by PJ Mayhem
How dare he, how very dare he!
I have the tiniest flutter of a thought to get Beyoncé beyond my butt and storm down there to F that bitch up, while singing ‘Hold Up’ to Frankie—but I’d already waited so long for the bus—and I was on a higher plane than that. People who had an Enlightenment Day attendance certificate calling them a Moon Goddess didn’t go bitch-slapping people in the street. Although Enlightenment Day hadn’t quite brought what I’d hoped for in the way of miracles, insights or epiphanies. I’d be sticking to one-on-one sessions with Amethyst from now on. (I don’t know what I was thinking—I’m really not a group person.) It had, however, provided me with the details of Marcus, Phoenix’s shaman, and Charisma, Megan’s past-life person. There were obviously just a few more stepping stones on the path to enlightenment than I’d initially imagined.
By the end of the day I’ve made appointments with both Marcus and Charisma. Charisma’s first available is four weeks away. He must be fantastic. Some people may deem having a Spiritual Support Pit Crew of four practitioners excessive. But while Amethyst and Lionel are working on the mechanics of the lock, I still feel like I need to find the key that will slide perfectly into it and open up the chamber that holds all the answers. It’s not like I’m going to be seeing them all every day, and having a back-up is always a good idea; who knows when a girl might have to pull in to the energetic healing pits for an emergency tune-up or quick spiritual grease and oil change. Even though I’m doing quite well as Ms Middle-of-the-Road there’s always the risk that even a finely tuned machine can malfunction.
In my fully-in-control state, focussed on the white centre line, I decided not to go into PGGG after work. It’s one thing to turn away from me in the street and forget my name but Frankie had flaunted his flirtation as I’d faced imminent death, for Buddha’s sake. That sort of behaviour is totally unacceptable and unacceptable behaviour of that magnitude officially calls for a huff, so I’ll flounce past with a flick of my hair this evening. Even if Frankie doesn’t notice, which given how oblivious he’d been to my rampaging-hippo act in store weeks ago, I don’t imagine he will—I’ll know and that’s all that matters.
Clearly I’m making progress with Lionel.
Which all (somehow) brings me to another point. Why, with his long legs and big Adidas feet, hasn’t Frankie offered to carry my shopping for me? It would take him under five minutes on a round trip. I’d witnessed him make it back from the street to behind the counter in nearly a single bound on several occasions. True, the expectation may be a little premature given that he’d only just managed to remember my name but everyone else seemed more than fine with the idea of providing home delivery—at least of them doing it, not Frankie. Jack was still making moves to deliver my coffee after everything and even Derek from the little supermarket that doesn’t even rate a mention in my world had almost begged me to let him do home delivery the other day. Frankie would be well advised to get in touch with his chivalry genes. Of course I’d decline but I’d like the right of refusal to a chivalrous offer by him.
Unfortunately that train of thought leads me into the very dark tunnel of wondering why Frankie didn’t say, ‘Sorry, you did tell me your name but I’ve forgotten it,’ like any normal, civilised, reasonably caring person would do.
Deep hypno-breath—I can’t afford to get dragged under by thoughts like that if I’m going to maintain my huff but I also can’t afford to undo it by overriding the thought with items from my mental list of Endearing Things About Frankie. I’m not sure if it is appropriate to take a Ms Middle-of-the-Road approach to a huff but I do, so as not to topple too far either way. It works quite spectacularly. As I pass by PGGG on my way home I flounce like I’ve never flounced before.
26
It’s the chocolate brown recliner with Positively for my Lionel session this week. My lack of sleep is making me fragile and the bear really is quite comforting. I look deeply into his glass button eyes for a little pre-cuddle permission, then hold him against me.
‘You seem to be growing quite attached to Positively, Kismet. You might get one for your birthday—Oh, I see I’m a month or so too late,’ Lionel says.
Am I the only one in this trio (I include Positively) still clinging to the hope that I might get a real-life, breathing, non-stuffed bedfellow?
As lovely as Lionel is and as much as I’ve relaxed into our now customary end-of-session hugs, I certainly wouldn’t ever be able to sleep with a bear he gave me. And if I were to live out the remainder of my days—or nights—sleeping with an inanimate object, Silicone Frankie was going to win big, work-roughened hands down every time. I begin to wonder if I influenced Lionel’s inability to imagine me with a real-life bedfellow with so many thoughts of Silicone Frankie. But again realise I need to get down to business.
I tell Lionel about the College of Sinology Studies job first. I swear if he says, ‘Getting clarity on what you don’t want helps you refine what you do want,’ I’ll scream. I know that’s true but I’m tired and over trying to figure out what I should do.
Mercifully he doesn’t.
‘That must have been very disappointing. It really did sound perfect for you.’
‘I know. I can’t believe it. I can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve only had two interviews. Getting to the interview is a success in itself. You’re doing that every time, most people don’t. So tell me, how did you go with the anxiety?’
‘Better, not nearly as bad. Maybe that was because I didn’t really want it.’
‘Or maybe there’s been some improvement. Give yourself that. It’s just a matter of time. Now, Frankie?’
‘There’s not much to tell …’ I begin but somehow find myself talking about Frankie for ages. The bus stop incident with the old man is turned into an amusing anecdote by my OTT indignant outrage.
‘I want you to tell me about your past relationships, Kismet.’ Lionel rubs his beard.
‘I really don’t want to do this, Lionel.’ When I say I really don’t want to do it I mean, I really, really don’t want to do it. I’ve promised myself I won’t ever cry over a man again and if we do this, I will. When I say I’ve moved on from my relationships, it’s more that I’ve locked those events and memories in a dark room and thrown away the key. Now here is Lionel with a bobby pin, trying to unpick the lock.
‘Why?’
‘They weren’t great relationships and I’m a different person now. Some things are just best left in the past.’
‘But you’ve brought that past with you—you’re lugging it around, letting it get in the way. Do you know what I think? I think you’re afraid of being hurt again. Don’t kid yourself into believing I can’t see that pain. All your imaginings, fantasising and dramatics, as endearing and amusing as they are, they’re just a decoy.’
Seriously, if I’d known that Lionel was going to turn everything around on me I would’ve kept it to myself. I blink furiously to try to get rid of the tears already bubbling.
‘No, I just get bored easily, Lionel. I need to entertain myself.’
‘True in part, perhaps, but there are much healthier ways to exercise your imagination. The way you get all prickly and huffy is nothing more than an echidna using its quills to protect itself from pain. Even the rigidity and tension in the way you hold yourself works to keep people away.’
We’re both quiet for a moment.
‘Fine, Lionel. You win.’ I reach for a tissue. Now we’ve started this I may as well get it over with. I clutch Positively a little more tightly. My voice has none of the smooth slowness it usually has when I’m under hypnosis. It quavers and quakes, dragging through the pieces of rubble that didn’t get swept away when I rebuilt my heart.
What Lionel finds most interesting is not the fact that, yes, both my exes happened to marry someone else before they were exes, but that I’ve always chosen men who are not quite available. In my defence, it wasn’t like Tommy Tun
g had really wanted to marry someone else—it was his obligation to his family. Then there was Wang Kang Qi—Wang Ka, as he became known after he’d been meant to come for dinner and just didn’t show up—not a word. When I bumped into his brother and he told me Wang had got married, I’d wanted to kill him. I hadn’t. He was much less of a loss than Tommy Tung had been. Of course I could have phoned Wang when he didn’t turn up, even if to check he was OK, but deep down I knew he was—even then my intuition was strong. And to call and demand an explanation wasn’t really me. I’d always had a bit of an issue with my pride.
‘Is your freedom really that important to you, Kismet?’ Lionel asks over the buzzer.
As I leave Lionel’s office, I think back to family lunch on Sunday. Mum had insisted on driving me home, which meant Dad drove and she came along for the ride. Not that Mum can’t drive, I’ve just never seen her do it when Dad’s around.
A trip with Mum and Dad is always excruciating, their bickering intensified in the confines of the car, and there’s always a detour: Dad seeking an out-of-the-way newsagency he’d heard stocked back copies of Golfing Weekly, and Mum just wanting to drop something off to Mrs So-and-So, seeing as we’d sort of be passing—if passing meant a ten- or twenty-minute diversion.
‘Now, about our anniversary dinner, you haven’t forgotten, have you?’ Mum said as soon as our seatbelts were clicked.
I honestly can’t remember ever hearing about it but, then again, things had been getting a bit hazy lately. There’s a good reason sleep deprivation is used as torture.
‘Bev, give the girl a break. Can’t you see she’s exhausted?’
Oh holy Govinda, I’d thought, if Dad’s noticed it’s worse than I’d realised.
‘I’m just mentioning it, Reggie. You’re not the law on what I can say.’
Those sort of nagging domestic differences and the way Catherine is with Brian, the claustrophobic nature of it all, were exactly the answer to Lionel’s question I needed. Yes. If that was the alternative, my freedom really was that important.
The fact that I can’t decide whether I need a jacket or not as I prepare to head down to PGGG after all my usual preparations on Monday night reminds me how quickly time is passing. If I’m going to wear a jacket is this the best one to wear? I think I better curl my eyelashes one more time. Am I sure I really do need this jacket? It was all critical, given Frankie had been laughing with that younger woman. Even though, as Lionel had pointed out, I may have been overreacting slightly.
It isn’t until I’m at the till at PGGG that Frankie suddenly appears. He shuffles the young guy away from the counter and gestures towards the storeroom. ‘You go pack up back there, I’ll do this.’
Ms Middle-of-the-Road score ten out of ten—I don’t even have to stop the thought that he’s using a secret code to prepare my hostage quarters because it doesn’t come.
‘Hi, Fiona.’
‘Hi, Frankie.’
He’s nonchalant, I’m sing-song.
‘You didn’t come in last week.’
‘No, I got caught at work.’ I remain pokerfaced to stop the grinning fool inside of me from escaping.
‘I see.’ Frankie’s smile seems to have a knowingness to it. Maybe he did see me flounce by.
We look at each other, silent—I don’t think either of us is going to be taking up a spot on the public-speaking circuit anytime soon. I blame all my pent-up Goddess energy from Enlightenment Day for what I do next.
‘Um, have you got any cinnamon, please?’ I double-check there’s no one who can see me, then indulge in physical appreciation of his torso as he stretches to the spices above the counter. If BIG comes waddling in I’ll die.
‘Sticks or ground?’ Frankie’s up on tiptoes, head out of sight.
Shiva. I am not good on the spot, especially as I’m quite preoccupied hyperventilating at the sight of him reaching up like that. Blind panic makes me squeak, ‘Just one of each would be great, thanks.’
He starts singing along to Pat Benatar’s ‘Hit Me with Your Best Shot’ and I keep watching, thanking Buddha, Govinda and every God and Goddess known to man, woman, dog and spirit that he is taking so long.
‘Thanks.’ I’m not quite able to meet his eye as he scans the spices.
When I do look up, Frankie is looking at me, smiling broadly. I can’t help but look right into his eyes. It’s like I’m standing on the edge of a volcano and I can feel myself tumbling into a place that I may not ever get out of alive.
‘Fiona.’ Frankie brings me back to reality.
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Twenty-five fifty, please.’
For this evening’s in-store clumsiness, I trip over my own feet as I walk away. I grab the end of the counter to steady myself and turn back—Frankie is still smiling at me.
I somehow arrive home via a trip to Planet Swoon.
You have the power to say no or to walk away, the Lovers’ Oracle card tells me. Of course I do—technically—but it’s as though a furnace has been lit under the energetic powerhouse of my hara. From the fire it’s creating in my belly I realise that no matter what I do or don’t know about Frankie, any question of walking away has disappeared into the ether. Whatever crazy experiment the Universe has going on in the test tube of my life, as illogical as it seems, something’s going to happen with Frankie and me—I know it.
27
The thing with exceptionally good moods, like the one I’m in after last night, is that they can be suddenly ripped away from you. Work will do it every time. Mine begins to waver when I see Rosemary Hatchment hobbling towards me.
We keep our greetings brief.
‘Fiona, I just wanted to check up on those notes I left the other week.’
‘Oh yes, of course, your notes.’ I scramble around my desk, desperately trying to find the right pile of papers. ‘Here they are.’
‘They’ll be ready for my class tomorrow afternoon, won’t they?’ Rosemary sounds doubtful.
‘Absolutely, Rosemary.’ I nod reassuringly as I leaf through her scratchy, hand-written fiscal policy notes. Though I’m not sure how—I haven’t even looked at them.
‘By the way, are you sure you’re OK, Fiona? You really don’t seem yourself lately and you don’t look it either.’
‘Fine, thanks, Rosemary. Best I get on with these.’ Honestly, as if I didn’t have enough issues and paranoia about my appearance without everyone telling me how crap I look, not to mention the insult of the Intense Reinforcing Anti-Wrinkle Eye Cream sample.
‘Do take it easy. I see you have stuff everywhere. You can only do what you can do. As the saying goes: how do you eat an elephant?’
‘One bite at a time,’ I reply. Part of me knows she’s right but there’s a bigger part that wants a circus elephant to sit on her just so I can say, ‘Now chew!’ She might come closer to understanding that I feel like I have a whole herd of elephants to be eaten and I can’t even manage to catch one to tie it down and start chomping.
She’s right though, my desk is a shambles. The extreme clutter quotient is very bad Feng Shui for productivity. No wonder I’m not coping quite as well as I usually would.
An hour later, I’m close to having the piles on my desk sorted into ‘Red Hot Super Urgent’, ‘Super Urgent’, ‘Quite Urgent’, ‘Average Urgent’, ‘Below Average Urgent’, ‘Important But Not Vital’, ‘Less Important’, ‘Might Get to It One Day’ and ‘Can’t Even Remember—Hide it in Desmond’s Office for Future Shredding’. I can feel my chakras whirring more harmoniously and a sense of control returning as I survey the neatly ordered piles. I would’ve loved to create a list of the piles and potentially a matrix of what was in them to tick off as I got through them but Ms Middle-of-the-Road had to rein my compulsive side in. The Thirteenth Tale, the book that Marianne from Customer Service gave me months ago, had appeared sandwiched between a working copy of Prioritising Compliance Within the Organisational and Academic Structure and a fact sheet on government funding requirements. (
Kill me now.) I throw it in my handbag. Not that I’m planning on reading it—like I’ve got the time—but everything that isn’t essential has to go. And I don’t want to offend Marianne by giving it back unread.
On Saturday morning I head down to PGGG wearing an extra layer of foundation. (Insomnia does nothing for a girl’s complexion, not to mention the dark circles!) Unfortunately despite multiple attempts, my eyelashes haven’t curled well and I now look like I’ve got a couple of squashed spiders on my eyelids.
‘WDE, GI’s announced his retirement. SSFC are done for—RC must be devo. With SB already VC and performing the way he is, he’s bound to get the captaincy. Sutto will be so PO’d.’ Frankie comes down the aisle as though he’s about to face a firing squad.
I assume the acronyms he’s hurling around are directed at Ms Terse-at-the-Till because he’s looking at her and doesn’t see me.
‘What?’ Ms Terse-at-the-Till drawls, barely looking up from her phone. I’m with her, I haven’t got a clue what he’s going on about, but from the desolation in Frankie’s voice, it’s the worst thing to happen since Buddha was a boy in his last incarnation.
Listening in on Frankie’s translation to Ms Terse-at-the-Till—in a totally appropriate, just curious way—I gather that it’s the ‘Worst day ever, Greg Inglis has retired, South Sydney Football Club are done for.’ Frankie assumes Russell Crowe must be devastated and Sam Burgess will be the new captain and this might piss John Sutton off.
Ms Terse-at-the-Till doesn’t say anything, just looks back at her phone. Tap, tap, tap, she goes on her screen. I very much doubt she’s tweeting about it.
I feel a bit bad for Frankie, he looks so crestfallen. There’s something sweetly appealing about the way he’s so affected, even if it is about football!
