by Chris Smith
Libby was taken aback by Kathryn’s tone. She spoke to her son as if he were a five year old. Phillip looked at Libby and the pair smiled, recalling their conversation at the Oaks about shopping for her present. But as Kathryn surveyed her gifts, Malcolm diverted their attention away from his wife and onto his own choice of wine.
‘Not a bad drop, is it?’ he asked.
‘No, it’s lovely,’ Libby replied, feeling a little puzzled that he was ignoring his wife’s special moment.
‘Dad, hang on. Mum’s not finished,’ Phillip interjected.
‘Oh, come on, she’s got a pile of perfume,’ he hit back. ‘I should know, I’ve spent a fortune on it.’
Kathryn Hopkins dropped her perfume onto the table, jumped out of her chair and headed quickly for the kitchen, her face turned away. It was clear that Malcolm had a traditional view of a woman’s place in the family. Meanwhile, Phillip had stuck his tongue into his cheek and was looking down at his meal, trying to resist the temptation to correct his father’s bad attitude. The tension was bubbling over.
‘Nice one,’ Phillip said quietly.
‘So, Libby, what do you do?’ Malcolm asked, as if the past two minutes had never happened.
Malcolm raised his eyebrows at her status as a secretary. She knew what that was about; it had happened from time to time. Kathryn returned a few moments later with coffee and the Hopkins carried on—the perfect hosts. Libby was given a guided tour of the gardens.
She’d made up her mind about Phillip’s family; they were certainly a strange lot. His father acted coldly towards him and his mother treated him as no more than a child. As the following hour in their company revealed to her, they were masters of moving on and around unsavoury or confronting subjects. It seemed to Libby that Phillip’s father almost considered his son an embarrassment, a drop-out from the old school tie system and the corporate climb that usually followed. Phillip clearly wanted none of that.
‘Sorry about my Dad,’ Phillip said as they drove home. ‘He doesn’t have much time for what I do and thinks it’s funny to have a go at Mum whenever he wants. But what can I do? I can’t chip at him because, every time I try to defend her, he gets even more distant and dismissive. I hate it. He reckons it’s his home, his family and I have no right to intrude. When I keep clear of the place, it only hurts Mum. He doesn’t allow me to have a key to the house, you know.’
Phillip had more to say about his family. He said that his father had been an affectionate man when Phillip was a child, but had always ruled the house. As his business position had become more elevated, he had less and less time for his son. He recalled going into the study to try and talk to him, to persuade him to play ball games, but his dad had always been too busy. Phillip shared one event with Libby that she immediately understood as an attempt to attract his father’s attention. When Phillip was a teenager, he’d gone punk, styling his hair in spikes and dying it purple. When he went to show his father, couped up in his home office, Malcolm became angry. He yelled at Phillip to get out and told him how embarrassed he was by him.
Phillip also described a rather bizarre evening meal ritual, in which each member of the family would eat separately. As Phillip continued to delve deeper, becoming depressed by his memories of childhood, he spoke of his mother giving him money in secret. If he ran out, she’d top up his bank balance. It wasn’t a loan, just a gift to help him out. Phillip’s mood had become morbid and, somehow, Libby couldn’t quite believe him.
As they approached Mosman, Phillip’s ghosts banished, the couple fondled each other. They were becoming a danger to other drivers, as their lust heightened with every passing kilometre.
When Libby found time to catch her breath later that night, she felt content. She was happy to know that the stranger she’d met so recently was no nomad, no evil mystery man. Although her trip to his childhood home had not been without its unanswered questions, he had a solid background, despite his family’s dysfunctional behaviour. Nothing she’d seen so far was enough to scare her off. Phillip remained an attractive proposition and she was prepared to give more of herself to her new man. We’ll just see how this goes, she thought happily.
Two weeks raced by. All facets of Libby’s life seemed infused with an inspiring brilliance. She had endless creative energy at work and her projects seemed to turn out magically well. Phillip showered her with gifts, flowers and small cuddly toys. He even sent her some French perfume, a fragrance Libby had hinted she adored. It was a well-timed extravagance and she enjoyed the fuss.
Sarah thrived on hearing Libby’s latest gossip, everything from the magic dating venues to some of the more intimate details that only close girlfriends are privy to. Libby’s happiness was limitless. Her parents met Phillip for dinner one night and despite Libby’s father’s apprehensions, they too began to understand that this man ignited their little girl’s life.
One night Phillip invited Libby to a dramatic society play in Chatswood, in which he was playing a major role. In the days leading up to the night of the play, he rehearsed his lines over and over. Libby began to appreciate how much Phillip enjoyed his role as an actor; he loved playing parts and dreaming up ways of portraying someone else. He performed poorly, unable to shake his self-consciousness on stage, but Libby was awfully proud of her new man.
While he had stories to tell Libby about his numerous buddies in the dramatic society, at work and from his old private school, he rarely spent time with them. Jason, from their first night, had since been transferred to Tasmania. Phillip spent almost the whole of his free time with Libby. It seemed a gesture of his commitment.
During week three of their lightning romance, Phillip was holding Libby’s hand in one of the back rows at the Cremorne Orpheum cinema. In the middle of a romantic scene, Phillip put his arm around Libby.
‘I don’t want to scare you, but I think I love you,’ he said softly.
Libby froze in her chair, carefully mulling over the correct response to Phillip’s bombshell. It’s been intense, she thought, but ‘love’? Is this good or bad?
Libby had become familiar with Phillip’s over-sensitive side and decided to hedge her bets, ‘That’s so nice.’
Phillip threw his arms around Libby, rubbing her neck, kissing her as though it was their first passionate moment. He seemed thrilled; Libby wasn’t sure how to feel and showed it. Phillip paused, looked at her. He could detect her reticence.
Downstairs in the coffee shop, Phillip wanted to take the issue further. ‘What’s wrong with expressing my feelings to you?’ Phillip said, looking agitated. ‘What’s wrong with that? Are you saying that we have nothing more than a sexual relationship? Are we just friendly? Maybe we should be called friends? Don’t you feel strongly for us? Or has love come too early for you? What is it, Libby?’
These rapid-fire questions hit Libby between the eyes. She felt trapped. ‘There’s nothing wrong with expressing your feelings,’ she said slowly. ‘And I do feel strongly for you. It’s just that, it’s just that I guess there’s always been an unwritten rule about not “falling in love”, as they call it, so quickly. I’m not sure I’ve ever known what “in love” was.’
Phillip slipped back into the seat of his chair. Libby was perplexed, shocked and scared one moment, guilty at not reciprocating the next.
‘Let’s go home to your place,’ Phillip said as he grabbed her by the hand.
That night, their lovemaking changed. It was more intense than it had ever been. He refused to sleep, appearing to crave an intense, unbroken physical connection.
Later that week, Libby arranged to race home early from work and cook a full-scale candlelight meal. Phillip agreed to arrive at seven-thirty and seemed to be looking forward to experiencing the best of her culinary feats. It certainly promised to be a step up from breakfast and the odd snack. Libby had planned every detail, from serviette rings and candles to the best olive oil and fresh organic vegetables. This was going to be the perfect meal no matter what.
> Her modest kitchen bench was in a state of cuisine chaos. Squeezed between the sink and the refrigerator were carefully diced vegetables to serve separately from the pasta dish. She had all the ingredients ready to prepare her Italian bruschetta. A bottle of the best white wine she could find stood in its special wine bucket. She looked a mess but knew she had time to get ready before seven-thirty. As she prepared the meal, Libby put on one of their favourite CDs and rocked along with Roachford in the kitchen.
‘Where the hell is he?’ Libby said to herself after looking at the hall clock—eight o’clock already. The bruschetta was ready and the fetta was beginning to harden. She couldn’t keep it under the grill any longer; the bread was beginning to burn. She rang his flat, but there was no one there; she rang his parents too, but they couldn’t shed any light on his whereabouts, and his work extension rang out. Phillip did not like mobiles and claimed hardly to use them outside of work. Libby had never questioned it—she hated them too. He was not contactable and it was now nine-thirty. Every time she heard a car engine outside, she peered out of her bedroom window. She must have looked out the front of the house twenty times to check for him. Then she started to worry.
He’d simply vanished into thin air, so had the pasta sauce in the frypan. The ice had melted under the wine, the rock-hard bruschetta had been tossed into the garbage, the vegetables were dry and tasteless. The entire meal was history. There was no point even beginning to prepare dessert. All that remained was a wonderfully decorated table, sparkling cutlery and her cherished tablecloth. Two stumpy candles were drawing their last breath.
As her eyes welled with tears, she looked down at the table and muttered to herself, ‘What an effort, what a waste. Well done, Lib.’
Her concerns for Phillip’s safety were disappearing. She sensed she’d been dudded and hated him for it. Libby fell onto the lounge and a dull anger grew in the pit of her stomach, matched only by how sorry she felt for herself. Libby cursed a little further, before falling asleep.
‘Call for you, Libby!’
‘Who is it, Carla?’
‘Phillip again,’ said the work receptionist.
‘Tell him I’m not here,’ Libby yelled back down the office passageway.
‘Okay—but this is the very last time.’
It was the morning after the no show and Phillip had already made four calls to Libby’s work. She was meting out the first dose of punishment, refusing to take his calls and or to accept the bunch of red roses he sent to her office. Then a letter arrived without a sender’s name or address:
Dearest Libby,
You must be angry and I understand fully. I am so very sorry, so very sorry you’ll never know. But you must at least give me the chance to explain. I had one of those nights from hell.
I was dragged off by my supervisor to save a client’s mainframe and I was nowhere near a phone and the time just evaporated. The details are way too boring to go into, but I simply had no choice. I thought of you the whole time and by the time I got out of there, it was past midnight and far too late to wake you.
Please forgive me and I promise that it will never happen again. Please call me…
I’ll make it up to you. I will.
Love Phillip
xoxoxox
Libby didn’t know what to think. It was a plausible excuse, not elaborate enough to be contrived. She rang him at work immediately to apologise for being so cold. They arranged to see each other that night and Phillip brought over a pizza and a bottle of wine for dinner.
‘It hurt knowing that you were there on your own with everything prepared, but you have to trust me,’ he stressed.
‘Well, what was I supposed to think?’
‘You should trust me.’
Libby admonished herself for being so quick to mistrust the man she so loved being with.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, moving closer to hug him. He didn’t say a word, holding her coldly for a few minutes. Then, with no prompting, Phillip was at it again, grabbing at her, tearing her clothing, before throwing her onto the floor and climbing on top of her. She was frightened by his aggression, caught off-guard, unable to calm him down. She felt like a naughty child being spanked for doing something wrong. And for a moment, she believed she deserved it.
5
A PSYCHOTIC MESS
In the week that followed, Phillip rarely stayed at his own apartment at night, becoming a permanent resident at Mosman. While his appetite for sex was as ferocious as ever, he also began experimenting. Libby’s limits were about to be tested.
Phillip arrived late one night with a document sachet thick with what Libby presumed was work. But its contents illustrated Phillip’s preoccupation with interests well beyond the work sphere. He emptied the sachet and placed a pile of pornographic magazines onto the coffee table. Libby was stunned.
‘What are these for’?’ Libby demanded.
‘What do you think they’re for?’ he said abruptly.
‘Why have you brought them?’
‘How about we experiment a bit? You must fantasise about stuff like this, getting dirty. It can make sex even better, you know,’ he said. ‘Grab us a drink and we’ll look through them together.’
‘Grab your own drink,’ Libby snapped.
‘What?’ Phillip shouted. ‘Don’t be such a prude. Lots of couples use this stuff to fire them up or learn something about each other.’
Libby stormed off into the bedroom. Where was his warmth? The magazines were put back into the sachet and never resurfaced again.
On another occasion, while lovemaking, Phillip asked if he could tie Libby up. She was startled, but let Phillip play out his fantasy. She felt very uncomfortable and humiliated—which didn’t seem to worry Phillip.
‘What was wrong?’ Phillip asked afterwards. ‘I can’t believe you. Let go. I thought this would turn you on.’
‘Maybe, but you could tell I wanted you to stop,’ she said raising her voice. Libby had dropped the soft and loving tone she’d always used for him. He’d overstepped the mark.
‘What do you mean? Did it hurt? I thought you were playing along. I’d never hurt you, baby. I’m so sorry.’ Phillip turned away and sounded like he was sobbing. Libby didn’t know what to think. It seemed—pathetic. But he sounded so genuinely hurt and, with hindsight, perhaps she could have been clearer about her feelings. Phillip turned back and rested his head on her chest. Libby regretted her outburst, but now she was nursing a sook. Eventually Phillip stood and returned to the lounge room, while Libby sat up on the bed feeling empty and confused.
When he came back into the bedroom, he kissed her on the forehead before making for the front door. Libby asked him to stay, but he walked out and drove away.
Libby headed into the bathroom, turned on the shower taps, undressed and stood under the hot running water. She was grateful for the peace, the space, but why was it so difficult to make her man happy?
Libby Masters was learning the hard way how to deal with a man who possessed apparently boundless sexual energy. He’d connected too deeply for Libby to cut and run. But that didn’t mean she was about to run back to him like some punished puppy.
Libby hadn’t heard from Phillip for two days; it was the longest period the couple had been apart since they first met. Libby’s frustration gnawed at her so much that she could not concentrate at work. On the third night, she rang his apartment at ten o’clock, but there was no answer. Then at eleven, as Libby was in the bathroom brushing her teeth before bed, she was startled by a loud knock at the door.
‘Who is it?’ Libby yelled down the hall. There was no answer. ‘Is anyone there?’
There was still no answer. She was becoming frightened. Someone had been there for sure. If it was Phillip, he would have answered by now.
She returned to the bathroom and she could see a tiny silhouette through the small bathroom window out onto the backyard. The shadow grew larger. Her heartbeat raced. Then in a second the silhouette became the clea
r full shape of a person, followed by a rap on the sill. The fright made Libby drop the glass of water she had been holding and it smashed onto the cold, tiled floor.
‘Who is that?’ she screamed.
‘It’s me,’ Phillip replied. ‘Sorry, there was no answer out front.’
‘Oh,’ Libby shut her eyes with relief and sighed, going to the back door to let him in.
‘Did I scare you?’ Phillip asked blankly.
‘You sure did,’ Libby said, holding her chest. ‘Didn’t you hear me yell out down the hall?’
‘No. I decided to go round the back. I must have been round the side when you yelled.’
‘How have you been?’ Libby asked as she took a dustpan and broom from behind the door and headed back towards the bathroom to clean up.
‘Oh, okay, and you?’ Phillip followed from a distance.
Libby came out from the bathroom and took a good look at him. He sounded over-excited, tense. His face was flushed, as if he had a fever. Libby couldn’t understand why. He has a car, she thought. He didn’t run here.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ Phillip said, as he stood alone in the lounge room, following her movements with his eyes.
He took a videocassette out from under his dark grey sloppy joe and made his way to the video recorder in the lounge room, inserting the cartridge into the machine.
‘What’s this?’ Libby asked curiously, as she returned to sit down on the lounge. ‘We’re not watching a video are we? It’s eleven o’clock, Phillip, and I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’
Phillip hopped back onto the lounge as saxophone music blared from the television screen. A grainy picture appeared, a wide shot of a park. The camera began to zoom in and Libby could see what she was watching. A man with messy, blonde-streaked hair was having sex with a breast-enhanced woman on a picnic bench. The music was mixed with overacted groans and grunts. Although she winced in disgust, Libby was conscious not to overreact and trigger another argument over a videotape. She stayed put to watch, until after ten minutes she’d had enough and went to bed. Phillip, however, ignored her walkout and stayed up to watch the rest of the tape alone.
