Dessi's Romance Read online

  ‘Hmm, I guess.’ I hold out Chagall for him to stroke.

  Only Dessi, and my other best mate Sacha, know how much time I spend drawing, painting, visiting galleries, and studying art books. But what I’ll never confess, not even to Dessi, is how certain paintings symbolise my emotions. For example, any of Chagall’s people is when I’d like to be somewhere else, though his floating couple can also mean I’m buoyant. Picasso’s archetypal cubist woman, his Femme à La Resille is when I’m feeling fragmented and depressed. A Raphael Madonna is me when I’m calm and collected… not that this happens too often.

  Abdul studies me then hands Chagall back. ‘Why are these kittens so different?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ I say with a grin. Chagall tries to nibble my finger. ‘You see, Myrtle’s a bit of a slut.’ He giggles so I quickly add, ‘Look… Do you mind if on the way we call in on Dessi? I’d love you to meet her, she’s so beautiful.’

  His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Beautiful?’

  ‘Maybe not in the usual sense,’ I say slowly. ‘I mean she’s pretty enough, but it’s more her smile and who she is. She’s a poet…real talent.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He settles back in the chair. I’m wondering if he’s being condescending, then realise he isn’t when he adds, ‘You’re lucky to have such a close friend.’

  ‘Sure am.’ We pause to consider this.

  I suddenly realise how late it is and hand him the TV remote. ‘Quick shower, promise.’

  In the shabby bathroom flecked with mould I tell myself is ‘aboriginal-country’, I shampoo and shower. Back in my room I pull on a floral print dress I found at Vinnies and add a wide leather belt. Then I slide on an anklet, some strappy high heel sandals, and my collection of multi-coloured bracelets. I blow-dry my hair, fix my make-up, douse myself in perfume and return to the sunroom all within a record twenty minutes.

  I find Abdul texting on his cell phone. Glimpsing me, he shuts it down. ‘Sit here.’ He pats the couch. My stomach does a flip-flop. ‘You smell lovely,’ he says, his face in my hair. I snuggle up close and he murmurs, ‘That’s better.’

  Tonight Julie, my mum, isn’t due home until late. We’re alone. The overhead lamp lights up glossy patent leather curls. My heart begins to thump. I feel the pressure of his lips, his tongue. Our kiss goes on and on…somehow I’m not able to stop. He draws me close and I’m Raphael woman, all soft and calm and melting. The next minute his hands are all over me. Oh God! It would be just too easy. Part of me wants to so badly. But I also want things to be different. This time things have to be special. They have to be perfect!

  ‘You want to? I’ll be careful,’ he says reaching into his pocket.

  ‘Oh Abdul,’ I sigh. ‘I don’t know. Not yet. It’s too soon, I hardly know you...’

  How can I tell him? How can I admit that I’ve slept with too many guys, and now wish I hadn’t?

  The start of Year 9 was when Robert, my dad, left home and my mum, Julie, fell in a heap. I was so angry with both, all I could do was hang out with kids who got drunk or drugged most nights, either stealing booze or the money for it. Once stoned, we’d strip naked, climb trees, swing off ledges, fight with other kids, even hook up with dangerous strangers. Not only were our nights risky, the only cure for next day’s hangover was more alcohol. I either wagged school or slept in class. No wonder I felt as dislocated as a cubist painting. It was Dessi who straightened me out, the only person I ever trusted enough to confide in.

  One night I went with this guy I’d only just met. In his car with him pawing me with his left hand, his right hand handling the steering wheel, it suddenly struck me that I hated where I was at. I gave him Dessi’s address, pushed him away promising ‘We’ll do it soon as we get home.’ The guy drove like a maniac. But soon as we stopped outside the Cowan’s, I shot out of his car and raced around the side of the house. I hoisted myself up the drain pipe, climbed into Dessi’s open window and fell inside.

  The guy charged after me.

  ‘Don’t let him in,’ I yelled.

  Quick-thinking Dessi slammed the window-frame on the guy’s fingers and cried, ‘If you don’t go away, I’ll get my dad.’

  The guy did a wheelie and took off. I collapsed on the bed and threw up. But Dessi was terrific. She crept downstairs to make me a strong coffee, changed the bed linen, and then listened. From her dismayed face, I knew she hadn’t realised the half of it. But all she did was sponge my filthy face, and tuck me into her own bed.

  I hardly remember falling asleep. But next day I promised Dessi I’d change. And in some ways I have. No more drinking or party drugs or going with dangerous strangers. But since, there’s been Sam and Danny. Both guys were great to start with. Then Sam only ever contacted me when he wanted sex. Danny was ‘nice’ on the surface, but then I found out he was reporting everything we did to his mates.

  Dessi kept saying, ‘Why be with a guy who treats you like shit?’ But I refused to listen. I really believed that if I hung in with Danny, that he’d finally recognise how much I loved him. So when he dropped me for Skye, I got so depressed I stayed in my room where I drew Picasso-cubist women with knives sticking into them, and Hansel and Gretel-fairytale victims with frail limbs, bloated stomachs and immense hollow eyes. Though Mum and Hannah and Dessi panicked, all I could say was, ‘That’s how I feel.’ It took me weeks to snap out of it.

  I sigh aloud. Guess Dessi is right when she insists that ‘falling for sleaze-bags is all to do with hardly ever hearing from your dad.’ So I don’t want to weaken. I want a proper romantic relationship where I can totally depend on my guy. I want him to love me as much as I love Dessi. But then… is Abdul going to drop me because I won’t come across? Looking into those wonderful eyes like pools of midnight water, his face is impassive. I have no idea what’s going through his head.

  ‘We better go,’ is all he says, ‘if you want to visit your friend.’

  And though he’s remembered my request, I can’t help feeling a pang…well, I guess it’s a pang of regret.

  5. DESSI, Melbourne

  As I wait for Emma to turn up with her new guy, my cell phone buzzes.

  ‘Leila here, Dessi. How are you?’

  ‘Okay, I guess… well, getting better,’ I hurriedly add in case she thinks I’m whining.

  Leila’s father is an importer and she helps out in his office. Her parents are strict Muslims, and she’s never allowed to travel without a male relative. Leila is my only friend who isn’t also close friends with Emma. Those two don’t get along. Not that there’s any real reason why. Maybe it comes down to Emma’s need to be exclusive. She prefers me to only hang around with mutual friends like Kaz, Jodie and Sacha.

  Leila and I settle in for a decent chat, mostly centred on how annoyed we are being stuck at home while the others will be up north having fun. While we talk, I picture her long dark hair, berry-black eyes, and lovely olive skin. Leila’s most attractive feature is her unusually full lips which give her a sensual air she probably isn’t aware of.

  We talk a while before I say, ‘You never did tell me much about flying OS in the midyear break.’

  Leila’s infectious giggle before, ‘I’ve never seen my parents so excited. They’d been planning this, like forever.’

  ‘How old were you when you left?’

  ‘I was born here. But my parents were just married when they ran away. They were dying to show me their village. I knew all our rellies’ names, but I think they were a bit disappointed.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘They view us as the lucky ones, those that got away, and think we’re mean for not sending them more money. They don’t realise how much it costs us to live. My parents were so relieved to have escaped all the conflicts and be back here. Soon as we returned, they applied for their naturalisation papers.’ A truck revs down her street. We wait for the noise to die down before Leila says, ‘All the same, my folks’d be appalled if I brought a non-Muslim guy home. And god knows what’d happen if we were seriou
s…like living together and having kids. I reckon my Dad’d go for Sharia Law.’

  I frown into the receiver. ‘How come they’re so strict?’

  A long pause before she says, ‘You see… it was so hard for my parents… like leaving everything they knew, then having to learn Aussie ways. They all say we’ll lose our language and religion if we partner out. They want their great-grandchildren to remember we’re Lebanese-Aussies and remain Muslim. They say we can lose all that in one generation if we’re not careful.’

  I consider this. ‘Do you think that way too?’

  ‘Look, I really don’t know. Actually,’ her sigh drifts down the line,’ I don’t know what I’d do if I met someone who isn’t Muslim...’

  I’m about to mention the coincidence of Emma’s new guy also being Lebanese, only the doorbell interrupts. After promising to ring back, I know another brief wave of nausea – bloody painkillers, will I ever get free of them? – before I get myself together enough to crutch down the passage. The sun leaves red and green patches on the floor. On the other side of the glass, Emma’s outline bobs up and down.

  Emma. Plus an unknown male.

  My friend looks a billion dollars and I’m suddenly aware that I’m still in a shabby track-suit, my hair caught in messy bunches. Though annoyed with myself for being such a slob, I’m distracted by Emma turning her entrance into a song and dance act. ‘Dah dah!’ she cries, flinging out an arm. ‘Dessi Cowan… Meet Abdul Malouf.’

  ‘Hi,’ he says and smiles.

  ‘Hi.’ A shock through me though I’m sure we’ve never met before. It’s as if this meeting has some significance I’ve yet to understand…

  Emma’s other arm is cradling a bundle of grey fur. ‘Look what I brought you.’

  ‘Chagall… great.’ I lean on my crutches and stroke him. Chagall’s response is to nip my finger. ‘Ouch!’ I yelp.

  Emma taps the kitten’s nose and tucks him firmly under her arm. I giggle. When people first meet Emma, they see a diminutive, almost fragile girl. But the clue to Emma’s real personality is her loud contralto and that cleft chin which hints at how strong, smart and stubborn she is.

  ‘Abdul drove me home so I could change,’ she explains. ‘I was dying to show him the kittens.’

  I wait for some response from Abdul. He merely nods. What is going through his mind? ‘Come inside.’ I beckon them into the living room with its round bay window, high ceilings and carved wooden architraves. One wall is hidden behind a wall of cartons. I point to some armchairs and murmur, ‘Excuse the mess.’

  ‘Great space.’ Abdul gestures at the sixties gas heater. ‘Shame they took out the old fireplace.’

  For a moment I wonder what he means. Then say dryly, ‘Still plenty of old stuff around here.’

  His intense gaze leaves me feeling that he knows how much I hate this house. He says, ‘Lots of this ‘old stuff’ is a vast improvement on anything new. Better design and finish. Weekends, I buy them up at garage sales, then sell my finds to dealers.’

  I settle into the old leather couch squashed inside the bay window and point them to the others. Emma places Chagall on my lap, kneels beside me, and strokes the kitten.

  Abdul prowls, pausing to examine a photo pinned to the wall at eye level, of the great-aunts Lilbet and Ella taken when they were still quite young. There’s an awkward silence. I turn to Emma to ask, ‘You finish that painting?’ Her latest work is a reduction of the view outside her bedroom window.

  Emma jumps up so quickly, her thick beige hair rises like a curtain and then settles back. ‘Too busy in the supermarket-from-hell. Heard from Kaz?’

  ‘Yes.’ I picture Kaz’s cropped hair, slim body and sharp features. ‘Called in yesterday, told me all about the Formal.’

  ‘I’ll bet. Some of the clothes were,’ Emma’s eyes roll, ‘gross. Jodie should never wear skin-tight satin with frills.’

  I wrinkle my nose and laugh.

  ‘All our teachers sent their love.’ Emma sits next to me. ‘Did Kaz mention Jack’s speech? He said how sorry everyone was you weren’t there.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tears start to my eyes. ‘Shows you can never tell with guys.’

  Abdul has settled into the opposite chair. He crosses his legs. I realise we’re excluding him. As I feel his gaze rest on me, I know another jolt. Again there’s the curious sensation that we’ve met before and that he can log into my thoughts…

  ‘Never tell what?’ he asks.

  ‘Guess we never expect you males to be super sensitive.’ My tone is extra tart in an attempt to avert that intense and embarrassing gaze.

  Mock-innocent eyes widen. ‘Why ever not?’

  I feel myself redden. I’m saved by Emma launching into a description of her last school day ‘…spread flour through the staff rooms; the deputy was livid. He’s such a jerk, isn’t he Dessi?’

  I grin. ‘Maybe he isn’t so bad…’

  ‘Not so bad?’ While Emma launches into a description of how bad hairy gremlins can be, I watch Abdul. As a third year uni student, he’s intelligent and worldly. So how come he’s keen on Emma? Surely he meets more interesting women...

  Banishing the thought as disloyal, I stroke Chagall, and continue to observe. Emma is right. Abdul is gorgeous. But I’m wary of eye-candy. Didn’t Jon McKenna’s blond hair, baby-blue eyes, bronzed skin and great body hide an ignorant bully? Will Abdul browbeat Emma for sex like Jon did me? Somehow I doubt it. Listening to him laugh, I wish I’d met him first. But then, who’d go for someone laid up on crutches…

  ‘...so he turned me off history. But you did okay, Dessi, didn’t you?’

  Brought back to the conversation, I cross my fingers and nod. As Emma chatters on, Abdul’s smile becomes strained…

  My friend

  why must you always

  work so hard

  to seek a guy’s affection?

  You’re better than all…

  Yes, better than all these men put together.

  I wait for a break to ask, ‘Abdul, what’s your major?’

  He slowly sits up. ‘Applied Maths.’

  ‘What’s that like?’

  ‘Maths can explain why you got hurt in that accident and the other two were ok. It’s Chaos Theory.’

  Emma asks, ‘What’s Chaos Theory?’

  If we half expect him to mock our ignorance, he says seriously, ‘Chaos Theory suggests that real life is a series of incidents in which one event may change those that follow and make them unpredictable.’

  I consider this. ‘Does that mean even if we’re careful we can’t prevent an accident?’

  ‘Not really. In your case, the driver was stupid. What Chaos Theory suggests is that life can never be like a scientific experiment where you can predict every factor.’ He breaks off. ‘Now I’m boring you…’

  ‘Not at all,’ I say hurriedly.

  ‘No way…’ Emma echoes. She chatters on about school and what she expects the holiday to be like. Abdul openly examines me. I look away. Outside, the wind rises and knocks a branch against the window. Shadows flicker. My heart gives a sudden jolt. I have a premonition of things falling apart… falling away…and only wake up to Emma’s, ‘…one of Mum’s friends injured herself so badly she’s suing her gym.’

  He says, ‘Thought all gyms had a personal responsibility clause,’

  ‘Maybe,’ Emma says slowly. ‘We’re joining up soon.’

  ‘Why not now?’ he asks.

  She glances at me. ‘We’re waiting for Dessi’s ankle to heal. I really want to use that setting to show how they can fill some people’s lives.’

  ‘Like Degas and his ballet dancers,’ I boast for her. ‘Great idea, isn’t it?’

  ‘Great idea,’ he says smiling. ‘Personally, gyms aren’t my thing. Between lifting and shifting, I keep pretty fit.’ Then comes an unexpected ‘Dessi, how about coming with us tonight?’

  There’s a nanosecond hesitation before Emma cries, ‘Great idea, Dessi. Do you good to get out.’ />
  I shake my head. No way will I be a third wheel when it comes to Emma’s men. ‘Too hard with this ankle.’

  ‘Poor Dessi,’ she says. ‘She can’t come to the Gold Coast either.’

  Abdul’s eyes twinkle. ‘Me neither. Boring old work for me.’

  Emma uses this to jump in with, ‘Dessi will be lonely. Why not drop in on her?’

  Horrified, I glance away. Even the suggestion invokes future problems I know I won’t be able to handle. But won’t he think me rude? I turn back to murmur, ‘You’re very welcome.’

  Why did Emma suggest this? Of course! She expects me to keep an eye on him while she’s away. No way! I tell myself. ‘Uh...’ remembering hospitality, ‘like a coffee?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Abdul stands up. ‘Got to get home.’

  Emma frowns. ‘Why the rush?’

  ‘Got heaps of business to finish off. Won’t take long, I’ll pick you up around nine.’

  ‘Leave Chagall with me,’ I murmur. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You can have him soon as he’s weaned,’ Emma promises.

  I hop back up the passage. As the others step outside, the gate swings open. My brother Jeremy stops short at the sight of a stranger.

  ‘Abdul…’ I keep a straight face. ‘Meet my brother, Turd.’

  He laughs. ‘Hi, Turd.’

  Jeremy reddens. ‘Snot face,’ he yells at me.

  I grin. ‘Serves you right for being a turd.’

  He’s lunging my way when our combined laughter stops him and he stalks into the house.

  Abdul drives a twelve-year old white panel-van. We stand around admiring it. ‘Can’t wait to get wheels,’ Emma cries. ‘Soon as I get back, I’m saving for my P’s.’

  I bite my lower lip. Hasn’t Hannah promised I can use her car soon as I get mine? But how can I drive a car with a broken right ankle?

  The others slide into the van. Emma waves good-bye. I manage to keep smiling until they disappear, then make my way back inside, my thoughts focussed on Abdul. I like his looks, his intelligence. Yes, he is truly gorgeous. But Emma is my closest friend, and she can get suicidally low. I think back to that bad time after her dad left home. Even after she started to calm down, and date, both the guys she chose were disasters. How I would hate for this to happen again.