by Ros Baxter
And then she was back to issuing instructions from behind her cookbook.
It should have been awkward but, weirdly, it wasn’t. There didn’t seem to be any lingering sexual energy between them clogging up the room and sucking away all the oxygen. They just went on with their tasks. It was like they’d cleared the air and that was that. It was a full fifteen minutes before I could drag Heidi into the bathroom to try to establish what the hell was going on. She seemed a little perplexed herself.
‘Oh, that?’ she asked, referring to the kiss. ‘Yeah, it’s been happening a bit lately. Not sure what to make of it really.’
I shook my head. People could be really obtuse.
‘Heidi,’ I persisted. ‘That’s not normal. That’s not like “oops… just kissed you, pass the mashed potato”, that’s like “holy hell just got kissed by a great big freaking kiss monster”. What are you gonna do?’
‘Nothing,’ she insisted.
But I knew the winds of change were afoot. Four weeks later, Heidi and I were sitting watching old M*A*S*H re-runs and half-reading back issues of Seventeen magazine — we used to fish them out of the trash of the teenager down the hall.
Suddenly, she blurted out ‘God, I slept with Steve again last night.’
‘Right,’ I countered. ‘So what’s that now? Six times?’
‘Seven,’ she corrected. ‘But it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Yeah, right.’ I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her to me. ‘You are being so silly, my darling. How do you feel?’
She smiled. ‘Good, actually. Really good.’
‘Is he…good?’ I couldn’t resist. I had to know.
‘Amazing,’ she muttered. ‘It’s like…’ She was searching for the right phrase. ‘It’s like…Jean Claude Van Damme meets the Cookie Monster.’
I shook my head in disbelief. ‘I have no idea what that means,’ I admitted.
‘Well,’ she elaborated. ‘It’s like all physical and sexy and muscly and yummy and then all sweet and comforting and goofy and kind of stupid.’ She grinned. ‘I love it.’
‘You love it…or him?’ I checked.
She paused, then nodded. ‘Mmm…maybe I do love him. Oh, no. God help me. I’m in love with the Cookie Monster.’ She turned to me, mortified realization all over her face. ‘Don’t you dare tell him.’
So of course I did. And of course he loved her too. As if I hadn’t known that for ages anyway. And it really wasn’t as earth shattering as I thought it would be. I was spending more time with Clark. They were spending more time together. And the earth kept spinning on its axis. And in a way, I was glad, because it meant they weren’t bitching about me spending too much time away, and they weren’t looking for another roommate.
And Heidi was no less mine. She didn’t go all weird and different with Steve, making stupid faces at him or nudging him under the table when I said things.
We all still ganged up on each other in different permutations, as ever. Heidi was just much more relaxed than usual.
The goods — Back at the dinner party December, 2001
I lowered my voice conspiratorially as I left Heidi and Steve to it in the kitchen. ‘Do I have to talk to the wonder twins?’
‘Yep,’ Steve confirmed with relish. ‘Here,’ he offered, handing me a plastic table-cover. ‘You might need this to avoid getting bodily fluids on your pretty dress.’
Clark and I made our way out to the living room and straight for Heidi’s cousin, Max, and his sister, Maria, who were deep in conversation about whether ‘Bootylicious’ would survive as an adjective long after the song itself had been forgotten. Clark, a huge Destiny’s Child fan, joined in enthusiastically, leaving me dangerously exposed. You know what it’s like. The people you don’t want to talk to at a party can always tell if you’re not really totally involved in another conversation, and pick you off like coyotes attacking the weakest spring lambs. Sarah seized the moment.
‘Lo-laaa’, she trilled. ‘So great to see you! Oh my God, Heidi has been telling me all about your adventures, hasn’t she, my little labra-doodle?’
She turned and looked meaningfully at Joe, who was pinned underneath her red-taloned hand on the couch. Individually lovely, collectively Sarah and Joe are the reason people fear relationships. They always appear to be just on the edge of tearing each other’s clothes off and fornicating right in front of you. I swear I once saw Sarah mount Joe mid-conversation, and carry right on chatting like it was normal to have your vagina wedged onto your boyfriend’s jeans-clad cock while chatting about feline influenza.
‘Ewww,’ I protested. ‘What the hell is a labra-doodle?’
‘Great dog,’ Joe contributed smilingly. ‘Cross between a Labrador and a Poodle. Smart as hell, and really nice looking.’
‘Yeah, well, it sounds really sick,’ I said. ‘How about we not call each other that, yeah? It sounds like some sex thing. Makes me feel nauseous.’
‘Sure,’ they both agreed, with matching good-natured grins.
‘Sarah,’ Joe said, picking up an appetizer and popping it into her mouth. ‘You have got to try this.’ Sarah closed her mouth and munched obediently, rolling her eyes and making ecstatic noises.
I spent the next thirty minutes desperately trying to get back into the Destiny’s Child conversation. But once the conversational lines are drawn, they’re like the Berlin Wall. No crossing over. There was no choice – I had to get drunk. My head was still throbbing from the night before, so I knew I’d have to act quickly, before the lovey-doveyness of Sarah and Joe set off a really awful pounding. And after three quick champagne cocktails, I was surprised to find Sarah and Joe were actually quite amusing. I enjoyed their stories about the animal shelter, even if her constant finger-fondling up and down his jeans-clad thighs was a little graphic. Especially when I was sure at one point he got a hard-on as she told this awful story about two great dames and artificial insemination.
Anyway, there was no way I was making the same mistake at dinner. I artfully manoeuvred myself between Max and Maria, and across from Steve and Heidi, stranding Clark down the end with the fornicators from hell. Heidi and Steve had done a stellar job on the meal, and the conversation was well fuelled by these gorgeous, cheeky little cocktails Steve kept popping up to mix every few minutes. I think he was working the whole Tom Cruise in Cocktail angle, so he was a bit distracted by the shaker thing when Max hit him up.
‘Hey Steve, got any friends I should meet while in town?’ Max smiled his perfect white smile, the one that made you feel like you were in an old movie, Lana Turner to his Cary Grant. I tried to remind myself he was off limits and not swoon.
‘Hmm…’ Steve considered. ‘Well, there’s Larry. But you broke his heart last time. Lola?’ He turned to me.
I was about to confirm that Max had also made his way through my full list of single gay friends as well, when I suddenly remembered Luke.
‘Weirdly enough, my brother came out last night. But he’s not your type.’
‘How do you know?’ Max affected a hurt expression. ‘Who has a type anyway? That’s so nineties.’
Sarah and Joe looked meaningfully into each other’s eyes and I was sure the table jiggled a little down their end. I tried not to look. Heidi was good with animals. I was just hoping if it got bad enough she’d throw some cold water on them or something.
‘Everyone’s got a type,’ Heidi snapped. ‘Some people just don’t realize it.’
‘Yeah,’ Steve agreed. ‘And if you can narrow down your type early enough it makes life a lot easier. Lola’s brilliant at it. It’s like some math thing. Tell them about “the goods”, Lola.’
Uh-oh.
Something in my head blared out warning signals, but the receptors to my mouth were oblivious. ‘The goods’ was the definitive list of attributes I had always thought would be required to fall in love with someone. Truly in love. Heidi, Steve and I had hammered out this theory at our favorite bar years before over several rounds of tequ
ila and a plate of bad nachos. Long ago. Long before Clark. And even before Wayne. The idea was that everyone has four or five key things they require in order to fall in love with someone. As I sketched out the general theory, I noticed Clark start to look more and more interested.
‘So? What are they?’ Sarah was hooked too.
I tried to obfuscate, suddenly realizing that maybe this was not such a good idea. ‘Ah,’ I began. ‘Well, you see, they’re different for everyone. I have this list of five, but yours might be totally different.’
Joe seemed perplexed. ‘I don’t really get it.’
‘Me neither,’ Maria insisted. ‘Tell us yours, Lola, so we get what you mean.’
I’ve always found alcohol and an audience a potent combination. So even though a persistent little voice kept hinting that I was moving into dangerous territory, I began.
‘We-ell, the first one is a good heart.’
‘Oh, okay,’ Maria piped up. ‘I get it. A nice person, yeah?’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I confirmed. ‘But a bit more complicated than that. It’s all about what a good heart is to me. There are heaps of people who are out there, thinking they’re so right-on, and really they’re totally awful.’
‘So what’s a good heart to you then, Lolly?’ Max was interested too.
‘Well, the litmus test for me is whether a guy would ever call anyone fat, you know. Like the world is divided into people who would, and people who wouldn’t. I don’t like the first lot. They can go stick their mean, skinny little fingers down their throats in someone else’s bathroom.’
Heidi and Steve cheered and clapped. I think they’d been quality testing the cocktails in the kitchen as they made them.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ they shouted.
‘Bastards. I hope they get really fat themselves,’ Steve added.
‘God, I sooo know what you mean,’ Maria contributed. ‘I once dated this guy who used to oink whenever he saw a fat person on the bus. It was horrible.’
‘Ugh,’ Heidi sympathized. ‘What did you do?’
‘We-ell…’ She looked kind of embarrassed as she flicked her gorgeous auburn curls and wrinkled that pretty nose. ‘I kind of hooked up with his best friend. His very fat best friend. Pretty juvenile, huh?’
Sounded like divine justice to me, so I gave her an encouraging smile. ‘You go, girl.’
‘So what’s next?’ Maria looked like she was considering taking notes. I remembered her track record with men was pretty lousy.
‘Two: a good mind.’ I glanced around the table. ‘And you don’t have to be Einstein. Just...you know…interesting. You have to be able to hold a good conversation.’
‘No shruggers,’ Heidi confirmed, and we shared some meaningful eye contact.
‘Exactly,’ I purred.
‘I reckon some of the smartest people I know are some of the stupidest,’ Sarah contributed in a momentarily blinding flash of insight. ‘I once dated this guy who was like an official member of Mensa, but he could only talk about three things. First, his IQ. High. Can’t remember exactly what it was — does anyone know if 150 is high? I think it was that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Second, his thesis topic. Believe me, I know waaay more about the life cycle of Egyptian moths than I ever wanted to…’
‘What was the third?’ Maria looked genuinely interested.
‘Erectile dysfunction,’ Sarah supplied. ‘Believe me, there’s only so much of that you need to know too. At the end of the day, it’s one of those areas where... Well, you know, “a little less conversation, a little more action”.’
Joe clearly saw this as his cue to spring into action, demonstrating his bona fides in this department. He started stroking Sarah’s underarm, way too close to her now-very-clearly-erect nipple.
It was mesmerising, like watching a train smash. I only realized we were all following the cheeky path of that long, calloused finger when Max barked out, ‘Okay, Joe, if you get that tit out at the table, I’m going to get seriously cross.’
Joe sprang back as though his fingers had been burned, and Maria stepped artfully into the awkward moment. ‘Right, so…good heart, good mind, I’m liking it. Nice and easy to remember. What’s next?’
Clark’s eyes hadn’t left my face and I felt my cheeks start to burn and tingle a little. But I knew I was still fairly safe with the next one.
‘Three: good in a crowd,’ I supplied.
‘Huh?’ Steve looked confused. The alcohol was obviously affecting his memory. ‘What, like good at getting through to the bar when it’s really crowded? That seems kind of pedantic. I mean, not every guy is Rambo, y’know.’
‘No, you dimwit,’ Heidi reminded him. ‘Good in a crowd as in good with people. You know, not some shrinking violet you’ve got to take care of every time you go somewhere with other humans.’
‘Oh, that’s right,’ Steve agreed. ‘Oh God, Max, remember that really shy guy you dated that looked like we were going to lynch him every time you went to the bathroom?’
‘Ugh,’ Max groaned. ‘Do I ever. And you know how bad I am at breaking up with people!’ We all nodded earnestly. Especially for someone with so much experience. ‘Well, he was the worst of all. He was so serious, and so nervous, I was so worried I was going to destroy him. I had to pretend I had advanced throat cancer when I broke up with him.’
‘Throat cancer?’ I shook my head. ‘You really are sick, Max, you know that?’
‘Long story,’ he said. ‘But it was effective. I told him I just didn’t think it would work if neither of us could speak.’
Now it was the turn of the whole group to shake its collective head.
Then, like a bloodhound back on the scent, Maria was back on track. ‘So, next?’
‘Four: good in bed,’ I confirmed.
‘Ah,’ Joe sighed. ‘I knew we’d get there.’
‘Keep your hands on the table, Romeo,’ Max insisted.
‘Well, let’s face it,’ I acknowledged. ‘We’ve all been there when it wasn’t…right.’
‘Yep,’ Heidi agreed. ‘It sucks.’
‘Or not,’ Max said ruefully. ‘You know, when you want it to. Suck.’
‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘It just needs to be…whatever it needs to be for you. You know, whether you like it swinging from the chandeliers…’
‘Or like a starfish,’ Heidi contributed.
‘Or doggy-style,’ Sarah weighed in.
‘Yep,’ I agreed quickly. I so did not want to hear what Joe might offer.
‘Whatever you want, that should be okay. And it should feel good.’
Clark squirmed in his seat. ‘Okay, right then, do we have to go into —’
Maria shushed him with her hand. ‘Keep going.’
‘So, anyway…’ I trilled lightly. ‘There we are. Anyway, as I said, different for everyone. Now, Heidi, I reckon there must be some dessert hiding in there somewhere?’
But Maria could sniff avoidance in the air. ‘Five,’ she insisted. ‘You said five.’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘It really doesn’t matter. ‘Four, five, can’t remember. These are just my goods, my criteria. They’re not some cast-iron rule. You might only have three.’
‘Or two,’ Max chuckled. ‘Pulse. Package.’
But Clark was not to be deterred either. ‘What’s the fifth, Lola?’
‘Umm… Now what was it?’ I started picking at my fingernails, hoping the conversation might kick-start around me again while I delayed.
Hoping people might forget what I’d been asked.
But no. Drunk people can be very single-minded.
‘Er…good chemistry, that’s right.’ I clicked my fingers like it had just come to me.
Sarah drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Good chemistry? Isn’t that the same as good in bed?’
Heidi had indulged in too much champagne, or she would have smelt my desperation not to discuss this. Not tonight.
‘Of course it’s not the same!’ she screeched. ‘Anyone can be good i
n bed. Any port in a storm. Chemistry is…cellular. It’s rare. It’s beautiful. It’s the whole heart-racing-when-you-smell-them thing. You can’t fake it. You can’t create it. It’s there or it’s not. And if it’s not, it’s never going to be.’
The room was suddenly very quiet.
I looked at Clark and he was pale and grim, sitting way back in his chair and studying my face. Heidi started clearing dishes and fussing with glasses. She glanced at me through the curtain of her hair and I knew we were thinking about the same thing. Something that happened about six months ago, just before Clark and I officially moved in together.
The quiz — Our apartment; June, 2001
Heidi plonked herself down beside me on the couch in that too-casual way that told me she wanted to talk. As in, you know, ‘have a talk’. She was wielding something in her hand, some kind of rolled up magazine, and she looked like a woman on a mission.
‘Loll,’ she began. ‘I think we need to talk. I found this.’ With a flourish, like a prosecutor producing the smoking gun in the courtroom, she unrolled the magazine and I saw what it was. Seventeen, your standard girly fare. But with the banner headline: ‘Is he the right one for you? Take our quiz.’
‘You know, you really shouldn’t have been reading that, Heidi.’ I decided attack was the best form of defense at that point. ‘It’s private.’
‘You left it in the toilet, Lola,’ Heidi declared, unabashed. ‘Can’t be that private. Anyway, you’re the one who always says private people make you sick. And I’ve never seen you respect my privacy. You’ve been reading my diary since the fourth grade.’
‘Heidi,’ I tried again, hoping humor would deflect her, ‘you know that’s different. Your journals are so salacious. Where else am I going to get my thrills?’
‘Don’t try to distract me, Lola,’ she continued. ‘I know you too well. Just listen to this.’ Then she flicked to the relevant page and started reading.
‘“Question one. How do you feel when you think about him? Options: (a) deliriously happy (b) content (c) confused (d) concerned.” Hmm… None of the above are circled. Oh, but hang on,’ she continued as though she had just seen the offending addition. ‘There’s another answer scrawled in eyeliner in the margins: “grateful”.’ She looked at me with narrowed eyes.