‘Happy Sydney Olympics,’ she said.
Dan smiled but said nothing.
‘I’m doing health sciences,’ Mila continued. ‘I’m in second year.’
‘Same here.’
Then Mila mentioned some people she thought he might know, and he had to keep saying sorry, he didn’t know them. Her eyes narrowed. She looked like a mouse again.
The air had gone dead between them once more. Mila’s skirt, ruby red, was riding up her thigh and her skin there was pale. Would Bennie touch her now, would Omar? Dan dropped his hand and the back of it slid off her leg.
It was the wrong thing to do. She was startled and shifted her body away from him, her eyes not leaving the screen.
Someone called her name and Dan could sense her relief. She jumped off the stool, turned to him hurriedly and said, ‘Thanks, Dan, my friends are here now.’ And like that, she was gone.
Dan wouldn’t turn around, he wouldn’t look at her greeting her friends, at them whispering about him, laughing at him. The loser. The freak. He finished his vodka and lime, the full glass, it burned his throat as it went down. He put it on the counter and walked calmly out of the bar and into the street. He wouldn’t look back to where they were laughing at him.
He told himself that he didn’t know what he was doing, that he had not yet made up his mind where he was going as he stood there in the street, his hand outstretched, hailing the taxi. He told himself that he was heading into the night by chance, that he had no destination in mind, even as he told the driver that he wanted to head to Toorak, across the river, where he hadn’t been since school. It wasn’t choice, it was fate. All he knew, he told himself, was that it was too early to go home, that he couldn’t bear facing Theo, who would still be up waiting for him, ready to discuss every moment of it with him, even though they would be watching it together tomorrow. No, he couldn’t bear that, better to just jump in a cab and take off into the night. So convinced was Dan that he had made no decision about where he was going that it came as a shock when the driver stopped outside the Taylors’ house. The street was dark, the brooding, massive elm trees denuded of foliage. He handed the driver the fare and got out of the cab.
Dan pressed the buzzer at the gate and after a few moments, a voice answered. ‘Yes, who is it?’
He recognised the brusque tone of Mrs Taylor. She repeated the question, now impatiently.
He was so shaken at finding himself at the gate that he didn’t even say the right name. He’d become the other Danny again.
‘It’s Danny, Danny Kelly.’
The wind was chopping through the naked branches and he realised he was cold. For a moment he knew that she wouldn’t let him in, that she would tell him that he couldn’t turn up uninvited, that you just didn’t do such things.
But there was a buzz, a whirr of machinery, and the gates slowly pulled apart.
Dazed, still not quite believing it, it had to be the high of vodka, that had to be it, Dan found himself walking up the long driveway of Martin Taylor’s home.
His first rum, all he could taste was the Coke in it.
It was Mrs Taylor who offered him the drink, who said that it was so lovely to see him, but she didn’t ask what he was doing, where he was working, how his family were. Her lips on both his cheeks felt cold.
She said, ‘I’m having a rum and Coke. Would you like one?’
He nodded.
He remembered the long hallway with the tiled floor, the square canvas with the bulky gold-leaf frame on one wall, a portrait of Mrs Taylor in swirls of thick oil pastel; and on the other wall a huge photograph of the family, Emma and her mother sitting on a couch, the daughter in a ballooning saffron-coloured dress and the mother in cream satin, the men standing behind them, Mr Taylor in a suit, and Martin, grim-faced, in his school uniform. He recalled that there were steps off the corridor that led down into a sunken den. He could see Mr Taylor’s bald pate down there; he was sitting on a white leather couch. Mr Taylor didn’t turn around to say hello.
Mrs Taylor ushered Dan through to the kitchen, fixed him the drink and almost pushed him out to the backyard where a marquee had been set up, white sheets of gossamer material that curved and billowed with the wind.
‘Martin,’ Mrs Taylor called out, and the young men and women chatting on the lawn turned to stare. Some of the faces of the men were familiar. One of them, a tall young man in a blue-and-white-striped shirt, was walking towards him, his hand outstretched.
‘My God, Kelly,’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that you?’
Mrs Taylor pushed Dan gently out into the night. ‘Have a good time, Danny,’ she said, and then she slid shut the kitchen door.
It was like his first day at school.
It was Sullivan who’d recognised him, it was Sullivan, with a trim goatee, who’d come up to him and slapped him on the back, introducing him to this man and this woman, ‘We’re at uni together,’ ‘This is Danny Kelly, we were at school together,’ ‘What are you doing, Danny?’, but he didn’t have time to answer, he was being introduced to Verena and Scott, to Marcus and Benjamin, Callista and Chloe, names he would forget, faces he wouldn’t recall in the morning. A good-looking strong-jawed waiter brought over a tray of pies, but he didn’t have time to reach out for one because there were more people to meet, a Seb and a Cameron, a Jacinta and a Melinda, and ‘What do you do, Danny?’ and ‘Oh, you are a friend of Martin’s, are you, Danny?’ and ‘Wasn’t the opening ceremony wonderful, Danny? Aren’t you proud, Danny? I’m so proud of Australia tonight, aren’t you, Danny?’
He was nodding, like a good dog, and found himself saying, ‘Yes, wasn’t it wonderful?’ and he had to stop himself barking out, Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi Oi Oi, like a good dog. He nodded his head and it felt as though he was wagging his tail.
And then a familiar voice cut through the noise under the marquee, it called out to him, straight to him, only to him: ‘Danny Kelly, what are you doing here?’
Martin Taylor was coming towards him, wearing a white dress shirt and loose black trousers sitting on his hips, his hand extended. Dan grabbed it, held it, the palm cool and dry, and they shook until Martin pulled away. He had not put on weight; he was, if it were possible, even more handsome now. Dan sucked in his gut, straightened his shoulders. They did not embrace. Unsmiling, their eyes dared one another.
Dan answered, ‘I heard some faggot was throwing a party.’
And Martin was laughing and pumping his hand, and sliding an arm across Dan’s shoulders, and Martin was saying, ‘Have you eaten? There’s plenty of food left. Do you need another drink? What are you drinking, we’ll get you another rum,’ but all Dan could think of was that Martin’s initial question hadn’t been a query and there had been no delight in it. There had been ice in that question, the same chill that Dan had heard in Mrs Taylor’s voice.
Danny Kelly, what are you doing here?
A young woman had come up to stand at Martin’s side. She was petite, with fine, white wispy hair that gave her an almost ethereal appearance; it was hair that belonged to the very old or to creatures from other worlds. Her strapless blue dress, of fine silk, evoked a timeless classical past: Dan’s mother would have approved of such an elegant garment. The woman was touching Martin’s elbow, not holding it, just touching it, just the glance of her fingertip against Taylor’s elbow, but it was proprietorial, confident. Dan was astonished by the stab of jealousy that he felt; he was bloated with that emotion, it threatened to choke him. Taylor had had girlfriends before, Taylor had been with women. But none of them had claimed him with the authority and entitlement of that simple touch.