‘I’m gonna head back to my place and get changed,’ he tells me. ‘What’s the time now?’ He glances up at the clock. ‘Annabelle should be back soon from that interview. Can you tell her I’ll meet her here at about one?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I tell him, looking at how neatly he’s left the rug and cushions on the couch. I say goodbye and, as he walks out the door, I feel better for knowing a bit more about who he is. I like him. He’s not my kind of guy, but he’s a decent, kind man. My eyes fall on Annabelle’s neatly packed suitcase, and I start to feel bad about making her feel bad about bringing Michael back here.
I run my fingers down the strings of her guitar, which leans against the armrest of the couch. Was I too cruel to her this morning? It’s hardly being cruel, pointing out that she jumps too quickly from one relationship to the next. And besides, it’s the truth.
I pick up her guitar and notice a small notebook halfway under the couch. It must be her songwriting book. I know it’s probably filled with private lyrics, verses and chorus ideas. Bending to retrieve it, I feel the thrill of being caught by her. Me, looking through her songwriting book. She won’t be home in ages. I can’t not take a look. I’m so curious. I put the guitar down and sit on the lounge.
First page—incredibly messy handwriting: In nights and on days. Mmm. Bit abstract. I flick through a few more pages. Ah yeah, here are the lyrics to her last single: ‘I Hear You Calling’. All the words are written out like a poem, in pen. Scribbles here and there, big bold handwriting for the chorus. A few more pages in, I come to a page with a heading at the top: Poems. She hasn’t told me she writes poetry. Although I guess song lyrics are pretty much poetry. I flick two more pages in. For Joni.
Wow. A poem called ‘For Joni’. She hasn’t told me about this. I read it through.
And where sea meets land
I hold the hand
of another
She’s like me
Just like me
she sees
constant shades and colours
rising above, slipping through shutters
Quiet now, quiet
through streets with no beginnings, no endings
corners turned, roads crossed
together.
I love you like a child, my love
like a child in a coat
on a school day
with sounds of birds
and gentle breezes
blowing through thoughts and words
entwined like cross-stitch or
hundred-year-old tapestries
Found.
On walls in homes
Side by side
You and I.
How beautiful. Entwined like cross-stitch. I love you like a child. I can’t believe she wrote this for me. I look closely at her handwriting. The curve of her u’s, the dots on her i’s—always slightly to the right of the line.
I feel a tear run down my right cheek. Why did I make her feel bad about her boy-to-boy lifestyle? Almost everyone does it, don’t they? Maybe she’s right—am I the one who has problems?
I have a quick shower, and get changed into my cream button-up cardigan and blue jeans. Then I cosy up on the couch and read Jung for a while, folding down the corners of a couple of pages I really love and thinking further about the artist statement I’ll need to provide for the works in my group show.
My train of thought is broken by the sound of somebody walking across the lawn. I quickly check to see that I’ve put Annabelle’s songwriting book back where I found it. Yes! Thank god.
I look towards my front door as it slowly swings open, and there she is. Annabelle Reed. She looks windswept, and her red lipstick has worn off a little. She’s holding a bunch of multicoloured roses in one hand, the book that she’s reading in the other.
‘Joni, I’m so sorry,’ she says, handing me the roses.
‘I know,’ I tell her, feeling so relieved. ‘I’m sorry too. I said everything all wrong. I know you’re not like me, you’re different. In a good way, I mean…it’s good that you fall into relationships really easily and—’
‘Yeah, but I envy you, because you’re so independent, and it’s like you don’t need a guy around. I’m hopeless on my own, Joni. You’re so right. I do go from guy to guy. It’s bad. But Michael’s such a sweet guy. Don’t you think?’
I nod. ‘You’re right, he is. I had a nice chat with him this morning. He’s gone back to his place. He said he’ll be back around one.’
She pulls out a bulky brown paper bag from her backpack. ‘I bought us these.’
She opens up the bag to reveal two almond croissants.
‘Awww, that’s so nice of you. My favourite.’
I’m not going to tell her I found the ‘For Joni’ poem in her songwriting book. I don’t want her to think that I was snooping around, and going through all her stuff. And she’ll probably read it to me one day anyway.
‘Second part of the interview went well,’ Annabelle tells me, reaching for a couple of plates.
I curl into the corner of the couch. ‘I really like Polly.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Annabelle says, licking her fingers between each word. She brings my plated-up croissant over to me. ‘You know she used to work with James a bit in London?’
‘Yeah, James told me. You know, I’m sorry if it seemed like I tried to make a move on—’
‘Joni, he’s yours. I’m sorry I made such a big deal out of that. I was so drunk, and I’ve got major jealousy issues. I’m trying to work through that with my therapist. She tells me it’s good that I have a competitive nature, because that’s what’s driving me to succeed with my career. But then it fucks all my friendships.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘not ours. It almost has, but it never does.’
We both sort of laugh, both offer up another round of apologies, both get up and walk towards each other, both hug, and both almost cry.
Then we sit together eating our croissants, enjoying each other’s company.
When Michael appears in the doorway, Annabelle walks over to him straight away and kisses him as though they’ve been going out for months.
Michael, looking terribly self-conscious, turns towards me. ‘Hi Joni.’
‘Hi Michael. Come in, come in.’
He walks in slowly, with his hands in his pockets. His black boots are super scuffed up, and his slightly falling-apart brown jumper hangs long over his dark blue jeans. Before I can offer him a drink or a cup of tea, Annabelle says, ‘Let me just chuck this stuff in my bag.’
She leans over and grabs her fluffy cardigan. I feel my tummy drop as though I’m about to be caught out for telling a lie to my mum, as Annabelle reaches over the arm of the lounge in search of her songwriting book. My eyes awkwardly dart this way and that, until they rest on Michael, who’s checking out Annabelle’s legs and lower back as her tight-cropped jumper rises, revealing her perfect porcelain skin.
After sliding her songwriting book into her bag, she reaches for her black faux fur coat. Then she runs into the bathroom. I head towards the kitchen, tidying up a little, while Michael stands patiently waiting for Annabelle.
His tolerant stance reminds me of when I was shopping in the bra and underwear section of a department store once, noting the dominant girls who’d dragged their boyfriends along with them. They left their boys standing awkwardly, surrounded by strapless bras, skin-coloured undies, and high-cut lace teddies, while they spent long stretches of time in the fitting rooms, trying on lingerie. I can see this happening in the Annabelle and Michael partnership.
Suddenly the sound of perfume bottles and cream pots and lipsticks, all falling onto the tiled floor, rattles the submissive energy that Michael has brought into the bungalow.
‘Shit!’ Annabelle cries out. ‘Sorry, guys! Bloody hell.’
Michael and I can’t help but have a little laugh. I look into the bathroom, where Annabelle’s on all fours, collecting her toiletries.
‘Okay, Michael. I’m ready.
We can head off!’ she calls.
‘I’ll see you guys to the gate,’ I tell them.
Michael, with Annabelle’s big suitcase in his hand, leads the way down the stairs. Annabelle, close behind, carries her coat and make-up bag.
When we reach the gate, Annabelle drops her things and gives me a huge, warm embrace. ‘Thanks, Joni,’ she says softly, her lips right up close to my ear.
‘I’m going to miss having you here,’ I tell her, thinking, Well…sort of. I love you, but I’m excited about having my place to myself again.
Michael opens the latch to the gate, and offers a polite goodbye.
‘See ya Michael, bye Annabelle. Oh yeah, guys, Wednesday night, I’ll see you both at the staff dinner.’
‘Ha ha, forgot about that,’ Annabelle tells me. ‘See ya there, Joni,’ she adds excitedly.
I’m happy to hear that’s she’s psyched about coming to the Harland staff dinner.
I wander back inside and the stillness of my bungalow hangs over my couch, my easel, my painting…oh, and Annabelle’s guitar. She’s left it here!
I clutch it by the neck, and half run down the steps and across the leafy lawn and out the gate. No sign of Annabelle and Michael. They must have driven off in Michael’s car.
I walk slowly back towards my bungalow, imagining Annabelle and Michael sitting in the front seats of his car. I wonder if James will pick me up in his car one day.
I hear my phone ringing.
I race in through the front door, place Annabelle’s guitar on my couch, and grab the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Joni?’
Oh my god is this James?
‘Yes?’
‘It’s James.’
A bolt of nervous energy rocks my body.
‘Oh hi. What are you up to?’ I ask him, trying to hide the surprise in my voice. I can’t believe he’s called me!
‘I’m just at the lab dropping off the film from last night. I’ve been thinking about you, and…I’d—I wanted to see if you’d like to have lunch with me.’
‘Um, now?’
‘Well, I’m not able to now,’ he tells me, ‘as much as I’d really like to come and have lunch with you now.’
I sort of giggle.
‘Tomorrow?’ he asks me.
‘I’d really like that,’ I say, thinking I cannot believe that you’ve called me, and I cannot believe that you just asked me out on a lunch date! The lunch date is (so Annabelle tells me) more romantic than a dinner date.
‘How about we have lunch at a café?’ James suggests. ‘In Balmain?’
‘Um, yeah. How about Café Blue? It’s close to my place, and…’
‘I know the one. Shall we say midday? Is that an okay—’
‘Midday is great!’
‘Well…’ he says.
I hear the guys at the photo lab talking in the background, and what I think is the Breeders on the radio.
‘What are you up to today?’ he asks eventually.
I draw a blank. What am I up to? What am I up to?
‘I’m just going to paint today,’ I finally say.
‘Aww, that sounds great,’ he tells me, making me feel as though he understands me completely.
We both go quiet for a while, and then he says: ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ I tell him eagerly. ‘I’m…really looking forward to seeing you again.’
‘Me too,’ he says.
After I ever so gently put the phone back on the hook, I gaze over towards my couch and books and studio corner, looking at nothing in particular. All I see is a dreamy blur as I imagine James at the photo lab, leaning on the counter, elbow on the bench, his brown hair falling into his eyes. His masculine hands holding the rolls of film from last night, and his brown jacket resting against his jeans, and his warm thighs.
I feel so aroused just thinking about him. How am I going to cope with having lunch with him tomorrow?
23
I spend the afternoon painting in what I’d describe as a ‘lovesome daze’. Very Romantic period, I know. Romantic period and James rolled into one. I love how he’s teaching me new things. New words. I feel as though I’m painting with a different stroke. Does that sound weird? And I not only feel his influence on me in terms of how I’m painting, but also in the way I’m thinking. My whole way of experiencing the world feels so different. In a good way.
When I ride in to Harland at five-thirty, I don’t notice anything except the cold breeze against my face. I’m much too busy dreaming about James to focus on my surroundings. And when I wheel my bike up from the gutter, and then along the side path, I find myself singing ‘Do It Again’ by Marilyn Monroe. I know all the lyrics thanks to the Best of Marilyn Monroe CD Lucy always plays.
I rest my bike against Dave’s, so they’re both leaning hard up against the side of the shed. Desperate to tell Dave and Lucy all about last night, I skip up the stairs and push open the back door. Then my confidence dips as Lucy throws her first words towards me: ‘Joni, that’s going to break if you push it that hard.’ Her tone of voice is on the border between harsh and normal. But her light scold dissolves quickly as she tenderly showers me with questions about James. What happened last night? Do you think you two will get together? Is it Love Love, not God Love?
While Lucy is sitting with me at the staff table, engrossed in my every word, Dave runs in halfway through my story and begs me to backtrack. I tell them all about the ferry photo, the swings, our favourite poets, James calling me today, tomorrow’s planned lunch date. While I’m talking, I flit my eyes back and forth from Dave’s greasy chef ’s face above his stained white shirt to Lucy’s red-lipped, flawless, olive-skinned face, and her blonde locks falling onto her pale pink angora cardigan, which of course is low cut and tightly fitted.
Dave revs me up by asking a few questions on the dirty side. We all laugh when I tell them there has been no dirty action. Yet. And they both agree with me when I suggest that the staff dinner is going to be heaps of fun.
Michael calls out a soft ‘Hi Joni’ from the kitchen, and I note the way Dave doesn’t react. Wow. So Michael mustn’t have told Dave about him and Annabelle. Otherwise I predict Dave would have mentioned it to me, expressing his immense confusion and surprise over this pairing. Interesting. Maybe Michael won’t say anything until the staff dinner.
I wonder whether I should tell Dave about my fight with Annabelle. We’ve already made up, though, so there’s not much point. I decide to leave it. Besides, my news about James is above everyone and everything.
As Dave makes me a coffee, Juliet flumps into the room with a loud sigh. Her hair is out and wet. Freshly washed, probably; she smells strongly of two-dollar strawberry-scented shampoo. She’s trying out green eyeshadow tonight, and of course it doesn’t suit her one bit. Her fingertips are discoloured from—let me guess—dye, from her resin jewellery. She’s in what looks like a red Mrs Claus pantsuit, which makes me wonder whether she’s going for a Christmas theme, with the green eyeshadow. The fabric is like fluffy felt. Another outfit from her niece’s dress-up box?
And then the complaining begins. Juliet has nothing to wear to the staff dinner. Lucy offers to lend her something, while I begin to think how I can help her out. But…no. I don’t want to lend her anything of mine, and I can’t think how to combine any of her outfits so they’d create anything…credible.
‘OH, THAT’S IT!’ Juliet shouts, as though we’re a hundred metres away from her, on an oval. ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it! There’s a dress in my studio!’
And there she goes again. I know she’s just throwing in the word studio so she sounds like an artist. Am I too cruel? Perhaps her jewellery-making will improve.
When six-thirty comes around, and the first few diners are seated, I’m certain that the evening appears—to the ordinary bystander—to be a bland, boring, quiet and nothing Monday evening. But, lucky for me, I’m able to remain on autopilot while I’m waitressing. At th
e same time, I think nonstop about James, and everything that has happened between us, and everything I hope will happen between us. I’m on a cloud. I’m in a cloud. I am a cloud! Light-headed and so, so ridiculously happy. Nothing could lower my spirits. Absolutely nothing.
I don’t hang around for knock-off drinks, purely because I’ll have more quality time to dream about James if I go home now. I say my goodbyes, rug up, and ride home thinking about—you got it—James.
Darling Street is hushed and undisturbed. Parked cars line its edges, as streetlights shine down from above. I ride in the centre of the road at a slow pace, my thoughts overtaking me every few metres. Imagine if James is at my place waiting for me. I pedal a little harder. Imagine if he’s called me, and there’s a message on my machine. I tilt my bike and turn into my street.
And then my sense of reality re-emerges. He doesn’t know where I live, even if he does have my number. As I wheel my bike up onto the footpath, unlatch the gate and peer in, it’s just my bungalow I see, all on its lonesome. I hurry inside, glancing at my answering machine as I chuck my backpack on the floor. No message. Just PJs and tea and toast and a bit of telly, and then lying awake in my bed, thinking about how excited I am about tomorrow’s lunch date.
I wake slowly, gazing out the little window beside my bed, admiring the morning light filtering through the branches of the gum. The sound of my phone ringing startles me. Shit! Is it James? Oh my god, he’s calling me again! Before our lunch date? I hobble down the ladder stairs, barely awake, barely with it.
‘Hello?’
‘Joni! It’s me. Annabelle.’
‘Oh hi. Shit, I thought you might have been James.’
‘No, it’s just me. He hasn’t called you, has he?’ Annabelle asks, sounding hopeful.
‘Yes! He called me yesterday!’
‘Whaaaat! Joni! Amazing!’ Annabelle sounds so happy for me. ‘And, and…?’
‘And we’re going out for lunch today!’
Lovesome Page 16
