Lessons in Love

by Belinda Missen

  I looked at her, hand outstretched waiting for another ball of wool. Even though she currently looked like a watercolour painting, and the lump in my throat was creeping up, I really did feel okay. I was just in the middle of an epiphany, one that was almost twelve months in the making. No big deal.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ I said, voice strangled with tears.

  I’d spent so long inside my own head, analysing and overanalysing everything that had gone wrong, trying to ascertain at what point exactly did Dean decide a new girlfriend would be a good idea. Was it the fact that I didn’t resign from my job when he suggested I should just stay home? We had enough money, he reasoned. Or was it when one of his colleagues alluded to doing exactly the same, with zero trouble getting away with it. After all, it was nothing more than risk versus reward, wasn’t it?

  And, boy, did he love high risk. He was an investment banker, for crying out loud. He spent big, returned bigger, jumped from planes, and held business meetings in the casino. Our home was obscenely large for two people, and any suggestion we might fill those rooms with smaller people was met with, ‘I don’t fucking think so.’

  Standing on the outside looking in, it was an obese little world – and one that saw me increasingly incompatible with it the more it expanded. Fine fittings, expensive cars, and high-end fashion was how we lived. Was it any surprise then that my life fell apart the way it did? Everyone knew what was happening, everyone was in on the joke, except me.

  But, whatever Dean’s reason, it was mine no longer. That simple realisation made it feel as if a weight had been lifted. It gave me a little more oil in my joints, and air under my wings and, even though I was now crying, I felt free of everything.

  Penny shook her head, a soft smile on her face. ‘No, it’s not.’

  I wiped at my eyes and laughed. ‘I don’t even know why I’m crying. This is so silly.’

  ‘I’d say you’ve had yourself a breakthrough.’ From out of nowhere, the shop assistant was standing next to Penny. She had a Bea Arthur-ness about her, with shoulder pads propped high and a handmade cardigan. I could get behind that. ‘I’m Carol.’

  ‘Carol, this is my cousin and my good friend, Eleanor. She finally got herself a divorce this week. We’re celebrating.’

  ‘As someone who’s been there and done that, three times, that does call for a celebration.’ Carol rested a hand on Penny’s shoulder. ‘Let me get the teapot.’

  ‘I’m just … I’m a bit worried about her.’ Penny fell into step as she chased Carol into the rear of the shop, as though they’d been friends since the dawn of time.

  Ladies and gentlemen, behind pantry door number two: the intervention.

  While they were gone, I patted tears away from damp eyes and pulled myself together. Public crying was not my usual thing, and I didn’t want to start now. I made sure I had everything I needed, just in case of an emergency exit. I counted off yarn, needles, markers and a pattern book or three. I’d make something from them eventually.

  They returned with a floral tea tray which landed on the sales counter with the chatter of porcelain teeth. Biscuits were presented on a dishwasher-warped plastic plate, and tea was being poured from a Wedgewood pot.

  Our new friend, Carol, had overhead everything and, instead of getting on the blower to her friends and relatives, decided that she needed to hear the full story. Maybe she was bored. It didn’t help that her shop was emptier than a schoolyard on curriculum day. I think even the spiders had shuffled off somewhere else.

  ‘And, can I just say.’ Crumbs burst forth from Penny’s mouth. She’d scored an early biscuit and a toilet trip while chewing Carol’s ear off in the kitchen. ‘If this guy at the coffee shop doesn’t start getting my name right, I’m going to jump the counter and tattoo it onto his forehead with a compass and a Crayola.’

  Our only stop on the way here had been the café, the same old same old, where Penny’s name had come out as Sally today.

  ‘Well, that’s a bit violent.’ Carol grimaced. ‘You could at least start by throwing the coffee back at him.’

  Because third-degree burns were such a non-violent option, too. No wonder these two got along so well.

  ‘To be fair, stabbing someone with a compass is more her style.’ I’d seen Penny fight in school and, just as she was now, there was nothing subtle about her. I plucked an Iced Vo-Vo from the plate and shoved it almost whole into my mouth. I was both hungry and ready for some emotional eating, which was no doubt a winning combination. ‘This is incredible.’

  ‘Now.’ Carol shuffled about on her chair, the cat lining up the bird, and fixed me with a very serious look. ‘Tell me everything.’

  Where I tried to hold back some of the finer details, Penny filled the gaps like a foreman going over blueprints on a worksite. For the next few hours, the three of us discussed my marriage, Carol’s marriages (she loved wedding cake, her words), Penny’s love of the random man, and all the bastardised things in between. Carol’s ears really pricked up when I hit the subject of Marcus, of the push and pull, and how his wisdom yesterday was the reason for today’s episode.

  ‘I mean, I always knew deep down, somewhere, that this wasn’t my fault. You can’t just go out and rob a bank and say, “Yeah, but my brother made me do it,” right?’ I looked to my companions for support.

  I picked up the teapot and drained the last dregs of our second pot of Earl Grey. Cup number three was going to make for an interesting drive home. Coffee was fine, I could hold an Olympic swimming pool of coffee, but tea? Forget about it.

  Penny and Carol nodded in agreement.

  ‘At any point, any point at all, my husband could have sat me down, told me he wasn’t happy, asked to work through a solution,’ I continued. The last dregs of any teapot were dusty, and I coughed a little at the last mouthful.

  ‘And that’s where it stops being your fault.’ Carol dunked her biscuit. ‘Maybe there was an aspect he wasn’t happy with. Who knows? But the fact he circumvented all common sense and just followed his pants down the road. Well, then, it stops being your problem, your fault, your anything.’

  It seemed like an easy conclusion to come to, and I supposed she was just adding another colourful layer to the box of theories that had been presented to me by various women in the last year. Unlike the others, some of whom had suggested I had obviously done something wrong, this was one to hang on to.

  ‘I think it was just the added male perspective that Marcus offered, not that I need a man to validate my feelings.’ I swallowed. ‘All right, the human perspective. The shared experience. It was nice to connect on that, to know that I wasn’t alone, and to discuss things in terms of the aftereffect, and the blame. Because there’s always so much blame, often misplaced.’ I looked at the two women before me, one who looked like she’d heard and seen it all before. The other, still a little green around the relationship gills, looked like I was good research on What Not to Do.

  Carol folded her arms across the counter and leaned in. ‘Is there any chance you reacted so strongly to this guy because you have feelings for him?’

  ‘Eww, no.’ That idea presented a teensy-weensy chasm of confusion, which threatened to get bigger if I pulled at the thread. Instead, I scoffed and offered a tear-strangled laugh. ‘No, not feelings, no. A new appreciation, yes. I certainly am grateful for the words he offered and for the clarity that they’ve given me. It’s especially important—’

  ‘You think he’s pretty,’ Penny sang.

  ‘What?’ My eyebrows disappeared up under my fringe. ‘Noooooo.’

  ‘Yes.’ She plucked the blue yarn from the shopping basket at my feet and held it up against my face. ‘This shade works particularly well with your embarrassment. Very cute.’

  I snatched the ball from her and waved it about like a presentation stick. ‘I’m just saying that perhaps I underestimated him as a human.’

  ‘Man.’

  ‘And that I could be nicer to him.’ I dug my heels in, to
ssing another shovel full of dirt over my shoulder.

  ‘With a penis.’ Penny spat the ‘p’ across the room like a piece of gum.

  I coughed. If only she knew half of it.

  Penny lit up. ‘Here, Carol, do you want to see what he looks like?’

  Before I had a chance to protest, Penny had whipped her phone from her pocket and was scrolling wildly through a bunch of photos – don’t mind that naked man … or that one – before the social life spinning wheel landed on a shot of Marcus. She’d captured him at the same pub we’d been in the night we went home together. He was leaning back in his chair, suit still on, but with tie nowhere to be seen, shirt unbuttoned just so, ankle crossed over a knee, and arm slung casually over the back of his chair.

  ‘That was his birthday last year,’ she explained. ‘There were lots of drinks, lots of laughs and, then, he went home alone.’

  Carol pinched the screen and zoomed in on his face. ‘My, he does look to be someone who takes himself very seriously.’

  Penny tapped at her chin and turned to me. ‘I wonder who that could possibly remind me of.’

  ‘Shut up, you.’ I gave her arm a playful tap. ‘I do not.’

  The three of us peered at the screen, which had taken the place of Baby Jesus in a manger. It was both a marvel to behold, and it was holding up a mirror to my life. In its reflection, Penny with her thinking cap on. Carol, her lips downturned in a look that screamed she’d be straight on him if only she were thirty years younger. At the end, there was me, and I wasn’t sure who I was looking at this morning.

  Was it the man who called me an angry little onion? The man who delighted in my scandalised upset at being compared to a seventy-something Scottish man? The same person who’d just about carried me home over his shoulder before making a limp-limbed mess out of me? Or was it the sweet but vulnerable boy who’d stood beside me yesterday and poured his heart out like he knew me, all to make me feel a little less alone in the world. I looked away quickly, as if checking the dye lots on the wool was going to provide an adequate distraction.

  It didn’t.

  Confusion had a new home, and it was the junction box of my heart and brain, clinging to a vertebra like King Kong on the Empire State Building. With the way I felt right now, I had one of two choices: I could climb back down the building, careful not to misstep on the way; or, I could throw myself off the ledge and see if anyone would catch my fall. As I dithered about a decision, King Kong didn’t so much beat at his chest, but formed a clumsy love heart with his fingers and thumbs and crossed his eyes.

  Later that afternoon, while spooning out the insides from an apple slice, I decided to climb down carefully, step away quietly, and do nothing more than take his advice for what it was: the gentle words of someone who’d been there, done that, and had the T-shirt to prove it.

  It was a great place to be.

  Chapter 14

  Unlike our Hollywood primate friend, a woman doesn’t always need to beat her chest to make an impact. Sometimes, all she really needs is a quick step, sensible shoes, and a sense of humour.

  Sunday afternoon found Penny and I in a second-hand clothing shop. I did my part in reviving my wardrobe with a large bundle of half-price dresses, shoes and embroidered cardigans. I catwalked through the shop, past the change rooms, and waited for Penny’s thumbs up because, as eccentric as she was, she knew her clothes.

  When I remarked that a faux fur stole on the window mannequin reminded me of a Twenties screen siren, the idea of an Oscars theme for our presentation night took seed. Over the course of the weekend, I watered it with ideas, and it bloomed into a lovely little flower that had me taking notes on my phone and jotting emails to myself before my tiny moments of brilliance disappeared into the void.

  Penny was still pitching random ideas that would, could, maybe slot into the night as we walked through the school grounds on Monday morning. We’d already talked about red carpets and photographers while I’d been casting-on her knitted coat the night before but, by this morning, she’d moved on to flash mobs and choreographed dancing.

  ‘I’m picturing a very climactic Footloose type of scene.’ Penny waved a hand in front of her. ‘Chintz, glittery things, statuettes … Kevin Bacon.’

  ‘If you could manage Kevin Bacon, I would approve the budget personally.’

  Penny snickered. ‘I should think I could teach him to dance.’

  ‘What are you two giggling about?’ Marcus called from somewhere behind us.

  I turned to find him dragging his trolley case behind him, the flaps of his jacket billowing in the breeze as he scampered to catch up with us. Judging by the slight wince he wore every second step, his knee still wasn’t one hundred per cent.

  ‘Nothing!’ I called. ‘Well, nothing you need to know about, anyway.’

  ‘Really?’ He came to a stop and gave me a questioning look. ‘Where are you heading to then?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ I said slowly, pointing towards the office. ‘To get a coffee.’

  ‘But you don’t like that coffee, you’ve said as much yourself. Why don’t you come to my office? I’ll make you a nice coffee and we can workshop my ideas for this presentation night.’ When I said nothing, he continued, ‘Come on, I’ll even put those little chocolate sprinkles on the top for you.’

  ‘You have ideas?’ I asked, taking another step backwards. ‘What ideas?’

  He shrugged. ‘I may have come up with a few good options yesterday. I’m going to speak to Phil about them this morning.’

  ‘Oh, are you?’ I stepped again. ‘And what if I have ideas?’

  ‘Do you though?’ He moved closer again. ‘I seem to recall we didn’t make it that far on Saturday.’

  ‘I have heaps,’ I lied. I only had one. ‘Very good, fantastic ideas.’

  His nose scrunched. ‘Mine are better.’

  ‘They really aren’t.’

  ‘Bet you they are,’ he challenged.

  Apparently, his quest for ladder climbing brought out his competitive streak. And mine.

  ‘Hold my bag.’ I shoved my things at Penny and left her standing there dumbfounded as I raced towards the main office.

  ‘Wait!’ Marcus dropped his case by Penny’s feet and followed me up towards the building. ‘That’s not fair!’

  ‘Hey! Hey! Hey!’ Penny shouted after us. ‘I’m not Freddie fucking Mercury, you know!’

  I’d never been much of a runner unless there was a book sale, but if Claire Dearing could do it in heels with a Tyrannosaurus Rex hot on her tail, surely, I could manage it in a pair of five-dollar boat shoes. I leapt up the step into the office and threw back the door before Marcus had managed to hobble across the quadrangle. Phil was already waiting in his office and, judging by the bemused look on his face, had a stopwatch hidden under his desk.

  ‘The Oscars,’ I puffed, hands on knees. ‘I really think we should do an Oscars theme.’

  ‘You do, do you?’ He grinned.

  The door burst open again, knocking me on the backside and propelling me two steps forward. Marcus stumbled breathlessly into the room, also coming to rest with his hands on his knees. I’d call it the look of someone who hadn’t seen football training recently. A bead of sweat trickled at his temple.

  ‘Heroes and villains,’ he coughed. ‘Christ, Manning.’

  ‘Ellie Manning, actually.’ I rocked on the spot. ‘I neither hold, nor want lofty religious ambitions.’

  ‘You two have obviously spent a lot of time together formulating a single plan,’ Phil teased.

  ‘Well, you know.’ Marcus straightened up and threw an arm around my left shoulder while his spare hand patted my right. I did my best to ignore the warm sensation that wrapped itself around my heart, stomach and mind. ‘I did tell Miss Manning that hers was indeed a wonderful idea. I just wanted to put forward a better, more suitable alternative.’

  Keeping my hands clasped in front of me, I drew back to look at Marcus, an expression of utter disbelief on my fac
e. Phil’s face told me he wasn’t believing a word of it either. Inside the room, deathly silence was counted out by the ticking of a wall clock. Outside, Penny grumbled at her computer, and basketballs bounced across the quadrangle.

  ‘What was yours again?’ Marcus offered me a pained look, hand now clutched at his side.

  ‘The Oscars,’ I deadpanned.

  ‘Oh,’ he breathed, waggling a finger at me. ‘Right. We did discuss that. I remember.’

  Phil’s chair squeaked as he leaned back, threading his fingers across his stomach. For someone who was in his office at eight o’clock on a Monday morning, he was remarkably chirpy. A slow smile crept across his face, and his eyes shifted between Marcus, who looked like he hadn’t slept, and me.

  ‘I love it,’ he said. ‘The Oscars theme, that is. How far ahead are you with planning?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Marcus began, ‘It was a very hasty weekend meeting, and it was hard to—’

  Phil turned his attention to me. ‘Eleanor?’

  ‘Honestly? Not far.’ I shook my head. ‘But, now that we have a theme, we should be good to start working on things. I dropped Jack an email about the music yesterday evening. We’ll workshop some ideas around the rest of the night but, basically, I want the kids to walk away feeling like they’ve achieved something special which, in essence, is the Oscars.’

  I couldn’t read the look on Marcus’s face at all. He seemed stolid compared to only moments earlier. Was he dying a slow, painful death, or was he impressed? All I knew was he wasn’t exactly about to orgasm.

  I pivoted to face him and folded my arms across my chest. ‘What do you think, Marcus?’

  He bumbled about a bit, before tapping me on the shoulder. ‘I’ll … yeah … I’ll iron the tux.’

  * * *

  ‘I cannot believe you threw me under the bus in there.’ Marcus scurried after me as I walked through reception, through the swinging door to the staffroom, past the refrigerator where he snatched up a bottle of milk, and straight into my office.