Lovesome

by Sally Seltmann

  Rebecca puts her teacup down on the little outdoor coffee table.

  ‘It’s my forty-sixth birthday in a few weeks,’ she tells me.

  ‘Got any party plans?’ I ask her.

  ‘Oh, I don’t really have parties anymore. Peter and I will probably go out for dinner. Perhaps see a play.’ She chuckles with a lovely rounded tone. ‘My nieces are coming over for cake on the actual day, which will be nice.’

  Rebecca reaches over for a cracker and picks up the cheese knife. ‘As you know, Peter and I don’t have children. We decided early on that we didn’t want any. Peter’s such an introvert, and I’ve never cared much for having a baby. I wanted a career.’

  ‘Mum tells me I can have both.’ I immediately regret having said this. I don’t want to offend her, or start any type of argument.

  Before I can correct myself, she says in a smooth tone, ‘I know, I know. A lot of women juggle both beautifully. I just use that as a simple excuse to explain why having children is not right for me, because I don’t think many people understand that some women actually don’t want them in their lives. They think there’s something wrong with us.’

  ‘Oh, I completely respect you.’

  ‘Thanks, Joni.’ She raises her teacup, giving me an English-country-garden cheers.

  I place my cup back on the tray, and explain to her that I need to get back to work in my studio space as I’m keen to finish the painting I’m working on. She tells me she understands the work ethic of a creative—Peter is the same. If a day goes by when he hasn’t had the chance to make any progress on the play he’s working on, he’ll be in a rotten mood and unbearable to live with. We both stand, and Rebecca slips her fingers back into her gardening gloves.

  ‘Bye, and thank you for the tea and cheese.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she says, getting back into trimming the daisy bush.

  I walk down the stairs and across the lawn, hoping that one day I’ll meet someone who feels like my soul mate. Someone who adores me as much as I adore them. Someone I connect with emotionally. Someone who loves me for who I am.

  Wandering through the front door of my bungalow, I feel embarrassed by the mess, comparing myself to Rebecca’s neat orderliness. But my urge to paint is far greater than my urge to tidy up, so I throw my apron back on and head over to the canvas.

  And then—damn!—the phone starts ringing.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Joni, oh Joni!’

  It’s Annabelle, sobbing uncontrollably. She is an absolute mess.

  ‘Annabelle, what is it? Take a deep breath. What’s happened?’

  ‘Johnny’s not coming! He’s not coming, Joni!’

  ‘Well, maybe you can fly over there to be with him. You’ve always told me you love New York.’ I try to offer her a positive slant on the news that has left her so devastated.

  ‘He…’ she howls, her voice distorted. She sniffs an unimaginable amount of snot up her nose, and makes a few awful animal-like yowling sounds. ‘He’s seeing someone else.’

  I knew this was going to happen. I knew it! But weirdly, comforting her does gives me strength. I’d forgotten about this feeling. She’s fallen to her knees, and she needs me.

  ‘Look, Annabelle, where are you?’

  ‘I’m in the city.’

  ‘Where in the city?’

  ‘In a—awww—phone box,’ she cries.

  ‘Okay, calm down, you will get through this. Slow down your breathing. It’s all right, I’m here for you.’

  She goes off on a longwinded, tangled-up explanation of why she thinks this has happened, how she can’t believe she fell for him, how she doesn’t think she’s going to cope with doing the photos and interview tonight. I hardly understand any of it, because it’s all broken up with huge sniffs and the sound of her wiping her hand over her face and mouth, mopping up her tears.

  ‘Cancel the photos. Cancel the interview,’ I suggest, taking a pragmatic approach.

  ‘No! Are you crazy? This interview could break me in the UK.’

  You’re already broken. But I know what she means. She really cares about her music; she wants to make it on an international level, and I feel confident that she will.

  ‘Okay, yep, we want this interview to go ahead. I think you need to come back to my house now, and hang out here for a while. You can have a shower, I’ll make you some food, you can relax. We’ll deal with this together.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she says.

  It’s one of the many great things about Annabelle. She does usually listen to me and take my orders during times like this. I think the last three times she’s been in this state, she’s come straight to me, and I’ve helped her calm down, get it together, look at the big picture. And I enjoy taking on this role. The role of the nurturer. It makes me feel better when I try to make Annabelle feel better.

  We say goodbye to each other, and she tells me she’ll jump on the next bus back to my place. I promptly take my apron off and hang it on the hook on the wall.

  16

  Mushroom risotto always tastes better with real butter. I check the fridge. Yep, got some. Before I start cooking, I put a record on. John Coltrane—Blue Train. Dad got me onto it. He always has it playing in his bookshop. It’s calming, fluid, a little sultry. Perfect for standing over the stovetop while I slowly stir nonstop for twenty minutes.

  When the arborio rice is cooked right through, I turn off the hot plate and cover the risotto with the saucepan lid. I do a quick tidy-up, light some incense, turn the record over, put my apron back on and continue to work away on my painting. I lose myself in the lines, the curves, the composition, the colours, and then realise that the second side of the record finished ages ago. Weird. I thought Annabelle would be here by now.

  I imagine her—crying, tear-wiping—on the bus as it weaves in and out of traffic, grinding to a halt at every stop. And then she’d press the button—ding!—and stand up, holding on to the poles, wobbling her way towards the back door.

  Over an hour passes, and when I look up and check the clock I see that it’s time for me to get ready for work. Where is Annabelle? I hope she’s okay. I rinse my brushes with turps in the bathroom sink. It always stinks the house out, so I keep the bathroom door closed and the fan on.

  The sound of the water splashing into the sink collides with the rattle of the fan—it’s a thin chugalug of mechanical white noise mixed with a heavy downpour on a tin roof. My hands are stained with paint—purple-blue fingers and palms. I scrub them extra hard, splashing turps all over them, rinsing them until they’re almost back to their beige-pink selves. Then I write a note, and leave it on the kitchen bench.

  Annabelle,

  How are you? I cooked a mushroom risotto for you (it’s on the stove), although you’ve probably eaten lunch by now. Help yourself to anything. Take a hot shower, rest up. I’ll see you at Harland tonight. (Exciting!!!)

  Love Joni xxx

  PS: You are totally amazing and you’re the most beautiful person I know. Johnny doesn’t deserve you. You’re the best! I love you. Call me at Harland if you need to: 815 4286 xxxxxxx

  As I’m getting dressed for work, I think again about the possibility of the photographer from London being extremely good-looking. I can’t deny it, I’m hoping something does happen between me and him. Wear something good, wear something sexy, I say to myself, baffled by my choice of words. Wear something sexy? Who do I think I am?

  Six of my dresses end up inside out, one on top of the other, on my floor. And then I become so rushed and nervous that I can’t think straight—I can’t put an outfit together. And then I enter dud world, and I can tell my neck and cheeks are red. Flustered. Ridiculously flustered, that’s what I am, and now I feel as though I can’t possibly wear anything that will draw attention to myself.

  Why do I always do this? It’s my nervous gene. I got it from Mum—she’d always act as calm as, but then, whenever they had an opening at the gallery, she’d start talking quickly and dropping thin
gs. She’d get a red face, and I could smell her BO. I know that sounds terrible—Mum’s nervous BO. Awww, what a gem. I love Mum.

  I end up walking out the door in my shabby, plain black dress—the one I bought at Balmain Market for five dollars. And then outside, away from the heater, I realise I need a second layer on, so I unlock the front door, walk back inside and grab my cropped brown woollen jumper. I catch myself in the mirror: plain and boring. My hair is out, a little knotty, and my brown Blundstone boots on my small feet await their scolding from Lucy. Please can you wear some shoes that are a little more dressy, Joni?

  Once I’m out the side gate, riding down the centre of my street, I squint. Partly due to the cold, early evening breeze, and partly because I can’t stop wondering where Annabelle is. She’s obviously decided to go somewhere else, or do something else. But where, and what?

  The cling and clang of a car towing a rusty empty trailer down Darling Street startles me, and I swerve closer to the left-hand side of the road, gripping the handlebars tight. I pedal past the Emerald. It looks full, bubbling, with the usual Sunday evening get-togethers.

  Further down on Darling Street I pick up speed, shivering as the icy air blows right through my woollen jumper and smashes straight into my skin. Bloody hell! I should have worn a jacket. As I huff and puff up the hill, I look into the windows of the small houses and cottages. It’s that time of day when everyone has their lights on, but has not yet closed the curtains—my favourite time. I imagine the insides of all the rooms as miniatures in a museum. Dioramas. Little handmade doll’s houses with tiny people and replica furniture.

  Then I stand up on my pedals, pushing hard, bum up off the seat, continuing to take on the hill. My hair flies in the wintry breeze, kissing my cheeks, each strand behaving like a wind sock. I hope this interview goes okay tonight. Annabelle was so beside herself when she found out her favourite UK fashion and music mag wanted to do a story on her. It’s just nuts! I can’t imagine that ever happening to me with my career as an artist. I want to exhibit overseas, but I feel like I have such a long way to go.

  I pull up in front of Harland.

  ‘Joni, hi.’

  It’s Michael, arriving at the same time as me. He’s had his dark-brown hair cut—a little shorter around the sides, still long on top. His three-day growth is more obvious than usual, his eyes are tired-looking. He acts as though he’s apologising for saying hello, as though I may not recognise him. I can tell he’s the kind of guy that would tolerate anything, and not speak up for himself, ever. As though he’d avoid every conflict thrown at him. This is his usual disposition—he puts everyone in front of himself at all times. And he’s sort of sorry. Sorry for everything—for arriving at the same time as me, for not really knowing what to say. He makes me feel much more entitled and special than I really am.

  He opens the side gate and gestures for me to go in before him. The tyres on my bike roll up the slight step at the start of the side path. Michael follows. I don’t look back, but I can tell he would have closed the gate very gently, put his hands in his pockets and transitioned into his usual shuffle, while trying to draw the least amount of attention to himself. He’s below me in class and status, and he put himself there. I don’t even know anything about his upbringing or education, and I don’t think I’ve told him much about mine. He’s probably overheard me talking to the others; but either way, for some reason he places himself on a lower rank. On the bottom shelf. He does it to everyone at Harland, even Simon. He’s comfortable there, on that lower level, I think.

  ‘How was your day?’ I ask him, turning, still wheeling my bike down the side path.

  ‘Oh, you know…pretty good,’ he answers, avoiding eye contact.

  We leave it at that and I lean my bike against the shed, hanging my helmet over the handlebars. Dave bounces down the back stairs holding a large stainless-steel bowl, beating something up with a whisk. He has his white chef hat on, which always makes me laugh. It’s too pro for him. Too clichéd. He looks like he’s in costume for a dress-up party. He gives me a quick, ‘Hey Joni,’ and takes Michael inside, talking nonstop about butter and pastry and pie dishes.

  Before following them up the stairs, I turn towards the garden. The ivy, lying low, splays out with its beautiful jagged leaves—pointy, triangular and organically symmetrical, each with their own imperfections. I walk closer to the garden bed so I can smell the earth. It’s damp, dark, bottle-green. Lucy must have watered it when she arrived this evening. Tiger-Lily catches my eye, gracefully walking along the boards of the verandah.

  I skip up the stairs and open the back door. It’s warm, golden, sumptuous, old-worldly; it’s even more gorgeous in here than it was last night. All of my senses are filled right up to the brim. I’m so glad I work here.

  ‘Joni darling!’ Lucy greets me with a kiss-kiss on each cheek. It’s lovely being loved by Lucy. I hope she doesn’t slip into the other side, and lash out at me at some point during the evening.

  ‘Can you get started on setting Gatsby—two twos. I’ve got the Red Room set up for Annabelle, and Lillibon is done. Juliet’s down setting up the Pines. Oh, and can you get the fires going?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Thanks, my love.’

  No time for a pre-dinner coffee/catch-up with Dave tonight. I drop my backpack in the corner near the hatstand and get straight into it.

  ‘Coffee, Joni?’ Lucy calls out.

  ‘Oh my god, that would be amazing. Thanks, Lucy!’ I call back, pulling cutlery out from the velvet-lined drawer in the hallway sideboard.

  Lucy brings my coffee into Gatsby and then I sip as I go, quickly getting the tables in order. When the table below the window is done, I swiftly move on to setting the other table for two. The old-fashioned crystal wine glasses are placed to the top right of the tarnished, worn silver cutlery. A green cut-glass vase, holding a single pink rose, is positioned in the centre of each table. There! Both tables look beautiful.

  I head back out through the Bar Room and down to the shed, where I grab a handful of firewood. I stack it up, log upon log, attempting to hug it in towards my body, carrying it like a woman in the woods in a fairytale, just how Lucy does it every night. As I struggle back up the stairs, several logs topple out of my arms, falling from my poorly-put-together pile. I feel a splinter dig into my right hand, and then I kick my boot into the top step, tripping and turning, then dropping the entire bundle as I fall down onto the back verandah.

  Shit! At this point Lucy, startled by the deadened boom and bang of the tumbling firewood, opens the back door. I’m on my hands and knees like a dog, with the unfortunate added bonus that my bum is now facing Lucy. I know she can see my undies.

  ‘Joni?’

  My knees are scratched and cut, and my hands hurt. I feel like a little kid.

  ‘Joni,’ Lucy repeats. ‘This is James, and he’s here for the interview.’

  What? The photographer from London?

  ‘Hi there,’ says a deep voice.

  I look towards denim-clad legs, too embarrassed to look up any further. Then—hang on a minute—I realise his accent is completely Aussie. He must be an assistant or something. Argh. I guess I should get up.

  ‘Joni, could you show him into the Red Room, please. I’ll take care of lighting the fires,’ Lucy says, clutching on to her new-found affection for me while desperately trying to suppress the undertones of disappointment and scorn.

  I pick myself up and dust my knees off. My finger-tips are bloody. My right knee is grazed. I wipe my hands on my black dress and follow Lucy and the guy back into the Bar Room. I push past Lucy, past the guy—James, or whatever—and confidently stride along the hallway towards the Red Room.

  ‘This way,’ I tell him, not bothering to bring a menu in or anything. I’ll just chuck him in there to wait for the others.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I’ll start bringing the gear in.’

  I quickly wash my hands in the basin of the outhouse toilet, then I head ba
ck into the Bar Room, hoping that Dave might bring some dinner out to us soon. To my delight, it’s already on the table. Five rosy bowls filled with creamy pasta, a sugar bowl filled with freshly cut parsley, an enamel mug filled with grated parmesan cheese, salt, pepper, and a fresh baguette lying next to a slab of butter. Yum! I get stuck into it. Michael sits with me, and we smile at each other as we eat the rich, heavy meal.

  When we’re close to finishing, I’m cut short by the tinkle of the bells on the front door—a sound we don’t often hear before six.

  ‘Ah, Lucy!’ says a girly voice. Then bang-bang, shuffle, clip-clop and a slurred ‘Is Joni here?’

  I turn my head towards the hallway, and a drunken (more accurately, sloshed) Annabelle stumbles into the Bar Room. ‘Joooniii!’

  She’s embarrassingly blind. I sit her down, and break her off a decent-sized piece of baguette.

  ‘Eat!’ I order her.

  I don’t want to hear about it. Where she’s been, how much she’s drunk. I place a jug of water and a glass in front of her, move over to the coffee machine, and begin to make her a double-shot latte.

  I lean my head back towards her, as the hot water runs through the coffee grounds. ‘We need to sort you out. This interview is gonna be good for you. We want it to go well.’

  She eats the baguette, slumping over the table as if to say I’ve given up on life, but I’m so drunk now that it sort of feels like everything is okay. She looks at me, slowly becoming aware of her inebriated state, but completely unaware of her liquor stench.

  ‘I was wondering where you were,’ I tell her sternly.

  Michael sits watching and listening. Annabelle’s tail curls up between her legs. She’s sorry, I know it. But I need to help her sort herself out. Sober up.

  I turn towards the kitchen. ‘Dave, have you got any more…’

  ‘Yep, bringing some out now.’

  He brings out another serving of the creamy pasta and places it in front of Annabelle. He’s so intuitive. He knows what’s going on. He always saves the day.