by Lucy Arthurs
JACK
I’m not worried.
Patrick carries Jack to the bathroom. I follow and hover. As Patrick’s balancing Jack on the toilet, helping him with the position of his leg, he subtly offers some blokey advice about the direction his doodle needs to point in order for the wee not to go on the ground.
ME
I’ll help you, Jacky.
JACK
I can do it.
PATRICK
I’ll look away, mate.
My heart warms.
ME
Just relax and do your business.
JACK
(whispers)
I think I need to do a poo, too.
ME
You can do that too, sweetheart.
PATRICK
Sure can, mate. I’ll keep looking away. I’ll pass you some paper when you’re ready.
And my heart officially melts.
Chapter 23
A couple of weeks later. Evening. The lounge room.
“The course of true love never did run smooth.” William Shakespeare.
So the two worlds collided. The worlds I had so effectively kept apart now know of each other. Boofhead thinks Patrick is tall, tanned, and a bit blokey, Patrick thinks Boofhead is tall, pasty, and metrosexual. Jack thinks Patrick is cool and funny. Patrick thinks Jack is the best thing since sliced bread. Me? I don’t know what to think.
Yes I do. I think it has all changed. For better or worse, we are where we are and there’s no going back. I think I should stop calling Tom Boofhead, it’s a bit spiteful. I’m bigger than that. I think Tom feels terrible about Jack’s leg and it seems to have been a real wake-up call for him. He’s now more attentive and vigilant. I think that’s a good thing.
And I think Patrick seems different now. Kinder and lovelier, but also more knowing, more experienced, more worldly. More real. And I don’t think I like that.
Don’t get me wrong; his relationship with Jack is great, a very pleasant and reassuring surprise, and Patrick’s more than willing to nurture it. In fact, I’ve had to put the brakes on. He wants to be best mates with Jack. That’s lovely. It’s nice. It’s fine. But I don’t know if that’s what I want. I’ve fallen head over heels in daisy-chain-making love with this guy very quickly. I need a pause. So I’ve set a new boundary with the relationship. I’m keeping Patrick and Jack away from each other until I’m absolutely sure how I feel. That’s why I wanted the worlds to stay apart. I didn’t want the planets to align, let alone collide, until I was sure Patrick was a keeper. It’s not fair, otherwise. I’m over being a part-bogan so I’m not going to nurture a relationship between my son and any Tom, Dick, or Patrick that comes along.
I need more information about Patrick and I also need time to think, but let’s be honest, I don’t have any. Rehearsal is full-time and full on. I’m learning songs, choreo, lines, and even how to style my hair in a pseudo-sixties way. By the time I drop Jack off at daycare, race to rehearsal, maybe duck out at lunchtime to record an income-supplementing voice-over, spend all day treading the rehearsal room floorboards in preparation for treading the real theatrical boards, then race back across town to collect Jack, have some quality dinner time with him, do the bath, book, and bed routine, I’m stuffed. Only problem is, I don’t have time to be stuffed. I need to learn lines, refresh harmony parts, bed down my memory of entrance and exits points for each scene, and prepare for the pressure of opening night. Lots of deep breathing, creative visualisation, and positive self-talk required. It’s now a week away. I’ll be relieved when this play opens. Then I’ll only be working nights and will have more time during the day to spend with Jack.
Tonight is a rare moment of mid-week adult time with Patrick. Adult time during which I can stay home, dig a little deeper, get to know him better, and suss out if he could possibly be a keeper. My heart says yes, but my head’s not sure.
Jack is having a sleepover at Tom’s, mid-week. I decided now was a good time to end the cold war with Tom over the broken leg. He was grateful, promising there would be no jumping on the bed (not that Jack can jump on the bed, given he still has the cast on his leg). Tom even did an impromptu snippet from a Wiggles song, complete with daggy gestures just to reinforce his point, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!” I found myself staring at him and visualising him in a red skivvy and black pants. It occurred to me he bears a striking resemblance to Murray Wiggle.
I have a hideously early start tomorrow, squeezing in a voice-over before rehearsal, then a costume fitting, and a full day of running the play. Basically, that means going through the whole play from beginning to end. No real ‘running’ required, except when you have to sprint from one side of the stage to the other (backstage, of course), do a quick change into another cool, pseudo-sixties outfit, and then enter on the other side of the stage, fresh and unfazed.
So tonight I’ve been able to have a calm, relaxed dinner with Patrick, go over some lines, and crash into bed. Although the bed crashing has happened earlier than I expected. I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. But as I snuggle up to Patrick, I decide now is the perfect time to dig a little deeper, to address some of the nagging questions that have been beating around in my brain. It was originally an idea from Marjory the last time I saw her.
MARJORY
Ask him five key questions. You each answer them truthfully. As you do, you’ll drop deeper and deeper into the relationship . . . or not.
I start with my least threatening question.
ME
What’s your favourite colour?
PATRICK
Red.
ME
Red?
PATRICK
Yeah. What’s yours?
ME
I’m not sure. Purple or blue. I like pink too. And I really like navy.
PATRICK
Pick one.
ME
I can’t.
PATRICK
Yes, you can. If you could only have one, which one would it be?
ME
Um . . . purple. Nah . . . blue. I’d have blue. But a soft blue. Not a wish-washy blue.
PATRICK
Like a sky blue?
ME
Yeah. Sky blue. Sometimes purple. Sometimes pink.
PATRICK
Sometimes navy?
ME
Yeah.
PATRICK
Good thing you’re not indecisive.
I snuggle into his chest and he kisses the top of my head and strokes my hair. I want to purr.
Second least threatening question.
ME
What’s your favourite animal?
PATRICK
What is this? Twenty questions?
ME
No, only five.
PATRICK
Five?
ME
Yeah. It’s important we get to know each other.
PATRICK
I know you.
ME
Not all of me.
PATRICK
I don’t want to know all of you. I want to know the bits that matter.
ME
Animal.
PATRICK
Dog.
ME
Horse.
PATRICK
Cool.
Third least threatening question.
ME
When did you have your last date?
PATRICK
This is a shit game. Who thought of this?
ME
It’s only five questions. Just answer them truthfully and move on.
This question is important to me. I don’t want someo
ne who needs the reassurance that comes with having multiple lovers. I don’t want any of the complications. I want someone who is honest, open and has a decent moral code. After the advertising awards night, I’m not so sure. Yes, I’m sounding like a hypocrite given my bogan dalliance with Bandana Bloke, but I’ve confessed that.
PATRICK
With you, last week.
ME
Before me.
Pause.
PATRICK
I had a fling with someone from work. Dated her for two weeks and went on one date with someone else from work.
ME
When?
PATRICK
June last year.
ME
Is that all?
PATRICK
Yep. It’s been wide-open spaces since then. I’ve never had much luck with women.
ME
Until now.
PATRICK
Yeah. Present company excluded.
ME
Thanks. And of course you know my answer.
PATRICK
Do I?
ME
Bandana Bloke.
PATRICK
Yeah. Can we move on?
ME
Two more questions.
Fourth least threatening question.
ME
How many people have you slept with?
PATRICK
Jesus Christ.
ME
If you’ve slept with him, I’m very impressed.
PATRICK
Ha ha.
ME
How many?
PATRICK
Um . . . more than ten, but definitely less than twenty.
ME
You don’t know the exact number?
PATRICK
Somewhere in there?
ME
Definitely less than twenty?
PATRICK
Yes.
Not the answer I was hoping for, but I can live with that. At least he’s being honest.
PATRICK
You?
ME
Six and a half. The boy I lost my virginity with, a couple of boyfriends at Uni, a fling overseas, Tom, Bandana Bloke (that’s the half), and you.
PATRICK
Spare me the last question. Come here.
He pulls me up towards him and kisses me on the lips. Patrick must have kissed a lot of mirrors when he was growing up because his kisses are fantastic. Hands down the best kisser I’ve ever experienced. I used to practise on the side of the bathtub until my sister walked in on me one day. She told all and sundry that Persephone was a pervert and pashed bathtubs. So I desisted and took up practising on my bent knee under the covers when I went to bed. Kisses have never really lived up to that initial thrill of pashing your own knee under the bedclothes . . . except for Patrick’s. His kisses are textbook, knee-weakening perfect.
I abandon my last question.
PATRICK
Hey, can you touch me there?
“There” isn’t where you might think. Not his penis, but a spot on the side of his torso.
PATRICK
Softly. Really gently. Like a feather.
I oblige but I must admit, I feel uncomfortable. This seems very rote. I feel like a stand-in. Maybe I’m just feeling sensitive and insecure because “more than ten, but less than twenty” was more than I expected.
PATRICK
A bit longer. And go down a bit further. Ah, I love having this done to me before sex. Hey, you got any Bob Marley? Great rhythm.
This falls into the “too much information” category for me. Too familiar. And it’s ringing that bell that’s been bothering me. That bell that says–Patrick’s been round the block a couple of times and probably isn’t actually a keeper.
ME
That’s a bit of a one-size-fits-all type of statement don’t you think?
PATRICK
What?
ME
Very generic.
He laughs.
PATRICK
So?
ME
Well, how do you know you like it there?
PATRICK
How do you think?
ME
Because other people have touched you there, obviously, but/
PATRICK
/of course they have.
ME
I understand that. But do you think you could say it in a more . . . discreet kind of way.
PATRICK
Why? I’ve got a history. You know that. You just asked me about it.
And there it is again, summed up in a word. He has a “history”. He seems worn out, not fresh. He seems used. Pre-loved. Shop-soiled. Hey, I’m pre-loved and shop-soiled too, but we could still keep it fresh and new, not just go through the routine of what you know works. We’re still in the getting-to-know-each-other phase. I’d like honesty and disclosure and emotional warmth, I can do without shorthand paths to sexual satisfaction based on how previous partners have performed. At least the language could be less generic. It’s too early for this letting down of the guard, this going through the motions. He’ll be farting, burping and slurping his tea before I know it.
Patrick rolls over and lets out the most uninhibited fart I’ve ever heard.
PATRICK
Better out than in.
God help me. Stay on track, Persephone.
ME
It makes me feel like a number.
PATRICK
My fart?
ME
No! The way you talk about what you want . . . sexually. I feel . . .
Find your words, love.
ME
I feel like a replacement . . . a cardboard cut-out who’s picking up where someone else left off. Number twenty-something. Or number “more than ten but less than twenty” something.
He’s flapping the bedcovers to get rid of the smell of the fart. I’m choosing to ignore it.
PATRICK
That dumb game was your idea. If you can’t handle the answer, don’t ask the question.
ME
I’m just saying/
PATRICK
/you’re reading too much into it and now it’s made you bloody paranoid.
ME
It makes me feel . . . yuk.
Stop right there, Persephone. Accept that his “more than ten but less than twenty” revelation is at odds with his “don’t do casual” remark and that it has upset you. Then let it go. But I can’t. I plough on, convincing myself I’m softening it all by smiling and using a light tone of voice. Deluded!
ME
It’s not impossible for you to say it in a nicer way, you know.
Or to know exactly how many people you’ve slept with.
PATRICK
I just want you to touch me there 'cause I like it. You like certain things.
ME
Yes.
PATRICK
Well, how do you know that’s how you like it? ‘Cause you’ve got a history.
ME
It’s the way you express it. You could be a little more discreet. A little more thoughtful with your language.
PATRICK
Why?
ME
It’s more respectful. It’s . . . nicer. It’s . . .
Are we having our first fight? I wouldn’t call it that. It’s our first . . . robust exchange of ideas.
ME
I know you’ve got a “history”, I mean wherever we go, you seem to have been there before, but/
PATRIC
K
/what?
ME
Everywhere we go together you have a “history” there. A story that you tell. Or you don’t say you’ve been there before, but you’re very familiar with the parking, or the menu or the people.
PATRICK
So?
ME
It feels impersonal. Generic.
PATRICK
Because I’ve been places before?
ME
And when we’re at your house, you push the end of the bed in after we make love.
PATRICK
(incredulously)
It comes away from the wall.
Settle down, little lady. This is beginning to sound like a fight.
But of course I don’t.
ME
You’ve got it very down pat. Have a shag, get up, push the bed in . . . it’s very automatic. Generic.
PATRICK
It annoys me when it comes away from the wall.
And then I up the ante even further.
ME
And your condom packet in the bathroom is half-empty!
He looks at me like I’m an alien visiting from another planet. Maybe I am.
PATRICK
So?
ME
So if you “don’t do casual” and you haven’t had a girlfriend since June last year, then why is your condom packet half-empty?
PATRICK
Are you a private bloody investigator or something? When’d you go through my bathroom cupboard?
He gets out of bed in a huge huff.
ME
You leave the cupboard door open. Anyone can see.
PATRICK
Only if you look in the box.
I try desperately to cling to a shred of dignity by making my private investigator work sound perfectly reasonable.
ME
I just curiously glanced inside.
PATRICK
And assumed the bloody worst!
And I’m off.
ME
I had reason to be suspicious. I met at least three women you’d slept with at that bloody awards thing.
PATRICK
