An Isolated Incident by Emily Maguire Read Free Book Online Page A

gorgeous.
    I went to the supermarket and stocked up and went home again and stood for a while looking at the shelves of my cupboard, at the brand-name packets of biscuits and muesli, the bags of Italian pasta and tins of Campbell’s tomato soup. I made myself a sandwich with the pricey, soft yellow cheese that comes in a wedge instead of thin slices between plastic and drank Moccona made with fresh milk. It wasn’t until I was in bed that night that the word prostitute jumped into my mind. It was a shock, but not a big one. A fleeing mouse when you turn the kitchen light on kind of shock. Ooh! And then, damn , and then, ah well . I slept soundly that night, and although I’ve had plenty of sleepless nights since, not one of them has been over the help some blokes give me with my groceries. Not one.
    Not that I go boasting about it or anything. A couple of days after that first time, Bella came over and saw all the goodies I had in the kitchen. She hoed right into the choccy bickies and asked whether I’d won the lotto. I’d already thought hard about whether to tell her. I wanted to believe she would see it the way I did, but I remembered all the times we’d sniggered at the whores who haunted the off-ramp service station and the time she dumped a bloke because he admitted losing his V-card to a prozzy way back when he was a kid. ‘Coulda picked up anything from the dirty bitch,’ she’d said. I think I’d agreed with her. Why wouldn’t I?
    When she asked I said, yeah, actually I had won the lotto. She knew I’d never place a bet on anything, on account of the troubles our mum had with the pokies, so I said some bloke at the pub had celebrated the birth of his kid by putting a bet on for the bar staff and that my share of the winnings had been enough to restock my cupboards. ‘Awesome,’ she said. She didn’t hesitate. I felt so rotten then, watching her hands, rough and red from all the cleaning chemicals she used at the nursing home, dip into the biscuit packet. She told me a story about slipping in some old man’s piss and she laughed while she said it but all I could think was how much lower that was than picking up a hundred for letting a sweet, lonely truckie share your bed.
    That first bloke stayed over again next time he was passing through and that time he asked if maybe I’d be up for keeping some of his mates company when they came through as well. I said they were welcome to come into the pub and if I happened to be free on the night, then I might let them overnight in my house instead of in their trucks.
    It’s worked out alright, really. Once or twice a week a bloke will buy a counter meal and a beer and ask me what I’m up to after work. Depending on my mood and my bank balance and whether I like the look of him, I’ll either say I’m busy or I’ll say I’m planning a night in and tell him what time I knock off. Either way it’s no skin off anyone’s nose.
    I never tell them a price, never ask for payment. They know they’re expected to leave a little something on the table before they leave. A couple of blokes have taken advantage, leaving just a tenner or two. One bastard left me a six-pack of the beer he was carrying in his truck. It’s okay. I’m always busy when the tight-arses next come through town. Word gets around. Blokes who want a chance at sticking their wick in before crashing out in my comfy queen know to leave at least seventy the first time. If they leave more then I’ll remember and when I see them again, I show my appreciation.
    I never spent the truckie cash after that first supermarket spree. It all goes into the pewter jewellery box my mum left me. When the box is full I take the bus out to the bank in Wagga. (Can you imagine the gossip if I turned up in the town branch with a couple of thousand cash?) At first I thought I’d just save enough to take Bella on a nice holiday