Friendship Secrets

Three months ago she’d left him. Told him guff like, it wasn’t him, it was her, she needed to focus on her career. Damn it, thought Tim, her career was all she’d focused on for six and a half years they’d been together.

He lay in still, grey dusk, willing his eyes to remain closed. Why should he get up? Nothing much to do, yet Tim couldn’t manage stillness. Something stunk like decay, must be his body odour, he needed to wash.

Once upon a time Tim was going to be someone, Miss Tanner knew it in grade four when he wrote one story about a kangaroo who couldn’t hop, a precocious account of triumph over adversity. Since Kerry left Tim felt stagnant; stalled.

Back when they got together she’d liked how Tim did as he pleased. Sure he was still living at home. An oversized single bed eventually forced intimacy into their relationship. Beginning, all new and beguiling, cuddling up on family video nights, whiffing his mum’s lemon-lanolin washing powder on Tim’s shirts, parental dependence signalled an enticing indifference to status quos, a refreshing departure from macho independence to which she was accustomed.

On one of those first dates, when he convinced her to go to the bay, slurp fresh oysters from their shells, and gulp white wine straight from a bottle. Kerry made a point of saying, ‘I love your shows of imagination.’

Perhaps her departure is better, thought Tim. When they were together evenings were all about Kerry coming to dinner rather late. Sweeping in from work, still smelling of public transport crushes encountered as part of her journey home, air kisses, all full of  ‘shit of a meeting, overtime on agendas again, about to leave and manager says, can I have a quick word,’ and then as an afterthought, ‘how was your day, dear?’ When all she really wanted to talk about was mindless to and fro of office politics. And a bastard, Ron, Don. Whatever his name? One she’d definitely been fucking, probably out back in office stock room.

Beep – Beep, four minutes. Kerry banging on bathroom doors berating him over water restrictions, overuse of environmental resources, and her usual carry-on. Last thing he needed ghost of Kerry declaring time on a hot shower. With more anger than necessary Tim pushed open shower doors, glass layers complained by clanging and wobbling. He grabbed a dampish, greying towel from where he’d last thrown it, on the floor underneath a rack.

Tim scrutinised his mirrored reflection. Grey-blue eyes peered back from puffy white skin. He hated his weak jaw, wished for a more chiselled look, a chin which exudes authority. Oh how he craved a Calvin Klein model chin line.

Since Kerry left, no need to use November as an excuse to grow facial hair. If Tim wanted he could grow a fashionable stubble, then a hipster beard. Yet Tim knew these facial hair efforts only strategies to counter his lack of mandible. Lifting up his straight dark mop, Tim examined his hairline. No wonder she left you, ricocheted inside his head. You’re a balding twat who spends his days contemplating hair.

To think there was a time among a close-knit group. Went everywhere together, packed too small train and bus spaces with comrades, loud laughs and occasional egging on. Him, Kerry, Dukie, Francis and even Rosalind. Taking school buses to get dropped off, seemed like every afternoon. Keeping some form of contact well after school hours, through various breaks while one or another of them had a stint overseas, got into some sort of courses, lured by promises of better employment prospects. Where were they now, when he really needed a shoulder to cry on?

Fuck! Rosalind’s shift finished more than half an hour ago. He threw some clothes on, scooped up car keys and hurried out.

When Tim finally arrived Rosalind sat alone, semi-slumped against a sticky bar, wineglass resting against her down-turned lips, blond hair obscured by blue and white headscarf. Her raspberry-painted lips looked unnatural against her fine features and pallid skin. Tim kissed her hurriedly on the cheek, then took a stool next to hers. She smelt earthy but sweet, sandalwood laced with vanilla.

‘Sorry, traffic was shithouse. How are things?’

She must know he lied, desperately trying to cover up. Never much traffic down here.

‘I’ve been here all day, what’s another fifty minutes?’ She shrugged. Her teeth stained Shiraz purple.

‘So you’ll forgive me for promising to pick you up, almost an hour ago.’

‘Can’t say I enjoyed watching this bar scene from a customer’s perspective, but waiting for you has been both consistent and a variation on a theme.’

Tim signalled bar-staff, he may as well enjoy a bevvie while this location provided sensi-surround opportunities.

‘I got us a bottle of Shiraz,’ chimed in Rosalind. ‘We just need an extra glass.’

‘Thanks Ro, but I think a beer will do me. Still my turn to drive you home.’

Three beers later Tim couldn’t remember why he’d been avoiding his oldest friend. Rosalind recounted a run-in with her landlord, hands gesticulating widely, expression incredulous. One glass or four, she’s always the same Rosalind. Able to quickly bring him to edge of giggles, make him want to laugh out loud.

‘I mean what is it to him if we don’t every single name on lease documents? We’re clean, we’re tidy. We’re respectful. Society says only nuclear families should live communally. What crap! Why can’t we get our heads around ideas of resource-sharing? We live in a community placing too much value on resource guzzling as a friggin sign of prestige! It’s so wrong.’

Even back in those school days Tim found himself instantly drawn to Rosalind. Long before he volunteered to help out on pick-up after work roster, because she’d gone for DUI, again. Her cupid face, lightly bronzed from lazy summers spent at her family’s south coast holiday house. Despite her disgruntled attitude traits of a skinny, yet strong kid still just below tough surfaces.

With Kerry gone off into pursue her career ether, maybe, he should go there. When another voice in Tim’s head said, probably long past time he should make finite moves on Rosalind. Plus, be a shame to ruin their friendship. Sometimes, only sometimes, things she did plain scared him. Like a spell living in a squat, and when she made an application to work as a prison guard. Yet Tim couldn’t help wondering if he’d paired off with the wrong girl all those years ago.

Pizza arrived, and Tim felt relieved with food as distraction. Rosalind took a massive slice, chewing thoughtfully. He thought working lunch-time rosters surrounded by food would function to negate her appetite. Apparently not.

‘Tim you really do have an arsehole of a look,’ Rosalind threw out between slices. ‘Cat’s bottom, blue-steel and not in a good way. I am beginning to see why Kerry’s not talking to you. So many problems dealing with strong women, I mean. Look at you, what were you thinking?’

Verbal stings lingered for a while before settling into an uncomfortable silence. Tim wanted to say something, to make Rosalind understand he hadn’t meant to look so judgemental. Kerry always perceived a difference. He’d never needed to explain facial expressions to her, not once over those years. Dull longing returned with a vengeance. Puncturing veneers of his tipsy cheeriness.

Meanwhile Rosalind moved onto another anecdote, her tone apologetic. Yes, conversation wasn’t much of a two-way street with her. But marginal softening made Tim feel perhaps she’d seen how much hurt those words inflicted, right there like a headline across his face.

Silence again for some moments until Tim looked up from a serviette he’d been twisting between his fingers.

Outside, cloudless night sky encased as if a charcoal dome, broken only by blue and red lights of a few tall buildings and sparse speckles of distant stars. Tim drew his coat tightly around his body and nuzzled into his scarf. Before Kerry left him, this type of new air one of his favourite moments. Sucking in atmosphere not tempered with booze, smoke and stale food. Heading home, all those appetites sated. Done with noisy bar crowds and ready to head back to intimate comfort. Minutes of crisp silence where only his thoughts were audible.

Tim was drunk. But not drunk enough to ignore a possibility to prove a point to Rosalind. No matter how loudly another voice chided, this is a bad idea. He needed a cigarette first. Slipping his hand into an untidy glove box, Tim retrieved a squashed half-empty packet his father kept hidden behind a seldom used state map. Tim hadn’t done this for months, so faint stings in his lungs grated unfamiliar and caused sudden light-headiness. He exhaled luxuriously.

Pair of them used to sit together in the car like this, he and Kerry, smoking and talking. Hopes, fantasies, all sorts of shit you talk about when you’re young. Hours he’d spent going over, repeating, examining more than six years of such tender conversations with Kerry. Yet Tim couldn’t pull much more than snippets from back-woods of his mind. Like times they talked about rescuing a puppy. Lucky an animal adoption hadn’t happened. Compared with Kerry’s eager tumble of words Rosalind humped and squirmed in his passenger’s like an impatient blackboard from black and white Mr Squiggle TV shows. With his puffed, hurry up to Mr Squiggle’s happy hand-holding sketching efforts. Time to turn an image a different angle, upside down Miss Pat. Did Rosalind really need be somewhere so urgently, or was simmering annoyance just for him?

Tim took out his mobile. Kerry likely to be asleep, her face crumpled in concentration of her reveries, lips pouty, one fist curled up in a soft ball against her collar bone. She wouldn’t be happy, but drowsy objections bound to feed her curiosity. Ensuring a phone fumble, to answer in a semi-croak at once both grating and endearing.

No croak. Just a rolling cadence he hadn’t heard before. And then impatiently: ‘Hello?’

‘Kerry, it’s me, Tim. I didn’t … I didn’t wake you, did I?’

‘Oh Tim. Hi.’ Her tone inscrutable.

‘I didn’t, er – ‘

‘No you didn’t wake me. I’m working late.’ Then he heard a background muffle, baritone. A voice old, distinct and elegant. Seeming to cover it up, Kerry said, ‘actually, it’s not a good time, I can’t really chat.’

‘It’s OK. I just wanted to say something quickly.’

Pause, then, ‘yes?’

‘Kerry, I want you to know I’m happy for you.’ Seconds passed. ‘It probably doesn’t mean anything now, but I’m really, truly proud of you. I thought you should know that.’

‘Tim…’

With jaw tight, he realized he was holding his breath.

‘Like I said, I can’t really chat.’

‘You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to hear it.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice sounded far away. ‘I’ve got to go. OK?’

‘Ok.’

‘Ok. Well…Bye Tim.’

Before he said anything more, end-call screen popped up. Cigarette only half finished, but he tossed it out a window, only slightly open. Acrid, musty smells between his fingers disgusted him.

Wasn’t so hard now, was it? He heard Rosalind’s approval in his head as he turned keys in the ignition. Tim breathed out slowly.

‘Fuck me. You actually did it, rang her.’

‘Time I admitted to this piece of my life being over and moved on.’

‘Hoo-ray!’

Tim smiled, at least inside, until he dropped Rosalind off. Head home, starting tomorrow he’d do a search and make serious attempts to track down Dukie and Francis.