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  Turning to face me, he says, “So remind me, Ruby, where’s the bathroom?”

  Out into the hallway and to the left, I trot. Hunter takes fewer but longer steps. Three in total. I make it seven. I stand with my hand gesturing toward the open door. This whole exercise in trotting is unnecessary as the open door can be pointed to from his bedroom doorway. But I hover while he stows his toothpaste, toothbrush and shaving gear in the allotted spaces. And he shoves his shampoo alongside mine in the shower caddy.

  I trot along behind him as he walks back to his room, and watch as he plugs in his laptop and checks the charging process has begun. Then he turns in a full circle and scopes out his new digs.

  “Well, that’s me done,” he says in his deep husky voice. “Think you might have a coffee on the go? I’ve been driving all day. Pretty parched. Ta.”

  Such a decent smile hangs on his face, so I dart in to give him a quick ‘Welcome hug’. His first and last since he’s a geek. But he’s my paying geek. You’re nice, I think. Nerdy but nice. I’ll feel safe with you in the house. As long as you pay your rent on time.

  “Yes,” I say, shrugging my shoulders like I’m 13-years old. “Coffee coming up.”

  Later in the afternoon, Hunter appears in the entrance to my bedroom. I’m sitting on the floor. I look up at him and mouth bloody computers. And follow with a few well chosen swear words.

  He rolls his eyes at my theatrics, and continues to hover in the doorway. “Think I can help?”

  “Doubt it,” I say, and continue pounding keys.

  I concern myself less with Hunter’s unremarkable presence over the next days, but perk up when a courier van arrives with boxes of computer tech gear. I gallop off to make coffee so he can’t tell me to shove off while he unpacks his stuff.

  He’s said that twice in the previous days. “Shove off, Ruby. Give me some space.” And “You’re as discreet as a Catherine Wheel on Guy Fawkes Night.”

  He has gear spread all over the dining table, which lives in the lounge, a legacy from an even further back tenant who constructed the table inside the house, and found it too large to get through the doors when he was leaving.

  So Hunter is sitting in front of the table, which he has commandeered. And this is the communal room, so I can be there any time I choose. He’s covered the tabletop in electronic gadgetry. I approach him with coffee and stale donuts. He ignores me, apart from a grunt, as he pours over his glossy instruction manuals, which I note are written in four different languages. From the angle of that page, I swear he’s reading the Spanish section. One part of my brain registers there is already a dirty coffee mug on the table. I should get that back to the kitchen to give him more room ergo better humor. But the other part of my brain is still on…oh, I’m not sure, siesta time in Spain perhaps? I reach for the dirty mug not registering my hands are both already occupied with two hot coffees, and stale donuts hanging off each pinky finger.

  Hunter says nothing, even as the contents of both hot brews splash over his new books and stuff, and down his front, into his lap. Some coffee ends up down my front also, burning my feet. Yet I manage to pick up the dirty coffee mug and make a quick bid for the kitchen.

  Hunter is murderously quiet.

  When I return with a tea towel, he snatches it from me and begins cleaning up.

  I don’t know him well enough to even begin to apologize.

  Chapter Two

  I’ve recently involved my sullen, nerdy flatmate in my burgeoning fame. He’s driving with me specifically so he can hear those words Brilliant and Best Seller for himself. He wants to hear the inflection in Barbara’s voice because he’s studying law and considers he has an inbuilt radar for scams.

  I suggest we resort to initials because those words will be used often in the next wee while.

  “Yeah,” he agrees with a chuckle. “B and BS.”

  With me prattling non-stop, we go look for the craft shop. Once we’ve walked the short row of businesses for the third time, Hunter hanging out for junk food, I concede there is no such place.

  I have a panic attack. I sweat, shake and gibber, and feel nauseous from my heart relocating itself inside my chest. My vision blurs as I grasp a rubbish receptacle to hurl my breakfast into.

  What on earth will my literary agent think of me? I can’t even write down the venue of something as important as The Third Meeting (TTM). Wrong day, wrong place? How to retrieve this shocking state of events? I find a bottle of Rescue Remedy in my bag, and sprinkle some drops on my tongue. Then swig the lot.

  Hunter says I’m being dramatic. From what I’ve told him, Barbara is an extremely busy person, and no doubt flat tack with her multi-national clients. Then he adds that there’ll be some pecking order. Only to be expected—I’m the new addition. But then he demands I get a grip.

  So I do.

  With him tucking into a monster burger and slurping Cola through a straw, I wait just inside the main door with my neck craned like an ostrich out to the parking lot. The door keeps up a repetitious opening and shutting pattern making Hunter yell, “Move away from the bloody sensor!”

  I walk out into the car park, then go back inside to grab a coffee. I’ve already sent Barbara three text messages with no response. I don’t have enough credit to phone her. An ambulance siren blares, no doubt coupled with a support vehicle equipped with the Jaws of Life. I start to lose it but pull myself together again to save my makeup.

  Hunter comes outside and pats my head. Then he pats my shoulder before disappearing back inside to order more food. I follow him at a slight distance.

  There I sit, primed by my raw enthusiasm. I am receptive, attentive, waiting to be reassured for the thousandth time. I admit I’m not a natural risk taker, and neither, it seems, is Hunter. Yet there he sits, Mr. Due Diligence, one of life’s careful deliberators, who no doubt researches everything to the nth degree and several degrees beyond.

  Twenty minutes later Barbara arrives. In her black tights she looks even smaller than I remembered, like a burnt twig or a Negroid cricket.

  “Oh, you got my text messages? I’m so relieved,” I gush.

  “Text messages, Ruby?” Barbara is quizzical and fresh. “Oh, yes, my phone did beep a few times. I don’t use it much. And where’s that craft shop?”

  I close my mouth. I take a breath.

  “Oh, I remember,” Barbara continues. “It’s at the other mall. But you got here and you haven’t been waiting long, have you?”

  I lie. “Just arrived.” I’m relieved Barbara’s okay. I imagined all manner of personal ramifications should she die in some dreadful car crash. Or survive, and be brain dead. Or worse—what could be worse? I drag her inside and sit her down to a coffee and a stern talk.

  “Barbara, what happens to my books if you die?” I am blunt.

  Smooth as silk, she replies, “I’ve planned for that event. My daughter will continue the work I’m doing. She’s excellent.”

  “Okay, and what if Hunter dies?”

  Hunter pokes me. I yelp, and then remember my manners. “This is Hunter. He’s my flatmate. I can’t do the IT work on my own. I’ve never been good at techno stuff. He is.”

  Barbara nods toward Hunter, then back at me. “Don’t worry, Ruby. I’ll organize everything for you to cover any event.” She stresses the word any. I am reassured.

  From that day on there are almost daily phone calls from Barbara, brimming with outlandish compliments and outrageous encouragement. Stroked, I purr, I roll over, I write my heart out, tweaking, changing and augmenting my next book, a follow-on for the heroine. I am going places. I have that in writing. From Barbara.

  So that’s how I, Ruby Wright, became shackled to my sweet, forgetful and dithery agent, Barbara Banning from Banning Books.

  Chapter Three

  Barbara’s emails continue to flood my inbox.

  ‘It is early days, but we will do the best we can. Your writing is extremely good. I love Amanda. She was a pain in the backside but I ca
red about what was happening to her. And as I said, the ending was quite exceptional.’

  I recognize these words from a previous email. She’s reinforcing her opinion, underlining it. Cutting and pasting, she continues to validate me.

  ‘…You did a beautiful job of the synopsis. I’ll have a look at your About the Author page next. I’m very enthusiastic about your work. I’m going to send Amanda to South Pacific Films, as it wouldn’t be expensive to produce. It’s a great story.’

  A week later and she tickles me further.

  ‘Your writing is great work to work with. Next week I would like to get the first 100 pages off to publishers. It is a really good story. Congratulations. On the disc would you include a list of the publishers who have already seen the work, please. Do you talk like this to people, Ruby? (…Too self-absorbed and pissed to notice…) I love your phrases. I spend half my time chuckling as I read.’

  When the first part of Barbara’s question appeared on my screen ‘Do you talk like this to people, Ruby?’ I got a stab of Um, yes, well, seems I do. But I work hard at disguising my shortcomings. I justify this by return email, not wanting Barbara to think I’d misbehave during a book presentation.

  I need a break from my laptop. My eyes are red. I need to not live waiting for incoming mail.

  Hunter is becoming a little flat with my monopolizing obsession over my writing. He yep-yep-yepped me three times in rapid succession, while I recounted some praise from Barbara. I’m stunned. He yepped me. Intolerant bastard.

  Without a word, but pissed off, I grab my jacket and leave him with his law books. I head for my favorite undies factory outlet sale. Muscling my way through a tide of hirsute women, all grabbing the day’s specials, I spy a dork loitering among intimate apparel. My initial impression is that he’s hanging around awkwardly, yet the more I stare at him, he seems to be quite at home with silk and lycra. But whoever he is I don’t want him privy to what I select. Further, I don’t want to imagine him imagine me wearing any of this stuff. So I keep moving.

  “So is it seasonal then, this business?” He’s chatting at an assistant.

  The assistant ignores him, so from behind a display of pink camisoles, I say, “No, mate. Women wear undies all year around.”

  He retreats outside to hunker down in his truck, where he can only imagine what I might purchase. His chunky wife climbs in beside him. I’d seen her pawing through the larger sizes.

  ‘…I have been a bit out of touch. First the water pump, then the element in the water heater. I’m back to normal and up to page 218 with the final proofreading. This time word by word. The first 100 pages are where the publishers often make up their mind whether or not to read the full manuscript. That is after they decide they like the work enough to read more than the first 20 pages. Do you know how to use the Find and Change function on your laptop? Barbara.’

  This kind woman is mollycoddling me through the steps, one at a time. And, yes, I do know how to use the Find and Change function. I email her so she can appreciate I’m not a total moron.

  ‘Dear Ruby, perhaps mail me a hard copy. Amanda is a very easy script to change the setting to any country so will send to Australian publishers as well. We’ll send out 15 submissions. Apologies for lack of contact.’

  Hunter is still acting a bit stiff with me. I hand-wash my new undies and hang them on the clothesline, which happens to be near the kitchen window. Perhaps that will soften his attitude toward me. But not in a sexual way. Yikes! Not that way. But then again, as long as he pays his share of the rent, he can be whatever he likes.

  Yesterday, I snuck a call on his mobile phone, since mine is out of credit. He insists I have no right to use his phone. I rattle off excuses but remember the disc I need him to make for Barbara, so resort to apologies.

  I also buy him a slice of his favorite carrot cake with apricot cream cheese icing. Not to share. All for himself.

  Chapter Four

  The dog. This noisome, ungrateful beast fell off a car’s trailer along the main road. One minute he’s gripping on with all his claws and might, the next he’s howling and clambering his way up from the ditch. Having checked he’s alive, I say, “She’ll be right, mate”, and leave him to sit at the roadside until his owners realize he’s gone. But during the night, he limps his sorry way to my door. Seems he followed my scent.

  It’s 2.47am when I respond to some primitive instinct, and go outside. There’s the dog, on my mat, at my feet. He alternates between staring out into the distance, whining a little in the back of his throat, and staring into my eyes whenever I glance at him.

  He expects something of me.

  I can’t bear to touch his prickly pelt. He appears to have been loved, yet not enough for his owners to look for him. Now I have to feed him, care for him, even name him, just so I can address my limited conversation to him. I do the calculations: How many mouths to feed? Just a dog and me. Until Hunter comes back from wherever he is. I feel woozy at the thought of sharing my food with this mutt.

  Hunter has been gone for three days and two nights. I’m feeling stressed. It’s not that he should tell me when he goes anywhere. But what happens to my book stuff if he never returns? And I need his money to buy food. Our cupboards are almost empty.

  To the dog, I say, “Well, come on. I guess you must be hungry. Just until your owners find you.”

  With great difficulty, he manages the steep stairs up to the living area and kitchen.

  I grab a pack of Weet-Bix. Now I have the munchies. My mouth salivates at the sight of a can of tomato soup. While I clutch a can of apricots to my chest, I toss an open box of stale crackers toward the dog. Holding it between his paws and making canine grunts until one cracker emerges, he snorts the cracker down.

  I open the can and suck from the ragged hole. Apricot juice mixed with my blood pools on my chest.

  The dog secures another cracker. He’s on the carpet with his back legs flat out behind him, as fixed on his crackers as I am on my apricots. Thrusting a fork inside the can, I spear a golden sliver of fruit and down it without a single chew. And then finish off the whole can, my gag reflex prodding for attention. Next I tackle the Weet-Bix before making a black coffee with three spoons of sugar; the urge to throw up is overpowering. And even while thinking that would be such a waste of all that food, it’s what I do. I make it downstairs and outside. That dog is right behind me, slurping as I power-hurl until I’m empty.

  After a while, I’m hungry again. I open a can of pears and, disciplined, eat two slices only. Five minutes later—one dry Weet-Bix. Then I make myself a weak coffee, which I sip over seven long minutes. We have no milk.

  The dog finishes off the crackers.

  It’s daylight when we dawdle into town, past the takeaway joints in the hope that someone will toss him a scrap or two. There’s a bakery with outside seating. Their counter displays mouthwatering cakes, and the warmer is full of hot savories. A fridge houses iced drinks, while another section supports a stainless steel coffee machine. I feel nothing. No craving. No hunger.

  I sit there hoping to elicit more than one cold chip for the dog. Someone tosses him a pie crust, which he scoffs without crushing. Then we spend the rest of the morning walking the various streets. I speak to no one and no one speaks to me. We drift through the town posting FOUND DOG notices on windows and walls.

  Parked outside a glass-enclosed building is a car with the logo of the national welfare department. A cluster of people linger waiting for them to open their doors. Some slouch, their hoodies pulled low to conceal their faces. They’re the ones who spit gobs onto the already dirty street. Others shuffle and speak to no one. One group punches and pokes each other, showing off their latest ink, swaggering their personal take on a gangster rap. Swap fags. Swap ice. Swap prison stories.

  I walk by them.

  “Opens at 9.00am, sister.”

  The dog bristles, growls, and bares his teeth.

  Back home, I hunt for a length of rope and the
n spend hours in the garden making a leash. The dog chews fresh grass and daisies, and snaps at tiny butterflies and grasshoppers.

  Armstrong, that’s his name now—after our street address, but if we lived on Victoria Street, I’d have called him Victor—makes me stronger because he’s a life and has to be fed. He’s made himself my responsibility—until his owners find him. If they want to, which seem increasingly unlikely.

  It was raining when I found him, and still raining when he then found me. He neither howled nor whined at my door. I favor the notion that he knocked loudly, woke me, I got up and so on and so forth.

  I didn’t like him then. I still don’t. He doesn’t like me. But since Hunter is still away and no one has responded to my postings, we’re in this situation. I’m more a Labrador person; this dog is more something I’m not and never could be. I’m stuck with him, rather than concede another relationship failure.

  So Hunter is off some place he never involved me in, somewhere secretive. If he ever returns, I will present him with his dog, along with his new lead and name. And I’ll give him an earful. Meanwhile, Armstrong is scratching himself silly and I’ve invested in a vet’s consultation only to be told he scratches himself because he’s a dog and, yes, that’s what dogs smell like. No one needs a veterinary degree to know that. It’s just rotten bad luck that I didn’t. I promise to pay off the bill, and change Armstrong’s food to another brand.