Please Don't Leave Me Here (20 page)

Forget it — she rips the page out of her notebook and throws it in the bin. Matt's too clever to believe that's fiction.

She tries stream-of-consciousness writing. It uncovers a memory of a holiday at Cradle Mountain in Tasmania with Joan, Auntie Linda, and Brigitte's cousins. It was after Dad died. Brigitte was nine or ten, and Ryan must have been eleven or twelve. It was during the summer, but it snowed. The kids had never seen snow before, and they played in it in their pyjamas, throwing snowballs at each other. Brigitte had imagined snow would feel like cold marshmallow or cotton wool, and she was shocked to find that it was so hard, that it could hurt so much. Joan had some sort of breakdown, and they found her wandering around in the snow wearing a nightdress and only one of her Chanel slippers.

‘Watcha doin', Pagan?' Ember jolts her back from the chill of Cradle Mountain with a glass of champagne and raspberry. Champagne is made from grapes, and there must be a trace of fruit in the raspberry cordial; so, technically, she's not breaking the
Cleo
diet.

‘Thanks. I'm writing a story for my writing class.'

‘You're too smart to be a stripper.' Ember's wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping. She's just come off the main stage after performing her ‘wet-n-wild' show. She throws her purple faux-snake skin shoes in the bin, and takes another pair from her bag.

‘Don't you think that's wasteful?' Brigitte says.

‘The water fucks ‘em. Makes the violet colour run.'

‘Violet? They look purple to me.'

‘They're
violet
. Only cost twenty bucks at the Vic Market anyway. Bought ten pairs.' She dries her hair, reapplies her lipstick, and flitters out of the dressing room to do some lap dances before her next podium set.

Brigitte forgets about doing lap dances as she sips her drink and chews her pen. She writes:

Nobody usually came here at this time of year. The park ranger yawned. Boring routine checks. Hang on a minute — the door to the only occupied cabin was ajar. He'd better have a look. He zipped up his jacket, pulled on the hood and got out of the car. The driver's side of the station wagon parked out front was open. The wind whistled and swung the keys in the ignition. There were no other signs of the family he'd seen arrive a week ago. Down at the old chalet he found one gold ballerina shoe half-buried in the snow.

‘Pagan. Podium two in five minutes,' Hannah calls.

Brigitte closes her notebook.

31

Matt teaches them about writing dialogue.
Dialogue reveals character and subtext … avoid adverbs and attributions other than ‘said' … William Faulkner …
Brigitte can't concentrate. She rubs her knee; it's starting to ache. Matt's eyes are too blue. Focus, focus. He's wearing the brown sweater again, and faded jeans. She still can't work out who he reminds her of. Dad? Maybe a tiny bit; but, no, that's not it.

The pain becomes unbearable, and she excuses herself while Matt finishes up the class. She rushes to the bathroom, takes some Panadol, and tightens the bandage around her knee.

Matt's looking at the notice board in the corridor when she comes out. ‘Coming down to the coffee shop, Brig?'

‘OK.' She forces a smile through the pain, and tries not to limp.

‘Started your story?'

‘Yep.'

‘What's it about?'

‘Not telling.'

He grins. They don't speak in the lift. He puts his hands into his jeans pockets, and she stares at the floor. Then they look sideways at each other and can't help laughing.

They catch up with the rest of the class — the same café, same outside tables. Jack stays longer than the others, smoking, and talking — animatedly, using his arms — about Hemingway. Matt nods slowly, but his eyes are glazing over. He glances at Brigitte, trying to keep a straight face. Jack looks from Matt to Brigitte, back to Matt, then he raises his eyebrows, and Brigitte feels her cheeks blushing pink.

‘Ah, well. Better be going,' Jack says, and ambles off towards Flinders Street.

‘Are you studying or working, Brig?' Matt rocks back on his chair.

‘Working.'

‘Where?' It was the question she'd wished he'd never ask.

She twists her hair around a finger, not wanting to lie to him. ‘I work at the Gold Bar.'

‘No, you don't!' The front legs of his chair hit the ground.

She nods.

‘But that's a strip joint, isn't it?'

‘I work behind the bar.' Sometimes she does go behind the bar to get a drink for a punter, or for herself.

‘I can't imagine you working in a place like that.'

She looks at the table, picking at the edge with a thumbnail as if there is paint peeling.

‘You don't seem …' When she looks up, he catches her out with direct eye-contact — she can't look away. ‘You're so quiet and …'

‘Innocent?'

‘Yes.'

It was meant to be a joke, and she laughs — not sure if she's flattered or offended.

‘What's it like in there?'

‘Are you telling me you've never been?'

He shakes his head. Perhaps he's telling the truth. Unlikely, but maybe all men aren't the same.

‘It's pretty sleazy.'

‘You need to find another job, Brig.'

She runs her thumb-pads across the shiny surface of her fingernails. He looks down at them, too.

‘Coffee? Or peppermint tea?'

How did he remember that? She asks for a flat white. She's off her diet this week.

He goes in to order. The white-and-black tiles are crumbling around the entrance. She looks at the sandwiches and cakes under dome platters in the shop front, and catches her reflection in the window, smiling. There's a crack in the glass. She redirects her gaze to the old building at the Flinders Lane end — it reminds her of Gotham City. She wishes she didn't have to go back to the apartment. She's tired of playing house.

‘So what's your story about?' He sits back at the table.

‘Told you I'm not telling.'

‘I'll get to hear it next week.'

‘Next week!'

‘Yep. You missed the end of the class when I asked everybody to bring in their pieces to workshop.'

The waiter places their coffees on the table.

‘Just remembered I have something on next week.' She laughs again, and sips her coffee.

‘No you don't.'

This is the most she's laughed for … ever.

Matt reaches across for the sugar — the back of his hand too close to her, and she flinches.

‘Sorry. I …' She doesn't know what to say.

He frowns.

‘Sorry. It's OK.' She wants to snuggle up against his sweater. It looks so soft. There's a hole starting to form in the left-shoulder seam; she would like to sew that up for him.

‘I have to go.' She stands up, and starts to put on her coat. One of the sleeves is inside out, and when she flicks it the right way she knocks over her coffee. ‘Sorry.'

He stands the cup upright, and wipes the spilt coffee with some serviettes. ‘Is everything OK?'

She nods.

‘You sure?'

‘Yep.' She rushes off — ignoring the pain in her knee and the stupid tears in her eyes — half-walking, half-running up Degraves Street. She trips on the gutter.
Idiot. He must think I'm crazy.

32

Ember struts into the dressing room with at least three hundred dollars hanging out of her garter belt. ‘R–r–rob's out there asking for you.'

Brigitte puts the costume she's sewing aside and finishes her drink. She slides her feet into a pair of red stilettoes, and sashays out to see him. R-r-rob is a weirdo regular of hers, with a stutter and a fetish for r–r–red shoes — he likes to fill them with money.

He smiles moronically when she sits and puts her feet up on his table.

‘Hello, m–m–mistress P–p–pagan.'

‘Drink your beer, Rob,' she says. ‘And put some money in my shoes. Now!' He likes her to order him around.

R–r–rob's eyes goggle behind his thick round glasses. He's drooling, a bead of saliva shining at the corner of his mouth, and an erection snaking inside his trousers. He drinks his beer, and fills her shoes with twenty- and fifty-dollar notes.

She stifles a yawn, and looks up at the two blue lights above the main stage: Matt's eyes.
Stop it, Brigitte. Stop thinking about him. Especially after the performance at the coffee shop.

Vince the lawyer saunters in with Doctor Dave, the cosmetic surgeon who brings the dancers cocaine and does their boob jobs for half price. The cash register in her head cha-chings. She tells R–r–rob his time is up. He understands that her other customers will get jealous if she spends too much time with him.

Vince heads for the bar to order a shaker of some lethal concoction, and Dave comes over, waving a fifty-dollar note as Brigitte climbs onto a podium. The DJ plays ‘The Most Beautiful Girl in the World' for her.

‘Hi, Pagan. Hear you've hurt your knee,' says Dave. ‘Can I have a look at it?'

‘It'll cost you.'

He pulls out another fifty, and places them both under her garter belt as she dangles her legs over the edge of the podium.

‘Fuck, it's really swollen.' He feels the fluid around her knee, and tells her she needs an arthroscopy.

‘I know.'

‘You shouldn't be dancing on it.'

Al comes over and jokes about them not being allowed to touch the merchandise.

Vince sits next to Dave, and places a shaker and three shot glasses on the podium ledge. He looks up at Brigitte, ‘Hi, beautiful.'

Dave slips his business card into Brigitte's bra and tells her to give him a call. He can get her a job as a medical sales rep, with a company car and everything. She doesn't mention that she can't drive.

‘Now, how about taking off some of those clothes?'

Her garters — one on each thigh — are so full of money that they keep falling down. She squashes the cash into her overflowing locker in the dressing room. A few fifties stick out the bottom as she forces it shut and clicks the combination lock. She's managed to get Matt off her mind and kill her knee pain with too many lethal shaker drinks, joints out the back with Ember, and lines of coke with Dave and Vince.

She steadies herself against the wall as she makes her way along the passage back out into the club. A punter sitting in a club chair in the lap-dance area beckons to her with a hundred-dollar note.

The room spins as she drapes herself over him and instructs him to unfasten her bra. She places her hands on his shoulders and sways slowly, softly brushing the insides of his thighs with her gyrating hips. She turns, pauses to remove her G-string, looks over at the door, and sees Sean come in. He looks around and walks towards the bar. He's holding a bunch of white flowers.
What is he doing here?
It's so out of context, it's funny. She laughs, and her laughter — seeming to have substance and colour — reverberates inside her head. He sees her, but she doesn't acknowledge him; she just keeps swaying and laughing. He turns and walks out.
Hey, wait a minute.
She tries to follow him, but doesn't get far — everything is too fuzzy, and the punter pulls her back by the wrist.

Big Johnny cleans up the flowers strewn across the sticky carpet.

33

Tracy and Kayla have gone home, but Ian's back. Eric doesn't look away from the Nintendo game he's playing with Ian when Brigitte, weighed down with shopping bags, walks into the apartment. Ian takes in a quick up-and-down of her, and loses the game.

‘Who's Marco?' Eric says.

‘My driving instructor.'

‘He rang while you were out. He's running an hour late.' He rolls the Juicy Fruit around his tongue, and lights a joint. ‘What did you buy, Pet?' He shakes the flame off the match.

‘A mobile phone like yours.' And some shoes, cosmetics, books. And lingerie that she had a daydream in the shop about wearing for Matt.
Stop it
, she warns herself.

‘Want a smoke?'

She shakes her head.

‘Did you say “driving instructor”?'

‘Yes. I'm starting a new job I have to drive for.'

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

She walks to the bedroom and closes the door behind her. Eric and Ian cough and laugh about something, and then the bip-bip-bip of the game starts again.

Brigitte kicks off her shoes, sits on the bed, and plays with the settings on her new Nokia N100 while she waits for Marco. All the girls at work are swapping their pagers for mobile phones. She works out how to set the ring tone and program phone numbers. She stretches out her legs, and swishes her calves against the gold satin bed linen — it's cool and smooth. Sensual. She thinks of Matt, and her stomach flutters. She wishes she had his number in her phone. She pretends: types in
MATT
, and adds a made-up number to the list.