by Liz Byrski
Some years earlier, Marissa had painted the house blue, a vivid sky blue, the blue that the Mexicans paint their houses to keep away evil spirits. Worse still, the window and door frames were a rich sunflower yellow – all that and the verandah hung with a variety of cane and metal wind chimes, mirrored mobiles and colourful mosaics fixed to the wall, was a bit de trop for the elegant minimalist renovators. Marissa was torn between scorn and empathy. Years ago, in the early days of her marriage to Roger, playing the role of the perfect wife, she too had been fanatically concerned about appearances. Now, while it seemed trivial and materialistic, she also understood the deep-seated longing to create an ideal living space.
The day of the stolen plants was a strange one for Marissa, the theft leaving her ill at ease. She paced nervously around the house in the morning and finally went out to pick up some new business cards, then to the community centre to run a couple of classes and, once home again, she took a shower. The bathroom and kitchen had been her only concessions to renovation – she preferred to wash and pee inside, and cook somewhere hygienic and easy to clean. You can take the girl out of the middle class but you can’t ever quite take the middle class out of the girl, especially a girl who grew up in the fifties. And that, of course, was why she was still worried about her plants. She was still sufficiently middle class to worry about a visit from the police and a charge.
Feeling restless she contemplated walking down to the Italian deli to buy some chorizo and pancetta, perhaps have a coffee or see who was propping up the bar at the Norfolk Hotel. And that was when the phone rang. Marissa hesitated, decided to leave it, then changed her mind. That, she thought later, was how it had all begun.
Oliver Baxter had registered with the Internet dating site in the early hours of a Wednesday morning in June, having been woken by a visit from his mother. Not a visit in person, for his mother had been dead for years, but her voice would frequently echo through his sleep as clearly as if she were in the room. Oliver’s eyes would fly open and he would sit bolt upright expecting to see her standing at the foot of the bed; the clarity of tone and the sense of her presence were so intense that Oliver fell for it every time.
The most annoying thing, over and above the fact of being woken and then not being able to get back to sleep, was that his mother wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. It was the same old stuff over and over again, the stuff she’d told him when he was a teenager, the same advice unmoderated by time: ‘What women appreciate in a man, Oliver,’ she would say, ‘is honesty, and someone who loves them for who they really are; who isn’t seeking to change them into some idealised male fantasy.’
Joan Baxter had been a prominent feminist, and raised consciousness had proved to be something of a mixed blessing for Oliver. It made him an uneasy outsider among men and did not compensate him with any outstanding success with women. Time and again, Oliver had been honest and only now had he finally come to terms with the fact that the value of honesty was entirely situational. It certainly won him appreciative women friends, but it was a distinct disadvantage in the romance stakes.
Most women seemed to prefer men who lied to them. He had learned from experience that questions about whether a bum looked big in a pair of jeans – in fact, in anything at all – should always be answered in the negative. Even Oliver’s thoughtful qualifiers about the attractiveness, the sexiness of the enhanced curvature created by the garment in question didn’t win him credit. And to answer ‘Yes’ to the question ‘D’you think she’s attractive?’ was to invoke jealousy and suspicion; it could even result in eviction from the shared sleeping arrangements. Women who were initially drawn to Oliver’s honesty and feminist awareness seemed to have a very low threshold of tolerance for them once in an intimate relationship. They abandoned him with depressing regularity in favour of complete bastards who lacked all the qualities his mother had advocated.
Now, what sort of man is still haunted by his mother’s voice in his late fifties? A worried man; a man who feels that somehow, somewhere, he’s missed both the point and the boat. So one morning, Oliver, sleepless and infuriated, padded through to his study in those chill, depressing hours before dawn, took out his credit card and registered with the dating site, hoping he might attract the sort of thoughtful, politically left, mature woman who would appreciate the finer points of his character for more than a couple of months. He had obviously been going out with the wrong sort of women; hopefully, cyberspace might deliver someone more appropriate.
But now, several months later, not one woman had contacted him, and Oliver was far too cautious to initiate anything himself. What’s more, he hadn’t seen a profile that in any way matched his own. Maybe, he thought, this was only a site for people who enjoyed wining and dining, Barry Manilow, walks on the beach, and claimed to have a sense of humour. Thus far his own pleasures – reading history, politics and current affairs; good conversation; red wine; and the music of Leonard Cohen – hadn’t rated a hit.
Anyway, on this particular November morning, having checked his email to see if his luck had changed and discovered it hadn’t, Oliver set off for the university where he was Professor of Modern History. Fortunately, his continuing failure as a chick magnet did not stop him looking forward to the day. He was totally committed to his work despite the horrific increase in administrative responsibilities and the spectres of restructuring, legislative changes and reduced funding that haunted the corridors. And he had arranged to start the morning with breakfast in the nicest of the campus cafés, with his friend Gayle from the library. It was a longstanding friendship that had begun with her frequent phone calls asking him to return overdue books, and it had been consolidated when Oliver had been honours supervisor for Gayle’s daughter, Angie. Gayle and Oliver now met regularly for breakfast, coffee or lunch, but never in their off-campus lives, where Gayle was married to Brian, an apparently very successful marketing executive, although Oliver wasn’t sure what he marketed.
Oliver sat at an outside table in the early morning sunshine reading the Australian’s higher education supplement, sipping his first flat white of the day and waiting for Gayle, who was a little late.
‘Sorry,’ she said, arriving breathless and uncharacteristically flustered, ‘couldn’t find a parking space.’
Oliver nodded grimly. ‘Gets worse, doesn’t it? Shall I order? Same as usual?’
‘In a minute,’ Gayle said. ‘I just want to give you something first,’ and she rummaged in her large black leather bag.
She was a trim woman, rather conservative in style, tending towards grey or navy suits and soft tops in pastel blues or pinks, worn with a single string of pearls and matching pearl stud earrings. Oliver liked her for her calmness, her consistency and her good sense; she was a great listener and he had often confided in her about his failures with women.
Gayle had listened with respectful sympathy to the tale of his marriage to Alison, whom he’d met during the first year of his PhD. A law student battling the institutionalised sexism of the university law school, Alison was also one of his mother’s acolytes. Together Oliver and Alison had struggled on student grants and part-time work, living in a tiny flat near the campus. They married when Oliver landed an academic job. Twelve years later it fell apart when Alison, having passed her bar exam and now edging her way up the legal ladder, fell in love with a partner in the law firm – the first in the succession of complete bastards for whom women would leave him.
Gayle was reassuring; it was the story of so many couples, she said, a sign of the times rather than a sign of failure. One day someone special would come along who would truly appreciate him. In fact, the idea of Internet dating had been hers, and she was delighted when he told her that he had actually parted with thirty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents for a year’s membership.
Gayle was even interested in Oliver’s latest area of research on the extent to which the wives of senior Nazis were complicit in the atrocities committed by their husbands.
‘Women do some strange, often inexplicable things if they love a man,’ she had said, and she had listened attentively as he outlined the thesis of the journal article he was writing as a precursor to a book on the same topic.
Now, retrieving a long, cream envelope from her bag, she handed it to him. ‘I don’t know how you’ll feel about this,’ she said, sounding apologetic, ‘but Angie insisted. She so wants you to be at her wedding.’ She hesitated awkwardly as Oliver opened the flap. ‘Of course, you mustn’t feel you have to come. I’m sure you’ve better things to do on a Saturday than go to the weddings of former students, but she . . . well, we both . . . Angie and I so much wanted to ask you.’
Oliver ran his fingertips over the embossed lettering of the invitation and felt a little frisson of pleasure, his eyes prickling in an unfamiliar way. It was a long time since he’d been invited to anything and he was genuinely touched. His emotional reaction clashed with his aversion to the idea of attending a wedding at which he would know only the bride and her mother, but emotion won.
‘It’s years since I’ve been to a wedding,’ he said, examining the invitation. ‘Thank you, Gayle, I’d love to come. I’d love to see Angie married. I’m very touched that you’ve invited me.’
‘Oh good,’ Gayle said in relief. ‘You’ll like Tony, he’s a lovely young man.’ She was relaxed again now and she leaned across the table, putting her hand lightly on the sleeve of Oliver’s ageing corduroy jacket. ‘You never know, there’re lots of people coming – you might meet someone special.’
Later, as Oliver wandered back to his office, the prospect of the wedding hung over him with all the appeal of a boot camp. But he had accepted and it was too late for him to back out now.
TWO
Gayle sat on the lounge in the family room, watching Angie opening presents at the centre of a group of her girlfriends. She was bone tired, her feet were killing her and she would have given her right arm for an early night and a good book, but this was a once in a lifetime occasion.
The room was filled with noise and laughter, shrieks of delight, the clink of champagne glasses. A well of emotions threatened to overwhelm Gayle – love, exhaustion and the melancholy that had haunted her since she began organising the wedding. Apart from a longish break when she went backpacking in Asia, Angie had always lived at home. For twenty-six years she had been there, part of every day: the adorable toddler; the joyful little girl; the annoying, moody teenager; the warm, intelligent young woman. As the wedding day approached, Gayle was struggling with the knowledge that the daughter whose presence made life at home bearable was about to leave.
‘You’ll be fine,’ her friend Trisha had told her. ‘Honestly, I know it feels awful now, but it’ll pass. It just takes time. Remember how I was when Lindy got married? You do get over it, it’s just another of life’s adjustments.’
‘Yes,’ Gayle had nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. ‘But you and Graham, it’s different . . . it’s . . . Oh well, you’re probably right. I’m really happy for Angie but I’ll miss her so much.’ Now that the day itself was almost upon her, it was taking some effort on Gayle’s part to hide her sense of despair.
‘Who’s that over there in the corner talking to Tony’s mum?’ Trisha asked.
‘That’s Sonya – can’t remember her other name. She’s Angie’s boss. She seems nice.’
‘Hmm,’ Trisha said, giving Sonya a critical once-over. ‘I like that printed velvet jacket. Pity she’s got that weird thing on underneath.’
Gayle smiled. ‘Stop doing the fashion police thing. We’re not all trim, taut and terrific clotheshorses like you. You’ll start on me next.’
Trisha laughed. ‘No way, darl, I gave up on that years ago – you’re my lost cause. But I love you just the same.’ She slipped her arm around Gayle’s shoulders. ‘When did we get old enough to have kids getting married? Next thing’ll be grandchildren, and then we’ll be getting our hair permed, and wearing floral cotton frocks and fluffy slippers.’
‘Sounds quite comforting,’ Gayle said, glancing at her watch. ‘Oh lord, look at the time. It’s turned seven and the belly dancer isn’t here yet. Perhaps I should call and check she’s on the way.’
‘Maybe you told her seven-thirty?’ Trisha said, following her through the throng of young women to the kitchen.
Gayle shook her head. ‘No. I’ve got her card here somewhere,’ and she was rummaging through a drawer full of lists and recipes when the doorbell rang.
She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting but it wasn’t a person in a helmet and motorcycle leathers. ‘I think you must have the wrong address,’ she said, glancing at the gleaming black and chrome of the Harley Davidson in the driveway.
‘I don’t think so. Mrs Peterson? Gayle Peterson – hens’ night for Miss Angie Peterson?’
Gayle nodded, speechless.
‘Oh good, sorry I’m late, a last-minute crisis, but I’m here now,’ and as she took off her helmet, thick dark hair streaked with grey dropped to her shoulders. ‘Marissa, from Marissa’s Belly Dancing?’ she said. ‘I hope you weren’t worried. Just show me where I can put my things and I’ll be ready in a few moments.’
‘She must be as old as us,’ Trisha whispered, checking her own face in the hall mirror as Marissa shed her leathers in the bedroom.
‘At least,’ Gayle said. ‘Maybe more. Sixty, p‘r’aps? I hope she’ll be all right. The people at the Turkish restaurant said she’s the best.’
Trisha shrugged and refilled her glass. ‘We’ll soon see. Want me to go and organise the room?’
Gayle nodded. ‘Yes please, and take this too.’ She handed Trisha the CD Marissa had given her. ‘Stick it on the CD player but don’t start it yet.’ She waited outside the bedroom, wondering, not for the first time, why Angie had wanted a belly dancer. It seemed an odd choice for a hens’ night, and the biker on the doorstep hadn’t inspired confidence.
‘Okay,’ said a voice behind her. ‘So sorry, Mrs Peterson, I hate being late. Hope I haven’t upset anything.’
Gayle turned. ‘Gayle,’ she said. ‘It’s Gayle, and no, of course you haven’t, it’s fine. I’m just very twitchy what with the wedding and tonight . . .’ She paused. ‘You look . . . amazing.’
Marissa adjusted the trailing veil of lime green chiffon draped over her shoulder. ‘Bit of a contrast, isn’t it?’ she said with a smile. ‘Sometimes I feel I’d be a nicer person if I wore this all the time. Now, after the first dance I usually talk about the traditions behind it, and I’ll talk about the rituals around weddings, then I’ll dance again and I’ll encourage the women to join in. Is that all right with you?’
Gayle swallowed hard. It wasn’t just the clothes – although the purple sequinned bra with its long fringe of silver glass beads, and the matching gauzy sequinned skirt over lime harem pants were stunning – it was something about the woman herself that unnerved her.
‘That sounds fine,’ she replied, ‘just . . . well, I don’t know how many of them will actually want to dance. I mean, I don’t suppose any of us has actually done anything like this before. As long as you won’t be offended . . .’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Marissa said. ‘Let’s just see what happens, shall we? You relax and let the dance do its job.’
Gayle nodded cautiously. ‘So should I go through and start the music now?’
‘Please,’ Marissa said. ‘And Mrs – sorry, Gayle, no need to worry. Women usually do enjoy it, especially on these sorts of occasions.’
Gayle started the music and slipped into the seat beside Trisha as a steady drumbeat signalled the start of the performance. The chattering voices faded to silence as Marissa appeared at the top of the steps.
‘My god, is that our biker?’ Trisha whispered, her words dissolving into a gasp as Marissa swayed gracefully towards them and the music swelled.
Brian, propped up on pillows, lay on a rumpled bed in one of Sydney’s best hotels, watching the woman repairing her make-up at the d
ressing table mirror, and trying to remember her name. Kelly, was it, or Kerry, perhaps? She wasn’t his usual girl – her name was Collette – but when he’d called to book he’d been told she was on holiday. He watched in distaste as this one began to dress, stepping into red lace knickers and then leaning forward into the matching bra. He didn’t like her, she was bolshie and too fat, he thought, eying the miniscule swell of flesh where the highcut briefs sat on her hipbone. He couldn’t bear a woman who didn’t look after herself. Brian scratched the broad pale mound of his belly and wished she’d hurry up. He wanted a shower before he was due to meet his broker down in the bar in twenty minutes.
The girl reached for her bag, took out a packet of Benson & Hedges and lit one, inhaling deeply as she reached for her dress.
‘This is a no-smoking room,’ Brian said.
Her eyes met his in the mirror. ‘So what?’
‘So put it out.’
‘Who’re you then, the clean air police?’
‘I’m the customer, remember? Put it out.’ She sighed, rolled her eyes and stubbed it out in a saucer. ‘And get a move on, will you, I’ve got things to do.’
He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, pulling the hotel bathrobe around him. His wallet lay on the bedside table and he picked it up and put it in the pocket of his robe.
‘Make sure you close the door when you leave,’ he said. As he passed her he delivered a hard smack to her bottom and she yelped with surprise and pain. He smiled to himself – some women hated that and he hoped she was one of them. He went into the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped into the steaming stream of water.
Despite his unsatisfactory partner, Brian was pleased with his own performance, which he rated as worthy of a man half his age. It was value for money, he thought. You didn’t only get the hour of concentrated female attention in the areas that most needed it, you got the reassurance of knowing that at fifty-nine you could still go the distance. Brian liked to think of himself as a superb sexual performer. He’d been using sex workers for years, and when he found one he really liked he stuck with her. He saw Collette regularly, whenever he was in Sydney. In Melbourne it was Janine, and Lucinda back home in Perth. They always told him he was an outstanding performer, that he was so good they really enjoyed it with him, whereas other clients left them bored and unsatisfied. Brian’s ego was such that he never for one moment considered this might be a standard line; he knew the truth when he heard it, and he was proud to be able to say that nobody – but nobody – pulled the wool over his eyes.