It Started with a Kiss

by Lisa Heidke

  ‘There’s a huge demand for them out there,’ Rosie said, theatrically waving her arms in the air. ‘Running costs are cheap. Client pays for everything.’

  I thought back to Rosie’s party several months prior. ‘It was a great night, but are you sure there’s a market for it?’

  ‘Are you kidding me? When I googled divorce parties, I got 7,570,000 hits in 0.27 seconds!’

  ‘That’s a lot of hits.’ I couldn’t help but be impressed.

  Rosie was crazy, but I needed a little crazy in my life right now. I’d had enough of being miserable and existing in my head, agonising over why Liam had left me and was now living in a Paddington shoe box with Brad. She was about the only person who entertained me and kept me from brutal self-destructive thoughts, but when I wasn’t with her? I felt hopeless about my marriage, unloved.

  I was hanging onto a cliff with my bare fingers and they were bleeding, broken and weak.

  Evie and Olivia were spending most weekends and the occasional week night at Liam and Brad’s. And they were starting to talk, telling me ‘how great Dad’s doing’.

  I didn’t need to hear that. Really didn’t.

  Ten weeks in, this revelation from Olivia: ‘Dad’s probably got a girlfriend.’

  What? How was that even possible? Did Olivia have evidence or was she just fishing? Looking to bait me?

  I didn’t follow the conversation up, mainly because I didn’t want to have this conversation with my fifteen-year-old daughter but, still, negative, defeatist thoughts rampaged through my mind on a regular basis. More and more, I was having difficulty sleeping.

  And so it was a few days later at the clinic when I had what could only be described as a breakdown. I was taking notes about a new client, Belinda, a slim, good-looking, perky, twenty-eight-year-old woman, who was about to wed ‘my soulmate’, and was telling me how great her life was.

  ‘And the sex?’ she giggled. ‘Multiple orgasms all the way.’

  I threw my arms up in the air. ‘What the fuck do you need with me? A naturopath? Your life’s perfect. Fucking perfect. Don’t waste my time. Get out of here. You and your fucking orgasms.’

  Belinda fled my office, slamming the door on her way out.

  Moments later, Deirdre was standing over me. ‘I’m meant to be going to the health spa, Utopia, in the mountains this Sunday, for a week’s R and R,’ she told me. ‘But you need the break more than I do. Go. Get your act together. And don’t come back till you’re feeling better.’

  I’d lost my husband, my dignity and almost lost my job. I didn’t want to think about my situation deteriorating further, I was already at rock bottom. Something had to change. A health spa seemed a good place to start.

  4

  Liam was enjoying baching with Brad, hanging out at bars and chilling. Brad was only two years younger than Liam but could pass for thirty-five. He was a managing partner at one of the leading advertising companies in Australia, so his job was full-on, but he still managed to party five nights out of seven. He was relentless, always on the go, always with a woman or three draped around his arms.

  ‘Hey,’ said Brad, handing Liam a beer with one hand, a buzzer waving in his other. ‘I’ve ordered a couple of steaks and chips as well.’ They were at Brad’s favourite watering hole watching the rugby, a typical weeknight. ‘Come and meet my new friends while we’re waiting,’ he said, leading Liam over to a small group of young, good-looking women. Really young. Very hot.

  Liam gulped his drink, watching as Brad successfully flirted with them. He could see that Brad was flexing as he spoke, his oriental dragon tattoo visibly breathing. Brad had it all. He was wealthy, handsome and charming… Liam was in awe. The guy was a legend. He could party till the wee hours and still hit the gym five hours later.

  Within minutes, Brad was swapping business cards. ‘You’d be perfect for a Pantene ad I’m shooting,’ he was saying to one woman who had shoulder-length, dark wavy hair.

  She laughed and leant into him.

  ‘What?’ he said, feigning innocence. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

  Last week, he’d told another she’d be perfect for a Colgate commercial. She’d been in his bed by midnight.

  Truth is, Liam had always been a little jealous of Brad. Growing up, Brad had done whatever the hell he wanted while Liam had always been the sensible older brother and done what was expected. Liam had played by the rules at home and at school.

  As children, Brad was always more outgoing and adventurous, willing to take risks, come what may. Whereas Brad took time off after finishing high school and backpacked around Europe, Liam went straight to university, focused on completing a Media and Communications degree, then married Friday soon after.

  Now that his parents had died, Liam didn’t have to be the good son anymore. That’s what he’d always tried to be—the good son, and then the good husband. He’d been locked into certain behaviours, trapped by his desire for approval. All his life Liam had tried to please others. Now, if he chose, he didn’t have to please anyone. He could be his own man. And if others didn’t like the new Liam Campbell? Well, they could kiss his arse.

  Three months ago, Liam had been angry and upset with his life. He was surprised how pissed off he’d been with Friday’s response to the stand-up thing. Years ago, she would never have been so cruel. She would have supported him. Told him to get out there and give it his best shot, like she had when they were dating.

  Still, Liam couldn’t believe he’d told her he didn’t think he wanted to be married. One minute he was having a quiet beer with Brad telling him how staid his marriage had become, and the next he was separating from Friday. It was rash.

  ‘Earth to Liam.’ Brad was standing beside him again. ‘Check out the blonde at two o’clock—black skirt, red top.’

  Liam glanced in her direction. With towering heels, she had to be almost six foot tall.

  ‘And that one,’ said Brad eagerly. ‘Nine o’clock.’

  Liam followed his brother’s eye and rested on a woman with dark curly hair, black skinny jeans and a tight black turtleneck. She was cute, but Liam had lost his nerve, if he’d had any to start with. He was clutching his beer so tightly his hand ached. He wasn’t able to relax his grip. He wanted to sit and watch the big screen. But Brad was having none of it.

  ‘Jess,’ he called, signalling to another woman to come over. ‘This is my big brother, Liam.’

  Liam smiled and stuck out his hand.

  ‘Did you know,’ Brad said, throwing his arm around her shoulders, ‘that Liam’s a bigwig at Beat FM? He looks after Buff and Birdie.’

  Buff and Birdie were radio’s leading breakfast hosts in Australia and had been for twenty-three consecutive surveys, over seven years.

  ‘Really?’ Jess said, wide-eyed. ‘Should I know you?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Liam, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I’m behind the scenes.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest, bro. Liam comes up with segment ideas, talking points and guests.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jess blankly. ‘Did you at least get free tickets to Pink?’

  When people heard Liam worked for Beat FM, they usually assumed he was a presenter. When Liam told them what he actually did, they were invariably disappointed.

  It might not sound glamorous, but Liam’s job was high pressure, what with demanding advertisers, temperamental, egotistical presenters and the rest. Just the other day he’d been hauled into Chuck Barry’s office—the head honcho—because an on-air guest had said ‘fuck’. Because of his Scottish accent, the censors hadn’t been quick enough to bleep it. It happened three times in less than a minute and Buff and Birdie had loved every minute of it.

  ‘The public will have my balls for this,’ Chuck had yelled. ‘We just went through this with Russell Brand last week. How the fuck did it happen again?’

  Liam had been pissed off as well. ‘How the fuck do you think it happened? You were there. You heard it as plainly as I did. The gu
ys weren’t quick enough with the bleeper. It’s live radio, Chuck. Shit happens. Besides, it’s what listeners want. They’re hanging out for the times when studio guests swear and the censors are caught unawares and don’t press the mute button fast enough.’

  ‘Their fingers should be hovering…’ Scrolling down his iPhone, Chuck had read the words on his screen. ‘Jesus! Listeners have already taken to Facebook, Twitter and other social platforms, attacking us. Next, advertisers will buckle and withdraw advertising. It’s a nightmare. I hate social media and all the losers that use it. Sack the censors.’

  ‘I’m not sacking anyone. Sack me if you like. I could use the break.’

  ‘Nice try, but I’m not fucking sacking you.’ Chuck had pushed some papers around his desk. ‘Look,’ he’d said, thinking aloud. ‘I’ll rant at the staff, really do my block. We’ll send out an apology on Twitter, Facebook, our website. Then in promos, we’ll replay the interview ad infinitum, complete with bleeps and Buff and Birdie’s shocked responses.’

  ‘You think that’ll work?’

  Chuck had shrugged. ‘Shows we’ve got a sense of humour about our fuck-ups.’

  ‘I’ll get on it,’ Liam had reluctantly agreed.

  ‘Buck up,’ Chuck had said, his bad mood forgotten. ‘You’re the content director of the best morning program in Australia. What’s not to love?’

  Liam had looked up. True, he loved producing and wrangling live radio, the adrenaline rush was still there, but… ‘But at what cost?’

  ‘Speaking of money.’ Chuck had winked. ‘You’ve just signed a new contract. A done deal, matey. You’re locked in for another two years.’

  Liam tuned back into the pub conversation to hear Brad saying, ‘Pink, Taylor Swift, One Direction, all of them.’

  Jess was staring, interest piqued.

  ‘The game’s started,’ Liam said, glancing at the television. ‘Nice meeting you, Jess.’

  She smiled and drifted off.

  Brad slapped him on the back. ‘Spoil sport.’

  The buzzer in Brad’s pocket rang, indicating their food was ready.

  ‘Come on, I’m starving,’ said Liam, pulling Brad towards the bar where their meals were waiting.

  Brad chuckled. ‘Saved by the bell.’

  Four hours later, they stumbled back to Brad’s and Liam fell into bed. For three months, he’d been in limbo, not quite knowing where he was. Most mornings he’d wake disorientated until the moment passed and he’d realise he was at his brother’s apartment.

  This morning was no different. Waking up, startled by the alarm at four am to be in at the station by five, Liam felt groggy and flat.

  But today was going to be a good one.

  He glanced at the text Friday had sent him yesterday after their conversation about the health spa. Sorry to spring this on you, but I couldn’t refuse Deirdre’s offer. It was more like an ultimatum. The girls are keen to spend time with you in their own home. Hopefully, you’ll remember how much you used to love living with us.

  Okay, so there was a not-so-subtle dig in that. He’d responded with, Yep. Can’t wait to see my girls.

  Friday’s response: I’m assuming you mean Evie and Liv?

  Liam didn’t reply. Friday was being catty. It wasn’t appealing.

  Then he read a text Evie had sent last night. Three more sleeps, Dad. Can’t wait to see you. Xxx

  He couldn’t wait to see Evie and Olivia, either. He gulped down two Nurofen and rubbed his head. He was looking forward to the break.

  5

  Two days later, I was at Utopia, drinking a mocktail, some vile concoction I’d been given, a mix of beetroot, carrot and ginger, and anxiously waiting to sit down for the evening meal. I’d checked into my stunning villa just hours before, but was feeling flat as I surveyed my new surroundings. The dining room and huge open-plan lounge, complete with fire place, was decorated in earthy shades of green, brown and cream, all in keeping with the serene country setting. To cheer myself up, I imagined sitting by the fire in winter, completing a jigsaw or having a philosophical discussion about Wuthering Heights—or maybe Frankenstein—with men dressed in black polos and stovepipe jeans, wearing black horn-rimmed glasses and smoking pipes. Water trickled from nearby fountains.

  Nervously, I took a seat in the dining room, which was full of eager attendees, mostly women, decked out in expensive gym gear and designer runners. Without exception, all were well groomed. I’d go so far as to say that ninety percent of the women here had been sitting in their favourite massage chair at their preferred hairdressers that morning.

  People looked relaxed, expectant, almost happy. For a moment, I resented their optimism. I knew it was irrational, but I was feeling miserable and was no doubt looking hassled, preoccupied.

  A guy walked up and asked if the seat next to me was taken. It wasn’t. I tried not to pay him too much notice. Given recent events, I was still drifting through a hazy fog. He sat down, seemingly pleasant enough, wearing a blue-and-white-striped Polo T-shirt, taupe cargo shorts and ordinary navy sneakers.

  But then he smiled at me just as I looked up into his eyes.

  I smiled back.

  Immediately, I felt a spark, an instant recognition. I’m not saying that my hands tingled or my insides churned, but the attraction was immediate. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt giddy with anticipation.

  The inevitable happened. He asked me my name.

  ‘Friday.’

  My companion raised his eyebrows. ‘Friday? Really? Your parents were Easybeats fans?’

  I feigned that you got me look. ‘It also helped that I was born on a Friday.’ Actually, the popular story is that Mum and Dad loved ‘Friday on My Mind’ and chose to honour their mutual love for the song by calling me a day of the week, but I think the more likely scenario is that Dad hates his name—John Jones. ‘Pedestrian and boring,’ he calls it, especially on his birthday after consuming several Scotches. So he and my mother (Ruth Jones) made a point of calling their offspring unique names. Auguste is two years older, and Summer is two years younger. The parents had the seasons, months of the year and days of the week covered. No doubt a fourth child would have been called Seven.

  Sure, we were persecuted at school, but we quickly developed thick skins. I’m actually quite fond of my name. There are much worse. Fanny and Candida spring to mind. So yeah, I can live with Friday, though every now and then when I’m not feeling confident I’ll introduce myself as Fri—and then feel stupid. Fri isn’t even a name, it’s a cooking method.

  ‘Friday!’ My new friend chuckled as he said it.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ll need to introduce myself to the others. I’m pretty sure everyone heard.’

  He shrugged happily. ‘Blake. Husband here with you?’

  I blinked. I’d managed to avoid thinking about Liam for a good fifteen minutes. ‘Not likely. Anyway, I’d rather be here by myself. You?’

  ‘Same.’ He paused. ‘My wife told me I had to come.’

  As others arrived at the table, we introduced ourselves, contemplated the char-grilled salmon and green salad that appeared in front of us and complained about there being no salt or wine on offer.

  I fielded the usual questions about how I got my name and then Blake spoke again.

  ‘So, Friday, what do you do when you’re not detoxing?’

  I ate my fish and told him about my kids and naturopathy job, and he told me that when he wasn’t confined to this detention centre, he, too, lived in the city with his wife and children, ‘but my passion and heart are firmly planted on the South Coast at my Angora goat farm.’

  Goats? Interesting. ‘Do you make jumpers and scarves from the mohair?’

  Blake’s green eyes blazed, making my stomach flip. ‘Others do, yes.’

  ‘So it’s a hobby farm.’

  ‘More than a hobby, I hope. I like to think I’ll eventually move to the coast permanently.’

  It sounded idyllic.

  Af
ter dinner there was an induction for newbies. We walked to the seminar room together. The facilitator began with, ‘You each need a buddy.’

  She put us together.

  ‘Lucky us. Now then,’ Blake said, staring at me. ‘You Irish?’

  I laughed. ‘No.’

  ‘Parents?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyone in your family from the Isle?’

  ‘My great-great-grandmother, times ten, was a convict.’

  ‘Was she Irish?’

  ‘Okay, so I have pale skin, blue eyes and dark hair. That doesn’t make me Irish, buddy.’

  The farmer, as I’d chosen to dub him, took a moment. ‘Your eyes are the blue of a crisp, cloudless spring day. Your hair is raven like the—’

  I cut him off. ‘Stop.’

  ‘What? You are quintessentially Irish, no doubt about it.’

  I smiled. Yeah, I’d been told that a few times.

  There was a charming warmth about the farmer and we chatted easily. An hour later I was back in my villa mixing my herbal sleep potions and settling down for the night. It felt relaxing, calm… decadent, having a king-sized bed all to myself, catching up on reading Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Marriage Plot. Sinking into the crisp white sheets and plump, fluffy pillows, I gazed around the room. Tonight I felt content.

  The next day passed in a blur: a brisk, early-morning misty walk, blueberry pancakes for breakfast followed by stretch class, all the time guzzling water. More water. And focusing on my inner health and breathing. Positive thoughts in, negative ones out.

  At the gym, I pedalled furiously on a spin bike, listening to the whooshing sound as my legs automatically pressed on, up and down, up and down. Duran Duran’s ‘Girls on Film’ played on the television screen above my head as I pedalled faster and faster, trying to push away my fears.

  Liam kept popping into my head. Back to the night three months ago when my world was thrown into unrelenting chaos. That conversation, the one where he’d said he didn’t want to be married to me anymore, rarely left my conscious thoughts.