Free Perfect Skin by Nick Earls Page A

person with eighties hair bearing down on you with all that blue eye shadow, and you know that somewhere in her wardrobe she’s got leg warmers, waiting. Right next to the ‘Choose Life’ T-shirt.
    But what am I thinking? It’s not as though I could ever promise to be at the cutting edge of fashion myself. And anyone with eighties hair is really only one good haircut away from crossing the line, and being a contender.
    I don’t think I’ve been this shallow for, seriously, maybe ten years.

6
    Do you want to come in for some water?
Ash says, when we’ve finished the run and we’re back outside her house.
    On either side of the path, the grass is knee-high with some stalks shooting up much higher and bending under the weight of seed with the recent rain. If it wasn’t for the car parked in the driveway you’d be sure no-one lived here.
    In the kitchen, she takes water from the fridge and pours it into two plastic cups. I get the red one.
    I think they are Waterford, or something,
she says, just as I was thinking I’d accepted my plastic cup impassively.
I’d show you round the place, but this is the best hit.
    There’s not much to say to that. Behind the fridge I can see the shitty wiring, and it’s probably worse in the places I can’t see. When I look down, there’s a crack of daylight coming through between the lino floor tiles. I want to say things like, Have you had the wiring checked? and Are you sure this floor’s okay?, but that sounds too much like my father’s territory. And there’s no point. She won’t have had the wiring checked, for a start.
    I got this place through a family friend,
she says, obviously figuring it needs some explanation.
Rent-free. They’ll build town houses here eventually. Or units. But that’ll take a while to happen. They’ve got a dive-boat business out of Cairns that keeps them busy.
    Is that where you’re from?
    Yeah. Well, Atherton, not far from Atherton. But I’ve been in Cairns for uni.
She stops to refill my cup.
I’ve been doing psychology and sociology at James Cook and I’ve transferred down here for honours. To work with a particular supervisor. And maybe convert it into a masters. We’ll see.
    So are you going to get other people in here to live with?
    I don’t know. I don’t know if that’s really feasible. I don’t know if the place is up to it.
    Do you know a lot of people round here?
    No. But uni hasn’t started yet, so . . .
She stops, drinks water.
Things’ll get busy soon enough, I guess.
    She finishes her water, and the sweat runs from the ends of her dark hair and down her neck, soaks into today’s ten-K fun-run singlet top. She does have blue eyes, I notice, even though I thought I’d made that up. Natalie Imbruglia – that’s who I thought she looked like. Even though she doesn’t, really, so that’s even more embarrassing than having thought it in the first place. She doesn’t have the same mouth.
    She doesn’t have the same mouth as Natalie Imbruglia – that’s what I’m thinking, standing here in her kitchen, drinking water from her best red plastic cup. Not that the fact that it’s different means there’s anything wrong with her mouth, but . . .
    Uni starts next week,
she says.
It’s probably good to have a quiet week or two before getting into that.
    Yeah. If you wanted to do something in the meantime, we could have coffee. Or something. If you wanted. Look, I could just give you my details and then you could call, or whatever. If you had time on your hands.
    Sure.
    I’ve got it all on a card. A business card. How about I give you one?
    On the way to the car, it crosses my mind that she’s not likely to be faxing me from here, and that maybe a couple of phone numbers would have sufficed. And that going the business card will probably look like the wanker option.