Please Don't Leave Me Here (17 page)

Brigitte thinks she'll end up alone like Uncle Joe: no partner, no children. Eric says nobody else will ever want her. She's too difficult, too much of a mess — and he's right. But Dan wanted Joan, and she was an even bigger mess. Why had nobody wanted Uncle Joe? He was handsome when he was young. Perhaps he inherited the mess gene — probably from Nana's mother, who was an alcoholic depressive. Nana says she was a fragile soul who had bad nerves and liked a drink. Obviously she was the reason Nana never touched a drop. Papa says she was just bloody nuts. He told Brigitte, in sworn secrecy, that the fall down the stairs that killed her was no accident.

Why did Kurt Cobain kill himself? He had everything to live for. Somebody should have loved him enough to save him. Too much of a mess? She finishes her drink, and turns up ‘Something in the Way'. She has no idea what the song is about, but imagines it has something to do with the unfairness of life. Or maybe he's just taking the piss out of pescetarians — it sounds like he's singing about eating fish because they haven't got feelings.

When the CD finishes, she upends the bottle over her glass, but it's empty. She goes to the fridge and gets another.
Pop.

She puts on a Prince CD.

24

Sean brings her coffee every day around noon. She tries to be dressed before he comes in, but today she's still in her pyjamas. Her eyes are puffy from crying, and she's hung-over.
Again
.
Such a mess.

Sean's white shirt's been ironed, his hair smoothed with product, his shoes polished. ‘What's wrong, Brigitte?' He places the coffees on the breakfast bar next to a Berocca hissing in a glass.

She bites her bottom lip. ‘My Uncle Joe died.'

‘I'm so sorry.' He looks surprised when she hugs him, a little knocked off balance, then he slowly, tentatively, encircles her in his arms.

‘It's all my fault.'

‘That's a silly thing to say.'

She blubbers over his shirt.

When she calms down, she apologises and lets go of him. He asks if she'd like something stronger than coffee. She nods, and he heads down to the bottle shop at the corner hotel.

He comes back with a bottle of Johnnie Walker, and takes two tumbler glasses from a cupboard. ‘Got any coke?'

‘No, but I can ring somebody who can get some for us.' She reaches for the phone.

‘Coca-Cola, silly.' He's looking in the fridge. There's not much in there — no champagne left.

‘God, no. That crap is so bad for your body.'

‘Where's Eric?'

‘Working.'

‘Where does he work?'

‘Everywhere. He's a concert promoter.' She sits at the table, and runs a hand over the shiny walnut finish. ‘He's not home very often.'

‘You don't work, do you?'

She nods.

‘But you're always here during the day.' He places the drinks and the bottle on the table, and sits opposite her.

‘I work at night.' She screws up her face — the straight Johnnie Walker tastes disgusting but does the job, faster than champagne.

‘Where?'

‘At the Gold Bar.' She lets her guard down.

Sean raises his eyebrows.

‘Behind the bar,' she says quickly — the same lie she tells everybody. She changes the subject back to poor Uncle Joe, and Sean asks what happened.

‘He fell off a chair when I was meant to pick him up from the pub, and hit his head. I forgot about him. Actually,' she takes a big drink, ‘I kind of didn't forget. I just didn't want to go in because the publican tried to kiss me last time I was there.'

He puts a hand on hers, comforting.

‘Uncle Joe had dementia.'

‘Was he in a home?'

She shakes her head. He should have been in a home instead of renting Nana and Papa's spare room. He was always forgetting to pay Nana rent and to turn off the gas on the stove. He couldn't remember where he'd hidden his life savings. But Papa found them — the remains of them, anyway — in an old wooden box hidden inside the disused barbeque, after he decided to cook some sausages to see if it still worked.

‘Why didn't I just get him from the pub?'

Sean pats her hand gently.

‘And then I had to ring my mother, who hates me.'

‘Don't be silly. I'm sure she doesn't hate you.'

‘Yes, she does.' She stops talking. He's looking at her the way men look at her at work, the way Stefan the publican looks at her. He wants to kiss her. And if he tried, she'd probably let him. But he doesn't.

‘I've heard him shouting at you,' Sean says.

‘Who? What are you talking about?' She takes her hand from under his, and crosses her arms.

‘Eric.'

‘No, he doesn't. Not really. Sometimes he just has a loud voice.' She forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

‘You come and get me if you ever need to.'

‘Now you're being silly.' She laughs it off. ‘The whisky's gone to your head. You better get back to work, or you'll be in trouble.'

‘I'm serious. OK?' He looks directly into her eyes, and she looks away.

The intercom buzzes and they both stand. It's Ember/Jennifer. Brigitte opens the door, and Jennifer flounces in wearing a dress too short and heels too high for daytime. She kisses Brigitte on the mouth. ‘You OK, sweetie?' She doesn't wait for an answer. ‘Brought you some presents to drown your sorrows.' She places two bottles of champagne and a fat joint on the breakfast bar. ‘What's your name?' She looks Sean up and down.

‘Sean.' He extends a hand, which she takes and kisses. He blushes.

‘Hi Sean. I'm Jennifer,' she says, flashing a cheeky smile.

‘Just on my way out.'

‘Oh. What a shame.'

He kisses Brigitte — politely — on the cheek. ‘I'll check on you later.' It's the first time Brigitte has seen a man not turn for a second look at Jennifer.

‘Sean's cute.' Jennifer lights the joint with a match. ‘You should get with him.'

‘Just a friend.'

‘Nice place.' Jennifer looks around. ‘Eric must really like you.'

25

The intercom buzzes while she's preparing food from
Vogue Entertaining
for the apartment-warming party. It's Papa, too close to the screen. She can see up his nostrils. She giggles, presses the button that unlocks the front security-door, and hears it click out in the foyer.

He whistles when she opens the door. ‘Don't ya look a million bucks!'

So she should. She spent almost that much on highlights at the hairdresser, a French polish for her acrylic nails, and a rejuvenating facial at the beauty salon.

Papa tilts his head. ‘Ya look like ya mum.'

Brigitte frowns; she hates it when people say that. Papa's brought his grandmother's iron. He props the door open with it, and whistles again as he looks around.

‘Bit better than the last place.' He takes out his tobacco pouch and papers.

‘Have to go outside to smoke.'

‘Why?'

‘Don't like the smell in here.'

He rolls his eyes and re-pockets his smoking paraphernalia. ‘Where's ya bloke?'

‘Away. Working.' She washes some lettuce leaves at the sink. ‘How's Nana?'

‘Good.'

‘Recovered?'

‘Miraculously. Tough old bugger.' He shakes his head. ‘Got anything to drink?'

‘Only champagne.'

‘Well, la di da da.' He helps himself to a piece of olive bread.

‘Papa, I'm really busy.'

‘Too busy for ya old granddad?' He sucks his teeth.

‘I've got to get all this food ready for tonight.' She tucks her hair behind her ears.

‘All right. All right. I'm going.' He comes around the breakfast bar and kisses the top of her head.

‘Thanks for the door stop.'

‘See ya at Joe's send-off.'

Sean stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets until she tells him to come in.

‘You look nice,' he says.

‘Thanks.' She's too busy to look up. ‘Could you please take that stuff to the club lounge for me? I thought we'd have the party in there.' She points at the crate of champagne and the box of hired glasses on the floor. He carries them to the communal lounge across the foyer.

‘Ryan!' She sees him getting out of a taxi on the street. She claps her hands, pushes aside the baby beetroot salad with raspberry vinaigrette, runs to the open window, and leans over the black iron grille.

‘Hey, Little Sis!' Ryan calls up to her, grinning, squinting in the sunlight.

Brigitte unlocks the security door.

Ryan walks in and drops his bag in the corner. She hugs him, too tight. He smells of the aromatherapy aftershave she sent him. Her eyes moisten.

‘Hey, what's wrong?' He holds her face in his hands.

Help. I don't think I want to be here anymore.
‘Nothing.' She looks away. ‘Just miss you.'

‘You're not still dancing at that stupid club?'

She shrugs.

Sean comes back with the empty boxes. She introduces him to Ryan, and the three of them go out to smoke a joint down the back of the carpark, the exotic food forgotten on the bench top.

Ryan takes a long drag, and passes the joint to Sean. ‘So how long have you and Brigi been going out?' He exhales smoke. Sean turns red.

‘Ryan!' Brigitte frowns at him.

‘What?'

‘Eric,' she says through gritted teeth.

‘Oh yeah. Where is the big man anyway?'

‘Sydney. I think.'

‘With his first family, or his second?'

Sean looks at his shoes, and then excuses himself to check on the food.

‘He likes you,' Ryan says.

‘Just a friend.'

They pass the joint between them in silence for a few minutes. Ryan looks around at the luxury parked cars, up at the top-floor apartments, and then down into Brigitte's eyes. ‘What the fuck are you doing with Eric, Brigi?'

She shrugs.

‘He's older than Mum.'

She tries a cute giggle, a blink, but can't pull it off. Ryan shakes his head and crushes out the joint on the concrete with a twist of his sneaker.

She feels so glamorous, swanning around the club lounge in her new, white Chanel sheath dress, pretending she's somebody famous, somebody important. The guests — a group of her neighbours — are mingling. Ryan and Sean are getting along well. It's the perfect party — except for the food. What was she thinking?
Vogue Entertaining!
She can barely make toast. But it doesn't matter, because everybody's too busy drinking to notice. The only things that worked were the rosemary lamb skewers (shame about the onion marmalade that was meant to accompany them) — which she's left in the oven. She runs from the club lounge to the apartment, spilling a trail of champagne and raspberry on the way.

‘Can I help with anything, Brigitte?' Sean staggers after her.

She burns her hand on the oven. ‘Fuck!' She drops the tray of burnt lamb skewers on the floor. They laugh so hard they don't notice the squeak of the little wheels on Eric's suitcase. Brigitte smells his Juicy Fruit chewing gum, and freezes. She wasn't expecting him home for a couple of days.

‘I don't remember agreeing to a party,' he says in his gravelly Benson and Hedges voice. He parks his suitcase against the wall and retracts the handle with a snap. ‘You're a fucken mess, Brigitte — you need to go to bed.' His hazel eyes water when he's angry. She hugs her upper arms against her chest.

‘And you need to go home.' Eric points a finger at Sean.

‘It's OK, mate. Everything's cool.'

‘I said
go home
. And you,' he turns to Brigitte, ‘go to bed.' He pushes her in the direction of the bedroom. She loses her balance, falls against the breakfast bar, and knocks a bowl of pistachio nuts onto the floor.

‘Hey! Get your fucking hands off her.' Ryan strides through the door.

‘Don't you tell me what I can and can't do with her.'

‘What did you say?'

‘You heard.' Eric juts out his chin, and Ryan uses it as a target for his fist. Ryan's not as tall or fat as Eric, but stronger. And less than half his age. Eric wobbles and crashes against the wall, holding his jaw. Brigitte covers her mouth with her hands, and Sean takes a step back.

‘You dunno who you're fucking with.' Eric heaves himself off the wall. The bottom button pops off his shirt as it strains against his gut.