The Overthinkers Page 4

  “They’re Colombian roses,” Myriam responded, like this might articulate the flowers as different.

  “Yes, I know. They’re so average,” my mother said, touching one of the offending roses with the tips of her fingers.

  I didn’t have an opinion on flowers. But I did think the Colombian roses that Myriam had picked up at the market that day, a searing orange colour, were particularly pretty. Striking even.

  “Next time get Hydrangeas or Azaleas ... or something a little more unique,” mother quipped, dropping her hand away from the petal she had been fingering distastefully.

  Mum thought everything was common. And we weren’t the type of people who should have common things. We were the type of people that should have unique things. Originals. Things that you spent a fortune on to secure.

  I should remove myself from that omnipotent ‘we’. I was my mum’s son, but I was not to be included in that exclusive category, the one that the Chiel’s resided within.

  I was too much of a fuck-up to be part of that limited classification.

  Hamish Chiel: Olivia and Laurence Chiel’s fuck-up of a kid. Drug dealer. Drug taker. Unabashedly shameless and shameful.

  My mum didn’t even acknowledge my presence. She just swanned on past to the kitchen. I didn’t know why I even came here. To go unrecognised?

  “I quite like them Myriam,” I told her.

  Myriam looked up at me with a tight smile, and winked. She liked the sneaky wink, Myriam. I didn’t mind being the recipient of the sneaky wink. It was kind of like we were complicit. A little team. That was nice enough. Sometimes I felt like I had been closer to Myriam growing up than my parents.

  I stuffed my hands into my pockets and headed into the kitchen, where my mother was pouring herself an afternoon Chardonnay. She didn’t look up.

  I sat at a stool at the kitchen counter, waiting to be addressed. My eyes washed across that statuesque white kitchen. The state of the art Miele appliances, and mammoth marble counter top. The kitchen was kind of common, it looked like at least one hundred kitchens I had sat at in the eastern suburbs. Kitchens in ridiculously expensive homes. Owned by old-money types, like the Chiels. I’d sat in them after I’d sold their kids drugs. Quietly having a drink, while they (the kids) snorted cocaine greedily in the bathroom, or chased MDMA with a beer. There was nothing unique about that kitchen.

  “Where’s Dad today?” I said suddenly. Knowing full well he was out playing golf, or on the boat, but the silence was kind of hurting my ears, and I needed to fill it with something.

  “Playing golf, I think,” Mum responded. Her eyes skimming right over me, as she sauntered past, glass in hand.

  It was like she hated being in the same space as me. She was always trying to avoid being stuck alongside me. Was it my physical presence that she disliked? Or the need to make conversation? I wasn’t sure.

  It was a familiar feeling to me – being disliked by my parents. It kind of always had been that way. Even before I’d degenerated into a junkie, even when I was just a naughty kid. It was like I was some terrible imposition. Something that was just sucking up space, and time, and resources. I just didn’t belong.

  Clearly not unique enough.

  I visited my parent’s house maybe once every fortnight. Maybe less. I’d just drop in at a time when I knew one of them would be at home. And then I’d just go ignored. I was invisible here. Dad would pay for my expensive councillor, and even my unit, but he wouldn’t interact with me, that was a step too far ... and Mum, well she would just wander away from me, like there was something distasteful about being around me – like I’d farted. A compulsive farter. That was me.

  Not really. I was just a little weird.

  Myriam joined me in the kitchen now. Mum, long gone.

  “Do you want me to make you a sandwich Hamish?” she asked pleasantly.

  That was a nice idea, wasn’t it? A sandwich. Something that normal people would enjoy. Maybe with ham, cheese and pickles, on rye bread.

  Is that what normal people ate?

  I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t a normal person, and I also hadn’t eaten in days. I was coming in from a meth hangover. I was dehydrated and mentally and physically depleted. You see sometimes when you did ice, you couldn’t stop chasing the rush, and you ended up on a binge ... you kept injecting hoping the rush would occur again. Because it was like the best orgasm ever. You wanted it at the same level, at the same frequency. But that didn’t happen after the first rush – and then eventually there was no rush. Just sameness, and you went onto tweaking, and then ... the hangover. I was at the hangover stage. Maybe, I’d turned up here hoping to get some solace.

  Really?

  What a dick. I should have gone to see Francesca. We could have just not eaten and been basket cases together.

  People always thought that meth addicts were homeless people, or psychos. People with scabs on their faces. But that was the worst of it. I was just somewhere in between. Scabless but somewhat psycho. However, still able to make plausible conversation. Even engaging conversation if required. Still able to function within the confines of normal society.

  “No, that’s fine,” I finally responded.

  Myriam smiled at me. Her dark eyes were watching me carefully, assessing me quietly. I tried to smile, but I felt like The Joker. Like there was something deranged about that grin.

  “Are you going out tonight?” she asked finally. The only person that seemed even remotely interested in my life.

  “Yeah. To a party,” I added.

  “That will be fun,” she said, looking pleased that I had somewhere to go and do. Less time on my hands to completely spin out.

  The party wasn’t going to be fun. It was just going to be a party like any other party. Maddison would ignore me, and Francesca would cling to my arm, hyper and strange. Standard. I’d sell some drugs. People would hate me. And I would try my hardest to not take ice so I wouldn’t be back here. Feeling like I felt right now.

  Ice. The thought stuck to my head like a piece of semi-chewed bubble gum.

  Ice.

  There it was.

  “I might just use the bathroom,” I said to her. She tried to hide the concerned expression. It didn’t work.

  Relax Myriam, I’m not doing ice in the bathroom. Again.

  Maybe just a couple of rails. That might take the edge off. Not even. But worth a shot.

  We ended up at Dan’s house party in Surry Hills. Leo, Francesca Moore and me. A super awkward threesome. One that would never end up in bed together. As we sat in the back of the Uber speeding towards the party, I combined our potential sexual outcomes. Threesome. Absolutely, never going to happen. Leo and Francesca. Unlikely, given he had never slept with a woman before. Francesca and me. Also unlikely, especially since she’d just told me I smelt, and I couldn’t imagine that being a pre-signal for fucking. Leo and me. Potentially the most likely outcome. He was gay, and most people just assumed I was gay – I couldn’t rule it out. Hang on, there was one final alternative, all of us having sex alone. Yes, that was it. Most, most, most likely.

  “What are you looking at?” Leo suddenly said, brow furrowed. He was sitting next to me in the backseat of the car, I must have been staring at him while I conducted my mental sexual partner plausibility examination.

  “Nothing.” And then I added, “I like that t-shirt on you.”

  It was a standard black, muscle tee, the type of thing Leo always wore. He glanced down at it briefly, seemingly unconvinced, and then shrugged his shoulders, accepting the compliment.

  He looked at me, surveying my current attire. A pair of his black jeans that I had rolled at the ankles Beatnik style and a similar t-shirt. He didn’t offer a corresponding compliment.

  “Are you sure you’re not gay?” he asked me after a couple of seconds. “That was an intense look.”

  Given my thinking a couple of moments ago, there was a complete possibility.

  “Maybe I’m sexually fluid,” I told hi
m. Although it seemed unlikely.

  “Actually ... I don’t think so.” Leo had reached a verdict. He could be so imperious sometimes.

  “Why not?”

  “If you were gay, we would have definitely hooked up already,” Leo joked.

  “Am I missing something?” Francesca questioned, with a raised eyebrow.

  “There have definitely been nights we’ve shared a bed,” Leo chirped.

  I rolled my eyes.

  Two strikes from Francesca.

  1. I smelt.

  2. She now questions my sexuality.

  There was no third strike on this occasion. I was definitely out.

  We turned up at some old terrace on Crown Street, which kind of looked like the intersection between a decorators’ dream and a crack den ... like it’s occupants couldn’t really come to a decision on what vibe they were going for. The result was kind of schizophrenic. The music was pumping loud, and there was a whole heap of people inside already, pressed tightly together, drinking and smoking. A heaving mass of humanity, looking to hook-up, get high, get smashed ... do something. Mission unknown, right? We were all looking for something epic but we weren’t quite sure what it was.

  I knew what my epic was.

  It was Francesca Moore, in that sequined skirt, that summer’s evening. But she couldn’t give two shits. She spent the first five minutes at the party clinging onto my arm and talking to me like I was her best friend, or her date even. Her face so close to mine, inches away. She had talked at me incessantly and provocatively about crazy stuff, that didn’t quite make sense ... and that was totally fine. I didn’t care if she made sense at all. As long as she kept holding onto my arm.

  And then ... just like that she’d disappeared.

  And a while later he had surfaced with her. The boyfriend.

  Hamish Chiel.

  Okay, so I knew his name. I’d lied. I’d spent hours of my time stalking him. Painstakingly trawling over his digital assets, his Instagram, his Facebook, even a few Google searches. It was kind of like I was in love with him and not Francesca Moore, but it was a more like an “in hate” situation. I wanted to see what made him special. Why him and not me? It was disgusting, gruesome even. A total train-wreck. I’d fondled over the pictures of him at parties, and on boats, and at the beach... trying to find some shred of evidence, some hint of what she might like in this egocentric frat boy. I’d made myself sick over it.

  Now, Hamish Chiel was here in the flesh. Wearing a navy-blue shirt, cream shorts, and yes indeed, Huaraches. A mixture of eastern suburbs swagger and opportunity. And yeah drugs. Definitely drugs. He slung his arm around her at intervals, in a casual way. The kind of way people did when they owned something. Like he knew she would be by his side always, and he only needed to assert his possession on the odd occasion.

  Leo and I stood at the kitchen bench, near the drinks and food, being grim. Dan, the host, was nowhere to be seen, and Leo was swiping: Grindr Roulette style.

  “What do you make of him?” Leo said, holding up a picture to my face featuring a dude with ripped abs and white underpants on.

  “He doesn’t look like the type of person looking for a relationship,” I supplied. I knew it was a dull, “straight” comment.

  “I’m not either. I’m just looking for a fuck.”

  We were a couple of drinks in, but Leo was four sheets to the wind. He’d probably taken something too. He had that strange manic energy to him.

  “I don’t think so. You’re always banging on about how you want to be with someone,” I responded. Like honestly, let’s be real here.

  “Well, maybe, I just want to bang someone tonight instead.”

  Leo could be an obnoxious drunk. I decided to play along, and took a look at the images of the guy he had shown me. I flicked through his profile, lots of shirtless pics ... completely shameless.

  “Looks like an advertisement for an STD,” I said drily. Not to judge a book by its cover or anything.

  “I’m swiping right.”

  I rolled my eyes and Leo snickered.

  “What? It wouldn’t be the first time ... nothing some antibiotics won’t fix.”

  Again, I gave him a sour look.

  “Don’t judge me, okay? Like you don’t swipe right on hot chicks on Tinder. Puh-lease ... I’m sure you read all of their bios.”

  He was probably right. In between the desperate and unfounded pinings for Francesca Moore, I would scroll through Tinder and swipe right, infinitely, with about as much success as Leo. Fancy faces only went so far in the online world. At the end of the day, I was just some semi-woke schmuck from the inner west. Kind of smart, but reeking of confusion, and desperation.

  I’d never be Hamish Chiel.

  That’s when a blonde swam into my field of vision. Her face was kind of familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place her. I’d already downed a few beers and some sneaky shots so my sense of orientation was murky at best.

  “I think we go to uni together,” she was saying. Bingo! She had that standard eastern suburbs cool look – high-waisted jeans, with a white t-shirt tucked in. She probably had a silk scrunchie in her hair. There was an unsubtle “lack of identity” to it all, like my equally unsubtle whiff of “desperation.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled. “I’m Ben.” Was it Culture and Society that we had together?

  “But people call him Benji,” Leo suddenly interjected, completely unsolicited. Like, what? Was he trying to be helpful? Yes, he was. Leo the match-maker had spun into action.

  “Yep, people call me Benji.”

  Awkward. Sheesh. No amount of alcohol would transform the pair of us into comfortable and capable men.

  “Maddison,” she responded.

  Oh, okay, she had one of those names. Chloe, Maddison, Grace-Rose ... you know the type. The kind of kid who had sanitised upper-class parents, who liked to take the boat out on the weekend, and drink Rosé all day.

  I smiled. “You live around here?”

  “Woollahra,” she responded.

  Of course. This is how it worked in Sydney. You asked them their name, where they lived and the school that they went to, and you could basically discern their entire childhood and current personality. Tribes. We were all divided into clear-cut tribes, and no one ever really escaped, you just migrated, but you always remained the westie kid that had moved to the eastern suburbs. A little too rough around the edges, prone to using terms like “yous”, or drinking beer directly from the bottle. You could wear the Huaraches, but you never looked comfortable in them.

  “Nice,” I managed. I didn’t care what school she went to ... I had her pegged already.

  “What about you?” she said, her face pulling into a perfectly symmetrical grin. She was, I realised, incredibly pretty. She had the type of face that didn’t have a single flaw. It was kind of unfair really. So much perfection wasted on someone that was not very interesting. Her blue eyes were incredibly clear and round, her nose, straight, her lips plump, and her cheekbones ... her cheekbones elevated her face to something else. A face that could be on the cover of a magazine. But for some reason ... it just didn’t really do anything for me.

  Perfection was kind of boring. She was no Francesca Moore.

  “Enmore,” I responded.

  If anything was going to put her off, that would have been it. But she didn’t seem to care. Instead she just nodded enthusiastically and kept smiling.

  That’s when I realised she was standing too close to me, and that was probably a prompt, that she was interested. But was she? Who knew? Maybe she was just drunk, or one of those people that stand to close to you always and have no notion of personal space. That’s what made dating apps so easy, you knew everyone was on there to hook-up, you didn’t have to discern this myriad of tiny prompts.

  “You know Dan?” she asked.

  “Yeah ... we’re ...”

  I dropped off, were we friends? He had tried to pick me up at the gym once, and I had politely declined
. He was kind of Leo’s friend, and my predator.

  “Friends?” she supplied.

  “Yeah.”

  I could see Leo roll his eyes in the background.

  Maybe she was interested ... and sure, she wasn’t Francesca Moore, but she was ... something.

  “Should we grab a drink and head outside?” I said.

  She nodded quickly, pleased with the turn in events. Heck, I was too. Anything was better than mooning over Francesca Moore in Dan’s kitchen playing Grindr-hook-up-connect with Leo.

  The courtyard was tight, and clambering with bodies: smoking and drinking, and leaning in for private conversations. Maddison found us a corner to stand in. For a moment we stood awkwardly opposite each other, glancing around and saying those uncomfortable filler comments like, “Geez, it’s crowded.”

  As I reefed the lid off the Corona with my hand, it occurred to me I had no idea how people went from small talk to comfortable talk. How did they make the transition? Had I ever done that before? Sure, maybe with my parents, and with mates from school, but with girls? Probably never. Francesca Moore was different. She was one of those people that said all sorts of things. Inane chitchat sat snugly against the inflammatory. It was a hot mess of a discussion, and I guess I preferred that. Maybe it made the experience more real and less rehearsed.

  I pushed Francesca Moore to the back of my mind and handed Maddison the beer instead. She held it in kind of a limp way, like she had never held a beer bottle before. She probably hadn’t.

  I took a deliberate long swig of my beer before I plummeted into some directionless discussion.

  “Are you doing journalism?” I tried to inject the words with some enthusiasm even though they were incredibly rehearsed. The kind that you said on campus routinely as conversation starters. Our degree was broken up into a couple of strands, journalism (mine), media, arts and production (Francesca’s), writing (someone’s), and PR. I was guessing she was one of the vapid and pretty PR girls. But then she might surprise me.

  “No, PR.”