The Dating Game

by Avril Tremayne

  He was standing in the studio, looking at the painting, with the whole leap/whoosh/whip thing happening, when the call came from the concierge to tell him Sarah was on her way up.

  So there was nothing for it but to school himself into a semblance of his usual enn-fucking-ui, open the door and wait for her. Right after he poured himself a drink—whisky this time, not wine, because he needed something strong.

  Sarah threw him a strained smile as she strode past him into the apartment. ‘Don’t tell me that’s single malt without Coke.’

  And David wanted to kiss her and tell her she could have Coke in her Chardonnay if that was what she wanted. Instead, he threw back the whisky and grunted. Grunted! Ah, the eloquence of love.

  ‘I’ll get changed, shall I?’ she asked too-damn-brightly.

  Another grunt.

  And then she was out of the room and he was pouring another whisky and tossing it back, then heading into the studio as though marching into battle.

  He was dabbing at the canvas when she came in.

  She stopped just inside the door, and when he pointed to the chaise longue, she shook her head.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, as her take-no-prisoners attitude finally filtered through the quagmire of self-pity in his head.

  ‘I have something to say and I need your full attention, and once you start painting …’ She cleared her throat. Repeated: ‘I need your full attention.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve got it, for as long as you don’t utter the word “Lane”. But please hurry the hell up so we can get back to the painting.’

  ‘It’s just that … Well, this is our last night and it’s time to take stock.’ She waved a hand at the painting as she took a step towards him. ‘The painting.’ Touched a hand to her chest, one more step. ‘My curse.’

  ‘The painting is on track,’ he said. ‘As for the rest …’ Oh God, did he want to hear it? Did he? Breathe. ‘Are you talking about Kyle?’

  ‘Yes, in a way.’

  This is good. You need to hear this. You do. ‘You’re at … what? Time-wise, I mean?’

  ‘It was three weeks on Monday since our first date.’

  Which of course David already knew, because he’d counted it out himself endlessly. Nevertheless, hearing her say it out loud, his heart stopped—then thumped once—then squeezed—then pounded. He was not going to cope with this. But he had to. Had to. ‘So today being Wednesday, you’ve broken the curse with a day to spare.’ He tried to smile but suspected it looked more like a circus clown paint job. ‘It’s all worked out, then, on time, for both of us. So now, take up the pose and let me finish the painting.’

  ‘No,’ she said, and took a further step in his direction.

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘On Monday, I told Kyle I didn’t want to see him again, so the curse is not broken, and I won’t take up the pose until it is, because it’s your fault.’

  ‘That’s not my fault, Sarah,’ he said, even as the vice-like grip around his heart released in a euphoric rush.

  One more step. ‘Yes, David, it is, because I’ve lost interest in other guys.’

  Thump-thump-thumping heart. An attempt at a laugh. Failure. ‘And that’s why you’ve dated at least seven of them in the past two weeks, I suppose?’

  ‘That was an attempt to rekindle an interest.’ Another step towards him. ‘But it didn’t work.’ Her tongue came out to tap at the cupid’s bow of her top lip, just for a moment. ‘You see, David, the last time I was interested in sex was that Saturday night.’ Step. And now she was only an arm’s length away. ‘With you.’

  He could smell her—frangipani. God, how was he going to resist her? ‘I thought we’d both forgotten that night.’ Uh-oh, he’d blinked twice. Had she noticed?

  ‘I’m glad to see those blinks of yours.’ Damn. ‘Because I can’t forget it either. I think it’s ruined me. It may be that I need a sex therapist because of that night. Or maybe all I need is you. So I thought, tonight, I should find out. Before it’s too late.’

  His heart was banging like a gorilla rattling the bars of a too-small cage now. His breath had jammed completely. The memory was there—how it had felt with her. And everything in his body was telling him to go there again. But his head was screaming at him to stop, to retreat, because nothing had changed. All the reasons why he couldn’t have her remained.

  He took a stumbling step back. ‘You said you didn’t need more sex in your life.’

  ‘I was wrong.’

  Step back. ‘I don’t do relationships, Sarah.’

  ‘We’ve already been in one for six weeks.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘And we’ve already had sex.’

  ‘That’s … different.’ God help him, God help him.

  Pause, while she looked at him, tongue on her top lip. And then she took a what-the-hell kind of breath. ‘So be it.’

  ‘So be what?’

  ‘I’m going to have to break out the weapons of mass seduction.’

  ‘What the hell does that— Shit!’ Because her hands had gone to the hem of the sweater, and she was raising it. ‘Holy fucking shit, Sarah!’ Because the sweater was up, and off, and thrown on the chaise, and she was standing there in black underwear covered in little white skulls with crimson lace trim and who would have thought skulls could be so sexy, so sexy he was going to die if he didn’t touch her, fucking die, holy Mary mother of God die.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Let’s negotiate a new deal.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘No,’ David said, and took another hasty step backwards. Ooh, tough guy, can’t even handle one tiny little girl.

  She advanced. ‘No?’

  ‘No!’ Step back. One tiny little girl in her underwear.

  Sarah stopped, then. Saying nothing. David desperately tried to keep his eyes above her collarbones. Tap, tap, tap went the tongue on her cupid’s bow. She was plotting, planning, scheming. Working out how to get him to do what she wanted.

  And then it hit him that she was using his tactic of silently waiting a person out, waiting for them to break the silence as the tension climbed, waiting for them to talk and give themselves away. Well he’d written the book on that. He wasn’t going to fall for it. Nope. No way. No! Aahhh … goddammit! ‘Look, it’s not as simple as you think.’

  Tap, tap, tap, in silence.

  ‘It’s not,’ he said.

  Blink, as her tongue slipped back into her mouth. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because.’

  Silence.

  Don’t speak. It’s her turn to speak. Do. Not. Speak. ‘Because it’s not.’

  Silence.

  Shit! ‘Because you and I don’t want the same thing.’

  ‘Don’t we?’

  He made a scoffing/laughing sound. ‘White picket fence? SUV? Two-point-five kids?’

  ‘Yes, one day I want those things.’

  Good. Great. Perfect. Vindication. ‘There you go, then!’

  ‘But not today,’ she said. ‘Today all I want is sex.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘True, not just today, if we’re splitting hairs. I want sex for the next three weeks and one day. Is that better for you?’

  ‘No, it’s not. This whole three weeks and one day fixation of yours is insane.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with the curse of the short-term fling ruining your life.’

  ‘Oh I’m cursed all right. And ruined. But short-term flings aren’t the cause, they’re the cure.’

  ‘Okay then, all you have to do is look upon what I’m suggesting as a short-term fling. Three weeks and one day and you’re off the hook, no demands made, no questions asked.’

  ‘We’ve been through this. You’re the one who won’t stick to a guy. You’re your own curse.’

  She stepped closer. ‘You agreed to break my curse, and whatever the cause of it, it remains unbroken.’

 
David stepped back. ‘What about Lane? Where does she fit in all this?’

  ‘She doesn’t, so now we really don’t have to talk about her any more. As it happens, Lane and Adam have sorted out their differences. In fact, this …’ sweeping gesture, taking in her body, which he would not look at ‘… was her idea.’

  ‘Her idea?’

  ‘Her idea.’

  What now? ‘Adam, then. What about Adam?’ Okay, he was sounding a little panicky. Tone it down, tone it the hell down. ‘You didn’t even want him to know I was painting you. What’s he going to say about sex?’

  ‘Short of inventing an evil doppelganger you just happened to stumble upon in the streets of Sydney, I don’t have much option about the painting, do I? He’ll see my portrait and he’ll know it’s me, and you’ve only got yourself to blame because when I offered you Erica as an alternative you turned me down.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t—’

  ‘He’ll say what he’s going to say whether you and I are together for the next three weeks and one day or not. Anyway, now his own love life’s sorted to his satisfaction, it’s none of his business.’ Her chin went up. ‘And I thought you weren’t scared of my brother.’

  Unanswerable.

  Another step. ‘Let me put it this way, David. Have I or have I not upheld my end of the bargain and posed for you for the past five weeks?’

  ‘Four weeks. That week … the pizza.’ Shit! Tactical error. He could see it in her eyes. What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t need that week repaid. Didn’t want that week.

  ‘Okay, I owe you one lost week. And I’m happy to make it up to you. It’s the fair thing to do.’

  ‘Fair,’ he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. There was a point to that ‘fair’.

  ‘And you should do the fair thing in return, shouldn’t you?’ Yep, there was a point and he was being out-manoeuvred. ‘As in, break my curse. And the fastest, most efficient way to do that, given you’ve found fault with every guy I’ve dated in the past six weeks, is to do it yourself.’

  ‘I didn’t find fault with Kyle,’ he said, which sounded lame, but was actually true (because wanting to kick a guy’s head in wasn’t the same thing as finding fault).

  ‘So he’s the exception that proves the rule,’ she said and shrugged. Shrugged! Poor Kyle—reduced to a shrug. Is that what David would be reduced to when the time came? An easy-come-easy-go shrug? Oh, you mean David? He’s just a guy I had sex with for three weeks and one day.

  Yeah, no thanks. ‘I told you, I’m not into commitment.’

  ‘And I told you this isn’t a commitment. It’s more like … like occupying space together in the middle ground for a finite period. It’s not a one-night stand, but it’s not for ever. We’re there only for as long as it takes both of us to get what we want.’

  She shrugged again, so blasé, and David hated it. ‘Like your parents, I suppose,’ he said. ‘How’s husband number four, Bertie, feeling about that, Sarah? While your mother is gadding about with her Italian, is Bertie thinking that’s fine, no hard feelings, because he got to occupy some space in the middle ground with her for a finite period?’

  Sarah started to step back—an involuntary movement, which she arrested halfway. ‘This is about you and me having sex, that’s all,’ she said, and replanted her feet.

  Except, of course, that wasn’t all it was, not to him. It was also about the deal Rebel had put to him nine years ago, which would have fitted beautifully into Sarah’s middle-ground philosophy. It was about nine years of loneliness, during which even his art had left him. It was about falling in love again, and knowing he shouldn’t have done it, because the woman he loved would leave him, and that even if she didn’t want to leave him, he’d make her go.

  He needed the words to tell Sarah he was the problem—not her mother, or her father, or Bertie, certainly not her, but him. All him. It’s not you, it’s me … Words that would make any girl reach for the carving knife and take aim at an artery. He pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. ‘Look, Sarah …’ he started, and reached for words to say everything while saying nothing, words that wouldn’t come.

  ‘Yes, I wish you would look,’ she said, and held her arms wide. ‘Because I feel silly standing here like this. And I’m sorry about my underwear. It’s not the sexiest, and maybe the skulls are a little macabre for a seduction, but I didn’t know I’d be doing this when I dressed for work this morning.’

  David’s hands moved to cover his face. If that wasn’t her sexiest underwear, he was terrified to see the rest. Heart attack waiting to happen.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your underwear, Sarah.’ He forced his hands down, looked into her eyes, swallowed. ‘I just— Jesus!’ As his eyes dropped to her breasts without his permission. ‘I just don’t need to keep seeing it.’ So get your eyes up, you idiot. Get them up, up, up.

  ‘No?’ she said, all innocent—not!—and her hands went behind her back, to the fastening of her bra. ‘Should I take it off then?’

  ‘Fuck no!’

  ‘Fuck yes!’

  He did a double-take before he could stop himself. ‘You don’t swear.’

  ‘Not generally, no.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But do you think maybe I should? Would that make me more interesting? From a rulebook perspective?’

  ‘How the hell would that make you more interesting?’

  ‘I’ll bet Rebel let rip with an occasional profanity,’ she said. ‘And Rebel was your Fan Caulofrino Fin Fish, so maybe I need to—’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Fan Caulofrino Fin Fish? The one you attach yourself to for life? Rebel the coke-sniffing swearer, who scored the naked portrait? Rebel wouldn’t have had to stand around in her underwear begging you to touch her, I’ll bet!’

  ‘No, I don’t recall she ever did that.’ Hmm, was that what Sarah wanted to hear, or—

  Not, he decided, as Sarah lips tightened. She took a sashaying step forward. ‘Well, let me tell you, I may not have done drugs, but I can swear. I called my brother an arsehole this week.’ She nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, I did. On Monday, when I was telling him to man up and go and win Lane back. Arsehole. Yep. And I enjoyed saying it, too.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Don’t laugh; do not laugh.

  ‘And now I’m saying fuck.’ She came right up to him. And jabbed her finger into his chest. ‘Fuckity fucking fucker!’ Poke, poke, poke. ‘So there!’ Poke.

  ‘Don’t poke me, Sarah.’

  Poke. ‘Fuck this.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  And as she made to punctuate that with another poke, he grabbed her wrist and held it in a steely grip. That was it. Last straw. Limit reached.

  Fuckity fucking fucker that he was, he was going to stop telling himself what he couldn’t have and take what he could. Why the hell not? It was a plan he’d considered himself, wasn’t it, that night in Centurion? Break the curse for her? At the very least, he’d have a few extra sexual fantasies to jack off to for the rest of his goddamn miserable life. And if he was lucky, really lucky, maybe he’d manage to get her the hell out of his system along the way and find he wasn’t irretrievably in love with her after all.

  ‘Fuck me?’ he asked, breathing hard. ‘All right, Sarah, you win. Fuck me. As often as I say, for three weeks and one day. And then you get the hell out of my life.’

  ***

  ‘Deal?’ David asked.

  Sarah didn’t know how it had happened, but the tables had been turned. ‘Deal,’ she said breathlessly, and he released her wrist. ‘Just one stipulation.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘Exclusivity,’ she said.

  ‘Done.’

  ‘And you? Any stipulations?’

  ‘Sex.’

  ‘Yeah, I think we’ve covered that.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ he said. ‘I want sex all the time.’

  �
�Er …’

  ‘I’ve had sex once in the past six weeks—just once. Do you know how frustrating that is?’

  ‘Um … yes! I’m in the same boat, remember?’

  ‘Ah, but for me, a six-week hiatus is like the Atacama drought.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Atacama drought was the longest drought in the history of the world. It went for four hundred years.’

  ‘Well, since we’ll both be dead in four hundred ye—’

  ‘A six-week break for me is in the same league as the Atacama drought. In other words, too damn long. So now, I need to make up the lost ground.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I mean, Sarah, that I want sex every night, and I want it every morning, and I want it during the day on weekends, and if we can work out a way, weekdays as well. Which means I need you at my disposal. In other words, I need you here.’

  ‘Here as in …?’

  ‘As in living here, with me, for three weeks and one day. So tonight, we’re going to your place, collecting whatever you need for a three week and one day sojourn, and driving back here.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘But first, I’d better see what I’m getting, don’t you think?’

  ‘What you’re getting?’

  ‘Underwear. Off.’

  ‘Okay.’ Sarah licked her lips. She’d been about to strip without being asked just a few minutes ago, so it didn’t make sense to feel so idiotically shy. She raised her hands to unclip her bra, but found her eyes darting by reflex to the corner where the paintings of Rebel used to be. ‘I don’t exactly look like … what you’re used to.’

  ‘I’ve slept with a lot of women, Sarah, and I can’t think of any body shape I don’t like,’ he said, sounding bored. ‘So, the underwear …?’

  ‘I have a thigh gap. Or maybe you’d call it a thigh chasm. Crater, crevasse, ravine.’

  ‘Yes, I can see the thigh gap.’