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It’s late October and two weeks since Ruby has spoken to me. And no postcards. I’m thinking of selling the house, giving Mark his share and moving somewhere nobody knows me. Maybe south of the river. St Kilda, Port Melbourne, Elwood, a watery suburb. I can see myself standing at the window staring across the sea in the direction of Paris, leaving a two-footed impression in the carpet and a coffee-ring tattoo on the windowsill.

I stand in front of the fridge and re-read the old postcards. The last one arrived a week before the Thunder letter.

I love Paris, I love the French, they sound sexy and rude, but I love you the most. BJ. XXX

Haystacks. That’s appropriate. BJ is my needle. I pricked myself on her, more than once, luxuriated in the pain and in the slow skin-colour fade of the tiny scar.

Alone is okay. It’s good for worry and it’s good for running. Running is good for thinking. No Mark, no BJ, no Ruby. All in just over six months and almost no effort. Running is good for nothing. Running at night is good for nothing because you can’t see it.

The moon is a big white cut-out in the dark sky. It seems close. Craters, orange-peel clusters, shadows. I turn into my street and see my letterbox. I wish it had feelings so I could breeze past it, my nose in the air. I run the last seventy metres and check it anyway.

A letter from EJ. I can’t bear to see my dismissal in print. I’ll read it later.

A ringing telephone sounds much more urgent in the small hours. I roll over and fumble the phone into the doona. My clock radio glows two-fifteen.

‘You rang?’

I yawn: ‘You want to talk about this now?’

‘You have something better to do?’ She sounds positively chirpy.

I’ve nothing better to do than make things right with Ruby.

‘What time is it on your planet?’ I have her on speaker phone as I get into my dressing-gown and slippers, a cup of tea required.

The kitchen is middle-of-the-night cold. I turn the heater on and stand over the vent, hot air breathing up my pyjama pants, flaring the legs. ‘Are you bored, Ruby? Is there nothing to catch your eye on the home shopping network?’

I fill the kettle. The phone is off speaker and snugged to my ear.

‘You’ll get a sore neck doing that.’

‘What?’

Ruby is waving at my kitchen window. I should have known this was going to be one of those in-person, nowhere-to-go conversations. I unlock the back door and return to the heat.

‘Shit, it’s cold. Move over,’ she says, pushing me off the vent.

Mum’s best teacups are often privy to hard conversations. It’s as if we take comfort in their attendance, their gold-worn rims, the way your fingers catch in the crooks of their handles.

‘Ruby, I’m sorry. I should have known how you felt about Mark, and I shouldn’t have been so flippant when I told you.’ She starts to say something. ‘Don’t. Let me say it. I’ve had my head up my arse.’

‘And it’s not just since the couch.’

I want to disagree but I can’t be sure. ‘Who can say?’ It’s the best I can do. ‘I’ve looked at it in retrospect, Ruby. Believe me, I’ve had time. And really, you and Mark, you’re a little obvious, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, you’re funny. Tell me what else you’re sorry for.’

‘Making a night of it, aren’t you?’

‘My bed’s empty, Peta, I have nothing to be home for. Mark is in Chicago. Again. I hate Carole Smart, she’s killing my love life. And I hate Chicago, it’s like Queensland on
Neighbours.
Why can’t Mark be here so he can see how great I am?’

‘Ruby, you are singing my song.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

I glance at the clock. It’s just after three.

‘Can we have another Peta-says-sorry-and-takes-stock
session tomorrow? I’ll skip work. God knows I’ve been living there lately.’

I take the cups to the sink, rinse them, straighten the tea towel on the handle of the oven and push my chair in. Pull Ruby out of hers. Propel her to my bedroom.

Too tired, I don’t get out of my dressing-gown and only take my slippers off when their rubber soles snag on my sheets.

‘We have to go out for breakfast. There is nothing to cook. I’d make us a tuna milkshake but the milk is out of date.’

‘Ruby, make yourself useful while I get dressed. See if you can find my keys.’ Shades of big-sister bossiness, I love it.

I don’t have a shower but tie my hair back. I pull on last night’s jeans—overdue for a wash, just like me—and BJ’s
hey fashion victim, pull up your pants
T-shirt and a cap. BJ-style clothes to suit a BJ-style mood.

Ruby comes back into my room.

‘Making sure you won’t attract anyone, huh? I didn’t find your keys, but I found this on the hall table.’ She’s holding the letter from BJ. ‘A French letter, geddit?’

‘Pathetic, Ruby. Give me that thing.’

I prop it against a framed photo of Mum and Ruby and me. It was taken not long before Mum died. She’s wearing her wig—she called it her hamster, Ruby called it her merkin. I laughed so much I fell off my chair. Mum: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ruby, and I’m sure I don’t want to. Get off the floor, Peta.’

‘You’re not going to open it?’

‘Nope. I’m not ready to be formally let go.’

‘It might not be like that.’

‘What else could it be, Rube?’

My keys are in the door. Spent the night outside in the dark.

I’m not in the mood for breakfast. I watch Ruby eat her eggs Florentine. I don’t know why she goes out for food, she only complains about how they make it.

I drink a coffee, empty it. She sips hers.

‘Can we go home?’

‘We just got here.’

‘We didn’t just get here.’

She checks the time on her phone, shrugs. ‘Fair enough.’

Seeing her, having her talk to me, friends again, is enough.

Ruby drives like she works: positive, bossy. Straight through a stop sign. I pull my cap down over my face, no comment.

‘Are you going to fuck him again?’ A red light and a direct look. Isn’t that the same question I asked her?

‘No, Ruby. It was a mistake.’

‘Why did you do it?’

We pull up next to a school bus and Ruby leans across, poking out her tongue. The kids make faces and laugh. The bus takes off and we slip in behind it.

‘Because I wanted to see if I could still have sex with men. First mistake. Mark is not men, he is Mark. All it showed me was that we’re still compatible. Because I needed to be touched. Masturbation has its limits. Because I was getting back at BJ for her lost night, for leaving me to go to Paris, for turning my life into something unrecognisable.’

‘You did it to yourself.’

‘I know, Ruby. I know. I’ll never be able to explain the
feeling of being on the couch with her. It was exhilarating. Exhilarating is a start.’

‘You make it sound like heroin, the first time.’

Heroin. Yeah. I said I’d pricked myself on her.

‘I want BJ—and to be happy and know it. Not the happiness I usually do, where I go: see, I was happy then, five minutes ago, last week. On the couch.’

Ruby nods. She reckons happiness is the tiny moment before you press the button and say cheese. Happiness, Cheese, flash. You’re stunned, see silver specks floating and when your vision is back to normal, it’s gone.

‘One thing at a time, Pete. BJ is in France, but Mark is here. Well almost, he’ll be home in fourteen hours.’

‘Oh, now I understand why you’re so up—he’s coming home. I thought you’d been into the cold and flu tablets again.’

‘That was only once and just to see what it was like.’ She pulls up outside my house, turns the ignition off and Buttercup, her ancient Renault 12, shudders to an overrunning finish. ‘Anyhow, what do you mean, I’m so up?’

‘You’re jumping out of your skin and you haven’t shut up.’

‘Yes, I have. You’ve been crapping on the whole time. BJ this, I want her that, the couch, the couch.’

Ruby has her hand to her forehead, reminding me of every soap-opera hospital scene I’d had to watch when I was looking after Mum. I remember deciding the daytime-TV addiction was a side-effect of her chemo.

‘So, he’s back tomorrow?’

‘Yes, he’s taking me out to dinner.’

‘Fantastic. Where are you going?’

I don’t say call me if it doesn’t work out.

‘You okay this morning, Peta?’

‘I had leftover pizza for dinner last night and I don’t think I should have.’ I grimace as I take my coffee from Anna.

‘Maybe an early night tonight, eh? Forget
Dexter,
I’ll fill you in.’

I miss the episodes she catches and vice versa. She stamps my coffee card, hands it back to me.

‘I’ll get an early night if you do,’ I say.

Anna never gets to bed before twelve and she’s always at the cafe by seven. How does she survive on so little sleep?

No sooner have the Grand Final teams paraded down Swanston Street, than a photo of some celebrity holding the Melbourne Cup appears on the front page of the
Herald Sun.
I’m not in the mood this year. I didn’t watch
the race—it takes at least a minute too long for my liking—I spent the day in the library. I’ve worked every first Tuesday in November since I left uni.

On Oaks Day the tram ride to work is festive. The men look sharp in their three-piece suits but the women are outdoing them. They’re all wearing hats, backless dresses, halter-neck, full-length or mini, and not a coat in sight. From the outside my tram must look like a mobile garden party.

Everyone looks refined now, but the tram ride home will be dishevelled and barefoot, smudged mascara and footy-club theme songs warbled drunk and insensible.

I’m working back tonight.

I’m sitting at my desk and I’m meant to be working. A couple of minutes off is okay—I’ve done nothing but work for weeks. It’s mid-November and I can’t help thinking about BJ. I could ring Loz to see if she’s heard anything. But what if whatever she’s heard is something I’d rather not? I’ll leave it.

Today I woke up in a strange mood. I took the tram to work and the streets seemed different, louder. And my coffee tastes peculiar. I can’t drink it.

‘That’s three dollars I’ll never get back,’ I say to the bin.

‘Do you always talk to yourself, Peta? There’s someone for you in reception. I couldn’t get you.’

Blaire breaking into a Peta-in-discussion-with-herself moment. She leans over my partition and presses a button on my phone.

‘There. I’ve told you before, Peta. Don’t touch the little green button.’

‘Sorry, Blaire, I must have bumped it.’

She strides off. High heels, tight skirt, blonde hair, too much of it.

At the window, looking out into the docks, Coode Island, the cranes of the West, is Justine in full courier dress. No wonder Blaire said
someone
like that.

‘Hi Jus, how’s Thunder?’

‘She’s downstairs if you’d like to say hello.’

A container ship trudges out to sea. The bay and the clouds are grey, the horizon blending. ‘So, what are you doing here?’

‘BJ said she you sent you a letter.’

I love Justine. She doesn’t waste a word.

‘It’s on my dresser.’

‘I think you should read it.’

‘Obviously. What about you and Stuart?’

‘He’s still there. Maybe he’s waiting for me, I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right to be falling in love when my sister needs me.’

‘I forgot you have a sister. She’s not well?’

‘Ali, she has depression. When are you going to read the letter?’

‘When I’m ready.’

‘I don’t suppose anybody has told you this, but you have an amazing way of avoiding issues. It’s a talent. You look plugged-in, like you give a shit, but in fact, you’re a flat-out chook.’

I picture a flat-out chook. Black tyre-tracks, laminated to the road, the odd off-white feather sticking up.

‘Jus, could you go now?’

‘Come on, Peta, you can do this. You took on BJ, you were straight, married, on-track. But you went with it. You were as brave as fuck.’

I’m too tired for this. I’ve been wrecked all day and I’m not going to get an early night tonight. I’m planning to sleep on the tram.

She keeps on: ‘I mean it, Peta. You two went your own way. It was brilliant.’

‘Until I fucked it up.’ Yes, I said the f-word in reception in front of Blaire with the hair. I used to be a rebel. Justine says so.

‘By sleeping with your husband?’

‘I was talking about working too much and making her think I didn’t need her. How do you know about Mark?’

‘I catch up with Ruby on Mondays at the pub. Sports trivia. She’s not bad.’

The pair of straightshooters—I should have known they’d become friends.

‘So you’ve been workshopping me with my sister?’

‘She cares, I care. And I care about BJ.’

‘Is there anybody you don’t care about, Justine?’

‘Yeah, Nicolas Cage and Mia Farrow.’

‘Look, I’m going to Ruby’s for dinner. So I’ll read it late tonight or tomorrow morning. Okay? Promise.’

I walk Justine to the lift, consider going downstairs to see Thunder, decide not to be an idiot, and go back to my desk.

Ruby cooks a lamb roast. I smell it as I walk up her driveway. Mark lets me in. His answering the door isn’t lost on me. He is with Ruby.

On the kitchen bench are lamingtons and yo-yo biscuits. I grab a Coke from the fridge and see a triple-chocolate cheesecake.

‘Do you have something to tell me?’

Ruby cooks when she’s thinking.

‘After dinner. I don’t want it to get cold.’

‘So Mark, when do you move to Chicago?’

‘I’m not. Things have changed.’

‘Oh. Well. That’s good.’

Is that supposed to mean he has changed? Just in time for Ruby?

‘Yeah, I’m reconsidering a partnership. The hours aren’t good for my health.’

‘I think I remember saying something like that. Excuse me.’

Ruby’s toilet is one of those in-the-bathroom jobs, like the one I cracked in half with my head at BJ’s. I close the door, turn the key, put the lid down and sit on the toilet.

A knock.

‘Pete, you okay? Dinner’s ready.’

Flush. ‘Yeah, Rube,’ I say over the rushing water.

The cooperative manner in which Mark and Ruby pass each other the salt, the pepper, the mint sauce, is disgusting. Sitting opposite my ex and my sister, I gaze in the direction of the front door every ten seconds.

I stand up. ‘I feel sick. I’m going home.’

‘Mark, you have to tell her.’

I sit down, musical chairs for one.

‘Tell me what?’

‘Hang on.’ Ruby leaves the room and comes back a half a minute later.

‘Is that the French letter? How did you get it?’ I can’t be bothered getting angry about the invasion of my privacy. She stands it between the salt and pepper. It looks like it’s waiting for a bus. It can wait.

‘I used Mark’s key.’

I’m getting my locks changed.

‘Why can’t people leave me alone about this letter?’

‘Pete, BJ knows about that night.’

He can only be talking about one night.

‘How does she know, Mark?’

He takes a breath. He starts saying he’s sorry.

I stop him. ‘Just tell me.’

‘When we were having sex, your phone rang, well, it lit up and vibrated. It was BJ. I’m sorry, Pete. I pressed the button. I don’t know how long she listened for but she would have heard enough. You were facing the other way. We were making a lot of noise. Remember?’

I think I’m going to vomit.

My phone in its usual spot. Phone, wallet, keys. Easy. And he answered it. Pressed the button. Easy. I was bent over the kitchen table and he was saying things like,
is that how you like it, Peta?
And,
you still like a bit of cock don’t you, Pete?

I was responding,
Yes, yes, yes.
And BJ heard it.

I make it to the sink just in time.

Vomit, snot, tears, all conglomerating, I slap Mark in the face, his head, neck, shoulders, over and over. I beat him. You bastard, you bastard, you bastard. After taking it for some time, Mark stands up and grabs my hands, pushes me into a chair.

‘Peta, stop it! I was wrong, it was shit. The worst thing I’ve ever done.’

‘I don’t remember any missed call.’

‘I deleted it when you were in the shower.’

‘Why, Mark?’

‘I don’t know. It rang, I answered it. I’m trying to
apologise. Look, I never said I was a saint, Peta.’ Mark straightens his shirt, sees the top couple of buttons have been ripped off and shrugs. ‘We’ve both learned something this year, haven’t we?’

I imagine BJ sitting in on tonight, listening to us at Ruby’s dining table, responsible-looking, so-called adults.
‘Oh yeah, Peta, he’s the man your mother warned you about.’

‘You’ve got some saying sorry to do, too, you know.’

‘I am so sorry…’ My head on the table, I think of my cowboy girl, calling, getting through, listening to us.

The French letter. It’s time.

The handwriting doesn’t seem angry.

I go to Ruby’s room.

Mark’s things are on the bedside table: his inhaler, his tall glass of water. I don’t care. I sit on the bed and read the letter under the light of the bedside lamp.

Dear Peta,

Well. I don’t need to ask what you’ve been doing with yourself and I guess you do still like a bit of cock.

Pete, I’ve got a couple of things to say. I can’t call you, I’ll cry and you’ll cry and we won’t understand each other.

That night I wasn’t home, I know you were too afraid to ask. You were right. I hooked up with a girl from uni. The night is a bit of a shadow, I’d had a lot to drink—shots mostly—she dragged me home and we fucked. I knew it wasn’t right. She’s pretty pissed off at me.

When I got home I felt like hell. But you and I talked and got ourselves back on track and I left for France. I should have stayed.

Selling Thunder was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Harder than listening to you and Mark fucking in the kitchen, I think. I have to admit, you do something to me Pete—even when you’re fucking someone else, I want you.

I said selling Thunder was the hardest thing. I knew if I didn’t have to come back for her, we were finished. Justine said by the look on your face, you knew we were finished too. I didn’t say any of this in the Thunder letter because I figured we were one for one.

I loved you, Pete. I did. I still do, but you need to get yourself right. Find out what you want from your life.

I’m staying with a woman I met on a ride. Simone’s an artist. She works with metal, large-scale stuff, sculptures like those people on the corner of Swanston Street, and practical gear, like gates, barn doors, that kind of thing. I don’t know how long I’ll stay at Simone’s, I think it’s a mutual holding pattern thing.

There is nothing else to say.

BJ

I fall back on Ruby’s bed. BJ had slept with somebody else. I dry my eyes on my sleeve, fold the letter and slip it back into the envelope. I remake the bed, turn off the bedside light and join the others.

‘Okay?’ Ruby says from the sink, rubber gloves up to her elbows, musk-stick pink with crinkled flared edges. She doesn’t move, waiting for me to show her what to do.

‘Fine. I’m going home.’

‘Pete?’

‘Rube, there’s nothing else to say.’