Read an extract from Woo Woo by Ella Baxter.
I Should Not Allow Anyone
to Inconvenience Me
— Emily Brontë, 1847
It was midnight when Sabine arrived to see Ruth and Lou arguing in the rain. Behind them, noise from the underground afterparty leaked into the otherwise empty street.
Sabine was unsure whether she felt buzzed because of her own stale dregs of adrenaline or the night’s general lawless energy.
‘I’m going to leave if you don’t drop it,’ said Lou. ‘Like, I will seriously leave, and you will never see me again.’
Ruth stumbled backwards. ‘I’m asking you to explain why that dusty girl in the ruff was touching your arm.’
‘Hi,’ said Sabine.
‘Hey,’ said Lou. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Likewise,’ said Sabine.
Ruth stamped one Cuban heel into the pavement.
‘Lexi is an incredible artist and a good friend,’ said Lou.
‘In what sense?’ said Ruth.
‘She’s attractive. She’s gorgeous. Sexiness exudes from her whole being, and we had a thing ages ago, so it’s out of both our systems and you can relax,’ said Lou.
‘She’s in there with those milk-saucer eyes, probably high on one pill stretched four ways between her and her cargo pant–wearing friends,’ said Ruth.
‘I’m so disappointed by your jealousy,’ said Lou.
‘Why don’t you ask Lizzy to re-read your thesis every time you make one little— ’ said Ruth.
‘Her name’s Lexi,’ said Lou.
‘That’s right, and she quilts,’ said Ruth.
Lou sucked his vape. ‘The tapestries of her internal and external diaspora are more evocative than your whale cakes.’
He tucked his vape in his pocket and descended the stairs to the bar.
Ruth hissed at Lou’s back.
‘Do not go in there, they’re awful,’ she said to Sabine.
‘It’s really not good for me to be at home right now,’ said Sabine.
‘Okay, me too,’ said Ruth.
‘You crossed me off earlier,’ she said as she dragged Sabine past the security guard with the guest list.
At the bottom of the stairs was a metal table with pre-filled glasses of prosecco and small bamboo bowls of bruschetta topped with marinated roasted vegetables. Sabine plucked two glasses of prosecco from the flock, sipping from one and then the other. Holding the acidic liquid in her dry mouth until all her teeth were wet again.
‘Do you think he’s going to break in?’ said Sabine.
‘Who?’ said Ruth.
‘The Rembrandt Man,’ said Sabine.
‘I doubt it,’ said Ruth.
‘Do you think we should move to a new house?’ said Sabine.
‘Constantine would never,’ said Ruth.
‘Should I move out then?’ said Sabine.
‘No point. I passed four posters of you today near Parliament Station. He’ll be able to find you through the gallery, and you’re online all the time,’ said Ruth.
The muggy basement bar was shaped like a train carriage, long and low-ceilinged, lopsided with the narrow bar on one side and the crowd on the other. The afterparty heaved with industry people, jostling together like cattle. Sabine placed her open palm in the middle of strangers’ backs as touch points as she picked her way through the crowd.
At the bar they finished their drinks and then ordered martinis so cold that flecks of broken ice swirled through the chilled liquid. Anchored to the bottom of each were meaty olives as big as quail eggs skewered onto wooden cocktail sticks. An olive bulged in Sabine’s cheek as she chewed. The drinks were weak; she wouldn’t say it aloud, but they were watery. She reached a hand up her shirt and unclasped her bra. The urge to scream came and went.
‘We should mingle, but I cannot be bothered,’ said Ruth.
She stepped in front of Sabine, shielding her from two well-known grey-haired sneaker-clad art journalists.
‘Everyone here has an insatiable appetite for art, every single one of them, except us. Let’s do the rounds then get ramen. You can stay at my house tonight,’ said Ruth.
‘As long as we do something,’ said Sabine.
‘All these fucking artists need to get a fucking life.’ Ruth brushed past a woman with a shaved head wearing a necklace with the word KETAMINE.
Sabine nodded hello to the woman but ignored plenty of others. People recognised Sabine from the saturation of marketing for her exhibition. Once they had recognised her, though, they ignored her, an entirely Australian response to the perception that she had received too much attention already. She had felt more warmth from her community before she was successful.
‘Stay here, I’m going to the bathroom,’ said Ruth. She dropped Sabine’s hand and disappeared through a swing door.
A man texting knocked into her, apologised, and then held her by the hips to steady her. The pleather of his jacket and his woollen hat wet from the rain had a damp-dog smell that was now so high up her nose that it may as well have been in her brain. The man said sorry again, his hands burning into her hips. She was stuck, pinned by people. Her Rembrandt Man could easily have followed her from her house. She scanned the crowd, looking for a malevolent face. By coming here, Sabine had stuck her legs through some Regency chop frills and lain down on a plate for him to eat her. This party was a plate. This city and her house. Sabine backed away until she was at the far end of the bar. She stood mutely on the periphery, unable to penetrate the swamp of bodies around her, expelled so far back that her heels touched the wall.
Looking down, she saw that near her right foot was a slug trailing a hectic path of mucus. The soft-bodied mollusc was only inches from dozens of pulping sneakers and pounding heels. Sabine put her arms out to stop people from walking too close. She pushed someone in the chest.
This was a proud slug, its head upright and alert. As Sabine bent down to look at the creature more closely, the slug reared its glistening head back to look at her. It rippled forward, its tentacles desperate for grass. Sabine patted her pockets for a tissue to serve as a makeshift platform to place her slug on. The slug put its head down. Inched closer then stopped, its tiny, boneless body unable to travel the distance between them.
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Sabine.
She reached for the creature, but as soon as she touched it, the slug stiffened, flopped and rolled.
‘Try to relax,’ she said.
Sabine gently rolled the slug into the palm of one hand.
She placed her other hand over the top, making a cave. She could feel it moving. A constant, tiny tickle.
‘Lou’s talking to the ruff again. Should I intervene?’ said Ruth, sidling up to Sabine.
Sabine turned to Ruth. ‘You will never guess what I have.’
She briefly lifted her hand to show Ruth the slug.
‘Are you saving it?’ said Ruth.
‘Obviously,’ said Sabine.
‘Just get another one, you can eat as many as you like,’ said Ruth.
‘What?’ said Sabine.
‘I’ll get you more,’ said Ruth.
Sabine stared at her friend. ‘No thank you,’ said Sabine.
Ruth shrugged and then ploughed through the crowd towards the metal table laden with bruschetta. She quickly returned with two bowls. One bowl had grilled zucchini bruschetta and the other was covered in thick strips of marinated eggplant.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Sabine.
She lifted her hand to her nose and sniffed. Garlic? She angled her hand towards the light. It shone. Oil? Sabine, searching for proof of her own sanity, brought the slug to her mouth and licked it.
‘Do you want ramen?’ said Ruth.
Sabine lowered her hand. ‘I think I need to go home.’
Extracted from Woo Woo by Ella Baxter.
Woo Woo
by Ella Baxter
A darkly funny, pyrotechnic and deeply unsettling novel from the internationally acclaimed author of New Animal.
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