I did as I was told, because my head hurt, my throat was sore, I was scared she was going to leave me.
She came down with a fat garbage bag.
"Where's my keys?" she said. They were under the couch. She took off one key, laid it beside her coffee cup.
"I made you coffee," I said.
"I don't want it. I'm moving out," and she swept the fat bag over her shoulder and disappeared like magic.
Her car didn't start; it never did.
I watched her through the front window, pulled a chair up, sat and watched the show, drinking my coffee.
First, she threw her stuff in the back, banged her knee on the door, slamming it.
Then she got in, started it, already looking behind to see who was coming, as if she was going to be taking right off. She didn't. The car farted like a bottle of flat lemonade being opened, and she lay her head on the steering wheel. She got the horn, lifted her head. She cried. I could tell it from my front row seat. She got out, looked at the house. I waved. She stared. Lit a cigarette, staring. I got out of my chair, thinking, I'll go down there and we'll laugh about it.
I opened the front door. "Hey, good one," I said, and she threw her cigarette down, didn't stamp on it, ran next door to the Oakes'. They hate me because my tree overhangs and drops leaves. She banged on the door. They weren't home. I stood on the front step, now. She ran across the road to the Meyerfeldts'. They hate me because their dog eats my rubbish.
"You can call from here, Samantha," I called from the front door. "Or you can stay till tomorrow and I'll see if I can fix it again." Her body was ready for a star jump. I started to walk down the path; she ran to Jody Morris'. We were friends for a while but I ignore her, now.
"Don't go there, Samantha. She's a bitch."
She banged on the front door. It opened. She pushed in, slammed the door. A moment passed, then the curtains parted, and I became the show.
"Yeah, well, FUCK YOU TOO," I said. My throat killed. I went inside. Didn't watch the rest of the show.
Samantha ran straight to Peter to tell all. Her desire from the start. It turned out they worked very well together, and Samantha was so shit-hot with ideas he hired her to work in Public Affairs for him. She called herself PR, but it's like someone who takes ads over the phone for the classifieds saying they work in advertising. Maria was hurt. She liked to think she was the ideas gal. It was unpleasant for her to realise that she couldn't fulfil all of his needs. I didn't think Samantha would be very good for Peter's career; she had such a past. All her advice would be tempered with the cynicism of over-experience.
I pulled out the diary I'd found a hundred years before, fourteen years before, kept safe all this time. She hadn't gotten any further than writing the date up to March 12, and "Today I" on January 1st. And she'd written in the inside front cover, Diary Of The Artist Before She Got Famous By Samantha Cord. There was no year marked. The temptation was too, too much. She wasn't famous; she would never be famous. I would be more famous than her, if anyone ever dug up the back yard.
I found that writing in another hand was a genuine challenge. It made me feel like a different person. It made me feel like I could do anything, pretending to be Samantha as I wrote in her diary.
I picked up Samantha's diary and began to write.
Diary Of The Artist Before She Got
Famous By Samantha Cord
Jan 1. Thursday.
Today I decided to record my thoughts, because I cannot express them all to those around. Although my dear friend Steve is a trustworthy confidante and a worthy friend, she would not like to hear what I have to say. So it falls upon you, dear diary, to be my ears in my time of conflict.
Jan 2. Friday.
It is odd. I feel I need to speak formally to this formal, blank page, as if to speak in any other way would be to denigrate the activity. I speak so naturally in my day to day, so comfortably, and yet.
He likes my voice. Loves it, he says, but am I to believe that? I am not a complimentvirgin. Tonight, I cleaned out my bedside drawers before I went out.
Jan 3. Saturday.
Last night I ended up going to a party with old friends. I did not take my friend Steve because she finds their company dull. I must confess, their jokes are beginning to bore. Did not see him, but spoke to him on the phone this morning. His voice breaks my heart.
Jan 4. Sunday.
One more day until I see him.
Jan 5. Monday.
Work today. So much history in those two words. So much happiness. Work Today. He was there, he greeted me at the door. He had already put the coffee on. He told me his wife had scratched his face because he burnt the toast. I would cook his toast, butter it, eat it off his wonderful stomach.
Jan 6. Tuesday.
Rang Steve for lunch but she was busy. She's always off somewhere.
Jan 7. Wednesday.
His wife has her family night every Wednesday. Peter is excluded, because, as he tells me, as we laugh, his family is not good enough for hers. Moreover, he does not wish to go. He finds her family dull, insensitive and sleazy. He tells me he had to extricate Steve from the clutches of one of the MARRIED brothers. Truly disgusting. Peter has a surprising penis. For such a gentle man. It is all the more galling that he is called upon to be a considerate husband.
Jan 8. Thursday.
Last night was wonderful. I can't tell Steve. I know how she feels about her brother, and about me as well. I'm like a sister. So she thinks Pete's like my brother. He's not. He was for a while, he's not now. Maybe she could see how perfect we are for each other. He is the only one who ever came close to understanding me. He is very proud of his sexuality, though I sense he is kinda terrified, as well. Is there some secret in his past, some pain he can't share with me?
Jan 9. Friday.
Went out, drank too much. I'm afraid I find it difficult to keep a civil tongue sometimes. I'm not sure whom I offended last night. Must ask Steve.
Jan 10. Saturday.
I hate Saturdays because he's with his family, playing Daddy, playing Hubby, neither which sit well with him. I do my chores grudgingly.
Jan 11. Sunday.
Slept till 1pm, disgusted with myself for wasting the day.
Jan 12. Monday.
Work today.
Jan 13. Tuesday.
I wish I were sharing with Steve again. We were such good housemates, and I would see Peter whenever he visited her. I could even go on a visit with her to his place, see the evil Maria. See what his kids are like. They love Steve, so they can't be too bad.
Jan 14. Wednesday.
Glorious Wednesday. It has a whole new meaning now. It means love, satisfaction, music. Sometimes I try to remember when I first looked at Peter and loved him.
Jan 15. Thursday.
Peter does this wonderful thing where he acts out Maria's family dinners. He turned into Adrian, unzipped his jeans, pulled out his penis, said, "Ya want it? Ya want it?" and Maria's Dad, weak, saying, "Oh, yes, hello all, hello all, who wants some money?" And he did Maria, did a Gestapo march around the room. Hilarious. He confessed something rather sweet to me. He said that when they shared a home, he and Steve played a game. She tried to grab glimpses of his cock, he tried to reveal himself in subtle ways. We have begun playing the same game, and for a childish game I must admit it feels rather adult.
Jan 16. Friday.
Hectic at work – campaigning. Was telling Steve about it and she came up with a great idea. Peter knocked it back – sibling rivalry I guess.
Jan 17. Saturday.
I think I need a holiday. I just can't get out of bed. Can Peter do without me? I don't really want to know the answer.
Jan 18. Sunday.
Went to a housewarming, friends of Steve's. She's so good at keeping the mood high, I get quite sick with envy.
Jan 19. Monday.
Work today. Told Peter I needed a week off, next week. He just nodded. "You'll be fine here, then?" I said, because I've got a stack
of work. "If you need it, you need it," he said. I felt like I'd failed my own test.
Jan 20. Tuesday.
Long hours – there 7.30, left at 8. Wore me out, but that was a good quantity hit together. No fights and no tears. I think we'd live together easily.
Jan 21. Wednesday.
Peter brought food to my flat, and he made me act like a rag doll. He fed me, mouthful, mouthful, mouthful. I sipped rich wine from a glass held in his strong hand. He wiped away the drops with a soft cloth. "I'll miss you," he said. I almost gave in, but I needed him to miss me. It would be a good idea.
Jan 22. Thursday.
Two more days and I'm away for a week in the sun. My mum called to say happy birthday. I said, "It's not my birthday." She said, "Who's is it, then?" I said, "I don't know, Abraham Lincoln's?" "You don't say," she said. Sometimes I'm a big fan of dying young.
Jan 23. Friday.
Worked till ten, got a pizza, took it round to Stevie's. She was home, thank God. She said she'd collect my mail for the week.
Feb 1. Sunday.
Left my Goddamn diary at home. Had heaps of good thoughts and I can't remember a single one. Genius is so transient. Wanted to call Peter but didn't. I feel good. Men tried to pick me up. I slept, I ate, no one spoke a sensible word all week. My kind of town.
Feb 2. Monday.
Work today. He was there early to greet me, he had flowers and another present I wasn't to open till I got home. Omigod, underwear. Not quite a proposal of marriage, but it must have cost him.
Feb 3. Tuesday.
It's like I was never gone.
Feb 4. Wednesday.
Wore the underwear. When he hugs me, I nestle into the terrain of his body like lava.
Feb 5. Thursday.
Gave Steve a call. I really missed her company while I was away. Arranged dinner and dancing for Saturday.
Feb 6. Friday.
Stayed home. Really tired. Once a week isn't enough. We had a fight today. I wanted him to come over. He said Maria expected him. I said "Fuck Maria", very quietly, and he didn't ask me to repeat.
Feb 7. Saturday.
Slept in. Out with Steve tonight.
Feb 8. Sunday.
Great night last night, but I'm sick as a dog today. Never laugh as much as I do with Steve. Peter's no comedian. We were at this pub, there's dancing upstairs but we were having a drink downstairs. This guy comes up to us and says, "Hey, girls, what're you drinking?"
"Our own urine," Steve says. I laughed so much I spluttered in the guy's face, and he backed away, terrified.
Feb 9. Monday.
Work today. Peter looked tired around the eyes, so I asked him how he'd slept.
"You came to me in the night, didn't you?" he said. He pushed me into the kitchen and kissed me so deeply I could taste the afterdinner mint he'd eaten last night. He wants me to come to work with my thighs tied together.
Feb 10. Tuesday.
I hate Tuesdays. It's too far from Wednesday but just close enough. Went shopping, bought a pair of ski pants and a silk shirt.
Feb 11. Wednesday.
When he left I asked him when he could spend a whole night with me. I despise the wrench. He said he couldn't do it. Maria couldn't know. He said he's never deceived me on that. I said that's true but don't you love me. He said of course but love isn't enough. I couldn't sleep after he left. I'm going to be tired tomorrow.
Feb 12. Thursday.
Could barely function. He sent Maria roses. I think she must be a witch, to be so cruel and have such a hold over him.
Feb 13. Friday.
We had lunch together today. I had his full attention, his eyes didn't wander and he listened to every word I had to say. It was an opportunity I managed badly. I waffled and blurted out my feelings about Maria.
"I wish there was something I could do,"
he said. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps he is weaker than he appears. "She is so terrified of being alone. And of the dark. And the cold. And death."
I'm trying to remember if he placed any
emphasis on that last word, or if it was a sick wish within myself.
Feb 14. Saturday.
I can't get out of bed. I just haven't got any friends. I can't even eat. I don't like anyone. Except Steve. She calls me always at the right time. It's uncanny. She made me get up and we went for a drive. I wanted to take my duvet, but she insisted I sit up straight, breathe in the fresh air.
We sang childish songs and that made me laugh. I stayed at her place. We drank beer and watched horror movies. Not the most romantic Valentine's Day.
Feb 15. Sunday.
Called Peter. Maria answered. Hung up.
Feb 16. Monday.
Work today. Peter had black eyes again. Maria doesn't want him to spend so much time in the office. She thinks he should be out and about, pressing the flesh. She seems to imagine that's something simple.
Feb 17. Tuesday.
Couldn't get out of bed till noon. Rang work. They said take the week off. They said there wasn't much on. But of course there is. Peter wasn't there. "He and Maria are testing the waters," they told me.
Went to the doctor. I feel so tired.
Feb 19. Thursday.
I can't believe it. I missed our Wednesday. I've slept two days. The doctor put me to sleep. But he also gave me something to make me happy, not bouncy. I'll go see Steve on Saturday. She's always so invigorating.
Feb 21. Saturday.
By the time I arrived at Steve's for her birthday party, the world was wide awake and well into its day. Peter's car was there. The family version. They were having a good family day. I was happy from the doctor. I climbed out of my car and fell over. Neighbours stared. I walked up Steve's path, slowly, I watched my feet. When I reached the front door they were all there staring at me.
Feb 22. Sunday.
Phone rang last night. Didn't answer. Steve broke in to see if I was all right. I asked her for more pills to take but she denied. I called her a bad friend, told her to go.
Feb 23. Monday.
Work today. I managed to get a good
amount done, considering the in-tray I was presented with. I sat properly all day, worked very well. I didn't go to lunch. Peter did not come to work.
Feb 24. Tuesday.
Peter did not come to work today.
Feb 25. Wednesday.
Today is Wednesday. Peter arrived, as is his habit. I massaged his body, his muscles, his bones, I rubbed his body until he loved me again.
Afterwards he told me Maria was aware of our relationship and had asked him to call a halt. I was unwilling to call a halt. He said we still worked together very well. I said we should discuss this more. He said he would see me for one more Wednesday, and at work the next day.
Feb 26. Thursday.
Had a great day. A GREAT DAY. My mind seemed to click over. In a few hours. He left, last night, saying it was over, and I knew it was. I could go back to work. It was almost a relief.
Feb 27. Friday.
He wore my favourite blue shirt today. He
winked at me. "I'm not playing it cool," I said. "You were right."
"No, you were right," he said. "We're meant for each other," and he kissed me hard in the kitchen.
I went to another doctor.
Feb 28. Saturday.
He came over today. He told her he was going shopping. He said he hated her. I hate her too.
Mar 1. Sunday.
Hate. Hate.
Mar 2. Monday.
Work today. He was cool and calm, as if we had not discussed killing his wife. He says I mustn't tell anyone. I'll keep this diary until the night before, I've already written the days in, then I'll burn this book. It's been here, when I needed it. That's enough.
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