Perfect Skin

by Nick Earls

  But I don’t even want that either. And I’m pretty sure I never had the moment of competence. Look, I’m not in the market for dates. I’m so not in the market for dates that I don’t know how it’d be if I was. If I was, I wouldn’t want the photo-swap date because it’s just not a date, and I wouldn’t want the eighties date, either. I do not have fond memories of eighties dates, even beyond the first half of the decade when I didn’t get any. Eighties dates – and maybe this was just me – seemed to be about hanging around uninteresting people long enough to have sex with them a few times. They didn’t necessarily know that, of course, and I might have pissed one or two of them off. So I’m hoping that’s not the competence you’ve got in mind. It doesn’t sound great now.

  Sylvia appears next to George, holding files.

  You both have dates, she says. And quite loud voices. Nigel’s got everything ready to go, Jon. And I don’t know if you’re interested in my opinion, but I think you’re probably a nicer man than you used to be. So I’m sure it’ll be all right in the end.

  At least George waits till he’s back in his room to laugh.

  His mid-thirties date concept preoccupies me most of the rest of the afternoon. It shouldn’t, of course. I should be doing much more to take into account where these opinions are coming from.

  I remember George had a crush on a girl at uni for months because she used an asterisk when she wanted to add something to the bottom of her lecture notes, but a cross of Lorraine if she wanted to add something else. The asterisk was an obvious choice, but the cross of Lorraine spoke to George. I remember him telling me, Jon Boy, she uses a cross of Lorraine to mark something in notes. Like, how smart is that?

  Fortunately, this was one of those rare crushes that you have the luxury of bringing to a close yourself. After a couple of months of sitting nearby hoping to be noticed, and a snatched second here and there of tense casual conversation, he actually dealt with it head on and asked her how she came to be using the cross of Lorraine in notes. She had no idea what he was talking about. So he pointed to one, and she said, Oh, that. I guess I got it from somewhere. And then he could get over her.

  And in the end he was glad he’d never quite got round to showing her his own system (cross of Jerusalem, papal cross, cross of Saint Catherine). But George always footnoted far too much for his own good.

  After work, we swim. Nigel’s a regular, and George decided he should get into some kind of exercise, so he told Nigel we’d join him. How it became a ‘we’ issue I’m not sure, but my parents said they’d be happy to have Lily a bit longer this afternoon, so it looks as though I’m in.

  Nigel takes his shirt off to reveal a swimmer’s kind of body, and one of those mystical, new-age tatts on his arm. George takes his shirt off, too, but it’s not the same. The swimmer’s body is lost somewhere deep inside George. Plus, he’s a pretty hairy guy. For George, skin is just the biological equivalent of underlay, and he could hide a lot of tatts in there beneath all that fuzz. In fact, there was a time when he won a hairy-chest competition without having to show the judges anything more than his back.

  We hit the water, and it’s harder on my arms than I’d expected. Nigel turns over lap after lap without visible effort. George swims one length, then part of another, then manoeuvres himself to the non-lapping section of the pool and crouches low in the water, bobbing up and down as the bow waves of swimmers come his way, and looking like something that could scare salmon.

  A few laps later I go over.

  Don’t want to overdo it, he says. Not the first time.

  That was really hard on my arms. Did you find that?

  No. I found it hard everywhere.

  How about an iceblock?

  We get out and sit on the concrete steps of the stand, eating iceblocks and watching Nigel swim on.

  Do you think he gets bored doing that? George says.

  Who knows? I think he gets bored with lots of things.

  None of us really gets Nigel. He’s good at what he does at work and he’s nice enough, but he can be intense about things when you least expect it. It’s no surprise that he laps the pool the way he does. He’s got a homemade vegetarian curry that he often brings in for lunch and reheats in the microwave. It always smells great, and someone once pointed that out to him. As a casual remark, a passing minor-league compliment, but Nigel came straight back at them with, The key to it all’s not skimping on ingredients. If it says galangal, you get galangal. You don’t make it easy for yourself and use ginger. As though he’d be annoyed if we even thought about it.

  When do you have to pick up Lily? George says.

  Not for a while. I allowed an hour for this. Kind of hard to believe now.

  Yeah, good one. How long does it take to eat an iceblock?

  Yeah. That date stuff earlier . . . What you’re suggesting is the beginning of middle-age. You realise that, don’t you?

  I didn’t tell you half of it. I didn’t mention the dinner-at-her-place option. The twee nibbly things from the deli du jour or the good glory-box crockery or the ice bucket. I didn’t say candles, and I didn’t say Celine, Kenny G, Easy Listening format.

  What?

  I didn’t say Sinatra.

  Sinatra? You are fucking joking with this. Tell me now that you’re joking. It’s like, if my father didn’t exist and my mother went on a date, that might be what she was up for.

  Your mother thinks Sinatra’s a tosser. Always preferred Bing. But, really, if I went for your mother, I’d be going with something more like Simon and Garfunkel.

  George, I don’t like the way that sounds as though you’ve thought it through.

  He sings the opening lines of ‘Sounds of Silence’. Or maybe even some Elvis, he says. You know, one of those love-ballad albums.

  George, these are bad jokes. You are being evil to my mind. There could be no Elvis. Not on dates. With my mother or anyone.

  Your dog is called Elvis.

  As a joke. He’s got the brain of a whippet and even he can recognise it’s ironic. Please, don’t make the whole thing sound so horribly historic.

  So, millennium man, tell me about date mechanics then. How would it work for you? Should that kind of thing be on the cards.

  Okay, I haven’t thought about this, so it’ll be a bit rudimentary. What I’m thinking is that I should capitalise on what I’ve learned, but it’s still got to be fun. It’s got to have some sense of the contemporary. And nothing hinting that my best years are behind me, or anything. Because they’d really better not be. So, I’m sorry, there’s not only no Easy Listening, but there’s no Classic Hits format. This is the eighties hair issue. If I was back at someone’s place, okay, and they put on, like, Dead or Alive, and even thought about reminiscing, I’d know there was no chance.

  Or Nik Kershaw, or Paul Young.

  Oh, Jesus, there’d be No Parlez of any kind. Out the door.

  Or Haircut 100.

  Shit, Porge. I wouldn’t have fucked anyone who played Haircut 100 in the eighties. That’s never going to change.

  Good call. I probably would have, though. Okay, Kaja Googoo. Limahl. Culture Club. Hayzee Fantayzee.

  Porge, I’m not feeling well. Quit it with the eighties. Eighties songs should be left entirely alone until after the tenth beer on New Year’s Eve. At which time the words come back to you automatically and you can’t be held responsible.

  As I’m well aware. Don’t think I’ve forgotten New Year’s Eve 1989 and the large number of appalling songs you seemed to know word for word.

  It was a weak moment. I’ve been better since. You know I was about to go overseas then. It was just pre-departure nostalgia. I was kind of tense. I wouldn’t have sung more than a handful of songs on the last few New Year’s Eves.

  But on the platform at Central Station? In 1997?

  People liked it. Anyway, it was Roma Street. Besides, what about you on New Year’s Eve 1989, with most of the guests tripping over your tongue while you spent the whole nigh
t ogling one of my housemates?

  That wasn’t ogling. It was much classier than ogling. I dropped over quite a bit after that – after you left – specifically because of her. It was a crush, a proper crush, not just some lazy, drunken piece of New Year’s Eve perving, you know. I wanted her, all bloody January. Anyway, you’ve got us off on a deliberate tangent. Stop shirking the issue. Get back to the date. Tell me about it. Begin the date.

  Okay, I get to her place – this is happening at her place, like your scenario – she gives me a glass of wine . . .

  What kind of wine?

  I don’t want to argue with you about wine now.

  Yeah, but it’s not a chardonnay any more, is it?

  She gives me a glass of wine. And I can’t believe you’d dare fuss about the grape, when you’re playing such shit music on your date.

  Hey, that’s her, not me.

  Okay. She gives me a glass of wine. The whole thing is casual. No glory-box items involved. She plays – here’s the music part – maybe Jeff Buckley. That’d be okay. Ben Folds Five. If it was my place, she’d be getting some Best of the Lemonheads at the moment, or some Grant McLennan.

  And if you started singing along by accident?

  Oh, fuck, I really am doing that a lot, aren’t I?

  If you start singing along by accident, you just blame it on the Bean, like always.

  Thanks.

  Just getting you ready for it, champ.

  Okay. Wine, music, then there’s conversation. That’s when she dazzles me with her brain. Brains are good, George. I’m a sucker for a quality brain.

  And for the first time in ages, the concept actually finds a place for itself in my own brain, and seems kind of nice.

  See, you can do it. I’d go on that, on that kind of date. You wouldn’t have to ask me twice if that was on offer.

  And I suppose I could even take a passing reference to the eighties, if it was clear there was irony involved.

  Good. Very good. I like your prognosis, fella. Anyway, I’m shitting with you. Do what you want. I think we’re the generation that’s getting to invent the mid-thirties date. Think about it. thirtysomething and single used to be aberrant. Maiden-aunt territory. Now it’s what most of us seem to be, for one reason or another. And a lot of us don’t score enough dates to know much about what’s what, anyway. Look at me. Visibly not getting younger, and still I’m holding out for the right kind of offer. Call me fussy, but you’re nothing when you stop being fussy. Even if it means I’m the only person I know who buys condoms based on their shelf life.

  Later, I have an awkward moment when I realise I honestly couldn’t get involved with a person with eighties hair. Not that I’m seeking involvement, but eighties hair couldn’t end at eighties hair. It’s what it says. Katie goes to a lot of trouble for that effect, and what does that mean? How far does it go? Eighties hair is a symptom, not a disease. What’s going on in her mind? How much of all the years since is she yet to notice?

  And then there’s the idea of the person with eighties hair bearing down on you with all that blue eye shadow, and you know that somewhere in her wardrobe she’s got leg warmers, waiting. Right next to the ‘Choose Life’ T-shirt.

  But what am I thinking? It’s not as though I could ever promise to be at the cutting edge of fashion myself. And anyone with eighties hair is really only one good haircut away from crossing the line, and being a contender.

  I don’t think I’ve been this shallow for, seriously, maybe ten years.

  6

  Do you want to come in for some water? Ash says, when we’ve finished the run and we’re back outside her house.

  On either side of the path, the grass is knee-high with some stalks shooting up much higher and bending under the weight of seed with the recent rain. If it wasn’t for the car parked in the driveway you’d be sure no-one lived here.

  In the kitchen, she takes water from the fridge and pours it into two plastic cups. I get the red one.

  I think they are Waterford, or something, she says, just as I was thinking I’d accepted my plastic cup impassively. I’d show you round the place, but this is the best hit.

  There’s not much to say to that. Behind the fridge I can see the shitty wiring, and it’s probably worse in the places I can’t see. When I look down, there’s a crack of daylight coming through between the lino floor tiles. I want to say things like, Have you had the wiring checked? and Are you sure this floor’s okay?, but that sounds too much like my father’s territory. And there’s no point. She won’t have had the wiring checked, for a start.

  I got this place through a family friend, she says, obviously figuring it needs some explanation. Rent-free. They’ll build town houses here eventually. Or units. But that’ll take a while to happen. They’ve got a dive-boat business out of Cairns that keeps them busy.

  Is that where you’re from?

  Yeah. Well, Atherton, not far from Atherton. But I’ve been in Cairns for uni. She stops to refill my cup. I’ve been doing psychology and sociology at James Cook and I’ve transferred down here for honours. To work with a particular supervisor. And maybe convert it into a masters. We’ll see.

  So are you going to get other people in here to live with?

  I don’t know. I don’t know if that’s really feasible. I don’t know if the place is up to it.

  Do you know a lot of people round here?

  No. But uni hasn’t started yet, so . . . She stops, drinks water. Things’ll get busy soon enough, I guess.

  She finishes her water, and the sweat runs from the ends of her dark hair and down her neck, soaks into today’s ten-K fun-run singlet top. She does have blue eyes, I notice, even though I thought I’d made that up. Natalie Imbruglia – that’s who I thought she looked like. Even though she doesn’t, really, so that’s even more embarrassing than having thought it in the first place. She doesn’t have the same mouth.

  She doesn’t have the same mouth as Natalie Imbruglia – that’s what I’m thinking, standing here in her kitchen, drinking water from her best red plastic cup. Not that the fact that it’s different means there’s anything wrong with her mouth, but . . .

  Uni starts next week, she says. It’s probably good to have a quiet week or two before getting into that.

  Yeah. If you wanted to do something in the meantime, we could have coffee. Or something. If you wanted. Look, I could just give you my details and then you could call, or whatever. If you had time on your hands.

  Sure.

  I’ve got it all on a card. A business card. How about I give you one?

  On the way to the car, it crosses my mind that she’s not likely to be faxing me from here, and that maybe a couple of phone numbers would have sufficed. And that going the business card will probably look like the wanker option. I’m really not having an interpersonally gifted week. I think I wanted to offer her some social interaction, but with no pressure to go along with it if she didn’t want to, and all of a sudden I was coming across completely sixteen. Pre-competent and caught in a knot of embarrassment. Because she reminded me vaguely of Natalie Imbruglia, and surely that’s only a problem if I tell someone. Or stand there staring at her mouth, in the interest of thorough comparison. As if I’ve got any real idea of what I’m comparing her with. I’ve never paid any attention to Natalie Imbruglia.

  And I sounded cringingly unsure, when all I wanted to do was avoid pushing her into an arrangement she didn’t want. Next I should sing, maybe. Or spit on myself again. That always takes the pressure off.

  Somewhere in the glove box, under the mobile phone and the baby photos and an assortment of small toys and a couple of pens, I find a business card. Which doesn’t have my home number on it, so it’s not exactly as comprehensive as I’d promised. Lucky I found the pens.

  Lots of ways of contacting you, she says when she looks at it, once I’ve added my home number. Hey, your mobile isn’t on there either.

  Oh, yeah. It’s not mine, actually. It’s a work one, but it�
�s no-one’s in particular at the moment. I just seem to have it for now. For baby emergencies, mainly. Except I’m a bit slack about carrying it. I’m not sure if I’ll keep it. But I’ll give you the number anyway.

  So there is a baby, she says as I’m writing on the card.

  There is a baby. Hey, want to see her? I’ve got photos.

  Sure.

  So I show her the photos of Lily, aged five months and then six. Lying down, sitting up, reaching out, putting together a wobbly smile or two, showing an imprecise hint of tooth. Ash lacks Katie’s baby experience, so she doesn’t make the same noises. She makes the noises of someone a long way shy of nieces, nephews and any ticking clocks, which could mean this is boring her, but she seems okay with it.

  I like this one, she says. This confused one in particular. It’s like she’s saying, ‘I can’t believe you’re taking my photo again’.

  I did take a few, didn’t I?

  Yeah, but why not? And, besides, look at her. How could you not want to take a lot of photos?

  My thoughts, exactly. And she feels the same way, really. She’s faking it with that photo. She’s not confused. You should meet her. I think you’d get on.

  Yeah, we probably would. So how about the weekend?

  I’m sorry?

  The weekend. How about the weekend? Coffee, lunch, something? Remember? What you said in the kitchen. Is that still on?

  I’m late for work, having shown Ash the photos. And arranged to have lunch with her on Saturday. As I park the car, that’s the part of the conversation I’m still running through my head. I hadn’t thought it was going there. By then I was thinking I’d made a stupid offer in the kitchen, and I thought that it wasn’t going to go too far at all. I was sure we were having one of those times when you suggest something and the person talks about something else, and you both pretend the suggestion was never made. Obviously I’ve spent too much time lately talking to George about the eighties. I had a lot of conversations back then that went just like that.