by Kris Webb
Every time I collected Jack from Carla’s I expected him to object to coming home with me. Her shop was so warm and full of life and I always felt vaguely like a fraud coming in to pick him up – as though I was an actor playing the part of someone’s mum. But he seemed happy to see me and, with him blowing her kisses, we left the shop and headed out to the car.
Without any shopping or cooking to do, I suddenly didn’t have anything to stress about. Jack would be in bed within an hour and then I’d have plenty of time to get dressed before Grant arrived. Hell, I thought extravagantly, I might even have time to shave my legs.
When we got home I poured myself a glass of wine and opened the concertina doors leading to the deck. A loosely wrapped package was sitting on the table. Surprised, I picked it up.
Just then, Jack managed to pull the fridge door open, knocking himself over in the process.
Carla had told me that except for marinated olives, for which he had a passion, Jack had refused all offers of food that day. Putting the package down, I ladled some of Carla’s meat-balls into a small bowl and heated it in the microwave.
I hauled Jack into his highchair and placed the bowl in front of him, not holding out much hope he’d eat anything so wholesome. Past experience had taught me not to even attempt to feed him, so, prattling about my day, I turned back to the counter and opened the package.
Inside was a videotape without a label and a folded piece of paper, obviously ripped out of a notebook.
I opened it.
Dear Julia,
According to the closest thing I have to an expert on such matters (my sister), time to yourself is your greatest need right now. On her advice, I set my video (a technical feat designed to impress you) to tape every episode of Playschool this week. By my calculations that is three hours’ worth of coffee-drinking time.
Hope it helps!
Tony
I didn’t know whether to be touched or annoyed. What was this supposed to mean? If Tony was trying to keep me guessing, he was doing a good job. He hadn’t called since Friday night, but here he was doing something lovely and making comments about wanting to impress me.
I put the package down on the table and then picked it up again. Having to explain to Grant where it had come from wasn’t the way I needed this evening to start. I felt a stab of irritation that Tony had managed to make me feel guilty.
Immediately I felt bad. Tony probably hadn’t even given any thought to what was going on, because nothing was. We’d had a horrific breakfast, been to an appalling movie and he’d dropped around for a drink. Not exactly enough to constitute a committed relationship. If I had some form of life, I wouldn’t be analysing every development like this.
Taping Playschool was a pretty thoughtful thing to do and I was being ridiculous expecting anything more. No one in their right mind would contemplate a relationship with me right now.
Programming my video machine was something I’d been swearing I’d do ever since I moved in. Until I did, I could only tape a program if I was watching it – somewhat defeating the purpose. I couldn’t help but be impressed that Tony had used the timer on his video, and I found myself daydreaming about how nice it would be to have a guy around the house.
I was on about page two of my mental handyman list when I turned back to see Jack had emptied the bowl and was licking it clean.
Trying not to give a loud whoop of excitement, I heated some more meatballs and handed him another bowlful, which he devoured just as quickly.
After that, the evening should have been a piece of cake. Jack should have been in bed by seven and I should have had a leisurely half-hour getting ready. Except that Jack screamed blue murder when I put him down, and didn’t stop. At seven twenty-five I was still pacing the hall, having had a tense shower and thrown on a bright paisley skirt and a loose black off-the-shoulder top. He was usually happy to go to bed. Why did he have to pick tonight to protest?
What was worse? A screaming child who was out of sight, or a wide-awake child toddling around the lounge room? And more importantly, would I ruin his sleep patterns forever if I let him get up?
Patrick’s key turned in the lock and he came face to face with me in the hallway. He’d been due to meet with Tony and John at five to see if they liked his new theme idea.
‘So?’ I asked, holding my breath.
The smile on his face gave me the answer before he spoke.
‘He went for it! I’ve got the go-ahead for three shows. If viewer response is good, we’ll do some more.’
‘That’s fabulous! Congratulations.’
He walked down the hallway still talking. ‘He liked the yellow foods best – so it’s yellow fried rice and banana split for the first show.’ He stopped. ‘You do have some cookbooks, don’t you?’
‘Yes . . .’ I wasn’t sure that fried rice and banana splits actually had recipes, but decided to keep that to myself.
Patrick stopped, Jack’s screaming finally making its way through his euphoric haze.
‘My God, where does the child get the energy to scream like that? I couldn’t do it for more than five seconds.’
‘I have absolutely no idea, but he has been doing it since seven o’clock and Grant is going to be here any moment.’
‘Oh. He’ll stop soon,’ he said without much conviction. ‘I think he’s winding down. Look, I just dropped in to tell you my news. I’m meeting a few guys at Maggie’s pub to celebrate my new career.’
‘Wouldn’t fancy taking Jack, would you?’
Patrick looked at me, not sure whether I was joking or not. I wasn’t sure either.
‘Ah, I remember seeing a sign saying no children are allowed in the bar,’ he improvised. ‘Otherwise I’d love to – really.’
‘Liar.’ I managed a momentary smile. ‘So what do you think I should do?’
‘Well, you can’t let the little guy cry. Maybe he’s not tired.’
I had to concede he certainly hadn’t looked tired when I’d put him into bed, but I had been in desperate need of a shower.
Instantly I felt guilty. Wanting to impress an old boyfriend wasn’t exactly a great reason for just throwing Jack into bed. Full of remorse, I flung his door open.
He stopped mid wail, mouth open, and stared at me. I gently picked him out of his cot.
‘I’ll do you a deal. You can stay up until you are tired but the first time you yawn, you are back into bed. Sound okay?’
He looked at me solemnly as if he was weighing it up and I took that as an affirmative answer.
Patrick smiled at Jack as we emerged from his room. ‘Hey, little buddy.’
All trace of misery gone, Jack wriggled to be set down. I hadn’t managed to clear away any toys in days and he grabbed his Bob the Builder ball and rolled it in Patrick’s direction.
Patrick rolled it back and I took advantage of the momentary diversion to slip into the bathroom and put on some make-up.
Staring into the mirror, I wondered how I looked to Grant. How different was I from the girl he’d gone out with in school?
I was surprised at how excited I was by the prospect of seeing him. Maybe running into him was a sign that we should try it again. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to make it work.
I heard Patrick calling me and I quickly turned off the light and headed back to the living room.
Patrick was trying to extricate himself from underneath a very un-tired looking Jack, who was doing monster impersonations.
‘Help . . .’ Patrick called weakly. ‘I can’t . . .’ Much to Jack’s delight Patrick died a very dramatic death complete with a death rattle and seizures. Jack looked up at me, pleased by his handiwork.
I pulled Jack off and Patrick opened one eye.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘I really think that routine would be a hit at the pub.’
‘Uh-uh. I’m out of here.’ He stood up, dropped a kiss on Jack’s forehead and headed out the door.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang.
&nbs
p; ‘Hello there.’ Having opened the door with Jack on my hip, I decided to pretend this was how I usually conducted romantic dinners. ‘Come on in.’
‘And you must be Jack,’ Grant said. Suddenly shy, Jack burrowed his head into my shoulder. I turned and headed into the living room.
‘Whatever’s for dinner smells fantastic,’ Grant enthused as he entered the living room.
‘Italian meatballs,’ I announced proudly.
He looked at me. ‘Wow, your cooking skills have improved since high school. I remember a string of disasters coming out of your cooking classes and have a clear memory of having to chew through the heaviest scones I’ve ever tasted.’
‘You said you liked them!’ I said in mock affront.
He grinned. ‘I lied.’
‘Don’t be fooled. Some things might have changed, but my cooking hasn’t improved at all. Dinner was going to be something very basic until I discovered the lady who looks after Jack had made this for us.’
‘Well I’m glad I brought red wine.’ Grant handed a bottle to me. ‘This place is great.’ He looked around.
‘Thanks. I bought it about a year ago. Patrick lives downstairs.
‘Really? You get on all right?’
‘Yeah, it actually works pretty well. Once I came to terms with the fact that I was living with someone who had no idea who Maxwell Smart was, everything was fine.’
Grant looked as shocked as I had been. Get Smart had been our staple Sunday-afternoon entertainment the whole time we’d been together.
Jack wriggled to be let down and I put him on the floor.
‘I’m sorry about his being awake,’ I apologised. ‘He should have gone to sleep half an hour ago, but for some inexplicable reason didn’t. Maybe he got wind that the ice-cream guy was coming.’
He smiled, but I couldn’t help feeling that for Grant, having a child around at dinner would be like me having one of my clients hovering. The thought didn’t make me feel any better.
‘Would you like some wine?’ I asked.
‘Thanks.’
Grant leaned against the kitchen bench as I opened the bottle.
I could see Jack heading towards me, but tried to ignore him. The bottle was open and I was filling two glasses when I saw him trip over a toy and fall. Instinctively he threw out an arm and grabbed onto the nearest object, which happened to be my elastic-topped skirt. It slid over my hips and landed in a pile around my ankles.
Frozen, I looked down at a prone Jack, and then at the puddle of material on my shoes, my bare legs and the off-white cotton underpants I’d been vowing to throw out for at least a year.
Placing the bottle slowly on the bench, I bent down and pulled up my skirt with the small amount of dignity I could muster. Jack seemed to realise he had done something very bad as he was uncharacteristically silent.
Taking a deep breath, I looked over at Grant. He had discovered a damp patch on the wall and was looking at it as though he’d never seen anything so fascinating.
Suddenly I had a picture of how I must have looked and snorted with laughter. After a moment Grant joined in and we both relaxed a little.
I picked Jack up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘How do you keep coming up with these stunts?’ I whispered.
Jack yawned and rubbed his eyes. I was terrified of a repeat of his earlier screaming, but more terrified of having Jack wreaking his special brand of havoc all evening.
‘Right. You’re off to bed,’ I decreed. ‘Won’t be a moment,’ I flung over my shoulder at Grant.
Entering Jack’s room, I went to put him into the cot. Until I realised that it was Haroldless.
Stunned at my idiocy, I picked the disgusting creature up from the other side of the room and put both him and Jack into bed. Jack turned on his stomach, drew his knees up under his chest and closed his eyes. Still shaking my head, I returned to the living room.
‘Okay,’ I exhaled as I lowered myself onto the sofa.
‘You look as though you’ve been doing this kid thing forever,’ Grant commented.
‘Trust me, if that skirt thing had happened before, I’d never wear anything without a very tight waistband.’
He laughed. ‘Yeah well, apart from that.’
‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m getting the hang of it and then something comes along and I realise all over again how incompetent I am.’
I took a sip of my wine. ‘Take yesterday for example, when I was working from home . . .’ I made a face. ‘Well, actually, I was doing no work from home . . . I had a letter I really had to get done and Jack wasn’t cooperating. He was walking around with a plastic cup half full of water. He started drinking some of it and I encouraged him because it was keeping him happy. I didn’t really think too much about it. Until I followed him into the bathroom and saw him dipping the cup in the toilet.’
‘Oh,’ Grant screwed up his face.
‘Yeah, exactly. He hasn’t shown any ill effects, though, so I’m hoping I’ll be able to avoid confessing to the doctor how a Brisbane child contracted cholera.
‘Anyway.’ I changed the subject. ‘Did you find a flatmate?’
‘Nope, not yet. One guy didn’t show up and the other one asked me how I felt about nudity.’
‘Really? What, just around the flat or everywhere?’
‘Don’t know, couldn’t quite bring myself to ask.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said I hadn’t given it a lot of thought. But I’m thinking if he asked about that before he even asked how much the rent was . . .’
‘Mmm – sounds a bit of a worry.’ I stood up. ‘Well, I’m hungry, let’s eat out on the deck.’
Dinner was sensational and the conversation flowed easily. The warm Italian food and the candlelight created an easy intimacy and by the time we’d finished eating I felt it couldn’t possibly have been fifteen years since we knew each other, or that our relationship had ended so badly.
Pouring both of us another glass of wine, Grant pointed to the guitar which sat in the corner inside the doors. ‘Is that yours?’ he asked.
‘No – Patrick’s. He’s determined to teach himself how to play. I’m not sure what’s worse, Jack’s crying or Patrick’s rendition of “Jingle Bells”.’
‘Do you think he’d mind if I played it?’
‘Not at all. I didn’t know you could.’
‘I learned when I was at college,’ Grant answered, tuning the guitar. ‘Do you like Bruce Springsteen?’
‘He’s great.’
Grant strummed a few bars and then launched into ‘Fire’, an old Springsteen love song. He had a lovely low voice and, combined with the lyrics, the result was mesmerising. He simply shouldn’t be allowed to do that around defenceless women, I decided.
As I watched him sing, I was struck by a strange realisation. I had once known just about everything there was to know about this guy. We’d told each other everything – all our dreams and plans. I knew his parents had fought bitterly when he was young and that he’d been secretly relieved when they got divorced. I knew his first dog had been called Skywalker – a tribute to his favourite movie. But now, fifteen years had passed and, while he looked the same, if a bit taller and broader, I hardly knew him at all.
He finished and we were both quiet for a few seconds.
‘That was lovely,’ I finally managed when I trusted myself to speak.
‘Thanks. Playing the guitar is one of my favourite things. I used to keep mine in the back of my first van for when business was quiet. Now it sits in my office and gets played maybe twice a year.’
‘Maybe you can ditch the canned music you play in the van and play Springsteen instead,’ I suggested hopefully.
‘Sorry,’ he shook his head. ‘It has to be “Greensleeves” – just wouldn’t be the same otherwise.’
We moved into the living room for coffee and he asked if there was anything I wanted him to play.
‘Um,’ I tried frantically to think of somethi
ng cool to suggest, but my mind was absolutely blank. I decided to dodge the question. ‘Do you really know enough songs to take requests?’
Grant laughed. ‘Don’t underestimate me – I’ve learned a thing or two since we last met.’
I had the distinct feeling he wasn’t just talking about music.
‘What about Phil Collins?’ I asked, remembering his comment.
Suddenly I realised that every single Phil Collins song I could think of was a love song. I was going to have to sit here, whilst Grant played ‘One More Night’ to me. Ritual humiliation seemed to have become a part of my life, even with Jack sound asleep.
Grant smiled slowly. ‘Sure, how about “Billy Don’t You Lose My Number”?’
I nodded with relief – I couldn’t remember many of the lyrics but at least it was upbeat.
Just as Grant started to play, I heard Patrick let himself in downstairs and then his footsteps on the internal stairs. My heart sank. There were some definite downsides to not living alone.
Grant stopped playing and looked up as Patrick reached the top of the stairs. My brother stood there, swaying slightly, obviously having done a fair amount of celebrating.
‘Hi,’ he said, clearly concentrating on not slurring his words. ‘Long time no see.’
I figured Patrick would realise he was interrupting a private moment and disappear, but the alcohol had clearly blunted his social radar and it quickly became obvious that wasn’t going to happen.
‘Good to see you again.’ Grant stood up and shook Patrick’s hand and to my dismay Patrick dropped into an armchair.
There was a brief silence and then Grant turned to Patrick. ‘Hope you don’t mind my borrowing your guitar?’
‘Not at all. It’s good to see it being used.’
‘Have you been playing for long?’ Grant asked.
Patrick shook his head. ‘A mate of mine taught himself to play “Let It Be” and “Sounds Of Silence”. He trots them out on every first date – reckons you only need to know two songs and it impresses women every time.’
Patrick hadn’t mentioned this before and I shot Grant a look, wondering if I’d just fallen for the same technique. As if he guessed my thoughts, he looked back at me and shook his head.
