Lovesome

by Sally Seltmann

  There’s a moment of silence. ‘Thanks, Joni. I gotta go.’

  ‘Okay, bye,’ I tell her.

  ‘Bye.’

  I hang up, and roll my eyes when I see paint smudges all over the receiver. And then I continue to work blissfully away on my painting, forgetting to eat lunch, lounging on the couch, getting lost in my Carl Jung book, then getting stuck back into painting. Before I know it, it’s time for me to get ready for work.

  I slip into a black lace crop top, and pull my black, silky dress over it. The one with the shoe-string straps. Lucy always goes on about us wearing something feminine. But I need to feel like myself, and keep warm on the way in, so I throw my ripped green army parka with the fur-trimmed hood over the top. Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, I apply some black eye-liner, a touch of lip gloss, and then plenty of sandalwood oil on my wrists and neck.

  I chuck my keys and purse in the front pocket of my grubby blue backpack. Flick all the lights off. Lock the front door. Wheel my bike across the crackly brown gum leaves on the lawn. Then I’m off, on my way to Harland.

  8

  A myriad of guilty thoughts overtake me as I roll down Darling Street. I didn’t clean up the bungalow at all. I didn’t leave the outside light on for Annabelle. I forgot to go to the post office yesterday and pay the phone bill.

  And then Dave, like a friendly next-door neighbour, comes in through the side entrance, walks down the hall, and takes a seat on the sofa in my mind. I run through some of our funny conversations as I dodge the pot-hole on the hill and then pedal like a maniac until I get to the top—Harland on my left, the harbour in front of me.

  Tiger-Lily greets me on my way down the side path. I stop momentarily and let her do her thing: her tail high in the air, her back arched, she rubs affectionately against my leg. I twinkle my fingertips through the fur on the top of her head as upbeat music from the radio in the kitchen permeates the white weatherboards and Dave’s contagious laughter mixes with the muted clanging of pots and pans.

  I rush towards the shed, clumsily knocking my ankle on the pedal of my bike. Ouch! Once I’m in the hallway, Lucy makes it clear that there’s no time for me to have my usual coffee and chat with Dave.

  ‘Gatsby needs setting,’ she abruptly orders, staring down at me from where she stands on a ladder in her high-heeled Mary Janes, changing the light globe inside the fringed lightshade that hangs from the high ceiling. Squishing past, I can almost see her underpants under her short, tight red dress. I’m used to her attaching little importance to the customary greeting rituals that characterise most cultures, though a simple ‘hello’ would have been nice.

  She yells after me in a bossy tone, ‘The three needs to be changed into a four, and table two needs to be reset as a three!’

  ‘Okay!’ I call back to her, knowing I’m bound to stuff this up. Three, four, two, Jesus.

  Some nights, Gatsby almost feels haunted. The room has an unsettling feeling. Only when I’m in there alone, of course, when my imagination re-creates the pleasures and tribulations of 1950s Balmain East, where young working-class families occupied what is these days fast becoming a highly sought-after harbourside suburb.

  I like to think about what this room must have looked like back then. Embroidered pillowcases on narrow single beds, on which blonde children laid their tired heads. Rickety, paint-chipped bedside tables covered in cream doilies and Beatrix Potter books. And there was probably an antique dressing table, on which talcum powder and a kid’s brush-and-comb set were neatly placed. The smell of jam cooking on the kitchen stove would have drifted into this room, along with the sound of the father’s voice rousing on the children quarrelling at the dinner table.

  Lost in reverie, I set the tables. Then a crash is closely followed by an aggressive, ‘I’m alright, I’m alright!’

  I peek around the doorway into the hallway, where Lucy is lying on the floor. This time I can see her underpants. Dave approaches from the kitchen, holding a bunch of carrots.

  ‘I just fell off! No need to freak!’ Lucy avoids placing herself in a position of humiliation by making Dave and me look like worried parents, when all we are doing is calmly coming to her rescue.

  ‘Hey Joni, I didn’t realise you were here.’ Dave’s jovial tone contrasts with Lucy’s abrasiveness like a bright moon against a dark sky. ‘Let’s have a coffee! Give me two secs with these carrots and I’ll join you. Can you make me a flat white?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Lucy carries the folded ladder through the Bar Room, trying to hide her limp, too proud to admit she’s actually hurt herself. I follow closely behind her. When I reach the coffee machine, I fix my eyes on it, busying myself with preparing the coffees. It’s as though I’m building an invisible force field around myself and the silver machine. It’s a necessary protection mechanism I often adopt when I need to shield myself from Lucy’s moody outbursts. I never know if she’ll be joking and friendly, or rude and demoralising.

  ‘You need to clean the toilets after that,’ she commands in a gruff tone, as though she’s deliberately giving me the most demeaning task she can think of. She’s just jealous that Dave wants to sit with me and talk. I know that’s it—I’ve seen the way she looks at him.

  ‘Coffee’s up!’ I yell towards the kitchen.

  ‘Coming in a sec, Joni!’

  I take a sip of my coffee, waiting for Dave to join me.

  ‘Is Annabelle still staying at your place?’ he calls out from the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah!’ I call back.

  ‘God, you must be craving your own space.’

  ‘I’m actually loving having her there,’ I tell him.

  I told Dave that Annabelle was back the day after she showed up on my doorstep. I also gave him the whole rundown on Johnny Harrison, and he couldn’t believe it. He’s a big fan of Johnny Harrison’s music, and knows all about him.

  Dave is fond of Annabelle. He met her a few times when I first started working at Harland, and I can tell he just gets her. And he understands our connection. I’ve told him so much about her. Some days I begin to worry that most of my conversations with people involve something that Annabelle has said or done, whether it be a recent crazy situation she found herself in, or some witty remark she made, causing a room full of strangers to become fixated on her.

  I stir my coffee with a petite teaspoon. And then, with a hop and a skip, Dave’s sitting next to me at the table.

  ‘So, are Annabelle and Johnny Harrison still going strong?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah yeah,’ I tell him. ‘Annabelle gives me the daily update. She talks to him most days. Can’t believe you haven’t seen her in the phone box up on Darling Street.’

  Dave gives me a smile, and we both drink our coffees as he tells me about his day. Our conversation is cut short when the back door swings open and Lucy struts towards the bookings diary. Juliet, following close behind her in a hideous pink top hat, hovers awkwardly, dusting off tiny pieces of lint that cover the sleeves of her black velvet jacket.

  Lucy does her usual assigning of sections. Tonight I get the Pines, and it’s a group of eight people.

  When they arrive, I give them all the once-over. Couples. Middle-class. Well-dressed. Well-groomed. Overly perfumed. They’re dining at Harland tonight to celebrate a successful new business partnership. Their group is made up of the head employees of the company, and their husbands and wives. One of the ladies explains this to me as I serve their entrées, but I am too busy trying to determine if the couple seated near the door are on the verge of splitting up. The woman’s body language and the bitter look on her face seem ominous. She criticises everything her partner does, and he grunts back at her.

  I notice two other women at the table picking up on the whole we-hate-each-other vibe. A woman with high cheekbones and long brown hair keeps trying to encourage the breaking-up couple to make peace. Every time they speak rudely to each other, she butts in and asks them something trivial. She has an obvious lisp. Do the
y watch any sports? Which season do they prefer, summer or winter?

  I find this mildly entertaining and, as I carry their dirty entrée plates back to the kitchen, up the haunted garden path, I forget to say my usual Don’t see a ghost, don’t see a ghost. Instead, I imagine what the lisping woman’s childhood would have been like. Did she get bullied at school? Did she go to the library one day every week and see the school speech therapist? I can picture her as a schoolgirl, in long white socks, her brown hair in pigtails. Blue ribbons. I push open the back door of Harland and deliver the dirty plates to Simon in the kitchen. As per usual, he doesn’t say anything, but at least he gives me a friendly smile. I give one back, then smile even more broadly as I catch Dave dancing while he plates up a couple of entrées on the steel bench.

  Then Lucy appears in the doorway, preventing me from exiting the kitchen for the Bar Room. She blasts me for setting Gatsby incorrectly. Damn, I did get the numbers wrong.

  By the time my group in the Pines has left, it’s ten-thirty. I make a start at cleaning up after them. The wine-stained glasses, the discoloured napkins covered with lipstick wipes and coffee spills. I know the smell and sight of a table at the end of the night.

  As I begin to clear the dirty wine glasses, I think to myself that there are two types of people. Those who go home and replay and over-analyse all the conversations that took place during the course of the evening, who try to decode the subtleties and nuances exchanged between the other couples. And then there are those who go home, put out the garbage, remove their make-up, say, ‘That was a nice dinner,’ and go to bed without a single further thought.

  Once I’ve cleared the table, I walk up the dark path, only needing to say Don’t see a ghost once. I enter the Bar Room, grab a glass of wine, and happily join in the chitchat that’s circling around the room.

  Juliet’s resin jewellery is coming along nicely, but her housemate’s recurring migraine headaches are unbearable for her, and Juliet doesn’t know how she can help. Michael offers advice. He really is a sweet guy, sitting through Juliet’s tedious anecdotes without complaint.

  There has been a major shift in Lucy’s mood, and she is now sharing stories with me about her recent purchases at Balmain Market. I like this side of her. Like me, she’s a collector of all things second-hand, and she goes for objects and clothing that have interesting stories behind them. Like the oak table we’re sitting around right now. She bought it through the Trading Post from the Balmain police department. It used to sit in one of the rooms where heavy questioning took place. The conversations that would have shot back and forth over this table would be enough to inspire fifty episodes of a crime series.

  It’s at this point that I ask Lucy about booking the Red Room, so Annabelle can have her dinner in there with the people from Dazed & Confused. Lucy has no idea what Dazed & Confused is. I explain to her that it’s pretty much the coolest fashion and music magazine in the UK, and that it’s unbelievable that they want to interview Annabelle, and do a photo shoot as well. Lucy then pretends that she has heard of it, and acts all nonchalant. She checks the bookings diary, and, of course it’s okay.

  Great. Annabelle will be pleased.

  After one drink I decide to go home. Saying my goodbyes, I catch Dave looking at me and I am taken by the sincerity of his expression. His honesty, his warm blue eyes.

  ‘See ya Joni!’ he calls to me as I turn to walk out the door. His words sound caring.

  ‘See ya.’

  The night is fresh, but not as cold as usual. The bell on my bike tinkles as I bump down the gutter, off the footpath and onto the road. I’m exhausted and make the most of the downhill run, wondering whether I’ll be able to pedal my way up the hill towards my place. Almost there. Almost home. I hope Annabelle is already asleep, because I’m tired as hell and, as much as I love her, I won’t be able to stay awake talking.

  It’s not until I’m off my bike and standing at the front door that I realise I forgot to bring my backpack home with me. There are no lights on inside my bungalow, suggesting that Annabelle is sound asleep. I don’t want to wake her, but I also don’t want to ride back to Harland to get my keys and purse. I’m too tired. Will I need my purse tomorrow? Probably. Maybe I can borrow money from Annabelle? This sucks. I knock lightly on the door. No answer.

  I knock again. Still no answer. She’s definitely asleep. I shouldn’t wake her. I’m going to have to ride back to Harland and get my backpack.

  Closing the gate behind me, I realise I’ve never ridden in to Harland at this time of night. Only home from. Nevertheless, the same thoughts occupy my mind. My painting, my group show, Annabelle’s success and her love life, and Dave. And then more of Dave. His hilarious jokes, his sharp wit, his style. Well, his style’s not all that great, but he’s so funny. His humour makes up for his lack of style. Dave. He seems to be creeping into my mind more often than ever before. I imagine lying in his bed, waking up next to him, having tea and toast on top of white sheets. He’d be a good lover. Maybe I…maybe I should ask him out or something? Heaps of people get together with their friends. That is a thing.

  By the time I’m out the front of Harland, I’ve convinced myself that I do want to ask Dave out, and try to make a move on him. I should be able to casually ask him over for lunch or whatever. Maybe to come to the market with me next weekend?

  Walking my bike down the side path, I cross my fingers while still holding the handlebars. I hope he’s still here. I hope he’s still here. It’s dead quiet, and I begin to wonder whether Lucy has locked up, and everyone has already gone home. Did they all leave straight after me? Am I that influential? Ha ha, I doubt it.

  I lift my heavy legs up the back steps, and then I stop dead in my tracks. I look through the Victorian window, and there’s Lucy, with her elasticised red dress hitched up around her waist. She’s lying on top of someone on the staff table, and, Jesus Christ, they’re having sex!

  An incredibly uncomfortable feeling washes over me, but I can’t stop staring. And I can’t make out who she’s with. I squint, noticing the black-and-white chequered material of the classic chef pants scrunched up around the victim’s ankles. He is ‘the victim’, because I know Lucy would have pounced on her prey with full force. It’s either Dave or Michael. Dave or Michael. Please don’t be Dave!

  And then the dotted lines connect. Dave’s bike is still here. Horrified, I catch the side of his face under Lucy’s long blonde hair. He’s passionately kissing her on the lips.

  A rush of hot, angry blood pumps through my entire body. Walking slowly back down the steps, I feel my heart beating a raging, maddened beat. How long has this been going on? Did they see me standing there? How humiliating. I hate Lucy!

  I jump on my bike and pedal home in a ferocious mix of fury and disappointment. Now I know why Dave’s been staring at me and paying more attention towards me. He feels sorry for me. He’s been fucking Lucy for goodness knows how long. Why did I ever start working at Harland? I hate my life. I hate my job. I hate everything. And shit, my backpack is still in there! They’re having sex in the same room as my backpack!

  Tears roll down my cheeks as my anger melts into sadness. Feeling sorry for myself, pedalling my arse off up the hill, turning into my street, I stop at the gate and wipe my face. Everything sucks! Absolutely everything. I want to get a sharp knife and slash the canvas on my easel to shreds, smoke twenty cigarettes, and set Harland on fire.

  9

  This time, my gentle knock wakes Annabelle. She slowly opens the door. She’s in a dozy daze, a half-awake state, looking like Kurt Cobain with her puffy eyes and chaotic hair. The pants of her men’s stripy flannel pyjamas drag on the floor, covering her feet.

  ‘Joni?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I left my keys at work.’

  ‘Ah, no probs.’

  She’s so sleepy she must be unable to see my tears. After letting me in, she stumbles back onto the couch and curls up under the crocheted blanket. The heater is on, so it’s wa
rm and toasty, but not cosy enough to provide me with any form of comfort. I remove my jacket and splash my face with warm water in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror for a long time. My eyes are bloodshot, and black eyeliner runs down my pink cheeks. I bury my head in a towel, attempting to wipe my face clean.

  With my eyes closed, the darkness feels safe, as though it’s all my current internal state can cope with. I give myself some time in this cocoon, as though I’m a young child playing hide-and-seek, covering my eyes with my tiny fingers, thinking the seekers cannot see me.

  After throwing the towel on the ground, I approach Annabelle’s mini backpack hanging from the hook on the front door. I quietly reach in and fish around for a cigarette. My fingertips identify the smooth rectangular packet, and I’m able to slowly pull one out. Reaching in again, I push aside scrunched-up tissues and what feels like Annabelle’s red lipstick, until finally I locate her lighter.

  Climbing the stairs to my bed, an unlit ciggie hanging between my lips, I’m able to see myself from above, as though I’m someone else looking down upon the shambles of a twenty-one-year-old girl. Lighting the cigarette, I push open the small square window on the side wall that’s level with my bed. I lie on my tummy and stick my head out into the darkness, gazing at the gum tree whose branches gently sway over Rebecca and Peter’s roof. I take a drag on the cigarette, and cough and splutter smoke and spit out of my mouth, like a teenager trying a cigarette for the first time. Then I stub out the ciggie on the windowsill, hoping it creates an obvious burn mark, for which I’ll get into trouble. Who am I kidding? I’m no smoker.

  Exhausted by my emotions, I throw my head down onto the pillow and feel the heaviness of my limbs dissolving into the mattress. I close my eyes and exhale deeply, terrified by the thought of never being able to stop the moving image of Dave and Lucy having sex. Their tabletop pleasurefest is on loop, and each time it repeats I feel more damaged, more wounded. I toss and turn, unable to sleep, staring at the wooden ceiling for what feels like hours.