Love and Punishment

by Unknown

  Francie was horrified that she was having to face Nick over all this. Again. She was guilty of more than he would ever know. Wishing him and Poppy dead, in her mind, a million times over.

  ‘It’s true. I’m not sure where to begin . . .’ Francie’s voice trailed away.

  She wanted to begin by laying her head in Nick’s lap and having him stroke her hair. She could smell him from where she was sitting, and every nerve ending in her body was alive and aching for the touch of him.

  ‘You probably heard that Poppy and I are moving in together,’ he mumbled. Francie focused on a very nice pink cushion with green embroidery and a matching silky fringe.

  ‘Johnno told me. And I believe there’s a ring. Congratulations.’

  Nick coughed. ‘It’s just an early Christmas present.’

  Francie didn’t believe him and Nick knew she didn’t. But then, Francie reminded herself, he had never been honest when it came to Poppy.

  ‘The point is, I want to make peace with you. So we can both get on with our lives. We’re going to have to be here for Olga, Amanda, Lachlan and their kids, so . . .’

  It all sounded so easy. As if their little group could somehow just pick up where it had left off. Breaking bread with Poppy at the table here in Amanda’s flat. A simple rearrangement of the chairs. Francie could not imagine it and didn’t think Nick could be serious.

  ‘So we should smooth things over, Nick? So you can feel good about yourself?’

  Nick lay back against the couch. He covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh God, don’t start this again!’

  ‘It’s not as simple as you—’

  Nick sat up and raised his voice to her. ‘Listen! You’ve had your pound of flesh. You’ve punished me hard. Let’s just get together, pronounce the last rites on this fucking thing and give it a decent burial.’

  His harsh tone lit the fuse of Francie’s anger. ‘And should I buy front row seats for the funeral, night after night, on stage? How am I supposed to get through that? I know I haven’t behaved well, but—’

  ‘We’re not doing it. It’s cancelled. It’s cost us a bloody fortune, everyone’s disappointed. The band’s devastated.’

  Francie was silenced.

  ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You’ve punished Poppy too. She’s willing to just let it go. Move on. So let’s just say we’re all even now and make an end to it.’

  He was right. There had to be an end to it. She’d seen at her mother’s place what it meant when there was war without end. A cold war which went on and on until it froze everyone’s hearts solid.

  ‘Olga says you’re doing some kind of therapy, and maybe I should come with you. I thought if we could talk about a few things . . . you know, salvage some kind of friendship at least. It will be Christmas soon, after all.’

  Christmas! The season of goodwill to ex boyfriends and their fiancées.

  Francie nodded her agreement and, after making an arrangement to meet on Wednesday night, Nick hurried away.

  When they heard the front door slam Amanda and Olga peeped around the door.

  ‘So, how was that?’ Amanda was doing some weird, cheery Martha Stewart hostess impersonation. The only thing missing was a tray of chocolate muffins from the oven.

  Francie almost laughed to see her. And here’s a Happy Ever After platter I prepared earlier!

  ‘They’ve cancelled their show,’ Francie said, trying to keep the relief out of her voice. As if it really hadn’t mattered to her that much anyway.

  ‘Good!’ declared Olga. ‘I told Poppy—’

  ‘You talked to her?’

  ‘Yeah. I could see what it was doing to you. There will be other starring performances for Poppy. This whole thing in the media has knocked her around. I think she’s grateful in the long run to just lie low for a bit.’

  Francie thought, now that Poppy was real and apparently staying and not just a product of her heartbroken imaginings, that she could ask, without sounding too tragic: ‘Do you like her, Olga?’

  Olga was thoughtful as she twirled the shell buttons on her cardigan.

  ‘She’s, I dunno, friendly enough, but self-contained. I can’t imagine getting to know her all that well. She’s not really a woman’s woman, if you know what I mean. I can’t imagine designing any jewellery for her. I’ve thought about it and all I can see is fake pearls.’

  ‘Lachlan thinks she’s a wanker,’ Amanda piped up.

  Francie smiled. Lachlan was suddenly her new best friend.

  ‘She’s invited us over to her place on Christmas night, but Lachlan doesn’t want to go.’

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ said Olga quickly. ‘She’d be a fucker to try and beat at charades.’

  Twenty-Seven

  It was about 6.30 pm on Monday evening when Francie stood on the footpath outside the front door of the Shelling Gallery in Toorak Road, Toorak. She hitched up the straps of her silky top, tightened the belt of her black satin trousers and inspected her flat silver sandals. All in order. She checked her reflection in a car window. She looked pretty and, for the first times in ages, felt it too. She might even have gone so far as to say she felt a tad irresistible.

  Stepping through the doorway and scanning the room for anyone she knew, Francie saw a crowd standing in small groups of three or four. Clutching drinks, they were deep in murmured conversation. It was an interesting gathering—some local ‘it’ girls in strappy sequinned dresses and high heels, a few boho types in tatty jeans and T-shirts, and a smattering of older art lovers decked out in expensive suits and impressive pearls.

  And then there were the photographers—Francie could tell which ones they were from the way they stood. Their legs were planted firmly apart and arms folded manfully across their chests, nursing bottles of beer. Confident and sexy. Happily, Francie didn’t recognise a single person.

  She looked at the image on her invitation—a newborn baby in the arms of an anonymous camouflaged soldier—and still thought she’d like to get to know the man who’d taken this photograph.

  Here was her chance. Karl Johansson appeared from the crowd, smiling and holding out his hand in greeting. Once again Francie was impressed at the sight of him. He was tall, broadchested, with a tanned face and shiny mid-brown hair. His eyes sparkled like dark opals set in a sandy cliff. She took his hand and was even more thrilled to feel its warm firmness.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey, Francie! Glad you could come.’ Karl beamed at her, and she remembered that whenever he did that she felt her face get hot, as if he was turning on an intense spotlight.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d remember. I’ve been away shooting a story on some islands off Tasmania for a couple of weeks and only got back this morning.’

  Francie couldn’t believe her good luck. He couldn’t possibly know of her reputation as a crazed undie-slasher! She turned her charm dial up to maximum.

  ‘Hello, Karl! Of course I remembered. I’ve had this invitation pinned to my wall. I wanted to see what else you’ve been up to.’ She smiled winningly and then thought to take her hand back.

  Karl fetched drinks for them both and steered Francie around the room with his large hand in the small of her back. The photographs were a bloody scrapbook from the world’s war zones—Iraq, Afghanistan, Eritrea, the Congo, East Timor. They were a matter-of-fact record of horrifying carnage. Windows on an unimaginable world of deprivation, poverty and desolation where military might levelled even the most humble of human endeavours.

  Francie was stunned. There were a few images which allowed her to claw back some vestige of hope for humankind. Glimpses of undimmed personal pride to be found in the corner of a marketplace or around a campfire. Places where the flames of love and kindness were rekindled from the merest scraps of dignity.

  Karl spoke about each one. He had been here and there, seen this and that, and all the while he talked Francie could feel nothing but shame for herself and her pathetic preoccupations.

  It’s a battlefield out there, baby! Hah
!

  She escaped the chatter of the room and sat outside the gallery on a concrete planter box by the side of the road, nursing a glass of wine and watching the traffic. She could feel her emotional landscape moving. Shifting like tectonic plates. New islands thrown up. Old continents submerged. She knew the navigation of this unfamiliar place would be a challenge, yet she was keen to set sail for the journey.

  Karl sat down next to her and rested his hand on her back. Cars and taxis whizzed by. People hurried past laden with Christmas shopping. It was the usual pre-holiday scene, but Francie could see Karl was taking it all in appreciatively.

  ‘It’s good to be home,’ he said. ‘You go away to these hellholes and you get caught up in the drama, but the old familiar banalities of sending out Christmas cards . . . that’s what you dream of while you’re away. Funnily enough, you come home and you have to fight your way back to be a part of even the most mundane happenings. You realise you’re not the same person you were before you went away, but you can’t actually put your finger on how you’ve changed. Hopefully, you’re wiser. God knows, you’re older.’

  He rested a heavy hand on Francie’s thigh for a moment. Squeezed playfully.

  ‘So come and meet some of my favourite mundane friends,’ he whispered.

  Karl took Francie firmly by the elbow and steered her through the crowd.

  ‘Francie, I’d like you to meet Adam, my ex brother-in-law.’

  ‘Do brothers-in-law become exes too, along with the wife?’ Adam raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Well yes, unless I marry your other sister.’

  ‘No way! I’m not being groomsman at another one of your ill-fated weddings. Once was enough!’ Adam teased.

  So, that was that mystery solved at least. After a couple more hours of chatting with people who had no idea who she was, Francie was feeling buoyant. She was looking into the future. Seeing the person she would be when she could finally shake off her past. She liked this new confident and relaxed Francis Sheila McKenzie, and hoped she would see more of her.

  And she also hoped she would be viewing more of Karl. By the way he was shepherding her through the evening, he was obviously feeling the same. When his hand wasn’t on her back it was grazing her arm or lightly touching her elbow. As the crowd thinned out there didn’t seem to be any doubt that Francie would be staying.

  When at last there were only about half a dozen people in the room, a venue for dinner was discussed. And, before Francie knew it, she had Karl in her car—his head was nudging the roof—and she was heading for a restaurant across the Yarra River.

  For the first time since she and Nick broke up, Francie drove past their old street in Richmond and didn’t even notice. But she did reflect that the last time she’d had a man in her car it was Dave and they’d both reeked of vomit. The smell had lingered, and she’d scrubbed the floor and sprayed half a pump pack of vanilla-scented fridge cleaner on it. Surely Karl couldn’t smell it now? Could he? She drove faster so he wouldn’t notice. Which was obviously a stupid idea when she thought about it some more, so she slowed and wound down the windows instead. Then she wound the windows up again. She wanted to smell Karl. Aaarrgh! The scent of him was driving her crazy.

  They were at some cute ethnic place which was all funky lamps and blackboards and mismatched chairs. Dinner went by in a hormonal haze. She was sitting beside Karl and could feel the heat coming off his thigh next to hers under the table. His friends were an interesting bunch—writers, photographers, artists. Thankfully no-one she knew from the Press was there, at least no-one who recognised her. What did they talk about? She scarcely noticed. What did Francie eat? No idea. She shovelled in some kind of sustenance and chatted amiably, but could not take her eyes off Karl. It was as if her mind was in neutral but her sexometer was flat out. Red-lining.

  It was inevitable they’d sleep together. From the moment she’d first seen Karl this evening Francie knew she would bed him. After all, he’d been a fantasy object for her for a long time and, as it transpired, he had been watching her as well. They’d already put in almost a year’s worth of foreplay—even if half of it was when Francie was with Nick. But what Francie hadn’t counted on was the conversation she would have to navigate before her head hit the pillow. By the time they were alone at the table, it was late.

  ‘So . . . you know that my wife and I are going to be divorced,’ he said.

  Francie was surprised at this—after all, it was breaking the cardinal rule she had been informed of by her single friends: ‘Never, ever, EVER talk about your past relationships on a first date!’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘YOU DO NOT WANT A SYMPATHY FUCK!’ they had emphasised in capital letters.

  But again, Francie thought why not? If two heartbroken individuals came together to find solace through sublime sex, surely that should be a blessing?

  ‘I’m on the rebound too,’ she ventured. ‘Come on, you first. What happened?’

  Karl sat back and took his time to relate his story. Francie could tell that this was some new policy of his—to lay all his cards on the table and see if she was scared off.

  ‘We were married for about six years. We started out great, obviously. Jen supported me financially while I was trying to make a living from my art photography. Which was wonderful of her, I know that. But, to be honest, that was part of the deal we had. As soon as I was on my feet it was going to be her turn. Then I got the job at the Press and things were easier.’

  Francie nodded. It was not unlike her scenario with Nick.

  ‘The thing was that the more independent and successful I became, the more she couldn’t handle it. It was like the more confidence I got, the more she lost hers. Then I had the chance to go away on assignment. I know I was away a lot and that it was hard for her, but to be honest? I think the things I was experiencing were always a part of my destiny. And while I didn’t expect they were part of hers, I thought she would see that, for me, it was inevitable one day I would travel this path.

  ‘Then it was like she started to sabotage me. She wouldn’t push herself at work—she’s a graphic designer—and instead started this whole domestic routine. Making elaborate dinners on nights when she knew I had to pack my stuff to leave. Booking holidays she knew I couldn’t go on.’

  Francie was listening to this intently and knew she was hearing her own story from a new perspective.

  ‘She started talking about having kids all the time. Which was, you know, fine, but her timing was off. We’d always agreed it would happen later. It was weird.

  ‘And I tried to tell her I needed more space—I know, that old cliché—but she just thought I didn’t love her anymore. She just kept asking “Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?” to the point where one day I just thought: “No, I don’t”. And I honestly don’t know how that happened. I did love Jen, very much. But she was a different person somehow . . . I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’

  Francie didn’t need to ask what happened next because she could guess. He had started to have affairs.

  ‘So I . . . and this is the bit I’m not proud of, not proud of at all . . . I started to have affairs. I’m sure Gabby told you. It was the coward’s way out, but every time I thought about telling Jen I wanted to leave I could see it would kill her. Like every man ever on the face of the earth, I would rather have set myself on fire than tell her I wanted to leave. So . . .’

  Francie filled in the next bit. ‘So you just left.’

  Karl looked at her. ‘Yeah. Pathetic, isn’t it? Emotionally retarded.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Francie toyed with her empty coffee cup.

  ‘The thing is,’ Karl continued, ‘I still really love her, I always will, but I have learned something. And that’s that the next time I get involved it will be with a woman who’s more independent. Who has her own path and is passionate about it. I don’t want to be worshipped like I’m some kind of religion. I’ve seen what religion does to people.

&
nbsp; ‘Not that I’m in a hurry, I’ve got a bit of sorting out to do. So that’s me, at the age of thirty-four, just learning to be “me”, I guess, just finding out . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Ah, shit! Who knows . . . ?’

  Francie realised that Karl’s speech was the one she would never hear from Nick. But the bit about him learning to be by himself? That was a speech Poppy would never hear from Nick either.

  ‘So . . . how about you?’

  There didn’t seem to be any point in going through the whole situation, since Karl had already said it all. But there were perhaps a couple of things worth saying.

  ‘Same sort of stuff.’ She waved her hand casually. ‘Too young to get involved and we grew out of each other. I suppose I have to learn to be independent too. Learn to love myself. Which is a ridiculous thing to learn at my age. It seems that a lot of people of our generation are trying to learn the same thing, but we still want to be in a relationship—to be in love, all that—so it’s not easy. Do you think our parents had to learn this stuff?’

  ‘Like I said, who knows?’ Karl shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s something you have to work on your whole life and maybe, in the end, being independent is totally overrated.’

  ‘It could be. It could be absolutely overrated.’ Francie fell silent.

  ‘So, do you think we could learn to be by ourselves by being together at my place tonight?’ Karl leaned forward and smiled one of his devastating smiles.

  Francie smiled back. ‘Hmm. I think a little bit of togetherness could be just what we need . . . in a totally non co-dependent way, of course.’

  ‘Oh yeah, totally.’

  ‘It could be something we just did for ourselves—together.’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  Francie and Karl threw some money on the table and left.