It's Not You It's Me (13 page)

Which is right when he plants a big fat, wet, sloppy kiss on my cheek.

Jas and I both sit there with our mouths open.

The guy grins and holds up his beer at us.
‘Prost!’

I laugh then. A laugh that comes right up from the bottom of my stomach. ‘This is insane,’ I say to the guys on either side of me, then hold my beer up too.
‘Prost!’

‘Y
ou’re a saint,’ I sigh as I polish off the last of my chips and mayonnaise and wipe my fingers on my paper napkin.

‘I know. Hey, what did Shane want before? Saw you having a chat.’

I pause. ‘Nothing, really.’ I scrunch up my face, returning to my earlier thoughts. ‘Actually, I’m not sure…’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think,’ I say with a saucy smile, and start to run my hands down over my chest, ‘he may have wanted my body. Who wouldn’t?’

Jas laughs. ‘You’re crazy.’ But then he stops laughing. ‘What do you mean?’ he says again.

‘It was kind of weird. He was asking about us. But kind of strangely. Like he wanted to ask me on a date or something.’

‘On a date?’ Jas’s face reads disbelief.

I snort. ‘Some people have lowered themselves that far, you know.’

‘Charlie, I didn’t…’

‘Sure you didn’t. Anyway, I probably read it all wrong. I usually do.’

Jas obviously doesn’t get my That Night reference. ‘What did you tell him?’ He leans forward.

I repeat my exact words, as it doesn’t look as if he’s going to settle for anything else. ‘Forget about it,’ I say when I’m done. ‘It was nothing.’ I hold up my beer, changing the topic. ‘Quite creamy, isn’t it?’

‘You can tell what it tastes like from three tiny sips, can you?’

‘Six sips. Big ones. And at least I’m
trying
.’ I glare as I uncap my lemonade.

Jas watches as I pour quite a bit into my beer before he realises what’s going on. He grabs the bottle from me when he does, splashing some on the table. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Making a shandy,’ I say innocently, loving every moment of his horror. I knew he’d react like this.

‘On
top
of the table? Where everyone can see?’

‘It is legal.’

‘You sure? I reckon you’re lucky you haven’t already been scalped or knee-capped or something. Taken out the back to the beer abusers’ room. What’s the matter with you?’

‘Why can’t I make…?’ I start, but Jas claps his hand over my mouth and only removes it when it looks as if I’m about to bite him.

‘Do you realise what a sad human being you are? Drinking a shandy. At Oktoberfest. You don’t deserve to be here.’

‘That’s what I tried to tell Mark. I mean, what did I ever do to him?’

‘Funny.’

I stand firm. I want my damn shandy and I want it now.
‘Do I look like I care what people think? I can’t help it if I don’t like beer.’

‘No. You don’t look like you care. That’s what worries me. And you
can
help it. I’m supposed to be coaching you. Yeah? If you’d put anchovies on your cereal I would have stopped you. This is the same. My life’s calling and all that.’

I sigh dramatically.

‘OK,’ Jas reminds me. ‘We went through this with the olives. And the anchovies. “They’re too salty,” you said, spitting them out. “They’re too fishy,” you said, spitting them out. What’s going to be so different about beer? You already like the smell—that’s a good start.’

I pick up the beer and sniff it. ‘I guess…’

Jas watches me for a minute or two as I alternately sniff the beer then turn up my nose as I taste it. ‘Jesus. I’ve never seen anyone so miserable about drinking bloody beer. Now, take another sip.’

I take another sip.

‘Wasn’t so bad, was it?’

I put it back down on the table. ‘It’s OK, I guess. I mean, I’d drink it if I was dying of thirst in the desert or something.’

‘Now there’s a compliment to the Löwenbraü people.’

‘I’m sure they’ll cope. Most people here are drinking enough for two as it is. Anyway, what do
you
think of it?’ I ask then. ‘Being such a beer connoisseur.’

‘I think it’s pretty good. It is creamy, like you said. Not bad at all. Sure it’d go nicely with fish on a stick.’

We sit then—Jas finishing off his beer, me sipping mine. When Jas is done and I decide I’m finished, it’s made pretty plain to us that it’s time to move on—people are circling us like vultures, waiting for our seats.

Out in the street again, we take in a few lungfuls of non-
beery air and start patrolling the grounds. We walk up and down the streets people-watching, not talking to each other much and not really feeling the need to. Companionable silence. I always liked that about my relationship with Jas. The fact that we didn’t have to talk to fill the gaps. We point things out to each other here and there as we walk—kids making a mess of themselves with fairy floss, another fish on a stick,
ugh
, a kid who’s won a stuffed gorilla almost as big as she is.

We’re laughing at the gorilla when I stop dead in my tracks. ‘Look.’ I point at a stall on my right.

It’s Zamiel. Zamiel on a balloon. A balloon, of all things! Because, of course, that’s what you’d put on a German kids’ balloon, isn’t it? Or any kids’ balloon for that matter. A fallen angel wearing make-up and a cow and a half’s worth of leather. Still, I guess it’s not any worse than some of the things the Brothers Grimm came up with. ‘And over there.’ I point out another stall that’s giving away Zamiel figurines as prizes. I glance up at Jas before I start walking again. ‘That’s weird. To see them here, at Oktoberfest. You’re really famous, aren’t you? It’s really weird. To me—I don’t know—you don’t seem all that different, I suppose.’

‘I’m not all that different. And it’s not weird, it’s sick,’ he says. There’s no missing the venom in his voice. And I’ve never seen his face look like this before.

‘Sick?’ I say quietly, my pace slowing.

‘It’s…’ Jas starts to say something, then seems to change his mind. ‘I mean
I’m
sick of it, that’s all. I’m supposed to be on holiday, remember?’

‘Sure…whatever.’ I eye him, unconvinced.

‘What?’ He runs his hands through his hair.

‘You know, if you don’t like your job, maybe you should get out of it and do something else.’

Jas snorts. ‘Easy for you to say.’

Really? ‘And why is that?’ I can tell, just tell by the expression on his face, that he thinks I’ve been fluffing around with my life. Living in Byron Bay in a gingerbread cottage. Reading a little. Pottering around the garden. Filling my days with shopping and sunning myself on the beach. Cooking gourmet meals. Staying with the relatives when I get a bit lonesome. ‘You’re a shit, Jas.’

‘What? I didn’t say anything!’

‘You didn’t have to.’ I give him a dirty look. ‘You know, I don’t care what you think about my life; we’re talking about yours. If you hate your job this much you’re just wasting your life away if you don’t chuck it in.’ I’m about to tell him more, but then turn instead, with a huff. I start walking off, faster and faster, not turning back to see if Jas is following.

The crowd’s starting to get thicker now that it’s past four p.m. As I half run up the street there’s a noise behind me—a loud
whoop
from one of the rides. I turn to look at what’s going on and realise that I’ve lost sight of Jas. Even though I know he can’t be too far away, this gives me a real start. I begin scanning the heads in the crowd more carefully, and I’m getting worried when all of a sudden I see him again.

The crowd, like a school of fish, parts just for a second. And there he is, staring right back at me.

Shitty as I am, I smile involuntarily as soon as I spot him. One of those stupid, goofy, unwilling smiles that you can’t stop. As it spreads across my face I recognise the fact that I’m really happy to be here, at Oktoberfest. That I’m genuinely glad Mark chose this stupid excuse for excessive beer-drinking and the attached flights that gave me the opportunity to catch up with Jas again. It’s a strange feeling, that smile. Something that I think I might not have felt for quite some time.

Jas walks up to me, grinning as well. But when he reaches me his expression fades to a frown. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’

‘OK,’ I say. I didn’t enjoy the experience that much myself. I pull him off to one side, out of the flow of revellers. ‘I’m not trying to be bossy, it’s just that I want to see you happy. If you hate being Zamiel, you can’t throw your whole life away doing it. You’ve got to find what makes you happy and run with it—it doesn’t matter what anybody else wants. God, if I’ve learnt anything in the last few years, it’s that.’

Jas sighs. ‘I know. I know. Keep telling myself that, but it’s difficult…’

I nod. ‘Of course it’s difficult. It’s loads of money and a job people would kill for. But it’s not worth your health. Or your sanity.’ I smile then. ‘I’ll shut up now, and stop lecturing, shall I?’ I reach out and touch his arm. ‘Friends?’

Jas puts a hand over mine. ‘Friends.’

I check my watch then, and see that it’s almost four-thirty. ‘Did you want to meet Shane at five and go back to the hotel? Or do you want to stay on?’

‘Let’s go. I’m buggered.’

‘OK. How about one more thing, and then we’ll go back, have dinner and get an early night?’

‘Sounds great.’

‘What about that?’ I point and Jas follows my finger over.

‘Shit. No.’

‘What?’ I look up in surprise.

‘Er…’ His eyes are glued to the object in the distance.

I look back over. It’s not exactly something to worry about. I was pointing out one of those throwing games. I turn back to Jas. ‘You’ve had a bad experience with these things?’

‘I’m not great at throwing things, OK? I might have even gone to, er, remedial throwing lessons at school.’

‘What?’ I’m practically on the floor laughing now. ‘You’re joking, right?’

‘No.’

Oh, dear. I stop laughing now, because Jas is definitely not joking.

‘Hate those things. It’s like some kind of testosterone test. You always look like a loser unless you win the big teddy bear. Or gorilla, as the case may be.’

I stare up at him. Where is all this coming from?

‘Not that I have a testosterone problem,’ he adds loudly, making a few people near us look over.

I keep staring. I don’t think anyone would think for a second that Jas has a testosterone problem. Six-foot-four, reasonably muscular, with a full head of hair and rock star stubble, clad in vintage jeans, a black Marcs T-shirt and a well-worn brown suede jacket. He doesn’t exactly look
feminine.

I pat him on the arm. ‘Of course you don’t.’

‘I don’t!’

‘I know!’

‘All right then…’ He sulks.

I lead Jas over to the stand and give the guy behind the counter the correct amount of money. In return, he gives us three balls each, which we have to shoot through a tiny basketball-like net right at the back of the booth. ‘You go first,’ I say to Jas.

‘Probably not a good…’

‘Go
on
,’ I urge. ‘Make an idiot of yourself. It’s what it’s all about.’

He throws the first ball, which hits the wall and bounces off. The wrong wall entirely, I might add. So does the next ball, but on the opposite wall.

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘Never seen me throw anything before, have you?’ he asks, putting the third ball down.

‘Well, no…’ I admit. ‘Not now that I think about it.’ I smile at the image that comes into my mind. ‘Good thing it’s the girls who have to throw their undies on stage at
you
!’

‘Bitch,’ he mutters, but then laughs.

It’s then that I spot Shane in the distance, watching us.

‘Blame it on being tall. Poor hand-eye co-ordination,’ Jas adds.

I turn my attention away from Shane and roll my eyes at his excuse. ‘If that was true I should be a professional basketball player, given my height.’ I put my three balls down on the counter beside his last one. ‘Here, let me show you.’ I bend down to drag over a wooden step meant for the kiddies and place it behind Jas before I step up onto it, making us almost the same height. I reach down and pick up the four balls, place one in Jas’s palm and lift his hand.

‘Don’t throw it so hard this time,’ I say. ‘Let it arc and just drop in. No effort.’

‘Sure, no effort…’ he scoffs.

I sigh. ‘Just try it, OK?’ Out of the corner of my eye I see that Shane is still watching us, but I decide not to tell Jas—especially after his testosterone comments. Now, together, we swing out. When my arm bends over, I simply let go of the ball. We hold our breath as we watch it arc up…

…and drop to the floor.

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘We’ve got three more to go.’

‘Stop breathing on my neck! You’re putting me off!’

‘So that’s the problem.’ I laugh. ‘OK. Here we go again.’ Our arms come up and we throw the ball, which arcs and this time drops straight into the ring, not even touching the net below it.

The next two balls do the same thing.

‘See? Let this be a lesson to you—you should listen to me more often,’ I say when we’re done, and turn Jas around by the shoulders to give him a hug. But then, when he goes to pull away, by some feat of awkwardness I’m still holding him. I pull back then. Quickly. Awkwardly…

And fall off the step.

‘Jesus. You OK?’

‘Sorry—sorry,’ I mumble, not looking at Jas. My ankle hurts and I reach down to rub it.

‘Sorry for what? For falling off the step? Hey, your ankle…’

The guy behind the stand says something in German. ‘I’m all right,’ I say.

The teenage boy who’s been throwing balls beside us turns around then. ‘He says he’s not going to give you a gorilla because you were standing on the children’s step.’

I look up now. ‘Charming!’ I say, trying to sound as if I don’t care, but actually feeling rather as if I’m going to bawl.

‘Stuff him.’ Jas crouches down. ‘I’ll beat him up for you later. Is your ankle OK?’

‘It’s fine. I just jolted it.’ My eyes flick around, looking at various patches of grass. I eventually convince him I’m OK—my face, I’m sure, a lovely strawberry-red.

But when I do glance up again I see something rather strange—Shane’s still watching us. And when I meet
his
eyes he doesn’t look away.