by Unknown
‘As I say, Francie, a clinger and an avoider. It seems odd that you should choose each other, doesn’t it?’
Francie had run out of things to say.
‘See the pattern that started with your mother and father? Your father left and your mother held on to the idea that he would come home for years, didn’t she?
‘If you were with a man who was secure in himself, you would have driven him away by fussing over him and mothering him the way you did with Nick. It was only your intense neediness which got him across the starting line into a relationship. In some ways it’s amazing that it lasted as long as it did.
‘But in a way you two were suited to each other. You chased, he ran, and both of you were happy with that arrangement. He didn’t ever believe anyone would want to catch him. You didn’t believe anyone would want to be caught by you. It was perfect for a childhood game. You played it for five years. But it’s no game for a grown-up woman.’
Francie was at last goaded into speaking. ‘So what’s this new relationship got that ours didn’t? What sort of person is she? Another mother figure . . . what?’
Faith leaned forward and Francie noticed that the tissues were now positioned within reach.
‘This is not about Nick anymore. This is about you. Why you were content to live the rest of your life—even have a baby—with a man who couldn’t really love you the way you deserve to be loved. If I asked you the same question I asked you the day you walked in my door—“Tell me what you love about yourself”—what would you say now?’
I’m not ready for this. It’s too much to ask of me. Leave me alone.
Francie hung her head and scrunched her skirt in her fists, willing herself not to start crying again. She knew Faith would keep on until she came up with something.
‘I . . . I’ve got nice hair.’
Two teardrops made a run for it, but they only got halfway down her face. Would it go on like this forever? Two steps forward and one step back?
‘Hmm, interesting theory.’ Johnno fancied himself an amateur psychologist and was thrilled to have this notion on the bar for discussion tonight.
‘You know, France, I’m sorry to say this, but I reckon she’s got you nailed.’
‘What?’
‘Well it’s pretty bloody obvious, really. Didn’t you tell us your mum still puts an ornament on the Christmas tree which is supposed to represent the family—Mum, Dad, Joel, you—as it used to be . . . what? Back in the eighties?’
Francie fished a strawberry out of her champagne glass and sucked on it as she replied: ‘It was a little blue glass house with snow on the roof. Joel smashed it last year. He said it was by accident but . . .’
‘Ooh, Freudian, very Freudian. Or Jungian. I can never remember the difference.’ Olga was not even an amateur psychologist. She was a Capricorn. A very contrite Capricorn who wasn’t keen for a repeat of the embarrassing scene at Café e Cucina exactly a week ago.
‘Do you ever see your father?’ asked Jessie. She was sitting on a stool with her hand on Johnno’s knee, just as his was on hers.
‘A few times a year, here and there,’ Francie replied casually. The truth was that they had come to a political arrangement where they met each other on neutral ground.
Their relationship was ‘cordial’—that was the language of diplomacy, wasn’t it? Where each side affected a willingness to listen, professed to understand, but was unable to comprehend the real heart of the matter.
‘And what does your brother do?’ Jessie continued with her interview.
‘Joel? He’s in technical support with computers. He’s a genius geek, but he still lives at home with Mum. Twenty-eight, can you believe it?’
‘Yeah, I can.’ Johnno wasn’t letting Francie off the therapy couch. ‘He’s a clinger too. Your mum probably projected all this stuff onto him and he’s fucked.’
‘Well, thank you, Doctor Purcell! Joel’s not fucked, he’s just . . .’ Francie couldn’t think of what Joel was, exactly. She felt guilty because she knew she was overdue for a visit home.
‘Do you really think I mothered Nick?’
‘Judging by the pile of washing in the laundry and the dishes in the sink at our joint, someone had to be looking after him or he’d have been dead from dysentery or cholera by now.’
Olga backed Johnno. ‘Sorry, Francie, you did buy all his clothes for him. And in five years he never even gave you a ring. No jewellery at all. I mean, what does that say?’
‘Probably that he’s poor. Probably that he’s a struggling actor. Probably that we decided that we had better things to spend our money on . . . like travelling the world together whenever we had the chance!’
‘Probably that he thought if he gave you a ring, it would spell couple!’ said Olga.
Francie had initiated this post-mortem therapy session at the Dog’s Bar down the road in St Kilda, but now she was getting more than she’d bargained for. Especially from Olga, who peered at Francie over the top of her purple granny glasses and said stuff she’d never been game enough to say before tonight. Francie knew that Olga would still not have said it without the support of Johnno.
Then it was Jessie’s turn to play at being self-help expert. ‘Yeah, I mean even when I was fifteen I got friendship rings from boys. Even if it was the plastic ring off a packet of Whizz Fizz sherbet. I mean, it said commitment. You don’t have to have money for that.’
At this point Johnno spied a white plastic ring from the top of a Coke bottle on the floor and bent down to retrieve it. He kneeled and offered it up.
‘Jessie Pascoe . . . would you do me the honour of having sex with me tonight?’
‘Oh yes, yes! I thought you’d never ask!’ Jessie replied and laughed until she fell off her bar stool.
‘Fabulous! Can I be voyeur of honour?’ Olga jumped up and down with excitement.
Then they all laughed . . . except Francie.
‘Hah bloody hah! Really, this “mothering” stuff. Does that mean he’s found someone to mother him better than me?’
‘Don’t you mean grandmother him?’ Ooh! That was a nice bitchy comment from Jessie. Francie smiled gratefully.
‘Stop, stop! I’m not going to play your filthy girls’ game,’ declared Johnno as he banged his beer glass on the bar. ‘The thing is, Poppy is much more . . . I dunno . . . distant, detached than you, France. They’ve actually got a lot in common, both being actors, and I think he’s got more room to manoeuvre emotionally. She’s older, she’s less . . . Anyway, I can see why it works. They make a pretty good pair.’
Francie was wounded. Johnno was always trying to tell the absolute truth. Francie wished he wouldn’t. She was trying to be grown up, but it still hurt. She downed the rest of her champagne and called for another.
Olga came to the rescue: ‘They make a good pair because they’re both cynical. He’s finally found someone he can be a pretentious arty type with.’
‘Come on, that’s not fair! We’re all pretentious arty types here. What are we?’ Johnno pointed at each of them in turn: ‘Stand-up comedian, scriptwriter, jewellery-maker, newspaper columnist. I don’t want to bitch about Nick and Poppy tonight,’ said Johnno definitively, and the topic was closed.
‘Instead let’s talk about Francie and Dave. What’s the story there?’
Francie was defensive. ‘Why do I always think that my life is going to end up in one of your scripts?’
‘Well, pardon me, sweetheart, but nothing in your life is going to make it into the ABC kids’ department. Of course when I write a black comedy . . .’
‘Yeah, come on, Francie,’ teased Jessie. ‘I saw you and Dave the morning after the night before, and it all looked very cosy. You’re not leaving it at a one-night stand, are you?’
Francie wanted to stop the conversation right there. ‘Hello? I’ve just been telling you. I’m in therapy! I wouldn’t wish me on anyone right now.’
Olga was thoughtful. ‘It’s going to be difficult living in the same hous
e. I wonder what the form is? I’ll bet there’s nothing in the etiquette books about it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jessie, with that distracted look in her eye Francie had seen before. ‘Someone should write a book about the etiquette of one-night stands. I wonder if they already have?’
Francie knew immediately that Jessie had found her topic for the next episode of Talkfest.
‘If you mention my love-life on national television . . . Jessie!’
‘Come on!’ Jessie was indignant. ‘I won’t mention you. Well, not by name. Not specifically.’
‘Can you mention that I have a huge dick?’ interjected Johnno.
‘Hello? There is such a thing as truth in broadcasting,’ laughed Francie.
‘Yeah . . . don’t want to be hauled before some sort of media regulation tribunal thingo,’ added Jessie.
‘Fuck! I’m going to have to take out an ad in the Sunday Press classifieds then.’
Olga had the last word: ‘You can afford it, Johnno. They charge by the column inch!’
It was near 11 pm when they fell out of the crowded bar into the cool evening. The sea breeze from Port Phillip Bay hit Francie and she realised she’d drunk more than she intended. It had to be admitted it was a good feeling and, not for the first time, Francie wondered whether she was drinking more alcohol lately than was good for her. Then she thought that maybe thinking that way was what had made her life so safe and boring. Maybe all the drama with Nick was forging her, one way or another, into a more complex human being. A bitter, heartbroken alcoholic. Soon she’d be in a comedy club sharing the stage with Jessie!
Francie was in front as the friends threaded their way through the late night throng on Acland Street. Johnno caught her arm.
‘I’m worried about you. You haven’t told me what happened between you and Nick after you broke up. The thing that’s worrying you.’
‘Oh, nothing. I was just being a drama queen,’ said Francie.
‘Lemme guess,’ said Johnno. ‘You rang them.’
‘Of course I did! Just to tell them how happy I was for them. At four o’clock in the morning, at ten-minute intervals, for the past six months.’
‘I love you, Francie.’
‘I know, Johnno, darling boy, I know. I love you too.’
As they walked arm in arm up the street Francie wondered whether Johnno would still love her if he ever found out exactly what she had done. She shivered to think about it and held his arm even more tightly.
Fifteen
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Recovery
Francie,
I am trying to recover from a broken heart and I have decided to take a holiday. I can’t decide between a beach resort or a health spa in the mountains. Which would you recommend?
Elly XX
Francie was sure on this one. She typed:
Hey there, Elly!
From my experience, at mountains and beaches there are too many things to jump off. The last thing you need is to sit and contemplate the infinite beauty of the universe . . . and your own personal ugliness.
You need mindless, cheap distractions. New high heels, cocktails, chocolates, bubble baths and gruesome crime novels (preferably where cadavers are dissected in intricate detail).
Seriously though . . . Run to the bosom of your friends and family. Find a new job. Join a sewing circle. Anything to keep you busy, girlfriend. This is one time when solitude really sucks!
Love from Francie XX
It was Friday afternoon. Francie was heading out of the office to the basement café for a coffee when she was accosted by Gabby Di Martino. Gabby clip-clopped down the concrete stairs in her high heels, prattling all the way.
‘I’ve got the beauty editor blahs! I’ve spent all frigging day writing about the difference between lipo-hydroxy acid and glycolic acid. I tell you, one day women are going to have to supply a urine sample to buy a blusher. This is the hardest job I’ve ever had. It’s one thing covering the war in Iraq, but sometimes it’s just as hard trying to write four hundred words on fucking mud in a jar! That’s Dead Sea mud worth three hundred bucks, mind you!’
‘If anyone can do it, you can, Gabby.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I know I have plenty of talent. I just don’t give a fuck.’
They got their coffees and found an empty table in the little café. They were surrounded by a rumpled and bleary-eyed assortment of journos inhaling sandwiches and hot potato chips out of brown paper bags. Gabby caused the usual stir. Today she was wearing hipster jeans, a swinging diamanté belt and a pistachio green sequinned halter top. You could have played a game of handball on her hard stomach. She was used to the attention, however, and was checking out Francie. She approved.
‘You look fab! I know you sneaked off at lunchtime to get your hair done.’
Francie was just about to make her excuses when Gabby cut in.
‘Forget it. It was about time. Your hair was looking like crap.’
Thanks for noticing.
It was true that Francie was starting to take more care of herself. In the past couple of days since her therapy session she felt she was at last making some progress and had begun to rejoin the land of the living. Her first call was to her favourite beauty spa. She’d had her hair coloured five gorgeous shades of blonde and treated herself to a pedicure at the same time. Her dusky rose toenails were glossy perfection peeking out of white wedge sandals. She was wearing a pastel pink and white check cotton jacket with her jeans. She felt she was almost back to her attractive best.
A vision of Nick popped into her brain—Look at you, you beautiful thing. Come here now and kiss me—and just as quickly exited stage right.
Francie had to look twice to make sure, but she realised that she too was getting the once-over from the men. Looking back at her was a particularly handsome photographer she had been eyeing off before she and Nick had separated. She realised that she hadn’t looked at him once in the past six months. He was, she saw, still particularly handsome.
Gabby followed her eye line. ‘Oh Christ, not him! Married, and wouldn’t go down if he was wearing concrete shoes. But this is a change for the better, Francie . . . actually looking at men!’
Francie could feel herself blushing. ‘Yeah, I suppose it is.’
Gabby took a sip of coffee and regarded Francie over the rim of her cup. ‘But you’ve sort of got it wrong. When the Prince kisses Sleeping Beauty she’s supposed to wake up and fall in love with him, not start sleeping around. I mean, I assume you and Dave . . .’
Francie suddenly didn’t fancy everyone at the Sunday Press knowing her business. Especially her boss.
‘Maybe this Sleeping Beauty realises that she’s missed out on a whole lot of possibilities while she’s been having a nice lie-in.’
At that moment the afore-perved-upon photographer ambled up to the table. He had a couple of expensive cameras slung around his neck, which looked a whole lot more sexy than a diamond zodiac pendant, although the desired effect was probably the same.
‘Hi. Hope I’m not interrupting a high-level editorial conference,’ he said, extending his hand to Francie. Looking up, Francie saw him smiling. A blinding dawn broke over a mountain top.
‘If I throw a stick, will you leave?’ Gabby spat in his direction.
Francie stumbled over the nasty comment as she rushed to fill the embarrassing void.
‘No, no . . . it’s fine. We’re just chatting. I’m Francie.’
Gabby sipped her coffee and pointedly stared into the distance.
‘I know who you are. I’m Karl Johansson. I’m working in pictorial for the Daily. I’m having an exhibition soon. You might like to come?’
‘Is your wife going to be there?’ said Gabby with a sickly smile.
‘Er . . . no . . . we’ve separated.’ Karl fished in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I’d love you to come and have a look, Francie. Have a drink afterwards . . . ?’
>
Karl handed Francie an invitation. On the front was a black and white photograph of a soldier in some godforsaken war zone. The backdrop of a blasted village could have been from so many places on earth, the soldier from any number of armies. He cradled a bundle of dusty camouflage fabric and peeping out of it was the perfect face of a newborn baby. The power of the image hit Francie in the chest. She decided in an instant that the man who had taken this shot had a lot to recommend him.
‘I’d love to,’ she heard herself say. ‘See you there.’
Karl broke into a huge grin, flooding the little corner table with more light, and walked away. Francie watched him go and couldn’t help noting he was impressive from the rear as well.
‘Oh God, how obvious!’ Gabby took up the invitation in her painstakingly tended opalescent nails. ‘The calling card of the metrosexual. I travel to war zones, I love babies, and there’s no woman in the picture. Insert your name here.’
Francie snatched the invite back. ‘Maybe I will go. I’ve been out of circulation a long time. I deserve a bit of meaningless fun.’
‘Of course you do. And if you want meaningless, Karl’s your man. So, you and Dave . . . ?’
‘We had a one-night stand, that’s all.’
‘Well,’ Gabby purred, leaning closer, ‘good for you, Francie. It’s all research for Seriously Single. Glad to hear you’re back in business and trading.’
Francie took her purse from the table and stood to go upstairs. A final check of her work and she was finished for the week. But there was one last incendiary bomb from Gabby before she could get away. Francie could never tell whether these devices were artlessly thrown or aimed with premeditated precision. She knew she was a target Gabby couldn’t miss.
‘Oh, are you going to watch Talkfest tonight? Should be fascinating to hear what Nick and Poppy have to say for themselves. I’ve got a crowd coming over to watch. Of course, now they know the background—the way she stole him, you in analysis and everything—they’re desperate to watch!’