Too quickly, making love with Ken became a series of small torments. While he would not kiss her, joking all the while that she was no good at it, he approached her nipples in a methodical way. He sucked as if he were trying to extract marrow from a bone. First one, then the other. Plain, straightforward, earnest sucking, in which his brows would furrow in concentration. There was no art and therefore no arousal for Gretel. After he finished with one nipple, he would raise his head, offer a dutiful smile, then set to work on the other. Worse, on one of these occasions when his head was just below her face, she noticed the distinct spread of a thinning patch of hair that she was sure had not been quite so large or spare a month or so before. Distraction from nipple-chewing was welcome. Intimations of his imminent baldness not so.
And the flowers. Always of the one kind. Oriental lilies, which he’d given her the first time and for which she’d been polite and grateful, even though their thick night-time scent was one she found overpowering. He could not be persuaded that she liked any others. In Ken’s view women liked flowers. Women loved receiving gifts of flowers, perfume and wine. These were the romantic symptoms, and he was not deviating from that view. So it went for food. The first time at dinner she ordered oysters on a whim, and thereafter he always ordered a dozen each. She had not much cared for them. The taste was passable, the texture revolting. She could not understand how he savoured them. He had little rituals involving lemon, salt, a chunk of bread.
And then, not so long afterwards, he had admitted his relationship with the partner was probably more serious than he had at first implied. That the partner was probably something more like a wife. It turned out they had been together for over twenty years. She did actually live in the house, this strange austere chilly place that contained no books, ornaments, papers, mementoes, and would be returning to it. Her favourite flower was the oriental lily. When Ken revealed this, Gretel’s heart dropped another notch. She wondered how she could have been such a complete fool. She wished she had been a more confident kisser from the start as it might have exposed his own incompetence and severed their relationship early, before she noticed that it was all going to be unwanted flowers going slimy in their vases and blind sucking at her breasts. Not to mention another woman overseas, soon to return.
Gretel sat on the jetty, kicking her feet in the water to watch the sand swirl then settle. Tiny curious fish brushed her toes. The water was cold but the sun was getting hot on her neck. She should return to the villa and get the sunscreen, see what Lance was up to. She kicked her feet again, raising another cloud off the bottom. It all came down to the kiss. If she had understood how crucial that was, if experience had helped her see how bad Ken’s kissing really was, the relationship, and the fallout that haunted her for many months, may all have been avoided. She had believed she was unkissable. A bad kisser. An unworthy kissee. Take A Chance On Me! She should have paid more attention to Ken’s introductory line, to that exclamation mark. Punctuation invariably concealed insecurities.
For a long time, Gretel had hesitated to look at the dating site and only included her profile again after many months and careful editing. Lance’s face in his picture had been partially in shadow, but his mouth looked safe, soft. When they first met, in the protective ambiguity of a cafe slash bar (suggest a bar, she’d learned, you could be labelled a drinker; suggest a cafe, you were being insultingly cautious), she had inspected his mouth closer. When he first kissed her, he was gentle and confident. It was a kiss that gave her hope, and one that she knew inspired her to do better, to reciprocate with warmth. Perhaps, she now thought, standing up and shaking the water from her feet, she had invested too much in that kiss. Still, it had given her a nasty pleasure to come across the profile of Take A Chance On Me!, to know that despite all his swaggering good humour and his oysters and champagne approach to romance, Ken was still looking for a partner not girlfriend, while she was enjoying quality kissing with another man.
She returned to find Lance asleep, the washing machine humming. Looking through her things, she was surprised to find he had unpacked for her, the little she had brought. She slipped off all her clothes, twisted the sarong around her before going to the kitchen. She took the lid off the esky. He had forgotten to transfer the food to the fridge. She put one bottle of wine in the freezer, the rest in the fridge, then hunted through the cupboards for glasses, plates and knives, setting out crackers on the bench, expecting he would wake soon enough. But it was another half-hour before he came out and she was just taking the wine out of the freezer.
‘Good nap?’
‘Perfect.’
They took their drinks out to the verandah and watched the sky above the lake deepen in the late afternoon light. There were two stiff chairs and a tiny table on the verandah. The towel around his waist gaped as he leaned back, eyes closed against the last of sun. She placed her glass on the table and moved over to him, parted her legs and slid down onto his lap. ‘Kiss me,’ she murmured, pushing aside the towel. After a few seconds she vaguely registered that he remained unaroused beneath her, but his kisses were firm and moist and she stayed there on his lap while he cupped her buttocks and pressed his mouth over her face, her neck.
‘What’s wrong?’ she murmured.
‘Nothing, nothing at all. Just a bit tired.’
Tired?
‘Come on.’ He pulled her up and inside and by the time they reached the bed he was hard enough for her.
Afterwards, he insisted on getting up and turning on the shower jets. ‘Come and join me,’ he sang out as she stretched back with the pillow tucked in hard under her neck, her arms above her head. But she wanted to remain where she was, sheeny with her own sweat, slippery in the groin. She knew she smelled of pheromone-rich salty sweat, and she quite liked the smell. She walked out to the verandah and retrieved her wine, taking it back into the bed, which was splendidly disarrayed. She pulled a sheet up to her knees and sipped thoughtfully.
‘Aren’t you coming in?’
‘No.’ His heart had not really been in it. As if it was all anticlimactic. She wondered about the washed underpants and shorts in the laundry. She heard the stream of water soften. He would be standing with his whole head right under it, holding his breath and rubbing around his ears in the way he did. ‘I’m right. Just relaxing here,’ she added, in case that sounded too terse. But perhaps, with his head under the water, he didn’t hear. With his ears folded forward. For some annoying reason, she thought of Ken. She could smell something sweet, a smell like oriental lilies.
Back at Lance’s flat – usually his rather than hers, with its inconvenient bathroom off the kitchen – they’d stumbled from bed to shower and continued their lovemaking, her back pressed against the tiles as the water flooded over their heads. Or they’d slept afterwards and he’d showered as soon as he woke. But until now it hadn’t occurred to Gretel that he felt the act of sex made him grubby.
Now Gretel was trying to eat her roll as slowly as possible, nibbling pieces as she glanced through the lifestyle section of the Sunday newspaper he’d bought.
‘I knew we wouldn’t be hungry,’ said Lance, pouring another orange juice.
Knew? Or just assumed, Gretel thought. Although they had eaten well last night. Her appetite had surprised her. She was famished after sex, a walk as night fell, then the second bottle of wine. They’d eaten most of the salmon and a large portion of the barbecued chicken she’d hoped would last the weekend.
‘Usually,’ Lance said, ‘for breakfast I eat gluten-free muesli and soy milk. Low fat.’
She’d noticed healthy products in his kitchen. Organic almonds. Linseeds. Cloudy apple juice, almost as expensive as wine. She wrinkled her nose.
‘I don’t like that much. Especially soy milk.’
He sniffed. ‘Yeah, no, well it fills me up. And keeps me regular.’ She noticed he’d slapped a great wedge of butter, salted, non-organic, onto his roll. Opposite, the lake looked a dull dark blue. The rain had started at about fou
r that morning, thundering down so swiftly it had woken Gretel, though Lance had remained asleep. She had got out of bed and stood at the door watching the purple solid mass of the early morning, unable to distinguish a single feature through the wall of water. Just as swiftly as it’d begun, it had eased, and she’d sat listening to the gentle pattering rain until she fell asleep again at six or so.
The sky remained a treacherous-looking grey blue, clouds as far as she could see. They still hadn’t explored the lake together. Last night they’d walked back along the road, to see if the bitumen resumed after the turnoff to the resort. Lance was keen to find another route to cycle, having pronounced the main road unsuitable. Too many semis, he said, and the shoulders were steep and crumbling. But his plan to rise early to complete his morning ten ks had been foiled by the early rain. It was not that he minded riding in the bad weather, but it was too dangerous, on the main road, and he hadn’t thought to bring his fluoro.
‘Shall we head off to the lake?’
‘Hmm?’ Lance raised his head from the sport section.
She pushed her chair back, intending to signal that he should clear the plate away, but he now appeared to have a distracted manner. His breathing was becoming audible. He wiped his mouth and tossed the serviette down, picked at his teeth and shuffled through the gutted newspaper on the table.
‘Let’s go to the lake? There’s a boat we could take, see if that’s an island I saw yesterday.’
‘Island?’ He frowned, picked the business section up then put it down. ‘No, I couldn’t do that.’ Not meeting her eyes, he stood up holding the colour supplement. He was breathing louder, almost whimpering, as he sloped past her and headed for the bathroom.
She stared at the door for a long time, then turned her back on it. She took the business section that he’d left, then tossed it down again, leaned against the verandah rail. Gretel came from a family where defecation was not a ritual, where people just went and did it, quickly and discreetly, then got on with whatever they were doing. For him, though, there was clearly a routine. She found that egotistical. That he would insist on this, no matter the situation. Regardless of this special holiday, their first. Time passed. She considered cleaning up the breakfast things, decided against it. She considered going for a walk by herself. Ten minutes, fifteen. What was he doing in there? She ventured closer to the door, then stopped, retreated. Out on the verandah was his bike. She hauled it down the steps and hoisted herself onto the saddle, only wobbling slightly as she headed off down the drive.
He was watching from the top step, scratching slowly under his shorts, as she returned. His half-smile indicated mild guilt as well as annoyance for her liberties with the Giant Trance. Thirty-speed and dual suspension, it had been a bargain at just under four grand. But still.
‘You should have worn the helmet.’
She eased herself off while he held the handlebars steady, surreptitiously looking for signs of injury, then steered it back onto the verandah. She walked to the kitchen for a drink of water. And now she needed to use the bathroom herself. He had slapped the colour supplement onto the bench. As she opened the bathroom door the air was solid and foul, making her stop and involuntarily hold her hand to her face. She could not go in there. She should have hopped off the bike and peed in the bushes somewhere.
He reached for the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Sure?’ He fiddled at the sink. ‘Something in there you might want to read,’ he said. ‘Article about a breeding program for numbats.’
As if she would so much as touch it. And what was worse was his indifference. Even in the kitchen the air was tainted. She would like a coffee too, but that would mean drinking it with him. And she was busting. She wandered away into the back garden, pretending to examine the plants. There was a path leading to a set of garden furniture she had not previously noticed, behind a clump of grevilleas in flower. A noisy miner squawked and fluttered amid its leaves.
She could never have that overconfidence. Arrogance. As if. She would scuttle in when he was out on his bike, or asleep even. Defecate quickly and quietly. And if she did make a smell, disguise it with air freshener, or at least run the shower. Something to cleanse the air. No, not even that. She wouldn’t shit at all. She’d remain constipated rather than risk flooding the place with the smell of her body’s waste. Disgust swelled in her stomach. Her bladder ached. It would still stink in there. There was no one around. She pulled down her shorts and crouched over leaf mulch as the miner watched her with one eye.
Inside Lance was fiddling with the sound system. He had found a local station playing retro music and was listening to an ABBA song, something about changing your mind, being the first in line. The lyrics came in static waves out to the garden where she sat with her book. He sang along, delight in his gravelly voice. Gretel had not intended to bring Ken with her, but she now thought of Ken’s rapid fire sex, his quick eating and walking, his swift ineffective kisses. Everything he did was fast. He even seemed to sleep quickly, dropping off late, waking early and eagerly to morning sex, then bounding out of bed. She never recalled him hogging the bathroom, or leaving a smell. She sighed. Ken had been a total bastard, and was obviously right now trawling for another victim while his partner – or wife, it was never clear to Gretel – was on another overseas posting, judging by his profile. She closed her book. Lance was a gift from heaven compared to Ken. She would go into him and hug him, show him how much she appreciated him, the weekend, everything. He was dancing around when she appeared at the door and without a trace of self consciousness held out his arms as he sang about doing his very best, baby, about taking a chance, smiling like a pop star.
And then for all his showering over the weekend she became conscious of an odour. A sweetish smell, with undertones of something slightly sour. Decaying. It was the smell of something just past ripe. She caught it when she went into the bedroom for her cardigan. Yet it was so subtle she believed she had imagined it, that first time when they were in the car. But then by the second day it was unmistakable. It was attached to his clothes, the bed, the bath towel he had used and which he had even aired in the sun. It was there in his bag in the wardrobe. It was a smell that seemed permanently in her nostrils. Roaming over his body, tasting his mouth, his neck, the bulge of his belly. She could not escape it. Once, mid-kiss, her stomach rebelled. She pushed him away, gulping air, pretending to be overcome with a fit of coughing to disguise the fact. But she felt it, more than a faint turn of nausea. It was as if her body was rejecting his.
After lunch he decided to see how the Trance coped with the south road, and after the ritual with helmet and sunscreen, headed off with a wave. He would be back in half an hour. She watched him ride off before going to her bag where she had thoughtfully slipped a packet of cigarettes into a concealed side pocket. She poured a glass of white wine and went back to the verandah, taking her time smoking two cigarettes as she watched the lake. She pressed both butts deep into the garden bed below the verandah, took her glass to the kitchen and rinsed it, then went to the bathroom and cleaned her teeth. She took a long shower herself, making sure she used the complimentary bath gel and shampooing her hair twice.
She was rubbing the towel over her hair when she heard his voice. She opened the bathroom door to reply, then realised he was not talking to her. She could see him past the bedroom, hunched over the kitchen bench, his back to her and his phone pressed to his ear. Not right now, he was saying. I’m in a meeting. Yes I know. They don’t care about long weekends.
In a meeting? She pushed the door to nearly shut and kept listening. He must have thought she’d gone off for a walk again. There was a laugh. Of course not, he was saying. I’ll do it as soon as I can. Yes, they’re bastards. Another laugh. I’ll be here until late. Let me get back to you tomorrow. What if I come over as soon as I’m free? Yes. Five. Sure.
Gretel realised she was dripping behind the door. She dried herself and shook her wet hair back,
then wrenched the door open and slammed it shut again. Bastards indeed.
‘Lance.’ She walked out into the bedroom, still damp and naked. He seemed to jump. His phone clattered to the floor.
‘Oh hi. I thought, I thought . . .’
She walked right past him to the fridge and yanked the door open, ‘Lance, we need more wine. I feel like a drink.’ There was more than half a bottle left. She took it and tipped out a generous glassful. As he watched she raised the glass and drank steadily. She watched him over the rim.
‘Oh, there’s um . . . There’s plenty of red left,’ he said, bending to retrieve the phone, but not bending quite far enough to hide from her the relief that poured across his face.
‘But I want white. And that’s all there is.’
‘Okay.’ He put the phone on the shelf beside his helmet. ‘Hey. I know. Let’s go for a walk into town. We can get more wine. Maybe buy fish and chips for dinner.’
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Great idea. But aren’t you all tired and sweaty from your bike ride?’
She was still standing there leaning against the fridge, entirely naked, wearing nothing but a cynical smile. He pulled his shirt off, undid his shorts and went over to her, took the glass and drank the rest in one go. ‘Not that tired,’ he said.
When he was gently snoring (so gently it was really only strong breathing) she pushed the sheets back and walked out to the living room. Light shone through the large window overlooking the front lawn, the path that led to the lake. The moon had risen, pouring a flood of milky light over the water. A light breeze pulled at the surface, then soothed it again, making it look as flat as a spill of oil on a road, like you could just walk over it to the other side. They still hadn’t explored the little island like she had wanted. Tomorrow would be their last day. Gretel shivered, turned away. His phone was still on the shelf. She took it over to the window and scrolled through the call register. Maureen. 3.33 pm. Then yesterday. Maureen 3.29 pm. The day before that Maureen 3.31pm. She didn’t bother looking any further, tossed the phone back onto the shelf. It would be every day, though what was so significant about that time, she couldn’t tell. The same ex-wife he claimed to be so relieved to be away from. Gretel went to the bedroom and dressed, took her book and went to the living room. Luckily she had brought a fantasy novel with her – they were always long. Ken had loaned her this book, though she’d not felt obliged to return it.
Letter to George Clooney Page 10