Lovesome

by Sally Seltmann

  And in true Dave style he said, ‘She’s alright. She’s alright.’

  He sees the best in everyone.

  I push open the back door of Harland and return to my coffee on the bar, after resting the pile of napkins on a clear section of the staff table. I savour my last sip, knowing it will give me an extra burst of energy as I start taking dessert orders in the Red Room.

  ‘Everybody wants the creme caramel!’ a teenage boy calls out.

  He has dreadlocks and braces on his teeth. I like his flannel shirt and his punk attitude, so I give him a smile before I move on to taking coffee orders.

  Four lattes, two long blacks, three dessert wines. I write it all down on my notepad, collect up the dessert menus and head for the kitchen.

  ‘Six creme caramels, Davey!’ I tear off the page from my notepad and slide it next to the other dessert orders above the stainless-steel bench where Dave plates up.

  ‘Gee, that’s a group of original human beings,’ he says sarcastically. ‘Michael, can you plate up those desserts, mate.’

  Michael nods.

  ‘How’s that Pines table going, Joni?’ Dave asks in a cheeky voice.

  ‘I think they’ll be another half hour at least. Has Juliet brought their dessert orders in yet?’

  ‘I just sent her away with their desserts,’ says Michael.

  ‘Oh.’ I start getting nervous about re-telling my disastrous night to Dave.

  Half an hour passes by quickly, and by what feels like ten-thirty, Harland is beginning to empty out. The group who were in the Red Room leave, and I take the last of their dirty cutlery and crockery in to Simon in the kitchen. He hardly talks, mainly grunts.

  ‘’Anks,’ he half-says.

  His baggy skater pants drag in the dirty water on the floor. His hands are beyond prune-like, and his BO is pungent. He seems a sweet guy, though. I mean, he hasn’t done anything to upset me, and he doesn’t really talk to me, so I pretty much ignore him. I’ve never really looked long enough into his eyes to know what colour they are. I imagine he skates with his stoner friends, and would possibly refer to me as a snob. But I don’t care.

  Lucy sits cross-legged at the staff table sipping coffee and flipping through the bookings diary with a dramatic forcefulness. I hear Juliet opening the back door, and bursting into the room announcing, ‘The Pines has officially been cleared! Can I knock off now, Lucy Lou? Pleeeease?’ She throws her dirty apron in the laundry bag that hangs from the back of the kitchen door.

  ‘Have you cleared Lillibon? Swept the floor?’ Lucy snaps.

  ‘Yessiree!’ chirps Juliet, saluting like a sailor.

  ‘Okay then, you can knock off,’ says Lucy. ‘Can you make sure you sign your hours in properly.’

  She slides the hours book across the staff table so forcefully that it falls violently at Juliet’s feet. Juliet picks it up, not at all bothered by the inappropriate delivery, and scribbles in her hours.

  Juliet then announces loudly, ‘Drinky poos,’ as she helps herself to a wine glass. Bending over to open the low door to the wine fridge, she exhales, ‘Awwwwwwww.’ It sounds like she’s giving birth.

  ‘This is the best stretch.’ She straightens her legs and her back, as though someone is about to mount her from behind. I look away, scrunching up my forehead. Dave catches my eye and we both smile, laughing hysterically on the inside.

  I glance up at the clock hanging on the wall in the hallway and notice it’s almost a quarter to eleven. Harland feels, and sounds, empty, except for a couple in Gatsby who arrived at nine-thirty. Trust my designated area to have the latecomers who hang around forever. I walk in there, hovering, looking for things to clear, trying to make it obvious that my knock-off drink cannot commence until they leave.

  I check them out carefully. They’re an older couple, probably in their forties or fifties. God, I can’t imagine what life would be like at that age. The woman is tipsy, and her cheeks are flushed. Her fluffy green cardigan is open, and her cream blouse is buttoned right to the top. An oval ceramic brooch is pinned where the edges of her collar meet. She has lipstick on her front teeth, but it would be too embarrassing for me to tell her.

  ‘We’ve seen you coming in and out of the side gate at Peter and Rebecca’s,’ she says, in a drunken, posh slur.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’ve been living there for almost six months now.’

  ‘In the little bungalow in the backyard?’ the woman asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s such an incredible little place,’ she gushes. ‘I mean, how gorgeous! Living in a small wooden cabin in the backyard, beside a large gum tree. It’s so romantic! If we were young we would have moved in there, sweetie, wouldn’t we,’ she says flirtatiously to her partner. ‘I’m Barb, by the way, and this is John,’ she continues.

  ‘Oh, I’m Joni. Joni Johnson.’

  We shake hands, which feels weird.

  ‘Peter’s a darling,’ Barb says, ‘and Rebecca is divine. They look so in love.’

  She goes on about them for a while, until I interrupt with, ‘I only really know Rebecca. We all keep to ourselves a bit. Peter…I don’t know at all. He’s a bit of a mysterious guy.’

  ‘Well, he’s always so lost in his work, isn’t he,’ she says, as though she admires him deeply.

  ‘You know him well?’ I ask.

  ‘All playwrights are lost souls, honey,’ Barb says in a very confident manner.

  She rubs John’s arm, as though she’s intentionally trying to make him jealous by glorifying Peter’s job as a playwright. It’s so obvious, otherwise why would she be comforting John with her patronising mid-arm rub.

  John doesn’t seem to pick up on any of this. ‘Well,’ he says brightly, ‘the meal was incredible tonight!’

  It’s at this point that I notice Lucy behind me, and of course she takes all the credit.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, acting as though she’s backstage after performing the main part in one of Peter’s plays, greeting her friends as they throw endless flattering comments towards her.

  ‘We live on the same street as this darling,’ Barb tells Lucy.

  ‘Oh! Well, we all love Joni,’ says Lucy.

  I know she only half-means it.

  ‘We’ll grab the bill then, thanks,’ says John, cutting short the only kind thing Lucy’s said to me tonight.

  ‘Yes, darlings, the bill would be great,’ says Barb. ‘We should get out of your hair and let you clean up.’

  ‘Joni will organise that for you,’ Lucy says, making sure she demonstrates clearly that she’s the boss.

  I walk out of Gatsby thinking about Peter. He’s such a handsome man. But he barely talks to me when I see him up on his back verandah. He’s very quiet. Lost in his own world. I guess he’s busy inventing characters, working on plots and subplots, composing monologues.

  I find the page with Barb and John’s order in my notebook, tear it out, fold it, and put it on a floral Royal Albert saucer. I reach into the glass jar on the sideboard for two after-dinner mints, and place them on the saucer with the bill.

  ‘Here we are,’ I say, handing it to Barb and John, intentionally keeping the conversation to a minimum. Finally, they walk out together, arm-in-arm.

  ‘You know what time it is?’ Lucy says, as I enter the Bar Room.

  ‘Time for knock-off drinks,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘And…’ she says excitedly, leaving me guessing.

  4

  Turning her back on me, Lucy opens the doors to the sideboard in the hallway. The boys in the kitchen have turned up the radio and ‘Doll Parts’ by Hole is blasting through to the Bar Room. I’m now well and truly ready to sit down and rest my legs, so I leave Lucy to her business and head straight for the bar.

  I reach for a wine glass from the shelf above the bench. There are three styles to choose from. One is a mid-sized crystal glass, the second is a large, more contemporary style of wine glass, and the third (the one I choose) is a wide-brimmed champagne glass w
ith tiny stars etched around the sides. Lucy told me on my first night working at Harland that these champagne glasses were called ‘coupes’, and that the first ones ever made were modelled on the shape of Marie Antoinette’s breast. I remember she spoke loudly, touching her own right breast suggestively, in the hope that all the men in the room witnessed her sensual anecdote.

  As I’m placing the champagne coupe on the bench, Tiger-Lily jumps up and rubs against my arm. ‘Puss, puss,’ I say to her gently, patting her soft fur with my palms which, after everything I’ve done this evening, are almost back to their regular colour.

  I admire the organic nature of Tiger-Lily’s coat. The swirling patterns, the stripes, the patches of black and golden beige. So beautiful. I think about the painting I’m working on, the colours I was playing around with today. Am I too obsessed with warm colours? Does the shadow of the figure on the left-hand side of my current painting need to be darker?

  Dave calls to me from the kitchen. ‘Joni, can you give me a hand with a few boxes in the Pines.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I suddenly feel sixteen butterflies take flight inside my tummy, and I swallow nervously while pouring white wine into my glass. I bring the full coupe with me as I follow Dave through the back door and down the stairs towards the Pines. It’s freezing, but I notice halfway down that I’m not afraid of the Harland ghost when Dave is by my side.

  I’m pathetic. I like to think I’m independent, and a feminist, yet I’m terrified of being alone in the dark on the garden path.

  Dave swings open the door to the Pines, pulls a chair out from the table, and takes a seat.

  ‘Okay, tell me all about last night, Joni.’

  I feel as if I’m about to be psychoanalysed, as if Dave is my therapist, even though I’ve never had therapy before. However, when he slouches and places his sweaty hands on his dirty apron, flicking aside the stray hairs that dangle in front of his face, my Freudian fantasy dissipates.

  I sit anxiously in the chair beside him, placing my right elbow on the table, resting my head in my hand. ‘I lost my virginity last night.’

  ‘Jesus, Joni! I didn’t know you were a virgin! How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘Christ, you’re twenty-one and still a virgin?’

  I slowly run my fingers over the knife and fork lying either side of the serviette in front of me, and begin to regret having confided in Dave.

  ‘Who was it? Who was the lucky boy?’

  He’s poking fun at me now.

  ‘That guy Brendan.’

  ‘What guy Brendan? What’s his surname?’

  ‘I don’t know his last name!’ I yell back at Dave. ‘He’s the guy who works behind the bar at the Emerald. The blond guy with the clean-cut hair, who always wears beige pants and a polo shirt. The one we pay out all the time.’

  ‘Oh! Joni, Joni,’ Dave cries in disbelief.

  ‘I know. What am I doing, Dave? What—am—I—doing?’

  ‘Losing my virginity,’ Dave sings to the tune of ‘Losing My Religion’, doing his best Michael Stipe impersonation. ‘You’re looking for love in all the wrong places, Joni.’

  I sigh and think back to early this morning, in Brendan’s room in his Rozelle share house. I was naked, on his bed. He was beside me, stroking my arm, trying to make eye contact with me, but I was looking away. He’d then slowly climbed on top of me and kissed me on the lips. His kisses were beautiful, soft, wet kisses, but I could not feel the spark. I could not connect with his mind. The most passionate thing he said to me was, ‘Move over.’

  He is undeniably handsome, in a Beverly Hills, 90210 sort of way. His chiselled jaw, his full lips, the little dimple on his left cheek when he smiles. I won’t deny that my fifteen-year-old self would have been attracted to him. But further education, plus art school, plus general day-to-day development in acquiring taste, means it’s easy for me to see that Brendan is not my type. It needed to happen though—I needed to not be a virgin anymore.

  Dave and I had made fun of Brendan when we’d once ended up at the Emerald for another round of drinks after work. His cocky confidence and the slow way he collected all the dirty schooner glasses, stacking them in a tower and leaning them against his buffed-up body. The way he attempted to flirt with every girl who ordered a drink from him. And the sleazy way he’d rub his fingers on your palm when he gave you your change. Brendan really is quite repulsive, but now that I’ve seen his wiener and we’ve actually had sex, I feel sorry for him. All that shit we’d given him. But God, I can’t deny that I am relieved to have lost my virginity.

  Did it hurt? Yes. In more ways than one. Physically; and, after witnessing Dave’s horrified reaction, I can see that sleeping with Brendan has damaged my social reputation. But at least I know that I won’t die a virgin, which has been one of my greatest fears.

  I even used to imagine the headstone on my grave: Joni Johnson. Virgin. Although, if I die tonight, the engraving on my headstone could be even worse: Joni Johnson. Died tragically, soon after losing her virginity to Brendan ‘Beige Pants’ (surname unknown).

  ‘You’re a late bloomer, Joni,’ Dave says to me slowly, emphasising late. ‘The latest bloomer I know.’ Great. ‘And he is not your type.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ I snap.

  ‘I’ve got to give you some love advice, girl,’ Dave says. ‘How did you go through art school without having sex with anyone?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just did. I almost got together with someone, but he ended up going out with Annabelle.’

  ‘There you go, that’s why. Annabelle stole all your potential lovers.’

  ‘That’s not true! Leave her alone! You know she’s my best friend and I love her to bits.’

  He is partially right, actually, but I’m missing Annabelle too much to admit it. She’s been away in London almost three months now, and I’ve only spoken to her on the phone once. Mainly because she’s been so busy, but international calls are so expensive, I get worried that if I call her again, my phone bill will tip me over the edge and I’ll be broke for weeks.

  ‘I need to get back to the kitchen and clean up,’ Dave says, rising from his chair. ‘We’ll talk more later, Joni—or is that Virgin Mother Mary?’

  ‘Shut up.’ I try to hold back a smile as he hilariously performs the Catholic Father-Son-and-Holy-Spirit hand gesture on his way out.

  I follow him, my mind filled with embarrassment and shame over my poor selection of playmate. I even gave Brendan my phone number. What was I thinking? God help me if he calls me! Dave runs ahead of me, and bounces up the back stairs. Instead of going back inside, I choose to give myself some time out in the outhouse toilet.

  It’s beyond freezing in there, and when I pull my dress up and slide my tights down, my legs and bum turn to ice as soon as they make contact with the wooden toilet seat. I think back to this morning when I was at Brendan’s, how he took my art journal out of my bag.

  He found my notes on David Hockney’s Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy. ‘He painted it in 1981,’ he said to me.

  ‘No, it was the early seventies, actually,’ I called back to him, applying some black eyeliner while looking in the tiny mirror I keep in the front pocket of my backpack.

  ‘The cat sitting on the man’s lap is supposed to be some type of symbol, but I think it’s just a cat, for god’s sake. It’s a cat looking out the window. Probably a hungry cat. A cat who wants his food. Meow! Feed me, Mummy,’ he said in a comedic voice that, to be honest, was funny. But it left me feeling downhearted. I gave him a little laugh. How could he not appreciate or understand symbolism in art?

  ‘We studied David Hockney last year,’ I said. ‘The cat is a symbol of infidelity and envy.’

  ‘Whatever,’ he threw back, uninterested.

  ‘It’s a painting that reminds me of my friend Annabelle, ’ I said, though I regretted opening up to Brendan as soon as the words left my mouth. ‘I’m envious of her, and she had a thing with a married man
last year.’

  ‘Who is this Annabelle? I want to meet her,’ he said in a disgustingly flirty manner. Like all men, he seemed more interested in her than in me.

  By this stage all I wanted was to get out of his house, but he continued flipping through the pages of my art journal. ‘Mmmm.’ He quoted, ‘Just as the pious man prays without speaking a word and the Almighty harkens unto him, so the artist with true feelings paints and the sensitive man understands and recognises it.’

  ‘That’s Caspar David Friedrich.’

  ‘From the Romantic movement,’ read Brendan. ‘I always hated studying poems from the Romantic period in English. Hated it! The language. So flowery and over the top.’

  I began to realise that the more Brendan said, the more I felt that he was my polar opposite. We had nothing in common except for being human and living in Sydney. I remember I kept my eyes open during our goodbye kiss in the hallway of his house, staring at the crack in the wall. Then I walked outside, jumped on my bike, and rode home as fast as my legs could take me.

  The whole ride home I was thinking how I needed a little darkness in a man, some confusion, or a quick wit. I needed an artist, a poet, a philosopher, a filmmaker. Not clean, boring, simple-minded Brendan, who had no appreciation for the arts. Someone who was a deep thinker, who would talk things over with me. Someone like Michael Nyman, when he was in the midst of composing the score for The Piano. Someone with that impassioned, creative intensity.

  Sitting on the now warmed-up seat in the outhouse toilet at Harland, I let my imagination take my Michael Nyman fantasy to a whole new level. I imagine Michael Nyman and me living in an apartment in Paris. I’d have my own little studio, and he’d work in the lounge room with the window open. Long white curtains would billow inwards, and then fly back out again, lightly touching the red geraniums in ceramic pots on the sunlit balcony. Michael would spend the day composing on a luxurious black grand piano. His music would drift into my studio, inspiring me throughout the day, while I’d be producing my best work to date. Then he’d come to me in the early evening. I’d be in some gorgeous cream silk, floor-length nightie that he would have bought me on one of our romantic strolls along the Champs-Élysées. The Paradise for Dead Heroes—I’ve always loved that. He’d grab hold of me around my waist with his large, strong hands, and then, like a published poet, he’d passionately confess that I was what made him complete. His words would sound something like the lyrics to a second verse of a Leonard Cohen song, but Michael would have thought them up himself, on the spur of the moment. He’d look me in the eyes, deeply connecting with my soul, and he’d explain to me that I was what inspired these love poems, that I was what drove him to compose his emotional, heartbreaking music.