no advice, no opinions, no judgement.
The telephone rings. I can’t find the phone. I scramble out from behind the easel and almost knock my head on the side of the internal archway separating my bedroom and the kitchen. It’s just two rooms, my flat: a decent-sized bedroom with a huge window looking out onto Blair Street and a combined kitchen/dining/living/entertaining room. From up here on the third floor you can see the line of red-brick apartment buildings go on forever and the all-day traffic jam at the roundabout outside the butcher. The kitchen is big enough for a table and a washing machine, and the cabinets hold all my cooking stuff with room to spare for my paints and brushes. The floor is faux-timber and the walls are painted pale yellow but it’s in pretty good condition for the measly three hundred and fifty dollars a week I pay for it. It is still North Bondi.
The phone keeps ringing. I finally find it. It’s under my pillow.
“What’s up?” I say.
It’s Sam.
“I need you,” he says. He is huffing and puffing and I wonder what inanity he has turned into the crisis of the century this time: his favourite café took the bread-and-butter pudding off the menu or Stephanie from The Bold and the Beautiful found out the man she thought was her real father was in fact her brother. Maybe Britney Spears is back in rehab.
“Don’t be a bitch,” he says. “I’ve had a fucking accident.”
“Fuck.”
“I know.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“What about Jackson?” Sam has names for all his important tools. His Jeep is Jackson, his phone is Monkey, his penis is Phoenix.
“Oh, he’s fine. A little scratch on the bumper. Nothing serious.”
“That’s a relief.”
Silence. I hear a faint rustling, a click, and then a deep exhale.
“Sam?”
“I don’t think anyone saw me. But I can’t be sure.”
“Sam – Sam, don’t tell me … Oh my God, what happened?”
“Don’t worry, nothing bad. It wasn’t my fault. I had a hideous migraine.”
“Well?”
“He had it coming.”
“Who?”
“The guy! I don’t know who! I just know he had it coming.”
“What happened, Sam? What did you do?”
“I was parking in the lane in Darlinghurst, you know the one, the tiny lane where I always park off Darlinghurst Road. He was in the way, an ugly blue station-wagon. Not a big deal. I had a headache and I couldn’t really concentrate. It was just a little tail light, that’s all. The guy must have had it coming. I mean, it must have been karma.”
“What?”
“Karma. I was just delivering his karma. Not my fault.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Jesus, Lily, why are you in such a fucking bad mood all of a sudden?”
“I guess you didn’t leave your number.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Lily. I mean, don’t shoot the messenger and all that. I told you it was karma. God knows what the other guy actually did.”
I pause for a minute. I don’t think I have an appropriate response.
“Are you okay?” I say, eventually.
“I’m a mess. I can’t face work. I’m calling in sick.”
I invite him to come with me to Watson’s Bay for scones and cream with my mother. I feel he needs something sweet to get him through the rest of the day, and I need a buffer against the advice I’m sure Mama has prepared to pile on me so she can get through her day.
“Pick me up in fifteen minutes,” I say.
When Sam arrives, we check out the damage. Jackson looks completely fine. The hairline scratch on the bumper isn’t obvious even when he points it out to me. Sam, on the other hand, is a mess.
“You haven’t been home yet, have you?” He is still wearing his party clothes: a tight black T-shirt and even tighter black jeans. His suit, business shirt and purple tie are hanging in the back seat. “Give me the keys,” I say. “I’m not in the mood for dodgems today.”
In the car on the way to brunch we talk about guys. Sam tells me how he spent the night dancing with pretty strangers, but didn’t get lucky with any particular one. We pass through the leafy Rose Bay streets. It’s another glorious spring day in Sydney. Mercifully, the temperature dropped ten degrees overnight, and the cool, crisp air carries hints of sea salt and diesel fuel. The footpaths are peppered with squashed petunias and the purple confetti of jacaranda petals.
“I still had a good night,” he explains. “What about you?”
“I thought it’d be a quiet one, but Jeremy called up at midnight.”
“Jeremy? Oh Lily, no, not again.” Jeremy and I are each other’s backup plan. Whenever either one of us is bored or lonely we call the other for an easy lay. It’s not a particularly passionate affair, but it’s reliable. And it’s all we both have right now.
“He’s not that bad,” I say.
“He’s a dag.”
“He’s around.”
“He’s boring.”
“He calls.”
Sam and I are the only ones of our friends who are still single. We always joke that we have each other, but it’s not really that funny. Even if Sam wasn’t gay, we’d probably kill each other within a week. Monogamy is Sam’s idea of a nightmare, but I guess I’m open to the idea. I’m still not sure what it is I want more, the boyfriend or the peace having a boyfriend will bring me: no more anxious monologues from Anyu, no more random set-ups from Punci and the gang, no more pathetic grooming advice from my girlfriends. They say it’s all about love, but one thing I know is that a steady relationship would be a gift for those who love me the most: Sam, who loves the drama; Mama, who wishes for me the relationship she never had; and Anyu, who simply can’t stand the shame.
We’re almost there. They are digging up the road again on the S-bends leading down to the water. Five fluorescent-clad workers hover around a fractured hole, smoking cigarettes and talking on their phones, as one lone man jackhammers away at the bitumen. Sam motions for me to slow down so we can catch a glimpse of their gleaming, sweaty bodies. He sticks his fading chewing gum briefly on his index finger and lets out a strident wolf whistle, met equally vigorously by whoops and jeers from the troops. I quickly check the rear view mirror to make sure they’re not following us with a sledgehammer. Sam smiles. He’s feeling better. But I’m worrying about whether or not we’ll find parking and how we can avoid the hordes of toddlers and geriatrics in the park on their precious day out and the busloads of Japanese tourists who will cram up the boardwalk in front of the café with their ever so polite murmuring and shuffling, blocking the view of the city skyline and the only reason to sit at that café in the first place.
As we get closer, I catch Sam mouthing a silent prayer to the God of Parking.
“Pray with me,” he says, reaching for my hand.
“You know I don’t believe in Him,” I say.
I slow down and pull up in front of the white, knee-high wicker fence bordering the Tea Gardens. I scan the lawn while Sam looks ahead for a parking miracle. Mama is already there, her nose buried in the Sydney Morning Herald. She is wobbling on the rickety wrought-iron seat whose legs sink unevenly into the sparsely covered lawn. The café is uncharacteristically