by Wendy Harmer
Claire reflected on the reason she had not slept with Mike. He was not unattractive; it was probably because he was too solid and sensible. He’d earned himself a degree in economics before he became a full-time musician.
She and Louie had started the band when they were in a relationship. And, during those dark years after she had broken up with him and fallen into bed with the other two, she had found herself attracted to any man with a troubled past. If he looked like he was a depressive, commitment phobic, non-communicative arsehole . . . she was interested.
Then, when she was in her mid-thirties, she had met a friend of her mother’s at a dinner party. Claire was complaining to all and sundry about being single and that there were no good men left, blah, blah, blah. It was a topic she had devoted a good amount of time to in her fourth decade. At the end of the evening, Claire just knew she had bored all the old married couples witless. A handsome elderly gent, a retired company director with snow-white hair and wearing a navy blue double-breasted blazer, had taken her aside. He had clasped Claire’s shoulders in both hands and spoken to her earnestly.
‘This is my advice and listen well, young woman. Whenever you meet a man and he tells you he had an unhappy childhood, you run. No matter what happened to him. No matter if he says he’s over it. If he says he was an unhappy child, make no exceptions—just get out as fast as you can.’
Claire had thought this advice was bizarre, if not plain cruel. Who would love all these damaged boys? Who would restore their faith in human nature? Who would give them the love they needed to overcome their unhappiness?
Of course the more Claire thought about this, the more she could see that she had always cast herself in the role of nurse. As some sort of romantic, heroic Nightingale patching up all the wounded boys just back from the front line of life. Why had she fallen into this role? After trawling through her childhood memories, Claire had decided it was because she had watched her mother bully her father all those years. She would see Ron standing by the door waiting for June’s final inspection like a cadet on parade: ‘Oh, Ron! You cannot wear brown shoes with black trousers!’ ‘Oh, Ron! Look at your hair!’ ‘Oh, Ron! The invitation says “lounge suit”, not “sports jacket”!’ And while Ron was happy enough to troop upstairs and make the necessary adjustments to pass muster, Claire had always wanted to rescue him. Stand up for yourself, Dad! she had wanted to shout.
In Claire’s teens her mother’s relentless scrutiny had turned on her: ‘Oh, Claire! You cannot wear red lipstick at your age!’ ‘Oh, Claire! Look at your hair!’ ‘Oh, Claire! It’s an invitation to a sixtieth wedding anniversary. No jeans!’ Claire would barricade herself in her bedroom. She was happy there in her private world. Perhaps she was more like her father than she wanted to acknowledge. Since that time she had been determined that there would be a part of her to which no one would ever gain entry.
‘One day,’ the elderly gent had said, ‘you’ll meet a man who says his childhood was blissfully happy. You’ll probably instantly feel that he doesn’t need you and you’ll want to walk away. But the thing is—you need him. Keep him.’ And with that, this amazing man was gone and Claire never met him again.
Three years later, she met Charlie. She had managed to manoeuvre the happy childhood question into one of their very first conversations. Charlie had replied that, yes, his childhood had indeed been one long happy ticker-tape parade. ‘It probably sounds a bit boring really. I just remember that it always seemed sunny. We played cricket in the garden, went on holidays with Mum and Dad to the beach. I loved school. Sorry, there’s not a lot there to report.’
The wise man had been right. Claire had felt disappointed. She did feel like walking away. But, for once in her life, she decided to work against all her natural inclinations. One of those self-help books she used to read would probably have called it ‘breaking the pattern of co-dependence’. So she had kept Charlie.
Claire wondered what those self-help books would say about this latest escapade. She’d never know. Her self-help books were now just landfill along with her tarot cards and rune rocks. At least there were some things she’d grown out of.
‘I want to know, Mike, what’s your favourite music to have sex to?’
‘Planning a little soiree, are we?’ Mike turned to look at Claire. She at least had the decency to blush.
‘Come on . . . tell me,’ she nudged him.
‘I don’t like to have sex to music. I can’t concentrate. It’s like being at work. If there’s music playing I start thinking about the bass line, the beat, the melody and then it’s all over.’
‘What’s all over?’ Zack was still looking for the room key and was rummaging around in his backpack.
‘My hard-on,’ said Mike.
‘What?’ Mike had Zack’s full attention.
‘Claire wants to know what’s the best music to have sex by. I told her I need absolute silence to concentrate.’
‘You would, you fucking weak unit. You don’t know what you’re missing. I tell you, one of the best roots I ever had in my entire life was in the crowd at the Narara festival in 1983 during a fifteen-minute Def Leppard drum solo. This chick went absolutely off. It was fucking incredible.’
Claire shook her head in amazement. Zack was full of these stories and in all the years of knowing him she’d never heard this one.
‘Jesus, Zack, it was a bit public, wasn’t it?’ said Mike.
‘Yep. That’s what made it so good. Every now and then I put on Pyromania and have a wank, just to recapture the magic.’
Claire bent over and laughed into her skirt. They were always doing this to her.
‘You are a full-on deviant,’ said Mike.
‘So come on, Claire. What’s this about then?’ asked Zack, hoisting himself up on the table in front of them. There was nothing he liked better than an X-rated chat.
‘Oh, nothing really. I was just thinking, you know. Something they were talking about on the radio this morning . . .’ Claire waved his inquiry away.
‘I’ll bet you go off to Enya,’ Zack teased. ‘No, no, no— Celine Dion.’ And here Zack fell back on the table with his legs in the air and thrashed from side to side.
‘Hey! Can we get this sound check finished, please? Claire, get up here!’ Ellery shouted from the stage. They were used to Ellery’s dark moods. The three of them dutifully trooped up to the stage like naughty children at a school assembly.
‘I’m meeting Martine at six, so let’s get this finished and we can all fuck off.’ And with that Ellery launched into the familiar opening chords of ‘I’m a Fool to Want You’.
Claire could never hear this song (and the name Martine) without being reminded of the way she and Ellery had finished. And right then she recalled the most bittersweet musical memory of her life. A night when music had been part of one of the most erotic experiences she had ever had. That’s what she’d tell Connor about tonight when she called him. She wondered whether he had been doing his homework too.
After the sound check the band retired to the hotel room they had been given to dress in—a fabulous luxury. Claire used the phone in the bathroom to call Meg again. Still no answer. Aaargh! Answer, answer, answer! She desperately needed to debrief with Meg. To tell her every exquisite detail of the night before. This media blackout was torture.
Claire had a few free hours before the gig. Maybe she would commandeer the bathroom for a long relaxing bath. Maybe she would head for the steam room in the hotel gym. Today she was scatty and restless. She left Zack and Louie to strip-mine the mini-bar and watch the sports channel on cable and headed into the city.
Claire decided to buy a new lipstick. She had a drawer full of lipsticks at home—probably a hundred of them—but she never had the colour she wanted in her make-up bag. Still, what wasn’t there to love about exploring the cosmetic counters of a department store? She always felt like a kid in a lolly shop. This afternoon she was looking for a sparkling ruby gloss to match her beaded gown.
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br /> The girls behind the counter hovered like so many brilliantly coloured hummingbirds. They were flawless. And, Claire thought, I would be too, if I had spent the day examining my face in a mirror with every possible tool of feminine artifice at my fingertips.
‘Hello. Can I offer you a free skincare analysis?’ The Clarins bird swooped down from her perch and grabbed Claire with ten long cyclamen-coloured claws.
Why not? she thought. I have some self-esteem I don’t seem to be using at the moment.
Claire winced as Miss Clarins shone an industrial strength light in her face and came in for a closer look. Claire could now see that the reason Miss C was perfect under the store lights was that her face was actually sculpted out of a solid lump of foundation and powder. Two purple pits indicated where her eyes went. Claire reckoned her to be about thirty-four. There was that Menopausal Obsessive Compulsive Disorder again. One day it would be called MOCD syndrome and there would be a pill for it.
‘So, let’s just see what we have here . . .’ said Miss Clarins, somehow imagining that, because she had a white jacket on, she was a qualified neurosurgeon. ‘Oh yes . . . hmm.’
Drawn by the bright light, a moth-woman in a T-shirt and track pants stopped by to watch the free show. ‘Take your scabby bag of cat’s meat and rack off!’ Claire murmured to herself. She was wriggling uncomfortably on her stool and regretting the whole stupid idea.
‘Well, you have an oily T-bar. Your forehead and cheeks are a bit dehydrated. You have lots of fine lines around your eyes and a few broken capillaries here and there . . .’
Jesus! thought Claire. What do you say to that? Forget the skincare products, just give me that plastic bag and I’ll wear it on my head! She knew what she wanted to say: ‘Hey, girlie, why don’t you take your stupid torch and your pathetic white jacket and fuck right off!’ Instead she quickly slithered off the stool, muttered a ‘thanks’ and bolted behind a counter at the far end of the store. She found herself standing next to an older woman (maybe late sixties?) who was in conversation with a young chick (early twenties?) at the Guerlain stand.
The young woman was holding a precious glass vial up to the light, ‘And this concentrated anti-ageing serum is for mature skins. With continued use you should find the depth of your character lines significantly reduced.’ The older woman was nodding her head enthusiastically.
Forget it, lady, thought Claire. The only way you’re ever going to look younger is by using the dimmer switch in your lounge room. By the way, your skin’s not ‘mature’; it’s old. They’re not ‘character lines’; they’re wrinkles. And as for ‘reduced depth’—how exactly do you plan to measure that? Using the dipstick from your car?
Claire was torn between admiring this older woman for her tenacious grip on her faded youth, and pitying her for her lack of grip on reality. She was fully made up. White powder, pale blue eyeshadow, pink rouge, coral lipstick. Her hair was coloured and neatly styled. She wore a tidy navy wool crepe suit, black patent leather pumps, matching handbag. And the clincher? A little navy brimmed hat, complete with spray of violets and net veil. She looked like a royal at the opening of a flower show.
Lately Claire had also acquired the habit of studying older women and taking inventory of how they presented themselves. She was building a mental image of how she wanted to look when she was a grandmother. So far she had decided she would let her hair fade to white and cut it into a chic short straight bob. She would wear flat shoes and comfortable layers. Good cut, gorgeous fabrics. Maybe Issey Miyake? She’d look sort of arty and individual. But not ageing hippie. It was a fine line. Off the list were: permed hair, T-shirts with words spelled out in sequins, homemade Kwik Knit polyester slacks, comfy plastic shoes, flashing Christmas earrings, kaftans, sleeveless tops, flesh-coloured stockings and anything in a Liberty print.
And one thing was for certain. She would not look like her mother. In her later years her mother had adopted the look of the classic Gold Coast matron. Citrus suits, gold jewellery, fake nails and streaked ash blonde layers. When June and her friends gathered they looked like fruit salad past its use-by date. And when her father Ron walked beside his wife in his beloved old brown suit he looked like an ageing fruit bat.
Poor Dad. He suffered the fate of old men everywhere. Watching in silence as their wives negotiated their way down a bumpy road into old age. Listening as the women they loved endlessly complained in front of the bathroom mirror. Accepting that sex only happened now with the lights out. If it happened at all. The question was, when did you decide to give in to old age and how? When did you get to let yourself go and start wearing elasticised waistbands? It was like when you were pregnant and decided to give in and wear your maternity underwear.
Claire remembered being pregnant with Maddie. One day she abandoned the sporty hipster briefs and reluctantly climbed into a pair of vast maternity undies which covered her belly and came up almost to her armpits. Looking in the mirror she realised that, yes, she was pregnant. And that for the first time in months, yes, she was really comfortable. She hoped that’s what it would be like to grow old. One day you would decide not to colour your hair anymore, or wear your high heels, and it would feel right. Really comfortable. Or maybe that day never came and there you’d be, standing at a skincare counter perusing youth potions while everyone around you saw you as a vain, deluded old crone.
Claire remembered what she had talked about at Rose’s wedding. Something about giving up gracefully. Well, I’m not about to do that, she pushed the thought from her mind. I’m going out disgracefully. Just watch me. She bought the ruby lip gloss, two sparkly eye pencils (one green, one purple) and a pot of silver glitter. Then she marched back to the hotel.
She smiled to herself and thought it was exactly how Maddy must feel leaving a birthday party with a bag of lollies. The same way the elderly woman felt as she tottered down the street with her little vials of anti-ageing serum clinking in their glossy Guerlain bag. There were, after all, some things about being a girl which never changed.
Back in the hotel room it was 7:30 pm. Just half an hour before Claire and Co were due on stage. Claire made her entrance from the bedroom to where the boys were sitting in the main room of the suite. She was wearing the full-length beaded red gown. Through a thigh-high split you could see pencil-heeled sandals tied with scarlet ribbons which crisscrossed up her calves. She had put her hair up in a sleek chignon, which she knew suited her. Garnet chandelier earrings accentuated the length of her slender white neck. She affected a catwalk turn for the boys, who whistled and applauded.
‘Oooh yes, Claire, you look very fuckable tonight,’ said Zack.
‘Although that’s not much of a compliment, given some of the scrubbers he’s dragged home,’ Mike added.
‘At least,’ Zack countered, ‘I managed to drag ’em home, Mikey boy. At least I didn’t spend my nights trying to fuck a hole in a double bass.’
‘Whoa . . . boys!’ Louie gathered Claire up in an affectionate cuddle and kissed her neck. ‘I think, Claire, what they’re trying to say is that you look gorgeous, girl. I dunno—where did I go wrong?’
Claire disentangled herself from Louie’s arms. ‘Let’s ring your long-suffering wife and ask her, shall we?’
Zack and Mike laughed. The circumstances of Claire and Louie’s break-up were well documented. They had met when they were both twenty-six years old, fallen in love and started the band two years later. The following year Claire had caught him in bed with another woman. She had been devastated. Not so much for the fact that he was having sex with someone else, but because she was the last to know. They’d been at it for six months behind her back and she imagined them talking together about her as if she had been reduced to a ‘problem’ which had to be solved. That’s what had really hurt.
The only saving grace was that he had ended up marrying Zoe and they had two teenage children. In the end you had to be forgiving if you were an obstacle to true love. Claire had a card up her sleeve, which gav
e her something to smile about when she remembered the pain. Louie often joked about having a small dick. It was no joke. He did.
‘So, who’s for a heart-starter?’ Louie was at the mini-bar mixing drinks.
‘I’ll have a white wine, thanks, Lou-Lou. Where’s Ellery?’ asked Claire.
‘I think he’s down with Martine in the cocktail bar. He’ll meet us backstage.’
In the years after Claire and Louie had broken up they had developed an easy rapport. She did not have the same with Ellery. There was always the sense of unfinished business. A grand symphony of tragedy and destiny played just below the surface. And now, since any promise of finishing their business was gone, they used the sexual tension to create music on stage. OK, it wasn’t the same as the real thing. But some nights when Ellery played piano it was as if he was whispering in Claire’s ear. As if his fingers were drumming up and down her naked back. And as she watched him bend over the keyboard she remembered what it was like to have him bend over her. She had loved to watch him come, his face a perfect portrait of ecstasy and abandon.
‘So, Louie, Claire has a question for you,’ said Zack.
‘Yeah?’ Louie was throwing peanuts into the air and catching them in his open mouth.
‘I’ve heard this. I’ll meet you down there,’ said Mike. He adjusted his tie in the mirror and left.
‘She wants to know, what’s your favourite fuck music?’
‘Oh thanks, Zack! Beautifully put, I must say,’ said Claire.
‘OK . . . always a good question,’ said Louie as he downed a miniature bottle of Johnny Walker. ‘Um . . . it’s a toss-up between Miles Davis and Meatloaf—’
‘What?’ Zack and Claire protested.
‘I haven’t finished! Or it could be Britney Spears and Eminem.’