The Best of Adam Sharp Page 4

  ‘So you decided to get an independent assessment?’ I said.

  ‘No!’ She was a little tipsy. Shanksy had gone home, leaving me to close up, after provisioning us with a bottle of sparkling wine.

  She topped up her glass. ‘All right. When you’re constantly being told you’re no good, but the other person isn’t doing anything to try to make it better, you start to wonder. I was pretty upset with him that night.’

  ‘You’d broken up. You didn’t need an excuse. And you don’t need to feel guilty about it.’

  ‘I do, though. It was only a week, and I was hoping he’d apologise. I guess I still am. But I’m starting to think it’s me who should say sorry.’

  ‘What did he do that needed an apology?’

  ‘Had dinner with someone else. He wouldn’t tell me who.’

  ‘Just dinner?’

  ‘Supposedly. But he’d already lied about it. He said he was working late.’

  ‘Cut and dried. His fault. His apology. And he should tell you who it was.’

  ‘He said he needed someone to talk to. About us. Which is what I’m doing now, right?’

  ‘You’re single.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have needed to talk to someone if we hadn’t had problems. So it comes back to me.’

  ‘Is that why you invited me to the party, then? Someone to talk to? And don’t tell me you needed an Englishman to get in the door. It took me all day to find that sweatshirt.’

  She laughed then spent some time playing with her drink. ‘I just wanted someone in my corner,’ she said at last. ‘I didn’t want to go, but I thought, screw it, I don’t want this problem we’re having stopping me saying goodbye to Bryce and Jenny.’

  ‘They were real people?’

  ‘Of course. It was great that you came, but I’m still hoping Richard and I can work it out.’

  I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ she said. ‘I thought that if we got through the problem with sex, my problem with sex, a lot of the rest would go away. He always said that. We have a lot of good things. What happened at the party…It was something I should have done before I got married, obviously.’

  ‘So, all sorted then? Seriously, did it help at all?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Go on.’

  She laughed, uncomfortably. ‘This is really between you and me?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘I said I had problems. Real problems. I’ve never been able to…get there. Not with Richard. And, like I said, there hasn’t been anyone else.’

  Not in a year of marriage in bed at leisure with the man she supposedly loved, but up against a door with a virtual stranger in less time than it took Joe Cocker to give instructions on undressing? Sex is a strange and wonderful thing. Whatever transpired, she would have a reason to remember me. But was she sharing too much: giving me that openness you allow yourself only with strangers whose judgment doesn’t matter because you won’t see them again?

  ‘So, thanks,’ she said. ‘I feel a bit better about myself. Not completely hopeless.’

  ‘You were a long way from hopeless. I wouldn’t have chased you all over Melbourne otherwise.’

  I could have put it better, but she smiled. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate it. Really. In a year’s time…’ She set her glass down on the table. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m staying with my parents. The house is Richard’s. I was the one who left.’

  ‘I’ll play you a song,’ I said, standing up.

  ‘I’ve really got to go.’

  ‘One song.’ I walked to the piano. ‘Bob Dylan.’

  ‘No. You are not going to sing “Lay Lady Lay”.’

  She laughed, but I made a quick switch. I played the first verse and the chorus of ‘If You’ve Got to Go, Go Now’, and she stood beside me, almost against me, still laughing. It’s a funny song, as rock songs go, and it was late and we’d had a bit to drink. I heaped on the accent, purely in the service of comedy, of course.

  ‘Are those my only choices?’ she said after I had wound up with a dramatic, if hammy, solo. ‘Go now or stay all night? I really do have to go home, but…’

  I stood up and looked straight into her big brown eyes to confirm that I had understood her correctly. Then I put my hand under her chin, and said, ‘Will you have dinner with me?’

  It was not the response she was expecting, and I could not tell if she was disappointed or relieved. Both, I hoped. I let her think about her reply, while I thought about what I had said no to.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘To finish the conversation. We were just getting started.’

  ‘How long are you here?’

  ‘Three more months. Until the end of the year. Then it’s New Zealand, Singapore, Hong Kong, South Africa, Zimbabwe and back home to finish up. I’ll be a road warrior till August next year.’

  ‘Sounds like a great job.’

  ‘It’s brilliant. But not if you’re looking for a long-term relationship. That time on the road is locked in, non-negotiable.’

  ‘I really, really don’t want a relationship. I mean that.’

  ‘Me neither. There was someone back in the UK. So I know where you’re coming from.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But no relationship. No falling in love. Nobody getting hurt.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  ‘One date. Dooglas.’

  5

  Melbourne is a sprawling metropolis. I had not come to grips with how sprawling: my longest foray had been to North Balwyn, a thirty-minute taxi ride on the night of the Bring a Brit party, and I thought that I had been near the outer limits of suburbia. I assumed that the destination for my One Chance with Angelina was within that same compass.

  Angelina set me straight as I gave the address to the taxi driver.

  ‘Lilydale! Do you know how far Lilydale is?’

  My inexperience with the city was working against me. The fine spring day had turned into a miserably wet evening, rain sheeting down in the falling light. It had taken me twenty minutes to flag down a taxi across three lanes of Victoria Parade traffic after Angelina met me below the bar.

  I should add that she looked take-your-breath-away stunning. Yes, I had seen her in the bar, at the party and on TV, for that matter, after the professional costume and make-up people had done their work. The dark-blue dress with its padded shoulders, slit sides and two vertical strips running from her neck to the waistband was striking, but it was more than that: she looked the way that only a woman in her twenties who has dressed up for a big occasion can look. I kissed her. She kissed me back. I could have stood there all night. It might have been a good idea, because it was downhill after that.

  A bus pulling into the gutter had drenched her dress as she’d run to the taxi. And now we were on a journey of… how long?

  ‘In this weather, this traffic, an hour and a half. I’m not promising anything,’ said our driver.

  ‘It’ll give your dress time to dry,’ I offered, in a feeble attempt at humour.

  ‘Where are we going, exactly?’

  I had put some thought into the evening. For better or worse, my trump card with Angelina was my accent. A search through the Yellow Pages had turned up a British-themed restaurant with live entertainment. Comedy, to boot.

  ‘It’s called The Mock Tudor.’

  ‘You’re joking. We’re going to Lilydale to a…’ She stopped. She must have realised that I had tried hard. ‘Hey, sorry. I’m being a prima donna. It’ll be fun. Like being kidnapped.’

  It was fun to the extent that actually being kidnapped would be fun. The driver’s refusal to promise anything was well judged and we were in his company for almost two hours. Angelina did her best to give me a running commentary on the scenery, but there is only so much to be said about appliance stores and car yards in the rain.

  The Mock Tudor stood alone on a busy road, with signage that sc
reamed cheap night out. Inside were wooden chairs and benches that would not have been out of place in a boarding school, alternate service of beef and ‘mock pheasant’, and an interpretation of the Tudor court consisting entirely of wanton wenches.

  We were the only couple. In deference to my instructions that this was a special date, we did have the best table in the house, in theory, but that meant we had no relief from the entertainment on the stage directly in front of us.

  The restaurant was about a third full, thanks to two large groups. I guessed the average age of the first at around eighty, with the exception of the carers. Only a few of them seemed to be responding to the show, which was underway when we arrived. It was essentially a one-joke stand-up routine, titled Chop and Change, delivered by a middle-aged comic dressed as Henry VIII, with contributions from the wenches when they were not serving tables. Two elderly women were making their views clear by shouting ‘No!’ to the most offensive punchlines.

  The customers at the other long table were all women, of working age and noisily disengaged from what was happening on stage. A girls’ night out, or perhaps some female-dominated profession who had left it to the receptionist to organise their event.

  One of the staff—forties, portly, checked jacket, probably a better match for Henry VIII than the comedian—hovered near our table, evidently fascinated by Angelina. He may have recognised her, though her dress was enough to make her stand out.

  The overall effect might have been funny, in a train-wreck sort of way, if I had not been on a special date. Angelina was doing her best to be enthusiastic.

  ‘I didn’t even know this place existed.’

  ‘I didn’t even know places like this existed. Or I’d have made a different choice.’

  ‘And you’d have missed a unique part of our culture.’

  Our serving wench made no attempt at Middle English. ‘What can I get youse to drink?’

  Angelina smiled hard. ‘I’d love a martini.’

  ‘We don’t do cocktails. I can do you a gin and tonic.’

  ‘Are you sure you couldn’t manage a martini? Just—’

  ‘There’s only what’s on the list.’

  The authentic Tudor drink would have been a pint of English ale, which was absent from the carte, but our wench did not need any more aggravation. It seemed she’d had enough already because she added, ‘I’ll come back when youse’ve made up your minds,’ and headed for the next table.

  She didn’t make it that far. Our man in the checked jacket intercepted her, and there was what might politely be called an animated exchange before he walked toward us.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Angelina. ‘I won’t make a fuss.’

  He was all smiles. ‘Good evening, I’m the manager. My apologies for any confusion. I understand the lady would like a martini.’

  A few times in my life, I have been manipulated by the sexual power of a woman. ‘Could you help me with my assignment?’ I’ll do it for you. ‘I don’t know why they’ve given me a middle seat.’ Take mine. ‘I thought the trains would still be running.’ Let me drive you home. No promises, no offers, nothing expected in return.

  It was interesting to be on the other side. I wondered what it was like for Angelina. Could she turn it on and off at will? Did she feel guilty about using it? Contemptuous of the man in her thrall? Because it was spider and fly.

  ‘If you’re sure it isn’t any trouble.’

  ‘Absolutely not. Twist or olive?’

  What key?

  The martini took forty minutes to arrive, during which time the drinks wench avoided eye contact. As a result, we lacked even the thawing power of alcohol as we ate the beef and chicken and their accompaniments of Olde English cabbage, carrots and mashed potatoes.

  Within the limits on communication imposed by Henry’s performance, we managed to exchange some of the basic information that people usually share before sex and the first date. Or the first date and sex. We were working in reverse. Which is to say slowly, awkwardly and at risk of running into things.

  ‘What do you do?’ she said. ‘I’m guessing you’re not travelling the world to play piano. Sorry, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘No offence taken. Hard to make a living when the going rate is fifty cents a song.’

  Clever, pointed and utterly stupid. The petty tip had not been her fault, and I didn’t want to force her into defending Richard. She let it go.

  ‘What do you think I do?’ I asked.

  ‘Computers?’

  Her expression said: Please tell me I’ve guessed wrong and you’re an Amway distributor or a tobacco lobbyist or a door-to-door missionary who’s murdered his buddy. Anything but computers.

  ‘I’m an architect.’ I took a sip of water before continuing. ‘A database architect.’

  Did her expression lift briefly, when she thought for a moment that I might be interesting? I switched the conversation back to her and the job that everybody finds fascinating.

  ‘Have you always wanted to be an actress?’

  ‘Since I was five. I did acting classes and a few ads. I didn’t get a big role until I was nineteen. A woman came to the Law Revue to see her son, and she was the casting agent for Mornington Police.’

  ‘The Law Revue?’

  ‘I was finishing my first year of law at Melbourne Uni. I was in the revue, Susie saw me and offered me the part, and I said yes straight away, and my mother was—’

  ‘—no doubt delighted at the career move.’ I knew what my own mother would have thought about trading a professional career for the vagaries of the performing arts.

  ‘She wasn’t. We’re a law family. My father, one of my sisters, my brother. But acting is what I’ve wanted to do all my life.’ As she had already told me, possibly with the implication that she would have preferred me not to side with her mother in devaluing it.

  My hole-digging was interrupted by the arrival of the martini, in the hands of the manager himself. Despite it being garnished with a black olive, and perhaps not the ideal accompaniment to syllabub, Angelina thanked him profusely and apologised again for the trouble. He had half turned away before he remembered a minor oversight.

  ‘And would the gentleman like something to drink as well?’

  It took no small amount of self-control to give a straight answer. ‘Just a beer, thanks.’

  I spent a few minutes pretending to listen to Henry (‘I says, ’ow about giving me some ’ead, darling, and she says to me, ’en-er-ry, I’d rather just ’ave it off’) while I absorbed the fact that Angelina had been smart enough to get into law school and gutsy enough to leave it for a shot at her dream.

  I should not have been surprised at the former. She did not have any of the flakiness or verbal tics that I associated with stereotypical young actresses or models. To beautiful, sharp and sexy, I could add intelligent and strong-willed. To her assessment of me, she could add sarcastic, belittling and not very funny. I’d had my chance and not been up to it.

  I headed for the pay phone in the entrance foyer, between the cigarette machine and the cardboard cut-out of Henry VIII pointing the way to the toilets, to call a taxi. No point prolonging things, not with a long trip home ahead of us. The manager intercepted me on my way back.

  ‘Was the martini all right? Sorry about the olives—we ran out of green.’

  The bar ran out of green olives? But had black?

  ‘You had to go out for the olives, didn’t you?’ I said.

  ‘And the Cinzano. Bloody girl came back with black olives. In oil. Bugger me.’

  We both laughed.

  ‘She’s on TV, isn’t she? In that cop show? Your wife.’

  She was wearing her rings.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘The missus’ll be sorry she wasn’t here. But good luck to you.’

  I returned to the dining room to find Henry VIII dragging—literally, by the hand—Angelina onto the stage. There were five women up there already and Henry was riding roughshod over the first l
esson of performance: if they don’t want you, get off.

  It was apparent that the group was supposed to represent Henry’s six wives. Two were old enough to be his mother and the sexual innuendo did not play well. Maybe that was why, when he directed his schtick to the beautiful woman who was young enough to be his daughter, he supplemented it by grabbing her bum. Through the slit in her dress, though that aspect of it looked to be an accident. We were in a restaurant that had no pretensions of class, in eighties suburban Australia. The comedian was acting the part of a roué. The grab was so short as to be almost a pat, a gesture.

  None of that mattered. Angelina turned and swung with the full force of her arm. Henry’s lapel microphone broadcast the crack as her hand smacked into the side of his face. There was a moment of collective shock and silence, then the entire audience burst into applause. For a moment I thought Henry was going to hit her back and I stood up, but he composed himself and walked off.

  Then someone called out: ‘Sergeant Kerrie!’

  I suppose it was inevitable. Another round of applause.

  There was an upright piano at the back of the stage and a re-engaged audience. All I had to do was fit the pieces together.

  I was still working it out as I climbed the stairs onto the stage and signalled Catherine of Aragon et al. back to their seats.

  ‘Do you know “Greensleeves”?’ I said to Angelina.

  ‘You sure?’ she said. She was shaking.

  ‘I’m sure. He’s okay. They love you.’

  I am at heart an introvert, happy with my own company and not uncommonly lost for something to say at a party, or indeed a theatre restaurant. But performing for an audience does not bother me in the least.

  I took the wenches’ mike off the stand and stepped back. I hoped that the bonding I had done with the manager would buy me a little time.

  ‘Let’s have another round of applause for Angelina Brown: Sergeant Kerrie from Mornington Police. Lesson for us all here—never mess with a cop. Or a woman.’ Laughter and applause. ‘Angelina’s kindly offered to do a song for us while Henry gets his syphilis treated.’ More laughter. The manager had appeared below the stage and gave me a signal that I interpreted as Okay, but don’t push it.