The Private School Kids Are All Grown Up. But Some Things Never Change…
Your Free Copy Of Chapter One: 1 Lovelock Drive, The Novel
I’m so humbled to have published my debut novel, my women’s fiction (chick-lit) fun, 1 Lovelock Drive. As a thank you for all the support and love on the journey, here is chapter one. I hope you love it! xx
Chapter One: “Melbourne In The Dead Of Night”
11 pm. Chapel Street, South Yarra. 2013.
In Melbourne’s southeast suburbs, the private school graduates of the elite, five-figure-a-year schools have a saying: if it’s time for The Titan, it’s time to go home. Translation — the night is over if, during a drunken escapade within our fabulous metropolis, one of your party suggests visiting the less-than-prestigious establishment, The Titan Hotel.
Go home.
Call it a night.
Save yourself the embarrassment of ending up in the uncouth public bar with sticky laminate tables and eighties-stained carpets. More importantly, save yourself the inevitable regret.
But here’s the problem. The Titan Hotel sits in the middle of the private school heartland, on the outskirts of Richmond, near the trendy bars that serve thirty-dollar espresso martinis with artesian charcuterie boards. It isn’t until you step inside that you realise this relic doesn’t belong in a ritzy suburb. You also discover it isn’t somewhere a private school graduate should ever find themselves — even after drinking the top shelf left to right and having nowhere else to go.
Sometimes, we deal with champagne problems.
When my taxi pulled up, my friends had already begun drinking the top shelf. I noted how the street sign distinctly reads “Greville Street,” lamenting how we’re technically in the right part of Melbourne, so I can’t be too angry at the driver. It’s always the technicalities that catch you out in this city.
If the taxi had stopped where I asked, down the other end of Greville Street and not the Chapel Street side, I wouldn’t have needed to walk this far, nor would I have ended up wedged in the footpath.
“Fuck me,” I mumbled under my breath, attempting to retrieve the heel of my patent knee-high boots from a water grate. “It’s all his fault.”
That’s what I told myself. It was better to blame the driver than to admit it was my error because I wore my best shoes, a pair I couldn’t afford to ruin, and then proceeded to destroy them.
That’s how we did it in our twenties; we blamed others.
“Oh, come on, get out, bloody hell, come on.”
These boots marked my first purchase since landing the job at Buddy Inc., a shoe brand with a horrible name that sold near-perfect knockoffs of Chanel, Louis Vuitton, and Dior. Even though the footwear was missing a designer tag, the leather-lined boots with gold embellishments and matching stiletto heels cost me half my first month’s wage. Never mind that I’d have to eat two-minute noodles from the Reject Shop for the next month because I couldn’t afford proper food. It would be worth it, I told myself. Everyone I knew justified eventual starvation for the sake of fashion. It’s what someone in my position needed to do, what everyone in my situation must do, come to think of it.
It’s a private school thing, and technically, I’m a private schoolgirl.
During the nineties and the two-thousands, most children living in Melbourne’s affluent areas — Toorak, Brighton, Kew, Hawthorn, and Glen Iris, to name a few — went to private schools. Most, that is. There were always the exceptions, the rare few who aspired to attend these prestigious, thirty thousand-a-year educational institutes. Some couldn’t afford it; others couldn’t overcome the ever-growing waiting lists.
I went to an all-girls Catholic private school, where I learned how to deal with the children of lawyers, doctors, stockbrokers, directors, real estate investors, CEOs, CFOs, COOs, and self-made millionaires. These were the ones whose futures were predetermined by their pushy parents, attending private schools because they were told, “That’s what you do.” Anything less was considered, well, unacceptable.
My fabulous mother wasn’t a three-letter executive but should have been — savvy, brilliant, deserving of everything. She understood how the private school system operated and how to bypass the extravagant school fees her single salary couldn’t afford.
Yeah, I was that kid. A scholarship kid.
But no matter who paid the school fees, it still meant I was a private school kid.
Here’s another problem we have: the Melbourne public school kids never let us forget our privileged upbringing. On my first day at university, I met Robert, who went to Glen Waverley High and was proud to admit his parents didn’t waste their money on his education. He had a kind face and harboured dreams of becoming an orchestral conductor. “He had private school dreams”, parents of private school kids would say. But he actually did it.
He’s now a conductor.
Talent sometimes trumps trust funds.
Perhaps he should have gone into acting because his innocent demeanour fooled me into thinking he wasn’t a judgemental critic like everyone else I knew. At school, I learned money makes people believe they can have an opinion on everything, even things they don’t know anything about.
He asked me, “Do you know anyone who went to Glen Waverley High?”
I replied with a curt “No.”
“Do you know anyone who went to a public school?” He quickly answered like he had said this to a few oblivious private school kids before.
“No,” I repeated. “I’ve never, like, interacted with anyone from a public school.”
Robert didn’t need to say anything else. His disappointed yet profoundly pompous expression said it all. Even though I didn’t have an impending trust fund, one mention of my education invited assumptions.
My tense exchange with a public school graduate felt humbling. I knew where I stood in the world.
Or at least I thought I did.
All this had changed eight years later as I stood with my heel wedged in a grate, swearing like an uneducated brat. As I mumbled my uncensored thoughts, I reminded myself of my upbringing; I’m a private school lady from Camberwell, and despite my predicament, I know better.
Yanking the heel free and straightening myself, I swept the street, looking for strangers who might be gawking at my faux pas. No one was looking. The hen’s party parading past me in matching Bermuda shorts and peplum blouses was fixated on the commotion ahead.
Three degenerates dressed in immaculate Melbourne black ensembles meandered towards Chapel Street. Under the dim streetlights, I could make out the figures: my friends, my confidants, James, Sophia, and GG.
James is always unmistakable, even in low light, especially with his tall silhouette and carved shoulders, which only the gym-obsessed were blessed with. During this stage of his life, James was experimenting with red locks, an Annie-red colour, glossy and bright but rude enough so everyone knew he wasn’t a natural redhead.
For most of my life, he’s been a shade of blonde. Many times, we’ve come to blows over hair. “Andie,” he would start at me, “Best friends ca-n-not have the same hair colour. Got it, toots?”
“Mine doesn’t come from a bottle, babe,” I always respond.
GG’s choice of suit gave her away. She described the blazer and matching skirt as her clubbing uniform, though how she didn’t soak through from the sticky heat always baffled me. I understood why she persevered; the ensemble hugged in the right places, accentuating her angular legs and Mediterranean skin. It was enough to make her look sexy without appearing “easy”.
My most successful and refined friend intensely disliked the idea of “easy”.
With her arm draped over James’ shoulder, Sophia’s skidded knees, dripping with blood, glistened against her short frame and fair skin. She reared her head long enough to see me before she let out a low, visceral groan.
This marked the first time Sophia complained about an injury in the thirteen years I’ve known her. She never flinched when a netball inevitably smacked her in the face in the middle of PE class. She would pick herself up, physically and emotionally, and pretend to be unconcerned.
That night on Greville Street, Sophia more than made up for all the unwanted balls in her face.
James trundled beside her, holding Sophia’s wedged platforms and quilted bag outstretched from his body as if he objected to the additional accessorising. Then came the unmistakable stench of vomit emanating from the pieces once accompanying her ensemble.
We came to a stop in the middle of the street. GG held back a step whilst holding a champagne glass etched with Lure’s monogram on the side. She seemed pissed, annoyed-pissed, not-drunk-enough-to-tolerate-this pissed.
The night was ruined before it even began. After a lengthy text exchange earlier in the day, James insisted we meet at the bar inside Lure, the then-trendy nightclub hidden in Prahran’s backstreets. He always insisted we meet inside, as waiting outside didn’t send the right message to meaningful onlookers. “The longer you spent outside the venue, the more the security remembered you,” he would say. “The more they remembered you, the more likely you were to get kicked out.”
We couldn’t afford most nights at Lure. The owners charged triple for spirits instead of the usual double because the inebriated rich nineteen-year-olds had no problem handing over their parent-paid credit cards. We reserved it for special occasions. A few earlier, GG got a new job at a bank in the city. She was moving up in the corporate world, a feat worth celebrating.
“What happened?” I begged my friends as Sophia fell into my arms. “What’s going on with your knees? Is that blood?”
Sophia said nothing, continuing to moan.
“It is,” answered James, throwing her belongings to the ground. “She got the cuts from the tiles in the disabled bathroom.” He repeated the word “disabled”, as in not the women’s bathroom, not the men’s and not from an accidental broken glass in the middle of the dancefloor.
She was in the disabled bathroom.
On her knees.
Shaking her head, GG remained silent as James explained the situation. Having consumed the contents of her champagne glass, GG tipped out the last drops and carefully placed the flute into her tasselled cross-body bag.
“The disabled bathroom?” I questioned. “Why was she in there?”
“What do you think she was doing in there?” GG chimed in, her words leaving her lips like spitfire.
“Tell me she was throwing up,” I pleaded with James before he clicked his tongue and made a lewd gesture with his hands and mouth.
“Who was she doing it with?”
“Some guy she met tonight. I dunno the name. But the bouncer broke down the door and dragged her out. We tried to stop them; they were being a bit rough with her, and then we got caught up in the shuffle.”
GG rolled her eyes. James joined in with her.
“Never,” Sophia incoherently mumbled, her body still supported under my arms. “We’re never going back there again. No one can go back there.”
“Okay, okay,” I pretended to agree, “We won’t go back there, blah, blah. Do you think a taxi will take us?”
Collins Street, Melbourne CBD. April 2022.
I felt the cold brick wall against my back. Though hitched to my waist, my suede dress rubbed against the graffiti swirls. As my date’s tongue lavished my neck, I could smell the fresh paint lingering around me. If any of the alleyway artwork transferred onto my finest threads, ones I could barely afford and saved for dates like this, I wouldn’t be able to show my face under the city lights.
I didn’t see the appeal of these alleyways before this moment. During the day, there’s no moving past the hordes of tourists mesmerised by their phone screens as they attempt to capture the so-called art. The sightseers view these murals as idyllic Instagram backdrops to prove to their loved ones and followers they’ve been to Melbourne.
Many assume we locals wear this destruction of property as a badge of honour.
Assumptions are the mother of all, well, you know.
Those who’ve lived their entire life in Melbourne view these alleyways as bypasses to the rest of the city grid. You can dart between buildings without being seen or coming face to face with the masses of suits parading down the pavement during the day. At night, if you can hold your nose long enough, you can avoid the masses of drunken locals exiting the Docklands stadium after a football game. Or navigate around a line of people waiting to get into the latest underground bar.
However, most private school kids thought ill of the graffiti decorating the expensive, prestigious buildings housing the country’s financial powerhouses. The public, Melbournians, and tourists alike should respect the walls housing these accomplished icons, they believe, not destroy them and then pass the destruction off as art.
Even though the art surpassed any works hanging in a gallery, they all thought.
On this night, the alleyway provided solace from prying eyes. I was doing something I didn’t want my small yet cherished friend group to see. No, not being undignifiedly groped by a hunky suitor before even reaching the date. No one cared about that.
I worried they would see me entering one of the establishments on our banned list. I didn’t need their anger — no — disappointment when I had already spent most of the night admonishing myself.
“Screw the rule,” I repeated to myself as I approached Longroom, finding the entrance by slipping through a matrix of alleyways. My date met me on Little Collins Street, a few blocks down from the restaurant, and we slipped around the buildings using the hidden passages. Part of me wished we hadn’t made it to our reservation, staying in our embrace. It would mean I didn’t need to confront “the rule”.
After that night on Greville Street, we came up with a rule. If any of us experienced disdain toward a venue, it would be added to the list. The no-go list. The don’t-go-there list. We were bound by friendship and a drunken pact never to break the rule by supporting a banned restaurant, bar, nightclub, or anywhere else.
The rule invented to protect our friendship felt immature now we were in our thirties. Only private school kids in their twenties would care about a pact from a decade ago, especially one devised after a drunken vendetta against a faceless nightclub.
It’s also incredibly nearsighted to boycott all the best hot spots, including the ones with three-month waiting lists.
And who’s going to know?
That was a stupid question I asked myself during my date. Who wouldn’t know by the end of the night? Melbourne’s grid-like city wasn’t big enough to hide. Eventually, one of the private school kids would see me enter the restaurant before reporting my antics to the gossip mongers. They would pass it on to my friends, and I would never hear the end of it.
As I entered through the towering white columns denoting the entrance, bypassing the designer stores sharing the street frontage, I followed the red carpet to a set of stairs. The infamous entrance to the cocktail lounge and restaurant, Longroom, looked squalid during the day. Yet, as time grew closer to midnight, the exclusive venue magically appeared palatial and alluring. Good lighting will do that.
If only James, GG or Sophia could see me now, I thought.
I took Ryan’s elbow as he led me down the concrete staircase, each step reminding me of my betrayal.
Ryan McPherson had booked a table for two at Longroom weeks earlier, and when he texted me the location on Thursday evening, I should have refused. I could have suggested elsewhere, but I didn’t know an alternative restaurant where we could skip the unreasonable waiting list. I also couldn’t remember my last date. And when Ryan approached me at the gym, a five-minute walk from my home at 1 Lovelock Drive, and asked me out, no rule could stop me from taking my opportunity with him.
It took three months of awkward smiles and hidden glances before I boldly approached Ryan McPherson and introduced myself, my hand trembling as I interrupted a set of bicep curls.
I noted how he used his full name, even noting his ‘third’ moniker.
Ryan William McPherson, the third.
Most of the “thirds” in my life went to Scotch College (Scotch for short), Xavier College (Xavier for short, pronounced Z-avier), or St. Kevin’s College (known as Skevs). They’re Melbourne’s most expensive all-boys private schools, noted for their rigid uniforms and arrogant alumnae.
When Ryan mentioned “the third,” I couldn’t contain my follow-up question about where he went to school. Without hesitation, he lifted his head and declared, “I went to Scotch.”
Figures, I thought — the worst one of them all, in my experience.
A man I dated from university — well, I slept with him on and off for two years — graduated from Scotch. Edward, the third, with a last name synonymous with an Australian hero, never let me forget he came from money. He constantly described his childhood misery, solely attributing his woes to his rich daddy, who didn’t love him the way he needed him to.
I found no other way to describe sex with Edward but intense and unsatisfying. He held me the entire time; his style of lovemaking involved keeping me locked into his body whilst he proved his manhood. I didn’t have the heart to tell him his performance demonstrated the opposite.
I tried my hardest not to jump to conclusions, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Ryan was just a carbon copy of Edward. The apple never fell far from the private school tree.
Until I knew him, I didn’t think it dignified to explain to a virtual stranger the saga behind why I couldn’t go to Longroom, not over a text message, either. He didn’t need to know about my best friend recovering from her ex-husband walking out on her. How GG came home to find his side of the closet emptied whilst she worked, his key on the kitchen counter accompanying a stack of divorce papers. And Ryan didn’t need to know how GG’s parents funded the first month’s rent on Longroom, an investment they knew they would never see again.
Learning about a person’s baggage is a privilege, and Ryan hadn’t earned his place in my inner circle to know those things. Yet, his dapper wit and boyish good looks made it impossible for me to refuse him a date, even though I knew it meant betraying my friends.
Damn cute guys.
“Should we get out of here?” Ryan suggested while indulging in the last of a glass of Penfolds Shiraz. After ordering on my behalf, he seemed impatient, wondering why I wasn’t eating the most expensive entrée of scallops, snapper ceviche, and grilled prawns. As the waiter laid out the platters of opulent seafood, I regretted not protesting his idea. Anything from the ocean made me gag, except for the odd calamari and tinned tuna.
Another problem with being a private school kid is that everyone expects you to have caviar taste.
We sat silently as I watched him eat, Ryan likely disapproving of my inability to partake. It wouldn’t be the first time a man decided I wasn’t enough because I couldn’t keep up — enough for more than one night, that is.
“Sure.”
I insisted we find the back exit and escape through the shadowy alleyway. At one in the morning, I hoped not to run into anyone I knew on Collins Street, the “Paris end” of the strip, as Melbournians called it, where designer stores littered the street frontage. Taking chances wasn’t an option, with GG’s fragile feelings on the line and, consequently, my place as a respectable friend.
Once reaching the shortcut, darting past the buildings, reality set in. We had nowhere to go. Melbourne’s nightlife ended early. Sure, Crown Casino boomed during the early morning, but it would be a wash of serious gamblers and drunken teens. I contemplated Revolver on Chapel St, but with little atmosphere before six in the morning, I passed on it. Besides, no respectable private schoolgirl would bring a first date there.
We were in limbo land, Melbourne limbo land.
A few other committed and inebriated punters flooded Collins Street with us, emerging from the surrounding buildings and looking for the next place to go.
Ryan took my hand and led me across the street, down the steep hill, away from Longroom, and to the lobby of the Westin Hotel. Passing Dior and Miss Louise, the two designer stores beside the hotel entrance, I danced through the lobby to a bank of mahogany and chrome-framed lifts.
My stiletto Louboutin ankle boots tapping across the marble tiles echoed during the quiet hour. It’s my only pair, salvaging them from the Salvation Army store like a vulture. I couldn’t afford the second-hand price all those years ago, and I still can’t afford them now.
But they’re classics, and classics are always style in this city.
As we approached the lifts, Ryan produced a room key card. He touched the plastic square against the lift doors, unlocking the top-floor access. We arrived at a set of double doors with the “Penthouse” plaque embellishing the adjoining wall. Ryan grinned as he used the card to let us through.
I thought it presumptuous that he took me to a hotel room on the first night. His dinner flirtation needed significant improvement, and the passionate embrace in the alleyway didn’t leave me breathless. It was good, not great. But as the doors swung open and the commotion from the party filled the sleepy hallway, I realised he didn’t want to sleep with me.
Not at this very second.
Counting the number of Melbourne’s glitterati filling the room seemed impossible. I stress the word Melbourne. It’s not that we don’t have famous people or cannot cultivate someone well-known enough to draw a crowd. It’s that the people who make up the city’s renowned list, who have yet to migrate overseas for stardom, wouldn’t grace the cover of a Hollywood magazine. Nor would anyone in Tinseltown know who these people are.
It doesn’t mean these people don’t have money, though.
I noted the absence of older faces, suggesting the wealthiest executives and CEOs had skipped this party, leaving the nepo babies to mingle with soap actors and reality television stars, otherwise known as the D-list celebrities who came on the arm of the truly wealthy.
Ryan pushed into the gathering, moving past the thick aroma of floral perfume and cigar smoke, even though hotels banned smoking in rooms years ago. The lavish suite possessed a mixture of living spaces interconnected by a round bar in the centre of the room. Two shirtless, statuesque men with no bottoms, wearing only aprons and white bow ties, tended to the bar. The glint of candlelight flickered against a kaleidoscope of liquor bottles and champagne jeroboams.
Anything you wanted to drink, smoke or snort decorated gold trays across the bar.
Perching herself on the plush velvet window seat, Annabella Anderson, a socialite in every sense of the word, lapped the attention. She lived as a virtual nobody until she met one of the wealthiest tech entrepreneurs in the city. They met at Lure, the nightclub tucked into the trendy backstreets of Prahran that Sophia swore never to frequent again. The paparazzi captured them partying everywhere across the city, from the cigar bars in ritzy Toorak to the expensive dives in St Kilda.
During her ascent to local fame, the press described her as “savvy and adoring “Annabella. I knew her as Anna, a sweet but dim-witted girl from my Catholic private school. Everyone in my graduating class remembers Annabella competing against two classmates to see who could build a chewing gum memorial in the back of their school diary without a teacher noticing.
She won, by the way.
The rest of the class lost from having to witness the challenge.
And the smell.
Six-week-old gum rotting in a plastic diary cover tests the most tolerant senses. I doubt she competes in competitions like this anymore.
With his classic Spanish features, Josh Anderson strode past me with a bottle of champagne under each arm, dressed in an open-neck shirt, ensuring everyone could appreciate his fresh tan. The husband-and-wife team partied at opposite ends of the soiree. Annabella insisted a woman in a black dress take endless photos of her while he cosied up with two men in navy suits on the other side of the bar.
My school never taught us how to find a man who cared or loved us for our personality rather than how we looked in a photo. If the private school classes had taught us things like that, perhaps we wouldn’t end up at parties like this, with people we didn’t know and so-called famous faces we didn’t respect.
Walking into this party and seeing Annabella, her husband, and the other rich kids, I couldn’t escape the private school life, even if I tried. My best attempts at navigating the city incognito proved futile; I ended up in a private room with them.
Standing at the bar, Ryan seized two glasses of champagne, thrusting one into my hand before kissing me on the forehead. “I have to find Joseph. Be back in a moment.” He disappeared past the bar and into a bedroom, his body a blur among the partygoers. I stood there with my glass, an inadequate compensation for being rejected.
Even now, I remain clueless about whose room it belonged to or why Ryan possessed a key. Was this Joseph person the host? I never got to ask him because when I found myself alone, a man was beside me.
“What are you doing here?”
James’ body met mine like a tornado, accenting his displeasure of finding me at the party by pushing on my shoulder.
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? You explain yourself first.”
Our conversation sounded like siblings squabbling over who arrived first and who should leave the party last. I couldn’t blame anyone for thinking we were related; it’s what best friends sound like when they spend every moment with each other, work at the same job, and live in each other’s pockets. To say James and I are best friends is an understatement. I call him my soul mate, and he calls me his other half.
Our love for each other is one thing, but James is my cock block, and I’m his. We pose romantic challenges for each other simply due to our constant proximity. Strangers think we’re an item. After many failed attempts to pick up dates during our nights out, we set another rule for our friendship — no going out, just the two of us. Potential suitors couldn’t see us together in case they misread the situation.
It’s infuriating when you’re a single girl hanging out with her gay best friend, and you have zero romantic interest in each other, but everyone thinks you’re in love.
Stupid assumptions.
“It doesn’t matter,” James retorted. “People will think we’re together again.”
“Yup,” I agreed. “Go. Disperse. Bye.”
I hurried into the thick of the party, moving as far away from James as possible while hunting for Ryan. I checked every room and every nook and even waited by the bathroom to see if he occupied the facilities — no such luck.
I even asked Annabella where he went, a move I’ve regretted in the past. Our conversations never change; whenever she sees me, she pretends we didn’t go to the same school together and that she hasn’t met me before. Then, I must reintroduce myself, which is followed by an immediate loathing for how I pandered to her self-indulgence.
“Ryan left. He saw you with your little boyfriend over there, freaked out, and handed his swipe card to a suit over there. Bye-bye.” She waved me away whilst imitating his departure.
What a cow.
I looked over at James, standing by the penthouse bar alone. Guests moved around him, taking a wide berth. He attempted to converse with two guys, but each gave him the cold shoulder. Annabella’s comment suddenly made sense.
I marched across the hotel room, seized James’ hand, and led him through the double doors back into the hallway.
“Come on,” I insisted, trying to hide my embarrassment. “If these idiots want to believe we’re together, let’s let them.”
1 Lovelock Drive. Camberwell. April 2022.
Pushing my key into the front door of 1 Lovelock Drive, relief washed over me. I was grateful to be home, away from the judging eyes and precarious social situations. My home might not be enormous, with its two modest bedrooms and courtyard, but it exuded soul. The oversized couch next to my dining table might have been uncouth for Melbourne’s high society, but it felt like heaven to me. My bedroom’s meagre walk-in robe and ensuite didn’t compare to the sprawling master suites of Melbourne’s rich and famous.
I broke many of the private school rules with this one.
Despite its size, I couldn’t fault my slice of heaven. My home seemed perfect without the smell of Melbourne alleyways, the stench of pretentiousness, or the waft of humiliation stemming from my failed dating attempt.
My dress fell to my feet, and I pushed it away until it resembled a ball in the corner of my bathroom. I stared at the shower. Turn on. Turn on.
The water rolled off my back, pooling on the tiles like a crystal lake. It kept washing over me until I collapsed to my knees.
Towelling myself dry, I examined my tired expression in the vanity mirror. A shadow caught my eye, and as I leaned forward, I noticed the spot unmoved. Tapping my dark skin, the growing affliction ached.
“He gave me a hickie,” I announced to myself. “Are you serious?!”
Fucking private school boys.
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