Lovesome

by Sally Seltmann

  I reckon she’ll invite me over to her place one day soon. Oh my god, her house must be amazing! An assortment of wild and wonderful artefacts from all over France and Europe. Dave has told me she lives in a huge sandstone house on the waterfront. No wonder he’s gotten together with her! Scrambled eggs on toast, sitting on the upstairs balcony overlooking the pool. Oh, and the Harbour Bridge and Opera House. And she’d have a boat, I bet. Like a big yacht. What a life! Davey boy, you have scored, my friend. Big time.

  I look up and my thoughts fade as I get closer to the Emerald. There it stands, high and mighty on the top of the hill. As I ride past, a woman in a navy duffel coat walks out onto the footpath from the main door of the pub, allowing the classic mix of golden oldies hits and jovial conversation to escape momentarily.

  Turning off Darling Street, the clinkity-clack of my bike becomes more noticeable, and then I burst into a joyful smile. Yes! I didn’t think about Brendan when I passed the Emerald! And I didn’t think about him the whole time I was at Harland tonight! Is this confirmation that the whole losing-my-virginity episode is officially over? I think so.

  Continuing to smile, I pull up at the gate that leads to where my bungalow is nestled. The wood palings of the gate are full of splinters, so I’m always cautious when I unhook the rusty metal latch. The fallen twigs from the large gum crackle underfoot as my bicycle wheels roll over the patchy lawn. I park my bike and with an upbeat step I light-heartedly make my way up the stairs.

  As I open the front door and remove my backpack from my shoulders, Annabelle startles me. ‘Joni.’

  ‘Hey!’ I lean in to hug her.

  She’s in her jammies. The video is already in the machine, and she’s baked a chocolate cake and placed it on my one-and-only cake stand in the centre of the table.

  ‘Aww, man, that looks amazing,’ I tell her.

  I unload all my stuff—coat, keys, backpack—and take a quick shower. Once I’m in my jimmy jams, Annabelle cuts me some cake and I tell her all about Lucy. She’s enthralled, but she does interrupt me every now and then with ‘Oh, that’s like me and Johnny’, or ‘Johnny told me a story like that’. She’s very obviously obsessed with him. Fixated.

  After our video, I climb the ladder stairs and snuggle in under the covers. I look down, and Annabelle is curled up on the couch, looking so pretty with her bleached fluffy hair.

  ‘Do you ever think about whether or not you want kids?’ I ask her. ‘Have we ever talked about that?’

  ‘Oh god, yeah,’ she answers. ‘I’d definitely have them with Johnny.’

  ‘Really?’ I answer, quite surprised.

  ‘I wanna be like Mia Farrow,’ she tells me, as I roll back to stare up at the wooden panels of my ceiling.

  ‘Like adopt kids?’ I ask.

  ‘Adopt, and have my own.’

  ‘Wow, like a big family?’

  ‘Totally. And I want to have kids when I’m young.’

  ‘Really?’ I know I sound shocked, but I can’t remember ever…

  ‘We’ve talked about this already—’member? Ages ago.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I remember you saying you wanted lots of kids, but I can’t remember you saying you wanted to adopt some as well.’

  ‘How ’bout you? You still unsure?’

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘What—think you’re unsure, or think you want some?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply, honestly. ‘I think I’d need to meet someone and fall in love with them before I made my mind up.’

  We lie there in silence, my eyes following the swirling patterns in the timber up above.

  ‘I’m really tired,’ Annabelle says, yawning. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Okay, ’night. See you in the morning.’

  I reach over and find my Carl Jung book, sitting in the pile in the top corner of my bed. I slide my fingers down pages thirty-six and thirty-seven, where I marked a passage a few months ago. And then I find it—my favourite Jung quote, the one that inspired my current works.

  The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.

  14

  Two weeks fly by, and Annabelle is still sleeping on my couch. I’m enjoying having her here, but I’m also craving my own space, having my own place back. She plays her guitar most days, which I love, but then again…Yeah, it’s a one-roomed house, and she’s been here for six weeks now, and Johnny’s arriving soon. Surely she’s on her way to getting something sorted.

  On Sunday morning, the day of Annabelle’s interview with Dazed & Confused, we wake at the same time.

  ‘You awake?’ Annabelle calls out.

  ‘Yeah, just reading.’

  I roll over and look down at her. She’s sitting on the couch with the rainbow-coloured crocheted rug wrapped around her shoulders. Her blonde hair is fuzzed up like Albert Einstein’s, and her eyes are at half-squint. Her pink cherub lips stretch out into a grin, and I smile back at her.

  We go out onto the verandah and sit together, rugged up, sipping coffee. Annabelle puts a ciggie between her lips and lights up. She inhales, then blows out a confident puff of smoke.

  ‘Photographer from London,’ she says. ‘Remember? Tonight?’

  My eyes wander all over the patchy lawn. ‘I’ve been thinking about that, actually. You reckon he’s gonna be single?’

  Annabelle inhales again, and talks as she blows out. ‘I know he is. As if he’s going to have found a new girlfriend in a few weeks.’

  ‘Well, some people move that quickly,’ I say, wondering whether Annabelle will realise I’m referring to her.

  ‘Well, not everyone’s like me,’ she says, making a strange facial expression which I read as not everyone is as desirable as I am.

  ‘Are you still going into the city to meet with your manager?’ I ask her.

  ‘Shit,’ Annabelle responds, spilling her coffee and rushing back inside. She calls back out to me, ‘Thanks for reminding me, Joni. What would I do without you?’

  I stay out on the verandah, enjoying the crisp, sunny morning. I conjure up a few images of what this photographer from London might look like. I see myself talking to him, kissing him, bringing him back to my place. But actually I can’t see anything further happening, so my thoughts wander off into composing a talk I wanna have with Annabelle, asking her if she thinks she might be moving out soon.

  When Annabelle is showered, she rushes back out onto the verandah. She’s wearing a short pale-blue dress, her black fake-fur coat over the top, black boots, red lipstick and a bit of powder on her face. Her hair is razzed up, messy, tough and feminine. She smells like body wash and vanilla. All up, she looks like a superstar.

  ‘See ya,’ she says.

  I watch her walk out the gate, and then I get straight into it. Dirty apron on over my PJs, fresh paints on my palette, clear water in my paint jars, and the final ingredient—my favourite song, ‘Fade into You’ by Mazzy Star.

  Annabelle gave me So Tonight That I Might See when it first came out. I remember it was when I was living back at Mum and Dad’s in The Cave, aka their garage. I immediately put the CD on and lay down on my bed. Listening to ‘Fade into You’ for the first time felt like the equivalent of putting a large chunk of Belgian milk chocolate in my mouth, and sucking on it. I felt as if I was floating on clouds up high, like the fluffy ones you look down on when you’re in a plane. Fade into you—what a lyric! So romantic! Maybe I will fade into this hot, good-looking Londoner this evening.

  I work on the painting of Annabelle and me for a few hours. Eventually my eyes need a break, so I walk out onto the verandah and stretch my arms to the sky, breathing deeply as a thin stream of low white cloud gently settles in.

  ‘Hi Joni.’

  It’s Rebecca. Her hair is up in a brown-and-cream scarf, and she’s holding secateurs in her garden-glove-covered hand. She’s tending to the overgrown daisy bush that’s beginning to take over the side of their back garden. How em
barrassing! I’m still in my pyjamas! She puts the secateurs down, wipes her brow with her loose-fitting chambray shirt, and walks towards me. Her composure is calm and collected, centred and grounded.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ she asks, smiling. Her vowel sounds are rounded and warm.

  ‘I’d love one,’ I tell her.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she says, removing her gardening gloves.

  ‘I’ll just get changed,’ I call out. I head back inside and take off my apron and pyjamas, then throw on an old red woollen dress, tidying up my hair as I walk back outside. I cross the lawn and wait patiently for her on her back deck, gazing down at my little bungalow. I take a good look, checking to see how easy it is for Rebecca and Peter to see through my kitchen window. The yard is quite large; the distance between the back of their house and my bungalow is at least twelve metres. But from what I can see, they’re able to catch a glimpse of me if I forget to close the curtains on my kitchen window. I’m glad I’m pretty vigilant about keeping them closed. I walk around naked all the time, I sit at the kitchen table bawling my eyes out when I’m premenstrual, and sometimes I dance like a lunatic when I get home drunk.

  Rebecca walks back out onto her deck carrying a wooden board on which she has placed some brie, crackers and sweet biscuits. We both sit down on the rouge-coloured lounge that faces the yard and my bungalow. I sit with my legs together, and feel myself taking on the persona of someone who is polite, reserved, less punk, less scatter-brained—all the things I think Rebecca is, in a nice way.

  I wonder what we’re going to talk about. I wait for her to initiate the conversation.

  15

  ‘I met your friend Annabelle a few days ago,’ Rebecca tells me, once she’s settled and sitting elegantly on the outdoor lounge. She slices a small section of brie with the fancy gold cheese-knife. ‘We don’t usually allow extra tenants.’

  I’m suddenly struck with remorse, and my face becomes hot. I knew I should have checked with Rebecca and Peter. I knew it! I try to think of what to say, but before I can apologise, Rebecca kindly tells me: ‘But with you, it’s fine.’

  I exhale, hoping she doesn’t pick up on how worried I must look.

  ‘Annabelle seems lovely. Are you two good friends?’

  ‘Yeah, really good friends. Best friends,’ I tell her, a little fearful that there may be something else I’ve done wrong. ‘She won’t be staying much longer. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be, please. It really is okay. I’ve been enjoying hearing her singing and playing guitar. It’s been making me…reminding me of when I was younger. I’ve been thinking about all my old housemates and…friends. I think that’s why I asked you up for a cup of tea.’ She lets out a small chuckle. ‘To say thank you. It’s lovely having you around. And Annabelle.’

  The sound of the kettle whistling gradually becomes louder, and Rebecca excuses herself, walking back inside. I cut myself a huge slab of brie and place it on a cracker. The cheese is super creamy, and I know it would have cost a lot. Rebecca returns with a teapot, two cups, a sugar bowl and a milk jug—all sitting neatly on top of a doily on a silver tray. All the china is a new-looking version of what we have at Harland, except it’s all matching and sparkling, and placed ever so symmetrically on the tray.

  I wish I had Rebecca’s composure. She is like a beautiful flower, whose roots are anchored firmly in the ground, and she has an inbuilt stillness, as though she’s just returned from a Buddhist meditation retreat. Her speech is slow and precise; when I talk to her, her facial expressions show signs of empathy and compassion. She studies the way I wave my hands around when I describe things to her, quietly analysing my every move.

  I guess this is what makes her suited to being a therapist. I wish she’d talk to me about her most complex patients, but I hear that therapists are not able to discuss their clients’ issues. I’ve never been to see a psychologist, but Annabelle has, many times. She’s told me all about it—what they say, what they do.

  Rebecca pours me a cup of tea, her hands moving lightly between the cup and the teapot. ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asks quietly.

  ‘Just milk, thanks.’

  She hands me my milky tea.

  ‘Peter’s just written a play based on Harland,’ she tells me. ‘He’s really happy with it, which is a plus.’

  ‘Wow! I’d love to read it one day.’

  Rebecca smiles, then sips.

  ‘Did he meet Lucy? She owns Harland. She’s French,’ I tell her.

  ‘Yes, we met Lucy a few months ago, when Peter was doing some research—needing to wander through the rooms. She’s very beautiful.’

  ‘I know,’ I agree. ‘She’s an incredibly fiery woman. Did you pick up on that? She’s moody, up and down, quite unpredictable. But then mesmerising, and…kind of like the Pied Piper, in a way. We’re all really drawn to her. I love her sense of style.’ I turn to Rebecca. ‘I mean, you have great taste, and…you’re really stylish too.’

  Rebecca’s personal style is very neat and plain, orderly and minimal. I often see her heading to work, and she always wears a crisp white shirt with a grey marle cashmere cardigan. And she’ll wear a fine strand of pearls around her neck, with matching drop pearl earrings that hang from her perfect ear lobes. Her dark-brown hair is always blow-dried, and it falls neatly just above her shoulders. Her lips are full, and she wears a browny-red lipstick. Not too brown, not too red—the perfect blend. Sitting here right now, I feel myself bouncing back and forth between wishing I was like Lucy and then wishing I was like Rebecca, whose intellectual, precise and calm state is so unlike mine. I envy her deeply and, as our conversation develops, it’s her I want to be, not Lucy.

  ‘I remember she served us when we dined there, before Peter wandered around. She was very accommodating, but she did seem quite fiery. Actually, I saw her telling off one of the other waitresses. Very firm, her tone of voice.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s very moody. But I love her.’

  Rebecca offers me another cup of tea. We both take a sip from our refilled cups, and she keeps the conversation running smoothly.

  ‘I work with a lot of people who have mood disorders and complex obsessive tendencies, anger issues, et cetera. I’m very drawn to people like that.’

  ‘I think I am too,’ I tell Rebecca. ‘A few weeks ago Lucy opened up to me about her childhood. Well…teenage years. And she had all these terrible operations, and complications when she had her period, and…I don’t know whether I should go into detail, but she was very rebellious, and got up to all sorts of…silly things. I found it all so interesting, it was like I was watching a movie or something. I could have listened to her all night.’

  ‘That’s what my work is like,’ Rebecca says, gracefully sipping her tea. ‘I sit and listen to these incredibly personal tales. Interwoven private confessions, mistakes and regrets, pouring out all over me, from the minds of questioning, sensitive people who have lost their way. They’re often caught up in their own self-constructed net. So many infidelities and insecurities. I’m enthralled by it all, but it’s also quite draining.’

  ‘It must be amazing. I like it when people offer up little pieces of their personal lives. I hate small talk,’ I say, hoping she doesn’t think I’m referring to what we’re doing right now. Of course we’re not, though, so why would she think that? I’m too paranoid. ‘I’m only into having deep and meaningful relationships with people. I can’t handle anything that’s just chitchat.’

  She picks up on my use of the word relationship, and asks me, ‘Do you have a partner?’

  ‘A boyfriend? No.’

  ‘I only really started going out with men when I was in my early twenties,’ she tells me. ‘A similar age to you.’

  She has the gift. The gift of making people feel like the way they live their life is normal. It’s a gift, Annabelle tells me, that all good therapists possess. And then Rebecca opens up her glory box and gives me more of what I adore.

  ‘I had a girlfriend when
I was eighteen. I don’t tell many people about that, but you’re an art student, or…sorry—you’re an artist, so you’re in with the world of women on women, men on men.’ She gives me a warm smile.

  ‘What was that like?’ I ask.

  ‘Complex, beautiful, heartbreaking. I thought we’d be together forever, but then she ended it. It was like a Shakespeare tragedy, really.’ Rebecca laughs. ‘But I’m a grown woman now. Peter and I have been married for almost ten years. We’re still very much in love. He’s so good to me. I know it’s a classic cliché, but he really is my soul mate.’

  ‘I can see that,’ I tell her.

  ‘We’re growing old together. Both in our forties now.’ She smiles, reaching for a cracker.

  ‘Oh. You look so young,’ I tell her, holding tight to my teacup.

  ‘Aww, that’s sweet of you, although I love getting older. I’ve always had an old soul. People used to tell me that when I was a child. I feel more myself now I’m in my forties. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that getting older is depressing! Your forties are a great decade. You don’t worry so much about how you look, and you begin to realise how much knowledge and wisdom you’ve gained over the years. You know how to look after yourself, what you want, what you need.’

  She’s the polar opposite of Lucy. Rebecca—a classic beauty with an old soul, moving gracefully into middle age, poised, with a tranquil disposition. Lucy—young at heart (or clinging desperately to her youth, depending on what way you want to look at it), drunkenly dancing on a tabletop with a ciggie hanging out of her mouth, cleavage, short skirt, grabbing someone’s bum.

  Ha ha! I laugh on the inside, and realise I’m able to appreciate the beauty in both of these older women. I’m like neither, but they both possess qualities that I admire. I wonder what life will be like for me when I’m that age.