Chapter 3
ON THE way home, Roger was still making threats about showing Declan Tyler that he couldn’t pick on any of his friends. Fran was berating him, telling him he was acting like a six year old. I was in a state of weirded-out bliss, and confused as all fuck.
Declan was obviously in Melbourne for the weekend because the Devils had just played the Saints at the MCG. He must have known somebody at the party for him to have been there at all. But why, out of all the possible available snogs at the party, had he chosen me? And come to think of it, why had he been so stupid? He couldn’t go around kissing strange men all the time, or else his cover would have been blown by now, and I sure hadn’t seen him on the cover of the Reach Out or The Southern Star recently.
I kept thinking of him the next day. There were two lines devoted to him in the back pages of The Sunday Age about how he was benched in the Saints game yet again, and nothing at all in the Herald Sun. That night on the news there was vision of the Devils getting on the plane back to Tasmania, and although I practically knocked over the television in order to see if I could make him out, all I could see was an indiscriminate mass of male blobs at a luggage carousel.
Roger tried calling my mobile and home phones; I let the answering machines take his profuse apologies, which quickly turned into intense curiosity to discover what I had been talking to Declan Tyler about.
I wasn’t trying to punish Roger; I just didn’t know what to say. I had never kept anything from him before (barring the obvious, of course), but seeing as I was so bloody baffled myself I wasn’t sure if I could make any sense to him about it.
Which was stupid. It wasn’t like I was going to run into Declan again. Last night had been pure chance. It was just a drunken pash at a party, and would soon become for me a source of either nostalgia or shame if I ever told anyone.
I went into work the next morning with the aftereffects of the party finally starting to wear off. My second-in-command, Nyssa, came to meet me at the door as I entered.
“Your phone hasn’t stopped ringing,” she informed me, handing me a pile of messages scrawled on any piece of paper she had at hand including a receipt informing me she had eaten spicy Moroccan soup at The Fitz on the weekend.
Two messages from Roger. One from Fran. One from my mother. Two from film dealers, and another from a tortured artiste who needed to have her hand held through some crisis. I sighed. “Don’t they know we punch on at nine?”
“We never punch off,” Nyssa grumbled. “Why aren’t they calling your mobile?”
Because I had forgotten to switch it back on. I winced and made it my first task when I finally made it into the sanctuary of my office. No sooner had I hung my jacket than my office phone began ringing again.
“Hello,” I answered, wishing I had had time to grab a coffee. I desperately needed one. “Simon Murray.”
“Why the hell didn’t you call me back yesterday?”
It was Roger. The man was nothing but persistent.
“Sorry, Roger. I meant to call you back—”
“I was calling to apologise to you, but now I’m thinking you should apologise to me.”
“I said I was sorry, dickhead!” It was so easy to resort back to sounding like a fourteen year old, one of the pros of a long-term friendship.
“Well, I’m sorry too, arsehole!”
I sat down in my chair, grateful for his laughter in response. “You don’t have anything to apologise for.”
“I was drunk.”
“What’s new?”
“Shut up. Look, did I just imagine it, or did Declan Tyler try to beat you up?”
I shook my head and was glad he couldn’t see my huge shit-eating grin. “No, he didn’t beat me up.”
“So he was there? Fran was trying to convince me I was hallucinating.”
“He was there. And I escaped without a scratch.” Although there was a very small patch of beard rash on the left side of my chin where he must have pressed too hard while… I stopped thinking about that, no matter how pleasurable it was.
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“If it’s any consolation, he probably gets drunken idiots accosting him all the time in public.”
“Thanks, Simon. Thanks a lot. You sure know how to be comforting.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So we’re okay, then?”
I laughed. “Yes. I will extend our friendship contract for another year.”
“Good. Speak to you later.”
I hung up, determined to get my coffee, but the phone rang again. I knew who it would be. “Hello, Fran.”
“Hey, hon,” she said warmly. “Have you spoken to Roger yet?”
“I just got off the phone to him.”
“Everything good?”
“Of course.”
“Stupid boys,” she murmured affectionately. “Meet you for lunch?”
“Sure.” Our offices were only a block apart, and we had lunches together a few times a week.
“One, at the usual?”
“Yep. ’Til then.”
Coffee. Now. I closed my eyes and followed the fumes of the freshly brewed pot to the small closet that served as our kitchen. I filled my cup and said a silent blessing for Nyssa’s superior coffeemaking skills.
Nyssa appeared in my peripheral vision. “Agnes King called again. She wanted to move her appointment up to today.”
I sighed. The tortured artiste herself. Well, one of many. “Fine. Better to get it over and done with.”
Nyssa laughed. “I’m glad you have to deal with her, not me.”
“If her doco wasn’t so good, neither of us would.”
“It’s good, and it will be popular.” Nyssa leaned in to whisper the next, even though we were the only people in our office. “We need the sales.”
“Just maybe make the coffee for the afternoon Irish,” I continued.
“Irish and Zoloft-ed up, just for you.”
A phone started ringing down the hallway. We both looked at each other, and Nyssa grinned. “That’s your phone, boss.”
“Can’t we just pretend I’m running late?”
“Nope. You’re definitely on the clock now.” Nyssa took her coffee and disappeared back into her own office.
Whoever it was on the phone was pretty insistent. It was still ringing, even though I was giving them plenty of time to reconsider and hang up. I took a desperate gulp of coffee, and my greeting was somewhat garbled when I finally picked up the receiver. “Simon Murray.”
“Hello?”
I swallowed properly and repeated myself.
“Uh, hi,” the strange voice replied.
Wrong number? Or another soulful artiste? “Can I help you, or do you want me to call in the office psychic?”
A slight pause. “Oh, it is you.”
“Then you have me at an advantage, as I have no idea who you are.”
The man on the other end of the line chuckled. “I would have hoped that I made more of an impression on you.”
It couldn’t be!
“Uh, Declan Tyler?” I said hesitantly.
“Do you always have to say my surname? You can just use the first, especially when talking to me. I know my last name.”
Oh, it could be.
“Hi,” I said in an attempt to be suave.
“We’ve already said that bit,” he pointed out.
A thousand jumbled questions were causing a shorted fuse between my brain and my mouth as I struggled to say something, anything. All I could think was How? Why? What? And Huh?
“I don’t think I said hello,” I murmured. “I think I only said my name.”
“Then say it.”
“Uh, hello?”
“That’s it.”
He was definitely amused by me. If I had been actively seeking to impress him as part of the first stage of seduction, I was failing miserably.
Best just to be me then, and get it over with. “How did you find out where I worked?”
“I Googled you.”
Coming out of his mouth, it sounded dirty. Nicely dirty.
“Simon Murray is a common name.” I stared out the window onto the street below. I could see the Flinders Street Station just to the left of me, its gold leafing glinting a bit too brightly in the winter sun.
“Well, when I added the search term ‘arty wanker’ to it, up you popped.” I could hear the smile in his tone.
I couldn’t help smiling at myself, and I bit savagely upon my lip as if he could see it from across the Bass Strait.
“Seriously, though. Your name was linked to the Triple F film festival—”
“That’s a rhetorical tautology. Like ATM machine.”
“Whatever,” he dismissed me. “And then I found another article with your picture in it, taken with the Premier.”
“He only stayed for ten minutes,” I told him. “It was a good photo op or something. Still, any publicity is good, right?”
“It all depends. Anyway, are you going to let me finish?”
“You should know, I tend to rabbit on a lot.”
“Why would I need to know that?”
Dammit. He was trying to play it cool. “Well, I don’t think it was listed under Google, but you’re the one calling me. Finish your damn story.”
He laughed again. “So then I found the festival website, and there was your office number and mobile conveniently listed. And your mobile was switched off. So here I am on this number.”
“Uh-huh,” I said noncommittally.
“That’s it,” he said, trying to hook me in.
“I guess.”
“Come on,” he moaned, “give me a break!”
“I’d be looking for a different phrase if I were you, seeing you broke your arm last year and was out for half a season.”
He fell silent, and I got my first stab of fear of thinking that I had gone too far. “Uh—”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Sorry. That was bad. Stupid mouth, I said that, right?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s a cute one.”
I could feel the blood coursing into my cheeks. “Thanks,” I said inanely. “Do I return the compliment now?”
“Only if you want to.”
“I don’t know. You’re a footballer, do you really need your ego stroked any further?”
“The press and the fans haven’t been very nice to me lately, so maybe I do.”
“Maybe later. So why are you calling then?”
He paused again, and to tell you the truth, when he spoke he sounded a little nervous. “Look, I’m coming to Melbourne again on Thursday for the game against Essendon. I’ll have training on Friday, the game’s on Saturday… but would you want to go out for a coffee on Thursday night?”
He had me gobsmacked and speechless again.
“Are you there?”
“Yeah,” I croaked.
“I thought the line had cut out for a minute.”
“No, I’m here.”
“So how about it? Coffee, I mean.”
And Simon Murray, the very same Simon Murray who only two days before had been celebrating his single status and crowing about it, and swearing he wasn’t looking for anybody, said before the moment could pass, “I like coffee.”
“So that’s a yes? You’re being cryptic. Come on, I promise I’ll use cutlery if you leave your beret at home.”
“I didn’t think you needed cutlery for coffee,” I teased, starting to feel a little more in control of my senses again.
“A spoon isn’t cutlery? What, do you stir your coffee with your finger?”
“Well, when you promised you’d use cutlery, I was starting to think you did.”
“Okay, so you’re not interested….”
“Interested? Yes, I’m interested,” I said, maybe a little too quickly.
“Good.” And he did sound pleased. “I’ve got your mobile number. I’ll call you.”
“Hey, how do I call you?”
“Send up the Bat-signal,” he said, chuckling. “Looking forward to seeing you again, Simon.”
Before I could answer, he hung up.
Like a clichéd scene in a romantic comedy, I sat in a daze for a little while with the receiver still pressed against my ear and the disconnect tone providing a soundtrack for my state of mind. The sound of a text message coming through on my mobile a few moments later jolted me out of my zombie ways, and I placed the receiver back in the cradle.
It was from an unknown number. I opened it, and it read:
Here’s the bat signal.
I saved Declan’s number and laughed to myself. I crossed over to the window and watched the people moving on the streets below. I wanted to crank the window open and tell everybody what had just happened, but nobody would believe me. I wouldn’t believe me, if I wasn’t me.
I wondered if Roger would.