Page 7 of People Skills

Everything about the photo makes me believe Hillary organised it, paid for it, chose his outfit and possibly orchestrated his pose.

Other photos of him I have encountered in my job: an image of him wearing a suit, accepting the Victorian Premier’s Literary Prize for Fiction for his debut novel The Bird House; a family picture of him and James and Ettie standing together somewhere warm and tropical, on holiday but dressed up in chinos and a white shirt, possibly for a wedding; and a photo of him in a blazer with his girlfriend Lana at an event, where she’s laughing, and he’s looking at her with an expression of amusement. That one is from only a few months ago, but he still has the smooth skin and the floppy hair of his mid-twenties self, even though he’s thirty-one now.

He always looks suave, put together in the way of those with easy access to expensive clothes. He has the air of a man who has just read the Paris Review and drunk a black coffee and he’s disappointed in every person he has encountered that day.

I cannot currently see him, or any man who looks remotely like him, in the pick-up/drop-off area of this train station.

I finally see a park, a spot that two other cars have considered and rejected because a huge ute beside it has parked over the line so it’s very narrow. But I am not in the position to reject any potential park.

It takes me four tries, reversing and resetting, to get into it. I’m a good parker. The secret to parking well is keeping your cool and not being afraid to let it take as many tries as it needs to take. My first lesson in not worrying about what people think of me came when I was learning how to park. My driving instructor said, ‘Don’t worry about them’—meaning all the people outside the car, all the people out in the world—‘this is between you and the space you want to be in.’

A man nearby applauds when I complete the park and turn the car off. I squeeze out, smile, nod my head in acknowledgment. He might be applauding ironically but I decide to assume he is doing it genuinely and not in a sexist way.

I hurry onto the platform. It’s empty. I walk into the station itself, which is small, with two customer-service officers behind a counter and a bored-looking teenager running a snack bar with about a dozen seats. One seat is taken by a mother trying to keep a squirming toddler entertained—‘No, the snacks are for the train trip, you can wait ten minutes, yes you can, just sit, you can, please just SIT, here have my phone’—another by an older man with an iPad watching a show at full volume with no headphones, and a third by a hunched figure asleep in the corner wearing board shorts and a hoodie with the hood pulled low, legs propped haphazardly on two suitcases. A hoodie with the hood up in this weather? He’s either a criminal on the run or coming down from a hell of a bender.

I hover outside the men’s bathroom for a few minutes, calling Xavier’s phone and getting nothing but voicemail, and staring intently at every man who could possibly be Xavier until it’s obvious I’m making them uncomfortable. I check the platform again, do a lap of the whole building. Looks like Kat’s going to get her free coffee. And Hillary will be disappointed in that way of hers that chills me to the bone. Damn it.

As I turn, the hoodie guy in the corner lets out a startlingly loud snore, a snore that causes him to lift his head and flop it back against the seat, and I get a quick look at his face. There is something familiar about his stubbly jawline. I squint.

Is it? Could it be? In a hoodie? And purple-flowered board shorts?

It is. It’s Xavier.

How is he asleep right now? He got off a train ten minutes ago.

I walk closer to him, and then squat down to get a better look at his face. Yes, it’s him all right. The heavy stubble, the eye bags, the dingy look, the suitcases, for god’s sake, were all throwing me off, but it’s definitely Xavier.

Now I need to wake him. What is the most professional way to wake someone slumped, possibly unconscious, in a train station? Should I touch his arm, his shoulder, his knee? The top of his head? I reach out my hand, hover over a range of body parts, and then lose my nerve.

I clear my throat. I cough.

Nothing.

I decide to touch his bare knee. I poke it and then tap it gently and then tap it again a bit more firmly. He startles awake with a force that makes me jump back. He gives a kind of snort-gasp and then blinks at me, disoriented.

‘Xavier?’ I say. ‘Charlotte. I’m here to pick you up.’ I’m talking to him like he’s just woken from a coma or he’s a little child being picked up from kindergarten, using a too-loud voice and touching my chest when I say my name.

‘Charlotte. Sorry. Hi.’ He sits up, coughs, and runs his hands over his face. ‘I was just resting my eyes for a second.’

Resting his eyes. Sure, okay. I am smiling at him, but it’s my most strained smile.

He stands up, and I’m briefly startled by the height and breadth of him. And the board shorts. The board shorts are offensive in so many ways. He shoulders a backpack, and then grabs the handles of two suitcases.

I eye them warily.

‘That’s a lot of luggage for one night,’ I say, trying to sound light and breezy. No accusations here, but really. What the hell?

He looks at the suitcases and hesitates, as if he’s not sure what to tell me about them.

‘Yeah, I had to bring some things down to give to Mum.’

He must know I’m not buying that for a second. God, maybe he’s a drug dealer. Do drug dealers move enormous volumes of drugs in suitcases on the train? And then offload them in Barwon Bay, town slogan ‘history by the sea’, populated mostly by retirees and young families? I feel like the answer must be no, but my brain cannot think of another explanation right now.

‘I’m not sure they’re going to fit in my car,’ I say.

‘They’ll fit,’ he replies.

‘You haven’t seen my car yet,’ I say. My tone is still light and breezy. Good assistant Charlotte, ever at your service. Absolutely not annoyed by this man at all.