Good Oil Read online

  Our barbecue is under the carport and a good few metres away from the main hub of the party. I’d thought that manning it might get me off conversation duty for half an hour or so, but oh how I was wrong. Uncle Jeff saw an opportunity. I was a sitting duck – all alone under the carport, wearing Mum’s apron and tending the steaks and sausages.

  He swooped, beer in one hand, fold-out chair in the other, and set himself up next to the barbie. I was his captive audience for the duration of the barbecuing. There were quite a few orders for well done too, so I was fucked.

  He sat there, happy as Larry, finding fault with my talents (or otherwise) as a barbecue chef. At one point he stood up and without warning poured his beer over all the sizzling steaks, washing away Mum’s prized marinade.

  ‘Gives ’em a bit of flavour, eh?’

  I stood still and considered my options for response. I said nothing.

  I was in the home straight, transferring the steaks onto a platter and keeping careful note of which ones were rare, medium and well done, when he came out with what he’d been saving for last:

  ‘So, Chris, you got yourself a girlfriend yet?’

  ‘No, I . . . I don’t have a girlfriend.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s all good. Not all young fellas have girl-friends, you know. And that’s all right, nothing wrong with it. Just the way things are, right?’

  I stared down at the heavy platter of meat, considering a range of responses to his insinuation that my girlfriendless existence was due to being gay. I looked down the yard at my Dad and saw him laughing with Uncle Stuart, Zoe and my mother.

  ‘This lot is ready,’ I said to Uncle Jeff lightly. ‘Dig in. You gott a be quick around here.’

  Zoe and I did most of the cleaning up afterward, leaving Mum and Dad to have some down time. I carted everything in and scraped the dishes. Zoe rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. She washed up the big platters and salad bowls that wouldn’t fit into the dishwasher. I dried them and put them away. When we were finished I got two beers out of the fridge and we sat down out the back.

  ‘Uncle Jeff reckons I’m gay,’ I said.

  ‘No, he doesn’t. He reckons he can get a rise out of you by implying it. Did he?’

  ‘I ignored him.’

  ‘That’s so grown up. You could never have done that a year ago.’

  ‘Yeah, well. I didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of making me ruin Dad’s birthday party. That would just confirm his pet theory that I’m a useless, precocious little bastard. Plus it’s time he learned that the gay thing just isn’t the insult it used to be.’

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘Hey, are you still cut up about What’s-her-face?’ she asked.

  Ever since Michaela pulled my still-beating heart out of my chest à la Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Zoe has referred to her only as What’s-her-face.

  ‘Um, sometimes,’ I hedged. ‘Most of the time. Yes.’

  ‘Amazing. It’s been over a year.’

  ‘Yeah, well. You know my “passion for unhappiness”.

  How’s What’s-his-face?’

  Zoe’s boyfriend, Terry, is a fellow Commerce graduate. She doesn’t bring him round much. They both have graduate positions in accounting firms. Whenever I’ve met him, he’s had very little to say. But I know better than to try to understand what attracts people to other people.

  ‘He’s good,’ she said. ‘Um, hey?’

  ‘Hey?’

  She sounded as if she had something to say. God, is she marrying him?

  ‘I’m out.’

  ‘You’re out? Of where?’

  ‘Of here. I’ve found a place and I’m moving out soon.’

  ‘Shit!’

  She’s leaving me here! She’s leaving me here, the sole loser adult child at 16 Acacia Terrace.

  ‘Don’t leave me here!’

  ‘Chris, I’m turning twenty-four next week. It’s time. It’s beyond time.’

  I pondered this truth.

  ‘Where?’ I asked lamely.

  ‘Leichhardt.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Sylvia.’

  ‘Have you told Dad?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  It was nearly 11 p.m. We went inside and watched Star Trek: Voyager. It was another one where a holodeck program gets out of hand and threatens to overrun the whole ship. Will they never learn?

  May 13

  I went to Rohan’s birthday party last night, then had to drag my sorry arse in to the Land of Dreams for four hours this afternoon. I felt so rotten and tired this morning that I was within a hairsbreadth of calling in sick. But if I start calling in sick because I’m hung-over, I’ll never make it in there at all. Thin end of a wedge. Youngster Amelia was the only one who didn’t make a point of telling me I looked like shit.

  As for Rohan’s party – well, what can I tell you? Oh, I know! He and the lovely Stella are apparently an item. Completing for one Rohan Levinson the trifecta of a house, a job and a girlfriend. I’m happy for him. For both of them. Really.

  I’m going to go out on a limb and say that things come pretty easily to Rohan. He’s smart, good-looking; he has a well-off family behind him. He’s the only and much cherished son. He did well at uni. He has a good job and a string of pretty girlfriends. And all these things he accepts smoothly as though they were inalienable rights. If it was me I’d be like a frumpy girl at the school dance who gets asked to dance by the captain of the football team. Pathetically grateful and not a little bit surprised. I’d be like:

  Oh my God! I fill this shirt out nicely. That’s so cool! I’m so lucky to have these nice broad shoulders and dark good looks. What? Money for a deposit on a house? Dad! That is the most meaningful and valuable gift ; I don’t know what to say except thank you so much! That’s a huge load off and there is simply no way I could have done it without help. And Stella. Being able to stand here at a party with my arm around you is so special. You’re a beautiful and smart girl and I can hardly believe that you are going to let me get your gear off later tonight! Thank you! That’s tremendously exciting.

  Anyway, I ate huge amounts of Rohan’s mother’s burek, drank beer and fell down. I didn’t fall down at his parents’ place though; I fell down when we all went into the city afterwards. Just like old times – me, Mick, Suze and Rohan. And now Stella.

  Right, let’s take stock:

  Zoe is leaving me to face my pathetic life-stage limbo at Mum and Dad’s alone.

  The Field is very slim pickings at the moment.

  I haven’t heard from Michaela since well before I sent the flowers at Christmas. I don’t think I ever will. That’s a sobering thought. With some chronological distance from the whole thing I can see that it’s likely there will be no further congress between us. Ever. It’s not as if there’s a chance of running into her around here. I have these weird daytime fantasies of running into her in the street ten years from now. Perhaps I have my first-born child in tow. Perhaps she has hers. Our partners don’t figure in the fantasy, which I have to admit is lifted mainly from the cut scene in Great Expectations where Pip and Estella run into each other in the street years later. Pip has Joe and Biddy’s little boy with him and Estella thinks he is actually Pip’s child. Pip is working hard and doing well. Generally getting on with his life. Estella looks sad. She is sad. Her life has been pretty shit on account of choosing to marry some violent prick instead of Pip.

  In my fantasy, Michaela looks pale and thin and pained to see me – pained because she remembers how amazing we were together and regrets choosing Brad over me. He’s turned out to be one of these totally absent husbands. I break off the conversation first, saying I have to go. I’m meeting my again-pregnant wife for lunch. I kiss Michaela chastely on the cheek and walk off holding my little son or daughter by the hand. I don’t look back. She looks after us with tears in her eyes, clutching the hand of her own child, for as long as she can see us.

  I love this fantasy. I
replay it again and again.

  June 5, 11 p.m.

  Kathy is doing her teaching prac for the next few months, so she has cut down to one shift a week. Stuart Green has resigned. Bianca says he’s got a grown-up job somewhere. Bianca also says he and Kathy are not a happening thing. I honestly don’t care. Bianca is making some not-so-subtle attempts to get me together with some of her youngsters at work – particularly Donna and/or Alana. Both are sixteen, but they seem older. I get on fine with them. Let’s face it, I can get on fine with most people if I need to.

  And I am lonely. Really lonely. Even a girlfriend I don’t have any great connection with would be better than no girlfriend at all. And this drought shows no sign of breaking.

  I have to seriously consider my options.

  Then there’s Amelia, who I like better than any of the other girls. It’s about time I wrote that down. But she is young. I’m going to be twenty-two in a few months. I’m hoping to move into some brave new phase of life aft er university, and I really can’t see myself doing that with a fifteen-year-old in tow. If only she was a few years older. But she ain’t.

  Bianca is having a select few over to her house this Saturday night – her parents are overseas again. There’ll be a lot of alcohol directly sponsored by Bianca’s parents, and most likely a lot of white powdered substances indirectly sponsored also by Bianca’s parents. I have to say, I do like the idea of doing a line of speed off their $7000 granite coffee table, looking out over the harbour at the city lights blinking on the skyline.

  June 6

  Dad is being all stoic about Zoe moving out, but I think he’s worried and sad about losing his not-so-little princessa. It’s strange, this modern life where kids stay at home for so long. When Dad was twenty-four he’d just bought a house, married my mother and knocked her up. Zoe’s the same age but it’s a whole different set of markers. I wonder how much of it is due to changes in education funding and living and housing costs. For most students, there’s no option but to stay at home while you’re studying.

  Mum’s putting together a couple of crates of cutlery, crockery and linen for Zoe to take with her. She’s also bought her a toaster and a kettle, both of which are gleaming in their boxes in the front hallway. I swiped a few clean empty boxes from the back dock at work for her to pack stuff in.

  ‘You realise,’ I said to Zoe a couple of days ago in a last bid to get her to stay, ‘that there won’t be cold beer laid on in your new place. Unless you buy it.’

  ‘Yep,’ she replied smiling. ‘My beer in my fridge.’

  It’s time. Bloody oath.

  June 10

  It’s about midday on Sunday. It’s the first really cold day. I’ve not yet surfaced, but Mum and Dad must have rummaged out some of the heaters because the smell of burnt fluff has seeped under my door. I’m loath to get out of bed because a) it’s cold, b) a Sunday morning (well, afternoon now) spent solely in Mum and Dad’s company will reinforce my status as the only child left living at home, and c) I am delicate, hung-over and sheepish in the wake of Bianca’s party last night.

  Zoe moved out on Friday. She’s due to come over for dinner tonight. She’ll bring Dad’s car back and I’ll drive her home in it. On Friday I helped her ferry several car-loads of stuff to Leichhardt and we loaded up the final one at about 7 p.m.

  Mum and Dad came out to say goodbye. Mum gave her a Tupperware container of Zoe’s favourite ‘Mum dish’ – fish curry, and another of rice.

  ‘For dinner,’ Mum said. ‘And . . . ’ she handed Zoe a plastic colander, ‘I don’t use this one so you take it.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Zoe, stowing them carefully on top of a stack of pillows on the front seat.

  ‘And here,’ said Dad, ‘I thought you might like some of this . . . ’ he handed her a bottle of Elliot Rocke shiraz. Zoe’s special favourite – but extremely seldom purchased – winter wine.

  ‘Oh thanks, Dad. Yum!’ She inspected the label, smiling.

  ‘I haven’t had this for ages. What a treat. Sylv and I will crack it open tonight.’

  A pained silence followed.

  ‘Well, I’d better be going,’ Zoe said. ‘I’ll see you all on Sunday night.’

  She and I hugged briefly.

  ‘Easy does it, Ripley,’ she said softly in my ear.

  Next she hugged Dad, and then Mum. She and Mum had tears in their eyes.

  ‘Right,’ she muttered, fingering the car keys. ‘Bye.’

  She got into the old white Commodore, started the engine and switched on the lights.

  We raised our arms in salute as she pulled out from the kerb.

  Later – 5 p.m.

  Oh, all right. Here’s why I feel sheepish in the wake of the party last night.

  It was, as always, a pleasure to attend Bianca’s harbour-side mansion. Ed and I caught buses over together.

  ‘What about Alana?’ I said to him as we jumped off at Rose Bay. Alana is seriously chasing Ed. He shrugged.

  We walked in silence. I’ve wondered lately whether Ed might be gay. I had a sudden rush of courage and faith in our friendship.

  ‘Ed, are you gay?’

  He turned to look at me out of his reddened eyes and shook his head.

  ‘What about Donna?’ he asked me pointedly.

  ‘Donna!’

  ‘Donna,’ he said calmly. ‘She’s keen; you must know she’s keen.’

  ‘I’m not that keen,’ I said. ‘I’m lonely and I’m horny, but I’m just not that keen.’

  ‘She’s an attractive girl.’

  ‘But is she? Or is it just a lot of jewellery, piercings and attitude?’

  Ed shrugged again.

  ‘Your call,’ he said.

  We walked for a while in silence.

  ‘Amelia’s not coming tonight, is she?’ he said, sly as a swagman’s kelpie.

  ‘Amelia? Nah. Bianca wouldn’t have invited her.’

  ‘She might’ve if you’d said something.’

  ‘I doubt it. She suspects, quite rightly, that the youngster knows too much.’

  ‘Too much about what?’

  ‘About Bianca. That she’s a vacuous, parentally-funded phoney boho who enjoys manipulating youngsters to fuel her own ego.’

  Ed laughed.

  ‘That’s our hostess you’re talking about.’

  ‘I know. I feel terrible.’

  ‘Are you keen on Amelia?’ Ed asked, with the same trying-to-sound-calm tone that I’d used when I asked him if he was gay.

  I laughed. ‘Am I keen on her?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘She’s very young.’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  I struggled. I flailed.

  ‘Yes. No! Kind of. In theory, mind.’

  ‘Righto.’

  We turned onto Bianca’s street.

  Bianca had set Alana and Jeremy to work making cocktails with a huge, gleaming blender. She circled, carrying a large jug of whatever batch they had just made.

  I wasted no time getting into a well-lubricated comfort zone. I even had a half-civilised chat with Kathy. She was looking fetching in one of those cross-over top things that accentuated her neat collarbone and those perfect breasts that I will never get my hands on.

  ‘How’s your prac going?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, all right. Actually, this is my fourth week, so it’s wearing pretty thin,’ she laughed. ‘But, you know, all right.’

  Crikey, I thought. She can’t wait to find some financially solvent backer to marry so she doesn’t have to work. I reckon she only chose primary-school teaching because it’s non-threatening, even attractive, to the banker types who want a pretty, low-maintenance wife to run the house, raise the children and please – but not titillate – the business associates. Primary-school teaching. A suitable occupation for a young lady. Just until the babies come of course. Then it will be all designer prams, Peter Pan kindergarten, mothers group in Centennial Park and four-wheel drives for the bumpy road back to South H
ead.

  ‘Are you seeing anyone?’ she asked sweetly, draining her glass of passionfruit caipiroska.

  ‘Little old me?’ I replied, without embarrassment. ‘No. No I’m not. You?’

  ‘Actually, yeah. I just started seeing a guy from uni.

  James Lyon. Do you know him?’ James Lyon, James Lyon. Yes, vaguely. He’s one of her library-lawn gang. I’ve met him at the uni bar a few times. He’s in his last year of Commerce. Already has a cadetship at Price Waterhouse Coopers. Very, very tall and alpha-race looking. He could well be the pea! Good luck to ’em. Of course, what really I mean is Fuck Them Both. But I finally feel I am ‘on the level’ with Kathy – with who she is and what she wants. And where a guy like me fits in to her world view, which is nowhere. I could have provided strawberries, poetry and orgasms, but James on the other hand will provide a house in Vaucluse and a six-figure salary.

  I can see clearly now. Amelia would be proud.

  Anyways, the evening progressed and I found myself in the pool room, playing doubles with Ed, Donna and Bianca. We all drank from large tumblers of something lethal and red. Ed and I won the first game by one ball. The second game came down to the black and turned into twenty minutes of frustrating stalemate, broken when Ed sunk the white after the black. Ed was disgusted with himself and went off to smoke a joint on the balcony. Bianca excused herself to go and check on the alcohol supply, closing the door behind her. Which left me looking at Donna in the dim light of the custom-made lamp hanging over the pool table. She leaned against the table’s wooden edge about a metre away from me, with her arms crossed and her pool cue between her thighs.

  ‘Want to take me on?’ she said smoothly.

  ‘Sure.’

  It was somehow understood that I would ferret the balls out from underneath the table and pack them in the triangle, while she sat down on the window seat to roll a cigarette.

  ‘You want to break?’ I asked her.

  ‘You break,’ she said, lighting the cigarette with the huge flame from her trademark Zippo.

  You know, I thought as she blew a large plume of smoke and flicked the Zippo shut, I don’t much care for smoke.