by Robin Storey
‘You should have come, honey, it was brilliant. Pastor Bryan talked about forgiving ourselves and each other for being human because we all have flaws. And then it all clicked into place and I decided to forgive you, and I felt as if God had reached down and taken a huge load off my shoulders!’
‘What exactly are you forgiving me for?’ Reuben poured the boiling water onto the chocolate.
‘For dressing up in women’s clothes and causing me so much anguish! And I forgave myself too for not forgiving you earlier. I feel fantastic!’
‘That’s great,’ Reuben said, handing her a mug of hot chocolate. ‘And I forgive you for not forgiving me earlier. And for not forgiving yourself as well.’
‘It’s not up to you to forgive me for not forgiving myself,’ she said pointedly. That’s something only I can work out for myself.’
‘Oh I see,’ Reuben said. ‘Well, I s’pose I should forgive myself for being so ignorant about forgiveness.’
She gave him one of her looks as she cupped her hands around her mug.
***
As he’d only done one photo and his deadline to call Frank was in three days, he decided to stay up late that night after Carlene had gone to sleep, to get a few more hours in. After they’d watched the Sunday movie cuddled up on the couch, Carlene yawned and stretched.
‘Coming to bed now?’
‘I’ll be there soon; I’ll just watch some of the late news.’
She slipped her hand under his t-shirt and stroked his chest. ‘Don’t be long then,’ she breathed into his ear. Her breath was warm and so was her hand. She jumped up, gave a seductive pout and sashayed out.
He sat staring at the TV, hoping that Carlene would fall asleep waiting for him. This was a first – he was actually hoping not to be seduced. This is all for you, Lucy, I’m actually knocking back sex to save your life – in a roundabout way.
He jerked his head up with a start. Gunshots rang out and cowboys on horseback galloped across the TV screen. He looked at the clock. Five to midnight. He’d fallen asleep waiting for Carlene to fall asleep.
He got up and peered into the bedroom. A gentle rhythmic snore emanated from the hump under the doona. He went into the study, turned on the computer, opened ‘Mandrake Stuff’ and started working on another photo.
‘What are you doing?’
He jumped and instinctively went for the minimise button. Carlene was standing at his shoulder in her dressing gown and slippers, tousled hair falling over her face. How did he not hear her come in?
‘Who’s that?’ she demanded.
‘I’m just practising using this new software I’ve downloaded.’
‘But who’s that woman? And why did you hide it?’
You idiot, why did you do that?
In one swift movement, she reached over, clicked the mouse and brought the photo back to life on the screen. It was of Lucy getting into her car, whom he’d transposed, with the help of some Gimp magic, from her office car park to a large shopping centre car park. Thank God Carlene hadn’t met her.
‘It’s no one in particular, just a random photo I got off the net. I’m just having a bit of a play around.’
‘But why? And why do you have to do it at two o’clock in the morning?’
‘Is that really the time?’ His amazement was genuine. ‘I didn’t mean to stay up so late. You go back to bed, honey, I’m coming right away.’
She gave him a hard look and stomped out. He saved the photo into his ‘Mandrake Stuff’ file, turned off the computer, undressed and got into bed. Carlene was lying with her back to him. He reached out and drew her warm, naked body closer to his. She turned over onto her back.
‘What were you doing exactly with that photo?’
‘I was experimenting with colour and retouching, seeing what I can do with Gimp. It’s just for fun, nothing sinister, I promise.’
‘I find it weird that you’re doing it when I’m asleep, as if you’re trying to hide it from me.’
‘That’s not true. You never know, if I get good at it, it could lead to a job.’
‘Doing what? Airbrushing models? Making fifty-year-old women look as if they’re thirty? It’s dishonest, just another way of conning people.’
She turned away from him, lying on her side. Reuben reached out and ran his hand over her hip. There was something so irresistible about that part of a woman’s body, the smooth undulation of her hip sloping gently into the length of her thighs. ‘I wouldn’t have to airbrush you, you’re perfect as you are.’
His hand moved back up to her shoulder, making its way over it in the direction of her breast. She wriggled away from his grasp. ‘I’ve got a big day at work tomorrow.’
Reuben turned over and huddled into himself to get warm. So much for forgiveness.
CHAPTER 15
Over the next couple of days, he managed to finish the photos in the two-hour window he had in the afternoon, between when he got home from work and when Carlene arrived. He didn’t want to risk her catching him at it again in the middle of the night. Anyone would think from her attitude that she’d caught him looking at porn.
On Wednesday afternoon after work, he rang the number on Frank’s business card. It rang several times before a voice snapped ‘Yes!’
‘Operation Luce End.’
He felt ridiculous as he said it, as if he should be wearing a false nose and talking into his shoe phone.
‘And?’
‘I’ve got what you wanted.’
‘Good. Meet me tomorrow, five-thirty pm. La Cantina Restaurant in the city.’
As Reuben lay in bed that night trying to think of an excuse for his meeting with Frank, there was a stirring beside him. Carlene leaned over him, her hair tickling his chest. ‘Are you okay, honey?’
She was naked and holding up a bottle of massage oil. ‘I thought a massage might help you to unwind.’
‘Great. Do I get extras?’
She giggled. ‘Only if you’re a good boy and do as I say. Now lie on your stomach.’
She rubbed oil into his back and shoulders, her strong, assured hands kneading the knots and tension out of his muscles. It was blissful – he hadn’t realised how stressed he’d been. Of course stress was all relative. Doing scams was stressful – always needing to have your wits about you, keeping one step ahead of the police, often down to your last dollar before the money started coming in, constantly moving and thinking up new ideas. But it was stress he understood and could cope with, and the rewards were worth it.
This stress was different, uncomfortable, as if he were wearing ill-fitting clothes. Finding a job, being a husband, trying to live up to expectations when he wasn’t sure of his own.
As it turned out, there were extras. As Carlene kneaded her way up his thighs and added an oral component to the massage, a thought flashed through his mind. Was this forgiveness sex? Or maybe guilt sex, because she was embarrassed about Jo’s treatment of him? Followed by another thought. Who cares?
***
Carlene was still asleep as he dragged himself out of bed, showered and dressed. With his early starts at Joe’s Cafe he’d had to change his jogging routine to the afternoons after work, although he hadn’t had time to go at all this week. And the sit-ups had gone completely out the window. He lifted his shirt and looked in the mirror – the soft roll of stomach was still there, perched on top of his jeans belt. Maybe he should just buy bigger jeans. Or only model flannelette pyjamas.
He slipped on his shoes then bent over Carlene to say goodbye. She was lying on her side, sprawled over the entire bed. The covers had slipped down to reveal her breasts, squashed in between her arms. She was so still, she could have been dead except for the faint rise and fall of her chest.
What would he feel if she were really dead? He’d be upset, of course, but it would be nothing like the pain of his mother’s death, all the more potent because he hadn’t realised how much he loved her until she was gone. He’d known when he married Carlene that he
didn’t love her, but she was sexy, well connected and crazy about him. Who could resist that combination? And in his subconscious he’d hoped that sooner or later the love would come. Only it hadn’t yet.
Carlene’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Morning.’
She opened them wider. ‘What are you staring at?’
‘Just thinking how beautiful you are.’
That’s so corny, you’re losing your touch. But Carlene didn’t seem to think so. She smiled and stretched out under the sheet, languorous as a cat. He could almost hear her purring. He bent over and kissed her on the cheek.
‘I’m meeting Finn at the pub at five-thirty tonight for a drink, so I’ll be home late. Don’t keep dinner.’
‘He’s in town again?’
Carlene sat up, wide-awake.
‘Just for tonight.’
‘Why don’t you invite him home for dinner?’
‘He’s already arranged to go out for dinner with some other friends.’
Carlene sprang out of bed and pulled on a robe.
‘Which pub are you going to?’
‘Don’t know yet. He’s going to ring me later today.’
She followed him out to the front door and gave him a long, lingering kiss on the lips. ‘Bye, honey. Don’t be too late tonight.’
He turned around to wave to her. She was standing in the doorway, a provocative smile on her face. Her robe had fallen open to reveal her naked body.
***
Joe bawled him out for his slowness, popping into the kitchen every few minutes to make sure he wasn’t taking a break to breathe.
‘You wouldn’t have survived a day back in Malta, boy. I was up at five in the morning preparing food for my parents’ restaurant before I went to school and then all afternoon washing dishes and cleaning up when I got home! And I had to do my homework as well! I was top of the class too.’
Then why the fuck are you running a cafe? Reuben wiped the sweat from his face and plunged his hands into the hot washing-up water.
Joe pointed to the rubber gloves on the shelf above the sink. ‘Didn’t I already tell you to put those on?’
‘I can’t wear them, they give me a rash.’
He’d discovered it in prison, wearing rubber gloves on dishwashing duty. His hands had broken out in itchy, red blotches that turned into sores when he scratched them. He’d been taken off dishwashing duty and put on toilet-cleaning duty, unfortunately not being allergic to toilet cleaner.
‘You metrosexuals, you’ll get dishpan hands, you know.’
Joe chuckled to himself as he went into the storeroom and reappeared with an industrial-sized bottle of tomato sauce. ‘And, of course, you haven’t filled the sauce bottles. That would be expecting too much of your delicate little hands.’
He picked up a squeeze bottle of tomato sauce from the workbench, unscrewed the top and began to fill it from the larger bottle. In his Mandrake alter-ego, Reuben conjured up a metrosexual vision of himself with kohl-smudged eyes, black fingernail polish and man purse slung over his shoulder. Slipping on a pair of fluorescent pink rubber gloves, he picked up the large bottle of tomato sauce and upended it over Joe’s head. So satisfying was the fantasy that he replayed it several times and hardly felt the heat of the water on his hands.
At three o’clock, Reuben took the last tray of clean cups and mugs out to the cafe before knocking off. Joe had gone to the bank, only a couple of the tables were occupied and Nina was wiping down the others. He watched her as she sprayed cleaner on them from the bottle hooked in her belt and moved the cloth over the formica tops in ever-widening circles. Her long, smooth strokes mesmerised him.
She looked up. ‘Do you want something?’
‘Just admiring your graceful style. I’m a cleaning voyeur, I get my kicks watching other people do it.’
She didn’t answer, moving to the next table.
‘What course are you studying?’
‘Film and Television.’
‘Really? You want to be an actress?’
She gave him a withering look. ‘The correct term is actor, for males and females. And no, I don’t want to be one. I’m studying screenwriting, directing and editing.’
She looked at the clock. ‘Isn’t it your knock-off time?’
‘So it is.’ He reached into his pocket, drew out some coins and handed them to her. ‘May I have a double-strength espresso?’
She gave him another look, pocketed his money and finished her cleaning. Reuben sat at a corner table. When she brought the coffee he said, ‘Now you have to talk to me, I’m a customer.’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll give you a minute. Your time starts now.’
He pulled out a chair. ‘Have a seat.’
She sat down.
‘What are you hoping to do when you finish your course?’ Reuben asked.
‘I’d like to do it all, but so far I’ve enjoyed screenwriting the most.’
‘Interesting,’ Reuben said. ‘I’ve just joined a promotions agency, hoping to get some ad work, or maybe as a movie extra.’ He grinned. ‘We could join forces, you write the movies, I’ll star in them.’
‘I thought you said you were a behind-the-scenes person. Although at the time I thought that was a load of crap.’
A straight talker. That was refreshing in a woman.
‘Obviously I’m not as good an actor as I thought I was.’
‘On the contrary, I think you’re a very good actor. You do the sincere, charming persona very well.’
‘It’s not a persona, that’s how I really am.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Okay.’
‘What do you mean, “okay?”’
‘Nothing.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Your time’s up.’
She got up just as Joe was walking back into the cafe. When he spied the two of them at the table, his face instantly turned to thunder.
Reuben got up as well. ‘Must be off, I’ve got lots to do.’
He waved a cheery goodbye to Nina and Joe and made a hasty exit. He could feel Joe’s eyes burning into his back. What the hell did Nina mean by ‘persona?’ And the way she looked at him, as if she didn’t believe that he really was sincere and charming. What did she think he was? A latent serial killer? Women! Always trying to psychoanalyse you.
***
He arrived at La Cantina right on five-thirty, satchel over his shoulder. Although its advertised opening time was 6pm, the front sliding door was open a few centimetres. Reuben stepped inside. Frank and another man sat at a corner table. The interior was as dingy as the outside and smelt of stale alcohol and cheese. Mexican parrots wearing sombreros dangled from the ceiling.
‘Littledick!’ Frank clicked his fingers. ‘Another beer please, Gunther!’ He nodded to his companion. ‘Meet Bomber.’
The other man stood up and held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet ‘cha.’
He was tall and rangy with a goatee beard and long grey hair tied back in a greasy ponytail. He wore white wrap-around ‘happy pants’, woven sandals and a tie-dyed shirt. A relic from hippydom, right down to the glaze in his eyes that suggested a fondness for cannabis. It was hard to imagine anyone who looked less like his name – although you had to admit that any man who wore ‘happy pants’ in public displayed a certain sort of courage.
‘Likewise,’ Reuben said, shaking his hand. As he sat down, a slight, dark-haired man darted over to the table and delivered Reuben’s beer with a bow and a wide grin.
‘Service here is next to nothing,’ Frank said. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Operation Luce End.’
Bomber and Reuben raised their glasses. ‘Operation Luce End.’
I don’t mean it Lucy, I’ve got my fingers crossed.
‘Now Littledick, what have you got for me?’
Reuben opened his satchel, took out a document wallet and handed it to Frank. Frank opened it, and took out a bundle of photos and a sheet of typed A4 paper, on which Reuben had neatly tabled Lucy’s weekly schedule. He affected a casual air
as he watched Frank perusing the paper, in contrast to his stomach, which was churning into overdrive.
Inventing Lucy’s weekly schedule, imagining how a parole officer would spend her spare time, had tested his powers of creativity; and he’d done extensive research on the internet. He hoped he hadn’t gone overboard with the pole dancing classes. According to his research, pole dancing was the new pilates. Women from all walks of life were signing up and they were doing it for fitness, not because they wanted to slither up and down a pole in a nightclub, in a G-string.
Pity, because Reuben preferred the latter fantasy. The night before he’d dreamt of Lucy dangling upside down from a pole in a sparkling bikini. Stuffed in her cleavage was a note, which she whipped out and handed to him with an inviting smile. He tingled with anticipation as he opened it. Was it her phone number? He studied her neat, precise handwriting: ‘Your next parole appointment is at 3.30 on Thursday.’
‘Pole dancing?’ Frank said.
‘Classy,’ Bomber said, with a smack of his lips.
‘It’s all the rage,’ Reuben said. ‘All the women are doing it. Even accountants and lawyers.’
Frank smirked. ‘I know where I’d like to stick that pole.’
He looked down at the list again. ‘Jesus, is she ever fucking home? Monday night, yoga; Tuesday, gym class; Wednesday, pole dancing; Thursday, shopping; Friday, out for dinner; Saturday, gym class then the nursing home; Saturday night, barbecue; Sunday, picnicking at Samford; Sunday night … where did she go Sunday night?’
‘She stayed home Sunday night,’ Reuben said. He’d thought it safer for her to have an active social life; to make it harder for Frank to get to her while she was at home. Her husband, whom Reuben had named Nigel, had one good point – he looked after their child in the evenings so Lucy could attend her classes. But poor Lucy, exhausted by her weekly schedule, needed to spend at least one night at home to wind down.
Frank flipped through the photos. The classes were real, their venues researched to make sure they were all within a reasonable distance of Lucy’s home. Reuben had taken a photo of each venue and superimposed a photo of Lucy either entering or leaving the premises – with the surrounds suitably altered to reflect the time of day or evening. For her shopping on Thursday night, he’d created a photo of her at the front entrance of the Westfield Shopping Centre at Chermside and for extra effect, another of her browsing in one of the jewellery shops. Nigel would be too wrapped up in his own nerdy world to think about buying her jewellery or any of those other luxuries women liked.