Double Exposure (3 page)

Four
T.J.

‘Day off?'

The voice breaks in on her concentration. She allows the book she is reading to fall to the table beside her coffee and turns in her seat.

He is standing with the candy-stripes of the KFC counter behind him and the noise of the food-court all around, a takeaway coffee in one hand and a foil-wrapped kebab in the other, and it takes a moment to place him. He looks so different out of uniform.

‘Hello again,' she says and smiles. She remembers his kindness and something in her is flattered that he remembers her at all.

‘I thought it was you,' he continues, a little nervously. ‘I hope you don't mind me … you know …'

‘Not at all. You want to sit down?'

The food-court is packed. He looks around for a free chair.

‘Okay … I'll just …'

Still holding his meal, he moves across to a nearby table, negotiating with an old couple for one of the chairs and dragging it awkwardly back to the table. Yes, he definitely looks different. White Converse low-cuts that could use a hose-down, jeans, flared and fraying slightly at the hem, a well-loved leather jacket over a ribbed white tee-shirt – probably Tarocash – and a dark-blue Kangol cap perched backwards on his head in homage to Quentin Tarantino.

But for all the manufactured ‘cool', he is a creature caught out of his environment. In the cinema he was relaxed, in control of the situation. She remembers his gesture and feels again the small tide of gratitude that replaced the emptiness she had been feeling.

And the way he'd focused on Ty …

He slides the chair in beside the table back first and sits leaning on the rail, facing her.

‘I'm Cain,' he offers and holds out his hand in a curiously old-fashioned way. She takes it and shakes, mock-formally.

‘T.J.,' she replies. ‘One day, if you get to know me better, I'll let you know what it stands for.'

‘You alone?' His eyes wander around the food-court, in search.

‘Tyson, you mean? Mandy gets him Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays. She's the sitter. God's gift …'

Why don't you give him your life story while you're at it?

Klutz …

‘I'm studying. Design … Fashion and stuff.'

‘Sensational …' A short pause. He takes a moment to study the crowd around the McDonalds counter, before looking back at her. Then he nods towards her top. ‘Did you design that?'

‘This? Kind of … Actually, it's a Justin Howard knock-off. I saw it in a boutique in town and copied the pattern.'

‘You can do that? Just see something and … make it?'

‘Pretty much. If I like it. Mostly, I just design my own stuff. But you're never likely to see any of those pieces hanging in the Imperial Arcade with a three-figure price-tag.'

‘A bit left-field?'

He actually seems interested.

Suddenly she looks at him more closely. He hasn't touched his food and his coffee still has the lid on.

‘You could say that.'

‘All art is either plagiarism or revolution.' He recites the words as if he is drawing them up from a past conversation.

‘Deep! Who said that?'

‘My brother, Chris. But I think he stole it from some painter or other. He's been reading art books and artist biographies since he was a kid. A quote for every occasion. Artists spend a lot more time talking about art than they do actually making it.'

She drains the last drops from her cup and places it carefully onto the table in front of her.

‘I have to go. Mandy's got a doctor's appointment and I don't want her having to drag Ty along with her.'

He hides his reaction well, but she picks it. The slight deflation of the shoulders and the sudden concentration on the foil wrapping of his lunch.

‘Yes, well … It was nice to see you again.' He speaks the words to the table, but then he looks up at her and attempts a smile.

She hesitates. But only for a moment.

‘It stands for Tiffany-Jade … With a hyphen. My mother reads too many romance novels. Still, I suppose I can be thankful I wasn't a boy. She'd probably have saddled me with Ridge or Blake … or Heathcliffe.'

A genuine smile replaces the insecurity.

‘I think it suits you. T.J., I mean. It's cool.'

‘Look, I really do have to go.' She fumbles in her shoulder bag for a pen, then smooths out a napkin.

‘Here's my mobile. Call me … If you want.'

*

T.J.'s story

‘Call me … If you want.'

Okay, it's lame, but the whole scene was like something out of my mother's romance library and I wasn't prepared for it. Besides, I haven't exactly had a lot of one-on-one practice lately.

Normally, I wouldn't be that free with my number. Then again, normally I wouldn't be that free with my name either. It was months before I raised the nerve to tell Ian.

Maybe that was my big mistake. Maybe what I should have done was let him know straight away. Maybe if he'd known I had a name like a Harlequin heroine with multiple personality disorder, he'd have split before things went too far …

I've got to stop that. If he'd left, I wouldn't have Ty and I don't think I could stand that.

My mother says that's not logical. And she's right, of course. If I'd never had Ty, then I wouldn't miss him. Because I'd never have contemplated having a baby at all. Certainly not at sixteen.

But logic doesn't come into it. Because I
do
have a baby and he's as much a part of the fabric of me as … me. And whatever I think of Ian and the way it turned out, I wouldn't change what happened. Not now, not ever.

Maybe the real mistake was not seeing that there's something terribly wrong if you can't even share your name – no matter how bad it might be – especially when you're willing to share so much more.

And that there's something even worse in the fact that he never bothered to ask.

As I left the food-court, I sneaked a look back. Cain was still sitting at the table. He'd turned his chair around and he was leaning forward, eating his lunch. Then, just before I turned away, he looked up and caught me staring. He waved slightly and smiled and I waved back. Then I turned and almost ran out of the Mall, feeling all of fifteen again.

I don't think I expected him to call. I stopped expecting a long time ago. It's safer that way. Otherwise you end up like the compulsory lonely reject in the teen-romance, pigging out on chocolate and watching Brad Pitt movies, waiting for the phone to ring.

It's not Ty's fault.

I mean, everyone loves Ty. What's not to love? But … Do the Math. One plus one isn't supposed to add up to three.

Generally, the only ones who don't mind the kid don't mind him because they really have no intention of sticking around long enough for it to become an issue. They figure, she's eighteen, she's got a two-year-old kid. She's easy.

Wham. Bam. Thank you ma'am …

Natural mistake, I suppose. If you're a self-centred, lowlife sleazebag.

Which is why I was sitting with my legs curled up on the lounge, eating a Mars bar and watching
Legends of the Fall,
when my mobile rang …

Five
Across the table

Cain's story

‘You did
what
?' he asked.

I suppose it must have been something of a shock, but even so, Chris's reaction was a bit too theatrical. As usual. He could barely resist the Jim Carrey double take.

‘What's the big deal?' I replied. He annoys me sometimes, launching into sarcasm-mode without checking first to see if things are serious.

‘You asked her
out
, dude! That's the big deal. Red-letter day. I was beginning to worry that you were turning into an autosexual.'

‘A
what
?'

A brief hand-gesture and his meaning was suddenly clear.

‘Wanker yourself!'

I feinted with my right, then swung a left-handed haymaker, but as usual he was too quick. He blocked my arm, grabbed my wrist and turned it behind my back before I could counter. Then he used his free hand to push gently behind my knees, so that I collapsed into a kneeling position.

For maybe a second he held me there, then he laughed and released my arm, stepping back and holding out a hand. I ignored it, sitting down on the bare floorboards.

‘Come on, bro. You'll have to be quicker than that. You wouldn't last a week in this neighbourhood.'

‘Cut the
Boyz in the ‘Hood
routine,
bro.'
I used the emphasis deliberately and for once I saw him wince. A small victory. I capitalised. ‘It's Camperdown not bloody New York. I can just see the new Everlast campaign: “Nothing soft comes out of Camperdown”.'

A points decision, which he acknowledged by changing the subject.

‘This mystery girl … What's she like?'

‘Lonely, I think. She's got a kid. Two years old. And cute as anything.'

‘Who, the girl or the kid?'

‘The kid. Tyson.'

A small laugh. ‘Tough name.'

‘Tough life. Total dickweed for a father. He used to beat her up. Even when she was pregnant.'

‘And now?' He sat down beside me on the floor.

I knew what he was getting at, but I asked anyway.

‘What do you mean?'

‘The dickweed. He still in the picture?'

‘Maybe … Look, it was a twenty-minute phone call. I didn't get her entire life history.'

He looked at me, suddenly serious.

‘Yeah, well maybe you should have. I mean it, Cain. You punch like a girl. It could be a good idea to find out what you might be up against.'

‘Right … Like it's going to last long enough to worry about. One date and she'll realise her mistake. Then it'll be the usual routine. “I
like
you, Cain, I really do. You're a great friend, but I can't go out with you. It'll just ruin what we have …” Been there. Done that. Got the frigging tee-shirt … Damn it, Chris, I'm scared. I'm gonna blow it before it even starts. I can never think of anything to say.'

‘Of course you can. You just had a twenty-minute conversation with her, ya meathead.'

He had a point. Sort of …

‘But that was on the phone. When I'm there in the same time zone, I get brain-freeze and clam up. And I don't want to. Not this time.'

He reached across and held the back of his hand against my forehead, like a doctor in a midday soap.

‘Damn! The boy's got it bad.'

Then he stood up and drifted across to the table, picking up a can of Coke and sipping it thoughtfully.

‘Tell you what I'll do,' he began, and somewhere in the back of my head alarm-bells began sounding …

*

Nine-fifteen.

The breeze has come up, moderating the humidity, and suddenly the decision to eat outside seems like the smart choice. T.J. isolates a spoon-tip of her dessert and lifts it halfway to her mouth, catching his eye as he sips his coffee and waits for an answer. She considers for a moment longer, swallows the gelato then replies.

‘Russell Crowe in A
Beautiful Mind.
I mean, really … Best Picture, Best Director, Best Supporting Actress … and nothing for the one person who makes the whole film work. Biggest rip-off in the history of the Awards. Except for the fact they never gave Spielberg an Oscar until
Schindler's List,
of course. What about yours?'

‘Mine? No question about it. How they could pass over
Dude, Where's My Car?
I'll never know. I mean, what were they thinking? They just don't make movies like that any more.'

He says it with a completely straight face. She laughs and puts her spoon down.

‘You are totally sick.'

‘In some circles that would be taken as the supreme compliment, so I'll choose to assume that you have a secret other life and that sometimes you move in those circles.'

She shakes her head, still smiling.

‘My only other life is at home babysitting my mother. Who's probably asleep in front of the TV by now.'

He is different, somehow. More confident. None of the usual hesitation when he answers a question. Or asks one. Part of her is relieved. There is little of the predictable awkwardness and they are moving quickly to a level of comfortable familiarity.

Funny how it goes. The first date. One long Q and A session. Searching for the common threads, the topics to avoid, the areas of specific interest. Clues to the real character under the first-date persona. And that's where the only slight shadow lies. If it is a shadow. It all seems a little … too smooth.

Where is the boy who found it so hard to raise the subject of a date in the first place? Ironically, it was his nervousness that made her break her rule and say yes. The feeling that here was a safe bet.

After Ian and all his macho bullshit …

She studies him closely, as he turns to watch the mechanised pissing-contest playing itself out on the other side of the intersection. Side-by-side at the red light, a factory-fresh orange Monaro and a custom-lowered Skyline – complete with the compulsory spoiler and purple neon under the flared skirts -exchange the language of challenge. Revs ebbing and surging, clutches feathered to friction-point, heels on the brakes reining back the horses.

He glances back and catches her staring. Embarrassed, she looks down at her gelato.

When she looks back up, the lights on the cross street are orange and the Monaro eases its clutch a fraction, allowing the power of the V8 to pull against the brake. The Skyline's turbo is like a wind-rush as it builds up boost. As the light in front of them goes green, the Monaro spins its wheels, laying rubber in a cloud of smoke, before the rear gains traction and it leaps forward, fish-tailing a little, as the driver wrestles for control.

At the same time, the Skyline's turbo has unleashed its pent-up power and the smaller car has shot forward. It is ten metres ahead and approaching the next light, which turns green as it passes.

The two cars disappear, accelerating in the direction of the highway. And the radar trap set up in the side street a little further up the hill.

‘Cain,' she says and watches him return his attention to her. ‘I'm glad I said yes. It's been a while and I wasn't sure …'

He smiles.

‘Believe me, no one's ever sure. It's a lottery. You never really know who you're going to be sitting across the table from … I'm glad you said yes, too.'

*

One-fifteen.

Cain watches from the window as the car pulls up and his brother gets out. A minute later, the door opens.

‘Well?' The word is spoken to his brother's back. Chris is shrugging off his jacket thoughtfully and his silence sits like a threat between them.

He hangs the jacket on the doorknob and speaks without turning.

‘I'm sorry man. I couldn't help it. You didn't tell me she was so … amazing. I wasn't prepared. I was sitting there, being my usual impressive self and … There was nothing I could do, man.'

‘You couldn't
help
yourself? What do you mean, there was nothing you could do? It was your idea. You –'

‘Gotcha!' Chris turns, barely able to control the laughter. ‘Jesus, man, you're such an easy mark. It's almost unfair.' He places both hands on his brother's shoulders and stares directly into his eyes. ‘You were brilliant, brother. She's hooked.'

Turning, he reaches into the inside pocket of the jacket and pulls out a small digital voice-recorder, slapping it into Cain's hand.

‘In case you want to know what you talked about. It could be a bit embarrassing if you can't remember. You're taking her to Fox Studios on Friday, by the way. Second date, buddy. You did it.'

A short hesitation.

‘What exactly
did
I do?'

Chris shakes his head slowly and puts a protective arm around his brother's shoulders, as he has done since they were children.

‘You were a perfect gentleman. Which, personally, I find a tad boring, I have to admit. But she seemed to appreciate it. She's a good girl, bro. And good girls never do anything on the first date. The second date, on the other hand …'

He slides the grip tighter, until he has Cain in a headlock. A short struggle and they are lying on the floor, laughing and staring up at the ceiling.

‘It's late. You staying the night?'

Cain looks at his watch.

‘Might as well.'

He sits up, serious suddenly.

‘She is amazing, isn't she?'

Chris rolls onto his side, looking up. ‘Yeah, bro. She is. So don't blow it.'