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On the first of May, an email from Mark:

Pee-Wee, How’re things? How’s the new library? I’m staying another two weeks, should be back on the seventeenth. Hope you’re looking after yourself. M

He didn’t say: hope you don’t mind, or bad news. So I don’t care he’s away longer. I can’t say I’m happy but I’m not unhappy. I’m working. Checking emails. I get hundreds a day. Updating, subscribing, indexing. I’m dragging myself through the day to the time I can be with BJ. I’ve stopped wearing my watch. I was looking at it too often. The library relocation has gone better than I envisaged. I project-managed every wrinkle out of it and I’m feeling surplus. Maybe I should stand outside the goods lift and see if someone wants to find me a new home.

I’ve stayed at BJ’s place the last five nights. I take the tram in to work from Northcote, it’s a faster trip and a different view. I’ve been home to rotate my clothes, check the mail, feed Mrs Dalloway, empty her litter tray.

It’s a long time since I’ve walked around town for no reason. And it’s forever since I’ve been up the Russell Street end.

‘Who is your best friend?’

‘Loz. We’ve known each other since Year Ten and we’ve been living with each other for three years. She’s funny, honest and I can borrow her clothes. And Justine. We ride on Sundays—if she’s not writing or hanging out with her sister. Who’s yours?’

‘Taylor. You met her at the cafe. Her first name is Imelda, but nobody calls her that, for obvious reasons. We met at preschool when she pushed Jason Tanner out of the way to get into the sandpit first. I admired her for it and followed her in. I’ve been admiring her ever since.’

‘When did you last speak to her?’

It’s easy for BJ to see I haven’t been talking to my friends.

‘I texted her last week.’

‘Texting is not speaking, is it?’

‘I look upon it as the busy person’s thinking of you, kind of thing.’

‘Really,’ BJ says. We’re walking close to the side of the road, holding hands, and BJ is balancing on the gutter. ‘I look on it as a CBF talking to you properly, kind of thing.’

‘I can imagine the conversation: Hi Peta, what have you been up to? Taylor, there’s no easy way to say this, don’t hate me, I’m seeing someone and she’s a girl. Not that she’d be surprised after that breakfast.’

We’re on the corner of Bourke and Russell and I’m trying to figure out what the sculpture is. Ruby reckons it’s an old-fashioned toilet. I say it’s Gulliver’s bronze pipe and we’re all Lilliputians. I like it. It’s Melbourne: peculiar, idiosyncratic, brought in from somewhere else.

BJ lets go of my hand.

‘What do you reckon it is?’ I nod at the pipe-thing.

‘It’s a complete lack of understanding. You only want to be with me if there is nobody around. You’re ashamed. And not of going behind Mark’s back, but that you’re going there with a girl.’

‘I was talking about the sculpture.’

I reclaim her hand. She tries to let go but I won’t let her.

‘Who gives a fuck what it is? It’s a stupid arse piece of junk that takes up parking spots and has idiots stupefied on street corners.’

‘Okay, what did I do?’

‘Peta, we are not going to get anywhere while I’m your best-kept secret. We’re not going to know what we have while skulking about hiding from the people you love.’

‘You are not a secret. Ruby knows about you—she saw us kissing and I had to explain myself—and you’ve met Keith. I’m holding hands with a girl on one of the busiest streets in Melbourne. I’m not afraid of it. I’m letting people in on you incrementally, that’s all.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’

We cross the road.

‘Let’s come back later and make it on that earphone thing,’ BJ says.

‘Taylor’s pretty suburban. All of my friends are. She might not like it.’

‘Do you like everything she does?’

‘Of course not. Her husband is creepy. And her kitchen, God, it’s over the top. And she has way too many mirrors in her house. She says it gives the illusion of space.’

‘Maybe it’s so she can see herself and what’s-his-name fucking in the laundry.’

‘You are as bad as Ruby.’

‘So I’m told.’

I angle my phone out of my bag. ‘Let’s see if Ruby wants to catch up tonight.’

‘But,’ she points, forlorn, ‘the pipe.’

‘There are surveillance cameras all over the place.’

‘Sounds good,’ BJ says. ‘YouTube of us on Gulliver’s pipe, it’ll get more hits than any AFL footballer caught with his pants down. You could be outed on the web and not need to tell Mark yourself.’

Even on Sunday night Brunswick Street is happening. Usually, I’m in bed early, my weekend list ticked off, my Monday list written. It’s BJ. She’s young, unconcerned. If some of it rubs off, that’s okay with me.

Ruby’s sitting on the other side of me, away from BJ. I’m in the middle and feeling it. The waitress arrives with our pizzas.

‘Vegetarian?’

‘That must be yours, BJ,’ Ruby leans forward, elbow on the table. ‘How did I know you were a vegetarian?’

‘She’s a weeknight meat-eater and weekend vegetarian, actually. Not that we should feel the need to classify.’

‘What have you got?’ BJ says. ‘Meat-lover’s? All meat and no tact?’

‘Well, this is going nicely,’ I say.

BJ squeezes a twenty-dollar note out of her hip pocket. ‘I’m getting a drink, anybody want one? My shout.’

‘Heineken. Thanks,’ Ruby says.

‘I’ll have a Stella, please, BJ.’

The bar is across the room. I watch her order. BJ will talk to anyone. The bloke next to her bursts into laughter and slaps her on the back, almost tipping her over. How does she do it? Will she be able to bring Ruby round?

‘Listen,’ my head is close to Ruby’s, ‘can you give her a chance? If I had known you were going to be so obnoxious…’

The angle of BJ’s hips, a cowboy in a saloon. Can she see me in the mirror above the bar, the way cowboys in the movies watch their backs? She winks and my mouth goes dry.

‘What if you leave Mark to be with BJ, only to find out it’s a bad fit? What if you miss him? The sex? What if you like cock after all?’

‘Ruby! It’s more than that. Anyway, Mark has to stay in Chicago another two weeks. That’ll be a month. He’s married to that firm, Rube. And I’m in lust with BJ. What she knows about me without me having to ask… and I’m not just talking about in bed. She gets me. I think I love her.’

‘Well, that happened sitcom-fast, didn’t it?’

Do I really love BJ? Is that why this accident is so hard to walk away from?

‘Does she know?’

‘Not yet. Here she comes.’

BJ sits next to me, slips a hand onto my leg, holds up her glass. ‘To new friends.’

‘To Chicago,’ I say.

‘You two are revelling in his being away, aren’t you?’

‘Why not, Ruby? I’m finding out.’

‘To finding out.’ BJ’s glass is up for another toast.

‘To duplicity.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Peta.’

‘Ruby, you’ve been there.’

‘And I’ve been on the other side.’ She’s sitting up straighter, prim.

When Ruby folds her arms it’s uphill going.

‘You’ve been on our side more than the other side. You’ve been the other woman so many times I’m surprised you know whose woman you are.’

‘I’m my woman, Peta.’ She sets her drink on the table, and points. ‘I’m just telling you, you’re married and this ain’t going to go anywhere good.’

‘Ah, but the getting there.’

‘To the getting there.’

‘I need another one. You two?’

‘Same again, please, Ruby.’

‘Ditto. Thanks.’

Ruby at the bar, I relax.

‘So, she’s a bit of a hard case, your sister.’ BJ’s head is on my shoulder.

‘She has a better sense of what we’re up against than I do.’

‘She seems very protective of your husband.’

‘She likes him. And she likes the idea of me and him. Sometimes I think she likes the idea of her and him.’

‘She wants him?’

‘No, she just wants someone like him.’

‘I’ll win her over. Everybody loves me.’

‘God, where did you come from? Come here.’

‘Hello? Remember me? You wanna get a room?’

Three beers on the table.

‘To sisters,’ I say.

‘To suck-ups,’ BJ says.

‘To never saying you’re sorry.’

‘What?’

‘I had a Barbra Streisand marathon last week,’ Ruby says.
‘What’s Up, Doc?, Funny Girl, On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.’

‘I love Streisand,’ BJ says.
‘What’s Up, Doc?
is my favourite.’

‘Bullshit. You’re too young.’

If anyone can unite them it is Barbra. I pretend to drink my second beer and a friendship unfolds over Streisand. They argue about who had the best lines, was Streisand’s nose instrumental in her career, did Ryan O’Neal do anything better? I stay out of it. I like Barbra, have seen the movie, but I don’t know it from credits to titles like BJ and Ruby. Ruby has the DVD of
What’s Up, Doc?

Gulliver’s pipe can wait.

YouTube can wait.

Ruby is on her feet.
What’s Up, Doc?
cannot wait.

Last night BJ picked me up after work. We went for a drive. She showed me The Boulevard in Kew, said it was a cycling mecca, the curves, the gradients, not a lot of four-wheeled traffic. In the dark it was hard to see what she was talking about. We pulled over and ate our fish and chips, Melbourne illuminated ahead of us.

When we got home there was no sign of Loz so we spread out in the lounge room and watched
Shaun of the Dead.
BJ is into zombies. She and Mark would get along if this was another life.

This morning we’re in the bathroom, BJ is at the basin, dressed and doing her hair. I’m in the bath. My head is under the water. I hear nothing but the bass sound of BJ’s steps, the plink, plink, plink of the water, then talking, warbled, like the spooky voices of the adults in the Snoopy cartoons.

I lift my head out of the water.

Loz is talking to BJ through the door.

‘BJ, she’s married.’

‘Shut up, Loz. We’re having fun. Anyway, she’s gorgeous.’

I sink back into the water up to my chin, leave my ears out.

‘Bullshit, BJ. When she’s not here you check your phone fifty times a day.’

‘So?’

BJ’s repartee isn’t always witty.

‘You haven’t looked at anyone the way you look at her, since Serena. And you never let anybody stay the night. What happens when she decides to go back to what’s-his-name?’

Who is Serena?

‘Loz, it’s okay. Isn’t it, Pete?’

‘Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Peta. BJ, you are a bitch.’

‘And you are not my mother, Loz.’ BJ’s getting out of her clothes. ‘Move up.’

‘I thought you were going,’ I say.

‘Tuesdays are always slow, they won’t mind if I’m a bit late.’

I sit up a bit. She steps into the bath, turns the hot tap on. I don’t tell her it won’t work. The bath won’t feel any hotter unless we get out while the tap is running and get back in once it’s ready.

‘Who is Serena?’

‘Just a girl.’

As if that’s going to do. This is the first time BJ has been evasive with me. She sounds like me. Yuck. I try from another angle.

‘You’ve never let anyone stay?’

‘Nah, can’t be bothered.’

Laconic is getting old this morning.

‘Right. I’m not going to run off. I’ll sort it out. We’re fine.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘Can I wash your back?’

I turn around. Her hands slide up and down my back- bone, slippery, she’s writing soapy words on my back, wants me to guess them. C…U…N…

I was having fun.

Now I’m late for work.

You know you love someone when they give you the shits.

‘Where’s BJ tonight?’ Ruby is cooking. She’s happiest when she’s in the kitchen. She’s often saddest and most stressed in the kitchen, too. She cooks for stress relief, to feel better, to soothe anger. When I’m stressed I oil hinges, tighten screws, replace washers. Since the couch, nothing rattles, squeaks or drips at my house.

‘She doesn’t stay here. I made her an Excel timetable and Thursday is a study night. She says with me on the case she’ll get the marks she needs to keep going. She wants to stay on and teach Classics, you know, pass the torch. She says I’ve been good for her career.’

‘That’s good.’ Ruby opens the oven, slides in a tray of baby beetroot, closes the door. ‘She’s been good for your bad-girl image. Well, you never had one.’

Opinions and Ruby go together like Lygon Street and hotted-up cars and she can say whatever she wants when she’s cooking for me.

‘I’ve done plenty of bad stuff, Rube.’

‘Like what?’

‘Sometimes I take the last Tim Tam and don’t throw the packet out.’

‘Shock horror. When are you telling Mark about BJ?’

Trimming the beans like Ruby showed me. ‘Why are you so keen for him to know?’

‘Because it’s the right thing. Can you set the table?’

I’m using the good stuff tonight. The kitchen window is foggy, the barramundi is hissing in the pan and the roasting beetroot smells incredible. The wedding silver. Mum’s plates used to be her mum’s plates. Ready.

‘Rube, the idea of life with somebody else is another country. New customs, new language. I’d have to find a new favourite everything. I’m not explaining it well.’

‘You are, Pete. You’re scared because it might not work out.’

‘BJ and me? Course we’d work out. We fit.’

‘And Mark and you don’t fit? Stopped fitting?’

‘Yes. Like when you take a book off the shelf, and the remaining books assume the space, and you go to replace it, and you can’t. It was snug before, now it’s lost its spot.’

Ruby serves, covers the leftovers with foil, sits. ‘Mark is a book, you’re a book, she’s a book. BJ’s not the only one who gets you. I get you, too. You are off your nut. Let’s eat.’

Thursday night, five weeks since the couch, I wait until BJ’s in the kitchen to make my move. She’s getting tea and it won’t take her long. Cups clinking, fridge opening, gotta be quick. I rifle through the bag. Noisier than you’d think. I turn the music up to cover the sound.

‘Why so loud?’

‘I love this song.’

‘You do?’

I wasn’t paying attention. She’s going to think I like Nickelback.

Back to the bag. I’ve got the E and the V, and I have one of the O’s. I can use the L that’s on the board. Got to swap four of the letters. Fumble. Arms tingling. Hurry. Snap. The kitchen light is off. Got them. I drop the bag back on the table. Hope it looks untouched. Pretend I’m reading the
Nature
magazine I have open beside me on the couch.

‘I believe it was my turn,’ I say.

‘Sure.’ She’s looking at her letters, trying for a swear word no doubt.

Make my word.

ILOVEYOU

Clear my throat. Wait for her reaction. Hope it’s a good one.

She reads it. Grins.

‘That’s three words.’

‘Yeah, but…’

‘Well, then I could have had cunteyes.’

‘No, you were trying it with a K.’

My voice is shaking; it’s louder than I want it to be, wobbly. Have I said it too early? Does she not feel the same?

She sweeps the board off the table.

‘Bugger Scrabble.’ She pushes me down onto the couch. The leather squeaks. The music is still up, too loud for that idiot singing about being a hero.

‘I love you too, Pete.’

She loves me. Now look who can’t stop smiling.