by Ros Baxter
‘I liked you better liquored’.
Even though his voice was low and strained, his eyes were still crinkly and I’d noticed sideways flickers in the direction of the cleavage-y top Heidi had insisted I borrow.
‘Yeah, well, you kiss better than you drive,’ I shot right back at him. I’ve had motion sickness since I was a kid and I was tempted to impress him with my capacity to vomit at will when we finally ground to a shuddering halt outside the restaurant.
Our destination was a really fancy place: Chez something. French, obviously. Understated front entry and muted color scheme. I caught sight of the prices on the menu and had a horrible mental image of myself in a bikini draped across the hood of his car.
But the true agony was only beginning.
‘Mademoiselle, monsieur, ’ave you made your selection?’
The young waiter was so unspeakably beautiful he could only have been from Paris. And he had that weird lip spittle thing that only the French can get away with. When he spoke, a little string of spit stayed magically connected to both lips, without breaking.
It was really quite mesmerising.
‘It’s alright mate, you don’t need to do the accent. We get it, French restaurant, all very authentic, righty-o.’ Wayne looked at me with a big smile. ‘You ready to order, love?’
Oh. My. God. He thought the guy was faking.
I waggled my eyebrows at him. Of course he’s French, you moron.
‘Exusez-moi, sir?’ Beautiful Paris boy raised a delicate brow.
‘You know what I mean, mate. I’m just saying, don’t feel you have to bust your gut all night with the accent thing. I’ll enjoy the food just as much if you’re from Oregon’. He smiled disarmingly. I could tell he wasn’t trying to be a schmuck. He might have even been trying to be friendly. ‘Or Sydney, even’. He smiled like that made everything better.
When we actually ordered, it got worse.
‘Um... I’ll have the steak, and a side of mange tout,’ I stuttered, hoping I was safe. I was going for options in which snot and semen could be easily detected.
‘Great. Lobster for me, steak for her, and a side of mangy twat’. Wayne smiled like a pirate at the distinctly unimpressed waiter.
Oh great. Vagina jokes.
By the time the food arrived I could no longer contain myself. ‘Are you just trying to do the redneck thing because some halfwit told you it’s cute, or are you always like this?’
His big smile wavered as he took in my dark expression. ‘Problemo?’
I drew myself up in my seat to my full, intimidating five-feet-two. ‘Prob-lemo all right, Crocodile Dundee. One: you’re acting like a stupid redneck. Two: I hate puerile jokes about c —’
He interrupted me, looking genuinely upset. ‘Hang on now. You can’t say that.’
I looked at the fork in my hand and then put it down slowly. Exactly which ‘c’ word did he think I was going to say? I’d always wanted to say that word. I’d sure heard it often enough from Emmy. And so what if I hadn’t planned to? I could if I wanted to. Couldn’t I?
‘Why not?’
Wayne paused, lobster suspended halfway to his mouth, crinkly smiling ebbing.
It was kind of hard to see him and I felt cross with myself for leaving my glasses in my bag, worried that they wouldn’t go with Heidi’s sexy top. I fished them out and plopped them on my nose as I eyeballed him. ‘Go on. Say it. Tell me it’s not ladylike to use the c-word’. I bared my teeth at him. ‘And I’ll shove that lobster where the sun doesn’t shine.’
He lowered the claw, his mouth opening and shutting like it was trying out options.
I was on a roll. ‘And why can’t I say it if I want? I mean, if I had wanted to?’
I was aware I was being too loud but it somehow spurred me on, like the scent of blood. I was almost yelling as I said ‘I have one. Unlike you, who obviously feels free to —’
‘Stupid. I meant you can’t call me stupid. Darlin’, you can use any profanity you like, I’d never judge a thing you said. But calling someone stupid? Now that’s just mean.’ He smiled sweetly to let me know he wasn’t really cross, and motioned to Paris Boy. ‘Better get another bottle of bubbly, Francois, she’s friendlier when she’s drinking’.
I’d like to say that I stormed out and never saw him again.
But somehow he disarmed me over steak, and later over sorbet. Something about his gravelly, honeyed voice, and his hands, which were surely too big to be so mobile and expressive. And his stories, which he told with a big laugh as the punch line got closer. He was honest. And friendly. So he just kind of said whatever popped into his head.
Later, when I was in bed, I kept thinking about dessert.
Wayne had grabbed one of my hands and rubbed it across the scratchy stubble framing that wild jaw. His hand was warm and dry and huge. ‘You know, when I found out your name was Lolly, I thought, “Bloody oath. I’d love to stick her in my mouth and gobble her right up.”’ He paused. ‘But now I’m not so sure.’
I felt my tummy sink.
Oh no. He hates me.
But then he brought my hand right up to his mouth, turned it over and kissed my palm. I felt his hot breath and that serrated jaw.
‘Now I reckon you might be laced with arsenic. You’re a pocket rocket, lovely Lola. And that’s what I’m going to call you. Rocket.’
And he didn’t seem empty at all.
Wayne meets Lola’s parents — Two days after the first date
I would never normally have allowed my parents to meet a guy after only one date.
But I’d left Heidi’s fluffy jacket in Wayne’s car on Date One and there was no way I was ready for him to come to my place, even if it was only to drop it off. I think some part of me knew that if we breathed the same air in close quarters for more than two minutes we’d end up in bed. So I’d arranged the drop-off at my parents’ place.
They were supposed to be out of town, but somehow Mom had gotten wind of the plan and come down with a suspiciously sudden migraine.
I told myself it didn’t matter. It was good, in fact. I expected that this would be the natural conclusion of a very perplexing relationship. My parents had form when it came to scaring men off — Mom still called one of my exes, a man of few words, ‘The Shrug’.
Yep, they would hate Wayne, with his bad jokes and his big bad car.
And voila, all my problems would be solved.
But that wasn’t quite how it went down.
The knock on the door sounded like a cannon, and seconds later he was inside. His huge frame filled up the foyer of their tiny NYC apartment. He looked even bigger than I remembered, standing on their welcome mat in an enormous winter jacket and boots, unfurling some hand-knitted scarf and stamping boots that looked to be size three hundred.
I thought: He doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus.
For the first time, I’d dressed like me. Cargo pants, Black Amnesty International t-shirt, ponytail. But he didn’t seem to notice the difference. He just grinned at me like I was a tantalising appetiser and held a bright red earthenware dish aloft. ‘Hi Lola’s parents. I brought a lasagne.’ He said it like lar-sar-nyar.
Mom looked at the baking dish with narrowed eyes as she took in Wayne’s big, smiling face and dark, crinkly eyes. Dad hovered uncertainly. ‘Oh shit, I forgot to ask. You don’t have any allergies do you?’ He said it without the slightest droop in that big friendly smile. But, nevertheless, there was a tone.
A tone that said ‘cripes I forgot about Americans and their goddamn allergies’.
It was just the opening Mom needed. ‘No siree,’ she beamed, taking Wayne’s elbow and motioning Dad forward to take the casserole. ‘Don’t worry about all that allergy crap. I have a lactose intolerant second cousin and I swear to God it takes every ounce of my self-control not to poison him every time I make lasagne. Honestly, béchamel sauce made on rice milk just tastes like semen.’ She leaned closer, punching Wayne conspiratorially. ‘And Wayne, no matter what any
one tells you ever, semen tastes like shit.’
In that moment, I wished Mom did have an allergy — a great big allergy to anything that might make her throat close over and strangle her. But no such luck. She was ecstatic to have an opening to discuss her allergy theories. After the shock wore off, I caught up with the three of them in the kitchen and caught the tail end of her favourite spiel.
‘I mean, really Wayne. I ask you. Lactose? How can anyone be allergic to the key ingredient in breast milk?’
Wayne worked similar wizardry on Dad. I didn’t witness the actual event, but I think it had something to do with the TV. Dad’s utterly useless when it comes to technology. He’s always bitching about how the set breaks down two minutes before the World Chess Championships kick off. Amazing really, given the championships go on for like three hundred hours. Surely enough time to call a repair man. But, no, too easy. Infinitely preferable to sit there, watching through the fuzz, and moan continuously about the reception.
I tracked them down in the living room after giving Mom a solid talking-to about cooling it with Wayne. I found the TV turned around, Wayne banging and tinkering behind it, and Dad sitting watching, with a saintly beam on his face. Wayne’s voice floated up from behind the set. ‘Yeah, I don’t know. Just always been able to fix things, really. From TVs to computers.’ He chuckled that throaty chuckle that did funny things to the bottom of my tummy. ‘Even the odd horse race.’
Dad laughed like Wayne was Jerry Seinfeld. I glared at him.
Wayne’s head popped up from behind the set. He grinned at me. ‘Oh, hello there, Rocket. Anyway, Mr Murphy, like I was saying —’
‘Oh please, call me Cliff.’
Wayne grinned full blast at Dad, who blinked like a meerkat. I knew how he felt. Getting Wayne’s Big Smile was like being blasted by a feel-good laser. ‘Okay, righto then, well if you’re sure... Cliff. Anyway, like I was saying, my parents were suspicious of technology. If I wanted to see Astro Boy, I had to rig a set in the shed.’
Three hours later, Wayne was still there, chowing down on his lasagne without the slightest shred of guilt. I was trying not to enjoy myself as I helped myself to thirds. Mom spooned seconds and considered his question, head cocked.
‘Well, Wayne, I like to say it’s because popular causes are too easy. I had many admirers, of course.’
Wayne nodded earnestly, as if to say ‘of course, goes without saying’.
She sniffed. ‘And of course he —’ she pointed at Dad, ‘ — was the surliest. And the poorest. And the least handsome.’
Dad smiled into her eyes, and winked at Wayne. Wayne stopped chewing, eyes trained on Mom. I could have sworn I saw her blush.
‘But the thing is, Wayne, it’s all about raw material. The rest you can fix up with time and persistence.’ Wayne nodded gravely.
‘And Yeats, Wayne,’ Dad added, through a mouthful of cheese sauce.
‘Yes,’ Mom sighed. ‘Yeats.’ Oh no. I got up to clear plates, but it was too late.
Dad stood up and held his hand out to Mom, the other clasping his heart.
‘Come away, O human child: To the waters and the wild with a fairy, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.’
His voice was deep and melodic, and I closed my eyes in spite of myself, listening to the words that had lulled me to sleep my whole childhood.
Mom wiped her eye. ‘Yes, it was definitely the Yeats.’
‘And I got your father’s approval.’ Dad nudged Wayne. ‘First boy that ever did.’
Mom nodded. ‘Oh yes, Wayne, it wasn’t like now. All this casual courting.’ She mopped at lasagne with a large hunk of bread. I would have giggled, if I’d been the giggling type. Did Mom really call what Wayne had engineered here casual? Arriving with a lasagne?
‘The first dinner date, when I was a girl, it was dangerous. Grandma was known to throw the odd plate if people disagreed with her too vigorously. Or agreed with her too readily. Or, worst of all, if they didn’t eat enough. Small appetites reminded her of the Great Depression. She saw them as a sure sign of sexual dysfunction.’
Mom eyed Wayne’s empty plate with a brisk nod and Wayne glowed and smiled.
Mom sighed. ‘I remember when he left, my father said “Well, he’s no oil painting but at least he’s not a goddamn Republican…”’
Wayne nodded, patted her hand, and got up to do the dishes.
Date two — A few days later
It was a week after our first date, and a few days after he’d hypnotized my parents.
And I’d agreed to a second date.
But I made sure he knew that he was on probation.
‘Okay. Fine. I’ll come. But only because you kiss really, really well. And you need to know that you pull any of that “mangy twat” stuff and I’m outta there.’
I could almost hear him smiling and see his eyes crinkling down the phone line.
‘Yeah, no worries, Rocket. You’re a good girl.’ I heard his quick breath. ‘Oops. Sorry, sorry, woman. Woman. See? I remembered. Girl and lady are terms used by the patriarchy to keep women passive. Only ever acceptable if: one, the subject is under 18, or; two, married to a knight. See, I can learn. I even remembered the numbering.’
Now I smiled. ‘Well, good. I’m glad we understand each other.’
As soon as he wrenched the door open, I could tell he’d pulled out all the stops.
The apartment was as clean as a whistle. No visible signs of dirty underwear, dirty dishes or dirty movies. Soft candlelight lit the living space and Miles Davis trickled seductively out of the stereo. I’d never liked jazz, all that bada bada bada, but it impressed me when other people did. Maybe he’d bought it from late night TV. You know: ‘Buy jazz to impress your friends. Call now and we’ll throw in a set of steak knives!’
‘Hello there, Rocket.’ He grinned at me like a sexy shark, slow with lots of teeth. It suddenly occurred to me that he was bigger, badder and older than me. And he had eyes that looked like he was way more experienced too.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’ He muttered something under his breath as his crinkly eyes took in my black stretchy dress and knee high boots, another loan from Heidi.
‘What?’ I demanded.
‘Sorry, I was just saying “Madam Lash”. You look like Madam Lash. With green eyes.’
The bottom dropped out of my tummy. ‘What color are they normally?’
‘Hmmm...?’ Those dark eyes were still admiring Heidi’s dress.
‘Her eyes,’ I prompted, placing a finger under his chin and bringing his own eyes up to meet mine. ‘Madam Lash. Her eyes. What color are they normally?’
‘Dunno,’ he grinned, kissing my cheek and handing me a glass of wine. ‘Come on, I gotta show you something.’ He took my hand in his big, warm one and dragged me behind him. My heart fluttered and my legs felt weak as I navigated a little winding staircase.
I wanted to ask ‘where are you taking me?’ but then we were there. Standing in a rooftop garden that was like this tiny slice of Eden, crammed with potted trees, shrubs and herbs. A chaotic Picasso, all color and scent and texture.
I dropped his hand and turned a slow circle, feeling like Wendy the first time she saw Neverland. By the railing stood a little wrought-iron table and two chairs, under a small roof formed by a miniature bower, heavy with purple flowers.
Wayne’s eyes searched out mine. ‘You like?’
I nodded, not trusting my voice. I turned another revolution and took in a long, rectangular trough, overflowing with different herbs.
‘Yes. It’s beautiful. You’re like... Richard Attenborough.’
He guffawed and picked my hand up again, running it across his rough cheek as he studied my face. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’
His eyes were hooded, and a deep crease furrowed his brow. I fought the urge to reach over and smooth it out. ‘No, no, of course it’s not. It’s just...’
‘What?’
; ‘Well, you’re this.’ I flapped a hand at his beautiful chinos and open-necked shirt. ‘You’re a...suit. You work in the city. You make money. You’re not supposed to...garden.’ I sniffed again, dragging in the aroma floating up the staircase towards us. ‘And cook.’
He lowered the hand that had been caressing his cheek and ran it across my lips.
‘Who says?’
I shrugged, and felt a tiny shiver chase down my spine.
‘Come on,’ he growled, pushing me towards the stairs. ‘It’s too cold to eat up here tonight. ‘We’ll have to have it downstairs.’
‘It’ was sand-crab risotto, and a leafy salad with walnuts and blue cheese that tasted kind of French and decadent. And homemade bread, sweet and crumbly.
I shook my head as I buttered another piece.
‘What are these?’ I gestured at the dark red splotches in the bread.
‘Sugar plums,’ he said, winking at me.
I ran a finger over the soft, red flesh captured in the bread. Sugar plums. I examined the finger, then sucked it and tasted the soft, dark explosion in my mouth. When I looked up at him again, his eyes were on my mouth.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘What did you say?’
‘I didn’t,’ I said, avoiding his eyes. ‘But I should.’ I straightened up in my seat and wiped my finger on a dark green linen napkin. ‘This is a date, right? Let’s talk.’
So we did. Light stuff. He told funny stories about home — about Australia and his dog, and about coming to the city and feeling like a total hick. Every time I asked about his family, he steered the topic away, ever so casually.
And he was careful. I had the feeling he was treating me like an interesting but slightly scary snake, trying to avoid topics that might cause me to bare my fangs and poison him. I told him things too, about my mad parents, and my siblings. About how I was different. Serious, like Dad. And about math, how beautiful and pristine it was. Then the meal was over and I suddenly looked around at the demolished food and felt a pang.
‘I can’t believe you made that bread. Did you churn the butter as well? Got a cow hiding in the spare room?’ I was trying for light banter but kind of knew it came off spiteful.