The Slap

  ‘My life is not on bloody hold, Con. What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘I just meant . . .’

  ‘I know exactly what you meant. It may seem strange and bizarre to you, but there will come a time in your life when you too will look forward to being at home on a Saturday night and watching the telly. Putting your feet up is what they call it. I’m raising you. I enjoy that. You know that.’ Her aunt turned and stormed down the hall. ‘That was a fucking horrible thing to say,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Connie couldn’t help smiling as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. She walked into the lounge where her aunt had plonked herself on the couch and switched on the television. Connie sat on the arm of the couch.

  ‘What do you think I should wear?’

  Tasha ignored her for a moment, her eyes fixed on the images flickering on the screen. Connie turned to look. Something about bombs, somewhere overseas. She took the remote and switched off the sounds and the images. She looked back down at Tasha, who was trying not to smile. Connie leaned down and softly tickled her aunt’s sides.

  Tasha curled over laughing. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘What should I wear?’

  ‘Something elegant. Something sophisticated. Not some horrible brand sports gear.’

  ‘No logo. Boss. I like that.’

  ‘Please don’t speak like a teenager, Con.’

  ‘I am a teenager.’

  ‘Yes, an unusually intelligent teenager. I just can’t stand the way you young people speak. For God’s sake, what is so wrong with complete sentences?’

  And then Tasha started to laugh again. Even more loudly than before.

  Connie looked at her, perplexed. ‘What’s so funny?’

  Tasha touched Connie’s cheek. ‘What we were and what we become, angel.’ She rose from the couch. ‘Wait here.’

  Tasha came back with clothes draped over both arms. Connie could see a swirl of fabrics. A black and scarlet vest, delicately embroidered with glittering ruby- and sapphire-coloured beads, a camel-hair long skirt with large silver buttons down one side. There was even a hat, made from some thick ivory-coloured material, with a squat conical top that abruptly tapered at the end at an oblique, steep angle.

  ‘Where did they come from?’ Her voice was high-pitched from excitement.

  ‘They were mine.’

  ‘You used to wear them?’

  ‘I made them. No logo.’ Tasha smiled. ‘Is that boss enough for you?’ She lay the clothes across the couch. ‘Actually, it’s not true that there was no label. We did have a label. Nietszche. How pretentious was that?’

  Connie was holding up a dress, part of a charcoal suit, the skirt and jacket made of the same coarse wool. She ignored her aunt.

  ‘It was the early eighties. It made sense back then, nuclear winter and all that. We were all listening to Public Image and Joy Division.’ Tasha smiled at her niece’s delight in the clothes. ‘You probably have no idea what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I do. Dad loved Joy Division.’ Connie picked up the long skirt, placing it against her hips. ‘I like some of their stuff. They’re a bit dark.’

  ‘Dark is good. Better than all that fluffy pop you mob listen to.’ Tasha snatched the skirt away from her. ‘You can’t wear that, sweetheart. It’s too heavy.’

  Connie picked up another dress. It was a simple design; a knee-length, strapless dress with two satin panels forming a double-diamond pattern across the front. The fabric was a fine cotton, ethereal and white, with a trace of light blue shimmer.

  Connie hugged it to her body. ‘I can’t get away with this one, can I?’

  ‘Of course you can. You’ll look terrific in that.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Connie ran into her bedroom and stood in front of the mirror. She looked at the dress against her skin. Her aunt came and stood in the doorway. When Connie turned around she looked so distressed that Tasha rushed to her.

  ‘I can’t.’ This time it was a wail.

  Tasha ignored her. She said nothing. Instead she gently sat her niece down onto the bed and looked around the room.

  ‘I need a brush and some hair gel.’

  Connie pointed to her sports bag on the floor. Tasha rummaged through it and found what she wanted. She sat back on the bed and squeezed gel into her hands. She rubbed them together and then began to run the gel through Connie’s hair. They were both silent. Tasha started to brush Connie’s hair back over her head, pulling at it till Connie winced.

  ‘I’m going to slick it back. That’s the look for that dress. Unless you want to try the hat?’

  Connie looked alarmed at that option. ‘I don’t know anything about hats.’

  ‘It’s the sad decline of civilisation. What can I say? It’s okay. I don’t wear them either now that I’m a hippie.’

  ‘You’re not a hippie.’

  ‘It’s not an insult. Put on the dress.’

  Connie carefully stripped off the sweater and gingerly stepped into the dress. The fabric felt cool against her skin and the fit was perfect.

  She looked into the mirror. There was a mole on her left shoulder. That was visible. There were too many summer freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her breasts looked huge. Her legs were too fat. She could see all this, but it didn’t matter. She had never looked this good. She felt wonderful, she felt like a movie star, like a model, she felt older and more sophisticated than she had ever felt before. She couldn’t wait for Jenna and Tina to see her. She imagined Richie’s reaction, his awe, and it made her want to laugh. She would sit up straight all night. She would be grown-up in this dress. No slouching, no being a teenager tonight. She’d have to be careful with any food or drink. She’d have to be careful where she sat. There would be a hundred things she’d never have had to think about at a party before, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because she had never looked this good. She swung away from the mirror and looked at her aunt on the bed.

  ‘Tash, what do you think?’ Her voice was a little girl’s, eager, hesitant and excited.

  Her aunt got up and put her arms around her. ‘I think you look stunning. Beautiful.’ Tasha looked her niece up and down. ‘But you need a brighter lipstick.’ She pointed down to Connie’s feet. ‘And you certainly cannot wear runners with that dress.’

  Connie’s face dropped. ‘I’ve got no shoes.’

  ‘Well, you are very lucky that we are the same shoe size, aren’t you? And you are even more lucky that despite being an old hippie I still can’t bear to throw away any of my old shoes.’

  Connie hugged her aunt. ‘I never knew you were so talented.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  Connie shook her head in disbelief. She pointed down to the dress. ‘This is talented.’

  ‘I only kept the stuff I thought was decent. Four dresses, a couple of vests, a few shirts. It’s not much. I wasn’t the talented one.’

  Connie was about to continue protesting when Tasha put a finger to Connie’s lips. ‘It was so much fun, angel. Vicky and I would make clothes during the week and we’d sell them at Victoria Markets on Sunday. She was the talented one. It was fun, but I didn’t have the gift.’ Tasha carefully adjusted the dress. ‘But I’m proud of this one tonight. What time do you have to be at Jenna’s?’

  ‘Seven-thirty.’

  ‘I’m going to get some Thai take-away from Station Street. Interested? ’

  Connie shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry yet. There’ll be some food at the party. Mrs Athanasiou always has heaps of food.’

  ‘Well, make sure you eat. I don’t want you to vomit all over the dress.’

  ‘Yuck, of course I won’t.’

  Tasha slipped forty dollars into her niece’s hand. Connie protested and tried to give the money back. ‘I don’t need it. We got paid last week.’

  ‘You’re not drinking bourbon with that dress. Promise?’

  Connie nodded. ‘Promise.’

  ‘I’ll go and find you the exact right shoes.??
?

  Connie stood in front of the mirror. She wished Hector could see her. Maybe they could stop past their place on the way to Jenna’s house. It was in the same direction. She could make an excuse, that she hadn’t looked at the roster and was wondering when she was working next. She could see Hector opening the door, how he would stare at her. He would want her back. She opened her eyes. No, Aisha would be the beautiful one in this dress. Aisha’s dark skin would be lovely against the alabaster fabric. She stepped back from the mirror. She looked like a girl playing dress-ups. A rush of scouring, overwhelming misery overcame her. She could not pull this off.

  Fuck you, Connie, you’re such a wimp. She stepped back to the mirror.

  You’re Scarlett Johansson tonight, she whispered to her reflection, You’re Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation. She felt better. Hadn’t Hector told her that she looked like Scarlett Johansson? She had not believed him but she had never forgotten it.

  She would be Scarlett Johansson tonight.

  Jenna had screamed when she opened the door. Tina, behind her, let out a series of gasps. They pushed Connie down the long, dark corridor into the living room, where Jenna’s mother, Fiona, was curled up with her girlfriend, Hannah, watching television.

  Hannah gave a low whistle and took the girl’s hand. ‘Connie. You look fabulous.’

  The girls were touching the dress, feeling the fabric. ‘Aunt Tash made it.’ She did feel fabulous.

  Tina and Jenna had also dressed up, but next to Connie, Tina’s tight-fitting boob tube and Jenna’s skin-tight jeans and scarlet halter-top seemed adolescent, and inelegant.

  Jenna had scored two Es from her brother and they had decided to take them at once.

  Tina had looked at the tablets nervously and initially refused to take one. ‘Not this year,’ she said hesitantly. ‘There’s so much schoolwork. I can’t. I promise, I’ll become a drug fiend once school’s finished. ’

  ‘Just for tonight,’ Connie entreated, echoing her aunt’s sentiments. ‘After tonight, there’ll be no more parties until exams are over.’

  Tina continued shaking her head. ‘I’m scared of losing control.’ Jenna had rolled her eyes. ‘Then don’t take it. I’m not a pusher. That’s fine, that leaves a whole one for me and one for Con.’

  Connie, however, had bitten off a small corner from a pill and offered it to Tina who anxiously rolled it between her fingers.

  ‘Dad told me that you should always try half the recommended dose of a drug the first time you take it. That way you can’t like, totally lose control and, if you like it, you can have more in a few hours. I’ve just given you a quarter, maybe less. You’ll be fine.’

  Tina had stared increduously at her friend. ‘When did your dad tell you that?’

  Connie found herself blushing. Her father, her mother, of course, they weren’t like other people’s. ‘When I was eleven, I think. He was heading off to a party.’

  ‘In that dress, when you blush, girlfriend, you look like a lobster.’ Jenna’s tone was bitchy. The two girls looked at each other: Jenna’s speckled green eyes were cool and hard but Connie smiled. Her friend was jealous. No, not jealous, envious that she looked so good, so fabulous.

  ‘Ta, I’ll try not to embarrass myself then.’

  Jenna wrapped her arms around Connie and kissed her full on the mouth. ‘I’m so fucking jealous I could kill you. Let’s go party.’

  Walking to Jordan’s house, her elation faded. The night air was sharp, and there were goosebumps all over her arms. At the last moment her aunt had given her a black lace shawl as protection against the cold but it was flimsy and she was shivering as they walked down Bastings Street. She also found the shoes difficult to manage, she had to walk slowly, deliberately, so as not to stumble. They were not very high heels, but the shoes felt tight and uncomfortable. She envied her friend’s denim jackets and runners. Tina had three badges on her jacket: a peace insignia, a Robbie Williams pin and one that read Vote for Pedro; Connie was tempted to ask to wear one, to counteract the formality of her own outfit. She was conscious of stares from the people they passed on the street. At High Street a group of wog guys and girls were standing smoking outside a reception centre. She heard one of the boys call out, Check her out, and a few of the younger men had wolf-whistled. She shouldn’t blush. She was going to spend the whole evening trying not to blush. She glanced back at the group of wog boys, all smoking, in their best suits, looking like they owned the world. She was not going to think about him tonight. He would not spoil her night.

  The Athanasious had a huge double-storey house on the crest of the hill on Charles Street. They walked up the drive, which was steep and long, and the shoes pinched at Connie’s heels. Fairy lights decorated the verandah and music could be heard booming from the back of the house. The girls stopped at the front door and looked back at the city spread below. Melbourne was all lit up below them, and the night sky was a deep, satiny purple.

  Jenna let out a low, slow breath. ‘ Wow, I just love this view.’

  Tina’s eyes were wide. ‘Is it just the E, or does everything look fantastic tonight?’

  Connie and Jenna laughed. No way the drug had kicked in yet.

  Connie slipped her arm through Tina’s and opened the door. ‘Just you wait,’ she whispered. ‘Just you wait.’

  Mrs Athanasiou was in the kitchen, sipping a glass of whisky. Mr Athanasiou was at the table scooping out dips into small bowls. Through the glass doors the girls could see Jordan turning sausages and chops on the barbecue. There were already fifteen or so kids outside. Jay-Z was on the stereo.

  Mrs Athanasiou walked up to the girls and offered them each a peck on the cheek. ‘Good, we need more women.’

  She looked at Connie appreciatively. ‘And you have made quite an effort.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Don’t the girls look marvellous?’

  But it was the Athanasious who were marvellous. Selena Athanasiou was from somewhere in Indonesia called Sulawesi. Or at least Connie thought it was in Indonesia. Maybe it was in Malaysia? She had silky raven hair that unfolded into one thick wave down her back. Jenna had once told her that Mrs Athanasiou belonged to a tribe whose ancestors were head-hunters. Jordan had boasted that his grandfather was a King. That would make Mrs Athanasiou a princess, and she could easily pass for one. Tonight she was wearing black jeans and a scarlet sweater, the look simple, eye-catching. An elegant line of mascara and a soft kiss of lipstick were her only makeup. Mr Athanasiou was, as always, unshaven, wearing baggy canvas trousers and a colourful batik shirt, but even in the daggiest clothes he could pass muster as a companion fit for a princess. His hair was a mess of shaggy black curls, speckled with grey. His eyes were twinkling, still youthful. His unblemished olive skin was tanned a rich chocolate brown almost as dark as his wife’s.

  Twenty years ago Mr Athanasiou had been a hippie trekking the globe, especially the parts the rest of the world had no interest in visiting. Evidence of his exploits stared down at Connie from the exposed red-brick wall of the kitchen: a black and white photograph blown up to the size of a poster of an even more youthful Mr Athanasiou, bearded, his unwashed hair down to his shoulders, standing next to a veiled old woman on a street in Kandahar watching the Soviet army leaving. But the photograph that always struck Connie was a postcard-sized, framed image of the youthful couple, Mr Athanasiou for once neatly shaven, his wife with her hands clutched over her pregnant belly, standing outside an ancient Orthodox Church in Georgia. The icons painted on the wooden doors had eroded to rust-coloured ghosts. Not long after that picture was taken Mr Athanasiou set up an internet website supplying information for adventurous—or foolish—travellers wanting to risk more than sunburn and a pickpocketed wallet on their holidays. This must have been somewhere in the prehistory of computers. He had made a fortune. A filthy, amazing fortune.

  Connie smiled as Mr Athanasiou kissed her cheek and looked through the glass sliding doors of the kitchen to where Jordan was standing over the barbecue,
laughing over something his mate Bryan Macintosh was saying. Something stupid, no doubt. Bryan Macintosh only made dumb jokes. Jordan was as tanned as his father. And already almost as tall. His eyes and his smile were his mother’s. Last holidays his parents had taken him to Uzbekistan, then to Trebizon in Turkey and ended the holidays at his grandparents’ house in the Aegean. The holidays before that it had been Bolivia and New York City. Don’t ever start envying the rich, Connie’s mother had told her once, in Harrods. Marina would often take her there after school. Her mother would stuff shirts and skirts and little toys in her daughter’s The Little Mermaid schoolbag. Don’t ever start envying them, because once you do, you can never stop. You’ll just end up wasting your life.

  Did she envy Jordan his wealth, his good looks, his parents? No. She had taken her mother’s advice. Nevertheless she’d smiled naughtily when Jenna informed her that Mr and Mrs Athanasiou had met and fallen in love in Paris. So perfectly romantic but also so pleasingly clichéd.

  ‘Is there anything we can do to help, Mrs A?’

  Mrs Athanasiou waved her glass of whisky in the air and glanced over to the oven. ‘No thanks, Connie, you go outside and have fun. We’re just waiting for these pies to be ready and then Antoni and I are off to the movies. The house belongs to you kids.’ She pointed to the bar at the end of the dining area. ‘There’s beer, champagne and you have limited access to the spirits. Don’t touch any of the top-shelf stuff. It will only be wasted on you teenagers.’

  Mr Athanasiou walked over to the door and slid it open. He bowed and waved the girls through. ‘Join the party.’

  Jay-Z had been followed by a short rant of spoken word by Jello Biafra and now Jet’s ‘Are You Gonna Be My Girl?’ was pumping through the outdoor speakers. Jordan had obviously been lazy when it came to programming the iPod, just searching and clicking through his selections alphabetically.

  The teenagers had formed into three groups. There was a bunch of boys around the barbecue, tending to the sizzling meat. A cluster of girls was sitting around the patio table. Lenin, the only boy among them, was rolling a joint. Steps led down from the patio to the pool area where more people were seated.