by Nick Earls
‘Perhaps.’
‘I didn’t think you were going to be home at all today, and we’ve got a lot of study . . .’
She laughs. ‘No, really. Stop pretending you’re in the company of the village idiot and tell me what it is you’re scheming about.’
‘Um . . . right. You’re not usually that blunt about it.’
‘You aren’t usually this evasive. You’ve got my interest, Philby. I could stay for lunch if you’d like.’
‘All right. I’ll tell you if you promise to go.’
‘I’m all ears.’ She sits down at the table.
‘You’re going then?’ She’ll hear nothing until I know we’ve cut a deal.
‘If I have to.’
‘You have to. I have someone coming over. Nothing special, just someone coming over. You know how it . . .’
‘What kind of someone?’
‘A not-Frank kind of someone.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘A female kind of someone.’
She nods. She’s had years of instruction that there should be no visible excitement if I mention a girl, and she’s starting to get the hang of it. For that, she gets a little more.
‘We met on the Paradise a couple of weeks ago. I had to help a friend of hers who got sick. Then we bumped into each other again at Saint Lucia last Friday.’
‘At the protest?’
‘Yes.’
‘I like her already,’ she says, with an enthusiasm that’s quite out of bounds. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t have said that.’ She erases any sign of it from her expression. ‘So, um, what are you doing, the two of you?’
‘Lunch. I’ve invited her for lunch.’
‘Lunch? Have you been practising behind my back?’
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment choice. Don’t make me feel bad about it now.’
‘No, no. Don’t feel bad. What have you got planned? And that’s just general interest of course, an interest in lunch, not maternal nosiness.’
‘Of course. I don’t know yet. Something pre-prepared from Toombul.’
‘Right. Good. Well, you’re not asking for my advice, I know that, but let me just say that if I’d known you were planning to entertain, I would have bought party pies. Just in case they might have come in handy.’
‘Party pies.’
‘Yes. Your chance to serve hot food with minimum risk. A rather nice daytime choice, some people say. And very good for autumn. Into the oven straight from the shop. Nothing to think about.’
‘Good idea.’
‘And I’ll put the riesling cask in the fridge, shall I?’
‘Remember, we’re not making a big deal of this.’
‘No, no. It just might be nice to offer her a glass of wine, that’s all. Civil. And she could have it straight, or with a dash of soda water as a spritzer. Just a thought. Nice for lunchtime.’ Her good-advice look fades. I must be glaring at her. ‘Too much? Too much like a big deal? Surely not. Oh dear. Well, barbecue sauce, not tomato,’ she says, as though in passing, ‘Or as well, so there’s a choice. We’ve got both. And that’s it. Over to you. Not my business. I’ll be gone by the time you get back from Coles. I could make a salad in the meantime. Or not. Not a salad? Right.’
*
I take the bus to Toombul, and by the time I get home the only sign of her is a note on the kitchen bench saying, ‘Be bold! M.’ So that goes in the bin pretty quickly.
Bold. Be bold. I invited her round here, didn’t I? I went out for party pies, dammit.
Party pies. What can go wrong with party pies? Hot food, but casual. Festive, yet satisfying. Party pies and a glass of wine on the patio. A glass or two of wine. This is going to be good. It’s going to work.
This might work. Who knows how well it might work, and I haven’t got the planes down yet. I could at least have changed the sheets on my bed. Party pies, a glass or two of wine, and who knows what? Nice crispy, flaky party pies, wine, a warm autumn afternoon, birds in the trees. It’s still a goddamn Bonnie Tyler film clip in the making, and I never took the plan beyond the catering.
I’ve got to be ready for anything. I’ve got to be ready to play my ‘Magic Man’ tape, and go wherever it takes us. We’ll sit with a cushion between us—no pressure—and take it from there.
First time through, she acknowledges the good taste the song shows, and perhaps there’s a hint of arousal. It’s an unseasonably warm afternoon for May, you’ve eaten your fill of party pies, and she takes the initiative. She’s amazed you’re single, pleased but not completely surprised that of all the women on the Paradise you ended up with her. She calls you ‘irresistible’ when the song plays a second time, and she laughs at herself for saying it, as though her secret’s out. When it plays a third time, she kicks her shoes onto the floor and makes her move. During the first chorus of the fourth she stands, takes your hand and says, ‘Maybe we’d be more comfortable in another room.’
And then I’ll be history, because that line doesn’t go, ‘Maybe we’d be more comfortable in another room with steam-engines-of-Great Britain sheets on the bed.’
Is there anywhere—anywhere at all—to go with it in that goddamn room? ‘No, Jacinta, they’re not kids’ sheets. You haven’t heard of this one? Okay, here’s how it goes. I’m the Fat Conductor and you’re a very naughty . . .’
Fuck. What am I going to do? We can’t go in there. So what are my choices? Can I possibly have sex in my parents’ bed, with its totally non-descript but also non-mood-killing sheets? Sex beside that pile of Robert Ludlum library books, then laundry afterwards, as if they’ll never notice? Sex in the spare room on a bare mattress next to the ironing board and among piles of clothes?
There’s still time to make a bed up in there. That’s my best bet. No planes, no Robert Ludlum and, once the ironing board and clothes are moved, it doesn’t look like such a bad choice. I might even bring a few textbooks in, make it look as though it’s my room.
It’s just lunch. I shouldn’t forget that. I know that’s all it’ll be, almost certainly, but I’ll feel better if I’m prepared for anything. There are sheets in the cupboard in the spare room, and I pick a set that’s understated and not too old—lots of little pale flowers. I stretch the bottom sheet over the corners. We might end up here. It’s at least possible.
I unfurl the top sheet over the bed and start tucking it in. Jacinta and me, riesling and this warm afternoon, Heart. The Paradise, that hand of hers. I could do it again, just like that. Simply making the bed is putting me close enough.
Frank had a theory a year or two ago: masturbate beforehand, since it sets you up for a bit of longevity when it’s called for. It’s only stuck in my head because of the number of times he’s picked me up to go out somewhere, and we’ve driven off from my place with Frank reciting his wild plans for the night and I’m wondering, Did you? Half an hour ago in Sunnybank, did you fit one in somewhere between the shave and the shower?
I don’t know how serious he was, but it’s altogether too Frank an idea. Even if he did argue that it was ‘considerate’, knowing the number of times I’d accused him of never taking anyone else’s interests into account.
It’s a bad idea. I can see it now, me masturbating beforehand to minimise the risk, like a crippled bomber dropping its load before coming in for a landing. Jacinta turning up really early, or me getting the time wrong, or some other circumstance that leads her to look in the very worst window at the very worst moment. No, there’ll be no third chance.
I test the two pillows in the spare room, I pick the one that isn’t a hundred years old and I fold the top sheet over it and back, and tuck it in at the sides. It’s just a bed. No pressure.
Time is starting to run short, and I should get back on track and shave. The party pies are defrosting on the counter, the riesling cask is in the fridge, ‘Magic Man’ is in the stereo ready for playing. I’m going to shave, this’ll all go well.
The phone rings.
The phone rings, and it’ll be her.
She’s cancelling. We can reschedule maybe, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Today’s a rehearsal, and that’s been useful. And if she’s cancelling completely, it’s a rehearsal for someone else, some other time (month, whenever). And that’s fine, too. It’s okay that she can’t make it.
But it’s Ron Todd.
‘Mate, the other night,’ he says. ‘Bit of a low point.’
‘That’s fine, Ron. We all have them. Say no more about it.’ Like, say absolutely no more and get off the phone.
‘Thanks. I know I can talk to you, mate, that’s the thing. And now we’ve just got to see if there’s a way through this.’
‘Yes. I’m sure there will be. And the teeth . . .’ I know the conversation will turn to them and I want to get there as quickly as possible. ‘Have you thought any more . . .’ Finally I’m flaccid. So that’s the secret. Why couldn’t I have got Ron’s stinking beige teeth in my mind on the Paradise?
‘I reckon there’s no avoiding it,’ he says. ‘But sometimes you only see these things clearly when you talk them through with someone else. The teeth, World of Chickens . . . Hey, how about coffee?’
‘Well, maybe, but I’d be thinking we should consolidate the chicken side of things first before we get into hot drinks.’
‘No, mate, you and me. A cup of coffee some time.’
‘Oh, sure.’
‘Some time next week?’
‘Yeah, I . . .’
‘Okay, how about Monday? How’s Monday for you?’
‘Yeah, Monday, right. Look . . .’
‘So what’s your timetable like?’
‘On Monday?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think I’ve got a break in the middle of the day.’ Get off the phone. Get off the phone. ‘A couple of hours in the middle of the day, I think.’
‘Starting?’
‘Twelve.’
‘All right, I’ll pick you up then. At the Mater? We could . . .’
‘Um, okay. Listen, I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go. I’ve got my study group arriving here any minute.’
‘Monday at twelve.’
‘At the main entrance to the Mater. I’ll see you there.’
Coffee with Ron Todd. I’m bordering on late, I’m far from safe in the pants and now I’m lined up to have coffee with Ron Todd.
I run the water, lather my face, fail to find my razor. So, this is where things become unstuck. I worked out the bedding issue in time (however irrelevant it might be), I’ve got the music, I’ve got the party pies, I’m running round the bathroom with a foamed-up Santa face and nothing to shave with. I’m running out of time. I find a packet of new razors under the sink, and I get to work.
I stand there shaving, thinking through music, mood, masturbating. So I hack my face to bits. Why does Frank put ideas like that in my head? He knows they aren’t helpful. I’m never a great shaver, but I’m so much worse when I don’t concentrate. And there’s nothing that can draw blood like a brand new razor. By the time I notice, I look like I’ve either got a death wish or I’m short a clotting factor or two. I dab and dab. I apply pressure. I have one bad moment when I seriously think clumps of tissue on the face would be better, and I wonder if there’s some kind of tissue in the house that’d be the right shade to let me get away with it. Peach perhaps?
I go to the fridge and I wrap some ice in a Chux and hold it against my face in the right places. I press it hard against my silently haemorrhaging neck, but there’s still active bleeding whenever I take it off. There’s no time for a shower now, so I have to resort to the Old Spice someone once gave my father for Christmas instead.
Calm, this would be a good time for calm. There’s still ten minutes or more before she gets here.
She’s early. The doorbell rings, and I’m dressing with one hand while the other holds my ice mask to my face.
I throw the ice into the kitchen sink, and shout out to let her know I’m on my way. I turn the oven on high and toss in the full packet of pies. The aroma of baking, that’s what I need. People always respond to the aroma of baking. And then buy your house. It’s a real-estate strategy—what am I thinking?
I pull on the clothes I dumped on the floor before I went to the bathroom. This will be a casual look, I tell myself, and a casual look can be good sometimes. I check in the hall mirror and I look pale and wet—artistic perhaps. Maybe we can talk film-making. There is no evidence of major facial bleeding.
It’s only lunch, I tell myself, only lunch. Cuisine and conversation. Study, obstetrics, Ron Todd. Think anti-arousal.
I reach the door. And there’s an opened packet of photos on the table just inside.
The mail arrived while I was at Toombul. It’s the photos from the film I sent away. It must be. And my mother has looked at them.
‘Arse and biscuit’, I’m thinking as the door opens. I’m swinging it open thinking ‘just arse and biscuit.’ I want to check the photos. Need to check the photos. As I’m opening the door all I want to do is shut it, take a look at the packet and see if they developed those ones or not. But I can’t. Imagine if they did, and she saw them. What would it say? ‘Hi, welcome to my house. What do you think of these? I’ve got some party pies warming out the back. Are you feeling photogenic?’
‘Hi,’ she says, standing there with her basket, expecting something very normal.
‘Hi.’
‘I should have brought something, but I didn’t know what to bring. So I brought books.’ She holds up the basket as a joke. ‘I thought I’d bring this in, since I didn’t want to leave it all in the car.’
‘Good move. Can’t be too careful.’ Shut up. ‘The library’d give you hell if someone lifted them all.’ No, really, shut up. ‘Come on through.’
We walk down the hall to the kitchen, and the first hint of a baking aroma is there waiting for us.
‘Hmmm,’ she says, in a way that sounds prepared to be appreciative.
‘It’s getting on to the time of year when hot food doesn’t seem out of the question.’ I wish I hadn’t said that. My part of the conversation is being overrun by platitudes. What’s going on? ‘Wine? Wine and soda?’
‘Just the wine’d be good, thanks.’
‘No problem.’
I squirt us each some riesling and I still want to check those photos. Just once. I need to know.
She takes her glass and says, ‘Thank you. Um, do you have any ice? I know most people don’t, in wine, but . . .’
‘No, that’s fine.’ Or, not fine. All the ice in the house has been pressed against my bleeding face, and is now in the sink. ‘Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll bring it over with the ice in?’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘I thought we might eat outside, so take a seat on the patio and I’ll check how lunch is going and get you some ice.’
She smiles. ‘You’re nervous about your cooking, aren’t you?’
‘No, no. Well, a bit. And it’s not really cooking, but . . .’
She nods, says, ‘I’ll see you outside,’ in an understanding way, still with the smile, and she walks towards the glass doors.
She turns around precisely when my hand is in the act of scooping ice from the sink and dropping it into her glass.
‘Ice,’ I say redundantly. ‘You wanted ice?’
‘Yes . . . that seemed to come from the sink.’
‘Yes . . . overfilled tray. It was all clumped. One big piece. So I thought I’d break it in the sink. Before you got here. In the tray, which . . .’
She’s nodding. She’d like to understand.
I toss a couple of cubes into my drink as well, as a sign that it’s safe, that everything’s normal. There’s blood on my hand, a smear of blood from the ice. I check the pies, and that gives me a chance to wipe my hand on the tea towel.
‘They’ll be a little while longer,’ I tell her. ‘Why don’t we take a seat in the lounge in here until they’re done?’
‘Sure.’
Okay. So far,
not exactly so good, but all still workable. She sits on the sofa and puts her basket on the floor by her feet. She picks up a cushion, sets it down on her lap, picks it up again and puts it back on the sofa next to her.
‘So . . .’ she says, as if I’m to make conversation, or take the next step. I hand her her wine, and she sips it and says, ‘Mmmm.’
It’s warm in here so I turn the ceiling fan on and, while I’m there, I release the pause button on the stereo. I sit down, and there’s only the cushion between us. ‘Magic Man’ starts playing, at just the right volume.
The first time through, nothing happens. Five minutes of hot, passionate Heart fuck song, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even notice. She keeps smiling, but it’s a smile that’s starting to look for somewhere to go by the time the song’s ending. That’s not the same as arousal. She asks me how long we’ve lived here, questions like that. We drink our wine.
‘It’s Phoebe, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘You’re not really over her, are you?’
Time two for Heart, and she looks as though something unexpected has just happened when the song starts again. And it’s not that she’s suddenly twigged to my irresistibility.
‘No, no the Phoebe situation . . . it’s hard to describe, but . . .’
‘It’s okay. Was it recent?’
‘Yes. Well, not really.’
‘She got to you, didn’t she? You’re not over Phoebe at all. You can tell me.’
Nothing plausible about Phoebe crosses my mind, and we have ourselves a pause that could take on its own strange meaning. I drink a mouthful of wine.
‘So, what, um, what books have you got in there that people were going to steal from the car?’
‘Oh, uni stuff.’ She looks down at her basket. ‘That’s Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex on top.’
Which reminds me of our conversation of last week, so that gives me somewhere to go. ‘Do you think she had her own TV, or did she just watch Sartre’s?’ Except that wasn’t our conversation. That was Sophie. ‘You didn’t see that, um, article in the National Times?’ Liar, liar.
‘We don’t get the National Times.’ The song finishes, and starts again. ‘What was it about?’ She moves back further into the corner of the sofa, pulls another cushion out from behind her and pushes that between us as well.