Abigail is fifty if she's a day but she's not married and I don't think she has any kids. It's not something we've ever talked about. Our relationship has clear, well-defined boundaries - questions about kids never come up, unless it's about avoiding them. At her age, she's not interested and I'm happy to oblige her.
Abigail works in the cash office of the bookstore I work in. It's one of the larger chains and our store is a multi-level store in a shopping centre. I'm just glad we don't have to listen to the crappy music they pipe through the shopping centres that the other stores are in: this centre is independantly owned and it shows. Every year it grows bigger and - we assume - better. The store seems to be doing all right. Aside from the weirdly high turnover of store casual staff, ours is outstanding in our group. Our managers are committed to the store and the (full-time) staff in equal measure, promoting staff loyalty in turn. I've been offered work in management in other stores and declined. Aside from my more personal reasons for staying, my nest doesn't get any more feathered than here.
I live five minutes' walk away in a small house on a quarter-acre block that's been in my family for five generations. I inherited the house from my grandfather, who put me up while I was studying film theory and criticism at university. One whole room in the house is dedicated to storing an awesome collection of videotapes of movies going back fifty years; lots of smaller Australian productions that Pop was involved with as a cameraman and editor. I never discovered this, though, until I came to live with him. I moved down to live with him from interstate and didn't actually know him that well, beforehand. After five years sharing breakfast, dinner and the late show with him, before seeing him in the ground a few years ago, I'd say I knew him pretty well.
He never knew about Abigail but somehow I think he'd have been cheering me on. He was the black sheep of his generation in our family and I think he knew that mantle was going to be passed on to me. Not that there was anything to know, not really, not until New Year's Eve last year...
LUNCH ROOM
Abigail was working her way through a salad when I came into the lunch room and sat down with my home-made burritos and the latest reading copy I'd found in my pigeon hole. Management like us to get a head start on being able to intelligently discuss the new books that are coming out and they know I'll read anything that's printed. I read the chick-lit under duress but occasionally there's something good in there.
"Whatcha reading?" she asked, pausing for some water. I passed the book over for her perusal while I moved over by the microwave to nuke my burritos. "Any good?"
"It's fine so far. Slow to start but I'm sure it'll speed up soon enough." I pointed to her salad. "You lose a bet with your rabbit again?"
She made a face. "Lemming. It's a lemming. And no, I didn't lose a bet with him. I'm detoxing. You should see this soup I've made - leek, celery, onion, carrot, turnip - wonderfully cleansing."
"Sounds like vegetarian Draino," I laughed. "If you feel improved afterwards, it doesn't matter what it sounds like."
"You betcha," she said around a mouthful of dry coleslaw. The microwave pinged and I popped open the door, careful not to burn my fingers on the plate as I set it on the lunch table.
"That, on the other hand..." she drawled.
"Hey, don't rag on my Tex-Mex. I scammed some great recipes when I hit Austin last holidays and these burritos are the best. All fresh ingredients. Just don't talk to me about refrying beans..." I shuddered Homer Simpson-style and murmured, "Dishes..." Abigail laughed, then stood up to refill her water bottle. My eyes followed her as she moved over to the sink.
I heard a lot of the casuals - guys and girls - talking about the full-timers in the store. Cassandra and Helen had a lot of admirers among the first-floor staff and even Hec in the CD section had one or two hangers-on. Downstairs, on the ground floor, Anne and Marya ran a pretty tight ship as far as the books were concerned. Mothers of big families both, gossip around them was less about how much people would like to get into their pants and more speculation about the likelihood of cobwebs. Management - Virgil, Sophia and Tony - were always friendly with staff but kept business hours for business. A lot of the casuals simply thought them distant and had no idea how little of their conversations - and other goings-on - were well-known among both management and full-time staff.
Certainly Kelly and Katie were warned not to bring their personal issues into work with them and were told to be discreet: none of the casuals (but all of the full-timers) knew they'd been caught on security tape going down on each other on the lounges in the children's' section after hours. Ryan had been fired for his little infringement and all the casuals heard was a repeat of smoking and drinking policy for the chain. (He ended up with a fine and a suspended sentence.)
I was typically an object of pity for the casuals: the guy who started as a casual and never left, the odd-job guy, everywhere and nowhere. Abigail was an object of indifference: they barely noticed her when they picked up their pay slips - not that she cared, either. Abigail has her own business and working in the cash office is more a permanent part-time thing. She's into alternative therapies and such - she volunteered to help people during the Black Saturday fires - and she's utterly down to earth. I thought she was the bomb. Still do.
She wore a denim skirt to mid-thigh, a white singlet top with a sports bra underneath, fawn bolero vest and oxblood knee-high zip-up boots. She's only five-foot-two and curvy to boot, with short-cropped hair in a continuous state of flux between her naturally dark blonde hair, the increasing amount of grey she found in it, and the ash blonde she chose to dye her hair. Spiky with gel or mousse (depending on the latest treatment), Abigail always looks, if not a million bucks, then at least several hundred thousand.
"Are you eyeballing me again?" she queried, not turning around but the raised eyebrow obvious in her tone.
"Of course," I grinned. "You know how my tastes run, Abigail."
She took a swig from her water bottle and sat back down at the table, slapping me as she passed. "That's harassment."
"I thought it was assault and battery when you slap someone." I poked out my tongue. "I just think you look great. You always look great."
"Awww, thanks boyo. You're always such a sweetie." She put the lid back on her Tupperware container and stepped over to the fridge, pushing the plastic bowl past bottles of Diet Coke to the back of the bottom shelf. "Some of us have to get back to work..."
I took a large bite from a burrito and mumbled around it, "And some of us don't just yet..." Abigail laughed and pointed at my plate, where the bottom half of what was in my hands was forming a protein-based pile of debris. "And you are such a grub."
The next half-hour passed in virtual silence, aside from my sotto voce curses as I searched for a spoon to scoop up the mince and beans from my plate. I ended up doing the dishes and drying one while the rest drained on the counter. Abigail came in with her mug and a tea bag.
"So what are you doing for Christmas, Sam?" she asked. "Are you going up north to see the family?" She ran water from the zip-boiler into her mug.
"Nope," I shrugged. "I'm a black sheep this year. Virgil wants me here anyway and the trip to Texas... well, I'm happy to pay in some goodwill, you know?" Abigail made as if to comment but I cut her off: "I know, I know, I earned the holidays. It's just the way I work."
