Lovesome

by Sally Seltmann

  ‘I love how you keep it in your glove box,’ I tell him.

  ‘Well, you never know when you might need a bit of poetry,’ he jokes. ‘At home…out on the road…’

  I can’t help but laugh.

  He tenderly places the book in my hand. ‘For you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I pause. ‘Well, I guess I should get going. I’ve gotta ride home. So you’ll be at the—’

  ‘Can I get your phone number?’

  ‘Oh. Of course you can. But you’ll be at the dinner on Wednesday night, won’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. But can I get your phone number now?’ He smiles at me, then reaches into his car and pulls out a pen. ‘You should come and have lunch with me on my boat one day.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I say.

  We exchange numbers, we say goodbye, and I walk down the side path to get my bike while James climbs into his car and drives off. No kiss, no hug, just an overwhelming feeling of anticipation.

  21

  Taking the downhill run on Darling Street at a dangerous speed, I call out into the night: ‘Aaaaaaaah!’ And then the silence that follows, in stark contrast with my uncontrollable outburst, brings with it a clean freshness. That winter chill, hanging over the rooftops and winding narrow streets.

  My cheeks begin to hurt, because I’m smiling so hugely. I stretch my neck up, and show my smile to the stars that glitter in the pitch-black sky. But then my front tyre gets the wobbles, so I grab the handlebars tighter and, thank God, save myself from a potentially disastrous stack.

  I pull into my street and jump off my bike, still smiling, big and radiant. Up on the footpath, wheeling my bike along, I notice that the side gate is slightly ajar. Annabelle mustn’t have closed it properly, but who cares—I’m so glad she’s home. I can’t wait to tell her everything. Rushing in, I lean my bike against the side of my bungalow, and skip up the stairs. I knock quietly, knowing she’ll answer, and I’ll be inside faster than if I fish around for my keys in my backpack.

  The door opens. ‘Hi Joni.’

  Oh, weird—it’s Michael, of all people.

  ‘Hey Joni!’ Annabelle calls from the kitchenette. ‘We were just up at the Emerald, and it was last drinks, so we’re back here. You want a drink?’

  ‘Nah, I’m gonna have a cup of tea.’

  I wander in, feeling a little strange that Michael is at my place. He sits down at the table—my table—opposite Annabelle, who picks up from where she must have left off, partway through a story about a concert she played on her recent UK tour. They’ve helped themselves to the red wine I bought yesterday, and the chocolates I planned to give Lucy at the staff dinner.

  I take my backpack off and drop it near the door. Annabelle’s suitcase is wide open on the floor near the couch, her clothes (and those of mine that she’s borrowed) almost covering the entire floor of my bungalow. It’s been like this for weeks, but it hasn’t irritated me until now.

  Annabelle’s concert story comes to an end, and as I’m filling the kettle with water, I ask them, ‘How was the Emerald?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ Annabelle says, holding her wine glass with both hands. ‘How ’bout you? Where did you guys go? Come on, spill the beans.’

  Her voice contains a mix of excitement at my good fortune with a suggestion of envy. I’m confused by her intentions, and can’t quite read how to move forward with the conversation. Her body language suggests she wants to include me in her drinking and late-night storytelling with Michael, so I sit down next to her and proceed with caution, deciding I’ll keep the more intimate details to myself.

  ‘We went down to the wharf and hung out for a bit.’

  I downplay the whole thing—the obvious shared attraction and chemistry between me and James—but I question myself as I’m doing it. I’m usually so open with Annabelle. I usually tell her everything. Everything. But I’m still hurt by the fact that she flirted with James and tried to win him over, even though she already knew I had the hots for him. Although…did meeting him first give me the right to pursue him, and Annabelle no right to make a move?

  It’s a blurred line within any friendship. And now Michael—what’s he doing here?

  ‘Is James coming to the staff dinner?’ Annabelle asks me.

  ‘Yeah. He asked for my phone number too.’

  ‘What! Joni! That’s huge! Oh my god, he likes you!’ She sounds happy for me. Free of nastiness.

  Now I can’t hold back my excitement. I pretend that Michael’s not here, and talk only to Annabelle. ‘We have so much in common. He lives on a boat, and he invited me to come for lunch on it! He lent me a book. He feels like he knows me from his childhood. He wants to come and see my paintings. He took a photo of me—’

  ‘He took lots of photos of me tonight,’ Annabelle blurts out.

  I sink into my seat. Her jealous side has reared its ugly head again, and I regret having told her anything.

  ‘Sounds like you two might get it on,’ she says, looking at Michael and raising her eyebrows.

  Get it on? I find that offensive. I’m at the beginning of falling for someone, the beginning of finding out what’s inside a beautiful man’s mind. Where’s the Annabelle who wants the best for me, and understands me completely?

  ‘Maybe. Maybe we’ll get it on,’ I tell her, nonchalantly, shrugging my shoulders and trying to act cool. I get up to make myself a chamomile tea, thinking how disappointed I am with her.

  ‘So anyway…’ Annabelle continues talking to Michael only, excluding me from the conversation. I can’t handle her when she’s like this. She’s bouncing back and forth from understanding friend to jealous competitor.

  The smell of the chamomile flowers soaking in my teapot fills the kitchen. It overpowers the stink of alcohol, and Annabelle’s mix of smoke and perfume, and Michael’s greasy T-shirt. The same stained T-shirt he cooked in all night. I don’t wanna get ready for bed while Michael’s still here, but then again it might give him the message that I want him to leave my house, now. I hide in the bathroom with my cup of tea, and take a shower.

  When I get out and walk through the living area, wrapped in my towel, Michael glances at me. I climb the ladder stairs up to my bed and slip into an oversized T-shirt and undies, making sure they can’t see me. I leave the wet towel at the end of my mattress.

  ‘Night!’ I call out.

  They don’t reply.

  ‘Goodnight, you two!’ I say a little louder.

  ‘Oh, night Joni,’ Annabelle says. ‘Are we too loud?’

  ‘Um, sort of. I’m really tired. I wanna get some sleep.’ I don’t care if I sound rude.

  ‘Let’s go out on the front verandah, Michael. Here, take this.’

  I look down, and see Annabelle pulling up the crocheted rug from the couch and grabbing her faux fur black coat. She puts a ciggie between her lips, and somehow manages to talk at the same time.

  ‘Want one?’ she asks Michael.

  ‘I don’t smoke, but thanks,’ he says quietly.

  I peer down as they walk out the front door, leaving it slightly ajar. On their way out, Annabelle puts her arm around Michael’s waist. Great. I can see where this is going. She better go back to his house, or I’m seriously gonna lose it. Their outdoor chitter-chatter still makes its way up to my mezzanine-level bed, but my thoughts of James soon block out their annoying small talk. I blissfully relive all the main moments of our time together. James and I on the swings. James running along the stone wall. James taking my photo. James touching my boots with his. And then I drift off to sleep.

  It feels like only seconds later that I’m awakened by a strange noise. I wonder if there’s a possum outside, up in the gum tree, letting out a disturbing mating call. Then I realise it’s worse than that. Much worse.

  The animal-like moan is overtaken by a groan. Bare skin slapping against bare skin makes a repetitive clapping sound. It’s disgusting and, now that I’m fully awake, it’s perfectly clear to me that Annabelle and Michael are in the middle o
f having sex on my couch. I roll over and let out an exaggerated sigh, hoping they’ll remember that I’m up here, only a few metres away from them.

  But they continue as if they’re in a soundproof recording studio, which I can guarantee has already been a love-making location Annabelle has ticked off her list. This is so gross. I haven’t heard her have sex before, and now I know she is extremely loud while in the act.

  I roll over and block my ears. This is never happening again. I want her out of here. Tomorrow. I lie awake until Annabelle very obviously climaxes and Michael, in true Michael style, reaches his peak quietly.

  Sunshine is filtering through the curtains when I wake. I sit up and check out the scene below. Annabelle is curled up on the floor, and Michael is lying long on the couch. At least she’s been a lady and given him the bed. Aside from that, pretty much everything she’s done in the last twelve hours has been atrocious. I bet she’s hungover like crazy.

  I shuffle down to the end of my bed and descend the ladder stairs, unsure if it’s better for me to intentionally wake them, or aim to keep them sleeping. As soon as I land on the floor Annabelle wakes.

  ‘Joni,’ she says in a croaky voice, followed by a yawn. ‘Did we keep you awake?’

  I go in hard. ‘I’m gonna make a coffee. And then can I talk to you outside?’

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘Just let me grab a coffee first. You want one?’

  ‘Yes please,’ she says, midway through an even bigger yawn than the first.

  She stumbles over to the bathroom, and I hear her wee trickle into the toilet as I screw the coffee pot together. She could have had the decency to close the door. I place the pot on a hot plate and walk past her as she leaves the bathroom, and I enter.

  Once I’m done, I pour out two coffees, adding milk to both. I take my dressing gown off the hook, and meet Annabelle out on the front verandah. She’s rugged up in her black faux fur coat. Her hair is in one giant fluff knot, and her mascara has run down her cheeks. She smells like sex, vanilla, body odour and liquor. She lights up a ciggie, adding a smoky stench to the mix.

  ‘So,’ I begin, ‘it’s not cool that you brought Michael home last night.’

  ‘What? I thought you’d be totally fine with that.’ She is straight-out offended and defensive. ‘Especially after what happened to me yesterday. I mean, fuck, Joni. I got dumped over the phone, I had to put on a show for Polly, and be interviewed and charming, and have my photo taken for a massive magazine.’ She sips her coffee and then rudely adds, ‘While you ran off with the goddamned photographer.’ She puffs, and blows out smoke. ‘Who was, by the way, trying to make a move on me, until you stepped in and stole him from me.’

  ‘What!’ I am utterly shocked.

  ‘He was into me, I know it.’

  ‘No he’s not, and no he wasn’t. You just can’t take it that he chose me, can you? And besides, you were the one who was going to try to set me up with the photographer.’

  ‘That was the photographer from London, and before Johnny dumped me.’

  Her reasoning is ridiculous.

  I hold onto my hot cup of coffee and take a long sip, then stare into the milky surface. Annabelle gazes out into the backyard and does a tap-tap with her finger, encouraging the ash from her cigarette to fall onto the verandah floor.

  ‘Well…’ she offers, sounding unsure of what she’ll say next. ‘I had a great night with Michael last night, so I have nothing to complain about.’

  ‘I heard you,’ I tell her gruffly.

  ‘We moved out onto the verandah. Surely we weren’t that loud.’

  ‘I heard you having sex, you idiot.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. And she looks like she means it.

  I decide to ask the question. The one I’ve wanted to ask her for a long time. ‘Why do you just go from boy to boy? You fall in love with one, break up, jump on to someone else. It’s not good for you to never be alone. It’s like you use every guy to help you get over the one before.’

  She stares long and hard at the ground. I sip my coffee, and begin to feel uncomfortable with the long silence.

  Finally Annabelle says, ‘I need to head out and meet Polly for the second part of the interview. Up at Café Blue. She’s still got questions for me.’ She pulls her hungover body up off the chair and stumbles towards the door. She turns her head before she’s made it inside and says, in a cold, insensitive tone, ‘You don’t understand me, Joni, and you never have. It’s a major flaw in our friendship. I’m gonna take my stuff, and I’ll be moving in with Michael, because how I conduct my love life is completely normal, and men love me, and I don’t need people like you telling me how I should live. You’ve never had a proper boyfriend, and you only just lost your virginity. You’re the one who needs to ask yourself what’s wrong—with yourself.’

  She can’t quite put the last insult together properly. But still, I’m so hurt.

  ‘Annabelle,’ I say, with the hope she’ll take back her harsh words.

  ‘You judge me, Joni, and you make me feel like shit. I need you to know that.’

  She turns her back on me as I hold in my tears.

  After a moment I follow her back inside, where she and Michael are standing, embracing each other and engaging in a long kiss. I clear my throat. Feeling as if I have nowhere to go to get away, I climb up onto my mezzanine bed, open the little window, look out onto the branches of the gum tree, and have a quiet cry. What a bitch.

  22

  When Annabelle is showered, dressed and on her way up to meet Polly, I pull myself together and head downstairs to get myself some breakfast. The front door is open, and the mid-morning sun brightens the floorboards. Through the open doorway I see Michael, sitting out on the verandah.

  He hears me moving about in the kitchen and wanders inside. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he says, chewing. ‘I helped myself to a piece of toast.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s totally fine. Would you like some coffee? Or fruit?’

  ‘Oh, only if it’s no trouble. I’m sorry I stayed over last night,’ he says, as I hand him a shiny red apple. ‘I offered for Annabelle to come back to my place, but she seemed to think it was fine for us to come here. So yeah, sorry.’

  I wish he’d stop apologising. ‘So Annabelle’s moving into your place, I hear?’

  ‘Well, yeah. For the time being. I’m guessing that’s good for you. You’ll be able to have your place back to yourself. I love it here, by the way. You’ve made it look so homely. And Annabelle showed me some of your paintings last night.’

  ‘She did, did she?’

  ‘They’re really great, Joni.’ He sounds like he means it.

  ‘Thanks, Michael. I’ve…’ I’m not sure what to say next. ‘We haven’t really talked that much, have we? I mean, I don’t even know how long you’ve been working at Harland.’

  ‘A few years now,’ Michael says. ‘I used to work at a restaurant in Glebe.’

  ‘I used to live in Glebe,’ I tell him.

  We’ve found common ground, and it’s helping me warm to him, slowly. I place the refilled coffee pot on the stove and turn on the electric hot plate.

  ‘Well, yeah, it was nothing like Harland. Pretty bad, actually.’

  ‘How did you meet Dave?’

  ‘My sister and Dave went out, when she was in high school.’

  ‘What!’ I realise I’m starting to enjoy my conversation with Michael. ‘Dave’s never told me that.’

  ‘Yeah, Dave used to come to all our family Christmas dinners. ’Bout three years in a row.’

  ‘That’s hilarious.’

  ‘And then she broke up with Dave and started going out with this awful lawyer.’

  I begin to realise that Michael is more than a quiet, over-apologising assistant chef who never says anything. We both pull out a chair and sit down at the table, opposite each other, face to face.

  ‘Did you always know you wanted to be a chef?’ I ask him.

  ‘Sort of. I g
rew up in the country, so I thought I’d just take over Dad’s farm. He’s a sheep farmer.’

  ‘Wow. I don’t think I know anyone who farms sheep. No one who runs a farm, actually. Oh, a couple of girls at uni, but I wasn’t really friends with them. I don’t know if I’d cope living in the country. I’m a city girl.’

  The crackling of the coffee brewing rises over the sound of the birds in the yard. I pull out two yellow mugs, the ones Annabelle gave me for my birthday, and steam rises and swirls up under my chin as I fill them.

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  We continue our chat.

  ‘I went to boarding school in the city,’ Michael tells me.

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s kind of like growing up in the city. I guess it’s half-and-half, would you say?’

  ‘Well, sort of. It’s how I started getting into chefing. I never would have known I could be a chef if I’d spent all my time in the country. A decent chef, anyway. More than a bloody cook in a pub.’ He lets out a mini-chuckle, then blows gently over the top of his mug to cool his coffee. ‘There were heaps of restaurants around my boarding school,’ he tells me. ‘I got a lot of takeaway on weekends. I started to become passionate about food.’

  I can tell that this is hard for him to say, because he’s a bit of a blokey bloke and passionate is such a feminine word. Feminine in my eyes, anyhow, or is that sexist?

  ‘Then I moved into the city and studied at hospitality school. I’m really happy doing what I’m doing.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it,’ I say. ‘It’s good to live your life doing what you really love, yeah?’

  He nods, then takes a noisy bite from his apple. He’s a simple guy. Intelligent, but with a simple outlook and simple needs. I think he’d actually be quite good for Annabelle. He’s very level. He might balance out her busy mind and complex nature. Although I can’t imagine them staying together as a couple for long.

  When we finish our coffee, I pick my clothes up off the floor, and move Annabelle’s into a messy pile around her suitcase. Without a word, Michael neatly folds Annabelle’s skirts and dresses, gently placing them one by one in her case. What a gentleman, tidying up my bungalow, taking care of Annabelle’s things.