suitcase. Chicago tomorrow. I’ve got a smaller bag in the car.
‘Mark, when people don’t like you, when they’re making jokes about your hairstyle and not asking you out for coffee, you’ll know you’ve made it.’
‘You are seriously weird. Cranky. What’s going on?’
‘Charade is on Universal tonight and I’m missing it.’
I’m getting better at talking crap. Becoming good at bad excuses.
‘Fine, don’t tell me,’ he says. He loads his pockets: wallet, inhaler, phone, keys. ‘I’ll wait in the car.’
Not so good then.
I’m still holding the non—Law Society dress. It’s twenty to eight and it’s a twenty-minute drive, it will have to do. Mark hates being late and when it comes to lateness I’d rather not show up. I step into the dress, wriggle, I’m in. Have a look in the mirror. Twist. No back. No bra. So what?
‘Who has a birthday party in a high-rise building? I feel like I’m at work.’
Except the view from Eureka Tower is different. I brought Jasmine and the boys here the school holidays before last. Eighty-eight floors up, Melbourne was a holographic postcard, or a railway model, still and small.
‘Well, you don’t look like you’re at work. If you showed that much skin you’d never get out of that library. Come here, Pee-Wee.’
The sun’s gone down, the city is lit. Because it’s Saturday the office buildings don’t glow their night-white so much.
He kisses my shoulder. He’s Secret Service smooth tonight, a mixture of solicitous and dashing. He’s handsome. I wish I wanted him.
The city and sea are sky-black, yellow and white lights cluster the landscape, no lights on the sea make it look like a chunk of the world is missing. The party is reflected in the window: dancing, talking, heads inclined.
Seventies music: Bay City Rollers, Sherbet, Elton John, Queen. Loud. Fifty-year-olds don’t hold back when the music of their youth is playing. I dance in my kitchen. Or I dance with Jasmine to wii Just Dance; she beats me every time but I score higher on the sweat meter. Mark dances like I do and we take to a tiny corner of the dance floor, give our best impression of people who should know better.
‘Want a drink?’ Mark says. He’s ready to stop. ‘Something with bubbles?’
‘Yes please, I’ll wait here.’ By the window, face out, I watch the party happen behind me.
BJ?
Must be imagining it.
I turn from the dark mirror.
There have to be a hundred and fifty people here. Most of the women are wearing black, an occasional dash of colour—red, emerald. The men are in dark suits. The party is black-and-white-movie sharp.
Mark is at the bar talking to a woman I don’t know. He’s miming the time he stacked his bike because he was trying to light a cigarette. I’ve seen this story before. The woman laughs. She’s looking at him like she might eat him and she’s disappointed when he leaves. Mark’s big gestures, his laugh—he’s built for entertainment.
I hear: ‘That’s bullshit.’
Loud, hard-line. BJ? But it’s dark, mostly down lights and, unless you’re in a beam, you’re hidden, shadows, silhouettes. I don’t see her.
Mark returns. ‘Here you go. Who are you looking for?’
Sip. God, it’s dry. I like my bubbles sweet. I look around the room. Nobody in dark blue jeans and black leather. Are her boots here?
‘Hold this?’ I pass my champagne to Mark, drop to the floor and crouch, checking out the shoes, stilettos, wedges. No Doc Martens. I’m on my hands and knees in an expensive dress. Since the couch, I’ll do anything.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing. I dropped my serviette.’
He nudges me, a knee in my side. ‘Carole Smart’s coming.’
I stand, smooth my dress, ready.
‘Hello, Peta. How long’s it been? Six months? You look good.’
‘Thank you, Carole. So do you. Happy Birthday.’
‘They say fifty is the new forty, but I think it’s the new thirty-eight,’ she says.
Carole Smart reminds me of Bette
‘Mark, when people don’t like you, when they’re making jokes about your hairstyle and not asking you out for coffee, you’ll know you’ve made it.’
‘You are seriously weird. Cranky. What’s going on?’
‘Charade is on Universal tonight and I’m missing it.’
I’m getting better at talking crap. Becoming good at bad excuses.
‘Fine, don’t tell me,’ he says. He loads his pockets: wallet, inhaler, phone, keys. ‘I’ll wait in the car.’
Not so good then.
I’m still holding the non—Law Society dress. It’s twenty to eight and it’s a twenty-minute drive, it will have to do. Mark hates being late and when it comes to lateness I’d rather not show up. I step into the dress, wriggle, I’m in. Have a look in the mirror. Twist. No back. No bra. So what?
‘Who has a birthday party in a high-rise building? I feel like I’m at work.’
Except the view from Eureka Tower is different. I brought Jasmine and the boys here the school holidays before last. Eighty-eight floors up, Melbourne was a holographic postcard, or a railway model, still and small.
‘Well, you don’t look like you’re at work. If you showed that much skin you’d never get out of that library. Come here, Pee-Wee.’
The sun’s gone down, the city is lit. Because it’s Saturday the office buildings don’t glow their night-white so much.
He kisses my shoulder. He’s Secret Service smooth tonight, a mixture of solicitous and dashing. He’s handsome. I wish I wanted him.
The city and sea are sky-black, yellow and white lights cluster the landscape, no lights on the sea make it look like a chunk of the world is missing. The party is reflected in the window: dancing, talking, heads inclined.
Seventies music: Bay City Rollers, Sherbet, Elton John, Queen. Loud. Fifty-year-olds don’t hold back when the music of their youth is playing. I dance in my kitchen. Or I dance with Jasmine to wii Just Dance; she beats me every time but I score higher on the sweat meter. Mark dances like I do and we take to a tiny corner of the dance floor, give our best impression of people who should know better.
‘Want a drink?’ Mark says. He’s ready to stop. ‘Something with bubbles?’
‘Yes please, I’ll wait here.’ By the window, face out, I watch the party happen behind me.
BJ?
Must be imagining it.
I turn from the dark mirror.
There have to be a hundred and fifty people here. Most of the women are wearing black, an occasional dash of colour—red, emerald. The men are in dark suits. The party is black-and-white-movie sharp.
Mark is at the bar talking to a woman I don’t know. He’s miming the time he stacked his bike because he was trying to light a cigarette. I’ve seen this story before. The woman laughs. She’s looking at him like she might eat him and she’s disappointed when he leaves. Mark’s big gestures, his laugh—he’s built for entertainment.
I hear: ‘That’s bullshit.’
Loud, hard-line. BJ? But it’s dark, mostly down lights and, unless you’re in a beam, you’re hidden, shadows, silhouettes. I don’t see her.
Mark returns. ‘Here you go. Who are you looking for?’
Sip. God, it’s dry. I like my bubbles sweet. I look around the room. Nobody in dark blue jeans and black leather. Are her boots here?
‘Hold this?’ I pass my champagne to Mark, drop to the floor and crouch, checking out the shoes, stilettos, wedges. No Doc Martens. I’m on my hands and knees in an expensive dress. Since the couch, I’ll do anything.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing. I dropped my serviette.’
He nudges me, a knee in my side. ‘Carole Smart’s coming.’
I stand, smooth my dress, ready.
‘Hello, Peta. How long’s it been? Six months? You look good.’
‘Thank you, Carole. So do you. Happy Birthday.’
‘They say fifty is the new forty, but I think it’s the new thirty-eight,’ she says.
Carole Smart reminds me of Bette
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