by Ros Baxter
Again, he seemed to take it in.
Three: discuss the actual incident only to emphasise the non-violent aspect of the action. The judge had studied under Dr King for a short time in his youth.
‘Your Grace…Honor,’ I quickly corrected myself. ‘While utterly misguided, I want you to know that the action was at all times peaceful and non-violent. We were trying to…’ I tried to make it look as though I was simply searching for an impromptu phrase but really I had carefully composed and practiced every word of this little speech. ‘Overcome oppression and violence without resorting to oppression and violence.’
Please, Dr King, forgive me my blatant plagiarism.
And please God let the judge recognize the good doctor’s words.
The Judge was actually leaning forward now, and seemed involved in every word I was saying. Or my cleavage. Whatever. I didn’t care. I swear I’d sleep with the guy if I thought it would keep me with my baby. Speaking of which…
Four: mention Eve. As often and with as much pathos as possible. The judge and his wife had apparently tried unsuccessfully for many years to have children before fostering a series of children over many years. The judge was known to have a soft spot for small children, and was the patron of the local children’s hospital charity. A fact I felt no remorse about exploiting to the hilt.
‘I beg your compassion, Your Honor,’ I finished up. ‘Not for me, but for my tiny daughter, Eve. She’s four years old and I am her sole carer.’ Small white lie. All in a good cause. ‘She has been terribly sick, and we are very close. I can’t bear to imagine what would happen to her without me.’ I broke off, again hiding behind my tissue. This time I didn’t need to feign tears, they rose unbidden. I was blatantly exploiting her, but the merest thought of losing my Eve was enough to make me cry.
By the time I finished the little speech the judge was almost in tears himself. He took less then a minute to find me guilty but sentenced me to 150 hours community service. I didn’t care if I had to do 1500 hours, cleaning the most evil public toilets in the city. I felt like I’d been released from Auschwitz.
A kiss and a Dick — Back at Emmy’s apartment, party night
By the time I finished the tale, the assembled company at the party were looking at me with rapt attention. Ralph, particularly, seemed pretty fixated on my mouth, and I noticed for the first time that his face had a slightly wolfish profile. For the second time that day, I felt like a man wanted to eat me. And for the first time in five years, I seriously considered the prospect of taking one to my bed.
Nothing like open admiration as an aphrodisiac.
I shook my head and quickly reminded myself of my promise to Emmy.
No kissing. No flirting. And nothing else besides.
But three hours later I was in the linen store again, this time with Ralph’s tongue buried so deep in my mouth I could hardly breathe. But I didn’t care. I was drunk. I was having a great time, with all my favorite people. And Dick. And Ralph had gotten more and more attractive with each passing course — or perhaps each passing drink. And it was that kind of abandoned, teenage kissing that you almost never get anymore after you turn thirty.
I figured it was my party and I could be shallow if I want to. And he smelled great.
And ever since seeing Wayne the day before I felt like my libido had been kicked back into life. It was weird. In between thinking about court, and stressing out about Mom, Wayne had been a constant fixture in the back of my mind, like some kind of talisman. I couldn’t shake the image of him, and the things he had said. His words had been replaying in my mind, but the picture of him — so dark, and so huge — had been replaying somewhere much, much lower on my anatomy. It hardly seemed possible. Some reasonably brief relationship, ten years before, and he could still turn my insides to mush.
Some people might think it strange that the erotic shadow cast by Wayne could drive me into the arms — well, mouth really — of another man, but it’s not that weird. It felt so great to be really, really kissed. And more. Ralph’s expert polo fingers were working their insidious way into my beautiful dress, stroking and groping and I kept thinking:
I’ll stop him soon. Soon soon soon soon. But not quite yet.
‘There you are, you little strumpet!’ Emmy’s outraged screech made me feel like a horny dog being doused with cold water.
Ralph broke away. You know what’s weird? How really, tremendously rich people never look embarrassed about anything. They’re like kings or something, so born-to-rule that they honestly believe they can do anything they like without needing to feel sheepish when sprung. He didn’t look perturbed in the slightest by Emmy’s intrusion.
I, on the other hand, felt like some depraved teenager.
‘Why are you hiding in here? I thought you weren’t going to do anything with him. Jesus, Lola, where’s your self-control?’
Self control? Had this woman no insight at all?
I could tell Emmy was more miffed that I disappeared in the middle of her absolutely divine party, not that I was kissing Ralph, which we both know had been her intent all along. Once her cognitive function and control-freakery settled down, she started to realize this, and looked much happier.
‘Alright then, Bonnie and Clyde, back to the party. There’s still dessert, and a surprise. Out, out, out,’ she shooed us both with her hands, but as I swished past her in my gorgeous — if now slightly dishevelled — frock, she grabbed my arm.
‘Actually, hang on for a minute, Loll,’ she indicated me into the storeroom with her head. ‘Go Ralph,’ she commanded. Ralph, like everyone in Emmy’s life, did as he was told.
‘What is it?’ I was cross now that my initial embarrassment had worn off a bit and I was thinking again about how much fun I’d been having. ‘Sweet Jesus, my first real kiss in five years and you had to ruin it. Thanks a million.’
‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic,’ Emmy groaned. ‘He’s not going anywhere. He’s got the sniff of blood now.’
Ugh. For a writer, Emmy can really use some disgusting analogies.
‘What is it?’ I was repeating myself again.
‘Mom.’ Emmy began. ‘She told us today. She said she told you last night. My God, what do you think? I can’t believe she’s sick. It’s like…I dunno…finding out that Sylvester Stallone’s gay or something. It’s messing with my head.’
I looked at Emmy, and I could see her fear through the shiny glaze of good champagne in her eyes. It was a strange sight, somehow even more unnerving than the thought of Mom, scared and small, the night before. Emmy doesn’t get scared. Emmy’s the strongest and bravest and most bad-tempered. Emmy couldn’t get cancer.
But then, I wouldn’t have thought Mom could either.
With an almost blinding jolt, I had a sudden sense of the capriciousness of life and luck. I felt unsteady on my feet. It could happen to anyone. It’s so democratic. No one is safe.
I looked at Em again. She wanted me to say something. She wanted to be comforted. But I wasn’t sure I had the right stuff in me. I drew in a breath and pulled her into me. She resisted, and then melted against me, all red silk and hair that smelled like real vanilla.
‘Babe,’ I started. ‘You know it’s just life. People get sick and usually they get better. And I think she will. You know, I really do. She’s so…brilliant. She’ll just outwit the hideous thing. But…’ I pulled back and look into her eyes. ‘But even if she doesn’t, it’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.’
At this, Emmy dissolved, all her front and bravado trickling away with her tears. They were great big, red sobby ones too. I wondered why I couldn’t cry about Mom. Why I hadn’t cried yet. I wondered when I would, if I would. I wondered if I was all out of tears from the years of pain and worry with Eve. I held my sister again, rocking her like I did with Eve when she was scared at night, saying ‘shhh, shhh’ into her hair and patting her back.
‘I don’t want to be an orphan,’ she spluttered. ‘I can’t be an orphan.’
/> I know it’s inappropriate, but this made me giggle. ‘You wouldn’t be an orphan, Em,’ I berated her gently. ‘Even if she died. There’s still Dad. Orphans lose both parents. And I’m not sure, but I think you actually have to be a kid to be an orphan. Technically.’ She looked mutinous as I considered this issue for a moment. ‘Or maybe not. I’m not sure. But you definitely need two dead parents. Not just one.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ she burst out. ‘Ms Fucking Comforting. Thanks for that.’
I wasn’t annoyed with her for being so rude. I was just glad to have her back.
‘It’s Dr Fucking Comforting to you, Ms St James,’ I corrected her. She smiled, but I noticed she still looked pretty distracted. I sensed there was something else. ‘What is it, honey?’ I probed.
Again, Emmy looked uncertain. Then she seemed to resolve something in her mind, and she took my hand.
‘Loll,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you think I’m a good person?’
Oh dear. That was a hard one. What do I say, Emmy? I mean, I know you are a good person. You’re loyal, and so smart, and you do great things in the world with all your money. And you care for me so well. But you’re also pretty heartless, and really tactless, and very, very bad tempered. But I guess that stuff isn’t as important as the other stuff.
I decided to go for some middle ground.
‘You’re mine. I don’t care whether you’re a good person or not. I don’t even know what a good person is anymore. I’d have slept with a mean old judge today if it would have kept me out of prison. Luckily, I didn’t have to.’
The next thing she said surprised the hell out of me. ‘I think I’m having an affair.’
Remember when I said you could never play ‘guess what?’ with Emmy, because you would never, ever be able to guess accurately? Well here’s proof. I would never have guessed that she was going to say that in a million years. She and Peter seemed to adore each other. And he is so nice, and so handsome, and so far from annoying or boring or stupid. My brain fuzzed and buzzed..
‘But…Peter?’ I raised a hand then dropped it. ‘Don’t you love him anymore?’
‘What?’ She looked shocked. ‘Of course I do.’ She started quietly considering her fingernails. I waited for her to speak, but she didn’t.
‘Um, Em, what do you mean, you think you’re having an affair?’
‘Well,’ she explained. ‘I’m not sure if it counts over email.’
I felt a surge of pure relief course through me. So it was an Internet thing.
‘Oh,’ I sighed. ‘Don’t worry about that. Heaps of people do it. It’s not real life. It’s just…fantasy.’
Her head lifted up at this, and her eyes looked brighter. ‘Really?’
‘Sure,’ I confirmed. ‘Who is it?’
‘We-ell…’ She looked like she was groping for words.
Curiouser and curiouser.
‘It’s sort of a…fan.’
Oooh. Ick. That’s weird Kind of self-important, even for Emmy.
‘Oh,’ I stammered. ‘A man, yeah?’
‘Yes of course,’ she clucked impatiently. ‘You know I’m not into women.’ A pause. ‘Well, not since Sally Hooper at college, but oral sex doesn’t count… Anyway…’
After her initial uncertainty, I could tell she was now eager to have the story out.
‘It’s hard to explain. He’s…Japanese.’
‘You met him on one of your promotional trips?’ I prompted.
‘No. I’ve never met him.’
‘Oh. But he’s a romance fiction fan, yep?’ I was trying to help.
‘Yep. And a…fisherman.’
‘A fisherman?’ Weird.
‘Well, technically a master mariner. But, you know, on fishing boats.’
‘Right, so, he contacted you and...’
‘Look, he’s from an old samurai family. He loves the books. He thinks he’s in love with me. It’s…kind of flattering.’
‘You need more flattering?’ I was flabbergasted. The world adores Alyssa St James and she’s getting off on being loved by some stinky fisherman?
‘It’s hard to explain, like I said. He’s…formal. Shy. It’s like…courtly love.’
‘Courtly?’ What the hell was going on? ‘But Peter’s courtly.’
‘No, he’s not. He might be nice, but he’s still American. This is different. I’m different, with him.’
‘With him? You’re not with him.’
‘Well, you know, talking to him. On the...computer.’
‘Huh.’
What to say next?
‘Look, I know it sounds weird.’ Emmy was defensive now.
Damn straight it sounds weird.
‘I’m nice with him. I’m…genteel.’
I put my hand in front of my mouth. ‘Genteel? Hang on, did you grow a chastity belt while I wasn’t looking?’
‘Don’t laugh, Loll,’ she berated me. ‘I think I’m in love with Kenzo.’
‘Kenzo?’ I quizzed.
‘It’s an old samurai name. I actually don’t know his real name. But he’s really into the whole honor and samurai thing.’
We were straying from the point. ‘Look, you don’t love him. No one loves anyone on the Internet. They don’t even know each other. “Alyssa” and “Kenzo” don’t even know each other’s real names, for God’s sake.’
‘Actually, he still calls me Ms St James.’
‘Really?’ I was puzzled.‘How long have you been chatting with him?’
‘Two years.’ She went a little pink and I caught my breath. I had never, ever seen Emmy blush.
‘Two years? And he still calls you Ms St James?’ I patted her hair. ‘I hate to break this to you, Em, but at that rate if you ever actually meet this guy he’s not going to actually kiss you ’til you’re like ninety years old, and you’re not going to be looking so good by then.’
‘It’s not like that, you sicko,’ she exploded. ‘Like I said, it’s courtly love, for God’s sake. Fuck me, lucky one of us knows how to be genteel.’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘You’re so genteel. I feel like Jane Austen just listening to you.’
I could tell she was about to storm off, and I felt a pang of remorse. It was such a lovely party, and this was all so silly and unnecessary.
‘Look, Emmy,’ I took her hand again and tried to reassure her. ‘It’s okay. Enjoy it. He’s obviously in no hurry. You don’t need to do anything about this. It’s a bit of fun. Enjoy it. Enjoy him. Enjoy being…genteel.’
I tugged on her hand and nodded towards the door. ‘But tonight,’ I suggested, ‘You should be far from genteel. You are at a party. You have guests. Go get messy.’
Emmy considered all of this for a moment and then nodded her head in agreement and used our joined hands to drag me to the door.
‘Yeah, you’re right. Come on, babe. The best bit’s still to come.’
Two hours later, the party was going strong. Steve was regaling everyone with Super Sperm stories, and I was indulging in even more of Emmy’s first class wine. I hadn’t kissed Ralph again, as two more courses had been served and demolished, although I suspected he was gearing up for Round Two. But something was starting to feel wrong. I think it was the alcohol. I was starting to feel tired and a bit maudlin. Echoes of the conversations with Heidi and Wayne, and with Mom and Dad, kept spinning across my subconscious.
I’ve achieved nothing I’ve achieved nothing I’ve achieved nothing.
It felt like the world was shifting. Wayne reappearing from nowhere like some specter I can’t shake — and maybe didn’t want to — Mom getting sick, court. It was all making me think more than I normally do about what I should be doing, about the point of it all. And about Eve. What will I tell her I did to make the world better? I kept thinking about the great line of Brecht’s:
In days to come, they will not say “the times were dark”,
But “why were the poets silent?”
Emmy looked over at me mid-sentence and seemed to sens
e my distress. She quickly changed tack, spinning away from Heidi, with whom she’d been exchanging charity ball horror stories, and launching herself upright as she grabbed the nearest crystal champagne flute and banged it with perilous abandon with her silver dessert spoon.
‘Attention, everyone’ she barked. ‘We now come to the ceremonial part of the proceedings. Lola.’ She inclined her head at me. ‘In preparation for this evening, everyone was asked to nominate their favorite Lola memory, with the winner — of a bottle of my finest French champagne — to be chosen by an eminent person — me — in accordance with criteria that are none of anyone’s business except my own. Now, although they could not be here, Vera and Esteban also participated, as did Mom and Dad.’
With a flourish, Emmy brandished an envelope from somewhere beside her. What a strange development. Emmy has always had a taste for the theatrical, and I guessed she had sensed that I was feeling adrift, and a bit of a failure. I suddenly wished I’d been nicer when she’d asked me if I thought she was a good person.
Now, I know many people who can’t bear having embarrassing attention drawn to them, and hate any kind of public affection or attention.
I am not one of those people.
What would the best memory be? Who would win? Probably Vera, I decided. Or Mom. Or Emmy, of course. The women in my family all have an incredible way with words. But then, Heidi can also be a bit of a surprise at times, and she has an unexpected competitive streak.
‘Drumroll please,’ Emmy commanded.
In anyone else’s house, this would be the cue for the assembled company to drum their fingers dramatically on the table top, but not here. Instead, Peter dutifully and discreetly pressed on some tiny little sliver of a remote control and the dramatic tones of classical kettle drums reverberated through the dining area.