What Came Before

by Anna George

  In the grand, darkened cinema, watching Lucy’s uneven performance, listening to the jokes misfire, Elle realised that sometimes, being right was worse than being wrong. If only she’d listened to herself, casting Freddie.

  Within the silent crowd were the cast and crew, the investors and critics. She thought of Yvonne and Julia, Lucy (regal again and exquisite), and Jay, Mira and Troy, even Jude and her mother, somewhere. Surely now all seeing and sensing what she was. She longed to slip out. Though all too familiar with her film’s shortcomings, she felt remarkably unprepared for sitting in that audience. Yes, there was the occasional chuckle or murmur. But every misstep was magnified, every dry kiss. She felt so patently inept. She vowed to avoid everyone she knew, when it was over.

  As the lovely, guarded Lucy loomed from the screen, someone began to cough. People behind her wriggled. Even David scratched his head, crossed his legs, again. Energy; even the collective energy was now turning against her. Her eyes filled. She nudged David, as if he was a normal person with a hand to hold or tissue to offer, but he didn’t respond. Briefly, she doubted that he’d felt her touch, but with her cheeks dripping she peered again to see his profile set like rock. Never before had she been so well ignored.

  For the first time, she hated him.

  Looking past him to the rows of upturned, wan faces, she was bewildered, unable to recognise a single one. In the midst of so many, she felt herself crumbling, cast off and forsaken.

  Elle is mortified. Bad enough that she publicly persisted with him, that she thought she needed him; tonight, she has become his victim. She imagines all those people watching her film, the fans of Daisy, her peers from high school, from university, from Freeman & Milne . . . All of them seeing her now – on the tiles. The arsehole.

  In the space of a few hours, he has reduced her to a tabloid ‘murdered wife’. To be read about on page one or three. To be, like the women murdered before her, held too briefly in the public eye. A tragic, if mundane, inevitability, like a road fatality. Fury engulfs her. No matter what she has done, or tolerated, her life was precious. And he must be caught. Punished.

  Her rage is so intense, it ignites something within her. A need bigger than her own; a hunger for justice.

  Outside Nat’s place, Dave is gripped by new panic. He paces around his car like he’s locked out. All he has now are questions: Where to? What now? And that biggie: What’s he done? He sees her that day at Fairhaven, in her forties swimsuit. How happy she’d been in those freezing waves, with him. What the fuck’s he done?

  Earlier, on the phone with Troy, he’d tried to say as much, but it didn’t come off. He could hear the guy’s dislike. He glares into the low grey sky. He wants to bellow like a wounded bull. He feels a pain in his chest, his left shoulder: here comes the heart attack. He groans but the pain doesn’t budge.

  He should’ve picked he’d feel like this. Lately, seeing his ex has had a bizarre effect on him. It’s made plain who Elle was and what he’s lost, as if clarity is somehow relative. Elle was his top-shelf girl. A genuine one-off. She didn’t want to be kept or saved or molly-coddled. She didn’t rant at him or tie him down. All she wanted was for him to be happy too.

  She was, he knows, his last chance.

  After the screening, the applause was polite. For a full house at the Regent Theatre it was conspicuously modest and Dave knew why. The film was patchy and that made it average – not shocking, not terrific. It was, he guessed, the result not of Elle’s efforts but of Mira’s. Tonight’s film lacked Elle’s wit and had nothing of Daisy’s joy and optimism. It was pragmatic, unromantic. It shocked him too that Lucy’s performance was so lacklustre. What should’ve been sexy was instead hard to watch, the leads like two dancers out of step. And what about the transformative power of love? There was none of that magic.

  He walked beside her in the throng. How would she resurrect her career after this? ‘You’re only as good as your last . . .’ Isn’t that what they said? He sighed. She was so emotional these days; for sure, this would topple her. Her fingers dug into his and he tried to let go. But her grip was mighty. All around were post-mortems of her film. He tried to ignore the grumblings. He didn’t have the stamina for her creative life. It taxed him and eclipsed him, and gave him back so little. Propping up a gifted artist was one thing, supporting a dud something else. He’d done his time with Nat; he had to live with himself. He didn’t need more disappointment in his life.

  What he needed was a beer.

  Elle was tugging at him. Her face was pasty, despite her ghoulish makeup. She was so thin and frail now. He didn’t get it – the ferocious drive of artists, where nothing else matters. And then, on completion, the soul bared to all. Whatever the cost. Yeah, he missed that spaciousness, that peace, but it wasn’t a life he envied; not any more. And he was pretty sure now: it and motherhood were not compatible. Her dodgy plumbing had done them both a favour.

  Yeah, he needed a drink. He squirmed out of her hand, mumbled then merged into the mass. Somewhere, Alex would be terrorising a waiter.

  An hour later, the foyer was like a bar room, sticky underfoot, and people were beginning to leave, when he found her sitting behind a flower arrangement.

  ‘Hi. I want to go home,’ she said.

  He peered at her red eyes and dry lips. Her hands were shaky. ‘I’m not ready and you’re drunk.’

  ‘I’ve had one drink.’

  He cursed; knowing her, it was true. ‘Then it was spiked.’

  She stood, turning her back to the foyer where Mira and Lucy were cloistered sullenly near the exit.

  ‘What’ve you been doing? Where’s your mother?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her.’

  To his surprise, her eyes welled. He shook his head; even now, she expected her mother to rise to the occasion!

  ‘Go home,’ he said.

  When she didn’t blanch, he was surprised.

  ‘I want you to come with me, now.’

  This was his final test, not that he knew it at the time. It’d take him weeks before he understood. She’d had lots of opportunities, lots of reasons, but she’d stayed. He’d almost come to believe the impossible: that her love was bottomless. Irrevocable.

  ‘No.’

  Someone shouted a goodbye. He smiled, waved, but she didn’t move.

  ‘This was meant to be my night,’ she whispered. ‘We’re going home, together. You’re drunk and I’m driving. Now, let’s go.’

  A hot wind of frustration gusted through him. She had his keys. She’d made this flaccid film. She’d hidden all night. But why had he given her his balls? She couldn’t fucking use them. And he wanted them back.

  ‘Give me my keys.’

  She peered up at him, pleading, but defiant too. She twisted her right arm so that her handbag was behind her back. Without blinking, he grabbed her right elbow and squeezed. Her eyes shrank, the pupils becoming two fierce black points. He was mesmerised by the way he could do that to her, shrink her.

  ‘Please,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘David?’

  At that moment, Alex appeared, mildly drunk. ‘There you are! What a film! Very . . . grown up.’ He looked at Dave and then at Elle. ‘What’s going on, Dave?’

  ‘I could do with another beer.’ Dave kept his face neutral. ‘Go on, mate.’

  ‘Elle?’ said Alex.

  Dave held his breath.

  ‘Elle? Are you okay?’

  Her head nodded: a far too ambiguous gesture. Dave squeezed her elbow again.

  ‘Fuck off and get me a beer,’ he said.

  Alex glowered. They’d been here before – he knew it, Alex knew it. With Nat, it’d been unspoken. But it’d been ugly. And there’d been a fall-out: four long years without art.

  ‘Let go of her,’ said Alex.

  Dave dropped Elle’s arm and raised his hands. Elle smiled weakly.

  ‘Are you okay?’ said Alex again.

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was soft but her smile was brave.<
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  ‘I admire your loyalty,’ he said. ‘But I can’t stomach mine. Not any more.’

  Dave drained his beer. Alex kissed Elle on the cheek and strode into the crowd. Dave knew he wouldn’t see him again that night. What he didn’t know was that Alex was taking a stand. A costly one. For keeps.

  ‘Jesus,’ Dave said, ‘let’s get out of here.’

  He clamped her hand and led her through a fire exit. Quickly, they were in a cobblestone laneway in the company of rubbish bins. A dead end, without any of the city’s nooky, hidden bars. The silence worsened his mood. All he wanted was his fucking keys! He grabbed her arm again. He felt her squirm, seeking out the brick wall. He watched her clinically. Did she have any idea what he could do? His fingers dug in her flesh. Her fear was growing. But he could see her grit.

  ‘Please, David, let go. Let’s just go home.’

  He snorted. Jesus, why wasn’t she giving up? He dug his fingers deeper. His nails were breaking the skin. He could feel the pressure in her knobbly joint. This moment, he knew, was important.

  He upped the pressure. Her bones were so thin they could snap in his fingers. The pain must’ve been moving in hoops now, up her bicep to her shoulder. How much longer would she last? For a frail-looking woman, she was tough. He pushed her arm into the bricks, to let her know he wasn’t stopping. She was asking too much. Sweat rimmed her hairline. He didn’t blink. Within his grip, her elbow screamed. He could hear it. A high-pitched wail. Reading the pain in her eyes, he shoved her, hard, against the wall. Her handbag burst from her hand.

  ‘Go home,’ he said. He grabbed his keys.

  She averted her eyes, and he thought he’d made his point. Then she started to cry. Pain he could handle, and her measly anger too. Even her defiance. But not those fucking tears.

  ‘Why do you hate me?’ she said.

  He yelled then. He couldn’t stop. She was whispering. Tenderness. He threw everything he had at her, to shut her up.

  ‘All I’ve ever done is love you!’ Her words hit him like stones.

  ‘Shut up!’

  She flinched as he lunged at her. His hand connected with her hot, wet flesh. Her jaw jolted as the slap drove her into the wall. The thud was dull. He watched her twist and fall, like a piece of spaghetti. Conscious but silent. When her blue eyes closed, finally, he did hate her: for taking so long to yield, for being so goddamned stubborn. For telling him he needed to see a frigging psychologist. For challenging him. For loving him. Most of all, he hated her for making him do what he’d promised himself he’d never do again.

  Twenty minutes later, he was in his office tower. The building was holding its breath. He swayed in the lift, his eyes shut. On the fiftieth floor, he swiped his key at the doors and staggered in; if only the office had windows that opened. At least the place was empty. In his office, he pulled a pillow and a blanket out of a drawer. He rolled a joint as quickly as he could with sore knuckles and thumb. Lying on the carpet behind his desk, watching the smoke, he kicked out like a toddler. Why are the only women he’s ever loved so goddamned unstable? It was only later, once the dope moved from his lungs into his blood and to his brain, he felt the chronic self-disgust.

  He got up and urinated into the closest filing cabinet.

  For an hour, he muttered into his dictaphone. Two tapes later, he was wondering when to stage his return. Facing her after a fight wasn’t his strong suit. He couldn’t bear to see the reproach in her doe eyes, the need quivering her chin. About five days was his limit; five days to breathe again, fill out and freefall, until the hunger came back. Until the tipping point when his fear of losing her was greater than his need to be free of her. At that point, that yearning returned, hot and urgen, and he wondered what he’d been doing. How on earth he’d let himself take the risk.

  He mumbled into his black box until he saw things with new eyes. Despite her film’s faults, it did have something. A word to describe how he felt during that intense stage: limerent. Despite his meandering conversations with his therapist, he hadn’t really understood it until tonight. But, watching, a bell had chimed inside his head. He laughed, miserably. He had to admit, he was like Freddie in the set-up – he far preferred head-over-heels pursuit or making up lost ground.

  The real thing, standing still, was hard. How on earth did other people do it? Cope with the boredom, the uncertainty and that nasty urge to destroy? Or was that last bit only him? Maybe he should’ve mentioned that little impulse to old Marion. He paused his tape. This time, if Elle took him back, he’d resist that urge for good. If people could climb Everest and survive tsunamis, he – they – could have a real relationship. He could hold his ground. He could lay back on a dozen couches and dissect his life, until he got it . . . And he would – if she took him back.

  The amazing thing was, she always did. After her elbow, after their shopping debacle, after Red Hill; she even pursued him after that scene in his office. It was remarkable and he’d never understood it.

  Only now, as he sat beside the reeking filing cabinet, did he get it. His erratic behaviour kept her constantly limerent. And powerless somehow. Maybe this time, though, five days would be a stretch. Even her limerence must have its limits.

  Sitting on the kerb in Newport, he can see that he’d waited too long, pushed her too far. Their pattern was smashed. Tonight, she’s gone. His beautiful, top-shelf wife.

  21

  Arriving home from the Regent Theatre, shamefaced with the kindly cabbie, Elle went directly to her bathroom, where she spent long minutes prodding, cleaning and inspecting until she was unable to deny it. What he had done, what she had become. Not long after, she collapsed into bed and slept heavily.

  At daybreak, in the seconds before wakefulness, the night’s events echoed like a long and detailed dream. Upon waking, she was aghast that the startling images of failure plaguing her sleep accurately reflected her life. From her film’s abysmal reception and her mother’s absence to the violent denouement of her marriage in a laneway. As she lay, dazed, her fingers crept to the sheets beside her and found them cold.

  She sat up but, again, the physical evidence was plain: he was gone. Hugging her knees, she tried to understand how she felt. In the mix now, distilled and potent, was real fear. Shame, too, that she’d let herself get here. Yet equally powerful was that yearning. It was still there. With an ache in her chest, she craved him. Restless suddenly, she propelled herself from the bed.

  Dawn, and the day was already dissolving. The sky had folded back onto itself to drape its clouds on the unmoving river and erase the other bank. Elle walked through the clouds only to find more mist ahead. It was transporting, that mist: cocooning like a mild anaesthetic. There were few other walkers on the Maribyrnong’s shore. Those who were out appeared on the path two metres ahead like time travellers, then disappeared behind her. The only sounds were the dull slap of her runners on the cement and the disembodied, floating voices.

  Seeing her, one or two walkers nodded or smiled briefly. No one flinched or gasped. She found it strange. Wrong. Her eyelids were like pink sausages. Almost spent, they squeezed out another tear. It found its way to her unfamiliar upper lip and she brushed it aside, causing a prick of pain. Her mouth had taken the brunt of the impact from that slap; the swelling and the tenderness had collected in her lips and around her teeth. The top lip had torn; a jagged arrow pointed to her right nostril. There were two other hot spots. A hole had been dug in the side of her right cheek when her teeth crunched on impact. Her tongue fussed with the wound now, prodding, finding its shape, testing its depth. It tasted bitter and metallic, as it filled with saliva and drained. The third spot was under her right eye, a puffy cushion of flesh on her cheekbone nudging into her eyelid and threatening to shut her eye.

  How she felt emotionally was complicated.

  As a teenager, she’d come across a girl at school with a scraped cheek and a purple eye. She could remember the girl’s downcast shame and the whispers that shadowed her. Her father
was a widower and an engineer, the girl gifted at music. Beyond that, while Elle’s own childhood was blemished by occasional hauntings from famous kidnapped children, like the Beaumont kids, thanks to her mother’s stories, she knew nothing of the dangers that existed closer to home. She was raised to avoid the dark and lonely stretches outside, not the anger of loved ones up close. She was taught nothing of the risks posed by those who claim to love you, the risks that manifest at night in family kitchens or after the party. It would have helped, she thought, if someone had explained the warning signs: the moods and outbursts. And what they were: covert attempts to control. Then she could have had a language and a context for how she felt today. Better, she would have been forewarned.

  On the misted path she had an overwhelming sense of him, as if he was beside her. Melon soap, starched shirt, damp hair. His giggle as he chased her with a bowl of eggs, his gapped grin as his long arms reached out for hers. In bed, his leg over hers, her body curled into his. A true fit: that’s what she’d thought. She picked up her pace, began to sweat. That fit had not been in evidence last night. Not, she had to admit, for months. Yet she’d trundled on, believing in it.

  A blast of heat rose, like a balloon, to her face. During their relationship, she had come to believe that love was as malleable as plasticine. That it could bend and warp and mutate so that it became something entirely unrecognisable from itself. She had insisted what they had was love, incontrovertible and true. She had stayed because of these lofty feelings, even though their relationship became cramped and uninhabitable. She’d lived within that space, feeling entrapped, even though at times he flung the door open. She stayed because of their great love, even though what they had no longer even resembled care or like.

  A final tear trickled down her cheek. She kicked a pebble, watched it ricochet from kerb to puddle. So that was it. So much for limerence, the smokescreen. In the end, she’d learned what love was by its absence. She felt like a fool – part writer-director, part con-artist, part dupe – and ill.