Grease Monkey Jive (5 page)

Despite her aching feet, jammed in elegant slender heeled shoes, the almost constant need to stifle yawns, and the creeping desire to sneak out for a burger to avoid starvation between the long awaited appearances of platters of amazingly small portions of food – a single scallop in a Chinese soup spoon, a single king prawn on a skewer, a tiny quiche that you were apparently meant to pop in your mouth whole – Alex was glad to be here. This was exactly the sort of function in exactly the sort of world partnered by exactly the sort of man, she aspired to.

All the men were distinguished in their suits, all the women well put together with the right clothes, hair, makeup, and jewellery. The conversation was about art and theatre, business and travel, and the atmosphere was about power. Alex could feel it seeping through the room, see it in the number of black suited waiters pouring expensive champagne, and smell it in the fragrance of the out-of-season oriental lilies. It looked like influence and it had the perfume of money and she was grateful to Phil for bringing her here.

Phil didn’t look like power or influence at the moment though. He looked nervous. He was laughing perhaps a bit too loud, skipping from conversation to conversation a bit too quickly. He was also ignoring her to concentrate on Bruce and the other divisional leaders in the bank. That was ok, she understood, he was trying to create a good impression. He was ambitious and wanted to make department head before he turned thirty.

“Alex, are you enjoying your studies?” said Bruce, with laser focus from cool grey eyes.

“I am, thank you; it’s very challenging.”

“I understand from Phil that you’re snagging your share of HDs.”

Alex blushed and ducked her head, not sure if she was embarrassed to have it mentioned or that Phil had been talking about her.

“You took some time off before you started I hear. What was your reason for doing that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I wanted to have some savings so that I could manage on part-time work.”

“Oh, it wasn’t to do the gap year thing and travel? That’s certainly what my son did – a year in Europe.”

Alex shook her head, could feel herself blushing again. Her gap years were about working and saving and fighting with Sylvia so she had a tiny bank roll to ease her way through the first year of study. That financial cushion was all but flattened now, in need of a good plump up, the type of plump up winning the championships could bring.

When the general conversation turned to school fees and with no valid opinion on that subject, Phil was forced to listen instead of being an active participant. Alex whispered, “I’m starving.”

“You’re supposed to eat before you come to these things,” he said, out of the side of his mouth.

“I know that now.”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing. I was just mentioning it.” In truth Alex was feeling slightly faint; that would be the fault of that glass of champagne on an empty stomach. “I think I might have to go and sit down.”

“You can’t,” Phil hissed.

“I feel a bit light-headed.”

“Oh Alex, pull it together. As soon as the speeches start you can go outside and find a McDonald’s.”

“Ok,” she said, and that’s exactly what happened. Half an hour later and seriously nauseous from hunger she was in Martin Place casting about for a McDonald’s. It was the best cheeseburger she’d ever tasted. It went exquisitely with large fries and, accompanied by a chocolate thick-shake, the meal was culinary perfection. No fussy skewers, soup spoons, or banana leaf wrappings, but more than enough calories to stop her stomach rumbling and settle her head spins.

The only problem was she was locked out. They’d shut down the reception desk she’d passed on the way out and there was no way back into the bank’s premises without Phil who had a security key to get him inside. Now she was well-fed, but very bored and frustrated. She was missing the speeches, missing the flowers, the conversation, and the chance to soak up the atmosphere. The late evening atmosphere on Pitt Street was considerably less influential.

She tried calling Phil, but he probably couldn’t hear his mobile. And now she was starting to get cold, and her feet really were killing her.

An hour later and shoeless, when she’d long since abandoned the hope a smoker, nicking out to soothe an addiction, might find her and let her back in, Phil appeared. “Why didn’t you come back in?”

“I couldn’t get back in.”

“Oh. I didn’t realise they’d shut the reception desk. That was embarrassing, you just disappeared. You missed most of the function.”

“Sorry. I did ring you.”

“My phone was off. I don’t know what Bruce will make of that,” said Phil chewing his lip. “It wasn’t good, Alexandra.”

“Geez, don’t call me that. Anyway it’s not my fault.”

“It’s hardly my fault, is it?”

“You could’ve come looking for me.”

Phil’s face said, ‘are you kidding’, but his mouth aimed for more conciliatory. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not? It would only have taken five minutes.”

“Alex, honey, I couldn’t very well go chasing off after my girlfriend, who forgot to eat before she came, in the middle of a work function.”

“Five minutes.”

“Oh, honey, let’s forget it.” Phil took her hand. “I’m really tired and I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Let’s get you home.”

Alex nodded. She was beyond really tired, she was achingly tired, and there was no way her feet were going back into those shoes.

Phil eyed her bare feet and red toenails with unconcealed distain. “You can’t walk back to the car like that.”

“I can’t get them back on.”

“It’s not safe, there could be glass. You have to put them back on.”

“You could bring the car around.”

Phil dropped her hand. “I’m not your chauffeur, Alex. Put your shoes on. You look like some drunk slag without them.”

“Phil, was that really necessary?” Alex said. “I’ve been standing out here on my own for an hour. I danced my heart out today and my feet are swollen. When I said I couldn’t get my shoes back on, I meant it.”

“You’re losing it, Alex. And I thought you looked so beautiful tonight. You were the most beautiful girl in the room.”

“The most beautiful girl minus shoes is suddenly a slag, how does that work?” she said and in response Phil’s phone vibrated in his pocket, sending out a dull whirring sound audible to them both. Then miraculously, while they were staring at each other and Alex was considering asking if he’d deliberately ignored her call, there was a taxi and more miraculously it stopped when she waved.

“Goodnight, Phil. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the perfect girlfriend tonight.”

“Alexandra, don’t be like that. Don’t go, wait, I’ll bring the car around.”

“No, Phil. It’s ok, I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later.” Alex climbed into the back seat of the Legion taxi, resenting the fact it would be the best part of thirty dollars in fares.

A dressing gown swathed Sylvia was in the kitchen drinking a glass of water when she limped in on sore toes. “How was it, darling?”

“We won!”

“Not the contest, Phil’s function.”

“Oh.” Alex frowned in the half light from the range hood. “It was amazing, the most beautiful old room. I met Phil’s boss and there was champagne and flowers and very posh food, but I’m exhausted, Mum, I’m going to bed.”

In truth she was more pissed off than exhausted. She shouldn’t have fought with Phil, though he could’ve told her to eat first and he definitely could’ve come looking for her. And the business about the shoes, that wasn’t worth thinking about. But still, it was an important night for him and it hadn’t exactly gone to plan, and he was being very generous in introducing her to people who maybe one day might help her career.

She went to bed and contemplated the motionless ceiling fan, tried to regret missing the speeches and found she was more annoyed about not having celebrated with Scott and Trevor instead.

Alex rolled out of bed, muscles protesting, to the sound of Gwen clattering plates. There would be tea and she badly needed it. Stumbling and yawing she padded down the hall to the kitchen where a florist had set up shop on the table. She could barely see Gwen over an enormous bunch of exotic blooms.

“Oh, are they for me?”

“They’re certainly not for me. Who do you think they’re from?”

Alex had no idea. She ferreted about for the envelope, typed, so no handwriting clue, inside more type. ‘I was a jerk. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Phil’.

“It’s from Phil.”

“Ah,” said Gwen and it sounded so much like ‘Tsk’ to Alex that she said, “Gran, what does that mean?”

“I like Scott better.”

“Oh Gran. You know Scott is not, um... Why don’t you like Phil?”

“He thinks rather a lot of himself.”

“That’s unfair. He’s the youngest group leader in his division at the bank. He has two degrees. He’s smart and successful and generous and he has the phone number of an excellent florist,” Alex finished, trying to not dwell on that last part. How hard was phoning a florist?

“Sorry, darling. I just can’t seem to like him. I’ve tried for your sake, really I have. At least I’m not like your mother. I think we’ll have to pray to St Anthony to find her lost sense of romance before she’d approve of any boy you like.”

Alex laughed. Her mother and grandmother were so very different in character yet both of them had similar experiences as women abandoned by their men and as single mothers. For Gran it was the brutal war in Vietnam that took her husband. Not immediately, but within two years of him coming home a broken and violent man – one who drank himself to an early death.

For Mum it was a whirlwind romance with an older man. He was rich, handsome, glamorous, foreign, and gone without trace before she knew she was pregnant.

Alex knew Gran wanted her to have passion and fun in her life, while all Mum wanted was for her to be independent, with her own money and career, so she never had to rely on a man for anything. Gran was the dreamer, the idealist, and Mum was the pragmatist. Together they’d given Alex the opportunity for a life neither of them had been able to achieve, and she loved them both for that.

She’d grown up in a household where Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters’ novels vied for attention with works by Betty Friedan, Germaine Greer, and Naomi Wolf, and it’d given her a broad world view. It was like living in a demilitarised zone between courtly love and bra burning.

Gran wanted Alex to have a big white wedding to a wonderful man who would love and care for her and who she could love too. Sylvia was enough of a realist to know Alex would attract plenty of attention from men and to prepare her for that. No immature, naive crushes and unwanted pregnancies for her daughter; instead she was raised to have the self-respect and strength of will to leave any man who didn’t measure up.

As far as Alex was concerned, Phil measured up. He was handsome, successful, and supportive of her studies and her desire for a career. Ok, so he wasn’t a laugh a minute or particularly romantic in the ‘sweep you off your feet’ fashion, and that’s why Gran didn’t like him, but he was steady and solid and reliable and ambitious. He had all the right stuff to build a successful partnership.

Alex touched the curved petal of a yellow tulip and smiled. She knew Sylvia would be perversely pleased to see the flowers, especially once she realised they were sent as an apology. Flowers for no reason were a complete mystery to Sylvia, but flowers to say ‘I’m sorry’ were a sign that Alex was in control.

Regardless of the symbolism of them, they were lovely, a blend of garden favourites and exotics, and they made up for last night. Now she felt vaguely silly for having insisted on taking the taxi home and guilty for thinking Phil had deliberately ignored her phone call. Why would he do that when he’d been so insistent she come with him in the first place, and so proud to introduce her around?

She poured another cup of tea, left Gran to her Herald, and went to her room. She dialled Phil’s phone, got voicemail, left a ‘thank you for the flowers’ message, and climbed back into bed, partly because she could – no uni today and no need to be at the studio till the afternoon – and partly to wait for Phil’s call.

She was just dozing off when he rang.

“Hello beautiful.”

“Hello yourself. You got my message?”

“And you clearly got mine. I’m so sorry, Alex. I was annoyed with you about leaving the function and it put me in a bad temper.”

“And you took it out on me.” Alex dumped that earlier feeling of guilt for a new slice of indignation.

“Yes, I did. Hey, I’m a stupid bloke. I wasn’t thinking. I was just hurt you’d run away from me.”

“I wasn’t running away. You knew I was coming back.”

“It felt like you abandoned me.”

Alex could virtually hear the pout in Phil’s voice. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I love you and I get worried sometimes that you don’t love me.”

“Oh Phil.”

“I told you, I’m a stupid bloke. I forget sometimes. I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?”

“Tomorrow night? Dinner and a sleep over?

“Sounds good.”

“I do love you, even if I get it wrong sometimes.”

“Thank you for the flowers.”

“My pleasure.”

“Phil, is there any chance you can come and see the next competition heat?”

“That’s the Sunday afternoon, yes? Look, I’m not sure. It’s possible the Melbourne trip will turn into two weeks. I don’t know yet.”

“Then maybe you’d like to come and watch a rehearsal?”

“Maybe. We can talk about that. I have to go. I can see Bruce coming down the corridor and I want to nab him. See you tomorrow night, honey.”

“What did corporate man say about the win?” said Scott, stepping into a lunge to stretch his hamstring. Of all the men Alex had dated, corporate man was Scott’s least favourite. But for her sake he tried to restrain his dislike, though right now that was a tad difficult. Alex wasn’t her usual happy self and Scott figured corporate man was probably the reason.

“Corporate man was busy being climb-the-career-ladder man, so he wasn’t really focused on me,” said Alex. “But I did get an enormous bunch of flowers this morning so he realised the error of his ways.”