Call Me Kismet

by PJ Mayhem

  ‘Let me tell you something, Kismet, if you seriously think that any red-blooded man is thinking about a dimple or two—or even ten—on a thigh when he’s about to launch the rocket, you’re in bigger trouble than we thought.’

  I snort. Not in humour, more in doubt.

  ‘He’s in his caveman state and when he’s into you and you’re both into it, any teensy bit of flubba-dubba—not that I’m saying you have any—that you’ve spent time angsting over in the mirror is completely invisible to him.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s irrelevant anyway. I think I need to reinstate Operation Escape to China.’

  Even though Jane doesn’t know about the Consulate interview, she knows better than anyone that China is where I’ve always wanted to be. She looks at me, then down at her phone that’s just buzzed with a message. She’s got that about-to-explode look again.

  ‘Why don’t you make up your fucking mind!’

  It takes a moment for me to realise the comment isn’t directed at whoever sent the message, it’s meant for me. My heart lurches as though it’s been dropped from a thousand feet.

  ‘Sorry …’ I can’t keep the tears from welling in my eyes. I put my fork down and focus on the table. I have no idea where this has come from. We’ve had these conversations thousands of times. I could count on one finger the number of cross words Jane and I have had over the years.

  ‘Sorry—just had a bad day. I didn’t mean it.’ Jane brushes spilt cous cous off the tablecloth.

  ‘They probably think we’re a couple having a tiff.’ I try to laugh as I point my chin in the direction of the cougar collective. Their platinum heads have turned towards us. They look like a row of sideshow alley clowns waiting for ping-pong balls to be dropped into their mouths.

  Jane takes a gulp of water then looks at the glass accusingly, as if it’s to blame for its contents. ‘It’s not just you, Kismet, we all have problems. Sometimes, between you and Mum, your bloody indecision and faffing around gets a bit much. I love you both, but seriously it’s like being stuck in a tug-of-war.’

  I would try to explain or at least apologise but she snatches up her bag and stands. ‘I’ve got an early start, I better go.’ She drops a handful of notes on the table and strides out before I can get it together to try to stop her. Jane doesn’t even do early starts.

  11

  If it weren’t for Jane’s outburst I’d ignore my phone’s chirps the next morning. I’d left her a voicemail then sent a follow-up text—both went unanswered. In the hazy cocoon between being awake and asleep I can almost convince myself that it was just a bad dream. Almost, but not quite.

  When I finally find my phone among the folds of my doona, ‘Catherine’ flashes disappointingly on the screen. I groan, put my head under my pillow and let it ring out. Catherine has been acting so Buddha-begotten Mother Teresa lately. She’d be likely to use one of her new favourite sayings, like ‘First world problem!’, if I mentioned anything to her about Jane, or work, or the fruitologist. And she’d undoubtedly call me Fiona while she was at it. I blame Phuket. It’s as though she thinks taking a trip to a five-star resort in a non-Western nation makes her some sort of humanitarian aid worker like Angelina Jolie, holding the hands of people as they died of starvation or a flesh-eating bug.

  I was having flesh issues of my own and not just the elephant’s arse kind. When I got home last night, still shaken, I poured water from the recently boiled kettle onto my hand and threw painkillers in the cup with the camomile tea bag. My hand is now wrapped in a bandage, underneath which is a thick coating of paw paw ointment and lavender oil.

  Not that I blame Jane for being frustrated with me—I’m frustrated with me! And I hate to admit it, but Catherine may have a point about the first world problem thing. It’s time I took control. Jane was right about the fruitologist and if he’s going to come between Jane and me, there’ll be a price to pay. What was he doing trespassing on my karmic path if he wasn’t going to act with some intent? OK, so he may not know he’s trespassing but still. My best friend had snapped at me like never before and wasn’t returning my calls and my hand hurt, plus he had ignored me.

  Two hours later, coiffed, curled and carefully made-up (indignant outrage cannot be carried off with anything less), I’m ready to take on the world, or the fruitologist at least.

  I hurtle down the street, dodging crowds enjoying their Sunday brunches. I bypass Jack and caffeine for now. I don’t want anything to soften the spikes of my filthy mood. I storm past the fruitologist spritzing salad greens; highly suspicious given the asphyxiation by salad greens Jane mentioned last night. She probably intuited it. She’s good with that sort of thing, not that we’re allowed to mention it. ‘Just a feeling,’ she always says.

  I realise I’ve gone too far—quite possibly in more ways than one. I have to back track to get to what I need but I’m not going to let my bad mood give way to humiliation. I stride back past him. Stomp, stomp, stomp. I pass him a third time, as though I’m trying to cause an earthquake. One last chance for him to react. The fruitologist continues his spritzing but pauses in his singalong—I’m so huffy that I refuse to notice what the song is.

  I stop beside him, hold my breath and wait for him to speak to me. Nothing. I snatch the tongs from the salad greens and snap them together—I have to put my other items down to achieve this, but with only one good hand, I then have to put the tongs down to get the bag. Not great for indignant outrage but now I’ve committed, I’m not going to stop. I need to successfully bag some greens so it appears that shopping was my only intention and the fruitologist has nothing to do with why I’m here.

  It’s not going to be easy, because my hands are super shaky. I can’t do anything to stop them, not even put one under my arm for a moment to bring it into stillness and calm it down like I usually would.

  He turns to me. ‘Can I help you with something?’

  I look up and catch a flash of his lopsided smile. ‘No, thank you,’ I say, clipping my words so much that I trim the end of the entire sentence right off: I am perfectly fine without you and without your help, in fact everything was much more fine until you decided to step onto my karmic path.

  I don’t imagine he would get subtlety anyway.

  Mental note: Add ‘Gets subtlety’ to the relationship list when I get home. While I’m at it, ‘Doesn’t wear sneakers with jeans’ would also be a worthy addition. That’s what my eyes are focussed on, now I’ve lost my looking-up nerve.

  ‘OK, then,’ the fruitologist says as I snatch the tongs up again. We stand there with our weapons of greengrocer destruction—him with the spritzer, me with the tongs held like a fencer—until he turns and commences fussing with the broccoli. He starts singing again and this time the song does catch my attention—John Cougar Mellencamp’s ‘I Need a Lover’. If that wasn’t a spiritual intervention by Retro FM, nothing was ever going to be.

  Oh for Govinda’s sake, man, are you blind? I want to scream and snap my tongs. Can’t you see when a girl is having an internal tantrum? Do something! Put up a bit of a battle! Don’t back down so bloody easily!

  Even when I thrust my thigh against the roll of bags and snap one off with aggressive efficiency (impressive with only one good hand), he does nothing. He just stands there singing, rooted to the spot like a turnip.

  I wait for him to move off so I can at least throw a few leaves in the bag for effect but we remain side by side. Despite the nervousness and frustration, a strange feeling of familiarity and ease like I’ve been here before begins to overtake me. That I’ve known him as part of me from somewhere, before this time, before this life. I’ve never felt anything like it. Just feeling that is enough—speaking doesn’t matter. I hate to give into it but there’s something comforting about him being so close to me.

  It’s ridiculous—I don’t even know him, I remind myself.

  I put the tongs down and mutter, ‘I think I’ve changed my mind.’

  Outwardly I turn, flick my hair and fl
ounce off—inside I have to drag myself away. Although my departure is helped by the call of coffee. I stride down to good old—well, young (I’d say thirty, if that)—reliable Jack’s. Jack wouldn’t be oblivious, Jack would say, ‘Fiona, what’s wrong, are you OK?’ Or something flattering or sweet. He probably still will and I won’t have to hurl myself around the café for him to do so.

  What? No, Jack? The gall of him after I overlooked Erice to keep my promise to him! Not that I would have seriously considered Erice but it’s a matter of principle. And coffee quality—Jack’s is so much better than this young guy will make but it will have to do.

  As I walk home, my head is a whirlpool of Amethyst’s, Jane’s, Catherine’s and Mum’s words.

  You need to look him in the eye, Kismet.

  Just make a decision.

  Do something sensible.

  Your problem is you never think of the consequences, Fiona.

  That moment in PGGG has sent me way off course and I need to get Ms Middle-of-the-Road somewhere close to the bitumen. I focus on what I know. From all observations and interactions, the fruitologist is entirely not What I Want and Need in my Next Male Love Relationship. He wouldn’t even score a five out of the two hundred–odd items on the list, including the one specifically mentioning his sneaker size, just to give fate a head start.

  My favoured drug floods my veins with each sip. I relax into enjoying my caffeine fix, the whirlpool of voices slows, and I’m even calm enough to think that everything wasn’t really that bad with Jane. I probably just overreacted—there’ll be a call from her when I get home.

  A long, low rumble from close to the ground catches my attention. I’d literally bet the life of my mother’s first-born child (Catherine, so really I’ve not got that much to lose if I’m wrong) that when I look, it will be a dachshund. It’s a rare talent, to be able to recognise them by sound alone. Some people may even call it a little crazy but they’re people who wouldn’t understand that dachshunds are my spirit animal.

  What does surprise me is that it’s a red, short-haired, mini dachshund puppy.

  The fact it’s a puppy can only represent growth and beginnings. It’s so perfectly timed with my questioning—the fruitologist’s behaviour must be a lesson for me to trust the Universe and have patience.

  There’s still no call from Jane when I get home. I’m back to feeling sick about it again. I’d call her but Jane can’t stand needy. A text will be OK, so long as I don’t say anything heavy.

  Are you still alive??? Send word ASAP. Kxxx

  I’ve just finished measuring the distance between the freshly dusted picture frames, knick-knacks and candelabras on my mantelpiece—the final touch in my afternoon’s productive distraction of cleaning—when my phone finally buzzes with a text.

  Hey Kizzo … and kicking. I do want to talk but not over the phone. Let’s catch up again this week. J xxx

  OK so I’m a little disappointed. I’d hoped Jane would call and I still feel a bit sick. ‘Talk’? Why didn’t she use ‘chat’ like we normally would? ‘Talk’ sounds like a break up.

  In a way it’s a good thing that there’s so much on at work. I throw myself into the week, probably more than I really need to but it’s preferable to thinking about all the different reasons Jane wants to ‘talk’. When I do calm myself about that, the buzzing mosquito of Situation Singing Fruitologist is there to take its place but that’s hardly a priority the way things are with Jane.

  Around lunchtime on Friday in what has felt like one of the longest weeks in history, a text from Jane arrives asking if I can meet her at her studio at 6.30pm for a takeaway. Of course I’m free—I’d put everyone else who wanted to make plans on standby.

  Hi GJ (for ‘Gorgeous Jane’) Just so happens your luck’s in . See you then. Love n hugs Kxxx

  I feel clammy and faint as I walk up to Jane’s studio. It’s madness that I feel this nervous about seeing her but the combination of ‘talk’ and her suggestion to meet at the studio (i.e. not in a public place) is like being called to the principal’s office times ten.

  I knock extra loud—I learnt my lesson about walking in unannounced.

  ‘Kiz, come in!’ Jane opens the door.

  I step in hesitantly, not sure whether we’re going to hug as usual or not. But Jane gives me a one-arm hug as she closes the door.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  I see Jane is over her alcohol-free period as she gestures to the glass of wine on her desk. Normally I’d make a jokey comment about it but not tonight.

  ‘No, I’m good thanks. I’ll just grab some water.’ I head to the fridge. A drink might help. Mind you, the Recue Remedy I took earlier hasn’t. ‘How umm … how’s your week been?’

  ‘Look, Kizzo, I know the other night was extreme but, well, things were extreme.’

  ‘Oh,’ is all I can say.

  ‘I thought I was pregnant.’

  ‘Fuck—how? I mean I know how. But how? You’re always so safe. And who?’ I ask, sitting down. It’s like a slap in the face that she didn’t tell me. I so would have told her, I wouldn’t have been able to not tell her.

  ‘Broken condom with that guy who was here the night you came around. As if worrying about the whole STD side of things wasn’t enough. Turns out I’m not—just a coincidence my period was a couple of days late.’

  ‘That’s good—well, the not-pregnant bit obviously. Why didn’t you just tell me the other night?’

  Jane takes a slug of her wine and looks at me for a moment before she speaks. ‘It’s not like anyone else gets a chance to have anything going on in their life with all your drama, Kismet. There’s no space. You’re so caught up in analysing everything to within an inch of its life. Can you even remember the last time you called just to ask me how I was?’

  Thoughts swarm in my brain: I thought you loved workshopping my life and indulging me in my crises and fantasies —they amuse you. And I do ask how you are! (OK, maybe not quite so often since the fruitologist.)

  ‘The thing is, it got me thinking. Maybe I want something more,’ Jane says over my silence.

  ‘What, like a relationship?’ It comes out in a way that sounds so wrong it verges on sarcastic.

  ‘No, not a relationship. Fuck, that was part of what was upsetting me about being pregnant: the thought of being tied to a man. But maybe having a child wouldn’t be a bad thing.’

  Of all the scenarios I’d thought of during the week, this definitely wasn’t one of them. What about our pact to not ever have children? Neither of us had ever wanted them. I don’t recall Jane ever even holding a baby.

  But if anyone can do the single-parenting thing, Jane can. She’s the most capable person I know. Besides, she’s had first-hand experience, as the product of one. It was always just her and her mum. ‘Darling, it was the eighties—days on cocaine—I can’t remember what I did, let alone who I did,’ is all her mum has ever said of her father.

  ‘So a sperm donor?’ I ask, trying to come to terms with what’s going on. I may need a drink and Rescue Remedy for this.

  ‘No, there are too many people in the world already. International adoption.’

  Oh Buddha, as if Catherine going all Angelina Jolie wasn’t bad enough, now Jane’s at it too.

  ‘Wow, you’ve given it serious consideration already then.’

  Deep down I’d hoped it was just one of Jane’s thought bubbles, like an initial concept for an art piece she never takes any further. I know she’s capable of it but I still can’t imagine her with a child.

  ‘You know me, I’ve already done some research. It takes a couple of years so I can’t afford to mess around if I’m going to do it.’

  ‘No, of course.’ Like Jane would mess around. If you want something done quickly, ask an Aries. I should say something like, How wonderful or That’s great or Good for you—you’re going to make a wonderful mother, but I know it’ll come out sounding false. It’s not that I’m not happy for her, if a child is what she really wa
nts. But this is beyond major, it will change the landscape of how life has been with us for thirty years.

  I’d taken it as a given that no matter what happened, Jane and I were always going to be closer to each other than we were to anyone or anything else. It’d always been the case, even through my previous relationships. And I thought it would always be that way but Jane has just cut my mooring ropes and I’m all at sea.

  ‘Oh my fucking God.’ (Sorry, Buddha.) I stand up and hug her. It’s the most real thing I can do.

  ‘I know. Who would’ve ever thought it?’

  We look at each other in disbelief for a moment before convulsing into laughter.

  ‘Let’s order some dinner,’ she says once we wind down, as though everything is fine and back to normal. And Jane would be fine. If you looked up ‘water off a duck’s back’ in a dictionary you’d probably find an artsy black and white photo of her.

  Me on the other hand—I’m still stinging and spinning.

  12

  This is going to be torture for them in a few years, I think, as my mother lunges at Sammy and Sonja, drops to her knees, wraps her aproned body around them and squeals, ‘Oh, my little daaarlings!’ They’re not even fully in the door.

  For now Sammy and Sonja are delighted. And who wouldn’t be? They’ve just escaped a lesson on the finer points of edge trimming from their grandfather, who remains in the front yard with his tape measure and trimmer. Surprisingly given this, Dad’s not a Virgo, he’s a fellow Taurean, but we can be a little pedantic and houseproud. And not all of it is Dad—Mum’s always on at him about making sure the front yard is neat. And it is, clinically so. As a teenager I used to tell people I lived at the pink flamingo because I thought the ornate concrete bird out the front was the only thing that gave our white brick bungalow some character. Plus it sounded so much more exotic than 27 Smith Street. The flamingo’s so faded now it practically blends in with the bricks.