Good Money by J. M. Green

hadn’t seen it coming. Phuong, moving on. Moving up.
    She picked up her pen, all business. ‘So how can I help you?’
    â€˜Two years ago. Footscray. The Station Hotel.’
    Phuong started to write, but stopped and looked at me. ‘Stella, don’t do this. Now is not the time —’
    â€˜Oh, yes. Now is. Very much.’ I scooted my chair closer and lowered my voice. ‘You sat there judging me like some B-grade celebrity on —’
    â€˜I really don’t think —’
    â€˜I was simply trying to make a point about Australian men.’
    Phuong mimicked me. ‘It’s culturally ingrained. Australian men think it’s funny. Being a bastard.’
    â€˜Yes!’ I hissed. ‘But you took me completely out of context.’
    â€˜What was the context? Your abusive relationship?’
    â€˜No. I was speaking generally. But you go, “I don’t think I can listen to this again.” And I go, “What do you mean this ?” And you go, “Endless complaining.”’ My face felt warm.
    â€˜Oh, I remember,’ Phuong hissed back at me, pink spreading across her cheeks. ‘Because you started going, “But Phuong, he’s an arsehole. He laughs at me.” So, you know. Touché .’
    â€˜But you got all moral about it.’ Now I mimicked her. ‘“It’s wrong, he’s married.”’
    â€˜God, I do not believe you. You think I was moralising? I was worried about you. What was I supposed to do?’
    â€˜You were my friend. You’re supposed to validate the shit out of me. Instead of doing this one-woman intervention thing.’
    â€˜You were being emotionally abused. You said as much.’
    â€˜No. You objected because it was an affair. Because it was for sex. Jesus, the entire world does it. And you go all, “I can’t pretend to tolerate it this time.” And you go, “It’s not just a bad relationship. He’s not simply self-centred.”’
    Phuong sniffed, and squared off the papers on her desk.
    â€˜And you never said Jacob’s name. What was he, Voldemort?’
    â€˜It was doomed from the start,’ Phuong said, not looking up.
    â€˜Buddhists are supposed to be non-judgemental.’
    Phuong leaned back in her chair, her eyes locked on mine. ‘You know, there are a lot of women like you, intelligent, capable, confident, brought undone by scumbags. Men so beneath them —’
    â€˜Okay, okay.’ How could I argue with that? I gave her an apologetic look, hoping I didn’t have to give her a verbal one.
    â€˜Is Jacob the one? Does he make you happy?’
    â€˜No. He doesn’t, actually, because it’s over. For a while now. So, there you are. You were right.’ That night, after Phuong left the pub and the door swung shut behind her, I watched as one of the few dependably heartening things in my life disappeared. ‘I haven’t been seeing anyone. It’s the single life for me. All work and Thai takeaway.’
    â€˜Stella.’ There was genuine sympathy in her eyes. ‘He didn’t deserve you.’
    â€˜By the way, you don’t say touché about your own hit.’
    Phuong raised a shoulder, a one-sided shrug, very French. ‘I don’t see why.’
    I started to laugh. ‘You say it when someone hits you. As in, you got me. ’
    She shook her head. Stubborn. Always was. ‘Is there an actual police matter? Or did you just want to correct my English?’
    â€˜It’s French.’
    She rolled her eyes. ‘Stella, come on, I’m busy.’
    â€˜Right, this is it,’ I said. ‘Adut Chol has a younger brother. I think he’s in trouble.’
    â€˜African kids. There’s always some crisis. You hear about the teenage prostitutes? They get driven around the western suburbs by a relative in a minivan.’
    â€˜Cop-culture got to