It's Not You It's Me Read online

  I sigh dramatically.

  ‘OK,’ Jas reminds me. ‘We went through this with the olives. And the anchovies. “They’re too salty,” you said, spitting them out. “They’re too fishy,” you said, spitting them out. What’s going to be so different about beer? You already like the smell—that’s a good start.’

  I pick up the beer and sniff it. ‘I guess…’

  Jas watches me for a minute or two as I alternately sniff the beer then turn up my nose as I taste it. ‘Jesus. I’ve never seen anyone so miserable about drinking bloody beer. Now, take another sip.’

  I take another sip.

  ‘Wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  I put it back down on the table. ‘It’s OK, I guess. I mean, I’d drink it if I was dying of thirst in the desert or something.’

  ‘Now there’s a compliment to the Löwenbraü people.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll cope. Most people here are drinking enough for two as it is. Anyway, what do you think of it?’ I ask then. ‘Being such a beer connoisseur.’

  ‘I think it’s pretty good. It is creamy, like you said. Not bad at all. Sure it’d go nicely with fish on a stick.’

  We sit then—Jas finishing off his beer, me sipping mine. When Jas is done and I decide I’m finished, it’s made pretty plain to us that it’s time to move on—people are circling us like vultures, waiting for our seats.

  Out in the street again, we take in a few lungfuls of non-beery air and start patrolling the grounds. We walk up and down the streets people-watching, not talking to each other much and not really feeling the need to. Companionable silence. I always liked that about my relationship with Jas. The fact that we didn’t have to talk to fill the gaps. We point things out to each other here and there as we walk—kids making a mess of themselves with fairy floss, another fish on a stick, ugh, a kid who’s won a stuffed gorilla almost as big as she is.

  We’re laughing at the gorilla when I stop dead in my tracks. ‘Look.’ I point at a stall on my right.

  It’s Zamiel. Zamiel on a balloon. A balloon, of all things! Because, of course, that’s what you’d put on a German kids’ balloon, isn’t it? Or any kids’ balloon for that matter. A fallen angel wearing make-up and a cow and a half’s worth of leather. Still, I guess it’s not any worse than some of the things the Brothers Grimm came up with. ‘And over there.’ I point out another stall that’s giving away Zamiel figurines as prizes. I glance up at Jas before I start walking again. ‘That’s weird. To see them here, at Oktoberfest. You’re really famous, aren’t you? It’s really weird. To me—I don’t know—you don’t seem all that different, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m not all that different. And it’s not weird, it’s sick,’ he says. There’s no missing the venom in his voice. And I’ve never seen his face look like this before.

  ‘Sick?’ I say quietly, my pace slowing.

  ‘It’s…’ Jas starts to say something, then seems to change his mind. ‘I mean I’m sick of it, that’s all. I’m supposed to be on holiday, remember?’

  ‘Sure…whatever.’ I eye him, unconvinced.

  ‘What?’ He runs his hands through his hair.

  ‘You know, if you don’t like your job, maybe you should get out of it and do something else.’

  Jas snorts. ‘Easy for you to say.’

  Really? ‘And why is that?’ I can tell, just tell by the expression on his face, that he thinks I’ve been fluffing around with my life. Living in Byron Bay in a gingerbread cottage. Reading a little. Pottering around the garden. Filling my days with shopping and sunning myself on the beach. Cooking gourmet meals. Staying with the relatives when I get a bit lonesome. ‘You’re a shit, Jas.’

  ‘What? I didn’t say anything!’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’ I give him a dirty look. ‘You know, I don’t care what you think about my life; we’re talking about yours. If you hate your job this much you’re just wasting your life away if you don’t chuck it in.’ I’m about to tell him more, but then turn instead, with a huff. I start walking off, faster and faster, not turning back to see if Jas is following.

  The crowd’s starting to get thicker now that it’s past four p.m. As I half run up the street there’s a noise behind me—a loud whoop from one of the rides. I turn to look at what’s going on and realise that I’ve lost sight of Jas. Even though I know he can’t be too far away, this gives me a real start. I begin scanning the heads in the crowd more carefully, and I’m getting worried when all of a sudden I see him again.

  The crowd, like a school of fish, parts just for a second. And there he is, staring right back at me.

  Shitty as I am, I smile involuntarily as soon as I spot him. One of those stupid, goofy, unwilling smiles that you can’t stop. As it spreads across my face I recognise the fact that I’m really happy to be here, at Oktoberfest. That I’m genuinely glad Mark chose this stupid excuse for excessive beer-drinking and the attached flights that gave me the opportunity to catch up with Jas again. It’s a strange feeling, that smile. Something that I think I might not have felt for quite some time.

  Jas walks up to me, grinning as well. But when he reaches me his expression fades to a frown. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’

  ‘OK,’ I say. I didn’t enjoy the experience that much myself. I pull him off to one side, out of the flow of revellers. ‘I’m not trying to be bossy, it’s just that I want to see you happy. If you hate being Zamiel, you can’t throw your whole life away doing it. You’ve got to find what makes you happy and run with it—it doesn’t matter what anybody else wants. God, if I’ve learnt anything in the last few years, it’s that.’

  Jas sighs. ‘I know. I know. Keep telling myself that, but it’s difficult…’

  I nod. ‘Of course it’s difficult. It’s loads of money and a job people would kill for. But it’s not worth your health. Or your sanity.’ I smile then. ‘I’ll shut up now, and stop lecturing, shall I?’ I reach out and touch his arm. ‘Friends?’

  Jas puts a hand over mine. ‘Friends.’

  I check my watch then, and see that it’s almost four-thirty. ‘Did you want to meet Shane at five and go back to the hotel? Or do you want to stay on?’

  ‘Let’s go. I’m buggered.’

  ‘OK. How about one more thing, and then we’ll go back, have dinner and get an early night?’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘What about that?’ I point and Jas follows my finger over.

  ‘Shit. No.’

  ‘What?’ I look up in surprise.

  ‘Er…’ His eyes are glued to the object in the distance.

  I look back over. It’s not exactly something to worry about. I was pointing out one of those throwing games. I turn back to Jas. ‘You’ve had a bad experience with these things?’

  ‘I’m not great at throwing things, OK? I might have even gone to, er, remedial throwing lessons at school.’

  ‘What?’ I’m practically on the floor laughing now. ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘No.’

  Oh, dear. I stop laughing now, because Jas is definitely not joking.

  ‘Hate those things. It’s like some kind of testosterone test. You always look like a loser unless you win the big teddy bear. Or gorilla, as the case may be.’

  I stare up at him. Where is all this coming from?

  ‘Not that I have a testosterone problem,’ he adds loudly, making a few people near us look over.

  I keep staring. I don’t think anyone would think for a second that Jas has a testosterone problem. Six-foot-four, reasonably muscular, with a full head of hair and rock star stubble, clad in vintage jeans, a black Marcs T-shirt and a well-worn brown suede jacket. He doesn’t exactly look feminine.

  I pat him on the arm. ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘I don’t!’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘All right then…’ He sulks.

  I lead Jas over to the stand and give the guy behind the counter the correct amount of money. In return, he gives us three balls each, which w
e have to shoot through a tiny basketball-like net right at the back of the booth. ‘You go first,’ I say to Jas.

  ‘Probably not a good…’

  ‘Go on,’ I urge. ‘Make an idiot of yourself. It’s what it’s all about.’

  He throws the first ball, which hits the wall and bounces off. The wrong wall entirely, I might add. So does the next ball, but on the opposite wall.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘Never seen me throw anything before, have you?’ he asks, putting the third ball down.

  ‘Well, no…’ I admit. ‘Not now that I think about it.’ I smile at the image that comes into my mind. ‘Good thing it’s the girls who have to throw their undies on stage at you!’

  ‘Bitch,’ he mutters, but then laughs.

  It’s then that I spot Shane in the distance, watching us.

  ‘Blame it on being tall. Poor hand-eye co-ordination,’ Jas adds.

  I turn my attention away from Shane and roll my eyes at his excuse. ‘If that was true I should be a professional basketball player, given my height.’ I put my three balls down on the counter beside his last one. ‘Here, let me show you.’ I bend down to drag over a wooden step meant for the kiddies and place it behind Jas before I step up onto it, making us almost the same height. I reach down and pick up the four balls, place one in Jas’s palm and lift his hand.

  ‘Don’t throw it so hard this time,’ I say. ‘Let it arc and just drop in. No effort.’

  ‘Sure, no effort…’ he scoffs.

  I sigh. ‘Just try it, OK?’ Out of the corner of my eye I see that Shane is still watching us, but I decide not to tell Jas—especially after his testosterone comments. Now, together, we swing out. When my arm bends over, I simply let go of the ball. We hold our breath as we watch it arc up…

  …and drop to the floor.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘We’ve got three more to go.’

  ‘Stop breathing on my neck! You’re putting me off!’

  ‘So that’s the problem.’ I laugh. ‘OK. Here we go again.’ Our arms come up and we throw the ball, which arcs and this time drops straight into the ring, not even touching the net below it.

  The next two balls do the same thing.

  ‘See? Let this be a lesson to you—you should listen to me more often,’ I say when we’re done, and turn Jas around by the shoulders to give him a hug. But then, when he goes to pull away, by some feat of awkwardness I’m still holding him. I pull back then. Quickly. Awkwardly…

  And fall off the step.

  ‘Jesus. You OK?’

  ‘Sorry—sorry,’ I mumble, not looking at Jas. My ankle hurts and I reach down to rub it.

  ‘Sorry for what? For falling off the step? Hey, your ankle…’

  The guy behind the stand says something in German. ‘I’m all right,’ I say.

  The teenage boy who’s been throwing balls beside us turns around then. ‘He says he’s not going to give you a gorilla because you were standing on the children’s step.’

  I look up now. ‘Charming!’ I say, trying to sound as if I don’t care, but actually feeling rather as if I’m going to bawl.

  ‘Stuff him.’ Jas crouches down. ‘I’ll beat him up for you later. Is your ankle OK?’

  ‘It’s fine. I just jolted it.’ My eyes flick around, looking at various patches of grass. I eventually convince him I’m OK—my face, I’m sure, a lovely strawberry-red.

  But when I do glance up again I see something rather strange—Shane’s still watching us. And when I meet his eyes he doesn’t look away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Late, we hurry to meet Shane, who thankfully manages to distract us as he swaps tales of Hofbräu tent madness with the few wiggy Beer-drinking Society people who are waiting to walk back to the hotel. By the time we get back to our room I’m completely exhausted. Really exhausted after the day I’ve had. I worry for a second that I’m getting sick again, but then decide I’m being ridiculous. I’m just tired. I flop down on my bed.

  ‘Going to have a quick shower,’ Jas says, heading in to the bathroom.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  ‘It’s OK.’ I get up. ‘I’ll get it. You have your shower.’

  I go over and open the door to find that it’s room service—the guy’s holding a silver bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne.

  ‘There must be a mistake,’ I say. ‘We didn’t order any champagne.’

  ‘Room 213?’

  I nod.

  ‘Yes.’ He nods, checking a piece of paper that he’s holding in his hand. He nods again, then comes in and puts the bucket on the table.

  ‘But we didn’t order any champagne,’ I repeat.

  He shrugs and shows me the piece of paper. He’s right—it does say ‘Room 213’. I look up at him again and shrug too. He goes then, closing the door behind him. I watch him leave, thinking he must be all of seventeen or eighteen and realise that if his bit of paper says ‘Room 213’ he’s going to take whatever he’s got to room 213 and leave it there. It’s up to me to sort it out from here. I don’t think he’s exactly viewing this as a career job.

  ‘Who was it?’ Jas yells from the bathroom over the noise of the shower.

  ‘Room service with a bottle of champagne,’ I yell back. ‘You didn’t order any, did you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. It’s a mistake. I’m going to go downstairs and check it out, OK?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I grab my wallet and head downstairs to the front desk.

  ‘Hi,’ I say to the girl who’s manning the desk when I get there. I don’t think I’ve seen the same girl twice the whole time we’ve been here. They must be making them out in the back.

  She eyes me warily, knowing that I want something but not having heard what it is yet.

  ‘We’ve just been sent a bottle of champagne. Room 213. It must be a mistake, though, because we didn’t order any.’

  She clickety-clacks on the computer for a few moments.

  ‘No. It’s right. A gift.’ She’s American.

  ‘A gift?’ I look at her. ‘From who?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  She eyes me.

  I lean on the counter then. ‘Please?’

  Nothing. But then I remember—she’s American. Tipping time. I pull out fifteen euros. That should do it. I hope. I slip it to her over the counter.

  She gives me a quick smile then. ‘It’s from Shane. Your tour guide.’

  Shane? I try for one more bit of information. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I think I saw him in the bar a while ago.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Amazing what fifteen euros will buy you these days, isn’t it?

  I make my way across the lobby and over to the bar. I haven’t been in there yet, and as I walk in I remember why. I glanced inside yesterday night as we walked past, but was hardly drawn in by the decor. Not that I’m that picky when it comes to bar decor, but it really is pretty dingy. The kind of place that hasn’t been modernised since it was fitted out with green and black carpet and a green vinyl bar in the sixties. God only knows how many cigarettes have been stubbed out on the carpet and how many spilt beers are helping to keep the green colour fresh.

  I spot Shane at the end of the bar, chatting to the barman, and start towards him. ‘Hey,’ I say when I get there. I hoist myself up onto the bar stool next to him.

  ‘Hey, yourself,’ he says. ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Um, OK. Scotch and dry, thanks.’

  ‘You heard the lady, my good man,’ Shane says to the barman.

  I decide it’s best to get straight down to business. ‘You sent us a bottle of champagne?’

  Shane nods, taking a sip of his beer.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  He moves his eyes over to meet mine. ‘I thought you needed a helping hand.’

  I don’t understand. ‘A what?’

  ‘You know. A little social lubricant.’
<
br />   ‘What for?’

  He turns on his stool to face me properly. ‘What for? For you and Jas. You know, romance and everything.’ He says ‘romance’ as if it’s a dirty word.

  ‘Oh,’ I say as the barman gives me my drink. I go to pay him, but Shane waves him away, motioning for him to put it on his tab. I take a big gulp of that drink. ‘I wasn’t lying before, you know. Jas and I…we’re not—not together,’ I stutter. I wonder if I should convince him by explaining Jas is gay, but I can’t really, can I? That should be the kind of thing he tells people himself, not me.

  ‘Right,’ Shane says then. ‘I just thought you were being cagey about it because of the Zamiel thing…’

  ‘We used to live together. For a year or so. That’s all. But we haven’t seen each other for a while. We’re just friends. Really.’

  ‘Oh, so there was never…?’ He trails off again.

  I pause just a second too long.

  ‘Aha.’ He points now, smiling. ‘I knew there was something. But it’s all over?’

  I snort. ‘Oh, yes. It’s definitely over.’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘You could say it wilted and died.’

  ‘Right…’ Shane gives me strange look.

  ‘We met up again by accident. He wasn’t even booked on this trip until two days ago.’

  ‘I see.’

  Something catches my eye then, behind us. It’s Sharon, hovering in the background. ‘What’s she want?’ I lean over nearer to Shane.

  He lowers his voice accordingly, now he’s in non-ocker mode. ‘She’s been wondering where Jas is. She doesn’t know, though—about the Zamiel connection, that is. Just thinks he’s a bit of all right at the moment. I’ve been trying to keep her off the scent.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I, um, wanted to ask. Seeing as you’re in Byron Bay and all, and I live on the Gold Coast, maybe we could get together some time when we’re both back home?’

  I pull back, surprised. So I was right earlier today. I wasn’t imagining things. I laugh, remembering my first impression of Shane—how I thought I’d rather kiss a dead possum. But now I think I rather like Shane and his Aussie act.

  ‘You don’t have to laugh about it,’ he says.