Dessi's Romance (8 page)

Though I try not
to look impressed, inside I’m indignant. This isn’t fair, not while we live in
a weather-board fit for the wreckers…

‘Emma? Over
here.’ Laura sets a platter of sandwiches on the table. I’d like to reject
these offerings. Unfortunately, I’m starving so there’s nothing for it but to
wolf down a few.

Laura holds up a
jug. The ice clinks invitingly. ‘Mint tea?’

I need something
stronger. ‘I’d prefer a beer, thanks.’

She looks a bit
startled, just long enough for me to realise that unlike Julie’s eyes, Laura’s
are pale brown, her nose that bit longer, that she wears lots of mascara and
cyclamen lipstick. We stare each other out. Then she goes to the fridge and
hands me a stubby. ‘Did you bring bathers?’

‘No-o.’ A slight
crack gives me away. ‘I wasn’t expecting to come here.’

‘No matter,’
Laura rushes on. ‘We keep spares. I’m sure one’ll fit you.’ Off she dashes and
I admit to wanting a swim because I need to cool down and…and think.

‘Would you like
to change?’ Laura asks. ‘Come on, I’ll show you your room.’

Your room!
What’s going on?

Laura opens her
mouth. Then shakes her head. ‘No, I’ll let your father tell you.’ She opens the
door off the sunroom and shows me into a bedroom. ‘Hope you like it,’ she says
anxiously.

I stare around.
I’m absolutely gob-smacked. This room is exactly what I’d design for myself.
One entire wall is a shelf and desk arrangement; on it a TV system to die for,
plus the latest Apple iPad. Back home, though I keep meaning to buy myself a
cheapie I never seem to have saved enough, and in the end I use our aged
desktop that always freezes and takes ages to download Facebook or anything else
for that matter.

On the other
side of the room a double bed with a white satin duvet, masses of white
cushions, and a cordless phone beside it. In front of the window is an ideal
place for an easel. Laura slides back a door. ‘Your walk-in robe and bathroom.’

I’m confused.
What is she on about? Does she think I’ll be staying? Just then a car pulls up,
a door slams and the sound of whistling wafts into the house.

‘Hi. I’m home.’
My father’s voice sends shock waves through me. ‘Where’s my girl?’

Laura grabs my
hand and drags me into the sunroom. ‘Here she is, Rob.’ She pushes me towards
him. For a split second, I almost don’t recognise him. He’s lost ten kilo, has
a fabulous suntan and a great haircut. He’s in white shorts, a short-sleeved
white shirt with navy epaulettes and gold braid. He looks trim, taut and… and
terrific.

We stare at each
other and I see a mix of emotions in his face: happiness, worry, anxiety,
relief, sadness and a brief glimpse of… of could it be fear?

‘Long time…no
see,’ he murmurs. ‘What a beautiful girl you are now.’

I can’t move.
I’m struck dumb. I’m about to burst into tears. Meanwhile Laura heads for the
kitchen saying, ‘I’ll leave you two to get to know each other.’

All this time I’m getting to know Abdul.

‘If you plan a garage sale
for nine...’ explaining how he manages his small business, ‘I’m there at six.
No sleeping in.’

‘What do you look for?’

‘Mostly glass and china.
Toys. Old 78s. People have no idea what they throw out. I’m a bit of a music freak.
Enjoy jazz?’

‘Don’t know any,’ I admit.

‘See if you like this.’ One
eye on the road, he reaches inside his glove box for his iPod. ‘Picked up some
Miles Davis.’

We turn off the freeway and
head towards Flinders. Here the coastline is really spectacular, and the music,
both complicated and melancholy, fits into the rolling green paddocks that fall
into a sea the same grey as the sky. The narrow strips of sand are a rich
orange-yellow, the rocks a spill from a prehistoric volcano. I listen intently.
Knowing what music he likes will tell me more about him.

‘Great sound,’ I murmur
somewhat surprised at his taste.

‘Suppose you think I’d only
like Middle Eastern stuff. More like this.’ One hand on the steering wheel, he
uses the other to change the music. This is Bakhaaf, one of our best singers.’

Behind the orchestra and
some instruments I don’t recognise, there’s the unmistakable Arabic wailing
voice, unusual tonalities and strong syncopation. The singer’s voice is strong,
melodious, almost female. But the anguish behind it transcends boundaries.
Tears start to my eyes. ‘That’s terrific.’

‘He’s good isn’t he?’ Abdul
half turns to ask, ‘What do you listen to?’

I pause. ‘Guess my
favourites would be R& B, some rock, psy trance...’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘You mean what’s on my
iPod?’

He nods.

‘Dave Matthews band,
Portishead, The Cat Empire, Third Eye Blind, Edith Piaf...’

‘Piaf. Wasn’t she famous in
the forties and fifties?’

‘Yes.’ I bristle. ‘Does
this surprise you?

‘Course not.’ But his
glance is amused.

‘Suppose you think I only
listen to pop and rap.’

‘No way,’ he protests.
‘Thought you’d have wider tastes.’

Absurdly flattered, I fall
silent as we drive into the main street of Flinders. He stops by the hotel. I
crawl out of the van and he helps me into a chair. It’s so hot, even the
simplest movement is exhausting. After a while he returns with two Cokes.
They’re cold and sweet. Just what I need. ‘Like another?’

I shake my head.

‘Let’s check out the sea.’

He helps me back into the
van and we drive up the road and park on the cliff. From here I can see over
the bay. To my right is the bowling club, further on a promontory with some low
buildings. He points out to sea. ‘Philip Island. One day we’ll visit it.’ He
makes us going out again seem perfectly natural.

A brisk northerly churns
the waves. Small boats bob. ‘How about this for co-incidence,’ I remark.
‘Couple of days ago I found some water-colours done by my great aunt Ella set
right here.’

‘Oh.’ He stares around.
‘Has it changed much?’

‘Her paintings show those
pine-trees as smaller. But all this is in them.’

Back in the car he says,
‘Tell me more about that aunt.’

‘She lived in that old
house we’re in now with her twin sister, Lilbet, sixty years.’

‘Were they on together?’

‘Dad says not. Anyway, Lilbet
was disabled.’

An image of Emma discussing
Danny flickers into my mind. She claimed he was ‘Hot, really hot in bed.’ Would
Abdul be a great lover? I have a sudden memory of Jon’s angry face when I
refused to have sex with him. I sternly dismiss both Jon and Emma and turn
slightly to watch Abdul. His eyelashes are unbelievably thick, a girl would
kill for them, his high-bridged nose aristocratic, his fingers long and slim,
the kind that handle delicate operations with ease. I close my eyes and imagine
them slowly unbuttoning my shirt. Now he’s running his fingers down my skin.
His mouth on mine, he caresses my breasts, then slowly moves between my thighs…

If I give myself to you,

will you hear my cry

Or will I be just another

Notch on your gold handled cane?

He asks, ‘What else do you know about
those aunts?’

I tell him about the books,
catalogues and letters I found. ‘All addressed to both Lilbet and Ella.’

‘I’d love you to show me
those catalogues.’

‘Sure,’ I agree, wondering
if this means another date? And if so, when? But all the time a little voice
deep inside is asking: how are you going to convince Emma that Abdul made the
first move?

I wait for Robert to make
the first move. If I half expect him to hug me, all he says after a few
strained moments is, ‘Give me five minutes to change.’

Laura dashes out
with three pairs of bathers. I choose a blue bikini and go inside to put them
on. I’m confused, embarrassed, angry and self pitying. Right now, I really hate
him. Not even a hug. But if he dared to try and hug me, I don’t know what I’d
do. Maybe shove him away…

My answer is to
dive into the pool, tread water and watch him emerge from the house. In
bathers, he looks good. Not tired and chaotic like Julie. Something tightens in
me as I feel a wave of pity for my poor discarded mum.

He slices into
the pool and does a few laps. This gives me time to get out and dry off.

‘Don’t forget the sun block
and repellent,’ Laura calls from the kitchen. Nosy bitch, I think. I decide to
first take a shower. In the bathroom, there’s a heap of fluffy towels, and
buckets of hair and body lotions. All this tells me he’s going to invite me to
stay. Just for this holiday or forever? I feel my anger grow. How come he’s
taken so long to remember my existence? But what with this lovely house, I’m
sorely tempted. Then I remember Julie. How will she ever manage on her own? And
what about Abdul? If only Dessi was here offering her support, this would be
easier.

‘Emma? We’re
having a drink. What’ll you have?’ Robert sticks his head around the bedroom
door.

I scowl
fiercely. ‘Can’t you knock?’

‘Uh, sorry.’ He
ducks his head. ‘Forgot you’re almost grown up.’ He grins and looks
embarrassed.

‘Yes…’ wanting
to punish him. ‘Well you missed a lot of it, didn’t you?’

His grin slips
slightly. ‘We need to talk. The three of us.’ He turns to go away.

Typical. He’s
always run away from anything unpleasant.

When I go back
into the sunroom, the table is all set up with bowls of nuts and olives. Laura
is sipping a long frosty drink, Robert holding a short squat glass. They make a
handsome couple.

I allow my scowl
to hang out.

‘What will you
have, Emma?’ He asks. ‘Lemonade? Coke?’

I just stare.
Where’s he been these last three years?

‘I think she’d
like a beer, Rob,’ Laura puts in helpfully.

‘Beer?’ His
eyebrows shoot into his hair.

‘I’d prefer a
vodka,’ I say just to annoy him. ‘Got any orange juice?’

‘Since when have
you been drinking?’

‘I
am
eighteen, Dad,’ I say
sharply. ‘Means I can drive, vote
and
drink.’

‘Yes, of course
you can,’ Laura nods vigorously. ‘Rob? A vodka and orange, please.’

Though Dad
doesn’t hide his displeasure, he busies himself mixing my drink. Laura turns to
me and whispers ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Emma. He really is trying.’

‘Yes.’ I hide my
give-away hands in my pockets. ‘It’s hard for me too.’

Laura sighs.
‘We’re
all
trying, Emma.

Robert puts my
drink on the table without looking at me.

How soon can I
leave?

‘The bugs are
nearly ready, darl,’ he calls from the back yard.

‘You’re going to
love these, Emma,’ darl carols. She opens a bottle of wine and the bugs are
brought in on a huge platter.

Robert looks
pleased with himself. ‘One of my secret recipes.’

My chin drops.
The last time I recall him cooking it was a disaster of scorched eggs and burnt
toast.

‘Like this, Em.’
He shows me how to fork the flesh out of the bugs. Darl makes ‘Mmmm’ sounds. At
least while we’re eating, we don’t have to talk. When we finish a meal where
every mouthful sticks in my throat, she nods meaningfully and says, ‘You two go
and relax in the lounge room while I make coffee.’

This is it, I
suppose.

‘Em, I suppose
you’ve guessed what I’m about to say,’ he begins with a hopeful look. ‘Uh, your
room and…er, everything.’

He’s expecting
me to respond. Only I don’t.

If only my
stupid hands would stop trembling.

‘I, er,
we
thought it might be a good
idea for you to, ah, live up here for a while. With…us.’

I watch a
trickle of sweat run down his temple. Isn’t he amazing? I haven’t seen him for
three years, hardly spoken in fact, and now he’s making plans for me. But he
knows nothing about me any more. And in all that time he didn’t even care.

‘I don’t expect
you to make up your mind this minute.’ He reaches out to pat my head. ‘You’ll
need to think about it. I know that. But we were hoping that…’

‘Hold on a
minute, Dad,’ I rush in. ‘I’ve got
a life. And it’s not here. I’m hoping
to get into RMIT. I can’t just drop everything because
you
think it’s a good idea for
me to move up here.’ And suddenly all my anger and hurt billow out, ‘You didn’t
give a shit about me when you pissed off and I hardly heard from you…’