Chapter Eleven

I walk towards the bedroom door but stop when my mobile phone chimes. I’m hopeful it’s a message from Arlie. It’s not.

 

Mum: Are we still chatting tonight?

 

Me: Yes, give me a minute. I’ll Skype you in five. Sorry, I’m running late.

 

I enter the bedroom. Chris turns away from me, stripped of the gym gear he was wearing when he arrived, now standing in his birthday suit.

“It's called my hot body, biatch, and I know you appreciate what you saw.”

I shake my head and close my eyes, no longer able to see his pasty white, yet extremely toned butt cheeks. “I saw nothing.”

“Sure, you didn’t. I’m going for a shower. I know the bedroom is about negative four degrees, but me turning the air conditioning down to freezing has a purpose. You’ll need to wait to find out why, though.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “You’re so strange,” I add. “I’m going to go Skype Mum, because she’s waiting to hear from me, while you wash up.” I open my eyes to see Chris take a step closer to the en suite. I quickly close them again.

“Perfect. Oh, and while you’re out there, pick up the book you threw and put it back on your chair. You’ll get back to it. Trust me, it’s worth it.”

“Yes, boss. Can I open my eyes now? Are you out of sight?”

“You sure can, sugar. I’m covered,” he says with a Southern drawl.

“Chris!” I squeal.

“What?” He’s stood posed like a model with his backside again filling my vision. “Hot damn, can I get an amen?”

“Oh my God! Go shower and put some bloody clothes on.”

“Oh my God is right. I hear that line a lot.”

“Chris!”

“I’m going.”

***

The dial tone for Skype is ringing through the speakers of the laptop. I wait, and I wait until finally, Mum accepts the call.

“Hello, sweetheart. I didn’t think you were going to make contact tonight. It’s nine already, and you said you’d Skype me at seven thirty.”

“I got busy, Mum.” Suddenly, I’m gifted a vision of her large saggy cleavage. “Mum, you need to push the screen back.”

“Why? I see you fine.”

“Well, I see your boobs, not your face. Every time, Mum. Every single time.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining when you fed off my bosoms until you were over the age of two. Most kids give up in the first year—not you, though. You refused to give up the breast, full stop. I had to force you off. It was like trying to get a drug addict to detox.”

“Mum, I’ve heard this story more times than I care to remember. Tilt the freaking screen.”

The camera’s position shifts back. “Can you see me now?”

“Yep. Better.”

“What’s wrong?” Mum brings her face so close to the camera I have a visual of only one of her hazel brown eyes. “Your face is all puffy and blotchy. Have you been crying?”

“Allergies,” I lie unconvincingly.

“You’re lying. You’ve been crying.”

“Whatever you reckon.”

“Did something happen to upset you at the brothel you work at? You really need to quit that terrible job.”

“Mum, it’s an escort agency.”

"Same thing. I just feel your talent is wasted. Why don't you consider going back to a hospital and—"

"No." I shut her down, my voice colder than I mean it to be.

I can't think about going back.

Not after what happened.

"Well, let's talk about something else then, dear. How's the love life?"

“Is that Mel, Mum?” I hear Bridey say.

“Yes, dear, it is. Melinda's been crying. She’s all blotchy.”

“Scoot over and let me see,” she says as Mum’s face zooms out and Bridey’s comes into focus. “Oh, you have been crying. What’s happened?”

“Nothing.” I shift uncomfortably in my chair.

“I hope it’s a guy.” She places her hands in prayer in front of her pointed chin, the same shaped jawline our mother has. It’s no dramatization when people say Bridey is the spitting image of our mother, and I’m the girl version of our father.

“Mind your business.”

“Your Mother Teresa image is getting old,” Bridey says.

“What’s wrong with you? Why would you call me that?” My annoyance is evident.

“Because it’s true.”

“Whatever.”

“Now girls, stop the bickering.” Mum flicks her dyed black locks.

“Yes, Mum,” we say in unison.

“So what made you cry? For real?” Bridey pulls her brown locks over her shoulder, twisting the ends.

“A book, okay? It was a book I’m reading. The guy was an arsehole, and it made me cry. There. Now you know. Go on, have a good laugh at my expense.”

“All men are arseholes. Lane’s an arsehole often, I’ll have you know.”

“Your father is an absolute dipshit about eighty percent of the time.”

“Mum!” I yell.

Mum picks at her nails with her eyes turned down. “It’s true. Just this morning, he got me all peeved off.”

“Here we go.” Bridey rolls her eyes.

I giggle.

“Where do I start? He didn’t make the bed. He was the last out of it. He left his jocks on the floor. Thirty-five years of marriage and I’m still picking his littered clothes up from the floor. He’s no better than a teenage boy.”

Bridey laughs.

“Then he slurped his cereal. You girls know how homicidal I get when people eat loudly. I wanted to stab him in his wrinkly neck with my spoon.”

“Mum, stop it.” I’m laughing so hard.

“Lane. Oh, my God. You know what he does?” Bridey asks.

“Do I want to know?” I reply, screwing my face up.

“He picks his toenails in the lounge.” Bridey fake dry-heaves. “He leaves them in the chair, and I have to dig around, finding them.”

“Eww. That’s foul.”

“Right? I swear some nights I want to grind them all up and put them in his food.”

I’m laughing so hard now I’m crying.

“Some days, I want to poison your father. He’s like a man-child who’s never going to grow up. You’re probably living the life right by being single, my dear daughter.” Mum nods. “Toilet rolls. They never change them. Dishes. They never wash them. Towels. They leave those suckers on the floor all wet, left to get mouldy. They fart in bed. They fart through sex. They fart in the car when the windows are rolled up—”

“They fart all the time, and it stinks. It’s rotten like something crawled up their hairy arses and died in there,” Bridey continues.

“Don’t even get me started on your father’s snoring. If it were legal to suffocate him with a pillow, I’d do it tomorrow. No, I’d do it today, right now.”

“Where’s Dad anyway?” I say through my tears.

“Well, you won’t believe me, but he’s at the gym. He goes to the gym every day now. Tonight, he’s gone late because Crawly—you know Crawly from down the road?”

I nod.

“He’s also on a health kick, and they need to hold …” Mum does air quotations. “… ‘each other’s hands’ while they exercise.”

“Mum, you sound bitter about your marriage. You realise this, yes?”

“I’m not bitter. It’s called resentment. You stay married for thirty-five years and come tell me you don’t want to go all murder on the dance floor on your husband’s face with a knife.”

“Mum!” Bridey and I say simultaneously.

“Thirty-five years of marriage and come talk to me then,” Mums says so matter-of-factly.

Bridey snaps her neck to face Mum. “You love Dad, right? Like, we don’t have to worry about being children of divorce?”

Mum softly backhands Bridey across the chest. “No. Of course not. I love him. He’s just annoying, and he’s driving me bonkers.”

“Thank God.” Bridey sighs.

There’s a long silence.

“Have I cheered you up, baby girl?” Mum again moves too close to the screen. This time, her nostril is all I see.

“Yes. You have. Sit back away from the screen. I can see up your nose. You’re too close.”

“Good. Sometimes all we need is a laugh to get past sadness, even if it’s because of a book.” She slowly zooms out into a more visually rewarding position for me.

“You two are crazy. You know this, right?”

They’re both nodding.

“We miss you.” Mum’s expression becomes sombre.

“Yeah, we do.” Bridey purses her full lips.

“You could come visit me here in Melbourne.”

“One day,” Mum replies.

“The city isn’t for me. Come back home and visit soon,” Bridey says.

“Okay.”

“What are you doing tonight?” Bridey says.

“Chilling at home. I better go. Chris is here; he was taking a shower, but I can’t hear the water running anymore. We’re going to hang out for a bit.”

Mum tuts. “That Chris is a flamboyant young fellow. He’s as prissy as a suckling, and you won’t be getting anywhere with him.”

“Mum, I know he’s gay.”

She places her hand on her chest. “Oh, thank the lord. I’d been worried you’d not seen.”

I drop my head into my palms and laugh. How anyone could mistake Chris for straight is beyond me.

“Well, go have fun. We’ll talk again on Saturday.” Mum leans into the screen.

“Sounds good. Well, unless I have a date.”

And before Mum or Bridey have a chance to say a single word, I end the call and shut the lid of the laptop. That’ll give those two hens something to gossip and cluck about this week.

With a sigh, I walk towards my bedroom. I turn the doorknob and step right in, closing the door behind me.

The lights are dim. The television at the end of my bed is turned on, but the screen is blue, and Chris is lying on his stomach on top of the comforter with his hands under his chin and his ankles crossed behind him together in the air.

“You sounded like you were having a good laugh.” He smiles.

“Bridey was over at Mum’s, and they were saying silly things. Did you know Mum thought I didn’t know you were gay?”

“Does the woman think you’re blind?” Chris scoffs.

I nod, scanning my eyes over the outfit Chris is wearing. “What the hell is with your get-up?”

He leaps to his knees. “You know, I thought you’d never notice. This, my beautiful friend, is our attire for tonight. You’ve got one too.”

“A bunny onesie? Why?”

“Because why the hell not? Do you love these bunny ears?”

“There’s Snapchat for bunny ears. You don’t need to wear store-bought ones anymore.”

Chris’s eyes bug from their sockets. “You know what Snapchat is?”

I bobble my head. “I’ve heard of it.”

“You don’t have it, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Thought as much.” Chris turns until I’m looking at his back. “The onesie came with a bunny tail. Look. Super cute, right?”

I grin. “Very.”

“Okay, well get your kit off and put your onesie on, and while you do, I’ll go prepare our snacks.”

"Alrighty then. I’m game.”

“Oh, you’re going to love it.” Chris's turns and leaves the room.

Maybe I don’t need to find a knight in shining armour. Perhaps I need to appreciate the people I have in my life right now—well, for as long as it takes until the slowpoke who’s supposed to make me want to murder him after thirty-five years of marriage finally shows up. Who am I kidding? I need to appreciate the people in my life, for all my life, and stop taking them for granted.

***

I hold a mug of hot chocolate with baby marshmallows floating on top in my hands. A bunny onesie covers my skin, which is so soft and comfortable I plan to sleep in it every night with my air conditioner set to freezing. The comforter is pulled over my legs and midway up my belly. My bunny ears sit positioned on my head. Pretty Woman plays on the television screen, and Chris lies beside me in bed, taking care of me as he has done since we’ve become friends. Chris has been my rock, and as the lines of the movie play out, I think of the day I met him.

 

The Quarter: One month after my big move to Melbourne, there was Chris. I’d stumbled upon a cute little coffee house after trotting the pavement for far too long. I was dying of thirst, starving, and sweaty. The air-conditioning was cold and inviting. I’d travelled much farther on foot than I’d planned to on my self-made tour, and if I hadn’t found somewhere to stop immediately, I was bound to pass out.

I slumped into a booth towards the back. I hadn’t noticed Chris sitting at a table across from me. How I hadn’t seen him, I still haven’t figured out—well, unless you count the fact I was beyond exhausted.

Chris was wearing fluorescent yellow. He had hot pink sweatbands around each of his wrists and an identical one around his head. He was typing away on a laptop when he said, “You have to get the daily special. It’s a dessert, and it’s a different one every day.”

His eyes found mine. His cheeky smile said, ‘I'll be your friend forever’, and before I could even open my mouth and reply, Chris had shifted his stuff across the table from me and sat down. “I’m Christopher Grandy. I’m gay, and this get-up is to show people how stupid their stereotypical view of homosexuals are. Nobody dresses like this anymore because it’s ridiculous. And you are?” He offered his hand.

I took it in a long handshake. “I’m Melinda Grant. I’m new to the city. I’ve moved from Queensland. I’m as straight as they come, so I won’t be sourcing any girlfriends for the, you know ...” I leant in to shield our conversation from prying ears, “… bedroom stuff. I think your outfit suits you, so I think you should dress in such a way if I’m being honest.”

Chris’s smile grew, as did mine.

 

The rest is history.

“Wait for it. Wait for it …” Chris’s torso lengthens as he perches on his knees.

Richard Gere snaps the box closed, causing Julia Roberts to get a shock before she delivers her iconic laugh.

“Cinematic gold. Oh, I love this movie so much.” Chris tips his head to the side until it’s rested on my shoulder.

“I love this movie too.”

We watch in silence. We drink hot chocolate, and eat sweets and way too much junk food until little piles of wrappers form across the bed.

“I’ll start my diet again tomorrow. I heard the lemon detox is good for you,” I mumble.

“You don’t need to diet, babe. You’re all curves. You should be proud of them … of what you have. Embrace what you were born with.” Chris shifts until his eyes connect with mine. “Like, you know you’re not fat, and you look like a woman, yeah?”

I don’t answer Chris. Instead, I break eye contact and go back to watching the love between a hooker and a millionaire play out.

“I wish you could see what I see,” he mumbles before snuggling into my side.

When the credits roll, Chris and I both sigh.

“He fulfilled her fairy tale. It was the quintessential happily ever after.” Chris sighs again.

“It was. I will never get sick of watching this movie or listening to you say the lines as though you were performing them yourself.”

“I’ve talent—what can I say? But it’s got me thinking.”

“How so?”

“You work for an escort agency. Maybe you should become an escort and bang one of the millionaires. Then he can come climb some rusty old ladder, even though he’s petrified of heights, and you’ll have your own real-life Pretty Woman story.”

I choke on my spit.

“Melinda Grant, hooker. Now, who’d play the millionaire? That is the question of the night.”

Without thought, I blubber out, “Matthew Muller.”

“Say what? Who’s this Matthew ‘Millionaire’ Muller?” Chris’s head rotates until our eyes meet. “Who is Matthew Muller?”

“A millionaire who is some type of super lover between the sheets. He also looks like a god carved from only the finest body parts.” I’ve never seen Chris speechless until this moment. “It’s why I didn’t come to The Quarter today. It’s why I curled myself up with the book. He asked me out on a date. He’s a client.”

Chris smacks my arm frantically. “He’s a client.”

I nod.

“Oh, fuckity, mcfuckity, no friggin’ way. When were you going to tell me? Oh, oh, when are you two going on a date?”

“I’m not.”

“Why?” His voice reaches a higher pitch.

“I said no. Matthew hires escorts—well, only one escort, Callie. He lives a life where everything he wants is right at his fingertips. It’s not a life for me. I don’t want a Pretty Woman story. I want my own story. It’s why I said no.”

“You’re insane. Does this Matthew bend both ways? Because, honey, I’d be all over him like a horny teenager loaded up on Viagra. I live for a sugar daddy—a sweet, sweet, delicious sugar daddy.”

“Chris!”

“He’s my dream guy.”

“Do you want to see a picture of your dream guy?”

“Do I want to see a picture? Do I want to see a picture? Do. I. Want. To. See. A. Picture?” Chris says, each time his vocal range heightening in pitch. “Yes, damn it. Where’s the picture already? Why aren’t you moving?”

“Indie sent it to me after she left work this morning. I could show you, but …”

“Gimme, gimme.” Chris taps his fingertips to his palm repetitively. “I want to know what my secret sexual dream guy looks like.”

“Be prepared for a boner.”

“Oh, this is the best night of my life.”

I retrieve the phone from the bedside cupboard. I open the gallery and hand it to Chris. He instantly slides down the mattress until he’s lying flat. “Yes, God! I’ll have that one, please. You do incredible work. Great frickin’ work. Let’s face it, big man, you’re brilliant.”

I laugh as Chris continues to stare at the screen.

“You need to say yes to this man,” he mutters.

“He’s all yours,” I reply before climbing off the bed, walking across the small space, then opening the door. “I’ll be right back.”

When I return, I’m holding my laptop in one hand, and its power cord in the other. “Do you want to stalk the internet and learn all there is to know about Matthew Muller?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

I chortle.

Every page we scroll through on the internet shows the impressive life of Matthew Muller, from his humble beginnings as a bank teller to his later success in the stock market. Chris is drooling. I’m not. Instead, I realise Matthew is just a person who started out with basically nothing and followed the life he wanted until he practically received all he desired. I was once on this same path—well, until the day I killed a patient. That day, I saw my world crumble at my feet, ripping me into a deep, dark sinkhole until I was only a shell of who I used to be. Sure, I was clumsy. Sure, I wasn’t well-suited to emergency medicine or surgery of any sort, but my diagnostic abilities far outshone those of the other doctors in the hospital. I was saving lives until a fatal mistake meant I was responsible for the loss of life. A father, young, with two small children. He should be alive watching his kids grow up, but thanks to me, he’s buried in a cemetery and his family live on without him. How could anyone bounce back from something like taking someone else’s life?

I still can’t. Guilt fills me. He never leaves me.

When I started out in the medical profession, I was warned that at some point, every doctor is responsible for a death. “We’re human, not robots. We get it wrong.” I told myself it wouldn’t happen to me, but it did. Sure, the doctors around me shared their personal stories and responsibility for mistakes which led to someone’s death. Sure, I wasn’t the only one to make such a colossal balls-up. But no matter how hard I fight to bury my wrongdoing, I can’t, because Leon Drucelli’s frightened face will always pop into my mind as a reminder. He’s dead, I’m alive, and I can’t undo it, and due to the circumstances surrounding his death, I’ll never allow myself to perform the one job I truly loved doing.

“Mindy. You’ve gone all spacey.” I hear clicking fingers.

“Leon Drucelli.” It’s barely audible.

“It was a mistake,” Chris says. “You need to learn how to let him go, how to stop his ghost from haunting you.”

But I can’t.