Apparently, Keats is a very busy guy, who couldn’t fit in a face-to-face planning session till this month. And he’s terrible at answering my calls. The last time I called, I had to leave a voicemail message to remind him we’re meeting up today. He didn’t call me back.
“Maybe he thinks I’m a freak.” I say, searching Jillie’s face for signs that I’m being paranoid.
But she just nods, and says a stretched out, “Yeah.”
My shoulders fall along with my hopes. Jillie gives the former a little squeeze.
“Aw, Jess. You’re too good for him. I love you. You’re like the coolest old person I know.”
“I am cool.” I choose to ignore what Jillie said after the word “coolest”—what does she know? She’s nineteen—I won’t even turn twenty-eight for a few more months. That’s not ancient at all. If I was drinking, I wouldn’t have even noticed her exact words. Honestly, sometimes life is just too glaring when you’re sober. “But you know, Isabella did dump him for his brother just seven months ago. She should’ve never gone for Keats. Everyone knew Byron was really better for her. Anyway, this cool chick has to pee.”
“Take off your name tag, you dag!” She laughs as I get off my seat.
Good point. I pull off the lanyard, with my staff ID. Jess Haugen, Receptionist. Not exactly a high-powered job, nor a flattering photo. I should ask HR to take another one. I’m ten kilos lighter now—that’s at least one chin dieted away.
For a Thursday night in the Brisbane CBD, Vantage Point—Jillie’s favourite bar because of all the hot guys that frequent it—is very busy. There’s wall-to-wall men in suits, and not all of them seem gay or taken or both. I pass one nursing a bottle of XXXX on my way to the ladies. He eyes my cleavage before uninterestedly turning to his friend and continuing his conversation.
I shrug off the rejection as I use my hip to push open the heavy door to the loos—might as well use my heft for something. The door groans in protest and when it finally opens, smacks into someone’s bottom. As usual, there are only two stalls and a line of eight women in high heels and short skirts waiting for their turn. I press my legs a little closer together. This is going to be a long wait.
“I never thought Blake would want to get married,” the blonde, long-haired girl in front of me says. She’s in a cobalt blue, satin dress fitted to every missing curve on her body.
“Haven’t you learnt yet? Annie always gets what she wants. Six months and he’s already proposed,” comments her friend who has the most orange fake tan I’ve ever seen this side of a TV screen.
“I have to ask her how she did it. My boyfriend doesn’t even want to get a dog with me,” Blondie complains. “Did you hear Keats’ brother is getting married this year? Engaged in February, married in November.”
My ears prick up. How many Keats live in Brisbane with an engaged brother getting married in November?
“Yeah. That’s all he ever wants to talk about these days—snore! But he’s nice to look at even when he’s moody. Oh, my God, he has the most gorgeous, blue ‘fuck me’ eyes.”
They both place a hand to their chests like their wildly beating hearts need to be stilled.
“Nine months is a long time for an engagement,” Fake Tan eventually resumes.
“Not really, honey. That’s actually not enough time to get your first choice venues. The best places get booked up to two years in advance.”
Shit. That reminds me. I was supposed to follow up on the church and hotels for Isabella this week. I’ll do it tomorrow. Churches are open on Fridays, right?
“You reckon Keats is looking yet? His ex-girlfriend really fucked him up.”
“You know it’s the same girl, right?” Blondie says, brows up to convey the weight of the scandal. “Keats’ brother is engaged to that ex-girlfriend.”
“Yeah…” Fake Tan’s voice trails off. “I wonder if she ever did it with Keats? That would be gross, doing one brother, then the other.”
“Are you kidding? I would do the McAllister brothers at the same time.”
Aren’t you supposed to be in a relationship? I almost ask out loud. Luckily, Fake Tan voices what I was just thinking first.
“He shoulda put a ring on it.” Blondie lifts up her unadorned left ring finger.
The two girls cackle as the line moves one more down.
“Well, now’s the time to jump Keats.” Fake Tan leans forward to scoop up her boobs, and refresh the cleavage revealed by her dress. “He’s such a wreck, he’ll sleep with anyone right now to forget his ex. He even—”
I’m out the bathroom door before the orange girl can finish her sentence. Keats is here and undiscerning? Where?
I look right, then left, then right again, my heart lodged just above where it should be. Jillie sees me and waves. I decide to enlist her help, pushing through the press of bodies in the bar.
“Keats is here.” I have to yell this above the loud hum of voices, the clink of glassware, and the pop music blasting from the speakers on the walls and ceilings.
“Shut up!”
“And he’s looking for a rebound girl.”
Jillie looks at me, blinks, then, “You could be the rebound girl!”
“I know, Jillie. That’s why you’ve gotta help me. He’s gorgeous, about six feet tall.” A blank look. “About as tall as me, and the last time I saw him, he was clean-cut with short chestnut hair. He’s probably wearing a suit.”
“Got it.” Jillie scans the room from our little booth. The place is filled with men fitting Keats’ description.
I bite on my lower lip. Maybe Jillie won’t be much of a help after all. “Let’s spread out, meet back here in ten minutes. If I’m not here though, it means I’ve struck gold. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, Jess.” She crosses the index and middle fingers of both
