Please Don't Leave Me Here (32 page)

‘It's OK. It's OK.' Matt's stroking her hair, the way her dad used to. ‘Just a bad dream. Shh.'

Sleep drives her away again.

Matt brings the papers and a bottle of wine up to the bedroom in the late afternoon. The smell of the wine nauseates her, and she can't finish one glass.

‘Maybe you should see a doctor,' he says.

‘Just the flu.' She smiles weakly.

‘Want to see a movie?' He reads the film guide. ‘When you're feeling better?'

She nods.

‘
Pulp Fiction
's supposed to be good.'

‘
The Lion King
.'

‘
The Lion King
!'

‘It's not just for kids.'

‘I forgot — you are a kid.'

‘No, I'm not. I'll be twenty next week.'

‘Next week?'

‘Boxing Day.'

‘Really?' He looks back at the paper and says, ‘
The Lion King
starts on Boxing Day. We could see it and then go somewhere for a special birthday dinner.'

‘Can I drive?' She sits up, feeling a bit better.

‘Maybe. Still getting your licence in the morning?'

‘If I pass the test.'

‘Of course you will.' He puts a hand on her thigh. ‘Would you like to spend Christmas with me?'

She wrinkles her brow and looks up at the ceiling, pretending to think about it. ‘Yes.'
And every other day of the rest of my life.
‘What will you be cooking?'

‘Promise no seafood.' He folds the paper and places it on the bed. The pages fan out, and Brigitte sees the start of a story about Death Rowe: Tour cancelled, Calvin Rowe arrested at the airport for drug possession. She lies back, feeling sick again.

46

She gets up early on the Thursday before Christmas, showers, and puts on her Chanel dress. It feels tight. She forces herself to eat half a piece of toast, and makes a pot of weak tea. The poster at the doctor's said coffee was bad for the baby. She sits on the top step, and drinks her tea from the butterfly mug.

Matt's still asleep when she goes into the bedroom to say goodbye. Di sleeps beside him, her kittens due any day now. Brigitte smiles. Is that flutter in her stomach a kick? No, it couldn't be. It's something else; something has shifted, changed — but not just in her body. ‘I'll be back later.' She kisses Matt's lips softly. ‘I love you.'

‘Love you too, Brig,' he mumbles in his half-sleep.

She scores 100 per cent on her driving test. At the VicRoads office in Carlton, Marco gives her a Christmas present. She can tell it's a box of chocolates. He hugs her — tighter, longer than he should, then realises what he's doing is inappropriate, and reluctantly lets her go. He tells her to call any time — with questions about driving, or road rules, or just to talk. Or maybe go out for dinner some time.

She looks happy, even though you're not supposed to smile, in the photograph on her probationary licence. Her body is heavier, but she feels light.

She has the taxi driver pull into a bottle shop on the way to Matt's. As she weighs a good bottle of champagne in her hands, she makes the decision to tell him about the baby today. And about Eric, about everything, and then they'll go to the police, and it will all be OK. She'll cancel her appointment at the Fertility Clinic. She pays at the counter, and rushes back to the taxi.

Heat haze shimmers on the roads as they drive through Fitzroy. The hot weather has brought out all the junkies and drunks. They're wandering around like zombies in singlets and shorts, white flesh mushrooming and turning pink over waistbands. Brigitte's dress is stretched uncomfortably tight across her stomach. There's a Paul Kelly song on the radio, her theme song: ‘Dumb Things'. But today, for once, she is going to do what has clearly become — thanks to Johnnie Walker — the smart thing. The right thing.

She
is
going to tell Matt. About the baby. Eric and the police can wait until later. And they'll celebrate with the champagne — he can drink it anyway, and she might have just a tiny sip. He's going to be happy, and everything
is
going to be OK.

She asks the taxi driver to pull up across the road from Matt's place. She's searching in her handbag for her wallet to pay when she looks up and sees the postman, holding an A4 size envelope, in Matt's doorway. Matt opens the door. He's wearing a white T-shirt and long denim shorts, and his feet are bare. He should be more careful, with syringes always in the street. He looks out of place in this part of town: fresh and shiny against the grunge. She can see the flash of his eyes from here — Adonis blue. He chats with the postie, takes the envelope and the rest of his mail, smiles and waves, and goes inside.

Brigitte looks at her change from a fifty in the taxi-driver's hand. He's not handing it over; he's still talking to her — about Fitzroy in the old days, Squizzy Taylor or something. She nods her head vigorously, not listening. Yack, yack, yack.
Come on
. Her whole body tingles. She's afraid she won't go through with this if she has to wait much longer. She's ready to tell the driver to keep the change as a tip. He writes something on a piece of paper and gives it to her — his phone number.
What?
He finally hands over the change, tells her she's beautiful and to call if she wants to go out for a drink with him on the weekend.

She lets herself in with her key. Her heart flutters. She leans against the cool wall for a moment. The bluestone needs a few consecutive days of hot weather before it absorbs and holds the heat. Her hand sweaty, she climbs the stairs, holding tight to the banister for courage. The comforting smell of clean washing steadies her; she inhales a deep breath of it. Matt's brown sweater hangs in the doorway at the top of the stairs, drying on a coat hanger. The butterfly mug is where she left it this morning on the top step. She smiles and relaxes when she sees him through the bedroom doorway, folding laundry and placing it neatly in piles on the bed. The outline of the serpent tattoo shows through his T-shirt. The bottle of champagne clinks against something in her bag. He hears her come in, but doesn't turn around.

‘I saw the photos, Brigitte.'

‘What?'

‘The photos,' he says, deadpan.

She doesn't understand what he's talking about until she sees on the bed the A4 envelope with 8” by 10” prints poking out the top — the ones Richard Headley took: her in the red bustier and G-string, the fluro green bikini, topless, nude.

‘How could you do that?'

She stands in the doorway, looking down at her swollen feet in new, backless Versace sandals.

‘What were you thinking?' A vein pulses in his temple.

She grasps the door frame, dizzy. ‘Why were you going through my mail?'

‘You didn't tell me you had it redirected here. I didn't even look, just thought it was for me — a manuscript coming back or something.'

She sees underneath the ripped envelope some other letters with redirection stickers addressed to her, a couple of university logos, the course-enrolment information she had posted out. Why couldn't he have opened those first?

‘How could you let yourself be exploited like that?'

‘I wasn't being exploited. I agreed to do it.' She sticks out her chin. ‘And they're only shots for my portfolio. I haven't done any jobs yet.' How is she going to get around to telling him about the baby now?

He keeps folding the clothes, faster, less neatly.

‘It's not exploitation. Just a way to make money. No big deal.'

He shakes his head, and sucks in his breath.

‘All those men's magazines …' She should stop now and acknowledge how upset he is, but she goes on, her voice taking on a screechy edge, like Joan's. ‘It's the women who are getting paid for the photos, and the stupid men who are paying to look. So who's really being exploited?' Her face is hot.

‘You seriously believe that?' His voice sounds deeper, still calm, but only just.

She shrugs, wanting to dismiss it now, to say she's sorry, it was a mistake — make it go away so she can tell him what she desperately needs to. But he's not letting it go.

‘And I know you didn't really work behind the bar at that club.'

Her eyelids flicker as she looks into the corner of the room. Three gift boxes are stacked on the bedside table: one wrapped in Christmas paper, one in birthday wrapping, and the third is a little blue Tiffany box tied with white ribbon.

She looks back to Matt. ‘You came into work to check up on me?'

He shakes his head. ‘I'd never go to a place like that. But I know you couldn't afford all your designer clothes, your beauty salon appointments, on a bar tender's wage.'

She looks at her sandals again.

‘Come on, Brig, you're better than that. Put it behind you. Don't you want to start again?' He softens, and this could be her out, but she doesn't take it; she feels the need to defend herself. He's not her father.

‘How do you know what I want?' She glances at the Tiffany box again, and unconsciously rests a hand on her abdomen.

‘I don't. But surely it's not this.' He picks up the envelope, throws it back onto the bed so that the photos spill out further. She meets her own gaze in a photo: a young Joan, tussled hair, the provocative Bardot pout that Richard had her do for the camera.

‘What the fuck were you thinking, Brigitte?'

She starts — she has never heard him raise his voice before. She reaches down to pick up the photos, but he holds her wrist. ‘Leave them.'

‘Don't do that to me.' She wrenches her arm away — over-dramatic, as he was barely holding it — and backs out of the room. She trips on the stairs, clings to the banister, and falls to her knees on the third top step.

He rushes towards her, reaches out a hand to help her up, but she pushes him away as she stands.

‘Don't touch me!' Something has snapped. ‘You can't tell me what I can and can't do. You don't know anything about me.' She's yelling at her mother, at Eric, at her dad for leaving her, at everybody who has hurt her. ‘Why don't you just leave me the fuck alone?' She screams in Matt's face, hears Joan's voice, remembers how Joan's eyes shined when she yelled. He backs away from her.

She picks up the butterfly mug and throws it at him. He protects his face with his hands. It misses his head, but smashes to pieces against the bedroom doorframe.

He opens his mouth to say something, but, shocked by her violence, nothing comes out. He holds up his hands. A red line buds with blood along his little finger where a shard of mug must have sliced it. He doesn't seem to notice.

She takes a few tentative steps down the stairs, uncertain now, and sorry, but it's too late. She looks up at him.

‘Just go, Brigitte. Go back to him.'

‘What?' No more screaming — she's speaking in a whisper now.

‘You always tell me how clever I am, but you've treated me like I'm stupid.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Just go.'

‘No, Matt. I swear — '

‘Go!' Now he's yelling.

‘There's nobody else.'

‘
Go!
' He stands at the top of the stairs — he needs a haircut — looking more like Kurt Cobain than ever. He knocks the brown sweater onto the floor as he turns away.

She slinks out, stops at the door, takes his key from its pocket in her bag, turns, and leaves it on the bottom step — the letter J facing up so that the diamantes are showing.

A French window is open at the apartment; the light is on. Her mobile rings as she walks through the foyer. It's Matt. She turns it off, goes out the back, and throws it in a rubbish bin. It's over. She could never be good enough for Matt. But Eric accepts her as she is; he doesn't judge her. He'll be angry for a while, and maybe hit her. Then everything will go back to normal. She'll get rid of the baby, have her knee fixed, take a job in King Street. Pagan could do that.

The apartment stinks: Juicy Fruit, a mountain of dishes piled up on the sink, the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, empty wine bottles on the table. Eric is sitting on the sofa, beneath his David Boyd, gazing at the cricket match on TV. The glow from the screen casts an unearthly sheen on his face.

‘Where've you been, Pet?' His voice is strangely placid, with an edge of something else. She hasn't heard this tone before, and the sound of it prickles her skin. She can't find her voice to answer.

She forgot her duffle bag at Matt's — all her stuff is still there. He said he loves her. It's not too late. She glances at the door.

‘Asked you a question.' Eric flicks off the TV with the remote control, and heaves himself off the sofa. He pulls the window shut, and latches it. He turns and sways a little as he lumbers towards her. Drunk? Stoned? Both? His eyes are red and watery.