by Anna George
She wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘Don’t make me do it,’ she said.
Outside, black and white cows mowed the front paddock. The sun was bright. Elle’s hand writhed down to his crotch and squeezed. He laughed, wriggling, snagged in her fingers. He had a speech ready for breakfast, but this had to be the moment.
‘Careful,’ he said, ‘we need them.’
Her glance up at him was coy. ‘We do?’
A firecracker exploded in his chest. ‘We certainly do.’
She looked into his eyes and he made them serious.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, letting him go.
‘Well, don’t you think we ought to start trying? I want to buy a new house, with no turrets. In Albert Park or Hampton, and fill it with dogs and kids.’
He laughed out loud with relief: he’d said it.
Her face was blank. ‘Right now?’
His chest held the last of its light then went black. ‘Yeah. I’m forty-four next year.’
Elle hugged herself. ‘Isn’t it early in the day for talk of progeny?’
‘No.’ His tone was hard now, maybe too hard. She looked around, as if she’d just woken up. He tried again. ‘You do want kids too, right, Ginger?’
He swirled the eggs in their bowl, slowly. She watched the orange whirlpool. After a moment, she snatched the bowl and put it on the TV. She eyed the cows, as if for moral support.
‘Well, yes. But I’m confused. Half the time, it feels like you don’t want me around. Like last night.’
‘Ah. I can be . . . moody,’ he said. ‘Don’t take it so personally.’
‘It’s hard not to,’ she said. ‘But I think you’re depressed. And, at the very least, you should talk with somebody, not take it out on me.’
Here it was, he thought, that ‘you’re miserable’ conversation again. Except this time she’d introduced a new move by making his problems pathological. Maybe she was right. But he preferred his solution.
‘Having kids would make me very happy.’
Elle fluffed her bed hair. Watching her, he wondered how far ahead in this game she could see.
‘Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m making a feature film. There’s no room in my head right now for children.’
‘Well, there should be! God, you lot are selfish! All so fucking self-absorbed!’
She gave that superior laugh of hers. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He was sure loads of actors, painters and writers had forsaken their families. He just couldn’t remember their names. Chaplin? Picasso? None of them were women. But that didn’t matter: he was becoming pretty sure artists made lousy mums.
‘Forget it.’ He peered into the now empty paddock. ‘I don’t know how you can prioritise that film ahead of a family.’
Elle squared her shoulders, fully awake now. ‘Forget about my film!’ she said. ‘We haven’t been together a year! Three years would be more like it – three happy, stable years.’
‘That’s ridiculous! You’re thirty-five!’ He yanked the bowl from the TV set and stalked to the kitchen.
‘This is not about my fertility or my film!’ she called after him, her voice breaking. ‘It’s about you. You need to do something! Talk to someone. Draw a picture! Paint! Do anything but what you do now!’
‘Listen up, I’m not like you!’ he said. ‘I’m not that lucky !’
‘No,’ she snapped, ‘you’re a coward!’
He turned on her, his face contorted. ‘Fuck you!’ he yelled. ‘Fuck you!’ He threw the bowl at her. It soared across the living room. To his surprise, she dodged it. It smashed on the slate into a hundred gooey pieces. When she looked to him, her skin was blotchy and red. Fear and disapproval shone in her big eyes.
‘You think you’ve got all the fucking answers,’ he hissed.
He grabbed his clothes from the couch, yanked on his sneakers and fled.
15
There is a bright red handprint on the laundry’s white wall. Large, long-fingered. The print is near the doorway and mid-height; its thumb up. How did she miss that? She can also see a smeared path on the shadowy floor tiles. And blood leaching from beneath the green towel. This blood is not the bright red of the handprint; it looks black and oily in the darkness. The puddle is slick and unmoving. It unsettles her. Twice before, he has been violent. While it had shocked her, it was nothing like this.
What happened before she blacked out? What did he do? It bothers her, this missing information. It feels increasingly important.
The bathroom in the Red Hill farmhouse was cream and green, untouched since the sixties, and somehow familiar. In other circumstances, Elle would have relished the large, lime-coloured tiles and spotlit mirror. Alone, she tried to soak in its character, take solace. Beneath the wide jet, her head was down and water streamed from her hair. But her brain was jamming with what she had done; she’d wasted her time and, worse, risked her peace of mind so close to her shoot. She wasn’t sure what shocked her more: the foolish decision to come away or all she had learned about David since the night before. His vulnerability and paranoia, his headaches and anxiety. While his unhappiness was plain, she hadn’t realised its extent. Or how much it could hurt her. She pictured that hurtling bowl, meant for her, and shivered.
She understood, or so she’d thought, the roots of his unhappiness. They lay in the confusion of his childhood. A peculiar echo of her own. And in his hollow, lucrative career. So she knew his behaviour wasn’t personal, not about her. But it was frightening. His reactions were so other and so huge. She adjusted the water, cooling it, as her thoughts pattered on. In one conversation, she’d gone from flattered to repelled to fearful. Yes, he was far more fragile than she’d thought. And far too volatile. Closing her eyes, she put her face beneath the jet. She wanted to go home. She needed to be home.
Three minutes later, she was about to turn off the taps, when the rickety shower screen eased open and David slipped in. She saw him and felt him at the same time. He was damp with sweat as if he’d been running. With her head bowed, he couldn’t see her face and she was glad of it. In her eyes, he would have seen confusion. Wariness. But in the surrender of her shoulders, he correctly read acquiescence. Wordlessly he stood behind her, as though waiting for her to act. In that brief pause, she realised what it was she most wanted: the good version of him. She wanted the pieces of their relationship put back together, to start over. Recover. She inched back into him. He whispered her name, cupped her breasts. When he pressed gently against her, she murmured, and that was it. He twisted her face towards his and found her mouth. His eyes were closed and she was thankful. His lips were gentle, nibbling, teasing. His hands were busily finding her, arousing her. Briefly, she felt ambivalent and edged away, but he was working too hard, too well; and she relented. This connection, though fragile, was at least enduring.
Before long he entered her, thrusting deeply from behind. As he moved, she leaned her elbows against the opaque glass of the shower and willed herself to relax. She had been wanting him all week, though not, of course, like this. In his arms, in the steam, she tried to concentrate. On them; here, now. It could reset the mood and get them through; or buy her time to think. But then, with his next thrust, she clenched her fists and formed the word: Stop. Perhaps he didn’t hear her over the racket of the shower because he kept on, working his way deeper to her favourite place. She decided to let him, knowing soon they could be breathing the same breath. But then he thrust deeper again and she gasped. Though she felt him hesitate, he didn’t pull back.
‘It feels weird.’ She was speaking to the cloudy glass. When he didn’t respond, she added, waveringly, ‘But, okay, go on. Gently.’
Resuming, he moved tentatively and, closing her eyes, she moved with him. Each of them, it seemed, was cognisant now of the fragility of even this connection. He pushed deeper and she felt a stabbing pain. Her muscles clenched and her body straightened. He withdrew quickly. Clasping her hands across her abdomen, she
stepped beneath the force of the shower. Cast out from the warm, he watched her, while his erection shrank like a reprimanding snail.
‘What is it?’
She shrugged and tried to find the words. From the beginning, she’d gleaned he knew more about her body than she did, but now they were both in the dark. When she lifted her eyes to his, she saw confusion and something else: a new emotion she didn’t understand. Was it shame? No words came. The more she floundered, the more she wondered what she was doing. She thought of their morning’s clash. Her body. And his menacing attempt to claim it.
Trembling, she turned off the water.
With the jet and its noise gone, she folded her arms across her chest and nibbled her upper lip. The longer she remained silent, the more insistent his stare became. She was, she realised, waiting for an apology. Or at least an acknowledgement of his wrongs.
With a long sigh, she stepped from the cubicle and found her towel. She wrapped it around her shoulders, like a sodden child. It was as if they were in a foreign room, an utterly dissimilar place to where they’d been only two minutes earlier. David stepped onto the bath mat and dripped. He made no attempt to cover himself, and she didn’t pass him a towel. His penis hung between them, now like an innocent bystander, and she ignored it. To her bemusement, he gestured in the air as if he had tried, and headed out.
The Red Hill countryside was green and velvety. On a droopy banana lounge, Dave took it in. Fir trees marked the boundaries between properties, and the sea twinkled in the distance. It was, he had to admit, a sensational view. He sighed. Great chunks of this part of the Mornington Peninsula were owned by his legal peers and others: surgeons and retail giants, developers and celebrities – old money and new. They all came here on the weekends, to ride their horses or surf with their kids. Why, of all places, had he chosen this damn spot? To magnify his lacking? To make a joke of his dreams?
It was time, he supposed, to give up on that score.
His favourite misery memoir, Alive, about the stranded rugby team in the Andes that resorted to cannibalism, was open on his lap. He tried to read its secrets of survival. But Elle, he guessed, was somewhere in the brown brick box, snivelling.
When his mother rang, he was genuinely pleased to hear her voice. For about three minutes. She told him all about Clarendon House (the pricey nursing home he’d found in Brighton Beach), and of her top ranking in the footy tipping. She reminded him of his father’s birthday, which had just gone. Dave didn’t say much and she asked no questions. Twenty minutes later, when she hung up, he felt more alone than ever.
Then Elle climbed down a nearby fir tree. She was holding a drawing pad. She had pine needles in her hair and bark on her jeans. All this time, she’d been propped on a branch, doodling. What sort of woman was she, for God’s sake?
She approached with her eyes downcast. ‘I have to get back,’ she said. ‘Now. The car’s packed.’
He surveyed their grim homestead. He should’ve guessed she’d want to bolt.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat in town first.’
She opened her mouth, shut it.
On the drive, they didn’t discuss the smashed bowl she’d cleaned up or their aborted shower. He navigated again, despite two wrong turns. As they drove into the village centre of Red Hill, she said, ‘We’ve missed our massages.’
‘No great loss.’
Her sigh was loud and melodramatic.
Searching for a car park, he kept his back turned and went over their morning. While the bowl thing had been a mistake, he’d done nothing else wrong. As they drove past families chatting on the footpath, he felt his anger flare again. What was so bad about what he wanted? There was no future for them without kids in it. What was the point, otherwise? Having his own kids offered him his best chance of happiness. Provided he didn’t screw them up. But he couldn’t be bothered putting his case again.
His hot silence seemed to have melted her desire to clear the air or defend herself. When she finally parked, she was looking at him as if a barometer was above his head. He made like a smouldering rock.
‘I’m starving now myself,’ she said.
He grunted. She’d have to do more than that.
On their way to a cafe, he ducked into a bric-a-brac store and hid behind a dressmaker’s dummy. He watched as she turned on the footpath and saw it empty. Her face showed alarm and vulnerability. A flash of anger too, and that was new. He smiled. After a moment, he stepped into sight without acknowledging her. He was glad to see relief in her eyes, though she tried to hide it. She looked at her watch. In the musty shop, he slipped past old maps and teacups like a child playing peek-a-boo. He hid in a room the size of a cupboard and waited until she’d passed. He dawdled over silver candlesticks and mother-of-pearl vases and forgotten medals. All the while she waited, with growing irritation. She was distracted for a moment by an art deco figurine-cum-lamp. She waited until, eventually, she couldn’t wait any longer.
‘Let’s go, now,’ she said.
He made a point of examining an antique cigarette lighter. And she didn’t budge. He was amazed. He’d never known such doggedness.
He left the store and she tried again, with a toss of his car keys. As if she could surprise him, tickle him, back to life. A hand-holding, middle-aged couple nearby saw her attempt. They smiled, watching the keys bounce off him and fall to the footpath. They smiled, until they realised he wasn’t going to acknowledge the keys, or her, or them.
When she bent to the keys, he heard her breath catch. He strolled into the closest cafe. He was seated and swapping smiles with the sassy waitress when he realised he was alone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his car pulling away. The tricky bitch, he thought, she’s done it again.
Instantly, he felt more comfortable, as though the temperature had dropped from hot to mild. The sensation was bittersweet. And brief.
16
Elle drove as fast as she could without breaking the law. She drove, gorging herself on orange chocolate. The picturesque, tree-lined trip from Red Hill felt surprisingly short without him. Initially, she travelled with a cloud of guilt. But then, surrounded by space on the Mornington Peninsula Freeway, her guilt lifted. Twenty minutes later she was merging in traffic on EastLink and listening to her phone beep, when her regret manifested like a nasty mirage. She’d been insane to have a night away. As good as negligent. She should never have taken the risk. Mira would be furious if she ever found out the truth! And so much for rest and relaxation! Elle munched another two wedges of the chocolate orb. As she overtook family wagons, her regret turned into disappointment – it could have been so relaxing, so romantic! And then to anger. How dare he treat her like that! She was done with him.
On the Monash, passing through Chadstone, she drew two columns in her head and performed a cost-benefit analysis.
Pros Cons
Chemistry Inconsistency
Fantastic times (esp. re art) Rotten times: escalating?
Diarise?
Good heart Lousy at intimacy:
does he actually love me?
Honest (esp. re rotten childhood) Depressed/stuck; anxious/angry
Wants children Is he father material?
Is improving/wants to change Not enough; def. needs
professional help
I love him I have a film to make
Closer to the city now, the traffic swelled. And the answer became increasingly clear-cut every time she analysed her data. Yes, she loved him. Because she knew him, intuitively. In a way she’d never known another man. She knew him even better now, having deduced that anxiety underscored his anger – was most likely his default position. But still she couldn’t do it. Her responsibilities, her film, trumped their relationship. She did not have the time for this. He was simply too damaged. She couldn’t afford to carry him, or manage his inconsistencies. She had no idea how to do either and she didn’t want to learn.
Then, hurtling into the Burnley Tunnel, it struck her. Th
e fault line in her pros and cons. Driving steeply underground, she had to acknowledge what he’d done. A speeding truck was in her blind spot and she slowed to let it pass. Watching it career downwards, she realised that while he may not have actually meant to hurt her, she didn’t want to live with underlying fear. With the prospect of violence. As the road levelled out, she drew a thick red cross through her pros and cons. She travelled for kilometres underground, holding her breath. Another semitrailer thundered past, identical to the last one. She tried hard not to think of truck–car collisions, underground infernos . . . Without reception for the radio, she was forced to hum. Minutes later, emerging from the tunnel, she dropped her window and accelerated towards the sun and sky.
It was mid-afternoon by the time she left his beautiful car, crammed with books, suits and shoes, in his Middle Brighton driveway. Its keys were atop its right wheel, her note beneath his door mat: It’s not working. Don’t call.
She spent the rest of the weekend on the telephone, grappling with lost props and panicked assistants, double-checking her storyboards and shot lists. Over a quick coffee, she gave Mira an abridged version of her split with David. ‘Good riddance to bad eggs!’ became her best friend’s catch-cry.
By Monday, arriving early on set, Elle felt weary, almost as if the shoot were due to end rather than begin. But it was Day One of her Follow-Up Film. A pivotal day, two years in the making. The script, thanks to Mira’s final polish, was ready and about to be realised. The mood on set seemed heightened, no doubt thanks to Lucy. As the lighting was being fine-tuned people whirred around Elle, asking last-minute questions. She answered, pretending calm. Everything about this shoot she had considered, from the shots to the lemon-coloured towels. In total, it would take a jam-packed thirty-five days. And it was all up to her, and her crew and actors. The decisions they made today. Tomorrow. Briefly on her own, she sneaked a deep, centring breath.
