Ruby returned to Melbourne from Paris in May 1981.
I knew she stopped in Perth to attend a friend's wedding. However, no letter arrived prior as promised from Paris. Nor a phone call when she arrived in Western Australia. Now, I was aware she had been home for two days.
I had called her family's private number days earlier, not the restaurant's public one. Arianna offered it to me after I came back from Paris. Ruby's mum invited me to lunch on a busy Friday at Il Piacere.
Nonetheless, she found time for me. I watched her rare delegation of tasks as she was served her cooking. Arianna pried about her daughter. I perceived she meant not the Ruby of letters or phone calls home. She sought insight into her daughter's spirit and her well-being.
I focused on Ruby's hospitality, studies, and hostel work. She spotted the radiance in my voice as I recalled our cooking together. Arianna insisted I go through the ravioli dish we prepared step by step. She gave nods of approval when Ruby's technique matched hers.
I skirted sleeping with her daughter. Arianna was a practising Catholic mother. I didn't tell her I loved Ruby. Whether Arianna accepted what I said at face value or not, she was a superb hostess. The lunch included fettuccini with seasonal mushrooms; it rated A-plus. She insisted I eat a slice of cassata. I agreed readily and savoured the textures until Arianna excused herself and re-engaged clients, content because I indicated Ruby and I would catch up when she arrived home.
I made the call mid-morning.
"Hi." I heard Ruby's voice over the phone.
In a word, light and upbeat. I assume now she expected a girlfriend or relative on the private line.
"It's Luke. Can we meet?" I hedged.
Her reply voice panned neutral. I needed to see her face.
"Okay, coffee tomorrow," Ruby to the point.
She provided the name of a café in Carlton and clicked, cutting into her 'bye.'
My disquieting thought as I put my end of the phone down was the absence of a vibe between us in a brief conversation. For a moment, I doubted our ongoing relationship.
How well had we connected in Paris?
Had Ruby moved on?
The following day, I went to a Carlton café to meet Ruby, a spring in my step. Yesterday's apprehension disappeared. I held to the optimism of hooking up with Ruby.
I parked in a car park. Exiting my car, I realised it was the same one where Jenny and I first kissed. I sought Ruby in my mind as tangled thoughts surged around Jenny.
My steadiness lost Jenny! I kissed her passionately here. My yearnings left uncommunicated.
I told myself I could learn and do better with Ruby today. Exiting the car park stairwell, I entered a bustling street. Passing me were unknown individuals who rushed to be where they were going. Any thoughts about Jenny were adjourned.
I scanned for the café unhurried because Ruby waited in front of me. I found the brasserie, which occupied the corner block. Ruby sat inside, flipping a menu in her hand. My heartbeat surged as she acknowledged me. I eased onto the chair opposite her, seated at a small round table designed for two. Salt, pepper and sugar in glass containers between us. And two table napkins.
The café presented tidy. Timber walls dominated, and framed cliche travel posters filled the walls, Southeast Asian beaches, Malaysia and Thailand.
I set my jaw. This wasn't holiday nostalgia hour, even as my cheeks heated.
The tables and chairs were made of a mass-manufactured wood veneer. Despite it being mid-morning and mid-week, we were currently the eatery's sole business. Ruby slid the menu across the table, nearly sending my folded napkin to the floor. I hastily pursued the menu card. We ordered coffee. It came in two mugs.
The quality of the coffee—no idea.
I immediately craved rekindling our Paris connection.
Whatever held us together.
The fresh aroma of the mocha hit my nostrils.
Cafés, mocha and Ruby blended.
My heart rate steadied, and we had no awful pause after we greeted one another. However, neither of us initiated touch in an amicable conversation around the usual catch-up questions.
I asked: How are you? How was the flight home? What work are you looking for?
Ruby inquired: How are your parents? What job did I have and where?
We finished the preliminaries. I started talking about a film I had recently seen. It created a dead-end conversation with no input from Ruby. I wondered if she even listened. I stopped sharing the movie.
Ruby suddenly nonplussed me.
"I met your beach girl in Perth, of all places."
Related impersonally and devoid of elaboration. From sitting relaxed, I tensed and straightened, my fingers clutching the underside of the table.
What the frick, are you doing, Ruby?
Are you messing with me?
She succeeded.
Despite her bombshell statement, Ruby lacked interest in my response. Adopting a 'whatever' attitude, she picked up her napkin and unfolded it. Prior, the serviette had rested on the table like mine in its basic triangle fold. Ruby commenced to refold it into a rose shape like those in her family restaurant. I tried to settle my agitated mind by taking a long sip of coffee. Ruby's eyes avoided me.
She folded a bloody napkin.
"How did you know it was Jenny?"
I finally managed to seek the additional. Ruby took her sweet time and completed another intricate ruche before glancing at me.
Hindsight suggests Ruby read me too well; how I held thoughts in and rarely spoke them out.
She fed me details in a detached way as she made the final adjustments to her napkin creation.
"Coral, she eventually got your girl's name right!"
Numbness spread through me.
Ruby smirked.
"Cute, raunchy name, and her eyes, amber is rare."
Jenny's resin pools expanded in my mind's eye.
Suddenly, I gripped the table's edge; I felt sure Ruby was trying to arouse a knee-jerk reaction from me!
She finished folding the napkin rose and placed it beside the sugar. She drummed her fingers near the edge of the table.
"Ms Taylor had hot eyes. I would have hit on her, except I was with Ella."
Ella, Ruby's family friend in Perth. They attended the wedding together. Ella and Ruby were about the same age.
"It's how I met your girl. Ella does set design. She invited me to the after-party for a successful stage musical, Joseph. Ella and I hit it off in Perth."
Ruby's eyes sparkled each time she mentioned Ella. I detected a thrill in how she held and savoured the a at the end of her girlfriend's name. I wriggled uneasily, and my hands tightened around my coffee mug.
Had Ruby paired with Ella in Perth?
Then, from the left field, Ruby could have pursued Jenny like she had Coral!
My fingers trembled.
At least Ruby never met the college-aged Jenny.
My mind tossed everything in a lurid mix.
The girl I wanted was talking about the girl I still wanted.
And Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat added a layer to convoluted memory. I surmised Jenny pursued her interest and made a career in some aspect of theatre production.
My inward, drawn thoughts left Ruby to a one-way conversation.
"She can dance, that girl of yours," Ruby said safely, avoiding talking about us.
"Ella introduced me. She told me Jenny was a Melbourne girl. I noticed her eyes - she can't hide those! They are striking, especially when they shine under dance lights. They shone like liquid resin."
Ruby sipped her coffee.
I gulped mine.
Rather bashful, I inquired, "Did you tell her you knew me?"
"No sunshine. It's nothing personal! I watched her, intrigued by how you got so lucky to screw her."
My chin trembled beyond my willpower.
"What do you mean?"
I leaned forward.
Ruby leaned back.
"She's picky. She was dancing with some guy. He said something in her ear, she shook her head, and they broke apart. They didn't continue dancing."
Much later, I mulled over this information: Had I gotten lucky from our first dance? I was glad Jenny wasn't sleeping with any guy anywhere. Did she have a steady partner? I wished myself in the audience at a Jenny-produced musical.
"She soon danced with a different guy."
And after this comment, Ruby changed the topic. She entertained herself, leaving me stunned. The brunette's lips smiled as she talked about Ella, clubbing, shopping and time at the beach. Ella, a melodic lilt each time she mentioned the name.
I became unsettled as I connected the dots in our café meeting—the absence of a greeting embrace. No hands touching across the table. No slinky, eyelash flirting. Coffee didn't lead to sex. Yet, I refused to acknowledge it as I sensed our absent sparks.
I saw a backgammon case alongside today's paper and mixed magazines on a side bench. I reached for it and opened it.
Connect, I thought, reconnect.
I set the board for both players. Ruby watched the set-up, not me. I remember she liked the game in high school.
I recalled we played it together once in her family restaurant kitchen on a riotous day. The day Ruby and I helped Coral make a birthday cake for a teenage Josh.
I encouraged Ruby to start the game. She rolled the dice. The illusion remained mine that we were doing something together. I spent most of a short match watching her slender fingers and black-painted nails each time she shook and rolled the dice cup.
Ruby won the game; she dispatched me speedily. I couldn't match her mental calculations. She shut the game case in a swift movement as she threw the winning pair.
The brunette delivered assertive, "That win was a long time coming."
I realised Ruby held memory as clearly as I did.
Paris, the boathouse, college and the spring.
Backgammon against me in her kitchen as we waited for a birthday cake for Josh to bake. I won the first two games. Ruby, the next two. We never played the deciding fifth game — until now.
She pushed the backgammon case across the table. I stood to stack it next to the magazines and newspapers.
Ruby bounced up simultaneously, "I have things to do; catch you another time."
"I will walk you to your car," spoken anxious, aware my hands flexed empty; I desired Ruby's hand.
"Not necessary," she opened her purse to pay for the coffee.
I inquired if she had parked nearby as we paid.
I can't remember who paid, whether one of us or we did it separately. It wasn't important, as it happened. Yet, it might have indicated something in the context of what unfolded.
Were we separate or together?
I restated, "I'd like to."
I wanted to walk with her.
Ruby waved her hands, "Okay."
We headed to Ruby's car about half an hour after our meeting. I liked the cut of her black jacket. It suited her faded jeans. We walked beside each other in a Ruby quick step, without contact or speaking.
I thought I would catch up with her tomorrow or the day after. I hadn't entreated her concerning tomorrow.
We stood curbside, next to her car a couple of blocks from the café. I was positioned between Ruby and her vehicle. I leaned in to kiss her goodbye.
I met sealed lips.
Ruby's lips greeted unresponsive to mine. They remained closed. So dry. Like kissing sandpaper, craggy and grainy. Devoid of moisture like she premeditatedly drained her natural fluent dew. Her lips were zipped. My lips relayed no impact to Ruby's lips. Or Ruby! Her lips might as well have been glued together.
I swayed woozily on a curb.
A step backwards, I searched chaotically for her eyes. We remained inside each other's personal space, yet Ruby did not look at me. She scuffed her bloody shoes!
She spoke softly, "I thought you knew it was over."
A measured, not an emotional tone.
I tried to understand—I did understand—but I didn't understand.
The parameters of my whole world entered free fall. Everything Ruby instantaneously closed to me. Her words reinforced the devastating message supplied by her lips. Words unnecessarily delivered like an extra punch below the belt after a knock-out blow to the head.
"I assumed you knew," she added, perhaps exasperated by my non-response.
I failed to move or reply. My eyes surely glazed.
We both mentally writhed in an ever-expanding, awkward moment.
Something had to happen.
It didn't start with me.
Ruby stepped around my frame. Off the curb. Around the rear of her car. She opened her driver's door.
I stood stunned. I don't remember watching her drive away.
It seemed like forever before I moved.
My car was in a car park, some distance, in the opposite direction. My emotions did not self-destruct. They moored motionlessly as my defining and secure thoughts since leaving Paris lay shredded—Ruby and me.
Memories of Ruby lay scattered, like film footage, on a cutting room floor. Snippets of scenes, unplayable as a whole. Fixed, frame by frame. Forever static.
I found myself rocking on the balls of my feet beside my car. My key ground into the lock.
I fingered the key chain.
My morale nosedived; I kissed her sealed lips.