by Lisa Heidke
When Liam and I got engaged and set a wedding date, he’d laughingly suggested a five-year plan which could be reassessed accordingly. But as our wedding drew closer, Liam became more enamoured with the idea.
‘You can’t be serious,’ I’d said. ‘Marriage is for life.’
‘But what if it’s not? What if the relationship only lasts five years?’
I’d put his inane mutterings down to marital nerves, especially when a month before the wedding he dropped all talk about the plan. He was obviously feeling calmer, rational.
But, days later, he shot off to Brad’s, who was living in share accommodation in Newtown with a bunch of feral university students.
‘If it’s that terrifying, let’s cancel the whole thing,’ I’d said when we met up at a nearby coffee shop.
‘I’ll be okay,’ he’d replied, hesitant. ‘It’s just cold feet. Marriage is huge.’
Though Liam was scared out of his mind about getting married, he was torn, not wanting to disappoint me or his parents. I didn’t know how to put his mind at ease. We were both about to make the biggest commitment of our lives. ‘I love you,’ I’d told him.
Taking his hand, we walked back to Brad’s and into Liam’s makeshift bedroom. An hour later he’d declared his feet suitably warm and we’d soldiered on with our wedding plans.
I don’t know why he was so worried. Our wedding was spectacular! I still get goose bumps thinking about it.
In the middle of Liam’s speech, the band started playing and Liam, microphone in hand, began singing ‘This Guy’s in Love with You’.
Twenty seconds later, there wasn’t a dry eye in the marquee. Unexpected, quirky, romantic. That was Liam.
It’s still the most romantic gesture I’ve ever heard of.
Over the past three months, I’ve tortured myself listening to that song. All versions—Herb Alpert, Andy Williams, Barry Manilow, Liam Gallagher—but my Liam’s is still my absolute favourite.
Blinking back tears, I pedalled harder and glanced at the monitor. I’d done ten kilometres in just under twenty-five minutes. Not outstanding, but I was exhausted. I stepped down, wiped my face with a white hand towel, sucked on my water bottle and peered around. The treadmill was beckoning. Breathing heavily, I climbed on and started walking before building to a mid-paced jog.
I was still so angry with Liam.
After our wedding, we’d coasted along happily for a couple of years until talk about babies happened along.
‘And if I’m having your children,’ I’d said, poking him in the ribs as we lay in bed, naked and in love, ‘you’d better be willing to stick around for at least the next fifteen years.’
‘Twenty? Altogether?’ he’d said. ‘That’s a hell of a long time.’ Of course he’d been joking. But now?
What about Olivia and Evie? We’d built a life together. We were a team—a team he’d decided he was done with.
I turned up the dial on the treadmill, my legs pounding. Five minutes, seven minutes, nine. Then, mercifully, ten minutes had passed. I pressed the stop button, ready to collapse, and suppressed an almost violent urge to vomit. When my breathing returned to normal, I took another swig from my water bottle and headed over to the spa. Hopefully, a remedial massage would knead away my cares.
Except that I didn’t realise a massage could be so painful. My therapist explained that I was tight, ‘especially down your left side’ and hence the pain. Perhaps the fact that the pressure he was applying was enough to stun a medium-sized elephant also counted for something. Every time he pressed a trigger point, I winced. What I was really after was a relaxing massage where I could be lightly pummelled and freely snooze for the duration.
‘The massages will become more relaxing as the week goes on,’ he assured me, before beating my lower back some more.
An hour and a half later, I dragged my aching self back to my room to find a dozen wallabies and several rabbits milling in front of my verandah. I took a seat in the fading sunshine to read text messages from home.
Liam’s was brief. How’s your holiday? The girls and I are managing. Thanks for asking.
I wanted to hurl my phone into the eucalypts. His tone infuriated me.
But then I read Evie’s. Love you, Mum. Hope you’re exercising and not being a slacker.
And Olivia’s. Mum, when r u coming home? Evie’s a weirdo. Dad can’t cook. SMFH.
SMFH? No idea. Ah, daughters. Gotta love them. I texted both a photo of the nearby wallabies. No response from Liv but Evie texted me straightaway, Aww cute! with one of those smiley icons. Sweet.
But Liam and his righteous tone. All of a sudden, I was on holidays whooping it up. Anyone would think I was in Vegas, instead of in the mountains licking my wounds and trying to get my head together after my husband informed me he no longer wanted to be married.
Walking into the dining room that evening, I spied the goat farmer and sat down beside him.
‘Hey, Irish,’ he said.
‘Hey, yourself.’
‘Busy day?’
‘Gruelling! Don’t think I could do this full time. Missing your goats?’
He nodded, laughing. ‘Could you pass the faux salt?’ Pause. ‘Did you know that goats will scratch their heads on you if they like you?’
‘I did not know that,’ I said, passing him the natural but tasteless seasoning.
‘No, I bet you didn’t. And did you know that goats are picky and fastidious? They like their food just so and will refuse to eat it if they think there’s something not right about it.’
I grinned.
‘And they HATE the rain. They’d rather starve than go for a walk in the rain.’
I was laughing but also distracted, wishing there was real salt on the table.
‘What does a naturopath get up to?’ he asked. ‘Can you prescribe drugs?’
‘Depends on what you’re after.’
He seemed genuinely amused. ‘I’m going to google you tonight.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Because I’m nosey.’
I turned when the person sitting on the other side of me asked for the seasoning. ‘I’m having serious caffeine withdrawal,’ she said, not smiling.
I passed it to her. ‘I know what you mean.’
I glanced at the others at my table, and then beyond. Though there were another thirty-eight people dotted around the dining room, I felt like there was only Blake and me and I was being sucked into his private orbit as he constantly touched my arm while he spoke about his life, then quizzed me about mine. His entire focus seemed to be on me, but that was silly. Why would he be flirting? He was married.
After dinner I Facebooked and googled him. He wasn’t hard to find. And from the look of his happy snaps, he did appear to have several goats—goats that in the cooler months wore funky, multi-coloured (Angora?) sweaters. Cute. I was looking at the images when my villa phone rang.
‘Hey, you.’ It was Blake. ‘Watcha doing?’
I was so taken aback I told the truth. ‘Looking at photos of you and your goats.’
He laughed. ‘Pretty cute, hey?’
‘They are.’
‘I was talking about me.’
I took in a sharp breath.
The rest of the evening passed quickly. We talked. About everything. Our kids, countries we’d visited, holidays we’d taken.
‘We should’ve crossed paths before now,’ he said warmly. ‘I know this’ll sound weird, but I feel like I’ve known you forever.’
I smiled to myself. It actually didn’t sound so strange. I felt the same way.
When I put down the phone, I fell asleep happier than I had been in a long time. At last, my mood-boosting herbs were taking effect. And let’s face it, the farmer was the first guy in forever who had shown me attention. He was handsome, funny and articulate. Mind you, he was also loud and slightly obnoxious, but somehow that didn’t take away from his charm.
But still I dreamt about Liam. It was
a younger Liam riding the waves on his beloved but beaten up pale-blue short board. Shaggy sun-bleached hair, faint wrinkles starting to creep in around his brown eyes. Wide smile. Happy. A vivid snapshot that triggered feel-good memories back to a time when we were tripping over ourselves with the fun and excitement of the day, night, and the grand adventure we were living together. I woke up feeling worn out, but determined to make Liam realise his place was at home with me and his daughters.
When I saw Blake at breakfast, I made a point of not looking at him. But he walked up beside me at the fruit buffet. ‘Let’s hang out today,’ he said casually.
I smiled so broadly my jaw hurt. ‘Okay.’
He walked back to his table clutching a bowl of grapes, mango and strawberries.
I stood rigid, feet cemented to the floor, staring after him. At the back of my mind, warning bells were going off. I was like a teenager when a cute boy says he likes her. My mouth felt dry. And as for those fluttery feelings in my stomach? I knew I had to keep my distance from Blake, not hang out. For goodness sake, it had been less than forty-eight hours since I’d left home.
Though I had no appetite, I took my plate of fruit and sat down at a nearby table, well away from Blake. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined this scenario. What was he doing here alone? What was it he’d said? My wife made me. What exactly did that mean? That he needed to de-stress, detox, sort out his head? My wife made me. I kept repeating the words in my head. If I was his wife, I’d never let him out of my sight—unless it was to mingle with goats.
I flicked the farmer a glance. Our eyes met and I quickly looked away, my heart racing. The voices in my head—the rational ones that were imploring me to calm down, relax and concentrate on my own wellbeing and health—I wanted to totally ignore them.
In stretch class, I purposely sat at the opposite end of the room to him, but it did little to dampen my enthusiasm. In between hamstring and upper-body stretches, I kept looking over. Whenever our eyes met, which was often, my heart would pound and what felt like dozens of butterflies in my stomach would flip and turn.
He caught up with me afterwards.
‘So, Irish,’ he said, smiling.
‘So,’ I mimicked. ‘I’m off to have a hundred needles poked in me.’
He grimaced. ‘Acupuncture? See you later?’
‘Maybe.’
I knew I was getting ahead of myself and those alarm bells that were ringing at the back of my mind had moved up front, but how do you stop yourself? Once those feelings start taking over—the passion, the longing, the desire—how do you stop wanting and lusting? I felt scared and excited at once, almost jumping out of my skin.
I was definitely infatuated. But I reasoned it was just because I was pissed off with Liam and the unhealthy state of our marriage. The last thing I needed was a crush on a married man.
Inside the spa, vanilla-scented candles flickered and soft, classical music played. Perfect.
The acupuncturist, a pleasant, calm, clean and seemingly rational fellow, probably late forties, smiled when I sat down in front of him. He offered me water from a jug filled with perfectly sliced lemon. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
Where to start? ‘Stiff neck,’ I offered.
His brow knit and he looked concerned. Was I stressed? What was happening in my work and home life?
How long did this guy have?
I’d never been to an acupuncturist before and have a morbid fear of needles, but that’s what I was told we should be doing at Utopia: embracing our fears and working on aspects of ourselves that frightened us. Not sure if having needles stuck in my body was part of the plan though.
‘I have some back pain, too.’
‘Aha! The curse of modern living. Trying to be a superhero, no doubt. Let’s see how I can help.’
I closed my eyes as he started stimulating my ‘meridian system to restore balance and encourage the body to heal itself’.
After the session, I didn’t feel much different, maybe a little more relaxed, but that’s about it. My lower back still hurt like hell.
At the gym, I thought about Liam some more. This week, he had moved home to look after the girls. It made sense. Their school was nearby and it would have been a nightmare commute from Paddington to the Northern Beaches every day… almost impossible. The logical solution was to have him sleep at Newport. I also hoped he’d realise what he’d been missing out on. Olivia. Evie. The beach. Me.
I ramped up the speed on the treadmill, surprised at how gung-ho I was with the exercise here, given that for the past few weeks I’d barely been managing to crawl out of bed most mornings. A conversation with Liam before we separated sounded in my ears. One where I’d told him I wanted to pursue a naturopathy business of my own.
‘I know I’ve made several false starts in the past, but now that the girls are older, I want to give it my best shot.’
‘About time,’ he’d replied. ‘You need to make something of yourself.’
Was he trying to be supportive? I wasn’t sure, but afterwards, I’d looked at myself in the full-length mirror and hadn’t liked what I’d seen. Despite the herbs and potions I took, I looked sad and middle-aged.
Now that I was away and had time to myself, to focus on my wellbeing, I could see that I’d lost my sense of self and who I was. I wasn’t Friday anymore. Despite working two days a week with Deirdre and seeing regular clients, I felt like a… nothing. At least I was addressing some of those issues now by eating healthily, cutting out alcohol and caffeine, and sleeping and exercising.
I was so lost in thought I didn’t notice Blake on the treadmill beside me until he spoke. ‘You’re really going for it.’
I whipped my head in his direction. ‘If my friends could see me now.’
‘Sweet Charity!’
I stopped the treadmill. ‘Wow!’ Together we filled up our bottles at the water cooler. ‘I didn’t know you were into musicals.’
‘There are many things you don’t know about me, Irish. Shirley MacLaine is one of my all-time favourite actresses.’
At dinner we sat next to each other, in a happy bubble where only the two of us existed.
‘I have more photos of goats on my laptop,’ he said as we finished our meal and contemplated the only other item on the menu, Rest Well tea. ‘I also have real tea in my room.’
I raised my eyebrows. We both stood up out of our seats and started walking towards the exit.
‘I swear, nothing more than goats and Lipton’s,’ he said, crossing his heart.
I hesitated. ‘I really should get back to my room.’
‘Come on,’ he cajoled, as he steered me down the path leading to his villa. ‘What’s the worst that can happen? It’s only seven o’clock.’
I glanced down at myself. True. I was wearing workout gear. Underneath, I had on a sports bra and control briefs. I was safe.
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on the farmer’s lounge, in his room, not drinking tea.
He was sitting close to me, touching my hand as I talked about my business, then some random television program. When his hand moved to my knee, I noticed his green eyes and how attentive he was being. He smelt good, too.
‘So you’ve got two kids, girls?’ he said.
‘Yep.’ I fleetingly contemplated telling him about my miscarriage but didn’t want to get into deeper territory. Light and breezy was where I wanted to keep it. ‘And apparently I’m the worst mother in the world.’
He stroked my hair. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘They have pages of grievances, trust me.’
‘I’m sure they don’t.’ Taking me by surprise, he leant in closer and kissed me on the lips, then pulled me in tight. I didn’t back away. He was so gentle. It felt right.
Why would God, in His divine wisdom, have seated us together that first night if He didn’t want us to connect? So I wasn’t religious, I leant towards agnostic, but then, as I found out, so did the farmer. We had that in comm
on. Maybe that was God’s plan? We also both liked animals, salt and musical theatre. Surely that was more than enough common ground to play with. And clearly, there were more powerful influences at work than either of us could fathom. We’d definitely been thrown together for a reason.
When Blake suggested we’d be more comfortable lying on his bed, I simply followed.
He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my lips. I didn’t resist. At first we were slow and tentative, then the kissing intensified, but neither of us ventured below our clothes, although his hands were travelling up and down the length of my torso.
‘Have I mentioned you’re a good kisser?’ he said when we took a breath.
I could feel my cheeks reddening.
‘Well, you are.’ He kissed me again, then pulled back. ‘But I think we’re both wearing too many clothes.’
He lifted my T-shirt and kissed my stomach. I didn’t resist, even though I felt self-conscious about my underwear.
He kissed my breasts through my sports bra.
‘My bra.’ I giggled. ‘It’s hideous.’
‘Maybe you’d be more comfortable without it,’ he whispered, his hands already at my back unclipping the hooks.
Thoughts that my body wasn’t perfect, had birthed two daughters and was way past its prime—a rounded tummy, sagging breasts—were desperately expunged from my mind. Skin to skin. What could be more natural?
He kissed my nipples while his hands ran through my hair. ‘Your breasts are perfect.’ He moved on, exploring my stomach and hips.
‘Take off my pants,’ I said, compelling him to do the same.
When he obliged, I gulped in a breath. His cock—I wasn’t used to seeing any others besides Liam’s—was rock hard. Letting myself go, any semblance of rational thought went flying out the window. Feeling bold and sexy, I rolled us over so that I was now straddling him, and I bent lower to kiss him.
I was melting. Not thinking and at the same time over-thinking. I truly had no idea what I was doing and was as nervous as hell, feeling vulnerable but also safe. My stomach wobbled, my upper arms were pale. But still the desire and passion were overwhelming. The anticipation of what was about to come was totally exquisite. I wanted him. All of him. I never wanted the moment—these moments—to end.