Hazel tried hard to remember what they’d learned in gender studies: that masculinity was a social construct that could always be deconstructed and then reconstructed for benefit of both genders, for society as a whole. But hearing those nasty stories, it was hard to forget the morons hanging out of their cars, the bullying creep on the phone, the guy who’d treated Chloe like a lamppost or a fence.
And then they spotted Simon. Three unattached women looking his way. Blond, blue-eyed Simon, with his boyish face and sun-gold hair that kept falling into his eyes.
‘Simon’s going places in the Greens,’ said Chloe. ‘I see his name all over the place. I heard he might contest the next election.’
Hazel was surprised. Simon was only twenty-five, like her.
‘He cornered me last year,’ she said, ‘and talked me into handing out how-to-vote cards.’
She’d been hoping to see him at the polling booth, but instead she’d seen a lot of grumpy voters moaning about being forced to vote. Even more who’d rolled their eyes at her borrowed T-shirt: ‘Standing Up for What Matters’.
Chloe nudged her in the side. ‘You should think about it, too, Hazel.’
‘What? Simon?’
‘No, standing for the Greens. You’re smart and really articulate and—’
‘Shall I laugh now, or save it for later? I’m not even a member.’
‘Well, it’s about time you joined,’ said Sarah. ‘The issues are important. Plus you get to meet a superior brand of male. Clever and caring and sometimes really hot.’
‘Hazel!’
A pair of arms grabbed her round the waist, spun her round. Todd. As beautiful as ever: Malaysian-Chinese, fine-boned, smooth-skinned, with a newly shaven head that added to his sexy, sculptured look. He told Hazel, in lower case letters, that she looked gorgeous, and as Chloe and Sarah drifted away, she asked him for a hint about the big announcement. Todd lowered his head, told her quietly that they were having a baby. Well, Dora is, anyway. Hazel was startled, but kissed him on the cheek, said what people usually say: ‘Congratulations! Any wedding plans?’
‘I’ve bought the ring,’ he said, flatly. ‘The diamond. But it’s being re-sized, so Dora has to wait til she can wear it.’
‘Oh, a diamond. That’s, well—’
‘Yeah, I know, but it’s what she wanted. And her mum and dad wanted. I had to borrow the money from mine to pay for the stupid thing. And I don’t even have a job, do I?’
‘But, well, you’ll have the baby,’ Hazel said, carefully. ‘That’s the important thing, isn’t it? And each other.’
Todd kept his voice low. ‘Do you think someone can really forget to take the pill?’ he said. ‘After five years?’
Hazel couldn’t help looking round the room to see what might be written on his girlfriend’s pretty face. But Dora was surrounded by a bunch of girls Hazel didn’t know, all of them oohing and aahing over something, maybe the prospect of a diamond or one of those puffy white wedding gowns that in a high, swirling wind might lift you into the sky. She turned back to Todd. Disconcerted. Wary.
‘I know it’s none of my business,’ she said, ‘but, well, there has to be—’
‘Trust, yeah, I know. But see, the thing is, I love her and we’ve been together for a lifetime and so I can’t—you know—accuse her. I just can’t.’ He fixed Hazel with a look. ‘She’s a very good person,’ he said, as though Hazel might object. ‘She’s loyal and kind and, well, we fit together really well.’
So there it was: fantastic sex as the key to enduring couple-dom. She was sick of hearing about sex, however obliquely. Sick of thinking about it and trying not to, of wanting it and trying not to. It dismayed and sometimes distressed her.
She saw Dora rushing up, putting her arms around Todd’s waist, telling him it was time for their announcement, while Hazel stood there passing the time, hoping for a better time, because it was always about time, wasn’t it? No time and show time and time for you and time for me, a time for every purpose under heaven. Was that T.S. Eliot quoting the Bible? One of those saints he was always on about?
‘Hazel, are you OK?’ said Dora. ‘You look REALLY WEIRD!’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Just hearing things in my head.’
‘You could see a DOCTOR!! If the VOICES get REALLY BAD!!!’
How long will this take, thought Hazel. How many more hours until she could go home and stick a pillow over her head? Not to do herself in, though, because she was only mildly, not clinically, depressed, and you had to cling to the crucial difference.
Still, here was Simon, standing right in front of her and smiling.
‘Hazel, great to see you,’ he said. ‘We haven’t caught up for ages.’
‘Months.’ Nearly eight, to be precise. ‘Since the federal election, remember?’
‘And what a bummer that—’ Simon stopped. ‘Are you OK, Hazel? You look a bit down. Has something happened?’
God. Not tears. A few sensitive words and she was in danger of blubbering. So she pulled back her shoulders, told him she just needed a good night’s sleep. Or was it a night’s good sleep? And why should the world care anyway?
‘How’s law going?’ she said.
‘Boring as bat shit. But I’m volunteering at Legal Aid so that helps relieve the boredom.’
‘Well, it’s great that you’re helping.’
She remembered another reason she liked Simon: he was a really caring guy, committed to changing the world. But not the kind of person who threw their caring in your face so you had to wipe it off with a tissue.
‘I wish I could help get more votes,’ he said. ‘You know the Greens had a swing against them? Over three percent.’
She did. And she knew she’d been useless as well. She’d handed out—what?—maybe twenty how-to-vote cards in two long hours? Simon was beginning to fire now, about people getting so pissed off with the two major parties. ‘All their lies and broken promises,’ he said. ‘And not listening to the people. There’s going to be more and more people voting for the minor parties. For independents.’
‘You mean the independents who hate minor parties like the Greens,’ said Hazel. ‘Who hate asylum seekers and women and gays, just about any victimised group you care to name.’ She remembered the obnoxious guy at the polling booth. ‘So get this, Simon,’ she said. ‘There was a guy handing out cards for the Lib Dems, carrying on about women getting special treatment while poor old men like him get nothing. So, I was thinking, would that be the special treatment women get at the hands of their abusers? Or less money going into their pay packets? More women living in poverty than men? Then he started bleating about needing massive cuts to health and education to bring down the deficit. And don’t get him started on foreign aid. What have foreigners ever done for us, that kind of thing. But I didn’t say a word because he was pretty massive himself, with a face like a demented pugilist.’
‘Well, I had a guy from Family First next to me,’ said Simon. ‘A guy in a pure white shirt and a phony grin, like he’s flogging used cars. Anyway, this woman’s walking in to vote and the Family First guy shoves a leaflet in her hands and she checks it out, screws up her face like she’s thinking really hard. Family, that sounds nice, she says, I think I might vote for you. She didn’t have a clue that his idea of family is exclusively nuclear and exclusively straight.’
‘And don’t forget xenophobic and fiercely Right to Life,’ said Hazel. ‘Never trust a party with the word family in it. Or democratic. Or freedom. They’ll all be tyrannical or bigoted.’
She could see Simon’s eyes widening.
‘You know, Hazel, the Greens could use some volunteers right now,’ he said. ‘We’re spreading the word about our policies. Another grassroots campaign.’
‘But there’s no election for ages, Simon. Federal or state.’
‘Sure, except we need to keep people aware of the big issues. Asylum seekers. Climate change. Get this: I had one guy at the booth who said he wasn’t fussed about cli
mate change cos he wouldn’t be around when it happened. People in this joint, they just don’t seem to care.’
Hazel laughed. ‘My dad said we used to have a number plate with the slogan State of Excitement, but he reckoned we should call it State of Couldn’t Give a Damn. I suggested Vegetative State.’
Simon didn’t laugh with her. He was looking kind of stern.
‘You know, Hazel, you’d be really good at doorknocking,’ he said.
‘You’re kidding me, right? I’d rather poke my eye out with a burnt stick. Which is another thing my dad likes to say. Seriously, I could do without doors being slammed in my face or people abusing me. I’m way too much of a coward.’
‘It’s actually not that hard,’ said Simon, and took a step closer. ‘You focus on the issues instead of your fear. And you listen. That’s the most important thing, because people always want to be listened to. It makes them feel empowered.’
His eyes were so bright, fixed on her. Only her. ‘You’d be great, Hazel, honestly. You’re smart and articulate, believe in social justice, and we can get you up to speed on policy.’
He moved even closer. ‘You can be very persuasive,’ he said.
Was there something in his voice as well?
She looked into his eyes, at the point of no return. Told him she’d do it. He called her an angel and gave her a mighty hug. Most definitely not an embrace. Because words had important shades of meaning, which was why you should never use a thesaurus, and she’d done it again, hadn’t she? Misread the sexual cues. Then Simon drew away, said he’d text her details of some training meeting coming up soon. Grinning broadly, pleased with himself.
‘You’ll be fine, honestly,’ he said. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
Hazel could think of other ways for him to thank her, but the moment—if there’d ever been one—had already passed her by. And now she was stuck with a commitment. Really soon. A terrifying one. Serves me right, she thought: it’s a punishment for my impure motives.
Simon dug her in the ribs. She really wished people wouldn’t do that.
‘Hey, come and meet my new girlfriend,’ he said. ‘Felicia. She’s a maths student from Italy, she’s only been here for a couple of months. She’s really clever and crazy beautiful, and she has a great big heart.’
Well, who would have thought?
‘We met at the beach. We were both body surfing and accidentally collided.’
‘Accidentally? You’re not fooling anyone, Simon.’
‘But it’s true. It was just one of those crazy things, a stroke of good luck.’
So that’s what it came down to in the end, Hazel thought. None of that complex, heady stuff about free will versus determinism. You just needed to be involved in a non-fatal accident to find that person of your waking, sleeping dreams.
Simon dug her in the side. Again. ‘What do you think of the big news?’ he said. ‘The baby.’
The whole bloody room must know by now, Hazel thought. Maybe she should just have a baby and be done with it. Women always had that to fall back on, didn’t they? Because what else could she do, she sighed, feeling her body slump: with her B.A., majoring in English, plus a dash of gender studies, philosophy, ancient history and French. A mercifully brief Dip. Ed.
Well, pretty much what she was doing right now: standing around at a party, leaden with disappointment, and waiting to go home.
She heard a male voice behind her checking out the talent, turned to see a really lanky guy looking round the room, staring telescopically. Checking out the talent indeed: as though women were merrily tap dancing on Australian fucking Idol.
The man who loved children
The last day of April. Sitting on the train at Perth Station, Hazel remembered her Shakespeare: Men are April when they woo, December when they wed. As You Like It. Feisty Rosalind speaking her mind about the deceptiveness of men. Still, Hazel thought, she wouldn’t have minded a bit of wooing, even the deceptive kind; anything to boost her flagging ego and blot out the memory of another humiliating job interview, this time in the city: cutting up fish in an upmarket market for pernickety affluent foodies. This is what she was reduced to. She looked around the compartment, saw everyone with eyes down checking their phones, as usual, or eyes closed listening to their iPods. Not one other person reading a book. Although every now and then she’d spy someone with a book in hand and, if they were close enough, she’d take a look to see what they were reading. Imagine a life for the reader. Like the young guy sitting next to her a couple of weeks ago, wearing a leather jacket and reading Sartre’s Huis Clos. He could have been a student of French literature, or maybe a French tourist missing his sophisticated culture, because anyone reading Huis Clos had to be sophisticated, or just plain masochistic.
Another time, on her way to Freo to check out the secondhand bookshops, she’d seen a middle-aged woman with a sagging face reading Torn by Desire. No prizes for guessing that one: a woman escaping from her passionless life, or trying to revive it. Then again, maybe she’d been planning to write a steamy romance and make a whole pile of money. Hazel had tried it herself last year, assuming it would be dead easy: Torn by this, Shredded by that, Undone by the Sultan, Captured by the Sheik. But when the publishers sent her the kit, she hadn’t been able to stop laughing: mandatory kiss by page fourteen, partial disrobing by page thirty, definitely no orgasm until at least page seventy-three, when the hero’s imposing organ would be on full display. So she just couldn’t do it in the end, couldn’t even make a start. And besides, she had enough deferred gratification in her own life without trying to imagine it in the life of a woman called Rebel or Flame.
Hazel felt the train begin to move and opened her book. Persuasion: a romance of the higher-order variety, the kind that encouraged you to think. But so far it was all long-winded backstories and tedious character sketches, with not a hint of an erotic subtext. Like Elizabeth and Darcy, talking about playing the piano: We neither of us perform to strangers. So damned sexy, their talk, much more subtle than imposing organs. Maybe she wouldn’t like Persuasion after all. Maybe there was a reason it wasn’t in the top ten or even the top one hundred, with its melancholy story of love thwarted, hearts wounded, time running out for the heroine. Anne Elliot: she’d been pining for the Captain for seven dreary years and too many listless pages.
The train sped through a tunnel and out again, past the high-rise buildings and concrete walls of Northbridge. Hazel thought about her destination: Claremont Quarter. That dress again. She could always put it on her credit card, couldn’t she, if she ever managed to find a job.
Compensation, she thought, is my stupid middle name. Or Sublimation.
Simon’s new girlfriend wouldn’t have to compensate or sublimate. Felicia. She’d been just as Simon had described her: smart and warm, and since English was her second language, speaking like a charming translation. Like calling her slightly sunburnt face caught by the sunfire. And she certainly was beautiful, exquisitely beautiful, with long black hair, high cheekbones. Sultry. Hazel looked down at her book again, wondered how life might have been if she’d been exquisitely beautiful and/or sultry.
The train was pulling in to City West. Scitech, and shops for people furnishing their suburban houses, hoping to make their lives complete. As if my own life is complete, she thought. It wasn’t even semi-complete. Not that you could have degrees of completeness; like perfection or uniqueness or pregnancy, it had to be all or nothing. People were streaming out of the train now, a whole lot more streaming in. A muscly guy with tattoos of dragons all over his arms. Half the population had a tatt these days, yesterday’s revolutionary gesture today’s dull-and-boring. A woman struggling with a screaming child, a teenage girl with skeletal limbs, and a lot of overweight people. She returned to her book, to the soothing movement of the train and then on to West Leederville, with the antique bookshop that must have been there for decades. Serendipity, it was called, the favourite haunt of one of her old tutors, a collector of fi
rst editions. The kind of teacher who liked to ramble and digress and leave you to learn for yourself. He’d told the class that ‘serendipity’ meant fortunate happenstance, that the word was coined by Horace Walpole, a member of parliament in the eighteenth century and a man of indeterminate sexuality. All this meandering stuff, as though the tutor was talking to himself. He took months to return their essays.
Suddenly they were plunged into another tunnel, then out into Subiaco Station, with its gleaming mass of steel and glass. More people pouring in, jostling and pushing, a guy plonking down next to her. A middle-aged guy with a solid build, reaching into his satchel and—well, there you go—pulling out a book. Shuffling in his seat, ready to begin. Hazel couldn’t help glancing at his profile: a slightly hooked nose, grey stubble, full mouth. Maybe forty, forty-five. The train was moving again and she craned her neck slightly, took a surreptitious peek: The Man Who Loved Children. She’d never heard of it.
‘The title’s ironic,’ he said, out of the side of his mouth.
He turned to look at her, gave her a wry kind of smile. He had striking, pale blue eyes, rimmed with black.
‘Do you know this novel?’ he said. ‘It’s Australian.’
Hazel shook her head.
‘Not that I’m chastising you,’ he said.
No one she knew said chastising.
‘For being—you know—unpatriotic.’
She nodded blankly, saw him gesture towards her book.
‘Persuasion,’ he said.
She nodded again.
‘Who wrote that?’ he said, peering more closely. ‘Ah. Jane Austen. I only know Pride and Prejudice. Not that I’ve read it, but everyone’s heard of it, haven’t they?’
She nodded again, superfluously.
‘So.’ He gave her a different kind of smile this time. More open. ‘Are you reading this for study?’
She shook her head. Nod nod nod, shake shake shake: like one of those toy dogs that people dumbly put on their dashboards.
The Art of Persuasion Page 2