I sit, staring at my laptop for a few minutes. It hadn’t fully dawned on me the freedom I’d been afforded. I didn’t even change into my clothes once I got home I was so focused on proving myself. I do have to do a good job. And I will. Steve’s message doesn’t even bother me any more but now I want to go out. I feel like it’s a big test, for myself. Whether I can live a freer life. Another test in days of tests.
I feel a sickness rise again as I realise that freedom is probably exactly what Mr. Mayer arranged for me. He knows I’ve just come out and is giving me a bit of space, for a few days. I’m being treated, I don’t know, gently. Like I’m delicate. It’s nice, and good, I suppose, but I don’t want all this just because of who I am. I don’t want to be different.
I pick up my phone and message Steve, after his shitty message. “If I come it’ll be as me, Toni.” Then I put my phone down on the table, probably too hard, walk into my bedroom and get changed.
Once I’m dressed, with my hair done, I realise I have no floor length mirror in my apartment, which is definitely a pain in the ass. Every other time I’ve gotten dressed someone has either given me clothes or seen me in them before I go out. This time it’s all me.
I get my phone and turn on the front facing camera, angling the screen so I can try and get a good look at myself. All the parts I like individually; it’s a tight-ish, white, jersey top with a white cami beneath it, a knee length, light cotton skirt with an Indian style pattern on it along with some elephants, black tights and the ankle high black studded boots I bought with G. It all looks wrong. Like I’m too square, and the skirt is a mess; it’s crumpled.
I take a picture and send a message to Jess, “How do I look? Be honest.”
She messages back within a few minutes of me angling the camera again trying to find a view of myself where I look OK. “You look like absolutely fine. No-one will give you a second glance apart from me when I’m meeting you later for a drink because it’s obvious you’re going out. I’ll see you in Light Avenue after I finish work. Should I tell Sally? It might get her out of her funk.”
“Please, yes!” I message back, not feeling great about the me looking just Fine part but kind of OK that fashionista extraordinaire Jess wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with me.
I don’t know why, even with this good news, but my tension has ramped up. For a few reasons, I guess, but mainly it’s Steve’s text that’s straight back into my mind. I try to push it out of my head and focus on the release with meeting Jess and maybe Sally this evening.
I grab my coat and I’m soon standing outside. I was planning on doing some shopping, mainly for sandals but really for anything else I could pick up, or that catches my eye, but now I just want to go somewhere with people I know I can trust.
A taxi pulls up in front of me and I climb in the back. “Light Avenue?” I say.
“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir,” the driver says and I shake my head, close my eyes and feel like shit all over again. Even worse than feeling simply shit I soon notice he’s taking a convoluted way to get to Light Avenue, even if it is the general direction.
We go past one corner and I say, “You can stop here.” Then I pay him while thinking I really want to kick him in the back of the head as he smiles an overly cheerful, patronising smile at me in the mirror.
Getting out I double back on where we came from and walk to the a candle shop that’s painted in a way that definitely reminds me of Enya, somehow.
I walk through the door and an actual bell rings as I go in. There’s woman in a floaty, lush white dress with streaks of pink and purple through it standing on my side of the counter and unboxing candles. I guess Natasha isn’t working today, but still I’ll browse.
I look around, checking out the candles. Some of them have labels and plastic wrap around them. Others are in glass jars with metal lids and extremely high price tags on them. Others still are simple and plain — but often with wordy, poetic descriptions on the sticker — and lots have reference to church candles, or religion, or ceremonies. This city is naturally very mixed in beliefs.
One grouping of candles catch my eye. They’re sitting on a low, tiered shelving unit, out at the front. Each is maybe four or five inches high, stout, with a white wick and free-form, naturally wavy-patterned rainbow colours in the wax.
“The ear plugs worked!” I hear.
I look around and Natasha is coming out from behind the counter wearing the same style of floaty Enya-like dress as the last time I saw her but this time in peach, not a deep purple.
“I’m glad,” I say, smiling with seeing her. “You’re getting sleep?”
“Not only am I getting sleep but I can actually focus on reading at home,” she says. “See anything you like?”
I shyly point at the stubby rainbow candles.
“Everyone likes them, one of our biggest sellers. We have some really fancy ones, big, pricey ones. Get one of the smaller ones, though,” she says and reaches over and picks out one of the candles I was looking at.
“Maybe...” I say.
She twists the price tag on the string around to show me the cost and smiles a proud smile.
“I do need some things for my apartment,” I say, thinking of it being bare apart from basic furniture and appliances.
“Twenty percent off, too.”
“Really?”
“Staff discount,” she says.
“I can’t ask you—”
“Why wouldn’t you take it? You want the candle and it’s cheaper because of me, just get it.”
I smile. “OK,” I say. “You’ve convinced me.”
“You would have bought it anyway,” she says as she walks back to the counter, clocks it into the till and waves a loose laying staff card towards a barcode scanner.
As I pay and Natasha places the candle into a little white paper bag I speak up. “Can I ask you a question?” I say.
“As long as it’s not about candles. I hate candles and I hate this shop,” she says.
“You make that abundantly clear every morning, Natasha,” the other woman, now taking more candles out of a box, says.
“I just don’t want you to forget,” Natasha says, then looks at me. “Shoot.”
“How do I look? Really? My clothes, I mean,” I say, squirming on the inside.
“Genuinely?” she asks. I nod. “OK, give me a look.”
I stand back and pull open my coat before doing a very slow, very nervous spin.
“Hrrrm...” Natasha sighs.
“That’s not good. What is it?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t fit,” she says.
“It’s the wrong size?”
“No, not that kind of fit. I don’t know... First off the top isn’t very flattering, you’re... We’re...Rather square? You know?” she says, while making a straight up and down motion with her hands. I nod knowing I was thinking the same. “Yep, square, unfortunately... And it’s plain, and white, and tight, and does nothing to give you any shape. And the skirt is too light.”
“Do you mind?” the other woman asks, putting the box she was unpacking down.
“No, sure,” I say, not quite understanding why I want to pile on the assault.
“It’s too summery,” she says. “It’s not that warm out any more, people are getting into bundle up mode. Next summer, or a warm spring day, try it again. No coat, bare legs, sandals, stylish flip flops even, some jewels on them. A French polish for your toes. A day of feeling everything the sun gives us. A new light! I can’t wait, personally.”
“It’s not terrible,” Natasha says. “You look better than all our lunatic customers, even the relatively normal ones.”
“Lunatic customers... Right...” I say.
“That’s a compliment. Everyone’s some kind of lunatic.”
“Yeah...”
“What about Alice, here?” Natasha says, waving at the other woman.
“Those are work clothes,” I protest. “For the Enya store.”
“I like Enya,” Alice says. “And stop being nasty about my style. I like what I’m wearing.
“I’m so sor—”
The woman thrusts her thumb towards Natasha. “Not you, her. Every damn day she’s whine and moan. I will fire you some day, Natasha. I guarantee it.”
“Sweet release,” Natasha says.
“You gave her the staff discount?” Alice asks Natasha.
“I did,” Natasha says.
“Good, she obviously needs cheering up. Come back any time, browse candles, get fashion critique, insult my queen Enya.”
I laugh and Natasha asks me. “You going up the road?”
“Yeah, Light Avenue. Bunking off work.”
“Good woman!” Natasha says. “I might do the same.”
“You will not!” Alice says.
“Anyway, that’s my call to get back to it. I might be up there later. I can’t guarantee it, though.”
“If you don’t I’ll be back here some day,” I say. “Probably a weekend.”
“I’m looking forward to it. An actual normal person in the woo shop,” Natasha says, while Alice glares at her.
After a few minutes walking, bag swinging in my hand, I’m back in Light Avenue and standing at the bar, waiting for a short, stocky man with scraggly black beard to finish up with the person before me’s order.
This bartender looks about the same age as me, and I don’t know, kind of eager. Bright? Happy? Fun, even?
He comes towards me with a smile and I say the name of the beer I like, then he asks me if I’m Toni.
“Yeah?” I say.
“Who doesn’t like to drink much?” he asks.
“I don’t know if I can claim that as true any more,” I say with a grimace.
“Everyone has a big night every so often, that doesn’t mean you’re stuck to it forever,” he says, with a hearty, deep laugh.
I wonder if he realises how close to reality that could be for me — if I didn’t go home with Jess on Friday night — and I laugh too, maybe out of nerves.
“No. I suppose I don’t want to be drinking loads, but I do like coming in here, and I don’t want to drink water all night.”
“Good, that’s exactly what I was hoping to hear,” he says. “If you’re not meeting anyone would you mind chatting to me for a bit? Some advice?”
“No, not at all,” I say, and I move up a little on the front bar to where the few counter seats are, taking my coat off and placing my handbag and candle bag down. “What’s up?”
He raises a hand, then pours me my low alcohol beer, placing it in front of me. “I’ve opened a tab for you but if you want to settle on the spot that’s not an issue. No pressure.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “Do you need my card.”
“Nope! Steph says you’re fine,” he says before darting down to the open area of the bar to take another order, serving the female couple holding hands and bumping into each other while they laugh.
Order finished he comes back up and just stands in front of me, smiling. A little cheekily, even. “What?” I ask.
“Just looking at you,” he says.
“Why?” I ask, I want to add What have I done? but this isn’t an I’ve done anything situation, I think.
“I’m sizing you up,” he says.
“Ew, don’t be creepy,” I say, with a laugh.
“Are you creeped out?”
“A little,” I say, looking down at my beer but smiling. He knows full well I’m lying about that. Sort of. He’s trying to make me wriggle and I am feeling, well, wriggly; with him looking at me how he’s looking at me. And I don’t know why I’m feeling this way but I am.
“I’m trying to figure out what cocktail would look good in your hands,” he says. Then he goes to serve another few people — this time coffees — leaving me to think. But I can’t really think because my cheeks are distracting me. They’re actually hurting from smiling.
Why am I smiling so much just looking at this weirdo guy. A weirdo guy who’s kinda nice, in an awful way.
What’s wrong with me?
As the weirdo man who does weirdo things to me comes back I try to straighten out my stupid looking mugging, and I say, plainly, “So you make cocktails?” I hope I’ve gotten my straight-faced, no nonsense stare down.
“I do. And I’m good at it. Which is why I wanted your advice.”
“You don’t want to give me advice?” I ask, off guard.
“What advice could I possibly offer you?” he says, and there’s something to his voice. A confidence for me, somehow.
I feel weird again. And I’m struggling to stop from smiling, again.
“OK. What do you want to know?” I say, staring at the counter and attempting to not look at this tiny, terrible man! Who’s... Doing things to me..? How?
“Fine, serious business. Tell me to go away if you want. What I’d like to know is why you don’t drink?”
I scratch my head and twist my mouth up a little as I think. It’s a question that needs more thought from me; one that deserves more thought with me being in this bar three days of the past four.
“It’s not that I don’t like to drink, it’s more...” I tail off, still thinking.
“You don’t like feeling drunk?”
“No... I’m fine with being a bit drunk, even very drunk with the right people which I suppose is what it actually is; I don’t like where people get drunk. Busy bars and big bars filled with wild people aren’t really my thing. I can manage if I’m not out of my mind, but things go flashy if I’ve had a lot, like tunnel vision, and I feel the walls and the people closing in and I get panicky. If I’m relatively sober I can manage it, and manage myself. If I’m completely sober I wouldn’t even be in a busy place.”
“OK, that makes sense,” he says, nodding to himself and seemingly thinking. “I think I know what drink to make you, and what you say actually reminds me a lot of why I started making cocktails.”
“Go on,” I say, resting my elbows on the counter and crossing my hands.
“OK, Jackson history. Hello, my name is Jackson, it’s lovely to meet you, Toni,” he says. I smile but this time it’s an easy smile — hearing my name said gently — there’s no hurting cheeks. The pattern in my chest beats gently.
“When I was a teen all my friends were kind of wild, and they weren’t really friends; they tolerated me. I guess they liked me and I did like them, it was just weird. Like I was along for the ride.
“I’d get invited to all the parties, so many parties, but I’d just end up sitting in a chair somewhere being annoyed. I started mixing drinks for myself as a way to get away from people. Then I shared a few, and people liked them. So I did it more. And then I’d be invited to parties by older kids, then university students, all to mix drinks, so my friends had even more parties to go to. Before anyone realised I’d become the unofficial, underage barman in my town.”
“Like a vocation,” I say.
“How do you mean?” he asks, quizzical look on his face.
“It was your calling to be a bartender,” I say.
“I’ll let you decide that, if you buy the cocktail I want to make for you.”
“You can put it on my tab already,” I say, banging my hand down on the counter firmly and overconfidently. “Are you going to put on a whole show for me? I want the show! I expect the show or it’s not happening.”
“The show is extra,” he says. “The cocktail is low alcohol, though.”
“Is it weird to order that in a bar?” I ask.
“For some people it would be. Steph’s been saying we need more zero alcohol drinks but I’m not sure that works. For some, absolutely, they don’t want to or can’t drink, but I don’t think many who sometimes drink actually want nothing without booze on an easy night. There’s not a huge cost difference between any of the various strengths so there’s no attraction there, some people would feel they’re being ripped off, which puts them off.”
“I can understand that,” I say, nodding.
“Also, alcohol adds a little kick; even just in flavour and brain chemicals. People miss it if it’s not there.
“So, anyway, tell me about yourself while I gaze at you, and mix perfection for someone so deserving,” he says.
“Are you flirting?” I ask. I think he is but why would he be? Although all this is nice. This is why I feel weird, right?
“Are you flirting?” he asks me back, confidently. “I can understand why you would be. A man who mixes great drinks. Great conversation. Looks good in a shirt? A tuft of manly chest hair sticking out? I’m irresistible. You can feel it if you like.” He puffs his chest out and there’s a smug look on his face.
“I think I can resist a little while longer.”
“As long as it’s only a little while,” he says with a grin. And this time I really did wriggle. What’s wrong with me?
“You’re thinking of me, aren’t you?” he asks. And now he has an even bigger grin.
I change the subject. “Work has been kind of weird,” I say, then I realise I’m not out at work. And I’m talking about boy Toni, as a girl, while, yes... I guess I am flirting with a man. This is a kind of squirmy fun. And as I think that I realise I could just launch myself out of my chair and kiss every part of his body right now, if I could get away with it. But I don’t. And I wouldn’t get away with it. I still just want to wrap my legs around him and have him...
I collect myself. “I don’t know if I’m being fired or given a chance at bigger opportunities, or both.”
“What do you do?” he asks.
“The company handles everything business, and corporate, from tiny places to massive multinationals. Accounting, finance, IPOs, and on, and on. Where I am it’s usually helping launch businesses into a new sector they’re looking at, or rejiggering soft systems, or helping established companies that are flagging in areas that aren’t their core industry.”
“This cocktail is going to be so right for you,” he says. “I want to see you drinking one of these in a high powered suit looking fierce and formidable.” He clicks his tongue at me.
“You are flirting!”
“Do you want the cocktail?” he asks.
“Yes...” I say, feeling a little colour come to my cheeks. “I do.” And he does put on a show, not a huge one. But enough that I can watch him being very dapper and somehow more normal with shakers in his hands.
Eventually he lays down a Martini style glass, bigger than what I’d normally see, with a napkin beneath it.
“What’s in it?” I ask.
“Some bubbly, to tickle your pretty nose. A little bit of gin and some non-alcoholic gin. Some fruit syrup I’ve made of my own concoction to add a little colour and flavour, but not too much. A little fizzy soft drink. A few dashes of magic, and love.”
“It’s a bit early to be talking about love, isn’t it?” I say, trying to act coy.
“Maybe? But I sense a hint of it in the air.”
I take up the glass not knowing what to expect, then have a small taste, not quite enough to fully experience it but I need to have more, so I do have some more. Then my eyes open up, “Oooh, this is very good,” I say. “And don’t tell Steph but I think I prefer it to her ones.”
He smiles a broad smile and cocks his head, and the day progresses as we chat, and I drink another low-alcohol beer then Jackson makes me another of his cocktails all the while he’s serving other people. And still he keeps coming back to me. And I really do like him, in a lot of ways, including a very nether-regions, dangerous way, I slowly realise. But I’m allowed to enjoy things. Nothing’s going to actually happen! Not with my parts... No-one could want that...
Eventually the bar begins to fill with people coming in after work with more bartenders starting to appear. Jackson gets busier so I spend my time just watching him as I slowly sip on his cocktail.
Suddenly I hear a voice over my shoulder, Sally’s voice. “I told you she’d be checking out men. You owe me a drink, Jess.”
I sigh, turn around and smile at Jess and Sally.
“Yes, this time I was checking a man out, I guess,” I say, half hoping Jackson didn’t hear me but half hoping he did. I guess, I mean he was just flirting. He wouldn’t really... Not with... He’s just doing his job.
“Can we drag you away from your new friend to find a seat with us?” Jess asks.
“OK, give me a minute,” I say. And I wait a minute or two until Jackson is back to me.
“I’m sorry to leave you but my friends demand my attention.”
“Of course,” he says. “But I’d like to see you again.”
I feel flutters at the top of my tummy — that chest thing again — and grab my stuff then Jess and Sally by their arms to find somewhere to sit.
We find a different set of couches from the one I was at on Saturday night. We settle ourselves but no-one says anything.
No-one says anything for seemingly ages until Sally finally says, “Well?”
“Yeah. Well? What are you going to say to him?” Jess asks.
“To who?”
“The small, cute bartender,” Jess says.
“What do you mean?”
Jess tilts her head and one side of her mouth curls up. “Now this might be new to you but that adorable little guy asked you out.”
“No, he didn’t!”
“I’d like to see you again? He definitely asked you out,” Sally says.
I look at Jess who has a comforting look on her face as she nods in confirmation.
“What do I do?” I ask. “What did I do?” What! How!? He asked me out!
“What do you want to do? Although I already can see what you want to do. But I’d like to hear you admit it,” Sally says, laughing.
“Yeah what are you plans for tonight?” Jess asks. “Abandoning us?”
“Yeah, he’s nice,” I say, grumpily.
“And you wouldn’t mind his hands all over you?”
I look around, conspiratorially, then lean in. “It’s more about my hands all over him,” I whisper.
“OK!” Sally says. “I’ll have a red wine, Jess will have a white wine, you have whatever you want. And by that I mean whatever drink you want.” Sally has a face plastered with faux disapproval as well as an eyebrow raise as she finishes her sentence. “And ask if you can get him a drink too. Then just trust your instincts.”
“I have absolutely no instincts,” I say.
“You’ve got some fairly primal ones as I’m looking at you, right now,” Sally says, and Jess pokes her in the ribs as they both laugh.
“OK, I can do this,” I say as I stand and make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be. This is just talking to someone. It’s just talking to an admittedly cute boy, who I think is cute, and who I want to... I’m allowed talk to him! I tell myself. And look at him...
I turn away from the couch and begin to march up to the bar as I hear Sally call out, “Go get ‘em, Toni!”
As I arrive up the not-Jackson bartender is standing at the typical serving spot. He smiles at me, then steps back and calls out Jackson’s name. Jackson is soon standing before me. “Can I get you some drinks, Ma’am?” he asks.
“Two red wines and one white,” I say. “House wine is fine, please, Jackson.” And I smile.
He stands, looking at me for a little while longer than is quite comfortable, but it’s not uncomfortable either. Exhilarating, maybe? Am I allowed think that?
“Coming right up,” he says, with a sly smile.
My eyes are trained on him the whole time he’s preparing the drinks and as he sets them down in front of me.
“Can you manage with those?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you. And can I buy you a drink?” I feel my heart racing.
“A tip for exemplary service and being a good talker?”
“No, not quite,” And now my heart is absolutely pounding.
“Oh? Like that? I’m not unhappy with that,” he says. “But on one condition... I can drink it with you after my shift ends in thirty minutes or so.”
“I’d like that,” I say, picking up the glasses, deathly afraid I’m going to drop everything as I walk back to the table to Jess and Sally.
I place the glasses down, white for Jess, red for Sally and me, and I sit, sinking into the couch.
“Well?” Sally asks.
“He’s coming down to join us in about thirty minutes,” I say, feeling very far away.
“Oh, no! He’s not coming down for us,” Sally says. “He’s coming down entirely for you.”
I stare off at nothing feeling the whole world suddenly wrap around me, clinging tight to me, forcefully. And a little like I could vomit.
Jackson is coming down for me.
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