Lovesome

by Sally Seltmann

  I sit down slowly on the right-hand cushion of my couch, curling my legs up under the multicoloured crocheted rug while balancing my full cup of tea. Annabelle sits in the left corner of the couch, wine in hand.

  ‘So what’s his name?’

  ‘Johnny. Johnny Harrison. You know him? Have you heard of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, so I was in London, touring and stuff. The shows went well, by the way. Really well, actually. Like, people lined up down the street for some of them, waiting to get in, get their spot up in the front row. It was crazy, Joni. I don’t want to sound like I’m up myself or anything, but I’m really popular over there. It’s insane.’

  ‘It’s what you’ve always wanted,’ I tell her kindly.

  ‘I know, but I can’t believe it’s actually happening. What I dreamed of is becoming a reality.’

  ‘I knew you’d be massive. You’re such a great songwriter, Annabelle. And your shows…’ I take a sip of tea, ‘your shows are incredible.’

  I mean what I say, but subconsciously I lower my eyes and stare into my teacup. I’ve always felt second-best compared to Annabelle. Second-best, with barely any talent.

  ‘So Johnny…oh wait, wait,’ Annabelle says, taking a quick sip from her wine glass. ‘Before I got together with Johnny…well…yeah, this is pretty funny. We’d played about five shows, and then I had a massive fight with Paul. You know, my new bass player. Did you meet him?’

  ‘Yep, the incredibly good-looking guy who used to play with—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she interrupts. ‘So Pauly and I have this massive fight. He was being such a prick. And then he threatened to leave my band. We were in Norwich, having a pub dinner—fish and chips—before the show. Then Paul, in a complete turnaround, made this crazy declaration in front of all of us, saying he was in love with me, and…Aw, it was so embarrassing. Everyone in the pub could hear him. I mean, you know, I’m flattered and everything, but god, Joni, he’s not my type. I had to reject him in front of everyone. Whole pub listening in.’

  Annabelle stops talking and stands, puts her wine glass on the kitchen table, and takes her coat off. I remain seated, feeling like her fourteen-year-old sister—in awe of her, jealous, and way behind everything she’s experiencing. I swear, every boy she comes in contact with falls for her. At least, that’s what it seems like from where I sit. But I’m also envious of her superstar lifestyle. She’s pretty famous here in Australia. Her debut album was in the charts, she’s been on the cover of music magazines, the subject of full-length articles in the major papers. Before she left for the UK, she was playing big venues here—in Sydney, Melbourne, all around the country. And now she’s working with a manager who’s trying to break her into the UK.

  I watch her as she drinks the remainder of her wine. I’m aware of the fact that my facial expression may be revealing my inner thoughts, so I attempt to perk up and look as though I know how annoying it is to have men falling at my feet.

  ‘So then,’ she continues, ‘I end up in New York.’

  ‘How did…Man, I’ve always wanted to go back to New York. I haven’t been there since—’

  She cuts in. ‘My UK label thought it would be a good idea for me to do a duet with someone. Boost my profile. So they sent me to New York, because they found out that Johnny Harrison is in love with my music.’

  ‘Who’s Johnny…’

  ‘He’s pretty much the coolest thing in indie music at the moment. I don’t think anyone in Australia knows about him yet. I mean, some people do.’

  ‘Wow, okay, so…’

  ‘So I arrive in New York, go straight to Johnny Harrison’s loft apartment in Brooklyn, and we start writing together. He plays guitar. Incredible musician and songwriter.’ Annabelle looks over towards the kitchen. ‘Do you mind if I have another wine?’

  ‘Oh yeah, sure, sure.’

  She helps herself as I begin to feel more and more incompetent.

  ‘So I get to Johnny’s and, fuck, Joni, he’s twenty times more good-looking in real life. Like the sexiest guy you’ve ever seen. So anyway, blah blah blah, we write a song together, go out to dinner. To cut a long story short, we end up in bed and, yeah, now we’re madly in love with each other, and he’s coming to Sydney! Hopefully in about four weeks.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say, deflating.

  ‘Because…’ She tops her wine glass right up. ‘Because he’s moving here!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yep. Moving here to be with me. He’s choosing ME over New York. Can you believe it? I’m so in love with him, Joni. So unbelievably in love!’ Annabelle sits back on the couch, radiating. ‘So what about you?’ she asks, and my confidence dips to an all-time low.

  ‘Um…I’ve been working on paintings for my group show. The one I’ve got coming up later in the year.’ I squirm a little on the couch and my cheeks heat up. ‘And…Harland. I’ve been working at Harland.’

  ‘Oh, I love that place…And Daniel? Is that his name?’

  ‘Dave. Yeah, Dave and I have become really good friends.’ I bite my nails for a bit. ‘So…yeah, that’s about it.’

  Annabelle, with attitude and spark, ruffles up her short hair with her right hand.

  ‘A-and…’ I add, drawing out the vowel.

  ‘And what? This sounds interesting.’

  ‘I’m really embarrassed to tell you this, but…um, I know it’s about time…I lost my virginity last night.’

  ‘Whaaaat! Joni, that’s massive!!! Okay, who was it, who was it?’ She bounces on the couch, and leans in towards me.

  ‘Agh, Brendan. This guy from the Emerald.’ My chest collapses.

  ‘Your local? That pub?’

  ‘Yeah. So…’ I explain, ‘he’s a fucking dork. You’d hate him.’

  ‘Really?’ she asks.

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, licking her lips, ‘it’s good that it’s out of the way, anyway.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I tell her, glad that she’s on my wavelength. ‘Worst thing to come out of it is that I gave him my number.’

  ‘Don’t worry. He won’t call.’

  I feel terrible after she says this. He won’t call—because I’m hopeless in bed? I’m ugly? A total loser? Is that what she’s trying to say? I walk over and put my empty teacup on the kitchen bench.

  Annabelle follows. ‘Do you think it might be okay for me to stay here for a few weeks? Until I find somewhere to rent?’

  ‘Oh my god, of course,’ I tell her. It’ll be fun having her stay, even though I feel like a bit of a failure around her. ‘But I’m super tired right now. Do you mind if I…’

  ‘Me too,’ she says, sounding wide awake.

  ‘You okay with the couch? You’ve slept on it before, it’s really…’

  ‘Yeah, the couch is great. Thanks, Joni, thank you so much.’

  I yawn a big, slow, mouth-wide-open yawn. ‘You’ll have to tell me more about your tour in the morning.’

  ‘Yeah…Man, so much to tell you.’

  We hug, and I wash my makeup off in the bathroom. I climb the ladder stairs to my bed and get changed into my jammies.

  ‘Night!’ I call out to Annabelle from up high.

  ‘Night!’ she calls out from the bathroom, her mouth full of toothbrush and toothpaste.

  7

  Almost a month later, Annabelle is still sleeping on my couch. It’s been so nice re-connecting, hearing further details about her tour—the ups and, of course, the emotional downs. There were lots of those, apparently. And I’m still managing to get heaps of painting done, ’cause she’s been rehearsing with her band four days a week. I love having her here, although I suspect I might start to tire of it soon. But at least she’s giving me money towards the rent, and she’s putting in for food. And she never uses my phone to call Johnny Harrison. She goes up the street to the pay phone for that.

  She’s been to check out a few share houses. But both places housed students who were huge fans of her music. She t
old me it would have been a total nightmare if she’d moved in with those ‘kids’.

  I keep telling her she needs to find her own place. No housemates. Like me. She claims she’s so busy with rehearsals and meetings, she hardly has the time to apply for a rental. Even though she’s famous, she doesn’t have that much money, so her living with me is a pretty good deal financially. Maybe she’s dragging out her time staying here because she secretly wants to wait until Johnny arrives, then they can go house hunting together. Who knows.

  Harland’s been kinda busy. Busier than usual, actually. And Dave’s been…overly nice to me. Or just a bit different. Maybe it’s just my imagination. I have to admit that, since my Brendan episode, I’ve realised how beautiful it would be to have intimate, physical contact with someone on a regular basis. Besides, I always imagined I’d have a boyfriend by the time I was twenty-one. I remember thinking that in high school, when most of my friends were already going out with someone.

  But I need to find a boy who has the polar opposite personality type to Brendan. Which maybe Dave has? He’s kind and…interested. He always includes me in the group conversations during knock-off drinks. And he was the first one to ask me all about my life, and my art practice. He’s the first one to stand up for me when Lucy has a go at me, which she does most nights.

  I love his funny anecdotes about stuff he did when he was younger. Like how he was an extra on Home and Away. ‘Three episodes!’ he half-bragged, half-joked. That was when he thought he wanted to be an actor. When he was on the set of Home and Away, he mainly hung out at the catering truck, and talked food with the caterers, but he didn’t see the signs and still desperately wanted to become an actor. After two failed auditions for parts in low-budget films, he gave up on the whole actor idea and enrolled in an evening cooking class that took place at the high school near his house. And that’s where, he said, he found his calling.

  ‘You shall be a chef!’ Dave called out loudly, as we all sat around the staff table, listening to his story. His low-toned, theatrical delivery sounded as though he was doing the voice of God. It was hilarious.

  And I love the path he took towards becoming a chef. Unlike most Sydney chefs, who simply go to hospitality school here in Australia, Dave chose his favourite cuisine—French—and researched the best cooking school in the South of France—his preferred part of the country. He saved up, applied, got in, and moved over there. He rented a room in a dilapidated farmhouse, and mornings consisted of him sitting with bohemian French folk, drinking coffee in the overgrown garden. During the day he attended the culinary school, and learnt the delicate skills and fundamental rules of cooking the French way. And in true Dave style, along with his French cooking education, he also picked up the language, and delved into the history of the local area. And he did this while consciously hanging tight onto his Aussie accent and his humorous outlook on life.

  Anyway, when Dave returned from France and started looking for employment in Sydney, he got thrown in the deep end, working as an assistant chef at a French restaurant in Bondi. A year into his Bondi stint, he looked for work as a head chef, already feeling confident that he was ready for the top position. At the same time, that exact position became available at Harland. Dave took the interview with Lucy, did two trial nights, and got the job.

  He has said once or twice that he’d love to own his own restaurant one day, which I know he will, because he’s such a positive go-getter. But he never mentions this around Lucy, which I think is out of kindness and his desire to promote good vibes (his words, I would never say that) within the walls of Harland.

  I don’t think he’s had a girlfriend for a while. When he told me all about his time at the French cooking school, he said he had been seeing someone. ‘She was a lousy lover’ was the only info he shared on that particular subject.

  I dunno. Dave and me. Would that work? Romantically? Possibly? I wouldn’t want things to go weird at work though. I love my job at Harland. And I like my life right now. Painting, waitressing, sleeping. It’s divided into thirds, and all three segments are rolling along nicely. And now that Annabelle’s back, everything seems ten times more exciting.

  We were up pretty late last night, watching telly, talking. I’m really tired, and although I woke up a while ago, I haven’t managed to get out of bed yet. I lean over and look down at the large canvas sitting on the easel. A rush of excitement runs through my body, which helps me feel more awake. I’m onto my second painting for the group show, and it brings me a sense of satisfaction seeing how far I’ve come with it. I want to get a lot more work done today, before I head off to Harland for my shift. A little more sleep would have been good though.

  I look over towards the couch. That’s weird. Where’s Annabelle? Walking down the steep wooden ladder stairs, my legs feel a little wobbly. I grab my big woolly cardigan, then notice a note on the kitchen bench.

  Morning Joni,

  I’m heading back to Mum’s to get some clothes and things. I’ll be back this arvo. I’ve got the spare key, so I can let myself in if you’re already at work. Thanks heaps for letting me stay here. It should only be for a couple more weeks.

  Love Annabelle xo

  I turn the heater on, warm my hands, then make myself a coffee. The sweet red-and-white chequered curtain in the kitchen covers the side window, which faces Rebecca and Peter’s house. I pull it back, and there they are, sitting on their back verandah steps. They’re both reading the paper, and the image of them sitting there together looks like a scene composed for a Vogue Living photo shoot. I give them a wave. Rebecca gives a friendly wave back, and Peter just smiles.

  I drag myself over to the couch, where Annabelle has left the crocheted rug and spare blanket neatly folded. I take a long, savouring sip of my coffee, and glance over at my painting, feeling full to the brim with creative energy.

  I wee, and take a long look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My blue eyes—bloodshot. My brown hair—messed up. When I shower, the warm water heats my body. I towel dry, and walk quickly over to my clothes rack, the floorboards cooling the soles of my feet each time they touch down.

  Once I’m dressed in my paint-stained navy overalls, with a cream woollen jumper underneath, I make myself some toast. Peanut butter and honey, sliced apple, and another coffee. I put The Velvet Underground & Nico on my record player, and the first song, ‘Sunday Morning’, floats through my bungalow. It’s one of my favourite songs. And then I hold a paintbrush in my hand, and squint, and tilt my head this way and that, lining up the wooden brush with the circular shape in the upper right corner of my painting. And then I take a deep breath, and ask myself, Is this making me feel anything? Anything at all?

  And then I don’t even answer myself, because I know it is.

  Without hesitation, I continue on where I left off yesterday. The music gives me that extra sense of On-Top-of-the-Worldness. I feel so inspired and, dare I say, ON FIRE! I go with it, working nonstop for a few hours.

  In between my time in front of the canvas, I rinse brushes, flip records, consume more coffee, and eventually take a break. I flop on the couch, and stare at the poster of Goethe’s colour wheel on my wall. I’ve always been so intrigued by his theories—how he thought that colours were linked to emotions.

  I walk over to one of my art folders, and flip through until I find the image of Goethe’s earlier ‘Rose of Temperaments’. Then I read over all my notes. Character traits or personality types are matched to different colours. Heroes, lovers, poets—all paired with different colours. Freshly inspired, I walk back over to my canvas. It’s a portrait of Annabelle and me, inspired by a photograph from that night we first met, at one of her shows. My palette is spotted with imperfect circles of rich reds, mellow ambers and bright yellows, like the feathers of the budgerigar I had when I was a kid. I pick up a brush, and think a little bit about Dave, and how we get on so well.

  Then I force myself to get on top of my wandering mind. Okay, my painting. What am I trying to po
rtray? The emotional connection. The energy exchanged between two people. The unspoken language of attraction, whether it be sexual or platonic. I’m still so into this as a theme for my works for the group show.

  After two further hours or so of contentedly working away, the phone rings. Shit, my hands are so dirty, I hate it when this happens. I wipe them quickly on my overalls, run to the kitchen bench and answer the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me, Annabelle.’

  ‘Hey, how’s your day going?’

  ‘Oh my god, amazing! I’m at Mum’s place, just getting my stuff together. I called my manager today, and he said the most incredible thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Okay, well, George—from my label in the UK—he played the duet I recorded with Johnny Harrison to one of the writers from Dazed & Confused magazine. And guess what?’

  ‘Um, can’t guess.’

  ‘She’s flying out to Sydney next week! A woman who writes for Dazed & Confused! She’ll be interviewing me about what it was like to work with Johnny, and how my album is the hidden gem of nineteen ninety-five. How I’m going to be the next big thing in the UK!’

  ‘That’s amazing, Annabelle!’ I am genuinely excited for her. She deserves this. I knew this day would come.

  ‘Okay, okay. So there’s a photographer coming too. Some guy from London. They want to interview me over dinner, and photograph me somewhere interesting. I’m wondering if you think it might be an okay idea for the writer to interview me at Harland? It’s two weeks from tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure. That sounds great! I’ll just check with Lucy tonight. You should do it in the Red Room!’

  ‘Oh yeah. I love the Red Room. That’s a great idea, Joni.’

  ‘When will you be back here?’

  ‘I’ve got heaps of running around to do, so probably not until eight or so.’

  ‘Okay. There’s pasta and sweet potato and broccoli here. Enough to make yourself some dinner.’