by PJ Mayhem
I check the time.
Shiva—6.15pm.
‘I won’t be far behind you. I should be done with this in ten or fifteen.’ I smile despite my urge to strangle him. Ever since his fiancée arrived he’s been all man about town. I have my suspicions that ‘my beautiful bride-to-be’, as Desmond refers to her, strong-armed him directly to David Jones’ men’s department when he collected her off the plane. It certainly looks as though she’s put an end to his mother cutting his hair.
‘Take it from me, it’ll never end. The more you do, the more they’ll throw your way.’ Desmond’s voice echoes down the stairway.
I think I liked the burn-the-midnight-oil Desmond who barely left his office, let alone left before me, better. It’s his smugness, not his happiness, that I resent. Mind you I could have done without his unsolicited advice so close behind Jane’s.
When I check the time again it’s 6.25pm and things look promising for a hasty exit by 6.35. Then my email dings with a new message. It’s Broomstick. She has a couple of last-minute inclusions she’s just finished discussing with PEB, as she now refers to Professor Emeritus Bartholomew.
Karma had obviously jumped up to bite me on the arse for being less than one hundred per cent truthful with Jane.
I’ve got two choices here.
17
It takes some effort to squeeze myself between the train doors as they close but I make it. Having put Jane off for Mission Elicit Personal Information, I could hardly let Broomstick take pride of place. I’ll go in early tomorrow and make her changes. I do the best I can with my make-up, but the swaying of the carriage doesn’t make it easy and the lighting is hideous.
Make-up done and Rescue Remedy taken, the next thing is hypno-breathing. I close my eyes and focus on my breath—in through the nose, entire torso expanding, out through the nose with a slightly constricted throat. Each breath gets deeper as I count down from fifty and tell myself, ‘I am relaxing.’ I sound a bit like Darth Vader when I hypno-breathe but the other passengers will have to live with it—I’m determined to turn my nervousness into anticipation rather than paralysation.
It’s 7.20pm when I get off the train at Central. Critically short of time, I jump in a cab.
‘Just here is good, thanks,’ I tell the driver. We’re a block before PGGG but there’s no way on this sacred earth I’m going to get out of a cab in front of the shop like I’ve rushed to get there. I jump out, not waiting for my change, and run until I am close enough to PGGG to be seen. I pat my hair down.
The fruitologist and the Big Italian Guy (BIG) from the bakery next door are standing in the doorway of PGGG like two Chinese stone lions, nothing moving but their jaws.
‘Hi,’ the fruitologist says and takes a small step backwards to let me past. The squeak of his sneaker drowns out my response, which was only ‘Hi’, so it’s hardly critical. I’m still trying to catch my breath from my sprint.
The doorway isn’t big enough for the three of us, and I have to turn side-on to get by BIG’s girth. Facing the fruitologist provides the perfect opportunity for me to conduct a little olfactory research on what he might have been up to at the pub last night. I take a short, sharp sniff. His breath is clear of alcohol but not minty, like he’s trying to cover it up. I cross ‘Alcoholic?’ off my mental list of pub activity concerns. Which is a good thing considering what an effort I’d made for my mission—I’d have hated for it to be wasted, although ‘Pokie Addict?’ and ‘Pick-Up Artist?’ are still up for grabs.
Under the cover of my hair, I catch the fruitologist and BIG giving each other a look as I take a basket.
I motor through the store. Time does not allow me to do my full tour. These days, I rotate what I stock up on to make sure I get into every nook and cranny of the shop. Jane called it obsessive, I just call it maximising opportunities. Clearly the Universe placing the fruitologist out the front tonight was to compensate for my time restrictions.
Ms Middle-of-the-Road stays completely focussed, all the time telling me, ‘You can do this. You can act like he is just any other shopkeeper, you can act like he is any other person, you can act like he is any other man, any other “soul in a physical body”—to paraphrase Amethyst—and you can certainly act like someone who isn’t an obsessive semi-stalker.’
BIG is waddling back to his bakery, I see, when I sneak a glance at the doorway.
I steel myself, which unfortunately results in me giving the fruitologist a steely glare as he comes up the aisle towards me. Still, I keep my head up and hoping for a repeat of our moment in the street, I look him in the eye and say, ‘Hi, how are you?’
He looks briefly at my left eye, then down, directing his mumble of an answer to the floor. As I tell myself that it was only because by the time I spoke I was almost beside him so to look at me fully would have been super awkward, he disappears out the side door.
Calm yourself, Kismet. He’s probably doing something entirely legitimate, not preparing for your death by salad greens asphyxiation and readying the polystyrene chiller box to pack you off to Poland.
What he’s been up to is worse than I thought.
‘Eighteen to six—Souths are losing,’ the fruitologist calls to the guy on the till as he bursts out of the cool room. He slumps like he’s taken a hit but recovers quickly and starts singing along to Blondie’s ‘Dreaming’, which is playing as he takes over at the till.
I can’t believe I hadn’t thought to add ‘Sports Bettor?’ to my list of pub activity concerns. I’m not sure if it’s possible for someone to come up with a negative score on my What I Want and Need in my Next Male Love Relationship list but the fruitologist is definitely headed in that direction. How could destiny be so cruel?
I stride up to the till. The stride, like the edge to my voice and the glare, is there to cover my nervousness. The old lady in front of me is going to take forever—you can always tell, they’ve virtually got a ‘slow moving vehicle’ sign plastered to their back. She starts putting her items on the counter one by one.
The fruitologist eyes her basket and pats the counter. ‘Just sit it down there,’ he says, sounding sweet, not twangy at all. Just that takes her an eternity and a half. But he seems to have all the time in the world for her, whereas my toes are squirming in my shoes and I’m scuffing at the floor, thinking I’ll be ready for a hip replacement myself before I even get out of here if she doesn’t hurry up.
‘Here, I’ll get that for you.’ He takes the green shopping bag she’s been fussing with, snips the tag off and packs her items.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she says.
The lovely, delightful, sweet, gentle, kind fruitologist helps her lift her bag off the counter. It’s so adorable that football scores, sports betting addictions, homicidal tendencies and organised crime rings disappear from my thoughts. Actually, my mind disappears completely—even more than the moment in the street. I take my first full trip to Planet Swoon, swept away to another world, thinking how beautiful he is, in that ‘beautiful from the inside out’ sort of way.
It’s only when he looks at me and smiles that I come back to earth. In my panic at being caught out thinking sweet, soppy the-fruitologist-is-gorgeous thoughts, I look at him sternly then down at the counter.
Arrgghh! What is wrong with me? Why can’t I ever have a normal facial expression when I’m in here?
‘Hi,’ he says to me again as the old dear shuffles off.
My breath catches on the anxiety that now sits heavily on my diaphragm. It’s hard to say if I’m looking at him, because I’m hovering above my body, but I have to do this. ‘What’s your name? I see you all the time,’ I say, regrettably ungracefully.
‘Frankie.’
‘I’m Fiona,’ my out-of-body self responds but very little sound must come out, because, ‘What’s yours?’ Frankie the fruitologist says as though he’d heard nothing at all.
‘Fiona.’ Oh Buddha, why didn’t I tell him Kismet? But Fiona just sort of came out.
‘Anothe
r F.’
In my freaked-out state, I say, ‘Oh, yes, two Fs.’ What a ridiculous thing to say! He probably thinks I’ve already made us into a couple.
Maybe we say bye, maybe we don’t—I’m still not back in my body as I step away.
Ouch. I smash my hip into a trolley on my way out, caught up with trying to regain my cool, calm and collected Ms Middle-of-the-Road composure. A reminder to be careful with my thoughts.
18
‘So what time did you leave the other night?’ Jane asks.
Even on a Wednesday, Bar Monk is buzzing and I struggle to hear her. A situation not helped by the damp cotton wool that fills my head from my blocked sinuses. I caught a cold last week and it’s now fully blown consumption. Not being able to breathe isn’t doing anything to help nor are the miracle cure Chinese herbal drinks that Bing’s been forcing me to drink before he’ll give me my coffee. I think they make me feel worse.
‘So what plans did you have on Friday night?’ Not feeling well always makes me more feisty and I’m still not sleeping, so I don’t have the reserves to cushion everything to the degree I usually would.
‘I asked first.’ Jane licks a drop of wine from her lips.
We look at each other and simultaneously realise how ridiculous us trying to have a stand-off is and begin to laugh.
‘Later than I’d hoped.’ I’m still sort of laughing, but my hacking cough is taking over. Technically it’s not a lie; I was later than I’d wanted to be. ‘Now you,’ I wheeze. ‘So who or what did you do Friday?’
‘Drinks at a bar that wants a mural done and then the bar owner. On that note, I guess I have to ask: the fruitologist?’
‘I made some conversation, not a dead otter in sight. Actually asked his name—it’s Frankie—and he asked mine. That’s pretty much it but there was a spark, I’m sure. Then this morning when I went past he was singing along to the Stones, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”. What do you think that means?’
‘That he’s got crap taste in music and is therefore completely incompatible.’ Jane pulls a face and laughs.
I should have known better. Jane hates the Rolling Stones, she especially hates Mick Jagger’s lips.
Suddenly Jane stops laughing and my stomach drops. I hate it that I’m on such tenterhooks around her these days but I just can’t make it go away.
‘Kismet, what’s wrong with your eye?’ She leans forward squinting at a scaly patch on my eyelid, through the dim light.
‘Oh no, not you too. Catherine was going on about it at lunch on Sunday.’ I’m pleased Jane hasn’t noticed that I’m also losing eyelashes from my right eye (potential over-curling). Now I haven’t got a good eye between them, I won’t be able to get away with wearing a designer eye patch to cover my bad eye and dramatically fluttering my eyelashes of the other one at Frankie to compensate if I happen to see him on the street. It’s been a major concern all week so I’ve been trying to come up with contingencies.
Jane leans in a little closer. ‘And, sorry, but what’s wrong with the rest of you?’
Almost a week of fever, flu and night sweats hasn’t done me any favours. My eyes are the least of my worries if I do see Frankie.
‘Oh, it’s my consumption, a bit of stress at work and lack of sleep.’
‘You should have told me you weren’t well, we could have met on the weekend.’ There’s that Aries for you again—fire signs, they flare up then they’re over it again just as quickly.
‘No, it’s been too long. I wanted to see how things are with your mum after the other week and what’s happening with Project Baby Jane.’ I squeeze her arm.
‘She didn’t take it well but I wasn’t going to pander to her. I knew she’d come round eventually and she has. It’s vanity, really.’
‘A curse.’
Jane and I nod, smiling, knowing how much we relish being mistaken for much younger than we are.
‘And it was probably quite a shock for her too,’ I venture. The ground feels more solid but I don’t want to sound barbed.
‘I think I shocked myself.’ Jane hugs me as she stands to get another drink.
When she’s back we go through the details of her mum’s reaction, her work, the mural and Mr Mural the bar owner, and yes, the more she’s thinking about the adoption, the more she’s warming to the idea.
As we’re leaving, Jane says, ‘I know we’re not meant to mention anything about the anniversary of someone’s birth rolling around but what are you up to Saturday, Kiz?’
‘That’s right and that’s the last word I want to hear on it. But seeing as you asked, I’m babysitting Sammy and Sonja on Saturday night. Want to join me?’ I don’t think Jane needs a reality check but some time with kids may not go astray.
‘Yep. That vanity’s a curse,’ she winks, ‘But no to babysitting, I’m catching up with Mr Mural—baby-making practice.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Why miss out on the fun bits? And you? Any plans to go in and make progress on the name before you die a born-again virgin?’
‘Shiva, no, not looking like this.’
‘You should take tomorrow off. You do look ghastly,’ Jane says, once we’re in the full light of the foyer.
She’s right, I should, but the mountain of work still isn’t going down and now the board want more urgent changes to the report.
The late night and the cold damp air do nothing for my consumption. I wake (I use the term loosely) after another night of fever and night sweats feeling like death, but still I force myself up and soldier on.
‘Fiona, where’s your KeepCup?’ Jack holds out his hand.
‘I was too tired to wash it, sorry. I’ll just have to do a takeaway.’ It’s me over Mother Earth this morning.
‘Poor Fiona. You should have brought it anyway, I would have washed it up for you.’
Oh, Jack, so sweet and kind. But even through my brain fog I’m thinking, Oh my Buddha, there’s Frankie, as I pass PGGG and see him. Or, more accurately, his torso, as his head is lost behind the spices he’s reaching up to get. He really has to stop doing things like that. He could bring on a flutter of longing and desire even if I was no longer in possession of a pulse. Jack … well, Jack feels like a little brother to me.
I struggle through the next two days at work.
Adding some final touches and reformatting my What I Want and Need in My Next Male Love Relationship list isn’t the most thrilling Friday night I’ve ever had, but I need to rest to be well enough to look after Sammy and Sonja tomorrow night. Plus there was an essential area of the list that I’d overlooked, which I was alerted to this morning.
I was waiting for my coffee, Jack thankfully preoccupied with orders, when Thuga stomped in. He held up three fingers to Jack and left but not before looking at me in that disturbing way he has.
Naturally, I’d done my hair-veil thing. I didn’t want him to go back and report my flaking-off face to Frankie, especially with the breakthrough of the name exchange. I’m hoping to have de-flaked by Monday so I can go in after work.
Seeing Thuga reminded me of the flight of fantasy my imagination took me on when I’d stopped into PGGG on Sunday for some biscuits to serve as dessert after lunch at Mum’s. Frankie hadn’t been there but Ms Terse-at-the-Till had caressed (it felt like a caress) the back of my hand as she’d passed me my change and I’d had a sudden thought that she and Frankie might be swingers. I had visions of being tied up in the PGGG storeroom, taunted by the reward of a taste of my preferred yoghurt if I performed certain sexual favours. Standing in Jack’s, waiting for my coffee, I worked my way through nearly as many different contortions as the kama sutra to try and figure out how to add ‘not a swinger’ to my list. Given I’m not allowed to use a negative, it’s not that easy.
Sexually normal … No, not definable, and I certainly don’t want to end up with some lights-off, ‘everything but missionary position makes a girl a slut’ sort of guy.
Good in bed. For a moment I think I am onto
a winner but then when I poke and prod it from a few angles I notice a flaw: what is ‘good’?
I’m right up flummoxed creek without a paddle, stuck on this new item, but there is always a solution and I know the way to find it: the pop-up toaster.
I’m rinsing dishes that don’t even need washing (I find dishwashing a very therapeutic task) that night when Sexually compatible bursts through the cobwebs of my brain. I shunt a few things around on my list and add ‘Sexually compatible with me’ (I realised I should refine it—clarity is key) at number five on my A List, after: ‘Kind’, ‘Amusing’, ‘Caring’ and ‘Generous’.
Come Saturday night, thoughts of swingers and European mafia sex-slave scenarios couldn’t be further from my mind.
‘Don’t throw popcorn at your sister, Sammy,’ I say during our second viewing of The Secret Life of Pets. My attempt to sound authoritative is undone by me throwing popcorn at him. Pretty soon popcorn is flying in every direction, the kids are jumping on the couch, squealing and screaming, and I’m wheezing with laughter.
‘I want you to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this, especially your mother.’ I try not to sound panicked once we’ve all calmed down and I look at the popcorn shrapnel scattered around the living room.
‘Yes, Aunty Fee.’
‘Cross your hearts,’ I demand over the sound of the handy vac, lifting couch cushions, making sure I get the nozzle into every crevice. If I leave even the tiniest trace of evidence, Catherine’s bound to find it. Then she’ll get all Catheriney and be telling me I won’t ever be allowed to mind the kids again if I can’t be responsible and set a good example.
As Sonja helps me clean, Sammy drifts away into his room.
‘This is Greg Inglis, he’s the captain.’ Sammy emerges with his football cards to squeeze between Sonja and me, now back on the couch.
‘I see.’ I study the card that Sammy passes to me with great concentration. It’s for Sammy after all.
