Perfections (16 page)

‘They disappeared,’ Jacqueline says. ‘They weren’t like you, they didn’t stay with us. Once we finished playing, they . . . they just went away.’

‘Is that what will happen to me, Antoinette?’ The fear in his voice wounds her to the quick. ‘Am I going to just disappear?’

You don’t want to see that.

‘I don’t know!’ She lurches to her feet, struggling against the nausea that locks around her throat as she tries to tell them again that she doesn’t remember anything, doesn’t
know
anything, not about the fendlies or Loki or the barbed, blackened place in her mind whose perimeter hurts too much to even tiptoe around, let alone get close enough to–

Then she’s running. Down the hall with one hand clamped over her mouth, smashing her hip on the bathroom vanity as she makes for the toilet in the corner and half-kneels, half-falls onto the tiles before it. Not much in her belly past the tuna salad she had for lunch, but still she retches until her muscles ache and her throat is raw with bile, until Jacqueline is there with a glass of water and a cool, damp cloth to wipe her face.

‘It’s all right,’ her sister tells her. ‘Everything will be all right.’

Antoinette spits into the bowl. ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’

‘You’re okay, though? Antoinette?’ Loki is standing in the doorway, the expression on his face every bit as scared and confused as she feels, every bit as lost, and she gets to her feet, wills her knees not to buckle as she shuffles over to him. In her arms, he feels solid and warm and fixed. He feels
real
in a way that she knows – that she forces herself to
remember
, skimming as close to the blackness as she dares – the fendlies never were.

‘You’re not going to disappear,’ she whispers, hugging him even tighter. ‘You’re staying right here with us, I promise.’

As exhausted as she is, Jacqueline cannot sleep. Not with Ant in the bed beside her. Sighing, shuffling, stretching her legs every five minutes. After meeting Loki, Jacqueline assumed he was the reason behind the annexation of her room – a queen bed providing greater comfort for an eager new couple than the futon – but apparently, perplexingly, not.

You sure you don’t mind?
Ant asked as they brushed their teeth.
I can sleep on the couch if you want the bed to yourself.

Of course I don’t mind. You’re my sister.

It’s just, with me and Loki . . . it’s a bit awkward, you know.

But Jacqueline didn’t know. Still doesn’t know. She rolls over towards her sister. The room is dark, but she can make out enough detail to see that Ant is lying on her back. Most likely staring sleepless at the ceiling. ‘You made him for yourself, right?’ Jacqueline asks. ‘To replace Paul?’

‘Something like that,’ Ant replies. ‘I told you, I was pretty wasted. It’s not like I had an actual plan or anything.’

‘Yet here he is. And Paul is out of the picture?’

‘Definitely.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Only that you seem to have gotten over him very quickly. Perhaps there’s still a torch burning there, perhaps that’s why you won’t let yourself have Loki.’

‘It’s not that.’ Her sister sighs. ‘I don’t love Paul, but I don’t hate him either. When I think about him, about us, I don’t feel anything except tired. It’s different with Loki. I do love him, just not . . . you know.’

‘Not the way he loves you.’

‘Don’t think for a second I feel good about that.’

‘Why not make him happy, then?’

‘What, just lead him on? Brilliant idea, Jacqueline.’

‘Oh, for crying out loud, it’s just
sex
– and I’m sure you’ve equipped the man with superlative skills in that department.’

Silence. Served with bristles and spikes.

Jacqueline wishes she could take back her words. ‘That was harsh, I’m sorry. But I don’t understand, Ant, I honestly don’t. He’s beautiful and sexy, and he knows how you feel about him – or, rather, how you don’t feel – and he
still
wants you. You
made
him to want you. What’s the harm in having a bit of fun, the both of you?’

‘You’re right, you don’t understand.’ Her sister’s voice is thin and drawn, as though it might snap if rubbed in the wrong spot. ‘I’m not like you, Jacqueline. If I’m in love with someone, then sex is more than just
a bit of fun
. It actually means something. I’m pretty sure Loki would feel the same.’

‘So if he
didn’t
love you, then . . .’

‘God, why don’t
you
fuck him, you’re so bloody keen!’ The mattress creaks as her sister rolls heavily onto her side. Turns her back and curls herself foetal beneath the covers. ‘I need to get some sleep.’

Jacqueline hesitates, balancing words on her tongue. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she whispers at last. Reaches out her hand in the darkness and rests it on her sister’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, honestly.’

Ant shrugs but doesn’t pull away. ‘If you ever let yourself fall in love, even for a day, then maybe you’d understand.’

‘Maybe.’ The word barely audible. She squeezes Ant’s shoulder then tucks both hands beneath her own chin, pressing tight enough to feel the pulse of blood in her throat. Lies there motionless, thinking of Loki. That sharp, pale face. Those ice-cut eyes and lips lush as slivers of fruit. The odd twist of longing that drew her to him earlier that afternoon, that somehow draws her still.

Maybe.
The syllables echo. Swell with possibilities unbidden, unwanted. Yet she cannot bring herself to shut them out.

Maybe.

— 12 —

Jacqueline takes off her sandals. Digs her feet into the warm, dry sand and smiles. Loki nudges her with his elbow. ‘Glad I dragged you down here?’

‘I am,’ she says. If he hadn’t coaxed her out of the door and onto a tram, she would likely still be hip-deep in the chaos of her apartment. Growing ever more frustrated in her attempts to restore order. The place simply isn’t big enough for the three of them – and even if she could conjure up the space to stow each box and suitcase neatly away, she knows Ant will simply haul it all back out again whenever she wants to find something.

It’s impossible. She needs to talk to her sister. Set some boundaries.

‘Hey,’ Loki says. ‘You feel like an ice cream?’

He’s gone before she can answer. Loping up the boardwalk towards the Mr Whippy van parked by the pier. Jacqueline turns back to the beach, shielding her eyes from the sun. It’s not as crowded as she expected St Kilda to be on such a glorious summer day, and she has to remind herself that it’s only Friday afternoon. Most people will still be at work.

Speaking of which.

Jacqueline retrieves her phone from her bag. No messages. No missed calls. She hesitates, then redials the last number on her call list. It goes straight to voicemail, to the terse recorded greeting that she knows too well, and she hangs up before the beep. He must be working. Sweltering in his studio with only the smell of paint for company and no patience for distraction. Which, she tells herself, is a good thing. He’ll call when he finally takes a break. When he switches on his phone and hears the message she left this morning. He’ll call, or he won’t. In any case, her days of playing phone tag with Ryan Jellicoe are over.

Instead, she flicks through her contacts to Seventh Circle. Becca answers on the third ring, her voice losing its polished tone when Jacqueline announces herself. ‘Dante is in a meeting,’ the girl informs her. ‘For the rest of the day.’

‘That’s all right, I was hoping to talk to you.’

‘Me?’

‘I wanted to apologise for being so snippy yesterday. I really appreciate you keeping on top of things while I’ve been away. I know it can’t have been easy, putting in all those extra hours.’

‘Oh.’ Becca pauses, long enough to melt the frost from her tongue. ‘Thanks, Jacqueline, that’s really nice of you to say. But it’s been fantastic, getting to see how everything happens behind the scenes. Dante’s been unbelievably supportive too. There’s this certificate? Business administration, something like that? Anyway, he thinks maybe I can do that through the gallery as a trainee.’

‘A trainee?’

‘That way the government pays for part of it, or something.’

Jacqueline bristles. Dante has never once offered
her
any sort of training or qualifications upgrade, but less than a week alone with Sunflower Girl and he’s tossing business certificates around like confetti. ‘Listen, Becca?’ She keeps her tone light. ‘Has Ryan Jellicoe been in touch by any chance?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘He said he might give me a status update before the weekend, that’s all. I thought he might have called the gallery instead of my phone.’

‘Okay, well if he . . . sorry, Jacqueline, there’s a client just walked in.’

‘I’ll let you go. But if you do hear from Ryan–’

‘I’ll be sure to have him call you.’ The girl has already switched to the cool, rounded vowels of
how may I assist you
, and a moment later Jacqueline finds herself wishing goodbye to an empty line.

‘Nice speaking to you as well,’ she mutters.

‘I thought you were supposed to be on holiday?’

Jacqueline starts, almost dropping her phone in the sand. ‘Don’t do that!’ she snaps as Loki steps out from behind her. In each hand he holds a large soft-serve cone, one of them coated with chocolate, the other chopped nuts.

‘Don’t bring you ice cream?’

‘Don’t sneak up on me.’

‘Sorry.’ He grins. ‘Chocolate or nuts? I forgot to ask.’

She doesn’t feel like either, but chooses the cone with the chocolate because it doesn’t appear to be melting quite as fast. ‘I’m not on holiday,’ she says. ‘I’m on leave. Forced leave.’

‘That’s not what you told Antoinette this morning.’

‘She has enough on her plate without worrying about me.’

Loki bites the top from his ice cream. Makes a face as though he’s been tricked into swallowing a mouthful of soap. ‘What the hell do they call this?’

Jacqueline points to the side of the van. ‘Ninety-five percent fat free?’

‘
Taste free
would be more accurate. You gonna eat yours?’

‘After such a glowing endorsement?’

Grimacing with disgust, Loki collects her untouched cone and promptly dumps it onto the sand along with his own. ‘Seagulls can have them, they get desperate enough.’ He wipes his hands on his shirt, picks up her sandals. ‘Come on, let’s take a stroll.’

Jacqueline returns her phone to her bag. ‘Where?’

‘Wherever we end up.’ He smiles, a bright flash of teeth she can’t help but return. His fingers find hers. Pull her into motion. ‘You know, I don’t have much on my plate right now.’

‘Mmm.’ Sand shifts beneath her shoeless feet. Her toes curl with each step. Two young girls play in the shallows, squealing as each incoming wave foams and splashes against their legs. Their mother stands watch nearby, her face concealed by a floppy-brimmed hat. Jacqueline looks away.

‘So you could talk to me,’ Loki prods. ‘No worries at all.’

‘Talk to you? I barely know you.’

He squeezes her hand. ‘That should make it easier.’

Remarkably, it does. They walk almost the entire length of the beach, stopping just shy of the marina where sand gives way to scrub and stone, and the words fall from Jacqueline’s mouth as effortless as breath. Loki remains silent. Allows her simply to speak. No interruptions, no commentary beyond the occasional murmur of acknowledgement or request for clarification, and perhaps because of this she finds herself telling him everything. Ryan Jellicoe, the surreal nightmare that was Brisbane, the fear that her job might be secured by only the slimmest of threads.

Even, with only a minor hesitation, her concerns about her health. The sudden, inexplicable headaches and dizzy spells. The blackouts.

‘Scary,’ Loki says.

‘Yes.’ Jacqueline pauses. ‘You’re not going to insist I see a doctor?’

‘Is that what you want me to say?’

‘No,’ she admits. ‘Anyway, I’m sure it’s only due to stress. I’ll manage.’

‘Maybe you should talk to Antoinette.’

‘But
I’m
the older sister.’ She steps onto the footpath that runs parallel to the beach. Braces herself on his shoulder and dusts the sand from her feet. Slips back into her sandals. ‘I’m the one who solves the problems. I’m the one who fixes things. Ant needs me to be strong, and I need to be there for her. The other way around, we don’t make any sense to each other. Trust me.’

Loki stares at her, bemused.

‘Stop it,’ she tells him. ‘I’m not a science experiment.’

‘Come on.’ He grabs her hand again. ‘There’s a café up on Acland Street, makes awesome cakes. Pretty good coffee, too.’ They follow the foreshore a while, doubling back towards Luna Park. Faint screams from the rollercoaster reach over the growl of passing traffic. ‘You know,’ Loki says. ‘You really need to stop calling her
Ant
. She hates it.’

‘She does?’ Jacqueline is genuinely surprised. Ant has been Ant for as long as she can remember. ‘She told you that?’

He shrugs. ‘It’s just something I
know
. She thinks it’s an ugly nickname; too short, too blunt. It makes her feel . . . insignificant? Close to insignificant. Overlooked maybe, taken for granted? It’s hard to express. I don’t think she’s expressed it herself, not even to herself.’

‘Well, I . . . what should I call her?’

‘Antoinette?’

‘That’s a lot of syllables.’

‘About as many as
Jac-que-line
.’

‘Sure. But consider the alternatives. My boss calls me
Jacks
.’ She grimaces. ‘Jackie is just as bad – which is how they tried to shorten it in high school. Sounds like, I don’t know, someone who isn’t
me
.’

‘I think you both have beautiful names.’

‘Of course you do,’ she laughs. ‘Honestly, our mother is so damn pretentious. Antoinette, Jacqueline, Charles. She’s never even been to France and yet it’s her favourite place in the whole world.’

‘Charles?’

Jacqueline raises an eyebrow. ‘You don’t know about Charles?’

‘Should I?’

‘He was our brother; my
twin
brother. I thought this might have been something you already . . .’

Loki taps two fingers against his temple. ‘It’s not Wikipedia in here. Mostly, I know stuff about me and Antoinette.’ His tone grows bitter. Thin as the edge of a blade. ‘About Antoinette and
him
, anyway. I’m trying to separate all that from me – from who I am – but it’s hard.’

‘Because you have his memories?’

‘No. Because I don’t have any of my own.’

Uncomfortable, she fixes her gaze on the path ahead. The shopping strip is busier, the perennial café crowd filling alfresco tables with chatter and cigarettes. Too many people, too much noise. Jacqueline feels hemmed in, unsure of herself. Unsure of her next step.

‘Sorry,’ Loki says. ‘You said Charles
was
your brother?’

‘I don’t remember him very well. We weren’t even four when he died.’

‘Was he sick?’

‘He drowned.’ Jacqueline dodges a large pram parked right in the middle of the sidewalk. A woman bends over it, fussing with the child inside. ‘In the bath, just another of those awful domestic accidents, you know? I don’t think our mother’s ever gotten over it. Perhaps, if our father hadn’t left her so soon afterwards . . .’

‘You ever see him?’

Jacqueline snorts. ‘Not so much as a phone call. We expect he’s still alive, only because we assume we would have heard from someone if he wasn’t. It’s not as though our mother would be hard to find.’

Loki squeezes her hand. ‘I’m sorry about your brother.’

‘Thanks, but honestly, it happened such a long time ago. I rarely think about him these days, although . . .’ She searches for the right words. For
any
words to fit the queer tugging sensation that she sometimes feels. A nameless, formless dragging down, as though there’s a tiny black hole planted deep in the centre of her. As though Charles took something of hers with him when he died. She asked Ant about it once but her sister only shook her head.

I really don’t remember him, Jacqueline.

But you adored him. Of the two of us, I think he was your favourite.

I’m sorry, I must have been too young.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she tells Loki. ‘It’s ancient history.’

‘Hey,’ he says, stopping in front of a clothes shop. Music pumps into the street through the open door. He points to a male mannequin in the window. ‘What do you think of that jacket?’

‘It’s very nice,’ Jacqueline responds. Thigh-length black leather. A flash of burgundy on the lining. ‘Also, very expensive, I’m sure.’ Inside her bag, her phone bleats the arrival of a text. Ryan, hopefully.

‘I’m trying it on,’ Loki says. He drops her hand. Disappears inside the shop.

Jacqueline takes out her phone. The message is from Ant, short and not so sweet:
Mum called. Knows you’re home. Have to come tonight
. Dinner with their mother is not high on her list of sure-fire tips to avoid stress. Simply thinking about the emotional thrust and parry likely to be involved makes the muscles running down the back of her neck tighten. Her fingers hover over the screen. She could refuse. Could say that she has other plans. Could . . .

Fine
, she types.
See you after work. Will polish the armour
.

Sends it.

In the shop window, a slender blonde girl with lips the colour of strawberry bubblegum is removing the leather jacket from the mannequin. Jacqueline watches as she turns back to the floor, back to Loki. As she grins and holds the jacket up for him to slide into. Her pink mouth moves. She runs her hands over his shoulders and straightens the lapels. Points to a mirror hanging framed on the wall. Loki laughs and shakes his head. Jacqueline wishes she could hear the words that pass between them, but she prefers to stay out on the street. If she isn’t in the shop, Loki can’t ask her to pay for the jacket. If she isn’t in the shop, she won’t have to tell him no.

She doubts very much if her sister has let him borrow a credit card.

But he doesn’t so much as glance in Jacqueline’s direction. Simply removes the jacket and returns it to the blonde who folds it across her arm and sashays over to the counter. Loki follows. Says something that makes the girl laugh and smooth her hair. Loki laughs as well. With expert fingers, she removes the swing-tags and the security clip, then pulls a bag from beneath the counter. Folds the jacket, slides it inside. Passes the bag to Loki, whose smile is bright enough by now to power a small city. He reaches out, touches the girl’s face. Brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek. Takes the bag with him as he leaves. Outside, he squints and turns away from the sun.