‘What about all these strawberries though?’ Bryant leans over and pops one of them in his mouth. ‘Seems a shame to let all this fruit go to waste.’
He places a kiss on the end of her nose.
‘We don’t have to do this, Bryant.’
‘Of course we do.’ He takes the bowl off her lap and smiles. ‘Come on.’ And he lowers his head and starts to lick the strawberry marks from the inside of her thighs. He works his way slowly upward; a trail of kisses across her stomach and breasts, and neck, until he reaches her lips. Once there, he slides his hands between her thighs.
She tries to capture her desire, but it darts away from her like a shadow in water. She feels vaguely guilty — embarrassed too — that she had to resort to dressing up, using force, fruit and subterfuge. It just makes her feel like a dodgy, desperate salesperson. Every time she grows close to a sexual feeling it escapes in another direction, teasing her with being out of reach all the time.
Bryant gets on top of her, but he doesn’t appear to be in his body. He’s like a robot going through a programmed set of careful movements; happy enough to comply with any of her wishes. He’d probably attempt cartwheels if she asked. But that’s not what she wants. She wants to close the gap; she wants to touch the real Bryant —honest and messy and vulnerable, not this obliging machine. In the end, she can’t climax, despite Bryant’s encouragement. He presses a kiss against the side of her head. ‘Next time.’
Afterwards, they return to the bedroom and Julia, with relief, exchanges the g-string and negligee for sensible knickers and a large T-shirt, and drags the sheet around her shoulders. Now is the time to ask Bryant awkward questions. ‘So how long is your mother planning to stay with us?’
‘I don’t know.’ He yawns. ‘But it’s going to be brilliant.’
She can’t help but smile at his tousled form, his sleepy eagerness to see his mum. Perhaps Bryant is showing his true self. After so many years of witnessing her own mother’s irrational behaviour, and her father’s silent, anguished collusion, perhaps she has simply mistaken Bryant’s optimism as a lack of depth. And the very fact that she can’t explain the gap between them is surely a sign of her own inadequacy, not Bryant’s. He’s a good man, she reassures herself.
She dreams of Tom.
She watches him dig a hole. He grips the shovel with determination. His shirt is off and tied around his waist; his muscled arms and chest are wet with sweat and his skin is as dark as wood. Every now and then Tom looks up at her. No smile or word, just a look that sends reels of electricity through her body. Her eyes feel hot just watching him.
There is an urgency to his digging; over and over he attacks the earth, his body moving with easy grace. A hole quickly appears. After a while he leans the shovel against an old peppercorn tree and wipes his hands down the length of his stomach.
She is drawn forward, despite all the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck lifting. The hole has no bottom. Deep and dark. A faint whistle of wind rises to the surface and, despite her fear, she smiles.
Tom begins to undress. First he unties the shirt from around his waist. He drops it on the ground beside him. Then, the overalls rolled down over his hips. And, finally, his socks and boots. Stood before her, naked like a god with that intense stare, she cannot breathe.
Then he jumps into the hole and disappears.
Julia
The phone rings as she is brushing the bathroom tiles with paint stripper. She throws off the rubber gloves and hurries to the phone, trying to remember how Bryant wanted her to answer each call. He had admonished her earlier that morning about her lack of enthusiasm, her plain hello, and she tries to make her voice sound cheery and welcoming.
She parrots his intended greeting: ‘Bryant Heath’s Lovely Yoga School, how may I assist you?’
‘Yes, hello,’ a woman says. ‘I was wondering if you do any yoga classes for dogs? I heard they’re good for improving obedience.’
Julia pauses, not sure if she’s heard right. ‘Sorry …?’
‘Dogs,’ the woman says again, sounding irritated. ‘My Shih tzu keeps doing the downward-facing dog pose and I thought he might like to try a class.’
Julia recognises the voice then. ‘Lauren,’ she says, and gratitude almost brings her to tears. Lauren is the only dancer to keep in touch. ‘I left a couple of messages for you but I didn’t hear back.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been flat out with rehearsals. Anyway, are you still sane? Tell me you haven’t started calling everyone mate, and wearing gumboots.’
‘Would you come up and rescue me if I said I had?’
‘Now, sweetie,’ Lauren says. ‘You know I love you, but not that much. I can’t get past the Westgate Bridge, let alone on a freeway heading away from civilisation. It’s all the trees and fresh air and open spaces. I have panic attacks.’
‘So how are things?’ Julia watches her two children playing through the window. Amber is making her Barbie doll jump along the concrete path that leads to the washing line. Oscar is dropping rocks on his Matchbox cars.
‘Crazy. David’s kids are feral. In fact, I was thinking of sending Tiffs up to you; she’d fit right in, I’m sure. We got a call from her school last week, saying she’d been caught behind the oval doing things to a boy that nice fourteen-year-old girls shouldn’t even know about. So much for a private education. I swear, Julia, we were never like that when we were their age.
‘And Ryan, Jesus. Ryan came in drunk Friday night, rolls in at one o’clock; he’d been sick all down the front of his new jeans, and then he tried to grab my arse when I offered to clean him up. He’s quick to remind me I’m not his mother. Cheeky bugger. David would be furious if he knew his son was making passes at me all the time.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘But enough of me. How are your kids? And how’s that wacky husband of yours?’
‘Good, good. Amber loves it here. Oscar is having a bit of trouble settling in.’ Julia leans forward. Her son has abandoned his cars and is bent over something, his body still, his hands moving rapidly. He yells something at Amber and she pokes out her tongue. What is he doing?
‘You know I’ve got the most exciting news, Julia. God, I wish I could tell you this in person so I could see the expression on your face.’
‘What?’ Julia presses the phone closer to her ear. She is sure Lauren has exciting news about her recent promotion to Senior Artist. She can’t wait to hear all about it. Perhaps Lauren has scored a wonderful new part. Julia makes the decision to travel down to Melbourne for the performance no matter what. ‘Come on. Tell me all about it then. Make me jealous.’
‘Remember the barista at Flat White café?’
Julia is momentarily puzzled. ‘What? The guy with red hair and yellow teeth?’
‘For goodness sake, Julia, is that what country living has done for your taste? Give me some credit. No, I mean muscle man. You know, he always wore tight white T-shirts with little words across the front, remember? He is built like I don’t know what. Arms like forklifts. Not much of a conversationalist but he certainly makes up for it in other ways.’
‘You didn’t …?’
‘I did, several times. David can’t work out why I’m so chirpy all of a sudden.’
‘Don’t you feel guilty?’ Oscar puts something in his pocket.
‘Why should I?’ There is an edge to Lauren’s voice. ‘David’s never around; he’s always getting paged to do another surgery. And when he is home, he’s exhausted. Since I started my fling with the barista, I actually feel quite content with married life.’
‘It all sounds emotionally very messy.’ Julia watches Oscar get to his feet and walk over to the old laundry building. She wishes he’d stay away from there. He squats in the weeds under the window and begins to search for something.
‘Look at the alternatives, Julia. Have you seen the choice of men out there? They’re either gorgeous, but gay — we know all about that scenario — married and pretending not to be, or they’re divorc
ed and emotionally screwed up from the marriage and broke from maintenance. Or they’re still living at home and trying to sneak lovers into the back room without Mummy waking up. I’m lucky to have one who earns a fortune, spoils me rotten, doesn’t want any more kids, and understands that I’m married to the ballet as well as him.’
Oscar puts something else in his pocket. Julia turns her back to the window and tries to concentrate on what her friend is saying. ‘I thought you were seeing that cellist, what was his name?’
‘Tony? No, that didn’t work out in the end. Pity really. But I’m resilient now, I rarely get hurt. It’s you I worry about, Julia. You’re not as tough as most women.’
‘I’m fine.’
Oscar stomps through the back door and heads into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
‘Are you happy with the move?’ Lauren asks.
‘I’m not really sure yet.’
‘Well, you’ll need to do something, Julia, you know, or you’ll end up depressed like I was. No offence and I know you won’t take any, but Bryant is the kind of guy that, well … you know what I mean.’
Irritation prickles the back of Julia’s neck; what right does her friend have to judge Bryant? ‘Is there a point in there somewhere?’ Oscar comes out of his bedroom and smiles a little too sweetly.
‘Don’t allow your happiness to be dependent on one person, sweetie, or you’ll suffer, like I did. Have some fun while you’re young enough to enjoy it.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she says.
‘Bravo. And next time I call, Julia, I want to hear you’ve taken some gorgeous farmer or stockman to bed. Okay?’
Julia promises to ‘check out the local talent’ and to pay Lauren a visit in the city soon.
Oscar empties his pockets at Julia’s request—gravel, anold tissue, a tight wad of silver foil with an elastic band sticking out of it that he calls a missile launcher.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘What were you doing out there before?’
He shrugs, wipes the back of his hand under his nose. ‘Just stuff, Mum. Boy’s stuff.’
Julia visits Joe’s café every morning. And as she sips her coffee she refuses to look out of the window at the barren street and sad-faced locals. She focuses her attention on the Italian posters inside the café and pretends to be somewhere else, denying the bleakness of Lovely until it’s absolutely time to leave.
Joe talks of Italy and she makes him describe everything in great detail: his childhood home, his family, the meals they shared and Julia drinks in the information like a thirsty child.
‘Why don’t you plan a trip?’ he says, one morning after she’s dropped the kids off at school. ‘They often have cheap airfares on the internet. You’re welcome to use my computer out the back.’
‘Couldn’t afford it.’
‘How is the yoga studio going?’
Julia hesitates, about to make up one of Bryant’s cheery lies, then sighs. ‘I don’t think it’s going very well.’
‘Give it time.’
She takes a sip of her coffee, lowers the cup. ‘Do any of the businesses do well in Lovely?’
Joe thinks for a moment. ‘The pub does all right.’
That’s not what Julia wants to hear. She can’t help but look out of the window then and has to squint her eyes against the glare of bright sun. An old farmer with a red face walks past the café and they catch each other’s gaze. He pauses to wipe a hankie across his forehead and swears under his breath.
Julia returns to her coffee, to the soothing pictures of Tuscan villas and olive groves and imagines herself in a trattoria on the other side of the planet, with Bryant’s arm around her waist, the children splashing happily in the ocean, far away from this desolate town.
Tom
But if the doctor said there was nothing wrong with you, Dad, how come you need to take all of these tablets?’ I point to the bottles on the table.
‘They’re to stop anything bad happening to me.’ He puts his hand on my arm, giving it a little pat.
Mother folds her cardigan across her chest. ‘I wish you would stop trying to sugar-coat everything for him.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I’m too sweet for my own good,’ he says, and winks at me.
For a second my old dad returns and gratitude brings me to my feet. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my cheek against his rough face. I don’t want to let him go. He used to fly me around in circles, this man, holding one wrist and one ankle. He used to throw me up in the air and catch me like a pound of sugar.
He pats my shoulder awkwardly. ‘Come on, Son. Sit down.’
Mother gathers up the pills and puts them in the cupboard over the cooker, next to my painkillers. ‘You’re not to touch these, Tom.’
Dinner is silent, as always. But tonight there is a weight at the table, as though something invisible dines with us.
Dad puts his knife and fork down. ‘Spoke to the vet this morning.’
Mother stops chewing and raises her eyebrows.
‘He reckons he’s been real busy with a strangles outbreak at the Westerton stud.’ Dad moves his knife to the lump of grey mashed potato and divides it into two piles. ‘Vet reckoned he didn’t get any call about Tom’s mare though.’
Mother grunts, spoons peas into her mouth. ‘Well, he’s not been so reliable since May Godfrey stopped working there. He’s trying to be vet and assistant and secretary all in one. Although with the fees he charges, I don’t know why he had to let her go.’
Something has stolen Dad’s appetite. He closes his knife and fork together and pushes the plate away. ‘Maybe you didn’t call him.’
‘Of course I called.’ Mother’s knife clatters on the plate. A piece of food flies out of her mouth and onto the table. ‘Not that that old nag was worth the bill we would’ve got.’
‘Still …’ Dad says, and although I know he will say no more on the subject, I’m grateful that he tried to stand up for me. It was brave of him.
Apple juice is all I can stomach tonight, and I have drunk so much of it that I feel as heavy as the dam.
‘Put that bloody bottle down,’ Mother snaps. ‘And save some juice for your father.’
She pushes her chair back and carries the plates to the sink. Looking out of the back window she says, ‘Where has that bloody dog got to?’
Sometime during the night, the hall light sneaks under my door and I hear the hacking of Dad’s cough and Mother’s angry voice telling him to take his tablet.
The next morning, it is past eight o’clock before Dad gets out of bed. At the kitchen table, he tells me that he’s just got a cold.
I ask in a whisper, ‘Did the doctor say how long this cold would last?’
Mother comes out of the pantry with a hard face. Eggs, a loaf of bread and the tea canister in her arms. She is angry at both of us. She bangs the pan down on the stove and glugs a stream of oil around the eggs. She turns to the utensil rack and takes down a spatula, then leans back on the counter and fixes both of us with a furious stare. ‘How many eggs?’
Dad clears his throat. ‘Just a cup of tea for me, love.’
‘Me too.’
‘You’ll have eggs.’ She aims the spatula at our faces. ‘Both of you.’
‘Here’s my favourite student,’ Bryant says, when he sees me in the doorway to the yoga school. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Good.’
‘That’s the way.’
Bryant unlocks the door, ushers me inside and gets me to lie down on one of the yoga mats. I watch him open a blue corduroy bag. Carefully, he removes a red stone and puts it between my legs; next, an orange one is placed on my lower stomach; then, a yellow one higher up.
‘Try not to move around too much,’ he says. ‘Or they’ll fall off.’
I lie as still as I can.
‘Breathe though,’ he says, laughing.
I hear the front door open.
A woman asks, ‘I’m not late, am
I?’ She sounds breathless.
‘No.’ Bryant pats the floor beside me. ‘Make yourself comfortable. We haven’t started yet.’
Turning my head slowly, so as not to disturb the stones, I watch Summer hurry forward to join Bryant on the floor.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Good.’ I can’t look at her anymore, because Bryant needs to put a purple stone on my forehead.
‘Summer used to do aromatherapy,’ he says. ‘So she’s going to help me today.’
I don’t know what the aroma thing is but it sounds powerful. With the two of them healing me I will be cured in half the time.
‘Okay,’ Bryant says. ‘Today, we’re going to do a past-life regression.’
Julia
She feels oddly uplifted.
It could be the sun, the smell of jasmine outside her bedroom window, the jog beside the lake, the wonderful coffee she had with Joe this morning. He told her more stories of his childhood in Italy; about how he learned the art of cheese-making from his great-grandfather who lived to be one hundred and nine, and still milked the goats every morning and made the best olive oil in the region from his ancient orchard.
Or it could be Oscar’s drawing.
He holds it out to her, proudly, as soon as class finishes. ‘Mummy, this is for you, because I love you.’
Through a screen of tears she stares at the swirl of red and brown circles. ‘Oh, darling, this is so beautiful.’
‘What is it?’ Amber asks.
Oscar touches his dirty index finger to the right hand corner. ‘This is a bomb,’ he says. ‘And this, here, is an explosion. And this is a train crashing.’ He points to a ginger-haired boy with glasses, having his shoelaces tied. ‘See that boy, Mummy, he’s called Kane and he’s my friend. Kane,’ Oscar yells, and the boy waves to him. ‘Let’s go and say hello.’
She dutifully follows Oscar to the coat pegs and introduces herself to Kane’s mother, Fiona.
‘We’ve just moved up here,’ Julia says. ‘It’s lovely that Oscar has made a new friend already. How old are you, Kane?’
‘Nearly seven, aren’t I, Mum?’
Fiona looks to the other mothers, as though she’s worried they will abandon her. She picks up her son’s belongings until her arms are full.
Milk Fever Page 9
