The Dating Game

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘What’s what like?’

  She held out a hand to the painting, wished she could touch it, wished she could feel the emotion pouring out of it. ‘To want someone that way?’

  He walked over to her, examined the painting, his face devoid of expression. ‘Consuming,’ he said. ‘Intense. Overwhelming. And ultimately … annihilating.’

  ‘It sounds almost savage.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘But I think you’re lucky, to have had it.’

  ‘Being annihilated is lucky?’ He laughed softly. ‘No.’

  ‘I want to feel that. I want to want someone like that. To be wanted like that. Even if it’s only once. Even if it doesn’t last. Even if it hurts. Even if I have to go back at the end to somewhere … safe again.’

  ‘Well, Sarah, all I can say is be careful what you wish for.’ He put his hand on her shoulder, squeezed.

  And there it was … the thing that kept drawing her back to the paintings, searching for what had captivated David. Something she’d known since that kiss, and tried to argue herself out of.

  What Sarah wanted was him.

  She wanted witty, sexy, charming David Bennett, who could melt her with a look, and disarm her with a laugh, a hug, a kiss on the top of her head, that squeeze of her shoulder that said, I’m here. David Bennett, who’d been so hurt by love, but nevertheless believed in it for Margaret and Carly, and for Sarah herself if that was what she wanted. David Bennett, who was so wearily cynical, and yet could still be horrified by a fourteen-year-old story about a stepfather’s drunken fondle.

  She didn’t want to climb K2 or Kilimanjaro or Mont Blanc or Mount McKinley. She wanted to make the hardest, toughest, scariest climb, all the way to the top of Everest.

  Be careful what you wish for, all right. Avalanche ahead!

  David had just got through accusing her of only choosing guys who’d dump her, and here she was proving the truth of it. Wanting a man who’d made it clear he would never want her back. Who could never want her back, if Rebel was the measure to judge by. Who she could not have regardless.

  ‘Let’s try one sketch before we call it a night,’ David said, turning her back towards the chaise and giving her a directional push when she just stood there.

  She somehow made it to the chaise and looked down at it.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Don’t look at it, sit on it. And face me.’

  She sort of folded onto the chaise, and waited for him to tell her what he wanted her to do.

  ‘Hands on the edge,’ he instructed. ‘Good, now do the lean thing.’

  ‘The lean.’

  ‘Yes, the lean. Come on! Towards me. Knees together but feet apart and tucked under. No. No, no. Just … sit there.’

  He walked briskly over to her, adjusted her feet, then her hands. ‘Next week, no nail polish, okay?’

  She nodded. How could a person feel numb and tender at the same time?

  He went back to his sketchbook. ‘So, bluebell, who do we have on the books?’

  Sarah stared at him. Her brain didn’t seem to be working. She couldn’t figure out what he meant.

  ‘Guys,’ he clarified.

  Snap out of it. She took a deep breath. She had to stop mooning over the impossible and remind herself of the only goal that was achievable. Base Camp. ‘There is one. He asked me out on Monday, but I—I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Why not? What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So … details?’

  ‘He’s a doctor. An intern, more specifically.’

  ‘Ah, so he’s going to be financially secure one day. That’s good.’

  ‘That’s not important to me.’

  ‘It should be.’

  Sarah considered telling David about the obscenely healthy state of her personal finances, but it wasn’t pertinent to her dating woes and there didn’t seem to be much point in volunteering an extraneous detail like that to a guy who was only going to be passing through her life. ‘He’s handsome,’ she said instead—which also wasn’t pertinent or important, but she had to say something that would make sense to David. ‘And smart, obviously.’ She racked her brain for more details. ‘Kyle. His name is Kyle.’

  ‘Do I sense a Kinky Kyle coming on?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve started a new naming protocol. I’m calling him Kilimanjaro Kyle.’

  ‘Kilimanjaro? Okaaay.’

  ‘It’s about mountains. Where they rank in relation to Mount Everest. There are a lot of very tall mountains out there, you know.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Twinkle, Twinkle.

  David, who’d been tossing and turning in bed, went rigid as the song kept going.

  Phone call, not text.

  He sat up, turned on the bedside light, fumbled for the phone and stabbed at the accept button as a trickle of fear etched its way down his spine. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I need advice,’ Sarah said in a stage whisper.

  Okay, she was alive and conscious. He could breathe. There was music in the background. Doof doof. What the—? He squinted at the clock on his bedside table—two o’clock—and shook his head to clear it. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In the bathroom.’

  ‘Oh for the love of—’ Breathe. ‘In the bathroom where, Sarah?’

  ‘At a party.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘At the party? No, I’m on a date. Sort of.’

  The trickle of fear was back, icy. He got out of bed, scanning the room for his clothes. ‘Is he with you in the bathroom?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are you whispering?’

  ‘Good question,’ Sarah said. ‘Oh, hang on, I haven’t interrupted—’

  ‘No, you haven’t interrupted anything,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Oh. Well. Good. I just wanted to ask if you’ve ever done coke.’

  ‘What the—? What the fuck did you just say?’

  ‘Cocaine.’

  ‘I know what coke is.’

  ‘I want to know if you’ve ever done it. Used it. Taken it. Whatever the correct term is. Snorted it, that’s right. Oh, why am I even asking? Of course you’ve done it. But I haven’t done it before.’

  The icy fear was infiltrating his veins. He’d located his jeans and reached for them. ‘Are you telling me you’ve done it now?’

  ‘No, but the guy I’m with, his name is Mike—or as I’ve christened him, McKinley Mike, you know, after Mount McKinley—seems to think I should. And he has some with him. For me, if I want it. He said it’s all about living life to the hilt. And I … I haven’t, have I? Lived life to the hilt. So I thought I would—but then I had this feeling that I should check with you first.’

  ‘What’s the address?’ David snapped out, using his shoulder to jam the phone against his ear so he could start dressing.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m coming to get you.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that.’

  ‘Yes I fucking do, Sarah. And when I get there, I’m going to kill Mount McKinley or whatever the hell his name is. You stay away from those bastards—lock yourself in that bathroom and wait for me.’

  ‘But what if someone wants to use the bathroom?’

  ‘I don’t give a flying fuck. Now text me the goddamn address.’

  ***

  Sarah had decided to wait for David out the front of the house as a precaution. If the barely suppressed rage in his voice was any indication, his ennui was slipping badly, and she wasn’t sure he wouldn’t storm through the house like a grenade-throwing commando.

  She felt both relieved and apprehensive when a sporty white two-door BMW (which had to be David’s car—classy but not staid) pulled up with a screech of wheels. On the one hand, she was happy to see him under any circumstances. On the other, that wheel screech did not denote mental stability. Nor did the way David basical
ly threw himself out of the car and stalked around to the passenger side.

  ‘I thought I told you to lock yourself in the bathroom,’ he growled.

  Sarah, knowing better than to respond to that, went with: ‘Nice car,’ as she walked towards him.

  ‘Nice car?’

  ‘Small-ish, though.’

  ‘Those of us without two-point-five kids to collect from school don’t need anything bigger.’ He wrenched open the door. ‘Get in.’

  Sarah got in.

  David slammed the door, but instead of walking around to his side of the car and getting in beside her, he started striding towards the house.

  Uh-oh. Sarah fumbled her way out of the car and hurried after him. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘Inside.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To kill that bastard.’

  ‘Mike? He left after I called you, when I told him I wasn’t interested.’

  ‘Then I’m going to kill whoever owns this house, instead.’

  ‘Violence is never the answer. Avoidance is the key. Remember?’

  ‘Fuck that.’

  ‘Please, David,’ she begged, grabbing his arm.

  ‘They were peer-pressuring you.’

  ‘Nobody was forcing me to do anything. I said no, and that was that.’

  He stared at her, and she thought he might be wavering … But then his eyes hardened and he shook off her hand.

  ‘David!’

  ‘I won’t kill him,’ he said, as though that were some great concession.

  ‘Please!’ she tried again. ‘I’ll be so embarrassed I’ll never be able to see any of them again.’ Mistake. Big mistake. Because David’s eyes lit, as though he didn’t have a problem with that result, and he started storming up the path again.

  ‘If you go into that house, I’m walking to the nearest main road and flagging down the first car that passes,’ she called after him.

  David stopped halfway to the door.

  ‘I mean it,’ she added.

  He turned. ‘You’re getting into my car and waiting for me.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m flagging down a cab or hitchhiking my way over the Harbour Bridge, whichever happens first.’

  ‘You are a gigantic pain the arse.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  He came back down the path, strode past her, got into the car, started it, and waited for her to get in after him. And then: ‘Address?’ he snapped.

  ‘My address?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But … are you taking me home? As in … to my house?’

  ‘No, I’m taking you to French Riviera! Where the fuck do you think I’m taking you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. It’s bad enough I dragged you out of bed, and for nothing.’

  ‘It wasn’t nothing.’

  ‘Seriously, just drop me at a taxi rank.’

  David, staring through the windscreen, started drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  ‘You can even wait to make sure I get a taxi.’

  More drumming.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, and almost before she’d finished rattling off the address, the car pulled away from the kerb with another screech of wheels.

  There was silence as David drove. Tense and thick.

  Unbearable.

  ‘Seriously I could have called a taxi,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Shut up, Sarah.’

  ‘I live over the Bridge!’

  ‘Even if I didn’t already know that, I would have figured it out from your address, funnily enough.’

  ‘Do you ever go over the Bridge?’

  ‘Yes, I do, on occasion, drive across the Harbour Bridge. I’m going over there now. It’s not like it’s a four-day road trip across the Nullarbor Plain.’

  ‘It’s just that we’re sort of … suburban. In Mosman, I mean. It’s not as exciting as where you live, in the heart of the city. I didn’t expect you to know it. Not intimately, anyway.’

  ‘You have a warped idea of excitement, if tonight’s antics are anything to go by.’

  Tonight’s antics? There hadn’t been any antics! But the way he was carrying on, Sarah wished there had been. ‘Hang on a minute!’ she said. ‘Why am I the only one who isn’t allowed to snort cocaine? You’ve done it, I’ll bet Rebel’s done it, everyone in that group in the house has done it, so why not me?’

  ‘If you actually wanted to snort cocaine, why did you call me?’

  ‘I … It’s just that I … Hmm. Good question.’

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight.’ Sideways glare. ‘If you want to experiment, you do it with me.’

  ‘Okay,’ she agreed readily. ‘Do you think I’ll like it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Rebel like it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What’s with the fucking, “Ah”? You’re not Rebel, Sarah.’

  ‘But she’s more exciting than I am. Less boring.’ Pause. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘Drugs do not make you exciting, they make you fucking tedious. They sure as hell made Rebel tedious.’

  ‘Is that for the rulebook?’

  ‘Yes, it fucking is.’

  ‘Okay, then.’

  ‘And just to be clear, you will not be snorting cocaine, or smoking crack, or inhaling ice.’

  ‘Unless I’m with you,’ she said, for the sake of clarity.

  ‘No, I mean ever. E.V.E.R. And while we’re on the subject, you can forget marijuana, and heroin, and speed, and ecstasy, and—’

  ‘It was only one line of coke I was being offered,’ she remonstrated. ‘And a minute ago you said I could do it if I did it with you.’

  ‘Well you can’t,’ he snapped.

  ‘Okay, but you know you’re not making much sense, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s because it’s approaching three in the morning and you almost gave me a fucking heart attack.’

  ‘I said okay.’

  ‘And because, denied the opportunity to punch some fucking drug-pushing dickhead, I’m trying to stop myself from strangling you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Now shut up.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said again.

  ‘And don’t give me any more of those fake meek “okays”.’

  ‘Okay. Oops, sorry. Roger that.’

  ‘My hands are twitching here, Sarah, at the prospect of wrapping themselves around your neck. Twitching.’

  And with one look at his grim face, Sarah decided discretion was the better part of valour, and shut up.

  ***

  Sarah’s stomach started churning when they reached her mother’s house.

  ‘Go up the driveway on the right, all the way to the end,’ she instructed. ‘It’s the granny flat. There, you can see it now.’

  David was silent as he parked in her empty car port. He stayed silent as he got out of the car, came around to open the passenger door, waited for her to get out, and followed her to her door.

  Sarah shifted from foot to foot as she dug her keys out of her bag, not sure what to expect. ‘Oh, I didn’t think you were … Although I guess you … are? Coming in, I mean.’ She bit her lip as she looked at him. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Unless you want to stand on the doorstep while you explain what the hell you were doing there tonight.’

  ‘I thought we’d already discussed that.’

  David checked his watch—very pointed.

  ‘Fine,’ she said and, stomach still in full-churn mode, unlocked the door. ‘Actually, I did want you to see my place and … and maybe critique it, from the masculine perspective.’ She stepped inside, turned on the light. ‘You know … is it too girly? Is it … is it … um …’ Words trailing off as David stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Start explaining,’ he said, and Sarah quailed at the look on his face.

  ‘Well, it is Saturday n-night, you kn
ow,’ she stammered. ‘And it was a p-party. And I—’

  ‘Like parties, yes, I know you do.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Where was Kilimanjaro Kyle?’

  ‘Working. We don’t have our first date until Monday, and even then we won’t be exclusive. Not yet.’

  ‘Yes, well keep in mind that doctors don’t like dealing with the consequences of drug-fuelled raves, Sarah.’

  ‘It wasn’t a drug-fuelled rave. Next thing you’ll be ticking me off because taking recreational drugs is illegal.’

  ‘It is illegal.’

  ‘Oh, because you’re such a “law-abiding citizen”!’ she retorted.

  ‘It’s also stupid.’

  ‘Look, it was just a lot of people having a good time and only one or two people doing drugs. And it was fun, the party I mean. It was fun until … until it wasn’t. And that’s when I called you.’ She felt tears start to sting her eyes. ‘And now I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘I suggest you save those tears for when you’ve actually done something stupid like snorting a line of coke rather than just thinking about it, because you’ll need all the girly weapons you have at your disposal then. And in any case, I’m too angry to pat you on the head and say there, there right at this moment.’

  ‘Just why are you so angry? Even if I’d done it, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.’ She swiped a hand at her eyes. ‘And I’m not crying.’

  ‘I’m angry because I’m contemplating murder,’ he said through his teeth. ‘And I don’t generally do that.’

  He shoved both hands into his hair and started pacing around the room—and the room was too small to take it, frankly. There had to be more to his over-the-top reaction than one unsorted line of cocaine. And then it hit her. The only explanation.

  ‘I know what it is!’ she said. ‘Sexual frustration!’ She twirled a finger at his pelvis. ‘You see that? From what I can tell, it’s a permanent affliction. It’s always there. And if it’s getting you all crotchety, I don’t know why you don’t just do something about it.’

  ‘I’m too busy trying to stop you snorting coke, and talking you out of having sex on the first date, and directing you away from dating drug lords and dickheads and morons, to spare the time for anything else.’

  ‘You’re only seeing me once a week,’ she tossed back. ‘That leaves six nights out of seven for you to get that little problem seen to.’