Farewell My Ovaries

by Wendy Harmer

  ‘Describe him to me.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I wanna hear . . . come on.’

  ‘OK. He had dark hair that fell over one eye. Very sort of Byronic I guess. He wasn’t tall, but he was broad, like you. Solid. I could never look at him without thinking he’d been carved or poured out of bronze or something.’

  ‘On a pedestal, huh?’

  ‘Actually, now you mention it, I guess I did worship him. I suppose because he was in charge of the instrument which made me come to life. I sometimes felt I needed him to truly express myself.’

  ‘What was his cock like?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You heard. Tell me.’

  Claire hesitated for a moment. Dug her nails into her breast and went on. ‘Like the rest of him, I guess. Solid, big, straight, hard. And he had a rhythm which just fitted with mine. I knew it would be like that. And he had a smell which was . . . I don’t know, but it was like I knew it from a long time ago. Familiar somehow.’

  ‘So, you were in Edinburgh. Beautiful city.’

  ‘You’ve been there? It was autumn. I had sent the albums over to the festival. We got booked and sort of eloped from the rest of the band. We were staying in this very old neighbourhood in a flat on the top floor. He named it Wuthering Heights. Which was pretty ironic since, as I recall, Cathy and Heathcliff never got to have sex.

  ‘So we had our living room, all velvet curtains and velvet sofas, but then you could climb right up these stairs to a space under the roof. I have no idea how they got a grand piano up there, but there it was in this bare room. You opened the dormer window and you could see the spires of the old kirks against the dusk. You could hear the bells of the clock towers and autumn leaves would blow in on the breeze. It could have been a hundred, two hundred years ago.

  ‘Anyway, we’d spent a lot of time going to various gigs and I’d absolutely fallen in love with this piece of folk music, a beautiful tune called “Gentle Fair Elly”. It was so soft and delicate, but heartbreaking. Like fairy music. I couldn’t get it out of my head.

  ‘Then, one night after I’d taken a bath and I was wrapped in white towels, I came out and I heard it. He was up in the room above. He had arranged the music for the piano and was playing it for me. I climbed up in the dark and sat on the only chair, watching him play this song by moonlight. He was naked and the light shone on the muscles moving in his back. It was one of the most erotic things I’ve ever seen.

  ‘And then, as the last note died away on the piano, he came over to me, pulled my towel away, pushed back the piano stool and laid me down naked on the bare floor in this perfect white rectangle.’ Claire hesitated, wondering if she should go on.

  ‘Is there more?’ Connor asked.

  ‘I suppose you can guess the rest. But with the moonlight on my face I just remember looking at the black silhouette of his head against my white legs and I remember how warm his tongue was inside me while the rest of me was so cold on the hard floor. When I came I had this image that I was a black and white piano keyboard and his fingers were playing up and down the notes . . .’

  ‘It sounds perfect.’

  Claire laughed to break the spell. ‘Well it was . . . at the time. So, I guess I’m saying, if you could learn the piano . . .’

  ‘How did all this end then? Where is this piano-playing fool now?’

  Claire sat up, turned the light back on and retrieved her glass of wine. ‘Oh, it all ended very badly. On the way back from Edinburgh he dumped me at Heathrow and flew on to Paris to his girlfriend. He kindly let the woman behind the counter pass on the news.’

  ‘Man, what a low act! I hope you caught up with him and let him have it.’

  ‘Yeah, don’t worry, I did . . . eventually.’ Claire lit a cigarette and switched off the light again.

  ‘So, that’s me. What’s your contribution to this evening, Connor?’

  ‘Well, Claire. As I say, I’ve been thinking and thinking hard. I’ve thought of all the music that’s wafted in and out over the years. And what I love now—Dave Matthews, John Mayer, Jack Johnson. But I’m not going to chance any of that stuff cos I know your whole life has been music. So I think I’ve narrowed it down to what I want to hear when we’re together.’

  Claire held her breath.

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s this fantasy I’ve had since I saw you on Saturday night on that stage at the wedding. I want you to sing me the song you started and didn’t finish.’

  Claire thought back to that moment and felt her face grow hot.

  ‘You mean “Embraceable You”?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. I want to hear you sing it right through while I kiss my way up your legs, up your belly and on up to those perfect white breasts of yours. And I want you to keep on singing as I sink my cock into you and bite hard on your neck. I want to know whether I’ll be able to feel the notes vibrating through me when I’m buried deep in your cunt. What do you think?’

  Claire still hadn’t taken a breath.

  ‘I . . . we . . . can only try . . .’ she whispered.

  ‘Yeah. Let’s try,’ he said.

  ‘Call me tomorrow and I’ll tell you what I want you to wear.’

  And he hung up.

  In her hotel room Claire opened her eyes wide and sat upright.

  ‘Oh . . . my . . . God!’ she said aloud.

  And then she threw a pillow at the wall and laughed. She kicked her red sandals in the air and watched the satin ribbons dance around her calves. She sat in the dark room looking at the lights of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and she laughed again. She didn’t stop laughing for a long time.

  Thursday

  All About Meg

  Claire knocked on the back door of Meg’s house and peered through the glass panel.

  ‘Meg? Meg!’

  This was all very puzzling. Claire had called Meg on her mobile as she was dropping Madeline off at school. Meg had answered that, yes, she was home and, yes, she was as desperate to see Claire as Claire was to see her. Now she wasn’t answering the door.

  Claire pushed her way inside and walked through the kitchen. The bright apple-green walls took on a particularly noxious hue in the morning light. But there was no Meg.

  ‘Meg? Yoo-hoo,’ Claire called softly.

  Still no answer. She picked her way through the living room strewn with brightly coloured plastic toys. She noted a headless Barbie doll hanging by its neck from a tower made out of wooden blocks. Erk! Little boys! They were an entirely different ball game. Claire wished she’d had a brother for Maddie.

  From the bedroom came the sound of Meg sobbing. Claire walked through the door and saw one of those scenes from a movie. A crying, dishevelled woman flinging clothes into an open suitcase.

  ‘Meg, what on earth are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ Meg stood with a handful of greying bras and undies.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re chucking those grungies down the tip. But somehow I have a feeling you’re not.’

  ‘I’m leaving Tony.’ Meg threw the underwear into the case and rummaged through a drawer for more.

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘I’ve had enough. I’m over this whole thing. I’m leaving.’

  ‘What “whole thing”? You mean your ten-year marriage and four kids? Your life?’ Claire sat down on the bed and slammed the suitcase shut.

  ‘I’m taking the kids with me!’ Standing there barefoot in her short polka dot nightie with her black curls tumbling out of a baby blue scrunchie, Meg looked all of six years old. And she cried like a six year old too.

  She dropped her armful of clothes on the floor, threw her head back and bellowed. ‘It’s not working. All we do is fight all the time. And I’m so tired, Claire. I’m so bloody tired. I can’t do this anymore.’

  ‘Whoa! Stop! Leave all this. Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ Claire took her best friend by the h
and and led her through the living room.

  ‘Ow, ow, ow! Fuck!’ Meg bent down and retrieved a tiny pair of Bratz doll sunglasses from the ball of her foot. She threw them and they bounced off the television.

  Claire made a cup of tea as Meg sat and recited her litany of complaints. They were, in no particular order: Tony was working too many hours; there was not enough money; she felt fat; all the kids did was fight with each other; they still hadn’t built the extension on the house; she felt sick; Tony was still talking about his mother moving in; she hadn’t had time to get her roots done; she felt tired; and she couldn’t find her car keys.

  ‘I’ll help you pack,’ said Claire, heading for the bedroom.

  Meg managed a smile at least.

  Clare had to admit that Meg’s list was impressive, but it was very unlike her to drop her bundle in such a spectacular fashion. She was usually organised, happy and positive.

  Today the house looked like its occupants had fled an invasion of foreign troops. There was crap on every available surface. Meg had dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘You know what I think, Meg?’ Claire reached out and put a comforting hand on her knee.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think you’re pregnant.’

  Meg’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes flashed around the room as she considered this. After a long pause she shook her head.

  ‘No, no, no! I couldn’t be! I’m forty-four! Nicky’s six years old!’

  ‘Yeah, and . . .?’

  ‘Jesus, Claire!’ Meg flung herself off the chair and hurtled into the bathroom, Claire raced after her. Claire dodged a shower of tampons, panty liners and pill packets as she watched Meg frantically scrabble through the bottom drawer of the vanity unit.

  ‘No, no, no! Oh God, I think I’ve still got some here somewhere. Do those predictor thingos have a use-by date?’

  Meg and Claire stood over the kitchen sink and watched the line turn bright blue. Then they watched as another stick registered the same result. Then Claire flew down to the chemist and brought back a new packet of predictor thingos. They sat around the kitchen table and watched as this one turned bright blue too.

  ‘I couldn’t be! I can’t be!’ Meg fell back into her chair with her mouth open and her limbs hanging helplessly like a rag doll.

  ‘Oh, Meg . . . another baby! Congratulations! It’s brilliant!’ Claire knew full well all the implications of number five in Meg’s life but chose ‘I’m thrilled for you’ as her first reaction. The rest would unravel later.

  And that’s not to say Claire wasn’t thrilled. Another baby! She felt a kick of envy in her stomach. Not unlike the kick of a tiny foot.

  ‘But I’m forty-four! How did this happen?’

  ‘Well, after four kids—if you don’t know by now! Haven’t you heard of a “change of life baby”?’

  ‘That’s a stupid expression. Every baby changes your fucking life!’

  ‘I think you’re amazing, Meg. Hey, my ovaries are shutting up shop, but you’re still open for business and trading.’

  ‘Yeah, a great bloody pair we make. Perimenopausal and pregnant.’

  Meg stood and paced the kitchen. Claire sat and listened as she hacked her way through a jungle of anger, disbelief and despair until she finally found herself in a sunny clearing of acceptance. Joy was too much to hope for just yet.

  ‘Oh my God, Claire . . . what if it’s twins again?

  ‘This is bloody Tony’s fault. I told him we needed to be careful.

  ‘Now he’ll move his mother in. He’ll use it as an excuse.

  ‘We’ve only just got Nicky out of our bed!

  ‘We can’t have another baby. I’ve given away the capsule . . . and the cot.

  ‘Breastfeeding. My nipples hurt just thinking about it.

  ‘Seven, eight of us! We won’t even fit in the car.

  ‘What will Max say? He’s ten. He’s almost a teenager. He’ll think we’re gross.

  ‘More uni fees. We’ll never have any money. Ever.

  ‘When the baby’s sixteen. I’ll be sixty. I’m supposed to be a grandmother by then!

  ‘Well, my life’s stuffed anyway. I don’t s’pose one more will make any difference.

  ‘Tony will be proud of himself.

  ‘And Sophia and Stephanie . . . they’ll have a real live baby to cart around.

  ‘It’ll be an August baby. What star sign’s August? Leo and Virgo. My mum’s a Virgo. I’d like a Virgo. They’re supposed to be quiet thinkers. Christ knows we could do with one of those in this family.’

  And finally, ‘If it’s a girl I’ll call her Claire . . .’

  It was at this point that Claire thought she could safely interject.

  ‘You can’t call a baby Claire Angelucchi!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it sounds like some sort of Italian soup!’

  ‘You’re thinking of minestrone.’

  ‘Alright, some kind of jelly then. A gelatine mould with bits of goat in it. “I’ll have an entrée serve of Claire Angelucchi with a side salad of radicchio and fennel.”’

  Finally the two women could laugh together.

  ‘OK, Meg. There’s a bottle of Veuve Cliquot in the glass cabinet in the living room. I’m going to get it out and put it on ice. We’re going to clean this house and then when it’s cold we are going to sit here and drink it,’ said Claire. She clapped her hands with excitement.

  ‘French champagne is good,’ said Meg. ‘Because if I have to go through this again, I want to be treated like a bloody queen.’

  ‘You’re more than a queen, Meg. You’re a goddess. Truly. A real, live goddess.’

  ‘Yeah, a goddess with her own fertility cult. Someone should erect a shrine to me. People could come and leave offerings of nipple ointment and stretchmark oil. Stretchmark oil! Like that ever worked! I think Tony used the last lot I was given to oil the wooden shutters in the bedroom.’

  Claire hooted with laughter.

  ‘Come to think of it, my stomach already looks like one of those canvas holland blinds.’

  No wonder Claire loved Meg so much. She was irrepressible. No matter how extreme her circumstances, her humour always surfaced. Like a bubbling spring finds a crack in a cliff face.

  ‘Are you going to ring Tony?’ Claire asked.

  ‘And have him fall off a roof? I think I’ll wait till he gets home. Actually . . . it’s his birthday next Monday. Maybe I’ll wait until then. “Happy birthday, Mr Italian Stallion. It’s your turn to get out of bed and feed the baby.”’

  The morning wandered along as the two friends cleaned the house and exchanged views.

  On men . . .

  Claire: ‘The problem is that no matter how hard you try, no matter how many years you spend scouring the face of the earth for the Perfect One, you end up married to . . . a man!’

  Meg: ‘You’re right, Claire. You’re absolutely right! I never thought of it like that. It’s always a man. And you don’t get a lot of choice. No matter how careful you are you end up with either Mister Workaholic, Mister Womaniser, Mister Gambler, Mister Lazy—’

  Claire: ‘Mister Lazy? Hey, isn’t that one of those Mister Man books they have for kids? Imagine if they had a series for women. Mister Emotionally Unavailable, Mister Commitment Phobic, Mister Underminer . . .’

  Meg: ‘So which one did you end up with?’

  Claire: ‘Um . . . how about Mister I Hear Your Criticism and I Thank You For It?’

  Meg: ‘I’ve got Mister Mum’s Boy. Can there be such a thing? I dunno, I think that’s probably a contradiction in terms.’

  Claire: ‘Do you think they ever talk about us like this?’

  Meg: ‘No, I reckon they just think they’d like more sex . . . or less. I reckon they’re simple souls in the end.’

  Claire ‘They’re lucky.’

  On childbirth . . .

  Meg: ‘Of course I’ve done this so many times I should probably have a home birth, but forget it. I w
ould like to be as far away from home as possible . . . Tahiti looks nice.’

  Claire: ‘I remember when I had Maddie I read all these books about birthing plans—you know, women who planned their births right down to the music selection, lighting and stuff. And then I read this book about postnatal depression and guess what one of the main causes was?’

  Meg: ‘Women whose birthing plans stuffed up?’

  Claire: ‘Yup. So when I was having Maddie I decided to not make any plans at all. My only plan being to expect the unexpected. Right? But then I had a caesarean and I totally went into shock because . . .’

  Meg: ‘Because . . .?’

  Claire: ‘I had forgotten to unexpect a caesarean. Thereby completely proving my initial theory to be correct!’

  Meg: ‘And your initial theory again?’

  Claire: ‘That you can’t plan anything in childbirth. Even my plan to not make any plans was deeply flawed.’

  Meg: ‘So your advice would be . . .?’

  Claire: ‘Book the tickets to Tahiti.’

  On home renovations . . .

  Claire: ‘Whatever you do, Meg, promise me you will not be renovating the house when the baby comes.’

  Meg: ‘But we have to. Look at this kitchen!’

  Claire: ‘Like the baby is going to come home from the hospital and refuse to stay cos the splashback clashes with the walls! Besides, babies love cack green. It’s one of their favourite colours, along with poo brown and vomit yellow. If you want to renovate for the baby, buy a new bra.’

  Meg: ‘I agree with you about pulling the back off the house. Not that we’ve got any money anyway. But I am definitely getting this kitchen painted.’

  Claire: ‘I was having the house painted when I was pregnant and I dunno, I’m normally good with colours, but do you think I could get it right? I had the kitchen redone five times! When my waters broke and I woke Charlie at 6 am, he thought I was shaking him to tell him I finally had a colour for the sunroom.’

  Meg: ‘What colour did you end up with in there again?’

  Claire: ‘I had such bad indigestion that in the end I settled for Qwik Eze walls, a Mylanta ceiling and a Gaviscon trim.’