It's Not You It's Me Page 8

  I wake up at four-thirty a.m. and try, unsuccessfully, to fall back asleep for the next half an hour. By five-fifteen, I can’t lie still for a minute longer, and sit up a bit to look around me in the light that’s available.

  ‘You awake?’ I hear Jas’s voice in the semi-dark.

  ‘Sorry, did I wake you up?’

  ‘No, I’ve been lying here staring at the ceiling for an hour or so. Obviously went to sleep too early.’ He turns his bedside light on.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, suddenly glad that I treated myself to some new Peter Alexander pyjamas for the trip. ‘Want a cup of tea?’ I ask Jas, not quite meeting his eyes in case he wants to bring up last night’s topic of discussion. The one I’d chosen to pass on.

  ‘Ja, that would be sehr gut.’

  ‘What?’ He sounds way too cheery for this time of the morning.

  ‘Just practising my German. Don’t get excited. That’s as much as I know.’

  ‘You sound like the Swedish chef from the Muppets.’ I yawn as I go over to fill the kettle.

  ‘Swedish, German. They’re lucky they’ll be getting anything out of me. Languages aren’t exactly a gift of mine.’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me,’ I say, abandoning my tea-making. I go over to my bag and pull the little book out. ‘Here we are.’ I hold it up.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘German phrasebook.’ I throw it over to Jas before heading back to our tea.

  Jas sits up. ‘Money, travel, telling the time…What is it with these books?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He flops back down, still reading. ‘Why don’t they ever tell you anything you need to know?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Like how much do you need to bribe the maître d’ to get the best table in the restaurant? Where do you park your car if you want to come back and have it still sitting there?’

  ‘I thought that was your chauffeur’s problem?’

  Jas puts the book down. ‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times…’

  ‘…garbage night is Monday night.’ I finish his sentence and then we both laugh.

  I never used to remember to put out the bins on a Monday night, even though it was one of the jobs I’d picked to do around the apartment. Jas always ended up doing it for me, and when he came back from the task he’d make me recite the phrase ten times to show me up.

  He puts the book up and starts reading again. ‘Here’s one that’s universal. Ich will mein Tanzenbeine schwingen.’

  I dump the two teabags in the bin. ‘Now you just sound like you’re choking. What’s it mean?’

  ‘I want to shake my dancing legs.’

  Carrying the two cups of tea across the room, I laugh and spill some over the side of each cup. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Jesus. No saucer! You do know where we are?’

  ‘Don’t get all hoity-toity with me, mister—room service doesn’t start till six a.m. You can demand your saucer then.’ I put both the cups down on the bedside table and sit down on my bed. ‘Here, let me have a look.’ I hold my hand out. Jas passes me the phrasebook. Five minutes or so later, I shake my head. ‘I don’t remember any of this.’

  ‘You studied German?’

  I nod. ‘Sort of. Years 8 to 10. Study didn’t really come into it, though. That’s probably why they threw me out.’

  ‘They threw you out of German?’

  ‘The teacher suggested that maybe German wasn’t the language for me and that it might be better if I studied French instead.’

  ‘Nice. So you did French?’

  I laugh. ‘No. I packed it all in and did geography.’

  ‘So we should at least be OK if we get lost?’

  I look up at this. ‘Don’t count on it. I got a C.’

  ‘I won’t. Hey, you remembered!’ Jas says, having taken a sip of his tea. ‘Black and three-quarters.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Of course I remembered. I was practically your tea slave.’

  ‘Yeah. So, what do you remember from German? You going to be useful at all this trip? Apart from tea-making?’

  I close the phrasebook. ‘Probably not. The thing I remember best was these books we had. You know—like the readers they give you when you’re learning to read in primary school?’

  Jas nods, presumably remembering good old Dick, Jane, Spot and Fluff.

  ‘There was something about a dog named Lumpi and someone’s uncle, Onkel Ernst, I think his name was. I distinctly remember one book where the family kept confusing them, which seemed a bit stupid. He must’ve been one really ugly uncle, or a spectacularly large and hair-free dog.’

  ‘Sounds a bit surreal. Who wrote that little number? Freud?’

  ‘It may as well have been. It wasn’t very helpful in dealing with everyday life. I mean, how many kids confuse their dog with their uncle? And if they did they’d be far more likely to get a good smack on the head for it, rather than a long and detailed family conversation.’

  ‘So that’s it? All you remember?’

  ‘Well, that and “99 Luftballons”, of course.’

  ‘Course.’ Jas nods.

  ‘Hang on, what’s this?’ About to put the phrasebook away, I spot something sticking out of it. A piece of paper. I unfold it and skim it for a moment or two. ‘It’s from Mark. Here.’ I turn it around so Jas can read the heading. ‘Dirty crap to say in German! He says “Thought this might come in handy. Don’t tell Kath…”’

  ‘If he’s saying “don’t tell Kath” it must be good. Give us one.’

  I hum as I look down the page. ‘How about this: Ich habe einen Anschiß von den Bullen bekommen.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  I glance up. ‘Those cops really raked me over the coals.’

  Jas laughs. ‘Hopefully I won’t need that one. Any others?’

  ‘Um…hmmm, some of these are pretty dirty. No wonder he didn’t show them to Kath. You should see her now she’s a mother. Mark and I don’t even get to say damn any more.’

  ‘Dirty, you say? Great!’

  ‘You don’t have to get quite so excited.’

  ‘Ah, come on. I know all the rude words. I’m just…searching for new and interesting combinations now.’

  ‘OK, OK, um…Ohne Gummi kannst du dir einen Tripper holen. You can get the clap if you don’t wear a rubber.’

  Jas laughs again. ‘That’s not dirty—that’s a fact, baby.’

  ‘Baby? That’s a new one in your repertoire. I’ll need to pick myself up a rock star phrasebook next. Here we go. I’ve got another one. You’ll like this: Der Höhepunkt der Fete war der Gruppenfick danach. The highlight of the party was the gang-bang afterwards. That one should come in useful for Zamiel, at least.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Jas sounds like he’s forgotten something. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing. Give us one more. One of the really dirty ones.’

  ‘One more and that’s it, pervie boy.’ I point a finger at him. ‘Here, you go: Wo ist Tom? Er holt sich in der Garage einen runter. Where’s Tom? He’s jacking off in the garage.’

  He laughs again. ‘That’s more like it. Might even have to learn that one off by heart.’

  I fold the piece of paper up then. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Just on six.’

  We look at each other. ‘Breakfast!’

  We’ve got two hours to fill before the tour bus will arrive to pick us up and, perusing the menu, we decide that the only reasonable thing to do is to eat as much as we can to pass the time. It takes us a good fifteen minutes to decide on exactly what we’ll have, and in the end we both choose the full English breakfast with lots of side orders, including one of black pudding. We probably won’t eat it, but we’re curious enough to push it around on our plates for a while so we can say we’ve had a cultural food experience.

  The two-hour plan doesn’t exactly pull itself off, however, because twenty minutes after the knock on the door and the delivery of the b
reakfast tray, breakfast is gone. I forget my sad vegetarianism and Jas and I both wolf down our food as if we’ve never eaten before. When we’re done, only the black pudding, a bacon rind and a toast crust or two remain.

  ‘I’m so full.’ I lie back on my bed with a groan. ‘Something tells me I’m going to outgrow all my pants on this tour, even if it is only five days long.’

  Jas flops onto his bed as well. ‘Good. Outgrow them. You’re too skinny.’

  ‘Ha!’ I say to the ceiling. ‘Too skinny. That’s a good one. Who said that thing about you can never be too skinny? You can never be too rich or too thin—that’s it.’

  ‘Probably someone with a large overdraft and a raging case of bulimia. You are too skinny. You’ve lost heaps of weight.’

  ‘I didn’t try. And just remember I don’t work at a café any more. I haven’t got hummingbird cake and white chocolate macadamia blondies staring me in the face all day. In Byron it’s lentil burgers and wheatgrass shots or nothing. Take your pick.’

  ‘Nothing, thanks. With extra sauce. But what about now? Living with Kath and Mark? Responsible adults and all that. Don’t they cook?’

  This really makes me laugh. ‘Let’s say they try. I do most of the cooking when I’m around. And if I’m not, I think they live on Lean Cuisine.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with frozen dinners.’

  I turn my head to look at Jas. ‘I didn’t say there was anything wrong with frozen dinners. I’m quite partial to the Lean Cuisine vegetable cannelloni myself. Larger serve, of course.’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘OK.’ I push myself up with my elbows. ‘Shower. You mind if I go first?’

  ‘Go for it.’

  I have my shower and douse myself with citrus shower gel in the hope that it’ll unfuzz my head. The three cups of coffee helped, but I’m not quite up to speed yet. When I re-emerge—dressed, hair partially dried, slap on and ready to go—Jas is fast asleep.

  ‘Hey.’ I pat him on the arm and he jumps. ‘Want a shower now? I’m all set, so I’m going out for a quick walk around. We’ve still got another forty-five minutes or so.’

  He nods and makes his way into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. ‘Oi! Did an orange explode in here?’ his muffled voice says.

  ‘See you soon.’ I don’t give him the reply he’s after.

  Half an hour later, I’m back. Jas is watching TV. ‘Mission accomplished,’ I say through my full mouth, offering him a white paper bag.

  ‘Mission?’

  ‘Pear drops.’

  Jas pokes his nose into the bag. ‘Lollies?’

  ‘They’re not lollies. They’re sweeties,’ I correct him with a proper English accent. ‘Pear drops. Real pear drops. Not like the fake ones we get at home.’

  He chooses a yellow one and sticks it into his mouth. Then, just as fast, he reaches over, grabs a tissue and spits it out. ‘Charlie, that’s revolting. Tastes like nail polish remover.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Philistine. They’re an acquired taste. I bet Zamiel wouldn’t spit it out.’

  I get a look. ‘Anything tastes good after drinking chicken’s blood. Put them away before they kill somebody.’ Jas checks his watch then. ‘We’ve got to get downstairs.’

  He’s right, I think, checking the time.

  ‘Shit.’

  I turn around and look at Jas. He’s rolled over and is now inspecting his tiny mobile phone. It starts to beep incessantly again. Just like yesterday. ‘More messages?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ He slams it down on the bedside table as he gets up.

  I go over. ‘My—seventy-eight messages today.’

  Jas snatches the phone up then. I watch as he turns it off and sticks it on his belt next to something else. A pager. It’s turned off as well.

  ‘Calm down. Aren’t you going to get your messages again?’

  He makes a noise. ‘No point. Know who they’re from. Zed. My manager. Zed the dickhead.’

  I make a face. OK. I’ll have to remember that. We don’t much care for Zed. I’m starting to think he’s getting a teensy bit upset about some phone messages from his manager, even if there are seventy-eight of them. Zed must want something. Badly. I go over to finish up packing my bag. ‘Why is he calling you when you’re on holiday? And don’t you want to know what he wants? It might be important.’

  ‘I know what he wants. Just wish he’d piss off, really.’ Jas runs his hands through his hair.

  This makes me pause. Fine. Whatever. This must be the moody rock star stuff I haven’t had a chance to see yet, I think. I decide to ignore it and busy myself scooping up the last few items of mine that are sitting around the room—my book, a packet of tissues. ‘Ready?’ I ask Jas when I’ve zipped up my suitcase.

  Jas nods. ‘Sorry. It’s just that it really gets my back up. You don’t know how he is. He’s the most annoying person on earth.’

  I give him a quick smile. ‘OK.’ I start to head for the door, suitcase in tow. ‘Enough said. Let’s go.’

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Jas is still standing beside his bed.

  ‘Um, going downstairs.’

  ‘You can’t take your own bag. Not at Brown’s.’

  I drop the suitcase like a hot potato.

  Jas picks up the phone and calls Reception. After a word or two he puts the phone down again. ‘Now we can go. Come on, philistine.’

  Chapter Nine

  Downstairs, Jas takes a seat on one of the leather couches. ‘Don’t we have to settle the bill?’ I hover beside him.

  He waves a hand. ‘All done. While you were out.’

  ‘Jas…’ I start.

  ‘What? Not this again. I told you it was my treat.’

  I sigh. ‘But not dinner and the phone calls and breakfast and…’

  He shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s just money. Don’t worry about it.’ He picks up a copy of GQ and starts reading.

  I stand there for another second or two. ‘OK. Well, um, thanks.’ I pick up a magazine as well, and go to sit on the couch opposite him. Just money. I shake my head slightly behind my open magazine. I wonder if Jas realises any more how much normal people have to think about ‘just money’ on a daily basis. About ‘just money’ to pay the electricity and the phone, ‘just money’ to buy groceries and fix the car with. It’s the rock star thing again.

  Jas puts down his magazine now and gets up from the couch. He starts pacing around the lobby and I watch him with one eye, the other fixed on my reading material, as he makes his way around the room. He seems agitated. But, like I thought last night, there it is again—he looks so much more sure of himself, so much more self-confident than he used to. There’s just something about him now. Almost like an aura. He glances over at me and I quickly return to my magazine. Half a page into the article I’m reading, I bring my hand up to my mouth as I yawn. God, I’m tired.

  I think I spent about half of last night willing myself to go to sleep, but really replaying the day over and over in my mind. The video landing on my head. Meeting up with Jas. Getting to London. OK, so I’m lying. Most of the tiny amount of energy I had left last night was used up trying not to remember Jas’s and my last night in the apartment. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  And it’s funny that after all this time I still feel completely stupid about That Night. As if it only happened yesterday. As if I should have known Jas was gay. But, really, how was I supposed to know? After all, he was sleeping with women. Lots of them. Slowly, I look up from my magazine to watch Jas again, but he turns my way and I lift the magazine up a little higher, out of his view. I shouldn’t feel stupid about it. I know that. I mean, it’s not as if I could have come out and asked him about his sex life up front. How do you ask that kind of thing? Hey, Jas, mate. Are you gay, or bi, or what? You can hardly ask a prospective flatmate and, well, after that it’s a bit late, isn’t it? You’re kind of supposed to know which way someone leans if you’re living with them.

  The thought had, of cou
rse, crossed my mind in the past couple of years that maybe Jas was bisexual. That would explain everything. The guys I kept seeing with him on TV—because, despite what Jas said, it wasn’t just piglet-face the media had paired him up with—and the girls of the Magnolia Lodge kitchen brigade. And being bi was a fashionable rock star kind of thing to do. To be. It was strange, though, that the media had never picked up on it. Like I said, it was fashionable—it would’ve been a better story. Orgies with supermodels, that kind of thing. Right up Zamiel’s alley, really.

  God, who knows? And what does it matter, anyway? Either way, it’s got nothing to do with me. Still, when did this all get so complicated? I remember my mother having The Talk with me when I was in primary school. It went something along the lines of ‘When a man and a woman love each other…’ Of course, Mum being Mum, they never got married—they just had babies and lived happily ever after together ‘if that was what everyone wanted’. But it wasn’t as complicated as all this. This is the Snakes and Ladders of sexuality, and something tells me I’ve been left behind on square one.

  My eyes flick up at Jas one more time. He’s inspecting the few paintings hanging on the wall and I yawn and think of my lack of sleep again. Maybe I would have got a bit more if he hadn’t wanted to ‘talk’. I still can’t believe he had the guts to bring up our past like that. But Jas must have known I’d kept getting flashes of That Night all day. He must have known I was thinking about it to bring it up like that. After all, I knew instantly what he meant when he said the words ‘we need to talk’. He could have meant anything. And me, of course, I just said the first thing that came to mind—the least embarrassing thing. The thing that would get me out of trouble, out of the whole situation the fastest. That’s why I blurted those words out—‘I don’t feel that way any more’. It was the first thing that came into my mind. But the truth is, I think, watching Jas pace the room…the truth is I don’t know how I feel about Jas at all.