The Impossible Story of Olive In Love Page 2

  ‘Thank you.’ He moves his hand to stroke my cheek but I turn my face away.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just that you’re …’ He stands there, his mouth open uselessly. It’s kind of frustrating.

  ‘I’m just what?’ I frown at him. ‘You can’t finish a thought, can you?’

  ‘You sure like hearing about yourself.’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ I walk around him in a circle, keeping my distance. ‘So go on, tell me what you see.’

  I can’t tell you how desperate I am to hear his verdict. I try to keep my cool, but I start wringing my hands. I’m Lady Macbeth, the blood won’t wash away.

  ‘Why don’t we just go downstairs and have a drink? I’ll introduce you to my mates.’

  I stick out my tongue. ‘I think I’ll give that a miss.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘I’m sure they are.’

  Again he frowns. ‘We could dance?’

  As if I’m going to leave without hearing what he sees! ‘We can dance up here,’ I say, spinning around.

  ‘Why yes, you could.’ He is smirking again.

  I give him the evil eye. ‘Young Thomas is too cool to spin.’

  ‘Tom.’

  I stop spinning, put my hands on my hips. ‘Not Tommo? Tommy?’

  ‘I get a bit of that.’

  Of course he does, he’s Australian. These people can’t bear to say someone’s full name unless it’s their wedding day or something. These people? I scold myself. You’re half Australian and you’ve lived here most of your life. These are your people. Strange how I feel more Irish than anything else.

  ‘What does your mother call you? Tommy—I bet.’

  ‘U-huh.’

  ‘Original.’

  ‘So what would you call me then?’

  He stands still and watches me look at him. I take my time, letting my eyes roam over him. Puma trainers, dark jeans, grey T-shirt. The shattered opal colour of his eyes shakes me. Irish blue. Tinker blue. He screws up his face self-consciously as I settle on his hair. It is matted, unwashed, somehow perfect.

  He ruffles it, embarrassed. ‘Still salty from this morning. Sorry.’ His hand moves to his chin. ‘And yeah, I know, I didn’t shave. I didn’t know I’d be …’

  I can’t tell he didn’t shave. And I don’t care. ‘You didn’t know you’d be what? Fighting demons tonight? Taking your grandmother to the opera?’

  ‘Interrogated by a hot wicked girl.’

  I open my mouth but I have nothing to say. It’s pretty much the best compliment I’ve ever been given.

  He knows it. His grin is evil. ‘So, no witty name for me?’

  I snort, shake off the compliment with an insult. ‘Well you’re a bit of a cliché, aren’t you?’ His brow furrows. ‘Come on, you know you’re cute. I’m not going to say it.’

  ‘You just did.’

  Damn it. ‘Yeah, well I didn’t mean it,’ I snap. ‘If you’re desperate for a name I’ll call you Adonis okay? Does that work for your ego?’

  He cracks his knuckles. ‘It’ll do.’

  I can’t help laughing at his arrogance. He is taking me in his stride and I’m throwing all kinds of crazy at him. ‘But what about me? We were talking about me!’ I insist.

  ‘We’re back to you?’

  ‘We never started on me?’ I’m jumping around with frustration.

  ‘Well stop moving around and I might be able to tell you!’

  I stand still, my fingers twitching. ‘Well?’

  ‘Beautiful—I see a completely gorgeous beautiful girl.’

  I’m so unimpressed. ‘Details,’ I demand. ‘I want details.’

  ‘I love your hair. It’s so long and … shiny?’

  ‘Boy description!’ I complain. ‘Come on. Be specific.’

  ‘I don’t know—it’s acres long—like I could mow it.’

  Ha. I like it. But I need more. ‘What colour do you see, exactly?’

  His eyebrows lift. ‘Well, usually I would go with black. But you’re obviously needing more than that …?’

  I shake my head and swallow. This is kind of overwhelming. ‘It’s enough,’ I manage to say. ‘My eyes?’

  He takes a step closer and my eyes soak into his like they’re absorbent paper. ‘Weird,’ he says. ‘They’re really blue. I could be looking in the mirror.’

  ‘I’m black Irish,’ I say softly. Just like my mother. Just like my grandmother. Or maybe it’s the tinker in me?

  Then something in him changes. He shrugs away, like he’s seen something truly disturbing flailing around inside me. I feel cold for the first time that evening.

  ‘What is it?’

  He holds out his hand. ‘Let’s go downstairs.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I insist.

  His face contorts with a downtown parade of emotions. ‘Nothing,’ he says finally. ‘You’re too beautiful, I’m just an idiot with words. Let’s go down.’

  ‘Liar.’ I turn my back to him. He’s seen something in me. Something bad. It’s crushing that he sees it. It ruins me that he won’t tell me what it is. Silence hangs between us. There is nowhere to go with this. My adrenaline has evaporated and the cold night is beginning to goose-pimple my flesh. The man in the apartment stubs his butt out on the ledge and flicks it into the street below. The window shuts with a loud thump. I watch him pull the curtains, shutting out the world. There are hundreds of windows around us. Anyone could be watching. I wish I could shut some curtains around Tom and me.

  Tom sighs then speaks. ‘Look Olive, I don’t know what the problem is, I’m just paying you a compliment. If you don’t like it, I can, you know, leave or something.’

  There it is.

  ‘Fine,’ I say.

  ‘You want me to go?’

  I turn around to face him. ‘If you can’t be honest with me, then yes, I do.’

  He looks well and truly annoyed then. ‘Yeah, well sue me for not wanting to put a downer on the night, but I guess it’s too late for that.’

  I feel bad for him, honestly I do, and I really don’t want him to go, but I cross my arms and pout like a spoilt child. I don’t know what else to do.

  He turns to leave. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you want anything.’

  ‘I just want the truth, Adonis!’ I call out.

  He turns back and flings it at me. ‘Loneliness, okay?’ I flinch. His words are like shrapnel. ‘I see goddamn loneliness!’

  ‘You can see that?’ I’m completely dumb-struck.

  He blinks, doesn’t say a word. There is nothing to say. I’m a loner, a loser, a freak—and he can read it clear as sunshine in my eyes.

  ‘Wow.’ I stretch my neck to the stars, sighing. It really is hopeless.

  ‘Want to get that drink?’ he says gently.

  ‘No. You go ahead. I think I’ll head home.’

  ‘Can I walk you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Get you a cab?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I see you again?’

  I want to. It would be amazing to explore this. But I’m feeling frail as a worn piece of lace.

  ‘Come on, we need to figure out a new name for you. Olive and Adonis, I’m not sure it works.’ He’s trying to be cute. It works for him—I find it hard not to smile.

  ‘I don’t know, Tom,’ I shake my head. There’s more to all this than he knows. Much, much more. Do I have the energy for it? Can I do it to him?

  ‘Look Olive, don’t stress out. It’s simple. I’d really like to see you again, so here’s my number.’ He jams his hand into his back pocket and pulls out a business card. He must be older than I thought. Who has a business card?

  ‘Just think about it, okay.’ He holds it out but I don’t reach for it. ‘Fine, whatever.’ He lets the card go and we both watch it flutter to the ground.

  When I don’t reply he shrugs and walks away.

  ‘Tom?’ I manage to call out as he pushes the door open.

  He turns back.

/>   ‘Are you for real?’ I ask quietly.

  ‘Am I for real?’ His laughter is more an eruption of disbelief, he shakes his head. ‘What a girl,’ he mutters, jamming the Coke bottle in the door as it closes.

  And right there is my lick of hope—the boy didn’t lock me out. I reach down to pocket his business card then scuttle after him.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Back in the club, I watch his friends from a distance. Tom has taken off. I saw him leave them as I came down the stairs. He was pushing through the crowd, jacket slung over his hunched shoulders, his face dark with frustration.

  It’s kind of startling to have that impact on someone. It doesn’t happen to me much—not face-to-face like that anyway.

  I didn’t want Tom to go, but I forced it. It’s my A- typical behaviour. Dad’s said right from the beginning I have this silver streak of trouble running through me. I’m stubborn, pig-headed and I can’t back down. I guess it’s not surprising.

  Me = damaged goods.

  I wander close to Tom’s friends and listen in. A broad shouldered, bull of a bloke—Jason, I learn—is holding court at the end of the table. He’s twisting his long brown hair around one finger as he rabbits on. A ‘Dave’: shaved head, denim jacket, belches besides him and gazes over the crowd. Redhead ‘Hazza’ rubs his fingers up and down a girl’s arm. ‘Liz’ stirs her vodka cranberry into a little whirlpool with her straw. Her boredom is obvious. She’s not even pretending to listen. I like her immediately.

  A girl pushes her way through the crowd toward them; she is pretty but the pinched way she holds her face tells me she’s uptight and sulky.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ she yells above the music.

  ‘Yeah? You must be some kind of genius,’ Jason answers.

  She snarls at him. The two appear to despise each other in equal measure. I’d like to see them brawl, those electric-blue painted fingernails look vicious. I imagine them slitting through skin, as clinical as a surgeon’s scalpel.

  ‘How’s it going, Erica?’ Hazza says to her. He seems sincere and attentive so immediately I distrust him.

  ‘Not good. I’ve just spent, like, forever trying to get Tamara out of the house, and when finally she agrees—you guys turn up.’

  ‘Tom’s gone home,’ Dave says, shrugging his round shoulders.

  ‘So he should,’ she replies. Her expression is one of extreme judgement.

  Jason leans toward her. ‘Are you serious?’

  Erica moves into wounded deer stance. ‘Tom broke her heart!’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Jason leans back and starts scanning the crowd like he’s got better things to do.

  ‘He was trying to do the right thing,’ Liz tells her. ‘He didn’t want to lead her on when she obviously wanted more …’

  ‘Sorry Liz. It’s just so ridonkulous,’ Erica replies. ‘These last few years were such a waste for her! What is she supposed to do now?’

  Ridonkulous—what a word. I want to kill her on the spot.

  Jason shakes his head slowly. ‘You sure are dumb for a clever chick.’

  ‘Oh shut up you!’ she snaps.

  ‘Why? Am I being ridonkulous?’ he mocks. Okay, I’m starting to like this Jason.

  The group all laugh and I want to too, but I can’t draw attention to myself.

  ‘I don’t know what you see in these losers, Liz,’ Erica snaps, then storms off.

  ‘Wow,’ Dave mutters into his beer. ‘That’s one freaky chick.’

  Hazza watches her go. ‘She’s okay.’

  ‘Oh shut up, Hazza.’

  I trip through the crowd after Erica. Tom’s friends are interesting but if I can see his ex. Wow. That would be brilliant.

  A small circle of girls widens to include Erica. They are all sucking on straws, half bouncing to the music, their heads bent together to hear Erica’s gossip. I curse the music, I can’t hear anything they’re saying, but it’s pretty obvious which one is the ex. She has her back to me but I see the hands of consolation move to her shoulders as Erica tells her tale.

  It’s not looking good from here. She is tall and tanned, wearing this silver sequin skirt around her skinny ass. Her blond hair has seen six thousand gloss conditioning treatments. I move closer.

  ‘Tamara!’ I call out. I need to see her face.

  Damn. She’s got a snub little nose but she’s gorgeous. She searches about, looking confused when she doesn’t recognise anyone. Eventually she turns back.

  A black leather handbag is at her feet. A devilish thought slips into my head. I wonder if I can stop myself. I wonder if I want to. It’s too easy. I sidle up, hook the handle with my extended toes and pull it free. It’s like that old pick-up sticks game, you can’t snatch it up too quickly or the whole charade comes tumbling down around you.

  Back on the roof I turn the bag upside down, emptying the contents onto the cement. A bottle of perfume smashes. Oops. Should be more careful. I take inventory. Wallet. Phone. Make-up bag. Brush. It’s surprisingly organised. No used tissues, old bus tickets, receipts, chewing gum wrappers. This is not an everyday bag, must have been packed just for tonight. But who needs that much make-up for one night?

  I open her wallet. Again, too organised. Gym membership. Photo of her and three girls dressed up like they’re trying to be forty. Fifty cash, few coins. I leave it.

  Phone has no code. Bingo. I scan her photos, no surprises they’re littered with selfies but just as common is shot after shot of Tom. Tom surfing, Tom eating, Tom with friends, Tom asleep, Tom playing with a dog, Tom far away, Tom up close, Tom half naked looking straight pissed off at having his photo taken. My heart pangs. I’m so stupid.

  I flick to her text messages. It doesn’t take too much scrolling down to come across their conversation history. This is too easy. I shouldn’t do it. It is wrong, Rose would say criminal. Is it criminal? Maybe it is.

  I take a breath, then read.

  Tamara:

  Where ru?

  Tom:

  Newwater

  Tamara:

  Surf any good?

  Tom:

  S’ok

  Tamara:

  Want me to come down?

  Tom:

  Nah

  Tamara:

  Well I’m pretty busy with the girls anyway so I didn’t really have time I was just trying to be nice because we haven’t seen each other for ages. But if you don’t want to see me that’s just fine. I’ll just stop trying to be nice.

  Tamara:

  You were the one who said you still wanted to be friends BTW

  Tom:

  Have fun

  Tamara:

  I hate you.

  Tamara:

  Joking

  You can discern a fair few facts from this conversation. One, Tamara is desperate. Two, Tom is quite possibly an ass. But what do I choose to take from the exchange? He surfs at Newwater Beach.

  I don’t want to stay at the club, but I don’t want to go home either. I need company after Tom has so succinctly pointed out my loneliness.

  I need Felix.

  His window is ajar and I feel the familiar sense of comfort, knowing he’s left it that way just for me. He’s been asleep for a while, I can tell from the stale air around his bed. I kick off my shoes and slide under the covers, backing into him and warming my feet on his toasty legs. Felix grumbles and shifts.

  ‘You didn’t go out?’ I whisper.

  ‘Mhm.’ It’s a no.

  ‘Mind if I stay?’

  ‘Mhm.’ It’s a yes. He drapes an arm over me. ‘I’ll kick your ass in the morning,’ he mumbles.

  I snuggle into him, thinking smugly, I’m not alone now, Tom.

  CHAPTER

  5

  When I was nine I was convinced I had tuberculosis and confined myself to bed rest.

  Nobody believed me of course. My dad would smile patiently and kiss my brow each morning. ‘See you tonight, duckie,’ he would say. ‘If I make it through the day,�
�� I would reply miserably. ‘You will,’ he would say. ‘You’ve got more life in you than anyone I know.’ Then he would give me a wink and shut the door, his footsteps echoing down the bare floorboards and out into the world. I would turn over and stare out the window. How could he be so certain?

  People die every day.

  Rose wasn’t so patient. She would huff and complain; fresh air and a bath would fix me up. I wasn’t so sure. TB was my destiny. It had to be. I was a poet.

  Poets die, you know that right? Writers too. Just a quick who’s who of writers who’ve died from TB: Voltaire, Chekhov, Dylan Thomas, DH Lawrence, Keats, Kafka, George Orwell, Somerset Maugham, Katherine Mansfield, Emily Brontë, Washington Irving, Sir Walter Scott, Thoreau … the list goes on and on. Even Charles Bukowski (not to be left out, the drunkard attention-seeker) caught a bout of it in 1988. He didn’t die, but 1988! It was not out of the question I could catch TB in this day and age.

  It didn’t help that Dad once called me the family poet laureate. My hero at the time, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, was called that by her father and she died of TB. It was too much of a coincidence. It made me certain I was doomed. I mean, more than I already am.

  That month in bed I learnt her poems by heart. It was the only worthy way I could think of spending my last days.

  I think of her most famous poem now as I watch Tom. He emerges from the surf, shaking the water out of his hair and jogging up the sand, surfboard wedged under one arm.

  How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

  The problem is, the only ways I love Tom, that I can count right now, are superficial ones. Hot body, cool hair, iceberg eyes. I don’t think that’s what Elizabeth BB had in mind. Especially since Elizabeth BB was writing about her beloved husband, not lusting over some hot stranger.

  Tom lays his board on the sand and unzips his wetsuit, peeling it down over his chest. It hangs like a second set of arms at his waist. His back is golden, his arms and neck even bronzer where his wetsuit doesn’t cover. He dries his face while watching the waves. A girl jogs by and checks him out. I see Tom flash his white-ass super-smile and I want to kill him.