Deborah and Joey
Nicole Gouda (Macquarie University)
Deborah
“Anna, Alison, Liz and – Deb,” he says, looking at each of us in turn, proud of his recall ability.
“It’s Deborah. I prefer Deborah.” I lift my goggles and place them on the top of my helmet, look him in the eye like I mean business. Damned if some young jock ski instructor is going to substitute a diminutive for my name! The penchant of today’s twenty-somethings to shorten names drives me insane. Shortened names to match their short attention spans.
“Well, I’m Joseph, but you can call me Joey,” His comeback swift as the wind that is slapping at my cheeks. He smirks as he watches us take our seats on the chair lift. Smug arsehole.
On the lift, he does what all instructors do best: brag. He brags about his runs off-piste in the back bowls and how he finished third in the instructor’s downhill race. He brags about the previous season in Aspen: high-speed gondolas, thigh high powder, eight-mile runs. Blah, blah, blah – and all the while using idioms like you know and cool and finishing sentences with epic. I hate epic as an adjective. Most annoying though, is his use of the superlative absolutely every second sentence. The Jamie Oliver of the Australian slopes.
I resign myself to a long morning.
I’ll admit it, I am a bit uptight. I’ve been working my butt off these last few weeks, only just finishing the last of my quarterly financial reports and arriving home five minutes before Liz turned up. It was midnight by the time we made it to Thredbo. I woke in the morning with a dull headache and a bad temper, and by the time Liz and I got to Friday Flat, all the private ski instructors had been taken. But Liz was keen to have a lesson regardless, so we lined up with all the other middle-aged women for group lessons. Within minutes of meeting Joey, I knew it was a bad idea.
Jo-weee. Not particularly tall, five-ten perhaps? Broad shouldered and handsome. Although I hate to admit it, hot. Young and hot. His full lips sit apart in a sort of half sneer. You can just see the tip of his tongue hiding between his teeth, ready to move. Given his looks, that tongue probably gets a good workout. Sparse chin stubble running along his jawline and high cheekbones – reminds me of Kevin Bacon. Cold blue eyes and light brown hair beneath his beanie. Too cool for a helmet. I find myself fantasising about what’s under his instructor’s suit and the colour of his pubic hair, so when it’s time to get off the chair lift, I nearly trip over my skis. Joey spins his around to face downhill in one deft, effortless movement. Smirking over his shoulder, he asks, “Ladies, shall we ski?”
Ladies my arse.
Joey
This week is dragging on. It’s my last one before I head to the States. I’m tired, but I can’t say no to taking a few extra group lessons. I need the money. I may have a month or two without work in Utah before the ski season starts, so I’m keen to put away as much as I can.
I generally like instructing; some days I would say I love it. I love wearing skis all day and working with people who are mostly happy and usually grateful. It’s not brain surgery, but still, I think I have something to offer. I like it when people thank me at the end of lessons and ask how long I’ve been instructing. Some even offer to buy me a drink.
But today’s group just pissed me off. Chatty middle-aged women wanting to complain about the shitty snow condition and their painful joints in that order, full of excuses for their lack of skill on the slopes. I’ve heard them all: didn’t start young enough, dodgy knees, netball injuries, and so on. I bite my tongue to stop myself from telling them that no amount of training, protein shakes and physiotherapy would change any of that. It amazes me why some people don’t go to a health spa instead of coming here. I hear The Golden Door is nice.
I should be more grateful for the work. Without them, I might find myself living off packet noodles in a few weeks. In truth, the women were pleasant enough and seemed to enjoy the morning, except for “I prefer Deborah. ” I could think of a few other choice names. But even she thanked me for the lesson at the end of the morning.
Yeah, I guess I’m just stuffed. Been working my arse off for four straight months, two shifts a week in the mountain bakery in the village as well as instructing. And, if I’m honest, I’m a bit bored with both jobs, with the mountain, with things in general. Nights are no better than the days; same bars with the other instructors, same conversations about who skied where and how fast and what the snow was like.
To top it all off, I haven’t had sex in two months. Yeah. Go figure. A good-looking guy like me not getting any. But I’m not great at flirting. Small talk irritates me, and so does giggling, and girls giggle a lot. Actually, boys giggle a lot too, but I’m not into them. Once we’ve been through all the usual stuff¬ – work, where we live, whether we board or ski, which friends we have in common – I run out of things to say. Girls notice this, my lack of ability to maintain a conversation. And as the banter ends, so does their interest. It’s never been any different for me. While I can bullshit my way through ski lessons and tell people what they want to hear, when the class is over, my words just seem to vanish, and I become mute.
I like my space too. The last girl I went out with for a couple of months started hanging around too much. I’d come home from work to find her lying on my bean bag or cooking dinner in my poor excuse for a kitchen (a bench with a single hot plate, tiny sink and a bar fridge). I know I shouldn’t have given her my spare key, but I didn’t expect her to use it to get in, just to lock up when she left. My mistake. And her smell irritated me. Jasmine. Burh.
But anyway, work for today is over. Just enough time to shower before my cousin Michael arrives.
Deborah
For the second year in a row, Liz and I are renting this town house near the centre of the village. It has a magnificent view straight up the mountain and an enormous spa on the deck. The kitchen is gorgeous, so is the stone fireplace, although we hardly use it. Expensive, but we can afford it.
Liz is my oldest friend. We often travel together, despite being fundamentally different. She drinks cocktails and takes long baths; I drink whiskey and shower in two minutes. Liz likes Madonna; I like George Benson. You get the drift.
My feet are sore from the day of skiing, and I wonder if I should get some new boots. They say your feet grow as you age. I find myself thinking of Joey while I wait for Liz to dress for dinner. Jo-weee, his cruel and sexy half-smile appears in my mind as I rub Muscle-Eze into my legs. The image of him skiing down the mountain, confident and economical in his turns, elegant in his hockey stops, plays like a video. I wonder if he fucks like he skis. Hah! I imagine him at a sleazy bar right now, chatting up a sixteen-year-old.
Why am I even thinking about him? Yes, he is cute and sexy, but he’s a child. Mid-twenties at the most. Is it that I haven’t had sex in a while? I’ve had to change the batteries on my Rabbit twice this month. Maybe that’s it?
My last affair ended badly. I messed up big time. Ignored my golden rule of not getting involved with a colleague. Started seeing this divorced guy called Paul. It was fun for a while, but then he became careless and lazy at work. I had to flex my muscles to show him who was on top, figuratively speaking. He wasn’t impressed and moved on to another job soon after. The sex ended overnight, surprise, surprise.
Liz is ready, so we leave the house and head to The Peak. Contrary to what its name suggests, the restaurant is situated at the bottom of the mountain, but if you focus hard on a clear night, you can just see the top of Crackenback. Jim and his trio Notable are playing there tonight, and they’ve asked me to join them for a few songs. I don’t sing much anymore, but I still love it, so when an opportunity comes along, I say yes.
I see Jim setting up his bass and blow him a kiss as Liz and I are shown to our table. We’ve known each other for twenty-something years since we studied music together at uni. Played together in various bands, but Notable is his baby – they just recorded their first album. He comes over and kisses Liz and me hello, and we chat about the set for a few minutes. We agree on a couple of standards – nothing too challenging given that we haven’t practised together in months – songs from the old days that we can perform automatically.
I look up and am more than a little surprised to see Joey sitting a few tables away. No instructor’s suit tonight; he wears a fitted button-down shirt with rolled cuffs. Beside him sits a stringy looking guy with elephant ears and a crew cut, gesticulating wildly and waving a bandaged hand in the air. Must be a colleague or friend. Joey looks bored and traces his finger around the rim of the tall glass sitting in front of him.
I must have stared just a little too long because Joey turns away from his companion and registers me looking at him. His face drops just for a split second, but I see it before he regroups. Can’t really blame him. After all, I wouldn’t want to run into someone from work at dinner. Liz, Miss Congeniality, sees him too and waves flirtatiously, mouthing hello. He raises his hand briefly in greeting, but the band starts playing.
Joey
My cousin Michael is a killjoy. He always has been, ever since we were kids. Caught me smoking behind the library one day and went home and told his mum who told my mum. I was grounded for two weeks. A few years later, he announced he was going to Sydney Uni to study dentistry. No one was the least bit surprised. He gives new meaning to the words uptight and boring. And tonight, he’s being a whiny fucking pain in the arse because he’s broken his thumb on his first day of skiing.
I’ve never eaten at The Peak before. None of my friends hang out here. We can’t afford it. But it’s Michael’s kind of place; fancy, expensive, minimalist. There are at least three things on the menu I don’t recognise. He’ll offer to pay I’m sure, and I’ll probably let him. I’ve been looking forward to a nice dinner but it’s quickly turning into a bit of a drag – I long for my beanbag in front of the TV.
I look up, tired of listening to Michael, and see her sitting at a table with her friend Liz who is waving at me. I prefer Deborah. Fuck! I wave back, but she just turns away – I’m the hired help after all ¬– and I go back to eating dessert, a rich, cream dome with an Italian name I’ve never heard before. And then, the band introduces her as their guest singer, and she is up and walking towards the microphone.
Deborah Marshall. Except for her verbal slap-on-the-wrist this morning, she’d been quiet during the lesson, unlike the others in the group. The band plays a few bars, and she starts to sing, the room filling with her voice from the parquetry floor all the way up to the exposed ceiling beams. I can tell you, she bloody sings ten times better than she skis. No, a hundred times better. Like that Norah Jones woman, all smooth and airy and mellow. People put down their cutlery and stop talking.
She looks good, too – short skirt, long legs in tight boots and a sheer loose top. Eyes half closed, half open. No makeup – she doesn’t need it – just dark red lipstick. In fact, she looks bloody good, and I wonder what it would be like to run my tongue around her lips.
Deborah
The set ends and the applause dies down. I feel my usual post singing high. And before I realise what I’m doing, I’m heading over towards Joey who is now sitting alone, clapping and looking straight at me.
“Hello Joseph. Buy you a drink?”
“No please. Let me. What will you have?” he says, standing and pulling out a chair for me.
“Single malt straight up. Thanks.” And then I begin to panic. What the fuck am I going to say to him when he gets back with my drink? You look just as hot without the instructor suit? Fuck. I push my hair behind my ears and adjust my top as he returns to the table.
“So how long have you been singing?” His smile is warmer than I remember, and his eyes are shining. Lord, he is gorgeous, I think, as he places the drinks on the table.
“About as long as I’ve been skiing. Twenty years or so,” I say, regretting it immediately. At forty, I’ve been singing for about twenty-five years, which I’d guess at a pinch is about his age.
“That was great. You were great,” he says. Is he fumbling a bit?
“Thanks. I don’t really sing much anymore. A few years back, I decided I should grow up and get a real job.” There. Final nail in the coffin. I am unquestionably old.
“Real job? So what is it you do?” he asks.
“Senior business analyst for Deloitte.” He nearly chokes on his drink. “Had me pegged as a housewife with a rich husband who pays for her ski trips, I assume?” I can feel my body relax. It’s not just a chemical loosening.
“Well…”
“It’s ok.” I am smiling now. “You’re forgiven for the generalisation. We all make them.”
“Like the ones about ski bums,” he says, laughing, lifting his drink and tilting it in my direction before taking a sip. It looks like lemonade.
“But seriously, tell me,” he says. “How do you get from singing to business analyst?”
Joey
So, she tells me her story. About how she studied music and played gigs when she could get them. She’d married a muso, but it didn’t last, and they parted as friends a few years later. Then, after years of living from one pay to the next, the day came when she decided she wanted a reliable income, and she went back to uni to study finance. Apparently had a knack for it and landed a job with Deloitte first year out. Worked her way up over the years.
When she finishes her story, before I can stop myself, I start talking. Words come rushing out of me like a stream of fresh melted snow. I tell her about my childhood and my alcoholic, unemployed, unemployable father, my long-suffering mother who stayed with him because she was too depressed to leave. How my school had the fifth highest truancy rate in NSW, and how I never managed to get my school certificate because my attendance record was so low. How I’d started drinking seriously at fifteen, following closely in my old man’s footsteps.
How at nineteen, I totalled my car while over the limit and ended up spending two months in Wollongong Hospital. Haven’t had a drink since. She listens as I tell her about how I got my shit together, moved to Jindabyne and got a job as a liftie. How I fell in love with skiing and saved up so I could do the instructor’s course.
I talk some more and then the time comes when my words are all used up. The band has left and the room is quiet. She is looking straight at me. Her eyes are bright and intelligent and, well, beautiful.
“Would you like another drink, or shall we get out of here?
Deborah
We are at the restaurant door, and for the second time tonight, I begin to panic. It has started to snow, and he helps me with my coat and opens the door. I lead the way, breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the uphill walk to the apartment. We walk in silence. I’m not worried about Liz coming back to interrupt us, no doubt she’ll find somewhere else to be tonight. There is the noise of a snowplough in the distance, far away from the rhythmic thumping I hear in my chest.
Before I can find the key to the front door, Joey brings his hands to my face and kisses me, confidently, skilfully, like a man twice his age. It is exquisite. The scent of Old Spice on his neck takes me back 15 years – I don’t know anyone anymore who wears it nowadays and it makes me feel deliciously young and alive. When I eventually find the key in my bag, I notice my hands are trembling.
Joey
Thank heavens she finds the key or we would have done it right there on the landing. I push the door closed with my foot and grab her and kiss her again. She pulls away and takes my hand, leading me past an enormous dining table and fireplace and through to the bedroom.
There are many things that the sex is not. It is not filled with tiny endless wet kisses; in fact, there is hardly any kissing at all. No fancy acrobatics or balancing acts off the side of the bed. No high-pitched cries, just low guttural sounds that are almost musical.
It is urgent, this sex. It takes my breath away. And after we come, we lie on our sides and look at each other for a long time.
When I wake, she is gone. I rise, noticing the sun has beat me up, and walk out of the bedroom. There propped on the table is a note –
Joseph,
Gone skiing.
Let yourself out.
D
She hasn’t left a key.
Nicole Gouda is a general practitioner in Sydney studying towards a Master of Creative Writing at Macquarie University. She is a prior recipient of the EJ Brady Gabo Prize (short story), and has previously written for medical publications.
