Frankie

Frankie, 22, sat in the sterile little space while Johnno strapped her arm tightly, preparing to draw blood. “Guess what my porn name is,” he said, grinning cheekily… “Slugo Monfarvel.” They both laughed. Johnno was a tall, masculine nurse with a Merv Hughes moustache. And he was a queen. Frankie relaxed, and thought again about what the doctor had just told her. The rate of HIV infection in Morocco is very low. She would probably be fine.

Morocco was the last stop of a three-month European trip with her best friend, but when she arrived home, Frankie spoke of little else: the four o’clock prayer call that brought Marrakesh to its knees, the acrid smells of camel leather and tanneries, the laughter of children charging for photos in narrow, moon-blue streets.
And Sam.


Sam who looked like Ben Harper and spoke four languages. Frankie had spent two unforgettable weeks with him, and fallen in love.

In Sydney the waves and traffic stopped. Life revolved around the next SMS, next email, next phone call. Old photos blue-tacked over her iron bed-frame were replaced with new ones. Life had taken on new meaning. Frankie felt loved, desired, wanted.

Soon the time between calls increased. Sam became less reliable. Frankie began to feel the distance between them in her belly more than she had on any map. He lived in Melbourne, he said, he’d be coming home soon. He had an amazing opportunity, 3000 per cent profit on the saffron. He already had a buyer. “The money’ll be yours too, babe. It’ll be ours.”

Frankie sent him $1500. Two weeks later she made an appointment at the clinic. She felt stupid, abused, used, disappointed, angry and scared. Tears followed tears. Always the same wet path down her face. Her best friend thought Sam had been high on cocaine. “I don’t know how many women I’ve had,” he’d said one night, and Frankie realised how little she knew about him. Only what they’d shared, and it still seemed so much.

Could it really have been an act? He’d said so too… it was love, a connection. They’d both felt it. Two weeks condensed into one night in Frankie’s mind. Pleasure turned to anguish. Nobody could have resisted. A tiny town in the desert, a rooftop bedroom.

The pregnancy test came out clear. Now she wondered if she could ever have a baby at all. Three months to wait. Three fucking months. And the waves crashed again at curl-curl, the traffic crawled past the apartment at peak-hour. The phone sat still.