It's Been a Pleasure, Noni Blake Read online

  As he drives off I nod, wave and smile huge as a way of showing him that I’m fine, and that it’ll all be fine, and that I’m not freaking out. But as soon as his car is out of sight, I burst into tears.

  I cry at check-in. I cry while drinking a coffee. I cry while going down the escalator to customs. An airport official in her fifties, with a frizzy perm and a thick accent, looks at me curiously. ‘You in love? Only women in love cry like that.’

  I shake my head and walk straight to the bathroom to try and get my shit together. I don’t know why this feels so emotionally fraught. I remind myself that I’m fine. That all I’m doing is going on holiday. I think it’s because it’s a change, because I don’t know what this next bit looks like, because I’m scared. Scared of fucking it up. Of the unknown. Of being happy. It feels selfish. It feels indulgent. It feels like I’m a fucking idiot for being upset about going on holiday and focusing on doing what feels good. I sob quietly in the stall so as not to overwhelm the other people in the bathroom. Airports are stressful enough without having to worry about the woman crying in the cubicle next to you.

  When I think I’ve finally contained the tears, I exhale hard and fast. Fuck that, I think. This is one of the best things I learned in therapy—that when you catch yourself in an anxiety spiral, or negative spin, you need to recognise the thoughts that are false, or self-sabotaging bullshit, and reprimand them. You’re not helpful, I think, concentrating on my breath, on being mindful, on noticing what is real. The feeling of my feet in my shoes, the cotton of my dress on my skin, the pressure of the seat pressed against my legs, the whir of the air conditioner.

  And then I break out the gem worth every cent of therapy dollars and time. It’s okay to feel safe, Noni, I tell myself.

  Inhale.

  It’s okay to feel happy.

  Exhale.

  It’s okay to trust your instincts.

  Inhale.

  It’s okay to make mistakes.

  Exhale.

  It’s okay to feel safe.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  ‘It’s okay to feel safe,’ I whisper to myself out loud, because speaking makes it real, takes it out of my head and into the world.

  ‘It’s okay to be happy,’ I whisper. ‘In fact, it is encouraged.’

  13

  I’m standing in a pub that was built in 1667. My thirty-six-year-old body feels insignificant in a place that is close to four hundred years old. If these walls could talk, indeed. Tourists snap photos of the signs on the walls as I wait for Naz, a dear friend from university. She realised teaching wasn’t for her pretty early on, when a grade eight class was acting so wild that she called the police. When the police showed up, wondering what the hell she expected them to do with thirty wayward teenagers, they asked if she thought she was in danger. She told them that of course she fucking did. She moved to London shortly after. Now she works in some ritzy PR job and lives in a ridiculously cool studio loft in East London with her beautiful partner, an art-director-turned-yogi named Tom.

  ‘Well you can fuck right off now because you look STUNNING. This!’ Naz squeals as she arrives, touching my hair. ‘I am all about this.’

  ‘Hello darling.’ I laugh and we hug for a long time. ‘I was just sitting here thinking of how insignificant I am in the grand scheme of world history and ancient pubs.’

  ‘Alright, sad sack, enough of that. I’m getting pints and chips with gravy and you’re going to tell me every fucking salacious detail of this too-early-to-be-mid-life crisis you’re having.’ Naz raises her perfectly pencilled-in eyebrows and grins joyously.

  I watch her standing at the bar sweet-talking the handsome barman, who laughs loudly. Naz is wearing a floral-print shirt in swirling greys and pinks, French-tucked into slim-cut blue trousers, with pale pink stilettos, her full head of short, dark brown hair perfectly styled. I suddenly become very conscious of my elastic waistband and trainers.

  We very quickly settle into fast conversation, drinking pints and laughing so loudly that people stop and stare at us. Naz has that effect. She is wild, filthy and confident, and she brings those qualities out in me. I tell her all about the should’ve-boned list and my adventure.

  ‘Fuck me, doll, this is sensational. I love this. Good on you.’ She holds her glass up to mine and we clink them together ceremoniously.

  ‘How is Tom?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s perfect. As always. He’s got a whole bloody section in our flat now dedicated to his crystals and bloody sage and whatever. It was taking over my house, and I was like Thomas, darling, we’ve got to control the amount of amethyst in here, because it’s blocking the fucking telly.’ She pauses, emptying her glass. She looks over at the bar, making eye contact with the dishy barman from before, and holds two fingers up. This isn’t a table service pub, but the barman nods at Naz. ‘I do yoga now, babe. And I meditate. And I stopped smoking fags.’

  I gasp, feigning horror. ‘Who even are you?’

  ‘Exactly. I like it though. If it means I’m less likely to call Rachel in Marketing a fucking useless asshole every two seconds then that’s a positive.’

  ‘Fucking Rachel.’

  ‘Fucking Rachel, exactly. Fucking post-millennials. I’m like, babes, no one gives a shit about your poached eggs, or that you remembered your stupid travel mug. Get off your fucking phone and get the social deliverables done.’

  ‘So work is good?’

  ‘Work is great. You? I can’t believe you’re still teaching.’

  ‘I love it. But a semester off will be good.’

  ‘Good? It’s going to be golden.’ Naz stares at me seriously. ‘How are we in our mid-fucking-thirties?’

  ‘I don’t actually know.’

  Later, when I am very happily buzzed, Naz storms back from the bar excitedly.

  ‘Ding, ding, ding, baby, I’ve just had a fucking stellar idea, what are you doing Saturday night?’ She smiles wide, putting a bottle in an ice bucket on the table between us.

  I raise my eyebrows both at her excitement and at the bottle of wine. I am not piss-fit for a European jaunt. I should’ve thought of this. Europe in winter is basically shorthand for replacing your blood with booze. Who am I kidding? Summer in Europe is the same. I should’ve been in training before I left.

  ‘You should come with me to this work do. Tom can’t come and I was going to go solo, but come with me, the food will be delish and it’s free booze. Good booze too. Hella boring, but I’ll get you a room. Come.’

  ‘I can’t, I’m seeing Molly.’

  ‘Molly Molly?’ Naz looks at me suspiciously.

  ‘She runs a whole chain of backpackers across Europe. We’re gonna catch up.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And talk, I suppose? See if there is still—’

  She cuts me off. ‘See if she’s still a giant shit head?’ I roll my eyes. Naz was never a fan.

  I’d messaged Molly from Singapore Airport. I can’t believe I’m still another thirteen-hour flight away. But at least there’s a butterfly garden here, so you know.

  I got her reply when I turned my phone on after landing. I can’t believe we’re actually in the same time zone. Good morning, gorgeous. I’m going to be in London all weekend, so, let’s catch up and drink premix vodka out of a can like the good old days.

  I change the subject with Naz. ‘Hey, I never thanked you for sending flowers when—’ I start, but she cuts me off.

  ‘You’re welcome, my love. Relationships ending, especially relationships like yours and Joan’s, are like a fucking death and they deserve commemoration.’ She drinks and breathes deep, taking a moment. ‘The unit sold. That’s good, babe.’

  ‘Yup. It’s fully and completely done.’

  ‘Did you see her before you left?’

  ‘Yeah, we had to sign a heap of papers. She looks good.’

  ‘Like, “I want to fuck you against the wall” good, or just “I know you so well that I can tell that the personal changes you’ve made look g
ood on you” good?’

  ‘The latter. It’s done. We’re done.’ I look around the room at the crowd. People on dates, women clinking glasses of rosé, twenty-something boys in zipped-up tracksuits flipping coasters on their table and laughing loudly. A girl and a guy kissing. I turn to Naz. ‘But being single in my thirties? This was not the plan. I don’t even know how to get the fucking bluetooth speaker to work in my car, how am I going to date now? I don’t know how to date.’

  ‘Do you want to date?’

  ‘No. Yes. Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe I won’t have to, if the catch-up with Molly goes well.’

  ‘Just see what happens.’ She squeezes my arm with a cautious smile. ‘So you’re hanging around here for Molly.’

  ‘For the beautiful scenery.’

  ‘Yeah, babes, for the scenery of her fancy flaps in your face.’

  ‘Don’t ever use the words fancy and flaps in the same sentence again.’ I laugh.

  Naz clinks her glass with mine. ‘What else do you want to do while you’re here?’

  ‘I want to travel a little and then see what happens.’

  ‘Well, you know what I see happening? Us blowing this popsicle stand and heading over to this brilliant new bar across the way that does the best fucking martinis in the whole city. They put rosemary, or fire, or some kind of fermented wankery into them, and they’re amazing.’

  ‘Don’t you have to work tomorrow?’

  ‘Babe, I’ve told everyone I’ve got meetings in the city until 1 p.m. so we are fine. Get your shit. Let’s go. I’m going to pay our tab and tell that bartender that I will be fantasising about him when I fuck my husband later,’ she muses.

  ‘Naz.’

  ‘What? Tom won’t care. How do you think we’ve been together for sixteen years?’ She pouts before quickly adding, ‘Happily.’

  The new bar is dimly lit, all dark wood, black leather and hints of copper glinting off the mirrored walls. It’s busy. Suit-clad men who you know will smell good, and elegant women in grey with plump red lips, sit cross-legged staring between their martini glasses and each other. This is the kind of place where you’d wear the pencil skirt. But I’m not. I’m wearing an outfit entirely appropriate for getting shitfaced in a pub with your mate, not swanning about in some luxe bar where the gold taps in the bathroom cost more than my entire unit.

  If I wasn’t as drunk as I already am, I’d probably care more than I do. But I pull out a dusty pink gloss from the bottom of my handbag and swipe it across my lips while Naz is in the bathroom. There is a band playing—four gorgeous musicians in versions of suits. The double bass player has an incredible afro and dark-rimmed glasses, the saxophonist sports a dark, dark heavy beard, and the drummer is a tiny elfin girl with a sharp, white-blonde bob. I catch the eye of the trumpeter and smile wide, thinking of Callum Simons and his bet, but the trumpeter thinks I’m smiling at him and he smiles back. The trumpeter is tall and square, thin but strong. He has thick fair hair that looks effortlessly swept back, but you know it actually took a lot of effort and product. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled expertly to the elbow and there’s one more button undone than normally would be.

  Naz plops down a cocktail with way too much foliage popping over the glass and stage whispers, ‘Which one are you staring at? The drummer? I like her beret.’

  I whack her, gesturing for her to be quiet, but I whisper, ‘The trumpeter is cute,’ into her ear and she nods approvingly.

  ‘Mmmm hmmm. The bass player though, his arse is like a perfect bubble. And I know just the perfect place for him to sit.’ Naz flutters her eyelashes and holds both her hands under her chin presenting her face sweetly. ‘A beautiful throne fit for a king.’ I laugh so loudly people turn and look at us. ‘Can I ask you something, darling?’ she whispers.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How long has it been since you had sex with a man?’

  I think, sipping my tart-as-all-fuck cocktail and squishing up my face. In this instance I’m going to say that Niko doesn’t count. ‘It had been over ten years.’

  ‘Had been?’ She leans in conspiratorially, smirking. ‘Spill.’

  I tell her about awkward sex with Ben, and the honey, anal beads and nits with Niko and she flails between cackling hysterically and horror.

  ‘Fucking hell, Noni.’ She looks at me like I just vomited on the table. ‘You need to have it off with one of those beautiful young men. Now. On this table. Tonight. Go.’

  ‘They’re like twelve, Naz.’ We fall very quickly back into conversation about politics, people we know and celebrities who annoy us. Every now and again I watch the band. Watch the trumpeter. He moves his hips with more fluidity than you think he’d have. He laughs easily, and with his whole body. I’ve never thought brass instruments were sexy. Cool, sure. I guess. Not sexy, though. But this guy? There’s something about this guy. He catches me staring at him again and he smiles but quickly looks away. I think he’s shy.

  ‘God I love jazz, babes. I do.’ Naz whoops loudly and the band all smile over at us. Another few cocktails down, they say their thank yous with a finished set. The bar has thinned out by this point.

  ‘Come over here now, you four, please, let my friend and I buy you drinks to say thank you. You’re all delicious!’ Naz bellows across the whole bar.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mouth behind her.

  ‘Two bottles of champagne,’ Naz yells over to the bartender. ‘Do you drink champagne? Yes. Champagne. Whatever they drink. A round. On me, yeah?’ Naz is shouting, but her charm is so enamouring that she can get away with a certain amount of arrogance.

  Naz follows the band to the bar and I watch as she introduces herself, shakes hands, makes them laugh. She schmoozes them hard and fast and they fall for it. Naz has glasses and a bucket with champagne in it and she’s passed off another bucket to the bass player. The others are carrying beers and brown liquids in small glasses and they all head over towards me. Naz introduces me to Holly, Arnie, Akram and Jeremy, the trumpeter, who it turns out is American.

  We drink past the point where the bar has closed and the bartenders have all joined us. The band pull out cards and teach us a game that I am terrible at. But it’s very funny. We discover they are all studying music nearby. They’re in their early twenties, which makes me feel incredibly old. Jeremy sits next to me, close so we’re almost touching. He’s engaged in the conversation, but seems shy, not saying much. He smiles wide and I smile back. I try to talk to him but it’s awkward, we can’t find a rhythm. He apologises. I apologise. We giggle nervously and I feel grateful when the bass player, who is sitting on my other side, strikes up a conversation with me. We end up in a deep conversation about the arts and the financial reality of being a musician.

  ‘All we ever tell kids is do what you love, follow your dreams. And this is my dream, I know what I love. But the reality is it’s highly likely that I’m going to have to do something else that I’m not going to love to fund the thing I do love. And I know that’s reality. But that sucks. We’re kind of sold a lie, you know? It’s disheartening,’ he says.

  ‘I feel like I’m in my mid-thirties and I’m still trying to find out what I love. So you’re lucky in one sense,’ I tell him.

  ‘I suppose.’ He sips his drink. ‘You know, I’ve always wanted to go to Australia.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘After college. That’s the plan. Just see the world.’

  ‘I did something like that when I was your age. Highly recommend. Five stars. In fact, it’s kind of what I’m doing again now.’

  He smiles at me, a flirtatious smile, like he’s trying to read my face. ‘So, Jeremy called dibs on you,’ he says finally.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dibs.’

  ‘Well, that’s weird, because he hasn’t even spoken to me.’ I smile. ‘Dibsing people is also kind of gross, don’t you think? Although I can’t say I don’t feel flattered by it.’ We both laugh.

  ‘Yeah. Absolute
ly,’ he says, taking another sip of his drink. ‘It’s also a deep shame.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yeah, he beat me to it.’

  We look at each other for a moment.

  ‘I’m gonna head home,’ Jeremy announces to the group. ‘Nice to meet you, Noni.’ He shakes my hand and leans down to kiss me on the cheek, but as he gets close he whispers, ‘I think you’re really sexy.’ I am stunned. Twenty points to the American. He says his goodbyes, hugging his friends, and heads towards the door. I’m still sitting with my mouth agape, watching him go.

  Naz plops herself down hard onto the leather couch next to me, thinking she’s whispering. ‘Go. Do the things that feel good. With that young man. Now.’ She pushes me off the chair so I’m standing.

  ‘Wait,’ I say out loud. Jeremy turns and looks at me as I clamber past everyone to him. ‘I just wanted to say, um—’ Jesus Noni, get it together. ‘Naz thought, well, that we were very much fucking with our eyes earlier. And I just wanted to see what you thought about that.’ God, I am such a dork.

  Jeremy smiles. ‘I think Naz was correct.’

  ‘You do?’ I say, trying to contain my excitement and behave in an alluring and sexy manner. ‘But you didn’t talk to me.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about it.’ He grins, and I’m sure he blushes a little too.

  ‘Well then, errr, would you like to fuck with more than just our eyes?’ I say, trying to hold his gaze, but I feel like a fucking idiot. ‘Sorry. That’s so lame,’ I say and he laughs.

  I try to save it. ‘But I mean it. I think we should. I mean. Do you want to have sex with me?’ I sober up just enough to read his face in case it follows with instant rejection.

  ‘Yes, I would. Like that. Very much.’

  ‘Well, that’s good then,’ I giggle. ‘Let’s go.’

  My mouth is stretched in the widest smile my face can possibly manage as I head back to the table to grab my coat and bag, giving Naz a secret thumbs up. She whoops loudly. ‘This is fucking excellent,’ she squeals, announcing her approval to the whole group.