The Bikini Prophecy - Part One

by Matt Kyler

  I was blue jeans, angular and rough around the edges. I owned a 4X4, some earth-builder magazines, a pair of work boots and a music collection composed equal parts of country and heavy metal. Claire, by contrast, was shy, attractive and soft of skin. She owned a bus pass, some Paulo Coelho books, a pair of Doc Martens and two ears that belonged to The Pixies. Even a blind man wearing a welder’s mask in a cave could see we had little in common besides a share-house advert and a desperate need to split the rent. And so, like a shotgun wedding, a type of forced engagement was set.

  Thankfully, what could have been an awkward union proved to be heaven-sent. Claire was easy-going, wicked smart and full of wit. Kinda like one of those free-spirited characters clever people write into children’s books; the adventurous heroine with ‘girl next door’ looks. Someone who was a believer of truth, justice and the power of good. For example, when charity knocked, Claire didn’t hide like me … she stood.

  In short, Claire was everything I wasn’t - brave, bright, benevolent. Which sure as hell wasn’t my type. I was drawn to superficial stuff. I needed a supermodel, a pop princess or a movie star type. A trophy addition for my insecure life.

  Claire wasn’t that girl.

  She was too real, too level-headed and too nice. The product of measured parents who had graduated from farm to university. I was the opposite. I was scattershot, pig-headed and restless. A product of working-class parents who did it tough. Or so I told Claire. In truth, our mining town lifestyle was short on luxury but brimming with priceless adventure.

  But despite our different backgrounds we did have one thing in common: Claire and I both loved movies. And once that dialogue started, the story of us began to write itself.

  At first, we teamed up as popcorn partners, planning our spare time around cheap cinemas and concession discounts. Like film nerds, we rolled in after the ads but sat through the end credits. We had a two-film-a-week addiction. And when we were both too poor to satisfy that habit we got our shared movie hit at home. Then it was shared news bulletins, cartoons, documentaries, even M.A.S.H. reruns. We sat wide-eyed through elections, natural disasters and civil wars. And when we tired of that we sought an intermission in sharing whatever the hell was on our respective minds.

  Life felt good.

  Claire was stimulating and fun. And each day became filled with accidentally-on-purpose touches, practical jokes and plain good times. Day by day we shared more and more of ourselves, until one night we shared so much that we awkwardly became one. And in that instant, I felt our spartan share-house turn into a comfortable abode. One newly furnished with desperate hands, shared dreams, candlelit baths and late night condom runs.

  It was a first-class relationship. But then the turbulence began. The storms hit. And we veered off course. And eventually, after several years of see-sawing dependancy, Claire and I grew to love and loathe each other and ourselves. Insecurities arrived. Uncertainty rose. And our romantic comedy turned into a convoluted melodrama with zero box-office appeal.

  Playful montages of tickle torture at night gave way to cheap shots during pointless fights. Scenes of kitchen kisses evaporated into heated exchanges that simmered for days. Even light-hearted sex scenes were edited. Cutting all the giggling, backseat, sweaty, outdoor, failed-tantric and self-filmed moments of connection and replacing them with occasional entanglements that left an overwhelming disconnection of self. Praise was replaced with criticism and fact became friction, until, finally, our union became a dysfunctional wedding of circumstance with all the negatives of marriage and few of the benefits. At times, the fraying of civility became so much a part of our old house that (and let me paint a try-hard metaphor here) even the seemingly sturdy surfaces surrounding us hid layers of veneer that slowly lost their bonds with each passing week.

  I can still see us falling apart at the seams in that house. Claire mid-meltdown on the other side of the kitchen while I refuse to give an inch.

  “God, why am I so dependent on you?” she shouts. “This is not who I am. Look at me. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

  Cue Mr. Sensitivity. “So what the fuck do you want me to do, Claire?”

  Her eyes are scarlet rimmed. “Just make a decision,” she begs. “So I know where I stand. I can’t live like this anymore. I need to move on.”

  “Are you seriously going to go over this again?”

  “Just tell me if we’re together or not.”

  “I told you it’s not that simple.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Jesus Christ! Would you give me a break? I’m not even focused on us or you. I’m just trying to get my own shit together.” A familiar look of hurt appears on her face. It immediately fills me with disdain. “God, I hate this shit. How many times do we have to go over this?”

  “Go over what? Tell me what this even is? It’s obviously not a relationship because you control every part of it. One minute you say we’re not right for each other. Then you say you still love me.”

  “You know what, I’m not having this conversation right now because it just turns into the usual repetitive crap.” I open the fridge door and scan the seemingly empty shelves. I’ve already eaten the comfort food. There’s just ‘good’ food left. Which is the last thing I want to be fed.

  “Well, I’m having this conversation right now.”

  I turn to face her. “Look, I can’t give you what you want. I can’t even find what I want.” I slam the fridge door. “I need more than this, okay? If I don’t focus on getting to the next level, I’m screwed. I’ll just be like every other prick out there.”

  “Why does it have to be something you do alone?”

  “Because I’ll never make it otherwise. I need focus, not distraction. That’s why people fail all the time.”

  She shakes her head. “I just want to know where I stand in your life.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Enough, okay…,” I shout. “Enough!” My exasperated warning shot quietens Claire but I note her look of determination. “Fuck this shit … I gotta get a new life.”

  “So what’s stopping you? I never said you have to stay with me.”

  I glare at her incredulously. “What’s stopping me? Are you serious? Everything is stopping me. I’m stopping me. You’re stopping me. Having no money is stop—”

  “I AM NOT STOPPING YOU,” she yells. “When have I ever stopped you doing anything? WHEN?! Name one single time?”

  “Forget it,” I say, already plotting my escape from the kitchen. “I’m outta here.”

  Claire pre-empts my retreat. “Good,” she says, before storming into the lounge room.

  I give her five paces. “You know what I really want?” I bellow.

  “I don’t care,” she says dismissively.

  “Exactly. Because you never listen to anything I say.”

  Claire stops, turns on her heels. Her face is red with rage.

  “My whole life revolves around listening to you, Matt,” she says. Her voice is guttural and full of hate. “I listen to your problems every single day. And then I tip-toe around you because I don’t know if you’re happy or angry or depressed or if I’m going to be frozen out because something isn’t going your way. But you don’t see any of that because you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Okay, then tell me why you’re even with me? Go on. You obviously don’t like me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Tell me one thing you actually like about me? There’s nothing, because you question every single thing I do.”

  “I never question anything you do … unless you’re doing something stupid.”

  She throws her hands in the air. “See?! You hate everything I do. You hate the plants I buy. The music I listen to. The way I shelve my books. You hate going out with me. You hate staying home. You hate all my frie
nds. You even hate your friends! You’re never satisfied. You hate everything.” She pauses to compose herself. “Including me.”

  “You still don’t fucking get it, do you? I don’t hate you. I hate myself. Do you understand? I fucking loathe me, Claire. Do you think I like being like this? Being some loser who’s done nothing with his life.” A flicker of understanding crosses Claire’s face. “I can’t keep living like this. And I’m not going to. End of story.”

  I try to walk away.

  “So you’re not living your dream. Name one person who is?”

  “Claire, I don’t give a shit how everyone else lives. I don’t want to be like everyone. If you want to be stuck in some crappy job paying off a 30-year mortgage—”

  “Have I ever said I wanted that?”

  “Well, neither of us is doing much to change it. Or are you happy with this…?” I wave my arms around the room. “Because, you know what, I’m not. I hate everything about our life. Every-fucking-thing.”

  I wait for the counter-attack.

  “Even me?” she murmurs.

  The words instantly disarm me. Reluctantly, I look into her damp eyes. Countless emotions flicker across each lens. They belong to the movie of us. But it’s the version without the happy ending.

  I sigh. “I just want more than this.”

  “Don’t you think I want more than this?”

  We’ve been here before. It’s the replay of a tiresome drama that we’ll both apologise for later - her far more than me because she loves me like no other. I love her too. More than she’ll ever believe. But I can’t give her what she needs. I can’t give her ‘me’.

  “I need to find some success.”

  “Then leave,” she says.

  Of course, I didn’t leave right away. Because despite everything said, I’m a man. And men like me don’t actually want complete freedom. We want freedom with a life-line; one that leads back to a strong woman hanging on with fragile hope. We want the promise of casual sex, endless ego-stroking and an understanding ear in our hour of need. What we don’t want is a closed door. In other words, we want everything except commitment and responsibility.

  Eventually, the icy stand-offs between Claire and I would thaw. Then the inevitable soul searching would arrive. Followed by the usual prescription relationship cure-all of frenzied make-up sex. And amid the numbness and euphoria of that particular drug we would fuck ourselves just that little bit more by believing that everything in our dysfunctional little universe was fine.

  But everything wasn’t fine.

  And after a few years of push and pull, Claire and I finally confronted the prospect of terminating everything that was the sum of us. To walk away and start our lives over.

  Of course, barely weeks after doing just that, I wanted Claire back.

  By that time, I was house-sitting for my vacationing grandparents. I was lost, confused and unable to express myself. So as an escape, I began to write. The words came fast. Their flow interrupted only by food, sleep and the occasional visit from Claire.

  At first, I welcomed her arrival reluctantly. I was desperate to see her but terrified to be drawn back into our recent past. But something had changed in Claire. She appeared more confident. Her laughter came easy and all the tiresome insecurities and endless apologies had vanished. Somehow she had been reborn or reinvented, right down to a new hair style that exposed a more relaxed brow. Despite the extreme trim suggesting a cut from dependence to me, it—and everything else about her—had an intoxicating effect. She reminded me of the old Claire. The one I’d fallen in love with.

  Suddenly, I wanted her back.

  So I told her what she wanted to hear, and what I wanted to believe. And during the next few months, we slept with each other whenever we could. Each encounter more passionate and desperate than the last, as if we were both addicts who had been deprived of our destructive drug of choice - each other.

  But it wasn’t enough. Because when it came down to it, life with Claire was too big for me. Commitment was primarily the domain of grown-ups. And despite my masculine bravado, I had no understanding of how to function in that world. But nor did I have any idea how to survive in a world without Claire. The only thing clear to me was that I needed someone in my life. Maybe even Claire. And maybe I needed love more than money or sex or the thing I was about to get.

  Success.

  UPRIGHT: Success! Shine on … you crazy annoying asshole.

  REVERSED: Remember Icarus? Easily burnt hubris.

  I sold a television show.

  Or, more correctly, I sold the ‘exclusive rights’ to a TV network. It may not have been other people’s idea of success, but for me, it was a step towards fame and fortune.

  Of course, prior to this, I’d never actually done anything that suggested I could be a success at anything. And certainly not as a writer. Sure, I’d scrawled the usual self-indulgent rubbish during adolescent years; rock ballads, love poems and suicide letters. All of which were tragic and comical in their own right … but not exactly prime-time ratings winner material. But how hard could this writing shit be?

  According to the experts, all you had to do was find a story, add some drama, a few laughs, and chuck in some crap about stuff you knew.

  So with that in mind, I bashed out a television show about a once headstrong woman slowly losing her identity and a brooding male unable to find purchase in the big bad world. Once done, I hit ‘print’ and mailed the pages to a dozen production companies. Then I sat back and waited for my genius to be recognised.

  I naively assumed that would happen overnight. Trusted sources said it would never happen. Thankfully, fate intervened and my ramblings mistakenly landed on a TV executive’s desk during an office relocation. One week later, opportunity knocked or, in this case, called.

  I picked up the phone.

  On the other end was Bryan, one of the creative minds behind Australia’s largest commercial television network. We got chatting. Bryan was friendly. Narcissistic but self-deprecating. Entertaining but earnest. Alpha Male but … not. I liked him immediately. Especially when he humbly praised my writing after listening to me arrogantly trash a dozen iconic Australian TV shows. Iconic shows, I would soon discover, that had one common thread: they’d been created by Bryan.

  Now diplomacy and tact are not strong points of mine. Nor common sense for that matter. So when Bryan called again I was terrified I’d blown my only chance of success. Thankfully, the guy threw a lifeline instead.

  “We’re working on a new series,” he said. “And I think your voice would be perfect.” I held my breath. “What I need is a country voice. Insight into the average straight male.”

  My confusion was instantaneous. Average straight male. Did this mean Bryan was gay?

  “Are you in a relationship?” he probed.

  “Umm… newly single,” I stammered.

  “Amicable?”

  “Yeah,” I lied, still unsure if Claire and I were just friends … or fuck buddies … or something more … or less.

  “So how would you feel about relocating to Sydney? Would that be a problem?”

  “No problem at all,” I replied quickly.

  “Excellent. Then the next step is to fly you down to meet the rest of the creative team. Bernard’s a sweetheart,” said Bryan. “And Emma’s gorgeous.” Then he added three prophetic little words:

  “You’ll love her.”

  UPRIGHT: A new hope to cling to. A guiding light!

  REVERSED: A future of obstacles and discouragement.

  But Emma wasn’t gorgeous.

  Well, not in a supermodel way. She lacked the flawless, tanned skin that belonged to the femmes of fitness and fashion. But she wasn’t unattractive either. It’s just that I expected someone tall, confident and in a permanent state of undress. Instead, I was introduced to a short, shy woman, who, upon meeting me, seemed equally unimpressed.

  It was the first day of work and we had gathered at Bryan’s inner-city apartment
for an informal meet and greet. I was nervous, scared and felt way out of my depth. And with good reason. Because three of the people present had produced a thousand episodes of prime-time TV, while I’d created a grand total of absolutely none. So to compensate, I faked confidence and pretended I knew… well, everything.

  In contrast, Emma was tight-lipped. And when she did speak, it was measured, with the trace of a lisp. The impediment gave her an insecurity she couldn’t disguise. And it made me imagine a childhood of her being shunned in the playground while longing to fit in. It was a thought that made me want to hold her, console her, protect her. But my feelings, as always, were premature. Because at the first hint of humour, the self-conscious spell broke and Emma laughed out loud like a fucking loon! It was an uncontrollable, child-like guffaw that instantly stole my heart. And before I knew it, I was off with the fairies and tragically distracted by one of those moments where I silently size up women with some crazy compatibility checklist to see if she’s ‘The One’:

  a)Morning person or a night owl?

  b)Church or beach wedding?

  c)TV or books?

  d)Conservative or progressive?

  e)Compassionate human or intolerant nut-job?

  It was far from the kind of behaviour that makes for a good first impression.

  “I’m impressed,” says Emma. It’s post-meeting and we’re waiting for Bryan in the foyer. “You actually wore a baseball cap on your first day of work!”

  I shift uncomfortably and search her face for any trace of sarcasm. Thankfully, there is none, which is surprising since it suddenly dawns on me that wearing a baseball cap on the first day of my dream career is an impressively stupid thing to do.

  To shield my embarrassment, I glance at the man standing alongside Emma, which doesn’t help, because in stark contrast to me, our co-worker, Bernard, is actually properly dressed for work - albeit as a middle-aged shop mannequin modelling corduroy trousers, wool sweater and other menswear items that are usually favoured by retired accountants.