by Lisa Walker
He’s with a barrister now. She’s a gourmet cook, fluent in five languages and a former Olympic gymnast.
‘Shut up.’ I drape my T-shirt over it. ‘What would you know?’
And she likes earthworms. Being under a T-shirt doesn’t stop the bonsai from hitting below the belt — just my luck to be stuck with a taunting bonsai.
‘Mention earthworms again and you’re dead.’
The bonsai is not yet ready to commit harakiri as it says no more.
Now that I think about it, it seems natural that being turned into a bonsai would make you mean spirited. All that clipping back, never having enough room to grow tall. Rather than a bonsai being the tree’s essential spirit, as Daniel said, was it instead a bitter and twisted version of the tree it might have been? This idea strikes me as incredibly profound. I would like to share it with Daniel but, even if he was talking to me, he would think it was silly. Daniel is a practical person.
It is strange, but as I fall asleep I find I am thinking not of Daniel, or even Professor Brownlow, but of Jay and the way he said Sally’s name. He is already on the shortlist of the most annoying people I have ever met.
Chapter Nine
A certain degree of neurosis is of
inestimable value.
SIGMUND FREUD
I wake to a raised voice: Rochelle’s. I can’t resist opening my door and eavesdropping; it is so unusual to hear her angry.
Rochelle is still in her pyjamas — a thin singlet and silky shorts. Her fists are clenched. ‘You need to move on, Jay.’ Her voice is a fierce hiss. ‘You’re stuck. You’re not even trying.’
‘How would you know?’ Jay’s hands hang by his side. He is wearing faded grey track pants, like a rockstar trying to be incognito. ‘Miss glass is always half-full. What if I’ve already smashed it and there’s nothing left at all?’ He sounds bored, like this is a conversation they have had many times.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Snap out of it. Look, you’ve got a chance here. You just won’t take it.’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to, Roch. I can’t.’ Jay turns at that moment and, for some inexplicable reason, looks up and sees me. He smiles, pushing his hands into his pockets.
I pull my head back inside my room. The memory of his smile makes me blush. It was so knowing, so…ironic. What if he thinks I am stalking him?
Thursday: 47 days
Pain level: 7.5
Location: Abdomen. What next, foot?
As I dress, the anxiety I always get on my non-crab-larvae days grows stronger. I can feel the erotic writing calling me, but what will happen when I sit down at the computer? Will anything come out? I wonder if it is like this for other writers or does brilliance always gush from their fingertips?
I open my door, listen. All is quiet so I pad downstairs for breakfast. As my toast pops up, Sally calls.
‘No need to apologise, Ed,’ she says as soon as I answer.
Sally is the only person who calls me Ed, so it is our little thing.
‘But he is seriously hot,’ she says.
‘Is he?’ I am often surprised when told that someone is hot. My taste is contrary. The strangest things spark my interest — with Professor Brownlow it was the book. But now that Sally says it, I realise she is right. Jay has the tortured artist persona down to a T. He is more Nick Cave than Nick Cave ever was. He makes Daniel Johns look like Kylie, Michael Hutchence like Britney.
‘Fuck, Ed, open your eyes.’
‘You never used to swear this much before you went to South America.’
‘Fell in with a fucking bad crowd in Rio.’
‘So…we’re good?’
‘We’re good. But, if you’re not making any moves…’
I’m not sure how to respond to this. I don’t like the idea of Sally with Jay. Why? I’m not sure, but I can’t be a dog in the manger. ‘No. He’s not my type. You know, the pierced eyebrow…the black clothes.’
‘Okaay,’ drawls Sally. She sounds doubtful. ‘Well, I’ve been working on the next stage of your program.’
‘Oh, right. You know, I’m not sure if I need to take it any further. I can live with this shyness thing, it doesn’t inhibit me much, it’s not such a—’
‘Stop right there,’ says Sally. ‘Do you think I’m letting my first client get away with that? You…are…going…to…overcome…this…phobia.’
‘Phobia? I haven’t got a phobia. I just don’t like social situations all that much.’
‘Ah ha,’ says Sally, as if a spy she is interrogating has let slip some vital piece of information. ‘You just admitted it yourself. You have social phobia. Did you know almost six per cent of Australian women suffer from social phobia?’
‘Maybe we should all get together sometime.’
‘Only no one would turn up.’ Sally catches the ball. ‘I’ve been looking into this. You need to rebuild the pathways in your brain and stop negative thoughts about social situations. And I know just who you can practise on.’
‘Huh?’ Unfortunately it is already dawning on me what she means.
‘Jay. It’s good that you don’t fancy him; that’ll make it easier for you. You’re building up this silly “He thinks I’m stupid” scenario in your head, aren’t you?’
‘It’s not a scenario. He does think I’m stupid.’
‘Of course he doesn’t think you’re stupid. Why would he think you’re stupid?’
‘Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because I act like a half-wit every time I see him.’
‘Ant,’ says Sally.
‘Pardon?’
‘ANT. Automatic negative thoughts. You need to notice, catch and stop your negative thoughts and replace them with positive, rational statements.’
‘Such as?’
‘I am an intelligent, interesting woman whose opinions are valued.’
‘I’m not so sure about that one.’
‘Say it.’
I think she might be on the verge of swearing at me again. ‘Hang on, you’re not valuing my intelligent, interesting opinion.’
‘Edie.’ Sally sighs.
‘Okay. I am an intelligent, interesting woman whose opinions are valued.’
‘Good. Say that to yourself every time you get an ANT. Today you have to have a conversation with Jay which goes beyond small talk. Make some personal disclosures about yourself and he will follow.’
‘How do you mean personal disclosures?’
‘You tell him you like curry. He tells you he’s into Indian music. You tell him you read books. He tells you he likes Dan Brown.’
‘Dan Brown? What about Dostoevski?’
‘All right, Dostoi-effing-evski if you want to be all cerebral and high-minded. That was just an example. The point is, it’s tit for tat.’
‘Am I titty or tatty?’
Sally sighs. ‘I’m about to lose patience here, Ed.’
‘So that’s how it works, huh?’
‘That’s how it fucking works, mate.’ Sally laughs.
It’s good to have Sally back. I’ve missed our verbal jousting. After Sally hangs up I finish my toast and write in my notebook. I am an intelligent, interesting woman whose opinions are valued.
I then retire to my room to check my emails. I often wish I lived in a time before email. Every time I click on Outlook and there is no message there from Daniel it feels like a rejection. In a seven-hour working day, this can happen about fifty times, more if my self-control is particularly bad.
Sometimes I try to set myself limits — if I don’t check my emails before twelve, there will be a message there from Daniel. I usually manage to negotiate myself down — okay, eleven. Twist my arm, ten then. Predictably, however, I can never wait even that long and, also predictably, there is no message.
And it is not only Daniel. There are a whole lot of other people who also reject me fifty times a day, but if I dwelt too much on them, I’d never leave my room.
If I was Emily Brontë I imagine the mail would be delivered,
at most, daily. A horse might thunder up to the house and she would run out, hoping to hear from her sweetheart. What bliss, what joy to be rejected merely once a day. The only light in this dark tunnel of rejection is that I don’t have an iPhone. This means on the days I work at the university I can’t check my personal emails until the evening.
Today I have the pleasure of a long email from someone in Nigeria called Philip. I skip over the more wordy bits.
Dear Beloved,
This letter may come to you as a surprise due to the fact we have not yet met…
Right now, I have only about a few months to live…
Philip shows a fine eye for melodrama — the evil relatives, the death-bed epiphany… But really he is appealing to the worst in me — the gullible but greedy me, who would take his hard-earnt dollars and pocket them. If I sought to rob poor, dying, Philip, he would, in turn, no doubt, rob me. I resist the temptation to enter into correspondence with him and delete the email.
Now it is time to write.
I read back over my erotic scene between Edaline and Professor Brown. Should I change the characters so they are less recognisable? I know this is a good idea, but I am worried it will inhibit me. Let’s face it, Professor Brownlow is my current lust object and inspiration and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I decide to press on and alter the details later. I brace myself for some steamy sex.
Just as I am about to begin, the door bangs downstairs. Jay is back from wherever he went. Removing my fingers from the keyboard, I sigh. I may as well get it over with. There is no point in trying to fob Sally off on this one.
The door to Jay’s room is ajar when I creep downstairs. I’m not sure why I am creeping, but I can’t help it. Ants are crawling through my brain. They are all familiar to me and I squash them with determination. I pause outside his room. My hands are sweaty, my pulse is sprinting and my mouth is dry. He thinks I’m an idiot. Squash. Why would he want to talk to me? Squash. I should just go back to my room. Squash. I can almost smell the formic acid. I take a deep breath, as Sally instructed and knock on the door.
As I do this, I realise he is playing the guitar. He’ll be annoyed I interrupted him. Squash. The guitar stops.
‘Yo,’ he says.
Yo? How can I talk to someone who says yo? What could we possibly have in common? ‘Yo,’ I hear myself say as I step forward.
Jay is perched on the edge of his bed, guitar on his lap and a notebook beside him.
Not only guitar playing, but songwriting. This is a very bad time. Squash.
He is wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt. His hair is damp. He doesn’t smile when he sees me.
Why doesn’t he smile? He thinks I’m an idiot. Squash. My mind is a blank. I stare at him.
He stares back.
Why is he just staring at me? I had a conversation starter prepared, but now it’s vanished. I am frozen to the spot, unable to retreat, unable to go forward. I can’t just say I like curry. Not out of the blue. Even I can see that isn’t going to work.
Jay looks down at his guitar, plucks a string, then looks back up at me. He plays a few chords then scribbles a word down on his notebook.
Reading it upside down it looks like ‘kismet’. I have encountered this word before but I can’t now recall its meaning. Perhaps it is a code for dickhead. Squash.
He seems perfectly relaxed; as if this is a normal way to behave. As if I always come into his room and stand there, speechless.
I back out, shutting the door behind me. My legs are trembling like I’ve run a marathon. I sink to the ground outside his room, pressing my forehead to my knees. Tears seep into my eyes. I hate being like this.
‘Edie?’
I don’t lift my head. I wish he’d go away and stop looking at me.
He doesn’t. I hear his back slide down the wall until he is sitting next to me. He strums a chord. It sounds ironic.
Strum.
So here we are sitting on the floor in the corridor. The scout ant goes out.
Strum.
This is what I always do. It finds the pack and rounds them up.
Strum.
Why am I such a social incompetent? Led by the scout, the ant pack returns. They swarm uninterrupted through my brain. There are way too many of them to squash.
But I can’t sit here like this anymore. I lift my head.
Jay meets my eyes but he doesn’t smile. He plays a few more chords, segues into a rocky number and back to a ballad. He’s good. He makes Mick Jagger look like Nikki Webster. ‘Kismet,’ he says as his fingers dance over the strings.
That word again. I wonder if he’s speaking a different language. I nod in an ambiguous way, hoping this fills the gap.
I watch him for a while. It seems to be okay to be sitting here not talking. He plays some more. My pulse settles. Eventually I get to my feet and walk away without another word. His music follows me and, I don’t know why, by the time I get back to my room I am smiling.
Can saying ‘yo’ be called a conversation?
Chapter Ten
In the important decisions of personal
life, we should be governed…by
the deep inner needs of our nature.
SIGMUND FREUD
Professor Brown lifted Edaline onto the laboratory bench. His hands slid under her skirt, caressing her quivering thighs. Edaline barely registered the cold metal beneath the globes of her milky bottom. She wrapped her legs around his waist as she undid the buttons on his lab coat.
Professor Brown lowered his head, pressing his burning lips to her slender neck. Her hair brushed over his face.
‘So fine. Like plumose hairs of the megalopae of the zuwai crab,’ Professor Brown murmured, blowing out her hair with his orange-scented breath.
But Edaline didn’t know whether he was talking about the hairs on her head because his hand was now entwined in the forest elsewhere. She unwound her legs from around his waist long enough for Professor Brown to pull her cotton-stretch panties off. He held them to his face and breathed deeply.
Professor Brown’s long slender scientist’s fingers explored the ridges and crevices of her secret place. ‘So wet.’ His voice was husky.
Edaline’s breath caught in her throat as he knelt.
‘Like the brine from the Sea of Japan,’ he murmured, tasting with his dexterous tongue, ‘where I found my first Artemia salina.’
Edaline was aware only of his rough, muscular tongue. ‘Take me now,’ she cried, ‘you sexy fiddler crab.’ She pulled Professor Brown up and drew him towards her.
Professor Brown gasped, ‘So soft, like the folds of a clam.’ Then he spoke no more…
I print out my scene, well satisfied with what I have achieved. My sex scene is humming, it’s even turning me on, but what can happen next? Have I got to the sex too fast? Maybe I should have delayed them more?
I rework the scene many times, printing it out, making corrections and stowing the rejects in my recycled paper pile. I am in an editing frenzy, a delirium of re-writing. I have the hopeful, drained, satisfied glow I get when my poetry is working. I know Professor Brown and Edaline aren’t great literature, but writing about sex is more fun than I’d expected. There is only one problem. I can never show this work to anyone. My erotic writing is a secret love child. It will never see the light of day.
Does it matter that I can never show this to anyone? I was, after all, hoping to make some money out of it. And it seems a little sad that no one will ever read about Edaline and Professor Brown. I am becoming rather fond of them both. Maybe I should try a more decent form of writing, one that I am not afraid to own? This seems like a good idea, but it just doesn’t interest me. A writer must write what she feels and it seems I am, for now, an erotic writer.
My alter ego, Sooty Beaumont, taps her cigarette on her Japanese ceramic ashtray and adjusts her silk kimono. She winds her long dark hair into a topknot and secures it with a chopstick. Today she will entertain Takuya. Her nipples harden at
the thought of his hot wasabi.
In the afternoon I walk down to the boat channel. Swimmers are enjoying the sea, despite the cool air. A little girl kicks water at her mother, squealing with mischief. I stand well back on the soft sand, where the waves can’t touch me.
A little further down the beach a fisherman casts a line. He flicks his rod and his hook sails over the waves. I inspect him although I already know he is not the one I want. He is too young for a start, not much older than me, but it is a habit as ingrained as breathing.
My stomach knots as a larger wave rushes towards me. I jump backwards, a jolt of fear making my spine tingle.
I haven’t always been like this.
‘Look, we both have red goggles and black swimsuits, Mum.’
‘We both have red hair and white skin too.’
‘And we both like to swim.’
‘You are my mini-me, Edie.’
I press my toes into the sand, trying to ignore the craving I get when I look at the water. I want to but I can’t. My heart accelerates at the mere thought of diving in. It’s the same when I see someone I’d like to talk to. I want to but I can’t.
Further down the beach I see a man — a young man. He has rolled up his jeans and is poking at some seaweed with his foot. He is doing this in a way that says his head is miles away. His dark hair is flopping over his eyes. I peer harder and see it is Jay. A gust of wind catches his hair and blows it backwards. He looks like Heathcliff on the moor, a doomed wild child.
Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights has been a shared passion for Sally and me since we were fifteen. Our English teacher Mrs Endicott, a large-busted elderly woman, used to go pink whenever she talked about him. The original Heathcliff, who was not a very nice person at all, has vanished in the mists of time. Only his essence remains. For Sally and me, Essence of Heathcliff stands in as a symbol of a passionate, romantic, manly man.
I don’t know why Cathy married Heathcliff’s nemesis, the weak, prissy Edgar Linton. Silly Cathy. People who don’t follow their passions deserve to end up wandering the moors for eternity.
