The Marriage Gap Year, page 15
“No magic bullet then?”
Nguyen smiled through tight lips.
“You know,” said Emma, “I bet there’d be a cure if men had to go through it.”
“You may be right.” Doctor Nguyen stood up and started putting on latex gloves. “Hop up on the table so I can check the bloating.” Dr Nguyen motioned for Emma to lay down. Emma loosened and lowered her skirt and submitted to the doctor’s hands pressing on her abdomen. “How long have you felt bloated?”
“Months.”
Dr Nguyen tapped her belly. “You still have an IUD, right?” Emma nodded. Dr Nguyen continued pressing on Emma’s tummy. “Ginger tea is good for bloating.” Then the doctor paused, her gaze below Emma’s belly button. Emma looked down too. Her skirt sat below her hips and the elastic of her underwear had slid down just enough to show some of the pink chicken skin below her abdomen. In the twelve years she’d been coming here, Emma had never waxed.
“Just trying something new,” she said.
Dr Nguyen offered a wry smile. “It looks a bit irritated. Put on some aloe vera, that should calm it down.” Dr Nguyen smiled and finished the examination, then peeled off her gloves. “Otherwise, all good?” she said, tossing the gloves in the trash and sanitizing her hands. Emma smiled and nodded.
“And the family are good?”
“Yep, all good.” Emma stood and rebuttoned her skirt. She pulled her shirt down over her belly and sat down again on the chair. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something. You’d know about drugs.”
Dr Nguyen’s brow furrowed. “Hmm,” she said, curious, possibly suspicious.
“I’ve got a friend—”
“Hmmm—”
“No, I’m serious, I mean, an actual friend. And I found a bunch of pills in her drawer the other day and I don’t know what to make of them.” Emma sat up and reached for the phone in her purse.
Dr Nguyen raised an eyebrow. “So, you are snooping in your friend’s house?”
“No. Well, yes. It’s out of concern. I’m living there, and I found a bunch of stuff and I’m worried about her.”
“Maybe it’s better we respect your friend’s privacy.”
“I know.” Emma had her face down in her phone, scrolling photos for the image she took of the pill boxes in Kendry’s loungeroom. “I don’t need a medical opinion or anything.” Emma scrolled madly. “Here.” She held the phone out for Dr Nguyen to see. “I just need you to help me understand what this stuff is. I’ve googled it but, it didn’t help, you always just end up with cancer.”
Dr Nguyen held Emma’s gaze, unwilling to look down at the phone. “Please,” Emma pleaded.
Dr Nguyen’s face softened, and she looked down at the image on screen. “Okay, so these are pain medications. Pretty serious.”
“Why would someone take those?”
Dr Nguyen scrunched her face. “A lot of reasons. Maybe your friend had surgery?” Emma shook her head. “They can also be used in treatments for other conditions, like cancer.” Emma’s eyes widened. “But I don’t know,” said Dr Nguyen quickly. “It’s only hypothetical. I don’t know your friend.”
Emma looked down at the phone. “Yeah, maybe I don’t either.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sareena and Will sat on a pair of fold-out chairs in the front yard drinking kombucha. Rob shook his head as he walked toward them on his way to the portaloo.
“Bit early for a break,” he said, pretending to look at a wristwatch.
“Excuse me.” Sareena lowered her chin and glared at him from under raised eyebrows. “We just smashed out both bedrooms, so yeah, we’re taking a little break.” She raised her bottle to Will’s and they clinked them together.
Rob barely broke his stride. “Plenty more to do.” He disappeared inside the portaloo, the plastic door clapping shut behind him.
Will and Sareena grinned at each other, got up and crept to the sides of the loo, brandishing rolls of duct tape. As they approached, Steph and Dani came out of the house.
“Hey—” called Dani, but Sareena put her finger to her lips to shush her. Sareena winked, held up the duct tape and motioned toward the toilet cubicle. The girls grinned as they understood the plan.
The four of them crept up on the sides of the toilet. Sareena nodded, and the three of began taping up the door.
“What’s going on out there,” called Rob from inside. They kept taping. “Oi!” he said, and banged on the door. “Oi!”
Their laughter grew louder as they circled the loo. The door shook with an occasional thump until they stepped back, admiring their work.
“Okay, ha ha,” said Rob, his voice echoey from inside. “You got me.” They struggled to control their laughter as he fumbled with the door, trying to push it open. “Come on,” he pleaded. “It stinks.”
They erupted in laughter. The ramshackle loose strands of duct tape hanging off the door only seemed to make it funnier. Will wiped tears of laughter with the sleeve of his shirt.
“I hear you out there, Will,” came Rob’s muffled voice. “So much for your inheritance.”
Sareena doubled over, her eyes watering.
Steph finally cut the duct tape holding the door closed.
“Gotcha!” said Sareena, as Rob emerged. “Stuck in the shit shack,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Classic. Gets me every time.”
Rob shook his head, but even he couldn’t resist smiling.
“You guys are assholes,” he said, and walked back toward the house.
Work continued and, by the afternoon, they’d made good progress. It was nice having Will on site. He seemed better for it, more relaxed, even seemed to have picked up a few skills.
Sareena looked up from her phone as Steph walked over. “I’m going to run out and get a new drill,” said Steph.
“Why?” said Sareena. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Think it’s the motor, it’s just shuddering.”
Sareena rolled her eyes. “Cuz, if you leave now the sheeting doesn’t get done until tomorrow. I need it today. You gotta check your tools, Steph.”
“I did.”
“Let’s have a look.” Sareena hopped down from the window ledge. “Maybe just jammed, yeah.” Steph shrugged.
“If it is busted,” said Sareena, “just borrow one.”
Sareena strode through to where Steph’s hammer drill lay on the floor. “Look,” said Sareena, bending to pick up the power tool. “You’ve got it on the wrong gear ya dufus.” She held it up. “How the fuck you going to hammer into granite with this weak ass thing here.” She flicked a switch on the handle. “Now you can blast a mountain.” She pulled the trigger and white powder erupted from inside the tool, forming a dense cloud that enveloped Sareena. She smiled, wiped her lips and blew a raspberry sending puffs of white flour airborne.
Rob and Steph laughed and the others joined in. Steph and Rob high-fived.
“You motherfuckers.” Sareena smiled. “It’s on.” She wiped her face with her sleeve. “Okay. Fuck you all and get back to work.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emma stepped from hard concrete onto the soft cushioning of red carpet rolled out onto the sidewalk. She wasn’t sure she could get herself into the mood for this gala opening. She still hadn’t asked Kendry about the pills. There was always an excuse not to; they had a nice vibe going. Emma was a guest at her house, plus Kendry was always so defensive. You had to be ready for a confrontation with her. And Kendry did seem to have her shit together.
Emma’s life was the disaster, marriage on the brink, no job, unable to afford her own rent, mooching off a friend. What a loser she was. Hustling backward. Dr Priya said it’s not what you do, it’s about who you are. Sounded nice but offered little comfort.
Who Emma was, is forty-eight! What the hell was she doing standing in the cold outside a cocktail lounge, surrounded by all these young and fabulous people? Everyone else inside these velvet ropes was part of a couple or a group. She was the only one standing here by herself. Christ, her life was such a fucking mess.
She checked her phone to appear busy (no messages) and looked up when the line of well-dressed people shuffled ever closer to the front steps of the cocktail lounge. A waft of electronica escaped the venue every time the doorman opened the solid brass door.
The doorman was an older gentleman, sixty-something, and his white mustache had been waxed so the tips pointed up toward the shiny brim of his black cap. He struck Emma as rather splendid in his red coat with gold embroidering and epaulets. She didn’t know if his look was meant to be ironically old-fashioned or a deadly serious recreation of the past. Whatever it was, she liked the way this older man seemed to inhabit his uniform; the way it gave him a style and gravitas was comforting. He looked…dignified. The somber, dutiful way he welcomed guests into the place with a slight bow made Emma feel a little silly about going in there to face the absurdity of introducing her oldest friend to the younger man she was seeing. Butterfly wings of anxiety fluttered in her chest, her throat, her stomach. This was pathetic, wasn’t it? She was out of place here. And yet, when the doorman finally doffed his cap at her, she felt reassured, emboldened, as if he’d opened the door to possibility itself.
Inside, the music thumped a little louder, the bass jostled her guts. She recognized the electronic jungle beats of Papa New Guinea. That band transported her back to the early 1990s, drinking cider at a house party and pashing a boy on the veranda. Did these people realize they were listening to old music? Or did these young people appreciate it with that sentimental irony that seemed to move them to buy obsolete stuff like old tape decks and roller skates. When did her life become a vintage curiosity?
Emma scanned the room. The decor was kooky, Victorian gentleman scientist meets art nouveau chic. Hanging plants cascaded down from wall to wall; floor-to-ceiling bookshelves displaying antique medical instruments, microscopes, beakers and specimen jars filled with swirling-colored liquids. Pedestal lamps of female nudes lit framed displays of taxidermic insects. Emma’s gaze followed the Rorschach patterns on pinned butterfly wings and the shimmering rainbow exoskeletons of giant beetles. This place had Kendry’s touch all over it.
Emma looked for her friend, a welcome ally in this sea of young faces. She searched the room twice before noticing Kendry’s long, braceleted arms waving at her from the wraparound bar where backlit bottles of booze glowed in a mosaic of colors, solemn and penitent as a cathedral’s stained glass.
Kendry patted the empty bar stool next to her. Emma didn’t want to sit at the bar. Erik would join them soon and the bar would be awkward. It would leave at least one of them on the outer, struggling to join the conversation. She didn’t want to be the one stuck in the middle, bridging the conversation. She wanted a booth, but they were all taken.
“Grab a saddle,” said Kendry, kissing Emma on the cheek.
“Hey, Ken. Any chance we can—”
“Watch this.” Kendry tapped Emma’s knee and turned on her stool to watch the three bartenders pumping out fresh cocktails. They looked serious in their blue shirts with the sleeves rolled up, burlap ties tucked under the bib of their aprons. “I’m loving just watching these guys work. Oh, check this one.” Kendry nudged her, and turned again to focus on one of the bartenders whose face was all jawbone. “Watch this.” The jawbone poured a trickle of Kirsch into the frosty silver sleeve of a martini shaker. He slid the glass onto the metal sleeve and raised the shaker over his head. He shook it like he was dancing to the beat of the music that filled the place, throwing his whole body into the rhythm of the action. He then held the shaker low and gyrated, throwing his pelvis into the motion, splintering the ice inside the shaker.
“Well, I’m stirred,” said Kendry, and laughed at her own joke. The hint of a smile curled at the edge of the bartender’s mouth as he poured the frothy, pink mixture into a pair of frosted martini glasses. He pushed the stems toward them.
Kendry saluted him. He winked.
“Been here a while?” said Emma.
Kendry picked up her martini glass. “I’ve been here all week.” She raised her glass. “I did my job. It’s the soft opening and the place is full.” She clinked Emma’s glass and took a gulp from her drink. “So,” Kendry said, licking her lip, “what do you think?”
Emma looked around. The moody lighting, the music, the chatter of people in dark clothes, the crunch of scooped ice. “It’s nice,” said Emma, picking up her martini glass.
“Nice?” Kendry’s forehead wrinkled. “Babes, this is the premiere event in Melbourne tonight but, hey, who cares? Cheers to nice.” Kendry toasted the air and slurped her martini.
Emma wanted to bring up the pills, but it didn’t seem fair. She didn’t want to ruin the opening. Kendry had worked so hard. Plus, she’d already had one too many. Things could get ugly. “You okay?” said Emma. It was a neutral-ish question.
Kendry put her drink down a little heavily and adjusted the peacock patterned shawl unfurling itself from her neck. “I’m fine.” She moved the stem of her glass around in a little puddle of condensation on the bar. “Just been working too much is all.” She leaned in close. “The guy who owns this place has deep pockets, but he’s got no idea what he’s doing. Most of what you see here is my idea.” She took another drink.
“I’m sorry, Ken. If you want, I can call Erik and tell him not to come if it’s going to—”
“No! Are you kidding?” She licked froth from the top of her lip. “What, and miss the boy wonder? That’s the only part of tonight I’m looking forward to. No way.” She took another slurp of her drink. “Besides, Syed would be pissed. You should’ve seen how happy he was when I told him we put Erik’s name on the VIP guest list. You didn’t tell me he was famous.”
Emma took a sip of her drink.
Kendry’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.” She gave Emma a playful shove. “You don’t even know, do you?” She laughed. “Oh, that is so you.”
“He is not famous.”
“Maybe not to you,” said Kendry. “But if you were into this kind of music…” – she pointed up at the ceiling where the speakers now rained down something that sounded like the thump and squeal of a train on rusty tracks mixed with the bleeping of an ’80s video game – “you’d think he was the bee’s knees.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yeah. He’s not, like, mauled-by-fans famous, but in his own scene he is definitely a thing.”
“I really didn’t—”
“Well, I guess you two don’t spend a lot of time talking.”
“Are you going to be nice when he gets here? You’re not going to be all weird?”
“Why would I be weird just because I’m meeting your little man muffin?”
Emma shot Kendry a disapproving look as a stout little man in a shiny black V-neck T-shirt came up behind her and put his hairy-knuckled hands on Kendry’s shoulders.
Kendry turned. “Oh hey.”
The man briefly massaged Kendry’s shoulders and leaned toward her ear. “Having fun?”
“All in a night’s work,” said Kendry, twirling her straw in the near empty glass. “Syed, this is my friend, Emma.”
Syed looked up and his eyebrows arched with recognition. “It’s you,” he said, pointing a stubby finger at Emma. “I know you.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed as she placed Syed, recalled the endless string of insults Rob had hurled at this man over the years. She mentally tallied the hours Rob had spent on the phone with him. It didn’t matter if it was a weekend, their vacation, Mother’s Day, their anniversary, however sacred the occasion, it always came second to whatever this man wanted. She would know it was Syed calling before Rob even answered the call. He’d look at his phone and a crease would appear on his forehead, a hidden scar drawn out by the sound of a ringtone. Then Rob would say “Sorry, gotta take this,” and walk into another room. It was the same every time. Syed wasn’t responsible for the state of her marriage, but he was a symptom of what was wrong with it. Rob was married to his work. Maybe he got that crease on his forehead when she called him too?
“I know you,” Syed repeated, still stabbing his pudgy little finger at her.
“You work with my husband, Rob.”
“Ah,” said Syed, raising his index finger in the air. “He works for me.”
“Sure, okay.” Emma was keen to turn the conversation away from Rob. “So,” she leaned in to be heard over the music. “You do this too.” She motioned toward the ceiling.
Syed nodded. “Yes,” he smiled. “In Australia, there’s a lot of money in construction and alcohol. I bring them together.” He laughed and looked at Kendry, who smiled encouragingly.
“Yeah,” she said, “Syed’s Australia’s answer to Mark Cuban. Hospitality, booze and hot property. The trifecta.” She rolled her eyes for Emma.
Syed shook his head. “No, no, I’m too old to be the boss here. Needs someone younger. More pretty. My nephew will do it. I just invest. And party.”
Emma nodded and smiled politely, hoping her silence would give Syed the hint. She was increasingly desperate for him to leave but she couldn’t be overtly rude. He was Kendry’s client, another guy in a long line of self-absorbed B-listers looking to make it big. How Kendry managed their egos over the years was beyond her. She said she didn’t want children, but that wasn’t entirely true. She had hundreds of them, a week, a month at a time. Emma picked up her drink and felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Hey.” Erik leaned in and they exchanged an awkward peck on the cheek. “You good?” She nodded.
Erik withdrew his hand from her shoulder, and she sensed an airy vacancy where it had been.
“You’re Kendry, right?” Erik held out his hand. Kendry got up from her barstool. “Handshakes are for strangers and politicians, luv.” She leaned in for a hug. Erik embraced her. Emma took a sip of her drink. Kendry folded into the hug and then pulled away, a long strand of her hair trailing on Erik’s shoulder as they separated. “You give good hugs,” she said.
