by Lisa Walker
Run at the next suitable opportunity, I write in my Tips for self-improvement section.
Having soothed my conscience on that point, I change into my writing outfit. For some reason I work best in clothing with no distinct boundaries. An extra-large T-shirt and track pants is good. I suspect a caftan would be even better and the next time I see one in a shop I’m going to snap it up. I will wear it with no underwear, leaving me with the sensation of being draped in a sheet. I’ve tried working naked, but it’s not quite right.
I imagine Sooty, when she is not wearing her red satin dress, works in slimline black pants and a little black beret. She puts on bright red lipstick and sexy lingerie in case an unexpected lover should drop by. As I don’t have a lover, this is not an issue for me.
My evening with Professor Brownlow has left me tired but contemplative. I feel on the verge of something which is eluding me — an epiphany perhaps.
My mind seizes on the word. Epiphany. I pull the dictionary towards me. ‘Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi’, says the Pocket Oxford. Evidently it is not a good dictionary. I try the thesaurus instead — revelation, illumination, inspiration.
If I sat around all day waiting for an epiphany I’d never get anywhere, says the bonsai.
I look at the bonsai’s stunted limbs and dried out leaves and it seems a bit cruel to state the obvious — that it’s not getting anywhere. ‘Each to their own,’ I say.
The bonsai sniffs. ‘Go on then, wait for an epiphany, see if I care.’
‘I will. Just watch me.’
My fingers hover over the keyboard, waiting.
While I wait, I gaze out the window at the sea. The sea and I have a curious relationship. It both lures and repels me. I can watch the waves all day but nothing would get me in there.
Ten minutes pass while I contemplate the way the foam flicks off the back of the waves. The bonsai is right; neither revelation nor inspiration strikes. I am not in the mood for erotica.
I think of Jay. ‘Jaybird’. It must feel weird to have a chart-topping song named after you. I wouldn’t like to have people think they knew me because of something like that.
I push my chair out from my desk and stand up. I don’t quite know how it happens but I find myself sitting on the edge of my bed. Mum’s notebook is in my hands and I am reading the line she has written on the inside front cover.
Is wanting everything the same as wanting nothing?
It is very similar to something Sylvia once said. Sylvia Plath, that beautiful genius who gassed herself at the age of thirty. In retrospect, an attraction to Sylvia was not a good thing.
I am ten and I am tired. I am tucked up in bed, my hair spread across the pillow. Mum is propped up next to me. She is wearing an old singlet and short shorts. Her pale legs stretch out endlessly along the covers. I lean against her and she smells like salt. This is familiar and safe. She reads to me. Poetry reading is our night-time routine. We don’t only read Sylvia Plath. AA Milne and Spike Milligan are also popular but Sylvia is our favourite.
‘I close my eyes…’ Mum hardly has to say any more. I know the words to A Mad Girl’s Love Song off by heart. I repeat the last line of each verse with her.
‘It’s like that for me.’ Mum smiles at me when she finishes. ‘Sometimes I think I made you up inside my head.’
‘Me too,’ I say. And this seems a beautiful thing to me; we have made each other up out of nothing but dreams and fantasies.
We hold hands as my eyelids droop.
These days I realise how selective Mum was with Sylvia’s poems. How much she knew but didn’t say. I close the notebook and place it back in the chest, next to Mum’s well-thumbed copies of Ariel and The Collected Poems.
I look out the window again at the waves flinging themselves against the shore, think how easy it would be to Google her name then shut down the computer before this happens.
It seems that today is not about either writing or running. I must venture downstairs in search of purpose.
Chapter Twenty-three
I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.
SIGMUND FREUD
A raucous laugh drifts up the stairs as I open my door. This is alarming. I was expecting a quiet house. My mind was turning to baking scones, maybe gardening, possibly spring cleaning. The fact I have never done these things before is no impediment to doing them now. Domestic routines could well be the key to happiness.
I am also affronted. This is my childhood home. I should be able to wander around it without having to encounter raucous laughter. I decide to go for a walk instead. If I sneak past quietly, the raucous person, whoever he is, will not see me.
I am almost out the front door when a loud voice calls my name. ‘Edie.’
I turn. Gary Jaworski is waving at me from the kitchen. ‘Come and have a drink.’
He sounds like he is in his house and I have dropped over. Clearly Gary is the sort of person who knows how to make himself at home.
‘I’ve made a pizza for lunch,’ says Gary. ‘Why don’t you share it with us?’
This is even more disorientating. Shouldn’t I be asking him to have lunch with me, not the other way around? But his good host air is irresistible. As I trail towards him a miaow sounds at my feet and I look down. ‘Hi, Kafka.’ The cat sits down with its eyes on Gary.
‘A cat philosopher, huh?’ Gary opens the fridge. ‘Beer?’
I glance at my watch. The hands have not even met at the top yet.
Gary catches this gesture as he turns around, two perspiring cans in his hands. ‘You’re not one of those no-drinks-before-sundown people are you?’ He says this in a way that implies this is an uptight middle-class consideration.
Suddenly I don’t want to be one of those types. I want to be a rockstar — a crazy, wild, live-for-the-moment artistic type. Or at least feel like one. I hold out my hand. ‘Thanks.’ The cold can reassures me. I am leading an exciting, creative life. Even if no one wants to have sex with me.
Gary puts his hand on the small of my back as he ushers me towards the lounge room. ‘Look who I found.’
I stop in my tracks like a donkey sighting a snake. Jay is sitting on the couch with the leopard-skin mini girl from last night beside him. They obviously spent the night together. Or did they? My intimate-ometer measures the distance between them and comes up undecided. They are closer than friends, but not quite close enough to confirm them as lovers.
Jay eyes me as if I might bite. ‘Hey.’ He has a can of beer in his hand. So does leopard-mini girl. ‘This is Tanya,’ he says.
Tanya is pale. She looks young enough to be at school, but if I was her mother I’d give her the day off and tell her to buck up. ‘Hi,’ she says. She says this as if it costs her a lot; as if hi is a marathon she wishes she hadn’t had to run.
I feel like tipping my beer over her. Instead, I consider my seating options. There are two solitary leather chairs and the couch on which Jay and Tanya have staked their claim. A leather chair would be the sensible option but the beer in my hand convinces me today is not a day for sense or sensibility. No, bugger Jane Austen, today is a day for recklessness, attitude and Brontë-style daring. I cannot live without my life!
I lower myself onto the sofa next to Jay. I am aiming for a Courtney Love or Amy Winehouse ‘fuck you’ attitude, but suspect my stained T-shirt and track pants may be detracting from my stage presence.
As soon as my saggy-bummed bottom hits the couch I realise I have made a terrible mistake. Beer or no beer, I am feeling awkward. A personal-space-invasion alarm is going off inside my head. I have breached the recommended approach distance for whatever class of relationship now exists between Jay and me.
I observe Jay out of the corner of my eye. He is looking awkward too. As well he should. I edge away from him, trying to reduce the volume on my alarm. The couch is not quite big enough for this to have much effect. Jay doesn’t shift, but leans away from me. Or
is he leaning towards Tanya?
Human interactions are so trying sometimes. Why don’t we cut out the subtlety? Wouldn’t it be much easier to just go outside and fight it out? A quick slap and punch and I’d feel much better.
Gary, oblivious to the tension in the room, settles himself on the leather chair opposite us. I am not surprised when Kafka wanders in and crouches, his shiny eyes on Gary. Once again we are in a nativity scene, our Jesus an ageing, but still sexy, rockstar. Gary has bleached-blond hair and a row of earrings up his left ear. He is snake-hipped in his brown leather trousers and still in possession of the charisma that had teenage girls fainting at his concerts in the eighties.
Tanya sips her beer through black-lipsticked lips and says nothing. Jay, still leaning towards Tanya, also sips his beer and says nothing. I take several large gulps of my beer and gaze out the window, searching for a suitable topic of conversation. If Sally was here she would know what to say.
‘Was it a successful concert last night?’ This sentence, which was smooth with an edge of irony in my head, comes out like a pompous librarian discussing a chamber music recital.
Jay’s brown eyes flicker to me. He doesn’t smile. ‘Yes, it was…rather.’
His fake English accent is so faint I could almost pretend it wasn’t there, except I know it was. I flush.
He notes this, I can tell.
Again, I wonder why I have ever felt Jay and I have a connection. Obviously this is not the case. He thinks I am an idiot. And he is right. Everything I say or do turns to sawdust in his presence.
‘It was rockin’,’ says Tanya. ‘Wasn’t it, babes?’ she adds, to Jay.
Jay smiles at her. ‘Totally.’
I want to pinch him. Hard. And I wish I had said, ‘Was it rockin’ last night, babes?’ That would have been a good thing to say. But I can’t imagine saying that. Not without a script and a rehearsal.
‘Well, this is fun.’ Gary smiles from one of us to the other, his leathery skin crinkling up around his eyes.
I smile back, while thinking that covering myself with honey and rolling in an ants’ nest would be much more pleasurable.
‘Watcha doin’ all the way over there, babe?’ Gary says to Tanya.
Tanya rises, her beer in her hand. She glides across to Gary, perches on his lap and plants a long kiss on his lips. Gary’s hands land on her leopard-skin bottom. The cat puffs out the hair on its neck. A low growl emanates from its throat.
Oh. So that’s the way it is. A ray of sun pokes through the damp fog which descended on me in the Top Pub last night. I straighten my leaning tower.
This is only a small action, but Jay looks straight at me. He smiles in a way which tells me he knows exactly what is going on.
I remember, again, what it is we have in common — intuition. Jay is attuned to the unspoken. This is rare, especially in a man. I smile back.
Gary and Tanya are locked in an embrace which is likely to lead to the bedroom. He is running his hand up her slender, pale thigh. I hope she is old enough for this. I hope her mother knows where she is.
Jay and I are sitting closer together than house-mates but further than lovers. Our leaning towers are now angled towards each other. He puts his beer down on the floor and our shoulders brush, as if by accident. We catch each other’s eyes, pause and look away. And I sense we have been leading to this moment for a long time, possibly a lifetime.
‘What happened to you last night, Edie?’
I like the way he says my name, as if it is something to be cherished.
He rests his head on the back of the couch, inclined towards me.
I do the same. We are two heads on pillows with not much distance between us. It is like being in bed. I can tell by the languorous look in his eyes he is thinking this too. ‘I turned up. But then I saw you. With Tanya.’
Jay and I glance towards Gary and Tanya. They seem to have forgotten we are here. Gary’s hand has disappeared up her skirt and there isn’t a lot of space up there.
Jay rolls his eyes. ‘Let’s go outside.’
We sit on the couch outside. Now, we are much, much closer than house-mates, but still not as close as lovers. I feel like we are oppositely charged magnets, held apart by sheer force of will. If I stretched out my hand I could touch… I look away at the sea then back down at his hand. It is resting at his side. I don’t think I have ever found a hand quite so fascinating. Jay’s hand is pale, but not as pale as mine. His nails are cut short, except for his thumbnail, which is longer. I imagine this has a guitar-playing function. I think it would be quite easy to slip my hand inside his. I think it would fit quite well.
‘What are you thinking about?’ asks Jay.
Our eyes meet and a pulse passes through me, pulling at my stomach. ‘Nothing much.’ I don’t look away. ‘How about you?’
‘Same.’ Jay half-smiles.
Silence falls. The tension is almost unbearable. No, it is unbearable. My hand reaches out, touches his. I am astonished at my daring, but it is easier to touch him than not touch him. He takes my hand, winds his fingers through mine, rubs my palm with his thumb, runs his hand up my wrist. A warm, languid feeling spreads through me. I could purr. Jay is very good at holding hands. I think he has done this before.
‘So,’ he says.
‘So.’
‘You know I’m more or less your brother-in-law.’
I think about that. ‘Uncle-in-law. And only if Rochelle and Dad get married.’
‘In-law things are bad. So I’ve heard.’
I can’t tell if he is joking or not. ‘You’re not speaking from personal experience?’
‘No.’
We are still holding hands. This feels very right. I wish time would stop — we could stay here forever, poised on the brink of possibility. But that isn’t the way life works. You go forwards or backwards, you never stay still.
‘I’m in no position to start a relationship,’ he says, but he doesn’t release my hand. His thumb still traces a curve across my skin. ‘I’m…’ he seems to be searching for a word, ‘resting.’
‘That’s fine. We don’t have to have a relationship. We can just talk. And maybe hold hands. Holding hands is nice.’ And I don’t think holding hands has ever been this nice before. Right now I would be happy to hold hands with Jay for the rest of my life.
Jay smiles, his fingers twined through mine. ‘I like holding hands with you.’
So we talk. Well, mainly I talk at first. And time does stand still. Before long I find I have told him things I’ve never told anyone else — big things and little things. How I have a freckle on my left hand that lets me know which hand is which, or else I’d never know. How many lovers I’ve had and which ones meant something to me and which didn’t.
I don’t know why I have never told anyone else these things. But then I think maybe I do. Jay is different. He is interested in how I am — not just in how I could be if he trained me right, or in what I can offer him. Usually when I’m with men they do all the talking. It occurs to me that listening the way Jay does is a wonderful gift.
I tell him about Daniel. Seeing as I am in a confessional mood I don’t hold back. ‘You know what irks me?’
‘What irks you?’ asks Jay. ‘Now that’s an under-used word. I like it.’
I find I am shy again. ‘He would never, you know…’ I wave my free hand vaguely.
Jay cocks his head, waiting.
‘He was always so…’
Jay raises one eyebrow, but still doesn’t talk.
I take a deep breath and speak fast. ‘He would never come first.’ I can hardly believe I have said that.
Jay purses his lips. He looks puzzled.
‘Don’t you think that’s just too…’
Jay regards me with a steady look. ‘We’re talking about sex?’
I nod.
He smiles. ‘He sounds like a man of high principles.’
‘Can you have high principles about sex?’
‘High p
rinciples start with sex. There’s equality, fraternity…’
‘Liberty?’
‘Liberty?’ Jay meets my eyes.
A flash of chemistry darts between us. My heart beats faster.
‘I think you probably sacrifice liberty for intimacy,’ says Jay.
The concept of intimacy interests us both. I quote Jane Austen, ‘It is not time or opportunity that determines intimacy. Seven years would be insufficient for some, while seven days are more than enough for others.’
‘The funny thing is, you can find intimacy with unlikely people,’ says Jay. ‘Even people who seem quite unpromising at first.’ He gives me a lop-sided smile.
I know he is talking about me. And suddenly I can see the value of old-fashioned courtship. Getting to know someone intimately before you jump into bed with them, rather than after is not a bad idea at all.
The sun moves on while Jay and I hold hands on the couch. It is like travelling through space with a single companion. The talk goes here and there; it stops and starts without a moment’s awkwardness. I can say anything; anything at all and I know it will be just right.
‘How do you feel about bonsais?’ I ask.
‘Hmm.’ Jay considers this. ‘I like the way they look, but…’
‘But?’
‘Aren’t they a bit like a caged animal?’
I nod. ‘If a bonsai could talk, what do you think it would be like?’
‘Well, if I was a bonsai I’d probably be all warped and twisted. The pruning would get me down. You’d have to end up with a chip on your shoulder, wouldn’t you?’
‘That’s exactly what they’re like.’
‘Know a few bonsais, do you?’
‘Just one.’
We smile at each other and my stomach skips. He gets me.
‘Do you have any strange obsessions or, like, stuff I should know about?’ I ask.
‘Before we go any further, you mean?’
I shrug. ‘It’s good to get things out in the open.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Strange jobs?’
‘This from a girl who draws baby crabs for a living.’
‘It’s a perfectly respectable career choice.’