night. Seeing the back of his friend, for that few seconds, before he was enveloped in darkness, suddenly, made Jesse unaccountably sad. Later, after the show (which was pretty awful), Jesse drowned these feelings in a bottle of Bundy rum, as he fell asleep in his car, in the empty, pub parking lot.
When he awoke, hot and cramped about 5a.m., touched by the sinuous fingers of the early-morning sunrise, Jesse remembered that he had been dreaming; he had been wandering about in an empty, desert landscape, searching and searching: for what? He couldn’t remember.
Jesse arrived at Central Station one week later at 9 p.m., on a hot and humid, Sunday evening. He ambled outside; running the gauntlet past homeless people, with drug-crazed eyes, and jumped onto a bus, which took him to Kings Cross. When he got to The Cross, he lurched out near the giant Coca Cola sign, and ran down the main street, where people crowded and jostled near strip clubs and sex shops. He kept going.
Stumbling upon a dank alleyway, with a huge, curling poster of the band, Cold Chisel, Jesse knew he was in the right place. Down the smelly alley he zipped, stepping on trash, and other less salubrious things. He stopped, at an almost hidden doorway, with peeling brown paint, and knocked hard. Soon, the booming ring of what sounded like someone coming down a metal staircase could be heard. The door flew open, and Jesse entered.
Living in Kings Cross, in part of an old, disintegrating warehouse, behind the incessant action of the main road, with a group of musicians, had its positives and its negatives. One of the good things about it was that, there was always someone around to talk to, or party with. On the bad side, there was often too much partying and drugs, and not enough of the homely things, like cooking, and cleaning. But, overall, Jesse was pretty stoked, as the band to which he belonged, called Opal Empire, was doing really well, and their song, ‘Knock me down’, had gone to number three, on the JJJ Radio charts.
Every now and again, Jesse was also performing at a small stand-up comedy club. And he was even being recognised on the street by fans, which was starting to get annoying. I mean, sometimes, you just want to buy a carton of milk!
On the romance front, Jesse didn’t have the inclination for a fulltime, or serious relationship. He ran a mile from any female with that settle down look in the eye. There was no way he was going to be caught in any suburban trap! Although, he had to admit to himself, that, when he heard that his old mate, Richard was getting engaged, he did feel a pang of: jealously? Sadness?
One night in 1987, Jesse was working behind the bar at the Persian Room, a trendy nightclub in the heart of The Cross. He was working this job, because, times were tough with the band, and he really needed money to pay rent. And because Jesse looked spunky as hell in his tight, white shirt, with his cheeky grin, there were always plenty of women and men circling about, buying drinks. The bar owners liked that.
It was about 10 p.m. and the place was really cooking, packed with famous faces, millionaires and party boys and girls, when, in walked Therese, holding the arm of a smarmy looking bloke, decked out in a linen suit and mauve, silk tie. Therese did this swaying kind-of-walk and went to stand next to a mirrored wall and took out a cigarette and poked it into one of those long holders. Her date tripped off to the bar and ordered two fancy cocktails: drinks called Panty Quivers, which cost almost as much as Jesse’s weekly food bill.
Jesse was watching this unfold from behind a potted plant, with a curled lip, as another barman served Therese’s date. He noticed the other barman was looking about for him, as people were swarming the bar, wanting to order drinks; beginning to jostle each other. But Jesse was glued to the spot. He didn’t want Therese to see him: he didn’t want to talk to her.
Then, the manager of the club marched out from somewhere looking agitated and Jesse suddenly found his legs, and slipped away, out the back door into the alley, which smelt of rot and corruption. He ran home as fast as he could, as hands grabbed him in the teaming streets, He raced up those clattering metal stairs, which banged in time to his galloping heartbeat, and rushed into his bedroom. Except that, someone was asleep in his bed.
He hurled himself into what served as the lounge room, onto the fossilised, old sofa, and lit a cigarette, and laughed; I’m a crazy bastard sometimes! he thought.
Around the end of 1989, Jesse’s band began a tour around the pubs and clubs of Australia. This touring went on for a few years, as the group travelled around, playing at venues in small country towns’, building up their fan base and, cultural capital. Jesse flew back to his home town, though, to be best man for his old friend, Richard, in 1990.
In 1992, Jesse and his band were playing up in Alice Springs, when he missed seeing Kerry, and his unknown son, by only three minutes. Jesse had a gig that night, in the town in which Kerry lived, and she and James just happened to be walking past the local club on this particular Saturday afternoon, on the way to the skate park, as Jesse dragged equipment in through a side door.
Not one of them ever knew.
Therese
What the hell was I thinking! Thought Therese for about the 200th time. She didn’t even fancy Richard, and yet, she had slept with him. Therese had to wonder if she had been more affected by the cider than she realised. She put her face in her hands, closed her eyes, and twisted her head slowly, from side to side.
‘Therese!’ yelled her mother, ‘the taxi is here.’ At least I am going away for a few weeks and after that I’m off to Sydney, she thought, as she slung her tote bag over her shoulder, hefted her bag, and dashed outside to join the rest of her family.
In Fiji, Therese’s family settled easily into the sprawling, luxury, five star resort. They would rise lazily each morning to flooding sunshine, then, Therese’s parents would saunter off to sample: the various pools, massages, shopping tours, and other privileged delights. Therese and her younger brother were then free to find their own entertainments. On the second day, her brother, Brendan, found a friend of his own age, and so he would disappear, after breakfast, and spend the day with his new mate: eating at the many restaurants, watching movies, and swimming at the water park. Therese was left to her own devices.
In the first few days, Therese shopped for jewellery, and a new bikini; she visited the hairdresser, and had ash blonde streaks put through her golden hair. She even had a massage and a facial. But she was becoming lonely and in imminent danger of talking to herself. She didn’t think about Richard at all, though. It was as if that part of her life was over: already in the past, and smothered by the hedonistic present.
On the fourth day of the Fijian holiday, Therese was sitting at an outside bar, drinking lemonade and staring out at the sweeping ocean, when a hard wind began to blow. It was only mid-morning, but the sky was becoming more and more bruised and angry looking. As the first drops of pelting rain began to take aim, Therese grabbed her white-mesh handbag and ran inside the small bar room, which was decorated with bamboo walls, and a polished palm tree. Soon, the rain was making a heavy-metal din, as Therese sat down on a high bar-stool in the corner. A short while later, she watched, as a man in a grey suit also ducked into the bar, out of the squalling weather.
‘Hello there’, smiled the man.
Therese immediately felt a fluttering low in her abdomen. The man had one of those charming smiles, and a cut-glass British accent. He was, perhaps, close to forty years old, but his looks were very much to Therese’s taste: blue eyes, dark hair, all charm.
It was about an hour later, when Therese realised that, the rain had stopped and that, the sky was again clear and blue. She had felt such an instant rapport with this man, that, she had found herself babbling stupidly, and telling him all about herself. So, she asked about him.
‘Well, I am here on business. I am a lawyer you see, and I was just returning from an appointment nearby, when the weather most graciously led me to you.’ He smiled wickedly at her.
‘So, you live in Fiji?’ asked Therese breathlessly.
‘No. Actually, I am based in Sydney. I moved
out there a few years ago, as I needed a change from the Old Dart.’ Seeing Therese’s nonplussed expression, he added, smilingly (and perhaps, condescendingly), ‘Britain’.
Alastair was returning to Sydney that afternoon, and so, he had to leave; however, they did exchange phone numbers and Therese told him that, she too, would be moving to Sydney.
Therese felt elated; she had never met such a man before. He reminded her of James Bond; polished and urbane, as well as sexy and classy: a potent mix for a small town girl, with her eyes on the stars.
About six months later, Therese was living in Sydney, going to uni, and working as a waitress in a top Sydney restaurant. She hadn’t heard from Alastair and the phone number he had given her didn’t appear to work. She was still dreaming and fantasising about him, though. Luckily, her new friends’ at uni enjoyed hearing her embellished tale of, The Meeting during the storm.
Of course, when she did finally see Alastair on that Friday night in June, she was just starting her period, had stringy, oily hair, and the beginnings of a pimple on her chin; making her even more irritable. So, she was not prepared, when Alistair swished into the restaurant, with a woman on his arm. A gorgeous woman who could have been a model.
Alastair did not even notice, or recognise, Therese, in her ill-fitting uniform, as he and the stunning woman swanned past her, straight into the private, cocktail bar. Therese stood, just staring for a while, until a diner pulled on her sleeve and pushed his face very close to her own. ‘I want to order desert’, exclaimed the man. Therese jumped back to life and took the order, but all the while, her brain was thinking about her next move. She wanted Alastair, and seeing him again, only confirmed that.
As the restaurant began to empty later that evening, Therese found an opportunity to sneak across to the cocktail bar to see Alistair.
But he was gone.
The barman, a man with close-set eyes and built like a fridge, came out from behind the fancy, marble bar and said, ‘You look like you’ve lost something sweetheart’. Gathering her wits together, Therese replied, diffidently, ‘in a way’; she paused a bit and then continued, ‘there was a man here with a woman earlier…with dark hair and blue eyes… ….I don’t know his name, but, I think he is the lawyer that my father has been searching for…we met in Fiji…’. Therese let the sentence hang. The story didn’t really hang together, but it was the best she could come up with, at that moment. Throwing her father into the tale was a red herring, to divert the story away from herself.
‘The barman’s eyes bored into Therese for a long moment, and then he said, ‘You probably mean Alastair Mendham, the celebrity lawyer?’
‘Oh! Is that his name! Thank you. I will tell my father!’ And Therese backed out of the door. She had what she had come for.
So, Therese set about sleuthing Alistair Mendham. She found out that he had a private office in the Hilton Hotel on Pitt Street; that he lived in Double Bay, and that he drove a plush BMW. It also appeared that, Alistair had been married twice, but now, he was more often seen about town with various beauties. Therese was not daunted.
The piece of information that proved to be most useful to Therese was gained by scouring the social pages of the newspaper. A picture of a minor politician, playing tennis at the courts in Bellevue Hill, also related another titbit of gossip, that the, ‘handsome lawyer, Alistair Mendham, often played at these courts as well’. Therese was ready for the stakeout.
The following Saturday morning, Therese was attired in a chic, expensive looking tennis outfit, and armed with her Wilson tennis racket. She had managed to book the Bellevue Hill Court, to play a game of singles, with the most unattractive looking member of her uni friends’: a young woman named Patsy. Patsy though, was pathetically grateful for what she perceived to be a genuine overture of friendship and she was beginning to get on Therese’s nerves. Luckily, Therese and Patsy didn’t even have to play, as Alastair walked into the club house mopping his brow, just as they strolled in.
Therese raced up to Alastair, ‘Oh, Alistair! What a coincidence! I wondered if I would ever see you again!’ But she could see from the expression on his face that, he didn’t even recognise her, so, she added. ‘I’m sure that you miss those storms in Fiji!’
Something in Alistair’s expression shifted, and he smiled warmly at Therese. ‘Why yes, I do miss those storms in Fiji.….but how are you?’ Therese realised that he had forgotten her name, and so, she said. ‘Why don’t you just say, hello Therese!’
‘Hello Therese. Are you busy?......... Can I take you out for coffee?’
This was the tricky moment. Therese slowly turned around and begrudgingly introduced Patsy, who was hanging behind, looking uncomfortable.
‘Hello there Patsy, you are most welcome to come along for coffee too’, offered Alistair smoothly.
Patsy, however, couldn’t help but notice the glare that Therese was aiming at her.
‘….um, I’ll pass…..I’ll go home. My cousin is visiting from Canada, and she is leaving tomorrow, so……. I’ll have more time to spend with her’. With that, Patsy picked up her bag and racket, and marched out of the clubhouse very stiffly. Patsy realised that she had been used.
-------------------------------------------
Therese and Alastair began their affair. They had to creep around a bit, though, because, Alastair, as it turned out, was not exactly divorced from his second wife. He assured her that, he was ‘waiting for the right time’. He did, however, lavish presents upon Therese. Presents, that often looked out of place in her student accommodation, like: a full length fur coat, silky lingerie, and lots of pink and red, hot-house flowers: flowers, which strangely had no aroma.
About six months into their relationship, Therese was still infatuated by Alastair, but he began to express the wish to, ‘spice things up a bit’. He wanted them both to join a swingers club together; but only ‘to watch’, he assured her. Eventually, after much coaxing, and a small token from Tiffany’s, Therese agreed.
Of course things progressed. And before long, Therese, found herself, far too often, lying on her back, staring up at the stained walls of dingy venues, doing things she never imagined ever doing, with people that, she would not even want to talk to in her everyday life.
And Alastair was still married.
It was when Therese found out that Alastair’s wife had given birth to another child; a girl named Tara, that, she finally ended the relationship, which had lasted for four years. Therese was about to graduate from university and she thought that it was about time that, she actually applied some of her hard won psychological knowledge, to her own life.
However, despite what Therese later believed to be her epiphany of rationality, derived from the rigours of education and scholarship, her relationship with Alistair, actually ended with a blazing row; with Therese slapping Alistair across the face: to brand him with her bottomless fury.
Years later, when Therese thought about Alastair, she would remember how he had reminded her of James Bond. Now that she was older and wiser, she realised that Bond, was in many ways a: psychopath, narcissist and a sexist womaniser. She no longer found these things even mildly attractive. And when she looked back on her relationship with Alastair, and all the things that she had willingly done, because of her infatuation with him, she would feel, not only a sense of shame and amazement, but the thought would arise in her mind, that, perhaps, she didn’t know herself at all.
The School Reunion: 2014
Sonja finally joined Facebook in 2013; it was something that she had resisted doing for a few years. But, besides that, for many years, she simply did not have the time. Now that her children had all been processed through high school and were embarking on their various courses of study, or entering the world of work, Sonja, suddenly felt like she had come up for fresh air, after having spent many years swimming about under the ocean.
When her children were younger, she had had little ti
me to herself. And her busy and intense life had left her, with almost no brain space. She realised that, years and years had flipped by, without her being aware of what was happening in the world and politics, beyond the most superficial level. Now, suddenly, she was no longer needed so much; her advice and opinions were not sought after, and the house was often empty; this caused her both acute pain, and guilty pleasure.
Slowly, as Sonja learned how Facebook worked, by trial, error and surprise, she connected with old friends of the past. Then, in 2014, she stumbled upon a Facebook group dedicated to those who had gone to her high school, in year 10, 1982. With a click, she joined.
One afternoon, when Sonja logged on to Facebook and scrolled past all the cat memes; calls to repost, ‘if love your daughter or son’, and various shares about political outrages from the left or right wing, on that particular day, Sonja looked at her notifications and saw a message that a school reunion was to be held at the beginning of December, 2014, at a pub, which was located at the end of the town, near the beach.
In the old days, this pub, like so many others, catered for the miners and the working men. Today, it attracted a cosmopolitan and mostly professional crowd. Sonja was apprehensive and excited at the same time. The reunion was only two month away, and she would be seeing people that she had not seen since she was a carefree teenager, with a slim body. Now, she was in her late forties, and she felt in many ways, that life had sculpted her into a different person: inside and out.
Although, Sonja loved her husband, Gordan, desperately and deeper than she had when she was younger, she was now aware, that, she had been steered into this ‘appropriate’ marriage by her parents’, planning and machinations. She had merely followed the track set in front of her, like an unthinking and docile sheep.
Sonja was no longer religious either. As she became aware of how she had simply taken on the values and behaviours of her parents, and the culture around her: unthinkingly, she began to examine many of her other assumptions. To hang a question mark on those things that she had simply swallowed whole. Luckily, for Sonja, her husband also attempted to examine ideas independent of culture and tradition, and so, they often had very meaningful, philosophical discussions.
However, Sonja was also, somewhat vain. She didn’t want her friends seeing her as a blobby, blurred echo of her former self. So, she set about an intense exercise regime and started a high protein diet. Then, she scoured the shops for just the right outfit: classy and