Cooper Bartholomew Is Dead

  Cooper grinned and put his drink on the bedside table. He lay on his back and unbuckled his belt. He pushed his jeans down, pulled them over his feet and threw them on the floor. He pulled his T-shirt off and tossed it dramatically over to the other side of the room. He wore only light green jockey shorts.

  ‘So,’ I said, laughing. ‘You’re quite keen then?’

  ‘Just doing my duty.’ He slipped beneath the doona. ‘Hurry up. Get your gear off.’

  I stripped to my underwear. I was wearing my best, my only matching set. It was lacy and floral, grey and pink. The bra did amazing things to my cleavage.

  ‘That’s nice,’ Cooper said, staring at me in a way that made my cheeks burn.

  I climbed beneath the covers and rolled on my side to face him. I put my hand on his belly. I slid it lower, pushed my fingertips beneath the elastic of his shorts. Cooper groaned and rolled towards me. He put his hands on my shoulders and pushed my bra straps down.

  In no time at all our underwear was tugged off and we were pressed close and kissing, our breath coming in shudders and gasps. Cooper put a condom on and then he was on top of me, inside me. I could have cried with the rightness of it. I wanted more.

  But it was over too soon. Cooper groaned and got a faraway look in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, god.’ He buried his face in my neck. ‘Libby. I’m so sorry.’

  I squeezed him tight. ‘Don’t worry. Please don’t. We’ve got all weekend.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it for so long. I couldn’t . . . I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘It was lovely,’ I said, kissing his neck. ‘You’re lovely.’

  49

  COOPER

  We ordered burgers and fries for dinner. We both got dressed, pulling our clothes on roughly before the room-service waiter came up. When the food arrived we ate sitting cross-legged on the bed.

  When we’d finished eating, Libby went to the bathroom and ran a bath. She closed the door as she got undressed, and though she’d been completely naked beside me less than an hour earlier, my mind went into overdrive as I imagined her. But I forced myself to be still, and wait patiently, and not rush after her like a horny lunatic. After a while, when I could hear the splash of water, I got up, stood at the closed door and knocked.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The bath was full of bubbles, so all I could see was Libby’s head and shoulders. Her hair was loose, and hung in wet, ropey strands around her neck. When she breathed in, the round tops of her breasts rose from the water. Her cheeks were red. She was beautiful. Spectacular.

  ‘Get in,’ she said, sliding up one side, lifting her knees. ‘It’s big enough.’

  I pulled my T-shirt over my head, pushed my jeans off, climbed in.

  Libby slid forward. Her breasts were so big and round, her skin so uniformly pale. Her nipples were soft from the water, her areolas two perfect pink circles. I was mesmerised. I could feel the heat stirring low in my belly.

  ‘Touch them,’ she said, her voice different, deeper.

  I reached out and cupped her breasts, running my thumbs over her nipples, which grew hard, just as I’d become hard. Then she wrapped her legs around my back and I felt the surprising soft warmth of her as she pushed herself onto me.

  50

  LiBBy

  We started in the bath, moved to the cold, tiled floor of the bathroom and finally to the comfort of the bed. We took our time, exploring the entire length of each other with our fingertips, our lips and tongues. We kissed and we laughed. We clung to each other like our lives depended on it. We pressed tight and pushed hard and shuddered against each other. We went fast and then slow and then fast again. We kissed so hard our lips started to burn. We moved apart and stared at each other.

  I was mildly tipsy and everything had a dreamlike, magic quality. Making love to Cooper was sublime, beautiful, better than anything I’d ever experienced before. For the first time I understood what all the fuss was about.

  Eventually we stopped, shattered and satisfied. Cooper lay flat on his back and I nestled close to him, my head on his shoulder. I put my hand on his chest, pushed my fingers into the light tangle of his hair, felt the regular thrum of his heartbeat.

  ‘When I was a kid I thought I didn’t want to grow up. I thought grown-ups just did boring stuff,’ I said. ‘But it’s actually very good fun. Quite excellent, really.’

  ‘Best thing ever,’ Cooper said, his voice sleepy. ‘I wouldn’t be a kid again if you paid me.’

  I kissed his shoulder and rolled onto my other side so I had my back to him. He turned too and wrapped his arms around me, spooning me from behind. I fell asleep listening to the soft inhale and exhale of his breath. It was the best lullaby ever.

  The next day was clear and bright and the sun woke me far too early, so I slipped from bed and got up to close the curtains. I fell asleep again, not waking until late in the morning when Cooper opened them. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was wet, and steam drifted from the bathroom.

  I watched him unobserved. I gorged myself on the strong line of his jaw, the light sprinkle of freckles on his nose, the way his hair stood in peaks off his forehead. I watched him walk. I liked the way his T-shirt fit, not too tight, not too loose. I liked the triangular shape of his body: broad shoulders tapering down to narrow hips. I liked the way his jeans hung, hugging his bum, making me want to pull them off him. I liked his enormous hands, the square edges of his fingers, his clipped fingernails. I liked the way he smelled. Wood and skin and salt and soap. I liked everything about him.

  And though I’d read the books and seen the movies and talked about and dreamed of it endlessly, I’d never realised that love could be so intense and so magic, so completely and utterly consuming.

  I’d never realised that life could be so sweet.

  We went downstairs for a late breakfast. Afterwards we walked around Circular Quay. We watched a mime artist, listened to some buskers, enjoyed the gentle warmth of the late-autumn sunshine. We walked up towards the Opera House and into the Botanical Gardens. On the way back to the hotel we bought gelato cones and ate them slowly. Then we went back up to our room and spent the rest of the afternoon in bed.

  When it was dark we walked up George Street. We walked slowly, arms around each other, stopping frequently to kiss, indifferent to the irritated stares of the people who had to walk around us. Despite having spent the last few hours naked and pressed together, we couldn’t get enough of each other, couldn’t get close enough.

  We found a small Spanish restaurant, chose a table in the corner and shared an enormous bowl of paella and a jug of sangria.

  ‘We should move here together,’ Cooper said. ‘Get our own place.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be great!’ I said.

  ‘When do you finish uni? End of next year?’

  I nodded.

  ‘We’ll do it then.’

  ‘Where should we live? Sydney’s so big. Beach or city?’

  ‘Beach,’ he said. ‘Definitely.’

  He turned around and gestured to the waiter, ordering a second jug of sangria. He got his phone out and searched for rental vacancies in Sydney. We looked at places in Bondi and Coogee and Clovelly. Everything sounded wonderful in theory, but the prices were alarming.

  ‘Check this out,’ Cooper read. ‘One-bedroom flat. East-facing and sunny. Original kitchen and bathroom. Timber floors. Ten metres to beach.’

  ‘God, that sounds excellent.’

  ‘Guess how much.’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Seven hundred bucks a week.’

  ‘That’s outrageous. Insane. Who’d even pay that?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Cooper said. He put his phone away. He took my hand over the table and leaned closer. His expression almost made me laugh, he looked so boyish and excited. ‘It’ll be excellent. We’ll be able to afford something great. I’m going to make good money. And you’ll have a degree. You’ll easily get a
good job.’

  I thought it might actually be a bit more complicated than that. My Arts degree wouldn’t really qualify me for anything. But I smiled and nodded enthusiastically. I knew we wouldn’t need one of those fancy places near the beach. I’d be happy living in a cave as long as Cooper was with me.

  When we’d only half-finished the second jug of sangria, Cooper took my face in his hands and kissed my mouth. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Right now. Let’s go back to the hotel.’

  The next day we caught the train home and hailed a cab at the station. We went to my place first. When the cab pulled up in my driveway, Cooper asked the driver to wait while he walked me to the door.

  I felt unexpectedly forlorn. I felt like I used to feel as a child when Christmas was over, as if there was nothing left to look forward to. I bit my lip, swiped at my eyes.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ Cooper looked alarmed. ‘Don’t be sad.’

  ‘I’m not sad. Not really. I’m happy, too happy,’ I said. ‘It’s just, well, that was the best weekend of my life. The best by far.’

  ‘Me too.’ He pressed his thumb to my cheek, wiping away a tear. ‘But we can have lots of best weekends. Fifty-two weekends a year multiplied by fifty years equals approximately’ – he paused – ‘two thousand six hundred more best weekends to look forward to.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem enough,’ I said. ‘And why only fifty years? What then? Will you be sick of me? Are you going to leave me?’

  ‘Nope. No way. I’ll never get sick of you,’ he said. ‘I’ll never leave.’

  NOW

  51

  LiBBy

  I’m staggered to learn that Cooper’s father killed himself. I’m stunned and hurt that I didn’t already know. Why didn’t Cooper tell me? Maybe everyone is right after all. Cooper did kill himself. He must have. It makes a gruesome kind of sense.

  At home Mum is studying, completely absorbed in her work. I’m glad. I don’t want her to notice how upset I am and get worried and ask a million questions. I don’t want to talk about this. Not yet.

  I stand at the study door and we chat briefly about mundane things. I tell her I’m going out for a walk. I get my parka and head over to Ripple Beach. I take my shoes off in the dunes, roll my jeans up to my knees and run down to the shoreline. It’s cool, the wind unpleasantly strong and gusty. The water is icy on my feet and makes me gasp, but I don’t care. Physical discomfort is a welcome distraction from the turmoil in my head.

  I pull up my hood, shove my hands deep in my pockets and walk. It’s a new and particular agony to contemplate how low Cooper must have felt before he jumped. I can barely fathom the pain he must have been going through to want to end his life. I wonder how and why I wasn’t aware of it. How could I have been so blind as to assume he was as happy as I was? Was I that selfish and self-absorbed? That oblivious? I let tears rush down my face unchecked. I’d give anything to be able to go back in time. I’d take more care. I’d pay more attention. I’d answer every phone call and every text. I’d be hyper-vigilant and alert. I would never let myself sleep when he needed me.

  I’d keep Cooper safe beside me and never let him out of my sight.

  An older couple approach me, walking in the opposite direction. The woman smiles from a distance and I turn sharply from her gaze. I know my face must be blotchy, my eyes red, but I can’t stop the tears, can’t control the twisting of my mouth. I stare at the ground as they pass. I know the woman is watching me. I can sense her curious stare, the little tentacles of concern waving out towards me, trying to pull me in. I walk faster. I can’t bear to look at her, can’t bear the sympathy.

  People compare the pain of missing someone to the pain of losing a limb. It now seems an inaccurate and inadequate comparison. I’d give both my legs to have him back. It would be an easy trade.

  The world is simply less without him in it. And for me it will always be that way. Less colourful. Less magic. Less.

  When I get home I make scrambled eggs, more for something to do than because I’m hungry. I take a plate to Mum in the study.

  ‘Do you want me to come out?’ she asks. ‘We can eat together.’

  I shake my head. ‘I thought I might eat in front of the TV, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I take my food to the sofa and flick through the channels. I settle on an episode of Grand Designs, a show I normally enjoy. Tonight it’s the story of a wealthy British couple building a new house. They agonise for days over floor coverings and window dressings and paint colours. They change their minds and argue with tradesmen and get distressed when things don’t go to plan. It’s only a fucking house! I want to scream at them. Their concerns seem so trivial and banal, so impossibly removed from the tragedy of real life. I turn off the TV and take my plate to the kitchen, scrape the rest of my meal into the bin.

  I shower, put my pyjamas on, go to the study to say goodnight to Mum.

  ‘Come here,’ she says, reaching her arms out.

  I stand beside her desk and she pulls me onto her lap. It’s physically awkward – I’m taller than she is and have to keep my legs on the ground – but her embrace is still comforting. She wraps her arms around me, leans her face against my back.

  ‘I know you’re not okay right now, so I won’t ask. But please let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘I just wish I could make it better for you. I wish I could take some of the pain away.’

  We sit there for a moment longer, our hands clasped together on my front. And I wish that she could make it better too.

  I dream that I’m in Sydney with Cooper.

  We are moving into a flat together. Our new place is white and bright and clean and from every window there are views of the ocean. We hold hands and explore. We think we know our new home but every time we enter a different room we find a hidden door, a long hallway that leads to secret spaces. The house expands and grows before us as we move through it. It’s a maze, a neverending puzzle of tunnels and secret doors and hidden rooms. We laugh and laugh at our unexpected good fortune.

  But suddenly I’m not laughing anymore. I’m crying instead.

  What’s wrong? he asks me.

  You’re dead.

  Don’t say that.

  But it’s true, I sob, you’re dead, you’re not really here, you’re dead.

  I’m right here, he says, but as he slaps his chest to prove his point, bits of him start to disintegrate, crumbling into ash as he stands there, horrified.

  I wake with a jolt. My face is wet with tears. I take a tissue from my side-table and blow my nose. I adjust my pillow, roll onto my side, squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t get back to sleep. I toss and turn miserably. My head spins with disturbing thoughts. I imagine Cooper’s broken body at the bottom of the cliff. I imagine him standing at the top of Bradley’s Edge, sad and alone, getting ready to step off.

  I try to force myself to focus on more pleasant thoughts. Good memories. Happy times we had together. I think of our trip to Sydney, those two days of perfect bliss.

  I get my phone and scroll through the photos we took that weekend. There are so many pictures. In most of them we are being stupid, making faces. There’s one of us sharing a pillow in the hotel room. We both have our tongues out, our eyes wide. There’s one of Cooper kissing my cheek. Another of the two of us lying on the grass in the Botanical Gardens. Both of us pink-cheeked at the Spanish restaurant, looking glum on the train ride home.

  There’s one particular photo that breaks my heart, makes me cry. It’s a close-up of Cooper’s face. Staring straight at me. His expression serious, his eyes intense and loving. I press my finger against the screen, trace the line of his jaw. I lift my phone to my lips and kiss the cold screen.

  I remember our hotel room, the amazing view, the deep, generous bath. I remember how we clung to each other all night long. I remember Cooper’s face as we talked about moving to Sydney. He was so bright and happy. H
e was so alive, so vital. So excited for the future.

  So why would he go and kill himself?

  I put my phone away and lie back down. I stare straight up at the ceiling. Something’s bothering me. There’s a niggling half-memory trying to work its way into my brain. I try to forget it, tell myself it’s nothing – just fatigue, denial, grief – but the noise in my head gets louder, more insistent. I’ve forgotten something vital, there’s a missing piece of puzzle.

  At two in the morning I give up trying to sleep. I get out of bed and walk quietly down the hall into my mother’s bedroom. I can see her lumpy form beneath the doona. I stand right beside her bed and stare down at her, waiting for her to wake up, just as I used to when I was small.

  Her eyes open. She doesn’t startle. She never startles. It’s as if she always knows when it’s me. ‘Darling? Are you okay?’

  My face collapses in a silent sob and she lifts her doona and gently pulls me into her bed. She pulls the doona up high over both of us.

  She wraps her arms around me and holds my face close to her chest as I weep, letting me sniff and leak all over her front.

  ‘You miss him,’ she says when I’m quiet.

  ‘So much. It’s killing me.’

  ‘It feels like that, I know.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What was that thing you mentioned? That night when I was first going out with Cooper? About his family?’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t really tell you. It’s not really relevant now. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Mum. Please.’

  She sighs. ‘His mother . . . Tessa, isn’t it?’