Falling into Place

by Pamela Mc Casker

  Claire is spending D-day, her first Melbourne date-day, reviewing her wardrobe.

  It’s a depressing exercise made worse by the counsel of her best friends, Suz and Mary. Clothes she’d thought stylish appear dowdy when being auditioned for an imminent date. She can imagine just how lowly Clive will rate her frocks.

  Examining herself critically in the mirror, she runs through her repertoire of expressions – they all seem faux – a word she’s been dying to use for ages, although today she wishes she had no use for it. Sexual abandon is the expression she finds hardest to fudge as she’s had no serious occasion to use it thus far.

  “Trying to launch your head into orbit?” asks Mary. “Watch me!” she orders. Standing front on to the mirror, she leans her weight back on her left foot while thrusting her right pelvis forward, and hungrily ogling Claire’s Che Guevara poster. Claire’s chosen Che’s face to adorn her wall more for his dashing looks than for his politics.

  Mary now turns her head slowly so that a cascade of hair flows enticingly (she hopes) across her shoulders.

  She demonstrates a range of poses: come-hither, get lost, and those falling into an intermediate range, like boredom and surprise. Claire wonders if there oughtn’t be a handbook cataloguing all the moods called-for in dating situations.

  At last, having been put through her emotional paces by Mary, Claire wilts onto the bed.

  “Wow, Mary,” she says. “I’d no idea dating was a science. I thought it was meant to be fun!”

  “It can be simple fun. It depends how keen you are for results.”

  “Results?”

  “Successful outcomes, dill! Like getting laid. You’ve been a virgin way too long.”

  “Act decisively, girl, or you’ll find your condition’s terminal.”

  “Gosh! But won’t he like me for myself? You guys do.”

  Claire’s friends dissolve in laughter at such a ridiculous notion.

  “No, he won’t. Dating’s like being in a play,” says Suz, “you have a choice of roles: the life of the party good-time girl, the kittenish, girly girl, the swot, the sporty type, the vamp, the predator…”

  “What about the nice girl who’s kind?”

  “Only disabled men want kind,” says Mary.

  “Could I be a big hair glamour puss?”

  Whoops of laughter greet the latter suggestion. Suz performs a corroboree, punching the air at the idea that Claire, with her ponytail, glasses and freckles could hope to pull off such a coup. Suz is the staid Head Prefect of their coterie – a word Claire’s been saving for a special occasion. She’s pleased that stitched-up Suz is acting so spontaneously.

  “If you can’t act, just be yourself, is the consensus.”

  “But who am I?”

  “You’re a Jane Eyre, goody-goody type – so don’t act the femme fatale. Be a nice girl from the country, who’s clever and smart,” says Suz.

  “And pretty,” adds Mary, who’s painting her toes – even in winter, she finds an audience to repay her zeal.

  “Wear that skimpy ocelot print frock but let me plait your hair. That way you’ll look like a nun who borrowed a frock from a tart!” says Suz. “Ambiguity is intriguing.” She pushes Claire onto the bed, grabs a hairbrush and wields it punitively, winding hanks of hair in and out until Claire knows why wound is spelled ‘wound’.

  Chapter 3

  Arrival at Clive’s

  Claire wears her best frock. The ocelot spotted number. She feels paunchy wearing it.

  Should she hold her stomach muscles taut all evening or should she relax and breathe?

  Mary offers her a wide belt, an engineering trick that helps. She says, “You look ‘fine’, Claire.” Suz insists that she should splurge on a cab this freezing late May evening.

  Once the cab pulls into the driveway, Claire bolts; not that she’s eager for her date to start, but anxious to get it over with. In the stairwell, a premonitory wind gust tears at her plait. It tears her eyes up too. Claire loves homonyms! The squall lashes next door’s pittosporum, cleaning her face of make-up and revealing freckles.

  “Enjoy drainage boy!” Suz calls, withdrawing from the gale before she can reply.

  The first disquieting omen comes in the form of a spring that pierces the ageing cab’s upholstery and Claire’s upholstery as well. It forces Claire to ponder her virginity. Here the upper case is needed and a drum roll. Her VIRGINITY! She’s clung to it against all demographic trends, and yet it seems shameful in an almost 20-year-old. It’s 1987, after all.

  “Did ya team win?” the cabbie asks.

  Claire knows that a footy team is one’s passport to acceptance in Melbourne even if that team is Collingwood, the most reviled in the League. The Magpies, as they’re known, engender frank hostility even in liberal-minded citizens; any mention of this team calls forth invective outbursts in the meek. Melburnians need Collingwood like Catholics need hell. This team lets them vent their tribalism; it draws the venom out.

  “Yep. The Magpies, she lies.” She hates football.

  “Great third quarter!”

  Claire sinks down in her seat and prays he’ll shut up. He does. Good. Maybe she can use mind control on Clove of India too.

  What will he expect of her? An Aussie bloke’s ideal woman is said to be ‘a deaf and dumb nymphomaniac living above a pub’. Bad luck, Clive! You’ll have to settle for a bookworm renting near a fish and chip shop.

  Alighting, her panty hose snags. With the bodily awareness nervousness bestows, she feels each nerve-ending register the progress of the run as it snakes its leisurely way up from her knee. It builds a silken ladder to her moist and fleshy regions.

  She forces her reluctant feet up the path to Clive’s small terraced-house’s door. It’s pretty, she’ll learn by daylight.

  She places one foot in front of the other, wearing overly high-heeled boots; she keeps a brave smile planted firmly on her dial, while holding her tummy in, her bum out, and thinking too. What a work of art is woman!

  Clive opens to her tentative ring, “Ciao, Claire,” he says. He wears a barbeque apron with bosoms. He grasps her right hand and squeezes it as if testing fruit for ripeness.

  His hand is warm and dry.

  Bad luck, Claire thinks. She’ll be the one stuck in the role of ‘Nervous Nellie’ playing away from home while he’ll enjoy the home-ground advantage.

  “Come in,” he says. Clive squeezes himself against the doorjamb to allow her to slip past. The trouble is she’s not slipping anywhere as his fake bosoms, along with those she’s been equipped with since 11, block her way.

  The two stick as fast as insects on flypaper. Clive gestures towards the back of the house with an imperious flick of his head but he himself remains in situ. Next, he wriggles as if buffing Claire with fine-calibre sandpaper. A mad idea but they almost come unstuck.

  Claire tries unbuttoning her coat with her wine-bottle hand. She hooks her index finger into the first hole and liberates its toggle. Hooray! Three to go! She wriggles her shoulder, lowers her head, hoping to peel her coat-sleeve inside out and over the bottle. But until her right hand is free of Clive’s persistent grip, she’s bound to fail.

  She has a brainwave: “For you, Clive,” Claire says, handing him the wine.

  Clive checks the label, “Chateau Tahbilk Shiraz, fabulous, ta,” he says, grasping the bottle without taking hold of it. They stand jointly caretaking this bottle as if part of a tableau vivant at a wine fair. “Can you manage your coat?” he asks.

  “What does it bloody well look like?”

  Her words galvanise Clive. He eases them over the threshold and since his upper limbs are occupied with hers, he slams the door with a nifty kick. If he ever loses the use of his hands, he will survive!

  “You take the wine. I’ll manage my coat,” Claire says. But Clive seems paralysed.

  She mimes the peeling of her shoulder strap over her head, by raising her arms upwards. This manoeuvre forces his arms to rise in mimicry of
hers as if they’re maypole dancing.

  “Hang on,” he says, “you’ll want the bed.” Still gripping the bottle, he backs her into the first doorway; the room’s light comes from a silk-fringed whorehouse lamp.

  Backed up against the bed, Claire sees a bedside table for the wine. She makes a beeline for it, drawing Clive after her. Meanwhile, she wonders whether beelines are necessarily straight. Surely, bees ought to meander about in search of the widest range plants to pollinate? She could kick herself – and would do if only she had control of her feet – for giving brain-space to such irrelevant thoughts when she has a real problem to solve. But one’s subconscious thoughts aren’t always irrelevant, are they?

  While Claire’s high-heeled boot is left to fend for itself, it snags on the rug. Her non-bottle arm wheels about, keeping her upright, while her bottle arm conscientiously holds the bottle up for Clive’s perusal.

  She overbalances onto the bed, detaching the bottle from Clive’s grip; she barely avoids smashing it on the bed-head and launching the evening in a shower of glass.

  Clive, fearing to let the wine out of his sight for an instant, follows her. They lie bosom to bosom. Claire’s blush mechanism being temporarily disordered, she giggles helplessly.

  Clive lies there like a stunned slug. “I’d hoped to get you into bed eventually,” he says, licking his lips. “But I wanted you for dessert, not entrée.” His voice emerges as thick as molasses. “Are you ready to eat?”

  “No. I need cooking first,” she laughs. “And I’d like to get to know you.”

  He looks at her as if memorising her face for an exam. “Good,” he says, “there’s not much to know about me. So, we’ll take the short cut.” He drops the wine onto the floor. He unwinds Claire’s bag strap and starts in on her coat. He manages its buttons but needs to roll her from side to side to free her arms from the sleeves.

  She imagines the surgeon he is: slow and painstaking. She lies there deader than a fish on a slab, fearing he’ll whip off to the kitchen for shears, but he remains patient and methodical, viewing setbacks as challenges, treating her arms as if double jointed.

  Once the coat is off, he sees her boots. “Good Lord!” he says. “More idiotic footwear.”

  “It’s thanks to my shoes we met!” she says, shocked by his petty self-righteousness.

  “Be careful or you’ll end up a fallen woman. You’ve been warned,” he says, as if issuing her with a summons.

  “Okay. So, I’m utterly frivolous,” Claire says, in a bid to disarm him with her candour.

  But the twin thumps of her stilettos hitting the floor alert her to his stratagem.

  Chapter 4

  After the Fall

  Claire’s date with Clive unfolds as pure slapstick. They couldn’t have performed better with practice. She lands like a porpoise on a silk duvet so shiny she’d have skidded off had he not fallen on her like a sack of spuds. You’d think Claire had ordered a tonne of ballast, and Clive was filling out the order precisely.

  Horizontal, his fleshy parts overlap hers. She’s like a sausage roll filling in a double crust.

  He starts undressing her. She shoves him off the bed.

  He hits the floor with a thud. Lies there unmoving. Claire does the mirror thing – no moisture forms. She slaps his face. She feels like she’s patting a lump of clay into shape.

  She phones for an ambulance. “Number 128A Drummond Street, Carlton,” she says.

  When Clive opens his eyes, it’s clear he’s been feinting. He orders her to call back, cancel the ambulance. When she hesitates, asks whether he might have sustained internal injuries, he sits up and cancels it himself, scorning her use of the term ‘sustained’. “You sound just like a nurse in a TV series,” he says as if nursing, the defining fact of her life, were somehow laughable. She asks how she’s supposed to sound.

  He doesn’t reply but gets stuck into her, blaming her for their misunderstanding. It’s all her fault, he tells her, his voice lower now, for coming to dinner dressed like a lustful animal.

  When she protests that this is her only proper ‘dating’ frock and that Clive has no right to blame a frock ‘retroactively’ for his bad behaviour, he guffaws.

  “Proper! Ha-a!”

  When he recovers himself, he bestows upon her his sincerest expression. “Dear Claire,” he says beseechingly, “sorry. It’s just…I thought we’d skip the time-consuming bits.”

  “You think affection is time-consuming?” she asks.

  “Yes, and overrated. Same etymology as affected! Etymology has nothing to do with ants, by the way.”

  “I know that, you patronising shit!” Claire says, “I collect words.”

  “Ha-ha!” He cackles evilly. “You funny thing! I like you already.”

  “You were about to more-than-like me, Clive.”

  “Yes, he admits, I would have liked you and licked you but only with your frock’s consent.” His eyes roll suggestively.

  “What about feelings!” Claire protests. Her body shakes in full agreement with her words; meanwhile, the part of Claire that can stand outside herself looking in knows she’s acting more indignant than she feels.

  “Feelings,” he mimics, “I had feelings all right. I felt like sex.” He helps her up onto the bed and climbs up beside her. He pats her rhythmically, distractedly, as if she were a pet dog.

  “Now you rest, Claire.”

  Claire lies there as unyielding as a plank under the duvet. He parcels her up in it. Kneads her back through the feather-down, until her shivering lessens. She starts enjoying the male smell of him – all damp tweed and tobacco, though he doesn’t smoke. “I guess I should have said ‘no’ more emphatically,” she admits, meanwhile making sure her muscles remain taut. “I’d hoped for a good natter.”

  “You came here for a natter? Then try talk-back radio.” But he gathers Claire into his arms like a fond old uncle. He folds the duvet around her. She feels like she’s swaddled in bubble wrap for posting home. She shivers still. Clive massages her shoulders, cradles her tenderly.

  “I had big hopes for tonight,” Claire says. “Silly me!” She smites her forehead histrionically, realising that, although the hist word is one on her list for using quickly, thinking it doesn’t count. “I thought we might have fun and laugh and like each other,” she says, “and then maybe…”

  “Stay!” he pleads. “My behaviour was unforgivable. Sorry.”

  Claire sits up, enjoying his remorse. Has the balance of power shifted her way? Her breathing settles.

  “Listen, Claire. ‘Tiamo’ in Lygon Street does a mean pasta take-away. Do stay for a quick bite to eat. And while I’m gone, please fix your eyes, Hon. You look like a raccoon.” He gives her a quick kiss on the forehead, removes his apron and heads out.

  While he’s away, Claire wanders around looking for the bathroom. She finds 19 C horse portraits, a knobbly wool couch, a banana tree sculpture from Bali and vertical blinds. What would Suzy make of all this tat, she wonders. If Claire mentioned the blinds, Suz would tell her to get the hell out – that he was a chainsaw murderer in a surgeon’s disguise.

  The weirdest object is a photographic print; it looks like an x-ray of the male urogenital system; it’s beautiful enough to pass as art. It’s a gorgeous tropical rainforest plant, tinted in soft greens and cerises. Maybe it’s a teaser for his dates. Euw! A urologist’s Rorschach test?

  The phone trills.

  “Aleksandr?”

  “Wrong number,” she says.

  “You friend?”

  “My friends think so.”

  “Of Clive?”

  “Ah, Clive busy.” Broken English catching, she thinks.

  “Say to him Ray and Charles Eames cheap Monday. View tomorrow. Footstool.” The man disconnects.

  In the bathroom, Claire washes her face and dries it with a scratchy towel. Okay, we got off on the wrong foot, she tells her mirror image. But since I must eat somewhere, I shall stay.

  The wire reinforce
d shower-screen and pink and grey sixties mosaic tiles are ugly in a good way. Clive’s home has a gritty integrity. Clive is not confused but merely confusing. He’s an anarchist scorning bourgeois taste. Claire pees relieved.

  Chapter 5

  Meeting Alex

  Clive returns with just one portion of take-away. Claire hopes it’s for her. She’s starving.

  Heightened emotions burn through calories. Alas, Clive divvies up their meagre allowance.

  On entering the lounge-room, he has two bowls balanced on his forearm, napkins tucked into his under-arm, while a salt and peppershaker is secured beneath his chin. His head is free for thinking, and his feet for walking.

  They chitchat while drinking ruby-coloured Shiraz. They’re onto their second bottle.

  Claire’s not sure how this has come about as she’s barely moistened her lips. Clive must have been putting it away stealthy as a cat approaching an unguarded fish on a counter-top.

  The wine bottles had emerged from a stash in a lean-to beyond the kitchen. Despite the extreme cold, the fire remains un-lit and little warmth emerges from the Rinnai gas heater. But it’s not too bad, Claire supposes, the wine has geed their circulation up. Scented candles add a festive note.

  Clive sees Claire rubbing her arms. “Hang-on, Hon, I’ll get you a wrap,” he says.

  “Is your heater broken?” she asks.

  He shrugs. “Probably. I’m hardly ever home. I don’t feel the cold.” He gets up and returns with a blanket and drapes it over her shoulders. “I’ve some ideas for pollution-free heating, if necessary, Claire,” he raises his eyebrows at her interrogatively.