The Dark Part of Me (9 page)

Nothing but BrisVegas.

I grabbed Scott’s duty-free scotch, broke the seal and took a big, burny slug. I stared at her satiny cheek, her glossy hair, her dainty crotch. Next thing, I was tearing the photo in
half, then quarters, like my hands had taken over. They kept going until there was nothing left of her, just shredded bits of leg and eye and nipple scattered on the carpet.
Don’t laugh
at me, you bitch.
I couldn’t just leave her there so I picked up all the pieces and shoved them down the crack between the bed and the wall, hoping Scott would never find them. Then, I
went back out, half-cut and hunting for my man, wearing his orange jumper.

Out on the lawn, The Grubs were playing Beatles covers. Scott’s brother, Nick, was singing, his dreads flying about like snakes. Mr Greenwood was on the barbie, tossing steakettes on the
grill, his sweat dripping onto the meat. The men stood drinking and eating snags stuffed into long bread rolls, washed down with warmish beer. The women sat on plastic chairs, arranged in a
semi-circle facing the band, paper plates piled with salads, balanced on shiny knees. It was hot and itchy in the jumper and I felt lightheaded, a bit tipsy. The band sounded warped and distorted
as if they were playing underwater. I trailed the border between light and dark, where the arc of floodlight ended and the green grass turned black. It wasn’t long before I spotted him. He
was standing near the fence, chatting to Bomber and Muzza. He had his back to me but I knew it was him. He was wearing a green T-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. His hair was long, tied back with
an elastic band. My armpits prickled with instant sweat. The lawn seemed to tilt forwards, tipping me towards him. I was close enough to reach out and touch him. My hand floated towards his right
shoulder. It landed but didn’t register. I squeezed the bone and he spun around, blinded by the glare of the floodlight. I drank him in. Stubble on a sharpened jaw. His chest meatier, harder.
He blocked the light with his arm, squinting at me.

‘Oh. Hi, babe. You made it.’

Babe. He called me babe.

Leaning forwards, he pecked me, once, on the cheek. His growth grazed my face. The smell of him filled me with want.

Say something.
But my tongue sat fat as a lizard in my gob.
Fuck, I wanted him.
He was checking me out, I could tell.

‘Looking good,’ he said, giving me the once-over. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

‘I joined the gym.’ Scott used to say he liked my curves, but from the way he was eyeing me off it was obvious he appreciated my newer, sleeker figure. My hard work had paid off.
‘You’ve put on a bit,’ I said, jabbing him in the belly, giving him grief to disguise my rapture.

‘Yeah, I know. That’ll be the beer.’

Before I could stop it, my hand shot out and stroked his sandpaper jaw.

‘Like it?’ His voice light and cheery. ‘I’m growing a beard.’ He fondled his chin.

‘It’s alright,’ I said, mesmerized by his lips. ‘You look like a fisherman.’

‘Most chicks complain about the prickles.’

‘I could handle your prickles.’

He laughed and his eyes sparkled. I couldn’t stop smiling. Behind him, Bomber and Muzza were smirking, but I ignored them.

‘Hey, Woody, she’s wearing your jumper!’ Bomber gawped like a drongo.

I looked down at the jumper like I didn’t know what he was talking about.

Scott turned to me. ‘Where’d you get that?’

‘She just wants to be close to you, man. Isn’t that sweet?’ Bomber puckered his rubbery lips and made a sucking noise. I could’ve kicked his nuts to a pulp.

Muzza chipped in. ‘I’ve read somewhere about this weird mental condition where people confuse hot and cold temperatures. They think it’s cold in summer and hot in winter. Maybe
you’ve got that, Rosie.’

‘Yeah, right, thanks for that, Muzz, but I’m not mental,’ I said, even though I knew I was acting pretty weird.

Scott said, ‘When we were in India, we saw a yogi walking over burning coals. They imagine the coals are chunks of ice and that’s how they do it. We made one guy show us the soles of
his feet. Not one scar. It was incredible.’ The dirty little ‘we’ was there again, crapping on everything, but I pushed it out.

Scott turned around to face the band and I stepped up beside him, acting like I was really into the music, too. He was just about to say something to me when Mrs Greenwood screeched over the
mike, ‘Come on everyone. Gather around. Time to cut the cake.’

‘Better do what the old lady says. Catch you later.’ Scott nodded and sloped off. Bomber and Muzza followed him.

I stood rooted to the spot grinning like a loon, the world spinning around me; a blur of green lawn and shiny, sweaty faces huddled around the cake table. It was so hot in the jumper that I
could feel foundation running off my face, my fringe pasted in clumps on my forehead. I pictured my freckled scar-face next to the Asian chick’s cool oval of perfection.

‘Rosie, do you want some cake?’ Mrs Greenwood sang out to me and everyone turned to stare at the red-faced girl in an orange jumper, stuck in the middle of the lawn.

‘Nah, I’m OK,’ I squeaked, willing my legs to function; a jerky walk, a skip, then a run across the lawn and into the house. Back in Scott’s bedroom, I ditched the jumper
and re-did my makeup, wondering how long I’d have to wait till Scott and I were alone.

I spent the next few hours downstairs, sitting in a corner of the rumpus room, drinking Fruity Lexia and watching old codgers play shit pool, waiting for the party to end. Scott
didn’t come near me but I figured he was flat strap catching up with his friends – there would be heaps of time for us later. Around midnight, the old codgers went home. Mrs Greenwood
marched upstairs to wash up and Mr Greenwood went to bed maggot. I headed out the back, fairly wasted by then.

A slight breeze rustled through the tree-tops but the night was dense and muggy. It was hard to breathe. Scott was standing around with his mates, polishing off the last of the beers with Nick
and the rest of The Grubs. I lingered by the doorway, waiting for him to see me and come over, but despite some intense vibing, he didn’t. The coloured lightbulbs throbbed like crazy fruit
growing off the fence. I sauntered over to check them out. The red ones looked good. Plump and ripe and bursting as rampant tomatoes. But when I reached out they were so fucking hot I burnt my
fingers. I ran inside and iced the poor suckers in the esky. Feeling stupid and a fair bit agitated, I carted the empty salad bowls upstairs.

Mrs Greenwood was bustling around, wrapping the leftover bread rolls in Gladwrap, transferring the cold snags and burnt steakettes onto smaller plates for the fridge. Kirstie, Bomber’s
on-off squeeze, was at the sink washing up. She was gossiping in a whiney voice to Mrs Greenwood but stopped midstream when I appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Rosie! Thanks for bringing those up,’ said Mrs Greenwood.

‘No worries,’ I said, dumping the salad bowls on the bench.

‘Hi.’ Kirstie waved one blue rubber glove in my direction and smiled sickly sweet. We’d been in first-year law together until I dropped out. I shot her a fake smile, then
turned back to Mrs Greenwood, who looked more youthful than when I’d seen her last. Her hair was streaked with gold highlights and she was wearing a daring shade of hot pink on her lips which
matched the giant hibiscuses on her dress. She was way more glamorous than Mum.

‘Kirstie and I were just talking about you,’ she said.

‘Really? That’s nice.’ It pissed me off no end to see them so chummy. I plonked myself down on a stool. ‘Good to have Scott back?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Greenwood, untying her apron. ‘I’ve missed washing his dirty footy socks, making his cooked breakfasts.’

‘I heard he had a girlfriend over there,’ said Kirstie. ‘Some Asian chick.’

A spurt of vomit came in my mouth but I swallowed it down, gripping the bench. Kirstie’s beady eyes vultured for a reaction but Mrs Greenwood, never wanting to cause a scene, came to the
rescue.

‘He hasn’t mentioned anyone to me.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Besides, I can’t imagine Scott with an Asian, can you, Rosie?’

I shook my head and breathed.
Good on ya, Mrs Greenwood. Nah, I can’t imagine Scott banging an Asian. No way. No fucking way.
And even though I’d seen the photo, I believed
her ’cause she was Mrs Greenwood and she was like my second mum.

Kirstie sniffed and turned back to the washing-up. ‘Well, that’s just what I heard.’ I scowled at the back of her small, peroxided head.

‘Anyone for bourbon?’ Mrs Greenwood pulled a tray of ice-cubes from the deep-freeze.

‘Better not,’ said Kirstie. ‘I’ve got to study this weekend.’

‘Rosie?’ Mrs Greenwood cracked the ice-tray against her thigh and bashed the cubes out onto the bench.

‘Sure.’ I jumped up off the stool, eager to talk more about Scott.

Armed with a bottle of Jim Beam, a litre of Coke and two glasses with ice, we went out to the front veranda. Mrs Greenwood lit a citronella candle for the mossies as I kicked back in a low-slung
deck chair, my feet up on the railing. The night hummed around us. A streetlight flickered out front. The last train to Ipswich rattled in the distance. Mrs Greenwood mixed our drinks. I was
wrecked before we even started. We chatted for a good hour or so about all kinds of rubbish. Like the new dress she was making to wear on Christmas Day, the best way to make pavlova, and her
menopause. She told me all about the hot and cold flushes, the nausea and the periods of forgetfulness and neurotic behaviour. She said you could feel your eggs drying up inside you. It was strange
how Mum never talked to me about these kinds of things. She was only a few years younger than Mrs Greenwood so she was probably due her menopause quite soon.

‘But listen to me droning on,’ Mrs Greenwood said, mixing herself another bourbon. ‘I’m starved for female conversation.’

‘We used to chat all the time.’

‘That’s right. Scott used to complain that I hogged you.’

‘So, d’ya reckon he’s changed much since he’s been overseas?’ I wheedled.

‘He’s got that dreadful beard.’

‘I don’t mind it.’

‘It’s terrible.’

‘What about what Kirstie said?’

‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said, patting my lap. ‘He’d have told me if there was anyone serious.’

‘But do you think… ’ I wanted more, some extra reassurance but I held back. ‘Do you think he’ll stay here for a while?’

‘If he so much as mentions going anywhere we’ll chain him to the bed!’

We laughed and, after finishing our second bourbon each, Mrs Greenwood yawned.

‘Nearly two!’ she said. ‘I’ll turn into a pumpkin. Do you want me to call you a cab?’

‘No… I’ll be alright.’ Why couldn’t I just stay over like all the other times when I slept in the spare room, sneaking downstairs to Scott’s bedroom once
she’d hit the sack? What was different now? I felt cheated, like she’d been leading me on.

‘But how will you get home?’ She stood up. ‘You’ll be over the limit.’

A knot of steel twisted in my chest as it dawned on me that things were different between us. ‘Mum said she’d pick me up,’ I lied.

‘At this hour?’

‘Yeah, she doesn’t mind.’

‘Well, say hi to her for me.’

‘Yeah, OK.’

She said goodnight, bending over and kissing me on the cheek. Her lips were sticky with booze.

After she’d gone inside, I emptied the rest of the bourbon into the half-empty Coke bottle and went down the front steps, around through the side door and across the rumpus to
Scott’s bedroom. I’d had a fair bit to drink but I felt alright considering. There were low voices and music coming from inside but the door was locked. In the past, Scott’d only
locked the door when we were having sex, in case Mr Greenwood, mistaking grunts and groans for burglars, came downstairs swinging his riot baton. I rapped lightly. The music went dead, followed by
hushed whispering and muffled footsteps across the carpet.

‘Who is it?’ An edgy whisper. His.

‘Rosie.’

A pause, then the door opened. Scott’s face appeared in the crack.

‘I thought you were Dad.’ His eyes were bloodshot and he was grinning.

‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’

‘But we’re—’

I barged past him into the room. The curtains were pulled tight, held together by a clothes peg. The air was thick and hazy with smoke, the smell of pot overpowering. Bomber and Muzza sat
cross-legged on the bed: Bomber puffing on the biggest joint I’d ever seen, Muzza smiling with his eyes closed, his head tipped back against the wall. Kirstie had gone home.

Scott locked the door again, pressed play on the stereo with his big toe and sat down on a broken swivel chair, feet up on the desk. The suitcase had been shoved half under the bed. I thought
about the photo, ripped to shreds down the side of the wall. There was nowhere to sit so I undid my strappies and sat on the floor with my legs stretched out, toes pointing in Scott’s
direction, not daring to look at him. I stared at a square centimetre patch of murky-green carpet. Awkward silence filled the room. I took a slug on my Coke-bourbon combo.