by PJ Mayhem
‘I’ve called Professor Emeritus Bartholomew, he thinks that getting the submission in early is the best strategic move as well.’ Broomstick’s lips unglue themselves from her teeth into a proper smile. The creases at the corners of her mouth leave little lines in her face powder.
I must look like a stunned mullet, because she says, ‘You remember Professor Emeritus Bartholomew from the workshop, Fiona?’
How could I forget! But why are you smiling about him? And what is with the make-up these days, Broomstick?
‘You mean this Friday?’ I splutter.
‘Yes, this Friday, Fiona,’ she says in her ‘Why are you asking such a stupid question?’ voice.
This Friday, I think, blood draining from my face then my body, until the only colour I have left is on my Got the Blues for Red OPI–pedicured toenails. I can’t find the strength to speak.
‘I have stuff on this week,’ I finally manage. Like my life. I’d so been enjoying having it back after the last report, doing all the normal things: full sessions at the gym, dinners, coffees, phone conversations, having a moment to laugh with people at work again (not Broomstick obviously), not to mention yum cha. I’d even contacted the evening college about going back to Mandarin classes again.
As much as I want to scream, ‘Go screw yourself!’ at Broomstick, I bite my tongue. The interview experience for the Consulate job is still too much of a gaping wound in my confidence to hunt down a new job immediately. Besides, I survived deadline hell last time. I’ll survive this too.
‘What would have been so hard about staying there and matching his gaze, Kismet?’ Amethyst asks in my next appointment, then says, ‘What happened the next time you went in?’ She’s probably got a perfectly clear answer to the first question just by tuning into my thought field.
‘He wasn’t there. That “manifesting your mojo” mantra you gave me was completely wasted!’ I sigh dramatically, hurling my arms around for impact, and laugh.
‘I mean, the next time you saw him Kismet? Did you look him in the eye?’ Amethyst holds her temples and squeezes her eyes tight. I can safely strike humour off the list of enlightenment’s essential attributes. ‘They are virtually screaming at me that this is what you have to do: look him in the eye. My guides aren’t ever wrong.’
‘I try, but it’s as though …’ I fiddle with the tassels of the cushion I’m nursing and attempt to come up with exactly what it is that I feel. ‘Like there’s a power beyond me—I’ve got no control over it. I’ve made myself go in twice since the apple incident. I did say “hi” to him the day he was there and I tried to raise my head but as soon as I got to his eyes I looked down again.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s a force, an intensity when I look at him that I can’t explain. I’ve never been great at this sort of thing but this, it’s insane.’
‘What’s your gut instinct telling you if you let go of fear and just feel? Go in there.’ Amethyst leans across, laying one hand on my heart and the other on my stomach. ‘What is it saying?’ Her voice is as soothing as a warm bath.
‘That it’s bigger than me, that if I fall for him I may never stop falling. Which I know is ridiculous—I don’t even know him. I mean, I know nothing about him.’
‘It’s not so ridiculous from where I’m sitting.’ Amethyst smiles. ‘And of course you can stop falling. You are always in complete control.’
‘That’s just the thing. With him, I don’t feel like I would be. I’m not already. Just look at me!’
‘You are far stronger than you realise, Kismet.’
‘Maybe that’s part of the problem. I’m tired of being strong, always coping, always being responsible.’ I wish my sigh was for dramatic effect but it’s real.
‘Spirit doesn’t ever send us anything we can’t handle, although I do think it would be a good idea for you to see someone who might be able to help with your anxiety, especially considering the interview. Being strong doesn’t mean being without support. Give Lionel a call. He’s an amazing hypnotherapist. Hypnotherapy can be a great help.’ She scribbles a number on a piece of paper and sits it on top of my handbag.
‘And in terms of your fruitologist,’ she continues, ‘he’s just another person, Kismet, another soul, in another physical body. He’s probably as fearful as you are. We’re all in this together. What you see in yourself is not what others see in you. You can be quite intimidating in your self-contained way.’
I hold in a scoff as Amethyst tunes into the cosmic forces.
‘I’m going to give you an exercise to do for homework,’ she advises a minute or two later. ‘It will help you get clarity on whether the fruitologist really is who you want in your life or if you’ve simply got yourself so tangled up in this obsessing that you can’t see Buddha for his robes.’
A little plume of nervousness tickles at my chest as I imagine Amethyst giving me some highly evolved spiritual practice to connect to the universal energy source and my own guides for answers. I always find those things a bit challenging. I don’t know how to tell if I’m right or wrong—is it imagination or intuition, hope or holism, a psychic message or projection? Which is why I like to go with definite, tangible signs.
‘It’s a list of what you want and need in your next male love relationship.’
‘A man wish list?’
‘No, no, no, Kismet—it’s much more energetically sophisticated than that. It’s a highly attuned clarifying tool. It literally sweeps away the dust of misguided wants to define who and what you truly value. All of my Goddesses- and Gods-in-training who have created a list with focus have had success within twelve months.’
Twelve months seems like a very long time to wait but I guess Spirit does have quite a few people to cater to.
‘It’s practically homoeopathic in its principle of like curing like. The whole “opposites attract” idea is passé. With the energy of the world shifting and the cycle we’re in today, it’s all about fitting together in completeness but not expecting anything of someone that you aren’t already doing or aren’t prepared to do, be or become yourself. So, List A: What I need and want to have in my next male love relationship list. Here you list things you want, but in a specific way. Are you with me so far?’
I nod patiently at Amethyst’s remedial explanation. She hasn’t picked up that in terms of list making, at least, she is talking to a fully-fledged Goddess.
‘List A has to be in the positive form. Let me give you an example. You cannot put “not married”—you must put “available”. Got it?’
I nod again.
‘Now, for List B. That is your What I am and love list.’
I’m to list the items from List A that I also have. So if I put ‘available’ on List A I could add that for myself on List B.
‘You ready for List C?’ It’s becoming more and more obvious she’s used to dealing with list-making novices.
I give silent nod number three.
‘List C—that is your Work to do list! You have to list anything that you aren’t or don’t have but are prepared to do or work on.’
I think of the item that will top my C List: ‘Loves job.’
‘So, in the end everything from List A must appear on List B or List C unless they are physical traits of the male. Clear?’
‘Perfectly,’ I say with a final, emphatic nod.
I get cracking on my list as soon as I get home. By 2am Sunday I have everything down in draft form. Just over two hundred items—yet to be categorised into Physical, Emotional, Spiritual and Mental attributes by means of a nicely designed spreadsheet. Tomorrow I’ll sort it to ensure it carries the right energetics of effort, functionality and aesthetic appeal.
Spirit won’t let my efforts go unrewarded.
10
First thing Monday morning I phone for an appointment with Lionel, the hypnotherapist. After that, work takes over and the week speeds by as though I’m watching it from a bullet train.
When I arrive at Lionel’s of
fice at 4.30pm Thursday, his receptionist, a middle-aged barrel of a woman, points me down a hallway. ‘He’s running a tiny bit behind, I’m afraid, just take a seat down there. He should only be a minute or so.’
The hallway opens up into what looks like someone’s lounge room. I sit on the couch and grab an early nineties Home Beautiful from the selection on the coffee table. I move to a less relaxed-looking waiting chair; it better suits my mood. I flip through the magazine, quickly discard it and reach for a replacement, hoping to find one that has a publication date inching towards this decade, however the 2011 Angler’s Annual does little to distract me.
I attempt to slow my breath to the tick of the dark mahogany clock that sits on the mantle. I wrap my left leg over my right, unwrap it and wrap my right over my left. I can’t settle. Hidden from the receptionist’s view, I have no qualms about changing seats again. The expansive lounge room set-up adds to the anxiety—my presence is so pronounced. I feel as though I’m meeting a boyfriend’s parents for the first time and everyone but me is in the kitchen gathering the accoutrements of afternoon tea.
When a door opens I almost expect someone carrying a tray laid out with a Royal Doulton tea set and cake stand with a perfect Victoria sponge.
‘Kismet, come in.’ A bear of a man with grey hair and matching beard steps through the door, not a Victoria sponge in sight.
‘Please, take a seat,’ he says after I enter his office, pointing to the chair set at right angles to the desk, where he sits. ‘As you will have guessed, I’m Lionel. I like to start with a thorough case history, so please indulge me for a moment.’
We run through my family, my childhood, my life to date—I paint my past with broad brush strokes in response to his questions. He raises his eyebrows and studies my body language, like I’m a bug under a microscope.
‘So how do you think I can I help you?’ Lionel asks when I’ve finished the somewhat abstract self-portrait of my life.
‘I sort of have a bit of an issue with anxiety.’
‘I see.’ He watches me fidget for a moment before continuing. ‘Hypnotherapy is very effective for anxiety. Are there any specific situations that create these moments?’
‘No, not really.’ It feels too revealing to mention the fruitologist, too soon in my relationship with Lionel to unveil that side of me. And the job interview seems too humiliating to share with someone I don’t know. ‘I mean, I do get a bit fixated on things too. Maybe we could work on that as well. They seem to go hand in hand.’
‘The first step is to get you to a point of being able to experience what it is you are actually feeling,’ he says. ‘I’m going to run you through a breathing exercise that will take you to a point of relaxation to establish whether you are able to wind down enough to go under hypnosis. Take a seat in whichever one of those chairs looks most inviting to you.’
Oh no, this must be a test. The chair I choose will hold some deep significance. He’s going to make an assumption about me based on which reclining-chair I pick. I rule out the chocolate velour one with the matching teddy bear—obviously the kiddie chair. My other two choices are an apricot-coloured leather armchair—potential for mother issues particularly given that the other choice is a navy velour Jason recliner (definitely father issues in that one).
I’ve begun to sweat from the added anxiety of the choice, so I can rule out the apricot leather one; I don’t want my black linen pants sticking to it. I move to the navy Jason recliner, even though it goes against the grain of my style—I can’t abide navy and black together.
‘I’m going to count back from ten and I want you to slow your breathing in time with my count.’ Lionel begins counting, then, ‘Four … three … two … now go inside to that place no one else can know, get in touch with it … and one. Let it all go, feel yourself melting into the chair, release yourself from everything that has gone before and tell me what comes into your mind.’
The realisation that I’ve forgotten to tell the receptionist that my health insurance is in the name of Fiona keeps circling but I’m sure that isn’t what he wants to hear.
‘I can see tension in your body, Kismet. Just relax, let go.’
It’s very exposing—reclining there, eyes closed. I force myself to be still, to look as though the tension is melting away. I visualise myself playing with Sammy and Sonja, and a smile warms my face.
‘That’s better,’ Lionel says just before the buzzer goes. ‘Next time we’ll get further. I just needed you to experience a sense of trust and relaxation with me before we progress to the next phase.’
The bullet-train blur hasn’t bypassed Jane, and I’ve been looking forward to seeing her all week. But something seems a little different when I hug her on Saturday night, nothing major, just a slight edge to her aura. Once we’re settled at our table, she’s all smirks and near snorts and I’m sure I must have imagined it.
‘Ladies, have you decided what you will have this evening?’ It’s Erice, the ever-attentive owner of Marrakesh on Moore.
‘We might need a little longer,’ Jane says to him. ‘Do you want to tell me about the Lionel session first or update Situation Singing Fruitologist?’ she asks me.
‘Not much to tell about the Lionel session really.’ I try and skim the surface but eventually have to confess.
Jane practically explodes when I say I wasn’t quite ready to tell Lionel about the fruitologist. ‘What the fuck are you going for if you’re not going to tell him about it? Give me eighty dollars and I’ll draw a white line on the pavement and make you follow it—they say it works for chickens.’
‘You know me, I’m not the sort of girl who can divulge that much before I get to know someone a little.’
Erice sweeps back over to us.
‘I’ll do mains, you do starters,’ Jane says and immediately looks at Erice. ‘Chicken tagine.’
‘Any drinks, ladies?’ Erice asks as he scribbles down my addition of a mezze plate.
‘Sparkling mineral water, please.’ It’s my usual.
‘I’ll have the same.’ Jane hands Erice the menus and wine lists.
‘What’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me you’re detoxing,’ I ask once I can lift my jaw to speak again. I’ve never known Jane not to drink with dinner.
‘Not exactly. It’s no big deal, I’ve just had a few too many big nights.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I say, not really seeing at all. Multiple big nights haven’t ever stopped her before, although it helps explain the edge to her aura I felt earlier.
‘What’s happening with the fruitologist anyway?’ Jane narrows her eyes at me, as though she’s daring me to tell her something negative so she can lay claim to being right about him being a fuckwit.
It’s going to be awkward if anything does happen with him. I’ll have one of those ‘Help! My BFF hates my BF’ situations that Tiffany and Angela from Marketing were sharing from one of their social-media feeds in the lunchroom the other day.
‘This morning I took a little pre-shopping walk to put a bit of colour in my cheeks—I’d woken with a migraine—but once again, no freaking fruitologist! What’s he doing energetically interfering with my affections if he’s not going to commit to me even for a shopping trip?’
‘God, why are you even wasting your time? I can’t believe you bothered to half-glance in his direction once, let alone twice after everything you’ve told me.’
‘I don’t know myself. It’s like there’s some magnetic force drawing me to him, or maybe it’s more a moth to a flame. And I cannot tell you how freakishly often sausage dogs are appearing.’
‘Even if he or that woman are trying to kill you? At last report you assumed he was so not into you that he was going to have you stowed away under a mountain of salad greens, slowly asphyxiating in the PGGG cool room.’
‘It was being poisoned, actually, and I’m still not sure they’re not. I have been feeling a bit queasy and nothing tastes quite right.’ I chuckle as I recall my chat with Jane where my crea
tively paranoid self had conjured up a ‘death by poisoned yoghurt and feta’ scenario for entertainment.
Jane sighs. ‘I know it sounds like a cliché, Kizzo …’
‘Oh, Great Govinda, you’re not going to tell me you’ve turned and realised you’ve always been in love with me, are you?’
‘I know your imagination is one of your gifts, but don’t be so ridiculous. I just think you deserve someone who, well, is really into you, and the fruitologist—if we disregard spiritual pop-up toasters and sausage dogs and call a spade a spade—isn’t! Why don’t you give Erice a go? At worst it’d get you back in practice if anything should, miracle of miracles, ever happen with the fruitologist.’
Across the room Erice is seating a table of women who, by the look of them, are out for a big night of cougaring. Glimmers of light from the perforated pressed-metal Moroccan lampshades make patterns on the tight curls of his heavily oiled hair. One of the cougars must have caught her prey, as the head cougar pulls out a tiara and veil for the hen and pink-feathered fascinators for herself and the others. From the way the youngest looking of the brittle-haired pack is cooing at Erice as she strokes his generous pelt of chest hair and the gold chains that nestle in it, she definitely has hers in her sights.
‘No, I think not!’ I say to Jane. ‘Besides I have to go home tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘I promised Jack.’
‘Well if not Erice, then Jack? And why is it any of Jack’s business whether you’re going home or not?’
‘Running past his café on my way here, he asked where I was going and whether I’d be coming in for coffee tomorrow morning. I’ve given him my word.’
‘You take it all too literally—like you owe any of them anything. You think he’ll even remember?’
‘Jack always notices if I don’t go in. But it’s irrelevant anyway. I’m not sure I want to get involved with anyone.’
‘Why not?’
‘I took advantage of the empty change room at the gym the other day to do a complete body inspection in the full-length mirror—there’s no concealing anything with those neon lights. My butt looks like an elephant’s hide stuffed with golf balls! I nearly died. I so couldn’t get naked with anyone.’
