Black Painted Fingernails (4 page)

Angela packs her swimming costume and towel in her sportsbag. She locks the back door of the house and walks to her car, glancing up at James’s bedroom window. The cicadas in the trees along the fence start their chorus. She tosses the bag in the back seat and vows to give her son’s room a good dust and vacuum, for when he returns.

Six weeks.

She steers the car carefully out of the driveway and sets off for the pool. Three days a week for the past two years, Angela has swum twenty laps freestyle, twenty breaststroke.

At the first intersection, on a whim, she turns left towards the shopping centre, instead of right to the pool. She needs a coffee first. And a chat.

She parks underground. At the top of the pedestrian ramp, a girl with cropped hair and a nose-ring plays guitar, a beret at her feet. She would be the same age as James. Angela drops a few coins into the beret; one bounces out and rolls along the ramp, then off into the dirt. The young woman and Angela stare at each other until the girl smiles and says, ‘Karma.’ Angela supposes that means they should both leave the coin where it is.

She reaches inside her handbag to check that she has her mobile, in case James should ring.

She imagines . . . a flat tyre? He has a spare.

Lost? He has GPS.

Second thoughts? He’d ring his father.

She looks at the phone.

No messages.

Inside the mall, she strides past Donut King and Girls Gear towards Rumours Café. She orders two strong lattes to take away. She takes a sip from one and carries them both into Vivianna’s Boutique.

Inside the shop, an assistant stands behind the counter. Angela looks past her into the back room, hoping to see Vivianna.

‘Can I help you?’ asks the woman.

‘I was wanting . . . is Vivianna here?’

‘No, sorry. It’s her grandson’s birthday. The whole family is going to the zoo.’ The woman steps out from behind the counter. ‘Can I help?’

Angela remembers taking James to the zoo when he was young. He pointed at the pelicans, laughing, ‘Pekilan! Pekilan!’

The assistant looks at the coffees in Angela’s hands. Angela offers her one.

‘Oh, thanks! Without Vivianna here, I’d have to close the shop for my caffeine hit.’ The woman takes a sip and grimaces.

Angela glances across the mall to Rumours Café and the sachets of sugar at each table. ‘I’m sorry, Vivianna doesn’t take sugar,’ she says. She places her coffee on the counter and strides out of the boutique, the woman’s voice behind her, calling, ‘No, it’s okay. Really.’

Angela picks up two sachets from the table and returns to the boutique. The woman accepts the sugar and tips both sachets into the cup.

Angela takes a sip of coffee and looks around the shop. It seems smaller, less exotic, without Vivianna’s presence. The woman goes behind the counter and sits on a stool near the cash register. ‘Are you friends with Vivianna?’ she asks.

‘Yes, I suppose,’ says Angela.

The boutique usually has a floral fragrance that soothes Angela’s nerves. She wonders if Vivianna picks the flowers on the counter fresh every day from her own garden. Or whether she buys them, or barters, from the florist next door. Angela imagines that one piece of jewellery is worth a week of fresh roses. She wishes she could trade items so easily. But what could she offer?

Cooking tips?

A tennis partner?

Swimming lessons?

Parenting advice?

Angela notices that the flowers on the counter are drooping, and a few petals have fallen onto the floor. She walks across and picks them up. They feel like the skin of a child, of her James when he was young.

‘Do you have children?’ she asks the assistant.

The assistant laughs. ‘No way!’

Angela blushes. She stands in the centre of the shop, holding a coffee and some rose petals, wondering what to do, or say, next.

The phone rings. The woman reaches across to answer it and Angela seizes the opportunity. She waves goodbye and walks across to the rubbish bin in the mall, dropping the coffee and petals inside. Of all the days Vivianna has to be absent, she chooses today.

At the pool, Angela struggles to do her usual distance and finds herself gripping the lane rope at the deep end. She deliberately ducks under the surface for a second to wash away her tears, overcome with the thought that if she doesn’t finish her forty laps something bad will happen to her son. Her breath comes in short sharp puffs. The lifeguard is watching her from his highchair; he’s already removed his hat. She attempts a smile and kicks away from the rope, slowly ploughing down the lane.

For the last few laps she rolls on her back and uses her legs to kick along, keeping her eyes closed. She veers into the rope twice but rights herself quickly enough, hoping the lifeguard has gone back to watching the young woman in the fast lane. The woman with the golden tan who never needs rescuing.

The garish blue light of the bug-zapper above the roadhouse doorway twangs as a fly fries at two thousand volts. A tired-looking woman leans against the counter, chewing gum. Her hair is pulled in a tight bun and she has a pen tucked behind her ear. High in the corner a television is tuned to
Oprah
and the latest weight-loss guru. Oprah holds up a book called
Eat Yourself to Freedom
. The television audience applauds and the woman at the counter scribbles something on her pad.

Sophie and I are the only customers. We choose a tea-stained formica table by the window. A copy of
Women’s Weekly
is open at the recipe section. How to budget ten dinners for less than fifty dollars. The woman comes over with laminated menus that are greasy to touch.

Without warning, Sophie reaches across and strokes my wrist. I jump in fright, my knees hitting the underside of the table. Her fingers track goosebumps on my arm.

The woman waits, tapping her pencil on the pad. ‘We don’t have chicken today.’ She stares vacantly through the front window at another truck blowing by.

There’s a wild look in Sophie’s eyes. She’s up to something.

Sophie leans forward, her fingers roaming up to my elbow. ‘I’d like a burger, with lots of beetroot, please. And a cappuccino.’

At least she didn’t ask for lentils.

The woman looks at me, eyebrows raised. My throat is dry. The menu slips from my flubby grip. ‘The same, please.’

She writes the order and looks at Sophie’s fingernails.

I wriggle uncomfortably in my seat and say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘She’s my sister.’

The waitress sniffs in answer. Another fly zaps.
Oprah
cuts to a commercial. The woman walks out the back, slamming the door. I picture her in the kitchen with cockroaches scurrying along the benchtops, preparing to spit on our burgers.

I pull away from Sophie’s touch and hide my hands under the table, deep in my pockets. ‘Why are you teasing her?’

Sophie bites her lip and stares out the window. ‘I didn’t like the way she looked at me. As if she knew who I was, how I felt.’

From the kitchen, I hear plates being stacked roughly, the sizzle of the grill and the slam of a screen door.

The glass counter blushes with jellybeans, liquorice allsorts, milkbottles, sour jubes, red raspberries and honey bears. Six flavours of potato chips are stacked near the cash register. There’s a commercial on
Oprah
for a milk supplement: you can drink yourself thin.

Sophie’s hands are clenched in tight fists on the table.

‘What’s up?’ I ask.

Sophie looks at me for a long time before speaking. ‘Do you ever feel like screaming in public, but stop yourself, because of what people . . .’ She looks in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Because of what people you don’t know and don’t care about might think?’

‘I’m scared of what everybody thinks,’ I answer.

‘You’re different, aren’t you?’ says Sophie.

‘Different from what?’

‘From . . . other men.’

‘I’m—’

‘You’re not trying to impress me.’

I shiver at the thought. ‘I couldn’t.’

The waitress slides the plates towards us. I wait until she turns away before lifting the bread roll. Meat, margarine, soggy lettuce, tomato sauce. No spit, as far as I can tell.

‘You worry too much,’ mocks Sophie. She takes a reassuringly large bite and chews loudly. ‘Who cares if she thinks we’re perverts.’

She scrapes away the onions from her burger and adds extra sauce.

‘Incest is illegal,’ I say.

Sophie wipes her mouth with a serviette. ‘It’s illegal . . . and sick. But we’re not related. And we haven’t had sex.’

She takes another bite and swallows without chewing enough.

The woman returns to our table with the coffees. There’s something that smells like nutmeg sprinkled on the froth. I hesitantly take a sip. Nutmeg, hot milk, not much coffee. Sophie spoons the froth into her mouth and licks her lips.

‘I dare you to say something about the nutmeg,’ I challenge.

Sophie raises her hand, like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘Excuse me, miss?’

The woman walks back to our table.

‘Could I have extra nutmeg, please?’

The woman looks from Sophie to me. ‘Do you want more as well?’

I shake my head and Sophie gets up, holding her coffee, to follow the woman back to the espresso machine. The woman sprinkles nutmeg over the froth, the saucer and Sophie’s hand holding it.

Sophie can barely suppress her smile as she walks back to the table.

‘You’re going to have to finish that . . . concoction now,’ I say.

She takes a long sip and pretends to be satisfied.

‘James?’

‘Sophie.’

‘I bet you were a swot at school.’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘As obvious as . . .’ She looks at my curly hair.

‘Yeah, yeah, you should see it when it’s wet. Like pubic hair on a bowling ball.’

She laughs loudly and the waitress looks over, scowling. Sophie leans forward. ‘Don’t say that to your students – they’ll never let you forget it.’

My students? I sigh.

‘You don’t want to be a teacher, do you?’ says Sophie.

‘I don’t . . .’

She reaches across and pats my wrist.

‘So, tell Aunt Sophie what you want to be then.’

At university last Friday I sat in the library for hours, reading, listening to my iPod, taking notes. I leant back in my cubicle and watched the other students: the science geeks with books piled high were scribbling notes with forensic dedication; the engineering blokes at the open table were flicking rubber bands at each other and giving passing girls a score out of ten, holding up just enough fingers and laughing. A young woman in an anarchist T-shirt handed them a brochure announcing a rally for student unionism. They gave her a zero.

As she offered me the pamphlet, a rubber band hit me on the shoulder. The girl turned and scowled at the engineering students. The bloke who flicked it smirked, wanting me to respond. I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks. When I didn’t make a move, the girl walked back to the desk where the engineering students sat and snatched up the pamphlet she’d offered. She called them creeps in a loud voice and stalked off.

‘I’ve no idea what I want to be.’

Sophie clicks her fingers. ‘I know. A writer. Everyone wants to be a writer.’

‘Everyone?’

‘Not me – other people. Straight from university to writing a bestseller,’ she says. ‘You can put me in your book. But not as the heroine. I want to be the one who boils the bunny.’ She scratches her nails across the table. ‘Yeah, dark and menacing and—’

‘What if I write feel-good stories?’

‘No one reads those books!’ Her voice is too loud for this café.

The woman looks at us and I fidget nervously. Sophie shakes her head slowly. ‘No matter what you want to be, James, you need to grow a backbone.’

‘And you need to stop . . .’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Backbone, James?’

‘You need to stop being provocative for the sake of it.’

She leans back in her chair and looks at me for a long time.

I get up to pay the waitress, hands fumbling with my wallet. The shopkeeper punches the figures into the cash register and points to the total.

‘She’s not really . . . we’re not related,’ I say.

She holds out her hand for the money. ‘Don’t tell me your troubles, son. I’m not your mother.’

I hand her a twenty-dollar note, not waiting for the change.

The wind whips down the wide street carrying the smell of fertiliser and dust. Sophie sits on the bonnet of the car watching a boy in a bright red skater shirt ride his bike through the gravel, practising his skids. His cap is so low over his eyes he doesn’t notice us. He pedals faster and faster and throws the bike from under him. The skid tosses up gravel and a few stones hit my car, the sound like chattering teeth.

The boy freezes, half-astride his bike, biting his lip and looking up at me under his cap. Sophie’s watching. I’m torn between admiring his bike-riding and checking the BMW for dents.

‘Nice bike,’ I say.

He grins broadly. ‘Mum gave it to me. It’s my birthday.’

His knuckles grip the handlebars as he realises he’s said too much to somebody whose car he may have just damaged. I unlock the car. ‘Happy birthday.’

On my thirteenth birthday I got home from school to find a new black suit, with a white shirt and a purple tie, on my bed. Dad was away interstate and Mum had talked for days about my birthday surprise. We ate chocolate cake on the back verandah and she polished my school shoes while I changed into the suit. I’d never worn one before. A nervous penguin with pants just a little too short was reflected in the mirror. We drove into the city and down to the harbour. When I saw the gleaming white tiles of the Opera House, I asked, ‘Why are we coming here?’

‘It’s my treat, James. You’re a young man now. You need to experience culture.’

What I
needed
was a new pair of soccer boots and pants that reached the ground. What I
got
was a bunch of divas singing in Italian. Afterwards in the foyer, Mum wanted to buy me a CD of the opera. She talked all the way home about me taking music lessons, starting with the violin. I stared out the car window at the passing lights, hoping she’d forget about it by morning.