He put the pizza onto his plate with a care that belied the way he’d crushed the toppings off it, reached for his napkin, wiped his hand, and placed-not-threw the napkin on the table beside his plate. ‘I remember what I said. That if Lane and Adam split up within the life of our agreement and she wanted to have sex with me I’d do it, if only you’d shut up about her.’
‘Yes, that’s what you said.’
‘So leaving aside the obvious point that you have not shut up about her, perhaps you can answer this: does Lane want to have sex with me? Because she’s barely said a sentence to me for the past two months that didn’t include a reference to “inflation”, “GDP”, “Beijing” or “interest rates”.’
‘There’s no reason why she wouldn’t want to. I mean, she wanted to before.’
‘Before is not now.’
‘Then you’ll have to find out.’
Un-fucking-believable. ‘You really want me to have sex with Lane?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just to salve your conscience?’
‘Well … yes.’
‘Even though I, myself, have done nothing wrong.’
‘Um …’
‘I mean, I wasn’t the one who tricked her, and I wasn’t the one who was awful to her on the phone, but somehow I’m the one who has to fix it?’
‘But—’
‘And you don’t think Lane’s going to mind taking your leavings?’
‘Sh-she won’t know about Saturday night. That was the whole point of keeping things secret in the first place.’
‘Oh, that was the point of keeping things secret! Because you always intended to have sex with me yourself! Funny, since you told me that first night you definitely didn’t want to have sex with me.’
‘What? No! I mean—’
‘Because it certainly stumped me, why we had to keep a perfectly innocent arrangement off the grid if that was true.’
‘Well it didn’t end up innocent, did it?’ she cried, because she couldn’t take any more. And now it was her turn to rip off a chunk of pizza with her teeth, chew furiously, swallow.
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘You didn’t care if I kept you a secret, you said. Feelings could be controlled, you said. The most innocent thing you’d done for nine years, you said. Not worth any angst, you said. I could mop things up any way I wanted at the end, you said. You’d even help me, you said.’ She threw down the pizza. ‘I knew it wasn’t going to turn out to be as easy as you made it sound. I knew it. And now here we are. And I am mopping it up, and you are going to help me! You’re going to have sex with Lane!’
‘And if I don’t want to?’
‘Why wouldn’t you want to? It’s just another one-night stand, right, David? Your specialty.’
‘Your logic is …’ But words failed him.
‘My logic is sound,’ she said. ‘Lucid, cogent, unarguable.’
‘Except for one thing, Sarah. Say, for the purposes of easing your conscience, I do it—how’s that going to help your brother?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Weeeeell …’ Danger ahead, he could feel it. See it, in the nervous way she licked her lips. ‘I thought you could make the experience a little … a little … ho-hum.’
Tick, tick, tick. ‘Ho … hum.’
‘Yes, ho-hum. Just think—she finally lands the guy of her dreams, but the experience turns out to be … underwhelming.’
Silence. He just could not speak.
She licked her lips again. ‘I thought … think … that might make Lane realize what she’s losing in Adam.’ She did the lean-in, across her plate. ‘Because according to Erica, whatever they’ve been doing, it hasn’t been ho-hum.’
A tremor of pure rage shook him. ‘And do I get Erica while I’m at it?’
Sarah stayed hovering over her plate for a moment, eyes wide. Was she frightened? She should be, by God.
‘She wouldn’t do it,’ she said. ‘To Lane, or to Jeremy.’
‘You sure about that?’ he taunted. ‘You did it to Lane, after all.’
She swallowed. Swallowed again as she eased slowly back into her seat. He’d unnerved her. Good.
‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ she said. ‘And yes I’m sure Erica wouldn’t.’
She was blushing, but for once he didn’t know if that meant she was lying or if she was just hot with shame.
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ he asked, smiling coldly. ‘After tonight we have three weeks of our agreement left. At the end of those three weeks, I’ll fuck Lane for you.’ He saw her flinch. Relished the fact he could make her flinch. ‘And then, I’ll fuck Erica, for whom I don’t have to make it ho-hum.’
‘I told you, Erica—’
‘I don’t care what you told me. In three weeks, it’ll be none of your business who I fuck.’
She flinched again.
‘Don’t like that word, Sarah? Because I have other words for what I’ll do to your friends if you want me to list them for you.’
‘Fornicate, copulate, yes, yes, yes!’ she cried.
‘But I think I prefer “fuck”.’
Flinch.
He smiled, cold and hard. ‘It seems to fit this situation, at any rate, don’t you think? Fuck.’
Another flinch. But then she seemed to gather herself up, and fixed him with a stony eye. ‘Just because I don’t swear doesn’t mean it bothers me when someone else does. My brother does. All the time. And Erica! Sh-she s-swears like a trooper, j-just so you know. You two will get along like a house on fire.’ She picked up her glass and tossed back most of the wine left in it. ‘In fact, I think you should paint her for the Langman Portrait Prize instead of me.’
‘It’s not my intention to get along with her. It’s not my intention to paint her. It’s my intention to fuck her.’
‘Fine,’ she said, throwing her napkin on the table and jumping to her feet. ‘You take the week to think about all those sex words you’re dying to shock me with and I’ll see you next Wednesday.’
‘I thought you didn’t generally stomp off in a snit, bluebell,’ he said—no, sneered.
She went stiff as a board and glared at him. ‘Don’t call me bluebell. Not like … like that.’
‘All right, let’s pick a new nickname. What’s a word that describes a female who takes a guy for a test drive and when she decides not to buy the model, pimps him out to her friends?’
‘Except that you’re not for sale, you’re strictly lease-only on a short-term basis. You made that clear from the start.’
‘Reverse our positions. What if it were me selecting a guy for you to fuck, because I owed him something?’
‘It’s different.’
He laughed, incredulous. ‘Really? How very emancipated.’
Her face went thunderous. ‘For a start,’ she said, ‘I don’t have sex with different people four times a week the way you do.’
‘Now you see, I keep remembering that you told me you could have sex any day of the week.’
‘But I don’t have it like that. That’s the difference between us. And that’s why it was so easy for you tonight, to act as though … as though nothing happened between us on Saturday night. Because you do it all the time!’
‘I acted like that because I know how you run and I wasn’t going to give you a reason to do that.’ He banged a hand on the table, making her jump. ‘Because I’m telling you now, Sarah, you’re not running out on my painting.’
‘I don’t run!’
‘You always run. The guy who falls in love with you is going to have to don a pair of running shoes fit for an ultramarathon to have a hope in hell of catching you. Stud service only, right? Hit and run, run, run. Until it’s time for the sperm donor—then you’ll have to let him catch you, won’t you, if you want the two-point-five kids?’ He felt his mouth twist. Disgust. Pungent, sour, caustic. ‘You could teach Rebel a thing or two, even at your tender age.’
; ‘I don’t know why you’re so angry about this.’
‘Because I fucking am, that’s why.’ Shouting. Couldn’t help it.
‘All I’m doing is looking after my friend and my brother. And … and you, if it comes to that. Yes, and you! And the more I think about it, the more sense it makes for you to paint Erica instead of me. A new conquest, a better subject for the portrait, a really beautiful one, and only one relationship to ruin, not two, because Erica as the subject won’t hurt Adam the way I will.’
‘And throw away two weeks’ work?’ He shook his head. ‘Tsk, tsk, Sarah. That’s not thinking about me, that’s just running away. Well, you can run away from whatever the fuck you want to—except my painting.’
‘Stop saying that about running away. It’s not running away. It’s just thinking ahead to when Adam goes to see the Langman exhibition—which he does every year.’
‘Then you should have thought about that before you said yes because it’s too fucking late to change your mind!’
‘I thought things would work out, that it wouldn’t matter. But they didn’t work out and it does matter. And now, when I think of how he’s going to feel when he sees a painting of his sister done by the man the woman he loves chose over him, when I think of what he might do, I can’t bear it! It’s for your own protection, David! You should be thanking me!’
He pushed violently away from the table and stood. ‘You think I’m scared of your brother?’ There he went, shouting again.
‘You should be! He’s a six foot five wall of muscle and he isn’t the kind of guy to ask questions before punching. Or … or castrating! Remember what he wanted to do to Bryan, what he still wants to do!’
‘How sad then, that someone got there before him.’
He saw the confusion on Sarah’s face, saw her mouth open to say something, ask something, but before she could, he was yanking his T-shirt furiously up, unbuttoning his jeans and shoving them down just far enough to expose the ugly white scar low on his abdomen.
‘Rebel beat him to the attempt,’ he said. ‘If she’d aimed just a little to the left, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’
‘Oh my God,’ Sarah breathed out, and then she was coming around the table towards him, hand out as though to touch.
David whirled away, jeans up, T-shirt down. ‘Don’t, Sarah. Just … don’t.’
‘Why did she do that?’
‘She didn’t like the idea of my getting married again.’
‘But you said she dumped you. I mean … she dumped you.’
‘She did.’
‘So why would she …? And … and Margaret. Didn’t you tell her about Margaret and Carly? That there was nothing to be jealous of?’
‘She already knew. We were all friends, close friends, before the break-up, sharing the one flat.’
He turned to Sarah, saw that she was looking completely bewildered.
‘Rebel blamed it on the hormones,’ he said. ‘She was pregnant. Not mine.’ His mouth twisted again. ‘And don’t ask me if I’m sure about that.’
‘I don’t understand any of it.’
‘Luckily, Sarah, you don’t have to.’
Silence as they stared at each other. It was like a tug-of-war, the rope taut between them, but neither sure enough of their ground to start the game.
‘So …’ she said at last, stepping back, cautious. ‘What happens next?’
‘Well, Sarah, next, you don’t mention Lane’s name to me again. Is that clear?’
‘But how will I know—’
‘Is that clear?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘All you need to know is that I’ve said I’ll do it, and I will. But after the painting is finished. You see, I’m holding you hostage, Sarah—you have to pose for me three more times.’ He smiled then, so coldly, Sarah actually shivered. ‘Of course, you’ll still get your dates critiqued. But you’d better get your skates on if we’re going to find your fantasy man by the time we’re done.’
She lifted her chin. ‘I went out with Kyle on Monday night.’
‘Ah, Kilimanjaro Kyle. Good for you, Sarah. But knowing your track record, I suggest you add a few more prospects before I see you next week. There’s safety in numbers, you know. Better have a couple in reserve.’
***
David sat at the dining table, looking at the now-cold, mostly uneaten pizza, for a long time after Sarah left.
Have sex with Lane.
Just like that.
As though Saturday night had never happened. As though his sexual performance had been so ‘ho-hum’ it was no hardship for Sarah not to repeat it. Worse, that its very ho-humness was a virtue, which would send women scurrying back to their more skilled lovers.
Have sex with Lane.
Great thing for a guy to hear from the girl he’d fallen in love with.
He recalled the solution he’d put to Sarah three weeks ago in the storeroom, when she’d first started in on those convoluted arguments about Lane: If you’re going to be obsessed with my sex life, have sex with me yourself. That way, I won’t have the energy to think about Lane, and Lane can concentrate all her energies on Adam, and all four of us will be happy.
It had seemed simple back then, when it was all about getting her cooperation for the painting. But now he essentially had the painting, now he didn’t need Sarah to finish the painting, he found he didn’t care about the painting. She was more important than the damn painting.
And he couldn’t bring himself to let her go, even though in three weeks he’d have to.
Restless, he left the table, went out onto the deck, breathed in the winter air as he looked out over the city. He was surrounded by tall buildings, so many lights on, signs of life in a busy city, and yet he felt alone. In the distance, he could see the arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, normally so subtly lit but tonight glowing bright for the Vivid Festival. And because it was bold and colourful and magical like Sarah, it made him feel not only alone but … lonely. Separated from her on every level.
Her taxi would be over the Bridge by now. He pictured her in her granny flat. The blind—had it been repaired? And was she was thinking about him now as she looked at it?
Idiot. Yes, she was thinking of him. Thinking how quickly she could get him into bed with her friend.
Have sex with Lane.
He sighed. Yeah, he could do that. Why not?
Sex was all he was good for, after all.
***
As Sarah let herself into her flat, her eyes went straight to the blind she’d had installed to replace the one David had torn down on Saturday night—and for which she was not going to bill him. She’d made a change from magenta to indigo, because indigo reminded her of David’s eyes. But recalling the fire in his eyes tonight, she suspected black and red—rage colours—would have been a better choice.
At least he’d agreed to the plan. Not without a fight, but he’d agreed.
She should be happy about that. Should be happy that he was going to have sex with her friend instead of her.
‘Yep, good job, Sarah,’ she said out loud, hitting the switch to raise the blind so the dark indigo wasn’t … wasn’t looking at her in its reproving, reproachful, admonitory way.
But when the blind had fully retracted, even her bed seemed to be glaring at her in silent you-are-an-idiot accusation, and she knew there was no way she was going to be able to sleep in it. Instead, she took herself out into her private garden. It was like a walled-in Grecian idyll, a paved square surrounded by luscious plants and trailing vines, the only colours allowed green, white and yellow—a non-compete with the clash of colours in the flat.
She walked restively around the tiny space … moving from plant to plant … touching an occasional leaf … a winter bloom … Slowing … stopping … breathing the quiet, cold air … Remembering what David had said, how bitterly he’d said it. ‘I know how you run … Hit and run, run, run …’ It was as th
ough he’d almost hated her at that moment.
What if that was the real reason for what she’d done tonight, to make him hate her? What if she was as commitment-phobic as David said she was, just like her brother? What if her grand plan on behalf of Lane and Adam was her way of running away?
She didn’t want that to be true, but what if it was? Had she thrown Lane at David as a new sexual conquest, suggested Erica replace her in the painting, threatened Adam as some kind of bogeyman, as a way of separating herself from David? Taking the choice out of her own hands, making sure she couldn’t have him by pushing him away?
Pushing him away … just like Rebel.
Stud service, hit and run, sperm donor. You could teach Rebel a thing or two.
Rebel … Rebel was the key.
Why had Rebel let David go? And what had David meant when he’d said he could nevertheless have Rebel any time he wanted her? How could that be true? The pregnancy to another man, the violent jealousy—how did they fit? Nothing made sense. Even the sudden disappearance of the Rebel paintings didn’t make sense—not when Rebel was the love of David’s life.
How must it feel, to be the love of David’s life? To have such power over him that even nine years later, he couldn’t get over you?
Stud service … hit and run … sperm donor … You could teach Rebel a thing or two.
Sarah looked down at her hand, saw that the winter primrose she’d plucked was crushed in her fist.
Oh God, what had she done?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
What had she done was a question that haunted Sarah all week.
Lane still wasn’t taking her calls, and Sarah could hardly complain since she’d spent three weeks dodging Lane’s without offering any explanation.
Erica had arrived back from Hong Kong, taken the funeral arrangements in hand, listened to Sarah’s plan … and told her it was insane, but that since she had nothing better to offer until she could get Lane to actually open the damn door to Adam, they’d have to run with it.
Adam was on the verge of becoming a stalker until, after the initial flurry of calls, texts and home visits (plus a planned turn-up-to-the-office disaster-in-the-making that Sarah only narrowly averted by reminding him how much Lane would hate both the visit and him for subjecting her to the embarrassment), Sarah suggested he alternate his calls to Lane with calls to Erica.
The Dating Game Page 20
