It's Been a Pleasure, Noni Blake Page 5

  ‘Noni, he shat in a trumpet.’

  ‘Exactly. If he comes back here next year that’s what he’s going to be known as. The kid who shat in a trumpet. I hope he leaves of his own accord. For his own sake. He can’t come back from this.’

  ‘I went to school with a girl, and there was a rumour that she put a Barbie inside her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. In grade eight. Some girls started it because of some spat they’d had, and that’s what she was known as the whole time we were at school. It even travelled across different schools.’

  ‘What? Barbie?’

  ‘Yeah. I can’t even remember her actual name.’

  I laugh so hard tears spring from my eyes and Niko bites his lip, trying to contain his laughter. ‘Okay. Okay,’ I say, trying to stop.

  ‘What do we do?’ Niko asks. ‘Give him a warning and tell him he has to replace the instrument?’

  ‘It’s his trumpet.’

  ‘Does he even play the trumpet?’

  ‘Yeah. Apparently he’s very good. Which is why Miranda is pissed off, because he’s going to take over from Charlotte now that she’s graduating.’

  ‘Well, fuck, who is going to play “The Last Post” if he leaves?’ he asks, half-serious half-kidding.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Niko smiles. ‘Okay. I think he needs a punishment. The boys who dared him too, for stupidity’s sake. Let’s give them all a week of after-school detentions. Callum has to write Miranda a letter. And we’ll address it at year-level assembly, talk about maturity and making good decisions, and say that we don’t want to hear one word about dares and brass instruments. Sound good?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘You call his mum, okay?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Niko. No,’ I whimper sarcastically.

  ‘I know. This will be a character-building conversation, though. For both of you. It’s not every day you have to deliver, or receive, the news that your teenage son has shit himself into a brass instrument in front of several of his peers.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good.’ He walks towards the door and looks at me. ‘I really love your hair like that.’

  ‘Thanks. Thank you.’

  ‘Fucking Mondays.’ He rolls his eyes, gripping the handle of the door. ‘You ready?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. He winks at me, then takes a deep breath in through his nose and opens the door. ‘Mr Simons, in you come.’

  There’s a missed call from Joan when I finally check my phone. My heart skips. What’s wrong? Something has happened. Fuck. I call her back.

  ‘Hey, you on lunch?’ she says after only one ring.

  ‘Yeah. What’s wrong?’

  ‘The unit. It’s sold, Nons.’ She sounds distant and my heart lunges. Not because the unit is sold, but because she called me Nons—I quickly think how weird it is that something can feel equally foreign and familiar.

  ‘Really?’ is all I can say.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘Rachel called—the offer is higher than we thought, Nons. She was going to call you, but I told her I would do it. I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘I dunno. Sentimental. The last piece of the puzzle and all that.’ She sounds quiet. Neither of us says anything. I listen to her breathe. I become aware of my own breathing, and it sounds loud. Too loud. My heart hurts.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m…’ How am I? ‘I’m really well. How are you?’

  ‘I’m good. Good now. Yeah. So…’

  ‘How’s Carson?’

  ‘He’s good.’ She exhales. ‘You can come and get him anytime.’

  ‘I know.’

  Beautiful Carson. That doofus sausage dog makes me so sad. He reminds me of when we picked him up, when we bought the unit, the plans we made, the things we did, and the way we’d thought our lives would be. And when some of those things didn’t work out how we thought they would it knocked us over. Then we let our relationship fizz like a bottle of flat champagne sitting on the table the morning after a riotous party.

  We had sex three times in our last year together, and only because we felt like we had to. We lost our passion and, as we discovered, neither of us had the energy to grab a magnifying glass and go on some kind of sleuthing trip to recover it.

  We gave up. Not on each other, but on us.

  ‘So we’ll need to sign some shit at the office, but we can sort that later. Rachel will call—she’s good, she’s been a good agent, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Is she fucking the real estate agent? I mean she’s pretty. Thin. Blonde. She draws her eyebrows on and it freaks me out—they’re too dark for her pale complexion and she uses a lot of brown blush. Which annoys me. When I look at her I just want to scream YOU DON’T BLUSH BROWN, but I don’t. Would Joan fuck someone who didn’t know what colour cheeks blushed? Maybe. I dunno.

  ‘Then in a couple of weeks it’ll all be done.’

  She means we will be done. Really. Nothing binding us together anymore. Nothing legal, at least. Just memories. My body remembers, remembers everything about Joan, about us. And in a couple of weeks it’ll all be done.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she tells me.

  ‘Me either. You happy?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. Yeah. I guess. You?’

  ‘Bittersweet,’ is all I can manage. We pause.

  ‘Bye, Nons.’

  ‘Bye, Joan.’

  I love Joan. I will always love Joan. I loved Joan more than I have ever loved another human being. But Joan and I were not in love. And the love, respect and admiration we had for each other was not sustainable. We both feared getting to a place where we’d be frustrated by the other. We’re both kids of divorce, so we didn’t want to put each other through that. The worst thing is that no matter how much glitter we threw at our relationship it was still shit. A turd rolled in glitter.

  I’ve grieved so much since we broke up. For my normal life with Joan, before all the shit happened. I’ve grieved for our weekends. For our routine. For her family, who became my family. For the stupid made-up songs Joan would sing. For our car conversations. For the way she’d tell me I looked pretty in the morning. I’ve grieved for my life and for what it looked like for nine whole years and for the ease with which we lived together. I think part of me will always grieve for some of these things.

  The worst part of our break-up has been missing her, just the lack of this person that I knew so well. When we finally broke up we made the agreement to go cold turkey, to not see or talk to each other unless it was completely necessary. We had to do it like that because we knew we’d very quickly fall back into old patterns, and as much as it hurt we knew it wasn’t right. We weren’t right. We’re not right. We’ll never be right.

  Don’t forget, Noni.

  8

  ‘What are you going to do with the money?’ Lindell asks, sipping his beer. We’re in a small bar a block from the community hall where we’re about to take part in a dance-in-the-dark class.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it,’ I say, and I haven’t. Ever since the unit sold, I’ve been feeling out of sorts. Maybe this is too much change all at once. Plus, Molly never even replied to my message.

  ‘I think you should do something with it that continues this…’ He pauses, floating both his hands around my head. ‘This bold-haircuts and fewer-fucks energy,’ he finishes. I laugh, because it sounds like a bad marketing slogan. ‘Seriously Noni, do something just for you. Something that will make you happy.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be investing the money into property, or shares, or freezing my eggs or something?’

  ‘Really?’ Lindell looks stunned. ‘I didn’t know that you were thinking about—’

  ‘I’m not. Or I am. I don’t know…Shit. I don’t know what I mean.’

  ‘Try.’

  I take a swig from my bottle, closing my eyes trying to put words to feelings. ‘I’m just scared,’ I
mumble finally.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of fucking up.’

  ‘We all are, my darling.’

  ‘You’re not,’ I scoff.

  ‘Of course I am.’ He grabs my arm to emphasise his point. ‘I’m scared of being boring. Of losing myself. Of going mad. Of loving my kids so much it kills me, because I just want to control everything in their lives to ensure they never feel anything but joy.’ He smiles and his eyes flash protectively.

  ‘Not that you’ve thought about it.’ I smile.

  ‘No. Not even a little bit.’ He rubs my arm, finishing his drink. ‘All I know is this: these last few weeks, for what seems like the first fucking time in like a decade, you’ve actually been thinking about yourself, and what you want, and I feel like it has caused some positive changes. And really, you haven’t done anything all that drastic.’

  ‘Hello!’ I point to my head.

  ‘That’s just hair.’

  ‘And fucking the guy with no sheet on his bed?’

  ‘Sometimes we need to experience things to know they’re what we don’t want. I just think—’ He stops himself.

  ‘You think if this is how I feel doing small things, imagine what might happen if I do something big,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe.’ He nods mischievously.

  ‘I’ll think about it. It’s a risk though, yeah?’

  Everything external to my life has told me that by this point I should have my shit together, and I don’t have anything together at all. I feel like a fuck-up.

  ‘Do whatever will make you happy, Noni. That’s all that I want.’

  ‘Because life is too short yada yada yada. Yes. I know,’ I hiss, frustrated.

  ‘What are you freaking out about?’

  ‘What if I make a bunch of changes and it doesn’t work? What if it’s a waste of time and money and I don’t change anything? And people think I’m ridiculous?’

  ‘What people?’ He looks at me seriously.

  I shrug. ‘They’re not real people, metaphorical people.’

  ‘Well, fuck the metaphorical people,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘They have zero input, or impact, on your choices.’ He stares straight into my eyes to make sure I’m really listening. ‘Fuck. Them.’

  I nod, so he knows I hear him. ‘We’ll see,’ I say. The thing is, I really don’t know what I want to do.

  There’s a huge line by the time we walk around the corner to the hall where the dance-in-the-dark session is being held. All different kinds of people are lined up and chatting excitedly. Lindell and I look at each other, raising our eyebrows. We have no idea what to expect. I heard about the class from a woman at work—apparently there’s a cracking soundtrack playing and they turn off all the lights so it’s pitch black and you can just dance. The hall is dimly lit when we walk in and there are huge speakers in each corner of the room. People are happily limbering up and smiling.

  ‘They’re stretching, should we stretch?’ I ask Lindell and he shrugs, just as mystified as me. We half-heartedly stretch. The music starts and the lights slowly fade to black. Almost immediately, Lindell begins singing at the top of his lungs and I can sense him wildly moving his body. He just dives into things. He can read a room and actively insert himself into any situation. I love that about him. I do not dive in. I casually meander along, after thinking carefully about the pros and cons. Gosh! I’m so boring. I awkwardly shift my weight side-to-side feeling desperately self-conscious. I then spend way too long imagining that everyone else has been given night-vision goggles except me, and that this whole thing is just an elaborate, cruel and very expensive ruse to see me dance like no one’s watching, when in fact everyone is. You’re being ridiculous, Noni.

  The next song begins and it’s one I know, so that makes things easier. I start to sing and move a little more freely, reminding myself that no one can see me, that what I do doesn’t matter. I begin to realise that I don’t actually know how to dance without the additional layer of self-conscious tension that comes from the idea that people are looking at me. Ever so slowly, I stop thinking and I move. I do what feels good. Sometimes that’s moving my hands, or just my shoulders in some ridiculous motion along with the music, other times all of my limbs flail wildly in some kind of buoyant jump. By four or five songs in, I’m moving with wild abandon. It makes me laugh. It’s so dark that I can’t see anything really, except slight shadows. Occasionally I feel the bump of another person next to me, but it doesn’t matter, because the music is so loud and no one cares what I’m doing. This isn’t about anyone else. It’s about me. And I learn something I don’t know about myself: I’m very sexy in the dark. Like next level, hip swivel, hands all over my body, getting down low, sexy. This surprises me. I like this new knowledge.

  When the lights finally come up, Lindell and I are far away from each other and he smiles wide and sweaty as he pushes past people, his eyes popping with joy as he hugs me.

  ‘Well, I bloody loved that. Did you?’ he says gleefully.

  ‘Yeah, at first it was a bit weird but then I just did whatever felt good,’ I tell him and Lindell smirks. ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘I just did whatever felt good,’ he mimics me exactly as I roll my eyes and push him towards the door.

  Just do what feels good, I keep repeating over and over again in the shower as I think about what big and bold choices I could possibly make, and what things I might like to do. When I get out of the shower I check my phone, and there’s finally a reply from Molly. It has been two full weeks since I sent the first message.

  I had checked every time my phone was in my hand to see if the little ‘read’ icon had appeared, but it hadn’t. She hadn’t seen it. As more time passed I convinced myself that she had in fact seen it pop up and had just chosen not to open it, that a message from me no longer required her attention. I figured I’d become a low priority and that she just wasn’t interested anymore. I feel instant relief as I open her message.

  I think it’s not actually about whether you can pull off a ruffled sleeve, but rather about who you’re allowing to pull this ruffled sleeve off your body? Sorry for late reply. I’ve been up a mountain. P.S. Perhaps consider an easy-access ruffle?!?

  I smile wide and feel the pulse of joy saturate my insides.

  I text Lindell. I know what I’m gonna do. I’m going to Europe.

  9

  I sit on an armchair outside Niko’s office next to a pissed-off grade nine girl who is in trouble for fighting.

  ‘Are you in trouble too, Miss?’ she asks and I nod in solidarity with her.

  ‘Noni?’ Niko is at his door and he’s in a dark blue shirt with a mustard tie. He looks particularly handsome in this colour combination. Who am I kidding? I always think he looks handsome. I stand up and walk into his office and sit in the chair in front of his desk.

  ‘Show me your hands,’ he says as he sits down in his large black swivel chair.

  I hold my hands up. ‘Why?’

  ‘Checking for an envelope. For a letter. ’Cause I would’ve shit in a trumpet if you were resigning,’ he jokes, and I laugh awkwardly.

  ‘Well—’ I begin the monologue I’d meticulously prepared, but he cuts me off.

  ‘Oh no, Noni?’

  ‘Not resigning. Just leave. I want to take some leave. I know it’s inconvenient, but I want to take the first semester off next year. Come back after the winter holidays.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go on a bit of an adventure,’ I say and wish I hadn’t, because I suddenly feel like I’m thirteen again and I’m talking to a boy I like about Dungeons and Dragons, only he’s an older, more worldly boy, who doesn’t know the difference between an orc and an elf.

  ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Travel. Feel grateful for my British passport. Read. Do whatever,’ and whoever, I think to myself, ‘feels good. Just some time for me.’

  The second I’d got that first reply from Molly, I’d decided that I should absolutely
spend the house money on a trip to Europe. An adventure. But the next few texts we’d sent back and forth confirmed the decision.

  I’d agonised over my first reply for a few hours. Of course. I hadn’t thought about an easy-access ruffle. I’ve been out of the game too long. Any tips on how to be single in your mid-thirties would be much appreciated. I hear the kids are using that thing on their phones? Grindr? I’d wanted to be sure she knew I was single, and to see if she was too. She didn’t use social media all that often, and only posted one photo every six or so months, so I couldn’t be sure.

  She replied straight away. I don’t know how you’ll go on those ‘apps’, I believe they’re called. You were always shit with your directions. This makes me laugh. She then sent a photo of her fingers in an L shape along with a message that said, This way means no.

  In response I sent her a photo of my right hand doing a thumbs up and, How’s Europe? because I know questions are important to kind of force a reply. Even so, she didn’t reply for a whole day, which I told myself was just because of our different time zones.

  It’s great. Although I’ve heard from numerous sources that it’d be infinitely better if you were here.

  When I read this I swooned. Funny you should say that actually…I’m coming to your side of the world in January. My plan is to stick around for six months. I’ll start in London and then see what takes my fancy. Meaning, I’ll see if you still take my fancy. And I still take your fancy. If we fancy each other.

  SHUT UP. Really? Brilliant. If you need a place to stay I know a great backpackers…or six. Very clean. Sexy owner. I hear she has a penchant for Australian women.

  SHE IS FLIRTING WITH ME. HOLY SHIT.

  I can’t wait to meet your co-owner, I’d joked. She replied with three crying laugh emojis and, You’ll like him. He has long hair. We had been texting like this on and off every few days since.

  Niko smiles at me. ‘Well, good on you. Time away is good for teachers. More life lessons mean more valuable classroom lessons. I think we sometimes get stuck and boring, and it’s easy to lose years in this profession. I don’t ever want to be boring, or bored, you know?’