The Year Nick McGowan Came to Stay (13 page)

There's nothing quite like a guest going into anaphylactic shock to kill a party.

By ten-fifteen p.m. everyone's gone home. Not that they're too disappointed. They are, after all, armed with the news that ‘Nick McGowan gave Amanda Towers mouth-to-mouth and jammed a massive needle into her thigh.'

When the two ambos ran in they took over from Nick, putting Amanda on a stretcher and asking Nick what he had done.

‘You've done well, mate,' said the younger one, whose name badge said ‘Jay'. ‘Good work.'

But Nick just nodded. We followed them out, gave them Amanda's handbag and the phone number of her parents. And then fourteen cast and crew members from the 1988 production of
Lady Windermere's Fan
stood on the driveway and watched Amanda Towers be taken away in an ambulance. Someone said, ‘Good one, Dr McGowan,' and slapped Nick on the back. Someone else said, ‘Wait till she hears that Nick McGowan pulled down her jeans.' Eventually they all filtered back inside. But Nick, Stacey, Zoë and I just sat there, on the driveway, staring at the road.

On our way home through Kenmore, Nick walks a few metres ahead of Zoë and me, his body language making it clear he doesn't want to talk about the evening's event. Even though the ambos assured him that Amanda would be fine and that she'd probably have an overnight at the Wesley or the Royal Brisbane Hospital just to be safe. She did, after all, have an enormous bruise on her head.

So at ten-thirty p.m. on Friday night the three of us meander down Bielby Road in silence. Well, except for Zoë, who every now and then whacks me in the ribs and whispers, ‘I can't believe you didn't pash him.'

Fiona Curtis is doing Pass the Parcel.

I contemplate this latest information at nine a.m. on Saturday morning as I shove my shorts and T-shirt into one of the lockers and button up my brightly patterned clowny-blouse in front of the crew-room mirror. Then I turn to Vivian Woo and ask her how she knows.

Vivian leans back into the doorway, ankles crossed, and spins her work baseball cap on her finger (something I now consider to be her signature move) and says that Janine Howie told her. And that Janine was working front counter with Fiona yesterday and was standing right there when Fiona asked Simon if it was okay if she used her own Pass the Parcel during the parties. Apparently she'd been in the storeroom and found two boxes of leftover Muppet Babies toys and games from last year's Muppet Babies meal-deal promotion. And she'd used these toys and wrapped up a parcel for her kids.

I must look shocked. Or pissed off. Or both, because Viv looks at me with sympathy and says, ‘I know. And it probably wasn't even her idea. It was probably Mrs Westacott's.' Then she says she has to go. She's on drive-thru and was due to clock on two minutes ago.

I stand there, alone, in the crew-room change room and think about what I've heard. It's ingenious, this idea. Kids
love
Pass the Parcel. And it shits all over my usual games of Tiggy and Red Rover. So now Fiona Curtis is letting the kids make their own sundaes
and
she's playing Pass the Parcel. And her aunt – who happens to be the big boss – is helping her. And what have I got? Nothing. I've got nothing. And for the first time I actually begin to think that Fiona Curtis is going to beat me. And not because she's better, but because she's getting insider help.

I'm going to lose.

I can't lose.

I look at myself in the mirror.

‘Pull yourself together,' I say to my reflection. ‘Put last night out of your mind. Concentrate. You are the most popular clown in this restaurant. You are the person who gets requested for more parties than any other staff member. You are going to win this bloody competition.'

And then I strap on my red nose and march out into the restaurant, ready to give the birthday party of my life.

I'm feeling supremely revved-up and confident until I read my party profile sheet. I've got Brownies. Six eight-year-old Brownies. As I start setting up the party table at the back of the restaurant I try and convince myself that this isn't a bad sign. Even though the last time I did a birthday party for Brownies it was like trying to entertain the Children of the Corn. They squealed. And bickered. And kicked. And the birthday girl, Brianna (an aggressive child who bore a startling resemblance to a bug), actually bit one of her guests during a game of
Tiggy. But what I remember worst of all is that these Brownies refused to call me Rachel. Within the first few minutes they were insisting on giving me an Aboriginal name, like the ones they give their Brownie pack leaders. So for ninety minutes they got to call me Berri Berri or Burri Burri or something. And I got to call them ‘stupid f*%#ing Brownies' (if only in my mind) as I went hoarse asking them to ‘Please stop drawing on the walls.' And then to ‘Please stop throwing pickle at each other.' And finally to ‘Please stop trying to start a camp fire using the bark in the playground.' When, for the twelfth time, Brianna asked me if I knew what my Aboriginal name meant, I guessed ‘clown with a mental illness'.

But that was then and this is now. And there's a title at stake, goddamit.

You can do this
, I keep thinking to myself over and over while I wipe down the tables and blow up the balloons.
Do not be afraid of the Brownies. Do not be afraid of the Brownies
.

And then the Brownies arrive. And I am afraid of them. The birthday girl looks like she could take me. She's a little hefty for eight.

But today's Brownies are not the Brownies of last year. They are polite, non-fire-starting Brownies. The type of Brownies who laugh and giggle and Brownie-clap their way through the entire party. And, as each minute ticks by, I realise that this is quite possibly the best party I have ever done. The kids are ecstatic. The parents are delighted. Nobody poos or goes into a peanut-induced coma. Everything runs like clockwork. Even Simon gives me two thumbs up from the corner of the room where he has been observing since the party began.

At the end of the party, one of the mothers comes up and asks me if she can request me for her daughter's party next month. As I'm wiping some cake off the table, even Simon comes over, pats me on the back and says, ‘Good job.'

But best of all, when I clock off, get changed and walk out of the restaurant, Nick McGowan is sitting on one of the tables outside, eating a burger.

‘Hey.' I try to keep the happiness out of my voice. ‘I hope there was beetroot on that burger.'

He shakes his head in mock disgust. ‘Only two slices – I think I'm gonna have to have a word to your manager.'

‘So, how did it go?' He hops down off the table.

I shrug. ‘It was good, I think. It's hard to tell.'

‘But there was no poo at this one, right?'

‘Right.' We start to walk back home.

‘Amanda's parents rang to thank us. And your parents are shouting us pizza tonight. And they're going to give us both money to go see a movie next week.'

‘I didn't do anything. It was all you, buddy.'

He shrugs. ‘Well, you are second to none when it comes to emptying out a handbag in an emergency.'

I smile.

‘Anyway, Amanda's fine.'

‘God, wasn't it weird. It just all happened so quickly.' I push the pedestrian crossing button at the lights.

‘Yeah.'

‘So, how are you feeling about what happened?' I look to see the traffic slowing down.

‘Don't say it.'

‘What?' I turn to look at Nick but he is staring at the traffic.

‘You're wondering whether giving Amanda Towers mouth-to-mouth would make me want to study Medicine again, aren't you?' He looks at me.

I shrug.

‘Well, it didn't. I mean it was good to, you know, be able to do something. Help her. But . . .' He pauses. ‘The fact is it doesn't always go that way. Let's change the subject.'

And so we do. We talk about all kinds of things on the walk home. All kinds of things not related to people having allergic reactions to chocolate-covered peanuts and having to be stabbed in the thigh with an EpiPen. We discuss why ‘Simon & Simon' is so much better than ‘Magnum PI'. The secret to a good bechamel sauce. Our thoughts on Biol. And as we walk, Nick laughs at my jokes and offers me sips of his Coke. And I'm thinking how great this is, how well Nick and I are getting along. Until he ruins it.

‘You were actually prepared to kiss me, weren't you?'

‘
What
?'

He turns to face me outside the post office on Marshall Lane. ‘In Sally's study last night. The more I think about it, the more I realise you were prepared to go along with it. At the beginning when we first went in the study.'

‘No. I wasn't.' I shake my head, walking away from him, as if this will make me sound and look more convincing.

‘But you said, “Ready when you are,
”
' Nick says, following me, nagging me the way Caitlin used to when she was little. ‘Why would you say that if you weren't thinking I was actually going to kiss you?'

‘Yeah, well, “Ready when you are” as in I was ready to start timing the five minutes. Whenever you were ready. To start timing,' I say over my shoulder. ‘I didn't, don't, want to kiss you. I have a boyfriend.
Remember
?'

‘That's right. The boyfriend I've never seen. So how is Snuffleupagus?'

‘His name is Paul.'

‘How come Snuffy never calls the house? Rings you up? Are you, by any chance, the only one who can see him?'

‘He does come to the house. He has called. He has.'

‘When? When has Snuffy called?'

‘When you've been in the shower. Or outside smoking. And stop calling him Snuffy for godsakes. His name is Paul. And we're going to see the Riptides tonight. Paul shouted me the ticket. Because he's generous.'

This is, of course, a lie. I'm going to the Riptides concert with Zoë.

‘Really? So how long have you and “Paul
”
' – he mimics inverted commas with his fingers – ‘been going out?'

‘Three months.' As I walk up the driveway I start to fumble in my bag for the house keys.

‘Where did you meet him?'

‘Work,' I shoot back. (What?
Ohmygod
!) ‘You know, I don't have to prove to you that I have a boyfriend. It's none of your business.'

‘Well next time Snuffy rings, let me know. I'd like to say hello to him,' he says, as I open the front door. ‘Or maybe I'll just try and catch a glimpse of him tonight when he picks you up. Assuming he's not imaginary, of course.'

‘Fine. And for your information, he's seen now.'

‘Who? Who's seen?' I turn and look at Mum who is walking out of the laundry folding some towels.

‘No one. Nothing.'

‘Snuffleupagus,' says Nick. ‘On “Sesame Street”.'

‘I thought Snuffleupagus was invisible?' asks Mum.

What do either of you know about Snuffleupagus
, I want to scream. But I don't. Of course. Instead, I say, ‘For godsakes, he wasn't invisible. He was real. But Big Bird was the only one who was ever around when he was there. So the others always thought that he was imaginary. But in 1985 everyone started seeing him. Okay?' I look at them both. ‘Can we drop this now, please?'

Mum pulls a face and goes back to folding the laundry. But as I walk off towards my bedroom I hear Nick McGowan humming the ‘Sesame Street' theme song.