whispered.