The Full Ridiculous (21 page)

You tell Maxx in what you hope is an unpatronising tone that you know times are tough and that you will do your best to return the book advance as soon as you can. Maxx, bless him, screeches, ‘Oh don’t be so bloody ridiculous, darling!’ You’re relieved he refuses because, although you feel it’s the right thing to do, you have no way of repaying him. ‘What are you going to do? he adds. ‘Rob a bank?’

You hang up and offer up a brief prayer of thanks that Maxx has graciously released you without fuss. You feel so relieved, you sit down and tell Egg about it. Egg listens intently, occasionally licking your hand. Then you sneak into the bathroom where you wash your licked hands (surreptitiously so as not to offend Egg) and head out to lunch with Rat-tat-tat.

Someone or something has been most unkind to Rat-tat-tat since you saw him last. The man sitting before you is very different from the confident, shiny creature you met a few months back. Today he has dark bags under his haunted eyes and, no longer too busy and important to cater to the pedestrian demands of traditional syntax, he even deigns to employ the occasional pronoun.

Almost as soon as he sits down he launches into a list of woes about the
Herald
. Plummeting circulation. Cutbacks and redundancies. He is in the middle of telling you that no job is safe when his phone rings and he excuses himself to the balcony of the restaurant. You watch his silhouette pace against the blown-out backdrop of the sun-kissed city and think,
Gawd I hope he’s not asking me if I know of any jobs.
For a frightening moment this makes complete sense.
Why would he be spending money on you in a fancy restaurant if he didn’t want something from you?

You look around. This is indeed a fancy restaurant. The other impeccably dressed patrons belong to economic strata high above yours. The minimalist, hand-crafted blonde wood furnishings, the five-o’clock-shadowed waiters in crisp white aprons, the Scandinavian cutlery—all tell you that a lot is at stake here for Rat-tat-tat. Ditto the wine list.

Holy fuck, the wine list! You can buy a bottle of wine here for seven thousand dollars!

When he returns to the table you restrain yourself from blurting, ‘What do you want?’ which is lucky because Rat-tat-tat tells you anyway. Louisa Orban, his star reviewer, is going on maternity leave. It will only be for one year, but he’d like you to replace her.

‘Me?’

‘Yes,’ he says, adding, ‘Big workload these days, what with all the online content as well.’

You order your face to arrange itself in a calm and dignified manner.

Do not grin like an idiot.

Do not grin like an idiot.

Do not grin like an idiot.

‘Also, I’m thinking it might be time to add a little yin to Lou’s yang,’ he says with no acknowledgement that he is quoting you from your previous meeting.

‘
And the…um…?’

‘Salary? Same as before, I’m afraid things are pretty tight.’

You order yourself not to leap, weep or hug anyone.

Do not shout yippee.

Do not shout yippee.

Do not shout yippee.

‘Can I think about it and get back to you?’ you ask as if you were a grown-up.

‘Please don’t make me beg, Michael.’

‘Pardon?’

‘There’s a lot riding on this for me. Pete [
the editor-in-chief
] isn’t happy with the arts supplement. My neck is on the line. They want you back. I need to get you back.’

There’s a lot that’s surprising about this admission:

(a) the frankness about his fragile position,

(b) the insertion of all appropriate pronouns, and

(c) you thought Pete hated you.

You can see the poor guy needs a break just as much as you do. ‘When do you want me to start?’ you say.

Which is the same question that Wendy asks when you call her from the car to tell her you have a job. ‘A month,’ you say, and she says, ‘Well done, my darling, well done.’

Wendy puts water on to cook some celebration pasta and joins you and Declan in the living room where you are watching television. She hands you a glass of chilled white wine and you clink, holding each other’s gaze. This is a custom you acquired on a holiday in Italy before you had children. You can’t remember the consequences of not holding each other’s gaze while clinking but you remember they’re not good.

Lowering herself into one of her shabby-chic cane chairs, Wendy inadvertently sits on the remote control and changes the channel. Instantly realising what she has done, she remedies the situation with the push of a button. A howl of protest from Declan transforms into a woo-hoo of joy.

If only it were always that simple.

Egg, who has been curled up asleep, gets to his feet, shakes himself down and rushes to the window, madly wagging his tail. Moments later he moves to the door as Rosie bursts in with the news that Eva Pessites is definitely going to Mount Karver next year.

The three of you express your horror in unison. Declan even turns off the telly. Rosie says she’s okay, that she’s talked it through with Eva and she thinks it might work out.

‘You talked it through with Eva?’ says Wendy, voicing the collective astonishment.

Rosie tells you about overhearing a group of Eva’s friends talk in the locker room about Eva going to ‘Special K’ (Mount Karver). It’s the last week of school and there’s an unusual air of camaraderie leading up to the Christmas holidays, so Rosie felt emboldened to ask these friends to ask Eva if she would be open to discussing their predicament. During recess, word came back via Maddie Peacock’s younger sister, Milly (who is mates with Eva’s cousin, Claudia), that Eva was open to dialogue.

Between science and modern history, Rosie saw Eva in the corridor and Eva nodded at her. After a brief discussion, they agreed to meet in the library at lunchtime.

The library at Boomerang occupies the old dormitory wing that once housed the nuns who lived and taught there. Up until the 1960s nuns represented the majority of the teaching staff although today only one ancient nun, Sister Anastasia, lingers in the art department. At some point during the nineties, the sisters’ dormitory was converted into a state-of-the-art library. The stained-glass windows remain preserved in their neo-gothic stone arches, pouring ecclesiastical light over such subversive atheists as Anton Chekhov, George Eliot and Arthur C. Clarke.

As well as the books, heretical and otherwise, there are also elegant pods made from white moulded plastic, designed to house the latest computer technology. It is here that Rosie comes when the lunch bell rings. She waits seven minutes before Eva walks through the door and pauses to look around the library. Rosie stands so that Eva can see her. Eva makes her way over and sits in the pod opposite Rosie without exchanging a word. Once they sit, they cannot see each other but begin to communicate by typing, messaging back and forth on the library’s computer network.

Rosie types
We don’t have to be friends but we don’t have to be enemies either.

Eva types
Agreed
.

Rosie types
Just because we don’t like each other doesn’t mean we can’t be cool when we see each other at Special K.

Eva types
Agreed.

Rosie types
This feud thing is lame. Let’s drop it and go our separate ways.

Eva types
Agreed
. And then she adds
Also we don’t talk about each other behind each other’s backs.

Rosie types
Agreed. Especially at Special K.

Eva types
Agreed.

Mrs Millington emerges from 440-448 to see Rose O’Dell shaking hands with Eva Pessites. She is so surprised that she almost drops
Les Ravels sur la plage
, a charming story about the Ravel family’s day at the beach that she intends to read to her Year 8 French class. Eva leaves and Mrs Millington makes a beeline to Rosie to find out what on earth that was all about.

Rosie tells Mrs Millington about the truce she and Eva have just declared and Mrs Millington gives her a hug. She tells Rosie how impressed she is by her maturity, and her innovative methodology. ‘And I’ll tell you this for nothing, Rose: You’re going to make a spectacular adult.’

As your daughter tells you this, you look over at Wendy and she’s wearing the same expression that always transformed your mother’s face in moments of extreme maternal pride: she looks like she’s going to crow.

And you want to crow with her.

Then Declan says, ‘She’s right, Rosie. You are spectacular,’ and the moment becomes as perfect as a moment can get. You mentally high-five your wife. You may be a fuck-up but this is one area you have not fucked up.
What are you thinking? Sweep this thought out of your mind! You are inappropriately gloating about your children. The universe will hear you and find you and beat you with a big humility stick.

Ah, your old friend the Universe.

Fuck you, Universe, I’m going to gloat and delight and dance on the inside. I might just dance on the outside as well.

There is a hissing sound from the kitchen as the pasta water boils over onto the gas cooktop.

‘Oh shit, the water!’ cries Wendy.

She shoots to her feet and rushes into the kitchen.

30

Christmas draws near and tension in the household rises as you wait for Declan’s examination results. The day before they are due, news comes that the education department’s computer is in catastrophic meltdown and the results won’t be available until January. Declan is frustrated and Wendy is annoyed on his behalf, but you point out that this could be a good thing; at least you won’t be managing disappointments over Christmas.

‘How do you know there’ll be disappointments?’ says Wendy. ‘He might do okay.’ Instead of submitting to your default pessimism, you think,
God, he might do okay. That is a possibility.

Christmas Day is spent at Ingrid’s where she and Tess take the opportunity to tell you that you’re looking
so much better
with such overworked spontaneity that you know they’ve rehearsed it. You know that you are not looking
so much better
, but your weight seems to have reached a plateau; you may have even lost a kilo or two. Occasionally you’ve overheard Wendy on the phone, voice lowered, discussing your ‘progress’ with Ingrid or Tess. They have been vigilant guardians, your big sisters. You are about to thank them for this, as you are clearing the table for dessert, when Tess burns the lemon meringue pie and Ingrid tsks. Tess demands to know why Ingrid is tsking. Ingrid asks Tess if she thinks it was wise to leave the pie till the last minute. In a flash things go from pudding to poop and you decide to save your
thank-yous
for another time.

In the new year, you plan to get your book in order. Before you start back at the
Herald
, you want to make sure that there is a clear outline and a useful breakdown of the contents for each chapter in case you ever return to it. One morning after breakfast, you force yourself into the study and close the door. You start by forming a plan of attack.

Step 1: turn on the computer.

You turn on the computer and notice that the screen is dirty and the keyboard could do with a wipe down. You pause to consider whether this is a legitimate concern or a delay tactic. You decide that pausing to consider this is actually a delay tactic so you launch into action. You go and find Wendy and ask her where she has put those industrial wipe things that you use to clean keyboards.

Wendy leads you back into the study and opens the drawer directly in front of where you have been sitting. She retrieves the industrial wipes and refrains from pointing out that the industrial wipes are where they always are: right in front you. You clean the screen with great diligence and wipe carefully around the letters on the keyboard.
My gosh, they’re filthy!
You hold the keyboard up to the light and decide they need a second clean.

Once your computer is shipshape and sparkling, you begin work. Well, you would begin work only you look out the window and see the Volvo.
How long has that car been so dirty? My God that car is a disgrace!
You roll back your chair, spring to your feet and stride purposefully into the laundry where you fill a bucket with warm soapy water. You rummage under the laundry sink, looking for the chamois. It’s not there. You call out to Wendy and ask if she knows where the chamois is.

Wendy appears at the laundry door and asks what you are doing. You don’t answer, ‘I’m washing the car,’ because you know that’s not what she means.

‘I thought you were fixing up your book.’

‘That car is filthy,’ you offer by way of defence.

‘Yeah, and I’m about to drive it to my office. If you’re looking for some work-avoidance activity, you could run a load of washing.’

She kisses you on the cheek and heads off to her office. You pour the soapy water down the laundry sink and put a pile of dirty clothes into the washing machine. There’s enough powder to do this single load but that’s all.
Maybe you should walk up to the shops and buy some more?
You catch your reflection in the round window of the clothes dryer that hangs above the washer. You know perfectly well what you are doing and it’s time to surrender.

Defeated, you return to the study and your gleaming computer. You read over what you have written previously and begin to type out a plan of how to proceed. Now that you have committed to placing the project in metaphoric mothballs, the ideas flow and the writing unfolds as if you are channelling someone who knows what they are talking about.

You feel a presence behind you and turn to discover your son hovering at the study door.

‘Sorry to interrupt…’ ‘Come in, sit!’ you say enthusiastically.

‘I got my marks back for my film; I got an A-plus.’

‘Wow. An A-plus! Well done, that’s great!’

‘Thanks.’

‘You must be so pleased!’

‘I am, I am…’

‘Well, I’m not surprised. You did a brilliant job.’

‘Thanks, Dad…’

Just when you are working well, when you no longer require a distraction, one has arrived. You are tempted to turn back to your computer and resume typing but you don’t because you have the feeling there is something else your son wants to tell you. Or something he doesn’t want to tell you but feels he must. You don’t push it. You smile and nod, holding his gaze until he says, ‘So that’s the good news.’