Being Abigail
by
Kathryn White
Being Abigail
Copyright © Kathryn White 2010
Smashwords Edition
A Note from Abigail …
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for buying my book! I seriously could not believe my luck when a friend (and long time fan of my blog and other writings) approached me and said that we should make some of my entries into a book. I never thought my little blog was anything special, just sort of a little account of some of the crazy things that happen to me. (And to Samuel and Cedric too.)
Of course, it wasn’t until we actually started working on this thing that I realised how much hard work was going to be involved. Posting a few entries onto the net is one thing, but turning them into a book, as I have learned is far more difficult. I’ve had to edit and polish most of my entries, plus we had added lots of extras that I was too scared to post at the time, in case Samuel got all hurt and sulky about it and stopped speaking to me. Anyway, you probably want to start reading, so I won’t give too much away.
Lots of love,
Abigail xxoo
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Ok. This is it.
I know that I have said this one hundred thousand, million times, and perhaps even one hundred thousand million and one times, but this time, I really, truly, without so much as one single tiny, split atom sized doubt, mean it.
I, Abigail Vera Carter, age 29 and owner of a gorgeous kitten named Cedric, am going to kill myself. And just so that we are clear, this is entirely YOUR fault. Yes, Samuel Complete-Fucking-Tosser Andrews, I am talking about you. It is absolutely, one hundred percent your fault. And wont you be sorry when you find me lying dead on the living room floor, surrounded by sleeping pills? What do you suppose will be the first words out of your mouth then, huh?
Okay. Second lot of words. ‘Ding-dong the witch is dead,’ doesn’t count.
You’ll be sorry. ‘Oh,’ you will be saying, ‘If only I had never questioned Abigail about borrowing my car keys without asking. If only I had not started shouting like a madman about that tiny, insignificant little scratch on the bonnet that nobody could possibly see unless they had a magnifying glass. If only I had not ranted and raved about that little scratch that Bazza, that petrol head bogan from next door, came around to find out what all of the fuss was about and then commented that he had just seen Abigail drive the Monaro, “Straight up the arse of a garbage truck. You must be really pissed off about that mate, considering the time it took you to restore the thing …”’
Well, okay. I know how much that dumb car means to you, Samuel. So much that it took you two whole years to restore it properly and you even bought leather seats. And you were so proud that day that you and Bazza entered it in the Bay to Birdwood and got on the news. (Though that may have had something to do with the fact that you work for the TV Station and managed to bribe one of your colleagues.) But don’t you love me, your fiancée more? And anyway, I wouldn’t have been driving it at all, had you spoken more firmly to the panel beaters about me wanting my precious little pink Volkswagen Beetle convertible back some time before Christmas.
It’s all your fault Samuel Andrews. Yep. All your fault …
Posted by Abigail Carter at 5:17 pm
*
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Okay.
Maybe suicide wasn’t such a great idea. Just because Samuel is a little bit pissed off with me at the moment does not automatically mean that he is going to end our engagement. Or that I would be better off dead.
Anyway, if I ever attempt suicide again, I will be sure to plan things properly. I will not just automatically assume that there will be prescription sleeping pills in the house when neither Samuel, nor myself, have ever suffered problems with insomnia. Nor, if upon opening the cupboards and finding an almost full jar of Horlicks (you know, that stuff that tastes a little bit like Milo and is supposed to help you sleep at the end of a stressful day,) will I decide that it will probably have the same effect as sleeping pills and start drinking cup after cup after cup after cup, while Samuel stands beside me, laughs and asks if I would like him to walk to the Jetty Road IGA and buy some more milk, because I have almost finished the carton.
And if all of that isn’t bad enough ... I seriously cannot believe how much vomit I’m going to have to clean off the rug.
Posted by Abigail Carter at 5:45 pm
*
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Does anyone know of a good way to remove milk stains from the carpet? Like, vomitish milk stains?
Thanks in advance,
Abby C;-)
Posted by Abigail Carter at 6:16 pm
*
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Well.
Seeing as I am not going to commit suicide after all, it looks as though I am stuck with this blog. Hmm … it might be fun to keep a blog. A little online record of my thoughts and day-to-day happenings. Almost like a journal.
So … where shall I start?
I am out on the balcony at the moment, sipping on a cup of peppermint tea. I am hoping that the tea will help soothe my stomach. My poor little abdomen has been quite sore ever since what Samuel has dubbed, ‘the Horlicks Incident’. He is cruel sometimes. If I didn’t love him so much, and if I could not bear to see him in physical pain, I would punch him for making fun of my suicide attempt.
The sun is just starting to set over Glenelg Beach, or, the Bay, as the locals know it. (It’s an Adelaide thing. Like Fritz, Woodroofe’s lemonade or not being completely freaked out by the sight of Johnny Hayesman walking along Rundle Mall in a pair of tights and clutching a fluffy backpack. You either love it, proudly tell everyone that Adelaide is ‘heaps good’ or you piss off to eastern states.) As usual, the water looks absolutely divine at this time of night, with tiny streaks and sparkles of orange light reflecting in the ripples. A few people have gathered on the sand, teenagers from a variety of ethnicities – wogs, Asians and European backpackers, along with a few families and lone, middle aged bogans. The bogans are here because they’ve already been kicked out of the Jetty Hotel, blacklisted from the Stamford and are too intoxicated to be allowed on the tram. And more likely than not will have lost their metroticket, concession card and any loose change.
Oh. Wait a second. There is only one bogan walking along the Esplanade right now and that is Bazza from next door. ‘Abigail.’ He runs a tattooed hand through his spiked, greying hair. In his other hand is a struggling white and tabby kitten. ‘Found your bloody cat in the tomato plants again.’
‘Sorry ’bout that Bazza.’ I force a smile as Bazza passes Cedric to me through the railings. For some reason Bazza is proud, almost borderline obsessive about his tomato plants. This is despite the fact that the leaves are a very odd shape for a tomato plant and they never grow any fruit.
‘Can’t you encourage the bloody thing to use a different spot for a toilet?’ Bazza continues. ‘He’s always pissing all over the leaves.’
And if she ever eats one of the leaves, then I will worry. I give Bazza my solemn promise that Cedric will stay out of his yard from now on. ‘You’re a naughty kitten,’ I tell Cedric.
‘What’s Bazza whinging about now?’
The door rolls open. Samuel steps out onto the balcony. He holds a beer in one hand and a slightly battered copy of Great Expectations in the other. ‘Cedric did a wee on Bazza’s marijuana plants,’ I explain.
‘Bad cat.’ Samuel grins as he puts his beer down. He scratches Cedric behind the ears. ‘Poor Bazza might get a bit more than he bargained for, next time he smokes some of his tomato leaves.’
‘I’m sure he sells most of it.’
‘And a few other things besides.’ Samuel shrugs. We both watch as a group of teenagers knock on Bazza and Cheryl’s front door.
Cedric stares up at me. She rubs herself against my legs and begins to purr. She’s gorgeous, Cedric. Samuel and I adopted her a few months ago after we found her sitting in the back of an old, rusted and clearly abandoned Nissan Cedric. (Hence the unusual name for a female cat.) The poor little thing was half starved and covered with fleas. Neither of us could stand the thought of just leaving her there. And despite the vet’s warnings that she was very weak and it might be kinder to put her to sleep, Cedric is now seven months old, healthy and spoiled completely rotten. I know that it is wrong of me to spoil her so much, but … I can’t help it. Poor Cedric had such a bad start to life that I want to do a few nice things to make it up to her. Samuel says that I can be a bit too warm hearted like that.
Samuel also says that I am like no one else on the planet. Ursula, Samuel’s mother, say that about me too, except that when she says it, with her blue eyes narrowed and her thin lips pursed, I doubt that it is meant to be a compliment. Ursula Andrews has never really approved of me. The Andrews are a wealthy family, whose links to South Australia extend all the way back to 1838 when the Colony of South Australia was established by free settlers, the only Australian colony not to be settled by convicts. According to Ursula, the Andrews family were instrumental in the development of the City of Adelaide, as Members of Parliament and by sitting on various boards and committees. And by throwing hideous amounts of money around. (Though it was Samuel who told me that last part and not Ursula.)
Today, the Andrews family home, a large heritage listed property in Unley Park that has been handed down through the generations, is worth more than three million dollars. Samuel will inherit this house one day.
‘You do realise that, don’t you Abigail?’ Ursula had asked me one afternoon. We were sitting outside at the time in the southern gazebo – the one near the duck pond. (Yes, the Andrews family home really does have two gazebos. Which seems awfully indulgent to me, considering that most homes don’t come with yards big enough to fit even one.) Sipping on cups of tea, we each stare at the large house. ‘It will belong to him,’ Ursula adds.
I nod. I knew. Samuel had said so often enough. Then he would always add, ‘I don’t want it.’
‘If you and Samuel marry …’ Ursula’s voice continues.
If? If. What the bloody hell did Ursula mean by if Samuel and I marry? We were engaged. Surely the inevitable conclusion to an engagement must be marriage? (Ooh. Doesn’t that line sound pretty and all Jane Austenish?)
‘You will be the lady of the house.’ Ursula fixes her eyes on me. She purses her lips ever so slightly, as if to let me know that she does not really approve of the arrangement. ‘It will be a big responsibility Abigail.’
Yeah. Putting on airs and bossing the staff about. Huge responsibility, that.
Ursula purses her lips a little tighter. You and my son come from very different worlds.’
Different worlds. I knew what Ursula really meant. That I was not really good enough to be engaged to her son. I think she would have much rather that Samuel was dating a debutant, a young lady with the body of a supermodel, the bank account of Bill Gates, the kindness of Mother Theresa and the odd Nobel Peace Prize lying about on an impeccably polished mantelpiece. Or at the very least someone who knew which knife and fork to eat with when dining at an expensive restaurant.
While Samuel was the oldest child and only son of a wealthy couple who had been happily married for the last forty odd years, my own family history was well, not the sort of thing that people like Ursula Andrews would ever discuss at the dinner table. I was born in the back of a bar in Kings Cross, Sydney, because my dad was playing a gig there with his band and my teenage mother had left it too late to get to the hospital. My parents had eloped nine months earlier, but trust me, running away and getting hitched was about as romantic as their relationship ever got. By the time I was born, they already hated each other. Most of my early childhood is a blur. I remember snatches of things, like eating at soup kitchens and visiting my dad during his not-so-infrequent trips to prison and occasionally hanging around backstage while his band did the rounds of every pub and club in Sydney and occasionally Melbourne and Adelaide. I must have been the only kid at my primary school who knew what radio station 2JJJ was, or that it was the only station played my dad’s songs. ‘Your daddy’s going to be a big star,’ my dad would tell me sometimes while he tuned his guitar. With a beer in one hand, he would motion for me to come and sit beside him on our old, battered couch. (Seriously. Not only were there stains and cigarette burns in that old couch, but parts of it were held together with gaffer tape.) Dad would put his beer down and he would play his guitar for me. He wrote a song for me once. It’s called Abigail’s Song. Original title, huh?
I remember very little about my mum. She was short like me I remember that. Her eyes were blue and she had beautiful, long blonde hair that used to fall down her back in waves. Her nickname for me was Princess, or if she was drunk or in a particularly vile mood, Brat. Piss off, you little brat … Come back Princess, Mummy didn’t mean to do that, here, lets put a bandage on and we’ll have some ice cream, you’re not going to tell Dad what silly Mummy did are you?
I never did tell my dad about what ‘silly Mummy did’. I never had to. The social worker that came to visit me at school because I never had proper shoes or any lunch was very interested to hear all about it though. The same afternoon, I was sent halfway across the country to live with my dad’s sister, Auntie Julie, and her husband, Uncle Cliff Hamilton. My parents divorced, my dad’s band scored a record deal in London and ‘silly Mummy’ aka Shelby Carter was hauled in front of the courts for child abuse. Years later, when I was eighteen I would try to track her down. After months of searching, I eventually received a message that she did not wish to speak to me. I do not know where she lives, if she is married or single or if she has any other children. I try not to think about it. It hurts too much.
My dad, Langston, at least bothered to stay in contact with me. While Shelby was busy trying to find a legal aid lawyer that would take her on and getting her arse kicked by a judge who hated violent women, Langston was living in London and busy hitting the number one spot on the music charts the whole world over. By the late 1980s his band, Ebony’s Eagles, had sold more than ten million copies of their first album. Their second sold twenty million copies worldwide while, locally, the albums stayed at the number one and two positions in the SAFM album chart that appeared inside the Advertiser every Thursday for many months. (I still have the clippings.) Rolling Stone magazine dubbed them the Rock and Roll Wizards of OZ, while Molly Meldrum declared that they were going to be ‘Bigger than the Beatles,’ and that we all should, ‘Do yourself a favour and buy a copy of the album.’ And Langston Carter was the biggest star of all. The darling of the tabloids, it was Langston who could be counted on to drive a car into a hotel swimming pool, urinate in public or, on one occasion, smash Rolf Harris’s wobble board during a guest appearance on Top of the Pops. He married a Brazilian supermodel that died of anorexia, was admitted to rehab for drug addiction and somehow manage to acquire his own multimillion-pound record company. And yet, unlike silly mummy, he still managed to remember me on each of my birthdays and at Christmas.
I received some pretty damn expensive birthday presents from my dad over the years, even if a few of them did arrive a bit late and the card appeared to be written in his PA’s best handwriting. Until I was fourteen, I would spend every Christmas with my dad in his big house in Notting Hill. On Christmas Eve, we would go to a pantomime together and, sometimes, a midnight service. (My dad is a surprisingly religious man.) On Christmas morning, there would always be a massive stack of presents waiting for me under the tree. One year, I remember, it was snowing and we stayed outside together for ages, making snowmen and angels until Man’dee (the pop star he was engaged to at the time) came out and yelled at us to come inside before we both got frostbite. For a few precious days, I would feel like a princess, the luckiest girl in the whole world to have a rich, famous and very attentive father. Then the time would come for me to return to Australia. I would solemnly promise to be good for Auntie Julie and have to leave half of my Christmas presents behind, because they couldn’t all come with me on the plane. Arriving back in Maripaninga Valley, I would find myself in the middle of a hot, dry summer. At my aunt and uncle’s house, I was expected to make my own bed, help Auntie Julie with the dishes and sweep the veranda floor every morning. The hot, summer afternoons would be spent either yabbying down at the Lost Girl’s Creek with cousin Wayne, my best friend Marta and as many other kids as we could gather around, playing games of cricket on a dirt pitch with an ice cream bucket as a wicket, sitting on my bed reading Babysitters Club books or helping Uncle Cliff at the service station and being given a fruit box and a paddle pop for one afternoon’s work. (Although, admittedly, most of my ‘work’ was chatting to Uncle Cliff and washing the occasional windscreen.) The week or so I spent in London each year with my dad was rarely mentioned, or his rock star status.
It was a very happy, normal childhood, those years I spent with my aunt and uncle.
The Carters are all from Maripaninga Valley originally, a small winemaking town near the Barossa. The locals market their wines and the Maripaninga region as South Australia’s best-kept secret. Personally, I think they have a nerve trying to claim that their small town is a secret at all, when the town made international headlines ten years ago, after the sister of a well-known and much loved rock star went crazy, stole a rifle and ran inside the local service station and shot her husband because she found out that he was the monster responsible for-
*
‘Everything all right Pussycat?’
Samuel’s voice interrupts my train of thought. ‘You’ve been typing away furiously on that computer all night,’ he continues.
I shrug. ‘Just a little something that I’ve been working on.’
‘Not more online suicide notes I hope.’ Samuel shakes his head. ‘I saw your blog.’
Samuel has been reading this blog?
‘You might want to be careful about how much personal information you put online Pussycat,’ Samuel continues. ‘Apart from the risk to your own safety, people might not be too understanding about your family.’
Oh, dear …
*
So, anyway, where did I get up to, before Samuel’s warnings not to put too much personal information on the internet? That’s right. The years that I spent in Maripaninga Valley were happy ones. Auntie Julie and Uncle Cliff lived in a big old farmhouse that stretched all the way back from Old Road to the edge of Lost Girl’s Creek. At the local primary school, my best friend was a blonde, blue-eyed girl named Marta Schmidt. We’d play Barbies and hopscotch together and Marta would always blush and go all funny whenever Wayne was around. In return, Wayne would tease her endlessly, pulling her hair and calling her Blondie. The pair eventually married, just two days after Marta’s eighteenth birthday. They have six kids now and still live in the Valley, in the same old farmhouse where Wayne and I grew up. Wayne has taken on the service station and seems happy enough with his lot, even though the rest of the Carter family has either died, grown up and moved away like I did or they are …
Well, actually, there is only the one member of the Carter family who is currently in prison. Not that you’ll ever be able to convince Samuel’s mother of that. Ursula is unwavering in her conviction that my father’s rock star status is entirely temporary and it is only a matter of time before he finds himself penniless and back behind bars. Poor Ursula. It must be one of her deepest regrets that she allowed Samuel to work in the vineyards opposite Auntie Julie and Uncle Cliff’s house during his post uni gap year. Samuel was twenty-two. I was fifteen. I had just been expelled from a boarding school in Adelaide and sent back to live with my aunt and uncle. Two years previously, my dad had decided to send me to Adelaide Ladies College, so that I could get a proper education. I don’t think it hurt that Auntie Julie now had twin boys and was having trouble looking after me as well as her own children. For me, boarding school may as well have been a death sentence. I hated the food. I hated the dorms. I hated the school song. I hated the disgusting green and yellow blazer and matching straw hat that I had to wear everywhere, even during a Saturday afternoon trip to Rundle Mall or to the pictures. I hated the rich snobby girls from my class …
But most of all I hated Chastity Mackenzie, my roommate.
Every girl has one, her mortal enemy, that one person with whom she is constantly in competition. Chastity Mackenzie was my mortal enemy. With the face and the body of a young supermodel, Chastity Mackenzie was easily the prettiest girl in school. She was also one of the smartest and the most popular. Everywhere that Chastity Mackenzie went, either on or off campus, you could guarantee that she would have a band of followers behind her, ready to do her bidding. ‘Out here with all your friends, Abigail,’ she would sneer, whenever she caught me alone in the schoolyard. She and her groupies would walk away sniggering, like they thought that being alone, even for just a few seconds was social death.
It did not help matters that Chastity was actually a year younger than me and had been skipped a grade ahead, as part of the school’s accelerated learning program. Like I said, Chastity Mackenzie was a smart girl. At the end of every term, when I was lucky enough to come second or third in the class, you could bet anything you liked that Chastity Mackenzie would be the one to top every subject, including Phys Ed, Religion and Home Economics.
Nor did it help that Chastity was always unfailingly polite to all of the teachers, while I seemed to spend most of my free time inside the Headmistress’s office, being made to feel guilty about my lack of school spirit and sometimes, my very existence, which seemed to be such a burden on stuffy old Miss Headwinkle. ‘I’ll never understand why such an intelligent young lady insists upon behaving in such a disgusting, juvenile fashion,’ were Miss Headwinkle’s exact words when she discovered that I was the one who had spiked the punch at the school social. (Andy Fagin from the nearby boy’s school had put me up to it. In fact he was the one who had brought the alcohol.) Of course, this fact had been discovered only when Chastity Mackenzie, had found it necessary to report my actions to Miss Headwinkle, despite the fact that she herself had consumed several glasses of punch and enjoyed it. ‘Suck shit Abigail Carter!’ Chastity’s voice echoes along the school corridor as I leave Miss Headwinkle’s office. A grin slowly crawls across her face. ‘Hear you’re going to be on dunny cleaning duty for a whole week as punishment.’
‘Wouldn’t be if someone hadn’t dobbed.’
Turning, I look Chastity Mackenzie straight in the eye. ‘I know it was you,’ I continue. ‘Dobber. You are so pathetic.’
‘Me? Pathetic?’ Chastity’s laugh fills the school corridor. Pearl, the cleaning lady turns and looks in our direction. Pearl sighs, shakes her head and continues cleaning. ‘Why don’t you just admit it, Abigail Carter,’ Chastity continues. She flicks back her hair and pouts in the exact way that Heather Locklier had done on Melrose Place the other night. ‘You’re soooo, so jealous of me.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘You are.’ Raising her chin, Chastity offers me a look of total superiority. ‘Face it Abigail Carter. You can fight me all you want, but you’ll never win.’ Chastity laughs. Beneath my blazer, my hands begin to tremble. Up until that point, I had managed to keep my cool. ‘Stupid, ugly little redhead,’ Chastity continues. I feel my fists clench. Why did Chastity Mackenzie always make me feel so …
Inadequate.
Another laugh fills the corridor. ‘Stupid, ugly little redhead …’
Thwack.
The noise of my fist meeting Chastity’s jaw in a head on collision echoes through the hallway. It was the most satisfying punch that I had ever thrown in my entire life. And if I’m going to be completely honest, I was never all that sorry about being expelled from boarding school either.
*
I was to speak to Samuel Andrews for the first time, a few weeks later. I was sitting on the back veranda of Uncle Cliff and Auntie Julie’s house at the time. He was sitting on a chair outside the winery next door. A yellow, spirax notebook sat in his hands as he scribbled away with a biro. Occasionally, he would look in my direction and smile. I thought that he was exceptionally good looking, with his dark hair, five o’clock shadow and deep blue eyes. He also looked a hell of a lot like Samuel Andrews, the fiancé of Chastity Mackenzie’s older sister, which is possibly what inspired me to go marching over to the winery …
*
‘Why do you keep staring at my house?’
With a hand on my hip, I look Samuel straight in the eye. It is a cold afternoon. I have pulled a navy blue cardigan that Auntie Julie knitted over the top of my Maripaninga High dress. A breeze blows across the veranda, shaking the pages of Samuel’s notebook.
He shrugs. ‘Nothing.’
‘Bullshit.’ I flash him a dirty look. ‘I can see you, you know, staring into our yard while you make your stupid little notes.’
‘So?’
‘So I’m going to go to the police and tell them that you’ve been spying on me, Samuel Andrews.’
Samuel laughs. ‘Do what you like, nameless redhead girl.’
‘Don’t you know who I am?’ My hand still on my hip, I keep my eyes firmly fixed on Samuel.
‘Nope.’
‘Well, maybe you should know. Your fiancée … Susanne Mackenzie.’
‘What about her?’
I raise an eyebrow. Perhaps this would shock Samuel. ‘I was at boarding school with her little sister.’
‘Congratulations.’ Samuel turns his attention back to his notebook. ‘Thanks for stopping by, kid.’
‘My name is Abigail.’ I take Samuel’s pen. ‘Abigail Carter.’
‘Abigail Carter …’ Samuel murmurs my name slowly. He slides his spiral notebook shut. ‘That would make you Langston Carter’s daughter.’
‘Unfortunately.’ I shrug. ‘But aren’t you more interested in how I know your fiancé?’
‘You were at boarding school with her little sister.’ Samuel shrugs. ‘Chastity. Can I have my pen back please, Abigail Carter?’
I tuck the pen behind my ear. I stare at Samuel. Maybe he really does not understand the significance of what I have just said. ‘I was the girl …’ I continue, lowing my voice to a whisper, ‘Who broke Chastity McKenzie’s jaw.’
‘So you’re the savage redhead huh?’ Reaching for my ear, Samuel takes my pen. ‘The one with severe psychological problems who ought to be locked up immediately. In fact, I believe that Chastity has put around a story that you’ve been locked up.’
‘She did what?’
Standing on the back veranda, I stamp my foot several times. ‘Trust bloody Chastity Mackenzie to start spreading lies about me the second that I’m not there to defend myself! She’s a bitch. I hate her! Fucking hate, hate, hate her!’
‘Calm down.’
Laughing, Samuel tosses his pen and notebook down on the seat beside him. ‘Bloody hell …’ he continues. ‘You really are nuts.’
‘That’s rich, coming from someone who wants to marry Susanne Mackenzie.’ I look Samuel Andrews straight in the eye. ‘That’s practically certifiable in my book. No sane person would want to go anywhere near a family like that, with their stupid flashy swimming pools and tennis courts and Volvos that not one of them can even drive properly. You know the only reason that Susanne still has her licence is because her father paid off the family of the poor little old lady she hit in her car to tell the police that it was her fault and not Susanne’s? How sick and disgusting is that?’
‘I’m only engaged to the silly bitch. I didn’t say I was going to marry her.’ The corners of Samuel’s lips twitch.
‘But you and Suzie engaged.’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘Pregnancy scare.’ He shrugs. ‘I decide I better do the right thing and propose and then it turns out she isn’t even expecting. I’m left paying off a bloody two thousand dollar ring that she had to have and her mother is driving me insane planning this big wedding that I don’t even want.’ He shrugs again. ‘And people wonder why I took a job in the country.’
‘Why don’t you just ditch her?’
Samuel sighs. ‘Because our families have been friends for years, both of our mothers in particular. Our parents …’ Pausing, Samuel sighs again, ‘Have been wanting this bloody wedding since Susie and I were in kindergarten.’
‘It must suck to be you!’ I cannot help but giggle at that.
‘Couldn’t be any worse than being expelled from boarding school.’ Samuel shrugs in return. ‘Or having a rock star for a father.’
‘Shut up about my dad!’
‘Shut up about my Susie then.’
Samuel turns his attention back to his notebook. He flicks to the next blank page and scribbles down some notes. At that moment, the back door to the winery opens. Nigel Stewart and Danny Gardner, two local bogans who have managed to score summer jobs at the winery come tumbling out, brawling about who is going to drink who under the table at the Maripaninga Arms tonight. ‘You’re going down mate …’ Nigel’s voice echoes across the veranda. As usual, his greasy hair has been pulled back into a ponytail. His t-shirt consists of a picture of a three-legged man. The word, Gifted is printed directly underneath. He’s all class, Nigel Stewart.
‘G’day gorgeous …’ As he turns toward me, Nigel’s pupils begin to dilate. His mouth opens wide, revealing a set of yellowing teeth. ‘How you doing?’ A hand slides toward my hip. Disgust floods my body, as I catch a whiff of his breath. Talk about a bad case of halitosis. ‘Come round specially to see me, huh?’
‘Leave her alone, Stewart!’
I think Nigel Stewart is nearly every bit as surprised as I am, when Samuel springs up from his seat and wedges himself between Nigel and myself. ‘She’s just a bloody kid. She doesn’t need some sick bastard cracking on to her.’
‘Calm down. I was just being friendly.’ Nigel takes a few steps back. Within seconds, both he and Ned have disappeared from the veranda.
‘Pair of bloody cowards.’ Samuel returns to his seat. ‘You okay, kid?’
I nod. ‘You helped me out … thanks.’
Samuel shrugs. ‘You’re a pretty girl. You’ll have to put up with a few more idiots like Nigel Stewart, I’m afraid.’
‘You think I’m … pretty?’
I stare at Samuel. No one, apart from my dad had ever called me pretty before. And even Dad had stopped saying it not long after my tenth birthday.
He laughs. ‘I think you’re very pretty.’
‘You do?’
‘Don’t look so surprised. I bet you have all the boys at school chasing you.’
‘Only Jason McAllister. He shoves straws up his nose and breaths in milk.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s disgusting!’
‘I have no doubt.’ Samuel turns his attention back to his notebook. He picks up his pen and jots down a few notes.
‘Why do you think I’m pretty?’
I continue to stare at Samuel.
He shrugs. ‘You’ve got pretty hair. And a nice face. I like your mouth.’
‘My mouth?’
He laughs. ‘Or more to the point, what comes out of it.’ Samuel turns back to his notebook. ‘Thanks for stopping by Abigail Carter, I’ll catch you around another time.’
I pause. I don’t remember saying anything about leaving. ‘Are you trying to tell me that it’s time to get lost?’
Samuel does not answer.
‘So you are telling me it’s time to get lost?’ I continue.
A sigh from Samuel. ‘Yep.’
‘Well, screw you then!’
I walk away, my middle finger raised over my shoulder. Samuel’s laughter follows me home.
*
And that was the beginning of our friendship. Samuel’s engagement to Susanne Mackenzie did not last. Eventually, Susanne would meet a fifty-eight year old American billionaire who she would much rather marry instead. (Samuel’s mother was devastated.) Meanwhile, Samuel and I managed to remain close friends for years – he even helped me try to trace my mother, when I was eighteen and we were both living and working in Sydney. We failed, had a brief fling in the process, but hey, at least he tried to help me. Anyway, it was just a month before my twenty-first birthday when Samuel and I finally got together properly. The story is kind of complicated. It involves a huge falling out (and I mean huge, had our argument been any bigger, I would probably been spending the rest of my days sharing a jail cell with Auntie Julie.) Samuel had lied to me.
No. It was a lot worse than that.
Samuel was a journalist.
Like any girl who has an unbelievably attractive man in her midst, who just happened to be a journalist, I thought that journalism was a shit hot career. Had Samuel been a fire fighter or even a sewerage worker, I probably would have thought that either of those careers was pretty damn spectacular too. What I didn’t realise is that when you come from a family like mine, a journalist can be a very dangerous friend to have. It was only a matter of time after that day in November 1997, when the terrible truth about Uncle Cliff’s double life came out and Auntie Julie found herself on a one-way trip to prison, that all of the intimate details of the Carter family appeared on the front page of a national newspaper. Sex, Murder, Drugs and Rock & Roll: the real story of the Carters from Maripaninga Valley.
Needless to say, I was far from happy about the arrangement. We fought, I called Samuel a lying fucking prick and we both agreed that we needed some time apart. Samuel got a US work permit and took a job with a newspaper in New York and I, well, I was busy studying English Literature at the University of Sydney. I never expected to see or speak to Samuel Andrews again. In fact, I was so certain that my future did not belong with Samuel, that I had actually moved in with another man, a medical student called Patrick. He was tall, with red hair and hazel eyes. He spoke with an Irish accent, a testament to the fact that he had been born in Belfast and came to Australia with his family when he was fifteen years old. He had a wonderful sense of humour. Absolutely everybody who knew Patrick adored him. Including Lisa, the blonde slag I found him with, in the post-coital position inside his bedroom …
*
‘Cheating … fucking … bastard!’
My voice echoes through Carmel’s apartment. The windows rattle. I stand in the middle of the living room, watching as my best friend removes anything that might be expensive and/or breakable from my path.
I am so fucking angry right now.
‘Fuck!’
‘So you keep saying Abigail.’ Carmel rolls her green eyes. Her hair has been pulled back into a very messy ponytail and she is still in her negligee, despite it being three in the afternoon. I guess I caught her at a bad time. Oops. Oh well. I was sure that she would forgive me. We had been best friends for a long time, ever since our days of shared detentions back at Maripaninga High, where we would pass each other notes under the desk when the teachers weren’t looking. Later, after I had moved to Sydney, Carmel put me up in her apartment. I had stayed there right up until the day when I moved in with bloody Patrick O’Connell. The cheating bastard.
‘The whole of Bondi must have heard you say, “fuck” by now,’ Carmel continues.
‘And what do you expect me to say, Carmel? Oh, gosh, I’m so jolly pleased that I caught Patrick in bed with some blonde slag named Lisa?’
‘It was never going to work between you and Patrick.’ Carmel sighs. ‘But yes, for what it is worth, Patrick is a complete bastard who doesn’t deserve you.’
‘Damn straight he doesn’t deserve me.’
‘Which is why you packed your things and moved out of his flat. And why you are going to stay with me, your very best friend, instead and why you’re going to stop destroying that poor, innocent little chocolate biscuit.’
I stare down at my hand. Melted chocolate and biscuit powder sit where a once whole Tim-tam had been.
‘Sit down.’ Carmel nods toward a beanbag. ‘I’ll pour you a glass of wine.’
I do as I am told. I watch as Carmel opens a bottle of red wine and pours some into a plastic cup. I guess she doesn’t trust me with a glass at the moment. I don’t really blame her.
‘Anyway, for what it’s worth, I think you could do a thousand times better than Patrick.’ Carmel passes me the plastic cup of wine. I take a sip. It makes me feel a little better. ‘Speaking of which,’ Carmel continues, ‘I had a visitor yesterday. An old friend of yours.’
‘Really? Who?’
Carmel smiles. ‘Samuel Andrews.’
‘That lying prick?’
The one person in the world I hated more than Patrick O’Conner?
‘He was asking a lot of questions about you, Abigail Carter …’
‘Like what? Am I dead? Or is there another family scandal he can sell to the papers?’
‘More along the lines of were you seeing anyone at the moment…’ Carmel’s voice adopts a playful tone. I watch as she circles the room, purring happily before joining me on the beanbag. ‘And he went all funny when I told him about Patrick.’
Samuel did what … I feel my heart skip a beat. Then reality comes crashing back. This is the same sick bastard who betrayed me for the sake of a bloody newspaper headline. The same sick bastard who didn’t just break my heart, but shattered it into thousands of tiny, little microscopic pieces. I hate him.
Hate, hate, hate him.
‘Like I care,’ I tell Carmel.
‘He was dead jealous.’ A furtive, catlike grin crawls across Carmel’s lips. ‘His eyes were practically green with envy. I thought he was going to do a Dr Jekyll act and turn into Mr Hyde right there and then.’
Carmel has such a fantastic command of the English language. Not.
‘You should have seen him,’ Carmel’s voice continues.
‘I’ve got no bloody desire to see him.’ I glare at Carmel. ‘Ever. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a bigger creep than Patrick.’
And I mean that last part too.
‘Well, he liked seeing you again.’ Carmel offers me a smile. ‘He asked if I had any pictures. I showed him the ones I took in Bali.’
‘You did what?’ Seizing hold of Carmel by the ponytail, I pull her toward me and force her to look me straight in the eye. This had better bloody well be a joke. The pictures Carmel had taken in Bali were completely embarrassing. On the second to last day of our holiday, after one drink too many at lunch, Carmel had somehow managed to convince me that it would be a good idea to go topless sunbathing with her on the beach. And then pose for photographs. Photographs in which I have Sexy Babe written across my midriff in silver body glitter. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against nudity. I think that the human body is a beautiful work of art and that no one, regardless of age, size or gender, should ever have to feel ashamed of their body. In fact, I paid most of my way through university by posing for life drawing classes. It was just that those beach pictures were unbelievably tacky. And Carmel had solemnly promised me that she had destroyed them when we arrived home.
‘You had better bloody well be joking, Carmel Dubois!’
My voice echoes across the room. Carmel stares back at me. She giggles. ‘He said you had nice-’
‘You bitch!’ Reaching for my cup of wine, I tip it all over Carmel’s negligee.
‘Oi!’ Carmel shrieks as a pink stain spreads across the white satin. ‘Calm down Abigail! He said that you had a nice dress on.’
‘He did?’ I set my empty cup down on the floor. She must have shown him the other picture, the one where I am standing on the balcony of our hotel room at sunset. In that picture, I am wearing a white cotton dress and matching sandals. I always thought that it was a pretty dress too.
Carmel nods. ‘He said that you looked even more beautiful than he remembered. Seriously Abigail, I don’t think he has ever gotten over you. How many times has he tried to send you letters or emails? And did you ever answer them?’
I shake my head. Not once.
‘I know what he did was bad.’ Pausing for a moment, Carmel sighs. ‘And you had a right to be angry. I but I don’t think that he ever published that article to hurt you, Abigail.’
I shake my head. ‘What he did was completely unforgivable.’
‘And it’s time you faced facts. If Samuel had not written that story, then chances are, another reporter would have. And chances are, that other reporter would not have been anywhere near as sympathetic toward you.’
Maybe.
‘I think you should talk to him, at least.’ Carmel sighs. ‘Even if it is just to tell him face to face how much he hurt you. Give him that, at least.’
‘Maybe.’
‘He wants me to pass on his new mobile number,’ Carmel opens her handbag and retrieves her little black book. If you could really call it a little black book. Unlike the characters from TVs Melrose Place who all use gorgeous leather bound and gold edged address books to keep stock of their male suitors, Carmel used a black soft cover book that had Dolly Magazine plastered across the front in bright pink letters. The inside pages are not only a disgusting pastel pink but are covered in hearts and flowers.
Carmel can be a real sook sometimes.
‘Talk to him Abigail.’ Carmel sighs as she scribbles out the number.
I roll my eyes and promise Carmel that I will think about it. In the meantime, I need to unpack my things. Standing in my old bedroom, I open my suitcase. I suppose that I was in a bit of a hurry when I left Patrick’s flat. Two pairs of dirty jeans and some crumpled t-shirts and a pair of panties that don’t even belong to me tumble out. I stare at the black lace. My bum would never be able to fit, let alone look good, inside a size eight g-string.
I bet it looks terrific on Lisa.
‘Abigail?’
Carmel taps on the bedroom door. ‘You okay sweetie?’ She stares at the g-string. ‘Ooh … sexy undies.’
‘They’re Lisa’s.’ I toss them on the floor.
‘Don’t be too upset Abby.’ Sighing, Carmel wraps an arm around my shoulders. ‘He’s not worth it.’
‘I hate him!’ Tears dribble down my cheeks and onto the floor. (And onto Lisa’s g-string.) ‘What the hell is wrong with me, Carmel? Why does every man that I fall in love with only end up hurting me?’
‘It’s not your fault Patrick was a cheat.’ Carmel pulls me close. ‘He’s not even worth crying over. You can do way, way better than him. In the meantime, do you have a dress for tonight?’
‘Tonight?’
Carmel sighs. ‘Do not tell me that you’ve forgotten what tonight is, Abigail Carter. There’s supposed to be a little party at the Quay. With fireworks at midnight.’
How could I have possibly forgotten? The date was December 31, 1999. For months now, every radio station in town had been playing that old Prince song about partying like it was 1999. And what a party it was going to be. Preparations were being made in every major city across the globe to welcome in not only the start of a brand new century, but also the start of a whole new millennium. Various celebrities were being paid megabucks to appear at public street parties and even more to appear at private parties of the worlds richest people. (My dad and his band were being paid a hideous sum of money to help bring in the new millennium twice. First they were at a public party in Auckland, before taking their private jet to LA and doing it all again at a private function.) Anyway, my point is, tonight was set to be the biggest party in the world. Miss this one and I may as well have been dead. Or in jail. (Which I possibly could be, if Lisa discovered that I had accidentally stolen her undies.) And so, in the evening, I found myself borrowing a black dress from Carmel (a gorgeous thing with a skirt that ended before the knee and a v-neck,) slapping on some make up and making my way down to the Quay …
‘Can you see anyone?’
Carmel shouts the words in my ear as, hand in hand, we push our way through what is literally thousands of hot, sweating bodies. According to the DJ on 2Day FM, some of these people have been here since the crack of dawn. Tonight, everyone wants to party. Everyone wants to celebrate together, the advent of not only a new century, but the advent of a whole new millennium. It is a time of change, and hope of a new and better future. That we, the human race, will not repeat the mistakes of the past, but will work together to make a better future.
It is a chance to see free fireworks at midnight.
‘Looks like the whole of Sydney has turned up,’ Carmel continues, shouting the words in my ear. ‘There are some weirdos in this crowd.’
‘What, you mean it’s not normal to cover yourself in silver body paint and ride a unicycle along a crowded pavement?’ I flash Carmel a teasing grin. The man on the unicycle wishes me a happy new millennium, before turning and waving to a group of teenage girls in pink wigs and fairy wings. At least, I think they are teenage girls. Beside them, a man in a gorilla costume moons the crowd. ‘Get ya hairy bum outta my face!’ A yobbo with only one tooth left and a Sydney Swans beanie throws a half empty coke can at the gorilla.
Bloody hell, Sydney is a strange place.
‘The end is near!’
A tall man, with a greying beard, tartan shorts (the McGregor tartan, just in case any there are nitpickers reading this who may be wondering,) and a black t-shirt that says Heaven, Be There! in purple lettering, takes me by the arm. ‘Just a few short hours away. Soon evil, death and destruction will be upon us.’
The tall man stares at me. His blue eyes flash violently, while his mouth spits out predictions of Armageddon. ‘But the good news is that you can be saved from this evil! By accepting Jesus into your life, you can-’
‘We’re already Christians.’ Carmel flashes the tall man a dazzling smile. ‘Just not very good ones,’ she adds, as we walk away. We both giggle.
Carmel and I find our little posse a moment later. Fiona, Lee and Erica are dressed in their usual attire – as much make up and as little clothing as possible. To be honest, I have never really liked any of the trio much. In fact, I usually call them the Witches of Eastern Sydney behind their backs. You’ll see why, soon enough.
‘Hey, gorgeous!’ Fiona greets Carmel with a pair of air kisses. ‘Where have you been? We were starting to think that maybe you weren’t coming! Oh, hi Abigail. Heard about Patrick. Tough break, losing your boyfriend. Still I can understand why he cheated. Lisa is pretty enough to be a supermodel. And I hear she gives fantastic blowjobs …’
‘Don’t listen to her.’
Chloe, a tall girl with a blonde, butch haircut and enough piercings to cause some serious drama if she were to ever walk through an airport, places a hand on my shoulder. ‘You okay, Abigail?’ She continues, as Lee and Erica eye us and giggle.
‘Ooh!’ Erica’s voice echoes through the crowd. ‘Now that Abigail’s broken up with Patrick, maybe she and Chloe will get together.’
‘Eww!’ Lee squeals with disgust. ‘How can Abigail touch her? She might get gay germs.’
This is how mature the Witches of Eastern Sydney are. I ignore them.
‘Sorry to hear about Patrick,’ Chloe continues. ‘Tough break.’
I nod. ‘Thanks.’
‘Maybe it was for the best though. Better to find out that he was a cheat now, than later.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And it’s not like he’s the only man in the universe. Actually …’ A smile spreads across Chloe’s face. ‘You will not believe who I saw yesterday.’
Great. Not Chloe as well.
‘Samuel Andrews. He’s moved back to Australia. He was asking me all about you. And … I sort of got the impression that he was hoping that you would be here tonight.’
‘Samuel is going to be here?’
Chloe shrugs. ‘Carmel invited him to join us. He’s very keen to speak to you.’
‘Well, I’m not keen to speak to him!’
I let out a scream of frustration. Honestly! Who the hell does Carmel think she is, trying to set me up with Samuel bloody Andrews? Haven’t I been through quite enough already? ‘In fact,’ I continue. ‘If Samuel Andrews even tries to talk to me tonight, I will kick his hairy arse so bloody hard he’ll fly all the way to the moon.’
‘Is that right, Pussycat?’
A hand claps my shoulder. A pair of deep blue eyes gazes down upon me. ‘How are you?’ The voice continues. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘Not nearly long enough.’ I shoot Samuel a look of pure hatred. I push my way through the crowd, desperate to get as far away from him as possible.
I get as far as the tall man who is still entertaining partygoers with his violent ejaculations about Armageddon before Samuel takes my arm again. ‘I take it you still haven’t forgiven me about that article.’
‘Of course I haven’t forgiven you. Why the bloody hell should I?’
I look Samuel straight in the eye.
He sighs. ‘I heard about Patrick. Good grief, Pussycat, that’s got to hurt.’
And thank you very much for reminding me, Samuel Andrews. I roll my eyes and try to make out that I am so, completely over Patrick O’Conner. ‘Like you care.’
‘Of course I care.’
‘The only thing you ever cared about is your stupid career, Samuel Andrews.’ I keep my focus straight on him. My voice is strong, and angry. ‘How could you do it? Do you have any idea how much it hurt, picking up a newspaper and finding my family’s personal business splashed across the front page? And do you know how much more it hurt, discovering that the guy who I was completely and utterly in love with and trusted completely, was the person who wrote the article?’
‘Enough to dump him for a cheating Irishman, apparently.’ Samuel offers me a teasing grin.
‘Fuck you.’
I turn and try to walk away. A wall of cheering, sweating bodies block my path. ‘Thirty minutes to go!’ A girl smiles at me excitedly.
‘You’ll never get through that crowd, Pussycat.’ Samuel takes my hand.
‘My name isn’t Pussycat! It’s Abigail.’
‘You’ll never get through that crowd, Abigail.’ Samuel shrugs. ‘Face it, we’re stuck here until after midnight.’
‘How wonderful.’ I was going to see in the new millennium with the man I hated most by my side.
Samuel sighs. ‘And you can listen to what I have to say. I don’t know how many more times I have to say it, but I am sorry if that article upset you.’
‘If the article upset me.’
‘That the article upset you.’ Samuel groans.
‘It did a lot more than upset me.’
‘I get that, Pussycat.’
‘Pussycat?’
‘Abigail.’
‘Fifteen minutes to go!’ There are excited shouts and cheers all around.
‘Abigail …’ Samuel lets out a weary sigh. ‘I’m sorry that the article hurt you. I’m sorry I hurt you.’
‘You are?’
‘Truly.’ Samuel sighs once again. He wraps his hands around my shoulders. He pulls me close. ‘Believe me, if I’d had any idea how much I was going to hurt you, I would never have-’
‘You really are an insensitive prick!’
I push Samuel away. He stares at me, his eyes bulging wide. His mouth is open. He reminds me of a goldfish.
‘How could you not know that your story was going to hurt me?’ I continue. ‘Would you like it, if everyone printed stories about your family in the papers?’
‘I thought you would have been used to it,’ Samuel murmurs. ‘Your father is a celebrity. Your aunt and uncle were already in all of the papers. At least what I wrote was-’
‘A chance for you to make a lot of money.’ I shake my head with disgust. ‘And further your career. After all, you had the inside story.’
‘Ten minutes!’
There are more joyous cheers all around.
‘And if I hadn’t told it someone else would have.’ Samuel sighs. ‘Did you ever think about that, Abigail? That if it had not have been me, that another journalist would have found the story?’
Perhaps.
‘And do you think that journalist would have been half as sympathetic?’
No.
‘You hurt me.’
‘I get that.’
‘You lied to me.’
‘I know.’
‘You told me that you loved me.’
‘I do love you.’
‘You slept with me.’
‘And it was fantastic.’ Samuel offers me a boyish grin. ‘I’m not going to apologise for making love to you and thoroughly enjoying it, if that’s what you think, Abigail Carter.’
‘One minute to go!’ Around us, the cheers become louder. All eyes are pointed toward the harbour, where the fireworks are soon to begin.
‘Sleazebag.’ I turn my attention back to Samuel.
He sighs. ‘You’re not going to let me win, are you Pussycat?’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Thirty seconds to go!’ There are more loud cheers. A girl in a yellow sequined boob tube jumps up and down excitedly, much to the delight and amusement of her male companions.
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Samuel takes my hands. He grips each of them in his, which may be a gesture of affection, but is more likely so that I cannot escape. ‘What I did was bad. I know that. I never should have gone behind your back. But I never meant to-’
‘Ten!’
The cheers grow louder.
‘Hurt you,’ Samuel continues.
‘Nine!’
‘Liar.’
‘Eight!’
‘I’m telling the truth.’
‘Seven!’
‘Really?’
‘Six!’
‘Really.’
‘Five!’
‘But you did hurt me.’
‘Four!’
‘I also love you.’
‘Three!’
‘What?’
‘Two!’
‘I love you.’
‘One!’
‘Iloveyoutoo. Now piss off!’
‘No.’
‘Happy New Year!’
Cheers fill the air. Fireworks, bright powder puffs of yellow, pink and green begin to fill the black night sky. Around us people are cheering and smiling. A few are kissing. Samuel pulls me close. ‘I’ve already made one big mistake,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m not losing you again.’
As we kiss, the word Eternity lights up Sydney Harbour.
*
And that is the story of how Samuel and I got together. We moved in together, got engaged and when I finished my degree, we spent a year or so travelling. Samuel found a job at a newspaper in Perth and we lived there for a little while, until he was offered a promotion at a TV station in Adelaide. We found a gorgeous little house on the Glenelg foreshore (okay, actually, it was a house my dad bought several years ago as some kind of tax dodge and decided to sign over to me,) and I started researching a PhD on the Brontë Sisters and their approach to feminism. Samuel converted one of the spare rooms into a study for me and we went on a trip to Yorkshire together to see the area where Anne, Charlotte and Emily Brontë grew up and worked on their stories. The past few years have been happy ones. So happy that somewhere in the middle of it all, we kind of forgot to get married …
Posted by Abigail Carter at 11:38 pm