Lovesome

by Sally Seltmann

  I know those wooden slats, resting up hard against each other, creating the log cabin feel I so adore. I know the circular patterns and imperfections of each slat. The ones that seem nailed in tight are the good guys, having not moved an inch in over thirty years. I’m sure that one day one of the looser ones will fall off onto my head.

  And there goes my final thought before sleep—that one of the timber slats will fall off tonight, knocking me out, and relieving me of my misery. If only I could become concussed, and wake in the morning with no recollection of anything I have witnessed this evening. If only.

  The familiar sounds of birds tweeting and the hum of a distant lawnmower rouse me from my sleep. I’m still in my dress from last night, and I can smell the gravy I spilt on myself while delivering the roast lamb to the group in the Pines. I lean over the edge of my bed, looking for Annabelle, and once again she’s not there. I desperately need a coffee, so I head down to the kitchen, putting on my white terry-towelling bathrobe before I get the ground coffee out of the fridge.

  ‘Hey Joni!’

  It’s Annabelle, backlit with a ray of sunshine as she walks through the front door. She’s carrying two brown paper bags, a punnet of strawberries and a large bottle of orange juice. ‘I got croissants and OJ for us!’

  ‘Aw, thanks, that’s exactly what I feel like. Let me put a pot of coffee on the stove. I had the worst night.’

  ‘What? Let me guess. You saw Brendan at the Emerald?’

  ‘No, thank God. I haven’t been to the Emerald since…then. I need to get some coffee into me. Let’s sit out on the verandah.’

  I bring out two coffees, and Annabelle and I sit on the cane chairs in the warm morning sun.

  ‘Thanks Joni,’ Annabelle says kindly, as I hand her a hot mug of coffee just how she likes it. Milk with one.

  I take a bite of my fresh, buttery croissant, and begin to open up. I start by confessing that I was beginning to feel attracted to Dave, and that I was hoping something might happen between us.

  ‘He’s gorgeous, Joni,’ Annabelle throws in, making the whole situation seem even more unfortunate for me.

  I cut back in, describing in detail what I witnessed through the back windows of Harland. Annabelle’s face goes from hopeful to deeply sympathetic in two seconds.

  ‘What kind of a fool am I, Annabelle?’ I sip my coffee, clutching my croissant with a tense grip. ‘And I feel even more stupid for becoming so distraught and worked up about it. And then…then I look at you, and your amazing life. You’re so talented, you’ve toured overseas, you’ve got all these guys constantly falling in love with you, and your career is building and building. I’m a lost cause, Annabelle. And…and relationships…’ I choke slightly on my coffee and cough. ‘I can’t see that happening for me. It’s so depressing.’ I break into what sounds like crying and laughing at the same time.

  ‘Aw, Joni.’ Annabelle gets out of her chair and crouches beside me, putting her arm around me and rubbing my back and shoulder.

  ‘Man, I just felt so angry and awful riding home. And Lucy—I mean, she’s so old and has so much baggage, and is a nightmare with a major mood disorder. And somehow she gets Dave! It was disgusting, seeing her on top of him. He deserves better than that! Plus, I thought he was showing signs that he sort of liked me. More than a friend.’

  ‘Joni, it’s going to happen for you one day, I know it will.’ Annabelle holds my hand and I feel her warmth and affection. ‘You’re amazing, Joni. You’re a beautiful, quirky little creature.’

  I chuckle through my tears. ‘Quirky?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t deny it. It’s a compliment!’ We both laugh this time.

  ‘And your paintings are incredible. Beyond incredible! I got up this morning and I looked at the new one you’re working on, and I got tears in my eyes. And the beautiful thing is, your paintings are so you. Your whole spirit and soul are there on the canvas. I can’t paint or draw at all. I’m hopeless at art. Hopeless! I’d give anything to be able to express myself on canvas. I’m in awe of you, Joni, and the way you take a concept, or a group of thoughts and ideas, and transmute that into a visual masterpiece. And look at your place—this bungalow, and your little studio set-up, and all your things. They’re so gorgeous, and you sound so happy at Harland. Well, before all of this Dave and Lucy stuff. You’ll come out on top, Joni. I know you will.’

  She bites into her croissant and flakes of pastry fall into her lap and all down her fluffy cardigan. I begin to feel loved and encouraged, understood and supported.

  ‘And my life is not as great as you think, Joni. I mean, yes, I’m in love right now, and I feel like I’ve found my soul mate, blah, blah, blah…But you know me. I’m all over the place! I have my weaknesses. And Mum doesn’t give a shit about me. Really, she only cares about herself and her career, and whatever new promotion she’s landed. I hate having a mum in finance. It’s so corporate and she has no interest in the arts. She’s only come to see me play once. Once! I reckon if she heard one of my songs on the radio she wouldn’t even know it was me. And Dad. He’s had multiple affairs. And Mum knows about it, but doesn’t say anything. It’s awful. Their relationship is so…loveless.’

  Annabelle gets up and heads back inside, still talking loudly. ‘Whereas your mum works in the gallery and your dad’s bookshop is so cool! And they’re so in love. Still.’ She comes back out onto the verandah with two glasses, and unscrews the lid of the orange juice.

  ‘Yeah, I know, I am lucky in that way.’

  Annabelle pours the juice and hands me a glass. We both take a sip, and she continues, ‘Your mum understands you, and your need to create and express yourself. I’ve heard the way she talks to you about your work. I mean, bloody hell, she knows your influences, and how to interpret your technique and, you know, your use of colour. She gets all that. I can’t imagine what it would feel like having a mother who understood me in that way.’

  I sit silently, with a mental image of Annabelle’s mum in her pristine grey skirt suit, sitting with her stockinged legs crossed in a board meeting. I’ve never really been aware of how much Annabelle longed to have parents like mine. I’ve never thought much about her life before we met that night at one of her first shows. And she doesn’t talk much about her past. I’ve only been to her parents’ house a couple of times. It’s way out in the suburbs, and there isn’t much to do out there.

  I, on the other hand, grew up in the inner city. We moved around a bit, and my parents never placed much emphasis on money. I’m an only child, and Mum says I took some of my first steps on the gallery floors where she worked. Dad often tells me he taught me how to read while I sat on his lap behind the cash register at his little bookshop in Glebe. He smoked a pipe back then, and I can still remember the smell of smoke and English Breakfast tea mixed with the paperback books stacked on the wobbly shelves. My parents raised me in a world of literature and late-night dinner parties, arthouse movies and mixed media.

  Mum tells me my first bedroom was a hallway. I can’t remember it, but since she told me this, I’ve always been obsessed with hallways. ‘In-Between Spaces That Take You Places’ was the name of my final artwork for Painting at art school, before I started working with themes on psychology and colour, and the unspoken language and energy exchanged between people.

  ‘Besides, Joni,’ Annabelle says while opening up the strawberries, ‘you don’t need a boyfriend to get by in this world. You’re a strong, talented, independent woman with a family who love you to bits. Let’s get a video for tonight. For when you get home from work.’

  ‘Hot chocolate and cake,’ I suggest.

  ‘That sounds perfect. Oh, and by the way, my manager told me that the photographer coming for the Dazed & Confused shoot is a guy from London who just split up with his girlfriend, and he’s a total babe. He’s going to be at Harland for the interview, and he’s going to fall madly in love with you! Ha, I can see it happening!’

  ‘As if!’ Yet a small ray of hope lights up ins
ide my body.

  ‘Hey, let’s wander up to the video shop now. Choose something for tonight.’

  ‘Okay,’ I answer, taking the last bite of my croissant.

  ‘I’m always here for you, Joni. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Thanks, Annabelle. I feel so much better.’

  We both get up and I offer the shower to Annabelle first. As I hear the water running, I feel guilty for feeling so jealous about her career and her fast-paced love life. She’s the greatest friend I’ve ever had.

  After I shower, I pull a second-hand dress from my clothes rack. The pink flowers on the fabric are in stark contrast with the black background, and they seem to fit my current state of mind. Last night I fell down the mountain, and this morning Annabelle has helped me climb back up to the top. I’m the vivid pink flowers; Dave and Lucy on the table are the darkness.

  I rummage through the pile of jumpers on the open wooden shelf next to my clothes rack for my favourite blue falling-apart cardigan. ‘I’m ready when you are,’ I tell Annabelle.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she says, and together we walk out the door.

  On the way to the video rental shop, Annabelle tells me more about London, and about the lovely Sunday pub hot lunches, and ceramic pots with red geraniums. The black cabs that drive too fast around the tiny streets, and the crowds that plod down the steep steps, boarding the Tube with grim faces. Before we know it, we are back home with a video, hot chips and the Sunday paper.

  10

  I spend the rest of the day painting and chatting to Annabelle while she occupies the couch. She reads through the entire paper, offering me snippets from funny articles, dire political predictions, and what’s on TV this week. And in between, she throws in further details about Johnny Harrison—who he looks like (River Phoenix), how he walks (the cool-dude swagger), how many people were at his show at The Midnight Music Hall (a thousand), and where he grew up (New Jersey). She tells me how she spoke to him on the phone yesterday, and how he told her he’s bought a ticket to fly to Sydney in a couple of weeks. I’m surprised by this, but I try to act as though I’m not. Maybe Johnny really is committed to Annabelle? It’s hard to know, because she’s fallen in love with three people in the last eight months. The married man she had the affair with; then Ben, the bass player in Pom Pom; and now Johnny Harrison. She goes from hardcore in love, to heartbreak hotel, to newly infatuated, to hardcore in love…and so on. So it goes. On. Round and round. The repetitive and predictable love-cycle of Annabelle Reed.

  As I paint, my eyes tire, so I give them a break, gazing over towards the kitchen. ‘Oh, there’s a message on my machine.’

  I put down my brush and wipe my hands quickly on the scrunched-up cloth resting on the ledge of the easel. Annabelle watches me as I walk over to the answering machine and hit the playback button.

  Hey Joni, it’s Brendan. How’s things? Um, I’m wondering if you’d like to catch a movie this afternoon, or swing by for a drink after work. I’ll be at the Emerald tonight…

  ‘She’s not interested! She’s not interested!!!’ Annabelle yells over the top of Brendan’s message.

  Well yeah, it would be great to see you! I’ll try calling you again soon. Ciao, bella!

  ‘Urgh!’ I flop down onto the couch next to Annabelle.

  ‘God, what a weirdo,’ she says. ‘Waiting a whole month before he calls you. What’s with that?’

  And then, immediately after Annabelle’s weirdo comment, the phone rings.

  ‘You gotta get it, you gotta get it!’ she yells out.

  ‘No I don’t,’ I snap, in a complete panic.

  ‘Just get it out of the way, for God’s sake. Tell him you just want to be friends. Come on, do it, do it, do it!’ Annabelle chants, and her cute face lights up. Her cheeks become rosy and her blonde hair bounces around as she revs me up like a cheerleader.

  I give in and pick up the phone nervously. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Joni! Hi, it’s me, Brendan.’

  ‘Hi Brendan,’ I answer, unenthusiastically.

  ‘Not sure if you got my message, but I’m just wondering if you’d like to go and see a movie this afternoon. Showgirls is on at two o’clock in the city.’

  ‘Showgirls?’

  ‘Showgirls?’ Annabelle laughs, and I make a big shoosh sign at her. She responds with an over-exaggerated throat-slitting gesture, and then collapses on the couch as though she’s a mime artist playing dead. I can’t help but start laughing.

  ‘Is someone there?’ Brendan sounds paranoid.

  ‘Aw, it’s my best friend, Annabelle. Back from London…well London and New York.’

  ‘Oh, cool, I remember you telling me about her.’ He pauses, and then continues, ‘Yeah, so how does a movie sound?’

  ‘Um, well, I’ve got heaps of work to do on my painting, and I really want to get this one finished so I can move on to some more works for the group show that’s coming up.’ Annabelle does the throat-slitting gesture all over again. ‘And…I’m not sure, Brendan. I don’t think we’re that suited. I mean, you’re a great guy and everything…’

  Annabelle shakes her head, disapproving of my complimenting Brendan.

  ‘I was just asking you as a friend, not like a date or anything,’ he says.

  ‘Oh sorry, I thought it sounded like a date. Good, because, yeah, I think I want to leave that side of things alone…if that’s okay.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever, Joni. It wasn’t that great a night anyway. I mean, you’re not all that experienced, and, you know, I can pick up girls really easily.’

  I feel like I’m going to throw up, and I wish Annabelle could hear what he was saying. Although if she’d heard what he just said, she would have grabbed the receiver and slammed it down.

  ‘Well, great. That’s settled, then. Sorry I can’t make the movie and, yeah, I’ll see you around sometime.’

  ‘Yeah, great,’ Brendan says. ‘Sorry to bother you. Good luck. Bye.’

  Good luck? What’s that supposed to mean? I hang up and stare at the mottled green tiles in the kitchen.

  ‘All done?’ Annabelle asks.

  ‘All done,’ I confirm.

  ‘What did he say?’ Annabelle looks tired, but has enough energy to maintain a high level of curiosity.

  ‘Ah, nothing.’ Returning to my easel, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. ‘It’s all over. Yay.’

  ‘Good one, Joni.’ She yawns and stretches her arms out wide. ‘I’m going to have a nap, is that okay?’

  ‘Yeah sure. Go up on the bed if you want.’

  I reach for the cadmium yellow deep and the cadmium scarlet, then mix both colours together on my palette. Blending the thick, almost sticky oil paints feels meditative. As I swirl the yellow with the red I smile gently, proud of myself for getting out of such an awkward situation.

  After a few hours, Annabelle wakes upstairs, and startles me from my painting with her croaky: ‘What time is it?’

  I check the clock. ‘It’s four-thirty already!’ I hurriedly remove as much paint from my hands as I can.

  ‘You sure you’ll be up for a video tonight?’ Annabelle asks.

  ‘Yeah, Sundays are usually pretty quiet, so I won’t be home too late. Are you right for dinner?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m just going to go up and get some pizza to take away.’

  ‘Okay, cool.’

  I keep my pink and black floral dress on, and slip into some black tights and my silver Mary Janes. My dressing table is a mess, with hair ties, ribbons, lipsticks, bangles and earrings lying here and there. I grab my hairbrush and do my hair in two loose plaits that fall gently over my collarbone. Grabbing my chunky pink plastic bangles, I gaze in the mirror, and draw satisfaction from their colour combo with my dress. Once I’ve put on a little make-up, I unhook my bottle-green sixties woollen coat from the back of the front door. Annabelle is still up on my bed, reading.

  ‘I’ve got to go!’ I call out to her. ‘See you later tonight. Thanks again for listening to me and h
elping me out this morning. Love you!’

  ‘Love you too.’ Annabelle sits up and looks down at me. She holds her copy of John Fante’s Ask the Dust, and I suddenly wish I was able to laze around and read instead of going to work.

  My bike’s handlebars are ice cold. When I reach into the pockets of my coat, I am pleasantly surprised to find my black woollen gloves, one in each pocket. As I wheel my bike out and open the gate, I notice how weird it feels to be leaving the house with no keys and no backpack. I’m such a loser for forgetting to bring them home last night. Thank god Annabelle was able to let me in and lend me money today. My feet push down on the pedals, and the cool evening air begins to chill my cheeks.

  As I swerve around the corner onto Darling Street, I notice how good I feel compared to late last night. I’ve gotten over my anger and humiliation since catching Lucy and Dave in the act. And I think I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that Dave’s taken, and that it’s unlikely he and I will ever be more than friends. Also, I’m rid of my worries about how to tell Brendan I’m not interested in him. I grip my glove-covered fingers tightly around the handlebars as I begin to pedal faster, along the valley, and up the hill towards Harland.

  The red brake-lights of a car reverse-parking up ahead remind me of an installation I saw at an opening recently. I love the look of red lights on cars at dusk, when the sky still has a hint of blue. There’s something intensely beautiful about red. It is by far my favourite colour. Love, lust, desire, heat, sexuality, romance, rage, danger.

  As I wheel my bike up onto the footpath in front of Harland, Tiger-Lily runs to me and rubs against my leg. I take a deep breath, trying to convince myself that I am not jealous or hurt in any way after seeing Dave and Lucy having sex last night. It’s beginning to feel real. Like a genuine feeling of acceptance. Although I’m worried that when I see them both, this feeling may very quickly crumble into humiliation and hopelessness.