The Whole of My World (13 page)

‘The players' room probably,' Tara says, leading me to the bar.

‘Where's that?'

‘At the back.'

‘And it's for players, I'm guessing.'

‘You think that's why they call it that?' Tara asks, rolling her eyes.

‘My point is – she's not a player.'

‘Nothing gets past you, does it?'

I wait at the bar beside her, wondering what she'll say when I order a soft drink, hoping she's thinking what I'm thinking and not what I'm afraid she's thinking.

‘Vodka and passionfruit UDL,' she says to the bartender.

Damn
. There goes that idea.

The bartender sizes her up. Although Tara's barely eleven months older than me, she has a way about her – the hard set of her mouth, the way she stares into people without letting up – that makes her seem older than she really is. A lot older than me, anyway.

The bartender asks for Tara's ID. She shows him a fairly unconvincing photocopy of a complete stranger's learner permit and, without checking that it's her or even that it's real – she's been practising her date of birth and star sign just in case – he plonks a UDL and a glass of ice on the bar, then turns his attention to me. Just as I feared. ‘Yes?'

I'm not going to get away with this the way Tara has. I don't even want to. ‘Beer?' I ask, hating the tremor in my voice.

Incredibly, he sloshes a pot of beer on the bar towel, winking at me. My co-conspirator. Two problems face me now. One, I don't drink – at all. Two, I hate beer. I hate the taste of it, the smell of it, even the colour of it. I have no idea why I ordered it.

I take my foaming beer, already queasy at the idea of it, and follow Tara into the darkest corner of the club, where she's found a table and one chair. I look around for somewhere to sit, spy a stool by the back bar and drag it over.

I'm still wearing the pink V-neck. It's too heavy for the overheated club but I'm not keen on the grey shirt underneath – what it shows and how it makes me look – not to mention the very tricky business of not horribly smearing my make-up in the process of taking the jumper off. Someone turns the back-bar lights on, and I feel the heat of them on my face. I sit on my stool and tower over the table, feeling pink and enormous on my high perch, and also a little trapped.

‘Seriously?' Tara asks, eyeing my pedestal.

I think she's disappointed that Danny isn't here. He said he might come, but so far there's been no sign of him. I wonder if that's why Tara invited me. I want to ask but I know better. Even hinting at her crush is dangerous. The first time I tried, she shot me down with a look that would make Freddy Krueger cringe. And all I'd said was something about moving seats to sit with him.

‘There aren't any other chairs,' I say defensively. I sip my beer without throwing up and decide that maybe this experience isn't going to be as excruciating as I feared. I sip again. Each mouthful is a little less awful than the previous one. We watch the crowd slowly build. It's turning into a normal pub now, with a smaller Glenthorn crowd and more people from off the street – still members or friends of members but without the brown-and-gold scarves and duffle coats of the footy faithful.

The music suddenly gets louder as the lights dim again and I feel a bit disorientated. It's ten o'clock and the place is switching from bar to club. My jumper looks even more out of place than it did before, but my confusion is increasing with every extra mouthful of beer and I can't deal with anything else right now.

‘Aren't you hot?' Tara asks, watching a trickle of sweat run down my cheek.

I nod, exposed. The room has taken on a slight tilt, a slow swirl. I'm suddenly so hot that I can't stand it another minute. With a deep breath and a careful steadying of my seat, I take my jumper off. Incredibly, I don't tip over. I brush the grey shirt down, straighten it and attempt – again – to loosen it around my breasts, then slip the jumper over the back of my stool.

Red comes over, still wearing her footy gear. ‘Anyone here?'

‘Not yet,' Tara shrugs. Red means players, but it's possible Tara means Danny.

‘They'll be out soon,' Red says with that authoritative voice.

We listen to a couple of songs and when Billy Idol comes on, I suggest we dance.

‘I don't dance,' Red says flatly, and I believe her.

‘I need a drink,' Tara says, and disappears to the bar.

I sing along quietly to ‘White Wedding', until Tara returns with another UDL. I watch her take long slugs of the can. It won't be long before she'll need a refill. My drink is disappearing, finally, although Tara's almost caught up to me again. I hope she doesn't notice.

When George Michael's ‘Careless Whisper' comes on, I can no longer resist. ‘I love this song,' I say, ready to go and dance on my own. But before I can navigate my way off the stool, Red nods towards the back of the club and says, ‘Players.'

The doors to the players' room are now open, and several of the seniors have come out, all clean-shaven and dressed up for a night out. They look so different compared to when they're at Fernlee Park. I have to completely readjust my image of them to fit these neatly dressed, cologne-wearing apparitions – men, just like the ones you see anywhere else, only much better looking and stronger. Not quite real but real enough – like movie stars or celebrities. It's not just that they're handsome, although most are. It's more than that; something about how they carry themselves, how they look at us – at everyone – reminds us they're something special. They're stars –
superstars
– paid to play the very game the whole city worships. They know they're being watched. And admired. This is the thing I'm trying to name – this thing they wear like a badge. Confidence? Arrogance? No, it's more than this. It's ownership.

I think about Dad's awkward stiffness, my own difficult isolation at St Mary's and, well, everywhere that isn't Glenthorn. I think about Mrs Lester's drunken afternoon, Tara's sullen silences and even Josh's nervous backtracking in the face of his accidental reference to our life before . . . The players couldn't be more different from the world and people I know than if they were born on another planet.

The Lovely Ladies emerge from the darkness of the players' room, as though summoned. Kimberly first – always first – then Lisa and Renee, each of them sipping on brightly coloured cocktails, their ridiculously high heels and short skirts the focus of the players' attention.

Kimberly leans against the bar, her pretty smile glowing across the room. It's entrancing, even to me. Even to Tara. I steal a look at Tara, her glass poised ready to drink – or ready to be hurled – and the steel in her gaze surprises me. I follow Tara's line of vision to Brendan O'Reilly, who moves in towards Kimberly. O'Reilly's teammates grin their approval as he approaches Kimberly and drapes his arm across her shoulders, startling her apparently, as she lets out a brittle laugh. She recovers quickly and offers him an inviting smile.

Something hard lodges itself in my throat. I look at Tara, whose attention hasn't moved from this scene. Her fist is clenched tightly around her drink, and her mouth is grim. I worry that she'll break the glass, she's bearing down on it so hard.

I look at the couple again. What's she seeing that I'm not?

O'Reilly leads Kimberly out of the main bar and back into the players' room, without a single word exchanged between them. The other players observe this without raising an eyebrow. A surge of something hot and unsettling rushes through me, and I don't know what it means.

Lisa watches nervously. For a second she looks like she might go after her friend, but Renee starts talking to her and Kimberly is soon forgotten.

‘Slut,' Tara mutters under her breath.

‘Huh?'

She breathes in deeply, the colour draining from her face as she seems almost to hold her breath. Then she releases it slowly and faces me square on, her expression flat and unreadable. ‘Nothing.'

‘Where are they going?' I ask.

Tara turns on me sharply. ‘How should I know?' She sips her drink, facing the players' room again. ‘Wherever it is, I'm sure his wife won't be there.'

‘What? Oh.' I should be appalled. I should feel the same anger Tara obviously feels. I think about this, and decide that I do. Deep down, buried under a whole lot of other things I don't understand. Like envy and . . .
possibility
. What would that feel like, I wonder? To be looked at like that?

‘They always do that,' Red says, shrugging.

I look at this girl-woman, who could be thirteen or thirty, depending on the light, her tight cap of red hair and her lined, pale face sitting so oddly on the rest of her. Does she do ‘that' too? Does she want to? Does Tara? Or Lisa and Renee?

Do
I
want to?

Before I can process it all into anything more than an uncomfortable idea, Mick hobbles out of the players' room, his dodgy knee heavily bandaged, his arm thrust out in front of him as he struggles with a single crutch. He sees me across the room. For a second his eyes graze me and move on, like he doesn't know who I am, and then he does an almost-comical double take. Recognition, then uncertainty.

I'm suddenly aware of how my grey shirt is stretched tightly across my chest, how my jeans hug my thighs. I smile awkwardly, embarrassed.

He doesn't smile back. He begins to – and then he doesn't. It's like he's never seen me before. He stares at the beer in my hand, anger etched into his frown.

I shift in my seat, regretting the beer because of how it's affecting my balance. I have to talk to him, to find out why he's angry.

I carefully slide off my stool and make my way towards him. He glances away, then turns back to face me, his expression cold and hard.

I stop, confused.

He turns away, and then I notice a woman behind him. Pretty with long blonde hair and jeans so tight I wonder how she can breathe, she comes out of the players' room, carrying Mick's other crutch. Her hand moves naturally to cup his elbow, guiding him towards the exit. Although I've never seen her before, and although he's never described her to me, I know immediately that this is his wife, Wendy.

There's no reason why I shouldn't go over to them and there's no reason why Mick wouldn't want me to. It seems ridiculous, actually, that she and I haven't already met.

But I don't move.

As they walk past me, Mick nods, distant and courteous, and I know I've done the right thing. I also know I haven't done anything wrong, despite how I feel. We both love footy. We both love Glenthorn. It's a simple, ordinary friendship. Just like with Tara, Josh and the other cheersquadders . . . We're friends.

I watch Mick disappear into the dancing bodies and laughing faces that have begun to fill the room, his wife by his side, knowing that he will never introduce us. If that's what he wants, it's enough for me.

I return to my seat and sip my beer, draining the last dregs too quickly for my newly developed tastebuds to cope with, and am forced to stifle a cough. I look around for Red and see Bear watching me closely, a sympathetic smile on his lips. I dismiss him with a cold stare.

I can feel Tara glaring at me, judging and condemning every time I go near Mick. The familiar rush of blood roars in my ears and my chest burns as I turn away. I wish I'd never come. I wish this whole day had never happened. ‘I want to go home,' I say to Tara.

‘We just got here,' she says, annoyed.

Ignoring her protests, I slip off the stool and unsteadily weave my way through the thickening crowd, avoiding Red and Bear on my way out. I don't have to look back to know Tara's following me. We're near the exit before I feel her arm on me, tugging me back. ‘Just wait a sec,' she says, and heads to the bar. I watch her buy another UDL and thread her way back to me. ‘A traveller,' she smiles, as she guides us to the exit.

The cold night air hits my face as I stand at the entrance. The last of the cheersquadders have either managed to find a way in or have given up and gone home. A handful of new arrivals hover by the doorway, waiting to sign in.

Tara moves ahead, taking the steps in big leaps as though, having decided that we're leaving, she's suddenly determined to get home as fast as she can. Between long strides, she sips her UDL.

I'm about to follow her when I notice Mick's car across the street. His wife is helping him arrange his legs into the space in front of the passenger seat. Her brisk attentiveness and no-nonsense movements are more like a mother than a wife. But as he grimaces with pain, she touches his face, tilts her head towards him, and they look at each other for a long moment.

I feel like an intruder, but I can't look away. Mick doesn't notice me watching, too intent on the silent exchange he's sharing with his wife. But when she shuts his door and heads to the driver's side, she looks up and our eyes meet.

I stand perfectly still, the breeze lifting my hair and cooling my cheeks. After a long moment, she offers me a tight, noncommittal smile, then gets in the car and they drive away.

 

 

I turn over in the trundle bed in Tara's room, the soft mattress giving too easily under my shoulder. It feels like I'm sleeping on planks. I push my fist under my pillow, curl my legs under me and squeeze my eyes shut, determined to slow my racing mind. The room is as dark as a cave. The heavy drapes block any light from the street lamps outside, and the house is quiet and still.

Beside me, Tara's bed creaks and groans. I hear the padding of feet across the rug, towards me at first, and then away, towards the window.

I don't move. I don't want to face Tara right now. I haven't got the words anyway. I didn't speak the whole way home because a deep and terrible shame seemed to rob me of speech. Sadness and loss all over again, nameless and confusing because I have no idea what I've lost.

A slither of light cuts through the room. I turn over, grateful now for the absence of springs under me. Tara is staring at something outside her bedroom window. Her face looks eerie, almost ghostlike in the filtered light, her usually pale skin transparent. I see the glistening of tears on her cheeks before I hear the first sob. She presses her fist against her mouth, as though forcing the sounds back to where they came from.

I lie there, terrified she'll turn around, but unable to tear my eyes away. She is . . .
bereft
. That was the word Mrs McGuire used to describe how she felt in those first days after the accident. I didn't know that word until she'd used it, and yet I instantly understood what it meant. Despair. Emptiness. Grief.

Tara is grieving something too. I don't know what it is and I don't know how to ask her. But it's there before me, enormous and impossible, the depths of it emptying out of her in great, wrenching sobs.

‘Are you okay?' I whisper.

Tara flinches as though she's been struck. Her head jerks up and her hands fly to her side, hiding the evidence of what they've been doing to silence her sadness. She stands like that, almost to attention, for the longest time.

My heart pounds in my chest. It's quite possible that I have officially destroyed the only friendship I have at St Mary's. And it occurs to me that I don't want this. For all her cold and difficult ways, her distant and unforgiving manner, Tara Lester matters to me. I like her. She's my friend.

I consider my chances of waking up tomorrow and pretending I don't remember. Maybe if I don't say anything else and never mention it again, she can convince herself I was drunk or half asleep. That whatever this is – grief ? – is still hers and hers alone.

‘I hate her,' Tara hisses into the darkness.

I sit up, knocking my knee on the edge of the trundle in my rush. I assume she means her mum.

Tara turns towards me, her face lit by the streetlight through the crack in the drapes. I see her tear-streaked cheeks, pink nose and hard, moist eyes. Then she moves away from the window and the drapes fall together, enveloping us again in a blanket of darkness. And I think I know what Ginnie Perkins said to Tara that pissed her off, or I can imagine anyway.

‘What about your dad?' I ask quietly, rubbing my knee discreetly. I'm both unsettled by Tara's admission and, strangely, warmed by it too. I don't know how long it's been since anyone has said anything as important as this to me. Thinking this, I'm seized with a momentary panic: What if I say the wrong thing? What if I mess this up? Dad says that sometimes you have to just play the ball that comes to you and let your instincts decide. And my instincts are telling me right now that if I'm gentle and careful, Tara might begin to trust me.

‘He's never here. He hates her as much as I do. It's better anyway, without him.'

I peer into the darkness, wishing I could see more, wishing I could watch Tara's face for all the signs I need to gauge how far to push this. ‘You have sisters, though, don't you?'

Tara laughs, but it's a hard, grating sound. ‘They moved out the first chance they could. Lissie's in Sydney and Olivia's in London, married with two little kids. There's twelve years' difference between Lissie and me.' Another bitter laugh. ‘Mum was done with raising kids when I came along. Still is.'

Tara's mattress shifts against my back as she slips back under her doona, the creaking of the springs filling the room. ‘It's good when they come back,' she says quietly. ‘But after they go . . .'

I imagine the clatter and clamour of her sisters' return, noisy toddlers scampering through the wood-floored halls, filling this enormous house with the chaos of family life. Vibrant and unruly and alive. And then the silence. The sudden, heartbreaking stillness after they've gone. I know too well what that feels like. ‘Is she always . . .?' How do I end that question? Drunk? Blotto? Off her head?

‘It depends.' She turns to face me. ‘What about your mum? Your family? You never mention them.'

The familiar weight of this moment threatens to crush me. What do I say? How can I say it? I can't – not all of it anyway. ‘It's just Dad and me now. There was an accident . . .'

Tara's sharp intake of breath strengthens me somehow.

‘It's just Dad and me now,' I say again.

‘Your mum died?' she whispers with something like reverence.

I nod. ‘Car accident. Two years ago.' The lump rises to my throat as though bidden, and I feel the hot sting of tears prick the back of my eyes. That's all I can manage now. For one night, that's enough. ‘It's late,' I say.

After a long silence I hear Tara roll over. ‘Yeah,' she says quietly. ‘It is.'