by Lisa Walker
‘Yes and yes.’
‘Then you are looking for a new direction in life and life coaching is for you.’ She says this in the tone of someone announcing you have won a major prize.
‘What if I’d said no to everything?’
‘Then you are in need of some attitude adjustment and life coaching is absolutely for you.’
‘I thought that might be the case. But, are you sure you want me on your advertising material? I’m not exactly a success story.’
‘You will be. I have a one hundred per cent success rate.’
‘But I’m your only client.’
‘Exactly. And I haven’t failed you yet, have I?’
‘No. You’re the best life coach I’ve ever had.’
‘I’m going to email the flyer to you. Print out a few copies and stick them up around the uni, will you? How did your first conversation go?’
‘Total crap. This guy basically blew me off. Then I found out later he’s Rochelle’s brother.’
‘Rochelle?’
‘Dad’s girlfriend — I forgot you haven’t met yet. You’ll like her. But her brother…what’s worse is, he’s coming to stay with us. I don’t know why, but it’s not like I’ve got any choice in the matter.’
‘Step me through it.’
‘Is that life coach speak?’
‘You like it?’
‘Yeah, give me more.’
‘You’re not getting out of it by distracting me,’ says Sal. ‘Step me through your encounter.’
I sigh. ‘You’re a hard woman.’
‘Edie.’ Sally’s voice is definitely verging on Madame Lash material.
‘Okay.’ I tell Sally about my conversation with Jay. ‘…and then I say, “What do you think of the quality of the waves?” and he just looks at me like I’m something stuck to his shoe and walks off.’
Sally is silent for a while after I’ve spoken.
‘Now you’re wishing you didn’t quote me on your flyer, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m not.’
She says this so quickly I know I’m right. ‘Maybe you should start off with an easier client. Donald Bradman, for example.’
‘But he’s dead.’
‘So are my conversation skills.’
‘Edie, I’m going to let you in on a little conversational secret here that is going to stand you in good stead for the rest of your life. Listen carefully.’ Sally pauses for dramatic effect. ‘The key to making a connection is to know what interests the other person.’
‘But how do I know what interests them?’
‘It’s pretty simple. If you’re talking to a man, chances are he’s thinking about sex.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve noticed it time and again. Ask a guy what he’s thinking about and he’ll just look guilty and say “Nothing much”. Dead giveaway. You can bet your bottom dollar the topic of sex is going to be raised sometime soon.’
‘I don’t think that’s what Jay was thinking about when I was trying to talk to him.’
‘Bet you he was.’
I think of his look of disdain. ‘No. Definitely not.’
‘Freud said that sex is the primary motivator of humans.’
‘Maybe that’s only around you.’
‘Well, perhaps I need to meet this Jay. In order to advise you better. I’ll come around to your place tonight. Gotta go. Believe it, live it, do it, Ed.’
And before I can reply, she’s hung up.
I look up and realise Professor Brownlow has come back in while I’ve been talking. ‘My life coach.’ I point at the phone. Like this is some kind of excuse. As if life coaching is the kind of urgent matter which cannot be delayed even when you’re getting paid to draw crab larvae.
Professor Brownlow looks distracted. He nods and sits down. A few seconds pass before he speaks again. ‘Did you say life coach?’
I look up from my maxilliped, startled. ‘Yes.’
‘What does that involve?’
I wish I hadn’t mentioned it because now there doesn’t seem to be any way to get past admitting I am the sort of failure who requires coaching just to function in the way most people find easy. Luckily the email on my computer goes ting at that moment. ‘Here’s a flyer, I’ll print it out for you.’
I hand Professor Brownlow the flyer. Sally has been moving fast, she’s got the whole concept mapped out.
Attitude is everything.
Eight steps to a more fulfilling life.
Career direction
Life purpose
Self-expression
Business coaching
Mentoring
Relationships
Creativity
Etiquette
‘Sally is magnificent.
I thoroughly recommend her coaching to anyone looking for a new direction in life.’
Edie McElroy, client
Etiquette? I’ve got a feeling Sally was struggling to find eight strings to her bow.
Professor Brownlow scans the flyer and places it in his in-tray. ‘Thanks.’
When it is obvious he has no further comments, I return to my desk. I try to enjoy the variety of each new zoea as I slide it into view. Sadly, like politicians and chickens, they are more alike than different. But after my counselling session with the divine Professor Brownlow I can’t afford to shirk. Professor Brownlow loves zoea, so they must have something going for them; I just need to discover it. Maybe I can form a Facebook group for people who are into zoeas? Maybe my soul mate and I will bond over discussions of maxillipeds and telsons. Oh, darling, I knew you were the one for me by the way we both loved the Pyromaia tuberculata.
By the tenth zoea I have decided I will need Valium if I am to continue in this job.
By the eleventh I have decided I will have to seduce Professor Brownlow.
By the twelfth it is blindingly clear; only the combination of prescription drugs and sex will save me.
Chapter Eight
It is impossible to overlook the extent
to which civilisation is built upon a
renunciation of instinct.
SIGMUND FREUD
When I get home from work Jay is there, lounging on the sofa reading a copy of Rolling Stone. He doesn’t hear me come in so I watch him for a moment, taking in the thick, black hair falling over his eyes, the skinny jeans and the black Converse basketball shoes. Rockstar chic.
Then Rochelle sees me. ‘Edie,’ she calls, and she couldn’t sound any more pleased if I was an executive from Oz Lotto with a million-dollar cheque for her. She smiles her 1000 volt smile and strides out from the kitchen, spatula in hand. She has a frangipani tucked behind her ear and is wearing a T-shirt which says Aloha over the image of a girl on a surfboard.
I can’t resist smiling back, inanely, like a stoned porpoise.
Jay looks up, catching the tail end of my smile and even though it isn’t directed at him, he obviously thinks it is. His mouth twitches. ‘Hey,’ he says. It is a minimalist greeting. The kind a rockstar gives to a fan who is probably a stalker.
I blush.
He observes my blush, then turns back to Rolling Stone.
‘Edie, you and Jay know each other, don’t you?’ asks Rochelle.
This is overstating it, but she sounds so enthusiastic I respond with eager nodding. ‘We met this morning.’ I sound like Paris Hilton.
Jay’s eyes flicker, catching my nod and gushing response. He doesn’t say anything.
I blush again. I want to ask Rochelle why he is staying with us and how long he’s going to be here, but this doesn’t seem like the right time. ‘My friend Sally’s coming over later. After dinner.’
‘That’s nice,’ Rochelle enthuses. ‘I’ll look forward to meeting her.’ Behind her, the crystal mobile she has hung in the kitchen tinkles in the breeze.
Rochelle is a domestic goddess. The house has been full of these gentle, cheerful touches since she moved in. She has even done amazing things to the garden. I
suspect she gardens naked when I’m not around, reliving her time in the taro field. I suspect this because she doesn’t have tan lines in the usual places. She and her brother don’t seem related at all. He must have been adopted.
Dad comes downstairs, his hair wet from the shower. ‘Good day, Eddie?’
I nod. ‘The usual, drew twelve crab larvae. One of them had a particularly fine exopodite. Rather spunky really.’
‘That’s the way.’ Dad picks up his hammer and eyes the ceiling, which has now been peeled back to bare boards. His mind is on other things.
I sit down at the table and flick through the newspaper. Dad exchanges a meaningful look with Rochelle when he thinks I’m not looking. She lifts her shoulders a fraction in reply. I don’t know what that means.
Dinner is awkward. For some reason conversation is limited to ‘Pass the sauce, please’ (me) and ‘This is delicious’ (Dad). Even Rochelle’s smile wilts in the chilling ambience.
Rochelle has placed a tall flower arrangement in the middle of the table in honour of Jay’s arrival. I peer around the hibiscus and frangipanis, feeling like a Jane Austen heroine at a formal dinner which is going badly, and adopt a haughty air I am unable to shake. I plumb my mind for conversational topics and come up with the following questions for Jay:
Do you like tofu?
Have you considered wearing colours other than black?
and,
Why are you here?
I clear my throat in preparation, but none of them seem quite right to drop unannounced into the strained silence.
Dad attempts to break the ice with a discussion about the forthcoming election but this falls flat.
‘From politics, it was an easy step to silence,’ I murmur, spearing a carrot with a chopstick. Chopsticks, like dolphins, are one of Rochelle’s things. She thinks it helps you to savour your food.
Eventually Jay deigns to talk to me. ‘Are you a scientist?’ The way he says this makes it obvious he has no interest in my reply.
I giggle in a fetching manner. ‘Oh no, drawing crabs is just a job. I need the money. I have a dreadful propensity for being poor.’
Jay, clearly not an Austen fan, gives me a blank stare then attacks his tofu surprise with renewed vigour.
In actual fact, I am not really an Austen fan either. The Brontës are more my style. Jane Austen’s heroines are practical. They realise that too much romance can ruin your life, a fact I would rather ignore. Elizabeth Bennet loved Darcy as soon as she first saw ‘his beautiful grounds at Pemberley’. What about his laugh? His eyes? His hidden depths? A Brontë heroine would not be so dull. Brontë heroines know that to turn your back on passion is to turn your back on life. Just look at what happened to Cathy from Wuthering Heights —
‘Did you ever see that movie, Attack of the Crab Monsters?’ Dad interrupts my musings on romance.
We all look at him with the level of interest that people bring to an aeroplane safety briefing.
‘It’s about a group of evil scientists who land on a remote island which is full of these mutated giant crabs. They can talk with human voices and they want to take over the world…’ Dad trails off.
‘Hmm, no, never saw that one,’ says Jay.
I shake my head.
Rochelle blinks.
‘The crabs are invincible because they’re, um…’
‘Mutated?’ Jay’s voice expresses a polite interest, but I detect an undercurrent of parody.
My dad’s habit of providing long and boring movie summaries has always annoyed me, but now I come in on his side. ‘It sounds fantastic. We should get it out on DVD.’
Jay gives me a long look from under his fringe.
Dad smiles. ‘I’m pretty sure they’ve got it in the video shop.’
I wait to see if he can wring any more out of this topic, but this seems to conclude our riveting diversion into C-grade movies.
Dad taps his chopsticks on his plate to fill the silence. Now I wish we could go back to talking about crab monsters as this is his most annoying habit.
‘If you were an animal, Jay,’ Rochelle puts her hand on Dad’s to stop him tapping, ‘which animal would you be?’
We all turn to Jay. What animal will he be? A drum roll, please.
‘A dolphin,’ he says, deadpan.
Well, what a surprise. I was thinking more along the lines of great white shark.
Rochelle looks around the table as if this is an amazing coincidence. ‘Me too. Why would you be a dolphin?’
‘Because they spend about seven hours a day fucking.’
As he says this, Sally makes her entrance. She stands, silhouetted against the doorway, her dress lifting up around her legs in the sea breeze, a lock of tawny hair blowing across her face.
Jay turns and his eyes meet hers.
She smiles.
He smiles.
‘I’m Sally,’ she says.
‘I’m Jay.’
‘How are you enjoying Darling Head?’
‘It’s cool. Very…sandy.’
I watch this exchange like a game of tennis. So that’s how it’s done, this conversation thing. I am certain that if Sally asked Jay what he was thinking about, he would say, ‘Nothing much’. But I still don’t think that’s what he was thinking about with me.
‘Hi,’ says Rochelle.
Sally turns the beam of her gaze on Rochelle. ‘Hi, Rochelle. Nice to meet you.’
They smile at each other and I sense an optimistic energy flowing between them — two get-up-and-go women.
Sally catches my eye and gives a quick wink as she comes to the table. ‘Hi, Dave. Hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to drop around some of my flyers. I thought you might be able to put them up at work.’
As Dad runs his own sporting photography business and has no staff, this is a fairly flimsy excuse for her visit. Dad and Rochelle take the brochures from her.
‘Thanks,’ says Rochelle.
‘Interesting,’ says Dad.
‘I’m a life coach.’ Sally turns to Jay.
‘Is that right?’ He flicks the hair out of his eyes. ‘I’ve never met a life coach before. Why don’t you drop around and give me some coaching one day. I need a bit of help.’
This is the longest speech I have heard from him.
Sally smiles — a piranha scenting flesh. ‘Glad to. Are you prepared to create more balance in your life?’
Jay nods. ‘Uh huh.’
‘Do you see room for more fun and enjoyment?’
Jay raises his eyebrows. ‘Totally.’
‘Do you think you would benefit from someone to help you stay on track?’
‘That’s you, right?’ asks Jay.
‘Oui, c’est moi.’ Sally twirls a wayward strand of her hair around one finger.
For some unaccountable reason I want to punch her in the ear.
‘Then I definitely would,’ says Jay.
‘Check me out on Facebook.’ Sal hands him a flyer and points at the address on the bottom.
Jay fingers the paper, a half-smile on his lips.
My head has been turning from one to the other throughout this exchange. I’m starting to feel awkward. They are practically undressing each other with their eyes. ‘You have delighted us long enough,’ I say to Sal. I smile to pretend I am joking. ‘I’ve got some stuff I need to do.’
Sally flashes me a glance which shows she knows exactly what I mean. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye Dave, Rochelle…Jay.’
‘Sally,’ says Jay, by way of goodbye. He says her name as if it is one he is sure to remember.
After Sally has gone we return to our interrupted boredom. Dad and Rochelle settle in front of a home improvement show on the TV, Jay pulls out his magazine and I, remembering I supposedly have stuff to do, escape to my room.
Once there, I feel ashamed of the way I rushed Sally off. Why did I do that? I send her a quick email.
Subject: Um, sorry?
Don’t know what came over me. Conversational j
ealousy? Don’t give up on me.
Your star client,
Edie
I press Send/Receive and as Sally’s email departs another one comes in. How exciting. A name appears in my inbox. I can hardly believe it. It is from Daniel. Daniel has sent me an email. This hasn’t happened since we broke up. Happiness bubbles up inside me.
An email.
From Daniel.
This is beyond exciting, it is fabulous.
There is no subject. My heart hammers as I click on it. There is also no message, just an attachment. I do a little jig in my chair as it loads. What has he sent me? A love letter? The attachment opens. It is a five-page document titled ‘Care of Bonsais’. Disappointing. To say the least.
I scan it. Caring for a bonsai requires tremendous patience and effort. Well, stop right there.
This is a very, very disappointing email. But, still, it is an email from Daniel. It required him to remember my existence, to type in my name, to press Send. An email on bonsai care is better than no email at all. So, although I have little interest in caring for bonsais, I don’t delete it. I put it in the folder with his other emails.
I can hear Sally screaming as I do this. Delete his emails, delete his texts, delete his photos. Have no contact. Don’t think about him. I know this is the way to get over someone. But what if you don’t want to get over them? What if, contrary to all logic and rational thought, you think that maybe, just maybe you will still get back together?
I have a lot of emails from Daniel. Communications may have been more romantic in the days before email, but I bet they weren’t as prolific. There is definitely an epic poem’s worth here — even a collection. An Accidental Love Story, I could call it. Not that I would do that. Daniel’s emails are private. For now…
I can’t read his emails because they make me cry, but I will never delete them. One day perhaps, when my heart is not so raw, I will turn them into art. Forgive me, Daniel. You will never recognise yourself.
Daniel’s tree sits on my bedside table, accusing me with its browning leaves. ‘I’m sorry I took you away from him,’ I say.
It’s no wonder Daniel moved on, says the tree.
‘Oh, talking to me now, are you?’ I always knew that the bonsai thought I wasn’t good enough for Daniel. It never said so while we were together, but I could sense it. Daniel and the bonsai were a pair — neat, precise and very, very good-looking. ‘Why are you so spiteful?’ I ask. ‘Shouldn’t you be all Zen? Being a Japanese bonsai and all.’