Love and Punishment

by Unknown

  Francie had run into Dave a handful of times in the house this past week. Each time she’d felt awkward while he had regarded her with calm interest. Their conversations hadn’t gone much past the bathroom’s free, light switch is here, bread knife is there stage, but there was definitely a mutual flicker of fascination which went beyond banal domestic exchanges.

  Francie, sitting on the floor, had bought the pearly toed sandals and she looked at them appreciatively as they peeked out the bottom of her jeans. She’d also piled fake pearls around her neck and in this light they were almost luminous over the tiniest little black top in her wardrobe. Her blonde hair was sleek and just so, her lips a delicious, glossy, pinky beige. She was watching the screen, but felt Dave’s eyes on her whenever she moved.

  She remembered reading once that the way to feel happy, when you weren’t, was to imitate people who were. So that’s what Francie was doing. Watching the people around her laugh and smile, and imitating them like a small child. It seemed that no-one could tell the difference.

  ‘Shoosh, shoosh, Jessie’s talking,’ someone hissed and all eyes turned to the screen.

  The five members of the Talkfest panel were sitting behind a glass desk in front of a modestly sized TV studio audience. The three regular male hosts were in the middle and a woman sat either side of them. One was an Olympic medal-winning water polo player who was clearly out of her depth in the witty conversation being bounced back and forth in front of her, and the other was Jessie.

  Jessie’s eyes were glittery purple and matched the streaks in her hair. She was wearing a neat little black jacket scattered with miniscule silver and blue sequins which sparkled as she waved her hands at the studio audience and the camera. Jessie the comedian was in full performance mode. Her big eyes flashed with enthusiasm and everyone was captivated, waiting for her next witticism.

  ‘The thing is, my flatmate,’ she was saying, ‘he keeps bringing home these high-maintenance chicks . . .’

  Francie shot another look at Dave, who was suddenly staring very intently at the screen.

  ‘High maintenance? What does that mean?’ one of Jessie’s male offsiders on the panel interrupted.

  ‘You know,’ she exclaimed, waving her hands, ‘they always want to go somewhere expensive. They like lots of little gifts—flowers, perfume, jewellery. They’re always perfectly maintained. Their Chanel fingernail polish is the exact same shade as their toenails. Their handbag matches their shoes.’

  The men were puzzled. Why would anyone devote a nanosecond of mental energy to matching her shoes and handbag? They were keen for Jessie to get to the point.

  Francie then sneaked a sideways look at Gabby and caught her regarding her own coordinated fingers and toes. Gabby recrossed her legs, tossed her hair once more and purred with contentment.

  ‘Well, I’ve now realised,’ continued Jessie, ‘these high-maintenance chicks have got it made. My problem is that when I meet a bloke, I look low maintenance and, it’s true, I am low maintenance. I’m happy with an afternoon at the footy and a beer. I even cut my own hair!’

  There was general guffawing from the audience and the panel members as they fought to get in the next line.

  ‘Jeez, doesn’t look it, Jessie!’

  ‘Whaddya use? An angle grinder?’

  Jessie squealed with mock indignation: ‘Shut up! Shut up! You are all so RUDE! The thing I want to say is that, OK, I don’t look like I cost much to run, BUT I am actually a high performance unit! So it’s like buying a Nissan Pulsar and then finding out it goes like a Formula One—and you don’t have to fill it with racing fuel cos plain old unleaded will work fine.’

  There were more hearty laughs all round.

  ‘Don’t laugh—it’s a pain! What’s the point of a bloke having a crappy looking car that goes hard? No-one ever believes you—am I right, guys? How boring is that?’

  The men had to admit Jessie had a point.

  ‘But if you are a high-maintenance chick and you underperform, you totally get away with it! I mean, what bloke is ever going to admit that his gleaming Ferrari actually goes like a Holden Barina? No way! So, girls, I reckon the solution is over-promise and under-deliver every time. It’s the way car yards work. Oh, and don’t have too many owners!’

  There was more laughter and applause. Jessie was sitting back smiling, pleased with her efforts.

  The camera cut to the host. He was shaking his head with admiration. ‘We’ll take a break while we get Jessie up on the hoist, check out her donk and rear end, and we’ll be back with Cuba Cuba! and some high-octane rhythms to finish the show.’

  There was a last shot of Jessie feigning outrage and the screen cut to an ad break. Francie looked over at Dave, who was looking back at her with raised eyebrows.

  ‘There you go, Francie. Just be careful what you tell Jessie—it will all end up on national television!’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Nah, not really. That’s our Jess. She’s got a big mouth and a heart to match, but I’m a tough guy. I can handle it. Anyway, I guess it pays to advertise. Can I get you another drink?’

  Francie smiled at him. He was becoming more attractive by the minute and it didn’t seem to be the wine talking. Dave was so relaxed and open. He was definitely more sure of himself than Nick ever was.

  ‘Ooh . . . I’d love another drink too, Dave.’ Gabby leaned over to him so he had a view of her impressive cleavage.

  Everyone in the room, which also included the assorted guests of the other panel members, mingled and chatted while the ads were playing. Johnno sidled up to Francie.

  ‘So . . . Jessie. Is she single?’ he asked and drained his beer.

  Now Francie thought about it, Johnno and Jessie would make a very handsome couple indeed. There was certainly something in the air tonight. Expectancy, sexual tension everywhere you looked.

  ‘Yep, she sure is, Johnno. Go for it!’ Francie whispered in his ear. He smiled broadly and headed for the fridge.

  ‘OK, everyone, SHOOSH!’ This time it was Robbie who was glued to the screen, taking a very keen interest in the band—or more particularly, the hunky coffee-skinned man with the black dreadlocks who was sitting behind a pair of bongo drums. The music started and everyone in the room was up on their feet, unable to resist the Latin grooves of Cuba Cuba!

  Dave shimmied over towards Francie with her drink and they quickly fell into a synchronised step. Gabby was there in a flash with her arm around Dave’s shoulders. Dave reached out for Francie’s waist and she felt a warm tingle of excitement down to her pearly toes. The night was becoming more interesting by the minute!

  The music stopped and everyone clapped. The noise subsided just in time to hear the host wrap up the program. ‘And join us next week when our special guests will be stage legend Poppy Sommerville-Smith and her partner Nick Jamieson, who will be telling us all about their new show Stupid Cupid . . .’

  Francie didn’t hear any more. Her world stopped in that instant. Her heart sank to her sandals. She wriggled out of Dave’s grasp and looked wildly around the room for Johnno, who, at the same moment, was crossing the room to her.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey, France, it’s OK, it’s OK,’ he was mouthing as he came closer. He was already in full damage-control mode.

  ‘Just come outside for a moment and settle down, baby. It’s OK.’

  Francie let Johnno take her by the hand and she stumbled blindly after him into the shabby corridor. They found a dressing room door with Jessie’s name on it and ducked inside.

  Francie was breathing heavily as she paced the small room strewn with clothes. Johnno sat in front of the mirror on the bench piled with make-up and jewellery and watched her go.

  ‘They’re everywhere! I can’t go anywhere! If I drive down the street they’re there. If I open a newspaper, they’re there. What am I going to do? Where am I going to go?’ Francie’s voice was high-pitched and strangled, but mercifully there were no tears.

  ‘This was always going
to happen, France. But you can’t take it personally, it’s not about you—’

  Francie rounded on him: ‘DON’T YOU GET IT EITHER? IT IS ABOUT ME! IT WILL ALL BE IN THERE . . . EVERYTHING!’

  Johnno looked at her for a moment, uncomprehending, and asked, ‘Why are you so terrified? What do you mean everything? What the fuck happened?’

  Francie looked down and stared at her stupid Noddy shoes.

  ‘Nick must have told you.’

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough. I just hope that you can find some way to understand. I . . . just wasn’t me then. I was . . . I can see now. It was about something that happened to me a long time ago. I . . .’

  The door banged open before she could say any more and in whirled Jessie. ‘Phew! Hi, hi, hi Francie!’

  Johnno jumped off the bench and Francie stood to attention. They were trespassing, after all, but Jessie didn’t seem to notice. She was on an adrenalin high. Francie was glad of the interruption and gave her an extravagant hug.

  ‘Jessie, that was great! You were great! Oh, and this is Johnno Purcell. He’s one of my best friends. Johnno, meet the gorgeous Jessie Pascoe.’

  Johnno Purcell and Jessie Pascoe. Here was a match! Even Francie, who didn’t have much time for spiritual mumbo jumbo, could feel the earth’s spin slow for a millisecond as their fates collided.

  Johnno extended his hand and pulled Jessie towards him for a kiss on the cheek. ‘Hello, the gorgeous Jessie Pascoe! How nice to meet you at last,’ he said smoothly. ‘Long time admirer. Love the show. Love your work.’

  Francie could see Jessie was impressed. She even blushed, which no-one in Australia would have thought her capable of.

  ‘Thank you very much. Eeyew! I’ve put vile orange makeup and lippie all over you.’

  Jessie wiped a thick smear of gunk from the side of Johnno’s face with her fingers. It was a typically spontaneous and intimate Jessie gesture, but Johnno didn’t seem to mind and offered himself up to her ministrations.

  ‘There, gone. I’d better get myself out of this disguise.’ She flapped her hands theatrically.

  ‘I’ll see you in the Green Room for drinks in a minute . . . and then the night is ours, kids. OK?’

  Johnno and Francie were kindly dismissed. They took a little time to walk back down the corridor. If Johnno hadn’t had such a tight hold of her hand, Francie might have made a run for it. When they saw the door to the Green Room up ahead and Johnno had regained the power of speech, he turned to her.

  ‘Look, France, I think you’re worrying too much. Why don’t I talk to Nick. The fact is no-one wants to see you fucked over any more than you have been.’

  ‘Except for Ms Poppy Sommerville-Smith. I mean, what does she care?’

  ‘You know she’s not as bad as you make out. I think she’s pretty mature about it all.’

  ‘Meaning that I’m not?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Don’t answer that! It would be great if you talked to Nick. Can you? Can you ring me when you have?’

  ‘Yeah. I promise. Now, I can see Dave’s got his eye on you and I definitely have mine on Jessie! Let’s just have a good night,’ he said, nuzzling her neck.

  Francie shoved him and sighed. He was right. Despite everything, she should try to do just that.

  When they were back in the Green Room they could both see that the night was moving along satisfactorily. Robbie was conducting an animated discussion with Mr Dreadlocks Bongo. Sound engineer and musician? Or was there something more? Francie hoped for Robbie’s sake there was. Francie could also see Gabby and Dave chatting in another corner. And why not? What a great looking couple they made. It was stupid to think of herself with Dave, Francie reprimanded herself. In her current state of mind she was a liability to any man. She was a liability to herself, for God’s sake. She felt that she could dress herself up and put on make-up, but in the end it was just cheap wallpaper covering up the cracks.

  Oddly enough, at that very moment Dave and Gabby both turned and looked at her. Erk! Francie grabbed Johnno’s hand and dragged him to the buffet. They took fresh drinks and began devouring hot party pies like they were going out of fashion (which they were).

  Francie had a mouth full of hot pie when she felt a large pair of hands insinuate themselves around her midriff. She almost choked when she turned around and found herself face to face with an expanse of black liquorice leather. She spluttered and watched, horrified, as bits of pastry and mince sprayed out of her mouth and all down the front of the soft, no doubt expensive, hide.

  ‘Oh . . . goodness . . . sorry!’

  ‘Don’t worry, fine, fine,’ said Dave, brushing his chest with a napkin, and Francie could see that it was.

  ‘Where’s Gabby?’ She was genuinely surprised not to find her hanging off Dave’s arm.

  Dave whispered: ‘I’ll give you ten seconds of thinking music . . . is she heading for the waitress serving the party pies? The bloke on camera three? Or the lead singer of Cuba Cuba!, which is currently supporting Lenny Kravitz on tour?’

  Dave then began humming a refrain from American Woman in her ear.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Francie leaned back and almost put her hand into a large bowl of avocado dip. ‘These party pies are very good . . . um . . . it’s a tough question . . .’

  Dave leaned over her and Francie could smell him. She couldn’t tell exactly what the smell was, except that it registered somewhere in the back of her primitive woman brain as ‘gorgeous, fuckable man’. Her hair felt hot.

  ‘I’m HERE!’ It was Jessie, who bounded up and grabbed Dave and Francie in a big hug. ‘Hi, flatmates! Just working out who’s turn it is to clean the loo?’

  Not quite, thought Francie, but it was a timely reminder. She and Dave were sharing a house, after all, and she’d only been there a week. The last thing she needed was a disastrous one-night stand and the removal van backing up again.

  Dave turned and gathered Jessie in his arms and kissed her while looking meaningfully at Francie over the top of a purple tuft of hair. Then Johnno was on the scene too, with a drink for Jessie, and the stage was set for a night of fabulous flirtation and foreplay.

  It was probably about 2 am when they all staggered through their front door in St Kilda.

  Once in the kitchen Francie was automatically in hostess mode and went for the vodka to offer a round of drinks, but by the time she’d pulled the bottle from the icy clutches of the freezer, retrieved potato chips from the pantry and glasses down from the cupboard, she and Dave were alone.

  Jessie and Johnno hadn’t made it up the hall past Jessie’s bedroom. Francie also noted that Robbie was alone and seemed content to share his bed with the weekend newspapers he’d picked up at the 7-Eleven on the way home.

  There was a certain inevitability to proceedings. Dave and Francie could have sat around the table and made small talk for another hour and ended up at exactly the same moment they were at now. But they both knew the last thing they needed was more small talk or alcohol. Time to move things along.

  ‘So,’ said Dave in a most seductive voice, holding out his hand, ‘your place or mine?’

  ‘Well, I think mine’s closer but I’m too drunk to . . .’

  ‘Too drunk to fuck?’ Dave hummed that well-known Dead Kennedys tune.

  ‘Oh no . . . not at all.’ Francie smiled. ‘In fact I’d say I’m just the right amount of drunk not to give a fuck. I was going to say too drunk to drive . . . so let’s walk.’

  ‘Then fuck?’

  ‘Why the fuck not?’

  It wasn’t what you’d call the most romantic seduction in the world but Dave and Francie had been working up to this all night. They had danced and touched and whispered until their bodies were tuned to the same frequency. Neither of them had mentioned ‘love’, ‘romance’ or ‘relationship’. This was about sex and they both knew it.

  As it turned out they didn’t walk down the hall. They ran. They fell into her room and
onto her bed in the dark.

  Francie couldn’t believe she was doing this. Was about to have sex with a man who wasn’t Nick for the first time in five, no, more like six, years. She figured this would be a more efficient way of wiping out memories of her ex than any number of hours spent sitting in Faith Treloar’s blue velvet confessional chair.

  Everything about Dave was different. For a start there was his chest. It was broader than Nick’s, and hairy. Where Nick’s body was lanky and boyish, Dave’s was muscly and powerful. Then there was his tongue, which seemed to be much more expert than Nick’s, and paid attention to places Nick hadn’t visited with great enthusiasm for a long time. And there was his voice. Dave was a talker where Nick usually conducted himself in silence.

  Over the next hour Dave showered Francie with words of appreciation which fell on a parched landscape. She could feel herself blossoming, every petal unfurling.

  ‘Ooh . . . you smell . . . I can’t even think of a word to describe . . .

  ‘Your hair is so . . .

  ‘Now let me see, if we can just get rid of this . . .

  ‘And these . . .

  ‘Can I turn on the light?

  ‘Oh God . . . perfect . . . just perfect . . .

  ‘Gorgeous breasts . . . mmm. Sweet little nipples. I might just . . .

  ‘Take your hands away and lemme look . . .

  ‘So pretty. You’re so pretty. Did you know that?

  ‘Now, if I can just put this here . . .

  ‘Oh, keep doing that. That feels very nice. Do that again.

  ‘And while you’re doing that, how about if I do this?

  ‘Oh . . . so you like that?

  ‘Well, how about if I keep doing that while you take this and . . .

  ‘Now turn over and I’ll . . .

  ‘Not yet . . . in a minute . . . shoosh . . .