Sex, Lies and Bonsai

by Lisa Walker

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And was it successful, would you say?’ Her voice is gentle, but she’s not fooling me.

  Humiliation. Terror. Nausea. Some people pay big money for that sort of thing. ‘Depends on what you’re trying to achieve.’

  ‘Was it a mutually rewarding social interchange?’

  ‘Well, no, but—’

  ‘No buts, Ed. I’ll help. I’ll be coaching you all the way. What you need are cue cards. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. And I’ll expect a report on the smiling thing too.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Byee.’ Sally hangs up.

  Apprehension clutches my stomach as I wind up the road towards the university. Surely I will know at once if Professor Brownlow has been reading my writing? In that case, I can resign immediately.

  I tense as I approach the church. What will the all-seeing, all-knowing sign say today?

  ‘Erotic writing takes Darling Head by storm.’

  My heart leaps. Who said that?

  ‘We are now talking to Sally Harris, who can fill us in on Saturday’s startling letterbox drop,’ the radio announcer continues.

  ‘Sally, what are you doing?’ I shriek.

  ‘…it was just a fun way of generating interest in my business, Motive 8 life coaching…’

  I wind down the window and stick my head out, a squeal like that of a newborn piglet escaping my lips. ‘That’s me, you’re talking about, Sally. Did I say you could?’

  The balding man is standing in the church entrance. A clean conscience makes a soft pillow say the black letters in the sign today. Damn that man and his holier-than-thou platitudes. Of course a clean conscience makes a soft pillow. It would, wouldn’t it? But how does that help when your conscience is dirtier than a dog that’s rolled in cow shit?

  ‘…so tell us, can we expect more of these stories?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Sal. ‘Anyone who’s interested in more hot stories from the Crab Sex Institute can give me a call. A good sex life is essential for mental health; after all, we’re not living in the Victorian age anymore, are we?’

  The church man raises his hand at me like we are friends. He has no idea he is waving to a veritable Medusa.

  I smile at him through clenched teeth (smile number one) as Sally laughs gaily on the radio. ‘No, I can’t tell you who wrote it. Let’s just call her Anonymous.’

  ‘Well, I think there’s going to be a bit of speculation about that,’ says the announcer. ‘Call in now folks if you think you know who the mysterious Anonymous is.’

  I punch the off button as I drive into the car park. I feel an urge to pull my hat down low and drape a scarf around my face, but that will only draw attention to myself. Plastic surgery is starting to seem like a good option.

  Professor Brownlow looks up as I come in. His expression is mild, good-humoured, no seething volcano, no underground rumblings. ‘Good morning, Edie.’

  I run these words through my paranoia meter. They pass. ‘Good morning, Ralph.’

  ‘The specimens are at your desk.’

  My paranoia meter flashes orange at the mention of specimens and desk but I know this is ridiculous. I realise there is now no way we can discuss my job without everything sounding like sexual innuendo.

  ‘Something different today.’

  ‘Different?’ I perk up at the prospect of excitement.

  ‘Yes, I’ve started on the genus Libnia. I’m giving a conference paper on them.’

  ‘Great.’ Yay, new genus. I retreat to my desk, where the specimens are — indeed — waiting. Extracting the first one from the beaker with a pipette, I squeeze it onto a slide, place it under the microscope and start to draw. Libnia fails to excite me.

  All is quiet for half an hour or so, until Professor Brownlow gets up and strolls past my desk. He pauses, examining my drawing over my shoulder. ‘I like the way you’ve drawn those plumose hairs.’ A whiff of citrus on his breath wafts towards me.

  Plumose hairs — red light, red light. My heart beats faster. I slide my eyes towards him. There is nothing in his expression to suggest anything except a scientist’s interest in crustacean appendages. ‘Thank you.’ I still have my suspicions.

  ‘Ralph?’ I wonder why I have never asked this before. ‘Why are we researching crab larvae?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Professor Brownlow looks puzzled, like he has never asked himself this question before either. ‘There are a lot of gaps in knowledge. Some species, we don’t actually know what all their larval stages look like. They moult through several metamorphs before becoming adults. It wasn’t until the 1870s that the first complete set of larval forms of a…’

  I zone out. This is why I never asked. It is not interesting. I doodle a crab larva as superhero, complete with cape and thigh-high boots. Metamorph, I write beneath it.

  Professor Brownlow concludes his mini-lecture on the history of crab larvae research.

  The silence alerts me that a response is required. ‘Fascinating.’ I slide my drawing beneath the others on my desk.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ He smiles and moves on.

  At lunchtime his wife calls in. Professor Brownlow stands and kisses her. I pretend I am not watching and see his hand slide onto her Adidas-clad bottom. She giggles and presses against him. A stab of jealousy makes me grind my teeth. I have allowed myself to believe Professor Brownlow is suffering in a loveless marriage. Clearly this is not the case. I look up as they go past, decide that she qualifies as a stranger and smile brightly (number two). She gives me a gracious lady of the manor smile in return. I scrunch up my nose behind her back, mentally thumbing my forehead. I’ll just get back to my crab drawing then, Ma’am.

  They wander out, hands touching each other’s waists. Irrationally, I feel betrayed. And then a certainty strikes me. It is my hot sex which is saving their marriage. They are having the sex I should have been having. I am hoisted by my own crab-erotica-themed petard.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Time spent with cats is never wasted.

  SIGMUND FREUD

  A shiny, red, open-topped sports car with leather seats is sitting on the street outside our house when I get home. They must be visiting one of the other houses as we don’t know anyone with a car like that.

  But as I reach the house, a voice I don’t recognise is booming down the stairs. Opening the door, I see a strange tableau. It is almost like a nativity scene. Taking the place of Jesus is a crop-haired, tattooed, middle-aged man in a tight black T-shirt. Arrayed in front of him, like the three wise men and hanging on his every word, are Dad, Rochelle and Jay. In the absence of sheep and cows a solitary black cat sits at his feet, gazing at him with lemon eyes.

  The man looks familiar, although I don’t think we have met before.

  Dad turns as I come in. He has an expression on his face I’ve seen before on only a few occasions — his hero worship gaze. ‘Eddie, this is Rochelle and Jay’s dad.’ He pauses. ‘Gary Jaworski.’ He pronounces this name as if it is preceded by a drum roll.

  The man turns and I have that weird sensation you get when you meet a celebrity, like they are taking up more space than a normal person. The feeling comes before the recognition, which hits a fraction of a second later. ‘Gary and the Grafters?’

  The man sticks out his hand and takes mine. ‘Just Gary now. The Grafters and I have gone our own ways.’ The face that has decorated many copies of Rolling Stone creases into a million wrinkles.

  I smile (number three) and turn my gaze back to the nativity scene. ‘How come you never told me Gary Jaworski was your father?’ I say to Jay and Rochelle.

  ‘You never told her?’ Jay turns to Rochelle, then swings back to me, ‘I figured you knew.’ His voice is softer than usual, the hard-edged sarcasm vanished for now.

  Gary Jaworski — the name brings back memories. I was too young for the first, or even the second, wave of Gary and the Grafters but their music was among Mum’s favourites.

  ‘Come on, Edie, let’s shake it.
’ Mum, jumps to her feet as ‘Love Receiver’ comes on the radio.

  I am five years old and dancing with Mum is one of my favourite things.

  ‘Oo, baby, can’t you feeeeel it?’ Mum jumps up and down to the raging beat, her red hair flying, her light summer dress floating up around her.

  Dad strolls in, his hair wet from surf training. He smiles at his two redheads and joins in, holding us in his suntanned arms, jigging up and down.

  A salty sea breeze blows through the house and the surf crashes. In my childhood it is always sunny.

  ‘Dad’s doing a gig at Lighthouse Bay tonight.’ Rochelle brings me back to earth.

  I blink and lower myself onto a chair.

  ‘You’re going to come along, aren’t you?’ Gary directs this question mainly to Jay.

  ‘You’re not going to play that crap Grafters stuff, are you?’ asks Jay.

  His father smiles; this is obviously a well-worn routine. ‘No mate, it’s all new. Why don’t you join me for a few numbers?’

  Jay shakes his head, his hair falling over his eyebrow. ‘You know I don’t do that shit.’

  Rochelle looks at him. ‘Why not, Jay? You never know who could be watching.’

  Jay doesn’t bother to reply.

  And then I remember one of Gary’s older songs. ‘Jaybird’. You are laughter, you are tears…

  ‘You’ll come though?’ asks Gary.

  Jay lifts his shoulders, then glances at me. ‘You want to go, Edie?’

  I am so surprised I don’t have time to think about my answer. ‘God, yes.’

  Jay’s mouth twitches.

  My voice replays in my ears. I sound like a starstruck twelve-year-old.

  ‘Okay, Edie. It’s a date,’ he says.

  After Gary has roared away in his red sports car, I look at Rochelle and Jay again. ‘I can’t believe I never knew he was your father.’

  Rochelle looks embarrassed. ‘Who wants to be known as Gary Jaworski’s daughter all the time? I had enough of that in Sydney.’

  ‘You knew?’ I ask Dad.

  He inclines his head. ‘Rochelle asked me to keep it quiet.’

  Jay doesn’t say anything, but there is an expression on his face I haven’t seen before.

  The nativity scene dissolves. Rochelle retreats to the kitchen and Dad to his shed. He is now doing something to the boards that used to be the lounge-room ceiling. The ways of the home renovator are mysterious to me.

  Jay and I are left alone in the lounge room. The cat jumps up on the chair where Gary was sitting. It curls itself into a ball and licks the cushion. Its air of self-possession reminds me of the despondent cat on the cover of the book Professor Brownlow lent me, Kafka on the Shore.

  ‘Why didn’t Gary take his cat?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s not his cat. It just turned up here. Haven’t you seen it before?’

  Now that I think about it, the cat does look familiar. ‘I think it lives around here, it’s never come in before, though.’ I click my tongue at it. ‘Hey, Kafka.’ The cat coughs, then makes a vomiting noise and expels a furball onto the cushion. This done, it leaps from the chair and slinks from the room with its tail in the air. ‘Guess it just came to see Gary,’ I say.

  ‘He has that effect on people; maybe it works on animals too. You know its name?’

  ‘It just seemed to fit.’

  Jay nods. ‘Good name.’ He eyes the bare beams above us. ‘I like this look. It’s minimalist; very New York warehouse; very hip.’

  I ignore the small talk. I am awkward with our changed dynamic; unsure why he has asked me out; suspicious of his motives. ‘I still can’t believe I didn’t know Gary Jaworski is your father. That’s so weird.’

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t know either. I thought that was what it was all about…’ he trails off.

  ‘What what was all about?’

  ‘You know, the stalking.’ The side of his mouth pulls up in a half-smile.

  ‘No way. You thought I was stalking you because you’re Gary Jaworski’s son? That is so…’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  ‘Why would I do that? Why wouldn’t I stalk Rochelle? Anyway, how was I stalking you?’

  Jay smiles, like he’s enjoying this. ‘You just kept popping up all over the place, at the beach, here—’

  ‘But I live here. I was here f—’

  Jay talks over the top of me, ‘…the university.’

  ‘But I work there,’ I squeal. ‘You, you’re such an arrogant… Why would I stalk you? Like you’re something special.’

  Jay laughs. ‘Okay, I was wrong, you weren’t stalking me. Sorry.’ He holds up his hands, palms out. ‘It’s happened before, that’s all. You wouldn’t believe how many crazed Gary Jaworski fans are out there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, really. Some people are just weird.’

  ‘I’m flattered you thought I was one of them.’

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’ He gives me a mock-rueful puppy-dog look.

  ‘Jaybird. That’s you, right?’

  Jay grimaces. ‘Can we not talk about that?’

  ‘But, isn’t that nice? Having a song—’

  Jay’s eyebrows lower.

  I stop, perhaps I am getting into Evel Knievel territory. ‘Why isn’t your name Jaworski?’

  ‘Well, old Gary didn’t hang around. He left soon after I turned two. Got famous and started shagging models. Why would I want to use his name? Rochelle feels the same.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it help, you know, with…’

  ‘I don’t want to be announced as Gary Jaworski’s son all my life. If that’s what it takes, I don’t want it.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t want to be announced as the daughter of a former Australian surf champion every time I go in surf comps either.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘You didn’t know? I thought that’s why you were stalking me.’

  Jay laughs. ‘Touché. Australian champ, huh?’

  ‘Former Junior Champion, former Australian Champion, World Number Two.’

  ‘Try top of the charts in Australia, top 40 in America, top 10 in the UK, ARIA Hall of Fame.’

  I smile. ‘You win. Your father is way more famous, so I guess I was stalking you.’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ says Jay, ‘but you don’t actually surf, do you?’

  ‘Correct. I don’t surf. I am what is known in breeding circles as a runt.’

  Jay smiles. ‘Never underestimate the runt, I say. So, you’re coming to the show tonight?’

  Our eyes meet. I feel that vibration again.

  ‘Okay.’ I glance at my watch. ‘I’d better write some erotica first.’

  ‘Tough life.’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  Jay smiles and my chest hums. I want to touch his cheek. I want to run my fingers down those scars and ask him why he did that. I want to open his mind like a clam and see inside.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

  SIGMUND FREUD

  Rain thundered down outside the laboratory. It had been like this for days now. Mould was growing on Edaline’s clothes. This morning she had noticed a small pink fungus sprouting on her windowsill. It was silky and damp to touch, emitting a rich, sexual odour.

  Even here in the laboratory the air was thick with moisture. Edaline could hardly remember a time when she had not been wet… This thought led her by association to Professor Brown.

  A cloudburst lashed the windows, like a metaphor for her craving. Edaline’s internal humidity rocketed. She felt like a sponge — drenched, sodden, saturated. She clenched her thighs tightly under her floral print Laura Ashley dress. If only a pair of strong hands would wring her out.

  Professor Brown worked calmly on his spanner crab dissection as if she was not in the room. He hummed as he worked, a picture of contentment.

  Edaline added an extra maxilliped to her drawing out of spite. Professor Br
own would pay for his negligence. She eyed the clock on the wall. Five minutes to twelve. Edaline tapped her high-heeled black boots on the rung of her ergonomic chair.

  The hands on the clock met at the top. She waited, five seconds, ten seconds…before lifting her gaze.

  Professor Brown’s blue eyes glinted behind his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘It’s a good day for Monopoly.’ His voice was deep, mellifluous, layered with meaning.

  Edaline practically swooned. How could he know? She had been fantasising about playing Monopoly for weeks. Every night she had woken from dreams of landing, fatefully, on his hotel.

  ‘Oh, but I haven’t got any money, Professor…’

  ‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement…’

  These dreams had been vivid, sensuous — the rolling dice, the red tower of the hotel thrusting skywards…

  Professor Brown pulled out a box from beneath his lab bench. He opened the lid, displaying the contents as if they were an assortment of luxury chocolates.

  Edaline eyed the pieces. ‘You choose yours first.’ What would he be? The naughty puppy? The leaping horse and rider?

  Professor Brown’s hand reached out and picked up…the racing car. ‘And you?’ His nostrils flared.

  He had sent out a challenge. Edaline arched an eyebrow, touched first the shoe…

  Professor Brown sighed as Edaline lifted her hand.

  Her fingers rested on the top hat.

  Professor Brown’s eyes lit up, but no…

  Edaline’s hand drifted over the wheelbarrow, the cannon and the battleship. At last she came to it. Picking up the thimble, she slid it on her forefinger and tapped loudly on the bench. Looking up, she exposed her teeth. ‘I’ll roll first.’

  When Professor Brown spoke, his voice was husky. ‘Yes, Edaline. Anything you say.’

  So far so good, but now I come to the hard part — the actual sex. I press on, hoping that the right metaphor will land, moth-like, on my computer screen. The game of Monopoly heats up in a very satisfactory way…

  A surging wave of desire washed through Edaline’s rock pool. Sea foam crashed against her pink anemone. Professor Brown’s sea cucumber inched its way towards the anemone. It was a large cucumber, strong and manly—