Sing it, Sam Page 4

  I swallow down the excess saliva in my mouth. My writing is speaking the language of love to my tastebuds. Bloody hell. Didn’t I get enough of a sugar high from the Tim Tams?

  I look over my notes, but slump in defeat.

  I’ve described two-dimensional characters. That’s what they are. Cardboard. What’s to love about them? How do I get their first meet to really leap off the page?

  So why is Brandon single? Why is this bachelor so mysterious, and why is it that he decides to let Jane in?

  Um, I mean Ally.

  Bloody hell.

  And Ally. What’s her story? Why has she been so unlucky in love?

  I pretend for a moment that she isn’t as tragically unlucky as me. Maybe she had a great love and then lost him. Maybe that’s why she moved to Mount Plenty. She’s here for a change of scenery.

  Or … Ally is on the run. Did she flee from an abusive relationship? Maybe she accidentally killed her ex-lover?

  No. No. No.

  That won’t work. How can a reader connect with a murderer? How can I expect them to excuse her for murder and then root for her when it comes to her dating the town’s most eligible bachelor?

  Nope. No murder.

  I think an overbearing and slightly loopy ex-boyfriend will do the trick. I’ll add in a dash of possessiveness and a scar on his face somewhere. I’ll base him on my ex, Jarrod.

  I wash my teacup and pour myself a glass of red wine. With my hands set on the keyboard, I try and imagine Brandon and Ally meeting for the first time. Will it be Brandon’s love of sugar that brings him to the van? Ooh, maybe Brandon has a young daughter who has a sweet tooth. Yes! That’ll certainly add to the mystery. Where is the mother of his child? Ignoring the fact that I have another character to name, I try to focus.

  Chapter Six

  Walking down Main Street on Saturday evening in full costume wasn’t the best idea. I’ve been tooted at three times within the space of a few minutes. Each beep I swear takes weeks off my life. I guarantee the blush on my cheeks is as red as my cape.

  Given I live only a kilometre away from the community hall, and I plan to have a few drinks, walking is the best option.

  It doesn’t take long before the small community hall is full. There are hordes of people from local businesses that have supported the event as well as people I went to school with. Even though my parents aren’t here, I’m a daughter of this town. There’s barely a face I don’t recognise.

  Almost everyone has taken the superhero theme and rolled with it. As much as I thought I would stand out like a sore thumb, I don’t. The band of four men on stage, who appear to be in their forties or fifties, are playing “Jesse’s Girl”. The singer isn’t really my taste, a little old for me, but the guitarist is the standout of the group.

  A circle of five girls move around the dance floor, occasionally breaking contact with each other to eye off the crowd, no doubt on the hunt for eligible bachelors. You won’t have any luck around here, girls. Not unless you want a desperate toothless farmer who is looking for a cook and a maid rather than a partner-in-crime.

  I stroll up to the long trestle table at the side of the entrance, which has tubs of ice filled with stubbies of beer and an assortment of champagne and wine.

  “Glass of punch, Jane?” Mrs Campbell, my year-twelve teacher, asks, pointing to the old-fashioned crystal bowl at the far end of the table. “Family recipe.”

  What a turn this is. Now retired, Mrs C manned the table at our graduation, making doubly sure that only those that were over eighteen partook in the alcoholic beverages.

  I take a look at the fruity concoction which is filled with cut strawberries, mint, cucumbers, and sliced lemon and orange. The liquid is a light amber colour, which leads me to believe it’s a Pimm’s-style punch.

  “Need to see my ID first?” I ask, tongue in cheek.

  She laughs softly, reaches out, and touches my shoulder. “Not necessary. You are Wonder Woman, after all. Let me fix you a glass.”

  I pay her and take my plastic wine cup filled to the brim, and scan the room, soon finding the girls at a table with six chairs. Each of them sips on a glass of bubbles with the attention on Leonie.

  “Hey girls,” I say, drawing them all out of conversation.

  Hannah turns in her chair, also dressed as Wonder Woman. “Hey, Jane. I almost didn’t recognise you with the wig!”

  Looking in the mirror before I left home, I had noticed how the dark wig made my face look much paler compared to my normal golden-brown locks.

  “Same here,” I say looking over her made-up face. With brows like hers, she looks incredible. She’s straightened her frizzy brown hair into a long, smooth style, curled slightly at the ends, similar to my wig. She looks a lot more put-together than she was the other day. “I probably should have mentioned the outfit I was going to wear.”

  “I guess we all should’ve messaged each other,” Hannah says. “Oh well, who cares? It’s about the hospital anyway. Besides, this town needs more Wonder Women.”

  “You look great,” Leonie says, toying at the strap around her neck which fastens a black hooded cape. She has a black tank top on underneath, matching leggings, and a gold belt which cinches her waist. The hood frames her made-up face, and her lips are painted black. She looks hot, no doubt about it, but I have no idea who she is.

  “Who are you?” I ask Leonie. As I take a seat, my red plastic boots squeak and rub up against the chair leg.

  “Raven,” she says and smiles.

  “Oh,” I say, like I know who she is. “Awesome. You look great.”

  “Before you ask, I’m Storm from X-Men,” Britt says, touching her fair hair which is piled high on top of her head, almost like a groomed Mohawk. It’s fairer than normal, as if she’s sprayed white hair colour on it. From what I can see of her from behind the table, a black bustier top hugs her slim body, and she’s wearing silver fabric guards on each of her forearms like the gold ones I’m wearing. Just like Hannah, she looks so different to last time. She looks like a fierce woman no one would want to mess with.

  Janice isn’t in costume. Her hair isn’t as tamed as it was last time. She’s in another cardigan, this one a pale green. The collar of a light pink shirt pokes out around her neck. Whilst it’s disappointing she hasn’t dressed up, it’s not surprising.

  When she glares at me, I realise I’m staring. “Hi, Janice—”

  “Before you ask, I didn’t have time. I’m knee-deep in edits. I really shouldn’t even be here. I have so much work to do.” She knocks back the last of her drink and checks her watch, mouthing something to herself as if counting how much time she’s wasting.

  “Well, there’s bubbles and punch here. Nice to take a break?” I squeak, hoping that puts a smile on her face.

  It doesn’t.

  Maybe she should have stayed home. She won’t have much fun with that attitude.

  “Great turnout,” Leonie says and smiles.

  “Yeah it is,” I reply, looking around at the different versions of Spiderman and the Hulk. I take a sip of punch, the fruitiness rolling around my mouth. This is gonna be way too easy to drink. I chew on a strawberry, but my mouth stalls when I spy him across the room.

  Mr Fantastic Forearms.

  He’s slowly sipping a bottle of beer, scanning the room. Although I’m sure he would look fantastic in a Superman or Batman costume, the plain white shirt rolled up to his elbows and the black slacks are just as impressive. An old-fashioned black and brown camera dangles from the strap around his neck.

  “Excuse me, girls. I have to go say hi to someone.”

  The girls twist in their seats, following the direction of my gaze. “Ooh, nice,” Leonie says and nods. “He’s a bit of alright. Good bit of writing inspiration right there if you ask me.”

  “Shush,” I say and play-punch her in the shoulder. “I know him through work.”

  Drink in hand, I make my way across the room, trying to calm the rising blush prickling at
my cheeks. I sidle up next to Ben and bump my elbow against his. He swings his head around looking slightly shocked, as if I’ve dragged him out of deep thought.

  “Let me guess. Clark Kent with a dye job?” I ask.

  He pushes the fake dark glasses further up his nose and regards me. “Ha, yeah, I drew the line at putting boot polish in my hair,” he says with a smirk.

  I swish the fake dark brown locks over my shoulder.

  “Oh,” he says, pointing a finger at me as realisation must set in. “It’s Jane, right?”

  “Usually, yes. Wonder Woman tonight though. What brings you here tonight, Clark?”

  He shifts from foot to foot and looks around. Who for, I have no idea. He leans in. “Your boss, Mrs Peters, twisted my arm. When I told her I was planning on visiting Sam this weekend, she insisted I be here. I guess I do owe her a favour or two.”

  Suddenly I wish I worked weekends.

  He takes a swig of his beer, his Adam’s apple rolling up and down as he swallows. Don’t stare.

  “Where did you travel from?” I ask.

  “Western suburbs of Sydney.”

  “Hmm. That’s a fair drive.”

  His broad shoulders bounce up and down as he shrugs. “I don’t mind the road. It’s only a few hours.”

  “What do you do there? Are you a police officer?”

  He takes another swig from the brown bottle. “Nah, I operate cranes. The sheriff is a nickname.”

  Huh. I would have picked him more for a farmer or something. He certainly dresses like a country boy.

  If he’s working cranes, he must work on some big building sites. When I think about Sydney and the more developed areas, one thing that stands out to me is the shape of a crane protruding into the sky every few blocks. “Do you like your job?”

  “It pays the bills,” he says, and gives me a fleeting smile. Doesn’t sound like he loves his job.

  I take a sip of my drink. “So, did you see Sam today?”

  “Nah, I’ve not long arrived in town. I’ll see him in the morning about some stuff and then head back home.”

  What kind of ‘stuff’ is he referring to? I’d love to ask, but I guess I should keep out of it.

  “Anyway, how’s he doing? Do you two have much contact in your role?”

  “I guess he’s okay. He doesn’t venture out of his room much.”

  Ben shakes his head. “Bloody hell. He probably stays in there to spite me.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Ever since he was little, he was an opposites boy. He’d do the complete opposite to what he was supposed to. Maybe I should’ve told him to stay in his room. Keep to himself.”

  “He might not always do the opposite. He did apologise for the other week.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?”

  “In his own way,” I add, pulling my lower lip into my mouth.

  A grin curls at the sides of his lips. “Of course, in his own way. That kid only does things his own way. He’s a stubborn prick sometimes.”

  “Well, I can understand that. It can’t be easy for him living in a home.”

  Silence stretches between us. I take a mouthful of punch. And then another.

  “Tell me. How does a pretty girl like you end up working in a nursing home?” Ben asks.

  He called me pretty. Oh boy. I try to ward off the blush rising to my cheeks with the power of my mind. On second thoughts, I shouldn’t fight it. I’ll probably end up looking constipated or something. “Is it so hard to believe that I wanted to work there?”

  “I guess not. But it’s not something I’d volunteer for.”

  “Well, it helps me pay rent and all that too, so that’s a bonus.”

  “Hello there, handsome,” a squeaky voice calls from behind Ben.

  He turns to face a girl in a bright aqua and pink floral dress with equally as brilliant pink lipstick and nails. Kara has really gone all-out with her outfit tonight. It’s a far cry from the usual workwear my old school friend wears when she’s hay-bailing with her dad.

  “Hi, Kara,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s transfixed on Ben.

  “Hi there,” Ben says in a deep voice. I swear his tone is capable of melting panties in Willow Creek and beyond.

  “Dance?” she asks, curling her arm around his and dragging him towards the makeshift dance floor before he has time to answer.

  He turns his head towards me, and drags his feet as he follows Kara. “I don’t dance,” he mouths to me.

  “You do now,” I say through a chuckle.

  Fantastic Forearms doesn’t have as much rhythm as you’d expect, but I guess he’s trying. Either that or he’s trying to keep up the awkward Clark Kent charade. It makes him more adorable.

  I head back to the bar and order five glasses of bubbles, and carry them on a tray over to the girls. When I reach the group, Janice is missing.

  I place the drink tray on the edge of the table. “My shout, girls. I just wanted to say thanks for being so welcoming.” I take each glass and one by one, place a drink in front of Britt, Hannah, and Leonie.

  “Aw, thanks. I’m glad to have someone new in the group,” Britt says. “I’m all about sharing the journey.”

  “Yeah,” Leonie says and winks. “Welcome aboard, literary sister.”

  “Thank you.” I place the last glass of bubbles on the edge of the table where Janice was sitting. “Where’s Janice?”

  “She left. She was shitting me anyway,” Hannah says and sculls down the rest of her drink. She swoops up the glass I’ve placed in front of her. “She needs to learn to relax.”

  “I think we need a cheers,” Britt says, raising her plastic glass.

  “Yes!” Leonie shouts, swaying in her seat. Four plastic cups filled with bubbles meet in the middle of the table.

  Before I know it, we’re toasting a second time and then a third. I hate to admit it, but the inclusion of alcohol is helping bring us closer together … or maybe it’s the fact that we aren’t just focused on writing, but rather, getting to know each other. We talk about exes and about love found and lost. Britt opens up about losing her husband to cancer before brushing it off to talk about aromatherapy. As much as I’m curious about her husband and how she’s coped with the loss, I engage with her when she talks about the health benefits of essential oils. I get the feeling that talking about him is still raw for her.

  “Come on, Clarky,” I hear a voice whine in the distance. All of our heads swing towards the dance floor. He’s still out there? Wow. He obliged her all this time?

  “Sorry, Kara, duty calls,” Ben says, lifting up her hand and planting a kiss on the top of her knuckles.

  He makes a quick exit out of the hall, favouring his right foot along the way.

  Chapter Seven

  My grand plan of words for the week fails dismally. Every time I open up my laptop, the internet coaxes me in. On the work front, apart from organising the flower-arranging class for later today, it’s been cruisy. Monday through Thursday I’ve tried to check in on Sam, but each time he’s been asleep, and lunchtime today is no exception.

  As I sign out a visitor, voices whisper at the back of the office.

  “That young man is cranky as hell today,” Paige says under her breath to Kathleen. “He didn’t want me to help him get dressed this morning. He barely touched his soup at lunch. He just wanted stronger pain meds and to be left alone.” She shakes her head from side to side and puts her hands on her hips. She must be talking about Sam.

  “The physiotherapy has been a bit intensive of late,” Kathleen says, picking up a chart and reading it, running her finger down the paper.

  Paige tightens the grey hair of her short ponytail and smooths her hands down the front of her white uniform. “No more than normal. I think he makes matters worse because he just sits around. Too much time to focus on his pain. I’ve encouraged him to read something or watch TV—anything to occupy his mind. Can you believe the kid doesn’t like to watch TV?”
<
br />   “Sam doesn’t watch TV?” I ask, drawing the attention of the two women.

  “He doesn’t like to do anything, dear,” Kathleen says and sighs.

  My heart aches at the thought. Someone so young, trapped. Physically, and in his mind. Maybe he’d like to read. I have heaps of books at home I can bring in. Even if Sam doesn’t want them, I’ve seen Shirley from room twenty-six devour a book every few days. She barely moves from the easy chair in the dining hall during daylight hours.

  I glance at the clock on the wall. 2:20p.m. I’ve got ten minutes before the class begins. I need to go see him. Maybe someone his age will be able to connect with him. I want to be able to do that. With that thought, I tuck in my chair, and prepare to excuse myself.

  “Oh, by the way. Mrs Ferguson is in the hall, eager to start,” Kathleen says. “I said I’d send you straight there.”

  Gah! I’ll have to check on Sam after.

  I shut down my computer. “No problems. I’ll head there now.”

  ***

  After two hours, I’ve had it with flower arranging. Whilst it was fun at first, thanks to arthritis issues with most of the residents I ended up doing most of the work. Not for Beatrice Ferguson, though. That woman wanted to do it all on her own, and the smile on her face at the end of class was priceless. Kathleen came in and took photos partway through, so it’ll be nice to check them out later.

  After cleaning up, I decide to visit Sam. Ivy is ceremoniously draped down either side of my face, courtesy of the headpiece Beatrice insisted I wear for the rest of the day. It’s as if I have on a wig of ivy rather than a crown of flowers. On the way to his room, I grab a couple of worn novels from the bookshelf in the dining hall.

  I find Sam flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. Probably focusing on his pain, as Paige said. He doesn’t budge an inch as I step into his room. I place the books on the foot of his bed and then lean over him. A strand of ivy falls loose and lands on his chin.