and enter some stats on the shitty computer I shared with Nick, Gareth and Hannah. I liked entering the building in the quiet, being the first to switch on lights, considering the space without the ringing of telephones. I didn’t know exactly when it had started, but generally I’d been regarding the approaching working week or day with a leadening sense of ennui. But I perked up at the thought of seeing Nick, of sharing a space, of another day with him, of our talks on the milk crates. His affect had so much energy it injected me with energy. I wondered if everyone used him for that purpose, if it was exhausting for him to keep it up. Could it be a front? It would make sense for it to be a front.
The time before Nick came to work at Befftown is a bit of a blur to me. Some other nurse guy . . . Simon . . . used to sit in his cubicle. He was nice enough . . . his wife was having a baby . . . I think they were Christians . . . Then he applied for regrade to a higher level, which he was totally entitled to. Johanna blocked it and he left in a snit, for a much better paid job with a different health service. Then I took a holiday. Simon’s cubicle was empty when I left.
It was my first ever paid holiday. Three months after I had started at Befftown I took a fortnight off. Tim and I locked up the flat, flew to Ballina and drove to a resort in Lennox Head – near the scene of the original crime, i.e. the genesis of our union. For a week we ate, drank, swam, had sex, walked. It was lovely, if a bit windy.
And I was hung-over more often than was strictly necessary. Don’t know why I did that. It was harder to get work out of my head than I had envisioned, and I didn’t have to get up early, so alcohol was my default position.
The second week Tim returned to work and I was on my own in Sydney, pottering around the flat, driving to IKEA and taking walks along the Cooks River. I bought us a proper couch and arranged for the council to pick up the ancient fold-up futon we had been using. It was a really grown-up purchase, that couch. A couch for adults. And it felt like our first real joint purchase, although I put it on my credit card. We had bought the fridge together – but that had been last-minute ‘agh, we are moving into the flat next week and we have to have a fridge’ kind of unconsidered.
‘We can’t split up now . . . ’ I joked to Tim, when he sank onto the new couch for the first time. It was very comfy and solid. A base from which to build a life, that couch. That first night we sat entwined on it, watching Spicks and Specks .
‘“Careless Whisper”!’ I shouted, digging my fingers into Tim’s thigh. ‘“Killing Me Softly”! I am so good at this.’ I said between rounds.
‘You are babe, you are.’ H Karendse hugged me snugly around the waist and leaned his head on my shoulder.
‘“Living on a Prayer”! Oh my god, I got that in, what, a microsecond ? I got that after the first note!’
Tim shook his head in admiration. Possibly ironic, but I didn’t care.
‘Hey, garcon,’ I said when the credits rolled, ‘bring me another beer,’ I kissed him, ‘in your underwear.’ He laughed.
‘I don’t know why I put up with you . . . um . . . you know . . .’
‘Ob ject ifying?’
‘ Objectifying me,’ he pulled off his T-shirt, ‘the way you do.’
‘And the shorts, doll-face.’
A fresh beer was brought to me, and promptly forgotten about. Life was good. On the new couch.
I’ve often remembered that scene, and others like it, when I sat on that couch alone, on the edge of an unthinkable thought.
I returned to work the following Monday, blinking at how fast the holiday had gone and hoping that none of my clients had hit the fan in my absence. I sat down at my desk, looked with distaste at the pastiche of memos and post-it notes that had accumulated over the fortnight, and noticed what looked to be a shock of dreadlocks visible over the partition separating my cubicle from the
The time before Nick came to work at Befftown is a bit of a blur to me. Some other nurse guy . . . Simon . . . used to sit in his cubicle. He was nice enough . . . his wife was having a baby . . . I think they were Christians . . . Then he applied for regrade to a higher level, which he was totally entitled to. Johanna blocked it and he left in a snit, for a much better paid job with a different health service. Then I took a holiday. Simon’s cubicle was empty when I left.
It was my first ever paid holiday. Three months after I had started at Befftown I took a fortnight off. Tim and I locked up the flat, flew to Ballina and drove to a resort in Lennox Head – near the scene of the original crime, i.e. the genesis of our union. For a week we ate, drank, swam, had sex, walked. It was lovely, if a bit windy.
And I was hung-over more often than was strictly necessary. Don’t know why I did that. It was harder to get work out of my head than I had envisioned, and I didn’t have to get up early, so alcohol was my default position.
The second week Tim returned to work and I was on my own in Sydney, pottering around the flat, driving to IKEA and taking walks along the Cooks River. I bought us a proper couch and arranged for the council to pick up the ancient fold-up futon we had been using. It was a really grown-up purchase, that couch. A couch for adults. And it felt like our first real joint purchase, although I put it on my credit card. We had bought the fridge together – but that had been last-minute ‘agh, we are moving into the flat next week and we have to have a fridge’ kind of unconsidered.
‘We can’t split up now . . . ’ I joked to Tim, when he sank onto the new couch for the first time. It was very comfy and solid. A base from which to build a life, that couch. That first night we sat entwined on it, watching Spicks and Specks .
‘“Careless Whisper”!’ I shouted, digging my fingers into Tim’s thigh. ‘“Killing Me Softly”! I am so good at this.’ I said between rounds.
‘You are babe, you are.’ H Karendse hugged me snugly around the waist and leaned his head on my shoulder.
‘“Living on a Prayer”! Oh my god, I got that in, what, a microsecond ? I got that after the first note!’
Tim shook his head in admiration. Possibly ironic, but I didn’t care.
‘Hey, garcon,’ I said when the credits rolled, ‘bring me another beer,’ I kissed him, ‘in your underwear.’ He laughed.
‘I don’t know why I put up with you . . . um . . . you know . . .’
‘Ob ject ifying?’
‘ Objectifying me,’ he pulled off his T-shirt, ‘the way you do.’
‘And the shorts, doll-face.’
A fresh beer was brought to me, and promptly forgotten about. Life was good. On the new couch.
I’ve often remembered that scene, and others like it, when I sat on that couch alone, on the edge of an unthinkable thought.
I returned to work the following Monday, blinking at how fast the holiday had gone and hoping that none of my clients had hit the fan in my absence. I sat down at my desk, looked with distaste at the pastiche of memos and post-it notes that had accumulated over the fortnight, and noticed what looked to be a shock of dreadlocks visible over the partition separating my cubicle from the
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