It's Not You It's Me (9 page)

‘You studied German?’

I nod. ‘Sort of. Years 8 to 10. Study didn’t really come into it, though. That’s probably why they threw me out.’

‘They threw you out of German?’

‘The teacher
suggested
that maybe German wasn’t the language for me and that it might be better if I studied French instead.’

‘Nice. So you did French?’

I laugh. ‘No. I packed it all in and did geography.’

‘So we should at least be OK if we get lost?’

I look up at this. ‘Don’t count on it. I got a C.’

‘I won’t. Hey, you remembered!’ Jas says, having taken a sip of his tea. ‘Black and three-quarters.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Of course I remembered. I was practically your tea slave.’

‘Yeah. So, what
do
you remember from German? You going to be useful at all this trip? Apart from tea-making?’

I close the phrasebook. ‘Probably not. The thing I remember best was these books we had. You know—like the readers they give you when you’re learning to read in primary school?’

Jas nods, presumably remembering good old Dick, Jane, Spot and Fluff.

‘There was something about a dog named Lumpi and someone’s uncle, Onkel Ernst, I think his name was. I distinctly remember one book where the family kept confusing them, which seemed a bit stupid. He must’ve been one really ugly uncle, or a spectacularly large and hair-free dog.’

‘Sounds a bit surreal. Who wrote that little number? Freud?’

‘It may as well have been. It wasn’t very helpful in dealing with everyday life. I mean, how many kids confuse their dog with their uncle? And if they did they’d be far more likely to get a good smack on the head for it, rather than a long and detailed family conversation.’

‘So that’s it? All you remember?’

‘Well, that and “99 Luftballons”, of course.’

‘Course.’ Jas nods.

‘Hang on, what’s this?’ About to put the phrasebook away, I spot something sticking out of it. A piece of paper. I unfold it and skim it for a moment or two. ‘It’s from Mark. Here.’ I turn it around so Jas can read the heading. ‘Dirty crap to say in German! He says “Thought this might come in handy. Don’t tell Kath…”’

‘If he’s saying “don’t tell Kath” it must be good. Give us one.’

I hum as I look down the page. ‘How about this:
Ich habe einen Anschiß von den Bullen bekommen
.’

‘Yeah?’

I glance up. ‘Those cops really raked me over the coals.’

Jas laughs. ‘Hopefully I won’t need that one. Any others?’

‘Um…hmmm, some of these are pretty dirty. No wonder he didn’t show them to Kath. You should see her now she’s a mother. Mark and I don’t even get to say damn any more.’

‘Dirty, you say? Great!’

‘You don’t have to get
quite
so excited.’

‘Ah, come on. I know all the rude words. I’m just…searching for new and interesting combinations now.’

‘OK, OK, um…
Ohne Gummi kannst du dir einen Tripper holen.
You can get the clap if you don’t wear a rubber.’

Jas laughs again. ‘That’s not dirty—that’s a fact, baby.’

‘Baby? That’s a new one in your repertoire. I’ll need to pick myself up a rock star phrasebook next. Here we go. I’ve got another one. You’ll like this:
Der Höhepunkt der Fete war der Gruppenfick danach.
The highlight of the party was the gang-bang afterwards. That one should come in useful for Zamiel, at least.’

‘Oh.’

Jas sounds like he’s forgotten something. ‘What?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. Give us one more. One of the really dirty ones.’

‘One more and that’s it, pervie boy.’ I point a finger at him. ‘Here, you go:
Wo ist Tom? Er holt sich in der Garage einen runter.
Where’s Tom? He’s jacking off in the garage.’

He laughs again. ‘That’s more like it. Might even have to learn that one off by heart.’

I fold the piece of paper up then. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Just on six.’

We look at each other. ‘Breakfast!’

We’ve got two hours to fill before the tour bus will arrive to pick us up and, perusing the menu, we decide that the only reasonable thing to do is to eat as much as we can to pass the time. It takes us a good fifteen minutes to decide on exactly what we’ll have, and in the end we both choose the full English breakfast with lots of side orders, including one of black pudding. We probably won’t eat it, but we’re curious enough to push it around on our plates for a while so we can say we’ve had a cultural food experience.

The two-hour plan doesn’t exactly pull itself off, however, because twenty minutes after the knock on the door and the delivery of the breakfast tray, breakfast is gone. I forget my sad vegetarianism and Jas and I both wolf down our
food as if we’ve never eaten before. When we’re done, only the black pudding, a bacon rind and a toast crust or two remain.

‘I’m so full.’ I lie back on my bed with a groan. ‘Something tells me I’m going to outgrow all my pants on this tour, even if it is only five days long.’

Jas flops onto his bed as well. ‘Good. Outgrow them. You’re too skinny.’

‘Ha!’ I say to the ceiling. ‘Too skinny. That’s a good one. Who said that thing about you can never be too skinny? You can never be too rich or too thin—that’s it.’

‘Probably someone with a large overdraft and a raging case of bulimia. You
are
too skinny. You’ve lost heaps of weight.’

‘I didn’t try. And just remember I don’t work at a café any more. I haven’t got hummingbird cake and white chocolate macadamia blondies staring me in the face all day. In Byron it’s lentil burgers and wheatgrass shots or nothing. Take your pick.’

‘Nothing, thanks. With extra sauce. But what about now? Living with Kath and Mark? Responsible adults and all that. Don’t they cook?’

This really makes me laugh. ‘Let’s say they
try.
I do most of the cooking when I’m around. And if I’m not, I think they live on Lean Cuisine.’

‘Nothing wrong with frozen dinners.’

I turn my head to look at Jas. ‘I didn’t say there
was
anything wrong with frozen dinners. I’m quite partial to the Lean Cuisine vegetable cannelloni myself. Larger serve, of course.’

‘Course.’

‘OK.’ I push myself up with my elbows. ‘Shower. You mind if I go first?’

‘Go for it.’

I have my shower and douse myself with citrus shower gel in the hope that it’ll unfuzz my head. The three cups of coffee helped, but I’m not quite up to speed yet. When I re-emerge—dressed, hair partially dried, slap on and ready to go—Jas is fast asleep.

‘Hey.’ I pat him on the arm and he jumps. ‘Want a shower now? I’m all set, so I’m going out for a quick walk around. We’ve still got another forty-five minutes or so.’

He nods and makes his way into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. ‘Oi! Did an orange explode in here?’ his muffled voice says.

‘See you soon.’ I don’t give him the reply he’s after.

Half an hour later, I’m back. Jas is watching TV. ‘Mission accomplished,’ I say through my full mouth, offering him a white paper bag.

‘Mission?’

‘Pear drops.’

Jas pokes his nose into the bag. ‘Lollies?’

‘They’re not lollies. They’re sweeties,’ I correct him with a proper English accent. ‘Pear drops. Real pear drops. Not like the fake ones we get at home.’

He chooses a yellow one and sticks it into his mouth. Then, just as fast, he reaches over, grabs a tissue and spits it out. ‘Charlie, that’s revolting. Tastes like nail polish remover.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Philistine. They’re an acquired taste. I bet Zamiel wouldn’t spit it out.’

I get a look. ‘Anything tastes good after drinking chicken’s blood. Put them away before they kill somebody.’ Jas checks his watch then. ‘We’ve got to get downstairs.’

He’s right, I think, checking the time.

‘Shit.’

I turn around and look at Jas. He’s rolled over and is now
inspecting his tiny mobile phone. It starts to beep incessantly again. Just like yesterday. ‘More messages?’ I ask.

‘It’s nothing.’ He slams it down on the bedside table as he gets up.

I go over. ‘My—seventy-eight messages today.’

Jas snatches the phone up then. I watch as he turns it off and sticks it on his belt next to something else. A pager. It’s turned off as well.

‘Calm down. Aren’t you going to get your messages again?’

He makes a noise. ‘No point. Know who they’re from. Zed. My manager. Zed the dickhead.’

I make a face. OK. I’ll have to remember that. We don’t much care for Zed. I’m starting to think he’s getting a teensy bit upset about some phone messages from his manager, even if there are seventy-eight of them. Zed must want something. Badly. I go over to finish up packing my bag. ‘Why is he calling you when you’re on holiday? And don’t you want to know what he wants? It might be important.’

‘I know what he wants. Just wish he’d piss off, really.’ Jas runs his hands through his hair.

This makes me pause. Fine. Whatever. This must be the moody rock star stuff I haven’t had a chance to see yet, I think. I decide to ignore it and busy myself scooping up the last few items of mine that are sitting around the room—my book, a packet of tissues. ‘Ready?’ I ask Jas when I’ve zipped up my suitcase.

Jas nods. ‘Sorry. It’s just that it really gets my back up. You don’t know how he is. He’s the most annoying person on earth.’

I give him a quick smile. ‘OK.’ I start to head for the door, suitcase in tow. ‘Enough said. Let’s go.’

‘What’re you doing?’ Jas is still standing beside his bed.

‘Um, going downstairs.’

‘You can’t take your own bag. Not at Brown’s.’

I drop the suitcase like a hot potato.

Jas picks up the phone and calls Reception. After a word or two he puts the phone down again. ‘Now we can go. Come on,
philistine
.’

D
ownstairs, Jas takes a seat on one of the leather couches. ‘Don’t we have to settle the bill?’ I hover beside him.

He waves a hand. ‘All done. While you were out.’

‘Jas…’ I start.

‘What? Not this again. I told you it was my treat.’

I sigh. ‘But not dinner and the phone calls and breakfast and…’

He shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s just money. Don’t worry about it.’ He picks up a copy of
GQ
and starts reading.

I stand there for another second or two. ‘OK. Well, um, thanks.’ I pick up a magazine as well, and go to sit on the couch opposite him. Just money. I shake my head slightly behind my open magazine. I wonder if Jas realises any more how much normal people have to think about ‘just money’ on a daily basis. About ‘just money’ to pay the electricity and the phone, ‘just money’ to buy groceries and fix the car with. It’s the rock star thing again.

Jas puts down his magazine now and gets up from the
couch. He starts pacing around the lobby and I watch him with one eye, the other fixed on my reading material, as he makes his way around the room. He seems agitated. But, like I thought last night, there it is again—he looks so much more sure of himself, so much more self-confident than he used to. There’s just something about him now. Almost like an aura. He glances over at me and I quickly return to my magazine. Half a page into the article I’m reading, I bring my hand up to my mouth as I yawn. God, I’m tired.

I think I spent about half of last night willing myself to go to sleep, but really replaying the day over and over in my mind. The video landing on my head. Meeting up with Jas. Getting to London. OK, so I’m lying. Most of the tiny amount of energy I had left last night was used up trying not to remember Jas’s and my last night in the apartment. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And it’s funny that after all this time I still feel completely stupid about That Night. As if it only happened yesterday. As if I should have known Jas was gay. But, really, how was I supposed to know? After all, he was sleeping with women.
Lots of them.
Slowly, I look up from my magazine to watch Jas again, but he turns my way and I lift the magazine up a little higher, out of his view. I shouldn’t feel stupid about it. I know that. I mean, it’s not as if I could have come out and asked him about his sex life up front. How do you ask that kind of thing? Hey, Jas, mate. Are you gay, or bi, or what? You can hardly ask a prospective flatmate and, well, after that it’s a bit late, isn’t it? You’re kind of supposed to
know
which way someone leans if you’re living with them.

The thought had, of course, crossed my mind in the past couple of years that maybe Jas was bisexual. That would explain everything. The guys I kept seeing with him on TV—because, despite what Jas said, it wasn’t just piglet-face the
media had paired him up with—
and
the girls of the Magnolia Lodge kitchen brigade. And being bi was a fashionable rock star kind of thing to do. To be. It was strange, though, that the media had never picked up on it. Like I said, it was fashionable—it would’ve been a
better
story. Orgies with supermodels, that kind of thing. Right up Zamiel’s alley, really.

God, who knows? And what does it matter, anyway? Either way, it’s got nothing to do with me. Still, when did this all get so complicated? I remember my mother having The Talk with me when I was in primary school. It went something along the lines of ‘When a man and a woman love each other…’ Of course, Mum being Mum, they never got married—they just had babies and lived happily ever after together ‘if that was what everyone wanted’. But it wasn’t as complicated as all this. This is the Snakes and Ladders of sexuality, and something tells me I’ve been left behind on square one.

My eyes flick up at Jas one more time. He’s inspecting the few paintings hanging on the wall and I yawn and think of my lack of sleep again. Maybe I would have got a bit more if he hadn’t wanted to ‘talk’. I still can’t believe he had the guts to bring up our past like that. But Jas must have known I’d kept getting flashes of That Night all day. He must have known I was thinking about it to bring it up like that. After all, I knew instantly what he meant when he said the words ‘we need to talk’. He could have meant anything. And me, of course, I just said the first thing that came to mind—the least embarrassing thing. The thing that would get me out of trouble, out of the whole situation the fastest. That’s why I blurted those words out—‘I don’t feel that way any more’. It was the first thing that came into my mind. But the truth is, I think, watch
ing Jas pace the room…the truth is I don’t know how I feel about Jas at all.

‘Charlotte Notting and Jasper Ash?’ A guy walks towards my couch holding a clipboard. He’s a welcome distraction from my thoughts. I stand up.

‘Charlie,’ I say, shaking the loud Mambo board-shorts and jumper-bedecked guy’s hand.

‘Jas.’ Jas comes over to do the same.

‘Great. I’m Shane. Your tour guide. Right?’

Jas and I both glance at each other and then back at Shane, surprised at his get up and ‘out there’ accent. ‘You’re Australian,’ I say, stating the obvious.

‘Gold Coast, yeah,’ he says, holding both thumbs up. ‘Those your bags?’

The two of us nod dumbly as the doorman, overhearing, comes to take them outside for us.

Shane whistles at this and turns three hundred and sixty degrees, inspecting the hotel. ‘Not exactly roughing it, are you, eh? Come on, then, you’re the last two.’ He heads outside to the waiting bus, gesturing for us to follow.

We wait until our bags have been stowed underneath, then climb on board and take two seats near the middle as the bus pulls out. ‘Right,’ Shane says, up at the front, microphone in hand. ‘That’s everyone, so we’re off—like a bucket of dead jellyfish.’

There’s a chuckle from the passengers at this.

‘Like that one, do ya?’ Shane says. ‘Well, there’s plenty more where that one came from, believe you me.’

I turn to Jas then. ‘I can’t believe I’ve come halfway across the world to see a bit of culture and Shane “bucket of dead jellyfish” man from the Gold Coast is supposed to be pointing it out to me.’

Jas’s eyes widen at this. ‘Culture? Who said anything
about culture? It’s Oktoberfest. It’s all about the beer. Which means he’s probably an expert in his field.’

I hadn’t thought about it like that, but have to admit Jas is probably right.

When I tune back in, Shane’s still talking. ‘Today’s a bit of a killer, travelwise. We’re going to be taking the ferry to Calais from Dover, ripping through France and getting to good old Munich at about one a.m. I’ll fill you in on the details as we scarper.’

‘Great,’ Jas says, rubbing his hands together as he turns to me. ‘Always wanted to rip through France.’

‘Hey, me too.’ I laugh. ‘Lifelong dream.’

Shane pipes up again then. ‘But what we’re going to do now is get to know each other a bit better. Warm fuzzies and all that. I’m going to get everyone to come up to the microphone in turn and say their names and a bit about themselves. I’ll start, eh?’

‘Beer and surfing,’ I say to Jas. ‘I bet you five bucks.’

Jas looks at me as if I’m crazy. ‘Sure. Because I was going to bet on him collecting antique silver teaspoons and entering his pedigree Persian cat, Herr Fluffy, in cat shows.’

I poke my tongue out before turning my attention back to the front of the bus.

‘Like I said, my name’s Shane, and I’m from the Gold Coast, Australia—the best place in the world. Yeah. I like beer—’ there’s a cheer from the tour group when he says this ‘—and surfing and playing the guitar. And chicks, of course.’

Damn, missed one, I think, hoping Jas wasn’t listening too hard.

‘Missed two,’ Jas leans over and says.

Ignore it, ignore it, Charlie, I tell myself, but can’t help it. ‘One.’

‘Missed the chicks as well. That’s two.’

I roll my eyes at him. ‘I thought that went without saying.’

Jas starts to say something, but Shane begins talking again up at the front of the bus. ‘OK, I know where most of youse are from. Here’s to the good old Beer-drinking Society…’

There’s an ear-splitting cheer at this. Everyone on the bus besides us seems to be from the Beer-drinking Society.

‘But there’re also a few of you who are virgins. First-timers. A few new faces around the bus. Guess we’ve all got to start somewhere, don’t we?’

They cheer again.

‘Right. We’ll get started then, from the back. Sweetheart, you’re up.’ Shane points to a girl sitting on the back seat.

Sweetheart? I snort.

Jas and I listen as each person goes up to the front of the bus to take their turn at the microphone. There’s an Irish couple, and a girl and her friend from London, but besides them everyone who gets up to speak seems to be from the Beer-drinking Society of some university in Sydney. I wonder how such a large bunch of students managed to cough up enough money for a trip like this. When I was studying full-time I was lucky if I had enough money to pay for luxuries like textbooks, let alone a trip to Europe.

I look at Jas and he mirrors my surprised expression. And in that one moment that passes between us I’m instantly glad I didn’t have to come on this trip on my own. I can’t see myself getting in with the Beer-drinking Society, and the only other choices would have been gooseberrying with the Irish couple or tagging along with the girls from London, who are probably fine on their own. The third option would have been making friends with Shane which, right now, doesn’t look like much of a possibility. We’d probably go off like a frog in a sock, to put it in his terms.

Eventually it’s my turn. I monkey my way up front, holding onto the tops of the seats one by one as I go.

‘OK, Posh Spice,’ Shane says, passing me the microphone.

I give him a weary sigh as I take it. Obviously this is going to be my new name, thrust upon me because of the hotel I spent the night in, even though I chose it by picking Jas’s left hand rather than his right one. And honestly—Posh Spice? I couldn’t even be mistaken for the girl by a drunk in a dark alley. I am neither dressed in Gucci—instead, I’m wearing the next best thing: a daggy ensemble of my oldest jeans, a black stretch shirt, padded black vest and Birkenstocks—nor immaculately made up, with only a bit of a half-hearted attempt with some tinted moisturiser and a cap to hide my not very well blow-dried hair. But, no. I am now Posh Spice.

Oh, well, better than Nana Mouskouri, I guess.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m Charlie. That’s short for Charlotte, but I hate Charlotte. I’m from Australia—Byron Bay, actually, which the few of you who aren’t from Australia may have heard of. I was given this trip as a present, even though I don’t like beer…’ There’s a whole lot of noise from people at this. Jeers, mainly. I wave my free hand. ‘But I’m willing to learn, so I’m counting on all of you to ease me into drinking it. My friend Jas, who you’ll meet in a minute, couldn’t get me to drink the stuff, not even the wussy one you’re supposed to stick a piece of lemon in, so think of it as a challenge.’ I give the microphone back to Shane.

‘Love ya work, babe,’ he says, with a wink.

I give him a little smile back. Something tells me that five days of Shane is going to be more than enough culture for me.

On my way back up the bus, I meet Jas coming down. ‘Great. Thanks for the intro. Jas the wussy beer-coaching loser,’ he says.

‘No worries.’ I give him a smack on the butt and send him on his way.

I sit down in my seat and listen as Jas takes the microphone. ‘OK. Well, I’m Jasper Ash—Jas, really…’

‘Oh, my God!’ A girl screams at the top of her lungs. Everyone turns to the back of the bus, where she’s sitting, to see what’s going on. It’s one of the London girls. ‘Oh, my God!’ She stands up then, and points right at Jas. ‘It’s Zamiel. Zamiel! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’

Everyone stops gawking at her and stares at Jas instead. There’s complete silence for a minute or two. Except, of course, from the girl up at the back, who’s hyperventilating now. Most people on the bus are moving their eyes from the girl, to Jas, to each other, and back to the girl again, but not me—all my attention is focused on Jas, waiting to see what he’s going to do. As I watch him this weird thing happens—this kind of glazed look comes over his face.

‘What?’ he says, eyeing the screamer.

She doesn’t answer him, but turns to the people near her on the bus instead. ‘It’s Zamiel,’ she says. ‘You know—from Spawn. You’re Zamiel.’ She finally looks back at him.

Jas’s eyes flick over to me for a second and I wonder if I should do something. But what? Strip to create a diversion?

A murmur starts up around the bus that gets louder and louder as time ticks past.

I keep watching Jas. He doesn’t seem to be coping with being spotted particularly well, which surprises me. Doesn’t he have to deal with this kind of thing all the time? I shoot him a ‘what do you want me to do?’ look, and this seems to bring him back to earth. Finally there’s some action. He does a very bad double take when the girl moves her attention to him once more. Ouch. Not quite believable, in my opinion.

‘Zamiel? Spawn? What’re you talking about?’ he says.

The girl pauses, flustered. ‘You’re not Zamiel?’ she asks.

‘Course not.’

‘But you look just like him. And you’re Australian.’

Jas shakes his head. ‘No, I’m not. I’m not Australian. I’m from, er, New Zealand.’

I watch as Shane, privy to our details, gives him the eye.

‘Oh,’ the girl says.

Jas pauses for a moment. ‘People have said that before, though. About the Zamiel thing. Guess I do look a bit like him. I met him once. Part of a lookalike competition. His real name’s…’ Jas glances out the bus window for a second ‘…Fox. Justin Fox.’

Justin Fox? Where’d that come from? Still watching Jas, I notice him take another quick glance out of the bus window. Right where he’d looked before. Just as the bus pulls away from a red light I manage to turn in my seat and check what he’s looking at. It’s a pub. The Fox and Hounds.

‘Justin Fox? Oh. I didn’t know that was his real name.’ And with that the girl sits back down slowly beside her friend, who is obviously not as big a Zamiel fan as she only seems confused by the whole ‘you’re Zamiel’ deal.