III

I sit awkwardly

On a black leather couch

The authors are talking to us.

This is drinks.

I am supposed to be sucking up to them

Trying to get something

Good out of them

To write about

I am no good at it.

I try to guess their partners

Their age

Their weight

Why they have those shoes.

I am no good at it.

So I clutch my champagne

And stare into the tiny golden bubbles

And look around the room for Lewis

He’s still nowhere to be seen

That bastard.

I check my phone, there is a message from Will

“Have you seen Lewis?”

Peter Goldsworthy stands

Leaning against a wall, one hand in his pocket

He is talking to some students

Listening to them

I am jealous

He looks like a plank of wood

He nods at them as they speak

I am jealous

A fucking intelligent plank of wood.

My bag vibrates again

I reply

“No.”

…

I’m sitting in the front row

Alexis Wright and Tom Keneally

Are but metres away

Their wet mouths

Echo over the microphones

Lewis is nowhere to be seen

I imagine his head on a soft pillow somewhere.

Tom Keneally strokes his stout beard,

I’m not sure if it’s the right word

But it looks almost concrete -

The way it juts outwards

Like a cliff’s edge.

How many people have fallen over it

I wonder.

I call Lewis

No answer.