Love: Classified

by Jones, Sally-Ann

  “You’ll be able to do a lot of reading. All those novels you’ve longed to get stuck into.”

  “Even I can’t read solidly all day, every day.”

  “How about the cupboards? Seriously, I’d love a good few weeks to sort mine out.”

  “Yeah. Great,” I moaned. “Imagine it. ‘How was your holiday Ginny? Did you get up to anything exciting?’ ‘Ooh yes, I spent most of it on my hands and knees with my head in the linen cupboard.’ No, I’ll work something out.”

  We ate our meal – for which I got lots of compliments and the ultimate endorsement of plates scraped clean – and afterwards Bree borrowed my laptop to go on Facebook. Peta helped me with the dishes and for a few minutes we were reflected in the kitchen window, her teenage-looking body and daring, bright clothes, my bulk in one of the shapeless black tents I always wore. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen us side by side in a mirror and the vision startled me so that my reaction surprised myself.

  “Look at me, Pete,” I said. Even I heard a note of despair in my voice and saw that she heard it too, because her mouth gaped and the diamond flashed in the window. “I look like the wrong end of a bus,” I went on. “I don’t own any clothes except things like this. I have no friends except you and Bree and Danny and Jake and Josie. I don’t even have a family. And here I am, about to go on paid holiday leave and I have no idea what to do with myself. I’ll probably end up staying home and cooking myself into another level of obesity.”

  Peta threw down the tea-towel and grabbed me by both arms. “Now you listen,” she blazed. “You’re the best mate I’ve ever had and I can’t put up with you feeling sorry for yourself for another minute. You’re brilliant at everything you do, you have a great sense of humour and…”

  “And there’s more?”

  “Yes there is. And you’re damn well going to listen to it. Okay?”

  “If I’m in for a long diatribe, can we sit down?” I asked. “And let’s open another bottle of wine.”

  Once I’d raided the fridge for a bottle of chardonnay, Peta drew me to the wicker couch and sat next to me, clinking her glass against mine.

  “Now, where was I?” she mused. “Ah yes, I was about to tell you that you have the most beautiful green eyes in the world, your hair could be in a shampoo commercial and Bree and I love you.”

  She took a gulp of wine and continued: “So you don’t look like Miranda Otto in a swimsuit. Well, who does? I’ve got purple varicose veins from my bum to my ankles but I’m not too proud not to make a fool of myself at the beach with Bree. You might not have many friends outside the office, but you have Jake and Josie. Now you stop feeling sorry for yourself and get out into that big world and have the time of your life. But don’t on any account go and answer that ad.”

  “I don’t deserve you Pete,” I said on the verge of tears for the second time that day.

  “You bloody well do!” she laughed. “How would I, as a single mum, have got through the last decade and a half without you? Who was there for me when Bree’s father, bloody Josh, took off? Who comforted me when Bree screamed all night with colic and I was so strung out I could hardly walk? When Bree broke her leg skateboarding, who took her to hospital and waited six hours for her leg to be plastered because I had the flu? When she’s behaving like a typical monstrous teenager, who do I come crying to? When there’s a new movie I want to see, who’d I rather see it with? I need you, Ginny. But I don’t want to see you for three whole months. OK? I want you to have so much fun you forget about your old life.”

  “I’ll try,” I whispered.

  Next day, Monday, it turned out that management were so relieved I was finally taking a vacation they said I could start it that evening. It was a weird feeling to log off not knowing what Tuesday would bring. Peta and Danny organised a huge bouquet of flowers and a goodbye cake for me and we had a round of drinks after five o’clock. Almost everyone in the skyscraper seemed to be there, crammed into our board room. Peta made a speech saying how much weight they’d all lose because I wouldn’t be around to bring in home-made cakes for our weekly team meetings, and that they were determined not to let circulation fall while I was away. Once she finished talking, we tucked into delicious canapés – green mango salad on betel leaves, prawn laksa shots, duck in crisp wanton cups, camembert with pear compote on pumpernickel, chicken and port pâté on polenta crisps. The cake was almond and orange with a rhubarb and strawberry compote.

  When it was over, I headed for the carpark, after a hug from Peta and Danny and the admonition that I wasn’t allowed to weaken and turn up in the office, not even for a coffee.

  “You go, girl!” Peta laughed as I went, borrowing another of Bree’s expressions.

  I lay the flowers on the back seat and sat behind the wheel for a few minutes before turning the key in the ignition.

  I had the feeling life was never going to be the same again.

  At home, there was another edition of the suburban news in my letter box. I longed to open it to see if the ad was in again this week but I didn’t want the flowers to wilt so I put Bree’s gerberas in my bedroom and filled all the rest of the vases I could find with the baby pink roses, gardenias and silver dollar sprays that comprised the bouquet. The house looked beautiful with blooms everywhere. Then I shut the chooks in for the evening and checked on the basil, which seemed to have grown half an inch since I last looked. I’d eaten so well at work that I didn’t want dinner and made myself a mug of Milo instead, curling up with it on the back verandah where the apricot-coloured light of the setting sun made a warm glow. The sea purred softly and it seemed the perfect time to open the fresh newspaper to see if the ad was there.

  I flipped through pages of stories about concerts at local schools, fêtes at churches and local council goings-on to the back, under “Possibilities”, I could hardly believe it: the Lonely Planet guy was still there. The man who’d placed it before had obviously not had any takers and was still trying.

  I smiled to myself, remembering Peta’s horror of axe murderers. Perhaps he was one. But he could also just be a lonely guy dreading a lonely enforced holiday, couldn’t he?

  I warmed my hand on the mug, enjoying the thought that Mr Lonely Planet was probably eating his dinner right now and that before too long he’d fall asleep and dream of his travel companion and the places they’d visit. What did he look like? I tried to picture him, not as he appeared in my fantasies, but as he most probably really was. My active imagination painted a tall, weedy looking man with a balding pate, black-rimmed glasses, a shiny beak of a nose and a pleasant, shy voice. He had a whole lot of leave accrued and was wondering how – and where – on Earth he could fill the empty days.

  Or perhaps he was a big, confident block with massive tattooed arms, the sort of man who changed women as often as he bought new undies. Perhaps, right now, he was at the pub with his mates, or at home alone, smoking a joint while he fiddled with the lights on his Harley. He was in black jeans shiny with engine grease and a huge watch that could tell him things like the time in Guatemala and how to locate north-north-west.

  I had a strong feeling that anyone who placed an ad looking for a traveling companion wouldn’t be particularly good looking, successful or popular. If he was, he wouldn’t have to advertise, would he?

  With this sobering thought, I turned on the telly for a night in. Crime, Biggest Losers, Big Fat Gypsy Weddings – a great evening’s entertainment I didn’t think. But beggars can’t be choosers. I wasn’t even as lucky as Peta who at least had Bree to think about. Eventually I took off my work clothes for the last time in a while, pulled on my nightie, cleaned my teeth and slid between the sheets.

  In the morning I woke late, immediately leapt out of bed and sprinted to the shower, anxious for a minute that I wouldn’t be at the office at my usual hour. It wasn’t until I’d washed my hair that I remembered I didn’t have to be there for months. For the next twelve weeks I didn’t even have a reason to get out of bed. It wa
s an unpleasant realisation and made me see how easy it would be for me to sink into inaction and, most likely, depression.

  It was early January. A mild summer morning. Pulling back the bedroom curtains, I could see a cloudless blue sky, a slab of sea between the blocks of flats, the coastal daisies and pigface in my garden already turned to the sun.

  I wrapped myself in my green kimono, slipped on my flip-flops and walked outside to let out the chooks and collect the eggs. But on the way back inside, the paper with the ad demanded my attention again. “Possibilities” stared up at me, the Lonely Planet guy leaping out at me as if his were the only words printed on a blank page.

  Determined to ignore the pesky ad, I made myself a time-consuming breakfast that would use some of the previous days’ eggs: a spinach omelette. It meant another trip out to the garden to pick baby green leaves and mint and a pleasant few minutes separating eggs and whisking the whites into snowy peaks that reminded me of all the beautiful northern hemisphere alpine resorts that would be perfect for a holiday that involved more après ski than ski. While the omelette bubbled in the spray of oil I toasted rye bread, spread it with ricotta, then slid the omelette with its wilted spinach onto a plate to be carried out to the verandah where rainbow lorikeets were already feasting on the sweet red grapes that I’d given up hoping to eat myself many summers ago. Much as I love grapes, it’s even more of a pleasure to watch the pairs of birds tackle the bunches, one keeping watch while the other sips the juice.

  After my meal I emptied the mail-box of its junk mail catalogues, stuffing them in my kimono pocket. Then I watered the basil before arcing the hose skywards to the topmost vine tendrils where the latest lorikeets to breakfast on the grapes lifted their heads and opened their wings for an impromptu shower. But, as soon as I made my way indoors again the ad glared up at me from the table, daring me.

  Putting off what I was beginning to believe was inevitable, I made the bed and, back in my comfortable verandah chair with its vivid floral pattern, pulled the catalogues out. I rarely looked at this kind of stuff but I had time to kill so I turned pages and pages of supermarket specials and electrical goods bargains. Another catalogue had some slightly more interesting things: wine-racks, bird-shaped taps, écru linen bedspreads, complicated diaries and shoe-horns. Then I stopped turned because I’d reached a section for attractive, summery clothes for women sized eighteen to thirty. Two models showed off these garments. They were big and they were beautiful. They looked proud and happy to be in their bright, over-size clothes. No camouflaging grey, black or beige for them.

  One of the models, in a well-shaped top covered in yellow and orange marigolds, was sitting in a café. She could have been in Florence or Rome. She had long red hair a bit like mine. The model had her head thrown back in an attitude of unselfconscious enjoyment. The other, her generous curves emphasised by a peacock-blue sarong, stood on the surf’s edge, her toes curling into shell-strewn white sand.

  I turned to the back of the catalogue to find out how to order these two outfits for myself and discovered it was possible to do it online and that there was a website devoted to this kind of fashion. My laptop was never far from me and I found the site and was dazzled by several more beautiful creations. Me, who hated shopping! But they were designed for women like me – women who want to have fun, and I found myself adding several to my virtual shopping car and almost proudly clicking on ‘eighteen’ in the size box. The total was modest and I was pleased that the clothes weren’t as expensive as they looked. Once I’d entered my credit card information and made note of my order number, my eyes were drawn once more to the ad on the kitchen table.

  Now, because I couldn’t think of any more distractions, I surrendered my full attention to the personal ad that hadn’t been far from my thoughts for three days. One more time, I read the casual-sounding words. Again, I wondered what kind of man would have placed it. I knew if I didn’t take the risk I’d regret it. If I waited five more years I wouldn’t even have relative youth on my side. It was now or never.

  My body trembled with anticipation as I sank back into my chair, knowing I was compelled to answer the ad. I couldn’t fight it any more. But what a terrifying thought, being alone with a stranger day after day, sharing meals, discussing travel arrangements… getting to know each other. Once or twice, Peta had tried to organise blind dates for me but the thought of being alone at a table with a strange man, even for as long as it took to order and drink two coffees or two glasses of wine, had daunted me. Yet here I was, flinging myself into a future over which I had no control.

  But the places I’d always longed to see beckoned. And it was comforting to know there was a man out there who perhaps wanted to go to these places too, but not alone. At least we had that much in common.

  As I washed the breakfast dishes, I let myself muse about my holiday, about getting back to work and regaling Peta and Danny with my traveller’s tales. I’d always wanted to see the sun set over Uluru, the silhouettes of kangaroos weaving through spindly trees against a crimson sky. Or waves crashing on the beach at Ningaloo Reef, the whale sharks cavorting with curious human divers beyond the surf. Since I was a teenager I’d imagined buying icecream from a boot moored in the Seine while the church bells of Paris rang out the hour. I’d pictured myself, and a blurry looking companion, meandering through the markets of Morocco, my eyes, ears and nose assailed by the myriads sights, sounds and smells.

  And the man who’d placed the ad? Would he enjoy all these things too? What would it be like, living at close quarters with him? Having all my possessions in a suitcase, doing my washing in a handbasin with toilet soap. It’d be uncomfortable at times. But I wouldn’t let cramped conditions cramp my style I’d still cook and serve spectacular meals, for what’s a holiday without wonderful food? I’d miss Peta. But, what the hell. It was time for an epic adventure.

  Chapter Two

  The only way to answer the ad was to leave a voice mail message and this scared me a bit. I didn’t want him to hear my nervousness, but I really had no choice so I rehearsed a few times, telling the chooks my name and my mobile number. “I’m Virginia Brook,” I said to the girls, who listened with their heads cocked sideways before deciding it was boring and turning back to their hunt for worms and slaters. “I’d like to go travelling but it would be good if we could meet first. Please ring me and we’ll arrange it.”

  I surprised myself by being so competent and thought perhaps it was all the espionage and crime stuff I watched on my lonely nights in. I repeated it a few times then decided to record it for real. It was different when I knew he’d hear. My voice sounded timorous even to me and I stumbled over my own phone number, forgetting the last digit, and hanging up before making a complete fool of myself.

  Again I felt like crying so I threw on my baggy old shorts and tee-shirt and took myself off for a walk to the beach instead and watched the waves. Their rhythmic ebb and flow calmed me as always and after about half an hour I felt better. But there was no way I was going to ring his voice mail again. There was no way I was going to prove to myself that I was a complete desperado. I’d go on the internet and put myself down for a tropical cruise that lasted a whole three months. That’s what I’d do.

  I sat down with the laptop when my mobile rang.

  “Are you Virginia?” came a honey-warm, deep male voice.

  “Yes,” I barked, sure it was someone who’d got through the ‘please don’t call register’ I’d set up to avoid getting harassed by salespeople when Iwas cooking. I wasn’t going to let that sexy voice win me over.

  “You just left a message for me,” the man said. “But you missed the last bit of your number and I’ve tried the whole thing six times, with a different ending from zero to five. I’ve rung all sorts of people. A dentist surgery. A shop that sells vacuum cleaners. A plumber. A woman called Julie who wants me to call her back. A bloke driving a load of sheep to Fremantle. I’m the guy who placed the ad. Magnus. Mr Lonely Planet.”


  “Magnus!” I squeaked. The name conjured hugeness, courage, a big heart, a swagger. The name matched the voice.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  “Mmm,” I replied, feeling like a silly school girl. A voice and a name meant nothing, I told myself. But the voice was making ripples inside me and I didn’t want to risk losing that sweetness in my ear by talking. That would make him hang up.

  “You said you’d like to meet,” he said. “I’m keen. You say when and where. I haven’t got any commitments at the moment.”

  “Um. Yeah. No. I do. I mean, yeah. Let’s meet,” I jabbered, not caring if he was an axe-murderer. I could’ve died just from the strength of my reaction to his voice if he talked for much longer.

  He chuckled and a shudder almost shook the phone out of my hand. A belly-deep chuckle like that should be outlawed.

  “I know this isn’t easy for you,” Magnus said. “After all, I could be an axe-murderer...”

  My involuntary “eek” stopped him mid-sentence but he continued: “I assure you I’m not. But I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. It would be better face-to-face. Virginia? Are you there?”

  I nodded, then realised that although my body was reacting to a real man, he was still just a voice which didn’t have eyes.

  “Mmm,” I mumbled.

  “So, can we arrange it?”

  “Mmm,” I repeated.

  “OK then…”

  “Well, we need to meet,” I said, making a quick decision. Either I could go on procrastinating and then hang up – a choice I knew I’d regret for the rest of my life – or I could remember the possibilities thrown up by the catalogue with its healthy, beautiful women in their bright clothes and take the bull by the horns. The latter was definitely the more attractive option.