“I love this song,” I say, and Grand Canyon shakes her head wildly, creating a mild tremor amongst her cleavage as she says, “Yeah!”
There’s a lot of brandy in this mulled wine.
Nodding her head to the music, she starts singing …
“She was a daaaaay tripper …”
She hits me hard on the bicep, motioning to me to sing along.
Jesus, we only just met.
“One way ticket, yeah …” she continues.
Then again, it would be nice to nestle, maybe even nap, snugly within those nurturing breasts.
“It took me sooo long to find out – and I found out …”
Oh, what the hell.
“And I found out!” I join in.
◆
Only 40 minutes later Grand is grinding against a man sporting a gold Rolex while I stare forsakenly.
And to think I was ready to set up camp.
After all, she was smiling at me, laughing at my jokes, she caught me staring at her breasts and didn’t seem to mind …
We even sang a duet.
I’m done.
There aren’t any other women to home in on – Ms Dolphins left and an older, elegant lady declared she’s a lesbian who will never go back to cock – and Steve is still not peachy enough.
I trudge off towards the elevator when Susan calls out to me.
“Don’t tell me you’re leaving,” she slurs.
“Afraid so – but it was a great party.”
“Without even saying goodbye?”
“Well, you looked so engrossed talking to …”
I have no idea who she was talking to.
“Oh, I wanted to get away from them. They’re Steve’s friends …” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t go yet. Talk to me for a bit.”
She grabs my arm and pulls, leading me towards a quiet corner of the rooftop. There’s a large padlocked metal box that she sits down on, and I plonk down beside her.
“How are you?” she asks, putting her arm around me.
“Good …” I say warily.
Even if I were attracted to her, she’s my editor and has a suspicious husband prowling this very rooftop, but … I do like her feminine smell, and the feel of her next to me is comforting …
“How are you?” I ask.
“Not good,” she says bluntly. “I need to leave.”
“Leave what?”
“Steve. I’m not happy, mate. I don’t know how much more I can take.”
Oh.
“I’m sorry.”
She pats me with her hand.
“Oh, it’s alright. I’m glad you came.”
A shadow looms in front of us – and we turn to see Steve staring at us oddly. Susan rapidly takes her arm off me.
“You’re still here,” Steve says to me.
The stupid comment I made earlier about having an affair with the host comes to mind.
“Susan caught me just as I was leaving,” I say as light-heartedly as possible.
“You alright?” Susan asks Steve.
“I’m fine,” he says, before walking away.
“Thanks again for inviting me,” I call out.
Susan watches as he moves out of view before putting her arm around me again.
“I really need a new boyfriend,” she says.
At that moment the shadow reappears, or at least a thin sliver of it, and Susan’s arm stiffens.
Here’s another way to liven up a party: by getting thrown off the roof by the meathead host.
“You know, I really ought to be going now,” I tell Susan, loudly enough so that the shadow can hear.
◆
What would have happened if Steve hadn’t turned up?
I’m heading through Kings Cross, it’s past 10:30 at night, and part of me almost wishes he hadn’t interrupted. I mean, nothing could ever happen between me and Susan, but now that her arm is gone, and I don’t have someone close to me …
Well, I miss it. I miss the warmth of having a woman next to me.
I …
I don’t know. I’m not feeling like myself at all.
I’m a little down, and a little drunk, and …
I’m on the main strip now, past The Bourbon and the chemist and the dodgy kebab shop, and there are leather-clad bikers chatting near their Harleys, some teenagers from the burbs talking loudly and drunkenly, as well as a few raggedy looking prostitutes who are smiling at me, at everyone, and one of them catches my eye. Actually, on second glance there’s something about her, something almost alluring – perhaps she would like me? – and I smile back and she takes a step forward and I feel a charge of excitement but …
What the hell am I doing?
I keep walking, away from her, quickening my pace.
I still feel that charge though, and there’s a strip club ahead called The Love Machine, and the touter tells me to come in, saying the girls are great, and as I hesitate he grabs my arm and I’m about to be swallowed by that forbidden entrance when I think, for the second time in minutes, what am I doing?
Ignoring the bouncer’s protestations, I shake him off and escape, hearing him call after me, then insult me (does he think that would change my mind?), and now that I’m safely away I can’t help thinking …
What did I have to lose?
9
Abject terror overwhelms me as I sit in front of the empty classroom waiting for my students to arrive.
It’s 5:45pm and the first class of semester is about to begin.
I should’ve had at least one bourbon beforehand.
I’d only started teaching last semester and found it horrific: three hours straight of standing in front of a group of slack-jawed teenagers who stared at me with a combination of disinterest and superiority while I stuttered, struggled and made bad jokes they didn’t laugh at.
I call this class the death cage.
It goes for three hours because it’s a combination lecture and tutorial, which is why I tell people I’m a lecturer even though I don’t have a PhD. Or a teaching degree.
Actually, I never even studied journalism – the uni offered me the job based on my newspaper experience, which left me completely ill-equipped to handle a classroom of kids. I swore at the end of last semester I’d quit but … well, I need to pay rent, and bar reviews and the odd story each week ain’t gonna cut it.
The door opens and my heart leaps into my throat as students file in. They’re young, nineteen or so, almost entirely female, and they glance at me briefly, conversation pausing, before finding their seats and filling the room with noise. It’s hard not to notice how attractive most of them are.
This is not the average ratio you find in the wild.
Most journalism students have no interest in journalism – but they need the degree to