Unzipped

by Nicki Reed

  ‘Six minutes,’ the man behind says.

  ‘You were letting your clit do your thinking for you.’

  Thank God it’s dark.

  ‘You didn’t see all the tears before the accident.’

  ‘Yes, I did. And I love how you call it “the accident”. You don’t call it the big sex injury. You don’t call it, getting busted having my clit sucked. You give it a tidy, wasn’t-my-fault name, the accident.’

  She’s right, of course. As usual. ‘I didn’t know about falling in love.’

  ‘Yes, you did. You think you’ve never fallen in love? What about with Mark? You’re just too old and bored to remember it.’

  ‘Oh, at thirty-five I’m too old.’ Was I bored with myself? Or was it simpler than that? Somebody unexpected dropped into my life, shook it up, and here we are. Ronald and Ruby at the movies. ‘Ruby, you fall in love every second week, then nothing.’

  ‘I do not. Fucking is not loving.’

  ‘I know what that’s about. You’ve loved Mark for so long you’ve been unable to let anyone else in.’

  ‘You are out of your mind,’ she says.

  ‘Three minutes, Ronald.’

  ‘I am not Ronald fucking Biggs!’

  It’s a long time since I’ve yelled at a stranger. I leap up and the bucket of popcorn on my lap flies. Popcorn lights the air, little yellow meteorites in the darkness, up, up, up, in a slow curve.

  ‘Are you happy now, Rube?’

  Yes, she is. Her shoulders are shaking, she’s laughing so hard. She’s snorted her drink and it’s all over her front, a little Coca-Cola brook running down her T-shirt.

  The titles appear, From Paris with Love. This is not a French movie, it’s Travolta, guns and blood spatter in Paris.

  We play tug of war over the armrest until we’re comfortable. In the safety of the cinema, my eyes closed, I think about the favourite colours thing. I have made it look easy. As simple as changing T-shirts. Out with the worn one, although it was one of the best ones for seventeen years; in with the new. Brilliant, black leather with exciting edges.

  ‘Okay, Rube, I might be Ronald.’ After the movie, we pour down the stairs with the crowd.

  Saturday night, bikes leaning, on bikes leaning, on bikes leaning. Months ago I’d never have noticed them. I take a photo on my phone. A Melbourne postcard for my cowboy girl.

  ‘What’s the collective noun for bikes?’

  ‘A steel?’ Ruby says.

  ‘A danger.’ BJ would like that.

  ‘Come and see my new boots.’ Ruby drags me down an arcade. She says hello to her boots through the window, her face against the glass, see you soon, love you.

  ‘How many pairs of black boots will be enough?’

  ‘I’ll know when I know, Pete. Like you and BJ. How you reckon you knew when you knew. There’s a little boot monitor inside me, one day the tiny needle will hit full on the gauge.’

  ‘You’re an idiot.’

  ‘No, I’m wise beyond my years. That’s why you don’t have to worry about me and Mark, and that’s why I know this is about more than me and Mark.’

  ‘It must be great to have all the answers, Ruby. Answer me this: will you have sex with Mark again?’

  Sometimes I don’t know why I say these things. It’s like I’ve got one of those conical collars that dogs have round their heads to prevent them from scratching. But they do anyway. They push themselves against obstacles, slip a clawed foot under, bend the collar. They get at it.

  ‘Will you?

  Am I jealous? Mark and Ruby have their own jokes. She can make him laugh like I never could. Falling about the place kind of laughing that starts off as giggling and turns into tears, genuine tears, because your face knows what tears are for, even if your smiling mind doesn’t.

  ‘Stop torturing yourself. I told you, it’s stress relief. Your hot little leather-clad girlfriend is in Paris for the month. All those gorgeous Frenchwomen, smoking at cafes, half-lit laneways, confined spaces, small kitchens. Worry about that.’

  ‘Carole is with her.’

  ‘Oh yeah, Carole Smart. Smart Carole. She’s so invested in the Peta and BJ experience. She’ll probably take her to a speed-dating night, telling her, it’s just a funny little French game, you’ve got to try it.’

  ‘I trust BJ, Ruby.’

  ‘Why? You don’t even know where she was that night.’

  ‘She loves me. Says I’m beautiful. She makes me feel beautiful.’

  ‘Peta, you are beautiful. You don’t need somebody else to tell you that, surely? People are always getting us confused, you have to be beautiful.’

  She’s walking ahead of me, her voice echoing under the shop canopies. I step a foot onto the back of her leg, just behind her knee; she buckles, nearly topples over.

  ‘And you walk beautifully.’ I thread my arm through hers. ‘There’s one.’ We run for the tram.

  Trams look brilliant at night, especially when they’re empty. They’re like a party waiting to happen, a future about to be lived. Nothing doing yet but give it a minute.

  35.

  Saturday morning, the end of week two, I’ve received seven postcards. The Fed Square one, two from Bangkok, both palaces, the rest from France. I re-read Friday’s before sticking it to the fridge.

  Mona Lisa reckons I’m hot.

  She’s a woman of discernment then.

  I spend the morning at Vic Market. I’ve lived in this city forever and only shopped at Vic Market twice. I’ve seen it more times on TV than I have in real life. When I return, Mark and Jasmine are driving away from the house, his VW Karmann getting a rare run.

  I wave. It’s weak, but I want to see Jasmine.

  The brake lights flash on, the gears tip into reverse. Here she comes. The top’s down. Mark is wearing a woollen beret and his collar up. Jasmine’s nose is red like her beanie and scarf. I can’t cook but I can knit.

  ‘She wanted to visit.’

  ‘Jasmine, it’s so good to see you.’

  Her door is open before the car stops. She runs to me. I kiss her beanied head. Blonde wisps of her fine, fine hair tickle my nose. I’ve missed her.

  ‘Do you want to drop her off?’ My first words to Mark since the Susan Hilton phone call.

  ‘No, Margie wants me to stick around. I’ll just watch TV.’

  We walk the steps up to the front door, the three of us, like we have a hundred times before. Time has stopped, gone backward.

  Jasmine has been op-shopping again. She pays attention to what people like. She’s brought me a ceramic milk jug wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a ribbon. She knows I’ve linked teapots, teacups and silverware to Mum. Why didn’t I approach her mother? It takes a nine-year-old to do the right thing.

  ‘How’s Grade Four?’

  ‘Ms Smith makes faces when she talks about decimals. Like she wants to marry them. I like full stops better.’

  Jasmine is my kind of girl.

  We chat teachers and homework, comprehension and netball and I make us all a cup of tea.

  ‘Can you take this to Mark, please? I’ll be back in a minute.’

  I haven’t seen her since Keith’s birthday. That’s six months and unforgivable. In her boots, jeans and cord jacket, she’s a little lady—she manages Mark’s cup and saucer with poise.

  Jasmine and I sit at the kitchen table. ‘What are you reading at the moment, Jas? I have this for you.’

  Ballet Shoes was my favourite book when I was her age. It has my name inside and my address—the street, suburb, country, planet, galaxy, universe. Jasmine has always reminded me of Posy. She’s elfin, always skipping when she could walk, and she does ballet, too.

  ‘How are you going out there, Mark?’ I lean back in my chair, two feet off the floor. I was always telling him not to do that.

  ‘Fine. How do you see anything on this TV?’

  ‘I sit close. Or I read a book.’

  ‘Did you buy it at Aldi?’

  Mark hates Ald
i. He doesn’t like having to pack the shopping himself; he doesn’t want to eat Spanish cornflakes; and he doesn’t understand how he can select thigh-high fishing boots, a printer, and jar of rollmops all from the same aisle.

  ‘Yes, I did, smarty. And a packet of paper-clips shaped like bananas.’

  I reach into the third drawer of the kitchen cabinet and pull out a fistful of paperclips for Jasmine, piling them onto the table. They’re like bent and yellow pick-up sticks. Jasmine sets to joining them, she’s a demon clipper. A bracelet for her and me and a necklace for Uncle Mark.

  ‘It suits you,’ Jasmine says as she slips it over his head.

  He’s close to the TV, in the remaining armchair, and Jasmine and I are at either end of the couch, shoes off, books open.

  ‘Peta, what’s a ration?’

  ‘In the UK during the second world war…’ A mini lecture on the war effort over red cordial and a Teddy Bear biscuit.

  ‘Peta, who did you like best, Pauline, Petrova or Posy?’

  I look up from A Gate at the Stairs. There’s a kid asking big questions in that book, too. ‘Petrova. She had grunt. But really, I loved all of them.’

  We read long enough for Mark to watch the whole of Apollo 11 and start Master and Commander. Jasmine and I make pizza for an early dinner, Mark helps with the dough. He starts a flour fight and clouds of white hang above the table.

  ‘Mark, we don’t want to send her home dirty; she might not be allowed back. Hang on, I’ll get a shirt.’

  One of Mark’s striped business shirts. BJ used to wear it, oversized and sexy, when she wanted me to chase her round the bedroom.

  ‘That’s my shirt.’

  ‘One of the few things you missed.’ I button it up Jasmine’s back and we continue making pizza.

  ‘Peta, don’t you love Mark anymore? Mum says you’re living with a girl now.’ She has flour on her nose and she looks even younger. And it is a much harder question to answer.

  ‘Jasmine…’

  ‘Mark, it’s okay. I need to answer her.’

  Pizza in the oven, I lead Jasmine outside. We sit at the Formica table on the deck. The table has aluminium edges, like the chrome curve on a jukebox, and the red vinyl chairs match.

  ‘Uncle Mark was crying. Cammy and Lach said they hate you. I don’t hate you.’ She twists the tassels of her scarf round and round her fingers.

  I miss those boys. Their exuberance. It’s bats and balls, toy guns and bandaids. Training runs with Mark, kickto-kick with him down the side of the house. Of course the boys hate me.

  ‘I cried lots too.’

  ‘But you’ve got that girl.’

  ‘Her name is BJ.’

  ‘What’s BJ short for?’

  ‘Belinda Jane.’

  ‘And you kiss her, a girl.’

  ‘Yes, Jasmine, we kiss.’

  ‘You’ve got BJ. Mark’s got no one.’

  I take the other end of her scarf, wind it round my thumb and forefinger and rub it under my chin. I’m not telling Jasmine about Ruby; it’s not up to me. ‘Mark will have someone sometime. He’s a good man.’ I bring her onto my lap. ‘There is nothing wrong with Mark, or me, except we could have tried harder. And sometimes we did try. But not hard enough.’

  Mark calls out, ‘Pizza’s ready.’

  We go inside and eat, the three of us at the table. Like we’d done plenty of times before.

  ‘What time do you have to take Jasmine home?’

  ‘Margie’s coming to pick her up. I think she’s going to say something on behalf of her little brother.’ He’s a foot taller but she’s five years older and likes to show it. ‘I asked her to leave it, but you know…’

  That is a sentence I can finish: You know she’s always right. You know how she feels about you anyway.

  ‘Okay. I have it coming. I’m getting used to this.’

  We leave Mark to finish the pizza off. I take Jasmine to the bathroom to make sure she looks untarnished for her mother.

  ‘You’ll come back, Jas?’

  She nods. My arms around her, I drop fresh tears onto her beanie.

  There’s a hard knock at the front door. Mark sings out he’ll answer it and Jasmine and I have a last hug.

  Margie kisses Mark hello and tells Jasmine to go and wait in the car. She turns to me: ‘I told her she’d never see you again, but she’s been stacking it on for weeks. Her brothers have told her she’s an idiot.’

  ‘Thank you for letting her come.’

  The view is good from my high road.

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose she’ll be back.’

  ‘As I said Margie, thank you, it was lovely to see her.’

  The air is thin and hard to breath, but when it gets into your lungs you feel ten foot tall.

  ‘Dad says that I’ve got to let it go, that Mark is old enough to look after himself, that we are all adults. But are we, Peta? Is this girl? Where is she today? Playgroup?’

  Mark’s standing to the side. We both know Margie is impossible to stop once she gets going, but he tries anyway.

  ‘Margie, I’ve got to get on with my life. We all do.’

  I’m heading for the lounge room. The high road takes some energy. Mark shows her out. The front door bangs.

  ‘Here.’ Mark hands me one of Ruby’s prom-queens. He has a beer. ‘Had Ruby around?’ He leaves his bottle cap on top of the TV. Why do men do that? Leave their bottle caps everywhere. This feels like yesterday.

  ‘Yes, a dinner party slash execution with Carole Smart. And Ruby barracking from the sidelines.’

  Mark smiles. ‘Ruby’s full-on, isn’t she? She makes me feel alive. She doesn’t sit still and she’s more never home than we were. I think. I haven’t been home.’

  We laugh, clink our bottles, to not being home. Mark drinks the last of BJ’s beer and my prom-queen is going to my head.

  ‘The banana necklace suits you.’

  ‘Forgot I was wearing it.’ He attempts to take it off, but it catches on an oddly placed button on his collar.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ I sit next to him and work to dislodge it but it’s attached. ‘I think you’re stuck with it.’

  We look at each other.

  ‘You know what’ll happen next, don’t you, Pete?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to—you could go home.’

  ‘We could have another drink and I’ll stay.’

  The high road is a quick trip down. You’d think the time it took to get there, the difficulty of the climb, the tough hilltop scramble, would make me think twice. But no, it doesn’t stop me.

  Maybe it’s the alcohol.

  Maybe it’s BJ’s night unaccounted for.

  Maybe I’m sentimental and lonely and Mark is familiar.

  We start in the lounge room, take it up the hallway, laughing, shedding our clothes, and we do it in every room of the house. We’d planned to, the day we moved in, but we never did. We make it to the bedroom late.

  There is something to the expression the ‘cold light of day’. You can also call it the bad light of day, the what on earth have you done, have you lost your mind, have you learned nothing in the last five months, light of day.

  Mark is on his old side of the bed. He rubs his head. ‘Well, that was a mistake, wasn’t it?’

  Thank God. ‘Yes, it was.’ I throw the doona off. ‘I’m having a shower.’

  Mark makes breakfast. Eggs. I’ve missed his eggs, the only thing he cooked, but his presence is not required in my kitchen.

  We sit opposite each other in our old positions. I feel crap. I feel like BJ looked when she sat in the same chair, hunched, tired, unable to talk. She was with someone else, I know that now. When I looked in the mirror, after my shower, I saw the same sad, experienced look on my face. Mark’s making my face back at me.

  He’s feeling guilty, too?

  I’m tempted to ask about Ruby but I don’t. I’ve been in trouble before—look at me learning. Darth Vader says it’s 8.12. It’s never too early to learn.
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  We pack the breakfast things away. Mark stands at the door of his old fridge and inspects the photos and postcards. He sighs.

  ‘She is cute,’ he says.

  ‘Mark, last night, I don’t know what I was thinking. I did it to you with her, and now I’ve done it to her with you. I feel like I’m in The Bold and the Beautiful. I’m talking to myself, explaining my motives so the television audience knows what I’m up to. Let’s stay in touch but from a distance, okay. And please…’

  He puts a finger to my lips.

  ‘Don’t say it. Be careful with Ruby. Let’s hope she’ll be careful with me. I’ve had enough heartache.’ He makes a bad-ham fall to the floor, I put my foot onto one of the big square pockets of his dark blue jeans and push him all the way over.

  ‘Get out of here. Take your banana necklace and go.’

  I follow him to the front door and down the steps.

  Karmann is as burgundy-leather beautiful as she’s always been. He turns the corner and she is gone.

  36.

  When your girlfriend is in Paris, there is nothing more desolate than an empty letterbox. Unless your registration is due. I need a postcard, a letter, a tiny plastic bubblewrapped Eiffel Tower, wishing you were here type-thing to keep me from thinking about Mark.

  Six days since he and I sat at the kitchen table, making pizza, talking like old times. He’d stuck up for me with Margie. The sex. How easy it had been. How bad I feel now. How I went behind BJ’s back the minute I could.

  I’d love to ring Ruby and say: ‘I’ve done something stupid.’ She’d crack a joke, something unfunny and revolting: ‘What, have you slept with the bloke down the road and his trio of German Shepherds?’ I could chide her for her disgusting sense of humour. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ she’d say, ‘that bloke’s over eighty and his dogs are a little long in the tooth.’ I can’t ring Ruby.

  Keith. I could say: ‘Keith, my girlfriend has been out of the country only two weeks and I’ve just slept with your son. Are you able to have me arrested? You still have contacts, right?’ I can’t call Keith and tell him that. I haven’t called him to say anything since the tram stop call. Pathetic.