The Bit In Between (2 page)

‘A failed attempt to assert some individuality in a world of uniformity,' Oliver mused, bridged fingertips springing thoughtfully.

Alison laughed. ‘Okay, my turn.' Her expression changed and she looked at him seriously. ‘Now, Oliver. Tell me about your mother.'

Oliver snorted with laughter. ‘She's a pretty good mum. Like any self-respecting Greek mother, she has an active interest in the everyday workings of my life, and she makes an effort to read everything I write – though she does think I'm wasting my law degree.'

‘A lawyer by training. Interesting,' Alison said, pretending to make a note on a clipboard. ‘And how does that make you feel?'

‘I feel vindicated that I've had a book published when she probably thought I wouldn't. But also a little annoyed that I hate said book. Ah well,' he shrugged his shoulders complacently, ‘you can't tell your dreams exactly what to look like.'

Alison's face softened. ‘Was that your dream? To have a book published?'

‘Yep.' Oliver looked a little embarrassed.

‘And now? Now that you've achieved it? What's next?'

Oliver picked at the label on his bottle. ‘I'm not sure. Another dream maybe? Another book. One that I'm actually proud of. What about you, Ali? What's your dream?'

Alison watched him for a moment as if testing the answer in her head. ‘Dunno. Don't really have one. Just sort of bumbling through life, seeing where it takes me. But yours is cool.'

Oliver opened his mouth to ask her something else, but the captain's voice came over the intercom and instructed everyone to prepare for landing. The old man in the aisle seat jerked awake again, looking around in mild confusion until he worked out where he was.

‘About time,' he muttered to himself, and with a cursory glance pushed Oliver's arm off the armrest and placed his own there. Oliver looked nonplussed and Alison turned away and bit her knuckle as her shoulders shook with laughter.

Twenty minutes later they were walking silently through the terminal together towards the passport control queues.

‘New passport?' Oliver asked, pointing to the express line.

Alison gave him a rueful smile and shook her head, indicating the other line.

‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Alison,' Oliver smiled.

‘You too.'

And they went their separate ways.

Ten minutes later they were standing next to each other at the baggage carousel.

‘The big red pack over there,' Alison pointed, and Oliver helped her pull it off the carousel. One of the straps caught on the edge of the conveyer belt and they tugged at it together before it snapped free and they both lurched backwards, catching each other before they fell to the ground.

‘Yours?' Alison asked.

‘Big black suitcase,' Oliver replied apologetically.

Alison looked at the carousel. There was a sea of big black suitcases.

‘Anything that sets it apart from the rest?'

‘It has my stuff in it.'

Alison smirked in spite of herself and leant forward.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Trying to read the tags.'

‘That won't wor –'

‘Is this it?'

Oliver was speechless.

‘It's this one, isn't it?'

‘Yes.'

Alison raised her arms victoriously in the air, like a boxer. ‘Anything else?'

‘That's it.'

They set off for the customs line.

‘Declaring anything?' Oliver asked.

‘Nope. You?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What?'

‘This.' Oliver held up a small bag of vacuum-sealed greenery that looked vaguely medicinal and possibly prohibited.

‘What is it?'

‘I'm not sure. That's why I'm declaring it. My thea – my aunt – gave it to me, and my Greek and her English aren't good enough to have established exactly what it is.'

‘Good luck with that.'

‘Yeah. Enjoy not declaring anything. Nice to meet you.'

‘See you around.'

And they went their separate ways again.

Fifteen minutes later Oliver stepped out of the airport's sliding doors minus one bag of contraband tomato cuttings and made his way towards the quick pick-up point. Because it was Melbourne, it was raining, and he manoeuvred his suitcase around the larger, dirtier puddles. A familiar figure was huddled under a small awning.

‘Hello again,' he said.

Alison looked up in surprise and smiled. ‘Hey there.'

‘Waiting for someone?'

‘The shuttle bus. I'm going to Southern Cross to catch the train home.'

They stood side by side watching the cars pass. A horn honked and a small sedan pulled up in front of them, spraying a fine mist over their legs. Oliver popped the boot and hauled in his suitcase.

‘Want a lift?'

‘No, no, I'll be fine.' Alison smiled and wrapped her arms around herself.

‘Get in,' Oliver said, looking at the dark storm clouds. ‘We have to pass through the city anyway to pick up my other cousin.'

‘If you're sure it's not an inconvenience,' Alison said.

‘It's not.'

‘And if you're sure you're not a psycho killer who's going to lure me to some faraway dungeon and cut me into a thousand pieces.'

‘I'm not.'

Alison looked up at the rain and shrugged. ‘Why not?'

The three of them cruised down the highway: Alison, Oliver and someone called Yianni who Oliver described as ‘essentially my cousin'. No one talked much because Yianni's deck was pumping something that sounded like the love child of AC/DC and Jimi Hendrix.

From the back seat Alison leant forward. ‘Who is this?'

‘Sorry?' Oliver said and turned so he could hear her better.

‘I said who is this?' Alison shouted.

Oliver said something, but it was lost beneath a thundering drum solo. Alison shrugged. Oliver shouted something to Yianni, who gave Alison an unimpressed look in the rear-view mirror and then turned the volume down slightly.

‘They're called Thrash-a-riffic,' Oliver repeated.

Alison wrinkled her nose. ‘Thrash-a-riffic? Who calls their band Thrash-a-riffic?'

The unimpressed look reappeared in the rear-view mirror. ‘I do,' Yianni told her.

‘Oh. Sorry. No, what I meant was, it's just such a good sound and . . .' Alison trailed off as Yianni glowered at her and Oliver laughed at her obvious dismay. Traffic slowed as they entered the city. There were roadworks at the entrance to Spencer Street and they sat for ten minutes behind a stationary truck, its hazard lights flashing as it was slowly unloaded, before Yianni let out a frustrated yell and mounted the curb. They knocked over three orange witch's hats and emerged into the tail end of a traffic jam. Yianni cursed in Greek. Alison looked around nervously. ‘What time is it?'

Oliver glanced at the clock on the dashboard. ‘Eleven.'

‘Darn.'

‘What?'

‘I'm pretty sure I've missed my train.'

‘What time is it meant to leave?'

‘Eleven.'

‘Yeah, I reckon you've missed it. What time's the next one?'

Alison let out a tired sigh. ‘Five o'clock this afternoon.'

‘Right.' Oliver thought for a moment. He looked ahead at the unmoving traffic. ‘Right.'

And then he opened the car door and got out.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Coffee?'

Alison considered things. ‘Why not? But what about my bag?'

‘Yianni can take it. You can pick it up from my place later.'

Alison grabbed her handbag and opened the door.

Yianni gave them an annoyed look. ‘What about me?'

‘You can come for coffee too,' Oliver said. ‘It's not like you're going anywhere in a hurry.'

Yianni scowled. ‘Don't be stupid. I'm not leaving my car.'

‘Suit yourself.'

They took a tram to Fitzroy and strolled down the street until they passed a corner café.

‘Here?' Oliver asked.

‘Why not?' Alison replied and held the door open for him.

Although, or maybe because, it was eleven-thirty on a weekday, the café was full of glamorously grungy young things draped over mismatching chairs drinking flat whites and shooting the proverbial. Dusty Springfield was playing at a ridiculously high volume in the background and thick, rich coffee fumes filled the air.

An androgynous young waiter with a full sleeve of tattoos and a carefully angled fedora gave a noncommittal gesture that indicated they could sit wherever they damn well wanted. Oliver squeezed through the crowded tables until he found some room at a bench looking out on the street. As Alison shoved her way over to him, he motioned at the waiter, then yelled ‘Two lattes' over the din.

Oliver sat down and made a face. ‘Sorry I didn't ask what you wanted. I just assumed latte.'

‘Correct,' Alison replied, then looked around. ‘Busy . . . So, are you back in Melbourne for good now?'

Oliver leant closer to hear her properly. ‘Nope. Just for the funeral and then I fly out again.'

‘Back to Cyprus?'

‘Ha ha. No. To the Solomon Islands this time.'

‘Oh. Right. Yeah . . . Why?'

Oliver suddenly looked embarrassed. ‘For my next book. For ideas.'

‘Really? That's so cool.'

Oliver smiled but didn't meet her gaze.

‘Yeah. That was kind of the reason I went to Cyprus too. For book ideas.'

‘Did you get any?'

Oliver made a face. ‘Not that I want to share with the world.'

‘Oh, yeah. So tell me more about this next book. What's it going to be about?'

Oliver straightened his shoulders and put on an affected tone. ‘Well, it's about the human condition, innit?'

Alison smirked. ‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Actually, I have no idea. I think it might be a war story. Or about colonialism. Either way I reckon a happy ending is unlikely.'

‘And it's going to be set in the Solomon Islands?'

‘I think so. It's going to have a couple of levels. It'll be a new take on the whole love story set on a tropical island thing.'

‘How original!' Alison said.

‘And I think it'll be set during World War II.'

‘Like
South Pacific
?'

‘And someone's going to die at the end.'

‘Like
South Pacific
? How are they going to die?'

‘I'm thinking there will be a plane crash.'

Alison paused. ‘Are you sure you're not just rewriting
South Pacific
?'

Oliver ignored her and leant past to help the waiter with their lattes. Alison grabbed two packets of sugar and tore them open. Oliver watched as more sugar scattered across the bench than into her glass.

‘So,' Alison swallowed a small spoonful of froth, ‘the Solomon Islands. Why?'

Oliver stirred his coffee and looked broodingly out the window. The truth was that it had been the most exotic-sounding destination that had a flight available on the day he wanted. There was only so much time he could spend with his family, whose standard way to converse was to outshout everyone else until you had earned the right to be listened to, so he had booked himself a flight immediately after his yiayia's funeral.

‘Because of the mysticism,' he replied vaguely, still
­stirring his coffee.

Beside him there was a minor eruption as Alison snorted with laughter and sprayed coffee all over his chest.

‘Sorry,' she wheezed, dabbing at the frothy specks with a napkin. ‘It's just that's the wankiest thing I've heard since Ed.'

Oliver secretly agreed. ‘So tell me more about China. Tell me more about Ed and his quest to find himself.'

Alison laughed darkly. ‘Ed. He was a brilliant mistake. A beautiful, handsome, sexy mistake.'

She didn't offer any more.