by Unknown
‘I love this curve here . . . these cute dimples . . .
‘I wish you could see yourself . . .
‘So tight . . . so very . . . very . . . tight . . .
‘God that feels good . . .
‘You’d better stop or . . .
‘I’m telling you . . . you move like that again . . .
‘And I won’t be able to . . .
‘Uh . . . huh . . . uh . . . aaah . . .
‘Mmm . . . mmm . . .
‘Can we do that again?’
So they did that again and a few other things as well. Francie felt that she wasn’t watching an old movie in a darkened room any longer. She was starring in the premiere of a new blockbuster production. She was a newly discovered ingenue playing opposite an experienced, extremely talented leading man.
Within a couple of hours she wasn’t comparing Dave with Nick anymore. Dave was there in his own right. Full frame, front and centre.
Twelve
By the time breakfast came around next day, it was after lunch. And if Elysium was the place you went after you died . . . well, it wasn’t a bad option.
Francie straggled into the sunny kitchen mid morning and found it more like a cosy corner café than her own home. The sound of the Rolling Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’ was blaring from the living room. Robbie was serving scrambed eggs and bacon, and holding forth to Johnno, who was sitting at the table in front of a large jug of bloody marys with an entire celery tree sticking out of it. Jessie was blowing cigarette smoke through the open window in between looking at Johnno with big, limpid, hazel eyes.
Francie fished in the fridge for ice for her glass of water as she listened to Robbie’s Saturday morning lecture.
‘The trouble is that prosperity has come at the cost of originality,’ he was saying as he waved a wooden spoon. ‘With today’s music you have to look hard to find that intellectual and physical risk. Now the Stones had it—you could still find that raw energy of African rhythm in their early days, like you could find the blues in Elvis Presley. But today, because of the politics of blame, everything has to be safe, safe, safe. Urban living has transformed that raw energy into banality. What do you like listening to?’
‘I like the John Butler Trio. I think he’s—’ began Johnno.
‘A hippie. Back to the womb stuff,’ said Robbie dismissively.
‘Yeah, well back to the womb isn’t such a bad place to go, you know. Safe, warm . . . a place to be nurtured, to grow,’ and here Johnno looked at Jessie with a wink and a sly smile.
‘Yeah,’ Jessie cut in, ‘climb down off your soapbox, Mr Homo Man, and give us breeders a bit of respect.’
‘Morning,’ said Francie. She could feel herself blush. This was a new sensation after a night of wild sex—being greeted with a panel of inquisitive eyes.
‘Morning.’
‘Hi.’
‘Hello, darls!’
Don’t ask me, don’t ask me, don’t ask me.
‘So how was last night?’ Jessie and Johnno chorused together. They looked at each other and giggled.
Well that, Francie supposed, was inevitable. She reached for the jug of tomato juice and poured herself a drink. After a procession of cocktails and five hours’ sleep Francie should have felt a lot worse, but she felt energised, alive.
‘Hey . . . I could ask you the same question.’
There was a short pause for meaningful looks all round and Johnno and Jessie dived on the toast and eggs. Then Francie heard Dave cough as he walked up the hall. She ducked her head and retreated into the pantry looking for raspberry jam.
‘Morning, all.’ Dave sounded very hale and hearty. Francie walked out of the pantry straight into him, and was rewarded with two big hands reaching down the back of her baggy pink pyjama shorts to give her bottom a squeeze.
‘Mmm . . . hello there, you . . .’ he crooned into her neck.
He was still warm from the shower, his hair wet and glossy black. His dark green eyes were fringed with the longest black eyelashes and Francie could feel them brushing her skin. He was as handsome in broad daylight as she had last seen him in shadow.
He didn’t seem embarrassed at all. But why would he be? He does this all the time, thought Francie. From what Jessie and Gabby had told her he was the one-night stand expert. Was Francie just another goodtime Fluff Bat? Before last night she thought that all she wanted was a meaningless one nighter. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Over the next hour two more plates of toast and more bacon were eaten, Johnno had cleaned out the juice and everyone was now on vodka and tonics. They’d moved on from discussing music and gotten into art, politics and architecture.
Francie loved hearing Dave talk. The theme of ‘dumbing down’ seemed to come up a lot. Dave talked about contemporary design: ‘You see it all the time. The ironic quotation of the past. In the end it goes nowhere. It’s a stand-in for creativity and intelligence. An excuse for not taking up the challenge of originality. Irony is the subtle threat of post-modernism. Whenever post-modernism is questioned, the easy answer is: “It’s a joke, it’s not serious”. But that answer robs people—artist and audience—of initiative. At its worst it’s a confidence trick.’
Said by anyone else this would have screamed ‘wanker’, but Dave was actually extremely well read and frighteningly intelligent. But he wasn’t condescending. His face was alive with enthusiasm whenever you caught an idea and wanted to hear more. But despite his friendly and patient inclusion of her in the discussion, Francie did feel dumb when he talked. This was nothing like the household of singles you saw on television’s Big Brother: ‘Shite! What dickhead drank all the beer?’
She was transfixed listening to Robbie and Dave vigorously exchange provocative views on modern life and culture, Jessie interjecting with her sharp wit and Johnno defending his leftie orthodoxy with passion. If last’s night’s physical encounter had restored Francie’s thirsty body, then this conversation was feeding and watering her very soul.
Of course it wasn’t fair to compare, but Francie was now wondering whether her long, settled relationship with Nick had deprived her of something far more stimulating. Maybe that’s why he had buggered off. Maybe he’d just realised this months before Francie had. Maybe that’s what he now had with her.
She found herself entertaining a quick sound bite of Nick and Poppy at their breakfast table in Parkville.
‘So, Nick, do you think Australian theatre must be more protective of our unique voice in the face of globalism? Or will such protectionism render us a cultural backwater?’
‘I’m glad you asked, Poppy. I feel that without a more rigorous approach, a renewed effort to place our voice in a global context, we are in effect trying to preserve a dying culture. It’s imperative that we embrace the new realities or become irrelevant.’
And then, the oddest thing happened—the phone rang and Jessie announced that Nick was on the line and wanted to speak to Francie. It was odd because, although she had given him her new number, she had never expected him to actually use it. It was also strange because in the six months since she and Nick had busted up, he had hardly rung at all.
The sound of Nick’s name in the kitchen was like a rifle shot in a duck pond. Everyone stopped talking and stared at Francie. She grabbed the handset from Jessie and quickly scurried out the French doors onto the veranda where it was quieter. She could hear her own heart drumming an erratic beat.
‘Hello . . .’
‘Hi . . . Francie?’
‘Nick?’
‘I just wondered, if you’re not doing anything tonight, do you want to go out? Go to a movie maybe? I think it would be good . . . we could have dinner, talk.’
Francie, as if in a trance, heard herself agree to meet Nick in town tonight at 8 pm. She clicked off the phone and gazed at it with amazement. She was startled to find Jessie beside her.
‘Bloody hell! What was that about? Are you OK?’
It was a lot to answer. Francie could only m
anage to mumble something about Nick wanting to know where to send the refunded bond on their old house.
Jessie was scarcely interested. She wanted to talk about what was really on her mind, hopping from foot to foot as she spoke: ‘Don’t you feel this whole house is just alive? God, imagine . . . you, me, Dave, Johnno . . . All of us on the one night? What are the odds of that happening?
‘Oh, Johnno is so gorgeous! We had the most brilliant night! He’s too funny, and smart and thank you for introducing me. Maybe my luck is changing. I told you the great drought of 2004 would break before Christmas!
‘Isn’t it a beautiful day? Isn’t Dave the best? I can tell he really likes you. Do you like him? All we need now is for Robbie . . . Well it’s a good start, don’t you reckon?’
Jessie didn’t wait for an answer to any of these questions. She hugged Francie and skipped back inside to take up a position on Johnno’s knee.
Francie looked at the sky. It wasn’t a beautiful day. It was sunny, but that chilly wind was blowing up again. She could feel bits of herself coming loose, flapping like the posters on the brick wall in Chapel Street. She crossed her arms over her chest and stumbled back inside. She sat down, ignoring the quizzical looks from the boys. She tried to tune in to the conversation once more, but the spell was well and truly broken. Francie talked, but meanwhile thoughts flashed through her mind as if they were bulletins being pulled through at the bottom of a television screen.
‘Breaking News: Nick Jamieson seeks talks . . . Experts confused why talks scheduled at this time . . . What is nature of demands? asks McKenzie . . . Analysts say could be détente both sides hoping for . . . Stand by . . . more details in late news. Tomorrow Fine . . . 26 degrees.’
All thoughts of a languid Saturday afternoon in bed with Dave disappeared. He kept looking at her and she knew he sensed it. What did he know about Nick and her? She recalled telling him that she hoped she and Nick would get back together. She guessed Gabby Di Martino had filled him in on the details.
She thought back to the Green Room last night and the sight of them with their heads together. She wondered if Nurse Gabby had told Doctor Dave that a night of mind-blowing sex was just the tonic the patient needed.
‘Well,’ sighed Robbie, looking at the wall clock, ‘gotta crank up for an afternoon recording gig at Manchester Lane. So I guess it’s adios, one and all.’ He looked at the two couples with a knowing smile. ‘Enjoy your respective Saturday nights.’
After kisses all round he was gone, but just for a moment. He was soon back with someone Francie had never seen before—a shortish, tubby bloke wearing neat black trousers and a natty green embroidered waistcoat over his white shirt. He looked Greek, Italian or something more exotic. He registered Jessie sitting on Johnno’s knee and Francie could see a flash of annoyance in his eyes until his forced smile ran interference.
‘Heeere’s Henry,’ Robbie announced. Ah, so this was Henry! Jessie’s ex. The one who apparently had an uncanny knack for ruining all Jessie’s efforts at finding a new beau.
‘Good afternoon, people,’ said Henry. ‘I have cakes.’ He ripped the white paper bag which read ‘Mozart’s, Acland Street’ off a cardboard tray and dumped chocolate éclairs and icing sugar-dusted almond crescents on the table.
Francie shot a look at Johnno, who had obviously heard about Henry too, because he quickly stood, almost throwing Jessie off his lap onto the floor.
‘I’ve gotta go,’ Johnno blurted. ‘Things to do. See you, Robbie, Dave, France. Thanks for the drinks.’
‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ announced Jessie, and as they headed out of the kitchen she turned back to Henry with a face which was pure poison.
Henry merely shrugged. ‘Who wants a cup of tea?’ he asked as he reached for the kettle.
‘Thanks, Henry, but no, I’ve got to get going,’ said Robbie, following Johnno and Jessie.
Then it was Dave’s turn to make excuses. He stood and stretched his arms. ‘Uh yeah, got some work to get through this afternoon. I’ll take a cake though, Henry. Sensational éclairs . . . I need a sugar hit.’ And then he was gone too.
So, that was that! Ten minutes ago there’d been two new couples in the room basking in a comfortable post-coital glow, and now there were just two morose exes looking at a kitchen table piled high with dirty dishes.
‘Um . . . I’ll have a cup if you’re making one, Henry. I’m Francie, by the way.’ She smiled weakly.
‘Oh I know who you are,’ said Henry as he busied himself in the kitchen with an easy familiarity. ‘I play trombone in a band called Diving Bell. We’ve been doing some work with Nick Jamieson and Poppy Sommerville-Smith on their new show.’
Francie stood and looked at his back as he spoke. Nick and Poppy couldn’t be here too . . . not in her own kitchen! She started to noisily stack glasses on plates. Just shut up, shut up, shut up!
But Henry either didn’t understand or didn’t care about Francie’s feelings as he ploughed on: ‘Yeah, it’s going to be really good. There’s a great song in there about revenge. Poppy wrote it herself. There’s a few surprises in this show. I think people will be blown away by how good a singer she is. I think . . .’
Francie considered throwing a coffee mug at the back of his fat head. Instead she banged the mug on the table and was heading out the door when Jessie pushed past her into the kitchen and started shouting.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, Henry?! HOW DARE YOU JUST WALK IN ANY TIME YOU FEEL LIKE IT . . .’
Francie could hear their argument echoing down the hall as she found the sanctuary of her room and closed the door firmly behind her.
In the Red Room thoughts of Nick crowded in on her. Why now? What did he want to talk about? Francie saw her hands were shaking. She was nervous already at the thought of seeing him. She ran through what he might possibly say. The first scenario was: ‘I want us to get back together. It was a mistake. I still love you.’
Is that what she wanted to hear? Twenty-four hours ago it would have been ‘yes, yes’. Now it was ‘yes, no, yes, maybe . . .’ She honestly didn’t know how she felt and wouldn’t until she heard the words actually come out of his mouth. But then, because Francie wasn’t a complete idiot, she also entertained the other possibilities.
‘Poppy and I are getting married.
‘It’s a medical miracle, she’s pregnant. It’s twins!
‘They want to make a movie of our stage show starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks!
‘I’ve finally realised, I’m gay.
‘My mum wants you to send back the champagne glasses she bought for your birthday.
‘Can I borrow some money? You wouldn’t believe how much our street posters cost.
‘We’re going away—can you feed Poppy’s piranhas?
‘I suppose a threesome . . . nah . . .’
How many false starts and blind alleys would there be on the path to getting over all this? She remembered Olga telling her that the rule of thumb was that you had to take the length of time you’d been together, divide it in half, and that’s how long it would take to stop feeling the pain. So that meant two and a half years. Even in Victorian England you only got two years’ mourning for the death of a husband. And that was when you had an actual body to bury. Francie wished, not for the first time, that Nick had died in some horrific mishap. Then there would have been some dignity in all this. She would have been a noble widow instead of just a useless cast-off.
In two years’ time she would be . . . who? What? Francie couldn’t imagine the person she would find after all the layers of hurt and confusion were peeled away. Maybe she was like an onion. You peeled and peeled and all that was left was a tiny small space of nothingness.
She was straightening the bed, picking up hurled underwear and ripped condom foil packets off the floor when there was a tap-tapping at the door.
‘It’s me—Dave. Can I come in?’
‘Yes, sure, come in,’ she stuttered as she dumped the detritus from their
lovemaking behind the couch.
‘Hope I’m not disturbing you . . .’
Was he kidding? Of course seeing Dave was disturbing. The sight of him sent every molecule in her body into violent collision. The memories of last night with him crashed into memories of nights with Nick and created a chain reaction of anxiety. Her thighs still ached from the hours Dave had spent between them. Her face was red and grazed from his stubble and her breasts felt tender. He had imprinted himself on her body. She felt as unmade and rumpled as the bed he was now sitting on.
She didn’t want him sitting there! It was the bed she’d shared with Nick. Maybe Nick would be sleeping there again and would know she’d been unfaithful. And there she went once more, having completely irrational thoughts. She looked at the clock—3 pm—and suddenly felt very tired.
Dave reached for Francie’s hand and tried to gently pull her in between his thighs. She ducked away and sat at a safe distance on the couch.
‘Um . . . I haven’t had the chance to tell you yet, thanks for an amazing night.’ He glanced at Francie who was taking a keen interest in the floor.
‘I had a great time too,’ she murmured without meeting his eyes.
He hesitated before going on: ‘I thought we should have a talk about how we are going to work this.’
‘We don’t have to have a talk. It’s fine.’ She picked bits of fluff off the couch as she spoke.
He was looking straight ahead at her embarrassing cupid picture when he asked: ‘Would you like to come out to dinner with me tonight?’
Dinner after sex! What was the etiquette here? Were you obliged to have dinner with a man after he’d spent so much time on you in bed? Somehow sitting and talking to him all night over a dinner table for two seemed more intimate than what they’d already done. How could a dinner date imply ‘relationship’ more than having abandoned sex all night?
‘I dunno, Dave,’ Francie sighed. ‘I mean, thank you, but maybe we should leave it there. It’s just . . . too complicated right now.’
‘Is it because of Nick?’
Francie didn’t want Dave to say his name! It was none of his business. He had no right to ask.