It's Not You It's Me Read online

‘Any ideas on what you want to do?’

  ‘I made a few notes. What about you? Anything you really want to see?’ I open up the inside front cover, where I’ve jotted down the sights that I thought I’d be interested in. I start to read them. ‘Oh,’ I say, before Jas has a chance to answer my question.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered. There is something I want to do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘There’s a piece of Mum’s sculpture in an art gallery here. I thought I’d go take a look.’ I leaf through the pages to find the location map for the gallery. ‘Here.’ I pass the book to Jas.

  ‘Brilliant! That’s not far from here.’

  We grab a sandwich and a hot chocolate each before we start for the art gallery. It’s only a few streets away from the warm coffee shop we’ve just eaten in, but as we walk over I’m grateful I took a second hot chocolate with me on the way. It’s freezing out, and I warm my hands around the cup as we go, jacket done up and scarf wrapped around my neck.

  ‘Well, this is it,’ I say to Jas as I throw my cup into a bin at the bottom of the gallery steps.

  ‘Yep,’ he replies as we start the short climb.

  It’s as we reach the top that I realise this doesn’t feel right. I turn and look down the steps, then back up at the gallery, then at Jas. ‘Um…’ I say.

  ‘What is it?’ He stops.

  ‘I feel really awful, but would you mind if I went in and saw it alone?’

  Jas shakes his head. ‘Course not. I understand.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Despite Jas’s words, I still pause.

  ‘I mean it. Here—give me the guidebook and I’ll have a read. There’s some seats inside the entry there.’

  I look. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Go!’

  ‘OK, but only if you pick out something for us to do tomorrow. Something special. Your choice.’

  ‘Done deal.’ Jas shakes my hand.

  We enter the building together and I leave Jas sitting on the wooden seats. When he’s settled, I keep going. Right up to the man at the information desk inside the next set of doors.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  He grunts, not moving his eyes from the counter. ‘The Rubens is down the first hall on your right, turn left, third painting on the left of the doorway.’

  My eyes widen. ‘That’s, um, great, but I don’t want to see the Rubens.’

  He looks up now.

  ‘I want to see the Notting.’

  ‘The Notting?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘It’s a sandstone sculpture.’

  ‘Oh, the…’ The guy makes a sweeping gesture over his stomach.

  I nod again.

  He gets up now, and asks me to follow him. We walk down several rooms, past more paintings than I can count. I don’t look at any of them. I’m focused now—focused on getting there. As we keep walking I realise my breathing is getting more and more shallow. That my hands and forehead are clammy and hot. I take a deep breath as we turn a corner…

  And then I exhale.

  Because suddenly there it is. The guy leaves me with a murmur and I stand and stare from way across the room at the spotlit piece. It’s a woman. A pregnant woman—sitting on the floor, her legs outstretched and one hand behind her, holding her up. Her other hand rests on her smooth, round belly. I walk over slowly, slowly, step by step, closer and closer, until I’m standing right in front of her, only the small white wooden ridge the piece is mounted on separating us.

  My hands itch to reach out and stroke the ball of her stomach in front of me, but as I stretch my arm out I become aware that I’m in an art gallery and I can’t. I shouldn’t. The itching, however, doesn’t stop, and I decide soon enough that I don’t care if they throw me out. I reach forward a second time and run a hand over and around the mound. It’s so smooth. I extend my other hand and run it over at the same time. I keep my hands on the piece until I feel I’m done. Then I step back a pace or two and sit down on the floor.

  And I must sit there for ages, because when someone’s hand is placed on my shoulder from behind I startle as if I’ve just been woken up.

  ‘Sorry. You OK?’ Jas asks, sitting down beside me.

  I nod.

  ‘Want me to go? You want some more time?’

  ‘Stay.’

  Jas’s eyes move to the sculpture and I hear him exhale. Just as I did before. ‘It’s really beautiful, Charlie.’

  I nod again. But then, with Jas’s interruption, everything I’ve been feeling since the moment I first walked into this room weighs down upon me and the words spill out, falling over each other as I speak too quickly. ‘Why didn’t she tell me anything?’

  As I tear my eyes from the woman and stare at the floor I fully expect that I’ll have to explain my words to Jas.

  But I don’t. Jas gets what I mean immediately. ‘She probably thought she had all the time in the world, Charlie.’

  Well, she didn’t, I think, the ridges gathering on my forehead. It takes me a few minutes of silence to shake some of the anger away so I can speak again. ‘It’s just so unfair.’

  ‘It is unfair,’ Jas agrees.

  I can’t stay angry for long, and now I sigh. ‘It’s just that I’ve spent the last few years floundering and she never prepared me for that. She never showed me things could be hard. Everything was so…easy for her.’

  Jas turns away from the sculpture. ‘You know that’s not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I snort.

  ‘No. You know how hard she worked to get the recognition she did. You know better than anybody how tough the tough times really were.’

  I think back to before the house in Byron Bay, to some of the tiny one-bedroom apartments we lived in. Then there was the dilapidated old wooden house we shared with another family—Mum having to work on her art at the community centre, relying on grants to get by. I know Jas is right, but somehow, through my teenager’s eyes, the past is blurred and stained. ‘But why didn’t she show me how to do that?’ I hit the floor with one hand. ‘And why wasn’t she one of those proper mothers?’

  ‘Proper mothers?’ When I meet Jas’s eyes he doesn’t look impressed.

  ‘We never…you know—clicked like that. Like mother and daughter. I used to see other girls my age with their mothers. Shopping, their arms around each other. Going to the movies. Having cake and coffee. We weren’t like that. We argued. Constantly. About anything! We always got on each other’s nerves and…’

  Jas laughs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Charlie, take it from me. Your mother loved you like nothing I’ve ever seen. And you felt the same way about her. You still do. Don’t you know what the problem was?’

  I stare at him in silence.

  ‘You’re made from exactly the same mould.’

  ‘Me?’ I say, shocked. ‘And Mum? Us?’

  He laughs again. ‘Yes, you and your mum. Your sculpture. Your mannerisms. You even look more and more like her each day.’

  I glance down at myself, unconvinced. Do I? I frown. ‘Then why don’t I feel like that? Why don’t I feel like I know how to do what she did? How to make everything work out in the end?’ My voice sounds shrill and bounces off the too-white walls until there’s silence again.

  Jas looks at me hard. ‘You know how.’

  Our eyes lock; I go to shake my head. But at the last moment something holds me back from doing it—the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s right. Maybe underneath all my worry and fretting I do know how. Maybe I do know how to push myself through to the end of these last two years and close the door behind me. Maybe I do know how to move on with my life.

  And maybe I even have the strength to do both. Starting now.

  I stand up quickly, decisively, and go over to my mother’s work. This time I stroke the piece’s head. ‘Right—um. OK, then. I think…I think I’m going to do this,’ I say, running my hand over her hair. ‘I think I
can…no, I know I can do it.’

  Jas stands up as well. ‘Do what?’ he asks as he comes over.

  I bite my lip for a second before I turn my head to meet his gaze. ‘I’ve got half a piece at home. Part of a pair Mum was working on before she died. Sisters, it’s called. I want to finish it. For Annie and Daisy. And me. And Mum. I’ve sort of been thinking about it for a while now.’

  ‘But…’ Jas starts.

  ‘I know.’ I nod. ‘I know it’s not what I do. But maybe…maybe it could be. I’m not saying it’ll be easy. It’d take time, I know. So, um, what do you think?’

  His mouth hangs open.

  ‘I can, you know. Really I can.’ I try with all my heart to convince him, realising I’ve already more than convinced myself.

  Finally Jas’s mouth closes. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead he takes a step over, so he’s standing right in front of me. He cups my face in his hands and bends down to kiss me on the forehead before he gives me a hug. ‘I know you can, too,’ he says. ‘I’ve known all along. I’m just surprised it took you so long to work it out.’

  And then, standing there in the middle of the art gallery, he lets me cry all over that old suede jacket.

  Jas and I walk back to the hotel in silence. I think I’m in shock. I simply can’t believe that after all the years I’ve spent trying not to be compared to my mother, making sure that my work was so abstract and at the opposite end of the spectrum to hers, I’m now going to turn around and start where she started. Right at the beginning.

  I just wish she was here to see it all.

  I know it’s the right thing to do. I’ve learnt a lot over the last few years, but the main thing I’ve been shown is that I don’t need to care what other people think any more. From now on if I want to do something, I’m damn well going to do it and not let anyone or anything stand in my way.

  ‘You OK?’ Jas must see the workings of my brain written all over my blotchy, tear-stained face.

  ‘Yep. Great.’

  He swipes his card and opens the door to our room, letting me in first.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Now, take a seat.’

  I pause. ‘Take a seat?’

  ‘On the bed. Got something for you.’

  I look up in surprise. ‘For me?’ I say, sitting down.

  Jas hands me a plastic bag. One of the bags from his souvenir shopping this morning. ‘Here you go—knock yourself out.’

  ‘How’d you know I’d need cheering up?’ I take the bag from him.

  ‘I know everything, remember?’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot for a second there…’ I empty out the bag’s tissue-paper-wrapped contents. After only a few rips, I recognise what’s inside. I laugh as I hold it up. ‘Oh, it’s too cute!’ I stand up, holding it out in front of me.

  It’s a dirndl. One of the Bavarian dresses. Complete with the little white shirt that goes underneath. ‘Jas!’ I scold, but he just laughs. Then, ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I love it.’

  Jas sits down on his bed. ‘Know what the guy at the shop said?’

  ‘What?’ I’m holding the dress up to myself now, in front of the full-length mirror that’s on the back of the bathroom door.

  ‘You’ll love this. That I should tell you to wear the shirt low. So everyone can have a good look at the wood in front of the cottage.’

  ‘“The wood in front of the cottage…”’ I repeat the phrase slowly, then whip around as realisation hits. ‘Charming!’

  ‘Don’t think the wood’s supposed to be spilling out of the top, like some of the waitresses seem to think is the go this year, but a bit wouldn’t hurt, I guess.’

  I glance down for a second. ‘I don’t think the landslide effect’s going to be much of a problem for me.’

  ‘Ah, come on. You must be a 10C. That’s not so bad.’

  Oh, my God. I am a 10C. I cross my arms over my chest.

  Jas laughs. ‘Sorry.’

  I eye him. ‘Pretty good guess. Are you sure you haven’t been partaking of the Spawn smorgasbord?’

  ‘Funny. Go on—try it on.’

  I hesitate, but then head for the bathroom, emerging dirndled a few minutes later. I do a twirl in the doorway. ‘So, what do you think?’

  Jas gives me a once-over, taking in the Heidi look. ‘Definitely. Party must-have. Frock of the season.’

  ‘But what about you?’ I say then. ‘You should’ve got yourself some of those dinky leather pants.’

  This makes Jas laugh. ‘Leather pants? You’ve got to be joking. I’ve got enough leather pants to last me a lifetime. Two lifetimes, in fact.’

  ‘Mmmm, but you’re living for two, remember?’

  There’s silence for a moment, which makes me look up from inspecting the embroidered hem of my dress.

  Jas’s eyes are focused on his mobile phone on the bedside table. It’s still switched off.

  ‘Jas?’ I say.

  ‘Huh? Yeah. Right. Living for two.’ He laughs. But it doesn’t sound quite right.

  I shouldn’t have made him think about work again, I chastise myself. I do another twirl. ‘Hey, how about the wood in front of the cottage?’ I only realise what I’m actually asking as the words come out of my mouth. I stop twirling to watch Jas’s eyes travel up my dirndl and finally come to rest on my chest.

  Finally, he grins. ‘Man, I love it when you dress up for me.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  After a good two-hour pre-karaoke night kip, I’ve lost my ‘I’ve been having a good bawl’ headache and feel I might just be able to take on the singing world. Lying face up on my bed, I turn my head to look at Jas, to see if he’s awake and ready for our Big Night Out.

  Yay. A Big Night Out. I love a good Big Night Out. And I haven’t had one for…well, not since I was living with Jas, to tell the truth. I’ve had heaps of drunken dinners. Plenty of soused soirées. But no Big Night Out.

  He’s still asleep. I roll over and check the clock—six-thirty-seven p.m. Just enough time to have a shower, wash my hair, get all dolled up, have a snack, a drink or two, and meet Shane and co downstairs at eight, as organised.

  But first a bladder-relief trip is in order. I slide out of bed and make for the bathroom. And I’m doing what a girl has to do when I spot Jas’s mobile and his pager sitting on the bench. He must’ve brought them in here when he had a shower before. I pick up the mobile and fiddle around with it. I’ve never had one myself. I’ve never found the need. I turn it over carefully—it really is excruciatingly tiny—and then go to put it back down on the bench.

  That’s when I hear it. A beep! I realise I’ve pressed something. And that’s when the phone starts ringing.

  Still sitting on the toilet, I quickly grab a towel from the rack beside me and wrap the mobile in it to muffle the sound. I don’t know which button to use to turn the thing off. I’m sure I could probably guess, but that would mean actually having to look, which means unmuffling, and I don’t want Jas to wake up.

  The damn thing rings and rings and rings. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, it stops. I breathe a sigh of relief and gingerly open up the towel, trying to work out how I can switch the thing off, when the ringing starts up again.

  Oh, God. Now what? Maybe I should answer it? Maybe it’s important? Still trying to muffle the ring, I stick my head inside the towel. ‘Hello?’ I say as quietly as I can.

  ‘Listen, you little shit, I’ve been trying to call you for days. Where the fuck are you? If you don’t—’

  I take the phone and my head out of the towel then, and search for a button. Any button. There’s a green one and a red one that look likely. Red’s bad, right? Red’s for ejector seat buttons and stopping lifts and starting fire alarms and things like that. I push the red one. I push it hard and for a long, long time. And suddenly the voice stops yelling. I think the phone even turns itself off, because there’s nothing on the screen any more.

  I decide not to pick up the pager.

 
I spend a good five minutes washing my hands, debating what I should do about this. About the phone call. Should I tell Jas someone called? I mean, I shouldn’t have messed with the phone. But that guy on the other end of the line…Zed, I guess it was. Zed the dickhead. He was a nice piece of work, wasn’t he? Not even a cheery hello. Just a ‘Listen, you little shit.’ I’m taking it that’s why Jas has had his mobile and pager turned off all the time to start with. To avoid Zed. And if that’s the case Jas won’t want to know he called anyway. Right. So that’s it. I won’t tell him. If I hadn’t turned the phone on by accident there’d just be another message in his message bank, and that’s hardly likely to be missed, is it? The guilt I’ll just have to live with…

  I go back and crawl into bed then, thinking I might just have an extra fifteen minutes’ rest after all the bathroom excitement. I get right under the covers, because, as everyone knows, nothing can get you under the covers—not even Zed. But just as I’m covering my head there’s a knock on the door. Jas, still asleep, thank God, stirs.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I tell him, throwing my blanket off. ‘I’ll get it.’

  As I cross the room I remember my clothes—I’m still wearing the dirndl. Why I didn’t notice before, I have no idea. I contemplate going to get one of the fluffy white bathrobes in the bathroom, but then decide I can’t be bothered. So what if I’m wearing a dirndl? Hey, I’ve got the Oktoberfest bug, so sue me, I think, and I go and open the door in my full regalia.

  Sharon’s standing outside.

  ‘Um, Shane just wanted to check that you guys are coming tonight,’ she says and, being taller than me, peers in a very non-nonchalant fashion into Jas’s and my room.

  ‘Did he?’ I try not to smile. I’d say she still hasn’t worked the Zamiel/Jas thing out fully, and I wonder for a second what Shane’s been telling her. All kinds of things, I expect. Either way, by the expectant lovesick gaze on the girl’s face, I’m doubting whether it’s Shane who really wants to know if we’re going out or not tonight.

  She nods, still peering. ‘So, are you?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Both of you?’

  ‘Yes, both of us.’

  ‘OK, great.’ She stops peering now, satisfied that Jas will be making an appearance tonight. Then she gives my outfit the once-over. ‘Are you going to wear that?’