by Wendy Harmer
Her dinner date with Charlie had turned out to be at Southbank in Melbourne. He picked her up from her flat in Rose Bay and drove her to Sydney airport in his old dark-blue Mercedes. She remembered the music he played in the car. An eccentric mad collection of Thin Lizzy, The Ramones, Laurie Anderson, ACDC, Aerosmith, Sinead O’Connor, Sting, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, U2, Annie Lennox, Nirvana. And each track with a running commentary from Charlie on the time he had seen them live at Budokan, Madison Square Garden, the Hammersmith Odeon or the Universal Amphitheatre. And there was the brilliant gossip from his interviews with the stars at the Chateau Marmont, the Rihga Royal, the Sunset Marquis and the Dorchester.
He and Claire had so much in common. Even after seven years they were still discovering concerts they had both been to, or people they both knew. It was as if they had been employed by the same company but been working on different floors. Claire had been in the creative office of the jazz department, while Charlie was working in the media office of the rock and roll department. And while they’d heard of each other, somehow they’d never caught up at the staff Christmas party.
She had forgotten the name of the Italian restaurant Charlie took her to but, like all the best places in Melbourne, it was dark wood panels and walls studded with bottles of vintage wine. The bottles glowed garnet red in the light of the amber glass table lamps. They talked nonstop and looked out over the Yarra River. The river had been dark and full of romantic promise, and they wouldn’t have been surprised if they had walked out the door into a cobblestone lane in Rome.
They slept together that night. There seemed little point in waiting. The sex had been just what Claire was longing for. Charlie was sure about himself in everything, and bed was no exception. He handled her like a precious object. She recalled him murmuring in appreciation as he slowly unwrapped her. He had been patient, intuitive, inventive. And the smell of him, the feel of him inside her . . . she knew she had come home at last. When she orgasmed she had an image of her cervix as a jewelled Fabergé egg.
When they woke the next morning in the hotel room and looked at each other, they both knew the searching was over. No more contestants, please—we have a winner! They read the Sunday papers and drank coffee together with the ease of a long-married couple. Three months later he had presented her with a perfect marquise diamond ring. Something she would have chosen for herself. They were married by the end of that year.
It was Charlie’s second marriage and he had a very clear idea of how he wanted it to go this time. He wanted it simple. Something that suited a thirty-eight year old divorcee and a forty-eight year old widower. Claire in a floor-length column of oyster satin and Charlie in a charcoal Armani suit. They wed in the park at dusk. The reception had been at The Pier restaurant in Rose Bay and the guests were a fusion of jazz and rock musicians.
The evening had been perfect. Family and friends had come together to launch Claire and Charlie’s marriage on a sea of love. But even after all this. There was still that moment in their hotel room afterwards when Claire had looked at him and saw a stranger. But then again, didn’t everyone sometimes have that ‘Who are you? How did I get here?’ feeling?
It was like the feeling she once had walking through Tokyo’s Shibuya station at peak hour and being a foot taller than the thousands of people around her. One moment you were towering over everyone else, looking down and pondering on the very nature of human existence—what grand plan in the design of the universe has brought us all here, together, at this moment in time? And then, a minute later, you were sitting down on the train with your shopping bags, the same height as everybody else, moving in the same direction as them and just impatient to get to the next station.
There was something Claire had read once about the best way to choose a partner. It was about choosing someone you trusted to witness your life. And if that was true Claire felt she had chosen well. Claire and Charlie had understood each other. They both knew that they had already lived a life and so they gave each other a freedom and independence a lot of other couples would have found hard to comprehend.
But then, somewhere along the way, Charlie had decided he didn’t want to be the person Claire married. He’d started on his personal search for meaning. ‘The unexamined life is not worth living,’ he was now fond of saying. Texts on comparative religion, the bible, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, collections of ancient myths and legends and Conscious Living magazines had started to pile up on Charlie’s bedside table.
Claire had begun to feel that the ghost of Charlie’s dead wife Chloe had come into their home. Especially with Rose planning her wedding and thinking of her absent mother. Chloe had died of breast cancer ten years earlier. Claire guessed that Charlie’s approaching sixtieth birthday was spooking him. That he had a sense of time running out. That there were Big Emotional Issues which needed to be addressed. And while Claire understood (intellectually) that Charlie was now doing essential renovation work on his psyche, work that she would benefit from later as he settled into a contented old age, it was hard going (emotionally).
The conclusion that Charlie had reached from all his searching so far was that he and Claire should work harder at their relationship. That they should be soulmates. Where Claire had felt comfortable with the notions of freedom and independence, this idea of them as intertwined souls was scaring the hell out of her. So she was thinking about all this when Charlie found her standing staring out to sea.
‘That was a stupid thing to say and I’m sorry. I’m not looking at younger women.’
Claire knew it was true. ‘I know, it’s just that . . .’ Claire decided to take this moment when Charlie was feeling vulnerable and contrite to tell him how she saw things. ‘Charlie, the more you keep on searching for something, the more it seems to get away from us.’
Charlie walked to the front of the balcony and looked to the horizon. He jammed his hands into his pockets and sighed. ‘I can’t help feeling that life is just a journey of loss,’ he began. ‘I mean, you start with everything and then, year by year, it all falls away. Dad died, Mum will die soon. I’m losing my hair, I need glasses. Rose is gone. Her mother is gone. And I’m just not sure what you gain as you go along. I know it’s supposed to be wisdom. But who values that these days? Not when everyone around me at work is twenty-five. And what’s the use of being wise when no one asks you for advice?’
Claire didn’t have an answer for Charlie.
‘I’ve just got to keep looking. We’ve got to keep looking.’ He turned to her, searching her eyes.
Claire knew what Charlie wanted. But she just wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. So she said nothing at all.
‘I’ve found a new men’s group and I’m going along tonight,’ he said.
‘OK, Charlie . . . whatever.’
Claire walked to the kitchen to start making dinner. Oh God! Another fucking encounter group! This had all started three years ago. Claire had even gone with Charlie to the first ‘weekend retreat’. The aim had been to deepen the spiritual connection and this two-day gathering was called ‘Journey to the Self’. Claire had told Meg about it. ‘Jeez, what if you go on this “journey to the self” and you find out there’s no one home?’ she joked.
It ended up being no joke. Ten individuals arrived at an old farmhouse in the rainforest at Bellingen on a humid Friday night. They had all selected a ‘Gifts of the Goddess’ affirmation card from a pottery bowl by the front door. Claire’s had read: ‘My Willpower Is Stronger Than My Bad Habits’. She had immediately felt like a cigarette. Charlie’s had read: ‘I Am Free of Pain and Suffering’. He stayed awake all night fighting off mosquitoes.
They had been the only married couple in the group. Everyone else was single or divorced and seemed to be in a state of extreme emotional disrepair. The weekend had been punctuated by outbursts of sobbing followed by interminable group hugs.
In the final therapy session on the Sunday morning everyone had been invited to assemble by the side of the
river. They were all asked by the team leader, Debbie, to pick up a rock from the ground. Debbie was a small, curly-haired blonde who was so needy it made you clench your teeth. She had been following Claire all weekend, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. ‘And how are you feeling, Claire?’ she kept asking. ‘No, I mean . . . really. Feeling. How are you feeling?’ Claire, apart from craving a bacon and egg roll with barbecue sauce, was feeling fine.
Now, by the side of the river, Debbie was making one last attempt to break those people who had been holding out in the sobbing department. As she stood and spoke with her mighty rock held aloft, she was looking sideways at Claire. ‘Hold the rock in your hand, feel the weight of it. Feel its longing to go back to the earth. Now I want you to imagine all the regrets you have in your life are within this rock. Name them all. Put them inside this rock. This is the rock of regret. Now fling it into the river. And as this river washes away your rock, imagine your regrets also being washed away. This rock, your regrets, will be returned to the earth from whence they came. And you will be free.’
Claire had watched Charlie solemnly address his large rock. He kissed it and whispered . . . what? Claire could only wonder. He inspected the rock’s marbled surface, turned it in his hand, feeling the weight of it, then flung it as far as he could into the rushing water below. There was a satisfying splash.
Claire too flung her rock. And heard a pathetic plonk! Her only regret was that she didn’t choose a more impressive rock.
Over the past three years Charlie’s search for meaning had taken him to a mountain retreat in Bali, to a Native American sweat lodge in New Mexico and a dawn vigil watching the sun rise on Uluru. She knew Charlie wanted her to come with him on his crusade instead of walking behind like a camp follower. But she couldn’t. Even though she had lived with him for seven years, had had a child by him and imagined she would always be with him, she felt Charlie now wanted to colonise her very soul. She was determined he wouldn’t. He would never get that corner of her which would be forever Claire.
So she continued to patiently pack his bags whenever he left on one of his spiritual search parties and then to unpack them when he returned. About the only thing she felt she could do was make sure he was properly dressed. And fed. It was with this in mind that Claire made her husband dinner this very evening. And, while she was making him dinner, her thoughts drifted inevitably to Connor.
They would be talking tonight about what they were going to wear for their weekend retreat. There would be nothing spiritual about their time together, thought Claire. In fact, this would be a retreat from spiritual purity into the purely physical. She shivered as she thought about the earthly delights his rock-hard body promised.
Maddie was sleeping soundly and Claire again had the house to herself when she rang Connor’s number at the appointed time.
‘Hi,’ he answered, his voice low in his throat.
Claire instantly felt a warm tingle of excitement telegraph from her solar plexus down to her groin. ‘Hello,’ she purred back. ‘How was the surf today?’
‘I didn’t get out. There wasn’t much about so I took a trip into Surfers Paradise. I had a bit of shopping to do . . . for us.’
Claire could hear the smile in his voice and knew she was supposed to play along. ‘Hmm . . . that sounds intriguing. And exactly what did you buy . . . us?’
‘Now let me see . . .’ There was a rustling of paper. ‘How would I describe these? They’re white sort of net. See-through. With a black velvet ribbon threaded around the top. They’re not little panties and they’re not those boy leg short things. But they’re cut so I imagine I will see some of your gorgeous bottom when you bend over.’
Claire was sitting on the couch and started to squirm with pleasure. She reached for a cushion and put it between her legs.
‘Uh-huh. Size?’
‘I’m thinking a perfect size twelve. And the bra is a 36B.’
‘Who’s a clever boy then?’ She giggled and squeezed the cushion with her thighs.
‘The bra is red satin. I’m told it’s a balconette. Which I think is a great name for a bra! It undoes at the front so let’s just see . . . hmm, that shouldn’t present any problems.’
‘And that’s it? No suspenders, stockings . . . nurse’s uniform?’
‘No, no, no,’ he laughed. ‘All that’s a bit too Penthouse centrefold for me. But I do like buttons. So I’m thinking some sort of long dress with buttons all the way up the front. I think you should choose that. High-heeled sandals with bare toes . . . and red polish. And your hair up, your neck bare. As you can see, I’ve been giving this a bit of thought.’
‘You have. And that’s it?’
‘Just one more thing. Waxing. The lot.’
‘You mean a Brazilian?’ Claire was startled.
‘Yep.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ said Claire smiling. ‘That’s where your fiancée’s from. You want some of the comforts of home.’
‘No, no. She’s gone to Brazil. She’s not from Brazil. In fact she’s—how can I say this?—very relaxed and comfortable with her personal grooming. She’s a hippie chick. So you will be fulfilling a bit of a fantasy of mine. And we’re both having one last fantasy, aren’t we?’
Claire agreed that they were and immediately wondered how she would explain her new look to Charlie.
‘So,’ Connor continued, ‘how about you? Should I be renting a fireman’s uniform? Whaddya want? Big boots? Cowboy hat? Leather?’
With all the emotional tumult of the day, Claire realised she hadn’t given the topic her full attention. But she knew that, every time she thought of Connor, he was naked.
‘Hmm. Maybe a sarong. I thought you looked very handsome on Sunday night when I saw you at Meg’s. Or just an old pair of board shorts. Those ones that lace up at the front.’
‘Yeah. I’m wearing ’em now. Too easy.’
And then Claire remembered. ‘Oh, there is one thing. Have you got any tattoos?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s what I want. I want one of those black tattoos that circles around your bicep. You know, those really ornate ones the Maoris have.’
‘I assume you want a real tattoo.’
‘Of course.’
‘You want me to experience pain!’
‘And you think a Brazilian won’t be painful?’
‘I’m actually thinking about the pain I’ll experience if my girlfriend ever finds out why I got it.’
‘I’m sure we’ll both come up with a good explanation.’
‘So where did this tattoo fantasy come from then?’ He was obviously angling for a story. Claire could hear Connor exhale and, from the thick sound of his voice, she decided he was smoking a joint.
‘Well . . .’ She picked up her glass of wine and settled back to tell him all about it. ‘It was, I dunno, eight, nine years ago. We had just finished a gig up the road and we all went back to the bar at the Sebel Townhouse. It was a quiet night and the boys left and I ended up there pretty much by myself. I was just about to go when this guy walks into the bar. He was alone and we got talking.
‘I remember he was younger than me. Tall, good-looking, blonde, blue eyes. He was wearing a suit. He seemed pretty conservative. And he said he was getting married in the morning—’
Connor interrupted. ‘Getting married, huh? Bit of a theme developing here, Claire?’
‘Well, not exactly. But it works a lot better for me than a guy telling me he’s gay. Anyway, are you listening?’
‘Listening.’
‘So, we get talking. Pretty soon I’m feeling a knee against my knee. Then a hand on my knee. Then a hand on my thigh—’
‘I can’t believe you’re making me jealous . . . but go on.’
‘So we end up in his room. His wedding tux is laid out on the bed—’
‘Please don’t tell me you fucked him on top of his wedding tuxedo?’
‘What sort of woman do you think I am? I fucked him on the floor.’
Connor laughed loudly. ‘I’m glad to hear you’re a woman who has a respect for tradition.’
‘Er . . . not quite! I did blindfold him with his own satin cummerbund while I sucked his dick.’
Connor groaned. ‘Holy fuck. Where did you come from?’
Claire continued. ‘The amazing thing was that, when he took his shirt off, there was this black panther tattooed down the length of his back. Its front paws were right up on each shoulder and its back paws were right down on his hips. I mean, you couldn’t imagine how many hours were put into this thing and how much pain he’d been through . . . I still get shivers thinking about it. I don’t know why, but I just found it unbelievably sexy. He just . . . I don’t know, he just didn’t seem the type.
‘The sex was amazing. It was wild. He chewed me up. Just ate me alive. God knows what shape he was in for the wedding the next morning. But I couldn’t believe this utterly gorgeous thing was . . . It seemed unfair that one woman was going to have him for the rest of his life. Or something like that.’
‘Did you feel guilty?’
‘Guilty? What for?’
‘Well, you cast a spell on the groom, didn’t you? Like some evil witch at a fairytale wedding.’
Claire was jolted back to Rose and Dermott’s wedding just five days ago. She sat up and the cushion dropped to the floor.
‘It was his decision too, so—’
‘Or is it the whole commitment thing you have a problem with?’
This was the first time in all her encounters with Connor that Claire could hear a note of reality chiming. She ignored it.
‘I could ask the same thing of you,’ she said quickly.
Connor took a deep drag before replying. ‘You could. Indeed you could. I figure sexual fidelity is like one of those twelve-step programs they put alcoholics and drug addicts on. I’m going to take it one day at a time, for the rest of my life. So, for me, what we’re going to do is like one last binge. But for you . . .’