Eat Me

by Linda Jaivin

  Helen stood anxiously in the queue at the business

  counter of the post office, compulsively twirling the strap of her purse around the fingers of one hand, unwinding it and doing it again. Her no-nonsense eyebrows knitted together on a face that forecast imminent rain. The old man who is always standing in front of you in bank queues with bags of coins to be counted, a worn passbook to be replaced, and a complicated answer to the teller’s innocent question, “And how are you today, Mr Green?” was now just ahead of her arranging for a postal money order and trying to figure out whether to send his package air or economy air and, if air, whether he should take out the box of chocolates to bring the weight down to five hundred grams. His wife’s brother had always loved chocolate but wasn’t supposed to have them anymore. But he did, sometimes, anyway. Not that these were for him. Oh no. But you had to sympathize.

  Helen began to hyperventilate. She was so stressed that when she heard her name ring out from behind, she jumped.

  “Gee, you’re edgy, aren’t you?” Philippa observed. “What’s wrong? You look terrible.”

  “Oh God, Philippa, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

  “Next, please.”

  Helen grimaced apologetically to Philippa and bounded toward the counter. “How do I go about getting some letters back that were posted yesterday?”

  The clerk patiently explained that they could put out a search, if she could provide the time and place of posting, but that there was no guarantee that they could retrieve them. Especially so late in the piece. Completely destroying Helen’s cozy view of the postal service as a lumbering wombat, incapable of high speeds, he described how in all probability her letters were whizzing off to their destinations at that very moment. He did say he would try to find out what the chances were and asked her to fill out a form. He then disappeared into the back room with it.

  “What’s happening, Helen?” Philippa was most curious by now.

  Helen outlined the problem. “And so,” she concluded tensely, “it could be in any of those envelopes. I will die no matter which person gets it, but I will die a thousand deaths if it goes to my parents. Especially with my father’s heart condition. But the worst of it is, I won’t know whom it’s gone to until it gets there.”

  “Could you ask your mum not to open the next letter she gets, to just send it back?”

  “Oh, sure,” replied Helen. “Would your mum not open the letter under those circumstances?”

  “Hmmm,” Philippa reflected. Her mum would definitely open the letter. “You’ve got a point.”

  “Miss Nicholls?” At the booming sound of the postal clerk’s voice, Helen spun back to face the counter.

  “Ms.,” Helen automatically corrected.

  “Ms. Nicholls, sorry. They’ll check for you. Don’t want you to get your hopes up, though, given that the letters are probably already at the central sorting place. If we do find them, there’ll be a fee of twenty dollars for each one recovered. In any case, there’s no point waiting here any longer. We’ve got your phone number. We’ll call you if we find any of them. About the twenty dollars, is that all right then?”

  Helen stared at him dumbly. Philippa intervened: “I’m sure she’d pay two hundred dollars under the circumstances. Come on, Helen, let’s go get a cup of coffee.” Philippa wanted every detail.

  About an hour later, at Café Da Vida, Philippa was sitting back appreciatively and Helen was chasing crumbs of carrot cake around her plate with her finger, pressing them into the white plate and licking them off her fingertip.

  “What are you doing off work on a Tuesday anyway?” Helen suddenly asked. She’d just noticed what looked suspiciously like a lipstick smudge on Philippa’s neck.

  “Flexitime. I saved up enough for a whole day off.”

  “Great. What have you been doing?”

  “Oh, you know, the usual.”

  “Writing?”

  “You could call it that.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “Playing. Working. Sex. Whatever.”

  “Interesting way of looking at it,” Helen smiled. She was debating whether or not to raise the subject of the lipstick when a passerby caught her attention, and she looked up. She cocked her head to one side. “I could swear,” she said, “that that was the poet, you know, whatsisname, the punk that Chantal had a fling with ages ago.”

  “Bram?” Philippa twisted her neck round to look, but he’d turned a corner. “Missed him. But wasn’t he supposed to have moved to LA? Or ODed or something?”

  “I’d heard he’d gone into advertising in New York. That was probably a malicious rumor, though. Anyway, he certainly hasn’t been spotted round these parts in ages. He was such a waster. I certainly never liked him. It’s always been a mystery to me how our gorgeous Chantie ever ended up with such a character.”

  “Love moves in mysterious ways.”

  “So I hear,” Helen said. “So, have you shown any more of your novel to anyone?”

  “Just Richard.”

  “His reaction?”

  “Whisky a go go.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, he seems to like it.” Philippa changed the subject. “Have you seen Chantal or Julia recently? I haven’t caught up with either of them for a week or so.”

  Helen told Philippa about her dinner with Julia. “She’s off to China soon. She’s really psyched. She’s just a bit nervous about leaving the new boy so early in the game. Seems totally rapt with him.” Helen leaned toward Philippa over the table. “Apparently,” she revealed, “the sex is mega-hot.”

  “Excellent,” Philippa smiled. “What’s his name?”

  Helen slapped her forehead with her hand. “I’m so bad with names,” she said after a pause. “Jason, I think. Yeah, Jason.” She wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead. “It’s like summer already,” she commented. “I’m so nervous about that letter. I need to keep distracted. Do you want to go to Nielsen Park? Have a quick dip?”

  “Sounds tempting. But I really have to be getting home,” Philippa apologized. “I’ve a friend waiting for me there.” She added, after a pause, “I’ll probably be tied up for the rest of the day.”

  Chapter Six –

  Alchemy

  “No, you never can tell,” echoed Alexi. “Not these days. But I do suspect he’s straight. In which case, gorgeous, he’s all yours.”

  “Oh God, darling, I couldn’t possibly. Not this morning anyway,” Chantal moaned.

  Alexi glanced at his watch. “Arvo, darling,” he corrected.

  Chantal rolled her eyes. “Do me a very big favor, sweetheart, and get me some Alka-Seltzer. In a champagne glass. No one will notice.”

  “Of course, Fabulous One. We’ll be most discreet.” Alexi leaned over to give Chantal a peck on the cheek and wove his way through the other guests to the back door of the house. They were at a Sunday afternoon garden party in Paddington, at the large terrace house of a wildly successful painter who signed his paintings “∞” and was known as Finn—short for “infinity”—to his friends. Finn’s sculptor wife, Myrna, occupied the fourth floor; and his gay lover, Craig (who doubled as Myrna’s live model), ruled over the third. Finn’s work, with its kitsch retro themes and vivid Day-Glo colors, had recently formed the backdrop to a fashion shoot for Chantal’s magazine (“Nothing More Today Than Yesterday!”). The backyard of the terrace was lushly planted with trees and flowers and dotted with bird baths into which stone angels pissed copious streams of water. A gay boy in a floral frock chatted animatedly with a seventy-year-old matron in an electric blue suit, the author of a hot collection of gothic-erotic fiction currently climbing the best-seller list. Well-dressed art dealers sipped champagne cocktails and complained about the gallery scene in London or Paris or New York or wherever they’d just flown back from. Artists in ripped T-shirts concentrated on heaping their plates with salmon, caviar, and other luxury tucker from the buffet.

  Like a gaunt bird, Chantal perc
hed on a wrought-iron bench in the shelter of a pergola canopied with flowering wisteria. Her silver satin slip dress—latest look this season, silver being even more trendy than mere color—shimmered wherever the afternoon sun pierced the thin shade of the wisteria to lick the fabric. Alexi had dyed her hair blond again, keeping the roots dark, to give it a fashionably trashy appearance. Before they’d come out, he’d artfully messed it up for her and then gelled the tangle into place. But Chantal was uncharacteristically in no condition to luxuriate in her own appearance or its impact on others. Something about her aura and the subtly defensive posture she had adopted warned strangers off impulsive approaches.

  She felt absolutely shocking. Behind her Ray•Bans, her dry eyes ached; she thought she could trace the thudding pulse of her optic nerve all the way down to her queasy stomach. Her head pounded like a track from that wretched Nine Inch Nails CD her last boyfriend had insisted on playing when they made love—he hadn’t lasted very long. She had had to apply a ton of concealer to mask the bags under her eyes. Too much alcohol, too little sleep, and most of all, the shock of—how would you describe exactly what had happened last night?—the shock of the old, yes, that was it. Where the hell was Alexi with her Alka-Seltzer?

  He was in the kitchen flirting with the Thai caterer’s assistant.

  Why hadn’t she also remembered to ask him for an aspirin? Why had she let him talk her into coming? Having heard what had happened the night before, he insisted she come. He said it would be good for her. It would get her mind off etcetera. Besides, he really wanted to come himself and it was she who’d been invited in the first place.

  Chantal squinted through her sunnies. Sydney had the most appalling excess of sunshine. It was obscene, all this bright light. Why didn’t they just filter most of it off into solar heating systems, leaving just a few gentle beams for general use? Why didn’t she live in Melbourne? That’s right. She remembered now. Too many poets in Melbourne. She pushed the glasses farther up on her nose and wondered if she was passing for mysterious or if she looked as tragic as she felt.

  Bernard, a handsome Burmese cat that had scrupulously avoided all previous offers from party-goers keen to pet and pose with him, slunk over to her feet and fixed her with a calculating blue stare. He hoicked his backside up into the air, stretched his front legs, and spread his claws, digging them into the ground. Bernard liked the woman he saw in front of him and, like so many other of his gender, didn’t really see the need for formalities before making his move. He crouched and pounced and landed squarely on her lap.

  “Puh-leese,” Chantal hissed as the cat hooked the claws of one brown paw and then the other into the lace trim on her frock and pulled at it with precise and self-satisfied little gestures. “That’s a Richard Tyler original, you bloody feline!” she snapped. “Piss off!” Extricating claws from fabric, she hoisted Bernard by the scruff of his neck, and chucked him off to the side. Shaking her head, she minutely inspected her frock for damage. Bernard, meanwhile, had landed up to his pretty ankles in the moist dark mud of the well-watered and fertilized garden. Mewing with annoyance, he reviewed his options, and pounced again. When Chantal reached for him this time, Bernard swung his head around swiftly to sink his fangs into her hand. Then he bounded off before Chantal had time to retaliate, leaving her to contemplate the smarting red marks on her hand and muddy paw prints on her skirt. Bernard, at a safe distance, turned his back on her and licked his paws clean. Women! He was sticking with birds and mice from now on.

  “Chantal!” Chantal looked up to see Philippa loping across the lawn toward her with her vaguely awkward gait, shoulder bag bouncing off her hips, big grin on her face. “I didn’t expect to see you here!”

  Chantal managed a wan smile. “Hello, darling,” she said. “Nor I, you.”

  Philippa sat down. They brushed lips over cheeks.

  “So how do you know this lot of vile bodies?” Philippa asked.

  “They are pretty appalling, aren’t they?” Chantal grimaced, glancing around. “Work,” she answered. “And you?”

  “Oh, Myrna was going to my writing workshop for a while. We hit it off and used to go out for coffee afterward. Later she said that words weren’t ‘plastic’ enough for her and dropped out. But we’ve kept in touch.” She looked up. “Say, isn’t that Alexi?”

  “Oh, thank God! He’s got my, uh, drink.”

  “G’day, Alexi,” Philippa greeted him cheerfully.

  “Hi there, gorgeous,” replied Alexi, handing Chantal a champagne glass and air-kissing Philippa.

  “Champers. I might go get some of that too,” said Philippa. “Be right back.”

  Alone with Alexi, Chantal pouted. “Where have you been?” she whined, gulping down the bubbly liquid. She put a hand over her mouth to screen the burp that welled up as the frothy antacid did its work.

  “Nice,” Alexi commented. “Very ladylike.”

  “Shut up, Alvin,” she replied with a smirk, feeling better already.

  “Shhh!” He looked around quickly. No one had heard. He frowned and pouted. “Never, never call me that in public, darling! You know how sensitive I am!” Chantal was one of only three or four people in the entire universe, including his parents, who knew Alexi’s real name. “I shouldn’t really tell you, I suppose,” he sniffed, “that I also thought to get you aspirin. I should just let you suffer.” He waved his closed hand in front of her. Chantal grabbed the fist, unclenched it, and holding his hand up to her face, licked the pill off his palm. A waiter passed by with champagne, and she held out her empty glass. A touch of Moët, and the aspirin was on its way. She was regaining form.

  Philippa returned with a flute of champagne and a plate of canapés, which she held out to Chantal and Alexi. “You’ll never guess, Chantie, who Helen thought she saw on Victoria Street the other day,” she said, watching Chantal carefully for her reaction. “A real blast from the past. Bram. Back in town.”

  Chantal suddenly didn’t feel so good again. She replaced the wedge of baked brie she’d taken from the plate, untouched. “I know,” she moaned.

  “Really?” Philippa asked, surprised. “Have you seen him then?”

  “I’ve already heard this story.” Alexi rolled his eyes sympathetically. “It’s too, too tragic. I’ll leave you fabulous creatures to it.” He had wanted to head back to the kitchen and his meaningful eye-alogue with the caterer’s assistant at the earliest opportunity anyway.

  “When did you have that thing with Bram?” Philippa mused. “Seems like a lifetime ago.”

  Chantal expelled a little puff of air. “Ten, eleven years ago? We were third-year students at uni. I was in my black hair phase.”

  “Black everything. You had the most incredible collection of lace and velvet frocks. You took on the whole gothic look.”

  “I know. I always was such a fashion victim.”

  Philippa laughed. “You even changed your name, remember?”

  “Ooooh, darling,” Chantal mewled. “Don’t remind me. ‘Natasha.’ Talk about walking clichés.” She sculled the champagne and held out her glass to a passing waiter. “Yes, please.”

  “So, tell me already. When did you see him? What happened?” Philippa prodded.

  Putting her glass down on the bench beside her, Chantal took her forehead in both hands and shook it, as if to dislodge the memory. “I don’t know if I can bear talking about it, actually.”

  “Surely, he doesn’t mean anything to you now, does he?” Philippa persisted, incredulous. “He was only a punk poet with an interesting haircut.”

  Funny, that, Chantal thought to herself. She actually mistook him for a god at the time. Twelve years older than Chantal, Bram had the kind of tough, wry character etched into his face that the apple-cheeked boys her age tried to affect but could never achieve. He encased his small, thin body in tight black jeans and tattered T-shirts, and cut his thick black hair himself, chopping it back till it stuck out in short uneven spikes from his handsome, angular face. She’d been
dead impressed by the fact that not only had he been to London, but he’d hung out at the Batcave, home of the original goths.

  “Of course,” Chantal said, “I was a bit of a punk too.”

  Philippa shook her head, observing her fondly. “Chantal, correct me if I’m wrong, but your razor blade earrings were boutique-purchased trompe l’oeil.”

  Chantal shrugged.

  “Do you remember”—Philippa giggled—“how we used to read Les Fleurs du Mal to each other in the Newtown cemetery? Along with our own adolescent jottings? Isn’t that a hoot? We were such romantics.”