by PJ Mayhem
I guess even energetic healers are human.
Wednesday morning there’s still no word from Grant. It’s not like I’m waiting, I’ve got much more exciting things to think about. Still, I can’t help but wonder. Maybe he’s not such a lonely separatee after all, perhaps his separation has propelled him into a mid-life crisis and he’s busy swiping twenty-somethings on Tinder. They probably can’t even bake.
‘You’re looking lovely again this fine morning, Fiona. Do you have a date tonight?’ Jack’s words bounce out, little bubbles of joy as always. I can imagine him at seventy, still sounding as young as a boy. His brows arch over dreamy Mediterranean eyes that match his coffee. Who needs Grant?
‘Oh no, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. It’d break my heart.’ He throws his forearm dramatically across his forehead.
‘Then best you never know.’ I half-laugh. Until now, I’d never noticed how hairy he is. Pity, I really don’t like hairy men.
Our fingers brush in a playful but zing-free way as I grab my coffee. I flutter mine into a wave, rallying myself from the disappointing hairy revelation. At least I can always rely on Jack for a fun distraction. It’s nice to have something consistent.
As for the fruitologist, there’s been four sneaker sightings, another catching of him glancing at me as I went by one night and a slightly disappointing Singing Fruitologist–free visit. Not that I’m counting, just observing. I’ve been so Ms Middle-of-the-Road this week that if maintaining my focus on the centre white lines of the bitumen was an Olympic event, I’d have scored a 9.5 out of 10.
Coffee in hand, I call Broomstick. It’s still early, so I’ll get her voicemail. I can’t possibly go in to work today, there’s no way I’d be in a fit state to face the interview for my new life as a successful globe-trotting woman of international high-calibre executive support after a day in that place.
Forty-five minutes later my bedroom looks like the change rooms during a Myer Boxing Day sale but nothing in the mountain of clothes is right. Not that it matters what I wear—it’s a phone interview—but still, it’s important to embrace the energy I want to project. I finally settle on my plain black linen skirt and matching shirt.
When my phone beeps with a text from Bing asking if I’m OK and why I haven’t been in for my coffee, I practically jump through the roof. I may be a positive 9.5 out of 10 on my Ms Middle-of-the-Road scale but my nervous energy reading is off the Richter. If I don’t do a quick session at the gym and get rid of some of this nervous energy, I may implode.
At the gym I run faster and faster on the treadmill until I have to grip the rail to stop myself flying off the back of it. But I can’t move my legs fast enough to stop my brain getting itself caught up in knots of anxiety over the interview, and then about the fruitologist. When I’m not much more than a sweat spot, I look up at the TV screen and there it is, a sausage dog. I’ve been seeing quite a few of them lately, but seeing one right here, on the screen at the gym … I couldn’t even take a stab at the odds.
At precisely 5pm Shanghai time (8pm AEDT), my phone rings. I stop dead in the middle of one of the caged tiger circles I’ve been pacing around my living room in for the last hour.
‘Good afternoon, Fiona Johnson speaking.’ I feel as though a bandage is being wrapped tightly around my chest and my voice sounds all wrong.
‘Fiona, this is Elizabeth Mercury from the Office of the Consulate General, sorry, is this a bad time? I’m sure this is the time we had allocated for you.’
‘No. Thanks for calling, Elizabeth. I really appreciate the opportunity for the interview,’ I say, thinking, God, why didn’t I just answer the phone like it was a normal call? Already I can feel my words becoming loose on my tongue, slipping out beyond my control.
‘I’m just going to patch in the Assistant Consul. He and I will be conducting the interview.’
‘Great.’ Oh Govinda, why did I say great? That is so unprofessional.
‘Yes, I have excellent Microsoft Office skills.’ Introductions out of the way, I answer the first question confidently but my mouth has started to go dry and the bandage around my chest is getting tighter. I have to sit on my left hand to stop it shaking.
Each question wrings me out a little more. My voice moves from quavering to breaking when I try to answer scenario-based question four. I can barely breathe and can think even less. The bandage is working its way up and down, round and round, to mummify me. Without knowing the environment or processes they have in place I have no idea how to respond. I chase words around like peas on a plate.
Out of kindness, the Assistant Consul offers a prompt but from their reactions when I do stammer an answer, I know I’ve lost them completely. The rest of the interview I’m like a salmon swimming upstream. The current gets stronger with each question until I’m caught in rapids—tossing and tumbling, the pull dragging me under. Words are coming out but I haven’t got any idea what they are anymore.
8
The next morning I force my stuck-in-a-vice-feeling head off the pillow. I should be in my well-deserved place under the doona for the day—if not the rest of my life. I would be, except for the stupid Education Compliance workshop.
I dress in a shapeless grey dress—not to please Broomstick, who’d asked me to wear something ‘normal’, by which she meant to leave my signature monochrome, angular-cut, urbane chic clothes on their hangers—but so I can be invisible. My dress looks a bit like one of the hessian sacks filled with coffee beans at Jack’s, not that I’ll go in there today. I don’t want him to see me in this state—my eyelids all puffy and froglike despite my make-up, blotchy skin showing through my foundation. Unwashed and slicked back in a plain band, my hair looks more dirty blonde than the ‘golden wheat’ and ‘caramelised blonde’ that Diego, my hairdresser, so artfully highlights it with. I couldn’t manage a flirty front even for coffee. And going to Jack’s would mean I’d then have to go past PGGG, like I’d do that looking like this.
All is as it is meant to be, everything in perfect harmony.
It’s not easy but I get my mantra out from under the black cloud that hovers above me. I churn it over step by step down the backstreets, grateful at least that I don’t have to face public transport or pretend I’m OK in front of everyone at the office.
I reach the old hospital with its buildings plonked around like Monopoly pieces and check the map. The conference room where the workshop is being held is in a shiny new research centre opposite the hospital proper. Doctors run importantly across the street, patient files tucked under their arms, stethoscopes thumping against their chests. ‘Quickly, quickly, out of our way, we’ve got lives to save here!’ their auras seem to say.
‘Sorry.’ I turn to apologise to one of the medics who runs into me. Doing so, I nearly run into someone else. I do a double take. It’s Raymond from PGGG. I give him a forced smile of acknowledgement (my new life being over is no excuse to be rude). He doesn’t seem to see me at all or maybe he just doesn’t recognise me with my butt so well concealed.
It’s a bit of a relief when I reach the workshop venue, but then …
‘These are my people, Fiona,’ Broomstick says with something approaching a grin, as she runs her eyes down the list of participants.
I take my place next to her, pick up my folder and glance at the list. I see what she means. Besides mine, there’s only one other name out of the thirty-five participants that doesn’t have PhD after it.
‘Dr Cybil Raynard—Centre for Strategic and Financial Excellence.’ Broomstick lurches across the table to shake the hand of Professor Emeritus Bartholomew, as identified by his nametag. He hasn’t even had the chance to sit down.
Halfway through the well-worn workshop protocol of introductions, I begin to wonder what Raymond is doing at the hospital. The seed of concern that maybe the fruitologist is here plants itself.
As the day moves on it becomes obvious that the P in all the participants’ PhDs is not for ‘practicality’. By morning tea I�
�m so bored and frustrated that Ms Middle-of-the-Road has vacated the premises and my earlier concerns have taken root. I’m convinced that the fruitologist has had an accident or maybe a heart attack and is lying dying in the hospital somewhere. During the Reliability of Automated Compliance Software presentation, I imagine myself rushing to his bedside, mopping his brow—kind, concerned and caring. I stop my imaginings short of me in a nurse’s outfit—best not risk it, especially in case it was a heart attack that put him here. It would be too tragic if I stepped up to his bed in a sexy white miniskirted uniform and divulged my desires as I leant over to pop my thermometer under his tongue, causing him to die of coronary arrest. What a way to thwart our future and leave me in the limbo of being a near-grieving widow forever. (Not that I want a husband but it works for the dramatic tension of my fantasy.)
At lunchtime the workshop facilitator gives us the directive to ‘mingle with attendees from other organisations, swap compliance ideas and share how you implement compliance strategies in your organisation’. Kill me now. I can’t believe my life has come to this. I hide in the bathroom. Starvation is preferable to making compliance small talk, even if it does mean having to sit cross-legged to hide my feet in case Broomstick comes in and catches me.
I fill in time texting Jane, thankful I hadn’t told her about the interview. I couldn’t stand having to relive the experience.
Back in the workshop, I glance at the agenda. The cruel truth of how I’m going to spend the rest of the day and low blood sugar make my mind run amok. Before long I’m back beside the fruitologist’s hospital bed, where, in a moment of lucidity (he’d deteriorated to being in a coma by this stage), he’d asked for someone to bring me to him. Of course I’d rushed to him immediately, sung bad Retro FM–style songs and chatted to him to try to bring him out of the coma he’d slipped back into immediately after making his request. I did not move, eat or drink (OK, I did drink but only to sustain my life with water and a reasonable mood with the occasional off-the-trolley, totally flirtation-free coffee) until the miracle of my voice, presence and affections brought him back to consciousness.
By the end of the workshop, the fruitologist had recovered and we’d moved from our honeymoon period to a three-bedder and mortgage in suburbia with him complaining that I spent too much money on clothes, make-up, hair, gym membership and going out with friends.
The Lovers’ Oracle doesn’t have anything like: You are about to enter a suburban nightmare.
Saturday morning I remain none the wiser as to the fruitologist’s welfare. Not that I should even concern myself, but it does provide a welcome distraction from the vultures of the memory of the interview when they come pecking at my brain.
On my way out to meet Stephanie, I glance in at the PGGG in a very non-attached Ms Middle-of-the-Road way, careful to make sure I don’t appear like I’m looking, let alone care. Thursday night’s prayer of ‘Goddess, I don’t mind if the fruitologist wants to have a mortgage and whipper snips and mows the lawn every Sunday and I have to give up Diego (he is quite pricey) … so long as I can keep at least my coffee habit and gym membership—I just want him to live!’ (I’d gone full circle again by the time I got home from the workshop) is answered. The fruitologist is there, alive and seemingly well.
I appreciate that asking for two miracles in one morning might be a bit much, especially since I threw the first one away on the fruitologist and his welfare. Now I’d confirmed he was fine, I was back to being upset about him ignoring me. But a girl shouldn’t limit herself. ‘The Universe has an infinite capacity to deliver,’ Amethyst is constantly reminding me. Maybe I have miracle magnet energy today and should take advantage of it and focus on manifesting another one. Because a miracle is what it will take for me to formulate a Stephanie-digestible version of Situation Singing Fruitologist.
You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family and I’m still surprised that I chose Stephanie. She’s Catherine if someone had taken an angle grinder to her and smoothed off all the really hard edges.
When I arrive Stephanie waves wildly at me from the middle of the crowd of people waiting for their tables at yum cha. She’s already got a ticket, I see. Of course she’s already got a ticket—that’s so Stephanie. I often wonder if she has a secret Advent calendar for her life: everything perfectly planned out so she just lifts the flap when the time comes, and—wham—there it is. She’s always been like that, ever since I met her when we worked together in a bank. What some people miss, though, is that Stephanie is also intensely kind—even if she’s not overtly demonstrative.
‘Hello, Kismet.’ The air kiss she gives me is so air that she’s barely closer than arm’s length. Still, she adjusts my hair where it sits on my shoulders in case the ‘hug’ disturbed it—that’s her way of showing she cares. Stephanie’s black pixie cut never has a strand out of place.
Our greetings are barely over when our number gets called.
‘What’s happening with you? How are James and the kids?’ I say, once we’re seated. I’ve got one eye on the trolleys that trundle by—inspecting the contents of the steaming bamboo baskets and pointing at plates and dishes.
‘James’ work … This week, little Lily had a dance rehearsal … We’ve found an under-five’s martial art class for Aiden. I think it …’ Stephanie lists in her efficient, factual way. I offer her a dumpling but she looks at her chopsticks as though she’s about to receive an anal probe.
‘I’ll get some forks and spoons for us.’ I have no problem using chopsticks but I don’t want to make Stephanie feel awkward.
‘I … work’s been really busy so I haven’t been up to much,’ I say when Stephanie asks what’s been happening. I’m so focussed on the trolleys and the food that I’ve got no hope of coming up with a version of Situation Singing Fruitologist that Stephanie could digest.
Our conversation moves into the easy flow you have when you’ve been friends with someone for over ten years.
‘I think that’s probably enough, Kismet,’ Stephanie says as I peer into another steamer. She’s a bird-style eater so I’m a bit disappointed. I like to leave yum cha groaning and promising I’m never going to eat that much again but knowing I will.
Before we leave, Stephanie phones James to collect her but first she wants to take advantage of not having the kids and do some shopping in the city. I’m happy to leave her to it. Given events over the last few weeks, I need some downtime to contemplate my next move.
9
Who can explain why I decided it was a good idea to go into PGGG again but fate is a powerful motivator and here I am, 7.15pm Monday, striding in. Naturally my eyelashes have been recurled, my hair brushed and re-brushed, my make-up touched up and my face spritzed. If nothing else I could show the fruitologist I’m completely unaffected by him.
Ms Middle-of-the-Road can’t help but hear that he and some guy who resembles a sporty version of Harry Potter’s Gregorovitch are talking about … sport. The fruitologist is wearing one of his trademark T-shirts with a brand emblazoned across the front. He seems to have quite a thing for them.
Apples are the final item on my list, actually they’re the second last before pears, but don’t ever let it be said I won’t be flexible when desperate measures are called for: the apples are closer to him. I go about choosing them at the pace of a semi-comatose tortoise, inspecting each one, turning it up, down, round and round, trying to project a wrap-it-up-boys vibe.
Halfway through selecting my apples two things happen. The fruitologist finally bids his friend farewell and Prince’s ‘I Would Die 4 U’ comes on the radio. If he hadn’t started singing along to it I might have been OK but, as though he has a window directly into my fantasies, he does.
An apple slips from my shaking fingers and hits the stack. Before I know it, I’ve created an apple avalanche. Half-a-dozen Pink Ladies tumble to the floor.
A large Adidas sneaker rolls one of the runaways towards where I’m crouching. ‘Are you OK there?’ th
e fruitologist says, his voice getting closer as he crouches beside me.
‘Yes, sorry, thanks,’ I squeak. Apart from the fact that I’m going to die of humiliation right here, right now!
I keep my head down and reach for the apple resting against his all-too-familiar sneaker. He’s so close that if I could breathe I’d probably be able to smell him. His big hand makes it to the apple before mine. As he passes it to me our fingers touch. A small village could be powered by the current that runs through me.
‘Thanks,’ I squeak again. I can feel his eyes on my face. I continue looking at his feet. The moment is so intense that I can’t stand it. Before he can say anything I jump up like a jack-in-the-box and dash to the counter, where one of the casuals—a bored-looking girl—is waiting for someone to serve. Seriously, where is Ms Middle-of-the-Road when I need her?
The next morning it’s as though Broomstick has picked up on my excitement from the spark at PGGG (I’m trying to focus on the positive rather than my questionable reaction), and is set on ruining my mood.
‘Fiona, my office.’
Angela from Marketing, who’s walking past, gives me a sympathetic look.
I bustle into Broomstick’s office projecting efficiency, hoping that will make it brief.
‘I was talking to one of my old colleagues about their compliance strategies,’ Broomstick begins.
Oh, karmic kindness—as if the workshop the other day wasn’t more than enough compliance talk for one lifetime. All I hear through her excited monologue is, ‘Blah, blah, blah …’ and now she’s extinguished the excitement from the spark, my mind drifts to thoughts of why I’m such a complete mess around the fruitologist.
‘On Friday,’ she says and brings me back. If there are deadlines to be met or something I have to organise, I’d better focus.
