by Lisa Walker
The phone interrupts me. It is Sal. ‘Got something for me?’
‘Nearly.’
‘Let’s hear what you’ve got.’
I read it out.
She is silent for some time after I finish.
‘Sexy, huh?’ I ask.
‘The Monopoly is okay. Strange, but okay. Do you really feel like that about Monopoly?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘No, it’s just you, Ed.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m not sure about the sea cucumber though. The anemone’s okay, but the cucumber is kind of icky.’
‘Icky? This is literature you’re talking about. It’s a phallic symbol.’
‘Can’t you have a different phallic symbol? Anything long and thin would do; a cigar for instance.’
‘What would a cigar be doing in a rock pool? The cucumber is a metaphor encapsulating the essence of manhood. It’s very D.H. Lawrence.’ I can’t believe she’s criticising my writing.
‘I don’t remember a sea cucumber in Lady Chatterley’s Lover.’
‘That’s only because he didn’t think of it. What would you know? Have you studied literature? Huh? I didn’t think so.’ I slam the phone down, grinding my teeth.
There is a knock on the door.
‘What?’ I yell.
Jay’s head peers around the corner. ‘Are you ready to go?’
I resist the urge to squeal with frustration. ‘I can’t. I’ve got to do this thing for Sally.’ I pull at my hair. ‘I’m having trouble; we’re just not on the same wavelength. She has no idea. You’d better go on without me. I’ll see you there. I was going to go for a run too, but I haven’t got time now.’ I am pleased with the way I throw this in, casually, as if it is the type of thing I always do.
‘Do you run?’ Jay sounds surprised.
‘Yeah. Of course I run. Running and writing are two sides of a coin. Everything I know about writing I have learnt from running.’ Sadly, that could be true. I probably know very little about writing.
Jay looks doubtful.
‘Why, don’t I look like a runner?’
Jay’s eyes flicker to my legs. As I am wearing jeans, this can’t be very enlightening. ‘I didn’t say that. Yeah, you do look like a runner now you mention it. Can I have a look?’
It is a strange request, but I slide up one of my jeans legs a bit.
‘No, I mean your writing. Although that was nice. Thanks.’
I blush, lower my jeans leg and give him a wary look. I’m not sure if I’m ready to show him my writing.
‘Please.’ He sticks out his lower lip. ‘You know I’m a big fan.’
I am not aware of having come to a decision, but I find myself saying, ‘Well…as long as you realise that I am very sensitive about this. Is that understood?’
Jay steps closer. ‘I understand totally.’
I doubt that he does. How could he possibly know what a big thing this is for me? I push my chair back from the computer screen to let him see. I can hardly believe I am doing this. Do I really want him to read my writing? I feel daring, anxious and slightly risqué. I breathe, try to rise above it, channel Sooty Beaumont.
Daniel never read my poetry. I offered it to him a few times, but he was always too busy. After that, I gave up. I never acknowledged, even to myself, how much this felt like rejection.
As I watch Jay read my work I realise that, even though I would quite like to place the blame on Sooty, my erotic writing is a part of me. I am putting my strange and intimate thoughts out there for him to accept or discard. I want to reach out and turn off the screen. Oh God, why did I let him see it? What if he hates it?
Jay’s eyes run down the screen. He bites his lip.
I want to ask him what he thinks of it, but I am too shy.
Jay’s mouth puckers and his shoulders shake. A laugh explodes out of him. He stifles it with a choking sound. ‘I’m sorry, Edie.’ He turns to me, his eyes watering.
‘What?’ I stare at him, pressing the power button so the screen goes blank. I feel a little sick.
‘It was the manly cucumber.’ He snorts with suppressed laughter.
‘I am never letting you read my work again.’
‘No, no. I loved it. Please, don’t get me wrong. It was very, very…sexy.’ His eyes are sparkling and he is looking at me in a way I haven’t seen before; like he is seeing something new. ‘The cucumber,’ he presses his lips together, ‘inching towards the anem—’ he gives up and laughs out loud.
I try to hold my stern expression, but it is impossible in the face of his mischievous look.
‘You’re funny,’ he says.
I’m not sure whether to be pleased with this comment or not. ‘I don’t mean to be.’
‘I’m not laughing at you. You’re just so…different. You’re not like anyone I’ve met before.’ He pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘I like you.’ These last words seem pulled from him with reluctance.
I like you. Has a man ever said that to me before? I think I would remember it. I’ve had I love you, mainly after sex, but I like you, that’s something different altogether. I am struck dumb. I gaze into his brown eyes and wonder what it is he sees when he sees me, what he likes. The impossibility of ever bridging this gap in understanding wraps my tongue in knots.
Jay looks at the floor, his hair falling over his eyes and I realise I have been staring at him for too long. He is waiting for an answer.
‘I like you too.’ My heart jumps at my daring. I blush with a mixture of terror and pleasure. Have I said too much? Too little? I want to reach out and touch his chest — that gesture of certain tribes which says more than words can say. I see you. I recognise you.
Jay flicks his hair out of his eyes and smiles. He seems very cool. As if he does this kind of thing all the time. Tells girls he likes them. Maybe he does. Maybe everyone does except me.
‘So, you can’t come to the gig yet?’ His voice is low.
I shake my head, although more than anything that is what I want to do. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can finish this.’
‘Okay. Make sure you come.’ He pauses at the door and gives a wicked grin. ‘Actually, I think the cucumber’s the best bit. Poetic, really. Rather D.H. Lawrence.’
I look at him in surprise. ‘Have you read him?’
‘Of course. Lady Chatterley’s Cucumber. Sons and Anemones. Sea Hares in Love. Sexy as.’
A giggle explodes out of my nose.
Jay winks then, like the Cheshire cat, he is gone and the room is much emptier.
I turn back to my screen, delete everything I have written and start again.
Edaline felt herself to be a ghost, as transparent as glass. But in Jason’s arms she became suddenly visible, whole and beautiful. He painted her in colours she had never imagined she possessed — a rainbow followed his hands, swept out from the place where his chest rested against hers. And when, at last, they united, she felt herself forged, burnished and gilded into a thing so rare and beautiful it lit up the room with its glory.
‘I like you,’ he whispered, holding her as if he would never let her go.
‘I like you too,’ Edaline whispered back. And that was more than enough.
I email my piece to Sally, stand up and stretch. I feel calm. Jay likes me. I like him. It seems very simple. Can it really be that simple?
And what is more, he likes my writing. It made him laugh. I have a ridiculous idea. Perhaps he will fall in love with me by reading my writing — through words on the page alone. I am not the first person to think of this. Just look at the romantic poets. Writing is powerful.
On paper, I am all the things I am not in the flesh. I am eloquent, witty, funny, worldly, cool. I am Sooty Beaumont. I have many lovers and they never break my heart. Yes, he likes my writing. I will write for him. I will peel off my onion layers one by one and show him who I am. The idea draws me forward.
I open my wardrobe, looking for the right thing to wear to a Gary Jaworski g
ig in Lighthouse Bay. Usually this would be a task taking many changes of clothes, much hair pulling and often proving so difficult I would give up and stay home.
Tonight my hand alights on the perfect outfit straight away. I pull on the miniskirt, black tights and T-shirt and glance in the mirror. I look different. I am pale, but my skin is shining. My wayward hair is wayward in a cheeky, not ratty way and, for once, I don’t feel the need to cross my eyes to blur my outline.
I see my notebook lying on the bed — now is a good moment to update my pain dairy. This morning was a record low, but I am optimistic that I can do even better. While I am not cured yet, I am definitely on the up and up.
Monday (still): 51 days
Pain level: 3 (a new record low!)
Location: Indistinct
The bonsai is quiet tonight. I pick off its browning leaves one by one like plucking a daisy. I like you. I like you too. I like you. I like you too. I like you.
Tossing my car keys in the air, I catch them and float from the room.
Have fun.
I turn in the doorway. ‘Did you say something?’
But the bonsai speaks no more.
Chapter Twenty
A man should not strive to eliminate
his complexes but to get into
accord with them.
SIGMUND FREUD
The Top Pub in Lighthouse Bay is pumping. A naive over-confidence has carried me from the house to the car to the pub, but it wilts as I gaze at the crowd. Everyone here looks cool, with-it and dauntingly extroverted. Those ants in my brain, which I thought I had vanquished, turn out to have been taking a light nap.
You’re dressed all wrong, says the scout ant.
It’s weird coming here by yourself, says its friend.
What if Jay isn’t here? asks the next one. You’re going to look pretty stupid then, aren’t you?
He likes me, I retort. I take a deep breath, flick the ants aside and give my name at the door as Jay told me to. The doorman doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I shell out twenty dollars to enter. I am two metres past before I remember that I am supposed to smile. I turn around and smile, but he must be looking at someone else as he doesn’t smile back. I count it anyway (number four).
Cool smile, says the first ant sarcastically.
Jay’s forgotten all about you, says the next.
Name at the door, says the sarcastic one. As if.
As I push my way towards the bar I find myself face to face with a guy I went to school with. He is blond, broad-shouldered and good-looking in a generic surfie way.
‘Hi, umm…’ he says.
‘Edie.’ I smile (number five). These smiles are starting to seem like very hard work.
‘That’s right.’ He looks over my shoulder. ‘Good to see you.’
‘You too, um…’ I know his name, but why would I let him know that?
He frowns. ‘Josh.’
The main thing I remember about Josh is that his girlfriend, Candy, was six months pregnant at the end of Year Twelve. ‘How’s the baby? Was it a girl or a boy?’
Josh looks panic-stricken. I have over-stepped the boundaries of small talk. ‘Gotta go.’ He wends his way past me into the crowd.
I am used to it, but it is still deflating. The evening hasn’t started well. People jostle me and I wonder what I am doing here. This is not what I do. I am not a going-to-bars kind of person.
I make it to the bar, order a drink and smile at the barman (number six). He is too cool to smile back. Sipping my drink, I search the medley of faces. Where is he? Why didn’t he leave my name at the door? Is he busy telling some other girl he likes her? Hordes of people, most of them rockstar chic, mingle with no effort at all.
I thought when I was getting dressed that maybe I would fit in for once. I thought I’d find Jay and feel at home. Instead, I feel the way I always do when surrounded by people — like I want to escape. At times like these I often think it would be nice to have a box to climb into. If I could erect an Instant Shy Shelter and get inside I’d be happy to stay here all night.
Then I see a tattered blue denim jacket. My stomach takes a high dive.
Jay is up near the stage. Unlike me, he looks relaxed. His hair is falling over one eye and he is smiling in a way he never smiles at me: broadly, flirtatiously. A pale hand with long, black fingernails is draped over his shoulder. The owner of this hand has dark hair which hangs halfway down her back and long legs that emerge from a leopard-print miniskirt and pour themselves into stiletto boots.
Now that’s the kind of girl Jay would really like, says the chief ant.
As I register this, she leans over and plants a long kiss on his lips.
I drain my drink, fight my way to the door and leave my glass in a pot plant on the way out. He likes me not.
The streets are teeming with the usual mixture of backpackers, surfers and middle-aged hipsters. I am empty from the sudden loss of joy. The ants have gone, their job is done. No one looks at me. I am almost convinced I am invisible until I hear someone call my name.
I look around, but can’t see anyone.
‘Edie.’
The voice is coming from the other side of the road. I peer through the cars. A man is waving at me from the other side of the street.
It is Professor Brownlow. How extraordinary. He makes his way between the cars towards me. He isn’t wearing his glasses. As he approaches I am caught like a rabbit in the headlights of his astonishing blue eyes.
His legs are hidden in a pair of faded jeans and an untucked Hawaiian-print number has replaced his usual business shirt. Thongs instead of loafers complete this startling costume change. His hair is sticking up from his head in salty wisps and a towel hangs over his shoulder.
‘Hello. What brings you here?’ He stops as he reaches me.
‘Oh, I was going to a band, Gary Jaworski, but I changed my mind.’
‘Gary Jaworski?’ Professor Brownlow lifts his eyebrows. ‘I love his music. What was that one, “I’m Your Love Receiver, Baby?” Great stuff, but you’d be too young to remember.’
‘No, I know that one. My mum was into him.’ I eye his towel. ‘Have you been swimming in the dark?’
‘Yes.’ Professor Brownlow smiles. ‘I don’t get to the beach often enough, so, while I can…’
This night swimming hints at a reckless streak I hadn’t suspected. ‘You came down here just to swim?’
‘No. There’s a crustacean symposium at the Sands Resort; starting tomorrow. I’m giving my Libnia paper. You remember.’
‘Oh yes, the Libnia.’ It rings vague bells. ‘So, a crab symposium, huh?’ I visualise an excitable group of crabs seated around a table. ‘Sounds, um, fun.’
‘Not as much fun as you might think.’
‘Are you dissing the crab symposium?’
Professor Brownlow laughs. He looks much younger and…naughtier than he does in the lab. ‘No, you know I’ve got a thing for crabs.’
His voice is neutral, but I am pretty sure I’m catching a whiff of sexual innuendo. No, I mustn’t be paranoid. Sally wouldn’t give him my writing. Would she?
‘I’m staying just here.’ He points at the pink stucco-rendered motel we’re standing next to. ‘The conference is putting me up. I’m the keynote speaker.’
We both look at the building.
‘Very Mediterranean,’ I say.
‘Mediterranean with an outback influence.’ Professor Brownlow points at the old carriage wheel suspended over the entrance arch. ‘I’m supposed to be at the dinner, but, well…’
‘You’d rather go swimming?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Belinda with you?’ I am pleased with myself for remembering her name. Usually I think of her as Professor Brownlow’s wife.
Professor Brownlow shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate.
I hear a miaow and look down. A black cat winds between my feet. ‘Kafka? Is that you?’
The cat miaows again, looking up at me
with its lemon eyes.
I bend to stroke it. ‘Gary’s in the pub if you’re looking for him,’ I murmur, ‘just up the road there.’
‘Kafka?’ enquires Professor Brownlow. ‘As in Kafka on the Shore?’
I stand up and our eyes meet. For some reason I blush. ‘It seemed to fit.’
‘Do you want to come in for a drink?’ asks Professor Brownlow. ‘I’d like to talk to you some more about Japanese literature.’
He says this as if it is the obvious thing to do when running into your research assistant on the street. As if it is a natural extension of our pleasant working relationship. We talk about Japanese literature at work, so why not in his mock-Mediterranean/outback motel room? It seems churlish to refuse. What is more, I am grateful for the diversion. I don’t want to be left alone with only my spiteful ants for company.
So even though I know going into your married boss’s motel room is heavy with meaning and despite the fact that I have no more to say on the topic of Japanese literature, before I know it I find I have said, ‘Yes. Why not?’
When I look down, Kafka has vanished.
Chapter Twenty-one
The behaviour of a human being in sexual
matters is often a prototype for the whole
of his other modes of reaction in life.
SIGMUND FREUD
Professor Brownlow opens his mini-bar. ‘Beer, wine or gin? Or would you prefer a cup of tea?’
‘Gin, thanks.’ I perch on the edge of the solitary chair, wondering what I am doing here. There has been nothing about our work relationship to prepare me for the awkward intimacy of a Lighthouse Bay motel room. I avoid looking at the bed, which is difficult as it takes up most of the room.
My erotica and what Professor Brownlow does or doesn’t know about it hangs between us like a giant snapping crab.
Professor Brownlow opens a beer and hands me a gin. He eases himself onto the bed and puts his legs up. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ I down my gin in an effort to paper over the social gaps.
‘So, which authors have you read apart from Murakami?’ asks Professor Brownlow.
None, would be the correct answer, but why tell the truth when you can lie? ‘Nori Toyota is one of my favourites.’ I am careful not to look into Professor Brownlow’s beautiful eyes as I need all my wits about me. I see his glasses on the bedside table. ‘Can you see all right without your glasses?’ I wish he would put them on.
