White Lady (5 page)

“Sure. Dexter’s in Northcote?”

“Half an hour?”

“See you soon.”

I hang up, load the dishwasher, put the knife I was ogling back in the drawer, and slip on a pair of blue jeans that are hanging on the clotheshorse. On my way out I apply a bit of red lipstick in the hallway mirror, take a handful of cash from my briefcase and put it in my back pocket.

As I step outside, I decide once and for all that the next time Ibrahim turns up on my doorstep, my pistol will be within reach.

Chapter 14

Mia: Can I just squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I’m being responsible?

I sit on the wooden bench in the backyard. The one my mother insisted go under the fig tree so she could read her fitness magazines in the afternoon shade. Pain in the arse, this bench. Rotten gunk that looks like decaying organs sticks to it twice a year. And I’m always left to clean it up. The spatula used to scrape the rotting flesh off the not-so-varnished-anymore bench is jammed in the dirt at the base of the tree’s trunk—its dark-green-tinted handle faded at the tip, where the sun hits it every morning. I can’t help but think it looks like a moldy penis-zombie escaping from its grave.

Doesn’t help that Dad doesn’t give a toss about collecting the figs to eat, either. Or the garden. The only time he ever sat out here to “read,” was the day Mum left. His reading material? His own desperate text messages that he never got replies for.

I rest my plate of food and water by my right thigh and try to cross my legs, but it hurts my knees, pulls the skin so tight that it stings. So I sit like a bloke with a stubby of beer hanging between his legs. It’s a position I’d like to stop sitting in, but it’s the most comfortable.

When I was skinny, this position looked sexy. I had attitude; the boys drooled. Well … I like to think they drooled, especially when I licked ciggie papers, pinched my tobacco, and lit them, tautly rolled, with one eye half-squinted. But now I just look like a desperate, attention-seeking fat girl.

How did I let myself get like this? What was I trying to prove?

A tear escapes the corner of my eye. It tickles my cheek. I wipe it away, checking that Dad isn’t spying on me through the back window.

I slip the Ziploc bag of caffeine pills out of my back pocket and fiddle with them like beads in plastic. If I take one now, will I stay up all night and burn some hard-core calories? You know, just to give the whole process a decent kick start, then I’ll be good. If I can stay awake as much as possible, it’s only logical that the weight should start dropping off. Right?

I don’t know, man. Honestly? What if I’m allergic?

I put the pills back in my pocket and stare at my plate, at the chicken fillet balancing on the edge. I pick it up, sniff it. Its salty fragrance makes my mouth water. But I shouldn’t. So I squeeze my eyes shut and fling it behind my shoulders and over the fig tree. A flock of birds fly away as it hits the back fence.

I shove in a few mouthfuls of salad and chew quickly. One of the lettuce stalks tickles the back of my throat and makes my gag.

Should I see what Kimi is doing tonight? I don’t wanna come off clingy. Maybe it would be better to wait till tomorrow. Now that I’ve lost my popularity, I don’t have my posse. I know they weren’t real friends, but at least it looked like I had some. I feel like Kimi is the only chance I have left at finding out what a real friend is.

I close my eyes. The rustle of leaves and the light breeze brushes over my skin.

I can do this. I have the willpower.

I stand, walk over to the compost heap near back fence, and dump the rest of my salad into it.

No food.

I know. It’s a stupid idea. But just one night. I need a decent head start to boost my confidence.

I pull the bag of pills out of my pocket again, sit down, and pop one into my mouth.

Just a kick start. A few days.

I promise not to become a statistic.

Chapter 15

Nash: If only parents had a bedroom.

I sit outside at Dexter’s despite the wind picking up speed. I light a pre-rolled cigarette, take a long drag, and nod a thank-you as the waiter brings me my double Maker’s Mark. Neat.

I reckon the café bar is pretty quiet for a Thursday night. The weather is off-kilter, but what’s new for Melbourne?

On the opposite side of the street, I spot a young dude drinking from a VB stubby, and smoking. It looks too thick for a cigarette. Probably a joint. His dirty fluoro-green baseball cap hides his eyes. On the corner of the block is a cop car. Waiting. Eyeing the dude. The fluoro-dude spits, drags, breathes, swigs, paces. Spits, drags, breathes, swigs, pulls a knife out of his pocket, inspects it, smiles, puts it back in his pocket. Paces. The cops don’t seem to notice as he pisses off around the corner.

His gait and build remind me of Ibrahim at that age. My stomach tenses up. To think he almost convinced me to be a partner in his new “business” venture. Crikey. I can only imagine what would have become of me. If I’d’ve become anything at all. I reckon I’d be dead in a ditch. Or someone’s back yard. Or maybe I’d have been done on Sonia’s back porch.

“Did you talk to her?”

Sonia’s voice snaps me out of my trance. She steps onto the curb and pulls out her seat. It scrapes on the concrete. She winces, shivers, then rubs her bare goose-bumpy arms. As she sits down, she squashes her hands between her knees, eyes the waiter to come and take her order. I flare my nostrils, take a sip of my drink and swish it around my mouth. The waiter swaggers out with an unhealthily large grin on his pink freckled face. Sonia mimics his expression in jest and orders what I have.

It’s our usual.

If it wasn’t for Sonia’s red lips and the deep smile lines around her big black eyes, she’d look like a schoolgirl right now. I don’t know what I’d do without Sonia in my life. She always makes me feel so much lighter. Which is weird, considering.

I wonder what life would have been like if I’d married her instead of Celeste? Sonia pretty much kept to herself in high school. At least until she hooked up with Ibrahim. But now that I look back, even though I never said anything to him, I’m sure the fucker only hit on her because he knew I’d set my eyes on her first. I s’pose at the time it just made sense. Because of their nationality and all. So I never challenged it. I moved on to the next-best-looking chick and that was it.

Our futures marked in stone.

Sonia shakes her head and blinks numerous times. “What happened to the weather? This stinks.”

“I reckon that was summer,” I say. I lean back in my seat and spread my legs.

“Half of it was overcast. We should move to the Gold Coast. You and me. And leave the kids to fend for themselves?”

I’m not sure how to react to that. So I take another sip of my bourbon in silence. Sonia laughs and flicks her hand in the air. For a moment there I thought she was serious.

“Well?” Sonia asks, craning her neck.

“What?”

“The talk?”

“Nope,” I say, and take a long drag on my cigarette.

“Nash!”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about.”

“I am not doing it for you.”

“Not gonna ask you that.”

Sonia squints at me. The corner of her mouth twists upwards.

“Mia is—” I sip my bourbon as if I’m trying to eat the glass. “Really
happy
today.”

“And?”

“You know, smiling, being nice, no back talk. She sat in the backyard to ‘think.’” I pause for a moment and let smoke ooze from my nose. “And ate
salad
. On her own.” I shift in my seat and glance at Sonia’s feet. She’s wearing thongs; her toenails are painted bright pink. I realize I’ve never noticed her crooked toes before. A couple even look like Twisties.

“Teenagers tend to want to be on their own,” Sonia says, as if reading it out of a manual.

My mouth goes dry. I soothe it with another swig of bourbon. “Do you think she’s hiding stuff?” I say
stuff
in such a way that means it mightn’t be harmless. One thing is for sure—Mia’s behaviour is out of character. And sudden. I reckon I’d be fooling myself to think otherwise.

“Teenagers always hide stuff from their parents.” Again she speaks in that monotone teacher’s voice.

The waiter brings out Sonia’s drink. She winks a thank-you. Another sudden shift in attitude. It’s like her real self is finding little opportunities to show its face. Maybe she needs this drink as much as I do. The waiter blushes and walks backwards into the empty table next to us. Sonia and I smile at each other and pretend not to notice.

“Look.” Sonia cups her bourbon like a mug of coffee and closes her eyes with a deep breath. She holds it in. As she slowly exhales, it blends with the whoosh of cars—they sound different in the dark, like they’re passing through thick air, unfriendly and sad.

“If you ignore your gut,” Sonia says, with her eyes still shut, “you are neglecting them. If you ask too many questions, you are being overprotective. If you try to be friends with them, you are an embarrassment. If you are strict, they rebel. If you are lenient, they take advantage. If—”

“Sonia.” I scoff. I get it. We can’t win. But she’s supposed to be the one that
knows
.

She opens her eyes and forces a crooked smile.

“Just tell me what
you
would do.” I lean forwards and rest my arms on the table. “Be honest with me.”

She shifts her gaze across the street. Her smile fades and her eyes glaze over. The fluoro-dude is back, pacing up and down the street again, with a new bottle of booze in one hand and the knife in the other. Sonia squints at him, glances over at the oblivious cops. Pity plays with her gentle face. I’m pretty sure I know what she’s thinking about.

“I’d … ,” Sonia whispers, still staring at the guy across the road. “I wouldn’t second-guess myself. Regardless of the consequences. Even if I would end up with blood on my hands.”

Chapter 16

Celeste: From fit to fake to freak.

Karter’s taking on a pro bono surgery. I cackle within. Oh my God, what a joke. Okay, okay, I was the one who convinced him to do it by reminding him of the positive publicity and reputation boost. Can you blame me? The money is fab. And so is the spotlight. But I never knew he would do this to me. Force me under the knife. My passion is
getting
into shape, not cutting into shape. But what could I do? It was either suffer through the drop and fluff, or be ditched for a younger, thinner, more beautiful me.

“Karter, honey?” I bare my teeth—a smile in his eyes—and quickly pin up my hair before holding a pair of earrings to my ears. “What do you think of these with my new tan?” I spin around on my five-inch heels, flicking my hip to the side, jutting out my newly-healed boob job. I feel sexy in this black Prada gown, all set for tonight’s gala, but what’s the point in wearing $20,000 if he doesn’t even notice it? His eyes go straight to my tits. Of course. He’s admiring his handiwork.

Karter peers above a pair of invisible spectacles and offers a gentle grin—the one that frequently contradicts his true colours when manipulating a patient into having an unnecessary procedure. I see it all the time. Does he really think I don’t notice when he tries it on me?

“They look divine.” Karter nods and pinches something off the tip of his tongue. He frowns at a selection of X-rays spread across our bed, shifts a few around. “But if you’d gotten that Botox to accentuate your cheekbones, they’d probably look even better.” He taps his nose.

“Oh.” I nod and swallow. My smile deflates. Sure, it was fake. But sometimes pretending makes it seem real. I guess there’s no need to cover my emotional wounds anymore. Karter wouldn’t know the difference between genuine hurt and a playful Botox pout.

“Well, I’ll leave my hair down for tonight, then?”

Karter’s top lip twitches with his brief nod of acceptance, and he steps inside his five-metre-long closet.

“Wouldn’t want to draw too much attention to my shapeless face,” I whisper in the mirror, squinting at Karter behind my own reflection. He is sorting through his row of dark-grey tuxedos. He insists they each have their own unique style to suit his mood. I can hardly tell the difference between the grey, the black, and the “Prussian” blue, let alone those of identical colour.

I unclip my hair. It unravels over my right breast, hangs, motionless—a taunting silky tragedy. I brush it one last time before putting on my powder-pink lippy. Estée Lauder. Honestly? I miss the good old Body Shop on Bourke Street.

I open my panty drawer and rummage for my stash of Xanax, despite promising myself that I’d no longer self-medicate. I haven’t taken one in three months. I’ve been a really good girl. At Karter’s beck and call. Making sure the housemaids’ work hours are in order so we don’t end up paying for the two of them at once. Really? Who cares! Karter has enough money to pay the wages of every housemaid in America and still retire a billionaire.

Maybe if I set things straight with Nash once and for all I’ll feel better about myself. I would get some closure. And I could also convince Mia to come and live with me here. But how could I possibly tell Nash I’ve been lying to him all these years without some chemical courage? Especially since the lie is going to be a lie.

I’m so lonely! What choice do I have? I made such a huge mistake marrying Karter. But there’s no chance of going back to my old life by asking politely. They hate my guts. It’s lie to Nash, or die alone and plastic.

I twist the cap off the bottle of Xanax and shake a couple of pills into my palm.

I imagine they are little people eating out of my hand. So cute!

“It’s time,” I whisper to the pills. “It’s time to tell him it was Ibrahim.”

Chapter 17

Mia: Whoa.

I lie flat on my back. On my bedroom floor. Eyelashes pinned to my eyebrows. The rough red rug Sonia brought for me from Turkey prickles my upper thighs. It’s a perfect reminder that the mass of skin on my body is growing, and that I’m doing the right thing by taking these pills.

Despite its periodic nature, the traffic is loud. Too loud. Too present. The whoosh of wheels along the wet road wavers; white noise hangs around my body like tangible clouds. The rhythm of my breath encompasses the room, the midnight air now sticky from the unexpected storm, the temperature change a sign of something …