Sex, Lies and Bonsai

by Lisa Walker

  Before I know it my fingers are racing across the keyboard again.

  ‘Are you interested in metaphysics?’ asked Professor Brown. As he leant down to look in the microscope, his hard shoulder brushed against Edaline’s soft one.

  She jumped, as though a high-voltage shock had zapped between them. ‘M-m-metaphysics?’ What was metaphysics? She should know, but her brain could think of nothing but the smell of Professor Brown’s sweat, the touch of his crisp, clean, lab coat against her arm. She caught a glimpse of his stomach through the gap between his shirt buttons. What would it feel like to run her hand across those dark hairs? To press her lips to that sweetly hollowed navel? To slip the tip of her tongue inside? Her mouth tingled at the thought.

  Professor Brown lifted his head from the microscope. Edaline felt his warm breath on her nose. It smelt like oranges and chocolate, like puppies and milk, like freshly mown grass. It smelt like…desire.

  ‘The nature of the soul,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ Edaline looked into his eyes. They were the blue of an autumn sea, with specks of seaweed green.

  His pearl-black pupils fixed on her and a thrill ran through Edaline. Danger lurked in those depths.

  She felt he was looking into her, not at her. That he saw not just her face or body, but her spirit, her…soul. ‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘I’m interested in metaphysics.’ Her hand reached out and touched the side of his face; that delicious angle of smooth-shaved jaw.

  His hand grasped hers, drew it to his mouth. He pressed his lips to her moist and quivering palm.

  Edaline could have sworn he’d branded her, his lips were so hot. She gasped with a voluptuous pain.

  ‘Some philosophers believe free will is an illusion,’ he said.

  ‘Do you?’ She sighed, clenching her thighs.

  ‘Right now, I do,’ said Professor Brown. His thumb — an electric eel — stroked her palm.

  Edaline stood, pushing away her ergonomic chair. It rolled backwards and fell to the ground, the wheels spinning like a metaphor for her heart. Then she did what she had always wanted to do, from the first moment she had seen Professor Brown. She pinched his cheek.

  It was even more thrilling than she had expected. His skin was warm, pliable and had a slightly sandpapery texture. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her hungry lips against his. Only for a moment. Professor Brown was a meal she wanted to eat slowly. ‘Now I can die happy,’ she whispered.

  Behind Professor Brown’s fogged-up glasses, his eyes glinted like the sea on a misty day.

  ‘Sorry, you were saying?’ said Edaline.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do to stop me wanting you,’ said Professor Brown. His mouth pressed against hers — burning, searing. His rapacious tongue felt its way into her mouth, met its partner, exchanged gluttonous caresses…

  I fling myself back on the bed. It’s exhausting stuff, this erotic writing. Exhausting and yet, I can barely admit it to myself, thrilling. Writing about sex when you haven’t had any for almost two months gets rather…overwhelming. And I haven’t even got to the crux of it yet. Still, I, or rather, Sooty, is making progress — my characters are kissing.

  I hear Dad coming back from work and decide to leave it there for today. I title the file Crab sex and save it. As I turn off my computer I imagine Sooty grinding her cigarette into her ashtray, checking her roster to see which lover to expect today. Will it be Marc, bringing gifts of French perfume, Sergei bearing vodka or Antonio, her secret favourite, who holds soft Italian cheeses to her lips? Mmm, yes, Antonio today…

  Dad looks up as I come down the stairs. He is starting a new home-renovation project. At the moment this involves pulling the lining off the lounge-room ceiling. Dad is never content unless he has a renovation project in progress. The bigger the project, the more content it makes him. In the last few years he has built a new deck outside, added a new bedroom, fixed skylights in almost every room and retiled the bathrooms. This is in addition to the usual ongoing house maintenance.

  Dad pauses in his exertions, a sheet of plywood half removed, and gives me his well-known Dad-look. It is a look that a duck might give to a swan which has just hatched out underneath it — a mixture of confusion and affection. ‘You’re a bit flushed, Eddie. Are you okay?’ he asks.

  I smile. ‘Busy day.’

  After dinner, Rochelle and I do the washing up while Dad divides his attention between renovations and a documentary titled Great Explorers. Tonight it features Captain Cook. At one point the host mentions that he had five sons and one daughter, Elizabeth.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind meeting her,’ I say.

  ‘Who?’ Rochelle has her back to the television, putting glasses away. She is wearing her work clothes: a white polo shirt and khaki mid-calf pants that hug her slim thighs. Rochelle is one of those nurses who care for people in their homes. I bet she knocks the socks off her male clients.

  ‘Elizabeth Cook.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘Exactly. We might have shared interests.’

  Rochelle gives me a quizzical look.

  ‘Two of a kind.’ I hang my tea towel on the rack. ‘Unknown children of legends.’

  ‘Who? Oh.’ Rochelle’s eyes flicker to Dad. She steps closer and gives me some extended eye contact. ‘So, how are you going? Really?’

  ‘Daniel-wise?’ A geyser of sadness gushes up as I say his name.

  She nods.

  I shrug. ‘So so. But really, it was a miracle we lasted as long as we did.’

  She cocks her head. ‘Why’s that?’

  I hardly know where to start. ‘Daniel is…’ Daniel is confident, capable, organised, switched on and socially responsible. He flosses his teeth, exercises, recycles religiously and keeps up to date on current affairs. He was captain of his school and won numerous awards at university. He keeps a large range of herbs and spices in his kitchen with which he produces creative, nutritious, multicultural meals. Daniel once showed me a picture of his school formal. He looked distinguished in his three-piece suit and, I suspect, was escorting the hottest girl in the school, though he was too modest to say so.

  I try again. ‘I am…’ I shuffled through high school, lurching from one social gaffe to the next, then blundered my way through an undistinguished degree. I think the recipe book 4 Ingredients may be overdoing it. Pasta with cheese on is the extent of my culinary abilities. I have destroyed all pictures of my school formal, but I can’t destroy the memories. My dress, which I had chosen with such high expectations, turned out to be transparent when back lit. All photos of the evening highlight the not terribly fetching flesh-coloured big knickers and sports bra I wore underneath it. If only I’d had a mother to advise me, this might not have happened.

  I open and shut my mouth. ‘We were different.’

  ‘Roch, give me a hand with this, will you?’ Dad gestures at a piece of wood that seems about to decapitate him.

  Thus ends our intimate chat.

  Later that night, my mind turns back to Sunday afternoons with Daniel. In bed, as in all things, Daniel was a high achiever. He would never, ever come before me. This was a point of honour. I appreciated this at the time, but now I wonder if he didn’t desire me enough to let go. What a funny, strange, mysteriously wonderful thing sex is. I miss it. I miss having Daniel hold me tight.

  My self-control is worse at night. Those tricksy urges sneak up on me while my defences are down. Before I know it, Daniel’s number is on my screen and I am pressing the call button. This time he answers.

  ‘You’ve got to stop calling me, Edie.’

  His gentle voice only makes it worse. If he was mean I’d get over him quicker. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Are you looking after my tree? It needs regular watering, you know.’

  I look over at the bonsai. Daniel’s tree is decidedly unwell. Its formerly glossy green leaves have a dull hue. It is missing Daniel too. ‘I don’t have your tree.’ We’ve had this conversation before.
/>   ‘If you say so.’ His tone is neutral, but I sense he is wondering how he stayed with me as long as he did.

  I didn’t realise how attached to his tree Daniel was until I took it. I am now too afraid to admit that I have it. He only has circumstantial evidence against me. ‘I just needed to ask you something,’ I say.

  He sighs and I imagine his face; the way he looks when he’s had a difficult day in court. ‘What?’

  ‘What was it about the rain in Glenorchy?’

  ‘Huh?’

  He has no idea what I’m talking about. I am astounded. It’s as though Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca forgot the words to ‘As Time Goes By’, the song which signified his love for Ilsa. Then he never would have said Play it again, Sam. My whole relationship with Daniel was based on this huge romantic moment — a moment he has completely forgotten.

  ‘Edie?’ he says. ‘I need to—’

  ‘It rains a lot in Glenorchy.’ I enunciate each word, hoping to jog his memory.

  ‘I’m sorry, Edie, I’ve got stuff to do, a big case tomorrow…’

  ‘When we met, you said you were attracted to me from the moment I said, “It rains a lot in Glenorchy”.’

  ‘Did I? I must have thought you were talking about climate change.’

  I nod. That makes sense. A giggle explodes out of my nose, followed by a sob.

  ‘What?’ says Daniel.

  But I can’t explain the sheer absurdity of a relationship based on a misconception so huge. I press end.

  In the middle of the night I remember that I didn’t ask him about the sausages.

  Chapter Six

  The interpretation of dreams is the royal

  road to…the unconscious.

  SIGMUND FREUD

  Wednesday: 46 days

  Pain level: 8.5

  Location: Chest

  It is only after I fill out my diary that I remember my dream. I was nude hiking. Again. And it was still raining. This time more details were revealed. I was wearing a pack. Nude could mean sexy, but the pack spoils that. No, this is not a sexy dream. Someone appeared on the track ahead of me. They were not nude. This made me anxious and I woke up.

  A recurring dream must be significant. I think my erotic writing is weighing on my mind. I am feeling exposed. It is exciting, but at the same time scary. No one must ever find out what a depraved person I am.

  Thinking about last night’s phone call to Daniel makes me sad. I can’t believe he has forgotten ‘the rain in Glenorchy’. I resolve to never call him again. In the back of my notebook, next to Don’t ring Daniel, I write Ever again! This doesn’t seem quite decisive enough so I add, Or else!

  I am in the kitchen making coffee when Sally rings. It is only seven am. Days start earlier in Darling Head than in Sydney.

  ‘This is your life coach. I want you to strike up a conversation with the fifth stranger you see today.’

  ‘Strike up a conversation?’ I squeak. ‘I thought we agreed on talk to. Like, hi, nice day, isn’t it? That sort of thing.’

  ‘I’ve revised my requirements. Minimum five-minute conversation.’

  ‘Am I paying you for this?’

  ‘No,’ says Sally. ‘You’re my test case. I’m thinking of starting a business.’

  ‘Coaching shy people?’

  ‘Not just shy people. Fat people, people lacking motivation, people who are having trouble achieving their goals. I might even do date coaching.’

  ‘Date coaching?’

  ‘Yeah, get with it, Edie. This stuff’s big in America. Life coaching is the second fastest growing industry in the world.’

  ‘What’s the first?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yoga instructing probably.’

  ‘So what does a date coach do?’

  ‘It’s sexual psychology: how to flirt, how to look for someone compatible. For an extra fee I’d tag along on a date incognito and give feedback.’

  ‘And you’re an expert on this stuff?’

  ‘Come on,’ Sally drawls.

  I know she’s right. Not only did she study psychology, but she has a natural knack for social skills. Our Grade Twelve yearbook named her the girl most likely to flirt her way to the top.

  ‘Have you got a name for your business?’

  ‘I’m thinking of motive eight.’

  ‘Motivate?’

  ‘No, it’s a play on words. Motive. Eight.’

  ‘I like the sound of it but what’s the eight for?’

  ‘I’m working on that part.’

  ‘Maybe you offer eight types of coaching?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Or an eight-step process?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, an eight-step process. I like it.’ I can almost hear Sally’s brain ticking over. ‘And the first part of your eight-step process is to start a conversation with a stranger.’

  ‘Any hot tips, coach?’

  ‘Start shallow, move deep.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Well, in your basic five-minute conversation, you might not get to deep. Aim for medium — one step beyond weather and current affairs, but not as far as identity, beliefs and values.’

  ‘Sal?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I think you’ve mistaken me for an advanced-level pupil. I signed up for basic conversation.’

  Sally sighs. ‘Okay, Edie. We’ll start with small talk. Say hi, ask an open-ended question.’

  ‘Like, been gettin’ any?’

  ‘That’s not actually open-ended; they could just say yes.’

  ‘How about, how would you rate the quality of the waves today?’

  ‘Better. From there, try to segue into a more interesting topic. Pay attention to their non-verbal cues to see what interests them. You’ll get the hang of it.’

  ‘You lost me at segue.’

  ‘Just fucking talk to them, Edie. I expect a full report.’

  ‘Okay, coach.’

  ‘Failure is not an option,’ says Sal.

  ‘Is it a requirement?’

  ‘Ha!’ She hangs up on me.

  While we have been talking I have been gazing at a brochure Dad has left on the bench. It says SurfAid and has a picture of dark-skinned, curly-haired kids on a beach. Kids on a beach without surfboards, tut, tut. I imagine that SurfAid must be a missionary-type mob carrying, not bibles, but surfboards to poor deprived children who are yet to experience the thrill of wave riding. To my father, and most of Darling Head, surfing is no mere pastime, it is a spiritual pursuit. And I am a heathen in need of conversion.

  Going outside, I settle on the couch with coffee and toast. When I finish I glance at my watch. Unfortunately, it is only seven-thirty, so I still have time to conduct my conversation before work.

  As I get dressed my mind turns to Professor Brownlow. I feel like our relationship has moved on since I last saw him, but realise he, not having been writing erotic fiction about me (I assume), may not feel the same way…

  I fuss around with my wardrobe for longer than usual. Nothing is right. My entire range of clothing is absolutely useless in the following ways:

  The dress I picked up at the market for ten dollars is too hippyish;

  My T-shirts are too tight, too faded and make my arms look fat; and

  My Sydney clothes are too hot, too black and scream wanker.

  I settle on my Astro Guevara T-shirt and jeans — the best of a bad lot.

  I turn on the computer so I can check my emails before I leave and glance in the mirror as it boots up. It’s a good day. If I cross my eyes so the image blurs and don’t move too close I look a little like Nicole Kidman when she was still a fuzzy redhead whose face moved. I know if I uncrossed my eyes and moved closer, I’d look like Mum in the photo I keep in my drawer. I move away from the mirror before that happens. Thinking about Mum is not a good way to start the day.

  Unfortunately, thinking about not thinking about Mum has the opposite effect.

  How did you and Mum meet, Dad?

  You kno
w that story, Eddie Bear.

  I want to hear it again.

  It was when I won the Australian champs in Bells Beach. Your turn, Jen.

  I was sent down from Melbourne to interview him. The normal sports journalist was sick.

  Among all those suntanned surfers and hangers on your mother looked like a vision from another world.

  I was wearing my biggest hat and sunglasses.

  She had red hair down to her waist and her skin was like milk.

  Everyone was crowded around him, but I took off my sunglasses.

  She had eyes like the sea.

  It was love.

  At first sight.

  Before I know it I am kneeling next to the camphorwood chest which is beside my bed and, what is worse, I am pulling out her notebook.

  Mum’s notebook has a hard red cover with black binding. Inside, her scrawling writing charts years of her thoughts, dreams, poems and whimsical fancies. The thing that I sometimes forget about my mother is how funny she was. How much she made me laugh. That was her gift. Our house was full of laughter when I was a child. My mother liked to play with words. Words were her toys, her tools and her passion.

  ‘You’re my little sweetiepiekins.’ Mum tickles my tummy as I lie on the bed.

  ‘And you’re my great big honeybunchkins.’ I know this game.

  ‘You’re delightful.’

  ‘You’re delicious.’

  ‘You’re luscious.’

  ‘You’re lovely.’

  ‘I’m going to gobble you up for dinner.’

  I squeal in mock terror.

  A scribble of black ink runs across the inside front cover. I know the words by heart but they always make my chest ache. The urge to read on is almost irresistible, but I have been there before and I know Mum’s notebook is a ticking bomb. My eyes follow the line just once then I close the book before I go too far.

  My computer is humming now, inviting me to look her up. That famous woman I have never Googled. I know she had children — a boy and a girl. I already know one half of their story. I don’t know if I am ready to find out the other half. I tap my fingers on the keyboard in a little drumbeat, type her name, then erase it. As I shut down the computer my heart is beating like I’ve had a lucky escape.