by Judy Nunn
In the ten minutes that she’d been gone, Simon had somehow managed to put the entire room back in order. Table and chairs were righted and the tablecloth returned to its place, a broken glass was swept up, handbag contents were returned. He was picking up the doona from the floor and about to make the bed when Vicky came back.
‘Borrowed your toothpaste, hope you don’t mind,’ he said, dumping the doona on a chair. ‘Hey, you don’t have a bathroom here.’ His movements were frenetic and his voice was brittle as he desperately tried to avoid meeting her eyes.
‘No, it’s down the hall.’
‘Down the hall.’ Something flashed in Simon’s brain, something about running down the hall. He willed it away, refusing to recognise it.
‘Bit archaic, isn’t it?’ He picked up the bed sheet which Vicky had dragged to the floor when she fell. There was another flash as he stared at the sheet in horror. ‘There’s blood on this.’
He couldn’t will the flash away this time. It wasn’t an image so much as a feeling of violence. Something awful had happened. He didn’t want to think about it. Get out of my head! But it wouldn’t. Violence, it kept flashing. Violence.
‘Don’t worry.’ Vicky shrugged at the bloodied sheet. ‘I wasn’t a virgin.’
He looked at her for the first time and Vicky was shocked by the expression on his face. She’d never seen such agony.
‘It was just … ’ she tried to give a nonchalant smile but winced as her lip cracked. She gave it a gentle tap with her finger. ‘Just the lip, that’s all.’
Simon kept staring at her. Then, without a murmur, he fell to his knees, his eyes still fixed on Vicky’s face. Her poor battered face which he was seeing now for the first time. And the flashes started again.
Flash. He could feel his teeth grinding into her lip. Flash. He saw the back of his hand smashing against the side of her face. Flash. He felt the texture of her hair as it ripped away from her scalp.
‘No! No!’ But no matter how hard he tried, the flashes wouldn’t go away. He buried his head in his hands.
Vicky watched him for nearly a minute as he rocked backward and forward on his knees, whimpering like a frightened animal. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. She knelt beside him. ‘Simon, stop it! I said, stop it, do you hear me?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he moaned.
‘I’m OK,’ Vicky reassured him. ‘Really. I’m tough — I’ll get over it.’ Gradually, the whimpers subsided but he kept his head buried in his hands. ‘You need help, though, Simon. You know that, don’t you?’
He allowed her to take his hands away from his face. Tears were coursing down both cheeks as he looked back at her. Then he averted his eyes.
‘You know that, don’t you?’ she insisted.
‘What did I do?’ His voice was barely a whisper.
‘You name it. Just about everything.’
‘I didn’t … ’ He couldn’t bring himself to say it and the pain in his eyes was intense, begging a denial.
What the hell, Vicky thought, he’d raped her and he deserved to know. ‘Yes. That too.’
For a moment he looked as if he were going to break down again but he didn’t. He took several deep breaths, fighting for control, and when he finally spoke, his voice was distant, emotionless. ‘I don’t remember it.’
‘I know.’
‘I remember The Gap. I remember what we talked about. And we kissed.’ He put out his hand and touched the bruised cheek. ‘And you asked me back here.’ She nodded. He touched the broken lip so gently she could barely feel it. ‘And I —’ he broke off. ‘That’s all. That’s all I remember.’
Even the flashes had left him now and Simon felt empty. Riddled with guilt and remorse for what he knew he must have done, but empty. There was no way to make amends, but Simon wanted to talk. He wanted to tell Vicky the truth.
‘I’ve been spying on you for the past two weeks. Planning on how to get you into bed. Bumping into you this morning wasn’t an accident — I’d decided today was the day it was going to happen.’
Vicky didn’t dare move for fear of breaking the flow.
‘I’ve wanted to sleep with you from the moment I first met you,’ Simon continued. ‘But I never meant … It was a game. Just a game. I was so crazy about you I don’t think I even expected it to come off but I was getting a real buzz out of just planning it. Then, last night … ’ He paused. ‘Last night was magic, everything was magic. The dancing, the laughing, the eating and drinking. And then we were at The Gap and we were talking and that was the best part of all. And when we kissed and I knew you wanted me too … ’ As he turned to her his face was aglow with the memory. ‘It wasn’t a game any more. I loved you, Vicky. I loved you more than I thought I was capable of loving anyone.’ The pain returned, he looked away again. ‘And that’s all I remember.’
Vicky took his hand in hers and he held it tightly as if it were a lifeline.
‘I swear if there was any way I could undo what’s happened, if there was anything I could … ’
‘There is,’ Vicky interrupted. ‘Get off the drugs. Go to a clinic, Simon — sign yourself in, get help, you need —’
‘Anybody home?’ There was a tap on the door and Greg peered in.
The noise startled Simon and he gripped Vicky’s hand so hard it hurt.
‘Come in,’ she said.
Greg pushed the door open to reveal Jim standing beside him.
‘Hello, Jim.’ Vicky stood up, still holding Simon’s hand and Simon struggled to his feet beside her.
‘My God! What’s he done to you?’ Greg stared at her, horrified.
‘I thought you were coming on your own,’ she hissed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Vicky.’ Jim took over. ‘Let’s get you to a doctor, then we’ll —’
‘No.’ Jim had made as if to usher her to the door but Vicky pulled away, still holding onto Simon’s hand. Jim and Greg exchanged puzzled glances.
‘What the hell’s going on here?’ Greg demanded. ‘You said he’s a junkie and he turned on you and now —’
Simon interrupted before Vicky could reply. ‘I am and I did.’
There was an appalled silence as they all turned to look at Simon. He glanced briefly at them then looked down at the floor.
‘But I didn’t … didn’t … didn’t … ’
The veins in Simon’s neck stood out in dark ridges and his face was flushed. He was gagging on the words.
‘Simon.’ She squeezed his hand but he shook her off and clenched his fists tightly as he forced the words out. ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’
‘Do what?’ Jim demanded threateningly.
‘Nothing.’ Vicky jumped in again. ‘He freaked out a bit and we had a fight and he landed a punch, that’s all.’
Simon was still staring at the floor, breathing heavily as he fought to maintain control.
‘You’re a bastard, Rothwell. We should take you straight to the police.’
‘Greg, listen,’ Vicky begged. ‘He knows he’s got a problem and he wants to sign himself in for treatment.’ Greg and Jim looked uncertainly at each other. ‘He does. Honest! Don’t you, Simon?’
Simon nodded at the carpet.
‘So, if we took you to the Drug Centre now you’d let them start you on a programme, book you into a clinic?’ Jim asked.
Simon raised his head and looked at Vicky. His voice was steady and he was in control. But only just. ‘I’ll do whatever Vicky wants me to do.’
One good thing about living in Darlinghurst, Vicky thought three hours later as she eased her aching spine on the hard wooden bench, you were right next door to the inner-city Drug Rehabilitation Centre.
Even on a Sunday; or maybe especially on a Sunday — Vicky was too tired to wonder about it for long. The Centre was busy. They’d waited two hours for a doctor. Simon’s examination and interview had taken forty minutes and now they were waiting while arrangements were being made to book him into a private
clinic.
When they’d first arrived at the Centre, everyone in the waiting room had recognised them. It didn’t look as if it would present any problems though. In fact the addicts and their accompanying families recognised Simon’s obvious symptoms and kept their distance. Some family members even smiled sympathetically, as if to say, ‘We’ve all got our problems, good luck.’
Then the receptionist entered from the surgery, took one look at Greg, shrieked, and demanded an autograph. Grabbing him by the elbow, she dragged him to the counter and thrust a pen in his hand. Jim tried to interrupt but there was no distracting her. Greg shrugged, signed as quickly as he could then called her attention to Simon. ‘We’d like to see the doctor —’
Another shriek as the receptionist recognised Simon and he too was dragged to the counter and a pen thrust in his hand.
But Simon was rapidly going under. His hand dropped to his side, the pen clattered to the floor and he stared glassily at the receptionist.
She knew at once and her face clouded, first with disappointment, then disapproval. A ‘Glitter Game’ star and he was just another junkie! With a mild shake of her head she circled the reception counter and produced an enrolment form.
‘Name?’ The voice had its customary edge, its customary brittle, bored edge. Then she looked up momentarily and caught sight of Vicky standing to one side of the men.
‘Jodie!’ she shrieked. ‘You’re Jodie!’
‘And you’re a cunt,’ Vicky answered.
There was a stunned silence before the woman attempted to stammer a reply but Jim interrupted. ‘Just fill out the form … ’
‘Please,’ Greg added, glaring a warning at Vicky.
And now, as they waited for the receptionist to make the arrangements with the private clinic, the air was thick with disapproval. The receptionist couldn’t wait to tell everyone about her run-in with the stars. ‘Rude they are,’ she’d tell her friends. ‘Up themselves, all of them. And rude, very rude.’
The private clinic would cost, the doctor had told them. After all, Simon wasn’t a cot case. His type of drug control programme was normally conducted on an outpatients basis. But if he could afford the option, well … The doctor shrugged. The early withdrawal days were always handled more easily if the patient were kept well away from the source of supply.
‘That’s what he wants.’ Vicky jumped in without even referring to Simon. ‘The private treatment, special clinic — he can afford it.’
The doctor nodded dismissively. Bully for you, boy, he thought. He was tired. It had been a long shift.
It was agreed that the doctor would give Jim a medical report to the effect that Simon was undergoing treatment for a severe nervous disorder and would not be available for work till further medical notice.
It had taken every ounce of Vicky’s persuasive power to convince Jim that the channel need not know of Simon’s addiction.
‘What’s the point?’ she hissed, taking him aside. ‘It won’t make any difference whether they know or not.’
‘For God’s sake, Vicky, you don’t owe him anything.’
Vicky looked at Simon as he sat pathetically accepting his fate and she felt the weight of responsibility, knowing he’d abide by any rules she set. ‘Somebody owes him a chance.’
Jim eventually agreed and even he showed a touch of pity when Simon, who had arranged for the clinic fees to come via his parents, said in reply to the querying looks, ‘It’s OK, they won’t want to know what it’s for.’
Greg and Jim wouldn’t let Vicky go to the clinic with them.
‘There’s nothing more you can do, love,’ Greg insisted. ‘Look at him. He’s just about ready to pass out.’
Simon was indeed nodding off in the corner, his head jerking up intermittently to look around in bewilderment at the unfamiliar surroundings.
‘We’ll collect his gear and take him to the clinic after we’ve dropped you home.’
Simon was still half asleep during the drive home but he snapped awake as soon as Vicky got out of the car. ‘Will you come and see me?’
Vicky was sore, tired and emotionally drained. She suddenly wanted to cry. Tomorrow she’d feel fine, she knew, but what about Simon? How would he feel tomorrow?
‘Will you?’ The eyes pleaded.
‘Yes.’
Greg got out of the car and took her arm.
‘No, don’t come up with me.’ He looked as if he was going to insist but Vicky was too tired to argue. ‘I don’t want you to.’
‘OK.’ He gave her a soft peck on her unbruised cheek. ‘Go straight to bed, you look bloody terrible.’
She smiled weakly and glanced at Simon before turning to go.
‘Promise?’ he whispered.
‘I promise.’
As Vicky lay back in the tub groaning with relief at the soothing effect of the hot water on her aching body, Narelle was leaning back in another tub only a few kilometres away. She was also groaning but not in pain. She was in the throes of ecstasy.
With a final glorious shriek, she disappeared beneath the bubbles to re-emerge spluttering and giggling with delight. ‘Oh, that was heaven, Darren. Absolute heaven!’ She tugged at the head immersed between her thighs and Darren rose from the froth and foam, breathing heavily. ‘My turn, my turn, lie back,’ she squealed.
Darren did, and Narelle’s head disappeared from view.
With a playful smile, Darren turned the jacuzzi on. ‘That’ll teach you!’ he called down to her.
But it didn’t. Narelle soldiered on, paying no heed to the roaring in her ears and the jets of water forcing her upwards. She locked her elbows against the sides of the jacuzzi and refused to give in until Darren’s erection forced him to admit defeat. He hauled her to the surface and kissed her deeply. This would make the fourth time in two hours. I’m forty-three years old, Darren thought, that’s impossible. But it wasn’t.
Narelle had been to the dentist on Friday. She didn’t have a filling in her head but Charmane had always insisted she have six monthly checkups and, since her mother’s death, Narelle had continued the practice.
It was the same surgery that Charmane had booked her into when they first moved from Strawberry Hills. It was only five minutes from their new harbourside flat and had even better water views, she told Narelle. Charmane reasoned that if a dentist had water views he had to be good.
It was immaterial whether old Mr Potger was a good dentist or not as even the occasional cleaning treatment of Narelle’s mouth was a token gesture. In fact treatment was so unnecessary that Mr Potger rarely charged her, preferring to sit and chat instead.
When Narelle turned up for her appointment, she had no idea that old Mr Potger had died three months before. Notification cards had gone to regular patients, not only informing them of Mr Potger’s death but extolling the virtues of the dentist taking over the practice. Why not? It was the least Ethel Potger could do — she’d got a damn good price for the Double Bay practice. Ethel, twenty years Mr Potger’s junior, had really only married him to be a dentist’s wife and a Double Bay one at that. She instructed the secretary to send the notifications to $1,000 and over patients. Ethel figured that setting the criteria at a moderate amount would cover not only worthwhile clients with chronic decay and cosmetic obsessions, but also the old faithfuls who’d been treated by Mr Potger on a regular basis.
The monetary qualification meant that Narelle, who’d been seeing old Mr Potger twice a year for five years, didn’t receive a notification.
‘Hello, I’m Darren Farrell.’
‘Where’s Mr Potger?’ Narelle asked the beautiful looking man in the white coat. How lovely that old Mr Potger was employing male nurses, she thought. Very modern of him too.
‘Mr Potger died three months ago. I’m your new dentist.’
From that moment on it was impossible for Darren to attempt an examination of Narelle’s teeth. She was crying so much that every time he tried to open her mouth she started to gag.
‘
Poor old Mr Potger. Why him? What did he ever do to anyone?’ Narelle sobbed.
‘He was seventy,’ Darren tried to point out, but it didn’t make any difference.
‘Exactly. How could he do any harm? Why him?’
Darren decided that she was in shock and instructed the nurse to call Narelle’s home and tell someone to come and collect her. He was heavily involved in fitting a complicated piece of bridgework when the nurse informed him Narelle had no family.
‘Put her in the waiting room and give her a coffee,’ he barked.
Thirty minutes later, Darren bumped into Narelle on his way to buy a sandwich for lunch. She looked very subdued.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’ he asked, confused.
‘I’m sorry for making such a fuss. It was just the shock.’
‘Of course, don’t worry,’ he smiled. ‘But why the thank you?’
‘Your nurse got me four cups of coffee. She was very nice.’
There was not a shred of accusation in her voice but Darren felt riddled with guilt nonetheless. ‘Have you had lunch?’ he asked.
That was how it started and two days later there they were, still in the flat above the surgery with the harbour views that Charmane would have killed for.
Darren was yet another in the endless stream of men who’d never met anyone quite like Narelle. But there was one big difference. Narelle had never met anyone quite like Darren.
Life had been easy for Darren. He’d breezed through university on a scholarship, managed to captain the first grade rugby team and lead an extremely active social life without jeopardising his studies too disastrously. It meant that, instead of topping his year as he easily could have, he came in sixth. Darren figured it was a small price to pay.
Since then, nothing had really changed. An only child, his doting middle class parents had set him up in his own practice and he’d been a successful dentist for nearly twenty years.