Getting Real

When he remembered how she looked that night with the Bogongs, or seducing him in the St Kilda alleyway during the video shoot, he felt nothing but anger with himself for being so taken in by her. She was a fake and an actress and a liar, and he’d known it from the first. The only thing she’d been brutally truthful about was the one thing he’d chosen to conveniently ignore—the fact they didn’t have a future. That she would use him and leave him without a backwards glance.

He was a fool and a sap with a straw heart like she’d once accused him of being. Too angry to forgive her, too craven to forget her and perversely grateful that what happened to Dad prevented him from abandoning all pride and going to her so she could humiliate him all over again.

Talking with Glen felt good. He was full of industry news. The coming tours planned, the gossip on various promoters, the story of how Sharon broke her leg, Jonathan Bennett’s drink-driving charge and court appearance. Jake lapped it up. It was a sudden and welcome distraction from the seriousness of his life now. But when Glen went on to talk about the inside story on Ice Queen’s shock split, Jake shut him down. He’d seen the media stories. He didn’t want the gory details, because it might mean hearing about her and he wasn’t ready for that now—maybe not ever. Rielle was a ragged, hated addiction he fought every day, so proximity to the source of the drug was guaranteed to be bad for his health.

When Glen suggested they meet for a drink, he fobbed him off. Three or four beers in he knew he’d be asking for news of her and then drinking til he could obliterate the memories again.

Two days later, when he was up a ladder fitting the lighting grid for an office development, Glen rang again. He and Bodge would meet him at the Three Drunk Monkeys and Glen wasn’t taking no for an answer.

He met them in the front bar and they caught up on news of his dad and the crew, discussed new bands touring and how the groupies were getting younger and younger. In the back bar, a singer was setting up, a girl with an acoustic guitar. They talked about Glen’s coming tour and Bodge’s kids, and the singer started up. She had a decent crowd. Jake wondered who she was. Someone starting at the bottom. Probably staying there too, like hundreds of others before her, despite having obvious talent. Bodge suggested they move inside and check her out, professionally speaking.

They went into the crowded back bar, stood with their beers, listened to the singer and watched the punters with practised eyes, assessing the impact of the songs and the performance. It was an occupational hazard.

Jake couldn’t see her from where he stood but for an occasional glimmer of blonde hair, but after a couple of songs he was keen to match the voice with a face. It was somehow familiar, but he couldn’t think where he’d heard a sound like this before. It was whimsical, indie, not obviously commercial, but fresh. The singer’s voice was raw and achy, cut with emotion, sexy as all fuck. It got to him. Kicking up feelings he’d tried to cut out of his head and his heart. He had to look at her. Not an option, an imperative.

He took his beer and moved closer to the stage, and when the singer lifted her head to sing a long low note, he felt a quick flash of hot rage flare inside him. Christ!

He turned back to look for Glen and Bodge but the bastards had left him there. They’d set this up and he’d walked straight into it.

He downed his beer. He needed its courage. He retreated to the edge of the room out of her direct line of sight. What was she doing here? He should clear out while he had the chance, but just the sight of her, the real Rielle, his Arielle—freckled face, gap teeth, blonde and pretty, wearing fitted jeans and a simple white t-shirt—trapped him inside the room. His hands shook. His eyes burned. His jaw was wired shut. His addiction was raging.

She sang a last song, got warm applause and the room started to empty. The jukebox filled the silence, Gotye and Kimbra singing Somebody That I Used to Know. The lyrics crashed through the confusion in Jake’s head, solidifying his thoughts. He didn’t need Rielle, but he didn’t deserve the way she’d treated him either.

He waited until the crowd cleared and she’d started packing her gear away. He walked up to the edge of the small riser used as a stage, planted his feet, crossed his arms and watched her. She was so beautiful like this—real, vulnerable, lovely. Fucked if that meant anything. Beauty hid the bitch.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Rielle saw a man approach the stage. She knew he was watching her. He looked like he’d dug himself in the beer stained carpet waiting to grow. There was something vaguely familiar about that stance. She glanced up carefully and her next breath choked her. What was he doing here? Bodge, bastard! Sold her out. Fuck! This was a train-wreck.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, his voice hard-edged and loud.

She coughed, swallowed with effort. “I guess I was for a while.”

He uprooted and walked forward. “Why? Why the fuck you have to cut out on me like that? What did I do to make you treat me like I was nothing?”

Jake was shouting and the barman looked up, catching Rielle’s eye. “You okay, love?”

“Fine, Dave,” she called. She looked back to Jake, not sure how to manage the anger vibrating out of him, wanting to touch him, but worried he’d shake her off. She managed to say, “I’m sorry,” and heard how outrageously simple and inadequate that those two words were.

“You’re sorry. You’re sorry. What’s the point of being sorry? You couldn’t have answered a call or sent me a message? You couldn’t have said, ‘hey, good to hook-up, have a nice life’?”

Rielle searched Jake’s face for any sign of the infinitely patient man she’d known. All she could find was hostility and aggression. She dropped her head. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Why the fuck not?” His rage was so intense it was burning the platform under her feet. Any minute now she’d fall through the plywood stage.

“Because I was broken and I couldn’t be what you wanted.” She believed that. He need to understand it too. “If I talked to you I’d forget it and I’d hurt you more.”

“How did you fucking know what I wanted?”

“You told me you wanted me whole before you fell in love with me. And when you did, you settled for half: half of me, half the story, half of what you deserved. One day you were going to wake up and hate me for that, for being a fake and a liar. So I had to go, had to push you away. Don’t you get that?”

He stared at her, uncomprehendingly. “I loved all of you.”

Rielle shook her head. “I wouldn’t let you. You only had part of me.”

It was true. Jake loved all she’d shown him, but she’d only given him parts, selections, edited highlights, and yet he’d been willing to live with that. He surveyed her body, a critical appraisal, like she was a piece of steak he might pick to grill on an open flame. She felt small, so small and without hope.

“So, who are you now? Is there a new name to go with the new look?”

“I’m just me, Jake. Arielle, Rielle, Rie, all the same person now.”