by Les Zig
‘Is he Belgian?’
‘Belgian or French. Is there a difference? I don’t mean between Belgian and French. But as to what he is.’
‘Casper, you’re angry; that’s understandable. And you’ll probably be angry for a while. And hurt. That shows you it’s not meaningless. You wouldn’t feel that way if it were meaningless.’
‘Maybe I’m stupid.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘I love her and I hate her.’
‘That’s understandable.’
‘When Roger came to your mum’s place the other night, how did you feel about him? I mean, seeing him again. How did you feel?’
‘I didn’t tell you everything about that night.’
‘What?’
‘I was home alone at my mum’s. She’s on holiday.’
‘So you confronted Roger alone?’
‘He doesn’t know she’s on holiday. I told him she went to the movies.’
‘That’s all you didn’t tell me?’
‘Roger proposed to me that night. He had a gorgeous diamond ring. Got down on one knee and everything.’
‘That’s what you wanted.’
‘And it was hard, because he looked good, I felt that way I did when things were good between us, and he said all the right things. He told me he wanted to change everything. That he didn’t realise what he’d lost. It would’ve been so easy to say yes and have everything I wanted.’
‘When you told me about this on Friday, you said you’d decided you deserve better.’
‘I do.’
‘So you told him no?’
‘I had sex with him first.’
I half sit up. ‘What?’
Beth pats my shoulder until I lie back down. ‘I had sex with him because I wanted to dominate him. I didn’t want the last contact we had to be what it was. So I wanted to subjugate him, although I knew there was a risk because he is bigger and stronger than me. If he wanted to get the way he had been that morning, things could’ve turned nasty.’
‘So you tied him up?’
‘No. I needed him to know I’d beaten him freely. We fucked. Then I told him no. We argued naked in the dining room. He got really angry. Started throwing out accusations. He accused me of having an affair with you—that’s why I’d left him, apparently. Instead of facing the reality it was him and only him, he concocted a way to put it on me. That’s Roger—never taking responsibility. Given what happened last time, I worried I might’ve overstepped. He could’ve done anything. For a moment, I thought he would. He can have the most horrible temper. But then he begged. I mean, literally, he begged. I’d turned around that dynamic we had. It was liberating. That’s when I realised that the whole time I’d been with him, the relationship had been on his terms. This proposal was still on his terms. He was still trying to control the situation. To control me. Then it clicked: I deserve better. Even he does. He deserves somebody who’ll enjoy being objectified by him. You shouldn’t have to change who you are.’
‘What do I deserve?’
‘You don’t deserve this, Casper. To be unhappy. It’s up to you where things go next.’
Beth’s still sitting up. ‘It really is hot,’ she says.
‘I know.’
She pulls her singlet over her head, drops it by the bedside. Her bra silhouettes her breasts and the protuberances of her nipples. She lifts her butt, slides her shorts down her legs, and drops them to the floor also.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ she says. ‘It’s hot. It’s no different to being in a bikini. And it’s dark anyway.’
I don’t know what to say. It’s not that dark, given the streetlight always filters through the bedroom window. My erection stirs but, fortunately, it’s hidden under the covers. Beth reaches behind her back—she tries to do it surreptitiously, like she’s got an itch back there, but I’m sure she unclasps her bra, although she doesn’t remove it.
Then she lies back down.
I know it should be awkward, but I keep rationalising the situation: it is hot—hotter up here than it is downstairs. I’m under the covers, she’s on top. And she’s still in her underwear. I think. There’s nothing else sexual about the situation. She’s not touching me inappropriately, although part of me wishes she’d cross that barrier.
We’re quiet and stay quiet long enough that I’m sure I drift off. My body jerks. My eyes open. Beth’s sitting up, like she was on the move. I can see her bra hanging loosely over her breasts—so she did unclasp it.
She rubs my arm. It’s a gesture Jane would make. I wonder if Jane ever made it with Kai. That would cheapen it. Make it common. But after what she did with Kai, maybe that’s her.
‘You okay?’ she asks.
‘Yeah. What were you doing?’ Maybe she was going to jump me, although I’m not much of a target conscious, so I’m unsure why she’d go for it while I was asleep.
‘I was going to the spare room.’
‘Oh.’
She continues to sit there. I can make out the shape of her nipples, long and pointed.
‘You can go,’ I say.
She shakes her head, lies back down. ‘I can wait.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Casper, it’s okay.’
‘I feel so bad you have to babysit me.’
‘I’m not babysitting. I’m keeping you company. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
I’m thankful she declined me. Even with the two of us here, the room’s too empty. Maybe this is life without Jane.
‘Beth?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘Can I ask you something personal?’
‘I think you can ask me anything at this point.’
‘Why would she let him treat her like that? What do you see in somebody who you let fuck you like that? Where you have no control, no inhibitions, no nothing? From a woman’s point of view, why would she let him do those things to her?’
‘I think it’s a form of intimacy.’
‘Intimacy? My friend says it’s more like a demeaning gesture.’
‘I don’t know if I agree with that.’
‘Have …’ I want to ask Beth if she’s done those things. But I also don’t want to know because I don’t want to see her that way. ‘How’s that work?’
‘For me, sex has always been about meeting halfway, doesn’t matter what the act itself is. If you can get your partner there, and you take some pleasure from it yourself, it’s not only amazing, but intimate because you’ve bared yourself to one another. Haven’t you and Jane ever experimented?’
Our sex life is sedate—me taking Jane on the kitchen counter was about as exciting as it’d got in terms of anything different lately. We were more spontaneous and adventurous when we first started going out, although that was still just sex around the house, a few times in the car, and once in a side alley after we left a bar and Jane looked irresistible to me. Another time, she went down on me in a cinema, when we were seated right up the back. There were only a few other people in rows further down from us, and the movie was boring. There are other things I’ve considered suggesting, but been too meek to. I wonder if Jane’s felt that way—that we’ve grown so close and think we know one another so well, we’re afraid of suggesting anything new for fear we’ll shock—or worse, repulse—the other.
‘No, not really,’ I say. My eyes close and I stifle a yawn. ‘I guess we’ve settled. Do you think that’s why …’
‘I don’t know, Casper. That’s something you’d have to take up with her. As far as I go, you know, I’ve never had a fling. I’ve always needed some sort of connection with my partner—I want to know I can give myself to somebody, put my trust in them, let go of all my inhibitions and live in that moment. Then there’s nothing as rewarding, nothing as satisfying. Does that make sense?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps I’m myopic, or not as worldly as everybody else.’
‘I know it’s going to be hard, but you can’t keep analysing it. Whic
hever way you go, you have to accept it as something that happened.’
‘And if I can’t?’
‘You have to.’
Sunday
43
My eyes open. That soft, ghostly luminescence from the streetlights pours through the window. It’s not morning yet. Outside it’s quiet. Sweat dries on my brow.
I lie there, trying to come to terms with why I woke. My throat is so dry it’s hard to swallow. A pain throbs in my head—the anchor every hangover lands to keep you mired to misery. The need to pee is busting from my crotch. Jane breathes heavily by my side. What have we done?
My shoulder and back ache as I get out of bed and tiptoe to the bathroom. The floor creaks, but the house is otherwise still. So is the whole neighbourhood. Moonlight through the bathroom window gleams blue off the walls and tiles.
I pull myself free from my underwear and am about to start urinating when something sparkles at me from the bottom of the toilet bowl. I peer closer, thinking I’m hallucinating. No, the sparkle remains.
Then it clicks: the anniversary bracelet.
Everything else falls into place—the events of last night; and that it’s not Jane breathing heavily in bed, but Beth.
I kneel unthinkingly, fish the bracelet out of the water, and stare at it lying wet in my palm.
I pee, grab a drink from the tap to wet my throat, then wash my hands and the bracelet with soap over and over, although I don’t know why—it’s not like I plan to give it to Jane. But as I keep scrubbing at the bracelet, it hits me: it’s like I’m trying to clean the tarnish from our relationship. I plug one of the sinks, fill it with hot water, and squirt some disinfectant in there. The water clouds. I drop the bracelet into the water, then creep back into the bedroom.
And stop.
Beth is sprawled across the bed, bra tented loosely over her breasts, lace boxers snug and hiked up around her right hip. There’s just enough light to caress the details of her body, and reveal the smoothness and tautness of her skin. Her right arm is folded under her head, her other arm stretched out towards my pillow. Her feet angle into the lower corner of the bed on my side. She’s a bed hog.
I don’t remember when we fell asleep, and it wasn’t with the intention of sleeping together. It makes me wonder how easily some things can happen. Was that how it began between Jane and Kai? Just like that? At what point do you decide to start making the wrong decisions? Or is that something you surrender to?
I should go back to sleep—maybe, to be safe, in the spare room.
I climb back into bed.
44
I toss, turn, flip back and forth, unable to get comfortable. Nervous energy pulses through me. I sit up, wondering if I should get up and start my day. On the bedside table behind Beth, I see the time on the clock radio: 3.56am. Way too early. Beth sighs. I lie back down. I can just make out the details of her face, her eyes blinking.
‘Sorry—did I wake you?’ I say.
‘Hard to sleep.’
‘Yeah.’
Curled up, she slides her hands—pressed together—under her cheek. Those big eyes are doleful. I can’t imagine how Roger could do anything but revere her. That’s a simplification, but it’s a comfortable simplification to make, because she is smart, and funny, and gorgeous. I don’t even know why I’m thinking this. Maybe given the vacuum Jane’s created, I want to idealise Beth—and she is easy to idealise—because I need to believe in somebody.
It’s then that I notice, Beth’s bra has dislodged. I try not to look, and I keep repeating it in my head—Don’t look! Don’t look! Don’t look!—but now that I’m aware of it, I also become painfully conscious of our mutual state of undress. It’s not the lack of clothes. It’s everything we’ve shared. We’re naked to one another. Vulnerable. Open.
Beth slides one of her hands free and, with a fingertip, traces the curve of my shoulder. I shiver—I can’t help it, it’s juvenile and cliché, but I do because she touches me, and it’s not to console me like she did downstairs, nor to help me up to bed because I’m so uncoordinated from alcohol and shock, but a simple gesture of tenderness.
The fantasies I had earlier about Chloe resurface, but now with Beth as their star. Only they’re not primal. They’re not dominant. There’s a synchronicity, a union that’s significant, that romanticism of a relationship—well, if you believe in fairytales.
And then what? Beyond the obvious. A narrative unfurls in my head: Beth and me—we have great chemistry, we’ve always connected, and she supports and encourages my art. I’d treat her one helluva lot better than Roger did, and she’d never treat me as Jane has. So there it is—happily ever after. Just like that.
‘You look like you’re deep in thought,’ she says.
‘Yeah. A little.’
Beth smiles. ‘You’re a little deep in thought.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Beth shifts a little closer, and her hand folds around my shoulder.
Here’s where it would be easy to let go. But while there’s an undeniable appeal about my fantasy, I can’t abandon Jane. I don’t want to. I need to know where we go from here, if there is an us. Maybe there are no happily ever afters, but only an ideal you keep working towards, although I guess along the way, there are going to be obstacles and detours and diversions.
‘Sometimes, it’s worth letting go,’ Beth says. ‘You know?’
My hand closes on hers. ‘I know.’
It’s almost morning when I shower in my bathroom. I stand under the water until it grows cold and I’m shivering, but I brave it until I’m desensitised to it. Finally, I turn off the taps and lean against the shower wall, dripping, until I summon the energy—or perhaps it’s the motivation—to get moving.
In my bedroom, Beth is stretched out, still asleep, the quilt almost artfully positioned to cover her hips and her breasts. I want to get back into bed, or wake her, but instead stand there, until the urge fades, and all that’s left is what I have to do.
I get a fresh pair of underwear, shorts and a T-shirt and get dressed on the landing.
I throw the towel and all of yesterday’s clothes into the hamper in the laundry. Wallace’s basket sits in the corner, along with one of his squeaky toys—a rat—and a frayed rope toy. I need to ring the vet first thing.
I take the basket outside and give it a good shake. Wallace will need it now he can’t hop onto the couch in the study. Then I take it back inside and set it by the couch in the dining room. Before picking him up, I’ll have to shop for the playpen we’ll—I’ll—need for his recovery.
I grit my teeth. Vic really needs to answer for what he’s done.
I make and eat breakfast, then wash the dishes and clean up around the house, throwing the bottles in the recycling bin outside, which has to go out tonight. Cleaning up makes me feel like I’m getting things in order. It’s a good feeling.
‘Hey.’ It’s Beth. She comes in, back in her singlet and shorts. Her hair is tousled. It looks good on her, like she’s been wild. The thought stirs me. I squash it down.
‘Hey,’ I say.
We stand there wordlessly, unsure how we fit together now. I should offer her breakfast, although I want to be moving. I can’t be still too long. That’s what led to yesterday’s debacle.
‘I planned to go to the spare room,’ Beth says, ‘but guess I drifted off.’
‘Want some breakfast?’ I say.
‘What’re you offering?’
‘Anything you want. Toast? Omelette? Cereal?’
‘Not really one for toast.’
‘How about coffee and a two-egg omelette?’
‘Sure.’ Beth smiles. ‘That’ll do.’
I get to work in the kitchen, grabbing two eggs from the fridge and cracking them into a bowl. I throw a dash too much salt in after them, and then pour Beth a glass of juice. I bring it over to her when she sits on the couch.
‘Thanks,’ she says.
I go back into the kitchen, put the kettle on, put some oil in a
frying pan and let it heat over the stove while I beat the eggs with a spoon.
‘You look better,’ Beth says.
‘Life goes on, right?’
‘You’d be excused for thinking it doesn’t.’
‘I’ve done all that.’
I pour the eggs into the pan. It’s not so much an omelette as two eggs beaten into a consistent texture. The kettle boils, and I make Beth her coffee—white with two sugars, which I know from school. I also make myself another tea.
‘If you want to use the shower or anything,’ I say, when I bring Beth her coffee, ‘feel free.’
‘I should probably get going after breakfast.’
‘Okay.’ I’m both relieved and disappointed. ‘Got anything planned?’
‘I want to start looking for a place.’
‘Got any prospects?’
‘There’s a few I’ve marked down. You? What’re you going to do?’
‘I have to pick up Wallace today. I also need to buy him a playpen to keep him contained while he’s healing.’
I flip the egg in the pan, then search for my phone. It’s on the coffee table. I pick it up, but it’s dead. I plug it into the charger in the kitchen. The phone buzzes, happy to be back on the juice, although it’ll need a little more time before it reboots. I check the time on the wall clock. It’s 8.24.
‘Poor little dog,’ Beth says.
I slip her omelette onto a plate, and bring it and a fork over.
‘Thanks.’
I sit next to her—well, not next to her, but on the couch. As she eats, I grab my emaciated sketchpad.
’Have you ever painted?’ Beth asks.
‘Not for years.’
‘You should.’
‘I’m having enough trouble drawing.’
‘You should push yourself.’
I lower my head. It all seems so insignificant now. Beth puts her hand on my back.
‘Casper, you are a good guy. You didn’t deserve this.’
‘Does anybody deserve this?’