by Deb Hunt
But I didn’t.
People who play with matches start fires.
*
‘Who is he?’ CC asked with suspicion when I explained on the phone there would be someone staying for a few days, while he was in Broken Hill. The gentle, considerate man I thought I knew sounded like a Rottweiler with his hackles up.
‘An old friend, someone I knew . . . we’ve kept in touch.’
‘Just a friend?’
‘Relax, you don’t need to worry.’
Say that to someone like CC and he worries. I’m glad he couldn’t see me because I felt a flush of blood creep up my neck.
‘Frosty, are you and he –?’
‘No! Of course we’re not! A long time ago I sort of . . . anyway he wasn’t interested. He’s married now and he’s just a friend. Just a friend,’ I finished lamely.
I hesitated to tell Kate, knowing she would disapprove, so I waited until one Friday evening, when we were sitting in her back garden, sharing a gin and tonic. By then A3’s visit was less than two days away.
‘Kate, is there any chance I could borrow your car on Sunday?’
‘Sure, going anywhere nice?’
‘I have to pick someone up from the airport.’
‘Ooh, tell me more – sounds interesting!’
‘It’s no one special, just that guy I met in Canada.’
Kate drained her gin and tonic, rattled the ice and placed the glass on the table. She wasn’t fooled for a minute. ‘You mean that guy you fell for who got married?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Is his wife with him?’
‘No, he’s meeting her later, up in Cairns.’
‘Is that a good idea?’
‘He asked if he could stay. I didn’t feel I could refuse.’ What a lame, feeble excuse. I didn’t refuse because I didn’t want to refuse. ‘There’s nothing between us,’ I added. ‘There hasn’t been for years.’
‘You were pretty upset about him, though, weren’t you? Be careful, Deb. You’ve met someone here who sounds lovely.’
‘Seriously, you don’t need to worry. Nothing’s going to happen!’
Come the Sunday of A3’s arrival, I was a mess. The only way to calm my jitters was to keep busy. I washed and dried the sheets, made up the spare bed, found clean towels and vacuumed the carpets. I cycled to the fish market and picked out two plump tuna steaks from De Costi’s, which they packed in ice and wrapped in plastic for the cycle home. I put them in the fridge and then cycled to Darling Street, shopped for groceries at Woolies and came home to put a bottle of sauvignon blanc in the fridge – followed by another, just in case.
A3 was on a Singapore Airlines flight, arriving at four thirty. From lunchtime onwards I clawed my way through a wardrobe of clothes that made me look too fat, too old and too frumpy. I flung a low-cut top onto the growing pile of discards. What was wrong with me? I never worried about what I wore with CC and here I was fretting like a high-school student at her first school dance. It was embarrassing nonsense and Miss PK had stern words.
Get over him.
Despondency struck like a blow from an unseen assailant lurking down a dark alley. What did it matter what I wore? He wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t even notice.
The international arrivals hall at Sydney Airport teemed with people in constant ebb and flow. A tidal surge of emotion washed over the hall as family members who hadn’t seen each other for years were reunited, then drawn through the double doors into the steamy atmosphere outside.
What a lot of luggage everyone had. There was a time when suitcases were small and compact, made of leather or pressed cardboard, and easily carried. Now they’re the size of a trunk for a three-month sea voyage: cases with wheels so we can cram in more clothes and drag more belongings behind us; handbags, shopping bags, briefcases, plastic bags full of duty free, hand luggage stuffed with treats and lollies, toys, games, books, BlackBerrys, iPods, iPads, iPhones. Stuff. Baggage everywhere, mine included.
I wandered over to the newsagent’s to kill time and dawdled in front of racks of glossy magazines – Beautiful Homes, Gorgeous Gardens, Inside Out or Upside Down – the title was less important than the attention-grabbing headline. ‘Free Goody Bag!’ one cover shouted. A bag the size of a small knapsack was stuck to the outside, full of more stuff no one really needed.
I once took a train from Bomaderry, on the South Coast of New South Wales, to Sydney and a young Aboriginal couple got on with me. It was clear from their conversation they were going to Sydney but they wore no shoes and carried no bags. When the ticket inspector arrived it turned out they had no money either, which was a bit of an issue, but I was struck by how much I was carrying and how little they felt they needed.
There was a recession on and instead of learning to consume less we were being encouraged to consume more. Buy one, get one free, two for the price of one, fifty per cent extra in the bag! My handbag weighed heavily on my arm, crammed with a purse containing too much small change, a cardigan in case it got cold, a notebook, newspaper, reading glasses, tissues, lipstick, nail clippers, old receipts, used bus tickets, mints, toffees, a hairbrush that could do with a good clean, and detritus caught in the torn lining. Stuff.
‘Hey!’
The unremarkable figure of A3 swam into view, a slight figure in chinos and t-shirt, fair hair darkened by sweat and the beginnings of a beard after twenty-four hours on a plane. His appearance inflated my balloon to the point where my feet barely touched the ground.
He smiled and I gave him a quick hug, then grabbed his trolley for ballast. ‘I’ve borrowed a car; it’s parked just outside. How was your flight? Did you get much sleep? God, it’s hot, isn’t it? How’s married life? What’s the weather like in England?’
I pushed the trolley towards the exit. It was too soon, too raw, I shouldn’t have invited him to stay and I was so glad to see him.
*
‘Do you mind if I Skype Sasha?’
‘Sure, go ahead. Use my computer if you like.’
Twenty minutes later they were still chatting and I sat in the subterranean dining room, my balloon well and truly deflated. What a dope, what a sad, deluded empty-headed fool I was to have ever harboured the slightest hope he might have been coming to Sydney for anything other than business. The sooner I got my mutton-brained head around the incontrovertible fact that he had never been remotely interested in me, the better. Why had I invited him to stay? It felt like I had nothing stable to hold onto, as if I was suffering from vertigo.
CC called and we had a strained conversation that I cut short. I couldn’t explain how I felt. How could I admit that I’d been a prize fool? The tuna steaks could stay in the fridge: I had to get this man out of my house.
‘Let’s eat out; there’s a good pub around the corner,’ I said as soon as he was off Skype.
A3 looked miffed that I was bundling him out of the house as soon as he’d arrived but I couldn’t face the thought of the two of us eating alone in my house.
‘A brisk walk will do you good,’ I said. ‘Help you get over jet lag.’
*
The Royal Oak thrummed with activity. Voices in the packed dining room bounced off the vaulted ceiling and rebounded from the wooden floor. Chefs in the open-plan kitchen shouted to make themselves heard above the clatter of pans and the loud music, and waiters did their best to dodge young children running between the tables.
‘I’m thinking of grilled red snapper . . . or crumbed calamari. Oh, but the steamed Tasmanian mussels sound good.’ A3 looked up from the menu and gave the waitress a helpless smile. ‘I can’t decide,’ he said. I’d seen that smile before. It normally went with his ‘help me I’m just a man’ shrug.
‘What would you recommend?’ he asked the attractive young waitress.
She leant in to look at the menu he was holding. ‘Beer-battered
fish and chips is always popular.’
A3 patted his flat stomach. ‘For you, maybe; I’ve got to watch my weight.’
I gripped the menu and scanned the printed words that marched across the page like an army of ants. A3 reached across and lightly touched the back of my hand. ‘Shall we be naughty and share some hot chips?’
What clarity distance can bring. He was a flirt, pure and simple, and he flirted with everyone, spreading himself around so as not to disappoint his audience. What a fool I was not to have spotted that when we’d first met; to have mistaken his flirting for real interest and genuine feeling.
‘This is an excellent menu,’ he said, smiling at the waitress again. ‘I think I’ll have chargrilled ocean trout with steamed asparagus on the side.’
‘Beer-battered fish and chips,’ I said, handing my menu back.
‘This is a good pub – you chose well,’ he said, watching the waitress’s arse as she clipped away.
‘Excuse me,’ I called. ‘Can you add garlic bread to my order?’
I ignored A3’s raised eyebrows and reached for the bottle of wine I’d brought from home. It was an expensive bottle and I intended to drink as much of it as I could. I hate noisy pubs.
‘So, how’s married life?’
It was like winding up a toy. Pausing only occasionally for food or drink, he extolled the virtues of his beautiful bride, the delights of their New York wedding, the breathtaking honeymoon at the Banyan Tree in Phuket – private villa, own pool, butler service – and I settled my features into those of a professional listener.
‘Where are you living?’ I asked, jabbing another chip into my mouth.
‘We bought a house in Croydon. Easy commute to work from there.’
‘What does Sasha think of composting toilets and wind-powered turbines?’
‘Ah yes. Early days yet. We’ve got to get a handle on the mortgage first.’
‘You must have solar power though.’
He reached across for one of my chips, dipped it into a dish of tartar sauce and pushed it into his mouth. A dollop of sauce dribbled onto his chin. The waitress came back to check we were enjoying our meal and I took quiet pleasure in the sight of a messy eater trying to flirt with someone young enough to be his daughter. ‘Yum! Marvellous food,’ he said. The blob of sauce held firm.
‘You were talking about renewable energy,’ I said.
‘We had to spend a heap of money on furniture.’
‘Solar hot water?’
‘It’s not that easy in an old house.’
The blob of tartar sauce wobbled and I marvelled that such a shallow academic could ever have impressed me. His special interest in comparative systems of environmental education gave him a credibility he didn’t deserve, presenting him as a committed environmentalist, a caring advocate for sustainability, when in reality he was nothing of the sort. He was all talk. Do as I say, not as I do, travelling the world at the expense of others to lecture on a topic that, to him at least, was purely academic. CC’s solar panels on the roof of his house in Broken Hill and the rainwater tank in his garden gave him far more credibility than all the degrees and postdoctoral qualifications A3 touted around.
We split the bill and A3 gave the waitress a movie-star smile. ‘Thank you, that was excellent,’ he said. ‘Great service.’
I waited until he had left a large tip before I told him about the sauce stuck to his chin. He grabbed a napkin on the way out. By then it had dried hard enough to require some rubbing to remove.
We walked back along Rowntree Street, past Charlotte’s café, the drycleaner’s next door and the newsagent’s on the corner. I pointed out the bus stop. ‘The 441 will take you straight to Darling Harbour.’
‘Shall we get the bus in together?’
‘I cycle.’
‘Oh.’
Actually my cycling had tailed off of late but after all the chips and garlic bread I’d eaten I was going to need the exercise. I opened the front door and dropped my handbag onto a chair in the living room.
‘You’ll want an early night before your conference tomorrow,’ I said.
He pouted. ‘But you haven’t told me what’s going on in your life yet. I’ve spent all evening talking about me.’ So you have, I thought. He gave me the smile that once held so much power and I deflected it with a thin version of my own.
‘Plenty of time for that tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Sleep well.’
As I lay awake (not for long, given the amount of wine I had drunk), I was forced to admit that A3 had never been remotely interested in me. I wasn’t that interested in him either, not when I took a step back and looked at him dispassionately. He represented something I wanted that I couldn’t have.
How many years had I spent chasing unsuitable men, desperately searching for someone who would make me feel better about myself? Looking back on my dismal relationship record, I realised I had carried a sense of shame about all that meaningless sex in my early years. The end result was that I didn’t believe I was worth loving.
A stranger may have inflicted the first blow at fifteen and Stavros did a good job with the second but I had inflicted most of the damage in the ensuing years myself, locking away the shame and grief and then compounding it with meaningless behaviour that reinforced my lack of self-worth.
Even the long period of celibacy did little to open my eyes because I didn’t tackle the real problem. Rather than attempt to communicate, openly and honestly, with someone, it proved easier to conduct fictional relationships than deal with the messy, difficult and ultimately rewarding challenge of true intimacy. I stayed locked up and I was no more willing to accept flaws in other people than I was in myself – nothing short of perfection would satisfy me.
I chased A1 when I knew we had no future, then I lost interest when the battle was won. I fell for A2 partly because he lived fifteen thousand kilometres away, so I could feed my fantasy of the perfect mate without fear of interruption by the real thing, then I grew anxious and fretful when he didn’t immediately profess undying love for me. And I pursued A3 because I knew I couldn’t have him.
I had never learnt to communicate openly with any of the men I’d been out with. And I had never, ever been honest about how I felt.
What a sorry record.
Looking back, I realised A3 fell for his wife just like CC fell for me and to be loved by someone is a precious gift. A3 had never been overwhelmed with desire for me and he really did come out to Australia for work. He was happily married to a woman he loved and he didn’t lie awake at night aching with longing.
Neither do you.
It was true. I didn’t. My hurt pride craved the satisfaction of knowing A3 wanted to be with me but if he had made a pass at me I would have run a mile. I had come within a whisker of jeopardising what I had found with CC because I couldn’t let go of the fiction that A3 and I were meant for each other. I had written the story in my head, had the outcome all worked out and stubbornly refused to accept that it wasn’t reality.
chapter twenty
After four days in Sydney, A3 left to join his beloved Sasha and I closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief. I wasn’t sure what pleased me most – getting rid of him at last or finally being free of the tumultuous mix of emotions that had plagued me for so long.
I had behaved like a lovesick loon in a teenage romance. Looking back, I realised it was a role I had slipped into all too often in the past, casting myself as a sad, lonely spinster, forgotten, lovelorn and left on the shelf. I’d been subconsciously punishing myself for all that bad sex and all those failed attempts at relationships by assuming I wasn’t worth loving. But what feeble nonsense was this? I was a forty-nine-year-old single woman, relatively fit and healthy, passably attractive and vaguely intelligent.
If there’d been a boot camp for hopeless romantics I’d have joined it. Instead I gave myself a
stern talking to, then I confessed all to CC. Well, not quite all. I was too embarrassed to admit I’d spent four years stalking someone who wasn’t remotely interested so I just told him that I’d been a fool.
‘Are you telling me you had a relationship?’
A phone call wasn’t the best way of breaking the news to CC but it would be another two weeks before we met and I wanted to clear the air. ‘I’d hardly call it that,’ I said. ‘It was an infatuation a long time ago and nothing came of it. Anyway, he’s married now. I should have told you; I’m sorry, only I didn’t want to worry you. And nothing happened, you know. I was glad to see the back of him when he left.’ I was talking just a tad too quickly, swallowing my words, unsure of CC’s reaction when I couldn’t see his face.
‘You invited him to stay.’
‘Yes, and I shouldn’t have.’
CC’s voice took on the hard flat tone I remembered from our late-night argument. ‘Did you sleep with him?’
‘No, of course I didn’t! Why would I jeopardise what I’ve got with you for the sake of a drunken night’s passion with someone who’s married?’
*
It was a hot November day and the sun was bouncing off the patio. Twenty-four pieces of aluminium piping in three different lengths, several with sprung joints, were strewn across the concrete and a bundle of green-and-white-striped material lay piled in a corner. CC held up a linking piece.
‘Where are the instructions?’ he said.
‘There aren’t any. I got it second-hand.’
I was planning to hold a small brunch party in Rowntree Street to celebrate my fiftieth birthday in a few weeks time and, when I saw the picture online, I knew a gazebo would be just the finishing touch I needed. It would be perfect for al fresco dining on the back patio and I could picture it strung with fairy lights and coloured lanterns, ivy twined around the posts, table and chairs set out below.
‘Have you actually seen it up?’
‘No, but the owner assured me all the pieces are here. It was a bargain,’ I added quickly, seeing the dubious expression on CC’s face.
