Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,9
prison sentence for fraud, while Tom’s estranged mother lives and works at a holiday resort in Far North Queensland. Bernie and Rose Lawson stepped in to raise Tom when he was eleven years old.
‘You coming for pizza?’ I ask.
‘Was just about to lock up.’ He digs in the pocket of his cargo shorts for a set of keys. As he flips the Closed sign on the door, I take one last look around the shop floor. Maybe it’s the fading light or the fine film of dust on every surface, but instead of the magical treasure trove that enchanted me as a kid, it now feels like a neglected pile of junk.
‘When did you arrive?’ I ask Tom as we follow the footpath past the IGA supermarket. A guy in a green polo shirt is rolling fresh produce bins back inside, even though it’s barely half past six. The IGA used to stay open until nine.
‘Caught the train up yesterday.’
‘What happened to getting your driver’s licence? It was all you could talk about last year.’
‘Don’t you start,’ he says, the pizzeria’s lights reflected in his glasses. ‘Raf ’s already been on at me about it.’ He juts his chin at a silver hatchback puttering towards us up Railway Parade. A tent-shaped light is perched on the car’s roof with an illustration of a pizza slice and the words It’s Pizza Time!. ‘Speak of the devil.’
My hand finds its way to my bare neck, suddenly unsure about my new hairstyle. Already lightly flushed from walking, the heat in my skin deepens.
‘Come on,’ I say, steering Tom by the arm. ‘Let’s see if we can get a table.’
He glances at the empty parking spaces, at the security rollers pulled down over neighbouring shops. The only people around are loitering outside the Criterion Hotel, having a quiet smoke by the pub’s entrance. ‘Somehow I don’t think that’ll be a problem.’
Tom pulls aside the plastic strips hanging across the pizzeria’s doorway, gesturing for me to enter ahead of him. It’s an older-style shop with a long counter down one side and a row of timber booths on the other. Sally and Liv Nolan have refurbished the fittings to their original 1980s glory, including a hand-drawn chalkboard menu with spotlights instead of the modern backlit variety. There are red and white tablecloths and garlic garlands, and even wine bottles with straw baskets hanging along the wood-panelled walls. Known for its kitschy character and primo pizza, this place is usually bustling on a Friday evening with locals and tourists alike.
Tonight though, every booth sits empty except for Sabeen down the back, folding pizza boxes.
‘Hey, hey!’ she says, sliding out of her seat. She skips towards us, her dark brown ponytail swinging like a pendulum. ‘The band’s back together.’ Beneath her apron, a tight white T-shirt dazzles against her olive skin, and she’s managed to smear a very obvious drip of pizza sauce across her collarbone.
‘I think she’s happy to see us,’ I say to Tom, and Sabeen flashes her big toothy grin.
‘I’ve bloody missed you two!’ She hooks an arm around each of us, pulling us into a three-way hug. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
Tom gives her a weak smile and I nod, even though I’m rapidly losing my appetite. The squeal of brakes outside tells me Raf has pulled the hatchback into a parking space. Any minute he’ll walk inside. An image flashes into my head before I can stop it: Raf leaning against the rough timber door of the bush hut, water droplets clinging to his hair.
My pulse quickens and I try to think about something else.
‘Okay, let me see,’ Sabeen says, taking me by the shoulders. She spins me in a slow circle to scrutinise my hair. ‘It’s shorter than it seemed in the photos. I wasn’t a hundred per cent sold, but I think it’s growing on me.’
‘Or on Chloe,’ Tom says. ‘Literally.’
He gives me a sly glance because she isn’t exactly being complimentary. This is classic Sabeen, though – she always gets straight to the point. On the first day we met, as the moving truck was backing slowly up the motel driveway, she rambled down the hill from her house, tall and gangly, her hair hanging all the way to her bum. ‘I’m Sabeen Nolan,’ she’d announced. ‘I have two mums and a brother called Rafi, and my father was born in Pakistan. He gave Mum and Min a special present so they could have me.’ I had no clue what